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Rolling up to the front of the hotel, Margaery turns down the bouncy pop blasting from her convertible’s stereo system, glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror to make sure the wind hasn’t messed up her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the valet standing on the curb—a skinny, ruddy-faced teenager in a velvet vest, gawking open-mouthed at her car (or her, or both).
“Sweet ride, huh?” She lowers her sunglasses and gives him a smirk, but he remains at a loss for words—understandably so. Who wouldn’t be?
For the past week, Marge has been positively giddy. She’s always had a talent for arts and crafts, but this time she set a new standard: made the bunny ears and fluffy little tail by hand; borrowed a black bowtie from Garlan; cut the collar and cuffs off a button-down shirt she swiped from Loras’ closet; ordered a pair of tights that fit her long legs just right. She even paid to have the black bodysuit altered, just to be sure it hugged her figure to absolute perfection.
Completed by a pair of suede platform pumps, her costume promised to garner plenty of attention at the firm’s annual end-of-year party—her first as a new hire.
She makes a dramatic exit, opening the suicide door of her blue convertible and stretching a sleek leg over the pavement. Keys jingling from her finger, she sashays around the front of the car and tosses them to the dumbfounded valet.
“Um…uh…miss…” he babbles, nearly fumbling her keys. “There’s…um…the party…”
“A party for Lannister Law Group. I know—I’m on the list.” Taking a bill out of her clutch, she slips it into his breast pocket.
“But…they…the party…it’s a…”
“Don’t worry, keep the change.”
Swaying her hips, she struts off towards the doors, propped wide open for the event, and prepares to make her grand entrance.
The law firm is the stuffiest place she’s ever worked, so Margaery was shocked when she heard the end-of-year celebration was a dress-up party at a fancy hotel restaurant. Either someone pulled a fast one on keen-eyed Mr. Lannister, or the entire party planning committee is about to be fired. That thought doesn't bother her much, though—most of those old crones passed their party-planning prime long ago. She can’t wait to fill their heels.
As she strides through the lobby, Marge purposefully avoids eye contact with the hotel staff and her dawdling coworkers. Anything that might detour her present course, interfere with her trajectory towards establishing aesthetic dominance over the whole office, is an unnecessary distraction. Even the surprised stares and shameless gawking she notices in her peripheral vision goes totally ignored.
Head held high, she crosses the threshold into the restaurant and gives her wavy hair a gratuitous toss before striking a pose, popping out her hip with both hands on her narrow waist. As a final touch, she dons her signature smirk, sure to make the men faint and leave the ladies fuming.
The accounting dweebs, huddling near the buffet, notice her first. Jaws drop—as does Sam Tarly’s plate, stacked high with biscuits and rolls. It shatters on contact with the marble floor, instantly drawing more attention. Next is the marketing team, their eyes going wide in comical fashion. The harpies in human resources let out a collective gasp, humbled by her stunning ensemble. As the rest of the room, interns and clerks, associates and partners, begin murmuring and pointing, Margaery starts picking up on a disturbing set of commonalities:
Suits. Blazers. Slacks. Evening dresses.
No costumes—not a single one.
It’s just her. Only her.
She can practically feel her fluffy bunny ears drooping as utter mortification crawls under her skin, prickling against her flesh like pins and needles. Her heart beats in her throat, vision blurred by adrenaline-fueled panic. The room swirls, floor tipping and pitching beneath her, threatening to send her spilling right out of her heels.
Her entrance was grand, alright—a grand humiliation.
Spotting a familiar face at the bar—Kevan Lannister’s secretary, she recalls—Marge makes a hasty detour. She needs cover; she needs to blend in; and she really, really needs a strong drink.
Dozens of eyes, maybe hundreds, follow her as her heels make a raucous click-clacking sound across the room. She was well-prepared for this much attention, just not this kind of attention.
“So, Jeyne…” Marge croaks, voice thin and hoarse, “…I guess I misread the invitation. Wasn’t that sort of dress-up party, was it? Well, anyway…are you relieved the fourth quarter is over?”
The secretary stares back at her for a long, awkward moment—awkward for Margaery—smothering her with eyes full of pity and disgust.
“It’s Myranda,” she finally says before turning and leaving with her drink.
“Right,” Marge sighs, “Myranda.” She turns to the bartender, a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and wandering eyes—the first proper ogling she’s received all night. “Give me something strong enough to forget what a dumb bitch I am.”
“If you ask me, Miss—”
“I didn’t ask. Just pour.”
A minute later, she lays claim to an abandoned table in the corner of the restaurant, one to call her own. Her coworkers avoid her like the plague, which makes sense considering how socially contagious she became the moment she stepped out of her car. Plenty of looks are still thrown her way, and she suspects the occasional bout of laughter is at her expense, too.
