and called me his flower
Margaery Tyrell. Robb Stark.
4792 words. R. AU post-2x05.
Summary: Margaery comes before them in ice blue and white fur, her dress dipping low between her breasts and gooseflesh raising along pale skin.
Note: Written for![]()
rachel2205 for the ![]()
got_exchange!
Margaery comes before them in ice blue and white fur, her dress dipping low between her breasts and gooseflesh raising along pale skin. The Tyrell rose glints silver at her throat. Her hair is unbound, caught up by the wind, and her determined gaze meets Robb Stark's unblinkingly.
"I've come to love you from afar," she says, in her practiced voice that sings with sweetness.
A slight smirk twists the handsome, serious face of the king in the north so briefly she almost thinks she's imagined it.
Her brother has already spoken for her, his words tripping thickly when he speaks of Renly's death, and smoothing again when he offers Margaery up. It isn't difficult for her to affect grief at the mention of Renly; she is saddened by his untimely passing, but Loras' grief cuts her more deeply than her own. Margaery is sorry but understands that she can only move forward.
"I am promised to another," Robb Stark says, the first words to leave his mouth. His voice is deep, measured.
Loras looks to her first and Margaery takes the opportunity to speak. "Perhaps my brother might take on your debt," she offers. "Lord Frey would hardly turn down a match with House Tyrell."
Loras' eyes widen slightly, not expecting that, and Margaery can only look faintly apologetic. They all must make sacrifices. Loras ought to know as much by now.
Robb Stark confers with his mother for several long moments, a battery of whispers. Finally Loras speaks again. "Our armies are unmatched," he says. "All of House Tyrell would stand behind you."
Lady Catelyn looks hesitant still but Margaery can tell by the resolve in the wolf king's eyes that he's been won. It's the same resolve in hers.
The banquet goes on around them, so subdued it hardly deserves the word. It's Margaery's second marriage in as many months and she finds the celebrations much less fine than the first. She wears an old gown, silver like snow, and has no crown to match his. She knows her first is no longer supposed to count, being as it were rushed, unconsummated, brief. Still she can't help comparing. The first had been at Highgarden, full of music and light and dancing, sweets and fruits, dozens of happy faces. Now she is surrounded by northern soldiers she doesn't know, searching out her brother in the crowd to find him solemn and sulky and feeling the critical eye of her husband's mother on her already.
"I've heard tales of you," Margaery murmurs. This is the first time they've been alone – almost alone. "The handsome northern king." It won't hurt to ply his vanity a little. All men respond to that. "They say you ride a great wolf like a stallion. They say you become a wolf and you tear out your enemies' throats with your teeth."
He looks at her, vaguely amused. He looks like any boy, really. He could be any of her cousins, were his hair a touch lighter or eyes a touch darker. "Oh?"
"Have you heard of me?"
He thinks, offers, "I've heard that you are beautiful."
Margaery smiles. She can be vain too. "And do I meet the expectations of the young king?"
Robb Stark looks at her and she thinks no, not like any boy. His face is young but his eyes are the hardened eyes of a man much older.
She wonders what he sees. She is pretty, she knows as much – her hair shines, her skin is soft, her figure slim. A few boys who tried to woo her called her eyes beguiling. She wants her husband to think the same, to look her over like he did earlier, to follow the chain of her necklace down to where the rose dangles between her breasts.
"There can be no disputing your beauty," he offers diplomatically, like a gentleman. His tone is surprisingly soft.
"My lord husband is kind," Margaery says.
He nods a little, dropping his gaze. He seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, not the assured young man he was moments ago. He struggles to speak. "You mustn't – you ought not –" He meets her eyes again, looking utterly guileless, and says earnestly, "There's no need to carry on with all this 'my king,' 'my lord' nonsense. You're my –" He clears his throat. "You are my wife. Call me Robb."
He gives an order without thinking it is one, like highborn boys are wont to do, but Margaery finds him sweet nonetheless. She thinks how lucky she has been to be married to kind men, whatever Renly's shortcomings were otherwise. "In the privacy of our –" She pauses, intending to say room but realizing they have no home currently, with what she's heard of Winterfell. "Tent," she continues, smiling a little, "But it would not be proper to do so in front of your men."
Robb ducks his head, sheepish. "Yes. Yes, you are right."
"Thank you, though," she says softly. "For thinking to say so." Almost hesitant herself, she speaks his name aloud to him for the first time, "Robb."
He returns her smile and tips his head in a slight nod. "Margaery."
Her grin turns a touch impish. "I did not say you could be so familiar with me, my lord."
Surprised, he lets out a laugh. "I beg your forgiveness, my lady."
"My queen," she corrects playfully.
He smiles again but then sobers. "My queen," he repeats solemnly, and in his cadence there is something very young indeed. She thinks they must be the same age; perhaps he's a little older. It's difficult to tell. His skin was scrubbed clean for their ceremony but something of the battlefield lingers around him, a sense of action and order.
Margaery reaches over and curls her hand around his. The movement startles him but he doesn't pull away; his hand is large and rough, very warm against hers, almost hot. "You must be very warm-blooded in the north," she says. "I'm not. My blood's so thin. Easily chilled."
She wants to find his protests and cut them off before they can take root; pronounce their differences before he discovers them, lest they fester.
He looks down at their hands, hers so small and soft and pale. "You'll adjust," he says. With a tentativeness that seems at odds with his nature, Robb lifts her hand and presses his mouth to her knuckles. It isn't the first time they've touched, but she'd been so cold during the ceremony she'd hardly felt his hand. She hadn't been entirely coquettish before; if she's this cold here, she can't imagine how she'll bear the true north. She's only known summer, and roses don't grow in winter.
The gesture – not quite a kiss, only a comforting press of lips – shows her that he doesn't take his vows lightly. He will do his very best to be a husband to her, she thinks.
