evenstarknight

[evenstarknight]

Daeryn Velaryon [ hotd oc introductory ]

asoiaf has had me in a chokehold for years I fear. Daeryn is the latest victim oc I've made for the series—I've been yapping about her on instagram for a while now, figured it was time to move over onto tumblr to hopefully find some moots over here too (:

Comments & reblogs appreciated! Feel free to ask any questions if you'd like to know more about her

[ Click images for better quality & on read more for some extra info below ]

Born in late 95 A.C., Daeryn was the third and final child of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

Similarly to her brother, Laenor, Daeryn has an aquiline nose, with silver-gold hair that was kept cropped just past her shoulders. Uniquely, she features a striking black stripe through her hair, which was believed to be a trait passed down from her mother's Baratheon lineage. She has grey-green eyes and stands at 6'2" (187.96cm), having received such height from her father.

While her sister was noted for her beauty and general kindness, Daeryn was regarded as a sharp-tongued, foul-tempered, unbending, and unyielding woman. She has had angry eyes and a scowling mouth ever since she was a child. Daeryn is known as a "serpent" for her deceitful nature, and later was named the "winged serpent" once she bonded with a dragon.

Corlys tried many times to find a suitable match for his daughter—a young sealord, an honorable Knight, one of her distant Targaryen relatives, and an older Lord from a decent house who was thirty years older than her. But each time, Daeryn showed little interest, claiming she wished to sooner die at battle than be forced to bear children and be confined in a man's bed chambers for the rest of her life. After the fourth and final attempt, when Daeryn agreed to marry only if the Lord could beat her in combat (which left him with broken bones and a broken ego), Corlys eventually gave up trying to find a match, claiming she was "an untamable creature".

While she never publicly took a lover, it was widely speculated that Daeryn was more than fond of her childhood companion, Princess Maeryn Targaryen. She would often travel to King's Landing in order to accompany her Princess, and she'd secretly enter tourneys using an alias to gain Maeryn's favour.

(TLDR: She's a hateful, pouty-lipped woman who wishes she could have been a Knight, lol. Out of spite, she was referred to as "the Knight that never was," a cruel jape at her mother's own title. Daeryn doesn't care about anyone but herself, her lady, and her dragon. During the Dance, she is betrayed by the group of men she is leading, and dies by arrows.)

[evenstarknight]

A story where the reader has been fake-dating Tywin for a few months now? They married for political purposes, naturally, and because Tywin requires an heir for Casterly Rock, but there's never been any genuine love between them. People have grown suspicious of the fact that R! has yet to have taken with a child, considering they've been wed for many moons now... Perhaps just a twinge of drama is involved? It could be that Tyrion overhears rumors in court, and he promptly puts an end to it. For some strange reason, the notion of anyone speaking poorly of his lady wife makes him angry, and he's slowly starting to realize he likes her? Maybe he sees her interacting with a child, and for a split moment, his face softens, and he's ready to *properly* give her a child, lol. I'm not even sure if that counts as fake dating but 🤷 the idea is there, hopefully it made sense. It could just be their first time together instead? virgin!reader vibes, I suppose

Idle Tongues (NSFW)

Tywin Lannister x wife!reader

A/N: Giggling and kicking my feet as I got to write yet another Tywin fic. Thank you for your request, and for feeding my totally healthy obsession with this man!! Enjoy! <3

It had began as whispers, and like all things in court, it grew into something with fangs.

You heard it first in the corridor outside the sept, when a noblewoman’s handmaid flinched at your approach, silencing her tongue mid-sentence. Then in the godswood, where two ladies paused too long in their embroidery when you passed. A week later, the smile that Lady Serylla gave you at supper was edged with something sharp and pitiful.

You were a ghost among lions.

And then the words began to reach you. Not directly,they were never that bold. But woven into the silences, the way one might slip poison into honeyed wine.

Months had passed since your wedding, and still your womb remained empty. No subtle glow of pregnancy, no adjustments to your corsets, no whispers of midwives being summoned discreetly in the night. And so, naturally, the conclusion was drawn: the Lady of Casterly Rock was barren.

Your silence had always made you a quiet curiosity. Now, it made you suspect.

Some said you were too young, your body unready. Others, that you were cursed, or worse, frigid. That Lord Tywin had chosen poorly in his second wife. That perhaps he regretted you.

They never said these things where he could hear them. But the walls of the Rock were old, and the stone kept secrets badly.

You endured it as you always had: with stillness. With dignity. With hands folded in your lap and your eyes fixed somewhere above their reach.

But silence cannot drown a rumor. And in time, even Tywin heard.

