Chapter 84: Margaery
"Being queen—that must feel so magnificent."
"I'm honored, but I'm always afraid I won't do well enough."
"Don't be. Cersei Lannister was bad enough—you'll be far better than her. Much better."
"Congratulations, Margaery."
"Congratulations…"
…
Softly exchanging pleasantries with one noblewoman after another—some familiar, others strangers—Margaery accepted wave after wave of admiring congratulations from highborn ladies. She stood out effortlessly.
Her moist brown eyes, gentle and doe-like, carried an air of innocence that made it impossible for anyone who met her gaze not to feel a fondness for her. In return, the young girl responded to everything with flawless grace—her manners, her expressions, even her sense of distance and intimacy were perfectly judged.
She was a noble lady raised with exemplary education, and she would undoubtedly make a capable queen.
Anyone who interacted with her came away with that impression, their gazes filled mostly with admiration and goodwill.
Yet amid this praise, everyone unconsciously overlooked one thing: no matter how refined and learned she was, she was still only sixteen—half a child.
She possessed political awareness and subtle calculation, yes, but there were matters she still found difficult to reconcile.
While speaking softly with others, Margaery instinctively stole glances toward her young husband, who was mingling among a group of male nobles. She noticed that as he laughed and talked loudly, his eyes kept drifting—again and again—toward the brown-haired brother seated quietly in a corner.
The sight made her sigh in quiet distress.
Her new husband, Renly Baratheon, was wonderful in nearly every way: warm and charismatic, handsome and valiant, noble of birth and pure of blood, now on the brink of being crowned ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
He never visited brothels, never drank to excess, and never gambled.
He treated good counselors kindly, pitied the weak, and showed courtesy to everyone—nobles and commoners alike—never once displaying arrogance, though he had every right to.
He was gentle with his wife, every word and gesture a model of the ideal husband.
But he only liked men.
And worse—he was involved with her brother.
"What am I supposed to do? Compete with my own brother for a man?"
"No… it's my brother competing with me…"
Distracted as she continued to respond politely to those around her, Margaery mulled over the words her grandmother had impressed upon her before their parting.
"If Grandmother were here, things would be easier. She has far more experience stealing men."
As another person stepped forward to congratulate her, Margaery immediately brushed aside her inner turmoil. In the blink of an eye, she became once more the elegant, composed young lady.
The lord entertained his bannermen and generals; the lady of the house wove her own web of harmony and influence. This was the unavoidable social duty of every ruling family.
The great hall buzzed with noise and laughter, yet everything unfolded in orderly fashion.
Soon, the feast officially began. Led by the corpulent High Septon, everyone bowed their heads for prayers before the meal. Margaery did the same.
The prayers were solemn and measured. In the past, she would have immersed herself wholeheartedly in them—but tonight, she found it hard to focus.
She kept thinking: if the gods knew… if they knew about her brother and her husband…
What would happen?
The Faith did not permit such behavior.
"O gods above, please teach me what I should do," she murmured silently.
At that moment, she felt a gentle breeze brush across her face, which struck her as odd. Though the hall doors were open, she was seated some distance away—had the wind outside suddenly picked up?
She cracked her eyes open slightly. Everyone around her still had their heads bowed in prayer, and beyond the doors, nothing seemed amiss.
Outside in the courtyard, tents were set up everywhere. Servants hurried about, children played and laughed, and under bright torchlight, those unqualified to enter the hall dined outdoors.
Nothing seemed unusual.
So she lowered her head once more and closed her eyes.
Before long, the prayers ended and socializing resumed. Margaery seamlessly rejoined the flow.
…
After the northern army withdrew, Stannis had been unwilling to retreat outright. He even began recruiting soldiers within King's Landing, preparing to fight to the end. Yet for reasons unknown, one morning he suddenly abandoned everything, sailing back to Dragonstone with only a few thousand men—an uncharacteristically decisive withdrawal that shocked everyone.
Even Renly felt it didn't suit his stubborn elder brother's temperament.
Still, that did nothing to stop him from claiming the fruits of victory.