Although she’s dressed as a bunny, there will be no bouncing back from this. Given her family’s business relationship with Lannister Law Group, she was already considered a nepotism hire from the start, and now the title of ‘office slut’ is hers for life. And it’s a shame—her costume does look great. She could probably walk to the sleazy casino down the street and get a job as a cocktail waitress without so much as an interview.
One shred of luck remains in her favor: she hasn’t seen the cute new clerk on Jaime’s team—the one who allegedly does all of his boss’ work. So long as she doesn’t have to see Jon wrinkling his nose at her, she’ll still be able to crawl out of here with some tiny crumb of dignity.
Her drink is gone all too soon, and she’s only started to feel tipsy. When the next waiter passes nearby, Marge flags him down and swipes two flutes off his tray. From experience drinking with her brothers, she knows what it takes to get herself thoroughly drunk—so she throws her head back, draining one after the other, and waves for the same waiter to come back before he gets too far away.
As the room starts to blur, she hears her grandmother’s chiding, sees her father shaking his head, feels like an overgrown child with an incurable case of attention-desperation. Or, maybe, she just wants to be loved by someone who understands her. She doesn’t really care what any of these people think. If they all cheered and clapped when she posed at the entrance, would she have been any better off?
Self-doubt, soul-crushing disillusionment, and long-buried childhood anxieties assault her all at once as her grip on the present slips. The party fades into the background, more distant with each flute of champagne, and Margaery is left to the mercy of her own inebriated mind.
“Hey, you might want to try some of this.”
There’s a voice knocking on her skull. Its husky tone is familiar, stirring up a warm fondness amidst her misery.
She lifts her forehead off the tablecloth and blinks through the haze, unsure how long she was out for. The buzz is still there, but at least she’s conscious again.
Or so she assumes. Sitting in the chair beside her is a man-sized chicken with the face of the cute guy she’s been eyeing since he held the elevator door for her when she was late on her first day.
“Jon?” she slurs. “Who turned you into a fowl?”
“Hey, you’re in pretty foul shape yourself right now. C’mon, take a few bites.” He nudges the plate towards her. “I cut up your pork chop for you. Don’t think you should be handling a knife right now, honestly.”
“For the best…thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
Groping for her fork, she starts stabbing at a chunk of pork chop, finding it to be a rather difficult endeavor while swaying in her seat.
“So…is this a dream?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“If it were a dream,” she mutters, her mouth running away from her ill-functioning brain, “I should be able to kiss you…and then you’ll turn into a prince…and everyone will forget that I’m dressed like a slutty bunny and they’ll respect me again…and we’ll have four kids and live in a big house on Mander Street…and every day you’ll come home from work to find a hot meal on the table and me waiting for you in just an apron because you need a proper dessert with your dinner...”
Jon takes her hand in his feathery appendage and guides her fork to the bite of pork, then helps her deliver it to her mouth.
“Pretty sure you’d scandalize our four kids that way.”
“Four? Those are rookie numbers. I say we go for seven.”
“Seven it is, then.”
An amused little smile pulls at his lips. Busy chewing, Margaery wonders if she’s ever seen him smile at her before. If he has, she’s way too drunk to remember. Are they dating? Has he proposed to her yet?
“As nice as all that sounds,” he continues, “this definitely isn’t a dream—maybe a nightmare, but no dream. You’ve just had a few too many.”
“I am still dressed like a bunny, aren’t I?”
“Well…yeah.”
“How do I look?”
“I mean…” he starts, taking his time to choose the right words, “…you clearly put a lot of effort into your costume. Back when I turned twenty-one, my cousin dragged me to a casino, and I have to say that you pull off this getup better than any of the waitresses there. Authentic enough to belong on a billboard, honestly.”
“Oh, Jon,” she sobs. Tears well in her eyes, obscuring her vision all the more—but she still manages to grab his chin and lean towards him, leaving a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I worked so hard on this thing, but everyone besides us chose to be boring!”
When she pulls away, he’s stunned, cheeks flushed as deeply as hers must be.
“To be honest, I had no idea you were going to dress up like this. If I did, I would’ve warned you that the party was a formal event.”
“Hey, it’s the thought that counts.” Going for another piece of meat, she starts to tip off her chair. Luckily, Jon is there to catch her and lean her upright again. “What’s with the chicken costume anyway?”
“I’m a rooster, technically.”
“Is there a difference?”
“As far as this party is concerned? No. I’m only wearing it because of some office hazing on Jaime’s team. The guys coerced me into taking part in a…contest…which I won, for better or for worse.”
“You won, not lost? How do you win a contest and end up wearing a rooster costume?”