It was a council meeting that ran long and frayed his patience. Trade tariffs in Oldtown. Bandit uprisings in the northern hills. A merchant's son demanding the repayment of a debt long forgotten.

He left the room without waiting for his bannermen to follow. There was a tightness behind his eyes that even the finest Arbor wine couldn’t soothe. His footsteps echoed through the hall as he cut down a side corridor, seeking quiet. He passed beneath a high window, where morning light dappled the red-and-gold stone. And there, just as he turned the corner, he heard it.

“—still no child, and they’ve been wed how long now?”

Tywin paused mid-step.

“They say she’s untouched. Or barely touched. He’s not known for tenderness, is he? Perhaps she couldn’t bear it. Or perhaps he’s lost interest.”

A low chuckle. “Can’t imagine Lord Tywin letting his new lady call the terms. And yet, here we are.”

“They say she was nervous at the wedding feast. Didn’t even look at him as he gave the toast.”

“She looked afraid.”

Tywin said nothing. He didn’t move. His hand curled around the edge of the stone arch, grip tightening.

“And what use is she if she can’t carry an heir? Pretty thing, sure. But that doesn’t last. He’s wasted a name on her.”

“Worse than a waste. A softness like that in the Rock? It’s like leaving silk in the lion’s den.”

Their laughter was quiet, but it echoed far too loudly.

Tywin stepped forward. Deliberately.

The men, minor bannermen, froze.

“My lord—”

“Your names,” Tywin said, voice low, calm, and somehow more terrifying for it.

“Ser Daryn, my lord. Of House Buckwell. This is Ser Ronnet—”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll know them when I strip you of your tongues.”

They paled.

“My lord—please, we meant no—”

“Speak of her again,” Tywin said, “Say anything of her again, and I will send your heads to your wives in a box lined with Lannister gold.”

He left them trembling in the hallway.

The words still echoed in his ears long after the corridor fell silent. A softness like that in the Rock. Worse than a waste.

He clenched his jaw. Not because the gossip was new, he’d suspected the tide of it for weeks, but because it had found a voice so near his own halls. Because those who owed him loyalty had allowed themselves to mock you as if you were decoration.

As if you weren’t his wife.

The marriage had been strategic. Practical. You were younger, softer-spoken than Joanna had been, with gentle manners and no ambition to rival his own. You asked little of him. You never pried. In truth, he had found your quiet company... agreeable.

But now…

Now, the court thought you weak. Barren.

Useless.

And something beneath his breastbone twisted at that thought.

You were in the gardens, unaware. There was a small girl in your arms—the daughter of a visiting vassal—all auburn curls and inquisitive eyes. She had tripped chasing a butterfly and scraped her knee, and while the nurses fretted, you had simply gathered her close and brushed the dust from her cheek.

You cradled her with the ease of someone who wanted children, who might have been a mother already if fate had been kinder.

Tywin watched you from the window of his solar.

Your head was bent, hair falling like silk across your shoulder. The child tugged at your necklace and you laughed. A soft, breathless thing he realized he’d never heard from you before. The warmth of it curled in his chest unexpectedly.

A strange thing, affection. It crept in, uninvited.

You looked up.

For a moment, your eyes met. He expected you to flinch, or to look away. Instead, you smiled. Not the practiced smile of court etiquette, but something simpler. Earnest. Something that made him take a step backward so he could hide from you.

That evening, he found you in the small solar that overlooked the western cliffs. You often came here to read, though he’d never seen you with the same book twice. The firelight painted your face in gold, your fingers were threaded loosely through a teacup’s handle.

You did not startle when he entered. You simply turned your gaze to him, still and composed.

“Tywin.”

Not my lord. Not since the third month. A small defiance he had allowed, though he’d never said why.

He crossed the room without speaking, pouring himself a goblet of wine from the decanter near the hearth. For a long moment, there was only the hush of the waves far below, and the soft clink of glass.

“You’ve heard,” you said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

He took a slow sip. ��Yes.”

You set the teacup down.

“I imagine they thought themselves clever.”

“They thought themselves safe,” he corrected, with a touch of venom. “They were not.”

You looked away, out to the sea. “It doesn’t matter. The court will believe what it wants. They always do.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied you. Not the careful posture or the elegant gown, but the shadow beneath your eyes, the tension held so tightly in your shoulders.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked at last.

You blinked. Then, softly: “Because I thought you didn’t care.”

He went still.

“I assumed,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper, “that as long as I kept the peace, you would tolerate me. That was our arrangement. Wasn’t it?”

Something in his chest, something long caged, shifted.

You rose then, slowly, moving to the window. The sea wind stirred your hair, lifting it gently, and when you spoke again your voice carried a soft ache.

