Work Text:
“I’ve had to borrow my father’s seal, since mine has gone missing.” Margaery’s deft stare glides over Mira like fingertips. She is smart enough to know it must be someone close to her. Lady Margaery rarely leaves her things unguarded. And in fairness, Mira would certainly not have taken it had she known what Joffrey would do to his betrothed. Nonetheless, the seal sits heavy in the slit of her dress and Margaery has a point to her voice like a needle. Mira works hard not to shift in her seat. She won’t appear suspicious in front of Lady Margaery.
There is no Sera in the room to plaintively say that she doesn’t know who would do such a wicked thing, and what an awful thing it is for Margaery to be targeted in such a way when she is so very gracious and good. Her grovelling is so obvious it takes some discipline not to roll her eyes. Thankfully, Sera still proves to be a good friend, even if her wheedling could use some work. She is nonetheless not present, and the silence hangs heavy. It seems her lady will not change the subject until she hears from her handmaiden. “That’s rather curious,” Mira finally offers. “You always keep a close eye on things of importance.”
“There’s not much opportunity for someone to take it, that’s true,” remarks the young queen-to-be. “It leads me to believe it’s someone from within my closest circles.”
Her mouth is dry. Mira would be a fool to try and throw Sera to the dogs. It’s unlike the northerner to point fingers, anyhow. Carefully, she manages, “Do you wish my opinion, my lady?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on painted lips. “So few people ask before offering it. Lord Tyrion did name you clever. Perhaps you’re too clever for your own good.” Her gaze hardens. “I have always been generous to you, Mira, so I cannot abide deceit. You know the precariousness of my position. I must be able to trust you.” She sighs, looking a girl, fretful and upset in the privacy of her chambers. “I must.”
“You have grown skilled in wearing your false faces, my lady.” Mira keeps her gaze to her hands, dutifully attending to her lettering, but she can sense the quirk to Margaery’s lips, the catlike twinkle in her eye glittering upon her handmaiden. This is exactly what the others fail to understand, men and women alike. Margaery does so love her games. She is every bit as cunning as the old stories of the Reach would suggest, and yet still a girl with her fancies. And growing up with deceit and treachery does give you a taste for honesty — or those with eyes that see to it quick as the falsehood is told. And yet, Mira’s face is rather too honest, for she wears a small, proud smile on her lips.
“Have I?” teases Margaery, posture breaking into a girlish slouch. “I have been practicing. But you must know that. Such a good little handmaiden, you are.”
Margaery is younger than her, younger and shorter and much more girlish than she, but the true size of the woman lies in her status, Mira supposes. If Margaery wishes to play older sister, who is Mira to deny her? She’s never had an older sister, and even if she had, Lady Margaery is to be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms very soon. Mira wonders if anyone would dare refuse Margaery what she wanted once she was wed to Joffrey. Though, perhaps that’s a childish thought — certainly, Queen Regent Cersei has her fair share of troubles, and all the queens before her.
“Aren’t you?” Her lady’s prodding rouses Mira from her thoughts, and she lacks the presence of mind to hide her brief flare of annoyance. A lark’s laugh sounds beside her, to which she has the decency to then feel embarrassed.
Mira refocuses her efforts on her writing. “That is for you to say, my lady, not me.”
“Mira,” the woman complains in a tone that rings ever-so-familiar. The petulant whine of a younger, heard so often in the groves, when Asher would wheedle and whine, a petulant sound of, Rodrik, all harsh on the last syllable. Talia’s fond of it, too — or at least she was before Mira left. She doesn’t recall Ethan saying it much, nor Ryon, with Ethan too placid and Ryon too young. Certainly she’s used that tone often enough, when Asher tugged at her braids or knocked her book into the snow in his horseplay. It makes her ears instinctively strain to listen, to soothe. “I do long for the days at Highgarden, you know.”
She is quiet. “I apologize, my lady. I did not mean to … ”
“Don’t you say offend. Ugh, I must put on my false faces like you said, but in front of my handmaidens, too?” Margaery sighs, dramatic, and Mira is all too aware that this, too, is a false face, though perhaps truer than some of her others.
Mira sets down her quill, steady as she rests it on the writing desk. If she risked an inkblot now, she’d strain her wrist through another letter. “You yourself taught me guile, Lady Margaery,” she quietly scolds her. “You must know by now that even your innermost circles might be full of vipers.”
