A Special Thank You.

Though most stories in this section were written entirely by me, though with the guidance of another, this story, like my other two GoT stories were written in concert with the requesting person. Writing it with them was a pleasure and I continue to believe that this story is one of my best.

There he sat under the stars — no longer worried about his pride or parentage — power or perception. At peace for perhaps the first time in the entirety of his short, illustrious life. And yet, despite such silver-lined facets, and half-full facts, the mother of he who lays: still mourns. For King Joffrey Baratheon, the beautiful son of Cersei Lannister, a child with whom the latter had finally reached the Iron Throne, would never again open his eyes to look upon she who gave him life. Never again stand by her side as a proud son, and as rightful king. No, for he had been poisoned — /ended/ by some foul, pathetic misanthrope, who sought to destroy all that young Joffrey had not just earned, but built.

Such thoughts, as you might imagine, churn in the gut and course through blood of Cersei, just as they had for days. But no tears fell from her emerald green eyes on that day. And no wailing escaped her anger-bent lips. For such a time had passed. For now, she felt only hatred. Only rage. For those who took his boy from her, for any and all enemies, a group she oft described as anyone who wasn’t her or her children. But at that moment, such a title was less ethereal and far more finite.

As it was the traitorous harlot: Margaery Tyrell, the only recently crowned wife of the late King Joffrey, who no doubt played some part in the scheme which led to his poisoning. She never loved him. Never cared for him the way Cersei did. All that the young girl wanted was power, jumping from one husband’s bed to another, not even waiting for the sheets upon their beds to cool, let alone their corpses. And now she was in line to marry Tommen? So that she can steal another son from Cersei and all that she was destined to obtain — to replace her, as the wood witch once prophesied? No! Cersei swore to herself, as she looked down at her sweet, sweet boy, whose body laid in grace upon the raised table in the center of the Great Sept of Baelor.

“Such a tragedy. He would have been such a wonderful husband, and an even better king.” Came a voice, at first distant, but then nearing. “You may take heart in knowing, Cersei, that he learnt much from you. It’s how he ended up here…. Oh, forgive me, I mean on the Iron Throne, of course.” Every word spoken caused Cersei’s skin to crawl. She who spoke them being the ruthless, conniving cunt … this Margaery Tyrell — an usurper, one that had to be dealt with, before her alliances matched her ambitions.

And though there may have been solutions for such a threatening woman — one whose hands remained stained with Joffrey’s blood in Cersei’s mind, the latter was far too angry and emotionally unstable to think of them, or wait for them to develop. No…. Not on that day…. Not when the vile, backstabbing whore dared to speak to Cersei in such a solemn place — in such a painful time.

“Have I not warned you about over familiarity with me…. I seem to remember it involving me having you strangled in your sleep.” Cersei responded in a calm, and near whispered voice, as she continued to stare at her dead son’s innocent face.

“Well, it will not be long before I am queen, officially, again, and as such, will be able to call you whatever I wish.” The voice was so very close at that moment, coming from just behind Cersei, its tone mocking and cruel, even if it may have sounded to the vacuous as kind and caring.

“My son will be king, yes, but you … you will be nothing more than the whore he beds at night. Keep that in mind, child, as you linger here….” Cersei then turned, her eyes filled with fire, only to find herself face-to-face, and mere inches away from Margaery, whose eyes conveyed every bit of the disdain and dismissiveness her words conveyed, even if the expression about told an entirely different story.

“Have you not spoken to your son? He loves me now. My face, my heart, and soon enough, my body and cunt. The way that I take interest in him. The way that I live to serve /him/, and him alone. Something the other women in his life have never done. In fact…” Margaery continues, as she steps back and away from Cersei, if only to force the Lannister to follow her departure with her eyes. “…he has already begun to prepare for your return to Casterly Rock. I told him how much you loved it there. And how having his mother around would only make things more difficult for his young rule….”

Such words were each like arrows, striking at the very center of Cersei’s already wounded heart. Each of them driving her mad with rage and jealousy, and yet, despite the anger that burned within her, the Lannister kept her temper restrained. “I thought you lived for my son Joffrey…. And the traitor Renly Baratheon before that…. Tell me, how many men will you ‘live for’ before you are through…? Hmmm…?”

“There is only one man I love now. One man with whom I will spend the rest of /his/ life.” The subtle comment of ‘his life’, pushed the proverbial dagger deeper, causing Cersei to step after Margaery, who still paced about the chamber like a purposeless Septon in prayer.

In reaction to Cersei’s approach, Margaery ceased her intentionally vexing walk, and turned, waiting for Cersei to come near, all whilst retaining her soft smile.

“Do not mistake your momentary place in my son’s heart as permanent, for you are as temporary as the toy soldiers he used to play with when he was a child.” After the words had been uttered by she, Cersei watched for any hint of emotion behind the smug little girl’s feigned politeness.

