[ The halls in the castle seem brighter now with Joffrey, and the Lannisters, apart from it. Yellow stag banners have been replaced with howling, silver wolves -- threaded paintings declaring a win over the mad Baratheon King line the walls, telling of Tony's bravery, the loyalty of his men. Wolves tearing into deer flesh, a wolf standing atop a dead lion carcass, painted dragons declaring the partnerships between house Stark and Targaryen all line the opening halls to the throne room, fitting life and light into what used to be cold and barren halls.
Margaery crosses the hall now, bowing hello to the few nursemaids she sees dusting the paintings, chatting with them for loose seconds about the weather and the gardens and the subtle mention of affairs between Margaery's husband and whores in the common area. Margaery laughs, says their joke is telling, I'm sure they'll write songs of my husband's impossible cock before bidding them farewell, padding across the corridor. Two Kingsguard knights protect the entrance, where the last commoner of today hurriedly scurries out from -- his complaints heard by Tony, who's now been listening for... well, a bit. Hours, perhaps.
Reason enough for a distraction, Margaery thinks, and tells the knights not to allow anyone else into the throne room, until they're told otherwise.
She approaches, standing before the massive throne and her husband, the king, upon it. Without so much as a word, her small fingers rise up to pick at the laces of her bodice, sliding leather strings loop from loop, eye contact implied as she works the cloth with grace. When all is done, the top of her gold and blue queen's gown falls loose to her curved hips, slumped to the ground when she tugs it in such a way. Stepping from the pile of cloth she stands bare before him, never more confident and with a smile on her face, lifting up invisible skirts at her sides to bow herself into a curtsy. ]
(For all the talk of the great battle of Kings Landing, the end of it had been surprisingly smooth. There were of course still casualties, there were those who resisted, but perhaps Joffrey's cruelty had set its tracks deeper in the souls of those living in the city walls, because as soon as he was declared dead, loyalties had been quickly shifted to his side. There had been cries for the head of Tommen and Myrcella, but Tony, King Anthony as he was being called then, didn't have the heart to do so. Myrcella could stay across the ocean in Dorne, and Tommen was taken to Highgarden with his kittens, where he would be able to finally be a child completely and fully. Should they at some point turn on him he would deal with it at the time, but he wasn't cruel.
The alliance with the Daenerys had been strong between them, and they worked well together, any fight between them gone now, and seemingly there was peace across the lands.
For the all glamour that was rumoured to come with a kingdom, there was a mountain of work that was never mentioned as well. He remembered from when he was young and watching his father, how he would every day listen to the complaints, the worries, and the suggestions of those who lived within the boundaries of Winterfell. There had been a suggestion that Tony could appoint someone to do that job for him, yet he felt a certain obligation to do it himself, to become acquainted with his kingdom. He had, after all, never had plans to rule anything, being the youngest of three sons, it wasn't likely in his cards. But here he was, sat atop the Iron Throne, the greatest ruler of all.
Tony wasn't particularly paying attention when she entered. He was scratching pen to parchment, noting down the last complaints that had come from what he thought was the last visitor of the day, but then there's the sound of feet against stone, and a frown crosses his face.)
I thought I had already seen the last of them today, Fury.
(It was said to his hand, whom he also thought was still in the room. But with no reply he looked up, his mouth remaining open as he laid eyes on his beloved, and his lip quirked up to one side just a bit. She always seemed to take his breath away when he saw her, from the first time he laid eyes on her, and to now as she disrobed without a word. Whether his mouth was dry because of her, or because he had spent so much of the day talking was unsure, but he blindly reached for his glass to sip of his watered down wine, though kept his gaze firmly on her the whole time.
His eyes roamed her body as she stood in front of him, hungry, desiring. A brief thought went to that of the talk of them producing an heir, there was titter amongst folks saying that perhaps they had not yet consummated the marriage. That he preffered the company of whores, perhaps even of men. But the only whore he saw was her, he would meet her in a whorehouse, any of them really, but it was always her. He had no desire for anyone else. Not anymore.)