"I hope so, my king," she murmurs. "My husband."
Lady Stark and a few guards show Margaery to the tent that will be hers as long as the army stands in this spot. Among them had been Renly's lady knight, to Margaery's great surprise. She didn't look at Margaery once, though of course she never did.
The tent is comfortably made up, very warm. There is a table and makeshift bed piled with furs and cushions, luxury befitting a lord's son but nothing as fine as what Renly had.
The soldiers wait outside as Lady Stark herself tends to Margaery, sitting her down in a rough-hewn chair and beginning to unpin and unbraid her hair. Lady Stark combs her fingers gently through the tangles in Margaery's tresses, distant and thoughtful as she does so. Margaery imagines Lady Stark must miss her daughters. Margaery is missing familial attention herself, so she doesn't mind standing in.
Finally, Lady Stark speaks. "You know Robb has little interest in the iron throne," she says. "He only wants the north free and his sisters returned to him."
Her voice is like her son's, even and deliberate.
"He will have little choice once he wins the battle," Margaery says, omitting the if they're both thinking.
After a moment, she replies, "You're young yet," with the implication in her tone that there is much Margaery doesn't understand.
"I only mean that my lord could not just give away his victory."
Lady Stark falls silent again. She has produced a carved comb and is carefully working it through sections of Margaery's hair. "I too married in a time of war," she says. "To a man I barely knew."
The candor surprises Margaery.
"It will not be an easy road," Lady Stark says.
Margaery can't help but laugh softly at that. She is a widowed virgin bride, passing herself from king to king. "When is it?"
Robb's large wolf lopes in then and sits, watching with a wary alertness Margaery is not used to finding in animals. He isn't followed by his master, but she can't imagine Robb is very far behind.
"I'll leave you," Lady Catelyn says, a sigh in her voice.
Margaery speaks before she can stop herself. "I'll be a good queen." Her voice does not waver, but she can hear her desperation to convince this woman.
Lady Catelyn studies her for several moments and only nods, continuing out. As she stands to finish getting ready, Margaery finds herself unsettled by Catelyn's unreadable face. She hopes Robb will prove easier to fathom, though all these northern faces are so stolid and remote.
She drops her cloak onto her vacated chair as she turns away from the tent flap. Her hands go to the buttons of her gown but before she can unfasten them, a warm voice interrupts her.
"What did my mother have to say?"
The tent falls shut behind Robb and he stands just inside, back brushing the heavy fabric. He's forgone his cloak for the walk between tents, which must mean his is close by, and he wears a well-fitted leather jerkin, breeches, boots. He looks handsome, boyish, and his face is a little ruddy from the brisk night wind. He raises expectant eyebrows and drops a hand to scratch at the wolf's ears.
"Not very much, my lord," she answers. "Only a little talk between women."
It's difficult to tell in the dimness but she thinks he goes slightly redder. Margaery doesn't understand why. What does he think she means? Does he perhaps think Lady Stark instructed her on what was to come on her wedding night, as though Margaery didn't already know?
He nods and finally moves, only it's towards the table at the opposite end. He's keeping his distance from her. Margaery arches a brow; is that shyness she detects from the king in the north?
The thought gives Margaery a faint thrill of anticipation.
Her fingers return to the small silver buttons at her hip, each stamped with a Tyrell rose. Robb is pouring wine, his back to her. She thinks the shape of his shoulders very fine indeed. "Was the feast to your liking, my lord?"
"I told you, you ought not to bother with –"
He falters, having turned at the exact moment to catch her gown slipping from her shoulders. Beneath it she wears a thin silk shift, embroidered at the edges where it peeked out around the gown. The chemise has no sleeves. Margaery stills a shiver.
Robb is just looking at her. She wonders if she will leave a man speechless every time she takes off her dress. "Ought not to what, my lord?"
His gaze travels up from her hem, following how the silk skims off her hips, the close fit of the bodice. His gaze finally snaps to hers and yes – he is certainly shy. "Call me that," he says, voice rough. "My lord. You should call me Robb, as I said."
She glides towards him, extending a hand for the cup. "Robb."
He swallows, seeming to shiver himself as she gets closer. "Aren't you cold?"
Margaery smiles prettily and lifts the cup to her lips. "I'll be warm soon."
He huffs a laugh, ducking his head.
"You look very warm," she says. She sets the cup down on the table, which brings her that much closer to him. Her fingertips settle lightly onto his chest, the leather is very warm to the touch. Margaery wonders if he's flushed with embarrassment or excitement. Renly often flushed when they were alone together. She hopes Robb Stark's discomfort – if indeed it is discomfort – doesn't share the same source. "You feel warm."
"I –" He looks down at her hands. "I suppose."
"Here," she says. "Let me help." She reaches out but finds herself almost nervous to touch him. She thought it wouldn't matter that he was a stranger to her, but perhaps it does. Renly she'd known half her life, at least from a distance, and he'd had her brother's love besides, so she'd known he was worthy. Robb Stark is truly a stranger, a man with impulses and thoughts utterly foreign to her.
But none of this matters. He is her husband and she is his wife and that's all there is to it.
Robb catches her hands before they can begin to undo his laces and Margaery sighs. Here it is again; he will kiss her on the forehead like Renly did and then be on his way.
"Margaery," he says softly.
"What is it that troubles you?" she murmurs. "Tell me. Tell me and we shall fix it."
"It's only…" He sounds a little frustrated and he isn't meeting her eyes. "It's only…I haven't…."
"Haven't?" she prompts, searching his downcast face.
"I've never," Robb says, "before. Only kissed."
Margaery looks at him. She'd think he was having her on if it weren't for the grave, worried look in those light eyes, the color indiscernible in the dimness. Suddenly she wants to laugh, but she keeps her voice kind. "Oh. Is that all?"
