At Bitterbridge Camp, inside the royal pavilion.
Renly Baratheon, much like his late brother Robert, had a fondness for luxury—or perhaps it was simply that he habitually imitated him. His tent was larger than the common hall of an inn, lavishly filled with silks, polished goblets, and fine furnishings.
Standing before the table, Renly turned at the sound of footsteps. When he saw the figure entering, he froze—and his pupils shrank sharply.
He whispered, "Loras?"
The Knight of Flowers said nothing. He walked forward slowly, every step deliberate, as if drawn by invisible strings toward the King of the Stormlands.
The candlelight flickered between them. The Knight of Flowers and King Renly stood face to face, long and silent.
Renly's trembling hand rose to gently brush the man's cheek. His expression softened, sadness clouding his emerald eyes.
"I miss Loras so much…" he murmured. "Thank you—my queen."
The figure's voice was soft, almost tender: "I would do anything for you, my king."
Renly gazed upon Margaery Tyrell—his queen, dressed and coiffed to mirror her brother. They were siblings, after all, and shared the same delicate features, yet the resemblance only deepened his sorrow. She was not him.
Renly patted her small shoulder gently. There was affection in his eyes—but it was not meant for her.
After a long silence, he turned away, his back to her. His tone was calm when he spoke:
"Queen Margaery, I will keep my promise. You will always be my queen."
Her lashes quivered; her fingers twitched faintly.
Renly went on, speaking as if to himself:
"When Ser Barristan left King's Landing, he swore to serve the rightful king. I thought he would come to me, but it's as if he vanished—no one knows where he's gone. That cloak Brienne wears—it was meant for him. Margaery… do you think he might have gone to Dragonstone?"
Margaery slipped her arms around his broad back, resting her cheek against him.
Renly stiffened. She released him a heartbeat later.
"My king," she said softly, "you need an heir."
Gracefully, she stepped before him, eyes luminous. "By day, I can be your queen. By night… I can become my brother."
Her damp eyes fixed on Renly's composed face. "I'll look more and more like him," she whispered.
Something flickered behind Renly's eyes.
"For you," Margaery breathed, "I'm willing."
Renly seized her suddenly, almost rough. Her lower back struck the edge of the table—but the Little Rose kept her gaze on him, not a trace of pain showing.
Renly bent down; Margaery's eyes fluttered closed.
Moments passed. The expected warmth never came. Renly abruptly let her go, stepping back.
"I… can't," he said hoarsely.
Margaery's gaze stayed soft, without a hint of reproach—and that, at least, brought him some relief.
She smiled faintly, apologetic. "Your Grace, your bannermen await the union of Baratheon and Tyrell blood. As your queen, I have little choice."
Then she lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. "I only wish to help you, my king."
Her hand came to rest gently upon his chest. Renly froze once more.
"I have another way," she said lightly, withdrawing her hand.
Renly's features tightened again. "Give me some time, Margaery."
She didn't press him further. With a radiant smile, she inclined her head and turned toward the map-laden table, pretending to study it.
Renly's throat worked as he watched her back—but soon he composed himself again.
Margaery stared at the map for a while, feigning interest while sighing inwardly. She could not force what was impossible.
She brushed back a curl of light-brown hair and turned with a pleasant smile. "Your Grace, I'll take my leave. Rest well."
As she moved to go, Renly said suddenly, "Queen Margaery—when I sit upon the Iron Throne, you will have a child. I promise."
Margaery paused, smiling brightly, her eyes like blooming roses.
"I look forward to that day. Thank you, my king."
Outside the pavilion, moonlight pooled like silver water, draping the camp in pale serenity.
Margaery lifted her eyes toward the heavens. The stars above gleamed like pearls—faint, but steadfast.
After a moment, she lowered her gaze, lifted her skirts, and walked on. Her maids and guards followed close behind.
In the Golden Rose camp.
Upon entering her own tent, Margaery found Lady Olenna seated on a folding leather chair.
"Grandmother," Margaery greeted softly.
Olenna's clouded eyes studied her granddaughter. She beckoned with a bony hand. "My dear Margaery, come here."
The Little Rose hurried over like a child, and in her grandmother's presence she felt a rare sense of peace.
"Sit, sit."
Margaery took her hand and sat beside her.
Olenna patted her gently. "My Margaery, you know what you want—and you're far shrewder than I ever was. When I was young, I let that fool of a husband of mine spin me about like a hawk on a string. I thought I was the happiest woman alive, blindly helping the Tyrell cause."
She paused, eyes glinting. "Just as our dear Boar Duke now fawns over that pretty king—thinking himself a bride."
Margaery pressed her lips together, unable to hide a flicker of amusement.
Her grandmother gave her hand another pat. "My idiot husband once fell off a cliff while hawking. When I asked how, they told me he'd been staring at the sky, not watching his horse's footing. The man's brain simply couldn't turn a corner!"
She sighed. "And now, my Margaery, you've married a man whose mind can't turn either."
Margaery rushed to assure her: "Grandmother, I'll bear Renly's heir. He even promised me just now—"
She stopped, unease creeping into her voice.
Olenna tilted her head. "And what did our handsome king promise?"
Margaery's bright eyes met hers. "He swore that once he sits the Iron Throne, I'll bear him a child."
Olenna's expression turned sharp. "My dear girl… have you realized something?"
Margaery hesitated, then admitted quietly, "I fear he may not be able to keep that promise."
The Queen of Thorns huffed. "So the Boar Duke crowns Renly and thinks he can now lead the Golden Rose by the nose?"
Her voice hardened. "Only a fool believes a man's tongue!"
Then she added dryly, "A woman's tongue shouldn't be trusted either, my Margaery."
Margaery smiled faintly. "Don't worry, Grandmother. I'll handle it."
"The old woman needs no comfort," Olenna said curtly. "Remember—"
Her gaze sharpened, and her tone carried the weight of House Tyrell's creed.
"A Golden Rose never surrenders the initiative."
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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