#TYRION 「study」

[damnedance]

i keep thinking of tyrion singing 'the landlord's daughter' ( yeah that one from the wicker man, 1973 ) much to penny's shock and delight because the lyrics are SO inappropriate but also so funny??? jaime over there laughing his ass off till cersei slaps his arm with a frown ( though she is smirking a bit under her wine glass ) while bronn joins in and sings along with tyrion

[thatscruelsummer]

The queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. They were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the queen were weeping blood.

[kingsmoot]

oh tyribronn i have sorely missed you

[imaginarianisms]

thinking about disabilities & dragons ... disabled dragonriders ... canonically half-blind aemond & vhagar ... autistic helaena & dreamfyre ... canonically chronically ill & disabled naerys & eventide ...

[thevelaryons]

When it comes to Addam & Jaime’s storylines as knights, there is one specific idea which further connects them as pawns of the adults in their life.

Jaime was removed from the position as his family’s heir as an insult to Tywin. King Aerys and his Hand have a tense power dynamic. By taking away Tywin’s golden heir, it’s like a slap to the face for the proud Lord of Casterly Rock. Jaime, for his part, does not know that his sister’s machinations are used by the King to humble his father. All Tywin is left with is Tyrion, the heir he never wanted. It’s only later that Jaime figures out the reason why the King eagerly allowed him into the Kingsguard even if doing so angered Tywin, who later resigns from the position as Hand.

Shortly after Corlys became Hand to Rhaenyra, he moves to have Addam become the new heir to Driftmark. Addam’s half-brother, Jacaerys, even advocates for his appointment as heir. It’s a political move to appease Corlys, the proud Lord of Driftmark and the new Hand. It’s also a big insult to Queen Rhaenyra. A Westerosi noblewoman allowing her late husband’s bastard son to be ahead of her own trueborn son in their family’s line of succession (the actual parentage of the boys doesn’t matter, only the public perception of it) is practically unheard of. The Velaryon heir would have been Joffrey, since Jacaerys is already named heir to the Iron Throne at that point. Instead Addam becomes the new heir. Corlys’ actions show Rhaenyra the extent of his power and that she should not forget her place, even if she is the Queen. Addam obviously would not know about the subtle power struggle happening between the Queen and her Hand.

[ajokeformur-ray]

If there's one thing my 15 year old self and current 27 year old self can agree on, it's that we'd marry Tyrion Lannister in a heartbeat and would love him so well he'd forget about a lifetime of abuse 💔

[lannisterslion]

tag dump!

♞ ¦ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏʀᴜɴᴇʏ ༺ ooc ♞ ¦ ᴊᴀɪᴍᴇ… ᴍʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴊᴀɪᴍᴇ ༺ character study ♞ ¦ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ ༺ visage ♞ ¦ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴡɪɴɢꜱ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ༺ memes ♞ ¦ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠᴇᴅ ༺ answered ♞ ¦ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀꜱ ༺ promo ♞ ¦ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴɢꜱʟᴀʏᴇʀ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ༺ musings ♞ ¦ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪɴɢɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴇᴇʟ ༺ playlist ♞ ¦ ꜱᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪ ᴀᴍ ༺ brienne ♞ ¦ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ᴅᴏ ꜰᴏʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ༺ cersei ♞ ¦ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴇʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ༺ tywin ♞ ¦ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʟɪᴇ ༺ tyrion

[a-hound-will-die-for-you]

A Bath for the Hound

Masterlist | img source

Summary: Sandor Clegane is injured. And dirty. Some healers try to help him, but he's a gruff man who won't let anyone touch him. That is, until you show up at his door. Word count: 3200 Notes: Well! It ended up taking me more than a month to write this fic!! But here it is, and with an ending I didn't expect myself. Warning: Highborn f!reader x sandor clegane; Cocky reader; Grumpy Sandor; Beauty and beast vibes and reference; Nakedness and descriptions of underwear; Nothing explicit; Suggestive; Banter; Almost a kiss; Confessions of love; Sandor calls reader little dove. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I might make. Constructive feedback is welcomed, I am here to share and learn <3

You barely lifted your eyes from your book when four burly men shuffled into the room - three of them rubbing their sides and the last running a hand over a nasty bruise on his jaw.

"How is he?" you asked, turning the page calmly.

"I-I… don't know, my lady…"

You lifted your gaze and set the book on the silver tray beside you.

“You don't know?"

"No, my lady," the leader of the group answered. "He is… he's a…"

"A complicated man," Tyrion finished for him.

You knew that would happen. Not even a group of strong, experienced men was enough to deal with him.

"I'll go," you sighed, rising from your seat. Your two ladies-in-waiting stood up too, but you gestured for them to stay.

“Are you sure, my lady?” Tyrion’s small hand gently grasped yours. “I don’t think it is the most appropriate.”

“Tyrion,” you smiled at your friend, "I'm good with dogs, I know how to handle them," you added looking into his almond-shaped eyes.

The Hand of the King studied you for a moment. You were a stubborn woman. Nothing he could say or do would make you change your mind. And besides, he knew that you carried the weight of what had happened.

"Very well," he finally said, his smile tight as he released your hand.

You dipped your head briefly and, beneath the wary stares of your ladies-in-waiting, slipped out into the dim corridors of the Red Keep.

*******************

The king’s sword had his quarters in the same wing as the royal chambers. Close enough to reach the king in an instant should danger arise. But unlike the luxurious, sunlit chambers of the nobility, his were in the dark corridor reserved for guards and hired steel. 

You stopped before a heavy, dark door, flanked by two unlit torches. Almost instinctively, you smoothed down your crimson dress, adjusting its square neckline before tapping lightly on the wood with your knuckles.

“GET THE FUCK OFF!!” a rough voice barked from inside.

You smiled to yourself. Exactly the answer you expected.

“Sandor…” you said, keeping your voice calm.

After a moment of silence, heavy footsteps approached the door, stumbling over something metallic that rolled across the floor.

“Fucking seven hells…”  he cursed, and you smiled again.

One, two, three locks clicked open, and the large door moved just enough to reveal a nearly seven-foot tall man scowling down at you. His face was stained with dried blood and dirt.

“Gods, you look awful,” you said. 

The Hound pushed the door open further so his body loomed over yours.

“The little dove shouldn't be here,” he rasped. His gaze roamed unabashedly over your neck and collarbone, just as he always did.

“I know,” you lifted your chin at him, unbothered, “but you kicked out the healers, and someone has to take care of you.” 

His dark eyes darted between yours with a special shine, but his mouth twisted reluctantly. 

“I don't need help.”

Before you could protest, he grabbed the door and tried to slam it shut in your face, but as he did his bulky body staggered to one side. You reacted quickly and caught him by the shoulder. He was a giant of a man, you could not carry him, but at least you gave him some support until he found his balance.

"Let's go inside," you whispered. To your surprise, he bowed his head in a silent nod, letting his black hair fall over his eyes to hide his shame.

Sandor Clegane could afford better as the king’s sworn sword, but he was no man of luxury. In his room, there was little more than a simple wooden chair, a table cluttered with bloody bandages, and a fireplace that looked like it had never been used. You stepped around his battered armor scattered across the floor and helped him sit on the chair.

"Let me see the wound," you said as you lightly tugged at his linen tunic. It was the same he usually wore under his chainmail.

With a grunt, he pulled it off and threw it aside. Before you, a broad chest came into view, strong and covered in dark hair. But it was the blood-soaked bandage around his abdomen that caught your eye. You peeled it back and had to force yourself to stay composed. Jagged cuts tore through swollen, reddened flesh, the crude stitches binding the torn skin in a hasty, careless job. He had lost a great deal of blood, which explained his weakness.

"It’s not infected, but we need to clean it,” you said, so focused on examining the wound that you barely realized you were alone with a man in nothing but his breeches. What would your father say?

The man just grunted, staring straight ahead while you bent down to take a closer look at the wound.

"I’m going to bathe you," you added with all the seriousness the moment allowed.