A hundred thousand troops entered King's Landing without resistance, and on the very night the city had yet to be fully secured—tonight—a grand celebration was held.
"I warned His Grace to beware of a trap. He said he'd investigate, but I don't think he took it seriously," an elderly noble murmured anxiously as he passed by. Margaery turned her head and recognized him as Lord Morrigen of Crow's Nest.
"There may be no trap at all. Perhaps Stannis realized he couldn't win and chose to preserve his strength. Besides, from what I hear, the people of King's Landing never truly welcomed him," someone else replied.
Why weren't they welcoming to Stannis?
Curious, Margaery gathered her skirts and moved closer, intending to ask—and perhaps cultivate relations with two of the great lords her husband relied upon.
But before she could take more than a few steps, a sudden explosion thundered outside the hall.
The sound was abrupt and violent. Everyone froze in shock as the banquet tables trembled. Then, following the open doors, they looked outward—
The main keep, Maegor's Holdfast, had turned into a towering torch.
A green, savage, colossal torch.
Green flames erupted from the base of the fortress and surged upward with terrifying speed, covering the walls in moments. Carried by the wind, small tongues of fire broke away and landed on nearby buildings, igniting them instantly.
Boom—
Another deafening blast rang out. In the distance, the Maidenvault erupted in roaring green fire, which began spreading rapidly in all directions.
A woman's scream snapped everyone out of their daze.
Watching the scene unfold, the male nobles turned pale, while the women were seized by panic.
"Quick—organize a fire response!" someone shouted.
"My daughter is still in Maegor's Holdfast—save her!" A shrill, heart-rending wail rose above the chaos.
"Your Grace, run! It's wildfire! This place isn't safe—the entire Red Keep isn't safe!"
---
The nobles hurriedly tried to rally servants and guards, preparing to flee at any opportunity.
But before they could calm the uproar inside the hall, a thunderous explosion—so close it felt as though it went off beside their ears—rocked the air. Everyone staggered as the tall windows along the walls shattered inward, green flames surging through the gaps!
Shielded for the moment by thick stone walls, those inside the hall were not immediately engulfed. The people outside, however, were far less fortunate.
Screams tore through the air—panic, frantic footsteps, agonized cries, children wailing. As the wildfire erupted, the crowd outside surged desperately toward the hall, heedless of the fact that it, too, might soon fall.
Before their eyes, green demons swallowed tents and people alike. Only a handful survived, if only briefly. A young boy ran toward the hall in terror, but before he reached it, the flames behind him stretched out like a clawed hand. In an instant, green fire exploded across his clothes, his hair, his body.
After only a few steps, he became a living torch.
The burning figure thrashed and screamed in agony. The crackle of seared flesh carried faintly through the air, along with a strange, sickly-sweet stench that spread outward. Anyone who caught a whiff clamped a hand over their mouth and nose, faces drained of hope.
Moments ago, these people had been elegant nobles. Now they looked like terrified children who had wet themselves in fear.
And then—slowly—the screaming stopped.
People stared at one another in disbelief.
Because the fire—the deep, virulent green fire—had not entered the hall at all.
At the shattered windows, the wildfire formed a surreal, flickering tableau, unable to advance even an inch inward. At the entrance, roaring green flames devoured everything outside, sealing the doorway completely—yet stopping precisely at the threshold.
The air inside grew stifling, heat washing over them in waves. But the green demons that produced it were clearly blocked by something unseen.
No—not unseen.
Something was truly holding them back.
---
In Margaery's vision, black "chains" had silently spread across the floor, climbing the walls in orderly patterns. Dense yet precise, they shimmered faintly white under the wildfire's glow.
Had a modern person been present, they might have thought of magical seals or arcane wards. But Margaery had no such frame of reference.
She could only stare, stunned beyond words.
"Seven save us…" she murmured.
Suddenly remembering her family, she turned in panic—and exhaled in relief when she saw them unharmed. The relief lasted only a moment before something else seized her attention.
"Gods… what am I seeing?"
Her fearful expression froze into shock as she stared at the center of the hall.
That was a person, wasn't it?
