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There are a good many things Sansa has learned during her time in the capitol, things she was never expecting to learn. Things she never thought she would have to learn.
The Queen tells her that her chambers are always open, a mocking taunt that Sansa does not know how to stay away from, for she craves the affection of a parent, although she knows she is betraying her lady mother by trying to seek it out from this woman she's sure is evil, through and through. She has mistimed it. Queen Cersei is in the middle of something, and Sansa has to hide in the commode, feeling young and foolish, as she has done ever since she came here.
She presses an eye against the keyhole, hoping against hope that the queen has simply gone to sleep, but of course she is not that lucky, when is she ever lucky?
Sansa observes as Queen Cersei lies back upon the bed, with a deep, heavy sigh. She tilts her head to the side. The queen looks older, somehow, away from prying eyes.
What happens next surprises her.
She watches as the queen's fine gown, red velvet embroidered with golden thread, a perfect Lannister beacon that makes Sansa feel queasy, comes up above her waist, the fabric crushed underneath. Queen Cersei's fingers find the slit in her silk underthings, delve inside the fabric anxiously. She lies back, eyes slipping closed with a heavy sigh.
Sansa's eyes go wide.
What is she doing? she thinks, but she is not as naïve as she once was, she has heard of such things, here in the capital where nobody cares to keep their bawdy remarks from her ears. She would have never have thought of the queen herself doing such a thing though; after all, Septa Mordane always used to warn – albeit in veiled tones, so it took Sansa years to realise this is what she was talking about – true ladies would never even think of it.
Then again, as Sansa learned long ago, Cersei Lannister is no true lady.
Unthinkingly, she takes a step forward, praying that the door won't creak as she presses her frame against it. I should not be watching this, she thinks, swallowing the lump in her throat. Despite how much she despises the woman, it is hardly ladylike to spy. And she is afraid, afraid of what she might see and what it might do to her. The Lannisters want to get their claws in her any way possible; she knows that.
Queen Cersei gives a soft moan, and Sansa covers her mouth not to gasp as she sees the woman push two fingers inside herself, rocking them back and forth, her thumb circling delicately above. If Sansa was not completely red already, she is now. There's no denying what Cersei's doing, and moreover, she clearly knows what she's doing. Her movements are sure, certain, and practical. She feels not a drop of shame for touching herself like this. Of course not. When has this woman ever felt a drop of shame about anything?
Sansa feels a terrible heat in her, not just in her face, but further south as well.
She is still beautiful, Sansa thinks. She hates herself for the thought, but there is not a man or woman alive who could deny the Lannister woman is beautiful; it was that which ensnared Sansa in her trap, so foolishly sure this queen must be as perfect inside as out. She knows now that Queen Cersei is vile inside, but that does not make her any less enthralling to watch as she lies upon the bed with legs spread, fine gown around her waist, long golden curls tangled against the pillows, giving herself pleasure without hesitation.
Sansa squeezes her thighs together as the heat between them worsens, and the shame that settles in her makes her feel truly ill. She is a woman grown, barely, flowered now about four years and she has felt some urges, as much as she tries to fight them – her chastity is something she has had to fight for tooth and nail ever since she came to this hell of a city, and part of her is terrified that if she ever gives in to lust, even in her own mind, somehow they will know, and they will take that as all the reason they need to act upon the threats they've been making for years. Logically, she knows she cannot protect herself like that; if Joffrey, or whoever else wants her, whether or not she's ever touched herself will be the least of his concerns. But it makes her feel like she has accomplished something, preserved some part of herself from this city's sin.
Queen Cersei, at least, does not have the parts to do to Sansa what Joffrey might, but somehow Sansa is just as afraid of what she might do.
And yet she cannot stop looking. Cersei pants and gasps as she quickens the pace of her own fingers, thrusting them in deep and hard – fucking herself, there is no other word for it, and Sansa would blush to be so crude were she not so red already. It is dazzling to watch. The woman's body arches and writhes as she keens toward her pleasure, and Sansa fights the desperate urge to reach between her legs and relieve her ache. She is evil, she reminds herself, but somehow, that does not make her look any less desirable. For the first time, Sansa understands what drove Ser Jaime to break his vows.
Her throat tightens in fear and self-loathing. What has this place done to her?
Cersei's eyes are still firmly shut as she moans and shudders more, approaching a climax Sansa is not sure she understands but is eager to see. The woman's thighs twitch as she spreads them wider, and it makes Sansa wonder what would happen if she just burst in there, pinned Cersei to the bed while her eyes were closed, shoved her own fingers in and made her scream and beg–
Her filthy thoughts are interrupted by a sharp cry, as Cersei's body lurches up once more and then freezes, suddenly, like a statue. Sansa holds her breath, feeling half-frozen herself; like time itself is frozen. Eventually Cersei sighs, sinking back into her mattress, stretching out across it like the lioness who just feasted upon the gazelle. She makes her family proud.
Sansa is left in limbo, her cheeks still burning and her nethers still pulsing, but too terrified to do anything at all. How is she meant to get out of here?
And through the door calls a voice: “I know you're there, little dove.”
And Sansa freezes once more. Oh gods. She should have known this would happen. Queen Cersei could do anything to her now; Sansa wouldn't put the cruellest of punishments past her...
A scoff. “Relax, girl, I won't do anything.” Pause. “For now.”
Sansa swallows hard. She has been in King's Landing long enough that she knows when she's being blackmailed. Still, it is a threat for later, and that gives her some breathing room.
She keeps staring through the keyhole, not sure whether the woman sees her blue eye or if Queen Cersei really does find her that predictable. “Do you feel ashamed of yourself, love?” she cooes mockingly. “Do you feel dirty, having watched another woman come? Do you think you're a deviant?” Sansa turns even redder. Yes, all of it, but she will not admit that. If she's a deviant, then Cersei is a monster. Sansa thinks she's a monster in any case. Cersei scoffs. “I hope you learned something, in any case.”
Slowly, she rolls on her side, her back to the door. Sansa realises she is being allowed to make her escape. “You should learn to look after yourself,” Cersei mutters as Sansa creeps out, a flushed, anxious mess. “Nobody else will.”