My Lady. (He bowed his head to her.) What a beautiful gown you wear today. You shouldn't bother changing for supper tonight, I'm quite sure everyone will love it as I do.
(There's a wicked little grin quirked on his lips.)
[ Curtsy complete, Margaery steps forward on the cool rock of the floor, reaching the stairs before giving a pause. She does think to bend the knee to her king, like one of his knights reporting for duty, but ultimately she decides against. She is not beneath her husband, after all -- at least, he would not have her think as such -- they are equals and partners and Margaery adores the sweet sense of security she has when she's in Tony's midst. Margaery has some experience in marriages, and just as she'd never thought she ever properly fall in love, Tony finds a way to always be her exception.
Bobbing her head, Margaery smiles almost shyly, eyes glancing to Tony and then the throne. ]
What else? I've hardships to whisper into my king's ear.
[ She does grin more mischievously then, taking her time in stepping up the stairs, swaying her hips with every move forward to seem all the more enticing. At the top, she pauses once more, just out of reach, taking a glance at her husband and where he sits. The amount of power held just in one, uncomfortable chair, and the way it shrouds her husband in a benevolent, yet fair way -- Margaery gets off on it, honestly, having sex with the king, her king, the one with all the power in the land, and yet he stays kind, dutiful to his people.
Margaery did, after all, always know he'd make a good king. ]
An ache grows between my thighs, and yet my husband spends his time apart from our bed, so not to alleviate it. [ She moves again, setting forward, until both her knees slide between Tony's where he sits. A hand trails down the plain of her stomach, lower an lower, until her middle finger pushes just barely at her clit. ] Could I rely on my king for such a task? Just a touch from his mighty hand, and I'm sure I'd be caught shivering.
(It's funny how despite all the times they've spent together, how many times he's seen her naked form, she still manages to take his breath away every time. Perhaps even more now than usual, just because she's managed to catch him off guard. Somehow she always manages to do that, though. Despite knowing her as well as he feels he does, she consistently brings new things to their bond, and that is why she is, and always will be, his one true queen.
No, he wouldn't want her to bend at the knee to him. That's not what she is to him. She is, in his minds eye, his equal, and he wishes he could have her sat next to him always, for her council is whose matters the most to him. Had it been accepted she would be his hand, but he knows that it can't be as such. She still joins him occasionally, though, and at the end of a long day, he'll bathe with her against his chest, telling her the woes of his people, their people, and carefully considers any advice she has to give.)
Ah, but of course. Come forth, and tell me all your troubles, and I, as your king, will do my best to make good of it.
(Though his eyes do flit up and down her body, they always come back to rest on her face, to look into her eyes. He shifts slightly, straightening himself just slightly, to show her the same respect as he does anyone who comes before him. Maybe more.
A slow smile forms across his lips, teeth pressing into the lower of them as his eyes drop again to follow her hand. It's like she lights a fire that burns through him like dragons flame, and he hums in thought, forcing himself to bring his eyes up back to hers.)
If your husband chooses to spend time any other place than in bed with you, must truly be mad. Perhaps I should have the kingsguard arrest him, have him thrown in a madhouse. He deserves no less.
(As he speaks he's working the thin leather gloves he wears upon the throne, both for the effect it adds to his dress, though mostly to save himself from small cuts the throne can give. But he wants to touch her fully, and he reaches forward to gently ghost his fingers up her arm.)
What can I do, other than try my best to please those in my kingdom? (His eyes lock on hers as his hand slides to join hers, firm pressure to keep her touching herself, gently forcing the touch lower, too.) I will do what I can, always.
[ Perhaps Margaery is somewhat self-centered in the better aspects of life -- because she rejoices in the way Tony looks at her, in the way he looks at only her, but it's the only point in her life where she's selfish. Only with Tony. The rest of the time, her body is for her kingdom, all of her attention, all of her dedication goes straight into the land that she loves. In the bedroom, behind locked doors and hidden stairwells, the secret passages of the castle's gardens -- she's all Tony's.
