It is not cum that came out of his body when he died with his muscled arms around her, naked as the day he was born. Blood had been pungent in the past few times that she already killed, its metallic taste all but overwhelming. This was the first time that she had been close and intimate with the murdered though. There was no other way. She saw how easy it was for him to snap the neck of the Riverlands boy. Men shit themselves when they die. Men like him could only be killed when fooled. There had been no other way. Margaery pushed the prone, unmoving body off her and smiled victoriously for the cameras.
It was the smile that would grace the entire capitol for months to come.
Ladies and Gentlemen. The victor of the 299th Hunger Games, Margaery Tyrell!
…
When Sansa Stark won her games, there had been no shocked gasps and fanfare. The explosion of the bloodbath did not guarantee a riveting finale, even as the fan favorite Joffrey Baratheon stalked the red-haired girl towards the end. Sansa had been unremarkable all throughout the Games but there had been hopes that she would surprise everybody else when she managed to last through the final two. But the 305th Hunger Games ended with a whisper and disappointed groans. Joffrey would get himself killed by eating some toxic plant. On the other end of the arena, hidden in the cave and with zero kills in her name, Sansa Stark was proclaimed the victor.
Stories of her turning mad right after she was fished out of the arena had come as far as The Reach but what reached her were nothing more but vague intrigues and baseless rumors. Regretfully, Margaery had not kept tabs with fellow victors, especially those that won after her. Her plate was full enough with imminent thoughts of survival, not only for herself but for those unfortunate kids that she mentors each year. The red-haired, pretty girl from The North barely crossed her mind until that day.
She had spent time thinking about it, how their story started. Was it when she first watched the preliminary interviews? Sansa Stark in a typical, northern dress, answering each of Qyburn's question like a quiet, well-mannered child would? She had dismissed her then, focusing only on the tribute she was mentoring that year. Or was it when she was shown to have emerged from the caves in her arena, emaciated but otherwise alive? Her blue eyes had been startlingly alert then, the only glow amidst her pale, gaunt features. When they finally met for the first time, it was her eyes that drew Margaery in. it had been like staring in the mirror then, the sadness Margaery tried to rein so badly rearing its melancholic head in the shape of one Sansa Stark, requesting a private conversation with her.
"Teach me." She whispered when Margaery prompted her to share her reasons, the desperation only thinly veiled by the urgency in which the redheaded girl clasped her hand. And so, it was then that Margaery decided that their story began.
Margaery had found herself leading the girl away from this year's victory party, seeking some privacy. The cuisine of Dorne, this year's victor, was pleasant enough and it was always good to see familiar faces. She remembered having attended Sansa's victory party two years before. What she lacked for ferocity then, she made up for her imposing height. Sansa had been a tall child and the subtle promise of beauty fulfilled itself two years later with the Sansa that suddenly approached Margaery, muttering those two fateful words.
Teach me.
She repeated them again once they were in the safety of Margaery's quarters. She had offered the Northern girl some wine and she had been nursing it for the first five minutes as Margaery waited for her to elaborate. They settled themselves on a small table, seated opposite the other.
"You must think I am odd." Sansa began. Margaery did not expect her voice to be so deep. Puberty, she surmised. Sansa continued on. "You do not know me. I mean, you must know of me but you do not know me. We haven't exactly had the pleasure of meeting yet."
Margaery nodded, leaning against the chair. On the other end of the small table, Sansa fidgeted in her gaze and rambled on. "But they told me that you can help me."
Margaery's forehead creased curiously. "Who are 'they' exactly?"
"The other victors." Sansa looked up at her hopefully. She did not bother to conceal her desperation this time. "They told me… They told me… that you can teach me how to survive."
Victors have their own language and it did not surprise Margaery that Sansa had learned to speak it. She had been one for two years after all. She had been the first victor from the North in ten years. While the other victor, Jorah Mormont, would have been able to show her the ropes, there was nothing a man who won the Games thirty-odd years ago could teach a beautiful, young girl barely in the cusp of womanhood, about the trade. She wondered if he was the one who directed the girl to Margaery, who thought she was the perfect person to teach.
Margaery wonders idly what took Sansa so long to come to her, to anyone.
"What brought this?" she asked quietly, although she knew what answer Sansa would give.
"I want to serve the realm, the king." The girl's words reminded her of her own, said with much less confidence and faith. If she wanted to learn, she would have to remedy that. "For that, I have to survive."
Once upon a time, she had made the same vow. Highgarden had been her home and she had dreamed of returning every night after she was reaped. She killed, she fucked and smiled for the cameras. She had been naïve to think it was over then. Years later, these vile things she had to do had become a habit.
To survive.
Irony had a way of messing a life. Sansa had survived her Games by hiding very well. It did not seem like she could hide any longer.
Margaery had seen a lot in her tenure as a victor but Sansa, definitely was the saddest person she has ever seen.
