The Wedding Morning of Margaery Tyrell

The Morning of the Purple Wedding (The Calm Before the Disaster)

A story by my OC Amarei:

The morning of the first day of the new century dawned filled with birdsong, fluttering butterflies, and light that, filtering through the leaves, formed figures of small animals and fantastical creatures. Amarei even thought she saw the silhouette of a dragon or a wolf made of pure light. Dragons, of course, had become extinct long ago, during the reign of Aegon III. That very midday, the wedding of the daughter of House Tyrell would be celebrated in the Great Sept of Baelor. The Holy King, Baelor, had refused to consummate his marriages with her sisters; instead, he had imprisoned them as the pure princesses they were.

"Did Baelor have his flaws, or was it because of his vow of chastity to the Seven?" Amarei wondered as she reviewed the ancient tales of House Targaryen. When she was still a child, even before she had her first period, she used to spend her days in the library of Floramiel Keep. She missed the peach orchards, the sweet wine, and the ripe, pink fruit picked straight from the trees. When the harvest came earlier than expected, it meant a longer summer. She also remembered teatimes with pasties, biscuits, and other sweets, and picnic days on the hill, when the air was crisp and her grandfather's bard, Old Sour Peach, would bring along one of his traveling jesters to sing merry songs. Some told of the victories of Aegon the Conqueror, of Queen Visenya Targaryen, or of the heroic battles of the Reach against Dorne. Amarei missed her childhood and home every day, ever since she began serving Princess Myrcella Baratheon at the age of twelve, when Myrcella was only six. She was like a miniature version of Queen Cersei: fair-haired, delicate, with emerald-green eyes. Amarei was brought to be Myrcella's lady-in-waiting: she was to follow her everywhere, serve her a cup of juice or water, comb her hair, and play with her. She fondly remembered her own new shoes, which had barely lasted two months before falling apart.

But Myrcella was no longer in the Red Keep; she had been sent to Dorne. "Poor princess… she's surrounded by vipers and barbarians," Amarei lamented, without imagining how she was truly treated. She longed to embrace her once more, if only they had brought her back for the wedding of the nefarious King Joffrey. She remembered clearly the day she said goodbye to Myrcella. Amarei was with her sister, Margaery Durwell, whom they called Maggy so as not to confuse her with the Tyrell. It all happened in the blink of an eye: a mob of frenzied commoners started a riot. Someone threw animal excrement at King Joffrey. Amarei didn't remember seeing him directly, because her father, Ser Cedrik, had protected her along with her brothers, Andros and Rowen. They pushed her toward a small tower where a cartographers' school was located. A pupil of about eleven years old helped them climb to the highest hall before the commoners reached them. From there, she heard the shouts, the curses, and the hysterical laughter.

“Pink asses! Pink asses!” some of them shouted. Were they referring to her family crest? She preferred not to know.

When it was all over, the Night's Watch escorted her, her sister, her father, and her brother Andros. But Rowen, her twin, was at the front… and she never saw him again for the rest of the day. Her father never explained exactly what had happened. Later, when things had calmed down, she learned something awful: Lollys Stokeworth, as sweet and round as a loaf of bread, had been raped by the mob and was pregnant. The same thing could have happened to Sansa Stark, if not for the Hound, Sandor Clegane. Perhaps he saved her because she was still a hostage.

“Poor thing… she didn't deserve Joffrey or the dwarf,” Amarei thought. Although she also remembered that Tyrion was the nephew of Ser Kevan Lannister, Lancel's father.

Amarei was in the alcove she shared with her sister Maggy when their mother, Lady Celise Bolton, roused them that morning for breakfast with their other two sisters. There was their eldest half-sister, Elyna Durwell, the fairest of all the Durwells. Also present was five-year-old Allyn Durwell, an exact copy of her mother. Breakfast was served on a table covered with a white cloth and adorned with an earthenware pot filled with golden roses, like the ruling house of the Reach. Servants brought the dishes: boiled quail eggs, crispy smoked bacon, freshly baked bread, baked beans, milk, peach juice, and fresh water. There was also a bowl of fruit: peaches like their own, green and purple grapes, apples, pears, and plums. For dessert, they served cheesecakes with berries. Once breakfast was over, it was time to don their finest and newest gowns for the grand ceremony in which the Princess of Highgarden would marry King Joffrey Baratheon.

Lady Celise Bolton's dress was blood red with silver trim, just as her house sigil dictated. Elyna's was mint green, embroidered with daisies and intertwined leaves. Amarei's was pink, adorned with patterns of white roses, while Maggy wore a pink dress embroidered with roses in a deeper shade. Allyn, restless and excited, wore a little pink dress in the Durwell colors.