“Is that what you are?” Margaery sounds suddenly cross, voice lashing like a whip. “A viper in my court?”
She knows it’s all over her face, the naked shock and terror. Her bloated tongue stammers, “N-no, I — ” The stolen seal burns against her thigh. “I was only — I would never — ”
“Never say a word you don’t want planted in the minds of others,” comes the lesson, spoken as sagely as a heralded crone, yet it sounds strange from the mouth of a girl.
Mira suddenly remembers herself, feels her palm twitch and realizes it hasn’t forgotten its duty. Wordlessly, she steps toward her lady and begins to undo her elaborate hairstyle; all of Margaery’s hair divided into fragile braids and pearl-pins that kept her fanciful shapes of ringlet curls. A show of status amongst southron court, she understands, and yet Mira’s always despised these updos. They’re a nightmare to unravel without losing strands and a royal pain in your neck when you’re not wearing it. Not to mention the awful snags and tangles once it’s all dismantled, with the hair damaged and in need of a firm, constant brushing. Lady Margaery is a woman born to the south, long used to this duty. Mira figures it isn’t such a burden for a Tyrell, or for the future queen for that matter, to find some scented oil for her hair to lessen the work and pain. Still, it’s far too much hassle for Mira to want to bear. She is glad to be allowed her simple styles most days.
It’s after she diligently begins her work with the boar-bristle brush that her lady speaks again. “You’re scowling, Mira.” As Margaery oft does, she sounds equal parts concerned, amused, and scolding.
“My apologies, my lady.” She tightens her steely expression into a smile. And Margaery laughs at the reflection she sees in the mirror.
“You’re still scowling.”
“No, I’m not,” she blurts childishly, the apples of her cheeks growing pink.
Margaery turns to look at her, so youthful and bright. She’s smiling now, at least — a small mercy. Mira knows it’s never a good sign when her lady grows severe. (That’s a job for fathers and hags, she’d once commented idly, in that warm, sweet voice of hers.) “You are so. Your mouth may be smiling, but your eyes tell all.”
Her eyes widen at that, suddenly guilty, her leg twitching against uneven weight, and Margaery laughs anew.
Sweet-smelling hands cover her own, and Mira, self-conscious, tells herself to make no expression at all. Surely her face will go back to normal if she just stops thinking about it. Such a task grows easier when a plump face fills her vision. Lady Margaery is not beautiful like Cersei is, but that is to her advantage. The queen holds a severe and cruel sort of beauty, in that it wards the weak-hearted away. Meanwhile, Margaery’s beauty is for those very weak-hearted boys Cersei scorns. She has a real talent for making even the lowest folk feel of worth. She’s like Asher in that way, Mira thinks, not for the first time. Asher could put any girl at ease with one of his roguish grins, and everyone couldn’t help but love him and his fierce golden heart.
Though golden has taken on much of a new meaning in the south, with the Lannisters and Baratheons on the throne. More Lannister than Baratheon, as everyone knows. The rumours of the queen’s incestuous relations with her brother had spread far and wide, although no one here spoke freely of it if they valued their tongues. Still, Mira had privately been shocked that Sera would still want to tarnish Jaime Lannister’s cloak with the same fervour as she would spit on Cersei.
Perhaps it wasn’t about the incest at all. Perhaps it was a testament to the queen’s poor temperament. Even so, Mira doubted it. In the north, people had many reasons to profane the name of Jaime Lannister. Yet no one ever condemned him for his bastard children, although they were made in his and Cersei’s image: manes of thick-spun gold and pointed little chins.
“You’ve a much stronger hand than Sera,” she hears Lady Margaery comment. Mira’s shoulders relax slightly. This must mean that Margaery has forgotten her ills alongside any of Mira’s perceived treacheries. She likes to nettle her handmaid, to make her squirm as if she were a regal cat playing with a mouse. All part of Lady Margaery’s favour, she tells herself, though not without a private smile. She does so remind her of a girl, all whimsy and play.
“Is that right, my lady?”
“Of course it’s right,” answers the future queen smoothly, casting her eyes to an interesting spot on the floor as she positions her hands demurely in her lap. “Do you think Sera can stomach getting all these tangles out? The poor girl’s brought to tears apologizing for all the harm she causes me.”