He shot you a glacial glare. 

"No bloody chance you’re bathing me.” 

"You stink like a dead horse, Sandor. I’m going to bathe you whether you like it or not."

He opened his mouth to argue, but before he could you had already stepped into the hall in search of a servant.

"Hot water, towels, and soap," you instructed.

Several men and women dragged in a wooden bathtub and hurried to fill it with hot water. The tub was large, made for someone of his height, and it took several trips for the servants to finish preparing it. As they worked, you helped Sandor remove the rest of the bandage, stuck to the dried blood. He did nothing but grumble and curse the entire time. Once the steam and the pleasant scent of lavender soap filled the room, you were left alone again.

"I’ll help you get in," you offered him your arm.

"This is nonsense," he stared at the bathtub like a dog refusing to go into the river. "I can fucking wash myself."

"You could if you could stay on your feet," you retorted.

You thought he’d grumble again but instead, he let out a loud huff and pulled his breeches down. You quickly averted your gaze, keeping your arm steady to support him. The fabric crumpled around his ankles, and you felt the weight shift as he stepped into the tub with a soft splash. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t lower himself.

“Sit down, please,” you said, still politely looking away.

“Water’s bloody hot,” he rasped.

“It’s warm,” you said.

“It’s too damned h-”

“JUST SIT IN THE BLOODY BATH, CLEGANE,” you snapped. Your neck was turned so far away it might snap, and you couldn’t take this ridiculous standoff another second.

A brief silence followed your order until, with a reluctant grunt, the towering man relented and lowered himself into the wooden tub. Once the water was up to his waist and the foam concealed his nakedness, you knelt next to him. Moisture clung to your neck, so you gathered your hair into a high knot before taking the cloth and soap left at the tub’s edge. Then, you lathered the fabric thoroughly, dipped it into the warm water, and pressed it lightly against his wound.

“Seven hells, woman, warn a man before you start poking at his guts!” The man cursed and flinched, sending water sloshing over the sides.

You frowned.  "If you held still, it wouldn't hurt so much."

He leaned toward you, teeth bared. 

“If the little dove hadn’t run off, this never would’ve happened.”

“Well,” you squeezed the cloth, “if you hadn’t scared the little dove, she wouldn’t have run!”

Your eyes met his, and his scowl deepened, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. As you held his gaze, you took a small bottle of ointment and applied it to his wound, more carefully this time. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head forward, jaw so clenched it might break.

"How many were there?" you asked, trying to distract him from the pain.

“Six,” he muttered.

“And where are they now?” 

“Dead.”

You clicked your tongue in silent reproach.

“Seriously?” He turned to you. “They were going to rape you bloody. Would the little dove have preferred I brought them back for supper?”

A chuckle left you, but you didn't answer. You just got up, walked behind him and knelt at his back while he stared ahead, more sullen than ever.

"Here," you curled your fingers around his unshaven chin, gently guiding his head upward. He allowed it, but the moment you poured clean water over his head, he jerked back dramatically.

“Sandor, it’s just a bit of water," you laughed, "I doubt it’ll drown you." 

He was ready to strike with something sharp again, but the words died in his throat as your fingers sank into his hair, tracing slow and soft circles over his scalp.  

His dreadful scars became even more visible beneath his soaked hair, and the man hunched forward, embarrassed. But you had long since lost your fear of his ruined skin. Your fingers ran through his hair, raking through his locks and gently untangling each knot they found. An almost imperceptible, shaky breath left him, and you could almost say he was enjoying it. But when your hands pressed too close to his scarred flesh, he stiffened and pulled his head away.

"It's alright," you reassured him, carefully guiding his head back.

He remained still like a rock while your fingertips slowly wiped away the dried blood from his burned cheek, treating the folds around his deformed ear with the utmost care. Then, you brushed his hair aside and pushed his shoulders forward. The gesture made his muscles tense under your touch, accustomed only to blows and punches. His back was painted with bruises, stiff with countless knots. You pressed your thumbs where he needed it most, kneading until the tension in his shoulders slowly loosened. Unconsciously, he leaned forward to grant you better access. When you traced his spine from top to bottom, a low moan escaped him. He quickly cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it up. The effort only made you smile. 

There he was, one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms, crumbling beneath your touch.

"All done here," you said as you moved around him. 

His eyes followed you as you knelt beside him again and reached out to wipe his chest. But he was so broad that you had to bend over, wetting your sleeve and the front of your dress.

"Sandor, turn toward me as much as you can," you asked.

He didn't. 

His mouth twisted into a grin as he shot you a defiant look that you recognized instantly. It was the same one he wore when a man tested him in the training yard. He was trying to regain some control after his previous moment of vulnerability, and you knew he wouldn't give in this time.

"Fine," you huffed, standing up. You weren’t going to waste more time. 

Your fingers reached for the front laces of your dress and tugged furiously until the gown slipped from your shoulders and fell at your feet. Sandor's eyes widened, but you paid him no mind. You clutched your undershirt in your fists, tore it over your head, and let it fall carelessly to the floor too.

The man was now fully turned toward you, watching with keen interest how your delicate corset cinched enticingly around your waist. His piercing stare didn't stop you. You yanked down your underskirts, lifting one leg to step into the bath. Only white thigh-high stockings with silken ribbon garters covered your thighs. A foolish choice, perhaps, for that day.

"Gods, woman…” the man leaned forward, thick fingers tugging at your garters as if unwrapping a present. “…a true little dove…."

"Sandor!" You slapped his hands away. But he ignored you. As you shifted your appetizing thighs in front of him to get into the water, his large hands cupped them.

“No! Hey!” You seized his wrists and pushed him back. “No touching, alright? Behave.”

"Must be fucking kidding me…," he gave a sharp, annoyed huff, eyes still glued to your thighs as he let his back fall against the bath.

You lowered yourself onto the opposite side, trying not to be intimidated by the sight of the sturdy, soaked chest before you. The steam pressed against your skin, and you ran a hand over the back of your neck, dampening a few stray strands that fell down your back.

You retrieved the cloth and dipped it back into the foamy water. Your hands found his calves, hard as rocks, and you started to scrub them. You kept your gaze down, perhaps because you felt a little vulnerable as he drank in the curve of your neck and down your cleavage. You continued rubbing his knees and began to slide it up his thighs. Higher and higher. Until you stopped abruptly halfway.

“Scared of what you might find?” he taunted, voice rough as sandpaper.

“Oh, Sandor, I know exactly what I’ll find,” you said, pulling the cloth from the water to repeat the process on his other leg.

His chest shook with a deep, throaty laugh that you were sure could be heard from the hall. You rolled your eyes and sat on your ankles, steadying yourself with one hand on the tub’s rim. As you leaned in to scrub his chest, the soapy water slid slowly down his ribs. He leaned back in the tub, arms resting on the sides. You could feel his pupils fixed on you, hungrily.

"Stop looking at me like that," you grabbed his chin and turned his face away.

“Ah, no," his deep voice rasped. "You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Let this beaten dog enjoy a bit.”

You clicked your tongue at his words but the warmth creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. Gods, who would have thought The Hound’s flattery could make you blush?

“Sandor…” You said, running the cloth over his neck, thick with dark hair that climbed up to his beard.  “Yesterday, when you were chasing me through the woods… why?”

“Following orders,” he said, voice flat. 

You hummed, your touch drifting over his collarbone without thought. He exhaled, long and slow. 

“You were meant to go meet your future lord husband. No one told you?” His eyes sought yours, but you kept them downcast.

“Is that what you want?” You asked, fingers idly toying with the soap. ”For me to meet him?” 

“That’s what highborn ladies do, ain’t it? Marry fine, proper lords.” The scorn in his gruff voice made you look at him but something in your gaze made his own soften. “No, little dove… I don’t want you to meet him,” he sighed.

“Why not?” you asked with round, innocent eyes.

He stared right into you. 

“You fucking know why…”

Silence followed his words, so heavy that you feared he might hear the wild hammering of your heart. 

