A Comment on Age

All characters in this story are 18 years or older, despite their ages in the original fiction.

Betrayal, betrayal everywhere, thought Margaery, as she crumpled the parchment in her hand. She had hoped that the Northerners would attack the Lannisters in the Riverlands and keep them from marching on King’s Landing. She had even allowed the Stark girl to go around calling herself “Queen in the North.” Instead, the Stark girl waited until the Lannisters had all but left and came south with twelve thousands howling savages to claim the Riverlands for her own. To add insults to injuries, the lords of the Riverlands, who had sent her letters pledging eternal fealty just two moons ago, wasted no time in declaring Sansa Stark their new Queen. I offer the scheming bitch a crown and she steals half my kingdom, thought Margaery bitterly, if only I can get my hands on that backstabbing little slut.

“My Lady…” 

Grand Maester Pycelle’s reedy voice, barely audible in Margaery’s ears, pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to face him and hated even more than she had the day before. She sat in her council chamber with her brother Loras and Randyll Tarly where they had been discussing the state of the siege. Lord Randyll looked fit to explode on the old fool, but Margaery headed him off. 

“Speak up, Grand Maester,” she said. “I can’t hear you.” 

Pycelle’s lips pursed as he took a few steps forward. When he was at the other end of the table, he cleared his throat, opened his mouth wide and spoke loud and slow.

“I. Have. News. My. Lady.” 

Margaery wanted to slap that smug look off his face; as distasteful as Lord Tarly was, she could understand his proclivity for violence. She knew Pycelle’s blithering old fool bit was an act. If she hadn’t been afraid of losing his connections, she would have had him killed a year ago. In fact, she was almost certain that keeping him alive was part of the reason she was in this mess to begin with; under siege in the capital, surrounded by Lannister forces with Maester Pycelle at her side.

Sounds very familiar she thought. Something you should have learned about in your lessons. 

“Well,” she asked. “What is your news?”

He craned his neck and cupped a hand to his ear. 

“Pardon, My Lady,” he said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t–”

“Your Grace,” Randyll Tarly said, rising. “You will call her Your Grace, you wrinkled, nasty lecher. Forget again and I will have you thrown out of the tallest tower. Do you understand?” 

            “Enough Lord Randyll,” Margaery said, placing a hand on the hulking Lord’s shoulder. “Grand Maester Pycelle has served the crown loyally and ably for many years.” Margaery said, flashing as sweet and innocent a smile as she could muster “I have no doubt he will continue to serve for the rest of his life.”, biting the last four words to make sure she got her message across.

Pycelle visibly blanched, and gaped at her for a moment, his glassy hound eyes showing that he was out matched…for now. He bent to her and then started to deliver his news at her shoes. 

“A raven has arrived from Storm’s End, My L–your grace. I should have taken it to your Hand first, but I–”

“No,” she said seeing the scroll in his hand. She walked to him and took it to read for herself.  “You were right to bring it to me, father already has so much to worry about.” Her father, The Seven preserve him, was all bluster and no bite. It would have taken him three days to deliver this message and by then it would be too late. He’s still hoping that the Stark forces in Riverlands would catch up to the Lannisters and take them from the rear. The fool, Margaery thought bitterly, snow will reach Highgarden before that backstabbing Stark whore moves from Riverrun.

“It is more news on the so called ‘Targaryen Prince’,” Pycelle said. “If you will forgive me, My Queen, I believe we have more pressing matters at hand.”

Margaery tossed the scroll onto the table. Loras picked it up and began to read. 

“More pressing than another usurper on our shores? More pressing than the northern barbarians running amuck in the Riverlands and the Stark girl calling herself “Queen of the North and the Riverlands”? More pressing than the Lannister forces at our gates?” Randyll bellowed. 

“Yes,” Pycelle said. “The Lady Myrcella is seeking a parley.”

That little bitch! Margaery shut her eyes tight and sank her fingernails into her palms. I have worked two years to rid myself of the damn lions but there is always one more waiting in the undergrowth, ready to strike. 

“I thought she was in Dorne,” Margaery hissed. “Are you telling me the forces at our gates have been there waiting for her? Is that what you are telling me?” 

“She wishes to discuss the terms of your surrender,” Pycelle said, not answering her question. 

