A True Survivor

“…Margaery Tyrell.”

The name hits you like a slap of cold seawater. Margaery Tyrell. Twice a queen. Twice a widow. Survivor of the green fire that had reduced the Sept of Baelor - and half of King’s Landing’s piety - to ash and bone. You had assumed her dead, roasted alongside the High Sparrow and the rest of the pious vermin. Yet here she was, alive, on your island, asking for you.

Missandei’s eyes widen fractionally. You keep your face smooth.

“Bring her,” you say. “Alone.”

Varys bows and vanishes. Missandei steps closer, voice low. “Khaleesi… the Tyrell girl is clever. Dangerous. She may be here to…”

“I know what she may be here for.” Your pulse is already quickening in a way that has nothing to do with strategy. “Leave us. See that the corridors are clear. No one disturbs us until I call.”

Missandei hesitates only a heartbeat, then dips her head and slips out, closing the heavy door behind her with a soft, final thud.

You remain standing by the open wall, salt wind teasing the hem of your dress, when the door opens again.

Margaery Tyrell steps inside.

She is thinner than the portraits and the gossip had painted her, cheekbones sharper, the soft rose of Highgarden tempered into something harder. Her hair is shorter, darker with soot or sea-spray, but still that same rich chestnut that once made half the court hard just watching her walk. She wears a plain grey traveling cloak over a simple shift of undyed linen that clings to her body in the damp air. No jewels. No roses. Just a woman who has walked through fire and somehow lived.

She sinks into a deep curtsy, the movement fluid despite the obvious exhaustion in her limbs.

“Your Grace.” Her voice is honey poured over broken glass - still sweet, still practiced, but frayed at the edges. “I thank you for receiving me. I… did not know if I would be welcome.”

You study her in silence long enough that she begins to shift her weight. The linen shift is thin; the outline of her nipples is visible where the sea air has tightened them. Her breasts are full, heavy for her slender frame, the sort that would fill a man’s hands - or a woman’s mouth. You feel heat coil low in your belly, unexpected and filthy.

“Rise,” you say at last. “And tell me how a dead queen walks into my keep.”

Margaery straightens. Those famous brown eyes meet yours without flinching. “Cersei’s wildfire did not claim everyone, Your Grace. I was… elsewhere when the Sept burned. A private chapel. A lover’s bed.” A small, bitter smile. “The details matter less than the fact that I lived. The city turned on itself after. Lannister men. Sparrows still hunting. I fled. I have nothing left in the Reach. Nothing left in King’s Landing. I came to the only power left that might… use me.”

“Use you.” You taste the words. “And what, exactly, do you offer the Mother of Dragons that she does not already possess?”

She takes a step closer. The cloak slips from one shoulder, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone, the soft swell of the top of her breast. The linen is damp enough that you can see the darker circles of her areolas. She knows. Of course she knows. Margaery Tyrell has always known how to weaponize a body.

“Everything,” she says softly. “My name. My remaining allies in the Reach, if any still live. My knowledge of the Red Keep’s secrets. My cunt.” The last word is delivered with the same polished courtesy as the rest, and it goes straight to your clit like a wet finger. “I am a true survivor, Your Grace. I will do whatever is required to remain one.”

You close the distance between you in three slow steps. Close enough to smell the salt on her skin, the faint residual sweetness of rose oil that no amount of travel has quite erased. Close enough that when you reach out and take her chin between thumb and forefinger, she does not pull away.

“Show me,” you murmur.

Margaery’s breath hitches. Then she drops to her knees on the cold stone as if she has been waiting for the command her entire life. Her hands go to the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric up your thighs with deliberate, worshipful slowness. The cool air kisses your bare sex - you never bother with smallclothes when the island is this warm - and her eyes darken when she sees you are already glistening.

“Seven hells,” she whispers, almost reverent. “You’re soaked.”

You thread your fingers into her shortened hair and guide her face forward. “Then clean it up.”

She does not need to be told twice.

Margaery’s tongue is hot and greedy. She licks a broad, filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit, then seals her lips around the swollen pearl and sucks. Hard. The sound is wet, obscene, echoing off the stone walls of the meeting chamber. You rock your hips against her mouth, smearing your arousal across her chin, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. She moans into you like a woman starved, hands sliding up to grip the firm globes of your ass and pull you tighter against her face.