A figure standing quietly in the middle of the hall, cloaked, suffused with a faint golden glow. He leaned on a staff, gazing calmly at the inferno outside.
Who was he?
Margaery didn't know—but she could see clearly that those strange black chains were emerging from the base of his staff, spreading outward to shield the hall.
Not covering it.
Blocking.
Blocking the green demons outside.
"Is he… a god?"
No one else seemed able to see him. Nor did they notice the black markings on the floor. Instead, they wept with relief, embracing one another and thanking the Seven.
Yet who could imagine that the "god" they praised was standing right beside them?
Why could no one else see him?
"Did he come because of my prayer?"
The thought struck her like lightning.
Margaery immediately dropped to her knees and closed her eyes in fervent prayer.
He had saved her. He had saved everyone here.
She had to give thanks.
Other noblewomen followed her lead, mistaking it for the instinctive response of survivors. They had no idea the young queen truly saw a god.
The men followed suit as well. Most southern lords worshipped the Seven, and in a disaster like this, prayer was the only refuge left.
In the face of calamity, valor, rank, bloodline, honor—all became meaningless.
Only prayer remained.
Outside, green flames raged unchecked.
Inside, the hall fell into near silence, broken only by whispered supplications.
---
The heat pressed down like a weight.
While praying, Margaery dared to peek.
The golden figure still stood there, unmoving, light flowing softly around him.
Though his face was hidden by a cloak, his straight posture and the way his garments stirred without wind made him appear unmistakably divine.
She stared, unable to look away.
This was a god.
How many people ever got to see one?
Perhaps each glance was a gift never to be repeated.
And then—
Everything changed.
A sudden, icy wind pierced through the wildfire and swept into the hall. It began gently, then grew stronger—whipping clothes, rattling cutlery, swaying chandeliers.
Before long, it felt as if a tempest had struck indoors.
Tables, dishes, roasted pigs, iron fixtures—everything was hurled about.
Even people were knocked off their feet.
Panic erupted anew.
"Is this divine punishment?!" someone screamed.
"What did we do wrong?!"
No answer came.
Even the rotund High Septon had crawled beneath a table, shaking like everyone else.
Margaery crouched under a table as well, surrounded by her ladies, gripping a table leg tightly. Yet her fear was different from the others'.
Because she could see.
Every gust of wind—every shadowy current—was converging on the figure at the center of the hall.
From every direction, dark silhouettes rushed inward, spiraling toward the figure's forehead, pouring into him and spreading across his body like streams of black light.
At first, the "god" remained standing.
But the shadows—some bearing faint, distorted human faces—pressed down with immense force. With a cry escaping her lips, Margaery watched him sink to his knees, head tilted skyward, hands locked tightly around the staff.
"What's happening to him…?"
As worry bloomed in her heart, she finally saw his face clearly.
It was human. Young. Nothing like the statues of the Seven.
And that only convinced her more that he was divine.
Because of his forehead.
Through the storm of shadows, she could still glimpse a seven-pointed star glowing darkly upon his brow—the sacred symbol of the Seven!
"But… why is it black?" she wondered. "Is he the Stranger?"
The winds howled. Objects flew. Screams filled the hall.
Then, slowly, the shadows receded.
The cold wind ceased.
The gusts had extinguished every brazier and candle, but the wildfire outside still burned fiercely. The ruined ceiling vents prevented suffocation.
In Margaery's sight, the kneeling figure slumped forward. Deprived of the shadowy torrents, he bowed his head. His hands slipped from the staff, arms hanging limply, as though every ounce of strength had drained away.
What happened to him?
Unable to hold back, she whispered, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Your Grace. Thank you for your concern."
A noblewoman nearby forced a smile, thinking the queen was speaking to her—until she realized Margaery was staring at empty space.
Confused, the woman followed her gaze.
There was nothing there.
"Your Grace… what are you looking at?"
Margaery didn't answer.
She stared, frozen, her face turning deathly pale.
Because the figure had lifted his head.
A pair of deep, icy black eyes looked straight toward her hiding place.
Eyes like twin flames of darkness.
They gazed at her without emotion.
Without warmth.
Filled only with death.