The carriage wheels rolled over the soft dirt roads of the Reach with a dull, steady rumble, slowly making their way northeast toward Dragonstone.
Outside the window, Highgarden's glorious profusion of roses gradually gave way to rolling green fields.
Wind slipped through a gap in the window, carrying the sharp, bitter scent of vegetation and stirring the stillness inside the carriage.
Margaery sat on the velvet cushions, slowly drawing her gaze back from the fields outside as her fingertips brushed the subtle, simple pattern on her skirt.
Only three days ago, the afternoon sunlight in the Reach had still been warm and languid, the sweet fragrance of roses filling the courtyard.
Her grandmother Olenna's stern expression as she gripped her rose-carved cane, and her father Mace's face, swollen and red with frustration like a puffed-up fish, still lingered clearly before her eyes.
For her, this journey to Dragonstone was neither the "marriage alliance with the rightful dynasty" her father described nor the "family gamble" her grandmother saw. It was a choice she had made herself.
She wanted to see for herself whether that Targaryen heir was truly a returning True Dragon or a mad tyrant.
Clad in silver-white armor with a longsword at his waist, Loras Tyrell led over a hundred elite guards of House Tyrell, riding steadily on either side of the carriage.
A lingering ferocity still marked his features, but he remained faithful to his duties throughout the journey, scanning their surroundings warily for possible ambushes while keeping an eye on his sister.
His grandmother and father had both entrusted him with this task. He had to keep Margaery safe, and nothing could be allowed to go wrong along the way.
As the procession reached the edge of a sparse woodland beside the Roseroad, a group of ragged,