VI
Porcelain Dolls
It was another hot morning. The sun cooked the salty land and bounced off the black bay in reflecting gleams. The sand was hot, closer the shore it was wet and soft, kissed with foam and sloshing cool water. A collection seagulls squawked among one another, balancing on the sharp, slippery rocks jutting out of the crashing waves.
Sansa, the little dove, picked her way along the shore, the cool ripples licking at her toes. The hem of her dress was to her mid-calf, allowing her to venture, barefoot into the bubbling tide. It was a plain, gray dress, the shoulders were cut out fashionably, to present her fair skin to the hot, beating sun. There were with no patterns or ruffles, it was an utterly simple garment the prissy, blue blood snobs would certainly not approve of. But she didn't care. For a moment she felt an emotion that resembled freedom.
Life here was much more enjoyable as a court lady. Although Sansa had only been a servant for a few days, it was a dreadful experience, having to wash the backs of rich old men and change the chamber pots of every room on the first through fifth floors of the east wing.
Yes, being a court lady was better than a handmaid, however, it was a tricky social game in itself. In this sorority of girls, she must always look and speak properly. A court lady is expected to attend every event—public speeches, festivals, royal balls, and parties, even weddings in neighboring cities. The ladies were also expected to help the queen with anything she needed and although some of them attended the queen regent, Sansa was assigned primarily to Margaery, the sweet little rose, who would soon become the queen consort.
Today, was Sansa's day off, though. This was a day where she could do whatever she pleased without a shred of worry. She didn't have to read literature, or work on her embroidery, or attend court, or practice ballroom dancing. Instead, she could have time to herself to think, perhaps have a lemon cake or two, or three, and maybe go riding in a few hours when the sun begins to climb down from its peak.
Sansa shielded her eyes to peer across the beach and up the steep grassy cliffs, where an open, whitewashed tea house overlooked the water. A salty wind graced the coastal prairie lands, whispering over the tuffs of milky grass.
She made her way down the stretch of hot sand, and as she grew closer to the teahouse she could make out the unmistakable, slender figure of Margaery seated among some women. A few guards lingered around them, conversing with one another along the outskirts of the cliffs, keeping an eye on the ladies as they walked.
Sansa only stood, troubled among lashing tall grass, by hesitation. More than anything, she wanted to climb up the hill and go say hello to Margaery, but she was intimidated by the abundance of snobs that stood between them. She knew they would glare at her, with their scornful, privileged expressions, somewhere between the fine china and frilly lace. They were cold girls, heartless and completely made of porcelain.
Sansa wondered why she feared these women. If they were porcelain dolls, she should be able to smash them all, to pointy little bits without a sliver of effort. She clung to this thought, seeking courage, as she came to the realization these petty brats weren't anything to fear, maybe morbid little things to wrinkle her nose in disgust at, but not anything to run and hide from.
She held onto her newfound courage, as she climbed the hill, towards her prized rose, tangled among the swarm of blueblood fiends.
The heat wasn't as powerful up on the high, windy cliffs, under the shade of the belvedere. Margaery sipped her tea among her peers, gazing out to the open sea, as a refreshing breeze sang through her chestnut waves.
She mostly listened to the chatter of the birds; the robins, and sparrows, as well as the daily exchange of gossip among her own birds, putting in a few comments here and there as the woman spoke of the latest fashion, makeup, useful, feminine hygiene tips, and boys of course.
"Pass the cream, please, Maerwynn," said Lady Blair to the brunette at the end of the table, with the white gold butterfly pin in her curly hair.
Her diamond bracelets jingled as she reached over the sugar and lemon puffs to pass saucer of cream down the breakfast table.
For a moment, there was only the faint sound of polished silver clinking with the fine china and the harmonic chirping of the songbirds.
Out here, it was serene, but the air was stifling this time of year, drifting in over the south in rugged waves, and Margaery couldn't seem to get her mind off it, her corset, damp with sweat, and sticking to her, certainly wasn't helping.
"It's hotter than the devil's crotch, out here," complained Lenore the, as if she read her mind—the small blonde one, sitting beside Margaery. With a butter knife, she sliced a tangerine teacake into two halves.
