thekittenqueen | [Musebox]

Continued from here.

Margaery knew Littlefinger and what he was capable of. The man had the good sense to avoid the former queen and alert her to his presence. He had always been a shrewd figure and likely understood that if Margaery knew he was about, she would likely have several stories to share about him. He was hardly the sort fit to spend time with Sansa and his influence on the young woman was pronounced. There was a quality to her that was no longer as compassionate as before. She was self serving, seeking power with reckless abandon, all with unclear ends. She had a smile now that could not be trusted, seemingly masking thoughts beneath the surface. While Margaery had missed her friend, it was with grim understanding that she recognized that her friend was gone. Someone else had taken her place.

It would take time for Margaery to learn all of the noble lords that served the Starks. Her education had included the make up of each of the bannermen to the great houses of Westeros, but that knowledge had been lost along the line, disappearing like a stone dropping beneath the surface of a pool. There had been greater thinks occupying her mind and, only now, did she realize that she had become lax with her skills for the game.

As much as she didn't want to, she would need to spend time below with the men and the forces of the Stark army. It would grant her the chance to observe and analyze those that gathered about her lover. She could read into the hearts of men and would find the means to learn their motivations, singling out those who could be trusted and those who couldn't. It was dangerous, as all of her scheming had once been, but there was more to lose now. It was no longer her life or her family's, it was a life she shared with another, the other part of her.

She feels the warmth he exudes and curls around it, basking under his affection and the glow of their earlier efforts. Despite the swirling lust, she found herself floating along the surface of bliss and contentment. It had been so long since such feelings coursed through her, for a moment, she had nearly mistaken them for something else. He carries her gently against the tide of her apathy and sorrow, drawing her back under the warm sun until she is thawed and alive once more. His arms shelter her, a tree in the midst of a rainstorm. He is her godswood and she would be devout to him in all ways, worshiping at his feet as they rutted like beasts, drawing their power from a more ancient magic. It was magnetic and addictive, but it was the source of her life now.

She considered his words, curiously trying to put a name to all that she felt. It seemed like a useless struggle, but there was something she wished to know. She was aware he shared the frenzied longing of her body, but there was something else as well, something rooted deeply inside her, past her heart and soul. She was bound to him, but didn't know how best to explain it. "I stir more than your cock, I believe?" Margaery asked, placing her hand over his heart. "It's more than that and I think that it is something..." it wasn't love. The word was paltry and pale compared to this, but how else could it be described? Such names didn't exist on the tongues of man. "Do you understand what it is?" She couldn't go into detail if he didn't. It was something that was simply known.

"Davos," her smile became one of amusement. "I think he is afraid of me or rather, doesn't know how to respond to my presence. I am too much a reminder of Stannis for him." He had at least been polite and kind, as had Tormund, though the Wildling didn't seem to have an idea of how to speak to her or how to behave. She wasn't a shield maiden and she imagined that he didn't want to frighten her off. They had good hearts and she hoped to open hers to them, if it ever truly could be.

"I speak of it because you might have to make the offer yourself." Margaery whispered, running her fingers through his hair. She hated to interrupt their love play with talk of politics and marriages, but there was no other time that they would be alone like this. Her opinion and advice would be dismissed by his men and she would gain their ire for interfering, but at least here, there was no one she would have to argue against. Jon would understand why she was offering it and how she might know better than the rest. She had three politically arranged marriages, after all. "If you make the offer, you will not make them feel as though they have to beg for aid. You are the stronger force with the larger kingdom." It would at least save them face before he flaunted a lover around his court.

Politics were left behind as their urges screamed back to life. Her hips subconsciously rolling against him as she sought the same friction he had wanted before. The stimulation against her sensitive sex bringing soft moans from her lips, as tender and gentle as a dove's coo. "I wouldn't deny you, as I might very well do the same." She was never a woman of such force before, but her body now cried out to be. She wanted to to pull him against a wall, free his cock from his breeches and rut happily for all to see. Modesty and decorum were simple, pretty words for those that didn't know what they wanted or how to enjoy it. She wasn't such a maiden anymore, she was as wild and untamed as he was and the desires they shared demanded immediate attention.

Yet she instead chose to toy with him, forcing him to remain seated and stationary as she explored her body with a cloth. The act of washing herself turning sensual and erotic as she cleaned away the places he marked her with lips, teeth and seed. She was wiping away the slate, indicating he would have to start all over again. "Am I yours?" Margaery asked with a wicked smile. "It seems that there are no signs left that I am." She was playing with fire and longed to be consumed by it, her flames and his inferno, swept up into the maddening blaze until she was burnt and broken by their passions.

He obeys her instructions, much to her chagrin and amusement. Given their earlier efforts, she had imagined he would break right away, but Jon seemed to be a man of remarkable will power. For the sake of pushing the game further, she moved close to him. Turning her back, she offered him the cloth. "You will have to wash where I cannot reach, but you cannot move from your chair or touch anywhere else." This would be enough, she was certain of it. She was pulling a string taught and sooner or later, it would snap in half and the force between them would smother them both.

