GOT: Reborn as a Martell

( Margaery )

Margaery took a seat on her lavish, rose-decorated, chair and poured herself a cup of Arbor Gold. After today, she would need every single drop in that cup to come back to her senses.

She quickly sent her handmaidens away, and took the time to enjoy some moments of solitude in her own tent.

She would have loved to have a room in Lord Caswell's castle, but as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she would need to prove, notably to the Stormlanders, that she was a Queen close to the men, and as such, she shared the same conditions as them. Or close enough, anyhow. 

Any other lesser Queen would've either stayed within Highgarden's walls or rested in one of Lord Caswell's lavish chambers. But she wasn't any ordinary Queen. She was Margaery of House Tyrell…no…House Baratheon. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And she wouldn't just be the Queen. She would rule.

After all, it was her hand that had secured Renly the entire Reach, and seduced the Stormlands. She and Renly made an almost perfect match. They were both beautiful, talented and smart, and would make a perfect match to guide the Seven Kingdoms into a new age of peace and prosperity.

If only he was more interested in me than Loras…no matter.

Indeed, as long as her husband fulfilled his duties, then their rule would be uncontested. Still, this was a matter for another day, with more pressing issues at hand.

The arrival of the Dornish and their demands had caused quite the stir. Her husband had thought that the Dornish would quickly rally to his side, and his confidence had been bolstered when he heard of the plans to betroth her brother Willas to the heir-apparent to Sunspear, Arianne Martell.

How short-sighted she was to believe him. In truth, she should have seen it coming.

While the rest of the realm bickered over everything and nothing, House Tyrell had paid particularly attention to the recent developments south of the Marches.

Everything began with sailor stories from Oldtown, but quickly developed into more solid stories. Stories of how a prince of Dorne had created a miracle medicine capable of curing almost all infections. And that was only the start of it all.

Over the next months, her family had quietly inquired about the developments in Dorne, and they were quite interesting indeed.

Medicines of various kind, the production of Dornish glassware and perfumery, the sudden appearance of Dornish tea, a spice usually only found in Yi-Ti, and the construction of a brand new Dornish fleet.

Something was brewing south of the border; her whole family knew it. But with the events in King's Landing, their focus shifted again towards the Throne, until a delegation came from Sunspear.

It proposed a betrothal between her brother Willas and Prince Doran Martell's daughter, Arianne.

To say that this was a surprise to everyone was an understatement. After all, the Dornish didn't really communicate with anyone, bar their presence at tourneys in the Reach and Stormlands. But even more interesting was the fact that Prince Doran had been willing to betroth his heir. 

Something that did align with stories of Dorne being on the verge of a civil war between supporters of the eldest child Arianne, and the gifted prince Quentyn.

It had seemed that prince Quentyn had already suffered two assassination attempts on his person, both times from her sister's supporters. Whether or not Arianne was actually involved, she knew not, but she herself had trouble in imagining hurting either of her brothers. But the Dornish were always a queer folk, and she would not put kinslaying past any of them.

And such a theory would make sense in the light of the potential betrothal between Willas and Arianne. However, she shuddered at the possibility of a kinslayer marrying her brother.

Willas didn't see it that way, of course. He saw it as an opportunity, and she could see where he was coming from. There would be a great many benefits of having the Dornish on their side rather than as enemies, including that miracle medicine of theirs. House Tyrell had managed to acquire some, but the process of making it was a mystery to them.

She forgot about the Dornish once Renly had been crowned king in Highgarden, and she took on her duties as Queen, accompanying Renly on his path to Bitterbridge. It was at Longtable that she heard the Dornish were sending a party of men to finalise an alliance with Renly, or so she thought.

When it was announced that Prince Quentyn would be leading said party, she had been even more confused. When a Dornish delegation came to Highgarden or Oldtown, it would always be Prince Oberyn leading the party, not Prince Doran's son. Still, this was another opportunity to see what the fabled prince actually looked like.

Her reverie was stopped as a guard stepped in.

She quickly tossed the goblet of Arbor gold away and settled down in her regal attire, small crown atop her head.

"Your grace." The Tyrell guard bowed. "The prince is here."

"Let him in." She smiled. "And make sure we are not disturbed, unless it is my brother or his grace."

The guard nodded and rushed outside. While his figure disappeared, another one entered the vast tent.

During the meeting in the grand tent, she had only seen the prince from afar, but with a closer look, she could now see his features much more clearly.

When it was known prince Quentyn would come, she had expected someone physically similar to prince Oberyn. After all, he was really the only Martell that she'd met, and he was prince Doran's brother. She had imagined a tall man with a lined face, dark eyes and long hair. Handsome and dangerous. As it turns out, she was very wrong.

The prince was short, probably as short as she was, perhaps a little taller. His dark hair was cut short, with none of his streaks falling into his dark-brown eyes. His features were lean, but he wasn't as handsome as she expected Dornishmen to be.