“They think me weak. That I cannot hold your attention. That I’ve failed my duty. That I’m only a pretty thing you regret.”

Tywin stepped forward once, then again, until he stood beside you.

“I do not regret you.”

You turned to look at him.

“I chose you,” he said. “Not for beauty. Not for meekness. I chose you because you were smart. Quiet. Because you would not scheme behind my back or sell your womb to every rumor in the Rock.”

The words were not romantic. Not tender. But they were honest.

“Then why haven’t you touched me?”

His breath caught.

It was not said accusingly. Merely… truthfully.

“I’ve been negligent,” he said. “We married for strategy. That was clear.”

You nodded.

“But I find myself regretting the… limitations of that agreement.”

The wind stirred around you, carrying the scent of wildflowers and sea salt.

“What are you saying, Tywin?”

“I’m saying,” he said slowly, “that I would like to… revisit the terms. If you’re willing.”

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

“And if I am?” you asked.

His eyes burned into yours, unflinching.

“Then perhaps,” he said, “we should see whether Casterly Rock might finally gain its heir.”

Your breath caught.

“And if it doesn’t happen?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “If I am barren?”

“Then I will not allow them to speak your name again.”

You nodded once, careful not to smile too quickly, too much.

Later, when your maid had gone and the candles burned low, there was a knock. Just once. No hesitation.

You rose and opened the door.

He stood there, as he had stood before battle and judgment both—tall, stern, unreadable. But when his eyes found yours, something shifted. Not soft, no. But open. A gate unbarred after too many seasons closed.

“Come in,” you said, your voice even, your hands steady.

He stepped inside. You didn’t ask what had brought him. You already knew.

He did not rush to you. Tywin Lannister was never rushed. He looked at your room as if memorizing it, as if it were foreign to him even after months of shared roofs and shared vows. Then his gaze returned to you, and did not leave.

“I won’t be gentle,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Not cruel. But not false either. I have waited too long for that.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want gentleness,” you whispered. “Not if it’s hollow.”

That was all.

He crossed to you, then—one stride, two—and his mouth was on yours.

Not sweet. Not soft. But real. His hand caught the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw as he kissed you like a man claiming something long denied. You parted for him, lips opening with a soft sound you didn’t recognize until it broke in your throat. One of his hands found your waist, the other pressing against the small of your back, guiding you toward the bed as his mouth continued its slow, deliberate conquest of yours.

When he pulled back, your breath chased after him.

“Take it off,” he said, looking at your gown. “I want to see you.”

You obeyed, fingers trembling only slightly as you untied the laces, the gown slipping from your shoulders like spilled wine. You stood before him in your shift, and he reached for it without asking, lifting it over your head in one smooth motion.

His breath caught. Not audibly, but you felt it in the stillness that followed, in the heat of his gaze as he looked his fill.

“You are not weak,” he said. “Not in this, not anywhere.”

You reached for him next, unfastening his doublet with fingers more certain now. He allowed it. Watched you. His body was all tension and shadow under the firelight. Broad chest, scarred skin, the strength of a man who had spent a life at war. When you laid a hand over his heart, it beat steady beneath your palm.

He pushed you back onto the bed then, climbing over you with the slow, controlled force of a lion circling its prize. His mouth found your throat, then your collarbone. Then lower. Teeth grazed, tongue soothed. Your hips arched, and he caught them in strong hands, pinning you with ease.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he said against your skin.

“I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

That made him smile. Just barely, but it was there.

When he pushed inside you, it was not with hesitation but with something far more dangerous: intention. You gasped, the stretch sharp at first, but grounding. He filled you slowly, deeply, until you were more full than you’d ever been.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. And he moved.

The rhythm he set was unrelenting, but not careless. Each thrust purposeful, building heat between your hips, curling it deeper. He grunted softly when your nails dragged down his back, when your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Say it,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, “Tywin—I’m yours—”

He caught your mouth again, swallowing the sounds you made as he thrust harder, faster. One hand found your breast, the other gripping your thigh as your body began to tremble around him.

“I’ll put an heir in you,” he growled. “I’ll make them choke on their words.”

And you shattered.

It crashed through you like a tide, white-hot and blinding, your body arching against his as you broke apart beneath him. He followed seconds later, his rhythm stuttering, teeth clenched, his release spilling deep inside you.

Afterward, he did not speak. He lay beside you, breathing heavy, his hand brushing your waist as if to anchor you both.

But when you turned to face him, eyes heavy-lidded, you saw the look in his eyes.

Possession, yes. But something else too.

You weren’t simply a bride of strategy anymore, you were a woman finally seen.

[evenstarknight]

Jaime and Brienne.