Threaded | Flat

From:

starkish

As she doles out advice, it strikes him just how well-suited they truly are; he has no training, and more, no patience, for the subtler points of politics. A court like King's Landing was something he'd never truly been prepared for. His Lord Father had no taste for politics of that sort and Jon doesn't either. It's just his luck that Margaery, though, is extraordinarily skilled in just that area; he can lead men to war, bind together the Northern houses, negotiate loans and weddings, but these subtler, shadier aspects are something he can't do... and she can. She may never be his wife, may never be able to call herself Lady Stark, but to Jon, she's the very beating of his heart, a part of him that can not be separated, regardless of how hard anyone may try. To do so would be to shatter him into a hundred pieces, each one as sharp and brittle as a shard of glass.

"You do." His hand covers hers, pinning it to his chest, fingers curling into the gaps between her own. "You make me sing, Margaery. Every inch of me, blood and bone, heart and cock, body and soul itself, sings for you. When you're near, it's a song of desire and contentment; when you're far, it's a song of long and need." What they share is so much more than love or lust; they are mere parts of it, fractions of a whole that goes beyond understanding or words. There is no word for it. There is no concept to describe it. It simply is. "As much as a man can, I do." Hand tugging on hers, Jon presses a kiss to the palm of her hand. "You are mine. And I live for you. That is all anyone else every need know."

Not that they would share it with everyone. Or most people. The court would know that she shared his bed before long, but they wouldn't know the truth of their relationship. If their enemies knew the depths of their bond, Margaery might very well become more of a target than she would be once knowledge of her survival became commonplace.

"Most likely so." Jon's laughter is soft and most certainly amused. "Give him time. A man doesn't go from smuggler to hand of the king unless he's capable. He gives sound advise." Sounder than many of his lords, truth be told. Stannis had been an ally, and a grudging one, at best, but at the very least, he can claim to understand why the man kept Davos so close at hand.

"I can still hope it doesn't come to that, can I not? Marriages bind houses together, true enough, but there are other ways as well." The words feel feeble as he speaks them. They are. The chances of a solid alliance coming from anything but marriage are slim and he knows it. Jon knows he has many flaws, but he's never been one to deny the truth when it's clear to him. He shakes his head, dispelling the momentary self-deception with a quiet sigh, and nods, mind mulling over her words while his fingers trace the curve of her lips and the shape of her cheek. They talk politics, but he wants to keep touching her as they do. It's a need, just like breathing, and inside him, his desire for her is waking from it's slumber at a rate that approaches the impossible. "No, you're right, Margaery. If it comes to that, I shall journey to Dorne and make the offer myself. I will not make them beg." In truth, Dorne may very well be their best chance for a marriage that will accommodate their particular... arrangement.

Even thoughts of Dorne and the quagmire of politics that would necessitate such a marriage weren't enough to dampen his ardor. Like oil being lit by a candle, his lust roared through him, filling him with those very same instincts that left him marking her skin with his seed just moments prior, and left him wanting to do just that. "Good." The grin that spreads across his face is the very mirror of wolf's and the darkness that gathers in his eyes is reminiscent of those ancient, dark pools of steaming water in the heart of Winterfell's godswood. "You had best do so. We do not speak in hypothetical. I have no qualms about letting others see just what sort of claim we have on one another." Jon had never been quite so bold, quite so shameless when he'd been a man, but it's different now; if his body cried out for hers, if his cock throbbed for release and her cunt clenched with a need to be filled while they dined among his bannerman, he would find nothing abhorrent with lifting her from her place and onto his shaft instead. He would play their political games, but, with Margaery, he would satisfy his desires and instincts and needs while doing it.

For all that, though, he was still capable of patience and restraint if it suited his whims. Playing this game of hers, intriguing as it was, certainly counted as one of those whims he would follow... for the moment. If the rules of this game had been up to him, he would be touching himself while watching her, but he's agreed to her terms. The way she cleans herself becomes a show, deliberately designed to ensnare him, to make his arousal swell larger while preventing him from doing anything about it. His fingers clench at the arms of the chair, cock straining between his legs, twitching as it tries to grow harder and can't, all while he watches her with hot, dark eyes that promise that when she's done having her fun, the way he fucks her will leave her screaming and howling with pleasure. "You are. It is not a bite mark and traces of my seed that makes you mine, Margaery." They both know it to be true. "If it pleases you, once you are cleaned, I shall make some marks that you can't easily wipe away. The kind all of court will see."

This game she's playing will end only one way and the both know it. As she moves closer, the distance shrinking between them as quickly as a setting sun dipping beneath the horizon, Jon can feel instinct straining against restraint, desire warring with his control; it's a wrestling match of a different kind and all he can do is nod when she presents her instructions. He takes the cloth, of course, and starts high, cleaning the skin between her shoulders with surprising gentleness. Slowly, purposefully, he works his way down her back with broad strokes, cleaning each swathe of skin, from the back of her neck down to the small of her back and beyond, all the while leaning forward, hot breath blowing against her spine. Each moment that passes is one more without relief; each moment is one that leaves him a little less of a man, a little more a raging whirl of primal need and other, older things.

In the end, it's when he reaches that boundary where torso ends and her rear begins. One glance of her ass and the game is done. He casts the cloth aside and takes her by the hips, hissing softly, "We're done. Your game is over, Margaery. Get on you hands and knees. Now."