"It's even stuffier inside," Maerwynn said.
"Not if your room is on the second to the top floor and you keep all the windows open."
"Mine's up there," another girl cut in, then with a flicker of arrogance, she added, "Well, Ser Lancelyn's room is, and I stay with him nearly every night."
"Stay with him?" Blair teased with the raise of a brow, stirring some sugar in with her cream.
"Yes, do tell us."
"I want all the gory details."
The babes jingled as they moved in shining excitement, and oddly enough, Margaery failed to concentrate on this small talk. Her thoughts were clouded with heat, the temperature so exhausting, even while just sitting down.
She wore a lightweight dress, made of milk chantilly lace, sleeveless and cut open in the back and down the front in a V, exposing her cleavage area, leaving little to the imagination of a passing watcher. It was sexy and daring—in an elegant, goddess-like way. Though the material was thin, it was still uneasily sticking to her hot skin.
She truly just wanted to escape and take an ice bath, not sit in this blistering heat, squeezed into a tight corset, sweating off her face powder.
"He made love to me one time from dusk till dawn, under the stars, from up on his balcony," the girl said with dreams and stars in her eyes, suddenly, and all the little birds at the table, save Margaery, leaned forward in their tight corsets and lace doll dresses with indecent interest.
Margaery snapped open her hand fan in an attempt to relieve herself of this intense heat.
"Lemonade, your grace?" the young servant boy suddenly inquired from the outskirts of the belvedere, eyeing Margaery as she fanned herself violently. "It's freshly squeezed and ice cold," he said convincingly.
"Yes, thank you," she raised her cup up in the air, and he hurried over to fill it up with a pitcher from the cart. "Send for another tin of ice too, please."
The sound of the liquid splashing into her glass seemed to accentuate the dryness of her parched tongue.
"Of course, your grace," the servant boy said, his eyes faintly seeking her chest, "I didn't realize all the ice had melted," and something about the way he said that pestered her. For some reason, the words came off risque, and even when he wasn't speaking, he was still rather irritating.
It was that certain look he was giving her. She knew it well. Margaery was eighteen years of age and by this point in her life, men were less difficult to read than books. It was quite funny actually, they usually all wanted the same thing. Their eyes would flicker with that familiar look, each of them had their own way going about it, but their intentions were always the same.
"He used his mouth on me, in a way no one else had before," the girl was still speaking of Ser Lance-whoever, while Margaery took a sip of cold lemonade.
"Tell us!" cried one of the girls, on the edge of her seat. "Tell us more!"
"He kissed me—licked me there...between my legs," the girl said, her cheeks pinkening a bit as she said it out loud. She hesitated, struggling to finally add, "He even...even fucked me with his tongue."
A few gasps.
"What a vulgar thing to say!"
There was no heat hot enough to distract Margaery from tuning into this conversation. She hung onto her words and found herself imaging the feeling of a boy's tongue between her own legs, wet and warm, slipping over each ridge and fold of most private parts. Suddenly these thoughts were affecting her physically as her stomach tickled with new excitement, realizing this fantasy was very much in her grasp. It didn't have to be a fantasy, she had a boy of her very own to please her now.
She wondered in her lace dress, appearing like a goddess sitting among the angels, sharing cake and tea with this high-class flock of pristine young women, all while the tempting, dirty, thoughts beckoned her mind to come play in the shadows.
She imagined the thrill of being fully naked before her young king's virgin eyes. Something about just the thought of being fully exposed to him, revealing to the younger boy each and every delicate curve on her feminine figure was steamy enough to melt her own ice. How she would crawl up on top of him and ride his beautiful face, feel his slick tongue lapping and sucking at her wet folds, then when it cannot possibly get any better, he'll drive it inside her and fuck her with it.
Oh, Joffrey Baratheon. What an absolute dream, she sighed to herself. Their wedding couldn't seem to come soon enough.
"Oh look it's that northern girl," said Blair, drawing this immaculate, virgin Margaery from her secret, filthy, little imagination, to engage in the pleasant sight of Sansa making her way up the steep hill towards their teahouse.
