Author's Note: This story took a very long time to write, and it ended up being a monster of a story, but I'm very pleased with how it turned out. I really enjoyed trying to get into Margaery's head to examine how this strong, beautiful woman might feel upon finding out about Joffrey's undesirable traits. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

For Harmonic Friction, who encouraged me to explore Margaery's character in the first place, read (or listened to) every version of this (including snippets in text messages), offered advice and much inspiration, AND created the fantastic graphic for the story. Thank you, as always.

Roses that Bloom in Darkness

So, her betrothed is a monster, Margaery muses, only somewhat troubled. The news does not surprise her. His desire to see Ned Stark's head roll did start a war, after all, and if the rumors she's heard about him have any truth to them, he is truly depraved. It's likely that he is a child of incest. This is no fault of his, so Margaery does not consider it. He is still a man. But Margaery remembers Renly describing the king's nature, telling her that he once caught Joffrey wringing the necks of doves while his tearful siblings watched, dead doves scattered at their feet.

Lady Sansa was terrified of Joffrey, and she hadn't even known about the two whores. That tale is of course a secret, but her grandmother is good at extracting secrets from the dark holes others bury them in.

"You must be careful with this one," her grandmother tells her. "He will not suffer being crossed. What men do with their whores is one thing; that's what whores are for, after all. But he is used to having his way, so you must let him think he's having his way with you. Men are easy to control when they think they're having their way. I know you're clever enough, or I would have convinced your fool of a father to forget about this marriage." Pushing her plate aside, she says in a carrying voice, "It's a pity there isn't better cheese to be had in the castle!"

Margaery hides a smile at her grandmother's querulous tone. The Queen of Thorns always has a great deal to say, especially on the topic of foolish men, but Margaery knows there is wisdom in her words, and she, like her grandmother, has given this marriage much consideration.

What she has considered most is not the unpleasant report of battered whores (thinking too long on them is upsetting), but the fact that Joffrey had Sansa Stark, his previous betrothed, stripped and beaten before the court as punishment for her brother's treason. Margaery, too, comes to Joffrey with the stain of treason, but somehow, luckily, she appears to be less at fault than Sansa. Perhaps because she was ordered to become Renly's wife by her father and has no blood connection to a traitor.

Joffrey has said nothing to her on the matter. In fact, he hasn't said much to her at all, after their initial exchange of affections when they became betrothed. She smirks, remembering. As if she could have possibly fallen in love without ever having met him. And tales of his bravery? Word has it he ran from the battle and did not in the least acquit himself honorably, despite his supposed bloodlust. His uncle, the witty Imp, fought more bravely than the king, she has heard, although she dares not even think that in Joffrey's presence. But although she is no blushing girl, to feel faint when a handsome man looks in her direction, one says what one must. Margaery's talents are many. Even her grandmother, who does not often praise, admits this. But her greatest gift, perhaps, is always knowing what to say. Even as a child, she could often charm herself and Loras out of trouble with quick words and sweet smiles.

Although she barely knows him and has heard little about him that pleases her, Margaery must admit to herself that Joffrey still interests her, excites her, even. Renly and his camp had become quite tiresome, by the end. She had no kingdom to rule, no ladies to converse with, no events to plan. She didn't even have the distraction of the marriage bed, since Renly preferred the company of her brother whenever he was free to seek it. Of course Renly had always treated her kindly, according her every honor, but she'd rather have a little more excitement. What if the king is a bit rough with her? He will never dishonor her in public. Loras will see to that. She's quite certain he won't attempt to have his queen beaten bloody with a scepter. Should he try, Loras will see to him.

She isn't overly concerned about the difficulties of marriage, as she is both clever and strong. Grandmother thinks the Tyrell motto, "Growing Strong," is foolish. But Margaery disagrees. A rose is something beautiful, something admired. People forget, because of their beauty, that they have thorns. But even a lion can find a thorn in its paw, especially when it does not expect one.

It has been three years since her father first whispered Queen into her ear. At first, he had his sights set on a different king, of course, but that "wine-soaked fool" wouldn't set aside the "Lannister woman," so her father turned to Renly, instead. But now, instead of having a chance at being queen, she will be the queen, and she knows she will be a good one. King's Landing is suffering, and the Tyrells are rich. She will repair the city, care for its people, and they will love her and her children. But to succeed, she must be able to handle Joffrey, and she must make the people love him. She is sure she can manage him. She's learned from her grandmother how to manage men. That will not be her, gown ripped, body bruised and bloody. She knows how to play the game that Sansa clearly does not.

Of course, Margaery allows, Sansa is still a child. Perhaps she has not yet mastered the array of weapons that women are born with. Margaery has not had much chance to practice, but before her marriage to Renly, she questioned her mother (carefully) and her maids (relentlessly), and she is confident in her ability to please her future husband, although it seems that he has more experience than she does. It's likely better not to think about the kind of experience he's had, but she's still curious to know what he will be like. Pleasing herself grows tiresome at times, and she wants a man between her legs.

It's clear that Joffrey wants her. His eyes travel to the neckline of her gown, he looks in her direction often when they take supper together (appraisingly, not disinterestedly, as Renly did), and his mother does everything she can to keep them apart. Just last night, Margaery had made a show of eating grapes, trailing her fingers down the stems of the fruit and plucking them delicately before popping them into her mouth, dabbing her tongue briefly at her fingertips. She had felt his eyes on her, especially when she leaned forward for more grapes. When he smiled at her, she returned his glance briefly, then lowered her eyes and turned her head away, smiling to herself. After supper he had stood quickly and taken a step in her direction, and she was sure he meant to speak to her, but his mother had laid a hand on his arm and said something into his ear. Margaery could feel her lip curling in irritation as the king nodded and turned away, and she seethed when Cersei turned back to favor her with a satisfied smile.