What a foolish thing to ask.

You tore your eyes away from his, gripping the cloth so tightly that the soapy water ran down your wrists and forearms. His fingers brushed against your wet skin, trying to wipe it away. You shuddered. 

No touching, you had said

"You’re not mine to have, are you?" He continued, his hoarse voice weighed down with the same sadness that darkened his eyes. "Damn foolish of me to have even thought of it."

Your hand clasped his and pressed it against your flushed cheek.

No touching. 

To hell with that. 

Water spilled over the edges of the tub as you rose onto your knees. Your trembling hands found support on his shoulders. His own wandered roughly over your back, sliding up your neck until his fingers tangled in your hair, gripping it in fistfuls. His heavy-lidded eyes flickered down to your mouth. Your parted lips throbbed with want. You weren’t sure if you had leaned down or if he had pulled you in, but there was nothing between you except unsteady breaths and heat. A rough hand glided through the back of your neck. His dripping beard hovered close, almost grazing your chin.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“My lady?” 

You both jolted as a voice called from the other side of the door. You turned your head toward the sound, while Sandor dropped his own forward in defeat.

“Yes?” You raised your voice so the servant could hear.

“Lord Tyrion sends word, asking if all is well.”

You swore you’d strangle Tyrion the next time you saw him.

“E-everything is perfectly fine, thank you!”

“He also asks that you come to the Great Hall with all due haste. Your betrothed has arrived and is eager to meet you.”

You closed your eyes and drew in a deep breath before answering.

“Very well, thank you.”

When you opened your eyes again, Sandor’s mask of indifference was barely holding together.

"I should leave," you said, quickly brushing your hand over his wet beard. He nodded briefly without looking at you.

Stepping out of the bathtub, your eyes lingered on the discarded clothes on the floor. Your silks tangled with his rough garments felt strangely complementary. You gathered your gown and pulled it over your moist skin.

"Can you finish on your own?" you asked, fingers quickly tying the laces.

"Aye," he muttered, still not turning to face you.

You swallowed hard and moved toward the door, leaving him to brood in silence. But just as your fingers brushed the handle, his voice stopped you.

“Little dove.”

You turned. His gaze was fixed on the water.

“I'm going to kill him. I'll rip out his guts in his sleep and strangle him with them.”

Your lips twitched. 

"Tyrion?"

"No..." He lifted his eyes to yours. "The fool who thinks he deserves you."

You left the room before he could see your smile fade. Leaning your back against the wood, you placed one trembling hand on your chest. Your heart raced frantically. You needed a moment. A moment to breathe and calm that wildness that gripped you inside. But they were waiting for you. As much as you wanted to go back to that room, you couldn't. You had to do what you were supposed to do. In that, even a highborn lady was no different from a hound. So you squared your shoulders and pushed yourself away from the door.

Beneath your dress, your soaked stockings stuck uncomfortably to your thighs as you made your way to the Great Hall.

...............

Thanks for reading! <3

What do you think? A comment would give me life, and encourage me to write more :)

[starsofjewels]

hi! first, i love your writing, it's so good! also, i loved your oneshot about the autistic lannister reader so much, it was so relatable🥺 can we get another part (or not following specifically, just the reader being autistic) but focused on their relationship with tywin, please? tysm!

The Weakness of Tywin Lannister

Tywin Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! (daughter) Reader

CONTENT: Canonical! Character death (Joanna), mentions of abortion (Joanna), genereal mistreatment of Tyrion, meltdown(s)

Tywin is a warning in himself, Viserys (3) and Joffrey are mentioned in like a line each, so prepare for that too

Check out the masterpost for the rest of the series x

1.2k words (smol)

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Welcome all to the November update. I'm alive, I'm fairly well and I can't believe I'm getting traction.

Thank you to all your requests, I'm going through them atm this one just- Spoke to me.

I wrote this in a free hour instead of studying, so we'll see what happens.

Live, laugh, Tywin.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

When Joanna dies, Tywin doubts he will find another love so pure, so completely genuine, that it could even scratch the expectations his wife leaves behind. He is not a man of much integrity or kindness, but he loved his wife. Most men are not fortunate enough to have a wife who loved them, and without it, there is not much to do.

But it is not your fault, no. You are an angel, a gift from your mother to him. He should have known Joanna was not strong enough to bear another child, he knows he should have forced Moon Tea down her throat and held her as she bled. Even the cats knew she couldn’t recover from the birth. But, it is not your fault.

The staff expect you to share Tyrion’s rooms, to have another child that is neither spoken to nor visited by their father; Tyrion the imperfect, and the new baby who killed their mother. Instead, Tywin appears himself, and carries the cradle prepared for you from the family rooms right up to the master bedroom. Your nurse is instructed to only appear when you need to be fed, he will handle you.

Tywin realises, nearly immediately, that you are a different sort of child. You are quiet and sweet, you never cry or complain, even as you phase from infancy into childhood, there is nothing, truly, that upsets you. There is a confidence within you, a chubby, blonde toddler running about the halls with an ornate horse in one hand, and the Hand of the King cautiously trailing behind. He has other work to do, but nothing as important as taking care of his sweet one. 

You return to Casterly Rock, your bloodland, when you are five- Nearly six, you say. Jaime and Cersei stay behind in the Red Keep, one married and the other draped in white cloth. You don’t quite understand where your playmate, little Viserys, has gone to, but your father tells you not to ask, and you’ll do just about anything he says.

If there is one instance Tywin could point to the actual realisation that something was amiss, it would be the first weeks he spends with you in Casterly Rock. You have been nothing but calm, and sweet, but here, you break. Hours of crying, refusing to eat or sleep, the maesters assure him you are not ill, and yet you tantrum constantly, for seemingly no reason at all. He figures it out eventually, of course, one of your toys was lost in the journey, a ragdoll with no real significance or extraordinary features. But it was yours and you wanted it, so another was commissioned for you, and although you complain that it is ‘different’, you are seven, and the story that she holidayed in the Reach is convincing enough to shut you up. Tywin learns that day to keep a spare of anything he sees you playing with.

The nurses tell him all children are fussy, the oldest of them, the one to nurse Genna and his youngest brothers, can recall a time in which he himself would wear only red, and for about a week would only sleep in a makeshift fort out in the yard with Kevan; that was, until a winter set in, and the gates were locked at night to keep them from getting out and freezing to death, but there is something within him that says your behaviour is different to the frivolities of youth.

He enjoys your company, as you grow into a delicate young woman. You are unmediated, fresh, in a sense that most are not. You could speak to a king the way you would a peasant, and vice versa. Tywin is there to look after you, to hold your hand and keep you out of harm’s way, and his years of service to Casterly Rock with just you at his side, and Tyrion when he emerges from the brothels, are memories which nothing can besmirch. 

And then his grandson is put to the throne, and life collapses once again. There is war, and chaos in every part of the Kingdoms, five kings stake a claim to iron, or to salt, and Tywin Lannister is once again Hand of the King. Your little dog is by his side, a little spaniel, or some other feminine dog breed, lazy as sin one moment and destroying the place the next. It reminds him of you. He can’t quite remember its name: Winnie, or Wobbles, or something equally ridiculous. Tywin feeds it scraps of mutton from his plate, he won’t tell you he’s feeding it.

“Papa?”

He stands immediately, and rushes to your side. You are practically shaking, with big eyes and frighteningly pale skin. Tywin has seen this many times, and it hurts him every one of them. Even with the life of a princess, you can still find ways to be terribly upset,

“I can’t find Waldred.”

Waldred. That was the damned thing’s name, he knew it was something stupid. He sighs, and travels around his desk, lifting the spaniel up and putting it into your arms. For how lazy it was, the beast was surprisingly light. Usually, you laugh. Today you cry harder. Waldred is put back down, and he takes you onto his knee. The dog doesn’t do very much to assist the situation, he turns himself around and flops over Tywin’s feet, huffing at the inconvenience. He lets you cry, until you start coughing and spluttering, and you are instructed to calm down. He has learned that he can’t be firm with you, you think it a display of anger when there is none.

