Margaery Tyrell 🌹

The great Throne Room was silent that morning, illuminated by beams of light streaming through the tall stained-glass windows. The Iron Throne seemed colder than usual, empty and imposing. Lined guards maintained a rigid posture, but their gazes discreetly shifted when Margaery Tyrell crossed the central corridor.

The soft rustle of her emerald-green dress accompanied each step. She walked with the studied calm of someone who knew that every movement would be observed—and interpreted. Ahead of her, a group of nobles waited, some too anxious to hide it.

Margaery paused a few steps before the Throne and offered a sweet smile, one of those that revealed absolutely nothing.

“Lord Rowan,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “I heard that the harvests in Goldengrove were bountiful this year. Blessed be the Seven… and the labor of their people.”

The man straightened up, clearly surprised that she knew. — Indeed, Your Grace. I didn't imagine that... that it would reach your ears so quickly.

"Almost everything arrives," she replied softly. "You just have to know how to listen to those who matter."

Before he could say more, a maid approached to whisper something in his ear. Margaery listened with an expression that remained unchanged; only her eyes gleamed with a calculated spark.

"Please inform the Queen Regent that I am here." The maid curtsied and stepped away.

Lord Rowan swallowed hard. — Your Grace intends to… meet her here? Now?

"I intend to be seen, my lord," she replied, with the same gentle smile as before, now laden with meaning. "Sometimes, letting someone come to you is worth more than any words spoken."

She walked to one side of the Throne, positioning herself in perfect light, where everyone who entered would see her first. She elegantly crossed her hands and observed the hall as if she were the natural hostess of that place.

While he waited, his eyes scanned each face, each posture.