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Seeing her like this makes Sansa wonder why she ever feared her in the first place. Chained and dirty, her shorn hair just brushing her shoulders, the proud lioness seems nothing more than a frail kitten.
But her eyes, oh her eyes. As hateful and green as always, undimmed by weeks of captivity, Cersei’s hate shines blindingly bright when she looks up at her.
“Come to gloat, little dove?” The woman spits.
Sansa cocks her head, seeing no sense in lying to her now. “Yes,” she hums, “and to look upon my prize.”
Cersei laughs at that, hoarse and mocking, and for a moment Sansa feels like a girl again, trapped in the lioness’ claws. “Your prize? No, I think not.” The chains on her ankles put a damper on the air of superiority she still tries to maintain, but she does a damned good job of it anyway. “That claim belongs to the dragon bitch, does it not? Or were you the one who breathed death on my city, my people?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Sansa scoffs, “you must take me for a fool if you think I believe that you’ve ever cared about your people for a moment.”
“I do take you for a fool, yes, but I never claimed to care about the rabble any more than I care about you.” Cersei turns away from her, going back to staring at a particularly interesting section of the crumbling walls of her cell. She hates her, this bird she thought she’d trained who’d flown away from her cage. “In fact, I’ve tired of your presence, so if you’d kindly get out…”
“I won’t be doing that, nor anything else you say.” Striding over to her, Sansa grabs her chin and turns her head to meet her affronted gaze. “You’ll be the one taking orders from now on.”
“Why on earth would I do that?” Cersei sneers, shaking off Sansa’s hand. A flash of memory comes to her then, of a time long past and a girl long grown, a grip just like this one that the redhead hadn’t found the courage to dislodge then. What she wouldn’t give to be back there, standing over Sansa as she once did, spinning sweet promises of a kind touch to the girl while her bite marks bled. Hidden ones, of course, so none would know that the king’s betrothed was in truth claimed by the queen regent.
Sansa straightens, tamping down a smirk. “When Daenerys needed my support in securing her position, she said I could ask for anything I wanted.” Pacing around the cell, she takes in the squalor that the proud woman has been living in since the Targaryen’s ascension. “I asked for the North,” once again in front of her, Sansa watches her face, eagerly anticipating her reaction, “and for you.”
“I am not some horse to be sold, nor a doll to be gifted,” Cersei hisses, “tell that whore to kill me and be done with it. ”
“Oh, but you are, and she will not. That ‘whore’ doesn’t think you deserve a quick death.” Satisfaction courses through her veins at Cersei’s expression, the fear licking around the edges of her eyes. “I happen to agree.”
“You don’t have it in you,” Cersei laughs, though it is high and fake now, a weak imitation of her usual conviction. “You don’t know the first thing about breaking someone.”
“Have you forgotten, Cersei?” Holding her glare, Sansa approaches her steadily, like a rabid animal in a trap, dangerous even while it bleeds out. “You’re the one who taught me.”
Too quick to dodge, Sansa pins her down to the shabby cot she’s been allotted, only needing one hand to hold both her wrists together above her head. Physical strength has never been Cersei’s weapon of choice, and her time in captivity has done nothing to help that.
Cersei’s blood boils at the indignity of it all, at seeing her little wolf bitch on top of her, so unlike where and what she should be. Cruelly, her mind takes her back to the moment she’d heard of Sansa’s escape, to the inexplicable rush of betrayal that went through her then. Fool, a damned fool she was, thinking the girl was broken, tamed. Thinking her loyal, hers.
“Let me go!” Thrashing, Cersei tries futilely to dislodge her.
Sansa presses herself fully against her, twining their legs together until Cersei can neither throw her off nor close them.
Hot breath ghosts over her milky skin, moments before pain blooms on her neck as Sansa bites down. It’s wrong, wrong, not at all how she remembers her little dove.
Dove no longer, Sansa bites until the lioness remembers that wolves have fangs too.
