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“What do you think it means?” Robb asked, gesturing dubiously in front of himself.
“What does what mean?” Theon came to peer over Robb’s shoulder to see what he was looking at. In front of him, atop a map of Westeros, stood a vase with a neatly arranged bouquet of flowers. “Flowers?”
“Mm,” Robb agreed, thoughtfully.
“Do you know who sent them?”
“Margaery Tyrell, I’m told.”
“Ah.” The amusement in Theon’s voice made Robb look around at him in askance.
“Do you know something about this?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who talks to Margaery Tyrell?” Theon asked, eyebrows raised. “But this isn’t so hard to figure out then,”
“Isn’t it?” Robb looked back at the flowers. “We’re here to negotiate a treaty. Lady Margaery was Lord Renly’s wife – now his window. She had aspirations to be Queen to the late King Joffrey. But now that that hasn’t happened…what is her ploy?”
“Ploy?” Theon sounded close to laughing. “A girl sends you flowers and you think it’s a ploy?”
“Come on, Theon, be serious here. Flowers are the symbol of Highgarden—”
“Maester Luwin would whip you for that. Roses are the symbol of Highgarden.”
Robb threw him an annoyed look. “Don’t get smart. Listen, roses, flowers, whatever. Close enough. It must be a political message of some sort. But what kind? A signal that she is open to peace? A threat that Highgarden will proliferate its agenda everywhere?”
Theon ran a hand over his face in amused frustration. He loved Robb, really, but sometimes the King in the North was as daft as a brick wall. “Robb, shut up. Answer me one question. If Margaery Tyrell came to your rooms tonight, butt-naked, wet and willing, would you fuck her?”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw your face at the dinner last night. You couldn’t stop staring at her.”
“I was not staring.”
“Yes, you were.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, what do you want me from me?”
“A brain, preferably, for anything that’s not just battle strategy. You really want this treaty to work out. And you especially would want it to work out in a way that puts Margaery Tyrell into your bed.”
Robb stared at him. “You’re so crass.”
“I’m so right.”
“I’m promised.”
“To the Freys?” Theon laughed. “Please. Who needs old, gouty Lord Walder when you can have the wealth of Highgarden? And Margaery’s pretty face, sweet tongue – in more ways than one, I bet – and long legs all in one.”
“You couldn’t speak about her that way if she was your Queen.”
“So, I am right!” Theon declared, triumphant.
Robb sighed and took a seat at the table, looking forlornly at the flowers. “Lady Margaery is not some foolish girl to send flowers to a political player in a negotiation like this out of simply… I don’t know. Desire? Fondness?”
“Longing, yearning,” Theon offered, snickering.
“Fuck you.”
“Come on, Your Grace. She’s still a woman, even if an ambitious one. Fine, maybe it’s not just a fancy. Maybe it’s a very secret sign, as you suspect, that she is open to a treaty and maybe even a marriage of convenience. Convenience, in quotes.”
“Do you think that’s possible?” Robb asked, a small note of hopeful vulnerability slipping into his voice. “It would be quite…I’d like it if things could go that way. With her. She’s frustrating and crafty, but clever and beautiful and funny… I always knew I’d marry for duty, but must duty always be dreary and lifeless? Father and Mother married for duty and fell in love…”
Theon squeezed his shoulder. “Well, if you’re right – though I’ll bet ten silver stags you’re not – and this is only politics… There’s always that Frey girl you’re betrothed too. Maybe she won’t be so bad either.”
Robb groaned and shooed him away.
The next afternoon at the luncheon before formal negotiations resumed, Loras Tyrell approached Theon at the refreshments table while Robb and Margaery mingled. They made circles around the room, coming closer and closer together, as though magnetically drawn to one another, until they finally, rather theatrically, bumped into each other.
“Look at them,” Loras said in mock-disgust. “They can run circles around all their adversaries except each other. Always mooning after one another this entire week without actually doing anything about it.”
That was interesting. Theon took a sip of wine. “Has your sister not made a move then?”
“She keeps saying that Stark is too polite and even with everyone. She just can’t read him, as she put it just last night, pacing around my room like a cat in heat.”
Theon was intrigued now. “Perhaps you’re underinformed, Ser Loras. I’ve heard your sister to be quite forward.”
“Do you mean the flowers?”
Theon glanced over at him, eyebrows raised.
“I sent those.”
Theon nearly choked on the wine. “You?”
“Well, I had to do something? You couldn’t be bothered, clearly.”
“I enjoy watching Robb suffer,” Theon laughed. “Wait, are you telling me they’re both oblivious idiots?”
“My sister is not an idiot, but yes.”
Theon wondered if this twist meant he’d lost his bet or if it was a draw. What was far more obvious, from the way Margaery had her hand on Robb’s arm and the way he was leaning toward her, instead of away to retain a polite distance, was that very soon it wouldn’t really matter.
Unless, of course, Robb decided this was a very secret political sign as well. Which, knowing Robb…
Theon smirked in amusement and finished his wine.