The girls were too afraid to be outright mean to Sansa at this point, after being reprimanded several times, but Margery did not fail to catch the subtly patronizing looks they gave the girl as she reached the steps.
"Sansa, you sweet little lamb, what are you doing this fine morning?" Margaery spoke first, kindly among the sneering aristocrats, as she surveyed the windblown redhead.
Sansa beamed at her, not giving anyone else her bright eyes, blue as the clear summer's sky. Her crimson hair was loose and tousled with the seaside wind. She reminded Margaery of a mermaid, firey and glowing in the amber sunlight.
"Your grace," she gave a polite curtsy, graceful as anyone could be, "I was taking an early walk along the beach. I didn't realize there was a breakfast planned."
"There wasn't," smirked Lenore, "it was a spur of the moment type of thing."
"I see," Sansa's eyes shyly averted to the ground. There was a biting silence, then their leader was speaking again.
"But we're so delighted to see you," Margaery chimed in, taking up a dish from the stack. "Please, sit and join us. There's plenty of lemon puffs and cold lemonade. Don't you just love cold lemonade on a hot day? I adore it."
The silence drowned in over them again, as Sansa hesitated to answer. Margaery noticed the sour looks the girls gave the younger as they assessed her dress.
"Alright," Sansa finally sighed, "But only because lemon is my favorite."
Sansa attempted to take a seat in the only open chair, at the other end of the table, but Margaery objected.
"Come sit beside me," she said, then looked to the girl beside her and raised her eyebrows as if to ask why she was still sitting.
Without saying anything, the girl scrambled to her feet moving in a flow of powder, and ruffles, collecting her teacup and pastry dish as she circled around the other side of the table, and Sansa, the sweet little thing, took her previous spot beside their queen bee.
"Lemonade?" Margaery smiled, warm as the day.
"Yes, thank you," Sansa nodded, and a sharply listening handmaid hustled over to fill her glass.
"And don't worry, they're on the way with more ice now," said Margaery delicately as she fanned herself, speaking in a tone that seemed to even intrigue the rest of them, "There isn't a care in the world."
She watched Sansa take a slow thoughtful sip.
"Mmm. Delicious," she critiqued.
"It's fresh as the day is hot," agreed Margaery placing down her fan, and it seemed her words inspired everyone at the table to take a sip of their lemonade too.
"I bet you're not used to this kind of heat," she continued, touching the redhead with her compelling eyes.
"Not at all, your grace," Sansa smiled again, her cheeks flushed from the warmth, the little red framing curls around her face, stuck to her skin with a light sweat. "I miss Winterfell, dearly, on hot days like this."
"Take a dip in the ocean," Margaery's eyes drifted to the sea, reflecting in the shimmering endless blue. "It's so close..."
"It is, isn't it," Sansa's gaze fell outward as well, and for a moment they shared the gorgeous view of the eastern sea.
"You know, I had never seen the ocean before coming here," Margaery looked back to the younger girl after a brief moment of silence between them.
"Me too," Sansa said, her voice jumping with excitement. "I had never even left Winterfell before coming here."
The other girls huddle together confidentially, chatter quietly amongst themselves. Even though Margaery couldn't hear what they were saying, she had the basic idea, as they faintly eyed Sansa, who hadn't noticed.
Between the heat and the rising tension, Margaery was beginning to grow frustrated, but she wasn't about to cause a scene. She was going to use a more subtle approach.
"Your dress is so lovely," Margaery was suddenly speaking to Sansa delightfully. Her fingers grazed the smooth material of Sansa's sleeve, who was turning warm in the cheeks under her subtle, delicate touch.
"Thank you," Sansa replied, blinking her innocent blue eyes.
"I love it," Margaery beamed at the girl then turned, smirking to the rest of the ladies, and asked no one in particular, "Her dress is just so lovely, don't you think?"
"Yes, very chic," agreed Blair, immediately in compliance. A few other good girls nodded, but Lenore was always the one to stir the pot.
"It suits her well. A simple dress, for a simple girl," she sneered from beside Margaery, and the other little birds gaped at her, surprised she would go so far.