His lips were rough and his nose sharp, while the dress he wore concealed much of his body. Though, it wasn't a stretch to guess that the prince was as slender as his uncle, at least.

But by far the most distinguishing feature was the scar on his face. It cut deep, and stretched from his chin all the way up to his hair, narrowly avoiding his right eye. The gash wasn't completely ugly, much of it having healed, and it gave him a sense of dangerousness that he'd surely have lacked without it.

"Your grace." The prince bowed.

"Prince Quentyn." Margaery kept her smile. "Have a seat."

The young Martell thanked her and sat down in front of her, slightly uneasy with her presence.

"Wine?" she offered. "This is the best Arbor Gold."

"I usually do not drink…" the prince hesitated. "…but it would be unwise to die without at least trying Arbor Gold."

Margaery raised her eyes at the notion that the prince didn't drink, but poured him and herself a cup of the vintage.

The prince brought his lips to it and nodded.

"Surprisingly good." He smiled. "I usually do not have a taste for wine, but I must admit that this one does taste quite nice."

"Arbor Gold is the best wine in Westeros." She beamed. "Although your compatriots think Dornish Red is better."

"They do." The prince nodded. "But I trust you have brought me here to discuss more than just wine, your grace."

To the point, I see…

"Call me Margaery, please. All my friends do."

"I shall if you call me Quentyn."

"Very well, Quentyn." She continued to smile, not taking her eyes off of him. "It seems that your arrival has caused quite the stir. And I wanted to get a sense of the man that is rumoured to have invented the miracle Dornish medicine."

"I fear I am only a man, Margaery." The Martell prince admitted. "There is not much to me."

"I disagree. I think it is in both our interests to make sure that an alliance bears fruit."

"Why is the King not here to discuss it, then? It seems to me that an alliance should be discussed in the presence of his grace."

"My husband is praying."

"He is? I didn't take him to be a pious man."

"His grace is very pious. He has formed a new guard bearing the colors of the faith and has the support of the devout." Margaery smiled. "As such, he is very occupied, and I am keen to discuss the terms of an agreement benefitting us both."

"If you wish to get a hold of the medicine we produce, then I fear that you shall be sorely disappointed. We are having trouble distributing it to Dorne's smallfolk already, if we try to send it to the Reach, it will be nigh impossible."

"You would rather give medicine to your smallfolk than to noble houses of the Reach?" she inquired, surprised.

Margaery knew the Dornish always had a closer relationship with their smallfolk than in other kingdoms, owing notably to a much smaller population. The smallfolk's loyalty is what, in part anyways, kept them independent for so long, notably during Aegon the Conqueror's failed invasion.

"If I am to be their prince, I should put their needs above whatever any foreign lords need." The prince retorted, scratching his brow. "The lords and ladies of the Reach won't be my subjects, the Dornish smallfolk will."

"Are you a man of duty then?" she asked. "They are few and far between in these times."

"Duty, perhaps not." He shrugged. "But the smallfolk are people like you and I. Except they did not get the chance to be born amongst wealth like we have. They did not choose in which family to be born, and they carry that like a burden. 

I intend to ease that burden, since the gods have blessed me with being born into a wealthy family."

"A noble endeavour." She acquiesced. "But healthier smallfolk also mean a lot of benefits."

"Of course." The prince agreed. "It is a mutual relationship. The lord is the shepherd and the smallfolk the sheep. The sheep bring clothing, meat, cheese, drink and coin. In exchange the shepherd has to house them, feed them, treat them and protect them from the wolves that wish to harm them."

"But the shepherd has to slaughter the sheep, does he not?"

"And what do you think happens when a lord goes to war? How many of his troops consist of smallfolk levies? I know certainly at least half of your host consists of these levies." She could see the prince's right eye twitch as he talked. 

"They are sent to the slaughter then. They die for their lord, and in turn the lord has to protect their children."

Margaery stared in silence. She could feel the young prince was honest in his words. He truly believed in what he was saying. That was a sentiment that she could respect, but did the prince also understand that for all of their value, the smallfolk still had to be put beneath the high lords and knights? Nonetheless, she persevered in her first goal.

"I see." She coughed. "However, leaving the logistics to distribute your medicine to the smallfolk aside, surely if such if such a medicine can be produced, then it surely can be done outside of Dorne?"

"True enough. My father might put the instructions in my sister's dowry."

"It is said that you made it, why let your father decide?"

"My father is still the ruling prince, and I am but his heir, it is not for me to decide."

"As it stands, your sister is still heir. My father still hasn't agreed on a betrothal. He has just agreed for them to meet."

"My sister will not be the heir whatever happens." The prince frowned and seemed as if he instantly regretted his words.

"Why is that so?" she inquired further. "Does your scar have anything to do with this decision?"

"Astute observation." He chuckled. "Yes, as a matter of fact. My sister's most fervent supporters decided that getting rid of me was a better option to secure her reign. They failed, and they died. And I am still here. 

As a result, despite my sister having nothing to do with these attempts, it was preferable to have her disinherited, if only for appearance's sake."