Order Cersei to undress

You turn your full attention to Cersei. "You've used your body as a weapon, as a tool for power," you say, your voice a low, confidential murmur meant for her alone, though the others stand witness in their frozen state. "Let's see the merchandise. Undress. All of it."

Her hands move with a chilling, mechanical obedience. There is no seduction, no ****, no shame. There is only the unfeeling precision of a doll being manipulated. She unlaces her elaborate crimson gown, the expensive fabric pooling around her feet. Then her smallclothes, each piece removed with the same detached efficiency, until she stands naked before you.

The torchlight catches the pale curves of her body, a form that has launched a thousand ships and a million schemes. Her skin is flawless, but you see it for what it is, the shell of a creature you have just unmade.

You walk a slow circle around her, examining her as a butcher might examine a prize calf. You see the faint stretch marks from her children, the small mole just above her hip. These are the imperfections that make her real, the marks of a woman who has lived and fought and bred. Now, they are just details on a canvas you have claimed.

You stop in front of her again. She stares straight ahead, her beautiful face utterly blank, her hands at her sides. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, naked and silent, awaiting your next command.

You glance over at Jaime. His vacant eyes are fixed on his sister, but there is no recognition, no love, no fury. Just an empty reflection.

You turn back to Cersei, your smile returning, but this one is different. It's not for show. It's one of genuine, profound satisfaction.

"Now," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that caresses her ear. "I give you permission to talk your truth only you though. Talk to me while you kneel and touch a real man."

Cersei drops to her knees, the cold stone a stark contrast to her bare skin. Her hands, trembling now with a sliver of returned sensation, reach for the laces of your trousers. Her movements are no longer purely mechanical, a ghost of her old haughtiness, a flicker of her **** will to please the one in power, infuses her touch. As her fingers work, she begins to speak, her voice a hoarse, broken whisper, a raw wound given sound.

"They all think they know," she rasps, her eyes fixed on your crotch as if it's a religious icon. "They think it's about power, about legacy, about the Lannister name. Fools." She finally frees you, her cool fingers wrapping around your length with a reverence she's never shown the gods. "It was never about that. Not really. It was about me. About what I was owed."

Her head bows, and she presses her lips against you, a kiss of utter submission. The heat of her breath is a stark counterpoint to the coldness of her words. Her perfect plump lips dancing across your shaft.

"Robert never saw me. Only that bitch from Winterfell. Not *me*. He saw a womb to fill with Baratheon spawn. I denied him. My father... my father saw a strategic piece, a daughter to be traded for an alliance. Jaime... oh, Jaime loved the *idea* of me. The reflection of himself. He never loved the constant, gnawing hunger. The feeling of being caged."

Her tongue darts out, tracing a slow circle around the head of your cock. Her technique is practiced, but the desperation behind it is new. This isn't seduction, it's a confession offered at the altar of your power.

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