margaery vyperion {two} fin

It's in my blood.

It's in my blood to have intelligent eyes framed by gentle brown curls. My mother's icy skin which remains unbent by the summer and winter; no blemishes or wrinkles or freckles or dimples; a true Vyperion in the face. The little rose of the family, with thorns nonetheless, but still they call me 'beautiful' as if I haven't heard it a thousand times before.

It's all inherited: a dangerous stick-like frame, protruding hip bones, protruding collar bones, bones sticking out, cheek bones like blades, sharp ears, small nose (too small for my face), a button nose, stitches for eyelashes and oceans as eyes; best to be careful or you'll drown. 5 feet and 7 inches of skin and bone, bitterness and sweetness, softness and strength, of heart and mind.

Because I am as clever as I am pretty—a modern type of beauty which is hidden beneath the perceived masterpiece.

It's in my blood to play the people, and think beyond the game. It was a skill I had learnt from her grandmother; a woman who had seen the world come and go and had caught the talents of many between her fingers. And so, she learnt from them, gaining a heart stronger than wind and a knowledge stronger than mountains. An iron mind born from the hopeless pleas of her victims—she used violence to manipulate and exploit.

Her mastery of those abilities went hand in hand to create an untouchable and vicious union, one that would only succumb to time.

From her goods and evils, she knit a legacy to outlive her.

That's what I admired the most. Her ability to use time to her own advantage; it was never an enemy, but still she managed to turn it into her victim. A small girl followed swiftly in her footsteps, forcing herself to be involved in everybody's business whether they knew it or not. Pressed ears against the wall and sitting on the staircase consumed in the night time's darkness—I had my ways.

Every word remained pinned into my mind. From cries of a heartbroken brother who'd loved and lost, to talk of fierce battles to come in the training centre. I quickly learnt that the world was not my oyster, and that all that glitters is not gold but is dangerous. Two is home to the coldest people you will ever meet.

They were as white as snow, and that's the tragedy of the living.

And so, the world began to fall into place.

For once, I was running instead of walking, singing instead of speaking and achieving instead of hoping. Mysteries of the world once cast into the shadows were now dancing under a summer blaze; secrets of misfortune and mistrust unfolding and blessing me with wider eyes. Learning to experience and participate, and not to observe.

My grandmother told me that sometimes you can see a lot just by observing—but the Lyons are different. Intricate, delicate; I know there are thousands of secrets guarded by their iron tongues, but their mournful eyes are the entrance.

Jaime first, and then Circe. Lyon by name, Lion by nature. I watched as they turned from the mortal to the undying; their actions carving the family name deep into the district like a wound unable to be healed. From it seeps only the memories of chaos, of a loving brother and sister who got lost within the storm of swords.

One life was hopelessly sentenced to death by the strike of a jaguar; the other came to kill and be killed. She was like a sister, but I could not look at her the same way after she committed such a cruel and bitter act. I don't know how Circe did; how she squeezed her finger here and watched something die over there.

The girl's name (La Torre) adds salt into the wound of the family name.

I don't think I could do the same; perhaps I'd set my heart ablaze, every part ablaze but to cross such treacherous paths and be faced with heaven and hell—no, I'd fall into the red. Sometimes the unwritten rules of human nature have to be broken for the sake of justice. And there is no point in showing weakness, it only gets you bruised and blue.

Though I am a quiet girl, I am not blind.

If I were Circe, or Jaime—I'd inhale a deep breath and wear a sickly sweet smile to make the rose's bloom eclipse the thorns. Because strength is admired in these groups, and I have to be strong for them and for Tommen, but most importantly, for myself.

I wear this name with pride. As shining armour to protect me from the lies, and deceit, and traitorous ways of competing families. Rival packs waging war on each other whilst I am caught in the middle; my name written beneath the Kingslayers—a simple Margeaux amongst Joffrey, Mercy and Gregor.

But something fragile leads me to the opposition. I dance on a thin line of trust; I turn to betrayal in the name of love.

Except, I can't tell if it is love. The little Lyon is a sharp boy: violently hopeless due to a dead brother and dangerously loyal ever since. Love is being entranced, love is having someone who owns your thoughts, love is jumbled feelings and musings of a person in your head and a string of questions which all begin with 'why'.

It can't be love. Love and loyalty go hand in hand and I know where my loyalty lies: with my family. I look at them and my eyes fixate on theirs like my life depends on it. I'm lost in a trance and my eyes become the embodiment of nostalgia; fond memories resurrected by a single glance.

Love is just that; recognition of beautiful things in a heartbeat. A relationship kept within the restraints of the shadows is not beautiful. But I won't cut him off, not yet. He's still blinded by the golden glory he drapes me in and fails to notice any of my steel thorns.

And if my blood or name isn't enough to prove my worth, then the crown I have spun from the tales of my grandmother's legacy should be.