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Weapon of Choice (Cersei/Sansa; PG-13) - alley_skywalker [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
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Weapon of Choice (Cersei/Sansa; PG-13) [Sep. 23rd, 2012|01:17 am]
alley_skywalker
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Title: Weapon of Choice
Author: alley_skywalker
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Paring: Cersei Lannister/Sansa Stark
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Cersei is just a little fascinated by Sansa and decides that a lesson in womanhood would suit the girl well.



Sansa is a pretty little thing. She has that lovely fire-stained hair and those dove’s eyes. She has a figure of a statuette, not fully bloomed yet but not without its womanly shapes. Cersei enjoys watching women, especially for aesthetic reasons. Men have never fascinated her quite so much, they are far simpler in their psychology or so it seems to her. Nor are their bodies as beautiful as those of women; men are all brute force and muscle and unnecessary facial hair. Cersei does like looking at Jaime, enjoys taking him to her bed, but that is different. Jaime is her other half, her copy, a part of her that she could never discard. He is permanently attached to her soul and Cersei is fine with that for Jaime is not just a man, he is her man, her brother, her integral part. As far as everyone else is concerned however…



With women it’s different. There are many things Cersei does not like about women and often wishes she could have been a man herself. She dislikes their weakness, how they are so often ruled by emotions, their hen-ing and hystetics but she finds women so much more interesting to observe and pleasant on the eyes. Like Sansa. She is like a breeze, a small bird. She is pliable and sweet and her lips have that kissable quality that Cersei likes so much. When it comes to men, Cersei’s best weapon has always been between her legs, as is nature’s way, but with women other tricks must be used.



She finds Sansa mostly undressed in her chambers one night. Cersei dismisses Sansa’s maids and takes the girl’s brush into her hand, running it softly through Sansa’s hair. Ned Stark’s little girl shivers noticeably and Cersei finds her senses aroused. Oh she could not forbid herself this pleasure, this innocence which was so hard to find in anyone older than a suckling babe in King’s Landing. “How are you enjoying your stay at King’s Landing, Dove?”



Cersei watches Sansa’s eyes grow wider in the mirror. She has obviously not forgotten the incident with the wolves. Cersei remains silent and only strokes the brush through Sansa’s hair, waiting for the girl to gather her wits around her and give an answer. “I like it well, Your Grace,” Sansa says softly, her pink sensual lips barely moving as she speaks. She sounds much as she looks, like a doll. A frightened doll. And yet there is a fire that burns deep within her eyes and Cersei drinks it up, thrives on it. “I know what happened with your wolf must have upset you,” Cersei continues, not managing to put even a modicum of actual sympathy into her voice. Those creatures are vile and only a brute like Stark would give them as pets to his children. “I was worried for Joffrey’s safety and that of other innocents.”



Sansa seems to tense, but then quashes whatever protests she might have had and says in the same subdued tone, “I was worried about him too, Your Grace. I am so upset that he is angry with me.”



Cersei turns Sansa around and traces one hand over the girl’s smooth cheek, stopping under the chin to tilt her head up with two long, elegant fingers. “Would you like to win the Prince’s favor once again, Dove?”



Sansa nods and looks up with an emotion that Cersei identifies as desperate curiosity. “I would like to very much.”



Very well then. “Well, I am sure Joffrey will come around,” Cersei purrs. After all, it is to her advantage that Joffrey make his amends with Sansa in more way than just one. Of course, the Start girl doesn’t have to know that. “If you are lovely and sweet, he will come back to looking at you favorably.”



“Yes, Your Grace.”



Cersei drops Sansa’s chin and gives the girl a long, penetrating look. Surely, she could allow herself some pleasure – Gods know Robert allows himself plenty – and the girl is most delectable. Also this could be useful – the closer she ties the Stark girl to her, the better. “You will have to know how to please him later on as well and that will be…far more comprehensive.”



Sansa looks up, her eyes uncomprehending. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”



“Silly girl, I mean the way a woman pleases a man after they are wed.”



“Oh!” Sansa’s cheeks burn bright red and yet Cersei sees that fiery spark in the girl’s eyes again, flickering but still there.



“I could…teach you, if you like.” Cersei brushes a thick strand of Sansa’s hair out of her face and runs her hands down the girl’s chest until she reaches the front lacing on her dress bodice. Cersei gives two expert tugs at the ribbons and they untie, opening the bodice of the dress in two and revealing the white corset Sansa wears underneath. Women wear too many layers for Cersei’s taste but she disregards the irritation this inconvenience causes and smiles encouragingly instead.



Sansa seems to melt under Cersei’s hands, her body going pliant, the tension bleeding away into nothingness. “But h-how, Your Grace.”



Cersei smirks coolly, thinking that she must resemble Jaime very much in this moment. “Oh in a practical manner.”



Sansa’s chest rises and falls rapidly, heavily as her dress slips onto the floor. “Will it hurt?” Sansa asks suddenly, her eyes growing still wider even though she neither pushes Cersei’s hands away nor steps back.



Cersei almost laughs. “No, Dove, it will not hurt. Not with me.” Sansa nods slightly in consent and Cersei walks behind her to undo the corset. Sansa’s underskirts and corset slide off with a slithering sound and reveal her milky, smooth skin. Cersei bends her head and kisses the girl’s bare shoulder lightly. “Come, Dove.” She leads Sansa to the bed and lays them down among the pillows. Here she will teach Lady Sansa Stark a very important lesson in womanhood.



Perhaps Cersei was wrong and best weapon is between her legs, with both men and women. Or perhaps, it is merely her weapon of choice.




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