Joffrey Baratheon was proud of his family. He believed himself to be descended of some of the most notable and important houses in all of Westeros. He was of the ancient Baratheon house and, on his father's side, a Targaryen. He was a descendant of House Stark and the First Men through his mother. It only stood to reason therefore that his wedding would be the biggest affair the country had seen since the Tourney at Harrenhal.
The entire castle was filled with cloth of gold hangings, most embroidered with great black stags. For every tenth stag there was a delicate green rose.
Margaery Tyrell arrived at the castle a week before the wedding, her long brown hair flowing down her back. Joffrey did his duty; he greeted her with a kiss to her hand and a suave smile. His mother, who had arrived from the capitol a few days earlier with the Queen and his cousin Sansa, watched with an unreadable expression on her face, but if he had bothered to study her, he would have seen that her eyes betrayed fear and mistrust. Melisandre, who stood with her, wore an expression of interest.
She came to him that night, her face deep in thought.
"When were you betrothed to this Tyrell girl?" She asked.
Joffrey shrugged, "Since I was young. My father arranged our marriage right before Edwyn was born. He was worried it would be another girl and wanted to cement our position before a girl could ruin it."
Melisandre frowned, "Why would a girl jeopardize your family?"
Joffrey smirked, "Father always said that a true Baratheon has three true born sons before he has daughters. Baratheon's are strong, we fight, and we are the descendants of Orys Baratheon, the bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror. Baratheons are the blood of warriors, women are not warriors. That was something my mother always failed to grasp."
Melisandre sighed and shook her head, "Women fight battles of their own."
Joffrey scoffed, "What sort of battle does a woman fight? The battle of what to order the servants to do or how to spend their day while their husband is away? I do not call that a battle."
"They fight a battle in the birthing bed," she told him, "and they fight battle of raising their children."
Joffrey laughed, "That is nothing compared to real battle. Now I've had a very trying day." He looked down at her, a cocky smile playing across his lips, "Is there anything you can do about that?"
"Of course, My Lord." Said the red woman as she removed her long robe.
Lyanna paced back and forth in front of the fire in her chambers. They were furnished the exact same way they had been when she had been Robert's wife, nothing had changed, except she no longer felt the need to use the great iron lock she had installed on the door. That and the presence of the Red Woman, the whore had been using these as her rooms and the thought made Lyanna uncomfortable. These were the rooms for the Lady of Storm's End, not for some strange woman from the east, whether she called herself a priestess or no.
She didn't like this match. Though she had been fine with it when Robert initially proposed the idea, her opinion had changed. The Tyrell's were a good family, and though they weren't as strikingly beautiful as the Martell's, Targaryen's, or Lannisters, they had a certain pretty look to them.
Now, however, she was nervous. Margaery was the Queen of Thorne's protégé. While the younger daughter Loras was supposedly the very example of a proper young lady, Margaery spent a lot of time at her grandmother's side. Though she didn't actively show it, the girl was as sharp as Cersei. Sharp women never made good wives for men as gullible and egoistical as her son. After so many years she was not afraid to admit that her boy had gone wrong in some way. He was too much like Robert, too brash and violent and rude, but without the man's humorous nature.
Not to mention the priestess he had somehow gathered to his side. The woman was not one Lyanna would have ever allowed to spend an hour at the keep, let alone the months she had evidently been there. She had seen her slip like a red shadow into her son's rooms, heard the noises she made, those of a common tavern whore. A Priestess of the Lord of Light, they said, on the young Lord's council. And yet she did not appear like any priestess that Lyanna had seen. She certainly did not behave with chastity or honour. And yet her boy hung on the woman's every word, as if she were a prophet come to bring him victory.
Victory in what? That was far more worrying.
"I can't see how someone like that could simply appear in my home," She sighed, running a hand over her hair as she watched Cersei ponder the latest ravens. The Queen had been in tireless correspondence with the Martells of Dorne for weeks now. Lyanna doubted that the woman had been listening to a word she said.
But it appeared she was wrong. "It's plain to see, Lyanna," the blonde almost chuckled, her delicate fingers scribing a lengthy message. "Imagine if I left Aerion in charge of the Keep. The place would be filled with whores within a fortnight."