“It is telling, that when you reach for stories of his enjoyments, you must go back so far. Did you know he rides? That he goes hawking? That he and I go together? That Joffrey wanted to take me to hunt with him? When have your sons ever asked you to accompany them? Have they ever? Does that not pain you…? To know that after all you have done for them, all you have given to them, that I can turn them, and take them, with a mere ride out into the country for a day of sport?” The lady from the House Tyrell broke not, her expression never changing, even if, like Cersei, she studied the eyes of her rival. In that gaze, and in Margaery’s perception, she found that the mother of her betrothed was growing more and more agitated by the moment. Such a thought was both scary and exciting — both intimidating and tantalizing.

“The only thing that pains me, is listening to the woman who murdered my son speak, without a gurgle of blood to accompany her words.” The assumption of such involvement or complicities were whispered throughout King’s Landing, but to hear Cersei, the mother of Joffrey state them herself, was quite another thing, even for Margaery.

Shocking though it was. Outrageous though it might have been. Such did little to chill the fire which Margaery spoke. “Ooo, it must help you, to blame me for Joffrey’s death. To avoid the feeling that you, and your son lost in the great game of thrones for once. You know, I have always wondered, what Joffrey felt when he choked? Relieved, maybe, that he no longer have to deal with you or just a grief that he could not die in the arms of the woman he loved?”

Then it happened, without warning, a vicious slap across the face, delivered by Cersei, and felt by she who so eloquently taunted her. Stinging the blow was, so much so that Margaery’s head turned nearly completely to the side, her hand reaching up in reaction, to touch the skin which immediately turned red in the shape of Cersei’s palm.

“What could I poss….” Before Margaery could even finish her sentence, another slap landed flush across her opposing cheek, causing her no less pain, but this time far more anger. Anger which manifested as as she struck back, slapping her older rival back, in her effort, leaving a palm print not unlike the one adoring her own face.

“You dare touch m….” As Cersei spoke, the rose lashed its thorns, leaving their mark on the lioness’ face. From that moment on, both knew that war has been declared and madness seized them both. A madness they each gave into, and followed, lunging at one another, and digging their hands deep into each others long blonde hair. Without words, or a plan either meant to follow, they each yanked and tugged, their heads whipping from side to side, as they stumbled together about the room, with the Seven solemnly gazing down on them, neither condemning or condoning, and the stony eyes of King Joffrey staring emptily into the night, ignorant of the battle that was started by his death.

Back and forth they each struggled, trying desperately to gain the upper hand in their tug-of-war, but finally, with one last yank and throw, Margaery sent Cersei crashing down to her knees onto the marble flooring of the Great Sept. Despite the two having released each other’s hair as Cersei fell, Margaery chased after her enemy, seeking to re-establish her grip, but as soon as she approached the wide-eyed Lannister, the latter reached up, and grabbed at the young Tyrell’s cleavage, and began to pull. Unsure what to do, or how to react to such a brazen maneuver, Margaery shot a hand at Cersei’s dress, grabbing it at the neck. Angered, Cersei sent a kick into Margaery’s stomach, sending the chestnut-haired girl stumbling backward. With two sharp gasps and the sound of fabric ripping apart, each woman found herself clutching a large chunk of her rival’s dress, with one of her rival’s breasts bobbing in the air.

There can be no doubt that at that moment, each was beyond enraged — each ready to battle each other to whatever end, and yet such a state did little to stop them from pausing for a moment to examine each others exposed breast. Eery it was, how similar they looked. Nearly identical in size, shape, and appearance, apart from Cersei’s areolas, which were much larger, though their nipples appeared not only the same length, and width, but were also in matching states of excited erection.

“Your breasts are sagging, you old shrewd. No wonder Robert preferred painted whores in brothels to those tits.” Biting the comment was, spat by Margaery, who found herself no longer even trying to hide the venom in her insults.

“And how many men did you let pluck those little flowers of yours? I wonder.” Cersei replied, her words no less biting, and her willingness to cling to a certain layer of civility: gone.

“That DOES IT! We are going to end this right here, right now. And when we are done, you’ll be staying here with your beloved son forever! Fat as you are, I think you’ll fit nicely beneath that table.” It was then that Margaery pointed, her finger aimed at the table on which Joffrey laid, under which seemed to be a small compartment beneath, one just large enough to fit a body. “Now take off the rest of those pathetic rags you call clothes, and I’ll take off mine. After all, I don’t want to walk back to the Red Keep naked, after I’ve strangled the life out of you.”

“Hah…” Cersei said mockingly “…when we are done, you’ll be the one accompanying my son to face the Seven. And they in turn will send you to the deepest of the seventh hell, where your traitor husband lies. But yes, I think that will be a most excellent space to hide your body when I’ve proven that I am the true ruler of King’s Landing.”

Without further words, the two queens started to slowly take off what was left of their clothing — they having each been in mourning, their chosen clothes were relatively simple and slid easily off of their bodies. Oh humor to each was that their rival wore no smallclothes, the mark of a woman who is unwilling to wait, when she sees something she wants. ‘Slut.’ Both women thought to themselves, after, for the first time, seeing their rival’s true hair color, displayed on their mounds. Margaery’s being covered in a jungle of chestnut brown, while Cersei’s was a furry cloak of gold.