The air shifted with stress, and the heat only made it that much worse. The only sound was the unsettling clink of their teacups and spoons as they waited and listened for Margaery's reaction.
Between the dreadful heat and the heartwrenching expression on Sansa's face, Margaery was infuriated to a degree she didn't realize was possible, and it even amazed herself, how she managed to keep her composure.
"Your tongue is so sharp," she turned to Lenore, with withering, hateful eyes yet she spoke in a practiced, calm voice. "Didn't I warn you to use it with caution?"
The tension was heavy. Not one of the girls said a word, they all listened attentively, with wide anxious eyes, Lenore especially, the little brat looks like she's about to cry.
"Now, I have to make an example out of you," Margaery continued unmercifully, glaring at the girl, her burning eyes beating her down into a senseless form.
"I'm sorry," her voice struggled through the heat. "Please, your grace."
Her pleas came out in breathless cries, the girl was already hysterical, a quaking, jingling mess her ruffles and glittering diamonds.
Sansa did not protest. She only watched Lenore, with cool, serious eyes.
"Guard, here now," Margaery was impatiently snapping at one of the guards hovering by the steps him with her dainty fingers.
The heat was making her morbid.
She was clammy and uncomfortable, until another quenching gust of wind from the ocean whirled in, over the prairie lands.
Margaery lost her words as her eyes wandered outward, where seemingly out of nowhere, she spotted the blur of her golden king, glittering like a citrine gemstone in the pale expanse of milkweed. He prowled across the prairie lands, towards belvedere, his guards following in his lead, their white cloaks sailing in the crisp, salty wind.
Margaery turned back to look at the girls, who had also noticed his grace's incoming presence, and they shifted in their squeaky wooden seats, unnerved by the tension of it all. Sansa only now was discomforted, solely by the fact Joffrey was approaching, as she peered at him with tense, unhappy eyes.
Margaery fixed on Lenore again, the little brat was now trembling in her lace, her makeup running down her cheeks in wet, black streams, as the hulking guard loomed over her.
"Please, please don't," she whimpered pathetically.
She appeared so helpless and weak under the shadow of the giant guard, cloaked with white and gleaming steel. Margaery did not feel even the slightest twitch of mercy for this vermin. She would ensure they fear and obey her after this.
The other girls, including Sansa, watched in shock as Margaery gave the guard a slight nod of the head, and he seized the young lady's jaw roughly with his steel gauntlet. Just the strength of the great brute and cold steel was enough to bruise her soft, tender flesh as he held her struggling head in place. He drew his dagger from his belt in a sharp whisk.
The girl had no words for herself, only loud, pained wails of protest, fighting against the man's powerful grip.
"Bring the blade to her tongue," Margaery ordered, at this point, Joffrey was close enough to the rest of them to hear what they were saying.
He seemed intrigued by all the terrorized screaming, and he peered over with fond curiosity as he neared them.
The gleaming blade pressed teasingly against the girl's tender tongue, as she sobbed miserably, tears blackened with makeup streamed down her sweating, messy face.
Margaery watched contently, sipping her on her iced lemonade until Sansa finally had enough.
"Wait," Sansa objected, showing only Margaery her timid, blue eyes. "I think we can spare her this time."
She can't handle it. What a fragile little thing.
Margaery sighed, then looked to her guard, "You heard her," motioning him off the traumatized court lady. "I think it's safe to say she's learned her lesson," she chuckled sickly.
The girls looked around at each other, some of them in shock, some amusement, and some completely unaffected, as the king and his guards ascended the steps into the teahouse.
"Ladies," Joffrey smiled as he approached the girls, flashing a sharp smile at them. A thrill passed over all of them, as each of them smiled back at him, except Sansa, whom he eyed for a tormenting, long moment, the greater half of them trying to not to blush at the young king standing before them.
Some of them were frightened of him, the more corrupt bit of them, found his supremacy attractive and they disregarded his willful, hellish bits and swooned over him sinking to her knees with the rest of them.
"Your grace," the women answered sweetly, like perfect little angels, almost completely all in sync.