“It was a strange contest.”
“Sounds like it.”
Continuing to struggle with her fork, Margaery resorts to picking up chunks of pork chop and popping them in her mouth, smacking her lips as she chews. Table manners hardly matter now.
“You know,” she drawls, “this isn’t so bad. Just two outcasts, a rabbit and a rooster, at our own table. We can have a little party by ourselves. We’re the best-dressed here, after all.”
“Huh. I like that. Maybe you’re onto something.”
“They always say, ‘dress for the job you want.’ Well, I don’t want to be a cocktail waitress. But I don’t think I want to be a lawyer, either. The paperwork and long hours are awful. And all the office politics? Give me a break.”
“Now is probably a good time for a career change.” His voice sounds like a warning, which prepares her for a tall shadow to loom over them, radiating authority and disdain.
“Young lady,” Tywin says, hands clasped behind his back. “I hope you aren't expecting to have a job at Lannister Law Group after tonight.”
“Not really,” she sighs. “I misread the invitation.”
“If you misread an invitation, perhaps law is not the profession for you. I suggest you find some stability in your life before you end up working at that sordid casino up the road.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And you.” His attention shifts to Jon. “I understand you submitted your letter of resignation before arriving. May I ask why? You’re the best addition we’ve made in years, even with Jaime’s lack of direction slowing you down.”
Margaery turns her head, watching her fellow farm animal shrug at their boss—now, ex-boss.
“As you can see, working under your son hasn’t been the most pleasant experience,” Jon grumbles, gesturing to his costume. “I chose to honor my word, but I’d rather not be subject to anything else like this.”
“Very well. I understand.” Tywin offers his hand, which Jon shakes with his chicken wing. “You’ll have my recommendation wherever else you decide to go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tywin steps away to return to the party, leaving Marge to let out a long, decompressing sigh. Tonight has become a worst-case scenario beyond her wildest imagination, but at least it’s over now. And to make her feel better, she has a companion to share her misery with.
“Want to get out of here?” he asks, standing and holding out his hand.
“I can’t drive. Or see straight. There are three—no, five—of you, and they’re all very handsome. Could I bring just one home with me, please?”
“I wouldn’t have let you drive anyway,” Jon chuckles. “Until I know for sure that you’re going to be alright, you’ll be seeing a bit more of me.”
“Such a gentleman. Can I have your baby?”
“Ask me again when you’re sober.”
She takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. When he offers his arm, she shows her thanks with another peck on the cheek, leaning on him as he escorts her out of the restaurant. Her heels wobble, but he holds her steady.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit of a double standard?” She hiccups loudly. “Tywin fired me on the spot. He’s giving you a letter of recommendation.”
Jon hands his ticket to the valet, who takes a few seconds to pry his eyes away from the absurd couple they make before running off to get the car.
“I don’t think I’m the first new hire who’s been made to dress up as the Big Rooster for the end-of-year party. Also…” He gives her a once-over from ears to heels. Margaery twists her lips into a smirk for the full effect. “…I’m not showing quite as much cleavage as you are.”
“No, I suppose you’re not. It’s a shame no one can see your tight arse beneath all those feathers, though. Yours is nearly as nice as mine.”
“Nearly?”
“Please. I’ve been dropping pencils in front of your desk, in a pencil skirt, every time I find an excuse to pass by. You know exactly what I have going on back there.”
“You’ve been doing that on purpose? I thought you were just a klutz.”
“Gods, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
The valet rolls up in a black crossover and steps out to hand over the keys. Jon helps her into the passenger seat, buckling her in—which brings him so close that Margaery can’t help herself, cupping his face and planting a big one on his lips.
“Wow,” he gasps. “What was that for?”
“Taking care of your bunny, of course.”
“You’re…oh, well…alright then.”
Adorably flustered, he jumps in behind the wheel, and they start off. The hum of the engine and soothing vibration under her seat, along with Jon’s handsome face an arm’s length away, finish the job that the booze started. Her eyelids grow heavy, her head warm and fuzzy, and she starts to drift…
“Hey, what’s your address?” he whispers to her. “Need to get you home.”
“A hole in the ground,” she murmurs back.
Dreams come to her again—real ones rather than half-conscious hallucinations—which are far more pleasant now. She finds herself prancing around a sprawling field, twirling around the myriad flowers; the sun shines overhead, the sky is clear and blue, and her heels don’t even hurt her feet.
A familiar-faced fowl springs after her, playfully chasing her through the tall grass until they both tumble to the ground.
“I hate law,” she admits, resting her head on his chest. “I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
“What do you want to be?”
“A bunny.”
“Looks like you already are.”