Cersei will not relinquish her son easily, but Margaery has no plans to lose this game. She will draw Joffrey away from his mother soon enough. The wedding isn't far off, so the queen will have to concede soon, concede both her title and her son. This thought pleases Margaery.

"There is something not quite right about that woman," she'd said to Loras. Cersei's eyes were not quite those of a mother guarding her son. There was something deeper, darker there. "She seems to quite hate me, yet she encouraged Joffrey to set aside Lady Stark in my favor."

"That was a political alliance. She knows the wedding must go forward, but that doesn't mean she has to like you. She'll likely do as much as she can to make your life difficult."

"I don't mean to allow her to make it difficult at all. When I marry Joffrey, she loses her power. She knows that I won't allow her to rule me. No doubt she wishes Lady Sansa back in my place." Margaery wouldn't wish that fate on anyone, least of all the tall, solemn girl who seemed to need more light and warmth and fewer knights and kings in her life.

"But I will be patient," Margaery smiled at her brother. "What else have I to do but wait?"

This morning, her grandmother had suggested they send for Sansa Stark, to question her about Joffrey. She had been hesitant with fear until they assured her she was safe with them, and then finally, the confirmation they'd sought had spilled from her. Sansa was trembling when she finished speaking, but Margaery thought she looked better, less frightened, after confiding in them.

"Of course, he may only be a foolish, mean-spirited boy," her grandmother continues. "If so, that may change over time, when he's no longer under the influence of that Lannister woman, when he has a devoted, loving wife to subtly nudge him in the right direction." She sets down her goblet. The servant at the other end of the room shifts on his feet, about to come refill it, but she stops him with a glance. Tyrell servants are loyal, but one cannot be too careful in this city of secrets, Margaery knows. "Yet, men show their true nature in the bedroom. An oaf like your grandfather might have hidden talents, and a sweet-faced boy might beat women bloody. King Joffrey may be irredeemable, truly depraved. If so, you'll know it when he has you." She narrows her eyes at Margaery.

"Grandmother!" She laughs, pretending shock as she mulls over her grandmother's words, considering the implications. The wedding will go ahead. She will be queen. Should Joffrey prove too undesirable, her grandmother has already implied that there are plans in place to protect Margaery. Wouldn't it be better to know what to expect on the wedding night, before there's pressure to make an heir? She remembers her many failed attempts at drawing Renly into her bed, reaching for his manhood and trying not to think about her brother doing the same thing, earlier that day, perhaps. Renly always disentangled himself quickly and ran from the room, leaving her frustrated and alone, no closer to securing the line of succession.

Joffrey is young and clearly interested in women. She thinks it unlikely that he will brush her off for war councils, more wine, or "tactical discussion" with her brother Loras, as Renly had. He might become distracted by hunting trips or bloody fights, but she can stand that. Most nights, she thinks, he'll have her. She won't have to toss her pillows about in frustration or turn to smooth wax candles when her own fingers aren't enough. Margaery had only done that once, one night when she'd been exasperated with Renly's refusal to take her, when she'd been desperate for a man inside her, to fill her, to use her body entirely as it was meant to be used. She'd spread her thighs and slid the candle between them, wiggling it into her tight hole, being careful not to push it too far, lest she rupture her maidenhead. As her body tightened around the candle, she'd brought the fingers of her other hand down, pressing them to the sensitive spot between her legs. They were cold but warmed up quickly as she twitched her hips and worked the candle in and out, wishing that she hadn't been left alone to pleasure herself, imagining Renly taking her by the wrists, covering her mouth with his, shoving her down onto the bed, pushing her legs apart with one of his own as he climbed atop her, but then her imagination had failed her. Renly would never take her like that, she knew, even then. He would never grab her, overcome with desire, or hold her roughly, tightly, in a crushing embrace. Joffrey, though, Margaery thinks. Joffrey will do those things.

"You're saying I should seduce him." Margaery narrows her eyes at her grandmother.

"I said no such thing, my dear. You'll want bloody sheets on your wedding night. There likely won't be a bedding ceremony for the king, but I'm certain someone will require proof of the new queen's innocence, vulgar custom that it is. But everyone loves a display of the maidenhead." The Queen of Thorns snorts.

"Hasn't that been proven already?" Margaery affects unconcern as she selects a somewhat overripe strawberry from the dish and takes a careful bite, savoring some of summer's last sweetness. Everyone's business had been on everyone else's lips, in the camp. "They can ask any of Renly's followers. I'm sure it was common knowledge that Renly preferred Loras to me." Margaery hadn't much minded Renly's preferences, as she'd supposed that had he lived to become king, he would have given her a child eventually and then they would have come to some sort of arrangement, but she had hated knowing that most of the people she encountered daily knew that her husband wouldn't share her bed. Now she's glad he didn't put a child in her. Had he, she likely would have been strangled in her sleep by now, or poisoned by whoever killed all of Robert's bastards. The Lannisters want no heirs but their own, it seems.

"Spend time with your future husband. He enjoys playing with weapons, torturing young girls, and killing things. I'm sure you're clever enough to draw him out." Grandmother pointedly ignores Margaery's comment. It isn't prudent to speak of Renly in this place, except in deprecating tones. "These rumors and whispers don't help us much, especially when the accounts don't match up. Why do I pay good men to seek out rumors and whispers when a young girl tells me all I need to know in five minutes?" She sniffs and stands. Margaery rises as well, and the servant rushes to clear their places.

"The king has sent a page, my lady." The servant says to Margaery. "He would like you to attend him in his chambers when it is convenient for you."

"At least he's requesting your presence, not commanding it," her grandmother notes. "You're doing something right."

Used to her grandmother's thorny tongue, Margaery only smiles and excuses herself, asking the page to show her the way to Joffrey's chambers.