“My…” Margaery had to keep herself from screaming. “My surrender?” She smiled took her seat at the table again. She grabbed a goblet and began to pour herself some wine. “I’ll see her burn before I–”

She froze suddenly, afraid of the voice that had come out of her mouth. The hatred in her voice…the glass of wine…

Oh god…not her…I can’t be turning into her…

She looked up and saw Pycelle looking down at her, his head quivering a little bit. Probably to keep himself from laughing. 

She shoved the glass and pitcher away and placed a hand to her temple. 

“What shall I tell her, Your Grace?” Pycelle asked. 

Margaery wondered what her grandmother would do. 

You’ve already made so many mistakes, Olenna’s voice said in her mind, not chastising–just brutally honest. You’ve kept this one around for too long, for starters. He should have been the first to go. And my pig dullard of a son as Hand. Mother preserve us. You’ve surrounded yourself with idiots and snakes. Your best move now is to show that you are in control. If the lioness cub is willing to walk into the bed of thorns, let her. Don’t let her leave without a few scratches though. 

That was not the advice the Queen of Thorns actually gave her though. She received a letter from her grandmother only a few days ago. Your place is not at that rotten smelly rats den of a city they call a capital, and certainly not on that hideous chair. No queen can hope to stay queen for long without a king and yours just flung himself out of a window. Soon people will squabble over that chair of yours like a pack of dog after a feast. You should be well away before then, safely at Highgarden. Margaery has thought of little else beside the letter, yet here she is, with no plan to leave. The Queen of Thorns always acted boldly and decisively when needed, and so must her granddaughter. Besides, the first dog had already shown herself, and this blonde little bitch will not make away with her prize.

“Right.” Margaery said. “Maester, grant her admittance. See to it that she is not molested on her walk to the Keep, for walk she will.” Maester Pycelle’s mouth began to flap as if he intended to argue but she silenced him with a hand in the air. 

“Be sure she knows it is the same path her brother’s body was taken after he died. And let her know that if she cooperates with us, I will let her keep her clothes on the way back.”

Before Pycelle could speak, she stood, clutching the goblet of wine in one hand and the message from Storm’s End in the other. 

“Very well spoken, Your Grace.” Tarly growled. “

“Leave me,” she said. “Both of you.” 

There was no argument from either of the men as they quietly left her alone. As the door closed, she looked out the window toward the Sept of Baelor. 

“Now, Grandmother,” she asked herself, “what do we do about this?” 

By the time the gates had opened and Myrcella was allowed entry to the city, Margaery had the faint wisps of a plan forming in her mind. It had been less the teachings of her grandmother and more the image of the great Sept that gave her the idea. But if it were to happen, it would need to be soon. When the Maester arrived to give word of the blonde bitch’s arrival, she would have him send a raven straight away. 

Until then, she would watch from her chamber window as the pin prick of gold that was Myrcella made her way through the city and toward the Red Keep. Margaery felt a shiver run through her when she saw that not only was Myrcella being flanked by a Lannister bannerman, but also a bannerman of Dorne, the sun and spear flapping in the wind between the buildings. 

So she was an honorary daughter of Dorne, Margaery thought. That meant that over the last few years she would have learned their cunning and vicious ways. Of the few people Olenna considered to be her equal, Doran Martell was one of them. 

“No matter,” she said to herself, deciding to put the goblet of wine down. “My wits are about me and I am strong. I have grown strong…” 

When Grand Maester Pycelle re entered the chamber, she was ready. 

“The Lady Myrcella is arrived, Your Grace.”

“I shall receive her in the throne room.” Margaery said, opening the wooden box on her baseboard. There, a golden diadem with a rose gold rose in the center, surrounded by sharp, white gold thorns. She placed it on her head and walked out of her chamber to face the lion once more. 

Seated on the Iron Throne, Margaery felt all of her nerves leave her; there was something very powerful about this throne of twisted blades. In her mind, it was made for the Tyrell’s; sharp thorns ready to prick the finger of those not worth. She had not yet been pricked…and she didn’t intend to be.

Staring down at her court, she raised a hand and called out, “Escort her inside.”

The doors to the Red Keep opened, and in walked Myrcella with her two guards. They were surrounded by Margaery’s own men, obscuring the blonde from view. But when they came before the throne, the Tyrell men stood aside and the court gasped. Margaery gasped as well. It was like seeing a ghost. 