“I-” When you are ready to speak again, he sets you onto the couch beneath you, “I thought I lost him- I looked everywhere, it’s past his walk time.”

Waldred hears the word ‘walk’ and dramatically flips over, not very keen. Any normal dog would be jumping about the place in anticipation, this one now resembled more of a furry ball than it did an animal. 

Tywin will not question why you were so upset about potentially losing your animal, he knows how much you adore your little dog, and nor will he mention that the thing hasn’t been unsupervised a day in its life. In fact, now that he thinks about it, Waldred is probably more guarded than you are. The lazy beast hasn’t left the Tower of the Hand unless it was carried, and even then it complains. Sometimes he wonders why he bought it for you in the first place.

He sees how the courts treat you, how Joffrey tries near constantly to publicly humiliate your oddities, and how the ladies of his elder daughter’s court leave you entirely on your own, he actually doesn’t know if you even have friends, apart from the dog, and potentially Varys. It doesn’t matter anyways, you are his and his only, and there is no-one but the Gods and a small list of possible suitors for you that will get in his way.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the broken)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: a lion and a wolf

- Next part: the uncertain

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy

The banners of House Lannister fluttered in the wind as the golden lions of Casterly Rock stood in rigid formation, awaiting the arrival of their lord. The towering gates creaked open, revealing the column of men riding under the red-and-gold banners of the Westerlands. At the head of the procession rode Tywin Lannister himself, his face as unreadable as ever, his posture rigid with the weight of expectation and unshakable authority.

Jaime stood at the forefront of the welcoming party, his golden hand resting against the hilt of his sword, his flesh-and-blood hand curling and uncurling at his side. It had been three moons since his wedding, three moons since he had last seen his father. In that time, King’s Landing had been reshaped—Tommen now sat the Iron Throne, Margaery Tyrell had been crowned his queen, and the kingdom had been soothed into uneasy stability under Tywin’s iron grip.

But there was another matter pressing on Jaime’s mind.

As soon as Tywin dismounted, Jaime stepped forward, his gaze sharp. “Is it true?”

Tywin barely glanced at him before handing his reins to a waiting stable hand. “Be more specific, Jaime.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “Tyrion.”

That made Tywin pause, his face darkening slightly. “Yes,” he confirmed after a moment. “He escaped the night before I left King’s Landing. There has been no word of him since.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching. He did it. Tyrion had done what Jaime had hoped for but never dared act upon himself. He had slipped the noose. But the question remained—at what cost?

Tywin turned away, removing his gloves one by one, his expression calm but calculated. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

Jaime fell into step beside him, his mind still reeling. “And what of Cersei?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She is displeased. But she is queen regent now. Her focus is on securing her son’s reign, as it should be.”

Jaime huffed a humorless laugh. “I imagine she’s blaming me for Tyrion’s escape.”

Tywin didn’t deny it. “Her grief has made her reckless. But we have more pressing concerns.”

Jaime sighed, already knowing where this was going. “The North.”

Tywin nodded. “The Boltons hold it now. The Stark boy is dead, and with him, any serious resistance to our rule.”

Jaime’s steps slowed. The words felt like a hammer blow to the chest, even though he had known they were coming. He had felt it in his bones the moment you stopped looking at him with defiance and started looking at him like he was nothing.

“And Y/N?” Jaime asked carefully, his voice quieter now.

Tywin finally stopped walking, turning fully toward him. “That is precisely why we need to speak in private.”

Jaime’s stomach clenched.

Tywin’s gaze was cold, assessing. “I have heard troubling rumors.”

Jaime forced himself to keep his expression neutral. “About?”

Tywin studied him for a long moment before saying, “Your marriage.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. “What about it?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Three moons have passed, and yet there has been no heir announced. No signs of a child. And, more importantly, no confirmation of consummation.”

Jaime clenched his jaw.

He should have known this was coming.

He had been careful, had made sure to uphold the illusion of duty in public, had ensured that appearances were kept in court. But behind closed doors, you had barely tolerated him, and he had not pushed for more.

Tywin’s voice was low, steady. “Did you expect me not to notice?”

Jaime exhaled through his nose. “And what would you have me do? Force her?” His voice was edged with something sharp now.

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable. “She is your wife. It is her duty.”

Jaime let out a humorless laugh. “Is it? Or is it just another way for you to cement your hold on the North, even now, when there’s nothing left to rule?”

Tywin’s eyes darkened. “This marriage was meant to solidify our power. Yet you treat it as if it is nothing but an inconvenience.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his temper flaring. “Because that’s what it is. A political move. A transaction. Not a marriage.”

Tywin stepped closer, his voice lowering dangerously. “Then perhaps you should stop acting like a love-struck fool and start acting like the heir to Casterly Rock.”

Jaime felt his stomach twist. His father’s words hit a nerve deeper than he wanted to admit. Love-struck? Was that what Tywin thought?

Tywin studied him carefully, as if gauging his reaction. “You have a duty, Jaime. You wanted this marriage to keep her away from Roose Bolton, did you not?”

Jaime remained silent.

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then it’s time to ensure it wasn’t in vain.”

Jaime exhaled sharply, his hand curling into a loose fist. “She doesn't even tolerate me anymore”

Tywin’s gaze was impassive. “Then she will learn.”

Jaime looked away, swallowing hard.

He had spent three moons trying to be careful, trying to keep from becoming the monster you already saw him as. But now, standing here with his father, hearing the cold finality in his voice, Jaime realized—

Tywin would not let this stand.

Jaime had fought for you, had stolen you from Roose, had done everything in his power to keep you safe.

But he couldn’t protect you from this.

Tywin turned, beginning to walk once more. “Prepare yourself, Jaime. There is much work to be done.”

Jaime stood there for a moment longer, his chest tight, his mind warring with itself.

Then, with a slow exhale, he followed.

Because he had no other choice.

The great doors of Casterly Rock swung open, the banners casting shadows against the stone as Tywin stepped inside, his measured stride echoing against the marble floors. Servants bowed as he passed, the atmosphere within the keep shifting instantly at his arrival, as if the very walls themselves straightened in deference to the Lion of Lannister.

Jaime followed, his thoughts still tangled with the conversation they had just had, his fingers twitching at his side. The weight of his father’s expectations pressed down on him like a suit of armor too heavy to bear, suffocating, unrelenting.

But the moment they entered the grand hall, all thoughts of duty and obligation momentarily halted.

Because Winter was there.

The great silver-and-white beast lay stretched across the polished stone floor, his massive head resting on his paws, his piercing blue eyes watching them with an eerie stillness. The direwolf had become a presence in the castle, a silent guardian that never strayed far from your chambers. Jaime had fought to free him from that damned kennel, convincing Kevan that locking him away served no purpose other than antagonizing you further.

Kevan had relented—reluctantly—and Winter had been allowed to roam within reason. You had been grateful, for the briefest of moments, before retreating back into yourself, closing every door between you and Jaime in the wake of Robb’s death.

Tywin came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the beast, his expression flickering with the slightest hint of displeasure. He regarded Winter the same way he would regard a poorly-trained hound, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Jaime smirked faintly. “Ah. I see you’ve met my wife’s loyal shadow.”

Tywin’s gaze did not shift. “You should have had it put down.”

Jaime’s smirk faded, his shoulders stiffening. “She would have never forgiven me.”

Tywin exhaled through his nose, finally turning to face his son. “She already hasn’t.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched.

Tywin continued, his voice calm but cutting. “Do not mistake tolerance for affection, Jaime. The girl has done nothing but endure your presence. And if what I hear is true, she no longer even looks at you.”

Jaime inhaled slowly through his nose, his temper flaring despite himself. “And you believe forcing her will change that?”

Tywin tilted his head slightly. “I believe that reminding her of her duty will.”

Jaime’s grip on his belt tightened, his golden hand a heavy weight at his side. He could feel Winter’s eyes on him, unblinking, the wolf sensing the tension in the air.