She did have a point. Lyanna sighed heavily. "But he would not be blind enough to put one on his council, would he? The Prince may be… hot blooded, but he is not blind." Joffrey, on the other hand, appeared blinded by lust. Surely the Tyrell's had already realized they were marrying their prized daughter off to a boy already wed in all but name. "And Margery… surely Joffrey would recognize her beauty and discard the Red Woman?"
"You truly believe that?" Cersei looked up this time. "Look to your own marriage, Lyanna. Was Robert ever remotely faithful? Surely the Tyrell girl will forgive Joffrey's indiscretions as you forgave Robert's."
Lyanna stared at her friend for a moment, feeling her blood boil at the reminder, and yet… "Maybe it will be for the best then, if Joffrey is like his father." Brutal in and out of the bedchamber.
She watched the Queen sigh, an unreadable expression on her face. Calculating, Lyanna knew.
"What is it, Your Grace?"
Lips pursed, Cersei looked out the window, over the bleak expanse of Shipbreaker bay. They had been placed in adjoining rooms, the Queen in the second stateliest bedchamber and Lyanna in her former rooms. The view was bleak, to say the least. "This Red Woman," she sighed, "She's not a common whore. A shadowbinder from Asshai, a follower of R'Hllor… she would not simply appear."
"You don't think…" Joffrey couldn't know. The boy had loved his father so, seen beyond every single fault the man possessed. The knowledge that the Queen of all people had a (rather significant) hand in his death would send the boy into a rage.
Cersei's back was to her, the tension there evident. "I can't say, Lyanna," she sighed, "It would be a fool's errand, to move against the crown, now anyways. But with the backing of the Tyrells?" Her shoulders shook as she laughed. "I've been writing Doran, your brother in the North as well. There have been worrying rumours, to say the least."
Margaery was sitting on the windowsill of the room she had been given, watching the sea. She had never been to Storm's End before and found the immense castle rather intimidating.
She had begged her father to ignore this marriage, to marry her to Prince Aegon instead, but her father had insisted that they must keep their word and marry her to the young Baratheon lord. At the time he had still thought of claiming Daena Targaryen for Willas, but that had failed. The princess had married Robb Stark and was now freezing away up north.
Margaery rested her head against the windowpane and sighed. She had always wanted to be the Queen, and her grandmother had spent quite a bit of time training her to be one. The day that Margaery had heard of her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon she had cried for hours. She wondered whom the young Prince would marry now, there were hardly any suitable women left. Even if her father hadn't put her on the throne, Margaery was determined to get herself there one way or another.
As Margaery continued to stare out the window she hear a knock at the door, "Who is it?" she called.
"Melisandre," A smooth voice replied from the hall. The woman didn't seem to have, or to need, another name. She opened the door without waiting for permission, stepping in silently.
Under normal circumstances, Margaery would have risen to meet her, instead she remained sitting. She didn't feel the need to rise to greet her future husband's whore. "Hello," she said, barely inclining her head.
The woman didn't seem remotely surprised by the curtness. "Hello, My Lady," she smiled, so close to a smirk Margaery instantly stiffened. "I think I would be best to get to know each other, after all, we're to be seeing quite a lot of each other."
Margaery smirked at the woman standing opposite her, "I don't think we will. I don't make it a custom to speak with whores."
The woman didn't even look affronted, "I'm sorry if you are confused my lady. I am no whore, I am a servant of R'Hllor, the one true god." Melisandre's eyes glinted, wide and red, but beautiful nonetheless. Margaery did not feel threatened though. She would be Lady of Storm's End, not this exotic charlatan.
Instead, she rolled her eyes, head tilted aristocratically. Her grandmother had ensured she expected her husband's flaws- even this. "The one true god? Don't let the septons hear you."
"Our lord has sent them away," the red woman replied, her ruby eyes burning with a misplaced pride Margaery didn't understand.
"The Septons? But who will marry us?" She murmured, but then she recalled her own entourage, Lady Baratheon's, and the Queen's. Surely someone had a septon? As honored, as she was to have the Queen there, she wished she had brought one of her sons. Joffrey Baratheon may hold Storm's End, but he would never be as breathtaking as the Targaryen Princes, nor would he inherit the throne. But Cersei held those boys too close to her chest, and had an inborn distaste for Tyrells. Tywin and Olenna were not allies, per se. Still, she was grateful that her wedding had drawn the Dragon's Queen, no other Lady could brag that, not even the Princess, now the Lady of Winterfell, since the North was too cold for the Queen's fickle health.