Or, more appropriately, Tony is all her's.
Parting her legs as Tony presses her hand, Margaery releases a contented sigh, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers stroke lower, barely brushing against her wet opening. Happy as she may be for the attention she's been given, having Tony's fingers -- Tony's hand, Tony's anything -- would be all the sweeter. Rolling her head around, Margaery opens her eyes with a challenging look: is that really the best you've got? ]
My husband is a good man. [ She says, free hand reaching forward to cup the side of Tony's neck. ] And my king is a good king.
[ Her hand slips down, fingers picking off the ornate buttons to Tony's overcoat. Delicately, efficiently, but being careful towards the center of his chest where an old battle wound left him marred, crippled in the eyes of some. Margaery holds kinder eyes, though, looks to Tony with nothing short of the adoring love she feels for him, flattening her fingers against the iron ring in his chest when it's revealed to her, just barely skidding the surrounding tender skin. ]
And I have love in my heart for both of them. I think I should weep if you were to take my husband from me.
(If it's selfish of Margaery to rejoice in the way Tony looks at her and her alone, then it's just as selfish for Tony to see the same in her. He knows she's his, fully, completely. From the first time he undressed her fully and marvelled in her naked form, falling to his knees and crawling to her, making her whole face light up as he kissed and licked every inch of her body, to just the night before when he watched the tresses of her long hair flow against her back as she moved atop of him, his hands firmly on her hips, to guide her in a way, even though she was fully in control the whole time.
It's so hard for him to hold back, to break from this game they sometimes play. Her the peasant and him the king, because he just longs to pull her to him, to kiss her, to tell her how he worships her. But no. When he holds back it's far more rewarding. It's fun to tease, and despite the challenging look he keeps his hand where it was, outside hers, though gently pushing just a tad firmer.)
But whom do you find does more for you? Who's face is the last you see before you fall asleep, after you've closed your eyes?
(Tony remembers the first time he let her see him fully undressed, before then he had always kept a shirt on, he had even when she had come to see him in the bath, because even his own men had always stared at the disfigurement on his chest. It was ugly, large, and even though it saved his life ad kept him alive, in some ways he hated it. But now here he was, the crippled king as he was sure he would go down in history as, with the most beautiful wife in all the lands. His eyes glance briefly down at her hands when she touches it, and as if that was a cue, he gently moves her own hand away from her wetness, opting for his own instead, gently slipping two thick fingers in, just a few centimetres in while his thumb skirts lightly over her clit.)
Then I will not do that, for even the worst of people would never want to see a trace of sadness on your beautiful face. Only happiness should cross it. And pleasure, too.
[ Let the record show that Tony Stark is the most infuriating man to Christmas shop for. Finding something he wants but doesn't yet own is nearly impossible, so you have to think about the things he doesn't know he wants yet, which is all the more difficult. Thankfully, Margaery is a girl ready to heed such a task, and with enough snooping and deciding, eventually, that the best gifts aren't always material ones, she makes her way to the Stark Tower on Christmas Eve.
Only to find Tony in the basement, working on his next and newest project. Which is typical, and Margaery supports him in everything he does within reason, of course, but she still rolls her eyes playfully at her partner covered in grease and sweat, coming up behind him to touch her hands on either side of his waist. Finding a clear spot, she presses a kiss to his tan shoulder, murmuring into his skin: ]
Do I have to have electrical wires to get you to pay that much attention to me?
[ a joke, obviously, and she laughs, kissing him up the side of his neck. ]
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no subject
Margaery crosses the hall now, bowing hello to the few nursemaids she sees dusting the paintings, chatting with them for loose seconds about the weather and the gardens and the subtle mention of affairs between Margaery's husband and whores in the common area. Margaery laughs, says their joke is telling, I'm sure they'll write songs of my husband's impossible cock before bidding them farewell, padding across the corridor. Two Kingsguard knights protect the entrance, where the last commoner of today hurriedly scurries out from -- his complaints heard by Tony, who's now been listening for... well, a bit. Hours, perhaps.