Margaery is aware that she's meant to know a great deal less about these matters than she does. Innocent had been the word Loras had used. My sister is still innocent. That's what Margaery is meant to be: a good little maid ignorant in thought and deed of vile things, parting her legs only for men's pleasure and birthing babies.
Only Margaery found she quite enjoyed those viler things.
He still looks uncertain – this battlefield king, the young wolf, shy of her. He's a boy, she reminds herself. He's just a boy. A stranger, yes, but a kind and handsome one just as afraid to touch her as she is to be touched. That's what calms her more than anything else. The calm settles over her like sunshine, or snow.
"My husband, I'm here to help you learn," she says, teasing a little. She takes his warm hands and puts them on her waist. "First I must note that you've yet to kiss me. What kind of marriage is this, without kissing?"
Robb half-smiles and Margaery echoes it, pleased that he seems to find her amusing. He bends and kisses her cheek, a soft dry kiss like the one to her hand earlier. She turns and kisses his scratchy, embarrassed cheek, and then their lips meet.
The heat of him shocks her cold mouth, cold bones. His hands are on her arms, not to move her or to clasp her closer but to warm her up; he rubs briskly up and down over her skin until her temperature is somewhat less frigid. It makes Margaery laugh and crowd nearer to him. Then his arms encircle her and enfold her as he deepens the kiss and she no longer laughs.
Her own arms round his neck, she murmurs, "It's not so scary, is it?"
He looks at her with that solemn unfathomable face and Margaery wants, suddenly, to make it crinkle into a smile again.
"Don't be so serious," she says softly. "The war is out there; in here, only me."
Robb is still studying her, a little crease between his brows, looking as though there is a question on the tip of his tongue. But if there is, he doesn't speak it; instead he kisses her again, more surely than before.
He doesn't protest this time when her hands go to his laces, but he laughs at her impatience. She pulls sharply at the leather tie until it comes unraveled, pulls free of each hole it's laced through, and the sides of the leather jerkin part. Robb watches her without interrupting. His breathing comes quickly. Finally his skin is left bared to her inquisitive fingers, her touches that run over the muscles of his arms and shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
Very handsome, she thinks.
With his mouth against hers, they move back towards the bed with all its blankets and furs. Margaery breaks away to settle amongst them, sitting with queenly posture, her back so straight she might be on a throne instead. They lock eyes as she slips the silk off her shoulders, letting the chemise fall to her waist. Robb's swallow is a visible thing as his eyes travel over her.
Margaery feels unencumbered, unbound; far from increasing her tension, her exposure gives her control. She feels secure and powerful, able to make his eyes wide and mouth dry just with herself, her body. Her skin prickles in the open air. There is nothing to hide.
He folds to kneeling in front of her. He takes off each of her slippers and sets it aside, then reaches to tug the chemise over her hips and off. He rolls her stocking down with unexpected care; it's the kind of attention she didn't expect out of him. The deliberate way he undresses her is both tentative and sweet, with a kind of respect in his cautious gestures.
Anticipation has found its home in her again, tingling through her veins and rushing through her stomach. Robb kisses her knee. Margaery can't remember how long it's been since someone has really touched her.
"You're so far away, my –" Margaery wets her lips, corrects, "Robb."
Her first wedding night had been spent alone.
"Tell me what I should do," Robb says – and Margaery likes that, that he can look at her with such earnestness and ask to be taught.
His curls glint darkly red in the low light and she tangles her hands in them, tugging until he's levered up and over her. "Kiss," she again implores. "What's a marriage without kissing?"
It's with another faint smile that he presses his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. Margaery gives a little moan to encourage him but when he puts his hands on her it turns to genuine breathlessness. He cups her breasts with a sort of careless boyish eagerness that she's missed, presses his thumb against her nipple to learn her reaction. While he explores, so does she, running her nails over the lines of his muscles and leaving faint white-red marks behind.
Robb kisses her again with more confidence and he clutches her, fingertips digging into her ribs. Margaery smiles against his lips before gently removing one hand, repositioning it between her legs.
He freezes briefly but thaws just as quickly. His touch is gentle as he parts her, fingers slipping over her slowly until he finds where she's slick. Margaery intervenes, moving his fingers directly to the that little knot, making a helpless noise as he rubs over it curiously.
"Here?" he wonders, stroking again.
Margaery nods, eyes falling shut and twisting slightly. "Yes," she says. She covers his hand with hers, fingers threading together as she shows him how to touch and where. "Yes, yes."
Robb raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "Oh."
He moves down her body a little, nudging her legs apart so he can have a proper look as he continues to discover what makes her gasp or roll her hips.
Margaery reaches to wrap her fingers around the untied lace of his breeches and tugs, to remind him that there is more to come, more than this. "My lord," she says impatiently, but it tapers off into a moan as he slips a finger into her, apparently not on purpose if his taken-aback expression is anything to go by.
"Oh," he says again, "That's –" He cuts himself off, seemingly mesmerized by the way he sinks into her, again and again.
Margaery can't wait any longer, sitting up to palm his satisfying hardness; she is rewarded with a shudder, his hips shying away a half-second before they press closer. She bites her lip so she won't smile. That seems to be all the reminder he needs, carefully extricating himself from her and pushing his breeches down just enough, caught and abandoned somewhere around his legs as Margaery wraps her fingers around him.
Margaery knows a great deal of things she shouldn't. She's known the hands and mouths of boys she was never promised to. She knew the only one she did belong to crawled into bed with another each night. She has known rushing excitement and exploration and inexplicable disappointment – but she can't claim familiarity with the careful and tender way Robb Stark touches her. It is perhaps how a noble boy is taught to touch a lady, as though she were made of infinitely breakable glass, though very few of them retained the lesson. And Margaery is not glass, she is a live and living thing with roots and leaves and petals and thorns, blooming beneath his hands.
