The main difference between her first husband and this second one would have to be the color of their hair -- whereas Renly's grew in thick and black, just as his beard, Robb's hair was red and glimmered in the firelight. His beard was red, as well, with small streaks of white that she thought dignified. My warrior king she called him. Robb was by no stretch vain, but the white hairs gave him pause.
Had anyone asked Margaery such a question -- not that anyone dare would -- that would have been her answer, and not the heart of the matter, was that this husband had given her two babies already and had her four moons on her way to a third, and beautiful Renly Baratheon never did that.
Besides, Renly could only ever take her from behind, on occasion going so far as to take her in the arse before spending inside her womb. It was futile folly: no seed took root within her, and since this second husband, Margaery well knew that the fault did not lie with her. When Robb took her from behind he laid his whole body atop hers and held her upright with one strong arm beneath her chest. From behind her she could feel the thud of his heartbeat and the bracing scrape of that white-streaked beard, the sweat that dripped from his forehead onto the space between her shoulders. But he had her many more ways besides - on her back, which was the best way to conceive a child, said her husband's lady mother, so they did it in that fashion when she was fertile. Maester Luwin gave her thick concoctions to drink and help the process along.
From behind was for Robb's pleasure, and him astride her was for her unborn progeny, but this way was for Margaery. Robb was uncomplaining, quite in fact the opposite. For her to straddle him and ride him as she would a stallion -- well, Renly's fragile manhood could never have countenanced that. She looked down upon his face through a bleary haze of her own pleasure as she moved atop him.
Robb threw his head back with the sensation of it; she could feel him pulse inside her. His big hands circled her waist but he kept his grip loose so that Margaery could set the pace for them both. Beneath her his mouth hung open, red and wet and hungry, and after she felt a warm wash of heat across her groin and then her face she leaned into that hungry mouth to claim it for her own. Margaery bit her king's lips until she could taste the copper tang of blood and still bestride him she rubbed against his body until his hands did go tight and he groaned out her name.
"Very good, my love," she said, rolling off him. She had to make water immediately after; the unborn child in her belly saw to that.
In the dying firelight, she fell asleep first.