After that momentary distraction, each picked up their clothes, both those removed by they, and those torn off by their enemy. Having done so, Margaery then walked to the magnificent statue of ‘the Maiden’, young and beautiful, and left her clothes hidden beneath her altar. Cersei, with a contemptuous smirk on her face, walked to the statue of ‘the Mother’, a figure of older, but more mature beauty, and placed her clothes beneath.

Suddenly unsure of what to do, they each approached one another, doing so carefully, examining every inch of their opponent’s body silently. Then, as both stood within arm’s reach, they moved. Two shrill shrieks cut through the air, sure to wake the dead and move the stony face of the Gods which looked down upon them. Together, the two enemies fell to their knees, shocked and paralyzed by the pain coursing through their bodies, pain caused when each following their feminine instinct, sent a hand for their opponent’s cunt and dug their long nails into each other’s labias. With inhuman will, they then forced their eyes open, and through a veil of tears saw the pain-etched face of their enemy, each then feeling a tremble and a twist in the hand which clutched at their womanhood, the effect of which sent a new wave of pain through each of their bodies. It was at that moment, after each found their own will strengthened at the sight-born realization that their rival was suffering just as much as they were, that each woman used their yet free hand to reach for the nipples of their enemy. On which their nails did pinch and pull — twist and torment, they two punishing each other’s erect nipples. Glee each felt, as they tortured their chief rival to the throne. And yet, despite such happiness, neither of the warring queens could stop themselves from bursting into tears, even if they both bravely fought off the desire to scream out in pain, each biting their own lip so hard that a trickle of blood ran down their chin, flowing along with the sweat and tears that had been set loose by their struggle.

Then it came, a deep, echoing sound which sent shivers up each of the the two nude rivals’ spines, smashing through the ocean of torture they meant to drown each other in. For though it was the familiar tolling of the bell of Baelor, it came not alone, but instead with the telltale smell of burning incense and the sound of slowly thudding, and yet softly-soled footsteps.

Even in their state of war, the two women looked to each other for answers, as to how they might possibly explain why the two of them were naked, and wrestling with one another, not feet from the dead body of the son of one, and husband to the other.

Every second in which their eyes communicated questions, concerns, and consequences to one another, the approaching footsteps grew louder. In reaction, and knowing of no other way for the two to remain uncaught, Cersei used a single foot to open a large door to the closet compartment they had threatened the other which before, the one which made up the base of the table on which Joffrey laid. Having opened the path, Cersei then dropped, and lowered herself with a grip on the table which held her son, only to be quickly followed by Margaery who did the same not a moment later. Each of them coming to a rest on their sides, but in opposing directions, with one’s feet by the others head, and vice versa.

Together they then rolled, until Cersei’s body hit the far, unopened side of the closet, followed only a moment later by Margaery, only coming to a stop after her nipples grazed past her enemy’s cunt, and then slammed into her enemy’s stomach, with those of the same then slamming into hers. As each came to grips with their sudden confines, and nearly interlocked bodies, Margaery reached back and shut the closet door behind them, thereby sealing the two of them inside, their every inch locked together from head to toe, only able to see by the most sparing beams of light, which broke through long present cracks in the closet’s exterior.

There in that strange cage, with literally no room to maneuver, or manipulate, each found their mouths not inches from their enemy’s cunt, with no chance of pulling away, or re-adjusting their positions.

“Move your dirty twat away from me, you filthy whore!” Cersei hissed, as her rival’s bush tickled the very tip of her nose. Margaery, whose head was toward the door, still being focused on the intensifying smell of incense and the chant of Septas growing louder by the second, found herself terrified of being found. In reaction to such fear, the lady of the House Tyrell, unconsciously moved her body away from the closed door behind her, in the process, ramming her cunt right into Cersei’s face while, while unceremoniously digging her sharp chin into the older woman’s sex.

Though accidental as it was, Cersei took the sudden sharp digging sensation in her regions nether, and her rival’s hairy cunt being shoved into her face, as renewed acts of aggression and war. Such a declaration received, even if none was intentionally made, Cersei responded, unwilling to let such an act pass without reprisal. The debt was paid by the Lannister, when she sank her bared teeth into the soft flesh of her younger rival’s inner thigh.

“OooOwwwweeeEEe” The rose squealed, only muted as she placed one of her hands over her mouth, trying as best she could to fight off an almost instinctual urge to scream out in pain. Without thinking or even planning, the new widow decided to bite herself, snapping her jaw closed on Lioness’ thigh, in no less sensitive a place, with all the fury of pain and vengeance, the flesh between her teeth tasting of her rival’s now pouring sweat.