It’s a vivid image, but one that’s not necessarily true. “She’s grown quite a lot, you know.”
“Oh, yes, Septa Mira. I know, I should never speak ill of my fellow woman.”
Septa Mira has always gotten under her skin. She scowls and speaks nothing of it, focusing instead on gripping a rather unruly section of hair and forcing the boar bristles through it, over and over. It’s not unlike a flogging, she supposes. Men say that anyone can be trained to fall in line with the proper motivation. Violence. Sex. Her mouth twists. Before she knows it, she realizes that she’s finished the detangling and moved on to plaiting her lady’s hair in a loose braid. All the better to make it look lovely in all its waves and curls the next day, to be sure, but it’s hardly an appropriate hairstyle. When she glances at Margaery’s reflection in her looking glass, it strikes her how sweet and youthful she looks, with her cherub cheeks stark in their roundness now that her hair is pulled back. “Forgive me, my lady. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Those are the hands of an older sister,” muses Margaery. “Did you do your sister’s hair often?”
“When she’d let me,” Mira confessed. “She hated having her hair brushed until I told her that a proper lady sits still no matter how the brush tugs her.”
Her lady laughs. “Sage advice. I hope I’m a better doll than your sister.”
For a moment, Mira’s aghast. It’s hardly a thing a future queen says to her handmaid, and she’s momentarily lost for words. It’s just the sort of reaction her lady likes, she knows, and yet it won’t do to always be so dumbfounded. “You’re everybody’s doll, my lady. And a beautiful one besides. They may say all they like about you, but no one can deny that.”
Margaery is quiet, slender fingers awakening from regal lap to move up and stroke her tresses, assessing the foreign hairstyle. Mira expects her to tell her to undo it, but instead, Margaery gracefully rises. “To bed, then.”
The words are meaningful, though Mira doesn’t need her duty spelled out for her or even hinted at. She is deft in closing the curtains to block either the evenfall’s retiring sun or moonlight from the room, and then again in removing her lady’s clothes until she’s bare in her chambers. “The bed is already made for you, my lady.”
“You won’t join me?”
Mira mislikes how long this play has gone on. Surely, Margaery would grow bored eventually. She must. “As my lady wishes.”
“Your lady wishes to play handmaid.” The words are spoken darkly, and Mira feels gooseflesh break out on her arms, a shiver raising every hair on her body. If Margaery removed her clothes, she may notice what Mira has concealed beneath her skirts. But there is no arguing with her; such a thing would only raise suspicion.
Mira only nods.
Margaery’s hands are warm as she slips them behind Mira, undoing her vest with deft fingers. The fabric is constricting, and now the swathes of fabric that cover her chest fall looser. Better to obscure her with, until they’re removed as well. Sweat breaks out at the base of Mira’s scalp, and she tells herself it will be alright, that she won’t feel her skirts, yet she feels herself bodily shiver when Margaery begins to pull aside her dress. The weight tips, the wooden seal unbalanced, and Mira panics as she feels it slip and mutely thud into a pile of silks. Hastily, she tries to kick fabric over it, tries to roll it away. It’s dark enough in the room that Margaery might not have noticed. She chances a look at the girl’s face.
She’s looking at Mira’s body – or rather, what’s left of the clothes on milk-skin that’s tenderly mottled beneath years of sun. She circles around the handmaiden to unlace her garments, and in one seamless movement, she bends down and picks up the seal she’d nudged with her foot. “Oh Mira,” she hums dangerously, rising just as swiftly as she knelt. “What could you have possibly wanted with my seal?”
Bare before her lady in all the ways that matter, Mira tries and fails to stop her hands from coming up to cover herself, her bare breasts sheathed by an arm, her snatch hastily palmed. “I, m-my lady, I never meant — ”
“You were going to go behind my back, weren’t you?” Before Mira can breathe, Margaery takes hold of her wrist and holds it up, uncovering her maiden’s bush. Humiliatingly, Mira feels her pulse quicken, her thighs twitch, a visceral and ancient tremor thrumming between the quivering limbs. “Who were you going to write a letter to? And after all the kindness I’ve shown you, Mira, really — !”