He kisses her often, their lips catching in small kisses that seem to separate a half-second before they really should. His eyes are shut in concentration but after every other kiss he asks, "Yes?" and Margaery kisses back, murmurs her assent.
In the morning she rides beside him as he checks in on his men. Margaery speaks to as many of them personally as she can, asking their names and after their families, inquiring as to their trade. Robb watches her.
"Your Highness, you ought put your eyes in your head," she says, trotting past him with a smile.
"Will you remember all this?"
"I shall try," she says. "I must. For your bannerman there has promised me a recipe of his wife's and I shall be loathe to lose out on it."
He always gives her these faintly confused half-smiles as though he isn't certain whether it's really proper to be amused or not. And throughout the day she finds him always watching her, curious, perplexed. Perhaps he expected a spoiled little lady, an ambitious social-climber. Margaery is neither but also both, and many other things besides.
Margaery watches just as much, only a good deal less obviously. When he is otherwise engaged or not looking at her, Margaery studies the scar on his cheek, the faint freckling beneath the grime, the involuntary upturn of his mouth. She begins to look forward to nightfall, to the tent.
After they lie together, Robb leans up on his elbow to study her, his expression so serious and scrutinizing that she lets out a soft, self-conscious laugh.
"What is it?" she asks. "Surely you aren't ready again so soon –"
He rolls his eyes a little. "I'm only trying to figure you out," he says.
"Am I very puzzling?" Margaery says. She touches his cheek with lazy fingertips, trailing through scruff. "I always thought myself rather uncomplicated."
Robb gives her a doubtful look and she smiles at him with the beginning of real fondness. Perhaps he understands more than he realizes.
"Why did you come to me?" Robb asks. "Choose us, our side, and not the Lannisters'?"
The question surprises her, but Margaery only shrugs one delicate shoulder. "I wanted to win," she says, self-serving as it is true. Then, more softly, "And my lord Renly had great respect for your family."
Robb doesn't look like he believes that either. But, gently, he asks, "Did you love him?"
She shakes her head slightly and says evasively, "His affections lay elsewhere. But I was fond of him in my way." The corner of her mouth curls up. "Did you love your Frey?"
Robb snorts. "I never met my Frey." He smoothes a touch over the plane of her chest, idly caressing her breast. It's with his voice purposefully blank that he says, "Do you think we'll come to love one another?"
It's very likely, she thinks, but what she says is, "Does my lord doubt my feeling?"
He raises an eyebrow and says in a sugar-sweet voice, blatantly teasing, "I've come to love you from afar," before he collapses into laughter.
Her smile stretches wider. "I thought I was very sincere."
"The girl you think yourself to be is very different than the one lying in my bed," Robb says.
Margaery laughs.
He traces her nipple until it hardens under his fingertips. "I'm promised to one, I love another, I wed a third," he muses, seemingly more to himself. He leans in to kiss the nipple he isn't toying with, his beard pleasantly scratchy against her skin. "And you," said softly, "Is there someone Lady Margaery truly loves?"
She feels a faint spike of annoyance at this nameless girl; she isn't surprised that there was someone before her, there always is, but she'd been rather hoping to have two people in this marriage, not three. "No," she murmurs, "None." She looks up at him through her lashes. "But you have someone."
"It's nothing now," he says, like that settles the matter. He kisses over her ribs. "I thought, for a bit. But it wasn't to be." A small shakes of the head to punctuate the statement. "I must do what is best for myself and my family." Then a sudden smile, his entire face suddenly young. "And I didn't do so badly, did I."
"Flatterer," she says softly, tugging his curls. She tilts her head to watch him back, blue eyes on blue eyes. She finds him…interesting, certainly. Openly, she adds, "I like you very much."
His grin is impossibly sweet. "I'm glad to hear it."
One night she says, "Robb? Tell me of your home," and it turns out he has a thousand stories to tell.
His wolf is curled at the foot of their bed as Robb recounts childish exploit after exploit. He tells her of his half-brother on the Wall, speaking with such wistful longing that she can tell he wishes his brother was with him. He speaks of his sister who is engaged to the king, a prim little lady with a sharp tongue. His other sister brings a grin to his face and he tells of tricks and jokes she would play. Talk of his youngest brothers tinges Robb's voice with a parent's pride.
Margaery repeats their names to herself to learn them: Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. And then she gives her own names to Robb, her brothers that she loves so, her grandmother.
He tells how Jon would lie in wait, crouched in the snow, while Robb told Sansa how pretty her dress was, slipping a casual arm around her only to knock her backwards over Jon. How her face would go red as embers and how she'd refuse to speak to them the rest of the day.
"Brothers are such terrors," Margaery admonishes with a smile. "I should like to meet your sister, we have much commiserating to do."
Robb sobers or softens, says, "Yes. Sansa would like you, I think."
Margaery tells him things too - tourneys and dancing, Loras when he was happy and bright. How her brothers would give her bouquets of beautiful blossoms and secret away amongst them blooms designed to make her sneeze, which she'd only learn after burying her face amongst them.
"I must remember that," he laughs and she swats his shoulder.
Finally he speaks of his father and Winterfell, becoming steadily graver until Margaery kisses him quiet.
His kisses grow surer with every one he gives to her; he covers her face in kisses, creates an elaborate map of kisses on her trembling body. Her skin begins to hold the memory of his hands, sings when he lays them on her. It becomes quicker and quicker to find one another across a crowd, eyes locking on despite distance, despite people. And slowly Robb begins to trust her opinions and ask for them, turn them over in his mind like he would the ideas of any of his men. And Margaery starts to feel a good deal less cold.
It can be easy, she thinks. This one thing can be easy; it's everything else that's hard.