But heir apparent or not, Margaery would find a way to ensure her throne.
The red woman sighed. "Lord Baratheon's bannermen have provided your holy men with them, and after they have gone you will be married in the eyes of the Lord."
Margaery arched her brow at this woman, "And what does Lord Baratheon's mother say of this?"
"She has not spoken," Melisandre, hummed, her lips half smirking, "I do believe she shares your distaste."
"I do not have distaste," she snarled, "I merely doubt the existence of your false god."
Her smirk faded in a subtle look of displeasure Margaery was used to seeing on her grandmother. "You will see," she murmured, "In time, you will see the fallacy of your idols."
Margaery straightened her shoulders. She may not believe in the Seven as devotedly as her brother Willas, but she knew what was expected of her as a lady of the south. "I doubt I will see anything that will make me believe in this god that you keep.""
She watched as the Red Woman fingered the ruby at her throat, the stone seeming to pulse slightly. "Do you trust your eyes, m'lady?"
"Of course!" Said Margaery, taken aback. The stone was pulsing stronger; it had taken on a mesmerizing glow.
"Then learn to see," Melisandre purred, "And you will see R'Hllor power stronger than anything your Seven have done for you."
Margaery looked at this woman critically. She knew what she was to her future husband, but there was something about her that she couldn't quite place. A power that scared her. She took a deep breath before asking her next question, "And do you plan on continuing your relationship with my husband after we are wed?"
Melisandre straightened her shoulders, "If that is our Lord's command."
Margaery gasped, "You lie with my husband because your god commands it?"
Melisandre laughed, she turned and walked to the door. When she reached it she paused and turned around, "No I lie with Lord Baratheon because he commands it." Then she left the room.
Margaery spent the next week worrying about the red woman. She would not tolerate a third person in her marriage.She cut the neckline of her gown even lower than it already was, Loras had tittered as she had watched, but grandmother had shut her up. Margaery felt she was sure she would have been at a complete loss without her grandmother.
Margaery had fled to Lady Olenna after her encounter with the red woman. Her grandmother had listened patiently and then begun to give her advice. Lady Olenna knew everything in Margery's opinion, even how to deal with her future husband's whore.
Lady Olenna had given Margaery one simple piece of advice, which Margaery had taken to heart and intended to use to her full advantage.
"I will tell you one thing child," her grandmother had whispered, leaning forward, "If a man receives the best, whether in council or cunt, he wont stray far."
Loras had overheard and looked appalled at the very suggestion, but Margaery had taken the idea to heart. If her husband were getting something good from this eastern whore, then she would give him something better.
Margaery was no fool; she knew how to pleasure a man. Her grandmother had encouraged for her from a young age to experiment with different men. She had never approached a man of noble birth. Instead she had spent her time with stable hands and kitchen boys. She learned what men liked; she had learned how to make them burn. Now she would have to put all her knowledge to the test.
She watched her to be husband, and she had her maids watch him when she couldn't. As far as she could tell there was nothing the red woman did that was particularly different or special. She reasoned it would not be very hard.
She also threw herself into learning everything she could about the Stormlands. They were so different from the Reach. Where the Reach was always warm and full of joy and laughter, the Stormlands were harsh and cold. It was such a shock to her that she told Lady Lyanna and Queen Cersei the first night that she could not imagine a worse storm then the one that had been raging from several hours.
Lady Lyanna had laughed for nearly two full minutes, while Cersei had explained that these storms paled in comparison to those of the North, especially around the island of Skaagos. Margaery could not tell if the Queen liked her or not, she didn't really seem to have any expression on her face other than boredom most of the time.
Margaery also asked Lyanna everything she could about managing Storm's End, from what she could tell a steward had been running it since Robert's death. Lyanna gave her lots of advice about ways to keep the cost down, and the Lords and smallfolk happy. Margaery listened to it all. She would then go and talk over every piece of advice with her grandmother. The old woman would tell her what pieces of information were useful, and which were not. Margaery was rather scared for the inevitable time when her grandmother left, she had taught Margaery everything she knew.