The berating stops short, and Mira hesitantly opens her eyes, which she’d squeezed shut for some reason unknown even to herself. Her head swims, and she feels her nipples forming stiff peaks under her braced arm, curling tightly inward as if Margaery would seize her there next.
“Was this the reason?” comes the dangerous question, spoken with a sweet smile and a hand creeping towards her flower. “You wanted me to scold you, sweetling? Surely it wasn’t to betray my trust and forge a letter under my name. I’ve always considered you a sister, Mira. I had hoped you bore me that same love.”
Flushed and sweating, Mira swallows past her dry throat and croaks, “I … I do.”
“Are you sure?” There’s a sneaky amusement to the future queen’s tone, the sort of amusement that glints in a cat’s eyes when it has a mouse between the pads of its paw. “Or is this sisterly love you speak of the Lannister sort?”
Mira flushes. Her stomach roils and churns, and she finds she’s lost her tongue entirely. There’s something galling about the candid way Margaery speaks, as if the rumours of the queen’s incest couldn’t get her killed or worse. As if it’s just a child’s tale to play around with. As if Mira hasn’t had worse brushes with that primal sin.
When she doesn’t speak, Margaery squeezes Mira’s wrist and lowers herself again, bringing the handle of the seal up to gently stroke circles into Mira’s folds. “Well, it’s alright,” her lady reassures her, low and sweet and dangerous. “We aren’t sisters by blood.”
Not every Tyrell is a rose. Mira remembers having heard that somewhere, some careless remark made and overheard in the Red Keep. Not everyone can be discreet, nor do they always understand the need to be. But whichever careless person denounced the Tyrells so loudly, she thinks, was wrong. Mira has always known that Lady Margaery smells like roses, from her hair to the sweat at her neck. And somehow, deliriously, when she feels the heat of the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms between her quivering thighs, she feels as though she can smell that familiar and beautiful scent ever more prudently. Lady Margaery’s palms rove over fields of northern-pale skin, and Mira shivers, whimpers softly once. The seal nudges past one layer of her womanhood, and it makes her afraid, makes her clench and grit her teeth. “My — my lady — ”
“You’ll still be a maiden so long as no one knows,” Margaery coos. Mira cranes her head to look at the walls. They say Maegor the Cruel built tunnels and caves within the walls of the keep, and that spiders and spies use them to feed whispers to the queen and whoever else may fetch a high price. For the first time, Mira wonders if this girl knelt before her is a fool. Yet she cannot utter a word, because her lady uses her hand this time to wrench a gasp out of her handmaiden. She palms roughly, opening Mira back up with her other hand, and Mira chokes upon her own sound. It feels so slick, so wet and runny and hot at the core of her. It’s almost like an itch, but it feels nauseating and delightful all at once. She wants to squirm and beg for it to stop, yet she also dares not utter a word in case it actually does.
“Nnh, mgh, L-Lady, Lady — ”
Her eyes are closed, tears squeezing from the cracks between her lids, but she can still see Margaery’s pretty smile, hear it in her lilting tone. “You really are a maiden, aren’t you? Well, it wasn’t ever in question, but …” She stops for a moment, distracted by something Mira can’t see, but suspects is her own filthy snatch. “ … You must have wanted not to be very badly.”
Is that true? Mira feels completely lost, her knees feeling weak from the proximity. The fear is doing it, she thinks, but that’s not entirely true, is it? She can’t be afraid, not of this girl between her legs. Not this girl that Mira has known since she was but a child, who has this chubby-cheeked angelic look about her that enraptures everyone who catches even a glance of the maid. There isn’t a thing that’s frightening about her, not even when she’s like this. She’s switched positions to lounge like a cat, letting her legs cascade behind her as if they were made of fine lace rather than flesh. Mira can’t be afraid. It wouldn’t be possible for anyone. There’s something magnetic about Lady Margaery, an allure that exempts no one. She has a certain air about her, and Mira has long noticed its effects. The way women fawn over her. The way men cannot help but stare lustily and lovingly in her direction. Everyone loves Lady Margaery. Mira is hardly some common whore for … Not desiring, no, certainly not. She’s just … responding.
It strikes her that Margaery had asked a question. She’s forgotten to answer completely. Red-cheeked, Mira opens her mouth, but when a smooth object breaches her, the only thing that comes out is a gasp. She’s being fucked with … Lady Margaery’s seal.
