Sansa wasn't hungry.
She had zero desire to eat, and even less appetite for the strained excuse for polite conversation the women beside her were bandying back and forth over the dinner table, smiles belonging to words that they most definitely weren't saying. The tension in the room was so thick that Sansa could taste it.
Cersei Lannister, that fearful, beautiful Queen, presided over their table. Margaery Tyrell preened at her right, while Sansa shrank in her chair at the Queen's left.
Dutiful to a fault, Sansa had not said so much as two words since she'd been shown into the Queen's chambers, murmuring a respectful greeting as she came in. Doing as she was bid, she'd taken her place at the royal table with the same feeling of paralyzed obligation that had washed over her upon receiving the Queen's summons to dinner that morning.
"My grandmother and I have been discussing the wedding, and we hope to fully involve the city smallfolk in the celebration," Margaery Tyrell was saying.
She leaned toward the Queen, dress shimmering gold and green in the flickering candlelight. She was a sweet, blossoming thing; looking at her, Sansa felt as old as stone. "During the procession through the city streets, we'd like to throw flowers and have been thinking of roses, of course, as well as chrysanthemums for fidelity, gladiolus for luck..."
She had been diminished, reduced to a mote of dust in Margaery's shadow. She is the one that you want, Sansa thought towards the Queen, fiercely willing herself invisible. Feast on her, my replacement, and let me be. The page had been turned on her own story, and all Sansa wanted was to be forgotten. Yet she'd been called here for some unknown reason, to bear witness to this exchange between queen and queen-to-be.
"Oh yes," Cersei Lannister said, a single muscle pulsing in her jaw. She looked toward Sansa. "Don't you think that sounds lovely, Sansa? Wouldn't that be nice?"
"Yes, your Grace," Sansa murmured, lowering her head in feigned demureness. Really, her stomach twisted like a knife, and she couldn't stand to meet the Queen's raking eyes. Across the table, Margaery Tyrell beamed at Sansa with a smile spread as thick as honey, as if Sansa's response meant all the world to her.
This is ridiculous, Sansa thought with a sharp, sick, indignant thrill. They act as if I had anything to contribute, as if I were their equal. As if I were important.
Trying to avoid further attention, Sansa reached for her glass, reflecting on the tiny drama playing out before her. Here was Cersei, fingers tightly gripping the clawed hand rest of her chair-but why was she so angry? She, after all, had been the one who'd summoned Sansa and Margaery to dine.
Then again, the Queen had been unfathomable to Sansa since she'd stopped playing the sweet mother-to-be. When Sansa had first met the Queen at Winterfell a thousand years ago, when the Queen's dead husband had come to make Sansa's dead father Hand, Cersei had seemed gentle and fair. She remained beautiful, that was true. But behind that hard, lovely exterior was a woman whose love reached only to her own children.
Sansa had come to dread the Queen even more since the betrothal to Joffrey had been broken; before, at least, she'd known what Cersei ultimately intended for her. Now... well. The Queen had taken to looking at Sansa as if she were something fragile just waiting to be broken, and spoke to her with in a way that alternated between cosseting, pity, and bare scorn. Her presence made Sansa almost unbearably nervous.
And here, across the table, was another confusing puzzle of a woman. Sansa had only known Margaery a matter of days, but it was already clear that the Tyrell girl was perceptive, sharp, and capable of a poignant kindness that showed itself like shards of shimmering glass.
The girl and her family, while perfectly genteel to the rest of the court, had been notably warm to Sansa. But rather than providing comfort, Margaery's sweet disposition only increased Sansa's anxiety: she wouldn't wish her former betrothed on anyone, especially not a girl who seemed so kind.
She'd even risked everything and told Margaery and her grandmother the violent, horrible truth about Joffrey-but Margaery and her family were still going forward with the wedding. Sansa couldn't understand it.
"Little dove, your appetite is that of a bird this evening. Does my table not agree with you?"
