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khaleesi-in-the-north · 8 years ago

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In the crosshairs (14/?)

@lanasexuall

After hanging up with Tommen Baratheon, the first thing Margaery feels is guilt. And a slight headache from drinking the night before.

Because she doesn’t feel sorry or sad or upset in general by Joffrey’s death. She feels guilty for not feeling those things, though.

The boy likely told her more than he should have when he said Joffrey’s death was being investigated by police. Jaime and Cersei would want to keep that out of public attention for as long as possible.

Margaery can scarcely blame the boy. He sounded far younger than 18, scared and shaken. Almost innocent in a way his family could not replicate. Margaery could see why Cersei had him call rather than his secretary.

She sets down her phone and pours her coffee. She forgoes her usual amount of sugar with hopes that the bitterness will jolt her numbed senses and cure her headache.

A few minutes later, with half a cup of the most disgusting coffee she’s forced herself to drink, Margaery is back to work. She takes care of Lady, who jumps and yips with excitement as Margaery puts her leash on and takes her to the front yard. When she comes back, there’s a text from Renly saying Jorah wants all writers in the office ASAP.

Her shower is quick and she rushes to apply her make-up, done in twenty minutes rather than her typical hour long ritual to get ready.

Ready to head out the door, she stops at the closet. Alayne doesn’t know she’s heading to the office today. Before news of Joffrey’s death flipped her story into uncertainty, today was supposed to be a lazy “work from home” day. Two weeks ago, Margaery would have already been out the door without a thought as to what Alayne would say or think.

Now, she found herself going back to Alayne’s room. The door squeaks in a way it wouldn’t have had she not been trying to keep it quiet. Alayne lays sprawled on the bed, still in the same position Margaery had awoken to. Margaery kneels beside her and gently strokes her hair, stiff from having unwashed hair product in all night. Alayne turns her head toward Margaery in her sleep. Her nails lightly over Alayne’s cheek. Alayne flinches in response. “Good morning, sweetling,” she says softly.

Alayne groans. Her eyes blink open, dazed and unfocused until she finds Margaery’s smile. “Nnnn, what time is it?”

“Eight,” Margaery says.

Alayne groans again and turns her head to the face the ceiling, throwing an arm over her eyes. “T’s too early.”

Margaery chuckles, “You can go back to sleep. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to the office.”

“But you’re s’posed to cuddle with me,” Alayne says. She rolls onto her side to properly face Margaery.

“Mormont called all reporters in. Joffrey died last night,” Margaery pauses for a moment, to allow the news to sink in for Alayne before continuing, “It’s going to be the biggest story on television and in all the papers, so I might be home late too.” She can imagine the list of people Jorah will want her to interview and the amount of editing he’ll want for the article she’s been crafting.

Alayne’s lack of reaction doesn’t surprise Margaery. Alayne made it well known that she loathed the Lannister heir. That hatred combined with the daze of waking up made things difficult to process. It had taken Margaery long enough to process the news herself.

“I have to go. Goodbye, darling,” Margaery says.

Alayne lays back down. “Bye Marge, stay safe, okay?”

“I always do,” calls Margaery over her shoulder as she walks out.

The office is buzzing as usual. Interns race back and forth, juggling coffee cups with notepads and cameras. Old lady Fossoway chatted away on the office phone that in a conversation that sounded far from work related. On days like these, Margaery was thankful that her office was upstairs away from the chaos.

She narrowly dodges Jorah’s frazzled graphics intern who rushes around a corner, shouting out an apology that sounds like it’s been repeated a dozen times today alone.

Renly, Jorah, Myranda, Doran, and Irri are already gathered in the conference room when Margaery arrives.

“Nice of you to join us,” snarks Myranda.

Margaery shrugs off the comment and takes a seat beside Renly. She doesn’t know what she’s ever done to Myranda, just that the girl has hated her every moment from the day Margaery accepted a staff position with the Courier. Her jealousy has gotten worse the longer she’s worked on her story about Cersei.

“Where’s Tarly?” Jorah barks.

As if those were the magic words, Sam tumbles through the doorway, red-faced and puffing. “Sorry, sorry. Little Sam was under the weather and Gilly was still at work and my mum got stuck in traffic-”

Jorah glares at him. “Enough Tarly. Sit.”

Sam grabs the nearest chair and sits, trying to shush his panting breaths.

Jorah stands at the front of the table. “As you all know, or should know, Joffrey Baratheon died early this morning. Personally, this news is not news. It’s tabloid fodder of a banking heir. However, thanks to some investigative work from one of our own,” he looks pointedly at Margaery before returning his attention to the rest of the table. Myranda rolls her eyes. “I believe his death warrants a major news story. Therefore I want three reporters covering the Lannisters.”

