Winter Dahlia Chapter 1
Winter Dahlia - Chapter 1
Red
He kisses her fervently - once, twice, a third time. She will not let him kiss her a fourth time; he should have left already. You have won three battles, my love, but what are the odds on winning a fourth? He frowns when she pulls away, his eyes falling to the ground, his heart heavy. “Go, win, and come back to me,” she urges, so strong, so proud, so sure. It’s only when he turns away that her resolve crumbles.
When she was younger, her favourite flower was the scarlet dahlia that grew in the bright sunlight in the gardens of her home. At first there was only one, and she was told that it came from far, far away - from Vaes Dothrak where the dosh khaleen grew them. The solitary flower had made the long journey in a boat across the vast sea, and she thought it was the bravest flower in all of Highgarden. Plants don’t have feelings, sister. Loras would tease her, but he could have his silly roses any day. Her flower bloomed, spreading its red-orange petals towards the sky, and in the following spring it was surrounded by buds of its own kind.
She can spot him from way, his auburn hair bright against the cold, white sky. His fur coat is draped around her shoulders, heavy and warm. She hasn’t worn her own since he left four months ago. Her belly is soft and rounded, her breasts swollen and tender, but he will not be able to tell until she removes her winter clothing in the confines of their room near a warming fire. But as he rides closer, his band of surviving men following in his wake, she sees an angry gash on his forehead and a trickle of blood running down his face. She knows then that there are far more important matters than what she is hiding under her cloaks.
In Highgarden, there weren’t just pretty flowers to admire and pick and smell. There was also an herb garden filled with medicinal plants. While her brothers were off flinging sharpened sticks at potato sacks and fighting each other with wooden swords, Margaery was taught the ways of a healer. She learned which plants soothed burns and dulled headaches and cured stomach pains. She learned how to grind the yeasty ones with a pestle and mortar, how to extract the utmost amount of juice from a leaf, and how to combine the effects of one plant with another to create a new cure. There is war all around us, child. But among the death and destruction, there is restoration and renewal, her septa told her.
His eyes begin to droop, his fingers clutching the blankets of their bed with one hand. She is holding the other. “Do not fall asleep, my love, or Death will have every right to take you.” She lies. Death cannot take her husband, not now. She will fight It until her last breath. She kisses his brow, the taste of copper blood on her lips. It was she who fell into his arms at first - a courageous man who declared himself king after losing his father to the lions - but now he is falling into hers.
Garlan used to jestingly chase her around the gardens and she would hide in the shady alcoves of the castle, waiting for Willas to come and rescue her. She would pretend he was off at war, swooping in to save her village from pillage and plunder at the last second. I’m here! He would find her in the shadows and sweep her off her feet to place her on his hip, poking Garlan in the gut with his wooden sword. Your prince is here! He would set her down and go after his younger brother, their laughter bouncing off the castle walls. She would watch them, a smile on her face, only fading when she thought, but where is my king?
She stays awake with him all night, even when he clings to her hand and begs for sleep. It’s only when dawn breaks that she lets him rest, his eyes closing gratefully while she strokes his cheek, softly humming the tune to a song she heard when she was a girl. She throws off her cloak and nestles in beside her husband, the swell of her belly pressed against his side. Freckles dot his arms like stars clutter the skies, and he smiles in his sleep; he will not dream of war tonight. “I hope he has your hair,” she murmurs, running her hand along her stomach before letting sleep overwhelm her as well.
A Tyrell isn’t flighty or irrational. A Tyrell does not make decisions on a whim or pass judgment after one encounter. They like to learn about people - their histories, their backgrounds, their stories. They grow to respect, trust, and love others with time. This is how Robb Stark took her off guard. Loving him was not a gradual process. He stormed into her camp in the middle of the night, his face caked in earth and sweat, a beast almost the size of his horse by his side. He negotiated with her late husband, talking of duty and war as if he had been fighting his whole life. He spoke of his father and didn’t pause to brush his tears away. The bards in Highgarden had sung verses of pounding hearts and overpowering spells of adoration, and she had thought them fools until then.
He stirs before her, and she wakes to soft kisses on her belly, her heart fluttering like it had on the night she met him. She laughs quietly, her fingertips brushing over his scalp. He lifts his head so his eyes meet hers, and a smile lights up his entire face before he presses his lips to hers. She wonders how she lived four months without this - his warm skin against hers, his beard tickling her chin. He pulls away, a glimmer of wonderment flickering across his face, and she sees the young man whose tears glittered in the moonlight not so long ago. “We’ll name him Eddard,” she says, welcoming Robb into her arms again.