The night before her wedding Margaery went to bed feeling nervous. Both Queen Cersei and Lady Lyanna had told her that they had been far too nervous the night before their own weddings to fall asleep for a while. It only to Margaery a few seconds for her to sink into a peaceful sleep.
Cersei sat watching the feast in the great hall with a smirk on her face. She had been given a seat at the high table, next to Lyanna, who sat next to Joffrey. The festivities were in full swing; Joffrey was with his young bride on the dance floor, at least for now he seemed to have eyes only for her. Sansa Stark swirled nearby and Cersei took a moment to study the girl.
She had yet to decide if she thought the Northern girl would make a good match for Aegon. To Cersei she seemed an innocent little dove, someone who would not be able to handle the backstabbing and fighting that accompanied Westerosi politics.
Cersei was rather enjoying this feast, not because it was particularly pleasant (she couldn't stand the Tyrell's), but because her memories of the last feast she had attended her were so good.
She could still remember the smell of Robert as she had danced with him, the way he had leered at her, and not even been subtle when he looked down her bodice.
But he was dead. During that awful dance, Lyanna had poisoned him. Robert had died just a few days later, and Lyanna had fled back to the capital with Cersei.
Cersei shifted her gaze from the dancing couple to the red woman. She stood at the edge of the hall, alone. Joffrey had wanted her at the top table, but Lyanna had vetoed that. The Northern woman could be terrifying when she wanted to be. But the red woman remained in the hall; her eyes had not left the new couple the entire night. Cersei did not trust her, nor her look. She looked like a wolf stalking her prey.
The song ended and Cersei tore her eyes away from the red woman, to applaud the couple. Margaery and Joffrey returned to their seats.
Cersei leaned back and let her gaze drift back to the red woman. She was surprised to see the woman was staring right back at her, her eyes deep pools. Involuntarily her back straightened and she stared into the woman's eyes. She fixed a cool relaxed look onto her face and proceeded to stare her down. Fear began to grow in the Queens stomach; the red woman was smirking as if she knew something. Something about Cersei.
"Time for the bedding!" Someone called, and the red woman looked away, moving swiftly from the hall.
The bride and groom were carried away and Lyanna sat down next to Cersei.
"Takes me back to my wedding," said Lyanna with a smirk.
"One of the saddest things in my life is that I was unable to attend you and Robert's wedding."
Lyanna snorted into her wine, "You didn't miss much, trust me."
"Really," said Cersei, smiling, "Robert wasn't your dream? You weren't the blushing bride?"
Lyanna just arched her brow at her friend and shook her head. She took a sip of wine and smiled. "Your wedding on the other hand, now that was an event!"
Cersei laughed, "What was it they called it? The marriage of gold and silver?"
Lyanna giggles, "Yes! I just remember you and Rhaegar couldn't keep your hands off each other!"
Cersei laughed and smiled at her friend, "Tell me Lyanna, why is it you never re-married?"
Lyanna sighed, "After what I went through with Robert, I've decided that I won't marry again unless I'm in love."
Cersei smile, "I hope you get that, you deserve love."
Lyanna smirked, "I have lover Cersei, sadly I cannot have the one I love."
Cersei's brows shot up, "Is he married Lyanna?"
"No, not married, he just can never wed." Lyanna smiled.
"What do you mean?" Cersei asked, even as she understood. "He's in the Kingsguard?"
Lyanna nodded. "Who?" Pressed Cersei.
"Ser Arthur Dayne." Lyanna whispered with a smile.
Cersei giggled, "He is very handsome."
Lyanna nodded, "yes he is, and I am happy being his lover. I don't think I would be happy wed again."
Cersei smiled, happy for her friend. She took her friend's hand. "If you are happy Lyanna then I am happy for you."
Lyanna squeezed her hand, "thank you Cersei." The two women smiled at each other and turned to watch the dancing as the men returned to the hall.
Margaery wasn't as innocent as she could have been, but she was still slightly nervous when she strode into the chambers. The Storm lords had wasted no time in divesting her of her gown and smallclothes, and more than a few had gotten a hand in places she preferred were only touched by her husband. But she shook her discomfort off the same way she had the shreds of her gown, and walked into the room bared to him.
And to her. His whore.