Margaery Tyrell. Robb Stark.
4792 words. R. AU post-2x05.
Summary: Margaery comes before them in ice blue and white fur, her dress dipping low between her breasts and gooseflesh raising along pale skin.
Note: Written for
rachel2205 for the 
got_exchange!Margaery comes before them in ice blue and white fur, her dress dipping low between her breasts and gooseflesh raising along pale skin. The Tyrell rose glints silver at her throat. Her hair is unbound, caught up by the wind, and her determined gaze meets Robb Stark's unblinkingly.
"I've come to love you from afar," she says, in her practiced voice that sings with sweetness.
A slight smirk twists the handsome, serious face of the king in the north so briefly she almost thinks she's imagined it.
Her brother has already spoken for her, his words tripping thickly when he speaks of Renly's death, and smoothing again when he offers Margaery up. It isn't difficult for her to affect grief at the mention of Renly; she is saddened by his untimely passing, but Loras' grief cuts her more deeply than her own. Margaery is sorry but understands that she can only move forward.
"I am promised to another," Robb Stark says, the first words to leave his mouth. His voice is deep, measured.
Loras looks to her first and Margaery takes the opportunity to speak. "Perhaps my brother might take on your debt," she offers. "Lord Frey would hardly turn down a match with House Tyrell."
Loras' eyes widen slightly, not expecting that, and Margaery can only look faintly apologetic. They all must make sacrifices. Loras ought to know as much by now.
Robb Stark confers with his mother for several long moments, a battery of whispers. Finally Loras speaks again. "Our armies are unmatched," he says. "All of House Tyrell would stand behind you."
Lady Catelyn looks hesitant still but Margaery can tell by the resolve in the wolf king's eyes that he's been won. It's the same resolve in hers.
The banquet goes on around them, so subdued it hardly deserves the word. It's Margaery's second marriage in as many months and she finds the celebrations much less fine than the first. She wears an old gown, silver like snow, and has no crown to match his. She knows her first is no longer supposed to count, being as it were rushed, unconsummated, brief. Still she can't help comparing. The first had been at Highgarden, full of music and light and dancing, sweets and fruits, dozens of happy faces. Now she is surrounded by northern soldiers she doesn't know, searching out her brother in the crowd to find him solemn and sulky and feeling the critical eye of her husband's mother on her already.
"I've heard tales of you," Margaery murmurs. This is the first time they've been alone – almost alone. "The handsome northern king." It won't hurt to ply his vanity a little. All men respond to that. "They say you ride a great wolf like a stallion. They say you become a wolf and you tear out your enemies' throats with your teeth."
He looks at her, vaguely amused. He looks like any boy, really. He could be any of her cousins, were his hair a touch lighter or eyes a touch darker. "Oh?"
"Have you heard of me?"
He thinks, offers, "I've heard that you are beautiful."
Margaery smiles. She can be vain too. "And do I meet the expectations of the young king?"
Robb Stark looks at her and she thinks no, not like any boy. His face is young but his eyes are the hardened eyes of a man much older.
She wonders what he sees. She is pretty, she knows as much – her hair shines, her skin is soft, her figure slim. A few boys who tried to woo her called her eyes beguiling. She wants her husband to think the same, to look her over like he did earlier, to follow the chain of her necklace down to where the rose dangles between her breasts.
"There can be no disputing your beauty," he offers diplomatically, like a gentleman. His tone is surprisingly soft.
"My lord husband is kind," Margaery says.
He nods a little, dropping his gaze. He seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, not the assured young man he was moments ago. He struggles to speak. "You mustn't – you ought not –" He meets her eyes again, looking utterly guileless, and says earnestly, "There's no need to carry on with all this 'my king,' 'my lord' nonsense. You're my –" He clears his throat. "You are my wife. Call me Robb."
He gives an order without thinking it is one, like highborn boys are wont to do, but Margaery finds him sweet nonetheless. She thinks how lucky she has been to be married to kind men, whatever Renly's shortcomings were otherwise. "In the privacy of our –" She pauses, intending to say room but realizing they have no home currently, with what she's heard of Winterfell. "Tent," she continues, smiling a little, "But it would not be proper to do so in front of your men."
Robb ducks his head, sheepish. "Yes. Yes, you are right."
"Thank you, though," she says softly. "For thinking to say so." Almost hesitant herself, she speaks his name aloud to him for the first time, "Robb."
He returns her smile and tips his head in a slight nod. "Margaery."
Her grin turns a touch impish. "I did not say you could be so familiar with me, my lord."
Surprised, he lets out a laugh. "I beg your forgiveness, my lady."
"My queen," she corrects playfully.
He smiles again but then sobers. "My queen," he repeats solemnly, and in his cadence there is something very young indeed. She thinks they must be the same age; perhaps he's a little older. It's difficult to tell. His skin was scrubbed clean for their ceremony but something of the battlefield lingers around him, a sense of action and order.
Margaery reaches over and curls her hand around his. The movement startles him but he doesn't pull away; his hand is large and rough, very warm against hers, almost hot. "You must be very warm-blooded in the north," she says. "I'm not. My blood's so thin. Easily chilled."
She wants to find his protests and cut them off before they can take root; pronounce their differences before he discovers them, lest they fester.
He looks down at their hands, hers so small and soft and pale. "You'll adjust," he says. With a tentativeness that seems at odds with his nature, Robb lifts her hand and presses his mouth to her knuckles. It isn't the first time they've touched, but she'd been so cold during the ceremony she'd hardly felt his hand. She hadn't been entirely coquettish before; if she's this cold here, she can't imagine how she'll bear the true north. She's only known summer, and roses don't grow in winter.
The gesture – not quite a kiss, only a comforting press of lips – shows her that he doesn't take his vows lightly. He will do his very best to be a husband to her, she thinks.
