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"Now cross your wrists behind your back" Sansa instructed, trying to decipher the teachings on the weathered page. She was standing in the centre of the bedroom, one of the books from Lys in one hand, her other gesturing half-heartedly towards Margaery. Her doll was kneeling on the carpet, her nude body exposed to the air, her legs spread, back arched and head down. Somewhat close to what the picture in the book indicated.

Sighing with growing frustration Sansa turned her back to her, holding the book closer to her face, the tiny scribble becoming blurry, while the painted schema didn't release more of its secrets to her. Her old Valyrian wasn't as good as she had thought it to be. But who was writing in the dead language anyway? To her annoyance, she had discovered that all the instruction manuals they had bought were written in valyrian. And not he corrupted valyrian of the Free Cities that was much more easy to understand, no in high Valyrian, and to crown it all nearly all books – especially the ones they hadn't skim through over the last day - seemed to be copied by the same person with tiny, hard to read script.

Abandoning the text she tried again to consult the pictograms, trying to find out if she had instructed Margaery correctly in assuming position. Apparently a slave was supposed to learn a variety of different positions, most kneeling, all revealing, in order to acquire discipline. Sansa was rather sceptical of that. The books itself weren't so helpful easing her doubts, mostly describing rather heinous acts of brutalisation to bring a slave in line than explaining the reasoning behind.

Cursing herself to let Tyrion leave for his second solar by the treasury, before deciding to start Margaery's 'education' on her own, she turned around, comparing her doll's pose with the picture again, her frustration rising to unknown levels.

The last two days of rest had been good to Margaery. Colour had returned to her cheeks and the rings under her eyes had disappeared, even the bruises inflicted by Joffrey were fading steadily. Only the burns from her shackles worried Sansa. They were angrily red marks, forcing painful flinches out of her slave whenever the metal was grazing them. She had Brella apply ointment as well as thin bandages, which were able to fit between her skin and the metal.

Margaery had spent the last nights in the chamber of Sansa's handmaiden, making Brella once again share the room. She had her own bed and peace. Along with the opportunity to reflect on what had happened, and her decisions. Sansa had to admit she somehow had missed the woman's presence in her bed. Not that she hadn't enjoyed Tyrion at her side, but something in having Margaery at her feet and disposal felt right. She had been all so more relieved to learn that Margaery hadn't changed her mind about her choices. Even after she had learned that there would be no restrained anymore from Tyrion or Sansa, that they would embrace her fully as a slave. As perverse it might be.

Margaery had not wavered though. Sansa couldn't comprehend it. By now she was so far to say that she relinquished the notion of understanding her doll's thinking. She would just enjoy.

Constantly checking the pages she paced around the brown haired girl on the carpet, her eyes gazing from the book to her and back. More than once she stopped in motion lingering on the unblemished flesh before her. She was in power over her. A power given freely, only shared by her husband.

Even if Tyrion's interest in their property seemed limited. Yes he obviously was tempted by Margaery. Nonetheless his behaviour showed Sansa evidently that the slave came second, was only a background protagonist. Sansa couldn't deny that she was flattered by that. She had always perceived Margaery as the more beautiful, more desirable girl to men. But Tyrion - he was hers, his heart was hers. His love for her, the thought of him made her smile with warmth spreading in her. It was good to know that she was loved, that there was someone who truly cared for her. He proved that. It made her happy, truly happy.

The sudden desire to leave Margaery where she was to seek Tyrion out, embracing him, kissing him came over her.

Taking a deep breath she restrained herself, not wanting to ruin her plans for the later day. Plans her husband had no idea about. She refocused her attention back to Margaery, the frustration over the book rising again.

"You know what?" Sansa said frustrated. "You will learn these poses later." With a sigh she threw the book between her doll's knees. Rolling her eyes, absently acknowledging Margaery's obedient reply, she walked to the nearest wine in the room. She filled her cup, taking a large sip, leaning back at the wall all while watching Margaery.

Why do we need her to do this anyhow? Sansa thought to herself, reminiscing about the reasoning in the book while mustering the slave's back. Sansa found the entire philosophy the books preached rather silly. Beating a slave, making her act in a certain way in order to insure obedience and discipline, dominance and submission. The entire point of this arrangement was that Margaery was obedient on her own. She was obedient, submissive and would probably take everything bestowed on her. Sansa felt no need for silly rituals or codes of behaviour for slave or master or mistress. She would do as she please.