Myrcella had the tan of a Dornish princess and her blonde hair had turned golden in sun. She was still young, but already a woman grown. At the age of 18, her youthful body was clearly defined by gold and red Dornish silks that draped her body. She had taken her position as a ward and claimed it in her identity– a clever move if you wanted to survive in this game. 

She was not yet the famed beauty that her mother had been, but soon…perhaps within a year…she would look just as fierce.

No, Margaery thought, Much fiercer.

“Your Grace,” Myrcella said. “I am glad you have allowed me into my home.”

The snark…the pure venom in her voice sent a chill down Margaery’s spine. It was obvious that Myrcella had no intention to recognize her as the true queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but if she played the prodigal daughter…who knew how the court would respond?

“Myrcella…” Margaery said, “My sister. I am pleased to have you here before me. My people fear that the Lannister forces are here to claim the throne on your behalf. If that were the case, the city would be lost in a sea of panic and violence…”

Myrcella didn’t speak. She simply looked up at Margaery with her knowing, vicious eyes. The court took her silence as a dark omen and began to mutter. Randyll Tarly stomped his booted foot and his men dropped their spears to silence the masses. 

“To be queen of the ashes,” Margaery said, “Is a sad future. I know that you will help me dispel any such–” 

“Your Grace,” Myrcella interrupted. Again, the court began to mutter and again, Tarly silenced them. “I should like to speak with you in private, away from the vulchers.” She indicated the court and despite the tense political game, Margaery smiled. 

The little bitch can be as charming as me when she puts her mind to it…but her words are poison.

“How fares our valiant Ser Jaime and dutiful Ser Kevan? We have not heard of them for sometime and the realm misses them sorely.” The two helmsman of House Lannister have been missing for quite a while. They were last saw a few months ago in the Riverlands, but appear to have disappeared ever since. Dead, like as not. Slain by some outlaw, and all the better. The best lions are the dead ones. “I had hoped to see them in the city, protecting their precious little girl.” Said Margaery with a smirk full of innocence.

This one finally got a reaction from Myrcella. Margaery could see it, in those clenched fists and trembling lips, in that beautiful face slowly turning red, in those green eyes filled with cold malice. Please let her say something stupid, thought Margaery, curse me, threaten me. Give me half a reason and I’ll mount that pretty head of hers on a spike. If the Kingslayer and his cursed uncle is truly dead, then the Lannister army will likely surrender upon seeing her head. But instead, the little mongrel simply smiled and said “I’m afraid my uncle and great uncles are busy, leading the army outside the city.”

Is that meant as a threat, or a bluff, or both? Thought Margaery, either way, she decided she would not risk a siege whilst those two might still draw breath. Still, courtesy is a lady’s armour and she has just found a way to breach Myrcella’s. She must press on.

“Sister,” Margaery said, leaning forward and placing her hands on the arm rests of the throne. Let’s see how you like being reminded of your dead families once again. “The death of your elder brother, your younger brother–my husband– and your mother have left a hole between us. Let us build a bridge together.” She waved her hands and Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward. “Take her up to my chambers. We shall enjoy her mother’s favorite wine…” she looked back at Myrcella. “Perhaps two bottles… with our dinner.

She couldn’t resist the chance to jab at her drunken mother’s history.

“You are too kind, Your Grace.” Myrcella said. “And, sister dear…”

“Yes, Sister?” Margaery asked.

“Do be careful, you are bleeding.” 

Margaery’s eyes went wide. She looked down at her right hand and saw that, yes, a small ribbon of blood was trickling down her wrist and off of her middle finger. The Court started up once again, but this time Margaery didn’t wait to let Tarly silence them. She shot them an icy look and they went silent. When she looked back down, Myrcella was being escorted out of the throne room. 

Fucking bitch.

Margaery entered her chambers and sitting there at the table, laden with food, was Myrcella. She had poured herself a glass of wine and was sipping it with a look of mild boredom. 

The feast prepared for her and her sister in law was nothing best than the most royal of dinners; over ten different entrees had been prepared, all with their own side dishes, steaming and ready to be devoured. 