Margaery straightens up, ready to pitch an idea for how to get a response from Cersei. Tommen told her that she was welcome to attend Joffrey’s private funeral. Although she declined because of Jorah’s strict ethical code, she might be able to get a word or two from Cersei if Jorah cared enough to bend his rules.

“Tarly I want you checking the hospital and the police department. Speak with anyone who will talk. Rhoyce and Baratheon, you two are going follow the family. See what L&C is doing. Respect their privacy though. If they ask you to leave them alone, then back off. Martell, you will be pick up Tarly’s workload for the day. Speak with him about what he needs done. Tyrell, you’ll attend the mayor’s press conference on the preservation of Baelor’s Sept. You’re all dismissed.”

The other journalists file out of the room, but Margaery remains seated. Jorah gathers his work together. “Is there something you need Tyrell?”

“Why am I not working on Joffrey’s death?” asks Margaery.

“You don’t need every major news story, Tyrell. Other writers deserve their spotlight coverage too,”Jorah opens the door to leave.

Margaery follows close behind. “Yes, but this is my story. I’ve built a repertoire with the Lannisters. They know me. They’ll talk to me.”

Jorah walks into his office and shuts the door after Margaery follows him in. “First, they don’t know you. If they did, they’d know how your interviews have cost them thousands of dragons in profit, sent the Cleganes on the run, and imprisoned three associates. I’d like to keep it that way. You don’t need to be on every story concerning them. And you’re too invested in them.”

“I don’t feel sorry about Joffrey’s death,” Margaery says. “You know emotions won’t be an issue.”

“That’s enough reason to have Rhoyce cover the story,” Jorah says as he writes on a sheet of paper. “You’ve got a vendetta against the Lannisters. I understand, they’ve done terrible things. It works itself out in an investigative piece. I can’t run the risk in a straight news story.”

“I can put it aside. I’ve never had issues being fair.”

“What I said is final. Stannis’s press conference begins in an hour. Get down there,” Jorah says. “Wait.”

Margaery stops at the door and turns back.

“I’m edited you’re first article. It’s nice work. I’m not publishing it yet.” Before Margaery can argue, Jorah adds, “Not until this story blows over. It will look too convenient, like we’re taking advantage of the situation. It will see the front page soon though.”

Margaery nods curtly and leaves.

The typical reporter pool mills around the vicinity of fold out chairs in front of City Hall. Cameraman jostle each other to reach the best angles of the mayor. Although the pool is smaller than the typical crowd that usually attends Stannis’s press conferences. The renovation of Baelor’s Sept is secondary news today.

Margaery sits in the first row of reporter chairs, directly in front of the podium. There’s no way Stannis will be able to ignore her questions.

As she slides her purse under her chair, a voice clears their throat above her. Margaery looks up to meet an unhappy looking Melisandre glaring down at her. Shouldn’t the most controversial reporter in Westeros be writing about the most famous death in Westeros since Ned Stark’s family died?

Margaery smiles charmingly. “Hello Melisandre. Lovely day.”

“This is my seat. I always sit here during the mayor’s press conferences,” Melisandre says, unamused.

“Perhaps you should have them engrave your name on the chair,” Margaery clicks her pen and crosses her legs, a firm stance that she will not budge.

Melisandre sits down next to her. “Why are you here? Where’s that little Myranda?”

“Didn’t you see it in the flames?”

“Don’t jest Margaery. R’hllor will remember.”

The Red Watch published her first two articles written in King’s Landing. They both concerned minor new stories, but when Margaery the articles, The Red Watch was finding its foot hold. It wasn’t the tabloid rumor mill it turned into. Which made Melisandre’s presence even more baffling.

“Jorah assigned me to this conference? What about you? Shouldn’t you be twisting Chief Lannister’s arm to spill what he knows about Joffrey?” That’s what she would be doing now.

“Stannis does the Lord’s work. He has an announcement that my readers will want to know.”

It made sense now. Melisandre was here to fuel work for her opinion section “Through the Flames”. Apparently Stannis was R’hllor’s chosen vessel this week.

Personally, Margaery still followed the Seven. Although following the scandal outing the sex slavery ring the High Septon ran, she found it more and more difficult to trust the Septons and Septas of the faith.

Other reporters joined them as Stannis’s aids came out, followed by Stannis himself. The team of aids checks the sound before giving Stannis the thumbs up to walk to the podium. Margaery turns on her recorder. It will be easier to go back and take direct quotes from that later than to attempt to scribble every word he says.