“Lady Olenna and Lady Allarie have invited us to watch the bride, Lady Margaery, your future queen, being dressed. Be careful and show your manners,” said Celise Bolton in her typical northern accent.

“Yes, Mother…” three of the sisters replied in unison.

“I want to see the princess! I want to see the princess!” demanded little Allyn, as was typical of a child her age.

Maggy took a breath before speaking:

“Mother… do you think it’s right that Lord Mace Tyrell is marrying Lady Margaery to the king? My father has seen what that man is like…” she asked, with obvious concern.

“Well, it’s quite clear. And they say Lord Mace is a fool, and that he knows nothing about the Lannisters or the Baratheons,” Amarei added without much thought.

Lady Celise turned to her immediately, indignant.

“I don’t want you to ever speak of Lord Mace Tyrell like that again. You must respect him! He is your lord, and his lord is King Joffrey. He’s a fool, yes,” she conceded. “But not even his lord father could change his mind about anything,” she finished in the harsh tone typical of the Boltons.

A few minutes later, Elyna took little Allyn in her arms and carried her to her father, along with the rest of her siblings, uncles, and cousins ​​who were waiting for them in the main hall. Celise and her other daughters then made their way to the room where the beautiful Margaery Tyrell was being dressed. It was a secluded room, reserved only for the bride and her ladies-in-waiting. Upon arriving, they found solid oak doors, carved with two lions whose eyes were set with rubies and served as doorknobs. Lady Celise knocked softly, and a septa opened them at once.

“You have arrived just in time,” said the septa, bowing to Lady Celise. “See how our future queen is turning out.”

When they entered, the sight that greeted them seemed to have come from the Seven Heavens. Amarei, who had seen beautiful maidens all her life, had never imagined beholding such perfect beauty incarnate. In her childhood fantasies, she had imagined her own wedding dress… but none would have been as splendid as this one. For a moment, the dress’s brilliance touched her with envy. Margaery Tyrell wore an ivory silk gown with Myrian lace, and a skirt adorned with delicate floral designs formed by tiny pearls. As the widow of Renly Baratheon, she could have appeared in gold and black, but she had proudly chosen those of her house: a maiden's cloak with a hundred roses embroidered in gold thread on green velvet.

“Look at my masterpiece!” exclaimed Lady Olenna, weeping as she dabbed her tears with her handkerchief. Of all the seeds in my garden, only strong knights grew… but this one, my most beautiful and precious rose in this war-torn kingdom, has at last reached its full maturity.

Lady Allerie approached serenely. Celise bowed.

“Lady Allerie, it is an honor to be here as your guests,” Celise greeted courteously.

“The honor is ours to receive you and your daughters, Lady Celise,” Allerie replied with a kind smile. “I hear that your brother, Roose Bolton, is now Lord of Winterfell. That certainly elevates your status. How does it feel to command more respect than ever before?”

“My brother’s affairs do not concern me,” Celise replied with northern coolness. “I prefer to remain neutral and loyal.”

A servant, kneeling as she arranged flowers in Margaery’s hairstyle, spoke:

“The dress is ready, my lady. Lady Margaery is now prepared to depart for the Sept of Baelor the Blessed.” The bride took a breath.

“I’m a little nervous…” she admitted with a trembling smile. “I will be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Oh, Your Majesty, the people love you dearly,” Amarei added gently. “You will do great things for the capital of King’s Landing.”

“My lady, the crown you commissioned is here,” the septa announced, bringing in a wreath of exquisitely intertwined roses.

Margaery looked at Amarei with warmth and a touch of solemnity.

“Amarei, as an act of honor… as my future handmaiden, I grant you the privilege of placing the crown upon my head.”

The young woman's heart beat faster.

"Yes, my lady," Amarei replied, bowing with an excited smile.

When the crown of roses rested on Margaery's head, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. The ladies finished the final adjustments, and the septas opened the tall windows so that the sunlight illuminated the ivory gown. Margaery took a deep breath before smiling at all her attendants.

"It is time." The procession left the room amidst whispers of silk and floral perfume. In the corridors of the Red Keep, the Lannister guards formed immaculate ranks, clearing the way for the future queen of the realm. The murmur of the crowd, gathered beyond the walls, could already be heard like a restless sea. Amarei walked behind Margaery alongside Maggy, feeling the weight of the honor she had just received. Her mother, Celise Bolton, maintained the poise befitting a northern lady, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her worry about what awaited them in the Sept… and about King Joffrey’s temper. As they turned into a corridor, the Durwell family awaited. Ser Cedrick, dressed in his finest attire, bowed deeply before Margaery. His stern expression softened at the sight of his wife and daughters.