Resolved Sansa pushed herself up from the wall, slowly advancing on her doll. She had a long list of things she wanted to do today, not only training kneeling. In preparation she had forced herself through some of the other books during the last day. It had been painful, but also somehow amusing with Tyrion constantly commenting cunningly on the texts he had been studying alongside her.

"Put that away" Sansa ordered, gesturing to the book on the floor. "Then fetch me the topmost chest from the other room together with the bottle beside it."

Beaming wolfishly Sansa observed Margaery rising obediently putting away the book and leaving the room to fetch the chest Sansa had already chosen. After she was through the door Sansa strolled over to the bed, dragging a nearby chair with her and sat down in front of the mattress, placing her cup of wine on the bedside table next to her. She felt a mixture of nervousness and anticipation rise in her chest. Her arms and fingers felt tense, twitchy. She couldn't wait.

Margaery returned shortly with the small chest and the bottle between her hands. She looked uncertain, she had no idea of the content of the objects in her hands. They had explained to her that they wouldn't give her a quarter, but not what that meant in detail.

Sansa gestured her slave to place both items on the table beside her, watching her smiling while she walked up beside her without hesitation. Her doll bowed down slightly while placing the chest and botte on the table, her rear pushed out in front of Sansa's face. She couldn't help herself, with the sight in front of her. She reached out with her hand, stroking over the warm skin, wandering down Margaery's curve. The doll held her position, allowing Sansa as much freedom to roam as she pleased. She let her hand glide up and down, the wolfish grin returning to her face. Following an impulsive urge, she smacked the cheek under her palm, the crack echoing lightly while the skin moved in a slow impact wave. A little squeal escaped Margaery, widening Sansa's grin.

"On the bed." Sansa ordered hoarsely, looking up to the curly back of her doll's head. "On your hands and knees, legs spread lightly."

Margaery followed her order immediately, the mattress dipping down lightly when she crawled up on all fours, exposing her backside to Sansa as commanded. Sansa took another moment to admire the view, enjoying to let her doll wait with the uncertainty of what to come. She slowly took a sip of her wine, thinking about the best approach from then on.

Placing her cup carefully on the table Sansa rose to her feet graciously. She turned her attention from the naked woman on her bed towards the chest on the table. Tentatively she opened the golden hinge, revealing the dark blue inside. She let her fingers leisurely slide over the decorated ivory cones, the plugs as they were called. She chose the one on the far left of the row, the one not ticker than her finger. Holding it up to her face she marvelled the filigree carvings, geometric musters, encircling the shaft.

Slowly she walked around the bed to the other side, coming to a stop in front of Margaery. She lowered herself down to be on level with her bowed head. With her free hand she lifted her chin, smiling ominously.

"Do you know what this is?" She asked, holding the plug in front of her doll's face, her blue eyes fixed on the other girl's.

"No Mistress" Margaery looked confused, her eyes followed the object Sansa let hover in front of her face. Her expression wasn't impassive anymore, her lips parted in a bewildered expression.

Her smile not changing Sansa lowered the tip of the plug to Margaery's lower lip, letting it glide over the pink flesh in agonising slowness. She continued with the way back on the upper lip, all the while smiling, her belly fluttering with anticipation. Her breathing becoming quicker Sansa slowly pushed the cone inside Margaery's partly opened mouth, the slave's eyes widened slightly. The shocked expression however was only temporary before she began to suck on the ivory, whereas Sansa moved it in and out between her lips slowly, saliva glistering in the carvings.

"It is not for this" Sansa let out a small giggle, rising back to her full height, removing the plug from Margaery's lips in the process. Without further explanation she marched back to the other side of the bed, letting her doll in the dark. She was satisfied with the beginning.

Sansa placed the plug on the table, reaching then for the bottle and took out the cork, the scent of olives filling her nose. Taking a cloth, the plug and the bottle with her she moved up on the bed, sitting next to Margaery's behind.

Leaning back on her heels, her knees sinking in the mattress softly Sansa revered Margaery's form, the shape of her bottom, the view on the bare flesh between her legs. She placed her tools on the soft sheet, one hand holding the bottle upright while the other reached out. She let her hand wander slowly over her doll's skin, a certain feeling of power making itself known to her again. A small mewl escaped her slave's lips, making Sansa's brows rise.

