#him as young tywin

[daenysthedreamer101]

Joseph Morgan as a Lannister, just hear me out!

It's not just the blonde hair lol ok. I feel like you need a certain level of cuntiness to be able to play a Lannister, and I feel he has it - he has the range to portray one.

HBO, if you ever need someone to play a Lannister, just hire him please, he would devour the role I know he would!

[novococain]

🦴

[dancyflammarions]

A Song of Ice and Fire AU where the Maegi actually gave 12-year-old Cersei some actionable advice, namely: "Did you know that if you want to be a boy, you can just BE a boy?"

[synchodai]

I get this impression that House of the Dragon doesn't get that "named" heirs aren't really the norm in Westeros. If it were that easy for someone to just give everything to their favorite child, Randall Tarly wouldn't have needed to force Sam to go to the Wall and Tywin could have simply chosen Cersei over Tyrion as heir of Casterly Rock.

If we look at the history Westeros borrows from, the concept of "naming" heirs wasn't really a thing in medieval England. Landed gentry didn't have direct say over the order of succession until the Statute of Wills in 1540. Before then, land and subsequent titles could only be inherited through agnatic primogeniture.

Agnatic primogeniture prioritized the living, eldest, trueborn son. Claims can only be passed on patrilineally. This means that a grandaughter can inherit a claim of her grandfather's titles through her father, but a grandson cannot be given the same through his mother. However, if his mother finally does have land and titles under her own name (not under her father's), only then does her son and other children enter the line of succession.

The reason it was like this was because it kept land and titles under one family. Daughters are less preferred because when they are married, they become part of their husband's family — meaning that any titles they receive will be inherited through a new line. This wouldn't be an ideal situation because it gives two families claims to the titles. The more claimants there are, the more unstable the hold the owner has.

In other words, agnatic primogeniture was practiced for stability. Because back in the day, titles weren't just property or land. They came with governorship over a people, so a stable and predictable transfer of titles was necessary to avoid civil conflicts and questions of legitimacy.

A landed lord or lady wasn't given the right to designate heirs for a few reasons:

Most of them were vassals who oversaw the land in the name of someone higher up. It technically isn't even theirs to give away (see: feudal land tenure).

The wishes of a human being are less predictable than having a determined line of succession based on birth order. What if he becomes incapable of declaring an heir either through illness or disability? What if he's captured and a bad actor forces him to name this person heir under threat of violence?

People died unexpectedly all time. This was before germ theory and modern medicine — child mortality was extremely high. With no refrigeration technology, a single poor harvest could mean dying from starvation. Bandits, cutthroats, and raiders were a constant threat. They could not afford to rely on a person choosing a different heir every time the old heir drops dead, because the landed lord/lady could die just as suddenly.

Even 21st century families stab each other in the back over who gets grandma's house — so imagine having an uncertain line of succession in the middle ages over a life-defining lordship and without a modern-day court system to mediate.

Going back to HotD, whenever Targaryens did go against the established line of succession, they could only have done it by consolidating the support of their vassals. Only royalty seemed to have the power to bend agnatic primogeniture, but even then they were beholden to it.

When Jaehaerys I ascended the throne over Aerea, it was mainly because there were those who saw Maegor the Cruel's act of disinheriting Jaehaerys as null and void. This restored Jaehaerys place in the line of succession above Aerea.

And when Rhaenys was passed over for Baelon, Jaehaerys had to convene his lords and offer compelling reasons as to why — her young age, her lack of an heir, her Velaryon last name, etc. It wasn't a given that just because she was a woman that she was ineligible. If he was doing it purely out of misogyny, he still had to legally justify his misogyny in order to strip away her rights.

Even after consolidating support, the book mentions Jaehaerys I and Viserys I's respective hold on the crown was still weakened. Even though their claims were backed by reasons cosigned by a powerful majority, they still had to ensure the security of their rule through other means. There were people who doubted their right to rule, and those people had to be placated with gifts (by Viserys) or intimidated into submission (by Jaehaerys).

So we come to Viserys I who never gave his vassals a reason why Rhaenyra should supercede his three sons other than, "I said so." Had he convened with his lords and maybe made the argument that a first marriage takes precendence over a second one, then maybe he could have set a new precedent and gathered support.

But no, he didn't. He relied on the power of his own words and the lords' personal oaths — oaths that he didn't exactly plan how he would enforce posthumously.

And the Realm did not choose to adopt a different succession law after Jaehaerys's designation of Baelon in 92 AC or the Council of Harrenhal choosing Viserys on 101 AC. If those two events did change anything, it was that now women were exempt from the line of succession for the crown and only the crown. It did not set the precedence that monarchs could freely choose heirs. It did not upend the whole system; it only made a tweak, as most lawful policy-changes do, by carving out at an exception. It was a committee, not a revolution.

Before and after the Dance, no other monarch, lord, or lady "declared" an heir that went against agnatic primogeniture, save for Dornish who have cognatic (equal-gender) primogeniture instead. Ramsay had to get rid of Roose Bolton's living trueborn son AND be legitimized by the crown in order to be recognized as heir (only a crowned monarch can legitimize baseborn children which is another world-building pillar a lot of people miss). Randall basically had to force Sam to abdicate because he wanted his younger brother to inherit instead. And of course, Tywin despite his intense hatred of Tyrion is forced to acknowledge him as his heir.

The rigidity of the line of succession is a major and constant source of conflict in the series, so it baffles me that people really thought that characters could just freely choose their heirs. That's why we have a civil war. It wasn't a misunderstanding. It's the expected consequences of someone carelessly going against a foundational tenent of the society they inhabit.

[sassypossumm]

Another Dance

Tywin Lannister x Mormont!Reader

Requested by the lovely @serpentqueenofwesteros

The great Tywin Lannister never gets jealous...

“Fool woman.” Tywin muttered under his breath, gritting his jaw. His eyes were trained coldly on you and the way you laughed as some lord whose name Tywin couldn't be bothered to learn whirled you around the dance floor.

Every glance in his direction, every time you and one of your many faceless partners strayed a little too close to him…

You were doing this on purpose.

Simply because he'd refused you a dance.

It wasn't as if Tywin was abjectly against dancing, he simply refused to participate in any of those ridiculous ‘new’ dances.

You, however, hadn't seemed to see it that way, taking his refusal as a blanket statement.

The dance ended and your eyes cut to Tywin's as the young lord bowed politely and kissed your hand. Turning your attention back to the young man, you offered him a warm smile.

You were teasing him.

“I'm too old for this.” He grumbled, clenching his fist. A new tune started up and his eyes flicked to Petyr Baelish already in mid step to no doubt ask you for a dance.

That spurred him into action. His feet were moving before he'd given them conscious lead to do so, carried on by a swirling mixture of jealousy, irritation, and concern for your well being.

Truth be told, Tywin didn't trust Baelish on a good day, but the way he'd been eyeing you lately had Tywin out and out despising the man.

“Lady Mormont.” His tone was clipped as he came to a stop before you. He didn't fail to notice the tension in your shoulders as you turned your gaze from Baelish's advancing form to him. Something inside him quivered oddly and he stepped closer, extending his hand as a more conservative song strummed up.

“Lord Lannister.” You cleared your throat and firmed your voice, flexing your shoulder subtly as if to hide your unease. Tywin's brow twitched and his eyes took on an amused shine.

“Take my hand.” Though it was a command, not a request, you seemed to find comfort in his sure tone and stance. Not sparing a glance back at Baelish, who was now within speaking distance, you slipped your hand into Tywin's and let him whisk you back onto the dance floor.

As you turned on the floor, your eyes met Petyr's, and you stiffened again. Tywin pressed a firm hand to your lower back, drawing your attention back to him.

“You needn't pay attention to those beneath you.” His tone was as cool as ever, though his touch was reassuring. Your lips quicker and your hand gripped his shoulder a bit more firmly.

“My lord, your words suggest-”

“My words suggest nothing, I speak fact.” His eyes sparked, and you narrowed your eyes before noticing the heat simmering behind his gaze. Your lips slowly turned up into a subtle smirk.