Droplets of blood stick to her teeth as she licks at Cersei’s wound, nursing from her flesh. “How does it feel?”
Cersei curses her, venomous hate spewing from her lips, words that once cowed the wolf pup into submission, that once brought her to her knees to repent her sins by worshiping the queen’s cunt.
Queen no longer, she remains in the girl’s punishing grip as she covers her mouth with her own, drowning out her threats with a bruising kiss, all passion, all hate, teeth clacking together as Sansa claims her revenge.
“Say it,” Sansa pants, her eyes wild, cheeks flushed. Traitorously, Cersei can’t help but notice her beauty even as she fantasizes about her demise. “Tell me how it feels to be beneath me, to be in your rightful place.”
A bitter laugh tumbles from Cersei’s bitten lips, “Why should I?” She squirms, hoping to get an inch of leverage to throw her off and finding herself thoroughly trapped. “You should already know, shouldn’t you? What with how many times you’ve been in this place.” The girl’s knee presses against her cunt just so and Cersei lets more words come pouring out to mask the growing arousal in her breath. “Under me, where you should be.”
Observant as she is, Sansa doesn’t miss the dilation of her pupils, nor the seemingly unconscious way her hips stutter down to press harder against her knee. “Should I?” She pushes up, feeling the heat of Cersei’s cunt even through her skirts. “It seems to me you enjoy this just fine.”
“Fuck,” she hisses, jerking away from the contact and choking down a moan when the girl follows, her presence all-encompassing, too much, too much, not right.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, it never was. Sansa was supposed to be hers, she wasn’t supposed to abandon her then, and she wasn’t supposed to be here now, stealing away the last vestiges of her pride.
Grinning down at her, Sansa brings one of her hands down to her cunt, exposed where her thin shift has been rucked up in her struggle. Nimble fingers dance down the length of her slit, finding the woman wet, wanting.
“That’s what I thought,” Sansa laughs, slipping two fingers inside of her without warning, her nails scratching at her insides the way Cersei always loved to do to her.
Thrashing, the white hot pleasure-pain overwhelming, Cersei bites down on her lip until she tastes blood in her mouth, refusing to give Sansa the satisfaction of a reaction.
But the girl knows her well, intimately, knows what she looks like in the throes of pleasure, in all of her ever-flighty moods.
Sansa can read her like a book and it is through no one’s fault but her own, Cersei laments, because she was fool enough to be lulled into complacency by dewy eyes and pretty words, to allow herself to feel secure enough in the breaking of this creature to show her those ugly vulnerable parts of her rotten soul.
To her horror, she feels tears of furious frustration, of defeat, prickle at the corners of her eyes. Sansa curls her fingers inside her, sharp nails grazing that spot, and the words burst forth before she can stop them. “Stop- stop it, you wretched whore! Please-”
“Begging,” Sansa cocks her head, “already?”
Shame colors her cheeks at her own weakness, at the knowledge of what she’d have done to the girl for it if their roles were reversed. She doesn’t think she could survive the indignity of it, prays that Sansa won’t go so far.
Just as she feels her peak approach, those fingers leave her in an instant, going up to her face to grip her jaw. Cersei hadn’t even noticed when she’d squeezed her eyes shut but they fly open now from the shock of feeling her own wetness, sticky and warm on her face.
“Admit it,” Sansa says evenly, sounding so unaffected that it makes her all the more aware of how much of a mess she must seem. “Accept your place and it will all be over.” A cruel smirk stretches across her face as she continues. “Well, for tonight, at least.”
“Get. Out.” Cersei screams, hoarse and desperate for a respite, for more, for release, for an end to it, one way or another.
A crack rings and it takes the woman a moment to realize that it is the sound of Sansa slapping her, to process the slight burn blooming on her skin.