Before he could formulate a response, movement from the far end of the hall caught his attention.

And there you were.

You stepped into the hall with slow, measured steps, your expression unreadable as your gaze swept across the room, catching sight of your father-in-law standing beside his son. Your posture was poised, regal, but there was no warmth in your eyes—only the cold resolve of a woman who had already lost everything.

Winter lifted his head slightly at your arrival, his tail thumping once against the stone before settling again.

Tywin turned, his gaze assessing as he took you in. “Lady Y/N.”

Your chin lifted slightly, your voice cool but polite. “Lord Tywin.”

Jaime studied you carefully, searching for any trace of the girl he had wed three moons ago, the one who had once spat fire and fury at him, who had fought against her fate with every ounce of will she had left. But you had changed.

Robb’s death had stripped something from you.

You had not spoken more than a handful of words to Jaime since you had learned of it. You did not argue, you did not lash out, you did not even glare at him as you once had.

You simply ignored him.

And Jaime wasn’t sure which had been worse.

Tywin observed you for a long moment before speaking. “I see you have made yourself comfortable here at Casterly Rock.”

You didn’t react, your hands folded neatly before you. “As comfortable as a Stark can be in a lion’s den.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at Jaime’s lips despite himself.

Tywin, however, remained impassive. “Your position is not so tenuous as you think, my lady. If you are wise, you will see that.”

You met his gaze steadily. “If I were wise, I would not be here at all.”

Jaime watched the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, though he knew better than to voice it aloud.

Tywin merely regarded you coolly before shifting his gaze toward Jaime. “We will speak later.”

Jaime inclined his head slightly, knowing better than to press the issue further.

Tywin left without another word, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode down the hall, his presence as heavy in departure as it had been in arrival.

Silence followed in his wake.

Jaime turned toward you, exhaling slowly. “You always did know how to make an impression.”

Your expression didn’t shift. “I have no interest in impressing him.”

Jaime tilted his head, watching you closely. “Or me, apparently.”

You finally looked at him then.

It lasted only a moment, but it was enough.

Because for the first time in weeks, Jaime saw something flicker behind your eyes—something real, something raw.

And gods, he wanted to reach for it.

But you looked away just as quickly, stepping past him without another word, moving toward Winter, your fingers brushing against the direwolf’s thick fur in silent comfort.

Jaime turned, watching you go, his throat tightening.

She already hasn’t, Tywin had said.

And for the first time, Jaime feared he might be right.

Jaime came to his father a few hours later into the private solar, the heavy oak doors closing behind them with a dull thud. The room was exactly as he remembered it from his youth—grand, lined with shelves of old tomes and polished silver goblets, a massive desk at its center. The Lannister lion was embroidered on the rich crimson banners hanging from the walls, a reminder of who ruled these halls and who always would.

Kevan was already waiting inside, seated near the hearth, his face schooled into careful neutrality. He had never been as harsh as Tywin, but there was no mistaking the fact that his loyalties were unwavering. His uncle had always been Tywin’s shadow, carrying out his brother’s will without question.

Jaime leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, waiting for his father to speak.

Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine before turning, his gaze keen as ever. “The girl still hasn’t warmed to you.”

Jaime smirked, though there was no real amusement behind it. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Tywin ignored the remark, setting his goblet down with a clink. “Three moons, Jaime. Three moons, and yet your marriage remains unfulfilled. You have done nothing to secure your position, nothing to ensure an heir.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “And you expect that to happen when she barely even speaks to me?”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive. “Then make her.”

Jaime pushed off the desk, scoffing. “Oh, yes, because forcing myself on my wife will do wonders for our already thriving marriage.”

Kevan, who had remained silent until now, finally sighed. “No one is suggesting you force her, Jaime.”

Jaime turned to his uncle, eyes flashing. “Aren’t they? Because I know exactly how this goes. My duty is to take what’s mine, regardless of what she wants. That’s the Lannister way, isn’t it?”

Tywin’s gaze darkened. “She is your wife. It is her duty as much as it is yours.”

Jaime ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. “She hates me.”

Tywin studied him for a long moment before speaking. “She hates what you represent.”

Jaime barked a humorless laugh. “And what’s the difference?”

Kevan leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “She is grieving, Jaime. That much is obvious. The loss of her brother has hardened her against you, but that does not mean she will never bend.”

Jaime scoffed. “You don’t know her, Uncle. She would rather burn this entire castle to the ground than bend.”

Tywin remained silent for a long moment before stepping closer. “Then give her something else to hold onto.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Tywin’s voice was calm, calculated. “You cannot change the past, but you can shape the future. She is here, and she will remain here. Whether she accepts it or not is irrelevant. What is relevant is whether or not she finds a reason to stop fighting it.”

Jaime frowned. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

Tywin studied him for a long moment before finally saying, “You make her see the benefit of being a Lannister.”

Jaime stiffened. “You want me to buy her loyalty?”

Tywin’s lips twitched slightly. “You want her to trust you, don’t you?”

Jaime hesitated. He hated that his father could see through him so easily.

Tywin continued, his voice unwavering. “Then give her something. Offer her security. Offer her power. Make her see that she stands to gain more as your wife than as a grieving Stark.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “And if she still refuses?”

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “Then you remind her of what she has already lost.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, looking away. He hated how easily his father played this game, how effortlessly he turned emotions into weapons, vulnerabilities into tools.

Kevan cleared his throat. “Perhaps a child would ease things.”

Jaime snapped his gaze back to his uncle. “You think that’s the answer? To tie her down even further?”

Kevan shrugged. “It would make her needed. If she carries the future of this house, she will have no choice but to accept her place in it.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, the words striking a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Tywin’s voice was final. “You have a duty, Jaime. To your house. To your future. Whatever fondness you think you have for her, whatever guilt you carry—it is irrelevant. Your marriage will be fulfilled. It is only a matter of how long you intend to delay the inevitable.”

Jaime inhaled sharply, holding his father’s gaze.

There it was. The ultimatum.

The decision he had been avoiding since the day you became his wife.

Kevan leaned back, watching him carefully. “She was always going to be a prisoner, Jaime. Whether here, in King’s Landing, or in the Dreadfort. At least here, she has some say in how comfortable that prison is.”

Jaime turned away, staring at the golden Lannister banners, his hands tightening at his sides.

He hated this.

Hated that they were right.

Hated that, despite everything, he wanted you to choose him.

He just didn’t know if he could live with himself knowing that the choice was never really yours to begin with.

The summons came at dusk.

A Lannister guard had arrived at your chambers, standing stiff and unreadable as he informed you that Lord Tywin required your presence in his solar. The words had been clipped, almost impersonal, but there was no mistaking the weight behind them. This was not a request.

You hadn’t argued. You had simply risen, smoothing down the fine Lannister-red gown that you despised wearing, and followed. Winter had growled lowly as you left, watching you with piercing blue eyes, but he had remained in the chamber, knowing instinctively that he could not follow.

Now, standing before Tywin Lannister in his grand solar, you wished you had ignored the summons entirely.

The room was dimly lit by the flickering glow of a dozen candles. The scent of parchment and ink filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of Tywin’s untouched goblet of wine. He sat behind a massive wooden desk, his expression as impassive as ever, his pale green eyes appraising you with something akin to curiosity.

You stood before him, your arms crossed, your posture rigid. “If you’ve called me here to discuss something as trivial as the color of my gown or the way I hold my goblet at feasts, I’d rather return to my chambers.”

Tywin exhaled slowly through his nose. “Your tone, Lady Y/N, is as sharp as ever.”

You tilted your head. “Perhaps if I were treated like a guest rather than a prisoner, my tone would soften.”

Tywin regarded you for a long moment before leaning back slightly in his chair. “You remind me of someone I once encountered at Harrenhal.”

You stiffened slightly, though your face remained unreadable. “Do I?”