Joffrey was impressed with their obedience. The breeze seemed to pick up with his presence.
"My queen," he chewed his bottom lip as his eyes found Margaery's somewhere among the flowers and teacups. She loved how he addressed her solely, apart from the rest of them.
"Joffrey, my lovely," his name had a delightful ring to it, perfect on her sweet, singsong voice. She addressed him as if they had been lovers for many years, or long ago in a previous life.
He always looked so cool.
In these rugged waves of heat, he was refreshing as that cold drop of water, running down the wet, tin ice bucket, collecting at the soaking seams of the table cloth.
The way he looked at her, did indescribable things to her. He was giving her that look, that familiar look of a starved boy. This was an easy face of his to determine, Margaery knew it all too well.
The male species were not such a complicated breed to her, yet, the one man who mattered, the one whom she would spend the rest of her days with, was far different than most men—than any man, she had ever met. He could replicate the way of a casual man, but in a crooked manner, a way that revealed to a common watcher he is a tad off in the head.
Yes, he could put on a show and appear as ordinary as the rest if he wanted to if he's feeling to be well behaved at the moment. But there were times when he did things that seemed could bring no good in any way possible. Things did just because he could. Some may say these things were destructive and immoral, some people hated him for these actions, the greater half feared him for it. But she knew he was just playing the game.
Not one of these tortured souls of the capital could justify any reasoning behind these actions. No one could find an answer. Not even his mother. Not one living, breathing soul, but she.
Joffrey was just misunderstood. Yes, to the common eye, he came off as this mad, power-crazed monarch, but she knew the truth. Margaery had an eye for people. She could see what others couldn't. She had a talent that made it easy for her to see right through thin their layers, the thin layers of humanity, see right into their soul.
Unlike most people, he was a challenge to read. But at recherché times, he would reveal to her what lied beneath the cold exterior. She swore to herself she was not naive for being able to see the innocence in him. She truly believed the 'unjust' bits of him was simply the product of his upbringing, a product of all the heavy, obscene power being harnessed all into a shiny little crown dropped and landing crooked atop the lost, straying child's head.
Some may say his moral compass spun in the wrong direction, but she could see past all this foolishness. Who even has the ability to decipher morality anyway? The words 'good,' and 'bad' are such black and white, absolute words. He's too complex to label with just one word.
Joffrey simply did as what he must and now he's winning the game.
Some may say even she is corrupt, twisted in the head, but she didn't let that stop her from thinking the way she thought. She was just doing what she must to survive the game too.
Joffrey crossed the belvedere, advancing on his queen in a romantic gleam of blonde and gold. His crown glittered in the sunshine as he stood before her, beaming down at her with his pristine, sharp teeth.
She stared with wonder, then his hand found hers from her lap, squeezing it tenderly in his own, before drawing it to his mouth to grant her a gentle kiss.
How gorgeous.
Although she wanted to, she didn't flush under his compelling stare. She remained tall and could feel all of their eyes on her, watching, dazzled with interest, all but Sansa, who watched with an odd look of unsettled confusion. There was visible tension between her and Joffrey. Margaery looked back to him.
"Are you able to join us for breakfast?" she blinked up at him under her long lashes, never letting go of his hand.
He laughed quietly, down at her, making her feel almost too eager for a moment.
"And crash your tea party?" he joked, and all the girls laughed, except Sansa. "Is there even room for me?"
"Of course there's room for you, sweet king," Margaery chimed, surveying the packed table. "There's always room for a gem like you."
"We normally don't allow boys at the tea table, but we're delighted to have you, your grace.." Maerywnn, the curly little brunette, swooned over him and beside her, Sansa rolled her eyes.
Joffrey sought her gaze, but said nothing in return, only smiled smugly, wearing his ego outward as his crown.
"Lenore..." Margaery turned to the brat beside her, then in her sweetest voice said, "Leave now, before I change my mind and rip out your tongue, my dear."
The girl, a smudged mess, didn't have to be asked twice as she abruptly tore from her seat and rushed from the scene.