The red woman was lying on the chaise at the foot of the bed like a lap dog might, a sheer robe- red of course- the only covering on her. Somehow it was worse than if she had been naked. She was prepared, this was planned, and that made Margery's blood boil.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed as the noise of girlish laughter and a few hoots reached them. Her Lord would be arriving soon. "This is my wedding night. My bedding. You are not welcome here." Melisandre's eyes were bright as she laughed, the pupils dark and swollen, and Margaery swallowed.
She rose, the red silk parting to reveal creamy skin and fuller breasts than her own. She would not be jealous, she wouldn't. "I am well aware what night it is," she hummed, stepping closer to her. "That is why I am here."
The room felt hot, the incense cloying, and Margaery thought her head was swimming when Melisandre touched her cheek, the other woman's skin was hot on her own, sending a chill through her. "What..?" she stammered, suddenly off guard. It was too hot, the woman's touch was too much, and her gaze she stepped back, reaching for the pitcher of water as Joffrey was shoved through the door.
It was the first time she had seen her husband undressed- the first time she had seen him as her husband at all- and she smirked. This was what she was familiar with, what she had expected. Joffrey was slight- he would never be as stunningly muscular as Gendry- but he was Baratheon, and quite handsome in his own way. Perhaps not Aeron's glacial beauty, or his twin's ruggedness, but she needed to stop thinking of the princes. Joffrey, with his dark hair and light eyes, his mother's narrow face and his father's strong jaw, was more than most girl's got.
Margaery didn't settle, she was merely… appreciating the man on display.
"My Lady," he hummed, smirking. She would have laughed at that, but she knew better. He hadn't expected her to shy from him, clearly, and she smirked back, striding over and away from the witch at her back, caressing his cheek. The stable boys had always been too surprised and awed to do much more than gape at his point, but her husband was not a stable boy. He was entitled to her and he knew it, she could feel it in his hands roving her waist as he brought her to him, in the demands of his kiss.
Joffrey was not gentle in his touch, but Grandmother had said he wouldn't be. The second set of hands on her, however, was very gentle. She did her best to ignore them at first, but after a moment, when her husband pulled away and started kissing her, Margaery let out an indignant huff.
"Won't you go?" she sighed, earning her a red-lipped smirk and a glare from Joffrey.
Her husband took both their hands and led them to the bed. "She stays," He nearly growled the demand, nodding to the large bed. Margaery felt her heart pick up again, racing as the woman trailed her fingers down her arms, hot against her skin. "What…?" she murmured. Grandmother, Cersei, Lyanna, none of them or anything she had ever heard had prepared her for this. To share her bedding with another woman? Unheard of, improper… not to mention she had no idea how it would play out, or what to expect.
"Relax," came Melisandre's velvety purr, even throatier than Margaery had already heard it. She swallowed thickly as thin fingers wrapped around her wrist, leading her with halting steps to the bed. Everything was red in her vision as they moved, the red of the silk canopy, of the witch's hair, of her lips, the flush of her chest. Her breath came in harsh pants in time with each kiss the Red Woman placed on her skin.
And then she was gone, and a cool hand replaced the searing flames of Melisandre's fingers, cupping her breast as if appraising her. A sow for sale, it seemed. She looked up, into the cold blue eyes of her new husband, sparking with a maniacal interest she did not at all enjoy. She let her eyes wander from his face to his torso, along the line of his (moderately) well toned arm to… the hand gripping the Red Woman by the hair, her neck arched back into his grasp, expression one of rapture over sharp distaste.
Margaery awoke then, from the stupor in which she had been in. Starting to understand what was going on, she sat up and took Joffrey's hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing each fingertip. "What would you like, My Lord?" She smirked, keeping her eyes on him and not on the woman in his grasp. He treated her like a tool, with as much love and care as any blade. Perhaps she would come to.
He hummed, eyes darkening a deep shade of blue, quickly falling away to blackness. "Lay on the bed," he ordered her, not so much waiting for her to comply as guiding her up. At some point he had released the witch, but she moved undirected to the foot of the bed, resting her hands on the black silks. Joffrey smirked, and Margaery shivered. "I think you'll like this, my Lady," he smirked, and she could feel the mockery in his tone. "Woman," He nodded, glancing back at Melisandre. "Prepare her for me."