He studied you carefully, his gaze assessing. “A sharp tongue. Fierce eyes. A wolf in the body of a girl.” His voice was measured, as though he were testing the waters, waiting for a reaction. “She claimed to be a boy, but I knew better.”

Your fingers curled slightly into your palms.

Arya.

He was talking about Arya.

Your heart clenched at the thought of your sister—lost, gone, her fate unknown. But you forced your expression to remain still. You would give him nothing.

Tywin let the words linger between you before finally shifting, dismissing the topic as easily as he had brought it up. “But that is neither here nor there.”

You swallowed down the bitter taste of grief, your voice cold when you spoke. “Then why am I here?”

Tywin didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for his goblet, taking a slow sip before finally setting it down with deliberate care. “It has been three moons since your wedding, and yet your duty as Jaime’s wife remains unfulfilled.”

You inhaled sharply through your nose, your shoulders tensing. “My duty?”

Tywin’s expression did not waver. “You are a married woman now, Lady Y/N. Your role is to provide heirs to this house. To continue the legacy of House Lannister.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “House Lannister already has heirs.”

Tywin’s brows furrowed slightly.

You tilted your head, your lips curling into something sharp. “King’s Landing is still a home to two golden-haired heirs of Jaime Lannister, unless you’d have me believe they belong to Robert Baratheon instead.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Tywin’s face darkened, his grip on the goblet tightening slightly. “Mind your tongue, girl.”

You crossed your arms, unflinching. “Why? Are we not speaking of duty and legacy? Or do you expect me to bear children that will be passed off as someone else’s while you sit there and pretend you do not know the truth?”

Tywin’s jaw clenched, his voice lowering to something dangerously calm. “Those rumors are nothing more than slander spread by your father and brother—both of whom paid the price for their treason.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The reminder was a blade against your ribs, biting and merciless.

You swallowed the grief threatening to claw its way up, your voice quiet but unyielding. “You murdered them.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “Your father was a good man. An honorable man. But honor is not what keeps a kingdom intact. Power does. And he lost.”

Your nails bit into the fabric of your sleeves. “And Robb?”

Tywin regarded you carefully. “Your brother’s fate was sealed the moment your mother released Jaime.”

Your breath was shaky, your entire body coiled tight like a bowstring ready to snap.

Tywin studied you for a long moment before leaning forward slightly. “I did not summon you here to discuss the past. Your grief is of no consequence to me. What is of consequence is the fact that you are the Lady of Casterly Rock and yet you refuse to embrace the role given to you.”

You scoffed. “Given to me?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “You may despise this arrangement, but you would do well to accept it. You are no longer a Stark. You are a Lannister now.”

You took a step closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I will never be a Lannister.”

Tywin’s expression did not change, but his voice cooled. “You will bear the name. And you will bear the children. That is all that matters.”

The words struck something deep, something raw, something furious.

Your hands trembled slightly at your sides, but you clenched them into fists, refusing to let him see the cracks beneath your mask.

Tywin exhaled slowly, pushing himself to stand, his towering presence looming over you. “You have a choice to make, Lady Y/N. You can remain defiant, remain stubborn, but it will change nothing. Your future is here. Your role is set.”

You lifted your chin, your voice shaking with restrained fury. “And if I refuse?”

Tywin’s eyes gleamed with quiet authority. “Then you will learn.”

The threat was not spoken, but it was there.

Your throat was tight, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Tywin regarded you for a moment longer before turning away. “You may go.”

You did not hesitate. You turned on your heel, your steps measured, controlled, refusing to let him see how deeply his words had cut.

But as you stepped out of the solar and the heavy doors shut behind you, you felt it—

The walls closing in.

The cage tightening.

And for the first time since you had been brought to Casterly Rock, you realized—

There was no escaping this.

Jaime had spent the evening drowning in his father’s words, the weight of expectation pressing down on him like an iron gauntlet. Every conversation with Tywin left him feeling like a boy again—small, powerless, molded into whatever shape his father deemed necessary.

Now, as he climbed the stairs toward his chambers, he felt none of the confidence he usually wore like armor. He had been warned, ordered, and reminded of his duty, and yet the thought of forcing something that wasn’t freely given made his stomach churn.

When he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to his chambers, he found you already there, standing near the fireplace, your hands clenched into fists. Winter lay stretched across the furs beside the hearth, his massive form unmoving, but his eyes snapped to Jaime the moment he entered.

Jaime sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. He could tell instantly that something had happened. The tension in your shoulders, the way you stood rigid, barely looking at him—it was all too familiar.

“I take it you spoke with my father,” he said smoothly, closing the door behind him.

Your gaze flicked to him then, sharp and full of fire. “And I take it you already knew what he would say.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, stepping further into the room. “I had a fair idea.”

Your laughter was hollow, devoid of humor. “Of course you did.”

Jaime watched you carefully, his fingers twitching at his side. “What did he say?”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you turned toward the fire, the flickering light casting an angry glow against your face. “What do you think he said? That I must submit, that I must produce an heir, that my grief means nothing because my purpose is to serve House Lannister.” You turned back to him, your jaw tight. “I will never be a Lannister, Jaime.”

Jaime inhaled slowly. “That’s not what he wants to hear.”

You glared at him. “I don’t care.”

Jaime sighed, stepping closer, his golden hand resting at his side, his left hand reaching up to unfasten the clasps of his tunic. The day had been long, draining, and the last thing he wanted was another battle.

But he should have known better.

You weren’t done.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Your voice was quieter now, but it was still edged with bitterness. “You knew what he would demand, and yet you said nothing.”

Jaime stilled, looking at you carefully. “What would you have me say?”

You took a step closer. “Anything.”

Jaime exhaled slowly. “Would it have changed anything?”

You clenched your jaw, looking away.

Jaime took a cautious step forward. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, stepping back. “Don’t act as if you care.”

Jaime’s patience was thinning. “You think I don’t?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know you don’t. This is convenient for you. You get to be Tywin’s perfect heir while I rot in this damned castle.”

Jaime’s nostrils flared. “You think I wanted this?”

You turned to face him fully now, your chin lifting in defiance. “Didn’t you?”

Jaime closed the distance between you in two strides, his jaw tight as he stared down at you. “If I wanted to be my father’s perfect heir, I would have consummated this marriage the night we were wed.”

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling at your sides.

Jaime lowered his voice, his breath warm against your skin. “I would have forced you beneath me, like some savage, and ensured that you carried a Lannister child.”

Your breath hitched.

Winter growled lowly, the sound vibrating through the room, but neither of you moved.

Jaime leaned in slightly, his voice quieter now. “But I didn’t.”

Your chest rose and fell heavily, your pulse quickening.

Jaime studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. “Why do you think that is?”

You swallowed, your gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

Jaime tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Say it.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know.”

Jaime exhaled softly, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Then let me tell you.”

Before you could react, his left hand came up, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your chin slightly upward.

The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as if he expected you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping it tightly as his lips pressed against yours, firm and unyielding.

Jaime felt something snap inside of him, something raw and desperate that he had been fighting for far too long.

The fire crackled beside you both, casting flickering golden light over your faces as Jaime deepened the kiss, his golden hand hovering at his side, useless, while his left hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

Your breath hitched against his mouth, your fingers tightening against his chest.

And for the first time in three moons, you didn’t pull away.

[feyhunter78]

Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival. A thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

Ch 2

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 10 | chapter 11

Rhaella Targaryen. Wife of the Mad King Aerys II. Mother of Queen Daenerys across the Narrow Sea. The Dragons.

You had read about her in scrolls and books when you were still young. Rhaella was unhappily married to her brother Aerys II. They were both forced into marriage due to a prophecy that came from a witch, making her resent being a Targaryen. The prophecy said they would give birth to a 'prince that was promised'. Through time when the King went mad, Rhaella had been abused endlessly, imprisoned in her own chambers. For all you knew, she was glad Targaryens were finally removed from existence.

It would explain how your father had insisted you to study the ancient language High Valyrian throughout your life, how he trained you to fight, how he encaged you as your own protection as if you were someone other than his daughter.

