A few hours ago in the Red Keep.
Hours before Joffrey arrived at the Sept of Baelor for the wedding, he had a secret meeting with his champion for the small tourney he was holding. In the eyes of the lords and the smallfolk, he was gifting Gregor Clegane to the Dorne on a gold platter. But he'd be a shame to the Lannister name if things were that simple.
"Your Grace." Gregor knelt on one knee before Joffrey. The place of their meeting was one of the rooms in the less visited halls of the Red Keep.
Joffrey remained seated in a chair, sipping fine lemonade. "You are aware of today's tourney. Are you not?"
"I am, Your Grace."
"Good. While I don't want you to lose, I don't want to kill Prince Oberyn either." Rising from his seat, he fixed a menacing gaze on the kneeling giant. "But I don't want you to spare him either. He wields a spear and will be armored, but not enough to withstand your blows unscathed."
Expectantly, Gregor looked up at the King. He had been commanded to follow the King's command by the old Lion. His reins had been passed down to the young King now. "Between dead and alive?"
"Indeed! Ser Clegane, the Red Viper is old, and I desire him removed from the battlefield. Perhaps a mangled mess of his legs, a ruined arm, or even blinded eyes? The sand fuckers have graced King's Landing for the first time in ages. It'd be a shame if they didn't leave with a gift—a permanently crippled body of Prince Oberyn sounds perfect. Don't you agree?"
Gregor Clegane smiled brightly at that. As a man of violence, that was even more joyous than killing. "You shall be pleased with my swordplay, Your Grace."
"Oh, I have no doubt. Do this for me, and the seat of Master of Law on the Small Council will be yours," Joffrey declared with a smirk, dangling the promise before the oafish giant to secure his eager loyalty. "You may leave now."
With that, the Mountain That Rides returned to his personal chamber to prepare for the duel. More careful than he would have been normally, he now thoroughly prepared to cripple the Dornish prince.
Joffrey savored the glass of lemonade in peace. After years, the culmination of his plots was slowly becoming clearer.
Oh, how savory everything tasted with that.
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Presently, at the seaside arena in the Red Keep's vicinity, the duel between Gregor Clegane and Oberyn Martell continued. However, the King had already left the spectator seats. Off to take a leak and give one last chance to his supposed wife.
In an ideal situation, he would have loved to have absolute Tyrell support. He would have loved to have Margaery as his wife. Ignoring that annoying smirking smile, she was a beautiful lady with a cunt worth kingdoms in gold. Yet, what he desired the most was control. Control over every minute decision, event, and scheme in the realm. And that was impossible with Tyrells by his side as their ambition stood as high as the sky.
Joffrey walked out of the privy and approached the water bucket to clean his hands and splash some on his face. The best thing about being the King was that he had a private room no matter where he went. Even in the arena building, he had a place to rest.
"My love?" The door opened to the small, luxurious room with a single bed and two chairs. The window overlooked the arena as the room was strategically placed high and in the clear.
Here comes the smirking whore. Joffrey didn't have to look behind to see who it was. This is your last chance to save yourself.
"Did the duel end?" He asked, wiping his face with a towel. He had discarded his shoes and the surcoat, being relaxed since the next few hours were going to be intense.
"Not yet, Your Grace," Margaery answered and got close to him.
She took the towel from Joffrey's hands and patted it over his face to dry him off as a show of her love and care. Looking up at his proud, changed look, she blushed a little. "Y-You have changed."
"For the better?"
"Much better," she answered with a soft smile.
Before Joffrey left for the North, he had been skinnier, shorter, and less imposing. But now, he looked every bit the rugged knight. His hair had grown longer, brushing against his ears and sides, and his newfound height and gained muscles made him seem strong and formidable. His face, now carved from symmetrical muscles, exuded a new sense of power.
"I feel blessed to have a husband as ravishing as you, Your Grace."
She always had a good mouth, didn't she? Joffrey internally scoffed at her true but empty compliments. I'll entertain it for now.
He smiled softly and looked down at her tight mounds squeezed between her tight dress, the deep neckline gave him an arousing view. With her hands busy wiping his face and fixing his hair, he held her thin waist with both his hands and squeezed her flesh. "The feeling is mutual, my gorgeous wife."
Joffrey let out a hot, audible exhale to showcase his intimacy. If only you were obedient like Sansa, you'd have made a fine broodmare for this royal cock.
Moving one hand, he gently traced her sleeveless shoulder, her pale smooth skin was warm and akin to silk. Plenty of gold had been spent on her to ensure her beauty, he had no doubt. Her hair was so charming and regally done that it made him eager to grab and ruin it, make those scheming, mascara-filled eyes red and ruined.
"Let's watch the duel from the window," Joffrey commanded, casting aside the towel she clutched. With a savage smile, he turned her around and shoved her toward the open window, his presence looming intimately behind her. "Oberyn seems to be doing rather poorly."
Margaery could feel the King's passion and didn't mind it at all. She let the smooth breeze from outside soothe her being. With the room at the peak of one of the arena towers, they could see everything from above the sitting stands. The entire arena was wide open for their eyes—yet she was more focused on the movements right behind her.
"Then it's the will of the Seven," Margaery replied, her voice as smooth as silk.
She paid no mind to the King's curious squeezes on her buttocks, the caressing touches on her waist, or the gentle kisses on her exposed neck. "You have given Dorne the chance to claim what they have long desired."
"Hmm." Joffrey pressed forward, shoving Margaery against the brick wall under the window frame. His erection squeezed between the heavenly split, while his hands reached around her waist and crept upwards towards her tantalizing, small, yet handful breasts. He kissed the side of her neck, making her moan in shivers. "Aren't I a benevolent king?"
"Very-uh… very benevolent." Margaery closed her eyes and eased her head back as the King became more and more daring with his hands and lips. "Y-Your Grace… here?"
Joffrey stopped kissing her neck and focused more on the other parts. He leaned his chest back and easily untied the single lace between Margaery's shoulder blades. It held the entire upper portion of her dress tight against her chest.
Yet again, Joffrey marveled at Margaery's lithe yet enticing frame. Her soft, tender, bubble-like arse pushed tight against his pelvis and made him as hard as a rock. It'd be a shame to not savor the flower before plucking it for good.
"Are you not my wife now?" He asked in a dismissive tone. His hands masterfully worked and aggressively reached around her waist again to pull away her blouse for good. It dangled over her hips, leaving her taut, pink-tipped breasts bare.
She felt the fresh air caress her nakedness, making goosebumps rise all over her skin. "I-I'm yours… My love."
"Then be mine." Joffrey cupped her beautiful breasts and massaged them both in his palms. The warm, feathery peaks almost melted in his hands. Her heaving breaths made him impatient as he kneaded harder, harsher, and hungrier.
Joffrey looked out of the window while toying with her tight, blushing pink nipples. Oberyn Martell had already lost one arm from the Mountain's strike, sliced from the elbow, still dangling from some skin left. Gregor wasn't unscathed either as he bled from various strikes of the spear.
"Ah!" Margaery moaned in abandon, begging for more.
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