In the moments before he'd rescued you from Littlefinger, you'd forgotten your little game.

“Lord Lannister…if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous.” You whispered coyly. Tywin grunted gruffly and pressed you a little closer with a firm touch.

“I'm not certain what would give you such a foolish notion, Lady Mormont.” You schooled your features, refusing to chuckle at his affronted tone. “It isn't any of my concern how many lordlings you choose to dance with, nor how you spend your time. If it pleases you to revel in frivolous pursuits that make little use of your intellect, that is your own matter.”

As he spoke, his grip on your hand had grown vice-like, and you were almost certain you could see a vein rising under the skin along his neck. Subtle signs to the casual observer, mayhaps but then again, you were no casual observer.

“Lord Lannister,” You said calmly, pressing his hand lightly as you continued dancing. His gaze returned to you, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Surely you know where my affections lie, Tywin.”

His brow raised slightly, and he grunted. Tugging you impossibly closer, Tywin pressed his hand into your lower back, and glared at you with those steely eyes. Your lips twitched and you met his gaze of challenge as the music ended and one of those 'new' dances began.

"Another dance, my lord?"

[msmorningstaarr]

let me fill you up | Jaime Lannister x F!Targaryen reader

ao3 | masterlist

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x F!Targaryen reader

Summary: You, a Targaryen princess were married into the Lannister fold to ensure the alliance between the two houses, ensuring your eldest brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. Now, Lord Jaime makes your days filled with happiness and makes you eager to present him babies.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: rhaegar wins AU, no targcest, smuff, fluff, breeding kink, praising kink, a lot of pet names (sweet girl, princess, love), reader has no physical description besides the silvery white targaryen hair, creampie, oral (f receiving), a very devoted husband commited to your pleasure, smut, sex;

a/n: Happy new year! I had posted I wanted to write something like that and it's been a while since I want to write something other than holy and heathen because I must admit I'm not very satisfied with what I've been writing lately. Some validation kudos, comments and reblogs would be very important to me, seriously :') I’ve been thinking in turning this into a small series but I’m not so sure. Could you give me your thoughts on this too? please, enjoy your reading!

Taglist: @princessanglophile @hiroikegawa @hiraethrhapsody

You are sitting surrounded by your maids and children on a breezy night, covered with a fur coat and a crimson silk dress under it. Attentively, you go stitch by stitch and slowly form a lion, sigil of your husband’s house. Ever since Robert’s Rebellion ended and your brother, King Rhaegar Targaryen won, you became promised to the former knight of the Kingsguard, now Lord Jaime Lannister. Life in the lion’s den was not difficult, once Lord Tywin treated her with the most kindness and Jaime was still coming out of his shell. At first, he was your sworn sword in King’s Landing and spent plenty of time together in an unbalanced relationship. Now, you two are sharing a bed after a tumultuous year of war and destruction, as equals. In the beginning, you were sceptical about marrying into the Lannister household, but as the months went by, you found yourself drowned at him. Jaime is careful, gentle and kind. He brings you a small dandelion every morning once he knows it reminds you of home.

His only quirk was the strange attachment to his sister, Lady Cersei. But after being sent to Dorne to marry Prince Oberyn of House Martell and getting distant from each other, your relationship with your husband seemed to finally thrive.

“It appears to be beautiful, my lady.” Said one of her maids, taking care of your youngest son, a small silvery blonde figure of two years of age.

“A bright lion handkerchief for Jaime to carry with him.” You reply, admiring your piece of work. “Do you believe your father will like it, sweetling?” You then ask your eldest daughter, an adorable child of four. Your daughter eagerly nods her head and wraps her hands around one of your fingers to pull the fabric closer to her eyes.

“Dada will love it, mama!” The little one exclaimed, spinning around with the kerchief on her tiny hands.

“What will I love, if I’m allowed to ask?” A tall, blonde figure shows up in your private bedchambers, wearing a classic Westerland attire with a crimson fabric and intricate strings of gold shaped into the sleeves and collar. You smile sweetly to Jaime as he approaches you and grabs your middle child to hold in his arms.

“Papa!” The blonde little girl runs towards her father to embrace his legs and your maids stand up to bow to their lord.

“Have you missed me, dear?” Jaime asked and the fussy children eagerly nodded at him, embracing their father even more. Sometimes, seeing Jaime being so loving and kind towards your children simply melted your heart. You felt the urgency to kiss him and dig your fingers onto his bright hair, begging him for another child. Your cunt ached in pleasure to the thought of Jaime pumping his seed inside of you. You were still young and could bear many more children.

“Mm-rrhm…” You scoffed. “I have missed you too, husband.”

The three children giggled and the child on his arms hid his face on the crook of Jaime’s neck. The eldest covered her laugh with her tiny hands and the youngest beamed along their siblings. Jaime came closer to you and caressed your cheeks with his free hand. Then, a single and gentle kiss he places over your forehead, making your heart flutters with love and passion.

“I have missed you too, my love.” Jaime said, passing his fingertips on your chin and smiling at you.

Your maids quickly stood up and bowed at their overlord as a sign of respect. “Excuse me, my lord, my lady,” Said the servant girl. “Let us take the children so you can rest.”

“But I want to stay with papa!” Said the elder daughter, pouting and crossing her arms. The other two children whined and complained along, but you lowered into their level whilst Jaime talked to the youngest on his arm.

“Sweetlings,” She said, caressing their cheeks. “Your father is rather tired after riding for so long. Go with her, I promise you, your siblings, me and your father will have plenty of time together on the morrow. Is that understood, my loves?”

“I can take you to ride a horse tomorrow and even let you eat lemon cakes before super. What do you think?” Jaime asked, delivering the fussy child from his arms to the other maid. In unison, the three infants agreed and left disappointed. Once you and your husband were alone in your bedchambers, Jaime smiled at you gallantly. You embrace him intimately and are finally able to feel the warmth of his muscular body and feel the softness of his golden hair. His lips reach yours and in a whirlwind of sensations, your cunt is already dripping in anticipation just by a simple touch coming from him. Once he breaks the kiss, he keeps holding you by your waist and gazing at you with admiration.

“You have been gone for too long, love.” You say, passing your fingertips on his lips. He smiles and gives you a peck on the lips before speaking.

“I had duties with your brother, Our Grace King Rhaegar, sweet girl.” Jaime replies, pulling her out gently and grabbing the fabric she embroidered for him.

“I hope you like it, I made it just for you.” You point out, joining your hands to follow him. He keeps smiling as he observes attentively the intricate work you did.

“I shall cherish it and take it wherever I go, dragon princess.” He replied, folding and putting the kerchief in one of his pockets. You giggle as you hear him calling you ‘dragon princess’, a custom he chose to never abandon as a form to remember the late days of their relationship “I wish I had more time to be around and play with the children, I have been missing them and you.”

“They made drawings every day and left it on your desk at your office.” You reply, walking to the window and being followed by him.

“I will make sure to have them guarded in our chambers. Safe as our gold.” He says, hugging you from behind and kissing your neck lightly. You beam in ecstasy feeling his body smother you into a comforting embrace and full missing him.

“Sometimes I still cannot believe we are wedded to each other. You were my sworn shield in King’s Landing!” You exclaim as his hand caresses your empty belly and it tingles by his touch. He grins at your words and says.

“Most people are not so lucky to know your spouse before the wedding day. I consider myself the most lucky man in the world because I could be in your acquaintance from so long ago.” He replies, falling his head on the crook of your neck.

You turn around to be face to face with Jaime, feeling the cold breeze of the rock hitting your back and giving you small shocks as Jaime caresses your back, making you experience a thermal shock and shudder to his touch.

“I feel very lucky to be your wife, Jaime. Most women are not so fortunate to have such a kind, loving and handsome husband.” You mutter as he strokes your hair, in awe with your beauty.

“I guess we are fortunate to be together after so many troubles in war. We even brought new lives into this world to paint a new, brightful history.” He replies, caressing your womb. You stare at his fingers passing up and down your belly and glances at him with a sweet smile.

“And we could have more, love. I must admit I feel empty for so long and I want to give you more children… I know I can give you an entire army of your own. Half lion, half dragon. Unstoppable creatures.”

