Alyssa pouted as the carriage rolled through the streets of King's Landing.
She sat stiffly on velvet cushions, gloved hands folded in her lap, utterly aware of how unfair this felt. Her ladies and friends had insisted—no, conspired—to see her dressed properly for a Tyrell luncheon. There had been ribbons and lectures and far too many opinions.
"It's only lunch," Alyssa muttered, staring out the window.
Still, when the carriage slowed and the Tyrell estate came into view, even she had to admit it was impressive—arched stone, climbing roses, fountains whispering behind high green walls.
She sighed, straightened, and prepared herself.
Her hair had been half drawn up, the darker strands smoothed back with delicate pins while the rest flowed freely down her back. The style framed her face rather than hiding it—an intentional choice, though she hadn't realized it at the time. Her makeup was minimal and tasteful, just enough to bring out the natural contrast of her features and the deep violet of her eyes. The dress itself was elegant without being ostentatious: fine fabric, clean lines, Northern blues softened with Tyrell gold.
Olenna Tyrell noticed at once.
Not just the gown—but the promise beneath it.
This was a child, yes. Twelve name days old. And yet there was no denying that in a few short years, Alyssa Stark would blossom into a beauty that would turn heads and unsettle rooms.
Margaery smiled when she saw her.
A warm smile. An interested one.
Alyssa, distracted by nerves and the sudden intensity of the setting, missed it entirely.
Olenna did not.
They walked together toward the gardens, sunlight filtering through trellised roses as servants trailed at a discreet distance. Margaery began with easy small talk—about the city, about travel, about how overwhelming King's Landing could be when one wasn't used to it.
Alyssa relaxed despite herself.
Olenna followed a few steps behind, cane tapping rhythmically, sharp eyes watching the way her granddaughter leaned just a little closer as they spoke.
The garden table awaited them beneath a canopy of flowers. Wine was poured—watered for Alyssa, proper vintages for the others—and plates were set with light fare.
Conversation turned.
Olenna asked questions, deceptively gentle ones. About Moat Cailin. About schools. About trade. Alyssa answered as best she could, choosing her words carefully, offering honesty without surrendering advantage.
From the edge of the garden, Vivienne Tyrell watched.
Her fingers curled into her skirts as she saw them laugh—saw Margaery's attention fixed so completely on the Stark girl. The bitterness burned sharp and familiar.
Then Olenna struck.
"At the welcoming feast," she said casually, "I asked whether you were betrothed."
Alyssa stiffened slightly. "I am not, my lady."
"Would you consider it?" Olenna pressed.
Before Alyssa could answer, Margaery spoke—too quickly—and then seemed to realize she had.
"I mean—purely hypothetically," she said, suddenly focused on her cup.
Alyssa drew a slow breath. "I... am actively considering it," she admitted, surprising herself with how true it sounded aloud. "The King has already hinted at joining House Stark and House Baratheon through marriage. I refused to wed Joffrey."
Olenna's expression sharpened at once. "As you should," she said crisply. "That boy is a vicious little thing, and he will only grow worse with power. I would not bind my worst enemy to Joffrey Baratheon, let alone a girl with a future worth protecting."
Olenna smiled.
"Would you consider Margaery?"
Alyssa blinked.
Olenna continued without missing a beat. "My granddaughter's condition is no secret to those who matter. She was born with what men have. The Faith would raise no objection—such a union would not be considered a sin."
Alyssa went still.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as the bluntness of it hit her all at once. She looked toward Margaery—who met her gaze with a faint, unapologetic smirk.
"I would be delighted," Margaery said lightly.
Alyssa swallowed. "Why... me?" she asked, flustered. "I'm not a lord. I'm from the North."
Olenna's eyes gleamed.
"That," she said, "is exactly why."
Olenna leaned back, studying Alyssa as though she were a puzzle finally worth solving.
And she was studying her.