The knight waiting outside the door knocks and announces her. She enters, gazing at the dark and elegant furnishings, the boar's head, the magnificent bed. It is indeed a room fit for a king. Light filters in through the gauzy white curtains, illuminating Joffrey, who sits on a chaise in the center of the room.

"You wanted to see me, Your Grace?"

"I'm leaving on a hunting trip. I just wanted to make sure you had everything you need before I left." It seems from his face that his consideration is sincere, but of course, Margaery cannot be sure.

"That's very thoughtful, your grace. I have everything I could want." Margaery approaches the king, noticing that he is bent over a crossbow. She knows it is unlikely that he's called her to his chambers to exchange pleasantries. This is, after all, their first real conversation.

"Good! How are you finding life in the capital? It must be quite a change after Renly's camp."
"A welcome one! A military encampment is no place for a lady." She favors him with a wide smile, thinking that in spite of its roughness, she had felt far safer in the camp.

"And the bedside of a traitor? Is that a place for a lady?" Ah. The smile falls from her face. She must make her way carefully, now. Margaery wonders what has prompted this discussion (his mother, likely), noting how his tone changed so abruptly from polite and welcoming to dangerous.

"Your Grace," she begins, choosing her words carefully. She's anticipated this moment, known that at some point, there would be questions about her unconsummated marriage, but now that she's here in front of Joffrey, she is nervous, although she has no reason to be. She's told the truth, after all. Most of it. "I tried to do my duty as a wife. That is all."

"What was your duty to this traitor, as you saw it?" He's dispensed with his uncle's name entirely, now.

"The duty of any wife to any husband. To provide him with children." To comfort him, make him smile, bring him pleasure, grace his tables, run his home smoothly. Margaery had anticipated she and Renly would have a happy life together, before the war began to rage in earnest. She would have Loras, her dearest friend, and he would have his love, and they would all be happy, and someday she might be queen. Now none of them are happy, and one of them is dead. But she will be the queen.

"You failed to do this. Why?" Margaery wants to laugh, despite the situation she's in. Can he truly not know? She thinks it's more likely that he's testing her, that he wants her to give the correct answer.

"I-I would not speak ill of the dead, Your Grace."

"You think one ought to speak kindly of a traitor merely because he's had a sword put through his heart?"

"No, I do beg your pardon. The subtleties of politics are often lost on me." Margaery smiles apologetically, lowering her eyes to keep her amusement hidden. She chooses her next words carefully, phrasing them delicately as a lady should, but clearly enough to avoid any more confusion. "Renly-I don't believe he was interested in the company of women."

"What makes you say this?"

"Whenever I wanted to make a child with him," Margaery begins, sitting down next to Joffrey, although he hasn't invited her. She knows she may be making a foolish mistake, presuming so, but by nearing him she draws him into her confidence. When he looks at her intently, she can tell she's captivated him and knows she's succeeded. "He had so many excuses, so many late-night war councils. He never wanted to try."

However, he did want to try other things, she remembers.

"Couldn't you just put it in properly, where it's supposed to go, and pretend it's the other hole?" She'd asked Renly, exasperated, when he'd broached the subject of taking her as a man." I'll blow out the candle and turn over. You won't even see me. Does it really matter so much? You won't get me with child that way, and isn't that our whole purpose?"

"It's not the same. It just isn't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my lady," he'd sighed, reaching out to stroke her hair. She'd covered her hand with his, but after a heartbeat he had stood, pulling his hand away and running it through his short dark hair. He had looked at her once more and then shook his head and left, likely to find her brother, and she had gone to bed.

Now, she tells this king to do whatever he must, stroking the gilded wood of the crossbow, remembering that evening, long weeks ago, when she'd said the same to Renly. She encourages Joffrey to show her his new toy, fighting a shiver as his face lights up at the thought of her killing something. Margaery could likely kill something, something small, especially to increase her own chances of survival, but she will pray to the Seven that he never asks her to kill another person.

Now, in front of the mirror, she smiles at their reflection. "We look very well together, do we not?"

Joffrey is holding the crossbow, but one of his arms curves around her, just a finger's breadth away from her breast. He is behind her, not quite touching her, so she takes half a step back. The crossbow wobbles, and she steadies it, making sure to brush his fingers with hers. She hears his breathing change, very slightly, and knows the game has begun.

"Yes," he says only, watching as she traces her finger along the crossbow, down the length of the quarrel.

She taps the pad of her finger lightly against the tip. "Oh, it's quite sharp, isn't it? It must be able to pierce through bone!"

"It might," he agrees. "I haven't been able to test that yet."

She bounces her fingertip against the bolt, aware that her movements have caused her breast to brush his arm. She thinks that she can feel him hardening behind her.

"You must be looking forward to this hunt very much." Margaery tips her head back just enough to brush Joffrey's cheek. "Are you excited to try your new crossbow on real prey? I wish I could watch," she says lightly. He stiffens but then relaxes his arm to let it rest on hers, pulling her slightly closer. "To aim and fire a crossbow takes great skill, I understand. You must be very good, to use it on a hunt."

"Yes, I'm quite good," he boasts, standing straighter, his grip on her arm tightening. "I can teach you. I'd enjoy seeing you fire it."

"I would like that," Margaery smiles. "Tell me, Your Grace, which part of the hunt excites you most? The chase? First blood? The kill?"

"The kill," he answers immediately. "Knowing my prey is dead by my hands."

"Yes," Margaery encourages. "Seeing something fall down dead, light gone from its eyes, when it was living and breathing just moments before." This does not excite her in the least. She enjoys a good tourney, but death unsettles her, makes her fear her own mortality.

Joffrey looks at her with something like wonder in his eyes. "Yes, exactly. You amaze me, my lady. The only other I've known who understood was my Hound."

"Your Hound?" Margaery inquires, although she feels vaguely that she's heard the name before.

"Sandor Clegane. I have released him from my service, but he served me well for many years."