“You feel empty, love?” He asks, smirking and you eagerly agree with him. “Then allow me to fill you up…” Jaime finished, slowly undoing the intricate laces of your dress to reveal your bare skin under the crimson fabric. In response, you open his attire slowly and little by little his white tunic appears to her eyes.

By this point, your cunt is already sore in anticipation for the moment about to happen and clenches around nothing once he pushes the last section of string holding your garment, releasing you from the pressure tightening your upper body. Jaime pushes down your dress and your underwear is now on display for him, which makes him bite his lip and eagerly take down your white camisole to show him your bare body. You moan as he squeezes your breast and pinches your nipples whilst kissing you. You quickly take off his own undershirt to show off his chest.

“So eager is my dragon princess.” He playfully says, leading you to bed and carefully laying you down. With devotion, he starts to kiss your feet, legs and knees, his hands roaming through your thighs and hips. “Spread your legs for me, little dragon.”

You part your legs, obeying his soft command. “So wet… I can see you truly missed me, my love.” He says, kissing your inner thighs as your body squirms in pleasure before he reaches your intimacy.

“Oh… I have missed you so much, my lion.” You moan your words as he kisses your groyne and passes his fingers lightly over your clit, making your womb tremble and convulse to his touch.

“I can see that, just as I missed you, my dragon princess. Do I have permission to give you a lord’s kiss?” He asks and you only nod in response, making Jaime wet his lips with his own saliva before diving into your dripping core and you to scream involuntarily as his tongue and lips eat you up with full desire. Jaime circles his tongue around your clit and roam around your entire intimacy, making your hips bounce onto his direction. It was his costume to make you come every time before he would be inside of you, now could not be different.

You feel your body explode as if someone threw you into dragon fire as Jaime relentlessly pleases you, making magic with his tongue. Skillfully, he explores your intimate area inch by inch with eagerness, making you dig your fingers on his golden curls, pulling him closer to your cunt and you contorses your body urging for more. Tears of pleasure fall off as you feel goosebumps once you realise you are close to your climax.

As the intensity builds, Jaime's movements become more deliberate, pushing you closer to the edge of bliss. Your breath hitches, and your fingers entwine in his golden locks, urging him on. The world narrows down to the pleasure he provides, the connection between you deepening with every passing moment.

When the climax finally crashes over you, Jaime doesn't relent. He continues to caress your sensitive core with his tongue, prolonging the sweet release. Your body shudders with pleasure, and you feel the bond between you and Jaime reaching new heights.

“Husband…” You try to stop him and give yourself some time to take a breath, but Jaime does not back off and part your legs once more, holding it as he keeps licking, kissing and sucking your pussy.

“No no, wife… let me please you and bring you to climax once more…” He cuts your words and gently goes back, but now he plays with his fingers on your clit, with far less pressure and slowly draws circles around it, taking soft moans from you. Jaime rises to hover over you, a wicked glint in his eyes. His fingers trace patterns on your flushed skin as he leans in for a heated kiss, allowing you to taste the remnants of your own pleasure on his lips. “Taste yourself, love.”

And not so long after, you scream his name as you feel waves of pleasure hitting your body as a lightning bolt hits the ground in a storm. Your body is trembling and your legs seem to be two wooden sticks, barely able to stand.

“Please… inside of me, Jaime… I need you…” You plead with him, pulling his body to be on top of yours.

“Your wish is my command, princess.” He replies, kissing you passionately once more and positioning between your legs. Jaime's eyes meet yours, filled with a mixture of desire and adoration. The anticipation was hanging heavy in the air, your bodies aligned perfectly, and as he slowly entered you, a shared moan escaped both of your lips.

The sensation is electrifying, the culmination of the pleasure he bestowed upon you and the intimate connection between your bodies. Jaime moves with a rhythmic precision, each thrust deepening the bond that exists only between you two.

“My perfect princess takes me so well…” He grows as thrusts into you going back and forth nonstop. You lock him by involving your legs around his waist and feeling his hard cock entering your cunt in full force, reaching your cervix and making you beg for more in his ear.

The room echoes with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, a symphony of pleasure that reverberates through the stone walls. The flickering candlelight casts shadows that dance across your entwined bodies, creating a tapestry of love and passion.

“Put another babe on my belly Ser, please…” You beg him as moans leave your mouth and the sound of crashing bodies fill the room quickly.

“With pleasure, love…” He says once more. Jaime moves with a rhythmic precision, each thrust deeper inside of your pussy in farfetched positions. He missed you too much after months away from you and it shows by the way he kisses you as he moves desperately to have more of mounting his dragon. The room echoes with the sounds of your shared passion, a symphony of pleasure that reverberates through the stone walls. The flickering candlelight casts shadows that dance across your entwined bodies. As Jaime's movements become faster, the pleasure intensifies, and you find yourself on the verge of another climax. The pleasure is overwhelming, and your bodies move in perfect harmony.

With a final, fervent thrust, Jaime succumbs to the ecstasy and releases his seed deep inside of your womb, growling and grunting with relief and utter bliss. You hit your own orgasm as you feel the warm jets of his seed invading your walls and your body squirm and you scream his name, crying out.

Your bodies tremble in the aftermath, and he collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. The room is filled with a comforting silence as you both catch your breath. Jaime's fingers gently trace patterns on your skin as you bask in the warmth of the afterglow. “Do you think we created one more life for our household, love?” You ask him, laying your head on his chest. The world outside your chambers seems distant, and for a moment, it's just the two of you, lost in the serenity of each other's embrace.

“Depending on your fertile womb, my love, I have no doubts you are.” He replies, caressing your silvery white hair. “But we must endure in our pursuit on a daily routine. Just to make sure our fourth babe is on the way.” He playfully replies, smirking at you, who mischievously smiles back at him and kisses his lips, wiping some strings of sweat from his face.

Jaime presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur, "I love you, my dragon princess."

And you, wrapped in the arms of the man you love, whisper back, "And I love you, my lion shield."

[tamayakii]

Hi I read your post about yan!Tywin and that you have more inc*st headcanons about him and I’m interested if you’re cool with that 🫣

hehe thank you anon for giving me the chance to talk about this <3

warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, incest, yandere themes, female!reader, nsfw, is it bare or bear, tama asks herself BY PROCEEDING PAST THIS WARNING, YOU ARE THEREFORE CONSENTING TO VIEW THIS CONTENT.

Being Tywin's pretty pretty girl, dressed in the finest of silks and jewelry, the lady of the rock from a young age.

Whilst, of course, you weren't married, people came to view you as Lady of the Rock, which ofc didnt help with Tywin's delusions.

Okay but listen, him HIDING your monthly bleed from the world. Threatening maids that if a slip of your monthly bleed comes out that they’d lose their eyes. So westeros comes to know you as a woman with no viable womb, right? that means you have no value in being married off cause you “can’t bear children” therefore you’d his, no one would fight for your hand.

Losing your virginity to Papa Tywin, riding the same cock that helped made you, imagine a little bit of blood seepin on his cock when he first thrusts into you 😭😭 the same blood that flows through him, smeared across his loins.

BUT IMAGINE PAPA TYWIN BRINGING YOU TO THE RED KEEP WHEN HES HAND OF THE KING :(( you can’t fuck more openly now, back his casterly rock he had more control but in the castle where the rodents kill the cats, it’s a death sentence to be found out.

THAT MAN SUCKS TITTY!! i just know it!! hes a rough one too, harshly sucking on his granddaughters tits whilst sitting at his desk, palming your hips as you grind against him.

For awhile he was reasonable, you couldn’t be with child, at least to the world but as his delusions deepen, he tampers with your moon tea, and practically locks you in your room.

You’re HIS alone, HE made you.

Any man that offers his hand to you is gone, any winning knight that names you the queen of love and beauty in tournaments is suddenly crippled for life.