The aroma of glistening roast turkey wafted from the middle of the table, the scent of lemon and rosemary reminding her of the kitchens of Highgarden. A large lamprey pie with a golden brown crust had been baked in the shape of a lions head, a rose between its teeth– note to self, have the baker questioned as a Lannister sympathizer– with a large boat of gravy at the ready. Baked apples covered in cinnamon and sugar, lemon cakes, and cakes with a sugar glaze adorned a three tiered tea dish, rose petals baked into all of them. A joint of mutton sat artistically with two large roses piercing the flesh in a large, thorny cross. 

Margaery felt a slight pang of regret as she looked to see that there was even more food on the other side of the table near Myrcella– her people hadn’t eaten half of these foods in over a month. If they found out how much food was wasted on two small women, she would be drawn and quartered in the streets. Dishes of eggs, cooked in red sauce and sprinkled with spices from Dorne, a large platter of stuffed chickens, one representing each of the seven kingdoms in their flavor, and last but not least, a large bowl of white cream intended to use for dipping the fifty strawberries presented in a large, deep bowl. 

“I hope you are hungry,” Margaery said. 

“I ate before I arrived,” Myrcella said.

“I trust you are finding the wine to your liking?” Margery said. 

“Honestly,” Myrcella said, “It tastes like shit. Dornish wine has a bouquet that–” 

“Alright,” Margaery said. “Cut the shit, you don’t have to perform anymore.”

Myrcella smiled, flashing her perfect white teeth against her tan skin. 

“Why sister dear,” Myrcella said. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve been away from home for so long…I suppose my Kings Landing etiquette has lapsed. I’m more accustomed to Dornish hospitality; fine, sweet wines…exotic food…not having to check for poison…”

“You thought I would poison you?” Margaery asked. “Myrcella, I am surprised–”

“YOU CUT THE SHIT!” Myrcella shouted suddenly, throwing the crystal goblet across the room, letting it smash against the wall. “My brother…Joffery…he was poisoned. You poisoned Tommen too–not with drink or food but with your words. Who knows what you did to my mother…”

Margaery sat down at the other end of the table,momentarily taken aback by the outburst..

“Don’t deny it.” Myrcella hissed. “I know you and your filthy grandmother killed Joffery and–”

“I don’t deny it,” Margaery said so the lion cub wants to do this the hard way. “And no one in the kingdom would flinch if they actually discovered that little secret. He was a monster. No, I won’t deny it one bit. What I was going to say was that I am surprised that you think I would waste poison on you. No, if I were stupid enough to kill you during a parley, I would do it with my bare hands.”

Myrcella flinched as if she had just been struck across the face. Margaery was willing to bet that no one had spoken to her that way in years. Perhaps ever. 

“Tommen,” Margaery continued, “was not meant to die. He was a wonderful boy…he had none of your mother in him.”

“Don’t you speak of my mother…” Myrcella spat. 

“Why are you here?” Margaery knew that this was going nowhere; she needed to know Myrcella’s intentions so that she could plan the next three steps. Already, there was a ship waiting at the docks for this little parley to end so that she could sail to Storm’s End and make her play to end this little game once and for all.

Myrcella shook her head and stood, her hands pressed flat on the table. 

“I have come home. And I intend to stay.” 

“You will tell your men to stand down or you will stay in the same dungeon your mother did,”  Margaery said, putting her hands on the table as well, feeling the anger building in the back of her neck, a white hot heat. “The Lions of Casterly Rock are dead and gone…scattered to the wind like ash.”

“Roses make much better ashes than lions,” Myrcella shouted. “You are running low on supplies…your people are starving. Do you remember the last time a Lannister army was before the King’s Gate? Do you remember what happened?” 

“You are living on borrowed time, you little bitch.” Margaery spat. “How much longer do you think you can survive? A girl like you…flat chested and ignorant. You will be eaten alive.”

“I will last longer than you, you fucking slut,” Myrcella hissed. 

For a moment, they stared across the table at each other, their breasts–Margaery’s full and round, Myrcella’s small, yet perky– heaving in their anger. 

“Maybe I am hungry after all,” Myrcella hissed. She grabbed one of the parties form the tea dish and threw it at Margaery. The pastry hit her in the face, it’s honey glaze sticking to her face as the rest of the pastry tumbled down her cleavage and onto the table.