Cersei's voice startled Sansa out of her thoughts. "I-It does, your Grace." Sansa swallowed. "I'm only feeling a bit... indisposed. I will gladly partake, if it please you." She forced herself to look at the Queen.
The Queen's sharp green eyes regarded Sansa for a moment. "No. We have dined long enough, I think. Let us retire to the balcony."
Margaery Tyrell leaned in warmly. "An excellent idea, your Grace." Cersei eyed her sharply and then rose to her feet, scarlet skirts falling gracefully to the floor. The girls trailed her into the next room, which was softly illuminated by dozens of candlelit sconces.
Cersei Lannister's bedchamber, Sansa thought, was as exquisite as that of any storybook queen. A beautiful four-poster bed dominated the center of the room on a dais, its embroidered cloth-of-gold bedding complementing the tapestry of Lannister colors that covered the wall behind. The lush Myrish rug carpeting the floor ran right up to the short stone balcony, where doors opened high over the castle gardens to display the inky sky night alight with thousands of stars.
King's Landing felt beautiful tonight, the summer night air was balmy, and the pretty scene was almost enough to allay the nerves that jangled in Sansa's chest. Almost.
Cersei motioned for them to sit, nodding at the low carved stools just inside the room. She moved to the sideboard to unstop a decanter of wine, then surprised Sansa by turning to press a filled glass into Sansa's hands.
"Here, little dove. Perhaps this will cure what ails you." Her tone was pointed, but much softer than what Sansa had become accustomed to, from her. The Queen's eyes were probing as she pulled away.
"Th-thank you, your Grace." Gods, there had been a time when Sansa had prided herself on being well-spoken. She flushed.
Margaery turned to the Queen, still smiling. "The smell of the flowers is so divine, Your Grace. It reminds me of Highgarden."
"King's Landing is a city of many charms, Margaery." Cersei continued to occupy herself at the sideboard. "What do you think, little dove?" she said abruptly to Sansa, who'd just been thinking she'd be hard pressed to name a single one of the city's charms. She blinked and the Queen said sharply, "The wine."
Oh. She took a sip. "It's very good, Your Grace." Sansa was being truthful. The wine was indeed very good; perhaps that was why the Queen was always in her cups.
Cersei laughed, looking genuinely amused for the first time that evening. "So you prefer drink to food. A girl after my own heart."
Margaery followed this little exchange with a courtier's smile. "King's Landing is truly beautiful," she remarked, folding her hands in her lap and steering the conversation back to the earlier topic. "When you were wed, Your Grace, how long was it before you felt at home here?"
"It was very little time at all. I grew comfortable in King's Landing very quickly. Of course, I had my brother Jaime here with me, serving in the Kingsguard, and that made me feel quite... comfortable." Cersei paused briefly, biting her full lower lip almost wryly. "But let us speak of your wedding, Margaery. If it please you, you may choose Joffrey's bridal flower from the castle gardens."
"Nothing would please me more," Margaery agreed, all sweetness, and turned her head to Sansa. "Perhaps Lady Sansa could aid in my decision." Surprised to be acknowledged, Sansa murmured some vague noises of assent, though she privately thought the only flower Joffrey deserved was deadly nightshade or the like.
Cersei sank into a low chair on the stone balcony, stretching in her seat. "Well. As Joffrey's queen, Margaery, you will have many duties to complete. Namely, you must give him heirs."
Sansa could see Margaery nodding in prim understanding out of the corner of her eye. Cersei's elegant fingers tapped at the stem of her goblet as she regarded Margaery over its rim. "My Joffrey is young still, yet becoming a man. To give him heirs, you must know what to do." Cersei paused, her lips curling. "What do you know of fucking?"
Sansa couldn't hold back her sharp inhale of shock, or stop the blush of heat that suffused her body instantly. Next to her Margaery sat unnaturally still, both eyes trained on the Queen. "What do you mean, Your Grace?" the Tyrell girl said, very coolly.
