open | prompt five | ENDINGS

[wrens]

prompt five | E N D I N G S dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all.

 

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[comeliness]

[ She is a queen, twice widowed and thrice crowned, but Margaery has no illusions. Her marriages have never been about love — only convenience and station, the mingling of names. If love is honey, burnt black over the fires of loss, it is a sweetness and a bitterness she herself has never tasted — though knowing her brother's sorrow is more than enough.

He keeps it hidden, sure enough, though Margaery is the Queen of Thorn's granddaughter and has learned how to make windows into men's hearts (and, more importantly, their guts). Loras is no exception. If anything, she knows him best of all, having been wed to his lover for a time.

Her hand is small but not delicate as she slips it into the crook of his elbow, fingers sliding across the white enameled scales of his armor. (They'd both traded kings, in the end. Her as a wife, him as a knight. ]

I love you, brother, [ she says in a tone that looks to spare him the heaviness of the words. Although a Tyrell may not marry for love, it does not mean they to not know what love is. Loras is proof of that and Margaery — she looks after her own. ] I live for you now, as I live and breathe.

[barbed]

[ Love is something they've both been warned of. It pricks and constricts the heart until it becomes a weakness instead of perhaps a strength. There's guilt and wrath that comes with Renly's death, a heat his veins hadn't carried before the untimely event. It's changed him, no doubt, both in personality and ideals.

Margaery's touch causes him to relax, the armor clinking ever so slightly as his gaze dips before it moves to her. His sister, his beloved sister. If there is anything that his lover's death taught him, it's to be fiercely protective of what he does have. And he'll be thrice damned before he allows someone to harm his sister. ]

And I you. [ He lifts a hand to settle over hers, mindful of the roughness of his gloves. And there's no less determination when he continues: ] I fight for you, sister, with the strength of that love.

[ The leather covered pad of his thumb rubs gently against the knuckles of her hand. This isn't a conversation he's accustomed to having, though he's grateful it's Margaery he's having it with. ]

[comeliness]

[ A knight's hands are strong and, quite often ungentle, but Loras has always had Margaery as his sister and so has grown knowing the ways in which to handle the likes of a lady. His fingers brush across the ridge of her knuckles, bare enough to nearly tickle and Margaery smiles — the expression effortless where otherwise it would hold some practice. ]

No queen, not even the queens of old, have had a greater champion. [ Margaery had said similar words to Sansa Stark once, back when the dear girl had begged her not to marry Joffrey. Mace Tyrell had been no fool in his bargaining and Margaery's hand had come with the stipulation of Loras' knighthood as well. On the surface it seemed an obvious attempt to secure allegiance where allegiance had been broken and to protect Margaery from the mercurial cruelties of the young king. But she knew better — knew that plans had plans further beneath them and that Loras' safety had been equally secured with such terms.

(In truth, the Tyrells do not fear the golden lions with their full purses and their proud Rock. The Reach has bounties of its own and even its sweetest roses bear iron thorns.)

A moment pases during which the queen and the knight walk in silence, their conversation hushed beneath the clinking of his armor. ] Less talk of vengeance, [ Margaery then says, her voice airy though her eyes flicker to Loras with a grave look. There is more than one way to destroy one's enemy and though Loras is a knight of honors and duels, the roses of Highgarden have different means.

(It will come, in time. Trust your sister.) ] The weather is far too mild for it. Shall we have a ride instead?