Chapter Text
They called her a dragon.
It was a presumptuous name, but one she wore with as much dignity as she could muster. Titles meant nothing in the face of sincerity, but what was that worth, when you groveled in lies? She was being mocked, a title guised in praise, though, considering recent events, it was more of a curse than a nuance. I did not kill thousands of people.
She collected other names over the years, a prominent example being The Burned Beauty. Alkin Pine used to say it was attractive and mysterious, just enough to draw in a few eyes. She saw it a different way, a way to control her, to perpetually remind her of what she was and what she would remain as if he had his way.
Whore.
A man had hailed her across the tavern. His voice was booming, like a clap of thunder, but as she approached she realized he was quite the opposite. Lithe and toned, suited for agility rather than raw strength. Deception. He was strong, but where remained to be seen.
She threw on a smile, sauntering over to him with a lilt in her hips.
He sat near a frost-armored window, nursing a keg of ale. He wore a great big cloak the color of moldy lemons, as old as dirt. As she approached, she smelled dirt, and grime and sage, the man freshly presented from a trek through the woods no doubt. The green fork was notorious for men like him.
As she approached, he swept her into his lap. She could feel his heady breaths hot and heavy against her neck. His hands settled onto her hips, her back to him. She stared out the window, listening to the listless clapping of wet leaves.
“You really are a dragon, ain't you?”
Many men said that, but what she lacked was quite obvious: she had no golden eyes or a chest that could heave golden flame. Her hair used to be golden, but now it was dulled by a film of dirt and dust. She was more of a lizard, but that sounded not at all appealing to any lackwit.
Rather, she had scales. Not the armored kind, instead burns. They scorched her body in thick ribbons, most prominently spiraling up her left side; along her calf, nearly covering her whole thigh, before cupping her breast and her cheek and upper lip. It was reddish-black and ugly beyond compare, hard and tough like leather but without the benefit of protection. Her skin was weakened in those spots, prone to burst.
“So I’ve been told,” she said slyly. “But don't worry, I don't bite.”
He grinned nastily, a few of his teeth ashen grey. “Or burn, I would hope. Last dragon who could burn set an entire city aflame. Smoke choked even the youngest halfwits of the Night’s Watch. It smelled of blood and ashes for miles out, I still feel it clinging to my skin.” He shuddered, curling his lip. “Most people burned, if I’ve heard it true. No survivors. A Targaryen’s insanity. Say, you from there? Never seen burns like yours before.”
“I could be,” Margaery said loftily. “Or I could be from Old Valyria, perhaps a pyromancer, or a survivor of the Disaster at Summerhall. I could be anyone you like.”
His hands started to wander down across the plains of her thighs, and she winced as his nails raked across the scaly patch of burns. He took no notice. “What I like,” he mumbled, “Is blood on my hands, a song in my ears and a smile on my lips. Do you sing, you burned beast? Or did the flames burn away your tongue as well?”
She swallowed down something thick. “I can sing. What do you want to hear?”
“Something before that Targaryen Bitch and the Northern Whore. Before the dead walked the land like a lot ‘o cunts and there were seven kingdoms instead of six.” He took a swig of ale, his pupils enlarging like two new moons.
She thought for a moment. Her memory may be choppy, (though on purpose or accident she didn't know), but she would be disgraced if she didn't remember something to keep her spirits high. So, taking a deep breath, she sang.
***
The morning was colder than usual.
It was the type of cold that snuggled into your neck, armoring your skin and licking your veins. Margaery awoke shivering, bundled snuggly in an aggregation of mildewy furs. They smelled starkly of use, sweat and sex, but fainter was the smell of the North: lichen and sage with just the slightest kiss of pine sap. Fainter still was blood from a birth so many years ago.
What made the cold worse was the fact she was alone. Most commonly men drank themselves into a stupor, snoring away the light until into early noon. But, as she had suspected, this lemon-cloaked ranger had none of that.
On the pillow beside her three groats and two pennies had been scattered. She palmed them, running her fingers over the blunted edges. Her grandmother would be disgraced and enraged to see such pitiless payment, or, more likely, would have been angered at her granddaughter for stooping to such ignominy.