She could not hear it, but she could feel it — the effect her reciprocal bite was having on Cersei, who like she, did everything she could to avoid screaming out, instead responding by biting down harder, which in turn led to Margaery doing the same. In the meanwhile, each of the battling queens used one arm to hold the each other’s legs in place, while simultaneously clawing and beating blindly at each others bodies.

Margaery’s hand went straight for Cersei’s still erect nipples, which were pressing uncomfortably against her hard stomach. Due in no small part to those women who cared for her, the young queen had nails of a nearly unmatched length, each adding a full centimeter to her fingers, allowing her to press down on Cersei’s left nipple, while pinching the right one with her fore and middle fingers. As such torture was inflicted by she, Margaery took a half-second to enjoy her work, triggered by the tremble of pain she felt course through Cersei’s body. And yet, as she enjoyed the fruit of her assault, and for a moment forgot about the vicious bite applied to her thigh, she again found herself fighting off the urge to cry out, as Cersei bit down on Margaery’s thigh with twice the ferocity.

But said re-doubling of her bite came not alone, for Cersei’s counter offensive was underway. One in which she grabbed Margaery’s ass, and dug her finger into the young queen’s anus, thereafter she began to claw as hard as she could inside of her long untouched rectum. In response to the attack, Cersei found herself rewarded by a violent shaking she presumed to be an intensified sob. But said reward was followed swiftly by Margaery’s bite upon Cersei’s thigh increasing in both pressure and painfulness, such having the effect of causing Cersei to cease her anal assault, if only to avoid alerting the entirety of King’s Landing to the pain which now ate at her will to continue.

It seemed for that moment that the two queens’ vicious cycle of escalation would be endless, until both of they locked in struggle came upon the final solution. Almost in unison, they bent their unheld leg and brought their feet to their’s enemy’s face. Then, before either knew what was was happening, they thrust their feet forward, each gasping as the sharpest pain they have felt yet rampaged through them. It is hard to say which is more painful, the violent kick their rival delivered to their face, or the tearing of flesh which occurred, as their enemy’s head found itself kicked back, whilst both refused to release the grip their teeth had on each others flesh.

It took only a single kick or two, before each realized that they were doing themselves more harm than good, by nearly forcing with strikes, their foe to tear the flesh held in their mouth from the body to which it had so long clung. That realization led to each of the warring queens to change tactics, each deciding to use their perfectly manicured toes, to seal each others noses shut. With their mouth filled with the rival’s flesh, neither of the woman could breath. Until finally, out of breath, with their eyes bloodshot, and with whatever blood was not caught in their enemy’s mouth trickling down their thighs until it pooled with the quickly collecting drool on their chins and chests, they each suddenly, and in unison, pulled away from each other, or at least as far away as they could. Each taking a moment to breathe.

“So this is how you want to spend the day, you wrinkly cunt?” Spitting the blood from her mouth, Margaery asked in an emphatic whisper, with every syllable uttered in an oddly enunciated manner, her jaw still recovering from the numbness from use.

“You shall see how wrinkly it is!” With the taste of blood, flesh and sweat lingering in her mouth, Cersei too whispered harshly, as she quickly moved her thighs to better surround Margaery’s head, and then squeezed, using one constriction of muscle after another to slowly pull her enemy’s face into her cunt, until finally lips came into contact with lips.

As the vice grip took hold and effect, Margaery tried to apply a similar hold herself, but Cersei, ready for such an attempt, used her hands, and whatever angles she could find, to keep the young woman from the House of Tyrell’s legs at bay, so that she alone could inflict pain. As a result, the sex of the woman Cersei felt murdered her son was left to aim and thrust wildly not inches in front of her face, its every movement meant as an attempt to seal itself around her air passages. As a maddening side effect of such a struggle in vain, Margaery’s pubic hair found itself drug across the face of Cersei over and over, a most humiliating consequence for a hold well-applied.

With the younger woman’s legs held at bay, and the older woman’s arms keeping them in that state, each of the queens found themselves even more trapped than before, Margaery’s hands being the only limbs free to maneuver or use. Seeking to force Cersei to free her, Margaery first bit into the pussy covering her face, and sent one hand to press and scratch against the wound left by her teeth on Cersei’s thigh. With her other hand, she inserted her fingers into Cersei’s anus, repeating the torture the the rival queen had previously inflicted on her. Cersei, however, bit down on Margaery’s wounds, and squeezed tighter and tighter with steely resolve, driving Margaery’s face deeper into her sex, until she could feel from within her younger rival gasping desperately for air.

“I will smother you here, and now. By the gods, I beg, that you will die here in the Great Sept of Baelor.” There between Cersei’s thighs, Margaery struggled and squirmed, trying all that she could to free herself from her enemy’s hold, and her mouth from her foe’s smothering cunt, but to no avail. Said resistance, fraught with failure though it may have been, finally ended, as Margaery realized, that no amount of pain or petulence was going to force Cersei to release her. Instead it became obvious that there was only one strategy with which she might turn the tables. And so she took it, at that moment ceasing her fruitless writhing, and instead focusing all of her remaining energy on pleasing, licking and lapping at Cersei’s cunt while her hands gently caressed Cersei’s teats and toyed with her nipples, which through the entirety of their battle so far, had spoken to the older queen’s secret desire for such a contest.