Reason enough for a distraction, Margaery thinks, and tells the knights not to allow anyone else into the throne room, until they're told otherwise.
She approaches, standing before the massive throne and her husband, the king, upon it. Without so much as a word, her small fingers rise up to pick at the laces of her bodice, sliding leather strings loop from loop, eye contact implied as she works the cloth with grace. When all is done, the top of her gold and blue queen's gown falls loose to her curved hips, slumped to the ground when she tugs it in such a way. Stepping from the pile of cloth she stands bare before him, never more confident and with a smile on her face, lifting up invisible skirts at her sides to bow herself into a curtsy. ]
Your Grace.
no subject
The alliance with the Daenerys had been strong between them, and they worked well together, any fight between them gone now, and seemingly there was peace across the lands.
For the all glamour that was rumoured to come with a kingdom, there was a mountain of work that was never mentioned as well. He remembered from when he was young and watching his father, how he would every day listen to the complaints, the worries, and the suggestions of those who lived within the boundaries of Winterfell. There had been a suggestion that Tony could appoint someone to do that job for him, yet he felt a certain obligation to do it himself, to become acquainted with his kingdom. He had, after all, never had plans to rule anything, being the youngest of three sons, it wasn't likely in his cards. But here he was, sat atop the Iron Throne, the greatest ruler of all.
Tony wasn't particularly paying attention when she entered. He was scratching pen to parchment, noting down the last complaints that had come from what he thought was the last visitor of the day, but then there's the sound of feet against stone, and a frown crosses his face.)
I thought I had already seen the last of them today, Fury.
(It was said to his hand, whom he also thought was still in the room. But with no reply he looked up, his mouth remaining open as he laid eyes on his beloved, and his lip quirked up to one side just a bit. She always seemed to take his breath away when he saw her, from the first time he laid eyes on her, and to now as she disrobed without a word. Whether his mouth was dry because of her, or because he had spent so much of the day talking was unsure, but he blindly reached for his glass to sip of his watered down wine, though kept his gaze firmly on her the whole time.
His eyes roamed her body as she stood in front of him, hungry, desiring. A brief thought went to that of the talk of them producing an heir, there was titter amongst folks saying that perhaps they had not yet consummated the marriage. That he preffered the company of whores, perhaps even of men. But the only whore he saw was her, he would meet her in a whorehouse, any of them really, but it was always her. He had no desire for anyone else. Not anymore.)
My Lady. (He bowed his head to her.) What a beautiful gown you wear today. You shouldn't bother changing for supper tonight, I'm quite sure everyone will love it as I do.
(There's a wicked little grin quirked on his lips.)
What can I do for you, my love?
no subject
Bobbing her head, Margaery smiles almost shyly, eyes glancing to Tony and then the throne. ]
What else? I've hardships to whisper into my king's ear.
[ She does grin more mischievously then, taking her time in stepping up the stairs, swaying her hips with every move forward to seem all the more enticing. At the top, she pauses once more, just out of reach, taking a glance at her husband and where he sits. The amount of power held just in one, uncomfortable chair, and the way it shrouds her husband in a benevolent, yet fair way -- Margaery gets off on it, honestly, having sex with the king, her king, the one with all the power in the land, and yet he stays kind, dutiful to his people.
Margaery did, after all, always know he'd make a good king. ]
An ache grows between my thighs, and yet my husband spends his time apart from our bed, so not to alleviate it. [ She moves again, setting forward, until both her knees slide between Tony's where he sits. A hand trails down the plain of her stomach, lower an lower, until her middle finger pushes just barely at her clit. ] Could I rely on my king for such a task? Just a touch from his mighty hand, and I'm sure I'd be caught shivering.
no subject
No, he wouldn't want her to bend at the knee to him. That's not what she is to him. She is, in his minds eye, his equal, and he wishes he could have her sat next to him always, for her council is whose matters the most to him. Had it been accepted she would be his hand, but he knows that it can't be as such. She still joins him occasionally, though, and at the end of a long day, he'll bathe with her against his chest, telling her the woes of his people, their people, and carefully considers any advice she has to give.)