Not just her words or her work, but her face—the line of her jaw, the shape of her eyes, the way the light caught in that dark hair. Stark, certainly. There was Winterfell in her bones. But there were other traces too, subtler and more unsettling. A cast to her features that spoke of old Valyria rather than the Riverlands. No softness of Tully blue, no hint of Catelyn's coloring. Olenna had seen enough generations of noble blood to know when a child carried something unexpected.
Interesting, she thought. Very interesting.
And then there was Margaery.
Olenna's gaze flicked briefly to her granddaughter—how she watched Alyssa when she thought no one noticed, how her posture angled instinctively toward the Stark girl, how her usual effortless charm had softened into something more genuine. Olenna felt a familiar, sharp satisfaction bloom in her chest.
So. Margaery liked her.
Not as a piece on the board. Not as a crown to chase. But as a person.
That, Olenna knew, changed everything. "A male match would cage you," she said bluntly. "A lord would expect obedience, heirs, and control. He would claim your work as his own and smile while doing it. Margaery would not."
She tapped her cane once for emphasis. "My granddaughter does not need to prove herself by ruling over you. She is secure in who she is. With her, you would remain you—Lady of Moat Cailin, builder, reformer. No man's shadow. No husband's leash."
As Olenna spoke, Margaery watched Alyssa closely. The flush still warming her cheeks drew a private smile—soft, unguarded. Adorable, she thought, warmth blooming in her chest before she could stop it. She has no idea how disarming she is. How easily she pulls people in without trying.
Margaery found herself cataloging small things: the way Alyssa listened rather than waited to speak, the honesty in her confusion, the quiet steel beneath her politeness. She would never try to rule me, Margaery realized with a flicker of surprise. She would stand beside me.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Aloud, Margaery said nothing, schooling her expression back into something demure while her interest deepened, content to let her grandmother speak as she watched—and wondered.
Olenna continued, voice turning sharp with pride. "In a handful of years you rebuilt a ruin into a fortress of trade and learning. You fed the North when others would have let it starve. You trained soldiers, opened schools, brought work where there was none, and loyalty where there had been only fear." Her gaze held Alyssa's. "You did all of that without a crown, without a husband, without asking permission."
She gave a thin, satisfied smile. "That is why my family is interested. Not because of what you might become—but because of what you already are."
Alyssa sat very still, hands folded in her lap, heart beating far too fast for a luncheon meant to be pleasant. "I won't pretend this isn't... a lot," she said honestly. "I'm not opposed. I just—" She hesitated, brow furrowing. "I've spent years making sure no one could take what I built. The idea of tying that future to anyone makes me wary."
"That's sensible," Olenna replied at once. "Only fools rush into vows."
As Alyssa spoke, Margaery shifted closer along the cushioned bench, close enough now that Alyssa became keenly aware of her presence—the warmth at her side, the faint scent of roses and citrus. Margaery said nothing, merely listened, clearly enjoying the way Alyssa's composure frayed just a little under her proximity.
She's nervous, Margaery thought with quiet delight. And trying so hard not to show it.
Olenna watched the subtle movement with open satisfaction. "You would not lose your power in this match," she said firmly. "You would gain a house that knows how to protect its own—and a partner who has no desire to eclipse you."
Alyssa exhaled slowly. "Then... yes," she said at last. "I am considering it. Truly."
Margaery's smile deepened, though she kept her voice light. "I promise," she said, eyes bright, "I'm very good."
Alyssa cleared her throat, gathering herself. "I am not opposed," she said diplomatically, chin lifting just a touch. "And Margaery is... very pretty to look at."
Margaery froze for half a heartbeat—then flushed, the color rising fast as she ducked her head with a smile she could not quite hide.
Olenna laughed outright, sharp and delighted. "Well," she said dryly, "it seems we needn't worry about meekness."
Alyssa met her gaze evenly. "But the decision is not mine alone," she added calmly. "It is my father who will ultimately decide whom I wed."