“That’s it,” you growl, voice low and rough. “Eat your queen’s cunt like the desperate little survivor you are.”

She does. She fucking devours you. Tongue plunging deep, curling, fucking into you with short, filthy thrusts while her nose grinds against your clit. Spit and your juices run down her chin, dripping onto the front of her shift, darkening the linen over her tits. You can see her nipples stiffen further, hard little peaks straining against the thin fabric. One of her hands leaves your ass long enough to shove the shift up around her waist; she is bare underneath, and the scent of her own cunt - sweet and musky and already dripping - rises between you.

You yank her head back by the hair. Her mouth is shiny, lips swollen, eyes glassy with lust.

“On the table,” you order. “Ass up. Legs spread. I want to see how wet a true survivor gets when she’s about to be used.”

Margaery scrambles to obey, climbing onto the long council table and presenting herself. The shift rides up over her hips, exposing the pale, perfect curves of her ass and the flushed, dripping slit between her thighs. Her cunt lips are puffy, glistening, a string of clear arousal already stretching from her entrance to her inner thigh. You step between her spread legs, rucking your own dress higher, and drag two fingers through her folds. She is scalding hot and shamefully slick.

“Look at this,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, reduced to a dripping hole on my table.” You push both fingers into her without warning. Margaery cries out, hips jerking back to take them deeper. “Is this what you came for? To be filled? To be ruined?”

“Yes - gods, yes..• Her voice cracks. “Please, Your Grace, use me…”

You fuck her with your fingers hard and deep, the wet squelch of her cunt filling the chamber. Your thumb finds her clit and rubs tight, mean circles. She comes with a broken sob, walls clamping around your fingers, juices flooding down over your wrist. You do not stop. You keep thrusting, keep rubbing, forcing her through the aftershocks until she is shaking and babbling nonsense against the wood.

Only then do you pull free, wipe your soaked hand across her open mouth, and shove three of those same fingers past her lips.

“Clean them,” you command.

She does, sucking greedily, eyes rolling back as she tastes herself mixed with you. When you finally withdraw, a strand of spit connects her lower lip to your fingers.

You climb onto the table behind her, knees bracketing her hips, and grind your dripping cunt against the soft, wet heat of her ass. Your clit slides through the mess she has made of herself. The friction is electric, filthy, perfect. You reach around, grab one heavy breast through the linen, and squeeze hard enough that she whimpers. Then you shove the fabric down, freeing both tits so they hang and sway with every roll of your hips.

“I’m going to fuck this pretty survivor cunt until you can’t walk,” you promise against the back of her neck, teeth grazing her skin. “And when I’m done, you’re going to thank me for every single drop.”

Margaery pushes back against you, desperate, open, already twitching toward another climax.

“Yes, my queen,” she gasps. “Ruin me. Please, ruin me.”

You do.

For the next hour, the council chamber of Dragonstone becomes a temple of wet, filthy sounds - skin on skin, the slap of your body against hers, Margaery’s broken moans and the gushing of her overstimulated cunt as you grind and finger and finally, when the need becomes unbearable, flip her onto her back and straddle her face. You ride her tongue until your thighs shake and you come with a snarl, flooding her mouth, making her swallow every pulse. Then you return the favor, burying your face between her legs and eating her like a woman possessed until she screams your name - not “Your Grace,” not “Khaleesi,” but Daenerys - and soaks the table beneath her.

By the time the seventh bell rings faintly in the distance, Margaery Tyrell is a wreck: hair a tangled mess, shift torn and soaked through with spit and come, thighs trembling, lips swollen and shiny. You are little better - dress hiked around your waist, cunt still throbbing, the taste of her still thick on your tongue.

You lean over her, brush a strand of chestnut hair from her flushed face, and smile the slow, dangerous smile of a dragon who has found something worth keeping.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Lady Tyrell,” you murmur. “I think we are going to get along very well.”

Outside, the sea keeps breathing against the stone. Inside, a true survivor has just learned exactly what survival under the Mother of Dragons demands.