She’s had worse to be sure, this slap a lover’s kiss compared to those Robert bestowed on her once, but the sheer principle of Sansa, her sweet dove, her obedient little pup, being the one to do it claws at her, sets her feral.
Cersei throws her head forward, feeling their foreheads connect and pain radiate through her. Instinct has Sansa pulling back to clutch at her skull, her mouth wide with shock and her eyes angry, fuming.
She knows that managing to get Sansa off her now won’t accomplish much in the long run, as all the girl has to do is call the guards and have them chain her tighter, yet it doesn’t stop her from trying, from fighting with all that’s in her to not give in.
Using Sansa’s brief distraction, she gets her hands down to her sides, moments away from pushing up and dislodging the girl, when suddenly her throat is encircled in a firm grip, nails harsh on the sides, digging cruelly into the fresh bite there.
Just like that her chance is gone, hope crushed as she’s slammed back down. Her pulse races, thundering against the fingers squeezing it. “N- no! Let me, let me go!” Cersei chokes out, her hands clawing at Sansa’s, desperate and panicked.
“I tried, I did,” Sansa spits, tightening her grasp and reveling in Cersei’s fruitless gasping. “Truly, I tried to go easy on you.”
Her other hand darts down to Cersei’s cunt, slamming into her sharply, not an ounce of kindness in her motions. “But you don’t want it easy, do you? No, you need to be fucked.” Each word punctuated by a sharp thrust, Sansa drinks in the sound of the woman’s ragged whimpers and moans.
Another finger slips into her, curling, fucking, breaking, her. She can’t catch a breath, can’t even form a coherent thought besides wrong, wrong, wrong. Where is her sweet dove? Where is the girl she took apart, the girl she had begging for more of her touch, less of her pain? The girl she curled up with at night and told her darkest truths to in drunken rants, the girl she trusted, the beautiful broken thing she believed would never, could never leave her.
Sansa brings her thumb up to dig into her clit, too hard, too sharp, too much, and she can’t take it anymore.
Cersei screams, a gurgling, broken noise as she cums, her eyes rolling back as white spots color her vision and she feels herself slip away.
Right as she thinks this is it, the end, the proud lioness snuffed out by the wolf pup, Sansa lets go, allowing precious air to rush into her heaving chest.
“Oh no you don’t,” Sansa huffs, smacking her cheek lightly until Cersei comes back into consciousness, her head lolling to the side uselessly. “No, you don’t get to do that. Wake up, Cersei, and face me.”
Cersei’s eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused as they lock onto Sansa’s, flinching at the promise she sees in them. “There you are,” Sansa smiles, entirely too sweet after what she’d just done, painfully similar to the smiles Cersei used to give her back then, when all was right and she was hers.
Sansa leans in close, strokes comfortingly over Cersei’s bruised throat, over the bleeding bite she’d claimed her with. Soft lips graze hers, a ghost of a kiss, and Cersei feels her next words, the finality and victory they are laced with.
“This is your life now,” Sansa says, and in that moment Cersei knows that it is at once over and just beginning, that the dove has shed her clipped wings in favor of thick fur and sharp claws, claws that she’s dug into her with no plans of letting go.
Somehow, the worst part of it all is that she’ll never again know the obedient, reverent girl she once owned, loved-
Loved?
Oh, oh, how cruel the Gods are to only now allow her to admit it to herself.
Now, when the girl she loved is gone, gone and yet ever present, grown into someone she does not recognize, her Sansa forever a painful memory to haunt her dreams as this one will claim her days.
All her days, her nights, her life itself is Sansa’s now, and when she looks in her eyes she sees nothing, nothing but hate, nothing but her doom.
Sansa smirks down at her, taking her stunned silence for the admission of defeat that it, admittedly, is.
“I learned so much from you, you know.” Sansa leans in and kisses her deeply, “You taught me well.”
“Now,” she says, pulling back to study Cersei in a way that makes her blood run cold, “let’s put those lessons to good use.”