"I mean fucking." Cersei could very well have been saying 'dancing' or 'talking' in that cavalier tone of voice, but for that unmistakable hint of wicked amusement-enjoyment, even-in her eyes. "What do you know of it, my lady of Highgarden?"
There was a long, weighted pause. Margaery's voice, when it came, was as light as Cersei's but steely underneath. "I am a maiden, Your Grace. To be any other, as the betrothed of King Joffrey, would be... unthinkable." As well you know, her tone added.
Sansa's face burned. Was this was why the Queen had called an audience with two young women she so obviously despised? She glanced at Margaery, who remained gazing stoically at the Queen.
Cersei laughed suddenly, brightly. "Margaery, my sweet, I'm casting no aspersions on your maidenhead. Gods! I'm simply asking what you know of... well, fucking. Lovemaking, if your tender sensibilities prefer. The art of how a queen may please her king." She gave a brilliant, rigid smile. "It is important that you know these things to make heirs. Joffrey may need you to be experienced."
Margaery released her breath with a noise that sounded like it might have been the prelude to laughter, but she did not laugh. "I see, your Grace." Her blue eyes narrowed for a second before widening innocuously. "Why, I know as little as any maiden would."
"So you will need instruction." Cersei leaned forward, her loose golden hair gleaming in the candlelight. "Don't be ashamed, Margaery. I wouldn't want my son marrying some whore." She smiled broadly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You'll learn from me. I will teach you how to fuck like a queen."
Sansa gaped at her, thunderstruck. She couldn't help it. It was the combination of the obscene word she'd only ever heard used by stable hands (and Theon Greyjoy, once, when he didn't know she was listening), and the frank discussion of what constituted heir-making.
Sansa had never heard ladies speak of such things. But then again... who was she to know? Perhaps this was part of the marriage contract. Maybe, if she were still betrothed to Joffrey, Cersei would be inquiring about her lovemaking (fucking?) expertise right now. The thought was enough to make Sansa squirm with embarrassment, adding to the color already high in her cheeks.
Cersei reached to refill their cups and Margaery sipped her wine placidly. Her expression was perfectly calm, rosebud mouth turned up at the corners, and she kept her eyes on the Queen. Cersei drank, cleared her throat, and smirked. Her gaze swung from Margaery to Sansa, and then back to Margaery. "So. Fucking-or would you prefer if I said lovemaking?"
"Your word will suit," said Margaery levelly. "Your Grace."
The Queen smiled. "Fucking," she said, "should not be all about the man's pleasure. The woman's pleasure is also important. If you know how to please yourself, you will have a much better chance of pleasing the man." Cersei's mouth twisted slightly, until her smile looked almost ugly.
"Men think they have all the control, but in the bedchamber... it's all in our hands. All men fancy themselves great lovers but, you know, they have such fragile egos. We can build them up or destroy them merely by expressing displeasure with their performance. Besides, it's up to us to give them heirs. A man may spill his seed wherever he can stick his cock, but it takes a woman's body, a woman's choice, to bear a child."
Margaery's eyes sized up the Queen. "What are you saying, Your Grace?"
Cersei spoke deliberately. "Men control everything in this world. And so, in every other aspect of this world, we need them. But not in the bedchamber. There, they need us-to make heirs, to give them their pleasure-but we don't need them. We can use them for our own pleasure, but we do not need them to achieve it. Only once you know that can you truly fuck like a queen." She looked at Margaery, almost coldly. "And don't you want to be Queen?"
Margaery's steely reserve melted just a little. "Yes," she said softly. "I do." Sansa could hear the edge of real desire there in the older girl's voice, and it made her uneasy.
A hard, foreign look came over the Queen's face then. She leaned back in her chair as though it were a throne. "Then you'll do as you're told," she replied. "Kiss Sansa."