"Oh, the brother of the Mountain," Margaery says, remembering Loras' tourney and his clever win. Almost too clever. He could have lost his life.

Joffrey nods once, but something has shifted in his face, so she abandons the topic of the Clegane brothers. "When you return, would you send for me, Your Grace? I'd like very much to hear about the hunt. You can tell me about your kills, how you shot them down."

"You'd like to hear that?" He asks. "No one ever wants to hear about my kills."

"Oh, but I find it fascinating," Margaery exclaims. "A hunt is a mental exercise as much as a physical one, is it not? That is what I imagine. You must tell me about it when you return! If it pleases you, of course," she adds quickly.

"Yes, that would please me." Joffrey's voice is heavy and slow. With desire, she thinks, proud.

"If I may?" She reaches up to take his hand. He stiffens briefly, and she thinks he might pull away, but he lets her lightly clasp his fingers and bring his stiff hand to her lips. Very lightly she brushes her lips across his fingers, then looks up to see his reaction. His lips are parted but curve upwards. She offers him her hand. He takes it. His fingers are cool and dry, but his palm is hot. He bends his head slightly to kiss her palm, but before she can take her hand back, he closes his lips around the tip of her finger and bites, hard. Margaery gasps. It hurts only a little, but the bite startled her.. She recovers quickly, though, and gives him a small smile.

"Did you like that?" His voice is low, almost a whisper.

She looks down, pretending demureness. "Yes, I did. Very much."

"You'd like to know what excites me?" His voice is not much more than a whisper as he reaches out to brush a finger against the line of her jaw. He catches her chin in his hand and pulls her face to his, crushing her lips with his own. Although he's rough, it isn't a bad kiss at all. His mouth is open, but the kiss isn't overly wet, and his lips are warm. Renly's kisses were cool, dry, impassive. Margaery opens her mouth to Joffrey, trying to keep up with the press of his mouth, his small sharp teeth, but she quickly surrenders the fight.

Without ending the kiss, Joffrey brings his hand up to her breasts, sliding it into the front of her gown. Margaery lets a small sound escape her throat. His touch at once warms her and sets her to shivering.

"And that. Did you like that?" He pulls away enough to speak quietly into her ear, and she shivers again.

"Oh, yes, Your Grace."

"Joffrey," he says.

"Joffrey," she murmurs in response, and he exhales sharply, holding her tightly against him. She tilts her head up, about to bring her lips to his, but he snakes his hand around the back of her head, letting the crossbow swing down in his other hand. She is very much aware of it pressed against her leg, hard against her thigh, the quarrel pointed at her foot. He presses his lips to hers, lightly at first, but then (and she's expecting it) he bites her lip, hard, taking only a tiny pinch of skin between his teeth. It's several seconds before he lets up, long seconds of Margaery breathing hard, trying to hold the kiss while keeping tears of pain from springing into her eyes, wondering if he's going to break her skin. She breathes heavily into his mouth, sucking in air to soothe the relentless strength of his teeth. But as she's trembling, she brushes his groin and feels him, hard, straining at his breeches, and so she twitches her hips once more against him. He catches his breath, and she knows that she's won this round. Joffrey lets go of her lip, and Margaery ignores what will likely become a welt; instead, she reaches between his legs, rubbing one finger lightly across his hardness. He exhales in a rush.

"Do you mind, Your Grace? I felt you against me, and I very much wanted to touch you, to see what you feel like."

Joffrey holds himself very still and doesn't answer immediately, but his breathing is quick and she thinks he is enjoying her finger brushing across his hardness, even if it is through a layer or two of fabric.

"You may continue," he says, and so she does. She cups him in her hand, as well as she can through his breeches, pressing her palm up against him, rubbing his groin. He sighs roughly, to her great pleasure. This is a man she must keep happy, but she knows that she can do so. It isn't difficult to keep smiling. She enjoys the feel of him under her hand, relishes his quick breaths. He reaches to catch one of his curls between his fingers, then pulls it, hard. Margaery gasps and bites her bottom lip, and he pulls harder. She lets her breath out in a moan. His gaze is intent on her, his green eyes large and very dark. He pushes her away to finger the bodice of her gown. "Take this off," he orders.

"Of course," Margaery smiles, reaching to undo the rose belt at her waist. But before she can undress, there's a knock at the door.

"Your Grace, the hunt. The riders are departing."

Margaery looks at Joffrey, her hands still on her laces.

"They must wait for me. I am the king!" Irritation crosses his face, and his petulant tone reminds Margaery that he is two years younger than she is. Man enough to be wed, but still young.

"Of course they should await your convenience." Margaery places her hand on Joffrey's arm. "But do you not wish to depart before the day grows longer?" She trails her fingers down his arm to his wrist and folds her hand around his.

"You wish for me to leave?" He asks, and she cannot tell if there is a jest in his voice or not. She imagines not.

"Of course not, my king. It saddens me greatly that you must leave. But I know that you must, so I shall anxiously count the moments until you return."

She rubs his forefinger with her thumb and raises her eyes to his. His smile is pleased, and she returns it with a demure one, taking the arm that he offers. At the door, he leans in close and says in a low voice, "We'll continue this when I return." He kisses her once more, his teeth lightly grazing the sore spot on her bottom lip. Then he calls his knights and commands them to escort her back to her chamber. She almost wants to seek out Sansa but spends the afternoon in quiet reflection instead.

That night she takes supper with Loras. Their grandmother has retired early, claiming that she needs all the rest she can manage if she's to keep up with this castle of fools, and Margaery is glad of the privacy.

"I hear you visited the king today," Loras says, bringing a bite of fish to his mouth delicately.

"Yes," Margaery sips her wine, savoring the sweetness of Highgarden. "We spoke on many things."

"How did he seem? Does he admire you as much in private as he does in public?"

