Chapter 120

Highgarden had long set its sights on the crown.

As one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, rivaling even Tywin Lannister, the Tyrells had spent the decade following Robert's Rebellion lying low and avoiding controversy, patiently waiting for Robert's sons to come of age. The Queen of Thorns had poured her heart and soul into grooming Margaery—not only to be beautiful and charming but also politically savvy and cunning. The goal was clear: to make her a queen.

With Highgarden's wealth and influence, all it would have taken was a clear signal from Robert that he was seeking a bride for Joffrey, a well-placed gesture of loyalty, and a sufficiently grand dowry. A combination of sincerity and resources would have secured Margaery the crown.

Backed by the most powerful "friends and family" network in the Seven Kingdoms, Margaery was confident in her victory. She had quietly begun cultivating relationships with key figures in King Robert's court, paving her path to the throne. All she needed was for Robert to announce his intentions, and she would overwhelm her competitors with her undeniable advantages.

In feudal society, where social mobility was near-impossible, kings often used marriage alliances to keep their powerful vassals content and cooperative. Even if the king had a favored candidate in mind, he would still have to go through the motions, leaving the outcome open to negotiation. For Margaery, this meant the possibility of becoming queen was firmly within reach.

But then, just as Joffrey was nearing adulthood and the Tyrells were preparing to test the waters, Jon Arryn—the one man who had signaled his support for a union between Margaery and Joffrey—died.

The Hand's sudden death threw the realm into turmoil. Robert embarked on an urgent journey to the North, and upon reaching Winterfell, he impulsively arranged a marriage between Joffrey and Sansa Stark. The decision came so abruptly and without warning that it left the Tyrells no time to react.

All of Margaery's carefully laid plans, her years of preparation and grooming, amounted to nothing. She had lost to Sansa Stark—a sheltered, naïve girl who had done absolutely nothing to position herself for the role.

Margaery wanted to scream at the injustice.

Imagine training for years, preparing for the competition of a lifetime, only to find the event canceled before it even began. What was she supposed to do now? Switch careers? Start over from scratch?

With no other options, Margaery pivoted. She took the opportunity presented by the Vale campaign to get close to Robert. If she couldn’t be queen, perhaps she could salvage her efforts by becoming the king’s mistress.

But to her dismay, the infamous womanizer Robert Baratheon, who had chased skirts his entire life, suddenly became cautious. Despite her best efforts, the king refused to take the bait.

Margaery couldn’t help but wonder: was it her? Was her beauty insufficient? Or had the king simply grown more discerning?

She tried everything her grandmother had taught her—every seductive tactic and subtle maneuver—but Robert remained unmoved. Finally, after repeated attempts to woo him, Robert relented just enough to offer her advice: she should turn her attention to Robb Stark.

The king wouldn’t touch her, and the crown prince was already betrothed to Sansa Stark. With the young couple living together in the Red Keep under the watchful eyes of the king and Hand of the King, pursuing Joffrey was a dead end. And while Highgarden had vast lands and resources, breaking apart the Stark-Baratheon alliance would be an uphill battle.

Recognizing the futility of her original plans, Margaery reluctantly reconsidered Robert’s suggestion. After careful thought, she made her decision: to abandon the pursuit of the crown and redirect her efforts toward Robb Stark. By securing a marriage to Robb, she could position herself as the Lady of Winterfell and mother of the North, granting her influence in the Seven Kingdoms through a different route.

Her strategy was simple: as soon as the victory feast concluded, she would approach Robb under the guise of congratulating him on his bravery. A bold, passionate young man like him wouldn’t be able to resist her charm. With their houses well-matched in status, the path seemed clear.
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And then, in front of the assembled nobility, Robb Stark publicly requested Robert’s blessing to marry Roslin Frey.

Margaery was stunned. What had gone wrong? Were her grandmother’s lessons outdated? Or had the world simply gone mad? Nothing was going as it should. Despite all her efforts, she found herself thwarted at every turn.

Watching Robb embrace Roslin with a look of utter happiness, Margaery felt the urge to scream. Instead, she maintained her graceful composure, chatting lightly with Aegor, the Chief Quartermaster of the Night’s Watch. The amount of self-control and decorum required to keep smiling in such a situation was almost unbearable.

Yet Aegor, damn him, was annoyingly cautious and unwilling to engage in meaningful conversation. If she’d had a sword at that moment, Margaery felt she might have driven it through the black-clad fool, just to vent her frustration.

But she didn’t have a sword. Roses had thorns, but carrying a blade wasn’t her style. Even if she had one, what could she do against a man who had supposedly fought Oberyn Martell to a standstill?

Margaery excused herself from the feast, needing time to compose herself. She couldn’t bear to watch Robb and Roslin’s wedding unfold any longer.
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As she stepped outside, the cool night air helped to calm her. Then she heard it—two voices, one young and one old, discussing grand strategies over drinks. She quickly realized they were talking about her.

Would she marry Robb Stark? It seemed a moot question now. The man was currently inside, celebrating his marriage to Roslin Frey. What point was there in even thinking about it?
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Under the moonlight, a brief silence fell over the trio.

Asking about someone’s romantic preferences was as inappropriate as asking a lady her age. Barristan Selmy had only dared to broach the subject because of his seniority, leaning on the privilege of age.

To Aegor’s surprise, Margaery answered calmly. “My ideal man would be a hero of unmatched valor. One day, he would ride a white steed, wearing a crown, and name me the Queen of Love and Beauty. But alas… it seems such dreams are nothing more than the wishful fantasies of an unwanted girl.”

“I see,” Barristan replied, his smile fading as he nodded thoughtfully.
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What a flawless response, Aegor thought, impressed. Margaery’s reply was neither evasive nor defensive. It revealed just enough vulnerability to be endearing, while remaining honest and leaving no room for reproach. After all, what was wrong with a young girl dreaming of becoming a queen?

Compared to his own hasty retreat from the feast, Margaery’s quick wit and composure were leagues ahead. Aegor couldn’t help but admire her ability to navigate such conversations with grace.

But he had no idea how bitter Margaery felt inside.
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