Years of watching Loras practice has made Margaery hope that somewhere, slumbering inside of her, is her own talent for the fighting arts. Something to gift to her future children. And yet, on some days like today, it feels as though her own body is going through a force of rebellion: slow when it should be fast, rigid where it should be flexible. It makes sense, when her thoughts are so jumbled that she can barely get a sense of her bearings before a clash of weapons catches her off guard and —

A shooting ache jolts up her wrist and she drops the dagger as her breaths grow heavier, excessive amounts of sweat curling the baby strands around her hairline. She’s — annoyed, she can feel it, like a raw egg that threatens to crack and spill over at any moment, but she doesn’t want to break while she has company, and so Margaery swallows the rock in her throat and smiles, the picture of red-faced apologies.

“I apologize, Derrica. I don’t know what’s come over me today.”