The room is humble, in a word. Bereft of any true luxury and seemingly alien in how plain the furniture is, but it's also the first place Margaery feels comfortable enough to let out a shuddering exhale. Not from cold, although her skin feels like its retained the chill from the forest, but the absolute certainty that she must be in some purgatory.

Why else would she wake up alone and naked, forced to rely on the kindness of strangers while she suffered the shame of a helpless vagrant? No better than the beggars that lined the streets of King's Landing, and worse than the prostitutes that at least bore their nudity with pride.

The door bursts open, interrupting her musings, and Margaery immediately stiffens, posture perfect once more. Kind as the strangers may have been, there's no telling which gesture will have a hidden blade.

"My apologies, but I'm afraid this room is spoken for."

For once, Margaery's thankful that she's not in a position to be the center of attention.

What small good cheer she'd gained from roaming through the festival has thoroughly been drained by the unmistakable smell of iron in the air and the dying rasps of a goat as the heavy splatter of blood is swallowed up by the sound of cheers. What's worse is the very recent memory of the goat heart satay bursting with flavor between her teeth, tender and ever so delicious. It was just hunger, she thinks desperately to justify her own enjoyment, as she observes someone smearing blood over the lower half of his face.

Turning away, she moves to escape to the fringes of the crowd, perhaps to find more appropriate entertainment that doesn't remind her of Dothraki traditions, only to bump into someone in her haste. Instead of apologizing, she falters and instinctively reaches out to grip their arm, registering what feels like a resonating echo of pleasure from where she's brushed up against them. What sort of ludicrous devilry-?

( happy to write up custom starters and/or receive starters! pls pm this journal to discuss!! c: )