“Good afternoon,” rumbles Stannis’s deep voice. His movements are stiff and awkward. “Thank you for coming today. I’ve prepared a statement in regards to the renovations of the Sept of Baelor. The back will be rebuilt, using the stone and mortar method that was used to construct the building 500 years ago to maintain the building’s historical integrity. There have been fireproof pillars added to update the building to fire code regulation. The roof is…”

Margaery could feel herself nodding off. It wasn’t all Stannis’s fault. Okay it was 70% his fault. He lacks the charm and charisma of Renly, his younger brother. Without a proper DNA test, Margaery wouldn’t be convinced that the two were even related.

The only thing keeping Margaery awake is the spectacle that goes on between Melisandre and Stannis as Stannis talks. Melisandre makes smoldering eyes toward Stannis, who tries to ignore her, except Margaery can tell by the way he quirks his lips unnaturally as Melisandre winks that something is definitely going on there.

“Questions?” Stannis asks, reminding Margaery that she had completely blown her purpose of being here.

Sitting in the front row is a regret. Especially when Stannis stares at her, daring her to raise her hand. No one else raises their hand, so his pressure tactic fails.

Finally, Melisandre raises her hand with a flourish. “Mayor Baratheon, followers of R’hllor have been petitioning for a place in which they may freely worship the Lord of Light. What have you done to address their concerns?”

“Thank you for the question,” Stannis says. He must not receive questions often at these events. “On the top of Visenya’s Hill, we will begin construction of a temple shortly.”

Margaery turns to Melisandre. The red witch smiles smugly at Stannis, partially in adoration and partially in self-pride. She knew what he would say. Yet, there had been no hint of news that construction of a temple would begin anywhere in the city. This wasn’t Margaery’s typical beat, so Myranda may have had an insight, but based on the shocked faces of those around her, Margaery was willing to bet this was a bombshell in the world of small city government.

“Until construction is finished, the High Septon of the Sept of Baelor has agreed to allow use of Stranger’s private alter for any such rituals the Lord of Light would require of his people.”

Stannis grimaces at the audience. Margaery could only imagine he was attempting a smile. From that point on, questions flowed easily. Despite coming unprepared, Margaery manages to conjure a few on the spot. Stannis’s abrupt and cold responses don’t come as easily. They sound intelligent and thought out, but rehearsed and as though he would rather be anywhere but here. Margaery has a specific place in mind for them as Melisandre continues her strange telepathic flirtation with the mayor.

“You knew,” says Margaery when Stannis’s aids shuffle him off stage.

“I knew what?” asks Melisandre innocently.

“You said he was making an important announcement and then he says they’re beginning an immediate construction of a temple for the Lord of Light. That’s not coincidence, darling.”

Melisandre barks a laugh. “I saw it in the flames, child.”

She gets up and walks in the direction that Stannis’s aids led him.

Margaery lets it go. Who her fellow reporter does in her free time is none of her business, and she’d like to keep it that way.

She goes to the nearest coffee shop with free wifi, where she has a quick phone interview with one of the Red Priests and with a Septa at the Sept of Baelor, then types up a draft highlighting the news about the new temple construction focusing on how the priests and septons plan on working together during the next few months.

Once Jorah sends her the thumbs up for the article, she’s free to go. For a moment, she considers pitching her idea for her next investigation piece to Jorah, then decides against it. She hasn’t even finished interviewing Cersei. She could hear Jorah droning on about the importance of wrapping up one story before moving on to the next.

Yet, how could she finish her story on Cersei now? Moving on to the next story was the smart move. Margaery would call Cersei’s office again in a few days to check on her. Meanwhile, she would begin searching for leads on the Stark girls.

On the drive home, she thinks about what Jorah said. Joffrey’s death should impact her more. She spent almost as much time with him in the last month as she did with Alayne. The boy was spoiled and disgusting, but she didn’t even feel the slightest sense of loss. Being able to compartmentalize work and real life has always been a point of pride. It never hindered her work in the past; it typically promoted her work.

As Margaery walks through the front door she notices a distinct lack of wolf-dog attacking her. She can hear Alayne’s voice drifting down the hall from the kitchen. Walking closer, the words become audible. “I wish I had seen her face when she heard. I want her to know how it feels to have everything ripped from you… Not yet. Speculation needs to die down before that… I’ve taken care of that. No one knows she was there… I made sure he took care of it, Petyr. I know what I’m doing… Yes I know what I’m doing with her too! I’m not a damn child anymore…”

Margaery stops outside the kitchen door to listen a little longer. “It’s done, that’s all I’m concerned about… I’ve got to go Petyr…Just because you don’t a love life doesn’t mean I should sacrifice mine,” she hears the teasing note in Alayne’s voice, more playful than she usually is with Baelish.