Ah, but of course. Come forth, and tell me all your troubles, and I, as your king, will do my best to make good of it.
(Though his eyes do flit up and down her body, they always come back to rest on her face, to look into her eyes. He shifts slightly, straightening himself just slightly, to show her the same respect as he does anyone who comes before him. Maybe more.
A slow smile forms across his lips, teeth pressing into the lower of them as his eyes drop again to follow her hand. It's like she lights a fire that burns through him like dragons flame, and he hums in thought, forcing himself to bring his eyes up back to hers.)
If your husband chooses to spend time any other place than in bed with you, must truly be mad. Perhaps I should have the kingsguard arrest him, have him thrown in a madhouse. He deserves no less.
(As he speaks he's working the thin leather gloves he wears upon the throne, both for the effect it adds to his dress, though mostly to save himself from small cuts the throne can give. But he wants to touch her fully, and he reaches forward to gently ghost his fingers up her arm.)
What can I do, other than try my best to please those in my kingdom? (His eyes lock on hers as his hand slides to join hers, firm pressure to keep her touching herself, gently forcing the touch lower, too.) I will do what I can, always.
no subject
Or, more appropriately, Tony is all her's.
Parting her legs as Tony presses her hand, Margaery releases a contented sigh, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers stroke lower, barely brushing against her wet opening. Happy as she may be for the attention she's been given, having Tony's fingers -- Tony's hand, Tony's anything -- would be all the sweeter. Rolling her head around, Margaery opens her eyes with a challenging look: is that really the best you've got? ]
My husband is a good man. [ She says, free hand reaching forward to cup the side of Tony's neck. ] And my king is a good king.
[ Her hand slips down, fingers picking off the ornate buttons to Tony's overcoat. Delicately, efficiently, but being careful towards the center of his chest where an old battle wound left him marred, crippled in the eyes of some. Margaery holds kinder eyes, though, looks to Tony with nothing short of the adoring love she feels for him, flattening her fingers against the iron ring in his chest when it's revealed to her, just barely skidding the surrounding tender skin. ]
And I have love in my heart for both of them. I think I should weep if you were to take my husband from me.
no subject
It's so hard for him to hold back, to break from this game they sometimes play. Her the peasant and him the king, because he just longs to pull her to him, to kiss her, to tell her how he worships her. But no. When he holds back it's far more rewarding. It's fun to tease, and despite the challenging look he keeps his hand where it was, outside hers, though gently pushing just a tad firmer.)
But whom do you find does more for you? Who's face is the last you see before you fall asleep, after you've closed your eyes?
(Tony remembers the first time he let her see him fully undressed, before then he had always kept a shirt on, he had even when she had come to see him in the bath, because even his own men had always stared at the disfigurement on his chest. It was ugly, large, and even though it saved his life ad kept him alive, in some ways he hated it. But now here he was, the crippled king as he was sure he would go down in history as, with the most beautiful wife in all the lands. His eyes glance briefly down at her hands when she touches it, and as if that was a cue, he gently moves her own hand away from her wetness, opting for his own instead, gently slipping two thick fingers in, just a few centimetres in while his thumb skirts lightly over her clit.)
Then I will not do that, for even the worst of people would never want to see a trace of sadness on your beautiful face. Only happiness should cross it. And pleasure, too.
no subject
Only to find Tony in the basement, working on his next and newest project. Which is typical, and Margaery supports him in everything he does within reason, of course, but she still rolls her eyes playfully at her partner covered in grease and sweat, coming up behind him to touch her hands on either side of his waist. Finding a clear spot, she presses a kiss to his tan shoulder, murmuring into his skin: ]
Do I have to have electrical wires to get you to pay that much attention to me?
[ a joke, obviously, and she laughs, kissing him up the side of his neck. ]