“How…dare you…” Margaery hissed. “I could–”

“Have me killed?” Myrcella spat, scooping one of the eggs out of the red sauce and flinging it at Margaery. She dodged it, but the red sauce stained her green gown. “That’s what you intend to do, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have confessed to killing my brother if you intended to let me leave!” Margaery grabbed a handful of lamprey pie and flung it across the table. Chunks of cooked fish landed in Myrcella’s hair. 

“I don’t need to kill you to ruin you,” Margaery said. “But i’m warming up to the idea.”

Suddenly, Myrcella began to howl like a wild animal. She swept the dish of eggs off of the table and climbed up onto it, charging at Margaery. Margaery grabbed one of the chickens and threw it at the girl, catching her in the side. She slipped and landed on the food laden table, and then Margaery leapt onto the table and charged her. 

Myrcella grabbed hold of the bowl of cream and threw it at her just before she landed on Myrcella. The white cream drenched Margaery and the bowl shattered across the top of her head. 

“You fucking bitch!” Margaery shouted, as she landed on Myrcella, crushing the roasted turkey beneath them. She buried her hands into the thick, golden hair and began to bang the brat’s head against the table. 

“You treacherous slut!” Myrcella screamed back, grabbing hold of Margery’s typically beautiful hazel hair. With her other hand, she grabbed at the gravy boat, but Margaery saw it and grabbed her wrist. They struggled for a moment–Myrcella to bash the crockery across Margaery’s face, Margaery to pour the hot gravy into Myrcella’s face. 

Margaery won that battle.

Myrcella shrieked as the hot, brown liquid drenched her face, her mouth filling with the stuff. She spat it out in a large fountain, sending it into Margaery’s eyes. The two began to roll across the table, the food turning into a puddle beneath their bodies. A bowl of broth overturned on the table and their gowns became nearly translucent as it made them slick and wet. 

Margaery pulled Myrcella’s head over the edge of the table by the hair. Myrcella’s hand were pressing Margaery’s head back as far as it could go. The gash on her forehead had turned the white cream on her face into a pink trickle. 

“I’ve lasted this long, you little bitch.” Margaery hissed. “I’m not going to lose everything because of a spoiled, little, brat like you.” 

Myrcella’s hand found another chicken and when she released Margaery’s jaw, she slammed it into her face, the hot juices and the dornish spices getting in her eyes, ripping a pained scream from her lips. She fell back, clutching her face as Myrcella tackled her, taking her down to the other end of the table. She was about to brain Margaery with the leg of mutton, wielded over her head like a club when Margaery grabbed the pitcher of wine and bashed it across the lioness’s face. Myrcella dropped the joint of meat and clutched at her face as Margaery flipped her, pinning her down on the table. She grabbed a cake from the overturned tea tray, and shoved it into Myrcella’s bruised face.

“FUCKING EAT IT, BITCH!” 

Myrcella reached up and ripped at Margaery’s dress, revealing a pale, heavy breast. She sank her nails into the soft, yielding flesh. 

It was that moment, when the guards —fucking useless, Margaery thought– burst in and froze, taking in the sight of the two women covered in food, liquid, and cream, tearing into each other. 

“GET OUT!” Margaery screamed. “Leave my wing at once!” The guards took one final look and the quickly shut the door. When the latch clicked, Myrcella slammed a plate against the side of Margaery’s head. A burst of light blinded her and she wheeled over the edge of the table, landing hard on her shoulder in a puddle of wine. 

Myrcella coughed, spitting out globs of cake and wiping the glaze from her eyes. She planted her feet on the other side of the table, grabbed a handful of lamprey pie, and walked over to the fallen queen. She grabbed Margaery’s hair, jerked her up,and shoved the glob of pie into her mouth. 

“YOU FUCKING EAT IT! EAT IT! EAAAAAAAAAGHH!”

Margaery bit down hard on Myrcella’s hand, tasting her blood as it squirmed in her mouth. Brought a fist down on Margaery’s head, but that only drove her teeth in deeper. Margaery wrapped her arms around Myrcella’s legs and brought her down to the floor like a felled tree. 

She pulled herself up Myrcella’s body, ripping at her fine, Dornish silks. 

“Fucking…little…”

Myrcella grabbed her hair once again and flipped her over like a bull by the horns. Then she brought a heavy fist down into Margaery’s stomach. Margaery balled up like a dead spider and rolled over on her side. 

Myrcella stood and clutched to the side of the table. 