Accompanied by a piercing slap Sansa shushed the girl beneath her, turning towards the ivory toy, letting Margaery be exposed to the air. Sansa took the cloth, soaking it with the scented oil, careful not to spill it on herself. She saw no reason to sully herself or her gown. Leaning the open bottle against her doll's thigh Sansa proceeded to use the cloth to lubricate the moist plug. She watched captivated how the oil on the cloth mixed with Margaery's saliva, the new substance filling the fine carvings of the ivory. She made sure the entire cone-shaped part was oiled thoroughly before turning back to Margaery.

Reciting the book she had used as a manual in her head Sansa was going to be on the safe side. So she used the bottle of oil again, pouring a generous amount down on Margaery's back, observing light shivers in the girl. The oil slowly streamed down her skin, over her spine and between her ass cheeks. Sansa put the bottle away, steeling herself for what was to do next.

"Reach back and pull your cheeks apart." She ordered, her voice slightly failing her, she felt herself trembling in anticipation. Her doll obeyed slowly, exposing her splinter to Sansa's eyes. She took her time mustering it, glistering in the oil. It was small and pink, pressed shut tightly. She went closer, sniffing from instinct, expecting a foul smell, but no. She remembered her doll had taken a bath this morning, deciding she would have her take a bath every morning from now on.

Sansa took a deep breath, her belly a lightning storm of emotions, cold sweet running down her spine, her cheeks flushed. She had never in her life would have imagined to do something like this, it was so improper. But she wanted to do it, like a wanton child wanting its candy.

Carefully she placed the tip of the plug over Margaery's muscle, provoking a low yelp from her toy. She ignored it, trying to find the best way to place her fingers on the object. Now slowly she pushed, seeing how the muscle gave in. But then she encountered resistance, she couldn't push forward. Puzzled and unsure Sansa backed up, the toy hadn't found the way in by more than a quarter inch.

Her breath becoming rapider, filled with panic, she was uncertain what to do, how to act. Ignoring the cries of her mind she placed the plug back on the muscle, pushing harder. Her doll took in a sharp breath, despite the fact Sansa unyieldingly pushed the toy inside her, reaching the largest part. She gave it one short push, overcoming the muscle and watched the ivory slip inside her until the muscle closed over the bridge, now only the small disc visible.

Somewhat satisfied with her accomplishment Sansa admired her work. Margaery's hands fell to her side, her cheeks closing over her view. Her belly tingled, Sansa made her way around the bed again, sitting down on the mattress before Margaery, again she lifted her chin. She had an uncomfortable expression on her face, pearls of sweet glistering on her forehead. A small pang of guilt befell Sansa.

"It will stay inside you until I say otherwise." She explained sweetly, discarding her guilt. "We will do this every day from now on until you are ready." Sansa smiled wolfishly by the startled gaze her doll gave her, but wasn't willing to release her from her ignorance. "However, find your composure, you are not done for today."

-##-

Frustrated Tyrion let his gaze wander over the accounts on his desk. Littlefinger had left him with a maze, a maze that hid something inside, he was sure of that, but what? Nonetheless his curiosity wasn't enough to help him over the documents, not with so much sweeter things waiting for him as soon as he could justify to leave.

His solars had become more of a prison than a retreat, both. The one adjourned to his chambers had been one way to escape Sansa's repulsive glances in the beginning of their marriage. She had always come there asking his permission to go to the Godswood and pray, not willing to understand she hadn't had to bide his consent, but her upbringing had forced her. However since everything had changed that particular solar had lost its use for Tyrion.

His other solar, the one he was forced to spend his time in, doing his duty as Master of Coins had never been something else, much like his appointment as guardian of the treasury, than unwanted. He hated the room, the stench, Littlefinger had left – expensive, luxurious furnishing and trinkets betraying their buyer as the social climber he was; like in a whorehouse, imitating the old dignity of old Houses without truly understanding.

His head started to hurt, so he threw the parchment in his hand to the pile on the table behind him theatrically. Sighing he took his cup for a heavy gulp of strong wine, reclining in his chair. He was weary thinking about the accounts, his back starting to ache again. He hated it. He could spend hours reading books, sharpening his mind, like a swordsman sharpening his sword.