Joffrey laughed again, his high voice jumping with delightful amusement, seemingly impressed with his betrothed's behavior. She would be lying if she said she didn't eat up his approval. It was just so delicious.
"That wasn't necessary, dear Margaery, I don't believe I'll be staying long," he said, and she sank a bit in her seat.
"Why not?" she pouted. "There's no other place else to be, but here, looking out over the world."
He watched her with fascination, his eyes blue enough to take a dip in and cool off.
"Margaery, my goddess," said the king, yanking her to her feet by their joined hands, "Come walk with me."
She cast a look over her shoulder to Sansa, who was staring with bewilderment, "I'll be right back," she sang to her, and Joffrey turned his head back too, his prowling eyes flickering with interest as he watched this subtle interaction between the two girls.
Margaery then smiled to the other ladies as she followed him from the teahouse out onto the windy coastal plains.
He took up her arm, lacing it around his own, once they were out a few paces in the grass.
"I didn't realize you and Lady Sansa were so close," he said in a low tone, his eyes hunted her.
"Oh, yes, I just adore her. She's the sweetest little thing," Margaery retorted.
"Yes, she is, isn't she..." Joffrey trailed off, it seemed he was wrapped up in thought.
Margaery wondered what he was thinking about. If he wanted to be vague that was fine, she wasn't about to bother him for an answer. She peered back to the Red Keep, a glorious sight in the distance.
"I've never seen a more beautiful place in my life," she said dreamily, in her sweet, fragile voice, the kind of voice a man could not forget.
Joffrey said nothing but he watched her carefully, so fascinated by the graceful way she moved and talked, and how she looked at him with her charming, serene eyes.
Even she was aware, she had a way of no other girl.
Margaery clung to his arm, as they trailed along the warm, grassy cliff, the guards following from a windy distance, to allow them to speak in privacy.
"Tell me what's on your mind, darling," she sang, tenderly squeezing his arm, as they neared the edge of the cliff, overlooking the gray lapping waves.
"It's not all that important," Joffrey admitted, suddenly looking unsure of himself, his eyes averting off to the eastern sea.
"Anything you have to say is important, my love," Margaery gave his arm another squeeze, her voice was soft and intimate this time, promising there was no one else in the world she would rather be with. "Always."
The infamous boy king processed her words for a moment before a rare, sincere smile crossed his face. She knew it was sincere, by the look of serenity in his usually glowering eyes. Her words had found a way to touch him and it was a blissful feeling.
"Sometimes I wonder how you're even real," he said with an effort, seemingly throwing himself off guard more than her, with the sweetness of his own words.
"Joffrey," when she breathed out his name her heart throbbed, and she turned to meet his crystal eyes. The thought of what he just said tickled her stomach with swirling excitement.
The air had undoubtedly shifted heavily between them. Her heart started to race like it always did when he would start talking sweetly to her. When he would look at her, it felt as though he could see straight into her soul with those transfixing blue eyes.
She wanted to tell him how good it was to hear him say that, how just the thought of him made her tingle on the inside, but instead of spluttering and gushing to him, she decided it might be more effective to show him instead.
In one faint motion, Margaery tipped her head forward, gently, to close in the lack of distance between their lips. Nothing in her life had ever occurred so gracefully. Together, they moved in absolute sync as if their mouths were made for each other, as if it was their fate was to kiss at this very moment over the rippling sea and under the billowing puff of white clouds.
Everything about this felt right, his perfect lips were soft and warm, always eager against hers, and they filled her with excitement and life. He grabbed her and took her, pulling her to his chest.
She loved it when he would push against her and force their warm bodies together, their heartbeats pounding, anxiously, until falling into sync with one another, and mingling into one. His inviting arms snaked around her waist, forcing her snugger against his front side, as he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into her hot, wet mouth.
The way he kissed her, made her forget his age, made her register his natural talent for kissing. The boy may be inexperienced but he knew how to use his mouth.
He kissed her in the only way he knew how.
And she drank him up.
Her tongue slipped between his soft parted lips, plunging into his wet mouth to grace him, the very taste of sweet desire, driving her further against his thumping heart.
Kissing this younger boy, a golden gem in this summer's breath, was so surreal it seemed like a dream.
