I don’t have to wait long until I hear soft footsteps approaching. Opening my eyes slowly, I squint against the sun. Washed in daylight as she is, Margaery looks as much a queen as Cersei ever was, dressed in a tasteful pine-colored dress with golden flowers embroidered along the bust and sleeves. It’s certainly a change from her usual provocative attire.

The Kingsguard splits apart at her approach. Margaery’s two ladies-in-waiting wait outside their protective ring. She stops a step away from me and curtsies deeply, granting me a faceful of cleavage. Ah! There she is.

“Your Grace,” she says in that soft voice of hers I am beginning to grow used to.

“My lady.” I rise smoothly and bow over her extended hand, brushing my lips over her knuckles. “I hope the trial wasn’t overly disturbing to you.”

Despite the small differences between Margaery and her actress, they have the same cheeky, sideways smirk. And let me tell you, that smirk is a dangerous thing. “It was certainly… stimulating, You Grace. The court will be speaking about it for months, I’m sure.”

Indeed, the trial was as much of a shit show as I remember, only without Shae’s appearance. I held her back at one of the mansions in King’s Landing. No Golden Globe winning scene for Mr. Dinklage this time, I’m afraid, but I doubt his Westerosi counterpart will care much. I even let him defend himself after every witness’ testimony, so gracious a king I was.

It’s funny how the bare minimum due process can make such a huge difference, even if I still gave him the death sentence that “forced” him to call for a trial by combat. I had thought of changing the judicial system of Westeros, until I almost smacked myself upside the head and laughed the matter off. A system where the rich and powerful get to fight off criminal charges in a nonsensical trial by combat using hired men, when I was the richest and most powerful man in the country? Why would I ever get rid of it? Sign me the fuck up.

I smile sagely at Margaery. “It went as the Gods decided, my lady. No more, no less.” Her hand still on mine, I lead her to the bench where we can sit facing each other. “What more could we faithful ask for?”

She giggles behind her hand. “Of course, Your Grace, of course. We bow to the wisdom of the Gods.”

With slight of hand borne out of a lifetime of handling knives and picking pockets, I reach behind her as we move to sit and pick a yellow rose out of a hanging pot. Before we’re seated, she has a sunny golden rose stuck to the side of her hair facing the window, and the people around us are none the wiser.

“And here I was thinking you had already plucked my flower, Tommen?” she whispers.

I feel a shiver run down my back. The experience dissociation between my mind and my teenage body is an ongoing struggle, trust me. “That hardly seems appropriate for a young maiden to say,” I try to tease back.

She tilts her head innocently. “What? The innuendo, or the witticism?” I groan in my hand. Margaery had a thing for puns. “Then again, it needn’t be so scandalous now, does it? I heard you came to an agreement with my father for a betrothal between our families.”

“Grandmother,” I pointed. “But I’m sure you knew that already.”

“Oh, you think too highly of me, Your Grace. I don’t know much of anything. I’m just a little girl,” she says, then quieter, “your little girl.”

I sigh. I’m too old for this shit. “Is there a reason why you’ve openly approached me before our betrothal is even made public, Margeary? Or do you simply wish to murder me by means of terrible word play?”

She laughs again, a real one. There’s even a snort there at the end, but I’m too much of a gentleman to comment. “I have a request, Tommen.”

“Before we’re even wedded?” I quip. “I dread to think of my life when we finally tie the knot.”

Margaery sits up, all snobbish like. “Grandmother says that once a couple is wedded and bedded, a wife has the right of two requests no husband can deny, one for each.” She picks the flower out of her hair, brings it up to her button of a nose, and smells it deeply. The she throws it out the window like a divine offering. How she can make that simple action look so erotic, I have no clue. “I think we’ve covered the latter plenty enough, don’t you? So I am, as you once said, cashing in.”

I had to give it to her. “Very well, very well,” I said. I’m sure she’s contrived a dozen more reasons for my acquiescence before she ever even thought of coming up to me, so there’s no point in wasting time. “What is it you need?”

“I would like you to appoint Loras to your Kingsguard,” she says. “You’ve grown close enough during your practice. You know of his skill with a blade and ahorse; you know of his valor and his bravery in battle.” Then I feel her hand sneaking up my knee. “And I would feel terribly safer with a familiar face to protect me, my king. Will you do this for me?”

What a terrifying woman. Then again, he was my next choice of white cloak anyway.

Undaunted, I smile wickedly. “You seem overly eager to have your brother guarding our chambers at night. Something I should be worried about?” Bit hypocritical coming from me of all people, but I have to take my chances when I get them otherwise she’ll think she’s winning every interaction.

“Of course not, Your Grace.” She smirks again. Like a cat on the hunt. “Without your household knights there, it just means I can be louder.”

My hormonal mind freezes for a moment. I take a deep breath, my eyes close. Then I rest my head back against the wall and exhale. Fuck me, and fuck being fourteen again.

“Yes, well… I can hardly say no to that, can I?” I manage to croak out.

Margaery smiles victoriously. Fair play to her. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace,” she says loud enough so the others around us can hear. “You’re too kind, too kind. My family will not forget this.”

Before I can say anything else, she’s up and curtsying and gliding away with her ladies, clucking and giggling like hens. As if she didn’t just hijack a Kingsguard position from right under the King of the Seven Kingdoms.