"Sweet girl." She crooned in sympathy taking the girl's hand from across the wooden table. It was trembling, the poor thing. Sansa only averted her eyes and bit her lip. Margaery plowed on. "You do know what you are asking for, don't you?'
Sansa finally looked up. "Yes."
For the first time during the night, the mousiness Margaery had been unconsciously associating with the girl melted in favor of some steely determination. She still looked as sad as the girl who reluctantly approached her from the ballroom just minutes earlier but there was resolve that for a moment reminded Margaery of her own.
She was a victor after all. Sansa Stark was.
"Come on, sweetling." Margaery stood then and led Sansa to the bed. "I will teach you."
….
She would never deny it. Knives had been her preferred weapon in the Games but she was not as good in slitting throats as she was with her body. It certainly did not take her two years to realize that using it to her advantage, like when she fucked the Lannister boy during the finale of her own Games, to guarantee a momentary reprieve from the dangers of being a victor. Most victors weren't so lucky. Sansa herself seemed to have been one those that lost something dear first before coming to the inevitable epiphany that she never won anything after all.
That she may as well have died in that arena.
Margaery hovered over the flushed Northern girl, still fully dressed. She had never done it with someone so clearly inexperienced before and she could tell that with her, she had to take her time. Sansa seemed to have found it in herself to explain her dilemma. Margaery was not the only who was like a fish out of water. "I have never done this before."
"No boy back home?" Margaery jested, in a futile attempt to lighten the mood. She ran a hand on the girl's jaw. She was pretty, indeed. The red hair beautifully splayed on her sheets only served to enhance the beauty that was Sansa Stark. Carefully, Margaery placed herself on top of the girl and cupped her cheek. "So beautiful."
It was no wonder. The Capital wanted their victors beautiful. Sansa easily was one of the best she has ever seen.
And she was, sadness and all. Margaery had always been an aggressive lover, preferring to take what she could, when she can. But with Sansa Stark, she had been gentle, guiding, every bit of a teacher Sansa hoped she would be when she first came to her. She found herself selfishly wanting to preserve the innocence that had defined the girl for so long. They kissed like it was a slow, sensual dance, stripping each other through the music made by Sansa's soft mewls and Margaery's pleased moans.
Sansa came twice that night. Margaery had to work twice as hard for her own as Sansa still fumbled here and there even through her gentle prodding. But when the bliss came, she saw stars. Margaery could not remember if she had ever been as satiated in her entire life.
"Would it be as good as this?" Sansa asked quietly when it was over as Margaery played with those auburn locks that smelled like peppermint tea. Those sad, blue eyes were searching her own for an honest answer. Margaery found that she cannot bring herself to deny her one. "Would it feel as good as this?"
"No." She sighed sadly, looking into those wide, blue eyes and falling into their endless depths. "Half the time, your clients would demand something you are not wont to do. They have kinks, these people in the Capital, most of them might be painful. But let us reserve that lesson for another day perhaps."
Another day, she thought. Margaery realized that she could get used to this.
It was an offer that distantly sounded like a promise. Sansa's lips curved into what would have looked like a smile, if only it reached her eyes.
Margaery wondered if it was cruel to have the girls' first time to be as considerate, as pleasurable as it turned out being. Margaery wondered if Sansa would have benefited more if she had been more realistic.
But the press of Sansa's lips on her own had momentarily banished reality from her head. She fixed her gaze on the girl, now deflowered and resisted the urge to take her again.
"What should I do if it's bad?" the girl asked quietly
A valid question. One that Margaery answers with a demonstration. Her lips crooked sidewards and she flashed her the smirk Margaery Tyrell was known for. "Lesson number one: you smile…"
….
Women of their station must learn to make the most of their circumstances. It had been an unspoken agreement but during the length of their stay in the Capital, Margaery took Sansa Stark under her wing. They had in bed twice more when Sansa offhandedly mentioned that she would have her first client.
The ugly head took a different form this time. It festered in her chest, numbing the fingers that had been trailing Sansa's tensed jaw. Margaery did not attempt to put a name in the ashes that let her choke out her next words. "I see. I think you are good to go. You learn fast. Pleasing women takes practice and you've done well, sweetling. I can only imagine what you can do with men."
For the second time, she wondered if it was better if she made their encounters less pleasurable. Three times bedded, Sansa's struggles with the ministrations that came with sex was much lesser and if Margaery were to judge, she would have been just fine. But Margaery's touches may have spoiled her with something she likely will not get with her clients.
"What should I do if it's bad?" Sansa asked the question once more. She shifted her weight sidewards, allowing herself to stare in Margaery's eyes.
"Just smile." She responded. "Just smile at them and then come to me." She turns Sansa's face in full view. "Can you smile for me, Sansa?"
Margaery traded secrets with her clients. It was the only compensation she considered worth her time. She decided that if she could give Sansa some solace, she might as well get hers too.
It would be their little secret.
Sansa was at her most beautiful when she smiled and when her lips curled into something in resemblance despite her sad, sad eyes, Margaery longed to see the real thing.