"I hope so, my king," she murmurs. "My husband."
Lady Stark and a few guards show Margaery to the tent that will be hers as long as the army stands in this spot. Among them had been Renly's lady knight, to Margaery's great surprise. She didn't look at Margaery once, though of course she never did.
The tent is comfortably made up, very warm. There is a table and makeshift bed piled with furs and cushions, luxury befitting a lord's son but nothing as fine as what Renly had.
The soldiers wait outside as Lady Stark herself tends to Margaery, sitting her down in a rough-hewn chair and beginning to unpin and unbraid her hair. Lady Stark combs her fingers gently through the tangles in Margaery's tresses, distant and thoughtful as she does so. Margaery imagines Lady Stark must miss her daughters. Margaery is missing familial attention herself, so she doesn't mind standing in.
Finally, Lady Stark speaks. "You know Robb has little interest in the iron throne," she says. "He only wants the north free and his sisters returned to him."
Her voice is like her son's, even and deliberate.
"He will have little choice once he wins the battle," Margaery says, omitting the if they're both thinking.
After a moment, she replies, "You're young yet," with the implication in her tone that there is much Margaery doesn't understand.
"I only mean that my lord could not just give away his victory."
Lady Stark falls silent again. She has produced a carved comb and is carefully working it through sections of Margaery's hair. "I too married in a time of war," she says. "To a man I barely knew."
The candor surprises Margaery.
"It will not be an easy road," Lady Stark says.
Margaery can't help but laugh softly at that. She is a widowed virgin bride, passing herself from king to king. "When is it?"
Robb's large wolf lopes in then and sits, watching with a wary alertness Margaery is not used to finding in animals. He isn't followed by his master, but she can't imagine Robb is very far behind.
"I'll leave you," Lady Catelyn says, a sigh in her voice.
Margaery speaks before she can stop herself. "I'll be a good queen." Her voice does not waver, but she can hear her desperation to convince this woman.
Lady Catelyn studies her for several moments and only nods, continuing out. As she stands to finish getting ready, Margaery finds herself unsettled by Catelyn's unreadable face. She hopes Robb will prove easier to fathom, though all these northern faces are so stolid and remote.
She drops her cloak onto her vacated chair as she turns away from the tent flap. Her hands go to the buttons of her gown but before she can unfasten them, a warm voice interrupts her.
"What did my mother have to say?"
The tent falls shut behind Robb and he stands just inside, back brushing the heavy fabric. He's forgone his cloak for the walk between tents, which must mean his is close by, and he wears a well-fitted leather jerkin, breeches, boots. He looks handsome, boyish, and his face is a little ruddy from the brisk night wind. He raises expectant eyebrows and drops a hand to scratch at the wolf's ears.
"Not very much, my lord," she answers. "Only a little talk between women."
It's difficult to tell in the dimness but she thinks he goes slightly redder. Margaery doesn't understand why. What does he think she means? Does he perhaps think Lady Stark instructed her on what was to come on her wedding night, as though Margaery didn't already know?
He nods and finally moves, only it's towards the table at the opposite end. He's keeping his distance from her. Margaery arches a brow; is that shyness she detects from the king in the north?
The thought gives Margaery a faint thrill of anticipation.
Her fingers return to the small silver buttons at her hip, each stamped with a Tyrell rose. Robb is pouring wine, his back to her. She thinks the shape of his shoulders very fine indeed. "Was the feast to your liking, my lord?"
"I told you, you ought not to bother with –"
He falters, having turned at the exact moment to catch her gown slipping from her shoulders. Beneath it she wears a thin silk shift, embroidered at the edges where it peeked out around the gown. The chemise has no sleeves. Margaery stills a shiver.
Robb is just looking at her. She wonders if she will leave a man speechless every time she takes off her dress. "Ought not to what, my lord?"
His gaze travels up from her hem, following how the silk skims off her hips, the close fit of the bodice. His gaze finally snaps to hers and yes – he is certainly shy. "Call me that," he says, voice rough. "My lord. You should call me Robb, as I said."
She glides towards him, extending a hand for the cup. "Robb."
He swallows, seeming to shiver himself as she gets closer. "Aren't you cold?"
Margaery smiles prettily and lifts the cup to her lips. "I'll be warm soon."
He huffs a laugh, ducking his head.
"You look very warm," she says. She sets the cup down on the table, which brings her that much closer to him. Her fingertips settle lightly onto his chest, the leather is very warm to the touch. Margaery wonders if he's flushed with embarrassment or excitement. Renly often flushed when they were alone together. She hopes Robb Stark's discomfort – if indeed it is discomfort – doesn't share the same source. "You feel warm."
"I –" He looks down at her hands. "I suppose."
"Here," she says. "Let me help." She reaches out but finds herself almost nervous to touch him. She thought it wouldn't matter that he was a stranger to her, but perhaps it does. Renly she'd known half her life, at least from a distance, and he'd had her brother's love besides, so she'd known he was worthy. Robb Stark is truly a stranger, a man with impulses and thoughts utterly foreign to her.
But none of this matters. He is her husband and she is his wife and that's all there is to it.
Robb catches her hands before they can begin to undo his laces and Margaery sighs. Here it is again; he will kiss her on the forehead like Renly did and then be on his way.
"Margaery," he says softly.
"What is it that troubles you?" she murmurs. "Tell me. Tell me and we shall fix it."
"It's only…" He sounds a little frustrated and he isn't meeting her eyes. "It's only…I haven't…."
"Haven't?" she prompts, searching his downcast face.
"I've never," Robb says, "before. Only kissed."
Margaery looks at him. She'd think he was having her on if it weren't for the grave, worried look in those light eyes, the color indiscernible in the dimness. Suddenly she wants to laugh, but she keeps her voice kind. "Oh. Is that all?"