“Wha….” Cersei mouthed without sound, as her constricted muscles began to quiver and shake, responding to the feeling of Margaery’s tongue and hands. “What are you….?” Such a rhetorical question came in the form of a breathless whisper, which went unheard by the Tyrell, who found that the thighs that had been holding her in place had finally loosed. And whether such a happening occurred due to design or effect, Margaery continued, completely focused on using her own sexual skills, to combat Cersei’s momentary advantage. It did not take long for Cersei’s squeeze to loosen, for her thighs to release, or for her grip on Margaery’s legs to falter, each coming with a quiet moan let free from the Lannister’s lips. Free Margaery was to immediately turn the tables and return to their war of pain and punishment, but instead of doing so, she continued to please her rival, wanting more than anything at that moment to humiliate her, and to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was she who was the more powerful woman, in the most important way a woman might be powerful.

Such a goal seemed to be nearing, as in Cersei’s state of complete sexual submission, Cersei let her body go limp, her body collapsing as much as it could, until her back and but rested entirely against the unopening side of the closet. In such a state, one queen let another please her, as each of her hands came to a gentle rest on Margaery’s ass, squeezing only slightly, whenever her younger rival would hit the perfect pace, place, and pressure. On and on, did they carry on, with the younger queen working her magic for minutes that seemed like hours, saying nothing, changing nothing, letting her rival continue to succumb to the pleasure lavished upon her. As Margaery’s pace built and built, Cersei began to writhe, unconsciously thrusting her sex forward, so that her enemy’s tongue would be driven deeper and deeper inside her. As all such bliss transpired, Cersei’s once quiet moans began to grow louder, but thankfully, the septon drowned any sound of ungodly pleasure with holy praise of the late king’s bravery. Eventually however, even those empty complements could do not enough to cover, and so Cersei, with no other options available that would allow her to silence her own screams, leaned forward again, and willingly placed her head between Margaery’s thighs, who just as willingly, sealed them around her rival.

Cersei at first, planned on reciprocating her enemy’s attention, but found that she was too close — too far, and only seconds away from release. A release the elder queen then gave into, as she screamed out in ecstasy, not for a mere moment, but for one that seemed unending, every decibel set free from one set of lips, then found itself delivered into another, before each was drowned in Margaery’s yet unpleased cunt.

It was then, that as Cersei quivered and shook, her juices squirting and coating Margaery’s mouth and chin, that the matter made her move. Not an act of violence, no, but one of challenge, baiting Cersei into meeting Margaery on her terms, by pulling just far enough away to say softly: “And so this is how the young queen takes the throne, by forcing the old queen to cum until she is dry. Mmm….”

Though the comment caused anger, indeed, it triggered something far more feminine in Cersei, a sexual jealousy. A feeling amplified the fact that she had already succumbed, manipulated and tongued by the murderer of her son, until she gave in, and let her enemy take from her the first spilling of cum. Such lit a fire in her, a desperate need to prove that it is she who is the more powerful of the two women, not because she has men who move and maul at her beck and call, not because she is a Lannister with more gold than Iron Bank of Braavos, but instead because she was born better, bred better, and because through her years in the game, had mastered her body, and the ability to use it.

From such a need, Cersei roused from her pleasure drunk state, and re-engaged, this time meeting her younger rival pleasure for pleasure, and tit-for-tat. Sending one of her hands to stimulate one of Margaery’s rock-hard nipples, while the other dug into the rose’s little flower, Cersei focusing all of her shaken will on driving her enemy to climax, before she herself gave in to Margaery again.

Margaery, for her part, let herself rest for a moment, her jaw aching, her tongue near dead with effort, and her confidence soaring, having already drawn the first cum from her enemy. And though no rules had been spoke or laid down, no determination that she who might cum first would be queen, the woman of House Tyrell took her rival’s release as a sign, that it was the younger, and not the older queen whose womanhood would prevail this day. In that state of rest, and overconfidence, Cersei worked, using her manipulation of both nipple and clit to great effect, so much so that Margaery’s break for rest grew longer, and then longer still, it being she who then began to moan. Her thoughts of resistance and counterattack disappearing, as Cersei drew upon her years of pleasing her twin and her husband, so that she could force her rival to cum, thereby evening the score between them.

Fingers pumping in and out of her, one and then several — nipples twisted and pinched, hard and then soft — clit licked and then nibbled, Margaery soon found herself on the very edge of bliss, her moans growing loud enough for she too to need to cover her mouth with her hands. But, just as with Cersei, release was cuming, and so was she, and so, just as her rival queen had done in reaction to her touch, Margaery leaned forward, and nestled her head between Cersei’s welcoming thighs, thereafter sealing her lips to the latter’s cunt. In said sex, did the young queen then let out a guttural scream, releasing all the pain and pleasure that had been spent upon her in her now near two-hour-long war with Joffrey’s mother.