You listened to Oberyn share more about what happened when your mother brought you to him. You were still three years old when you first rode the Dornish ship. That was why you could remember slivers of memory being in the Citadel, the streets in the Capital, platinum white hair entangled through your fingers and the vast sea with huge waves when you were young.

Three years later spending under your father's care, you remembered Elia being murdered, her children killed as well.

Now as you faced the Mountain standing on the other side of the pit, the one who was ordered to kill Elia, made you grit your teeth from fury.

It only stopped when the Lannisters and Tyrells walked past through your side to give you good luck for the fight. Tywin nodded back at you, remembering your brief conversation with him earlier that morning together with Oberyn — offering Yronwood castle to set Cersei free from any arrangement.

"You're a fool," Cersei muttered as she intentionally left herself behind others. The crowd had already gathered on the stands around the pit, cheering and booing at Tyrion or The Mountain. You only bowed your head. "Tell me, Y/n. Why does my brother deserve this?"

"He didn't kill your son, Cersei," you said. "And I know terrible things have happened to you to make your heart forever cold, but it doesn't mean there's no kindness left in this world and your brother deserves it too. You deserve it as well."

She swallowed nervously before she abruptly pulled you into a tight embrace, making others look away.

"I . . . I can't lose you too, Y/n," Cersei whispered into your chest, rendering you speechless. She may had heard how loud your heart was beating from your chest.

When she pulled away, her eyes were red, glistening with tears. Does she really care for you or is it for the crowd, knowing you two are engaged?

You felt her hand tugging against your hips, realizing she was placing a small dagger in your belt. You doubted the small weapon could help you defeat The Mountain, but the gesture made you want to kiss the woman.

You looked at Cersei and see her hard gaze, the clutch she had on your hand felt like she didn't want to let you go. Even her father Tywin has already called for her. And she still hesitated. "I . . . I lo—"

The sound of the horn signaling the event made her pull away. "You better come back to me alive."

Your eyes followed Cersei as she walked away, longing for the fight to be over and finally talk to her. Ask her if she meant it. That you weren't just imagining it. That she had almost said she loved you too.

Shaking your head, you headed towards Tyrion near the pit. You could see Oberyn and Ellaria looking all worried from a distance.

"You know, if you die, Cersei will kill me herself," Tyrion said, making you laugh nervously. "Although, I know you Vipers are fast, so I think it's an advantage," he then glanced at you from head to foot, "Wait, you're only wearing that? No armor? Have you lost your mind when you were flirting with Cersei?"

"Armors are heavy, they make your actions slow," you said back, smiling at him.

This made Tyrion lose his balance as he almost fainted. "I'm going to die," he declared in a low voice, talking to no one in particular.

Ignoring Tyrion's ongoing monologues, you moved forward unto the pit while one of the Dornishmen soldiers approached you to provide you with your weapon — a long spear with a sharp steel point as a spearhead. Your very own weapon.

Your eyes trailed to Gregor, The Mountain, and you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with his massive sword placed in the ground in front of him, a six-foot-long blade. His enormous hands with gauntlets was probably the reason why Tyrion was terrified for you.

The Mountain was completely covered with steel armor, you would need to figure out his weakest points. Whereas your outfit consisted only of leather and flowing silks, a trademark of Dorne.

Your eyes then darted towards the stands as a round steel shield was placed on your other arm.

You could see Cersei's troubled face sitting beside her son Tommen, holding his hand to keep herself grounded. And as if she knew you were looking, her eyes met yours in a longing stare you two didn't dare to look away until you had to.

When another horn was blown as a signal to start the fight, you moved forward swiftly, while The Mountain advanced towards you, his feet almost shaking the ground as he moved.

"Do you remember Elia Martell,  Princess of Dorne?" you began, moving to the side as he attempted to attack you with his sword.

"Some dead woman," he grunted.

The answer only made you upset as you thrusted your long spear forward. However, Gregor had deflected the point with his shield, pushing it aside, and charging at you once again with his sword.

You spun away unscathed. You lunged forward your weapon, but The Mountain slashed at it, causing you to pull it back and thrust once more. Metal shrieked against metal as the spearhead skidded off the Mountain's chest, cutting through the latter's coat, leaving a long scratch on the skin underneath.

"You raped her," you went on, watching the man hiss in pain. "You murdered her. Then you killed her children."

Gregor grunted as he made a slow, heavy charge to strike at your head, but you saw it coming as you easily evaded the attack.

You kept on circling, jabbing and then swiftly withdrawing, which made it hard for the larger man to foresee your next move. The Mountain struggled to keep sight of you so you skillfully took this advantage, leveraging both the reach of your spear and your own speed.

"You raped her," you said. "You murdered her. You killed her children."

"Did you come here to talk or to fight?" The Mountain groaned, as you managed to hit him again.

"I came to hear you confess."

The battle continued like this for what felt like an eternity. You moved back and forth across the yard, circling each other in spirals. Gregor swung his sword at the air while your spear struck his arms, legs, and even twice at his forehead. Gregor's large wooden shield took numerous hits. Yours didn't fare well, making you let it fall to the ground.

"You raped her!" You deflected a brutal swing with your spear and quickly thrusted the spearpoint towards The Mountain's eyes, causing the massive man to flinch. "You murdered her!" The spear then flicked sideways and downward, scraping against the Mountain's breastplate. "You killed her children!" With its length—two feet longer than Gregor's sword—the spear kept him at an awkward distance.

He swung at the spear shaft whenever you lunged, attempting to sever the spearhead, but it was as ineffective as you were faster than him.

Gregor charged straight into the spear's point, which drove into his right breast and then scraped aside with a terrible, screeching sound of metal. Now that the Mountain was close enough to strike, his massive sword flashed to strike towards you.

The crowd gasped. But you managed to dodge the first blow and released his grip on the spear, however the Mountain was already so close.

His hand shot up and seized you behind the knee. You swung at his sword wildly, but it was of no use as the sword was quickly abandoned. Gregor's grip tightened and twisted around your leg, pulling you down onto him. You both tumbled unto the ground, the shattered spear swaying back and forth.

"Stop it! Stop the fight!" you heard Cersei's voice overpowering from the crowd. Or maybe you were only imagining it.

The Mountain encircled you with one massive arm, pressing you close to his chest as though embracing you tenderly. And you couldn't breathe.

Then he threw you unto the ground like a doll before he punched your face so hard, you thought you'd blacked out, your head turning to the side where you could see The Lannisters against the dust. Cersei was on her feet, screaming in agony as she was being held back by the Kingsguard.

Gregor's hand wrapped around your neck, making you look back at your attacker.

As his grip tightened, everything flashed before you. Rhaella Targaryen. Doran. Cersei.

Cersei. And then you remembered the dagger she placed earlier into your belt. Your hand knowingly pulled out the weapon and used whatever was left from your energy to slash the blade against the skin of Gregor's throat, his blood spewing into your face.

The Mountain's grip loosened and his body fell limply unto you, heavy weight pressing unto your body. The crowd went silent as they witnessed the bloody scene.

You managed to lift your hand to the side and raise a thumbs up to the crowd, making them erupt in cheers.

And it was all black after that.

[imaginarianisms]

i wasnt playin when i said "i bet on losing dogs" by mitski is s.ansa coded....

[jon-sedai]

Rating asoiaf characters based on how likely they are to use pocket sand:

Jon Snow - my hot take is that people are very delusional and wrong about Jon. It’s not that he’s too “honorable” or “good” to use pocket sand in a fight coz he’s definitely not above using dirty tricks. But you gotta ask, which Jon is it? Agot-acok!Jon is def not using pocket sand because he thinks it’s dishonorable and a coward’s weapon. Asos!Jon is 8/10 gonna use pocket sand because fuq honor. Adwd and beyond!Jon is 0/10….he’s got something far more devious in his pockets - broken shards of glass.