"His Grace is more than satisfied with my looks," she says calmly, letting Loras take from that what he will.

"Was he rude? Did he offer you insult?" Loras has lived at court longer and knows more of Joffrey than the rest of the Tyrells. They are all presuming that he will be enamored enough of Margaery to treat her well, and if he does not, well, Loras has pledged to end the king's life, though he will likely lose his own in the process. Margaery does not mean to allow him to make such a sacrifice. Indeed, she does not plan to find herself in a position to need it.

"The king was perfectly charming. We spoke of the hunt. He says he'll take me hunting." She raises her eyes, daring Loras to challenge this, but when he does not, she continues. "He told me of his Hound." Loras scoffs at this. "He showed me his new crossbow, and he kissed me."

"He kissed you? Is that all?"

"He is greatly anticipating our wedding," Margaery says instead of answering. But in a way, it is an answer, and Loras accepts it. "Speaking of weddings, brother, it is time we planned yours."

"My wedding? I do not intend to wed."

"But you must. You are Father's favorite. He means to settle lands on you, and you'll need an heir."

"I do not want an heir," Loras scowls, taking up his wine and leaning back in his chair.

"You want an heir," Margaery corrects. "You want nothing to do with the making of one."

Loras concedes her point with a nod. "True enough. Why are you so anxious to see me married?"

"There is a lady who would be much happier at Highgarden. I believe she's had enough of life in the capital. She would likely be content seeing her husband once a moon or two, raising his children in a peaceful, pretty home. You likely wouldn't have to consummate the marriage for a year or two, as I believe she's had quite enough of men for the time being." She waits for Loras to comprehend, but his sword flashes faster than his wits. "Sansa Stark would be a great prize for Highgarden," she says, waiting for him to see it. "And she's very beautiful."

His eyes narrow as he understands. "I have no use for beautiful women."

"I suppose not. But Sansa loves songs and honorable knights. She'll adore you and admire you, and as long as you never raise a hand to her or mock her, she'll do so to the end of her days. And Highgarden will gain the support of the North for the Crown."

"You think Joffrey will relinquish her?"

"I see you've spoken to Grandmother. He will when I am queen," Margaery is sure she can convince him to see the merit in her plan. The trick is phrasing it properly, and when she is queen, she may sit on the Small Council and will gain the support of his advisors. They will see the wisdom of wedding Sansa to Loras. There really is no drawback. What use has the castle for a traitor's daughter? The wedding can take place after the war, when there's no longer any need for hostages.

"I suppose your reasoning is sound," Loras says cautiously. "We will see what happens. I'm still not sure I like your marriage."

Margaery laughs to keep herself from agreeing. "Oh, Loras, don't fret so." She leans in and whispers, "They'll think us like the Lannisters."

"Quiet," he hisses, his eyes darting across the room, but of course there's no one there.

"I shall do very well as Joffrey's queen," Margaery says. "And I have you to protect me, although I do not think I will need protecting. He is not untroubled, it's true, but I can see that he thinks highly of me. I know I can make him happy." By the time she's finished her wine, she believes herself. And later, in her luxurious bed, under fine bedding of rose silk, with matching velvet drapes drawn (just because my house symbol is a rose does not mean I wish to be swallowed up by the color of roses), Margaery has already begun to anticipate the king's return. She wants to feel his hands in her hair again, his strong arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

He sends for her just as he's promised. Two hours after she hears the riders outside her window, she receives a summons to attend the king.

When she steps into his chamber for the second time, fingertips cold, he rises to greet her. He is wearing only a linen shirt with his breeches, and his hair is damp. He bathed before sending for me. Margaery is pleased. She is not fond of the scent of sweaty, unwashed male.

"My king! I've been waiting for this moment." Margaery approaches him at once, taking his hands in hers as he looks at her admiringly. She is wearing her favorite blue dress, and although it's not quite as fashionable as the embroidered dresses that are in style now, it suits her better than any other gown she owns. "Did you enjoy your hunt?"

"Yes, it was successful. We killed a boar, and I slew a stag with one bolt. I drew first blood on the boar, too," he informs her proudly, excitement in his voice. His crossbow is lying on the table next to them, Margaery notes.

"And your bow? How did it perform?"

"The bolt may not pierce a boar's bones, but I imagine it could shatter human bones," he says thoughtfully. "It lodged quite deeply in the boar's skull and couldn't be retrieved at first. Finally I told my men if they couldn't get it out, I'd shoot one of them, and eventually Meryn was able to dislodge it." He speaks of killing his men so casually, but Margaery knows she cannot show the slightest concern.

"How thrilling!" she exclaims instead, clapping her hands together, choosing to ignore the story of the bolt. "What a strong weapon. You must have looked magnificent, slaying the stag. And with only one shot! That's very impressive." She takes a step closer. "But you are the king. Of course you are brave and strong." She reaches out to touch the bow with a finger, then turns back to Joffrey. "How does it feel to kill something? To see the light go out of its eyes?"

"It makes my heart beat faster." His voice is low, his eyes intent on her. "I hear blood rush in my ears."

Margaery gives him a half-smile, catching his hand and bringing it to her chest. He slips his hand easily into her bodice, finding her nipple and pinching it, hard. She gasps.

"This time, we won't be interrupted," he promises, and her heart races, but she is not sure if she is excited or afraid. "Take off your gown." She begins to do so, but once her bodice is on the floor, he reaches for her breast and pinches her again, then, not taking his eyes from her, leans down slightly and bites her, hard.

Something between a shriek, gasp, and moan bubbles from her throat, and she sucks in air through her teeth. It hurts, it truly does, but below the hurt there is something more, something dark and dangerous, something exciting, something that sets her body shivering, makes her wet between her legs.

