First victory

The next moon rose red over the Blackwater. You stood on the deck of the lead ship as the fleet cut through the dark water toward the fords of the Goldroad. Dragonstone lay behind you. Ahead lay the first real test of the campaign. The Unsullied formed silent ranks on the decks. The Dothraki howled from their own vessels. Drogon wheeled high above the mast, black wings blotting out stars.

Margaery Tyrell knelt at your feet on the wet planks, naked except for a collar of blackened steel that marked her as yours. The sea spray had already soaked her hair and made her skin gleam. Her mouth worked steadily on your cunt beneath the open folds of your riding leathers. You kept one hand in her hair and the other on the rail, watching the distant torchlights of the Lannister camp grow larger.

Tyrion’s voice carried from the command deck. “They have no idea the main force is already inland. Grey Worm’s men crossed under cover of the last fog. By dawn the fords will be ours and the road to the city will be open.”

You nodded once. Beneath you Margaery’s tongue pushed deep, curling against the place that always made your thighs tighten. You ground down on her face, using her mouth the way you used any other tool of war. She moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your clit. Spit and your slick ran down her chin and dripped onto the deck between her knees.

The first arrows came at the second hour past midnight. The Lannister sentries finally saw the ships. Horns blared. Fires flared along the riverbank. You felt the deck shudder as the first ballista bolts struck the water. Margaery did not stop. You held her head firmly in place and came with a low growl, flooding her tongue while the first screams rose from the shore.

“Up,” you ordered.

She rose on shaking legs, lips shiny, eyes dark with the same hunger that had kept her alive this long. You wiped your thumb across her mouth and pushed the wetness back between her lips. “You will stay at my side. When the city falls you will help me take it in every way that matters.”

The landing was brutal and fast. Grey Worm’s Unsullied hit the western bank in perfect silence while the Dothraki poured across the shallows on the east. You rode Drogon low over the fords, black flame turning the night into a furnace. Men in Lannister crimson burned where they stood. The river ran red and then black with ash. By the time the sun rose the fords belonged to you and the road to the city lay open.

You took the first walled town before noon. It was no great city, only a market stronghold that controlled the grain stores for the capital, but it was the first stone under your banner. The gates fell after two hours of dragonfire and disciplined assault. The surviving garrison threw down their weapons. You ordered the officers brought to the central square.

Margaery walked beside you through the smoking streets, still naked under a borrowed cloak that did nothing to hide the sway of her breasts or the way her thighs shone with your earlier release. The townspeople stared. Some looked away. Others watched with open hunger or fear.

You climbed the steps of the town hall and turned to face the square. Tyrion, Varys, Grey Worm and Missandei stood at your back. The captured Lannister officers knelt in a line. You spoke clearly so every soul in the square could hear.

“This town is now under the protection of the Mother of Dragons. Those who bend the knee will keep their lives and their homes. Those who do not will feed the dragons.”

One by one the officers swore. When the last of them had spoken you gestured to Margaery. She dropped the cloak without being told. The square went silent except for the crackle of distant fires.

“This woman was once a queen,” you said. “She survived wildfire and betrayal. Now she serves. Watch how a true survivor earns her place in the new order.”

You sat on the high-backed chair that had belonged to the town’s former lord. Margaery climbed into your lap facing outward so the entire square could see. You reached around her and spread her thighs wide, displaying the flushed, dripping state of her cunt. Two fingers pushed into her without ceremony. She was already soaked from the ride and the earlier use of her mouth. The wet sound carried. You fucked her openly with your hand while the town watched, curling your fingers against the spot that made her hips jerk and her voice break into moans.

Tyrion stepped forward to read the new terms of surrender. His voice stayed steady even as Margaery’s cries grew louder. Varys circulated among the townsfolk, speaking soft words of reassurance. Grey Worm posted guards. Missandei recorded the names of those who swore. And you kept working Margaery’s cunt in full view of every man and woman who had just bent the knee.

When she came the first time her release ran down your wrist and onto the stone steps. You did not stop. You added a third finger and kept thrusting until she came again, harder, shaking and sobbing your name. Only then did you withdraw your hand and push those same fingers into her open mouth. She cleaned them while the square stared.

You stood, letting her slide to her knees at your feet. “The city beyond these walls will fall the same way,” you told the crowd. “With fire. With blood. And with absolute surrender. Anyone who wishes to earn a place in what comes next may begin by learning from her example.”

Margaery stayed on her knees, face turned up to you, lips still shiny, thighs still open and wet. The first of the townsmen who stepped forward did so with trembling hands. You nodded permission. She took him into her mouth without hesitation while the council continued its work around her.

By nightfall the town was yours in every sense. The grain stores were secured. The road to the capital stood clear. And Margaery Tyrell, once a queen of roses, had been used by half a dozen men and two women in the open square while maps were drawn and orders given for the next march.

You sat late in the commandeered solar with the windows open to the smoke-scented night. Margaery lay across the wide table on her back, legs spread, cunt still leaking the mixed releases of the day. You traced idle patterns through the mess on her inner thighs while Tyrion finished the last of the reports.

“King’s Landing will be harder,” he said. “Cersei will not open the gates. The people are hungry and afraid. But the fords are ours and the road is open. One more push and the city will be within reach.”

You looked down at Margaery’s flushed face. Her eyes were half-lidded, body loose and used, yet when your fingers brushed her clit she still twitched and lifted her hips for more.

“Then we push,” you said. “And when the city falls she will help me take it the same way she took this town. On her back. On her knees. With her mouth and her cunt and every soft part of her that still belongs to survival.”

Margaery’s voice was hoarse but clear. “Yes, my queen.”

Outside the dragons circled the captured walls. Inside the first city of the campaign already belonged to you in blood and in filth. The next one would be larger. The next one would burn brighter. And the survivor at your side would be there for every wet, screaming inch of the conquest.