“My lady,” he said respectfully. “May the Seven bless you this day.”

Behind him, Andros, the eldest son, wore a formal cloak and stood with the pride of a future heir. Elyna was beaming, holding the hand of little Allyn, who was jumping with excitement.

“Mommy! I saw the princess!” Allyn exclaimed, completely forgetting that Margaery was right there.

Elyna smiled, embarrassed.

“Forgive her, my lady, she’s… excited.” Margaery laughed softly.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Children always tell the truth.” Rowen, Amarei’s twin, watched everything in silence. He seemed restless, as if the memory of the past disturbances still haunted him. When his eyes met his sister’s, he gave her a strained half-smile, just enough to comfort her. Coryn, the youngest at ten, tried to keep a straight face, though his eyes were wide with wonder at the magnificence of the moment. His cloak seemed a little too big for him, but he wore it with childlike pride. Finally, Lord Harys Durwell, patriarch of the house, advanced, leaning on his cane adorned with a peach carved from peachwood. His pale hair framed a face weathered by years, but his eyes were still sharp as knives.

“My lady Tyrell,” he greeted her in a grave voice, “your grandfather, old Lord Luthor, would be proud to see this day. The Reach always blooms when a rose rises.” Ysabell Durwell, his daughter and Amarei’s favorite aunt, bowed her head gracefully.

"King's Landing is illuminated by your presence, my lady." Margaery responded with a warm smile, always charming, always impeccable. There was no doubt she was born to be adored. The procession resumed its march. Guards, ladies, and family members advanced toward the main gates of the Red Keep. The enormous gates opened, revealing the midday sun pouring down upon the esplanade. The air vibrated with the music of trumpets and the bustle of the people. Thousands of eyes watched, thousands of voices shouted cheers and blessings. Roses of every color rained down from balconies and walls. The path to the Great Sept of Baelor was carpeted with fresh petals. Amarei shuddered. She didn't know if it was from emotion, or from a silent premonition that brushed against the back of her neck like a cool breeze. Her twin brother, Rowen, also raised his eyes to the clear sky… as if searching for omens among the clouds. The bell of the Sept tolled in the distance. The moment had arrived.

The procession moved slowly through the throng when Amarei looked up and, in the distance, made out Lady Sansa Stark. The young woman's gaze was lowered, her face melancholic and pale. It was no wonder: almost her entire family had been massacred. Beside her walked her husband, the dwarf Tyrion Lannister, with the bitter expression of one who knows his consort would rather be anywhere else. To their right marched Lord Tywin, imposing, rigid as an antique gold statue. Beside him, the queen mother Cersei Lannister advanced with her chin held high, as proud as a lioness over her prey. Behind them paraded the other Lannisters: cousins, uncles, knights, and ladies. Among them, Amarei thought she saw for an instant the profile of Lancel Lannister. But no. The young man she had seen was not him. The hair was too dark. Perhaps she was distracted. Not even the splendor of the wedding could distract her from certain memories.

"Look at her," Lord Harys Durwell snorted, adjusting his cane as he sat on a bench of honor. "A fine Tyrell of Highgarden. This wedding will be more beautiful than the Red Wedding, that one. I hope this marriage lasts a little longer." He let out a harsh, crooked laugh.

"Oh, Father!" Ser Cedrick rebuked him, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is no place for such remarks."

"Come now, son," the old man growled, his voice still firm, "the Young Wolf was a dreadful traitor. And besides…" He pointed his cane at Lord Mace Tyrell, who was overflowing with pride and vanity. "Look at the Reach's pufferfish. This wedding will leave him half-poor for a month." Ysabell sighed, exasperated.

"Isabell." “Father, please…” Lord Harys raised his eyebrows with feigned innocence.

“Calm down, child. I’ll be quiet… I’ll be quiet.” Then he murmured, “Though who knows what might happen at the ceremony. I’m even afraid to swallow when they play The Rains of Castamere again.” Maggy stifled a nervous giggle. Amarei could only feel a cold shiver run down her spine. Then the trumpets blared, loud and solemn, filling the air.

The enormous doors of the Sept of Baelor opened, and the bride and groom began to walk inside. King Joffrey Baratheon, radiant and cruel, walked with the bearing of one who believes he deserves the entire world. Beside him, Margaery Tyrell, resplendent and smiling, advanced like a queen made of light and petals. The people erupted in cheers.

The Seven would be witnesses. The nobles would be spectators. The two kings settled themselves in front of the septon to begin and pronounce their marriage vows.

Margaery Tyrell's design is inspired by that of @artist-ellen