Margaery is aware that she's meant to know a great deal less about these matters than she does. Innocent had been the word Loras had used. My sister is still innocent. That's what Margaery is meant to be: a good little maid ignorant in thought and deed of vile things, parting her legs only for men's pleasure and birthing babies.
Only Margaery found she quite enjoyed those viler things.
He still looks uncertain – this battlefield king, the young wolf, shy of her. He's a boy, she reminds herself. He's just a boy. A stranger, yes, but a kind and handsome one just as afraid to touch her as she is to be touched. That's what calms her more than anything else. The calm settles over her like sunshine, or snow.
"My husband, I'm here to help you learn," she says, teasing a little. She takes his warm hands and puts them on her waist. "First I must note that you've yet to kiss me. What kind of marriage is this, without kissing?"
Robb half-smiles and Margaery echoes it, pleased that he seems to find her amusing. He bends and kisses her cheek, a soft dry kiss like the one to her hand earlier. She turns and kisses his scratchy, embarrassed cheek, and then their lips meet.
The heat of him shocks her cold mouth, cold bones. His hands are on her arms, not to move her or to clasp her closer but to warm her up; he rubs briskly up and down over her skin until her temperature is somewhat less frigid. It makes Margaery laugh and crowd nearer to him. Then his arms encircle her and enfold her as he deepens the kiss and she no longer laughs.
Her own arms round his neck, she murmurs, "It's not so scary, is it?"
He looks at her with that solemn unfathomable face and Margaery wants, suddenly, to make it crinkle into a smile again.
"Don't be so serious," she says softly. "The war is out there; in here, only me."
Robb is still studying her, a little crease between his brows, looking as though there is a question on the tip of his tongue. But if there is, he doesn't speak it; instead he kisses her again, more surely than before.
He doesn't protest this time when her hands go to his laces, but he laughs at her impatience. She pulls sharply at the leather tie until it comes unraveled, pulls free of each hole it's laced through, and the sides of the leather jerkin part. Robb watches her without interrupting. His breathing comes quickly. Finally his skin is left bared to her inquisitive fingers, her touches that run over the muscles of his arms and shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
Very handsome, she thinks.
With his mouth against hers, they move back towards the bed with all its blankets and furs. Margaery breaks away to settle amongst them, sitting with queenly posture, her back so straight she might be on a throne instead. They lock eyes as she slips the silk off her shoulders, letting the chemise fall to her waist. Robb's swallow is a visible thing as his eyes travel over her.
Margaery feels unencumbered, unbound; far from increasing her tension, her exposure gives her control. She feels secure and powerful, able to make his eyes wide and mouth dry just with herself, her body. Her skin prickles in the open air. There is nothing to hide.
He folds to kneeling in front of her. He takes off each of her slippers and sets it aside, then reaches to tug the chemise over her hips and off. He rolls her stocking down with unexpected care; it's the kind of attention she didn't expect out of him. The deliberate way he undresses her is both tentative and sweet, with a kind of respect in his cautious gestures.
Anticipation has found its home in her again, tingling through her veins and rushing through her stomach. Robb kisses her knee. Margaery can't remember how long it's been since someone has really touched her.
"You're so far away, my –" Margaery wets her lips, corrects, "Robb."
Her first wedding night had been spent alone.
"Tell me what I should do," Robb says – and Margaery likes that, that he can look at her with such earnestness and ask to be taught.
His curls glint darkly red in the low light and she tangles her hands in them, tugging until he's levered up and over her. "Kiss," she again implores. "What's a marriage without kissing?"
It's with another faint smile that he presses his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. Margaery gives a little moan to encourage him but when he puts his hands on her it turns to genuine breathlessness. He cups her breasts with a sort of careless boyish eagerness that she's missed, presses his thumb against her nipple to learn her reaction. While he explores, so does she, running her nails over the lines of his muscles and leaving faint white-red marks behind.
Robb kisses her again with more confidence and he clutches her, fingertips digging into her ribs. Margaery smiles against his lips before gently removing one hand, repositioning it between her legs.
He freezes briefly but thaws just as quickly. His touch is gentle as he parts her, fingers slipping over her slowly until he finds where she's slick. Margaery intervenes, moving his fingers directly to the that little knot, making a helpless noise as he rubs over it curiously.
"Here?" he wonders, stroking again.
Margaery nods, eyes falling shut and twisting slightly. "Yes," she says. She covers his hand with hers, fingers threading together as she shows him how to touch and where. "Yes, yes."
Robb raises his eyebrows, intrigued. "Oh."
He moves down her body a little, nudging her legs apart so he can have a proper look as he continues to discover what makes her gasp or roll her hips.
Margaery reaches to wrap her fingers around the untied lace of his breeches and tugs, to remind him that there is more to come, more than this. "My lord," she says impatiently, but it tapers off into a moan as he slips a finger into her, apparently not on purpose if his taken-aback expression is anything to go by.
"Oh," he says again, "That's –" He cuts himself off, seemingly mesmerized by the way he sinks into her, again and again.
Margaery can't wait any longer, sitting up to palm his satisfying hardness; she is rewarded with a shudder, his hips shying away a half-second before they press closer. She bites her lip so she won't smile. That seems to be all the reminder he needs, carefully extricating himself from her and pushing his breeches down just enough, caught and abandoned somewhere around his legs as Margaery wraps her fingers around him.
Margaery knows a great deal of things she shouldn't. She's known the hands and mouths of boys she was never promised to. She knew the only one she did belong to crawled into bed with another each night. She has known rushing excitement and exploration and inexplicable disappointment – but she can't claim familiarity with the careful and tender way Robb Stark touches her. It is perhaps how a noble boy is taught to touch a lady, as though she were made of infinitely breakable glass, though very few of them retained the lesson. And Margaery is not glass, she is a live and living thing with roots and leaves and petals and thorns, blooming beneath his hands.