“Some fucking queen you are,” She said, kicking Margaery in the side. Margaery looked up at her and saw the rage in her face…the hatred. The wine pitcher had not damaged the little woman’s face the way she had hoped. Only little pin pricks of blood pooled on her tan cheeks. 

Myrcella went to kick her again, but Margaery grabbed her other foot and jerked it out from under her, bringing her back to the floor with a loud crack. 

The Lannister bitch clutched the back of her head and rolled across the stone floor, the pain obvious and delicious to Margaery. She got to her feet, shakey at first but then found it easy to stand. She looked at the mess in her chambers and again, felt the pang of guilt. That turned into a throbbing hatred for her writihing sister-in-law before her. 

“You’re just like your fucking mother,” Margaery snarled. She walked over to the wash basin and threw some water on her face, clearing most of the food and blood from her body. The furrows in her breast went scarlett in an instant, but the gash on her forehead–which now that she saw it in the mirror, was more of a scratch than a gash– had stopped bleeding. “She was so selfish…so acidic.” She picked up the water pitcher and walked over to Myrcella who had curled up into a ball, her head buried between her legs.

The water drenched Myrcella, turning her silks invisible, her tanned skin showing through. She shrieked and backed away against the wall, looking up at Margaery just the way her mother had when she was locked in that cell.

“Had enough? Or do I need to rip your cunt out like I did your mother’s?” Margaery hissed.

Myrcella’s panting breaths went from panicked and scared to an angry bellows. She climbed up the wall and stood their, dripping wet, beautiful and terrible. 

“You are going to regret EVER laying hands on my family.” Myrcella said. She began to slink toward Margaery. “I will be queen, just as my mother was…it is my birthright. Soon, you will begin to look old…men will only want you for your crown…they will marry you, fuck your dried up cunt, and then slit your throat when you give them a son.”

Margaery lifted the pitcher, ready to bash her over the head. Her words hurt her more than any of the attacks she had made on her at the table. 

“I’m only a few years older than you,” Margaery spat. “I’m far from being dried up.” 

“It won’t matter,” Myrcella hissed. “When I am through with you, your cunt will be useless to a man.” 

She lunged at Margaery, driving her backward and into the stone wall. The fucking bitch had become a Sand Snake. Fast and deadly, slowing me down with her poisonous words.  The pitcher fell from her grip and shattered on the floor as Myrcella pressed an arm into her throat. Her other hand grabbed her hair and bashed her head against the wall. 

Margaery shot a hand out and grabbed at Myrcella’s left breast, pulling the shredded silk and letting her nails dig into the high, perky flesh.  Stars exploded before her eyes as the lioness banged her head into the cold stone and suddenly, she began to worry that perhaps she had been foolish in letting her get so close.

“You vile, treacherous, whore,” Myrcella spat. She released Margaery’s hair and sank her own claws into Margaery’s plump, exposed breast. Margery cried out in pain as the lion’s claws mauled her breast, but the cry was cut to nothing by the pressure of her arm against her throat. She kicked with her knee, hitting Myrcella hard in her tight, tender cunt. 

Myrcella hissed and the pressure on Margery’s throat loosened just enough to let her push off of the wall. She drove Myrcella into the opposite wall, clutching both of her small, perky breasts in her hands, shoving them up high enough to make make the her scream. 

Myrcella latched onto Margaery’s other breast and jerked downward. They were locked in a vicious tug of war, jerking, pinching, and twisting their breasts as they bared their teeth at one another. The twisted masks of their fury grew closer and closer. Their noses touched.

“I’ll have your fucking head…” Margaery spat. 

“When I’m queen,” Myrcella hissed back, “I’ll greet your naked corpse every day from my window.” 

“You mistake me,” Margaery said, grimacing at both her full breasts were jerked downward by the nipples. “I wasn’t referring to your head…”

She released Myrcella’s breasts and pressed one hand against her face, mashing it into the wall. The other hand shot down between her legs and gouged into the blonde cunt through the wet silk. 

Myrcella screamed in pain and fright. She jerked to the side, losing Margaery’s right nipple as she staggered back toward the table. Margaery’s right breast throbbed with relief as she corralled the little bitch back, her left still in the vice grip of the lioness. Margaery knew all too well the importance of the maidenhead and knew that by destroying Myrcella’s she would deal a vicious blow to her plans. 

