A/N: This fic is a birthday gift for Harmonic Friction. Without going into too much detail, I just want to say how much I enjoy brainstorming and co-writing and rping various characters with you. Over the past ten months, I've written more than I have in years, and it's awesome to date someone who is not only an amazing writer but who also likes my writing, encourages me to write and read aloud, and challenges me to explore characters I wouldn't have even considered writing about before (Vernon Dursley, Joffrey Baratheon...). I look forward to sharing more stories with you.

Rated M for Joffrey's graphic thoughts which imply non-consensual, violent sex.

Entombed

The doors thud shut behind them, and Joffrey can't contain his elation, even as he sees his mother rushing toward him, blonde curls flying, her displeasure clear on her face. The old lady has taken a seat and watches with interest.

"Joffrey, what were you thinking? Have you already forgotten the riot?"

As the king, he could have her punished for speaking to him so, but he's fond of his mother, although she's been somewhat tedious lately. An hour ago, mention of the riot would have elicited the awful memory of shit smacking against his cheek, the foul smell stinging his nostrils, and he would have been furious, but now he is flushed with pleasure, and he waves his hand, dismissing his mother's concern.

"Didn't you hear them? They shouted my name. They cheered for me. Lady Margaery is right. They love me. I saved the city from Stannis. I am the rightful king, and now they all know it." Joffrey beams triumphantly. His lady is wise as well as beautiful. Perhaps she's a bit bold, but after Sansa's reticence, Margaery's boldness excites him. It's clear that she wants him, that her tight virgin cunt is wet and ready for his cock. She's so different from Sansa, who starts like a rabbit and twitches away from him when he touches her. Sansa. He pushes the thought down. Rabbits are no fun to chase. But he's dreamed of taking down something proud, brave, and beautiful. Bolts singing, then the deep thunk as they sink into soft flesh. If Margaery become too bold, forgets that he's the one in control, well, reminding her will be pleasant. For him.

Margaery gives his mother a sly glance. Joffrey knows that Mother doesn't like Margaery, often calling her a harlot or "that trollop from Highgarden," but their animosity excites him. Joffrey had to make it clear the other day, though, that his bride would not be treated unkindly by anyone (she's his now). He suspects Mother is still angry.

"I am often out in the city among the people, and many of them have expressed the desire to see their king. They know he saved them from Stannis' invasion. They should see that Joffrey does not fear them, after the riot, and he should see that his people love him, that he is a just and forgiving king." Margaery smiles sweetly.

"Thank you," Mother says, icily polite. "You are wise beyond your years."

"I'm surprised that you haven't urged Joffrey to greet his people before now. But of course you must have some reason that I can After all, you've had years of experience, and I am still so young."

Joffrey sees Mother's face harden and knows that a storm is brewing, but he's tired of this conversation. His blood burns under his skin, and he wants to be out of here, away from all of them. He turns to take his leave, but before he can say a word, Margaery catches his eye and one corner of her mouth turns up. Her breasts swell from the bodice of her gown and he remembers her body curving softly against his not two weeks ago, as he showed her how to hold his crossbow. He'd like to see her kill something. She wouldn't weep and wail if he'd showed her Renly's head. She'd be pleased that he'd ended his uncle's miserable life, and happy that she was now his instead.

He pictures Margaery out of her gown, stretched across his bed, her arms spread, wrists tied to the posts, her dark eyes eager. Her bare breasts round and soft, dark bruise-shadows scattered beautifully across the pale skin. Imagining the moment when the want in her eyes turns to fear, he feels his cock begin to stir.

"My lady, there are a few tombs yet to see," he says suddenly, without a clear plan. He only knows that he will not stand in front of his mother and that wretched old woman with a stiffening cock.

"You're right," Margaery replies immediately, giving him a small smile. "Grandmother, Your Grace. Please excuse us." She nods to her grandmother and gives Mother a small curtsey. Her manners are flawless, as always. He's pleased that his betrothed is a true lady, that he has found no fault with her. Yet.

She turns back to him to take his arm, and they begin a slow walk back through the tombs. Joffrey wonders if she has she noticed his discomfort. No, she can't have. She simply wants to walk with him again, he decides. In an attempt to calm himself, he thinks of the cheering crowd. The people love me, he thinks again and again. It pleases him that Margaery knows this, that she has seen them crying out his name. He must have her sit in on his next court session. He knows that she will agree with his dispensation of justice, that she will not weep or plead when he orders hands struck off or tongues ripped out. Perhaps he'll let her choose a fitting punishment for the next criminal. He's eager to see what she'll suggest.

His discomfort grows, and he slows his walk. Margaery doesn't notice at first, as she's looking up at the walls, still fascinated. Joffrey had thought to walk with Sansa here once, wanting to share his delight in the fascinatingly gruesome deaths of the Targaryens, but she'd begun to whimper when he'd told her about Rhaenyra, and so he'd had her taken back to her rooms. It had been a shame. He remembers her gown that day: It had been cut lower than her gowns usually were, and he'd been imagining tearing it from her shoulders, taking her long white neck in his hands, biting her breasts, leaving half-moon marks in her smooth, pale skin.