Distantly, Mira feels her body arch into it, her breasts sensitive and tingling. The intrusion feels so odd, so nauseatingly full. The seal is wider than her fingers, she realizes. She once thought that using her fingers would prepare her for being known to a man, but even this object is larger and more fearsome than feminine digits. However, Mira knows that she didn’t explore herself in her girlhood for duty. It was … She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to control her breathing. Gods, she only wanted to be beautiful, splayed out on her bedspread of wools and furs back at home, winter hands stroking her folds like Asher had said women do at brothels to entice men. She wanted to be enticing. And she would be enticing until it made her feel sick with depravity and disgust, until her cheeks were wet and her whole body screamed with pain-pleasure. It felt so awful, a ruining of herself, but it felt wonderful all at once. But being touched by another person, it’s … different, Mira knows, and it’s … it’s …
“What is it, sweetling?” Margaery almost sings, humming and hushed, and Mira’s knees buckle all at once. She can tell, somewhere outside of herself, that her lady wasn’t expecting it, because her perfect lips form an ‘O’ shape and her hands are clumsy and flustered when she catches Mira’s legs to steady her. “Oh, you poor dear,” she sighs. “Not used to it, I know. Let’s go to the bed, shall we? You’ll be more comfortable there.”
The world whites out with ringing in her ears and a sickly feeling in her throat. “No,” Mira gasps, her voice not unlike the guttural snarl of a frightened animal. She can’t be treated like a maiden. That would make this real. That would mean that she is getting soiled and taken by a woman, by the very lady she serves. She can’t breathe, and Margaery isn’t listening to her, and she soon feels familiar fabric against her back, and all at once, she hears Mother’s voice, reminding her: It will feel like Hell at first. But you’ll be strong, and you’ll give him the sons he wants.
It does feel like Hell. It feels like a perfumed hell, long expanses of pretty skin and silken hair tumbling down in a northern braid. It feels like softer lips than she ever expected peppering down her chest and stomach, labour-spared hands massaging her sweaty thighs to pull them apart. Mira’s nipples are stiff pebbles and her chest is heaving with — with — She can’t place this emotion, but her thighs are slick and she’s melting. And then the seal nudges itself, surely, back into her. She feels herself clench around it, and it feels sickly and wonderful. One hand squeezes the flesh of Mira’s thigh, and it feels so much like it could be a man’s hand, a lover’s hand … It feels like a choosing, and her head pounds as though it will explode.
“Open your eyes.”
Mira’s eyes fly open. She hadn’t realized she’d closed them.
“Say something, Mira.”
Is it that she’s making an odd face? Mira tries to smile, tries to think about what she’s going to say. “You … Lady Margaery, um …”
That earns her a smile and a soft kiss to the lips. Many a time has Mira come to know Margaery’s kiss, stamped upon her in succession and gleaming faintly like a maiden’s favour on her cheeks, or even upon her mouth if her lady deemed it so. Ladies were like that in the Reach: soft and affectionate, always entangling arms or legs and pressing mouths of fruit here-and-there as if to sheath their pretty smiles on skin. Mira had always squirmed at it, but it has never felt so foul and wrong before. And yet Margaery’s face is so familiar, so kind. “So I am.”
Mira watches her lady with assessing eyes. She’s trying to process it, the whole world off-kilter while she’s frantically trying to make sense of it. But she can’t handle it slowing down. The arousal is so thick it’s like hot irons poking her, though for it to be a slow torture sounds unbearable. But her lady needs something, and it’s Mira’s job as her handmaiden to provide it. No … she’s sure this extends beyond the duties of a handmaiden. Rather … as her lady’s sister, she must provide this. Her eyes light upon the braid she’d done for Margaery. I hope i’m a better doll than your sister, her lady had said. And what had Mira said in response? You’re everybody’s doll. She knows well that Margaery was raised with a myriad of false faces, putting one mask on after another to keep all her subjects happy and well-contented. But Mira was, perhaps, the one person who had seen her as bare as Margaery could muster. That is this Margaery, who looks at her with a minute quivering in her eye, a glassiness, perhaps, that is starved for comfort.
She’s hardly the comforting sort, but Margaery has never preferred the flowery words of the south to her own blunt speech. “P-Please,” is what she hears herself saying. “I’m … I’m so wet, please fuck me, my lady.”