Her nails had ruined the silk and now her nails found purchase in the tan flesh. She pressed her fingers against the plump, succulent mound and prepared to ruin her when she felt something all too familiar. Something slick and warm…something very different from the water covering Myrcella’s body. 

The little slut, Margaery thought. 

Myrcella slammed into the table, reached behind her and grabbed an overturned goblet. She slammed it across Margaery’s face, sending her reeling to the other end of the table. She clutched the side of her face as terrible fire spread through her jaw. 

Myrcella charged her and drove her away from the table and slammed her against one of the posts of her canopied bed. Margaery roared in anger, grabbed the blonde hair, jerked her to the right and they both went tumbling onto the bed. 

Margaery landed on top of Myrcella and thrust her hand back down between the bitch’s legs. Her mound was more slick than before. She looked into Myrcella’s eyes and saw that there were mad tears floating there. 

“Get off of me,” Myrcella hissed.

“Is that what you want, you little slut?” Margaery cooed viciously. 

Myrcella slapped her across the face threw all of her strength to the right, rolling them. Margaery laughed. The little bitch was wet and eager. Even while having being ruined, the little whore had–

Margaery moaned as Myrcella slammed her cunt against Margaery’s. 

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, shocked and confused. Then Myrcella did it again, sending another slap across her face. 

“I am the rightful queen,” Myrcella hissed. “You will bow to me in the end.”

“Fuck you,” Margaery hissed back, snapping out of the spell. Margaery grabbed Myrcella’s hand as it came down for another slap. Then the other hand came down and she grabbed it as well. They struggled that way for a time, rolling along the bed, their wet and sticky bodies slapping together as the rags that were their clothes were torn asunder. 

“You fucking little bitch!”  Margaery hissed. “You’re nothing. Fucking nothing!” Myrcella’s bare cunt grazed hers and another shudder ran through her. 

Myrcella’s head pressed against Margaery’s left breast and her nipple erupted into a bright shock of pain followed between a longing pang between her legs. She wrapped her legs around Myrcella’s waist and squeezed, trapping her against her body.

Suddenly they rolled off the edge of the bed and slammed into the stone floor. The impact caused Myrcella’s teeth to clamp down harder on Margaery’s nipple and she cried out in agony.  But then freedom. Her breast was free. She raised up, extended her claws, and fell down onto Myrcella’s breasts. 

“FUUUUUUCK!” Myrcella cried out, half in pain and half in strange arousal. She drove a fist into Margaery’s side causing her to crumple down onto her body, their lips nearly touching, their breath sweet and vile in the other’s nose. 

“I hate you…” Margaery whispered. 

“I hate you…” Myrcella whispered back. 

Then Margaery began to grind Myrcella, moving her lips toward the lioness’s ear. She would force the little bitch to submit one way or the other. She was done playing games. She bit Myrcella’s ear and breathed into it, causing the younger woman to sudder beneath her. 

“I am going to show you what a real queen is capable of.” Margaery said.

Then, Myrcella flung a leg over Margery’s waist and flipped her in one quick, fluid motion. It happened before Margery knew what was happening. A small squeak escaped from her lips as Myrcella pressed her breasts against Margaery’s slipped a hand beneath her head, and kissed her passionately. Myrcella’s tongue thrashed Margaery’s around the cavern of her mouth. Then Myrcella jerked away hard and looked down at her.

“I’m going to fuck you raw.” Myrcella hissed. 

Margaery gasped at the throbbing in her cunt. In that moment, the lioness looked more like her mother than ever before. Determination burned inside of her and she lunged forward, knowing the fight would end only one way. 

They rolled across the floor, their bodies slapping together as their tongues wrestled for dominance. Margaery took Myrcella’s breasts in her hand and kneaded them as their cunts slid across one another. Myrcella groaned with pleasure in Margaery’s ear, sending more jolts of desire through her. 

“You fucking witch,” Myrcella hissed as she fucked, “You’ll fucking pay for what you have done to my family.” 

Margaery rolled on top of the lioness, took a nipple in her mouth, and sucked. Myrcella’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as she groaned even louder. 

“You still have a lot to learn, little slut,” Margaery said, gnawing at her nipple. 

