The Queen's Bait

In Renly's camp, Margaery may have been the only person truly watching the Blood Wolf Company.

Her suggestion had been almost casual, yet the lords seized it without thought. That told her more than their speeches did. They did not want to face those mercenaries directly.

Margaery had never fought in a war, but she knew how to read people. The soldiers' eyes told her what the council would not. They feared the enemy.

While helping bind wounds, she heard one man whisper, "They are not sellswords. They are Stannis's devils wearing another banner."

A squad leader corrected him bitterly. "Stannis's men are not the Blood Wolf's equal. Every one of those riders shoots like a trained archer. When they draw, someone near you dies. If not your friend, then you."

Margaery had never seen a common soldier speak of an enemy with that much dread.

"Are they all archers?" she asked.

The man stiffened when he realized the queen had heard him. "Your Grace. Forgive me."

"Answer honestly."

"Not only archers. Mounted archers. They fire from horseback and refuse close fighting unless it suits them. They ride in, loose, and leave before knights can reach them. If our cavalry chases, they turn in the saddle and shoot the horses or the men."

"Is there no counter?"

The man gave a bleak little smile. "Stone walls. They do not like strong castles. Open plains are where they feast." That was useful.

Mercenaries were greedy. Greed could be guided. If they could be lured into ground that took away their horses, a small victory might do more for morale than a dozen speeches.

Margaery went to Loras first. He listened, then frowned. "You want to trap them? Margaery, they are not so easily caught."

"We make bait they cannot ignore. Our men are tired of being hunted. If we do nothing, they will begin to believe those riders cannot be touched."

"Should you not bring this to Father?"

"Do you think Father and the lords will listen to me explaining cavalry tactics?"

Loras laughed despite himself. "My sister is no foolish ornament. She is their queen." The laughter faded when he saw she was serious.

He armed himself, called for his horse, and gathered a company of trained Highgarden guards. Margaery shook her head. "That is not enough."

"It will be."

"Loras."

Her stubbornness won him over. He called for two more companies, men usually trusted with Mace Tyrell's safety. Sixty guards in all, each trained well enough to stand near any experienced knight.

It would be enough for a small ambush if the trap held.

An experienced squad leader named Savarro helped refine the plan. The Blood Wolf riders preferred targets with noble blood and ransom value. They killed unnecessary retainers and kept the useful hostage alive.

In Westeros, that was an unusually organized form of banditry. Margaery became the bait.

She dressed carefully: noble enough to tempt, soft enough to seem vulnerable, and far enough from the main camp to make the opportunity believable. The chosen ground lay near a wood.

If danger appeared, she would flee into the trees, where horses lost their advantage and Highgarden steel waited. The plan looked elegant. Then reality added flaws.

Savarro, assigned to play her frightened escort, was too frightened to act. He knew better than most that the Blood Wolf riders often spared nobles and killed the people beside them.

Margaery smiled at him. "Hold my horse, Savarro. If danger comes, you may run into the trees with me." The kindness nearly broke him.

"Your Grace, I will see you safely there."

He took the reins. They rode slowly along the side road. It should have been the kind of path where patrols, hunters, and raiders crossed naturally. No mercenaries appeared.

Margaery saw only a hunter returning with game. That made her uneasy.

"Please wait," she called.

The man paused, surprised that a noblewoman had addressed him. He bowed with rough country manners.

Margaery made her face warm and harmless. "Good hunter, may I ask whether you know of the bandits troubling this road?" The man blinked.

Savarro hurried to clarify. "Mercenaries. A group calling itself the Blood Wolf Company. They take nobles for ransom."

"Oh," the hunter said. "Them."

"You know them?"

"Of course. They do not trouble me, so I would not call them bandits."

Margaery swallowed her annoyance. To a common man, kidnappers who robbed nobles and spared villagers were not a problem in the same way. So she changed the story.

"My name is Margaery. I came from King's Landing. My lands have been taken by older kin, and I have little coin left. If I meet such men, I fear they may not believe me."

The hunter's expression softened a fraction. "They are not monsters, my lady. They will not harm a lady who has done them no wrong."

"Still, if you know where they ride, tell me the direction. I only wish to avoid them."

She repeated the request carefully, voice small, eyes lowered enough to look harmless. The hunter studied her. His name, he said, was Harlon.

For a moment, Margaery thought she had persuaded him. Then he whistled. Hooves answered from the brush.

A strong horse trotted into view, too fine for a common hunter. A bow, spare strings, and weapons hung from the saddle with a soldier's care. Margaery's stomach tightened.

No hunter needed a mount like that. She began to step back. Harlon's smile sharpened.

"Beautiful Lady Margaery," he said, "did you not want to know where the Blood Wolf Company was? I can take you to them."

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