Joffrey has tried not to think of Sansa lately. At first, when he was told he would need to marry Margaery Tyrell to cement the alliance between Highgarden and the throne, he had been enraged. He was the king. No one would tell him what to do. Besides, he was already betrothed. Sansa had her faults, certainly, but she was beautiful, shy, and timid. She feared him and would do everything he said. He looked forward to giving her more lessons, in bed, once they were married.

But then he saw Margaery, with her long, waving hair, her breasts that threatened to spill from her gown, and he was smitten. She had been his traitorous uncle's wife, but her father had sworn that she was untouched, still a maiden, and Margaery had confirmed that herself, telling Joffrey more than he'd ever cared to know about his uncle's foul perversion. Father should have had him put to death, or at least struck from the family line. Or he could have cut his cock off. Joffrey giggled at the thought.

"Your Grace?" Margaery asks, trailing her fingers along his arm. He doesn't always like to be touched, but his body reacts to her close proximity before his mind can, and he turns to her with a sudden urge to push her against the stone wall and kiss her roughly, to wrap her long curls around her neck until she gasps for air. "What are you thinking?"

"Only of how beautiful my lady is." He smiles, taking her hand in his. Yes, Margaery is perfect. She is composed, regal, a far more suitable queen. And neither the austere Northern styles nor the rich Southern styles can compare to those of Highgarden. Margaery's gowns reveal so much of her skin, and he enjoys admiring her, enjoys imagining just how he will mark her skin later. Long thin welts. Hand-shaped bruises. Scores of bite marks and scratches littering her soft, warm skin, underneath her gown and where everyone can see. "But remember, you must call me Joffrey. We will be wed very soon, and there's no longer any need to be formal."

"Of course, Joffrey. I apologize." She looks at the ground, then up at him, gazing through her lashes sweetly. Her hand comes up to rest against his cheek. "I have very much enjoyed walking with you today. I wonder if we might linger? I think your mother and my grandmother have left."

Joffrey heard them leave, in fact, heard the doors of the sept close after the sounds of Mother's brisk footsteps and the old crone's tottering ones died away. There will be a Kingsguard or two posted outside, but they will see that Joffrey is not disturbed.

"Yes, of course. In fact, I had something I wished to ask you." Joffrey has been thinking about their conversation in his rooms. "When you said you "tried to make a child" with my uncle, what exactly did you mean?"

She looks puzzled. "You mean, what did we do? We did nothing. He was never interested."

"Yes, you told me that," he says, impatient. "But how did you go to him? Did you take off your clothes? Were you naked? Did you simply ask him to lie with you?"

Now her face shows discomfort, which pleases Joffrey. He wants to make certain she hasn't lied to him. He won't have a bride who's been tainted by another man. He is the king. "Tell me, my lady." He speaks gently, to put her at ease.

"Well," she begins, taking a step toward the wall and brushing her finger against the brick. He could have her up against the wall, where her back would scrape against the stones. "I took off my gown, but he turned his head away and said something about concealed beauty being more enticing. Even my breasts didn't excite him. He didn't get hard, so I offered to take him into my mouth. I knelt down to try, but he pushed me away. Gently. He was always very kind to me."

"And why did you want to have a child with him so badly?"

"It was my duty as his wife." Her voice is soft. "My father gave me to him, and so I had to please him."

Joffrey decides to ignore this. It was treason, to be sure, to support Renly's claim, but women had to do what they were told. He'd never really thought Sansa was treasonous, but it had pleased him to frighten her, to threaten to send her foolish brother a message with her death. King in the North. What stupidity. Anyway, Sansa wasn't clever enough to plot treason. She was lovely, to be sure, but slow. Incapable of plotting. But nothing had ever excited him so much as her frightened, pleading face, the tearstains under her eyes. She cried over him, for him, because of him, all night. She would never stop thinking of him, never forget him. She was his, forever.

"Did he always push you away?" Joffrey demands. "Did you ever have him in your mouth?"

Margaery looks down, gathering her skirts in her hands as if to pick them up and flee. Joffrey knows that there's something she isn't telling him. He hopes she lies to him. He'll find the truth, and he will enjoy punishing her for her dishonesty. His wife must always tell him the truth.

"One time," she admits. "One time, when he'd had quite a bit of wine, he undid his breeches and sat back on the bed, and he let me touch him, briefly."

Joffrey is furious at the stirring in his own breeches. He doesn't want to think of his perverted uncle with his betrothed. No matter that the act was not completed. Or was it? He knows that maidens bleed when they lie with a man the first time. Mother explained that to him. When he has Margaery, if she doesn't bleed, he'll know. If she's lied, she'll be sorry. He'll make her sorry.

"How did you touch him? What happened?" He's excited now, and less angry.