He straightens, keeping his wide green eyes on her. She doesn't look away, although his stare somewhat discomfits her. Then his hand curves around her side, his nails digging in to her back. He drags them across her skin, and Margaery knows by the sting that he is leaving marks. She cries out, louder than she means to, and his eyes flash.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," she answers breathlessly.

"Good." His voice is eager, but tense, as if he's curled very tightly around himself, like a snake in a basket. His hand rises to her breast again, and suddenly Margaery can feel his manhood hard against her. The drapes are drawn, mostly, but the crack of sunlight that filters in casts an odd light on his face. She is trembling, although she still cannot say why. Desire, she decides.

She places her palm on his chest, the feel of him under her fingertips exciting her almost as much as his kiss had. Moving her hand along his side, she rests it briefly at his waist, hooking her fingers over his belt and teasing briefly before she finally brings her hand to his groin but holds back, hovering, waiting. "May I?" She asks, her voice soft in the stillness of the room.

Joffrey nods, once, and she presses her palm gently against the hardness. His groan is low, controlled. She wants to draw more sound from him, so she slips her fingers back up to his belt, keeping her eyes on him. He's watching her hands, interest in his eyes, so she undoes the buckle of his belt, her hands moving slowly, precisely. It wouldn't do for a lady to appear too eager. When his breeches are open, she sits on the long low chair and draws him gently down next to her. She reaches underneath the fabric. He's hard, of course, and she rubs a finger down the length of him, feeling her body twitch in response to his sharply drawn breath.

Margaery rises and moves to stand in front of Joffrey, then sinks to her knees slowly, nearly touching his face with her breasts as she kneels. His breathing is quick, now, and his eyes do not waver from hers as she tugs his breeches down, palming his cock as it springs up. Once or twice she'd reached into Renly's clothing, trying to bring him to life, but she'd never seen it entirely and so has nothing to compare Joffrey's to, but it seems a good size, neither small nor large.
She lightly drags her fingers through the thatch of hair between his legs, which is as golden as that on his head and coarse to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. Wrapping her hand around the base of his cock, she leans over him, running her tongue down his length. He smells only clean, with a faint hint of sweat that she finds arousing.

"What a man you are, my king," she says, holding his gaze as she takes him into her mouth, pressing her lips around him and moving her tongue as well as she can with a full mouth.

He is barely inside her when he shifts position, sitting up and grabbing her head with both hands, holding her tightly against him as he shoves his groin against her. His cock is at the back of her throat now, and she chokes and coughs, but he doesn't let up, and it doesn't seem like he will, so she does the best she can, moving her hands to his thighs, caressing and pressing, as if by pressing against his leg she can push him away from her. She keeps her lips against him but not as tightly, using her tongue to wet their tracks so they can pass more easily along him. His grip allows her to move her head only slightly, but she uses her full range to work her mouth over him, not really minding that he is holding her so forcefully. It took her by surprise, certainly, but his shallow pants and the way his fingers thread through her hair, tugging and tangling, are reward enough already.

Margaery finds if she holds her mouth a certain way, he doesn't reach far enough back to make her cough, but positioning carefully, she sucks him in, letting him nearly touch the back of her throat, as if she were swallowing him. She's able to do it without gagging this time, and smiles around his cock, pleased with herself.

Joffrey keeps one hand on her head but brings the other down to pinch at her nipples again. Margaery wishes he could reach between her legs, wishes she dared grab his hand and guide his fingers toward her own wetness. She wonders what he would do if she pulled her mouth away, lifted her skirts, and sat down on him, taking him inside her without a word. Although she would like to, she knows it's more prudent to remain a maiden until the wedding ceremony, in case (gods forbid) anything should go awry.

She uses his slightly relaxed grip to work her mouth harder and faster over him and is soon rewarded when he groans and thrusts and grunts and then, yanking at a handful of her hair, looses a jet of his seed, hot and salty, against her throat. Quickly she swallows it before it pools in her mouth and then opens her lips to free him.

"My lady, my lady Margaery," he murmurs, stroking her hair.

She licks the length of him once more, looking across to where the mirror reflects the two of them. He is looking down at her, she sees, and she brings her eyes up to his face. His hands still their motion, though his fingers rest heavily on her head, and his low voice cuts the settled silence. "Where did you learn to do that?"

The scent of danger is heavy in the air, but Margaery has expected this question. After all, she doubts that most maidens have even the faintest idea that they could do something like that with their mouths. "My maids," she says, laughing a bit. "I hope this doesn't disturb you, but, well, as I've told you, when I was married to your uncle, my duty was to please him. I did not know how, so I asked my women who had experience with men for assistance. They told me things they knew, or things they'd learned from their friends. This is the first time I've had the chance to use my knowledge, though."

"Did you kiss my uncle?" He demands.

"Yes, my king." She suspects now is not a time for familiarity. "A few times. Once I reached into his breeches, but he seemed startled and pulled away. I took off my dress, the last time we were alone together, and tried to kiss him, but he would not have me."

"I'm glad of that," Joffrey says. "You're too beautiful to be wasted on a traitor. If he'd had you, well, it wouldn't be right for me to wed you."

"I know that, Your Grace. I count myself lucky every day that Renly did not want me, that he didn't taint me with his treason." She waits a moment, but he seems content with her answer and does not ask her anything else. Peering up at him through lowered lashes, she offers a smile. "Did you like it?"

"You pleased me very much," he says grandly. "I'd like to throw you onto my bed and stick my cock into you right now, but I suppose I'll have to wait until our wedding night. The sheets should be bloody with your maidenhead. Although, I suppose there are other ways of showing blood," he muses. "I could have you now and nick you with my sword, then. It wouldn't hurt, much. And the blood would be so beautiful."

"Beautiful," Margaery murmurs. "The deep red is so lovely. And spread out over white sheets, it would be even more beautiful."