Her cheeks are aflame as she stumbles through it, but Margaery beams, a wicked glint entering her eye as she heeds the permission she’s been granted. She thrusts the shaft in with purpose, quick to enter, slow to exit, and a few agonizing seconds of stalling between each pump. It’s not enough. Mira’s flower buzzes at the top of herself, and she can’t help but squirm with impatience. “More — harder.”
And, shockingly, her lady gives it to her, her own breaths coming in quicker as she works the muscles in her arm to fuck Mira at a faster pace. Still does Mira beg for more, wanting the ferocity that was known to her back home. The barking commands of the master-at-arms, the frigid inflexibility of the snow, the snarls of her brothers as they beat those that would harm her half to death. “Please,” she keeps begging, “Please, please, please — ”
Lips come up to meet hers, silencing her cries, not a thing escaping gaping mouth save for one choked noise. Mira doesn’t understand how loud she was being, only that her toes are curling and she needs Lady Margaery to continue. Hands twist into claws, and she searches for a full teat, one more bountiful than her own, wanting to tweak the most sensitive suckling point so that the pleasure won’t fade.
Tantalizingly, Margaery sucks in a breath. “Alright, Mira.” It’s stated like a reprimand, though it isn’t one, and were Mira in her right mind, she might figure that Margaery had indeed meant to scold her. For volume, for impudence — it could be any manner of things. But regardless of intent or feeling, Margaery obliges, servicing her handmaiden in the way she was instructed. It’s so deliciously backwards that it makes Mira’s head spin. She thinks of Margaery between her legs, Lady Margaery who is coveted by all, and how shocked they’d all be if they ever learned that the one who had Margaery’s true favour was a simple girl of the north. Of course, they’d never find out (and Mira’s skin crawls thinking of bugs in the walls) but it sets a tingle to her spine and a curl to her toes nonetheless. She feels special, as she oft does in her lady’s company, even if her mind treacherously wanders briefly to thoughts of Margaery and her other companions. Has she taken other maids to bed? Sera or her cousins?
She squeezes what’s in her grasp and is given a shuddering hiss in return. No, surely not. It mustn’t be. Through haze does she remember that brief nervousness to her lady, that sudden stillness of her and her perfect face. How could she question the girl’s purity? It is just her and only her that Margaery has debased so. The wideness of the seal smarts at her clenching walls and something must have broken through the hurried and clumsy thrusts, and she clings onto that innocence from before, desperate and clawing with her nails.
Mira is drenched in sweat, her knees jellied and her hands balling into fists. “Lady Margaery — Lady Margaery — ” She hears herself babbling, and some rational part of her mind that’s left recognizes the way her insides tweak and drip, tension and tension all building up and ready to release.
Her lady must recognize it too, because she picks up speed and angles her body so she’s dangling above Mira, teats hanging over Mira’s face and she feels — Oh, there’s skin everywhere, the overwhelming smell of sweat and a strange sweetness she can only imagine is her own slick, perfumed by the fruits she eats now that she’s part of a southron court, and — and —
“Fuck,” Mira curses, chest tight and head jerking with her hips, “Oh, oh, fuck — ”
“There you go,” Margaery coos, her pupils blown and her stare hungry. She says something else, but Mira doesn’t hear it. Her pleasure crashes over her, violent and agonizing, and she realizes she’s muffled by Margaery’s chest. She sucks in breath after breath, addicted to the scent of her lady, the warmth of her. Her lower body feels as though it’s spasming, and she feels wetness everywhere. She … Oh gods, she’s made a fool of herself.
Margaery pulls away and stares at the soaked mess. From the look on her face, it’s clear she hasn’t ever seen a woman do as Mira does. From time to time, when Mira releases, her body seems to release spurts of urine or … some other thin fluid, not like the slick that gushes from her. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me, my lady.” She begins to babble, terror gripping her lungs as Margaery stares at her like she’s some strange beast. She should strip the bed. She needs to do her duty. Yet the handmaiden is boneless, twitching helplessly.
But then her lady leans down and licks one long, sensitive stripe up her snatch, sampling every fluid Mira has oozed out onto her maiden’s tongue. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she whispers. “I’ll take care of it all.”
Somehow, in that queer way Margaery is like to do, Mira suspects she means more than she lets on.