Chapter Text
The blunt side of the sword hit her across the back, and Margaery fell into the mud, for the umpteenth time.
Dacey gave a sharp bark of laughter.
Mayve sighed, a small smile playing on her lips, before reaching a hand down. Margaery accepted it and pulled herself up, feeling the ache of her body, the bruises on her skin.
“You’re still missing the third step, I’m slipping right through your guard.” Mayve lightly admonished. She looked like she’d barely broken a sweat, save for the few curls haphazardly framing her cheeks. Margaery stabbed the tourney sword into the soft ground and wiped her face clean with a rag.
“You wouldn’t have slipped through my guard if you hadn’t smacked me in the stomach.” She replied. “Not a very sporting move.”
“We’re at war Marg, not a tourney!” Dacey laughed. The heir to Bear Island looked perfectly relaxed beneath the gruesome weirwood of Harrenhal, stroking the direwolf that laid on her lap. Margaery’s response was a huff.
Dacey was right about one thing, this war was nothing like a tourney. She had seen death and carnage as she’d never seen before sitting in the stands of Tourneys in the Reach. Loyal soldiers lying dead in the churned earth. Companions slaughtered at her feet, defenseless and unaware. Villages burned, innocents burned, children burned.
The War of the Kings had torn the continent apart.
And Margaery Tyrell would not let herself die defenseless.
When the army had reached Harrenhal, morale had never been lower. Their King was confined to his sick bed, many of their liege lords had been murdered, and the taste of betrayal was still fresh on many tongues. The Blackfish and Randyll Tarly had been able to keep the soldiers from lazing around the keep, having them run drills for the better part of the day, but there was an air of restlessness throughout the castle; when would justice be given.
That is when Margaery approached Mayve.
Margaery did not know the older Stark twin as she did Sansa, who was a dear friend and confidante. Mayve was strong willed and trained often with Ser Laityn and Dacey. While she was no incredible warrior, she was determined.
And in the shade of Harrenhal’s towering weirwood, she was a patient but firm teacher who taught Margaery the sword. But while Mayve’s words were gentle and kind, her blows were not.
Margaery was tossed once more into the ground, her sword escaping her grasp and landing at Mayve’s feet.
“I think that is enough for now.” She said. “You look more dirt than lady and more bruise than skin.”
“No,” Margaery strained, the wind knocked clear out of her lungs. “I can continue.”
“Perhaps. But you shouldn’t.” A new voice said, from somewhere beyond the clearing around the weirwood. A deeper voice. A voice Margaery hadn’t heard in weeks. Her heart skipped as she whirled around.
Robb stood just inside the clearing, bandages visible beneath the neckline of his simple tunic, his hand on Greywind’s neck, no doubt to keep himself steady.
Dacey shot to her feet, disturbing the direwolf, and bowed. “Your Grace, should you be up?”
“Spare me Dacey.” He said. “I’ve enough people fretting over me. I do not need one of my guards to play mother hen.”
“Moonie you were supposed to be keeping watch for anyone.” Mayve said, shooting a halfhearted scowl to her direwolf, Moondancer, now finding a new spot to lounge. The pale grey beast gave a large yawn before resuming her nap. Greywind, with a look at his master, padded over to his sister and snuggled beside her in the sun.
Margaery pushed herself up and shot a steely look at Robb. She was relieved to see his strength returning, but that did not mean she would allow him to tell her what to do. Who was he to tell her when she was finished?
Your King for one, she briefly thought. She caught Robb giving her a curious look as she turned back to Mayve, raising her sword.
“Margy, I really think you’ve done enough today.”
“I can continue.” She said again, steel filling her voice.
“Prove it.” Robb said, stepping forward and taking Mayve’s tourney sword. Mirth filled his eyes and a small smirk graced his lips.
I’ll knock that smirk right off. Margaery thought, a touch cruelly, smiling herself.
Their swords connected, and it wasn’t just the hit of steel on steel that reverberated through her body.
Moments, minutes, hours, years passed, she could not tell, there was only the ache of her muscles and her refusal to break their locked gaze. Mayve might’ve called her to stop, Dacey might’ve laughed, she did not know.
Their swords locked at the hilt, their faces less than a handspan apart. Sweat drenched curls stuck to Robb’s forehead, and Margaery knew her own face was streaked with mud. There was a look in his eyes, dark and intense.
“My lady, I stand corrected.” He breathed, a roughness to his voice that sent a shiver down her spine.
“I am always happy to educate, your grace.” She practically purred, her chest aching; perhaps she pushed herself too far. Robb looked equally strained, still recovering from his injuries at the hands of the Freys.
“Then I look forward to many more lessons.” He disengaged and bowed deeply, as if they truly were just two knights sparing, instead of, whatever it was that had transpired between them. She dipped into a low curtsy, eyes smiling through her lashes.
He bid farewell to the three of them and whistled for Greywind, who reluctantly left the warmth of the sunny patch he was sprawled in, and the pair left the clearing. As soon as he was out of sight, Margaery collapsed, exhausted. Her companions’ laughs echoed through the trees.