Your entire LIFE is controlled by him, i cannot emphasize this enough. The very air you breathe might as well be permitted by him, your meals are controlled, you garden time- oh and the GARDEN WALKS!!! When Tywin has a little time to spare and you bat your eyelashes at him, he finds that he can stomach a walk around the beautiful flowers(tho they arent as beautiful as you), servants tending to the bushes and trees find that you cling a little too close, lips a little too pouted and breasts pushed against his arm a bit much but can they say a word? no.

[thebadboyfanclub]

Don’t Say It (Tywin x Reader)

I know I disappeared for a little but I hit a writers block with this one, I think it’s due to exhaustion over me working full time so I hope @thanyatargaryen forgives me if this wasn’t what you intended. Enjoy

Olenna Tyrell was a legend, she had learned the rules by heart and was now on a mission to pass them down to her wonderful granddaughters, the beautiful rose that listened to the name of Margaery and the bewitching siren that could stop a man with a simple song, the young (y/n).

Olenna was no fool, she recognized that the two girls were her strongest soldiers, with these two alone she could rule all of Westeros, well at least all the men which was the same thing.

“Today is an important day, even for you dearest, the wedding of your sister to the king means every eligible lord from all of the seven kingdoms will be attending”

“I am well aware, you do not have to worry about me, grandmother”

(Y/n) reassured olenna whilst her handmaidens assisted her with the finest dress anyone had ever seen, it was her first time at court she needed to look her best, (y/n) squeezed into a dress that was custom made, her hair had taken hours and was brushed to perfection and she smelled of the finest of fragrance oils that were brought from Dorne, it is safe to say that (y/n) couldn’t have looked nor smelled better.

Everyone’s breath hitched at their throats when (y/n) walked with the confidence only a Tyrell could possess, she strutted up to her big sister to wrap her arms around Margaery with clear endearment.

“Congratulations, my queen”

“Oh come on now stop with that”

“I know this is a blessed day for the king but could he be so kind and hear a plea I have for him?”

“Anything for my good sister”

“Look after my dear Marge, as she has done for me”

(Y/n)s voice was as sweet as strawberry cakes and her smile could stop a man dead in his tracks, the young Tyrell leaned on her big sister pressing her chin on Margaerys shoulder whilst the bride leaned her head close to (y/n) as well, the girls shared a strong bond, it was the first time that they would be separated ever since (y/n) was born.

What they did not know was that a certain someone had already his blue set of eyes on the lovely Tyrell who seemed so blatantly unaware of it all, Tywin had sworn to never remarry, no one would ever be as good as his dearest Joanna, she was the one that knew him like the back of her hand, the lady that could wrap her arms around the vicious lion and make him swoon, if she saw him now she would laugh at him, she always told him “never say never my love, you won’t know what the future holds for you”.

“You have your queen and your alliance now, I hope you are happy”

“Naturally, Margaery will serve the realm greatly”

“Soon enough she will start popping out lions, hopefully, my little (y/n) will have better luck”

“What could be better than becoming the queen mother?”

“Becoming the lady wife of a lord that cares for your well-being and happiness”

Tywin grew silent, there was nothing he could say against the allegations of Jeffrey’s cruel nature, he could only hope that Margaery was cunning enough to outsmart him which honestly was not going to be much of a huddle, all the times that Joffrey has been able to be sadistic was owed to other peoples stupidity to either allow him or cover for him.

“Well then let me take a good look at this girl you have such expectations for, lady (y/n)”

Tywin called for the girl whilst he stood a few feet away from the newlyweds, (y/n)s eyes finally found his, and Tywin felt his chest grow tight, the girl was a dream, a dream he often had but could never speak of due to him always believing it will be just that… a silly dream of a widower.

“Lord Tywin, I can imagine this day is probably one of the happiest for your house, correct me if I am wrong but house Tyrell has never wed a Lannister prior to this moment”

“Indeed, let this be a fruitful union for both of our houses, your grandmother has spoken quite highly of you”

“Oh do not listen to her, it is a grandmother's nature to always speak for her grandchildren in the best light”

“Nonsense, Garlan is utterly nice which makes him boring and Loras likes to imagine being a young day twirling in a dress on the garden field, I had lost all hope up until you and your sister were born, the true soldiers of the Tyrell’s”

(Y/n) smiled sweetly before she leaned to place a kiss on her grandmother's cheek, (y/n) and Margaery was well trained, they had sat on the table and played against the best of players only to come out victorious, now Margaery was queen and (y/n) was ready to score her alliance that would bring nothing but glory to her and her family.

“Lady olenna is a lot of things but she is not soft nor does she hide behind her finger, if she says you are her best card then I truly believe it”

Olenna noticed the graciousness in the old lions' words, she picked up on the scanning look that started from her toes and ended on the top of her head, (y/n) did not even have a hair out of place, she placed her hand over her heart as a sign of vulnerability and her smile became brighter in gratitude.

“You are utmost kind, my lord, it is not every day a lady gets to be complimented by the warden of Casterly Rock and the hand of the king, I consider myself lucky for that”

“Luck has nothing to do with it, above it all I am a man that favors honesty and that is what you are receiving”

“I shall go before your words get all in my head, it was an honor to meet you, my lord”

(Y/n) went to curtsy before she was interrupted by Tywin that instead of letting her, reached for her hand and then placed his other one on top of hers, a smirk still evident on his lips as his eyes pierced through her, yet he was left with nothing, (y/n) had always prevailed under the hawking looks of men, she was well aware that she could not budge whatsoever.

“I will see you later Grandmother”

“Of course little flower, go on now, have some fun for me”

Olenna kissed the top of the lady’s head lovingly, it was not a secret that olenna doted on her especially now that it was her turn to marry, she had to bite her lip when it came to Margaery since her son had already bargained her for a sweet deal of a crown, she must do right by (y/n).

Once the lady was far away enough Olenna turned her head towards Tywin who was still following the enchanting Tyrell with his gaze, the way she walked, talked, even her breathing was perfect, his thumb traced over his fingertips, recalling how soft and warm he skin felt against his touch.

“I know that look”

“Pardon?”

“You are planning something”

“I always am”

“If you are scheming to betroth my precious flower to another lion, I must admit I would rather it be you than that little son of yours, in truth I would rather for her to stay away from lions but an old lion is better than Tyrion”

-

The news of Tywins betrothal hit everyone in kings landing like a ton of bricks. Joffrey was dead, Margaery was technically the dowager queen, and the crown was getting weak by the moment.

(Y/n) had become her sister's shadow, some applauded her compassion and how she was present at all hours to console her sister, what they did not know was that Olenna was already moving the strings for Margaery to marry Tommen, the young, kind boy who could never hurt a fly, however, Olenna had ensured both of the girls now once and for all, what better way to do that than to mess with Tywins head?

“Lady olenna, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I am here to propose another marriage between my house and yours”

“That is no surprise, I am to expect you wish to betroth Margaery to Tommen?”

“No, no my dear Margaery has been through way too much”

“Loras is still to marry Cersei, is there a change in that betrothal?”

“Unfortunately that mess of a wedlock is still going steady, I am concerned over my (y/n)”

Tywin had been too occupied with writing to look up at olenna up until now, his ears perked up at the sound of her name, the girl with the bright smile and the scary resemblance to a shadow of the past.

“What do you wish to suggest?”

“My (y/n) is sweet, kind, and full of life, I believe Tommen would treat her as delicate as she deserves to be treated”

“Tommen? You want to put (y/n) by the new king's side?”

“Tommen is a good boy, nothing like Joffrey, I have taken notice of how Tommen smiles at her, no man could ever deny my beloved granddaughter, I am convinced their reign will be prosperous”

“Mayhaps, although I do not believe Tommen should be the one to marry (y/n)”

“Who else could stand the weight of the crown? Tommen is in much need of someone like (y/n), to keep him humble and gentle, show him what it is like to be loved”

That was what made tywins blood boil the most, the concept of (y/n) hugging Tommen, his grandson brushing (y/n)s hair, the lady creating a child out of Tommens semen, the image of her with a swollen belly whilst Tommen rubbed his hand over it made his skin crawl.

No, no he would never allow another man to be by her side on those milestones, he was graced by the gods with a second chance at love, how could he be a bystander to a marriage that would probably be terrific, although Tywin could never survive with the “what if” lingering on his mind.