All the same, Margaery felt only the smallest flood of shame. Over the two and a half years of her stay in the shanty-town near the green fork, she had grown into a hygge, factitious and unkind, but comfortable. She would only allow herself to see the glamor in the men she entertained, the benefits of waking up within the embrace of someone strong and better off, their toxic, ale-laced breaths hard and heavy against her neck.
As she laced up her tresses, finding them spattered with mud, she stretched her arms out. The ashen burns split, making her wince and grit her teeth. Loras would be here soon, she did not doubt, and she would hate for him to see her in such a stance of disarray.
He knows what I do. He hates it. He hates Alkin Pine and every man who ever touched me. Yet she had relented from his plees, refusing to leave. She had been adamant, yet their arguments could rise to shouts, leaving her feeling more and more dejected.
She made her way downstairs, finding Alkin Pine wiping down the bar. The cloth had gathered a fine sloshing of congealed amber liquid, turning it the same color as his skin. He raised his head as she entered, grunting.
To her surprise, Loras was sitting at the bar, palming a keg, though it held only water. His eyes were distant, glossy, one nearly swollen over from his burns. He was far from pretty, though women had to tug their eyes away. For one reason or another, Loras remained desirable. As for her.. She shook her head. Comparing her to others wouldn't help her mentality or her mood.
“Did you treat him well?” Alkin asked. Loras startled, turning to her with a tight grin.
She didn't smile back. “Of course.”
“Good,” Alkin huffed. “Last thing I need is another complaint.”
“Another?” Loras echoed, eyeing Margaery as she unceremoniously plopped down into the stool next to him, exhaling thickly.
“Aye.” Alkin said. Margaery didn't bother to correct him. “She’s a tricky one. Most won't touch her, and those that do tend to think she’s more of an animal. One wrong word and they are out the door. I told you that you need to be more complicit,” he turned to Margaery. “See how well it’s working for you?”
Loras’s eyes were flashing angrily as he ground his teeth together. “We need to talk.” He hissed. Despite his stiff, enraged tone, his touch was surprisingly tender as he grabbed her hand, ushering her out the door.
The morning was cold, and the breeze had an egregious bite to it. A heavy mist had settled over the town, lacing the trees in rippling tendrils. A few spears of sun filtered down from the clouds, but a stormfront was rolling in quickly. It would only be a few days until the first snow of winter hit the green fork, and Margaery wasn’t ready for it.
Loras led her on in silence, winding past a few oxcarts and a few more not so pleasant-faced smallfolk. Their looks had long since been numbed to Margaery, but they still made her feel off, misplaced and hated.
He began up a slow incline past the butcher’s shop, the air smelling starkly of peat. The grass was dribbled in frost, and so were the aspens. When they had trudged a little farther in, he sat down on a fallen log. It was damp, but they would make do.
The second she sat down Loras turned to her, releasing her hand and clenching his own into fists. “You can’t keep doing this.”
She winced as her thigh scraped a stray branch. “Why not?”
“Because it’s hurting you. You deserve so much better. You have been nothing but kind to everyone-”
“Life isn’t fair,” Margaery cut in, mildly annoyed. “It’s what we make of it that counts. Whatever I am doing now is a means to an end. I’m helping both of us. Why can’t you see that? Once we have enough money..” It was true they were poor, so much so that simple commodities were a luxury. Before Cersei’s death, Loras had been more laid back, pressing only slightly. But now that she was dead.. No.
She was afraid. Afraid of her own ambitions. Afraid of people.
“When will that be?” Loras asked, curling his lip. “When you’ve lifted your skirts for a hundred men? A thousand? How many will it be, Margaery? Until we are old and grey? I cannot- will not stand for that.”
She exhaled shakily, her control slipping. “It’s not your choice,” she whispered. “I may not have been able to control what happened then, or how father died, but I can control this. Give that to me, at least.”
Loras swallowed thickly, his eyes glossing over with tears. “What I would be giving you is pain. Every night until you are wrung of every ounce of hope and love until you are no longer my sister! Please. I beg you. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go North. South. I don’t care. Anywhere where you are safe.”
