I apologize for the long wait, friends. More info regarding that in the notes at the bottom.
Enjoy.
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Margaery Tyrell. The most beautiful rose to ever blossom from the bountiful vines of Highgarden. She was like a sculpture, perfectly formed. Curls of deep brown hair tumbled down to the small of her back and her eyes were soft and warm. She was slender, yet shapely, with a full bosom and wonderfully rounded hips, features that were lovingly accentuated by the silk dresses she almost always wore. And when she smiled, especially to Robb…
Lady Tyrell was sweet and kind, of course, and she acted as such, a true woman of the people, always stopping to speak to the commoners on her walks outside the Red Keep. But when she set her eyes on the King… there was always that glint in her eyes, mischievous and wicked.
Gods, why does she toy with me? That question repeated in Robb's mind endlessly, even when he already knew the answer. The looks she gave him, the little smiles, the sway of her hips as she walked, moving that way just for him. It was maddening to the point where Robb's blood would boil and seethe in his veins, like it had on the battlefield. But at least there he could cut down Lannister soldiers, at least he could find some release.
Robb could scarcely believe it, but he actually yearned for battle, for spilled blood and the sweet feeling of sinking his blade into warm flesh. Among other things as well… Dacey Mormont was still in the Capitol, still loyal and true. Enough to slip out of whatever she happened to be wearing at a single word from Robb. But that would not be kingly of him. And yet I took her to bed all the same when I was still just the King in the North, a rebel fighting for justice.
Robb was not stupid. Or at least he liked to believe that was not. The Tyrell girl wanted to be his queen, that much was obvious. And Robb knew in his bones that he would let her.
But Roslin Frey… Gentle Ros, just as sweet, just as kind, beautiful and delicate in such a way most women could only dream of being. A far cry from the rest of her House. She had a small nose that sniffled around any strong scent. She always looked at Robb with those big, shiny, adoring eyes, endless brown orbs much like Margaery's.
She was Robb's betrothed. He had sworn an oath. A Stark's Oath.
But he needed to secure the throne. Robb had the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands. Roughly half of the Seven Kingdoms. He needed to tip the scales in his favor. He needed the Reach. With the power of House Tyrell backing him in addition to all the rest, Robb could deter such ideas of treason from ever manifesting in the minds of his subjects.
What would be more valuable, he asked himself one night as he lay alone in bed. The support of the Tyrells or that of the Freys of the Crossing?
No matter his decision, he would be dealing a great insult to a noble lord. Lord Mace brought his daughter with him to the Capitol for a reason and to deny him would be as much an insult as a slap to the face, such as southron lords acted. Better for Robb to have a slight against a dead man than a live one who could help him.
…Even if that same lord declared for Joffrey before I ended his wretched life.
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The wedding went by like a blur. There was music, there was food and drink, there was dancing… and there was King Robb Stark. Tall, imposing, shaped by war… and muscled in the way Stark men were known for. Dark auburn curls fell over his eyes, blue like the sky, a feature more Tully than Stark. In fact, he took after his mother more than his father, it seemed. It had been said Lord Eddard's bastard son resembled him more than his trueborn son. But Robb was a Stark, of that there was no doubt.
He had spent the entire wedding string at Margaery like a piece of meat, hungry eyes devouring her… our stripping her bare. Lady Margaery could not tell. All the same, she was a Tyrell of Highgarden no matter what color the cloak that Robb had wrapped around her shoulders was, so she smiled and laughed with the rest of the guests, noble lord and ladies who came from all around to witness their King take his first wife. She sat next to her new husband, all grace and poise, and hoped, prayed to every god out there, that no one saw her shivering under the Young Wolf's gaze.
At the end of the feast, there had been no bedding ceremony. Margaery thanked the gods for that, having spent far too long with her handmaidens in creating her new dress just to have it all torn to ribbons by drunken men. No, Robb had simply carried her off himself, like some Northman warrior making off with his prize, his spoils of war. Unorthodox, yes, but Margaery heard people cheering behind them. After all, the King had the Rose of Highgarden in his arms. That was certainly something to celebrate. "The most beautiful rose in all the Seven Kingdoms", her mother had told her once, "Do not forget that, child."
The instant the doors to their bedchambers closed behind them, the Wolf was upon her. His hot breath at her neck made her shiver, and the lips and tongue that followed made her moan. Soft and quiet sounds they were, but they only urged the Wolf-King on. Roaming hands, strong and firm and gentle, they caressed her body, hips and breasts filling impatient paws. His mouth was at her neck, kissing and licking, teeth nipping at her skin playfully. The Wolf is tasting me, Margaery thought, to see if I am truly as sweet as my family claims.