“Because she is to marry me”

“Pardon?”

“I am to be betrothed to the lady (y/n), our marriage will take place the same day as Margaerys and Tommens, your Margaery will be queen, and lady (y/n) will become the lady of the rock”

“I would rather die than let my dearest become a second wife, your daughter will eat her alive once the news hit her ears”

“Are you afraid of Cersei?”

“I am petrified of the brass neck your daughter possesses, that woman thinks she can do whatever she pleases with no consequence”

“Cersei is my daughter, you have nothing to worry about she will not be allowed to harm your little girl, once (y/n) falls pregnant that child will become heir of Casterly Rock”

“What if she births a girl?”

“You and (y/n) along with Margaery will decide on her future, I will not partake or force my daughter to do anything”

“Your offer is dripping with syrup, but I will not accept, I gave you Loras and Margaery and now you dare to ask for more”

“If you do not consent to this then I shall announce a match of (y/n) and Ser Sandor Clegane, how does that sound?”

“Careful now, what you are suggesting is… grasping”

“Indeed, but I am feeling rather charitable so I grant you the day to decide, if I do not have an answer by the morrow then the sweet girl will be cloaked with a wonderful yellow flag”

Tywin was a man that proudly stood behind his every word, so as he walked out with a triumphed smirk on his lips he was too occupied with feeling his triumph to notice that olenna was also doing the same (y/n) was now the future lady of the rock and Margaery was to have a second chance to wear the crown.

“My lord”

(Y/n) interrupted his thoughts once she saw him, Tywin stopped swiftly before he could fall right onto her, she was waiting behind the door anxiously, her eyes gawked at the man as her cheeks grew rosy from the embarrassment of her clumsy nature.

“Lady (y/n), what seems to be so important that you could not wait in your chamber for your grandmother”

“She informed me about my betrothal, I apologize I was just so fidgety I wanted to know the second that it was settled”

“Are you in such a rush to marry that boy? I am concerned over your taste”

“Tommen is a wonderful person and the future king, any lady would be lucky to be his lady wife”

“So is it the promise of a crown that excites you? I can tell you wearing a piece of metal decorated with gems will not bring you any happiness”

“Pardon my intrusion but why are you so opposed to the fact of me marrying your grandson? I am highborn and have received the proper education, your house along with the Baratheon owe my family everything”

“It is not you that is not enough young lady”

Silence fell over them, Tywin had stumbled right on her trap and now he was as still as a grain of salt, only blinking at the girl that acted surprised over his suggestion that Tommen was the one that was short when he stood next to her, (y/n) bit her lip before she gazed down for a split second and then back up, she wanted to appear at a loss of words.

“I do not want to believe what my thoughts are suggesting”

“You are a fool if you don’t”

“Lord Tywin, you and I it- how could”

“I am too old for this game my dear, I have given your grandmother the rest of the day to decide and if I’m being frank I believe that luck is on my side, so I suggest you ran along and instruct the finest tailor to start on your gown, you must look as stunning as ever”

“I am fluttered, but I do not understand-“

“Listen to me dear, from that moment you smiled at me you have haunted every waking moment and I cannot seem to escape you even in the shackles of deep slumber, I am aware that I do not look like the young and beautiful knight in shining armor a maiden might expect to marry but I can you this promise right now, every other lady from east to west will be jealous of the luck you held when you marry me”

Lord Tywin once again made his exit thinking that he had the upper hand, if someone were to consider everything that has been done in this world wasn’t it always like this?

A man trotted away victorious while the woman stood and smiled proudly at herself, moving the strings without even the man realizing that she had very carefully placed the strings around his arms like a little puppet.

“My dearest girl, I was there at your birth and I took one good look at you and saw the moon and the stars in those eyes, I always knew you would be the brightest of them all”

Olenna informed (y/n) once she had walked into the office Tywin was in moments ago, Olenna wrapped her arms around her in the most loving manner and (y/n) responded with the same warmth.

“We have so much to plan, the future doesn’t wait for anyone”

-

“How could he ever do this to our family?”

“Who did what?”

“Do not play the fool with me Jaime I am sure you have heard of the vilest news, our father is to marry that little rat from Highgarden”

“One of them is a smirking whore and the other one is a rat? Well you certainly won’t have a good time in the palace once all of them marry into our family”

“How could be so calm at this time? Our son is dead, the other one is to marry Margaery and now our father betrayed us”

“Our father has been without a wife for over a decade Cersei, he is a highborn lord, anyone would have a good chunk of heirs from another wife by now”

In jaimes defense he has always attempted to take the logical side when Cersei went on her little paranoid rants over loyalty or whatever the case was at that time, however, this time he could not sit for hours and let her blabber.

Jaime did not even blink when his father told him about his betrothal, he is a kingsguard, and Tyrion is… well, Tyrion and Cersei have played her part in becoming queen though she could not inherit lannisport, every year he waited for his father to announce a marriage of alliance for himself and now it was finally time.

“This is despicable, they will tarnish our name”

“How will they do that exactly? (Y/n) will probably do her best at becoming pregnant which will install our name to live on which as you know is truly what our father cares about”

“Margaery is a manipulative little scum she will shred our Tommen to pieces”

“Tommen was tormented by Joffrey for years and you know it, if anything having some female tending to him will probably do wonders for his confidence”

“Of course as a man that is all you think about, I do not even know why I came to you over this matter, once again I am called to act by myself”

That is when Jaime had heard enough, very softly he rose from his seat and went over to his clearly disheveled sister, a kiss was laid on the center of her forehead all while his hands rubbed up and down to her forearms making her puff out a breath of relief from the comfort his touch brought to her.

“You will do nothing, Father has already announced his betrothal, if anyone even touched a hair from (y/n)s head he will not hesitate to demand its head to be served on a silver platter”

“Father is just being short sighed it is us that must act to save him”

“From what? Having his bed warm by a woman? Especially her, surely you are not that blind that you haven’t understood what he saw in her”

“Don’t say it”

“I know it feels like salt over the wound-“

“No, no”

“You must admit the resemblance is uncanny”

“Never!”

Cersei pushed him away harshly, tears welled up in her eyes and all of a sudden she was rudely pulled back to that day, the gods forsaken day that Cersei had to witness her mother laying in bed with blood staining her nightgown.

“That bitch is not our mother”

“She is not, though she looks like her”

Requests are open!

[annwrites]

one in the same. part six.

— pairing: otto hightower x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: you & otto attend the tourney, and then the ball, & things are acknowledged.

— tw: eating

— word count: 7,130

— a/n: oh , they are so darcy x elizabeth, tywin x joanna, daddy x daughter (do not crucify me—but if someone asks me to elaborate, i shall) coded omg.

totally listened to hunger by ross copperman while writing the dance scene (delena 5ever)

— tagging list: @ohsnapitzmarvelficrec

When you wake the next morn, it’s to someone gently gripping your shoulder, speaking lowly into your ear.

You slowly blink your eyes open, still feeling tired and wishing for more rest, and then you see who is the culprit of your interrupted sleep.

You stare up at him with bleary eyes, feeling quite warm and content, and it’s only then that you finally notice your body is pressed against his own; your shift having ridden up to your thighs overnight.

“It is nearly dawn,” he whispers.

You clutch the pillow under you, closing your eyes again. “Then why are we awake, Otto?”

“Seven Hells,” you hear him curse quietly. “You agreed last night that you would be found in your own chambers come the morn. Come, it is time to rise. I will have my guard escort you.”

“I’m not putting my things back on yet again. I’m too tired to dress.”

He rolls his eyes upward dramatically. Always, always difficult. Insolent young woman.

“You cannot leave here in only your shift. Come now. I am not arguing.”

You feel the mattress dip, then rise, but you only spread your arm across his side of the bed, groaning. “Come back,” you mutter, and he pauses at the request.

He then shakes his head, coming round to your side.

Your side.

You now have a side.

He should’ve used a far firmer hand last night in forcing you to leave.

Otto reaches for your shoulder, turning you toward him, and then quickly drops his hand as you begin to stretch, back arching, soft breasts becoming visible through your thin shift.