A breeze blew Margaery's dress, her skirt was flowing and rippling white waves of lace in the air, and they never ceased their kiss. Their hungry tongues danced together with a gorgeous passion, feeding off each other's excitement.
She thought of her court ladies, sitting back at the belvedere watching them kiss over the ocean. She didn't fret over their expected confrontation, she simply let go, let go of all worries and concerns, relaxing and melting into the warm, tenderness of his lips.
The stirring feeling in her stomach traveled south, as his mouth left her's, only to plant delicate kisses over her jaw, traveling down her throat in a hypnotizing, sensual way. She tilted her head, leaning into his soft, intoxicating lips.
"Mmm...Joff.." she found herself sighing, delicately, breathlessly.
The feeling was so arousing, and she cursed herself for getting so mesmerized by just the warmth of his touch and the softness of his lips.
It was nothing but an innocent kiss yet it had gotten her wound up so quickly she hated herself for it.
Was it the sensation of the kiss, or was it the fact it was him?
When his lips left her tingling skin, he wrapped her in a warm, sentimental hug and she had her answer.
It was undoubtedly him, she thought, embraced in a blissful, free moment in this dark world, as they overlooked the ocean.
Margaery felt complete at last with him. He was her missing piece she knew it. He was all hers and she was going to be his Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The world was at her fingertips.
Margaery pressed her nose into the soft flesh throat and inhaled his clean scent. With her arms laced around his torso, she breathed him in deeply until there was nothing left in her lungs but him.
"You know, I brought you out here to talk, not make love by the ocean," he suddenly said.
"Oh, that sounds gorgeous," she sighed dreamfully.
He laughed and she looked out to the glittering water, then back into his eyes. "Tell me, my king."
Joffrey hesitated, his arms were still draped around her waist, and he looked off to the sea for a moment.
"I can't stop thinking about it," he finally admitted with his eyes still averting, stressfully sighing as if he disgraced himself for feeling a natural emotion.
"Thinking about what?" Margaery leaned back to look into his eyes, knowing damn well exactly what his thoughts consisted of. She presumed he couldn't stop thinking of their intimate little encounter a few days back. Intimate was a gentle word. She hoped it stirred in his mind at night, keeping him up until he finally had to relieve himself just to get his mind off her. She anticipated it might be unquestionably fun to tease him. The tickle in her stomach and spot between her legs jolted with that sweet fire.
"The feeling of my mouth?" her eyes seemed to hypnotize him, causing his mouth to fall open, in subtle shock. She knew without a doubt, he never had expected her to say that. She loved the tingling feeling she got when she threw him off.
"Or the feeling of my hands...around you?...Or my warmth in the night?" She didn't give Joffrey a chance to think or say anything. He only stared, mesmerized by her aggressive nature. "Are your thoughts something along those lines?"
He blinked incessantly, taken aback by her words.
"Well, I—" he struggled to come up with something to say but his attempt was unsuccessful as he was more caught up in the feeling of as her hands, which had unraveled from his embrace so her fingers could caress down his chest, lovingly.
"I'll touch you again if you want, my sweet king," she said faintly to him, leaning in close enough so his shallow, excited breath, could warmly ghost over her face.
She was impressed with herself. It seemed her words were turning him on, as well as her fingers, running teasingly up and down his abdomen, before playing with his belt buckle.
"My big..thick...king," she teased the golden clasp, driving him over the edge with this seething tension, "..I just want to...to taste you again."
"M-Margery," he stumbled over his words, all hot and bothered now, "We can't. Not here," his voice came out husky.
It hadn't occurred to her until now, he probably had many things to do and places to be so they would have to play another time.
"My, dear.." she noticed she had turned the boy on so much to the point where it was visible. She gave him a wild, exciting look of the eye. "You're absolutely right, your grace," she taunted, address him with abnormal formality, "It's far too hot out here, a bit too much in the open if you ask me."
He smiled, again fascinated by her beauty and words, and still clearly all wound up. "I'll pay you a visit tonight," he said, his words sank into her pounding chest.
"I'll wait up for you."