This is the correct thing to say, it seems, for Joffrey reaches to stroke the side of her throat, curling his fingers around her neck. She swallows, still tasting him on her tongue. He tightens his grip, pressing hard enough that her throat constricts. She gasps, and his eyes gleam.

She reaches to his groin again, but he puts his hand out. "No," he says. "Stand up."

Margaery obeys, backing up a few paces so that he can see all of her. He leans back in his chair, his eyes traveling up and down her body.

"Take that off." He waves his hand at her skirt, and she unfastens it. The soft blue fabric falls to the floor, pooling around her feet. She takes a step forward, but he puts his hand up again and she stops. It's hard to wait, watching him as he stares at her. She touches her hand to her breast, rubbing her nipple, pinching it as he had done earlier, then does the same to the other side.

"Touch yourself," he commands, and she smiles, putting her hand between her legs and stroking herself. He leans forward, his shallow breaths audible in the quiet of the room. It's a little awkward to pleasure herself while standing, and she shifts position a few times, but it feels better than usual, to have someone's eyes on her, someone who's enjoying her.

Joffrey comes to stand behind her, sliding one arm across her throat and pulling her hard against him, reaching up with his other hand to finger her nipple roughly. She moans, shuddering into him, excited by the way his cock is pressing, hard, against her backside.

He turns her head to one side, kissing her ear, then biting her earlobe, then, in a high, excited rush, breathing "Bend over."

She's near the bed, so she places her hands on it and bends forward, presenting her behind to Joffrey. He sets his hand flat on her skin, then draws back and smacks her, hard. Margaery cries out, curling her fingers in the sheets, and he slaps her again. His other hand scrabbles at her slick folds and one, then two of his fingers slip inside her.

"You're wet," he says, almost in surprise.

"Of course, Joffrey," she says. "I desire you. I very much want to feel you inside me."

His fingers drive at her insistently. "I want to be inside you, too. But I don't think I'm quite ready yet."

"Not ready?" She removes one of her hands from the bed and brings it back around to stroke his cock, finding it easily. It's hard under her hand, and she sighs. "Please, Your Grace. I want you to fill me."

"I will," he says, but he takes his fingers out and walks away. She hears him pick something up. There's a clink of metal and a heavy sound, and then the sound of his boots indicate that he's approaching again. He sets something on the bed, and when she looks, her throat twists, and her heart pounds. It's his sword belt. What could he want with that?

He presses up against her again, shoving his fingers into her mouth. She licks them as she licked him, tasting her own salty tang. He pulls his hand away and smacks her backside again, then picks up the sword belt.

"Your Grace," she says, trying to keep her voice modulated, but hearing a note of fear creep in. "What will you do with your sword?"

"You'll see!" He says, his voice excited. "I know you'll enjoy it."

She'd grown used to the sound of a sword being drawn in Renly's camp, but never has the sound chilled her as much as it does now, and she doubts her earlier composure. He could easily hurt her, and no one would know. She has a sudden flash of fear that it will be her, bloody and bruised at his whim. Although she's certain she can keep him pleased, she hasn't anticipated what he'll do when he's happy. Is he truly mad?

When she feels something cold and hard at her cunt, she shrieks. He laughs and pushes the hilt of the sword a bit further, groaning and thrusting it shallowly, asking, "See, doesn't that feel good? Don't you like that?"

"Y-yes," she lies. "It's a bit large, but I expect I'll get used to it."

"You will! I've heard that a cunt can accommodate things that are quite large," he says, and she shivers, glad that he hasn't thought of putting the blade inside her. Well, he likely has, but has hopefully realized that it wouldn't be prudent to injure his betrothed so cruelly.

"I knew you would like it," Joffrey says, and Margaery realizes with a chill that, as he continues to work the sword against her, small sounds are escaping her lips and her hips are moving, her body rocking back onto the sword's hilt in time with his motions. The hilt has breached her entrance and is slowly slipping farther inside her. Somehow, this odd and chilling assault on her body excites her (shouldn't she be horrified?), and she's wet with desire, wetter than she's ever been.

"I do," she gasps, not lying this time. "I do like it, Joffrey."

He gathers a handful of her hair and pulls, hard enough to draw her head back. He leans forward and bites her shoulder, her back, and her side, holding the soft flesh below her ribs between his teeth for several moments, giving the sword a long, hard thrust before he lets her go. Margaery buries her face in the bed and cries out as the hilt leaves her body.

Joffrey exclaims in delight. "Look, my lady. Your maidenhead." She looks up as he thrusts the sword in her face, shocked at the sight of her own blood coloring the steel. "I want to see you taste it," he says.

Obediently, she puts out her tongue, keeping her eyes on him, and licks the sword, which still gleams silver and gold beneath her blood. She smiles at his parted lips, his small groan, and he grabs her shoulders and pushes her back onto his bed, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her neck, her throat. Then, just as she's pictured when alone in her bed, he takes her wrists and holds them fast against the silken coverlet, dragging his tongue, then his teeth, across her breast. He lets one wrist go and puts his fingers between her legs. His touch is uncertain and, without thinking, she takes her free hand and presses his fingers harder against her folds. Joffrey pulls his hand away, catching her wrist with bloody fingers and pressing it back against the bed. His message is clear. Let him have his way, Margaery thinks. She gives him another smile and keeps her hand still, as if he's holding both wrists instead of only one.

He touches her with more certainty, now, insistently, and when his fingers reach the right spot, she moans and bucks her hips into his hand. But he moves down, sliding his fingers inside her wetness, driving them deep inside her.

"Please," she moans.

"Please what?"

"Please, Joffrey. My king. Take me."

He pulls his hand away from her and leans over her, bringing his lips close to her ear. "I'll take you when I'm ready," he hisses, his fingers pressing in hard just behind her ear. When he moves away, he looks at her face for a long moment, and then runs his finger across her lower lip. "Are you afraid, my lady?"

