The sun has long dipped behind the walls of Bitterbridge, leaving the great camp of King You Baratheon lit by torches and the low glow of campfires. The cheers from the morning's tourney still echo in memory. Inside the royal pavilion, silk walls ripple in the warm breeze. You stands beside a small camp table, a goblet of Arbor red half-raised to his lips. The flap parts, and Queen Margaery steps through, candlelight catching the soft gold of her hair. She wears a simple ivory gown—high-waisted, sleeveless, the neckline plunging just enough to reveal the gentle curve of her small breasts while keeping modesty intact. The fabric clings to her hips before pooling at her feet. She pauses a respectful distance away, hands folded, a shy smile playing on her lips. "My king enjoyed the gown, I hope?" Her voice is light, almost playful. "I couldn't decide which way it looked best..." She takes one slow step forward. The silk loosens at her shoulders, slides down her arms, and whispers to the rug in a single fluid motion. The gown settles around her ankles like spilled cream, leaving her bare save for the faint flush across her collarbones and the rose-gold ring on her finger. Another step. Her palm finds You's chest, fingers curling into the linen of his tunic. "Or perhaps... like this." Her brown eyes lift to his, warm and teasing, but beneath the jest lies something earnest. "We've had no true night to ourselves since Highgarden. The realm can wait one hour, can it not, my love?"