But what the Myrcella did know was impressive and Margaery felt an orgasam stiring in her loins as Myrcella’s pussy lips embraced her own. 

Soon, they were scissoring, slamming into each other’s cunts, their fingers buried brutally in each other’s breasts. Their eyes locked together and their bodies near the edge of the precipice. 

“You’re no queen,” Myrcella moaned, here mouth open and her eyes cast upward. 

“More than you’ll ever be,” Margaery hissed, shutting her eyes tight, trying not to fall. 

But then Myrcella slapped her and suddenly in that moment of pain and pleasure, they

both screamed in ecstasy and fell  to the ground, clutching themselves as their climaxes took them. 

Myrcella’s foot pressed rudley into Margaery’s soaked, tingling cunt.

“Your flower seems to be drowning, bitch.” the lioness said. “You’re weak. Too weak to rule and too weak to resist me.”

Margaery kicked her heel into the wet hole of Myrcella’s cunt and ground it in. 

“You’re a slut for me. I feel your fucking need for me.”

Myrcella kicked again. “Ugly bitch.”

Margaery kicked again. “Desperate slut!” 

Within seconds, they were lunging at each other again, teeth bared, claws burrowing into skin, the two began to fight and fuck once again. As they rolled and pulled, sucked and bit, slapped and caressed, each managed to rip orgasam after orgasam from their foe. Margaery could feel her strength beginning to drain from her body and with Myrcella on top of her, fingers in her raw cunt, she seriously worried that Myrcella would dominate her. 

“I told you…” Myrcella said. “I’ve grown strong…I am the rightful queen…I will avenge my mother, form an alliance, build an army…”

Margaery spat in her face.

“You fucking whore!” Myrcella shouted. She went to slap Margaery but when she did, Margaery rolled her off of her and pinned her to the floor. If she didn’t drain the bitch of all of her strength now, she might very well lose. 

“You’re nothing!” Margaery moaned in her ear. As she spoke, she pounded Myrcella’s cunt with her own. “You have no claim…you are despised by all…no one from the seven kingdoms will ally with you. You are finished.” 

“No…Not yet…” Myrcella moaned. But it was looking like she was, in fact almost finished. Margaery’s nipples mashed into Myrcella’s. She nibbled her ear. She shoved her tongue in her mouth. Blow for blow, she wore the lioness down until she stood on the edge of one, final orgasam. 

“Fuck you,” Margaery said. “Fuck your family. Fuck your mother. And fuck you.”

Myrcella wrapped her hands around Margaery’s throat and squeezed. That act of desperate violence seemed all she needed to reach her final, violent climax. She screamed and began to convulse beneath Margaery who slammed into her harder and harder, refusing to yield until the little bitch was defeated. She felt her own orgasam escape her as Myrcella’s reached it’s apex. 

The chambers of the Queen were filled with screams of agonized ecstasy as the two finished their fight. 

Margaery looked down at the weeping mass that had been the only daughter of Cersei Lannister and spat in her face.

“I win.” Margaery said. 

Then she rolled to her side, sighed, and vanished behind a veil of deep sleep. 

She was woken by a deep, slightly perturbed voice.  

“Your grace…”

“Tarly?” She muttered. She opened her eyes with a sudden realization; she was naked on the floor and Myrcella was beside of her. She bolted up, covering herself not so much out of modesty but fear that Myrcella may try to stab her.

But when she looked around, she saw no trace of the little lioness.

“Your Grace,” Tarly said again, “I have news.” 

“Well?” Margaery said, standing and wrapping herself in a blanket from her bed. The room was a complete wreck and she couldn’t help but feel a little hungover. The mound between her legs ached and every mark left by the lion’s claws sang with a new, keen pain. 

“The Lannister forces have retreated.” He said.

“Typical!” She spat. “I beat the little lion and now she is running away.”

“There is more,” he continued. “Word has it, she is making her way to Storm’s End.”

“Storm’s…” Margaery froze. The words of the lioness echoed in her ears, the words she had used just before Margaery had beaten her. 

An Alliance.

“No…” Margaery hissed. “No…the little bitch!”  She grabbed a vase filled with roses that had survived the brawl and threw them against the wall. “Ready my ships, Tarly. We sail within the hour!” I will have the prince for myself, Margaery thought. And this time when we meet, I will kill you with my bare hands.

The End

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