FALLING TO RUIN
I do not own the genius of George Martin and Co. Also, this is my first GAME OF THRONES story and I haven't yet read all the books, so please comment nicely!
"You, come here. I want you."
"Yes, sis - Yes, Your Grace." Margaery Tyrrell put a hand to her mouth, covering up her crooked little half-smile. If Queen Cersei had spoken softly, issued a polite invitation, the shrewd young political climber might have felt some misgivings. She might even have become suspicious. But the queen had merely appeared in the palace corridor and crooked a finger in her direction, ordering her to follow as though she were no more than putty in the royal hands.
"Now that Tyrian and Sansa are married, your marriage to my son Joffrey is only a matter of time." The sourness of tone made the queen sound resigned, even defeated. She gestured towards a heavy book mounted on a small table in her private bedroom. "As queen you will need to know all the revenue sources of the Queen's Purse."
"May the Seven bless you, Your Grace." Margaery couldn't resist a sly half-smile as she dipped a curtsy, knowing that her slightest movement made it look as though her thin, sleeveless blouse might just pop off her shoulders and expose her bare bosom. It was a fitting bit of revenge on scowling Cersei to show off her slim and youthful figure, even though the older woman was truly a stunning beauty in her own right. But the current queen always wore the more formal type of gown, even on a hot summer day like today. As the two of them sat down on the huge royal bed together with the book between them, Margaery was aware of both her own flowery perfume and the deeper, more musky scent which Cersei wore.
"You will notice the shipments of male and female slaves, which are commonly made up of criminals," the queen began, turning the pages with her slim white fingers. "But you may not be aware that for many of these slaves, the ending point of the journey is not merely a mine or a labor camp deep in the Red Waste, but rather a House of Pleasure owned and operated by our loyal subject, the man they call Littlefinger. These palaces of sin stretch from Valyria to Qarth and well beyond. And as queens we draw a share of the profits."
"We do? I mean, yes, of course we do. How clever you are, Your Grace!" Margaery flashed her most brilliant smile, thrilled to be addressed as an equal. It was strange to be sitting on the huge royal bed with Cersei, listening attentively as the queen explained how each house of pleasure attracted a different clientele. The more lavish houses catered to every taste, including men who loved men and women who loved women. Margaery could all but hear the coins jingling in the Queen's Purse, yet she tried to ignore her greedy thoughts and focus on the sound of Cersei's voice.
Cersei's personality was unpleasant, yet she had a lovely voice. She spoke in a gentle murmur, the words blurring after a while into a soothing flow that seemed to caress Margaery's senses. After a time, she shoved the book away, putting it back on the low table beside the bed. Margaery noticed how gracefully she moved. Cersei was now describing how a young slave new to the arts of pleasure was often put in the care of a wiser, older female and instructed not only with words, but with caresses and kisses.
"It's very warm in here," Margaery said, putting one hand to her throat with a nervous little laugh.
"Wine." Cersei didn't bother with a goblet herself, but merely filled the golden cup and passed it to Lady Margaery.
"So the . . . the money that fills the Queen's Purse comes from the suffering and degradation of helpless slaves?" Margaery tried to get rid of the feeling that there was something dirty about learning the secrets of a great queen's power and authority. But her mind kept flashing pictures of naked slave girls, forced to parade in chains before wealthy and powerful men . . . or wealthy and powerful women. If she was a slave, would Queen Cersei pay to have her unchained and brought to her bed?
"Some slaves rise to high station through the arts of pleasure," Cersei said mockingly. "And sometimes, the reverse is true. Some who would be queens are reduced to slavery by their own scheming. Would you care for some more wine, Lady Margaery?"
"Wine," Margaery repeated. The wine was the reason she was suddenly unable to think clearly. Her eyes rested on Cersei's face, which was strangely blurry, and then dropped to her firm and gloriously rounded bosom. Margaery batted away a sizzling picture of her lips on Cersei's nipples. "You . . . drugged . . . my . . . wine."
"Of course, dear." Queen Cersei took the golden goblet from the younger woman's nerveless fingers, and set it carefully on the low table by the bed. "Don't worry, I haven't poisoned you. You'll wake up in several hours, quite unharmed except for a pounding headache. Of course by then you'll be chained in the hold of one of Littlefinger's secret ships, bound for a life of pleasure beyond the seas. A slave's life, but then what else does a slut like you really deserve?"
"Brother," Margaery said thickly, dragging herself to her feet. "Gr-grand . . . mother. They . . . they'll know."
Queen Cersei gave a low, earthy laugh. "Please, an ancient crone and a boy who wants to be a girl. I think I can manage them. You were always the clever one in the family, Margaery. So strong, too. Except for one unexpected weakness."
"Not weak. Strong! Hate . . . you . . ." Margaery's will-power was so strong that she actually managed a lurching step in the queen's direction, her arms flung wide. If she'd been wide awake, perhaps she might have wrapped her hands around the queen's throat and choked the life out of her. Instead she fell forward and lost consciousness, her world going black as laughing Queen Cersei caught her in her arms.
Margaery's last, humiliating thought was that her own utter destruction and the ruin of her house mattered less than the blissful sensation of falling into Cersei's open arms.