“Yes, but I want to be a real bunny, not a lawyer bunny. Bunnies aren’t meant to be chained to a desk.”
“What are they meant to do, then?”
“Make more bunnies, of course! And feed them and raise them take care of them.”
“Are you advocating for traditional gender roles?”
“Just get me pregnant already, you oversized flightless bird.”
Her dreamworld parts, flowers swept away by the wind as she feels Jon lifting her out of her seat. She’s dimly aware of him carrying her through a parking garage. Then there’s the hum of an elevator, his muffled footsteps in the carpeted hallway, the jingle of keys as he opens the apartment door.
“Sorry for the mess. I wasn’t expecting any company.”
“Neither was I,” she mumbles against his shoulder.
She hears a doorknob turning, and a few moments later Jon lays her down, his bed rising up to meet her, her head resting comfortably on a pillow.
“Bathroom is down the hall…and the garbage can is by the side table in case you need to throw up.”
“Thank you, Jon…you take such good care of me.” Squinting at him through her lashes, she watches as he slips her stilettos off her feet and sets them on the dresser. But when he turns for the door, she abruptly sits up. “Where are you going?”
“Um…the couch?”
“The couch! No, no, no—I won’t have you sleeping on the couch. You’ll be cold!”
“I’ll be fine,” he chuckles. “My dog is a snuggler. He’ll keep me warm.”
“And how will I stay warm?”
“I can grab you another blanket.”
“I don’t want another blanket.”
“Margaery…” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “…you’re drunk. Sharing a bed…that’s not going to happen.”
“What if I promise not to try anything?”
“In your state, a promise doesn’t mean much.”
Scrambling to the corner of the bed, she lunges to catch his wrist before he can leave.
“Stay,” she pleads with her big doe eyes, lashes fluttering. “I’ll be good. I’ll be on my best behavior. Just don’t leave me. Not yet.”
He slips out of her hold, gently squeezing her hand to placate her.
“I’ll think about it while I brush my teeth. Maybe until you fall asleep, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Flopping back onto the bed, Marge smiles as her rooster strolls out of the room. She still doesn’t quite understand how he won a contest that forced him to dress up like a huge—
“Oh!” she giggles to herself, kicking her feet. “I get it now!”
//// //// //// ////
Morning greets her with birds chirping out the open window, warm sheets and blankets wrapped around her, and the smell of breakfast in the air.
“Mmmm…” she purrs, stretching out her arm to feel for Jon. His side of the bed is empty, but the sheets are still warm.
Throwing off the covers, she swings her legs out of bed, shaded by her tights. Absently, she adjusts her bodysuit, fluffy ears, and the ribbon by her hip that says, Best-Behaved Bunny!
Last night remains a dizzying blur in her memory. Her head is thick and foggy from the wine, and when she tries to stand, Margaery discovers her legs are hopelessly wobbly.
That clears up some of the fog, putting a guilty smile on her face. She and Jon had quite a night together.
Her discarded heels are still on the floor, and she steps back into them out of sheer habit. Coherent thoughts are still a long way off—everything is just so groggy and vague. Staggering to the bedroom door, she turns the knob and pushes it open, heading down the hall towards the active conversation in the kitchen.
“—that’s why it’s called a metaphor,” comes Jon’s voice, laughing lightly. “If the Mountain That Drives was actually as big as a mountain, he couldn’t fit inside his monster truck.”
At the threshold, Margaery yawns, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. There’s nothing she’d rather wake up to than this: Jon manning the stove, flipping flapjacks and frying bacon; Ghost prowling around the kitchen for fallen scraps; her three children sitting around the table, quibbling with their father.
“But Dad, if he’s just a really big guy, then…”
Trailing off, their eyes go wide when they notice her standing there. She gives them a little wave, but her attention is drawn back to her husband at the skillet—shirtless and wearing his striped pajama shorts, looking just as mouth-watering as the bacon.
“Good morning, everybody!” she chirps. “How’d you sleep last night?”
Jon turns, smiling fondly—but when his gaze settles on her, his eyebrows spring in surprise.
“Uh, Marge, sweetheart…I think you forgot to change.”
“That’s a funny bunny costume!”
“You look silly, Mommy!”
“Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”
Mortification strikes her as she glances down and finally notices what she’s wearing. That her outfit still fits five years and three kids later makes her very proud of herself; that her kids are seeing her like this definitely does not.
“Eep! Sorry!” she yelps, hurrying back down the hall as fast as she can in her heels, making for the bedroom.
Right before she closes the door, she hears Jon’s attempt at an explanation.
“No, Mom is not going to the zoo. She and I were just…taking a little trip down memory lane last night. Let’s forget about it, okay? Who wants the first stack of pancakes?”