He had told this to Sansa's bastard brother once. Tyrion remembered, he wondered what had happened to the boy, if he was still alive. He would be the last bit of family Sansa had keft. He found himself hoping the boy would be alive, maybe he could find him once they had made their way to Winterfell. He wondered if his wife would cry out in joy seeing her brother, or weep for all she had lost. He really didn't want to think about it.

He spent long hours, he was supposed to work in the name of the King, thinking about what he could do to make her truly happy. He would, when the time came to reclaim Winterfell, he would be prepared. Bronn would have an army of Sellswords ready, in case the Northerners had other ideas than following her. And then he would bring gruesome punishment on everyone, who had aided in causing her sorrow, within the misfortune to be in his reach. He had a list, in his mind, a long list, starting with his nephew on top, and him second. He might not be able to simply kill his blood, he wasn't even sure if he would be able to, no matter how tempting it was sometimes – lions should never kill lions, even his father wasn't able to kill him, the dwarf, he should be better than that after all – however, the likes of Bolton or the Ironborn would sooner or later be in his reach. Nobody should be able to blame him for trying to be romantic.

This time, though, hadn't come yet, so he had to try himself on smaller things. He was too lucky of a dwarf to sit idly by while bestowed with a wife like her, especially now. He really felt a connection with her, a love even surpassing what he had felt for Tysha, before the reveal. He wasn't sure she truly loved him, - how should he, never had he experienced more than mummeries of love – nor did he care, but he knew she truly felt affection for him, that was more than he had ever had. He loved her, not only for this, a love not only born out of his wanton desires for a warm body or her affection, but for everything else she was.

He had found himself especially enjoying fantasising how they would continue with Margaery. He had told her that, discovering her perversions easily matched his. He had never imagined he could have a marriage like this, that he and his wife could share such dark desires, living them out for their personal pleasure. He dreamed how far they would go, to what extent they would drive each other. However, he even thought about if it would corrupt them, him especially. Would he change?

He had never thought it possible to do with Margaery what they did without being judged. Sansa didn't judge him, would he be as he was, act as he had done if there had been someone who loved him unconditional? Or would he turn into the creature everyone thought him to be? Would he drag Sansa with him? Both of them becoming cruel? Given her and his intellect, abilities and claims they could cause havoc unseen?

His brooding was interrupted by a light knock at the door. Expecting a petitioner, or worse, a messenger of his father, calling him to a meeting, or again worse, he recomposed himself in his chair calling the unwanted guest in.

The shapely form that hushed through the door however, closing it behind her, wasn't as unwanted as he had thought. Light-footed she walked into the room, her hair waving behind her openly, the shackles hidden by the simple green gown Sansa had had made for her, only the bulges in the fabric betraying their presence. Her doe eyes downcast she approached his desk, holding out a folded piece of parchment.

Without a word spoken Tyrion glanced Margaery up and down, puzzled about what was going on. He fished the paper out of her delicate hand, she curtsied when he took it. Eying her suspiciously he unfolded the paper, finding Sansa's gentle handwriting:

I gave her a task, two actually. Don't make me punish her for she isn't allowed to speak.

Let her show you what I did and then enjoy the play.

S.

Grinning deviously Tyrion looked up from the short note, his mismatched eyes finding his wife's doll – for all it was worth that was how he had decided to see her, ironic considering Joffrey had thought he would gift his unwanted queen to him.

"So my wife got creative." He smirked, his voice betraying his interest. "I figure it was not with a needle. Or was it?" He once again looked Margaery up and down, not finding a mark. "You don't need to talk. I know you are forbidden. So show me the great secret."

He pushed himself and his chair away from the desk, making room for the slave to stand in front of him. She came immediately, halting before him, eyes averted. Tyrion rotated his hand, gesturing her to move on.

Without a word, as ordered by Sansa, Margaery turned around, exposing her back to him. She bent over his desk, laying her body over the so hated parchments, her hair falling to her sides. Without further ado she lifted the hem of her gown, bringing it over her ass fixing it at her sides.

Tyrion marvelled the spectacle dumfounded by its easiness. How the highborn Lady so quickly exposed her uncovered, round ass to him. He wouldn't say no, he liked to watch her ass, round cheeks with a nice form, not as perfect as Sansa's ass but nothing to complain about.

His eyes widened in still not subsided surprise when Margaery reached back, spreading her arse, offering him a view on a small ivory disc locked between her mounts. His grin widened by the sight, imagine how his dear wife had shoved the toy inside their little property caused his cock to stir, hardening to bulge his breeches.