When you settle, you merely stare up at him.

For the first time, he is thankful things no longer work for him as they once did many years ago.

“Y/N, it is time. You will obey me. Do you have any idea the consequences which would befall each of us if we were found together in such states of…undress?”

Your eyes roam along him, noticing that he is now only dressed in a long, thin night shirt and knickers. Him not wearing a tunic, cloak, and trousers, with his Hand pin placed upon his chest, is a jarring sight. It’s like he is a different man in this moment. Vulnerable. No armor—that is, dress clothes—to speak of. Even his hair is tangled, lying this way and that atop his head, his beard also unkempt.

You sit up then, shift falling lower, your shoulders bare. “Did you sleep well?”

He groans. “There is no time for discussion.” He reaches for your hand, pulling you off the mattress as he hands you your corset.

You glance at it for a moment before looking at him once again towering over you. “I told you I am not putting it back on.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, shutting his eyes, trying to tamper down his boiling temper. “Just this once can you not do as I ask?”

He stares down at you again.

You toss it onto the floor and he clenches his jaw.

Worse than a child, he thinks. Mayhaps this is retribution for all those years spent making you miserable. If he’s discovered like this, with you, he will pay with his head.

He then wonders what ridiculous songs would be written about the Hand and the loss of his head for being found abed with the king’s bastard daughter.

He leans down toward you. “And what, exactly, do you propose to wear through the halls if someone were to set eyes upon you at such early hours?”

You glance to his wardrobe.

The halls are, thankfully, empty as you make your way back to your rooms—Otto’s guard close at your side.

Otto’s robe drags across the floor behind you, the rest of it completely engulfing you. Beneath it, you clutch your clothes close to your chest, heart hammering, hoping—actually praying—not a soul happens across you before you reach your chambers.

“Did anyone see you?” Otto asks, slicing into a poached egg.

You take a bite of toast, then sip at your juice. “If they had, I would have mentioned it as soon as I came through the door.”

He clasps his hands atop the table. “It will never happen again. Is that understood?”

You glance to him with a raised brow. “We shall see.”

His gaze hardens at your flippant tone. “And I expect my robe to be returned promptly.”

You stab at a strawberry tart on his plate. “I would not hold my breath on that account.”

For the next fortnight, the Keep is abuzz with activity—preparations for the celebrations planned by His Grace taking place.

The castle is given a thorough cleaning by the servants, decorations are hung and placed about the corridors, and the cooks and kitchen staff have order after order of fine wines, cheeses, meats, salts, vegetables and fruits, and much more delivered day-by-day.

Meanwhile, you have a new gown made for the ball, and another to wear to the tourney, which will be held beforehand that afternoon.

In truth, you share Otto’s sentiments to such gatherings. They make you not just anxious, but also incredibly uncomfortable. You never feel like more of a pretender than when you are forced to put on a facade of being the king’s eldest daughter, and sister to the Princess—when people address you as ‘Lady’ and bow their heads at your mere presence.

You would rather lock yourself in your chambers and hide under the covers until it is all over. But you know what is expected of you. And so, you must play along. Even if you feel a part of you die inside each time you do.

When Otto enters his chambers—a stack of books in his arms, taken from the library—it is to the sight of you fast-asleep in his bed.

He sets the books down upon a table and studies you for a moment.

He is not entirely pleased with you at-present. After exiting the library, one of his maids had passed him in the hall and informed him that she had brought you lunch, but you had refused to wake for it. So, the dish had, instead, after an hour of sitting untouched, been returned to the kitchens.

You had been sullen lately—spending most of your time sitting in a chair on his balcony, staring silently off into the distance, or sleeping away the day in his bed. Not even his addressing you as ‘Young Lady’ more times than he could count had earned him a sarcastic reply of your name for him—’Old Man’.

And, when it came to dining together, you would only idly push food around your plate, until he was forced to encourage you to eat.

He seats himself on the edge of the bed, staring down at you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face with his finger. He sighs softly. Even this allowance he had made for you—allowing you back into his bed, even after stating firmly that it was to be a one-time occurrence.

But, when you had come to him one evening, upset, tears shimmering in your eyes—even if you refused to tell him what was the matter—asking if you could stay with him for just a little while, he had relented easily.

So, you’d silently padded into his chambers, clutching your cloak tightly around yourself.

It was when you dropped the item of clothing that your intentions in coming to him were made clear. You were only wearing your shift—ready for bed.

He’d watched as you crawled atop the mattress, burying yourself beneath blankets before falling asleep. He’d not said a word about it.

After that night, you began to sleep in his bed more often than even your own. Mostly during the daytime, that is. There had only been one other evening where you had shared a night together, lying next to one another.

You’d once again remained with him in his chambers reading, the hour quite late, when you’d eventually stood, nervously wringing your hands. “May I stay?”

He’d agreed with a nod, making you promise to dress come the next morning, unlike the first time you’d slept here.

You’d agreed.

And then he had lost yet another one of his robes come the following day.

He brushes the back of his fingers along your cheek. “Darling, it is nearly time for supper.”

Your face twitches, but you do not wake.

He sighs. “You did not eat lunch.”

You’re still quiet. Then, “I was not hungry.”

“Explain to me where this return to melancholic behavior is stemming from. I had thought we’d moved past—”

You open your eyes, staring out the open doors to the balcony. “I do not wish to go to the tourney,” you whisper.

He bends his leg at the knee, turning more toward you. “Nor do I. But such appearances are expected by those in our positions.”

“Do you not recall what…happened during the last one?”

His jaw feathers. So that was why. How did he not see it sooner: the clear explanation for your sudden change in state?

“Y/N…” He trails off, unsure what to even say.

You sit up, tucking hair behind your ears, taking one of his hands within both of yours. “I can’t…stop thinking about it. Everyone sitting in those stands, laughing and cheering and…” Tears sting your eyes. “All while she was…”

You begin to sob.

He then wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. “I will be there beside you.”

He pulls back, brushing tears from your cheeks, your eyes full of exhaustion. “We shall suffer together,” he states, lip twitching and filling with a small sense of relief when you smile slightly at his jest.

The morning of the tourney, you do not come to him to break your fast, which he allows just this once, presuming that you are otherwise occupied; being readied by your maids for that afternoon’s events.

He does, however, have a plate of fruit and strawberry tarts—a favorite of yours—delivered to your chambers, along with a small box, a note inside addressed to you.

You sit at your vanity, your room vacated of servants now that you have been made ready for spectating.

You stare down at the small box resting in your lap, finally opening it. You first remove the small bit of parchment inside—the Hightower heraldry stamped atop it, which you break—reading the hand-written note: Your ‘handsome stipend’.— Otto

You set the note aside, then gently pull out a long string of pearls, your eyes widening at the beautiful gift. You roll the small opalescent balls between your fingers, smiling slightly to yourself, a warmth blooming in your chest as tears sting your eyes at the generous gift.

You then glance to the plate of tarts and berries Otto had sent your way just that morn and pick up a mulberry, placing it upon your tongue, and slowly chewing.

There is a knock at your door, interrupting you from your nervous pacing.

You slowly open it, and are met with the sight of Otto, one arm pressed against the door-frame, the other hanging limply by his side.

He then takes in the vision that is you. Your long hair is curled, some of it gathered atop your head, small pearl pins placed throughout. You wear a soft gown that is the shade of seafoam, the long sleeves and skirt made of loose gossamer, the embroidered bodice hugging your feminine frame. Slippers placed upon your dainty feet. And then, hanging from your slender neck, is a long string of familiar-looking pearls, which you come to finger nervously as you watch him watching you.

“I look ridiculous,�� you say, face heating, wishing to let your hair down.

He lowers his right arm behind his back, clutching his other, as he stands tall. “You look lovely.”

You blink up at him and he then looks behind you to your dining table—the plate of food he had sent to you practically untouched. He steps around you, picking up a tart and holding it toward you. “Eat this and then we may go.”

You step toward him, taking it from his hand. In truth, you had retched twice overnight just thinking about today. Food was the last thing you desired. But he knows that already. It’s why he’s asking you to eat at all—because he is aware, without even needing have been told, that you haven’t all morn.

