The Rose who Kissed a Lion

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The wedding ceremony has been an exhausting enterprise, though Margaery knows it has nothing on how the first night with her husband is probably going to be. It is not a far way off, now, as men become more careless with their cups and their talk and their shadows grow longer. She is not afraid, for women fear only what they have not known. And what awaits her she already knows. She has seen it in the way her royal husband treats his underlings, she has caught glimpses of it in the curve of the crossbow he so likes to aim at beasts and men alike. But she is no mere maiden, and she is the queen, now, and she finds comfort and pride in both these facts. Even as her husband does as he pleases with her and she aches and bleeds between her thighs, she will simply whisper queen Margaery to herself, and she will endure it, she'll even do it willingly, with grace, just like a rose being plucked – deceivingly fragile in the hands of her captor, thorns waiting to pierce the skin when the time is just right. And she will bear the marks and sons of her monster of a husband proudly, for all will kneel and respect and love her as she does her duty of a wife and descrete ruler.

But that will be tonight, and in the days to come. For now, still bathing in the comfort of daylight, Margaery places a hand atop her husband's and smiles sweetly at him as he turns to look at her. He stiffens at first, then smiles back, and seems pleased, more with himself than with his bride. Margaery has always found it unsettling, the way kindness slashes his face so naturally, how a person of such horrid nature can muster such a warm, genuine smile. She does not let herself be fooled by it, has never let herself be fooled by it - the falseness of this court, this world. Falsehood blooms everywhere, and Margaery has long since learned that the only way to overcome it is to embrace it, make it your most carefully perfected craft. And who blooms best if not a rose?

The stage is currently preoccupied with musicians, The Rains of Castamere dragging out from underneath their fingers slowly, threateningly. She is accustomed to every tune of it at this point, as she is to all the Lannisters. Although they're all nothing alike one another in anything but hair, richness, and a certain air of superiority, Margaery knows to play their game well, and has found a way to cope with the thought of having to share King's Landing with them.

Her eyes skim discreetly to her new mother-in-law, but she finds the lioness' gaze already fixated on her. Their stares cross paths, and, as per usual, an imaginary bloodbath ensues. No one is paying attention to them, so their eyes are allowed to duck into a quick skirmish. Cersei's eyes are sharp, green and menacing, whereas Margaery knows that hers are brown, subtle and, most of all, knowing.

Cersei has a way of making people feel low and small and filthy under her heavy gaze. The first time they did this, Margaery had almost looked away. She is more used to it now, more confident as her position in court keeps on rising at the expense of the queen regent's. But she never allows herself to fall victim to the illusion that a lioness would ever give up on her claws.

They have always been two different kinds of storms, the two of them, but never quite opposites. Ultimately, they both share the same perception, and Margaery thinks it a pity that the lioness can't seem to allow room for anyone but herself in her children's lives. They both have a lot to learn from one another, and whilst it could be a bloodless gain for the both of them, Cersei is obviously keen on turning it into a win-or-die situation. Still, she is a fierce woman, possessing all but patience, and for that, Margaery respects her.

She often times wonders if Cersei truly worries for her son's well-being or if it is her vanity that runs so deep that she is only ever truly worried for herself. Margaery looks at the fading regal beauty and sees every etched line. Every pinched muscle, every sagging that is beginning to show. Those eyes when no one seems to notice, filled with pain, hatred and something heartrending yet steel.

The yell of someone overly feasted on wine somewhere amongst the the crowd slices through their wordless battle. "A dance!"

More encouraging shouts follow, and Margaery looks at her husband to see if he's irate that anyone other than himself would suggest anything at all. The king seems calm, however, even jaunty, as if he has planned this all along. He extends a hand to her and says: "My lady." It isn't a question, the way it is supposed to be, it is instead a command delivered in a cloak of complacency. Margaery smiles broadly at him, then to the crowd, and throws a prompt look at the former queen regent, much to the older woman's almost apparent exasperation. She rises from her seat swiftly, with all the elegance and delicacy of her blooming youth, and walks to a now cleared floor hand-in-hand with Joffrey.

When the music starts playing, they dance a dance to inspire thousands of songs. He is lean and fair-haired and knows his steps well, always dominant and looking her in the eye as the dance progresses. From afar, that look might seem proud, confident, masculine. From up close, however, Margaery is able to distinguish the sparks of glee, the pure possessiveness that swims behind those misleading boyish eyes. She answers with a look that is both appropriately timid and adoring, and she adds in a bit of mischief that she knows only her mother-in-law might be careful enough to notice.