"Well, I put my mouth around him, and I licked him. He told me what to do, because I didn't know. He began to harden in my mouth, and he breathed more quickly. But then he put his hand to my hair and stroked my cheek, and then he looked at me and grew soft again." Margaery's voice fades into the heavy silence of the tombs.

Joffrey laughs. "My uncle was such a fool! A beautiful woman, naked, in front of him, and he goes soft like a stupid boy. How weak! I'm glad he's dead. He doesn't deserve to live. A real man would have thrown you down and taken you."

Margaery's eyes are on him, and he likes the look in them. It is something like fear and desire together. That is how every woman should look on him, he decides. "You are a real man, my king." She holds his gaze boldly, and right now, he likes her boldness, he decides. She's been honest with him, as far as he can tell, and he is pleased with her. After all, she showed him that his people loved him. Margaery will be a better queen than Sansa.

"I want you to show me what you did to him."

"Show you?"

"Yes. Take me in your mouth. Now."

"Right here? But what if someone comes? They will see us." Despite her protest, she takes a step closer to him. His first instinct is to step back away from her, but then he remembers that he's asked her to touch him. It's good to touch women. To have women touch me. That's what men do.

"Don't worry, my lady. No one will come. The doors are shut, and my knights are outside. If someone does come, we will hear them. And if there is any trouble, well, I am the king. I rule. I can do as I please. I can take whores in the sept if I wish. You are my betrothed, so why should it matter what we do?"

"Of course," Margaery says, that half-smile hovering at her lips. That smile excites him. He remembers her clapping her hands at his shot, begging him to take her on a hunt, asking him if he thought she could kill something. Yes, my lady, you can, and you shall. Something large, perhaps, something I no longer have use for. He thinks of pale skin and auburn curls, and his icy hands curl into fists.

"I want you naked, but I suppose that's unwise here," he says with regret, imagining her breasts under his palms, his nails digging in to her nipples.

"If you're sure no one will come," she begins, putting a hand to her bodice. "This is very easy to undo." She gives him a shy look. "I would like very much for you to see me, if that's what you wish."

"Yes. Take it off."

Margaery loosens the front of her gown in a smooth movement, dropping it to the floor. Her breasts are heavy and perfectly shaped, almost like those of the dark-haired whore, the one he had the overly familiar one beat.

He wonders what it would have been like to lie with the dark-haired girl. She had been rather pretty, and her curves looked soft. It would have been enjoyable to fuck her before having her beaten. She had smiled at him, been excited to see him, hadn't reached for his cock without his permission. Why were they here, in his room, with their false smiles, their bodies that smelled of other men. He only wanted to lie in bed and think again about Sansa's cries, her ripped gown, her flaming hair rippling across her lily-white shoulders like streaks of blood. Or he could have had the other girl choke her while he fucked her. Yes, he should have done that. But he had enjoyed watching the blood spread across his sheets. Perhaps he could try again.

He pinches Margaery's nipple sharply between his fingertips and imagines her long, thin fingers wrapped around Sansa's white throat, Sansa's blue eyes wide with terror, his cock buried in Sansa's tight cunt, her maiden's blood leaking out around him as he grabs Margaery's curls and yanks her face to his, to kiss and bite her lips until she cries.

"Now," he hisses, clumsily shoving Margaery's head down. He's hard, so hard that it hurts. After the whores had left, he'd been this hard, although he'd still been furious that his wretched uncle had dared send women to his rooms.

Margaery opens his breeches quickly and takes him in her hand. He groans at her touch. When her warm, wet mouth surrounds him, he can barely stand it, and shoves into her, not caring when she coughs and chokes. He can't control himself, he has to move, and so he does, harder, pressing his hands to the back of her head, keeping her face tight against him. There aren't words to describe how good it feels, but he wants it to be better. He wants to reach around her throat, make it harder for her to breathe. But she's choking on him now, and he likes that.

His mind drifts. He thinks of her on her knees in front of his traitor uncle. That isn't right. No, that didn't happen. She's mine, only mine. But the thought won't rest, and he shoves her away. She loses her balance and falls onto the stone floor, sprawling before him, hurt and confusion on her face.

"Your Grace, what is the matter?"

He likes the way she looks, crumpled on the floor, her breasts pressed against the cold stone. But that isn't enough right now. "Stand," he orders.

She does. Her mouth is wet.

"All I can think of is my uncle's cock in your mouth, and I no longer want your mouth on me."

"I'm sorry." Her face is grave, and she is composed. He wants to rattle her, to break that graceful mask. "You wanted me to tell you the truth, so I did."

"Yes, and you were right to. Don't worry. I'll forget, in time. You can please me in other ways, and eventually, I'm sure, I won't think of this anymore." Welts crossing over bare legs, bloodied hands, bound wrists and throats and tangled limbs lying slack.

"All I think of is pleasing you, my love." She reaches out to take his hands, but he pulls away.
"Good. You will have plenty of time to please me. We'll be wed soon, and you'll be mine, completely. Forever." You are mine, Sansa is mine, everyone is mine.

Fin.