You take a bite, then another, chewing slowly, both of you looking at the other as you finally finish it.

He then offers you his arm. “Shall we?”

You hesitate to take it, wondering why he is not instead accompanying the King, or even his daughter. Or anyone else but…you.

He then speaks again, his eyes alight. “I did promise that we would suffer through it together, did I not?”

Your lip twitches then as you come to securely wrap both of your arms around his own, holding tightly as you press your cheek against his cloak. You step alongside him as he leads you out into the hall, shutting the door to your room firmly behind him.

You look out the windows to the carriage at the passing scenery that is the streets of King’s Landing.

“You did not treat me so kindly at the last tourney,” you say quietly.

He rests his hands in his lap, clasping them together. “I know.”

You think back to it.

You’d come into the royal stands already a nervous wreck—but doing your utmost to hide it as you smiled politely and greeted those who greeted you. And then you’d gone to seat yourself next to Lady Alicent—the only empty seat remaining, on her left—until Otto had abruptly stood, grabbing the chair, and moving it far away from everyone else.

You had stood there, swallowing down the lump in your throat, feeling sick as he glared at you, returning to his own seat.

And so you had spent that afternoon seated alone, fighting back tears, praying for the jousting to be over sooner rather than later so you could fall apart in your chambers without witnesses.

Which you had most certainly done, but for entirely different reasons than initially planned.

“You humiliated me,” you say, refusing to look at him.

In truth, he had filled with guilt when he saw the look in your eyes after he had done it. That of utter sorrow. He had regretted it, but also refused to undo it, leaving you sitting there, staring down at your hands in your lap, not partaking in the festivities for even a moment as you drifted away in your mind.

“I deeply regret it. It was a cruel thing to have done.”

“You made a spectacle of me. The one person there who wanted anything but attention put on her. I did not even wish to be in attendance in the first place.”

He leans forward, taking both of your hands in his. “Forgive me, Y/N. I assure you, I will never do such an ugly thing ever again.”

He presses his lips to your fingers—the coarse hairs of his beard tickling your skin—before pulling back, looking at you.

You nod gently. “I forgive you.”

You squeeze Otto’s arm—press yourself closely to his side—as he leads you up and into the stands. You stare up at him—anywhere but at the gathering crowd across the way—while he keeps his eyes forward, his face unreadable.

It’s in this moment that you finally notice just how different of a man he truly is with you. His features softer, his form more relaxed, even his body is less tense when you are alone.

By keeping your gaze trained on him, you fail to notice the various pairs of eyes which take the both of you in. All filled with either shock or pleasant surprise.

Viserys halts mid-sentence while speaking to Lord Corlys, brows furrowing slightly at the two of you together in one another’s company. A sight which he has never seen before, but is pleased to today, nonetheless.

Rhaenyra turns back around from leaning over the railing, watching knights and horses being readied to tilt, smile faltering as she watches Otto retrieve a chair from the front of the stands, settling it next to his own, which you seat yourself in.

Alicent glances up to her from her own position, following Rhaenyra’s line-of-sight, turning to look behind her, and her heart drops when she sees her father seating himself next to you, smiling slightly as the two of you begin to speak quietly amongst yourselves. Your hands are wrapped around his arm, which rests between the two of you, your chairs are pushed so closely together.

“Do you ever bet on these ridiculous jousts?” You ask him, fingers gripping the soft material of his cloak.

He leans back, crossing his long legs—which are stretched out before him—at the ankle. “Never.”

“And have you ever participated in any? As you are a knight.”

Somehow, picturing him atop a horse with a lance in his hand and a helmet with a feather stuck in the top upon his head makes you want to burst out laughing. So, you instead bury the lower-half of your face against the crown of his shoulder, slightly giggling at the thought.

He looks to you with a raised brow. “Does such an image amuse you, young lady?”

You nod slightly, staring up at him.

His lip twitches. “Jousting, no. Sparring, however, a few times. Though, I preferred to do it for practice to keep my skills with a sword sharpened.” He fears they have, perhaps, dulled over time now.

You rest your chin atop his shoulder. “I should like to see that.”

He looks back ahead. “All you would see is an old man eating dirt. I am not as I once was. Not nearly as nimble; as quick.”

“I’ve never seen you use your sword.”

“If we are fortunate, I may die without ever needing to.”

He then glances to Alicent, knowing that if certain plans come to fruition, the events of today may have all been for naught. But, he fears the young Princess will not allow the traditions of primogeniture to prevent her from taking what he is sure she now thinks of as being rightfully hers: the Iron Throne.

House Targaryen’s words may very-well be witnessed in his lifetime then.

You pull him from his thoughts when you next speak. “I wanted to thank you for my gift,” you say softly, fingers sliding down your pearls.

He presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Merely repayment for all your hard work.”

You slide your hand further up his arm, finally glancing to the gathering crowd across the way. “Yes, I suppose being a most constant sense of frustration for you is rather taxing employment.”

He laughs then suddenly and rather loudly, a few heads turning in your direction, while he glances down to you, shaking his head with a smile, grinning. “Indeed.”

He then rests his hand over-top your own that’s gripping his sleeve.

Rhaenyra had already given her favor away rather early-on, but yet another knight rides up, calling her name.

You watch silently, cheek resting on Otto’s shoulder—eagerly awaiting the close of events—as Rhaenyra stands, walking forward.

She then turns around, looking at you with a smile. She waves her hand for you to come.

Your brows furrow as you release Otto’s arm for the first time all afternoon, standing.

She nods toward the small table beside you. “He wishes to receive your favor. Ser Hugh.”

You smile nervously in return, grabbing your laurel of white roses, glancing to Otto for just a moment as you do—the look in his eyes cold, his jaw hard, hands squeezed tightly into fists as he watches you.

Your brows knit together briefly, an unsettling feeling coming over you as you turn, coming to stand beside Rhaenyra.

A handsome man, a handful of years older than you, with dark hair and a tempting smile stares up at you from under polished armor, holding a lance in your direction. “I would be most pleased, My Lady, to boast your favor. I’m most assured that with it, and your blessings, I will best my opponent.”

You drop the small wreath of flowers, watching as it slides down toward him, coming to settle at the base of his lance. “You now have both, Ser,” you say with a shy smile.

He winks before lowering the visor of his helm, his horse trotting away before he positions it at the far-right end of the median, which separates him and the opposing knight.

Otto keeps his eyes trained on you, blood boiling at your gallant knight having been so forward. A recurring annoyance indeed. First a marriage proposal, and now openly seeking your favor before the eyes of many. He is sure this evening he will only grow bolder; so he resolves to as well.

He cannot have you.

None of them can.

On the carriage ride back to the Keep, you’d fought against a small smile which kept working its way back onto your lips the entire journey. Otto had remained silent, glaring out the window, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t singularly-sided then. Mayhaps you instead saw him as more of a fatherly figure, as opposed to…anything else.

Who was he, at his age, to be desiring someone of yours, anyway? He tells himself such inclinations did not develop until quite recently, but he knows that to be a falsehood. They’d begun long ago. It’s precisely why, for some time, each time your father received correspondences requesting your hand, Otto had used everything at his disposal—his words as deft and polished as possible—to council him to hold onto you for as long as manageable instead, assuring him that lowly knights and third-born sons were not proper matches for the eldest daughter of the King. That to just hand you off to such men would make him look weak.

And Viserys had taken such advice, thankfully.

He prays Ser Hugh does not make an audience with the King tonight, inquiring as to the outcome of his recent written request for your hand, for Viserys never even saw it before Otto had destroyed it, tossing it into his hearth a fortnight ago.

Finally, Otto looks at you, wondering how best to inquire about your thoughts toward this new mystery knight—for you are not yet familiar with him; nor will you ever be, if he has something to say about it, and he’s most sure he will.

“He is a bastard.”

You look at him, brows furrowing. “Hm?”

“Ser Hugh.”

“Oh.” A pause. “We already have something in common, then.”