They swirl and thrive and claim the floor, the crowd, the realm. When her body presses against his at one point, she feels a rather unceremonious hardness sliding along her hip, but knows better than to make any mention of it.

When they are finished, she is almost breathless, and is glad the round of applause is loud enough to mute her muffled pants. She plants a kiss on Joffrey's cheek and sees Cersei's fingers twitch, face as close to spite as decency permits. Margaery reassumes her seat next to her husband, a small smile still lingering on her lips, and this one has a certain trace of triumph to it.

Joffrey still smiles, and Margaery begins to wonder why. Her unspoken question soon stumbles to a most unpleasant answer, though, as the king claps his hands and a handful of dwarf-actors take over the stage.

The little mockery of Renly, Stannis and Robb Stark leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, and she is appalled by the laughs erupting from her husband's throat, who, at this point, is anything but kingly. Her eyes search for Loras, for he is not like her, and she imagines he wouldn't stay still to the sight of this, but she is met by an empty seat that almost has her brother's aversion engraved on it's wooden curves. She wishes she could do that too, sometimes, simply stand and leave when circumstances don't fare well with her. But she is a woman, and women never have it the easy way, the way men do.

Meanwhile, Sansa Stark has sewed on a mask of nothingness to her face, and Margaery can't help but feel for the poor girl. She can only imagine what she would be feeling like if it were Loras that the dwarf was dressed as. Her grandmother's face is equally reserved, and even lord Tyrion seems genuinely disgusted. But Joffrey laughs, and so does Cersei, and Margaery knows they are beyond redemption. She vows then and there to never let her son become what Cersei has allowed hers to.

The play comes to an end, as does king's suspiciously good mood, when a particularly distasteful suggestion on his part has his uncle's patience falter. It is the first time that day that Joffrey puts his true colors on display. And there is more, Margaery knows, worse, for once they are alone in their bed, it will be his right and duty to do with her as he wishes. And it will be her right and duty to allow him. The queen in queen Margaery comes at a price.

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As the horizon swallows the sun, time brings them closer and closer to their marital duty. When Joffrey mutters something about getting her out of her pretty gown in his goblet, Margaery knows it won't be long before celebrations give way to the part of the wedding that really matters.

There is no bedding ceremony, at the king's insistence, but Margaery knows it is not done out of concern for her dignity. It is just that Joffrey doesn't like when others lay claim to his possessions. The last thing she sees before they are set off to their private chambers is the maze of Cersei's face. There, she finds fear crawling just beneath the surface of her skin, hot like molten fire. It battles its way up her reddened cheeks, and just before she turns away from her, Margaery thinks she sees a warning in the other woman's eyes. Joffrey, too drunk on wine and ale and himself, slips an arm around her waist, pulls her close and nearly drags her along with him, and she leaves the scene at that.

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Once they are alone, she sees whatever bits of kingliness her husband had withdraw from him. He gives her a wicked smirk and leans in to whisper in her ear: "Make yourself comfortable, my queen." His breath reeks of wine and foulness, but she smiles at him despite her fear and the lingering image of Cersei's warning eyes. She sits on the edge of a richly ornamented chair, waiting for Joffrey to return from the other corner of the room.

Their chambers are everything that Margaery has ever dreamt of as a girl and more. She comments on the magnificence of the linens when she begins to feel crushed by the silence of Joffrey's presence, but he only chuckles, not really paying attention to her. He doesn't look at her, fumbling with the contents of a drawer near the bed instead. He picks something up, something that Margaery can't quite distinguish in the dimly-lit room, and approaches her, hiding the thing behind his back and smiling like a naughty child proud of its mischief.

When he is standing mere inches away from her, towering over her modestly sitting form like a predator, his smile finally gives way to malice. Her eyes are on him, giving away nothing but false warmth, desire, and she braces herself for what's to come.

"Is my queen comfortable?" he asks, voice gone high and menacingly soft.

"I have everything I could ever dream of, Your Grace," Margaery answers, taking his free hand in hers and giving it a well-practiced squeeze of affection.

He frees his hand from hers, a bit more sharply than necessary, but does not pull away. Instead, he runs his thumb down her cheek, traces the line of her jaw, then places it over her lip. His touch is light, for now, and sends chills up and down her spine, some of fear, some not. "Everything?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "You have everything, you say? But you haven't had your husband yet." He applies more pressure to his thumb and her lip begins to throb with the beginnings of pain. "Don't you wish to have your husband?"

She opens her mouth slowly, and her hesitation is not all for the sake of acting. One wrong move with him and she is done for, so she needs to think everything through before she does it. Leisurely, almost casually, her tongue protrudes, and she drags it down the length of his finger. She smiles when he inhales sharply and doesn't pull himself away. His hand travels down the length of her exposed throat. "Of course, Your Grace. My husband is what I want most in this world."

