[ All at once, Margaery is overcome with a cold, empty feeling. Dread, it must be. If Loras is from...before, then he is like Renly, like Robb Stark. Though they are not dead, they are dying. They walk now, but only to a bloody grave. Worse yet, they may know it — that their days are numbered, that their time will soon come to an end.

She takes a deep breath, composing herself as she reaches for Loras' hand. At the very least, he should not know. He deserves so much more than that. ]

Then it is fortunate I have your letters and the echoes of thousands singing your praise, promising a recovery from the battle of Dragonstone, to comfort us while we are uncertain of your fate. [ Lies, she carries them well. There are no letters. Those that sing, sing a song of death, of a brave boy who will certainly die a courageous hero. Still, it is not over yet. He musn't think that.

Her prayers have not been answered, so she must pray everyday, as before. ]