In response to evening the score, Cersei smiled, cum dripping down her fingers as she did so, but no sooner than such a curled lip had passed from her face, did both she and her rival re-engage, each diving back into one another. And though there was no reason for it, or failure by which to be driven, each of the two warring queens exchanged tactics, with Cersei using her mouth and tongue, and Margaery using her fingers, each hoping desperately to be the first to force the other to cum, in their first mutual engagement of lust and pleasure.

Masterful each of them was, with the lioness lapping and licking both clit and cunt, and the rose using not just her fingers, but her nails to drive as deep as possible into her enemy’s sex. Together they worked, though their their purposes could not have been more opposed, each shaking and shivering due to sudden twinges of over-stimulation, both having already been driven to soul-shattering orgasms by the other.

Each seemed to be climbing together, headed inexorably towards a simultaneous release — a painful and humiliating draw, that neither could stomach or stand, but Cersei knew better. Cersei knew that she was only moments away for cuming for a second time, and handing a devastating victory to the woman she felt murdered her son. That knowing, quick as a switch, forced her to change tactics, and switch from her war of writhing bodies, and sticky cum, to violence — a field on which she hoped she would have the advantage, after all, she was a lioness, and killing was in her blood.

Such a change of tactic came swiftly, and harshly, as Cersei made lick bite, and nibble gnash, sinking her teeth into Margaery’s clit, biting as hard as she had ever had in her life, making sure to wrap her thighs around her enemy’s head, and forcing her enemy’s face into her cunt. It was a foolish one might say, daft others might decry, to purposely place your foe’s mouth in the exact spot where they might reprise. But the sense of it became clear, as again Margaery screamed, shrieked even, this time in utter and complete agony, such a blood curdling sound only stifled by the intentional placement of she between Cersei’s legs.

It took only a single moment of such a bite to draw blood. The taste of it was not unlike iron, a thought that ran through Cersei’s mind, just as Margaery retaliated, biting down with no less force, and sealing her enemy’s head just as firmly between her own blood-drenched thighs. Together, they both then screamed, Margaery’s still not having ceased, each of their eyes welled, overwhelmed, and absolutely flooded with tears.

With blood trickling down their thighs and lips, the rose and the lioness lay in a veritable puddle — a pool of each others sweat, tears, cum, and blood. So vicious. So violent. And yet they continued: biting, each then adding terrible clawing to their attack, each scratching the full length of each others bodies, trying anything they could to stop the others maddened bite.

But the application of the warring queens’ claws did not work. Not did their bites upon each other. Neither bringing victory, only pain — only torment. Such a reality bred frustration, hatred, and rage in them both, made worse as their loss of blood began to weaken their once-powerful bites upon each other’s sex, their jaws loosening, and teeth retracting from deep within each other’s cunt flesh.

In was then, that as each dripped with the many liquids they had drawn from each others bodies, each only barely able to move, not only due to their confines, but the weakness each of them felt, the two in unison let their mouths and legs fall open, each intent on using their hands to finish one another. But it was the wicked mind of Cersei that devised how, by using their now exhaustion-loosened embrace to her advantage, by reaching around her opponent’s thigh, and with her fingers, grabbing, and yanking out a small tuft of Margaery’s chestnut brown pubic hair.

The attack, though excruciating beyond belief, only elicited a haunting moan of pain from the young queen, and a sudden spasm of her body, which apart from both remained unmoving. Despite her state of utter fatigue, and near fainting due to the suffocating cabinet, Margaery too reached around, and took a small patch of golden mane into her own fingers, before similarly ripping it out. Cersei, no more energetic or able, reacted in much the same way her rival did, releasing a pain-drenched wail, as her body gave way to a quick spasm.

“So this is the pride of Highgarden, no better than a common whore.” hissed Cersei, forcing her handful of chestnut hair into margaery’s mouth.

“YOU brought this upon us, with you and your BEASTIAL blood.”snarled Margaery, pressing a tuft of golden pubic hair into Cersei’s face.

Having whispered their last insults, they each gave into continuing what they each believed to be their final act of war, each knowing that they had so little left with which to battle. And so pinch they did, and then quickly thereafter: pulled, each taking as prize the smallest tufts of each other’s pubic hair, each wanting to continue the pain they inflicted to last as long as possible, neither willing to run out of hair from which to pull, before their enemy has submitted or passed out.

Every pull elicited such desperate weeping, and plaintive whimpering, that the sound of which would give even the Hound, in all his wretchedness, nightmares — and yet to each of them, the sounds of torment coming from their most hated rival were beautiful, incredible, intoxicating past the point of reason or understanding by anyone apart from the two.