The slap that follows catches her completely unprepared. Her cheek stings, as does her pride, and her hand almost rushes up to cup her wounded side, but she wills it to stay put at the very last moment. This, this has been unexpected. She has been looking for the slightest of hints that his mood should change, but there have been none. She hasn't done anything to ignite the king's anger, as far as she can tell. He had simply looked at her and hit her.

She says nothing and keeps her eyes down. This is a mistake.

"Look at me!" he spits at her, cupping her chin and forcing it up, face brought so close to her own that the tips of their noses brush against one another.

She obeys, and when she does, he finally shoves what he has been keeping behind his back in her face. It is cold and hard as it presses against her bruised cheek, and once he takes it far enough from her to see, she recognizes the outline of a golden lion figurine, about the size of a fist.

For the entirety of experience she has had beneath the covers, she finds herself at uncertainty as to what her royal husband asks of her.

"It is very beautiful, Your Grace…"

"I didn't ask your opinion of it," he snarls.

"Of course, Your Grace," she says quickly. Her mind begins to craft horrendous pictures of the thing forcerd between her tighs, and she has to struggle to keep her bubbling fear at bay. Queen Margaery they'll call her. And she will rule them well.

Joffrey stares her down for a moment, then his face seems to somehow soften. "I understand that maidens are often times left uneducated in the ways of bedding by their foolish mothers. As if withholding them the truth would preserve their innocence forever. You are forgiven your ignorance."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Margaery replies, honest relief coating her voice. "I am sure that if you are patient with me, I can live up to your expectations and be the wife that you deserve."

Their stares lock, and it is nothing like exchanging looks with his mother. With Cersei, it has always been about power. With Joffrey, it's about survival. Under his savage gaze, she feels exposed, weak, a woman in the worst of ways.

"Lick it."

The command is simple, and she does just that. The metal is cold and slick under the heat of her tongue, and she swirls it over the surface, careful not to demonstrate too much expertise for a supposed maiden.

"Good," her husband says, but his face gives away just the opposite. It is sour, as though he has hoped for her to somehow fail so he could punish her. "Now kiss it."

She plants a light peck on the lion's mane, and his shout is deafening. "I said kiss it! Is this how you kiss? How are you expected to please your king if you can't even deliver a proper kissing to a simple statuette? Show me. Show me how a rose kisses a lion."

She opens her mouth and takes in as much of the golden beast as she can, and when she can take it in no further, he shoves it down her throat some more. She gags, but makes no sound nor does she object. Queen Margaery. She will find a way to wrap herself around him soon enough, she will get his ear. She only needs her patience.

"Is this how you'll kiss me too?" he asks, fisting her hair greedily.

She cannot answer with a lion statuette down her throat, but her fingers dance across the front of his breeches, answering for her. For a moment there she fears he might think it too bold a move, but then she sees him smile, and suddenly the golden lion is tossed somewhere on the floor, and she is being slammed to the bed with more clumsiness than force. Her husband seems rather pleased with his accomplishment of getting her underneath him nonetheless.

Before she knows it, her legs are spread and lifted and the rest is inevitable. She does her best to give him an enthusiastic welcome, thinking of a boy from Highgarden that had once made her very happy. Margaery attempts to wrap her arms around her king only to have them pinned up above her head. She gasps when he enters her, roughly and without care, and the pain is not entirely feigned. He moans loudly, almost as if he were the maiden, which is technically so, then licks the shell of her ear and whispers: "Does it hurt?"

"No, Your Grace," she lies, but she should've known better.

His fists tighten at her wrists and he thrusts harder, sloppy and with no set pace. "Yes it does! Say it hurts you. Say it!"

"It hurts, my love!" she almost screams, and oh, it does.

"Again!"

"It hurts!"

"Again!"

He finishes almost as soon as he has starts, and for that she is glad. Later, as she is on her knees to please her husband in this way, she whispers to herself queen Margaery.

Queen Margaery. There is no price she wouldn't pay.

Once her king and husband and nightmare has fallen sound asleep next to her, she finds herself in no need to weep. Tonight has been a valuable experience. She may not have been able to fully use her charms on him, but there are many, many nights ahead of them. And she plans to make the most of it.

I do hope you guys enjoyed this. You know... in a very wicked, uncomfortable sort of way. At least that's the sort of enjoyment I got out of writing this. Anyway, let me know what you think and I just might make a habit of posting things on this beautiful beautiful website! See you around (or probably not).