She takes that as her cue to enter the kitchen. Lady lays at Alayne’s feet, gnawing on a raw-hide. Her teeth crack against the bone. “I told you, I have to got Petyr. Bye.”

For a split second, Margaery thinks Alayne’s voice sounds slightly different a moment ago. Slightly more like Ygritte’s, and not with the hint of Riverland she hears now. She shakes off the ridiculous thought. They’ve been together for over a year and Alayne’s voice has always had a Riverland lilt to it. A long day at work is finally taking it’s toll.

“Hello my pretty little rose,” Alayne smiles dazzlingly. “What happened to a late night at the office?”

Margaery picks an apple out of the fruit basket on the island. “Not as busy as I thought it would be.” She takes a bite. “Why are you so happy.”

Alayne takes the apple from Margaery and takes a bite from it. “What’s not to be happy about?”

Pure joy emanates from Alayne. Margaery feels her mood brighten just looking her girlfriend’s smile. Still, something felt off about the conversation she overheard. If she was going to be forthright with Alayne, she expects the same in return.

She playfully snatches the apple back from Alayne. “Did I interrupt something important?” Not wanting Alayne to feel defensive, she keeps her tone light.

“You heard that?” Alayne asks, her voice level and not sounding overly innocent to compensate for a lie. Good. It relaxes Margaery.

“Mmm-hmm. Sounds like you’re playing dirty with your business endeavors,” she leans on the counter island and chomps another bit of apple, juicy and skinless so there’s no bitter aftertaste.

“Maybe a little,” Alayne winks. She comes closer and wraps arms around Margaery, towering over her. “I finished the deal with the cosmetic company. It will take some time to get it off the ground, but it’s mine.” She squeals like a little girl. Sometimes Margaery forgets that Alayne is younger than her, but moments like these remind her.

“That’s amazing,” smiles Margaery. She kisses Alayne’s cheek. She pulls away and moves to the fridge to get a drink.“You must have driven a hard sale with the old owner, to hate her so much.”

Alayne’s face darkens slightly. “Let’s just say she rubs me the wrong way.” The slight dip in mood quickly disappears. “Anyway, how was your day?”

“Odd,” admits Margaery. She chews more of the apple. She spits out a piece of skin that’s too big and unsavorable and watches Lady eat it off the floor. “A man I’ve spent the last four weeks getting to know in depth died last night and I feel nothing toward him.” She turns back to Alayne. “Shouldn’t I feel sad or sorry?”

Alayne looks at her sympathetically. Her eyes pour out the sympathy Margaery wishes she felt for Joffrey. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to feel anything for him. He was awful, Margaery. He told you the things he did to that Stark girl. And the way he looked at you, touched you,” Alayne’s voice becomes angrier and harder with every allusion to Joffrey. “That monster could have tried to do you what he did to those women from Winterfell.”

“What women?” Margaery asks. She drinks a sip from her glass of water. Joffrey had never mentioned any women from Winterfell besides the Stark women and a girl named Jeyne Poole.

“Did you not hear? Let me show you,” she takes Margaery to the living room, where Alayne’s laptop sits closed on the couch. She opens the screen to an already opened website, Winterfell News Network.

A video begins playing. Even though the sound is off, the bruises and busted lips of two women, prostitutes based on the article’s title, tells the story.

The graphic pictures don’t seem doctored as far as Margaery can tell, although Renly has a better eye for such things.

“The newscaster said the women would only speak with WNN,” Alayne says. Warning flags set off in Margaery’s head. WNN isn’t the most trustworthy of news outlets to begin with, considering a sketchy association with the Stark family. These women might be looking for a bit of cheap fame from a bitter news station. She has her questions, but she’s inclined to believe the women.

“Joffrey was an arse and a prick, but I that seems beyond his power.”

Alayne holds Margaery against her. “Why would they make it up? They put themselves at risk by speaking out against any Lannister. You proved as much with your interview with Sandor Clegane.” That was true. There was more to lose than gain for these women by throwing Joffrey’s name under the bus now.

Margaery lays her head on Alayne’s shoulder. Alayne closes her laptop. “If he did that to them, I don’t want to imagine what he could have done to you. I’d rather him dead than ever have another chance to hurt you.”

#in the crosshairs #sansaery

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