Dany - yeah she’s using it, 7/10. She’s a smart girl. Like her actions in Astapor and Meereen show that she’s not above using dirty tricks to get ahead. Now how much pocket sand is she willing to use and against who? That’s the question…I can see her hesitating if her opponent is a small child.

Arya - for sure using pocket sand 10/10. There’s no denying it. She’s actually studied which types of sand are the best suited for different situations. But she’s quick enough that people don’t know what happened until she’s far away.

Bran - he doesn’t even know what pocket sand is so 0/10

Sansa - she knows what pocket sand is but she’s usually not willing to use it because it gets her clothes and hands dirty. If she’s really pushed…maybe? 2/10 but she’d gladly watch someone else do it

Robb - oh 20/10 using it no doubt. He’s been pushing Jon to get on the pocket sand trend for years to no avail

Theon - went with Robb to the pocket sand factory for a boys’ date out. 20/10 using it and with RELISH

Ned Stark - knows what pocket sand is, is unwilling to use it himself, but will turn the other way when he sees his buddy whip it out 0/10

Cat - yeah she’s using it, I’m not willing to debate over this 10/10

Davos - um yeah 10/10 using it….look sometimes you have to use all the tools available to you to survive

Jaime - trick question because which Jaime? Pre-hand chop Jaime? Won’t use it on principle. It’s cowardly and stupid. Post-hand chop Jaime? Yeah….he’s using it because he has to so 8/10

Brienne - look she doesn’t want to use it, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do 6/10

Pod - *confused* “why would anyone carry sand in their pockets to a fight?” 0/10

Howland Reed - was actually the one who invented the best sand for it and is mass producing it. Probably used it to defeat Arthur Dayne 100/10

Meera - come on, she’s swamp person and howland’s kid so 20/10 using pocket sand

Bronn - involved in an MLM to sell pocket sand 100/10

Tyrion - the one who founded the MLM and recruited Bronn so 200/10

[ghostinwinterfell]

“Ten fierce ravens were raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh, leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood." (ASOS, Catelyn VII)

“Joffrey began to claw at his throat, his nails tearing bloody gouges in the flesh.” (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)

the instant karma of the purple wedding should be studied—catelyn tearing up her own face after watching her son die vs joffrey tearing up own his throat while his mother watches. grrm is insane for this one.

[unsuperingyournatural]

solara

Oberyn Martell x Lannister Wife!Reader

The heat of the Dorne sun had finally begun to wane, leaving a warm, gentle breeze that swept through the palace gardens. The scent of jasmine and wildflowers lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp, earthy scent of the stone paths beneath your feet. The faint sound of water trickling from the nearby fountains created a soothing melody, calming your mind as you walked alone, lost in the beauty of the evening.

Alone, for now.

Your husband, Tyrion Lannister, was inside the palace with Prince Doran Martell, locked in negotiations behind closed doors. Tywin Lannister had sent him to secure a stronger alliance with Dorne—one forged not just in words but in marriage bonds and promises of power. You had come as a gesture of goodwill, the Lannister wife meant to soften relations and prove that this marriage, however unwanted, was binding.

But there was no love between you and Tyrion. You both knew that.

It was a marriage of duty, not devotion, and it had never been consummated. He had never asked it of you, and you had never offered. He spent more time drinking than lying beside you, and when his thoughts drifted elsewhere, you knew precisely where they went—to your handmaiden who you had left behind in King’s Landing. He loved her, though he would never dare say it outright. But you had seen it in his eyes, in the way his fingers trembled around his wine cup when he thought no one was watching.

It was a quiet arrangement, one neither of you spoke of. You played the part of his wife in public, and in return, he gave you freedom where he could. And here, in Dorne, where the air was thick with spice and honeyed wine, where the sun kissed the skin of everyone it touched, you felt that freedom more than ever.

And from the moment you arrived, you had felt Oberyn Martell’s gaze on you.

He had watched you with open interest as you and Tyrion entered the palace, his dark eyes sharp with amusement and intrigue. He had greeted you with a slow, knowing smile, his gaze dragging over you in a way that sent heat crawling up your spine. Unlike the other nobles, who masked their curiosity behind polite words and measured glances, Oberyn made no effort to hide it.

That night, in the privacy of your shared chamber, Tyrion had poured himself a heavy goblet of wine and sighed before speaking.

“You need to be careful,” he had murmured, swirling the deep red liquid in his cup.

You had turned to him, feigning ignorance. “Careful of what?”

Tyrion had scoffed, though there was little humor in it. “Oberyn.” He took a slow sip of his wine before setting it down with a quiet thud. “He is a rogue, known for his… pleasured pursuits of the flesh. That alone would be reason for concern, but it is not his most dangerous quality.” His eyes found yours, sober despite the drink. “He loathes my father. He blames him for his sister’s death, for his niece’s and nephew’s murders. I do not doubt he is right. But the fact remains that he would take great joy in making a fool of a Lannister—any Lannister.” He exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “I do not doubt he would enjoy bedding one, too, if only to say he had.”

You had smiled then, a small thing, dismissive yet careful. “You worry too much, husband.”

Tyrion had studied you for a long moment, his sharp mind always attuned to what was left unsaid. Then, with a tired shake of his head, he had muttered, “I doubt that.”

You had not argued. But that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his warning lingered in your mind.

And Oberyn had made his interest known at every opportunity since.

The way he sought you out during meals, offering honeyed fruits with a lingering touch to your fingers. The way he let his gaze settle on you just a bit too long, his amusement evident whenever he caught you noticing. The way his words danced along the edge of propriety, teasing, testing, daring.

And now, here in the garden, he had found you once again.

“Lost in thought, Lady Lannister?”

The voice came from behind you, smooth and velvety, laced with just a hint of mischief.

You stopped in your tracks, a small shiver racing down your spine. You could already feel him before you turned to face him, the electricity in the air that seemed to spark every time his gaze met yours.

When you did turn, you found him standing near the stone archway, leaning casually against the column, his dark eyes glinting in the fading light. A playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as though he knew exactly what effect he had on you.

“I was simply admiring the flowers,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. You glanced toward the blooming plants, anything to avoid meeting his intense gaze for too long.

He chuckled softly, clearly unconvinced. “Admiring the flowers, hmm? There is little in this world I would believe less, my lady.”

You smiled, but it was more a reflex than anything genuine. “And what is it that you would believe, my prince?”

Oberyn took a step toward you, his smirk never leaving his face. “I believe,” he said, his voice lowering just a touch, “that you admire things far more dangerous than flowers.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but you refused to be the one to back away first. “Perhaps... your audacity,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Oberyn let out a soft laugh, low and rich. “You do not know half of it, sweet lady.”

His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so featherlight it sent a shiver racing through you. His thumb barely ghosted over your skin before he let his hand fall away.

“You are a dangerous thing yourself,” he murmured. “Caged by a name that does not suit you.”

The words struck something deep within you. A name that does not suit you. You hesitated, searching his gaze, and then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, “What name would suit me, then?”

Oberyn’s expression brightened, delighted by the challenge. “Something wild,” he mused. “Something unburdened by duty. A name that tastes like wine on the tongue and leaves a mark like a lover’s kiss.” He studied you for a long moment, then declared, “Solara. A name meant for the sun. For warmth and fire. For someone meant to shine, not to be kept in the shadows of lions.”

You barely had time to let the name settle in your mind before his hand lifted once more, this time cupping your jaw, tilting your chin up ever so slightly.

“And what would Solara do,” he murmured, “if I kissed her?”

Your heart pounded against your ribs. You should have pulled away. Should have stopped this before it went any further.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t move at all.

Oberyn took your silence for what it was—permission.

His lips met yours in a slow, intoxicating kiss, tasting of wine and something far more dangerous. His hand at your jaw tightened, tilting your face up further as he deepened it, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that left no doubt as to what he wanted.

And you let him.

You melted into him, let his heat consume you, let the fire he promised in his words ignite something in you that had long been dormant.

Oberyn Martell always got what he wanted.

And tonight, the fire he spoke of would consume you both.