The Century of Blood

HIGHGARDEN, The Reach, 8th Month of the 17th Year of Perceon IV

The Crown Princess' solar was overcome with the stifling, suffocating, still heat of late summer, a heat even the opening of all of Highgarden's many windows could not effectively combat. Yet, though her many ladies-in-waiting and handmaidens could scarcely put in the effort to keep up the background noise of inane chatter about so-and-so's latest crush or who had been seen dancing with who, the Crown Princess seemed unaffected.

In truth, she preferred these hot, quiet summers days to the cacophony that was the cooler ones. Though of course it would be improper to say as much, she did not care who had kissed who, and the uncomfortable feeling in her belly when she thought too much about it made her feel sinful, though it was certainly not anything akin to the sin of lust, of course. Jocelyn was more interesting - she felt she could truly speak to her of things that mattered! - but she was in her chambers, recovering from summer fever.

Dressed in a splendid silk gown of pure white silk - the color of the Seven, and her preferred color - the callow girl who had been named heir years before had flowered into a strikingly pretty maiden, robust for a girl of her age, with bouncing brown curls. Those same curls had been called 'common' by some of the traitors and slanderers, and 'breathtaking' by sycophants and flatteres, both of which Margaery now knew were legion.

Yet that beauty was not on display as Margaery bent single-mindedly over her stitches, face contorted in frustration, occasionally glancing to her copy of the Seven-Pointed Star - in the original Andal, of course - open to one of the parables of Hugor, which she was trying to portray. It was one about 'rendering unto the King,' which she felt was quite appropriate for the situation of the kingdom, wracked with disloyal vassals and impiety as it was. She brushed one of those 'common,' 'breathtaking' curls out of her vision roughly, putting it behind the loose veil she had worn since flowering. She needed to focus.

She had become frustrated with her father of late, even as she had been included more and more in her father's councils. House Gardener was set to be bound in blood with House Hightower - the most powerful alliance seen in half a millenia - yet not a man dared to dream of what could be done with such power! No, her father seemed content with the interminable dance of tourneys and feasts and flattering lords who were no better than carrion birds, feeding off of the power that was rightfully hers, rather than taking the chance of a century to seize true, absolute power!

Yet at the thought of her betrothal, her mind drifted from important matters of faith and state to less meaningful things. Addam's face flashed in her mind, much to her chagrin, and she smiled slightly, despite herself. To let her mind wander to thoughts of the other sex while she attempted to depict holy scenes was borderline sinful, though she had no sinful intent. He had gotten bigger and taller of late, well on his way to earning his spurs - the Prince Consort must be a knight, after all, she thought - yet he had also been acting very queer of late. Laughing even when she had not said something funny, and at times, she even thought he didn't very much like her friend Osric.

"What's that you're stitching?" asked Mina, stupidly, interrupting her thoughts. She did not understand why her father had saddled her with a steward's daughter, and a halfwit besides. "I think he looks like Addam!" she cooed, pointing at the kneeling lord, and soon all her ladies and handmaidens erupted into a cacaphony of giggles. "It's not Addam," she declared, but no one listened, even as she kept insisting otherwise. For a moment, a voice that spoke in her brother's voice said that her stitches were too crooked to look like anyone, but she silenced the voice. Her needle was just dull - that was it. Not to mention her hands had never been very dextrous, which was, of course, the fault of her Septas.