He kisses her often, their lips catching in small kisses that seem to separate a half-second before they really should. His eyes are shut in concentration but after every other kiss he asks, "Yes?" and Margaery kisses back, murmurs her assent.
In the morning she rides beside him as he checks in on his men. Margaery speaks to as many of them personally as she can, asking their names and after their families, inquiring as to their trade. Robb watches her.
"Your Highness, you ought put your eyes in your head," she says, trotting past him with a smile.
"Will you remember all this?"
"I shall try," she says. "I must. For your bannerman there has promised me a recipe of his wife's and I shall be loathe to lose out on it."
He always gives her these faintly confused half-smiles as though he isn't certain whether it's really proper to be amused or not. And throughout the day she finds him always watching her, curious, perplexed. Perhaps he expected a spoiled little lady, an ambitious social-climber. Margaery is neither but also both, and many other things besides.
Margaery watches just as much, only a good deal less obviously. When he is otherwise engaged or not looking at her, Margaery studies the scar on his cheek, the faint freckling beneath the grime, the involuntary upturn of his mouth. She begins to look forward to nightfall, to the tent.
After they lie together, Robb leans up on his elbow to study her, his expression so serious and scrutinizing that she lets out a soft, self-conscious laugh.
"What is it?" she asks. "Surely you aren't ready again so soon –"
He rolls his eyes a little. "I'm only trying to figure you out," he says.
"Am I very puzzling?" Margaery says. She touches his cheek with lazy fingertips, trailing through scruff. "I always thought myself rather uncomplicated."
Robb gives her a doubtful look and she smiles at him with the beginning of real fondness. Perhaps he understands more than he realizes.
"Why did you come to me?" Robb asks. "Choose us, our side, and not the Lannisters'?"
The question surprises her, but Margaery only shrugs one delicate shoulder. "I wanted to win," she says, self-serving as it is true. Then, more softly, "And my lord Renly had great respect for your family."
Robb doesn't look like he believes that either. But, gently, he asks, "Did you love him?"
She shakes her head slightly and says evasively, "His affections lay elsewhere. But I was fond of him in my way." The corner of her mouth curls up. "Did you love your Frey?"
Robb snorts. "I never met my Frey." He smoothes a touch over the plane of her chest, idly caressing her breast. It's with his voice purposefully blank that he says, "Do you think we'll come to love one another?"
It's very likely, she thinks, but what she says is, "Does my lord doubt my feeling?"
He raises an eyebrow and says in a sugar-sweet voice, blatantly teasing, "I've come to love you from afar," before he collapses into laughter.
Her smile stretches wider. "I thought I was very sincere."
"The girl you think yourself to be is very different than the one lying in my bed," Robb says.
Margaery laughs.
He traces her nipple until it hardens under his fingertips. "I'm promised to one, I love another, I wed a third," he muses, seemingly more to himself. He leans in to kiss the nipple he isn't toying with, his beard pleasantly scratchy against her skin. "And you," said softly, "Is there someone Lady Margaery truly loves?"
She feels a faint spike of annoyance at this nameless girl; she isn't surprised that there was someone before her, there always is, but she'd been rather hoping to have two people in this marriage, not three. "No," she murmurs, "None." She looks up at him through her lashes. "But you have someone."
"It's nothing now," he says, like that settles the matter. He kisses over her ribs. "I thought, for a bit. But it wasn't to be." A small shakes of the head to punctuate the statement. "I must do what is best for myself and my family." Then a sudden smile, his entire face suddenly young. "And I didn't do so badly, did I."
"Flatterer," she says softly, tugging his curls. She tilts her head to watch him back, blue eyes on blue eyes. She finds him…interesting, certainly. Openly, she adds, "I like you very much."
His grin is impossibly sweet. "I'm glad to hear it."
One night she says, "Robb? Tell me of your home," and it turns out he has a thousand stories to tell.
His wolf is curled at the foot of their bed as Robb recounts childish exploit after exploit. He tells her of his half-brother on the Wall, speaking with such wistful longing that she can tell he wishes his brother was with him. He speaks of his sister who is engaged to the king, a prim little lady with a sharp tongue. His other sister brings a grin to his face and he tells of tricks and jokes she would play. Talk of his youngest brothers tinges Robb's voice with a parent's pride.
Margaery repeats their names to herself to learn them: Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon. And then she gives her own names to Robb, her brothers that she loves so, her grandmother.
He tells how Jon would lie in wait, crouched in the snow, while Robb told Sansa how pretty her dress was, slipping a casual arm around her only to knock her backwards over Jon. How her face would go red as embers and how she'd refuse to speak to them the rest of the day.
"Brothers are such terrors," Margaery admonishes with a smile. "I should like to meet your sister, we have much commiserating to do."
Robb sobers or softens, says, "Yes. Sansa would like you, I think."
Margaery tells him things too - tourneys and dancing, Loras when he was happy and bright. How her brothers would give her bouquets of beautiful blossoms and secret away amongst them blooms designed to make her sneeze, which she'd only learn after burying her face amongst them.
"I must remember that," he laughs and she swats his shoulder.
Finally he speaks of his father and Winterfell, becoming steadily graver until Margaery kisses him quiet.
His kisses grow surer with every one he gives to her; he covers her face in kisses, creates an elaborate map of kisses on her trembling body. Her skin begins to hold the memory of his hands, sings when he lays them on her. It becomes quicker and quicker to find one another across a crowd, eyes locking on despite distance, despite people. And slowly Robb begins to trust her opinions and ask for them, turn them over in his mind like he would the ideas of any of his men. And Margaery starts to feel a good deal less cold.
It can be easy, she thinks. This one thing can be easy; it's everything else that's hard.