“How?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t noticed the trails of tears along her cheeks until now. “There is nowhere left for us.”
Before she could grasp what was happening, Loras had pulled her into his arms, rocking her gently. She pressed into him, her breath hitching, clinging to his shirt. She never wanted to lift her head, his heartbeat strong in her ears; it was the only song she needed.
“We will make a place. I promise. I will get you away from here. To some place better. A place where you will laugh and smile again. Gods Margaery!” He ran his hands soothingly along her back. “You are so much more than this.”
The sun had begun to swell in the sky and the hearty chatter of the town began to cut it’s way through the mist. Something else rode along the breeze, the frigid promise of snow and ice. If the storm hit before they left.. There would be no hope of going anywhere until spring.
“The North,” she murmured quietly. Whispered words seeped into her thoughts from the previous night. The man was drunk and had spoken of his woes. The North.. Seceded, ruled by a queen.. Sansa Stark. The words had rammed into her like an arrow, winding her.
Loras stiffened, pulling away and holding her at arm’s length.
“The North?”
“Yes.” She built up a block of courage in her throat. “Sansa is Queen. She.. she will help us.” The words rang false to her own ears. Why would she help us? It has been years since I have seen her.. Yet hope bloomed in her chest. It was addicting, the feeling of elation and excitement. She wanted more, and yet at the same time felt a welling of fear in her gut.
Loras’s gaze softened. “The North then.”
***
Loras was excited, though confused. They planned to leave in the night, before the storms hit. But the King’s Road was long and treacherous, and with stores leaking out by the day, pickpockets and thieves would be common. They needed protection, direction, and, in a broader sense, provisions.
She made her way down the ridge first, frowning deeply. Loras worked as an apprentice to a dyer down the way; his hands were always stained in some odd assortment of colors. She liked how sandy his hands felt, and liked how he draw small pictures on the trunks of trees. It was a small respite, but one she lavished.
They rarely went to the sept, though the seven-pointed scar on Loras’s head was confusing to most. It had been puckered in scar tissue, once infected after the explosion, and never since healed properly. Yet it retained its shape, for whatever that was worth.
If the gods loved us, they would have let us die with Father.
As she walked, she noticed a band of newcomers. They were tall and beefy, muscles rippling under their leather-clad graves and plates. They were coated in a shell of brass armor, their eyes flinty and their skin pale. Two were younger, lads by the look of them, with three older, and one grizzled old lune. They pulled a wayne cart and led two flaxen destriers, each in prime condition.
When she returned, having gorged on a half-stale loaf of bread, she found Alkin with a sneer plastered to his fat face. The tavern was already filling in with men ready for luncheon, though many refrained from drinking until the sun set.
The armored band of men entered before her, choosing a seat near a frothy window. She noticed idly that there was not a single moment when their shoulders lay flat, always bouncing in laughter at some jape. She envied them, a flush creeping up her neck. She felt both ashamed and guilty for not smiling more often, especially for Loras, and had almost forgotten what her laugh sounded like.
“There you are,” Alkin Pine hissed, drawing her close by the arm.
“Sorry,” Margaery mumbled.
“Aye. You better be sorry. What did I tell you about taking breaks?” He paused, hacking up a glob of phlegm. “Meet me in my chambers tonight.” It wasn't a question, but rather a command. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He shoved her away where she nearly stumbled into a table, her arm colliding with the liquor-stained rim. Her shoulder burned and she hissed, biting her lip so as not to cry out. You will hear me roar, you bastard.
She swaggered over to the table, a lilt in her hips. She eyed their armor, finding a Tully Trout emblazoned on their pectorals. Her eyes widened. She had seen a few men from Riverrun, but most were simple merchants. These men.. They were knights, that was plain to see. But the two boys, she noted, were sitting farther back, almost protected by the older men.
“What in the bloody hells are you?” The eldest asked. His eyes were a dusky green and his hair was a dizzying array of red, brown and black.
“By god Daler, is that your mother?” One of the other men chimed in. He looked smaller, more lithe, clean shaven and ruddy. “Ugly and all that.”
