The Rose Tries to Bloom... But the Wolf Talks Fertilizer
The feast after Stannis's coronation was a masterpiece of awkward political theater. Musicians played, wine flowed, and somewhere in the corner Sandor Clegane was glaring at the punch bowl like it had personally offended him.
Margaery Tyrell had prepared for this moment the way generals prepare for battle. Hair perfectly coiled, gown the exact shade of "come hither but make it classy," perfume imported from Lys that was rumored to make men forget their own names. Olenna had given her one piece of advice before shoving her toward the dance floor:
"Flirt, charm, and if he still talks about duty, trip him and land in his lap. Works every time."
Margaery spotted her target. Jon Stark—sorry, Jon Stark, Duke of Casterly Rock-in-waiting, Knight of the White Wolf—stood near the high table looking like he'd rather be reviewing supply ledgers.
Perfect.
She glided over, smile dialed to "devastating."
"My lord Jon," she purred, offering her hand with the grace of a thousand ballroom lessons. "They say you conquered King's Landing before breakfast. A girl does love a man who knows how to finish quickly."
Jon took her hand, bowed politely, and replied without missing a beat:
"Actually it was more of a late lunch, my lady. The wildfire timing was tricky. But thank you. Would you care to dance? I've been practicing so I don't step on your toes more than twice."
Margaery's smile didn't waver. Stage two. She let him lead her onto the floor, then leaned in close enough that her breath brushed his ear.
"You know, most lords would be boasting right now. But you… there's something so earnest about you. It makes a lady wonder what else you're hiding under all that Northern restraint."
Jon considered this seriously while spinning her (a little too fast—clearly the dance master had focused on "not falling over" rather than "elegance").
"Well, I do have a very strong opinion on turnip yields," he said. "Did you know that if you rotate with beans you can improve soil nitrogen by nearly forty percent? Highgarden's fields would be perfect for it. I have diagrams if you—"
Margaery missed a step. "Turnips."
"Essential winter crop," Jon nodded solemnly. "Especially with an eight-year winter coming. We should really discuss grain tithes and silo construction. I brought sketches—"
From the edge of the dance floor came a noise like a dying goose. Olenna Tyrell was laughing so hard she had to clutch Garlan's arm for support.
"Seven save us," the Queen of Thorns wheezed, loud enough for half the hall to hear, "the boy is courting her with compost! Margaery, abort! Abort!"
Margaery, cheeks now actually pink (not the powdered kind), tried one last desperate maneuver. She stumbled artfully on the next turn, pressing herself against Jon's chest.
"Oh no," she gasped, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes. "I seem to have twisted my ankle. Perhaps you could… carry me to the gardens for some fresh air?"
Jon's face instantly switched to Concerned Big Brother Mode™. He scooped her up like she weighed nothing (which, to be fair, she didn't) and started marching toward the nearest balcony.
"Of course, my lady! Don't put weight on it. I once carried a wounded man three miles in the snow—though he was heavier. You should really eat more bread. Carbohydrates are vital for—here, take my cloak, the night air is damp."
He draped his heavy direwolf-fur cloak over her like she was a fragile porcelain doll, then continued: "Now, about those irrigation channels I mentioned earlier…"
Lia and Alla, hiding behind a pillar, were openly crying with laughter.
Lia: "He's tucking her in."
Alla: "The Rose of Highgarden is being mothered by a direwolf."
Margaery, now bundled like a very expensive sausage in Jon's cloak, stared up at the earnest grey eyes that were currently describing optimal manure-to-soil ratios and felt something dangerously close to genuine affection.
"Jon," she said, interrupting the lecture.
"Yes, my lady?"
"You are the worst seducer I have ever met."
Jon grinned, boyish and crooked and unfairly charming. "Good. Means I'll keep you on your toes. Metaphorically. Since I already stepped on them literally."
From the shadows, Ghost padded up, took one look at Margaery wrapped in his human's cloak, and gave a single approving woof before drooling on her hem.
Olenna, still cackling: "I changed my mind. Marry the farming idiot. At least our grandchildren won't starve."
Margaery looked at the direwolf, the cloak, the man still talking about crop rotation like it was foreplay, and sighed the sigh of a woman whose entire seduction playbook had just been set on fire.
"…Seven hells. I think I might actually like you."
Jon blinked. "Does that mean you want to see the diagrams?"
Margaery laughed so hard she almost fell out of his arms.
Somewhere in the afterlife, the Old Gods were placing bets on how long it would take before the White Wolf accidentally wooed the Reach into submission with spreadsheets.