Driven by both their hatred, and near-lustful enjoyment of the pain each caused the other, the two continued to pull. Patch-by-patch. Tuft-by-tuft. Each at that moment feeling the same fires as before, when they had warred in a more sensual way return again, elicited by the mere sound of their rival’s incredible suffering. With each yank, their cries grew more pathetic, wounded and weaker, too weak to even break through the cacophony of prayer. The wails from the rival queen in turn drove the intertwined enemies deeper into their own twisted lust for the others destruction. Until finally, when hatred-induced orgasm seemed not but a blink’s distance away, they seemed to almost in cooperation press their embattled bodies together, and lay their heads down gently on each others thigh. Thereafter, they sealed their thighs around each others head, and squeezed as hard as they could, pressing each other’s face deep into their cunt, just as they in unison came, their juices flooding into each others mouths, just as their last breaths passed from their lungs to the sex of their enemy. In such a terrible, and inescapable smother, and choking on each other’s cum, did the two queens cling to one another, each in part wanting to escape, but in another way, hoping that neither would, so the pain they had endured might end — at least for the moment. The chants of the Septons, the obnoxious lullaby which accompanied both the rose and the lioness to a swift and complete unconsciousness….

Trapped in a jungle of thorns and claws, the rose and the lioness sunk ever deeper into this ocean of pain, weighting each other down. As vision blurred and as the chants fainted into background, as the very cabinet in which they struggled seemed to be floating to heaven, as the carving of the seven on the inside of the cabinet came to life, the two combating queens drowned into blissful oblivion. For once away from the pain, the embattled queens fell into an undisturbed slumber. The gods gazed down as they had for a hundred and fifty years, with their stony features hiding the awe for the iron will of the two ladies and the anger for the profanity committed on this sacred ground.

Seven times the Septons came to sing of love, mercy, and peace of the king, oblivious to the fact that none of the three was to be found underneath the king. As the sun made way for the moon and the moon made way for the star, a faint shuffling sound was heard from the body. Thankfully, it is not the return of the king but the rise of the queens.

Margaery has never been in more pain her entire life as she woke up that night in the box she shared with her enemy. The air smelled of blood, cum and, sweat, not unlike her first night as a woman, but with none of the pleasure. Her mouth was still loosely pressed against the older woman’s clit, and her hands rested peacefully on the floor, one near her head, still clutching a few strand of torn off golden mane, whilst the other lay limply near the older woman’s breast. The blood on her breast stomach was already congealing, she noticed gladly. At least she won’t have any hideous scar from this, though the pain in her little flower told her that she won’t be having sex for weeks to come. Her chestnut hair was still glued to Cersei’s pussy hair by their cum, which, to her satisfaction, was showing several bald spots, with little dots of red beneath the gold. Her chin was still numb from the biting and the kicking it had suffered through, her breasts were covered in blood, making them redder than the Lannister crimson, and her cheeks had hideous red lines strew across it where the lioness claws had raked them earlier that day. The only saving grace was, judging by the blood left in her chipped nails, Cersei is not any better off than she was. In fact, in a true fashion of fairness, the Father had seen to it that both women were in virtually symmetric conditions.

‘Now I have no choice but to postpone the wedding…’ Margaery thought, ‘…was this that bitch’s plan all along.’

The very thought of her rival queen had reminded the woman of the House Tyrell of where she lay, moving her to, with disgust, try to shove herself away from the woman with whom she had spent the most painful time of her life. And yet, during their brutal destruction of each others bodies, many wounds had been opened, and then without their knowledge, the blood left to dry had congealed together. Such a cruel fate being the case, as Margaery tried to pull away, an unexpected torrent of pain was suddenly let loose across the two women’s bodies, waking Cersei up with a jerk, pulling apart more compressed injuries.

The sudden return of pain, at a moment when neither could stand even another second of it, sent both of women into a mad rage, each kicking, clawing, and punching at each other. Their blows and claws landing on wounds beyond counting, each threatening to reopen and worsen, were they they to continue.

But the violence ceased, as sudden as it came, when in a near simultaneous fashion, both women extended their legs, and pressed their feet firmly into their rival’s scowling, pain-etched face. There the two women laid, in a delicate moment of stillness, the soles of their feet pressing harder into the other’s mouth and nose when either sensed even the slightest movement from their enemy. Caught they were, in the vexing push-and-pull of their own lustful desire to continue to wound one another, and the painful truth that neither of their bodies were capable of fighting on.

But to their rescue, came a herald to the end of their struggle, the same omen that heralded its beginning — the booming of the bell across the hall, striking six low tones and four high ones before it submerged into the silent night.

‘Twenty minutes before those cursed septons come again.’ Thought the two queens without utterance, each knowing that their battle was over, if only for today. For neither woman, despite their loathing for each other, was willing to stay in this suffocating box with the other for another day, not when they still had so many ways of bringing about the others destruction. And so it was that with eyes burning brightly with hatred, they communicated their silent agreement to end their battle in a draw, by each in unison leaning forward one last time, before placing an intentionally soft bite on the others still bleeding pussy, which each of them let linger for minutes, despite the oncoming Septons, a threat — a promise that their battle would continue another day. Their gentle bites only loosed, when the time came when they had no moments left to spare.