Olenna rose then, pushing herself upright with her cane. "Which is only sensible," she said briskly. "This has been... enlightening. I find myself in need of fresh air—and tea."
Her sharp gaze flicked between the two girls, catching the closeness, the nervous energy, the way Margaery's attention had not once strayed.
"I will leave you to enjoy the gardens," Olenna added, lips curving knowingly. "Do try not to stab one another. It would be awkward to explain."
With that, she turned and walked away, servants falling in behind her.
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Alyssa shifted in her seat, glancing around the sunlit garden, the tea and wine and plates of food still untouched. "Um," she said innocently, scooting her chair a careful inch away, "why did your grandmother leave? We're already outside. There's fresh air, tea, wine... food."
Margaery watched the small retreat with clear amusement—and promptly slid closer, reclaiming the distance Alyssa had tried to create. "Oh," she said lightly, eyes sparkling, "she left because she wanted to."
Then Margaery shifted fully toward Alyssa, resting her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. "So," she said lightly, eyes bright with curiosity. "If we're being honest now—what do you like?"
Alyssa blinked. "What do I like?"
"Colors. Foods. Things that make you happy," Margaery replied easily. "Hobbies. Passions. The important questions."
Alyssa hesitated, then smiled despite herself. "Blue," she said. "All shades of it. The darker the better. And I like food with spices —bread fresh from the oven, honey apples, curry, and meat," she added, almost apologetically. "Boar, elk, deer, cattle. Even if it isn't very ladylike."
Margaery laughed softly, a warm, genuine sound. "Good," she said approvingly. "I've never trusted anyone who claims to live on sweet cakes alone. Besides—" her eyes flicked over Alyssa with clear amusement, "—you don't strike me as the sort meant to starve yourself just to please other people."
Margaery nodded, pleased. "I like green," she offered. "Spring green. And lemon cakes, though my grandmother says they'll rot my teeth."
Alyssa laughed softly, some of her tension easing. "What do you do when no one is watching?"
Margaery's smile turned thoughtful. "I listen," she said. "People tell you more when they think you're harmless."
Alyssa considered that, impressed. "I build," she replied. "Or plan. Or learn something new just to see if I can."
Margaery studied her, warmth returning to her gaze. "I think," she said, "I would like to get to know you better."
Alyssa opened her mouth to answer—then stopped.
It dawned on her all at once, like cold water down her spine.
She had been maneuvered.
Not cruelly. Not unkindly. But expertly.
She was alone in a Tyrell garden with Margaery Tyrell leaning far too close, Olenna gone by deliberate design, and a conversation that had slipped—somehow—from politics into something dangerously personal.
A very dangerous getting-to-know-you situation, Alyssa realized, half amused and half alarmed.
Before she could gather her thoughts, sharp heels clicked against stone.
"Well," a voice cut in coolly, "this is... cozy."
Vivienne Tyrell stepped into view, her smile tight and eyes bright with something sharp. She looked from Alyssa to Margaery, then back again, lips curling.
"Sister," Vivienne said sweetly, though there was nothing sweet in it. "I was wondering where you disappeared to."
Margaery straightened, expression smoothing. "We're having lunch," she replied calmly.
Vivienne's gaze slid to Alyssa, assessing, dismissive. "With the Stark girl, apparently." Her eyes flicked over Alyssa's dress, her posture. "I hadn't realized we were entertaining Northern children now."
Alyssa felt the chill beneath the words—but Margaery felt the heat.
"Careful," Margaery said lightly. "You sound jealous."
Vivienne's smile sharpened. "Why would I be? I simply find it fascinating how quickly you've taken to her." Her gaze lingered, calculating. She's popular, Vivienne thought darkly. Admired. Wanted. The idea sparked something dangerous—and tempting. It might be fun to see how easily that affection could be stolen.
Alyssa met Vivienne's look steadily, refusing to shrink, even as the air between the sisters crackled.
The game, she realized, had just gained another player.