The odds were not in Tyrell's favor.
(And yes, the next day Jon did send her the diagrams. Margaery framed them.)
omake 2
The garden balcony was supposed to be romantic. Moonlight, night-blooming roses, a fountain that gurgled like it was trying too hard. Stannis's "subtle" plan had worked: Jon and Margaery had been gently herded here after the third dance, with Davos loudly announcing, "Ah, fresh air! How lovely!" before slamming the door behind them.
Margaery had been waiting for this exact moment for three whole days. She'd practiced the half-lidded eyes in the mirror. She'd even bribed a maid to make sure Jon's wine was the strong Arbor red that made men forget their vows.
Jon, bless his earnest heart, had spent the entire walk out here explaining why the fountain's water pressure was inefficient.
"So if we angled the pipes at forty-five degrees instead of—"
"Jon," Margaery interrupted, stepping close enough that her perfume (the expensive one) hit him like a silk hammer. "We're alone."
Jon blinked. "Oh. Right. Yes." He looked around as if expecting an assassin. "Is this… the part where we discuss the marriage alliance?"
Margaery's smile twitched. *Seven hells, boy, read the room.* She rose on her toes, placed one delicate hand on his chest (feeling the ridiculous amount of muscle under the doublet), and whispered, "No. This is the part where you kiss me."
Jon froze like a stag in lantern light. "Kiss you?"
"Yes. That thing people do when they like each other and there's moonlight and no one is watching."
"I've… never actually done that before," he admitted, ears turning bright red. "There was that one time with Ygritte but she mostly just headbutted me and called it kissing."
Margaery decided that was adorable and tragic at the same time. "Then let me show you."
She tilted her head, closed her eyes, and leaned in.
Jon leaned in at exactly the same moment.
Their foreheads collided with a solid *thunk*.
"Ow—!"
"Seven—!"
Margaery stumbled back, rubbing her brow. Jon looked mortified, already reaching out like she was a wounded soldier.
"I'm so sorry, my lady! I misjudged the distance. Do you need ice? I can send Sandor to fetch—"
"Jon. Shut up and kiss me properly."
Second attempt.
Margaery grabbed his face with both hands to steer him. Jon, panicking, tilted the wrong way. Their noses smashed sideways. She made a muffled "mmph!" sound. He made a sound like a dying goose.
They pulled back again, both tearing up.
"This is worse than the Battle of the Blackwater," Jon muttered, rubbing his nose.
Margaery started laughing despite herself. "You're terrible at this."
"I know. I'm sorry. I've been practicing dancing for three days straight and apparently that used up all my coordination."
From the bushes below the balcony came a very loud, very fake cough.
Sansa's voice hissed: "Jon, you're supposed to tilt your head the *other* way!"
Arya's voice followed: "No, you're both doing it wrong. Just grab her like in the songs!"
Ghost poked his giant white head through the rose bushes, ears perked, clearly judging them.
Olenna's voice drifted from somewhere behind a pillar: "If the boy can take King's Landing but can't manage a simple kiss, I'm withdrawing the entire Reach."
Jon looked ready to die of embarrassment. Margaery, cheeks flaming, decided desperate measures were required.
She grabbed the front of his doublet, yanked him down, and planted one firm, slightly off-center kiss on his mouth.
For three glorious seconds it worked.
Then Jon, still overthinking, whispered against her lips: "Should we discuss the dowry first? I don't want you to feel—"
Margaery kissed him harder just to shut him up.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Jon's eyes were wide and slightly glassy.
"…I think I like kissing," he said faintly.
Margaery smoothed her hair, trying to look dignified while her heart hammered. "Good. Because we're doing that again tomorrow. And the day after. And you're going to practice until you're better at it than you are at sieges."
From the bushes: Sansa squealed. Arya gagged. Ghost woofed approvingly. Olenna cackled so hard she nearly fell into the fountain.
Jon offered Margaery his arm, still looking dazed. "So… about those irrigation diagrams—"
"Jon."
"Yes?"
"Walk me back inside before you ruin the moment completely."
He grinned, crooked and boyish. "Yes, my lady."
As they left the balcony, Margaery glanced back at the bushes and mouthed: *I will murder all of you later.*
The bushes rustled with muffled laughter.
Somewhere in the Red Keep, Stannis was probably congratulating himself on his brilliant matchmaking.
He had no idea the White Wolf had just been defeated by a rose… and his own inability to stop talking about turnips mid-kiss.
(Next day Jon sent her a single red rose with a note: "For practice. Also the irrigation plans are attached." Margaery kept both.)