It was then that Margaery reached back and opened the to the closet in which they lay, opening the path for they two to escape. But as the weary women went to pull away from one another, they gasped with pain, their bodies, having been glued together with dried blood, sweat, and cum. Their cheeks cemented to their rival’s thigh.

Their hair caught, tangled, and braided with their enemy’s remaining pubic hair. Their breasts and stomachs a single mass, with not even an a eyelashes’ width of space to be found between them. But they could not wait — could not worry about the pain separation might cause. And so they did. Quickly. Harshly. With whatever strength and will it took. Shriek they did, loudly, as they peeled themselves from one another. Each taking the most grotesque and unseemly pleasure in their rival queen’s wailing and whimpering — so much so that each felt the strongest urge to re-engage with each other, to find both pleasure for themselves and pain for their enemy.

But two embattled women resisted, then climbing out from beneath the body of King Joffrey, only to fall to their knees near instantaneously, their injured legs refusing to carry their weight. Such as the case, they each crawled on all fours, to the statues under which their clothes laid, and only then did they turn around to examine the scene they had left in their wake. A stench filled the Sept, from the mixture of cum and blood and sweat, while two red lines of half dried blood trailed from King Joffrey’s body in opposite directions. At the ends lay the wreckages that were once two beautiful bodies, though proud even in their state of wound and waylay. Each wearing bruises on their breasts, stomachs, and faces, ones which gleamed in a mixture of Tyrell green and Lannister crimson in the pale moonlight.

In such a scene, did finally begin to clothe themselves again, each woman pulling a nearby tablecloth laid at the feet of the statues of the Gods to cover their torn dresses, bruised faces, and dirtied hair. The Gods remained silent, caring little for or about the two women’s newest acts of profanity.

Once dressed, they managed finally to stand, and walk to the large door which led to the exterior of the Great Sept, but as they reached the stairs, their weak legs gave out again, causing both rivals to collapse into into each other, and from there to the marbled floor.

Each being too exhausted for words, and now desperate to escape, the two women who hated each other more than words could describe, leaned on each other for support. At the very first touch of one queen’s skin against the others, all the hate, desire, and lustful need to destroy the other flooded back into them. Their blood boiled. Their loins burned. Their eyes reconnected, in a glare made of such fire it could dry up the Narrow Sea.

Unable to breathe or think — calm or collect, they turned, face-to-face, and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together as they tried to not only withstand their returned fury, but also to reach their feet once again.

Each moment that passed, came with nails dug into each other’s shoulders and sides. Wounded breasts and nipples thrust out and into those of their rival. And lips, dried and cracked, stained with dried blood and cum, lingering … hovering … nearing … until without conscious thought , just as the two reached their feet, they met. In a kiss, a gentle and timid one — each hating it — disgusted by it and its meaning. But as tongue met tongue, with neither giving or making way for the other, their strange and unexpected kiss turned into a vicious and violent bite. Clinging to each other, and pressing their bodies together again, jaws, tongues, and teeth locked in combat, they stumbled together out of the Great Sept, just in time to avoid being seen by the arriving Septons, their chants filling the two women’s ears.

“What is the meaning of this!?” One voice! “Who dares desecrate the Great Sept, and the resting place of our king!?” Then two. “Guards!” Three and then more. The septons cried out in anger, and outrage, as they laid their eyes on the state of their once sacred hall.

In terrified response Cersei and Margaery pushed away from each other, and though their bodies separated, their jaws did not, each clinging to their mutual bite, until finally their pushing ripped them apart, causing new blood to appear on both of their lips.

Neither spoke, though each said so much with their still locked eyes, the key message of which being crystal clear: that the war started between them would end in only one way, a permanent way. It was no secret. No mystery. That from that moment on, nothing with be spared in their attempts to end the other. And yet, even with that known, and despite their state of complete dishevelment, each suddenly changed. Their posture straightening. Their eyes softening. Their faces stained with all the liquids drawn from each other, going from scowl to smile. Each adjusting their tattered clothing, so that each might look presentable — or at least presentable as possible.

In their recovered regality, and civility, they did then walk back to the Red Keep, a blessing from the gods that they encountered no one on the street, and leaving their battle to be known by only they, and the Gods.

As the star rose on the next day, news broke. Someone had profaned the Great Sept of Baelor, though the details were scarce as the High Septon refused to release anything, claiming that the mere sight of it corrupts the most sacred mind.

In an odd twist of fate, or perhaps otherwise, Queen Margaery was attacked by a large cat while riding in the King’s Wood rest for a month, postponing her wedding to Tommen. In equal odd parts, Queen Cersei, who had been riding with Lady Margaery when the said attack occurred, found herself thrown by an ill-behaved stallion into a particularly thorny bush.

In the sunlit hall of the Great Sept of Baelor, the sevens stood by stony as always, whilst the long dead lips of King Joffrey Baratheon curled into a most disturbing smile: for the dead watches all.