"Turn around, I saw it." He said huskily, his voice failing him while the blood drained to other body parts. Margaery obeyed submissively, her gown falling back to the ground, halting so close to it that her ankle bounds couldn't be seen. She turned around, hands folded in front of her, eyes downcast. Tyrion just smirked finding his voice and wit back: "I see my wife used a needle after all. Just wait until it is replaced by my cock."

The girl's eyes widened by his words, he could observe her lips parting when she rushed her head upwards, starring him in the face, eyes on his missing nose. He must have seriously disturbed her with his words. Tyrion's grin faded by her facial expression, it made him feel uncomfortable in his skin. His features softened. He gulped, fearing he had found the other human's breaking point.

To his relieve the shocked expression faded out of her face quickly, replaced by the usual neutrality, that didn't reassure him as much as it might should. He didn't like to never get a real opinion, but simple submission out of the girl. The situation reminded him too much of the first weeks of his marriage, with the difference that he had always been able to measure Sansa's reasons.

"So…" Tyrion intoned, not letting his chain of thoughts be fathomable, he returned his grin raising his eyebrows expectantly: "What shall I enjoy now?"

He could have sworn he saw a light smile dance over the doll's face before she stepped closer to him, dropping on her knees, while gently urging him to open his legs. He hadn't to be urged for that, his cock painfully hardening again, his mind clouded with lust, predicting what would be next. Tentatively Margaery opened his breeches, her fingers warmth and touch felt by his cock through the fabric.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his hands laid on the rests, he watched her aroused, tempted to touch. He however didn't, for he wanted to play the game his wife had set for him.

He breathed in content when the slave finally released his throbbing erection, one of her soft hands closing around it while the other procured his balls, massaging them. Tyrion let out a groan, his head falling back as soon as Margaery placed a light kiss on the head of his cock. With the skill he had experienced before she kissed his shaft down, her hand aiding her by going up and down. New was when she didn't stop at his balls but continued her administration, taking one of his testicles in her warm, wet mouth sucking at it.

Another hoarse groan escaped him, his hands gripping the rests until his knuckles turned white. As on cue Margaery made her way upwards his manhood again, her lips engulfing more and more of his flesh until she reached the head taking it into her mouth. She began to suck on him vigorously, her tongue with its sharp tip working its magic on the underside of his member. She took more and more of him inside her, however never going as far down as she had been at the first time. Tyrion didn't care, he was fully engulfed in his pleasure, realising how much he had missed a warm mouth around his cock.

Margaery fell into a steady pace, bobbing up and down on his cock, one hand supporting her on Tyrion's member while the other massaged his balls. Tyrion's brain had stopped working, eyes shut he enjoyed his wife's little mindfulness to send him a relief for his frustration.

It didn't take long for him to feel the build-up of the act tightening his balls. With the familiar feeling he released his seed in Margaery's mouth, who had her lips sealed tight around his flesh. He moaned loudly, not caring who could hear him – most likely no one considering he was basically in a dungeon. He felt how the doll kept her lips around him, sucking him dry while simultaneously using her soft tongue to encircle his cock agonisingly.

She released him shortly after, remaining on her position until Tyrion found his composure back, Margaery used the time to close his breeches. He finally locked down on her, her cheeks were flushed, lips pressed together to thin lines. It was a weird expression, forcing him to muster her more closely. She kept something in her mouth. Hadn't she swallowed his seed? If no, why?

Tyrion was nearly seduced to make her talk, or at least open her mouth to see if he was right, though, he decided not to, the note of Sansa coming back to his mind. This was her game, how could he deny her her fun? Tyrion nodded towards Margaery releasing her of whatever bondage held her on her knees, too interested to see what would be next.

She rose to her feet, only to curtsy in front of him again, before leaving the room in a hurried pace. He hadn't noticed if she swallowed. He would have to ask Sansa as soon as he could leave his dungeon.

"A rather anticlimactic leave." He whispered to himself, pulling himself and the chair back to the desk, his parchments now crumbled all over the place Margaery had bent over. Tyrion however found his frustration had left, at least for the moment. On the other side his longing for Sansa had become more prominent, his day would be tortures indeed.

He was just about to start again when the door took his attention back. It was swung open without a knock, nearly crushing into the wall. He looked up startled, his breath failed a second by who he saw.

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