Margaery Tyrell swallowed the last mouthful of moon tea and set her cup down on the dresser. Her reflection looked back at her from the mirror, scared but beautiful. Her long brown hair came down in front of her shoulder in a single thick plait, the gold wire that held it together matching the thread that crisscrossed her deep green dress, forming decorative whorls and, of course, golden roses.
A cry sounded from the courtyard and Margaery jumped. Crossing to her window, she saw the heavy oak door splinter inwards and a mob of warriors burst into the yard, hacking down the guards that rushed to meet them. The ironborn were taking Highgarden.
Margaery closed the window and turned her back on the battle. The majority of House Tyrell's forces had been wasted in the field, and there were pitifully few men left to protect the seat of their house. It was all so typical of her father's folly. Margaery went to her bed and smoothed the covers to distract herself. More deep green, more gold roses. The canopy of the four-poster was gold, the pillars made from rosewood. Everything about her house was ostentatious. What use were a few thorns against the steel of men who knew nothing but raiding and pillaging?
Margaery had resigned herself to her house's defeat but, like always, she also looked to find some advantage. If she was to be pillaged she was at least going to enjoy it.
The clash of steel on steel was echoing from the corridors now. It was a matter of minutes until the raiders gained the stairs and found her bedchamber. Margaery's anxious fingers moved to the front of her dress, picking at the embroidery. She had deliberately chosen her most scandalous gown; its neckline plunged to her navel and barely concealed her breasts.
Footsteps on the stairs. A sudden cry, cut short, and the thump of a falling body. Any second now...
The door to her bedchamber burst open. The man who leapt inside was young and clean-shaven, with dark, messy hair framing a handsome face. He wore boots and breeches but nothing else, scorning his enemies with a lean, bare torso that hadn't suffered so much as a scratch. Margaery could see the hard ridges of his abs, the curving lines of muscle that disappeared below his belt. She could also see his sword and the blood that decorated it.
The ironborn paused, momentarily taken aback by the beautiful young noblewoman. His eyes followed the plunge of her neckline, drawn to the swells of her breasts.
'I've heard stories about what ironborn do to captive ladies,' said Margaery, swallowing her fear. 'What are you waiting for?'
With a snarl, the ironborn swung his sword and for a terrifying second Margaery thought she had overestimated herself and was about to die. She jumped as the blade buried itself in the bedpost and stuck there, quivering.
Lashing out backwards with his leg, the ironborn raider slammed her door shut and then grabbed the edge of her dresser, toppling it sideways so that it fell across the door, barricading them inside the room. Margaery backed away as he turned towards her, then spun around and fled towards the bed with a shriek that was part terror, part excitement. She almost made it, but the raider was fast and before she knew it Margaery felt his muscular arm wrapped around her throat.