There was something rather sinister in his tone, but the desire was laden thick there, something she was not at all unfamiliar to, and she clung to that. Her grandmother had been clear that she was to please the Baratheon Lord at any cost. There were no better options for her now. Taking a deep breath, she let her thighs be parted by the Red Woman, hot fingers tracing the taunt and shaking line of muscle up to where thigh met hip. A hot, red mouth followed her fingers, and Margaery bit her lip. "Ah…" she sat up, arms shaking with nerves as she tried to see what the strange woman was doing. "Lady Melisandre… what…"
"Shh," Joffrey hissed, leaning over and carding his fingers through the Red Woman's hair like one would a pet dog. "You will enjoy this, wife. And it will make this night much easier if you let her do as she is bid. The Woman has a wicked tongue."
Margaery flinched, but she was distracted by said tongue tracing the crease of her thigh. It shouldn't feel so good. It was wrong, another woman's hands, her mouth no less, on her skin, on her body there, were only her husband was to touch (for at least the first few years, if she followed her Grandmother's teachings). But she could not deny the way the heat seeping through her skin from the woman's mouth and hot tongue was pleasant. Until, at least, she moved off her inner thigh. Margaery closed her eyes, although the curtain of blood red hair hid the Woman's mouth from view. Seeing was hardly the problem. But at least with her eyes screwed shut she did not have to witness the sickening pleasure on Joffrey's face, from her torment and not her pleasure.
Her thoughts swam in a pleasant fog for moments or hours, leaving her flushed and panting, wet where the Red Woman's mouth was, but it wasn't until her center jolted in pleasure that her eyes flew open, lips parted in an open mouth moan.
"Told you she was wicked," Joffrey's voice, his breath hot and somehow sticky against her ear, like the wind over Highgarten in the summer.
She shivered, feeling warm hands spread her legs wider. "My Lord," she whispered, pained and pleased all at once. "Surely… you do not wish to watch all night?" her last word was jostled from her lips by a moan, no, a yelp of pleasure. The woman between her thighs had found such a spot that her vision seemed to cloud again, her mouth cast open as though by witchcraft. She could feel tight heaviness in her belly, her head swarming with those bees again, and Joffrey's smile swimming before her vision.
There was a cry that ripped through the room, high and keening, but surely such a sound could not have come from her? Never would she be so wanton, to ride another woman's face like a beast in heat. She was a lady, not a tavern whore.
By the time she came back to herself, the Red Woman was on the chaise by the foot of the bed, lounging naked as if that was what she had been born to do. Perhaps it was. Margaery watched her for a moment, noted the slick sheen on her chin, the way she licked her lips. In her observation, she forgot to look for her husband.
"Eyes over here, my lady," he hummed, reaching to cup her cheek in his hand. Cool, but clammy, so different from the woman's searing grace.
"Forgive me, husband," she murmured, doing her best to calm her voice and her racing heart. "But… I was… I find… I am confused." This was not the bedding she had been expecting, not the night she had been prepared her whole life.
Joffrey smiled and leaned down, sliding his hands over her chest eagerly, a boy and a man all at once. "You enjoyed it," he grinned, his hands lower still, fingers clumsy where the Woman's had been sure. "You screamed so prettily, my lady… and I see you are ready for me." She expected him to climb on top of her then, to rut like a beast, as she had been taught he would. But instead, he clucked his tongue and smirked. "On your hands and knees," he drawled, pushing at her hip.
Her husband was no gentleman, then. A beast in man's clothing, the wolf all little girls were taught to fear when walking in the woods. This was what her grandmother had warned her of, harsh hands on her backside and her thighs, sending tension through her. But she did not prepared her for another woman in the room, joining them in the bed, pressed up between the headboard and her body. Nor the feeling of those searing red lips on her own as her husband clumsily toyed with her, lips which grew more insistent as he entered her.
The distraction was a blessing, for though she was wet from the Woman preparing her, it burned with a pain she had never felt, never thought she would feel, when he stretched her and never seemed to stop. She whimpered into the Red Woman's mouth only once though, for weakness was not a quality of a Baratheon, or of a lady. Instead of focusing on the pain, she focused on the thought of being strong enough for her husband. On being strong enough for herself. The slam of his hips into her, the wet press of Melisandre's mouth over hers, all faded into a thick haze as the night wore on. He spent himself quickly, but he was not done with her.
She didn't care.