“Shut it Goffer,” the man, presumably Daler grumbled. He swatted at his friend, only for the other to dodge aside. The lad’s were chuckling.
She opened her mouth to speak but the third cut her off. “Ale all around. Make it strong.” He seemed to think better of himself. “Two watered-down.”
“Where’s the fun in that Bedrik?” Goffer wrinkled his nose. “Give the lads a fair spoil! Gods know they’ve earned it.”
She turned to go, relieved and obfuscated, before Daler hailed her again. “You were beautiful once, weren’t you?”
“Once,” she repeated. “Until I caught the blackscale.”
Goffer curled his lip, shrinking back. “ Blackscale?”
“Oh yes,” she said, her face drawing down into a frown. “Like grayscale but worse. It eats away at your skin, turning it black until it falls off.” She grimaced. “There is no cure. I imagine I’ll die soon. Perhaps you will hear my screams at night. I’m told they are dreadful.”
Daler snorted before bursting into a bubbling fit of chuckles. Goffer looked horrified. “You’re joking!”
She flashed a smirk before the older man curled his greasy lip, clicking his knuckles on the table. “It is not a whore’s job to make japes. Go find some other man to entertain. And while your at it, learn a little respect.”
Margaery faltered. The man was greying, his beard an old bush etched onto his face. His eyes were sunken and a pale, smoky blue. She thought he might have been an ex-maester, by the look of his stooped shoulders and gaunt, hollow cheeks. “It is a whore’s job to entertain. Or would you rather I step down and you show me how it’s done?”
“Liren,” Bedrick said, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder. He was glaring, his eyes ablaze.
The man, Liren, sat back with a huff, his nose wrinkled and the crow’s feet around his eyes splaying out horribly. “There is a reason you are no lady, or ever will be one,” he said calmly. “You do not listen. Mocking your elders is a sure way to bring upon yourself misfortune. Don’t take it to practice.”
Margaery’s heart started to beat faster, his words echoing in her head like the raucous beat of a drum. Mocking your elders is a sure way to bring upon yourself misfortune. She gulped, nodding once before turning.
“You shouldn’t be so harsh on her,” Goffer whispered.
Margaery glanced back in time to see Liren snort. “It seems the farther North we go, the more pitiless lackwits we find. It runs in their blood, as well as the Stark Bitch.” She bristled at that but said nothing.
***
“You’re going North?” Margaery asked as she set down the kegs, waves of ale sloshing against the rims.
“Aye. As far as we can before winter swallows us whole,” Daler replied dryly, gulping down the liquor. He wiped his lips. “Damn it all.”
“Why would you risk travel this late?” Margaery asked, docile from their previous interlude. She tried to keep the hope out of her voice.
The men exchanged a few glances. Bedrick shrugged. “Why not tell her? Nothing a good fuck can’t keep secret.”
Daler cleared his throat, scrunching his brows. “We are an escort of sorts.” He turned to the two boys who had remained as silent as stone. One looked to be stiff as a board, his spine arched up and away from the seat. The other was slouching, staring at his keg of wine as if it were some sort of snake. “For the Lord.”
“The Lord?” Margaery echoed. She sat on one of the nearer tables, swinging her legs. She bit her lip.
“Me,” the slouched boy said, raising his eyes. “My name is Brynden Tully, heir of Riverrun.” Margaery nearly fell off the table. Word had it that Edmure Tully had a son off of the Frey girl, but she had put less stock in those rumors than most. “We are going to Winterfell, so I can be fostered by my cousin, the Queen.”
The Stark Bitch. Whatever the reason, Liren took none too kindly to that title. She shivered. There was something left unsaid, but she didn't have the willpower, or patience to try and wheedle it out. Instead she said, “Take me with you.”
Daler raised his brows. “And why would we do that?”
She was about to speak before Bedrick raised his hand. “We don’t want coin. You have to offer something else.” His eyes glinted maliciously. A headache settled over her mind, slurring her thoughts. Now or never.
She hopped off her table, slowly settling herself in Bedrick’s lap, feeling him stiffen and harden. She fought off a wince. “Take me to Winterfell, and I am yours.”