What answer is he looking for? Does he want her to be afraid of him? "I fear that I've angered you," she says. "I did not wish to. My only desire is to please you."

"Good," he says. "You have not displeased me. Yet." He reaches to take his cock in his hand, and then finally, pushing her legs apart, he thrusts into her with a long sigh.

There is some discomfort still, but there is also pleasure. He is inside her, filling her, and as he begins to move over her, Margaery feels her body come alive, in a way that it never had when she pleasured herself.

"Tell me about the traitor."

"Who?" Margaery is briefly confused. He must mean Renly. But why does he want her to speak of him?

"The traitor whose bed you narrowly avoided," he says. His hand lies against her throat, and she is sharply aware of his nails resting lightly against her skin.

"Renly?" She laughs. "He wasn't much of a man." She must speak carefully, to avoid giving evidence of her own treason. It would be more than foolish to say she wished to conceive a child to further Renly's cause. "Tell me, my king, if your virgin bride stood before you, nearly naked, would you tell her to put her gown back on? If she went to undress you, would you push her away?" She doesn't like mocking Renly this way, but, she reasons, he is dead and will never know. Now she must first protect herself. "He was weak and foolish. Hosting tournaments at his camp instead of plotting strategic moves. He was doomed to fail because he was not the rightful king, but he doomed his cause twice over by his poor choices."

Joffrey holds tightly to her hips and shoves into her again and again, hard, fast. She's gasping and is glad he doesn't ask her to continue speaking. Her hair has fallen from its pins and braids and spills down her shoulders and across the pillows. She impulsively reaches up to tug his face down to hers and kisses him. His mouth opens under hers as his fingers find her breast.

Breaking the kiss, he begins moving again, and Margaery wonders how much longer he will last. "My king," she begins delicately. "If you feel it prudent to avoid a child, as we are not yet wed, when you feel your climax upon you, you might spill your seed on my belly or chest instead."

"More advice from your mother?" He asks. This time, she thinks it might be a jest. It must be obvious to him that she was a maiden before he took her.

"My maids," she says. It is in fact common knowledge, especially among young women of Highgarden. Restraint seems to be the general practice among women of this court.

He says nothing more, only thrusts harder, then grips her shoulder and bites it, hard. She cries out, and he grunts and jerks back, but as he leaves her, she sees that it's already dripping. His seed falls on her thighs, and his cock is red, here and there, with her blood.

He sits next to her, his gaze unwavering from her thighs. "It's a shame you'll only bleed once," he says. "I'd like to take your maidenhead again."

Margaery isn't sure if he wants to claim her again, or if he wants to see her bleed again. She fights a shiver and thinks instead of how he felt inside her, how she wants him again. She thought that if she could please him, he wouldn't harm her. But perhaps they have different ideas of what harm means.

"You're mine," he says. "My beautiful queen." He strokes her hair and kisses her cheek.

"I'm yours, my love," she affirms, and his hand clasps hers briefly. "Nothing makes me happier than knowing that I will be your queen." She lays her head on his shoulder, but after a moment he stands.

"I must dress for supper."

Margaery rises. Supper is a long time off, but clearly he does not wish her to linger. She gathers her clothing and dresses as gracefully as she can while naked and sticky with her blood, Joffrey's seed, and her own wetness.

Joffrey emerges, dressed, from behind a screen and watches her as she braids back her hair. The expression on his face is almost fond, and Margaery curtsies. "I look forward to seeing you at supper, my king." It is not quite a trial to keep her lips curved in a pleasant smile.

Her brother waits with two of the whitecloaks outside Joffrey's room. Loras starts as she steps out the door, and the whitecloaks stand a bit straighter as she passes.

Loras looks bored. His face is confused. He follows her as she sweeps down the walkway. "I got a message, saying that you were visiting the king and needed an escort. Were you alone with him?" He demands.

"Yes, of course," Margaery says, warning Loras with a look to keep his questions from becoming too prying.

"And? Did he have you? I suppose I should ask if you had him," Loras snorts. "You've finally lost your maidenhead, dearest sister. How does it feel?" His smile is boyish again. Although he wears a mask for the court, she knows he still grieves for Renly and is happy to see him laugh again.

Margaery places her finger to his lips, looking to the knight at the other end of the hallway. "Let us find Grandmother."

The Queen of Thorns assesses Margaery with a look. "So, you've let him have you, then?"

"If you want people to believe you're old and incapable, you should try harder," Margaery teases.

"What's that, dear? My ears are failing." Her grandmother's voice is sharp, but Margaery hears the pride in it. She knows that she has always been the favorite. "Well? Did he beat you? Make you beat a whore? Speak up, child. Can you stomach being his wife?"

"He made me do nothing despicable," Margaery says, but she cannot forget her mockery of Renly. Poor Renly. "I do not think he will harm me. He's pleased with me, and he knows that I came to him a maiden. He called me his beautiful queen." And he summoned Loras to wait for her. Margaery thinks of the two knights who waited with Loras. Joffrey's protectors are many. They are meant to protect the king and his queen, but they did not protect Sansa, and they will do nothing for her, if the king does no wish it. What can Loras do against so many? She keeps her face calm, her tone light, even as she begins to feel alone.

Margaery wonders if she will spend the rest of her life as uncertain, unsettled, as she is right now. Can she enjoy bedding a man who has killed whores for sport? Bear his children? Raise his sons well enough to keep them from becoming him?

What is Joffrey doing now? she wonders that night in bed, unable to stop thinking of him even as she is beginning to fear him. Perhaps it's because she's beginning to fear him. He smiled at her at supper, and when she felt his eyes on her body, she was certain he was remembering her underneath him.

Yes, she has power over him, the power that any beautiful woman has over a man. The question is only whether it will be enough.

It must be. She will be like a rose and fight with beauty and hidden thorns.

Fin.