Then his mouth fell upon hers, lips colliding eagerly and clumsily, and yet Margaery found herself melting in his arms. His kisses were fierce and hungry, relentless as he was on the battlefield, starving her lungs of precious air, kissing her until her cheeks were flushed red and her lips were swollen and puffy. When he finally pulled away, Margaery gasped, panting, blushing, and as wet as a lady could be before becoming some wanton whore.
He pressed her against the wall, his arms on either side, trapping her. Then he kissed her again, his hands moving to liberate her body from its silk prison. She moaned into his mouth as he pulled and tugged at the laces of her bodice, gasping as a hand dipped down to cup her breast. Robb, her husband and king, said not a word as he began to strip her body bare, tugging hard on her skirts until they pooled around her ankles. She was wearing little now, near everything exposed to him.
The way he looked at her then, like a wolf at his prey, it struck something within her, something primal and feral. She met his gaze, staring up into furious blue eyes. He could kill me, she suddenly knew, he could kill me right now if he wanted to. She didn't know why she thought that, or why she seemed to find the idea exciting.
So, she kissed him, pressing her body flush against his, a sweet surrender she knew he would accept. And he did. The feeling of his hands on her, pawing at her taut body like some beast, thinking of all the things he could do to her now that she was his, it made Margaery near delirious. The tickle of his beard, the taste of his lips, his tongue, the Rose was certain that she was dreaming. When she finally pulled away, she still had his lower lip caught between her teeth. Robb chuckled at that, a deep rumble in his chest making her press closer to him.
Then he pushed – or shoved – her onto the bed. Margaery squeaked at the rough action, bouncing on the mattress, pulling her slender legs closer to her form, almost like a sort of defense against the Wolf standing over her. But it mattered little once he pounced upon her. His lips met her neck once more, his firm body trapping her against the bed.
Then he started south – much like he had done at the start of the war – his mouth moving from her neck to her collarbone, lower and lower still until one of her supple breasts filled his mouth. Margaery moaned, arching her back as his tongue lavished a nipple, suckling on it hungrily, tasting her flesh. The other breast was tended to by a calloused hand, attentive and as equally greedy as his mouth was. His thumb brushed over her hardened nipple, eliciting a hiss from the Tryell girl.
Next, he descended even lower. Margaery never thought Robb Stark to be the kind of man to perform the Lord's Kiss on a woman – in truth, she had never thought of Northerners in such a regard at all. But her new husband had quickly – and thoroughly – changed her mind. Margaery had always been a curious girl, and her ever faithful handmaiden had done a wonderful job of making sure she was no stranger to the Lord's Kiss. But Robb Stark's tongue, she discovered, had turned out to be far more pleasing than any woman's. He was eager, enthusiastic, lapping at her sweet honey-dew until her throat was sore from screaming his name. He tasted her and then drank from her, all while she was crying and wailing, writhing in his arms while his tongue snaked inside her.
When he drew his lips and tongue from her, she thought that might have been the end. She was exhausted, breathless, cheeks flushed like some starry-eyed girl and that had all been from only his tongue. She should have known better, she realized, as the Young Wolf turned her over onto her belly, his knees spreading her legs apart as he prepared to claim his wife. She found, to her surprise, that she wanted him to do it.
There was a hunger in the way he fucked her, a yearning of a sort, like he could simply not get enough of her no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he thrust into her. Like a rutting wolf, really. Her fingers gripped the sheets, nails tearing into the fabric, and she pushed back against his thrusts, trying to get him further, deeper.
It was then that Margaery knew that her husband, her king, was no ordinary man. He was a Stark of Winterfell, a man with the blood of the First Men in his veins. The Wolfsblood.
She was a Tyrell of Highgarden, a true rose. Roses had thorns, yes, but what good were thorns against a wolf's hide? Margaery knew enough history to know what happened when Kings grew bored with the women they married. Robb was nothing like those men, she knew, honorable and just as Stark men were. But still she feared, even as her husband was above her, inside her.
After he spent himself inside her – and she spent herself on his manhood, twice – they gave themselves to their dreams, drifting to sleep in each other's arms for the first time as husband and wife, king and queen. But before her eyes fluttered shut for the night, Margaery Stark resolved that her husband would never grow bored of her…
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Again, sorry for the schedule slip. My own fault for being too lazy to type up the stuff I've already got handwritten.
For those of you who are uninformed, my new Mass Effect story, "A Warm Welcome" is already put up. A little thing about a human man entering into a polygamous relationship with two asari and an exploration of that relationship on a personal level – in addition to the smut of course. So feel free to check that out when you get the chance. That is, if you like Mass Effect of course.
In other news, I've come to realize that I very much enjoy the DC animated universe thanks to the lovely plethora of shows available on Netflix such as Justice League, Justice League: Unlimited, Young Justice, Batman Beyond, Batman: The Brave and the Bold, and Green Lantern: The Animated Series. All are great shows which you should definitely watch. Expect some more stories in the future about them.
Watch out, readers. I'm spreading my wings!
Thank you for reading!