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Dappled sunlight filters through the trees and trellised vines that line the garden. It comes courtesy of a sun that exists outside of time, never rising or setting, perpetually suspended in the western sky. Without the reliable, timely movement of the sun, it is nearly impossible for Margaery to determine how long she has been sitting here with her hands politely folded in her lap, her ankles primly crossed, and a pleasant smile situated upon her lips. It could be minutes or centuries, and much of that time has been spent doing little more than waiting.
On occasion, other people pass through this place, but they rarely linger for long. They all seem to have somewhere else to be, uniformly rushing towards some great beyond that exists beyond the narrowed confines of the flowers and the leaves and the timeless sun. Sometimes, Margaery feels a strong temptation to abandon her waiting and follow in the footsteps of the rest of the fray, but she has a duty to her family. It would be unkind to allow the Tyrell matriarch to meet her eventual end without at least one grandchild present to welcome her. Margaery has accepted this as her personal responsibility. In death as in life, Margaery is devoted to kindness, and in death as not in life, there is no longer any ambition to cloud her judgement and muddy the waters. There are no crowns in this place, no thrones to sit upon, only one’s own sense of self.
She does not know the sum total of her waiting, but eventually, a familiar, weathered face enters the garden, bathed in the perpetual mid-afternoon glow of the frozen sun.
Margaery practically leaps to her feet, blue skirts swirling airily about her ankles, and crosses the garden. With a bright smile, she laces her arm through Lady Olenna’s own to guide her, much the way they always used to walk together. “I have been waiting for you,” she says as she gently leads the older woman back to the shaded table that she has so long occupied alone.
“Sounds like a terrible waste of time,” Lady Olenna replies with a barbed and caustic tongue. However, Margaery is long accustomed to her family’s ways, and she firmly believes that she can sense a current of fondness running beneath the words.
“I need not rush into eternity.”
Her grandmother merely hums, refusing to hand over whatever small victory might be won in this exchange. Margaery does not mind. She does not feel compelled to keep score in a meaningless game. Instead, she focuses her attention on the idle curiosities that have consumed her since her passing, the news that has not reached her.
“Who was it, in the end?” she asks, tilting her head and leaning forward expectantly. She is, of course, referring to Olenna’s own death. Given the circumstances that have so long consumed Westeros, it seemed unlikely that anyone would allow a woman in her grandmother’s position to die of natural circumstances.
“Who do you think?”
Margaery arches a delicate brow. “I have heard that lions are terribly careless at garden parties.” The subtlety is hardly necessary in a realm that exists far outside of Lannister control, where only the Gods have a say in who enters and who leaves, but habits tend to persist far past the point of usefulness.
A tiny, proud smile sinks deeply into the wrinkles that line Lady Olenna’s face. “They are indeed.” There is a moment’s pause, marked by the wetting of her lips and the whetting of her tongue as she considers how best to divulge the details of her passing. “The Kingkiller himself carried out the deed, and with a vial of poison, no less.” The smirk broadens as she adds, “It seems only just, since I poisoned his bastard son.”
Margaery blinks in surprise as she processes the words. She has long assumed that it was likely Littlefinger or Lord Tyrion who dealt the final blow to Joffrey and her short-lived first marriage. Her grandmother had many unkind words to say about the young king, but Margaery never considered that Olenna might have stepped in and intervened in a more direct manner. Nonetheless, she is grateful. Being Joffrey’s queen would have been a horrifying experience for a great many reasons. “I ought to thank you for that, should I not?”
The older woman’s shoulders lift in a small shrug, mirroring the still upturned corners of her lips. “It seems that you have already wiled away half an age waiting for me to catch up and join you here. You young people have always moved too quickly for my liking, but no doubt it is better thanks than whatever words you might manage to wrap around that clever tongue of yours.”
Margaery meets the smile with one of her own. “If that suits you, then I feel no need to argue.”
“Those may be the best words that you have ever spoken. Shame they took this long.”
It is a point made in good-humor. It is well-known that Olenna and Margaery have long been fond of each other. One might even go so far as to declare Margaery to be Olenna’s favorite of the grandchildren, and indeed, they would be correct in the assumption.
A slight breeze rustles the many leaves that surround them and the chestnut waves of Margaery’s hair. It is the only shift in weather that she has experienced since she first entered this place, and it feels like a gentle nudge towards whatever fate awaits her beyond the tight boundaries of this sun-drenched garden. She has done what he needed to do, Lady Olenna is here and did not have to enter the afterlife alone, and now, it seems that it must finally be time for her to move on.
Gracefully, Margaery rises to her feet, smooths her skirts, and extends a hand to her grandmother. “Shall we see which of the seven heavens awaits us?”
“Don’t be foolish, child. Everyone knows that all the best women are bound to one of the seven hells.”
There is a dizzying rush of laughter, and, still wrapped in the warmth of the patient sun and their entwined arms, the two Tyrell women step into the unknown together.