You stare at him, waiting for a reaction. Waiting to see if you had been right—if that look he had given you as you took your laurel in-hand had been jealousy. Just the thought of it had kept you biting back a smile the entire ride to the Keep; the first time you had felt any form of even slight joy in days upon days.

He leans back, folding his hands. “He is the son of a blacksmith.”

You raise a brow in feigned interest. “He must be rather strong, then, no?”

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “It implies that he comes from impoverished means.”

“You sound rather like a snob,” you reply looking back out the window.

His temper begins to boil.

You speak again. “As did I, before my father claimed me. At least he has made something of himself.”

What’ve you done? Read books and recited poetry and practised with your septa how best to be a dutiful wife to the right lord, which will be chosen for you by another’s hand one day? You suddenly feel an urge to get out and walk instead. You are unworthy to be wearing such fine things—in an expensive carriage being pulled by the best horses coin can buy.

And he intends to climb even higher, even further toward the throne—at the very least, the Crown, Otto thinks.

He resolves in that moment to not allow him anywhere near you during the ball. He does not deserve you.

He leans forward. “And you have not?”

You look at him. “No, I don’t think I have.”

He frowns, watching you go back to facing the window. “You think what, then? That finding a husband of preference will be the measure of your success? The metric by which you determine how meaningful your life is?”

You would be surprised to hear him think otherwise. He is not forward-thinking enough to see a woman as being capable of making her own way, surely.

You meet his eyes. “You do not?”

He chews the inside of his cheek, thinking how best to word the things he next says. “I think that you are far brighter than you give yourself credit for. I was always aware of how you were coming along in your studies. Studies which you never faltered in endeavoring to perfect your skills in. Reading, writing, sewing, instruments, dancing—”

“Yes, because perfecting the waltz is something of any importance.”

“What, then? Children?”

You fight against a snort. You wonder if this you can trust him with. Something no woman—none of your position, anyway—is meant to admit to. You do not look at him when you finally reply.

“I do not…desire them. I have never felt an innate need to have them. I believe that—if given the opportunity—I would be perfectly content to instead live my life at my husband’s side without ever having bore any. But, in the end, it will not be my choice: whether I do or no. Whatever the man who takes me to wife wants, he shall get. That will be my lot in life. A vessel to be used at his disposal, and tossed aside when he is done with me. When I am old and grey and no longer… Well, no longer.”

You both remain quiet, only the sound of horses whinnying and wooden wheels rolling over cobblestone breaking the silence.

You continue. “And no man would ever take such a woman to wife. So, yes, I perfected my lessons. So I might be a pretty doll, who smiles and laughs and says all the right things so some lord or knight or other, may pluck me from my shelf one day and call me his property. While I wither away inside, forgetting who I am as I become, instead, whatever he wants me to be. A man chosen by other men in my life, who think they know what is best for me, without ever asking me what I may want; think.”

Otto finally speaks, his voice low, entirely serious. “And if you found a husband who also wants the same as you—who no longer—” He cuts himself short, beginning again. “Rather, does not desire children himself, and would rather treat you as his equal, because he sees you for exactly who you are?”

You look at him, expression unreadable, even if your heart pounds at what you think—rather, desperately hope—he is implying. “Then I think he should ask me for my hand.”

You look back to the window, the Red Keep coming into sight. “Before another does.”

You emerge from your chambers, ready to vomit all over the floor at the thought of someone asking you to dance. And then there is the fact that you will be announced when you enter the room, drawing all eyes in your direction.

You fidget nervously with your pearls—a newly-formed habit, as of today—not even paying attention to where you are going as you slam into another’s solid body.

You look up then, ready to begin apologizing profusely, until you fill with relief, seeing it is only Otto. You then press your forehead to his chest and groan in frustration.

He lets out a low chuckle, hands coming to rest against your back. “We share similar sentiments.”

You pull yourself closer, pressing your cheek against him then, wrapping your arms around his lean frame. “I do not wish to.”

His left hand comes to cup the back of your neck. “Nor do I. But, I am afraid, what you and I wish for today is of little consequence.”

You pull away, looking up to him then. “I would rather be dining with you in your chambers. Grating on your last nerve.”

His lip twitches and he reaches up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. “One in the same, as always.”

You cling tightly to his arm—even more-so than this afternoon—as the two of you approach that large set of double-doors, which are already open, guests wandering inside the Throne Room for the feast, and then, eventually, dancing.

You wear a dark gray gown tonight—the skirt made of tulle, which sparkles against the lit torches and braziers lining the walls. The bodice melds to your body, the sleeves long and loose, tight cuffs keeping them in-place around your wrists. You wear, once again, a comfortable pair of slippers. Your hair is down and full, a single ribbon tied in the back, holding a few meddlesome strands out of your face. On your fingers, a couple small rings, and around your neck—Otto’s pearls.

You glance up to him, thinking he looks very handsome tonight. He wears a midnight-black cloak, the neckline high and lined thinly with fur. His tunic is emerald green and the stitching is impeccable. His dark trousers perfectly fitting for his long legs, his boots polished, and his Hand of the King pin gleaming.

“You look quite dashing tonight,” you say, pressing your cheek to his arm.

He looks to you with a smirk at the compliment. “I do not believe anyone has referred to me as such in over a decade.”

He then looks down to you, your wide eyes staring up at him. “You look beautiful.”

“The Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, and accompanying him, the Lady Y/N Targaryen,” cries the page from the doorway.

You want nothing more in all the world than to hide behind Otto, but you instead keep your chin held high, your arm casually draped over his, and a healthy distance of a few inches between the two of you as you walk between long trestle tables toward the high table at the front of the room, where the King, your father, is already seated. He watches the two of you with curious eyes, taking note of the new pearl necklace that you fidget with.

Otto pulls out a chair two seats down from your father and you sit, him pushing you in. He glances across the hall to a familiar knight—staring daggers in his direction—as his fingers brush along your shoulders.

He then seats himself between you and Viserys, immediately engaging in conversation with the King, as his right hand, surprisingly, comes to rest gently atop your left knee beneath the table.

You flush, taking it between both of your own, lightly kneading your thumbs against the back of it, so as to keep yourself occupied from the lords and ladies of the Realm staring at those seated at the front of the room.

Eventually, once the hall is filled, and it seems all are present, Viserys stands, ready to make a brief speech.

Otto leans back in his chair, his hand still between both of yours, until your fingers still and you decide to try something perhaps…foolish. Mayhaps even juvenile.

You twine your slender fingers between his own and his face remains impassive as he curls his around your hand in return.

Your eyes sting with happy tears as you focus on the feel of your hand in his, instead of the words your father speaks to the awaiting crowd.

Your hand shakes as you spear a cooked vegetable with your fork, nervously glancing at the chattering crowd before you, searching to see if anyone is watching as you take a small bite.

You swallow, stomach tied into knots, setting your fork down, deciding you will simply have to eat again tomorrow morning. Here and now is not the ideal time.

Otto leans toward you. “Just look at me,” he says quietly.

You turn your gaze to him. “What?”

He nods toward your plate. “Eat, but do not look at them. Only at me.”

You reach for your fork again, stabbing at a piece of chicken and looking at Otto as you take another bite, swallowing.

He nods. “Good.”

You do it again, each bite easier to handle as your eyes refuse to leave him.

You are filled with relief once the servants clear the room of the dinner that had been served, leaving only berries and fruit and cheeses and slices of bread for people to idly dine upon as they dance.

Rhaenyra is made the center of attention for tonight—suitor after suitor vying to be her next dance partner, while you sit silently, content to watch. But as you do, it does fill you with a sense of longing, if not forlornness.

You look down to your hands in your lap—Otto now across the room speaking with his brother and good-sister—wondering what sort of match will eventually be made for you. What he might be like. If he will, at the very least, be kind to you.

Or if he will keep you at arm’s length—will take a mistress right in front of you, which you are forced to share your household with—while you grow to feel more alone than ever. You do not know if you can bear such a fate. If you would even bother trying.

Otto glances over to you, watching as you nervously tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before fidgeting with your necklace, clearly lost-in-thought. He doesn’t like the distant look in your eyes, the way your brows furrow, as if you are being asked a question you cannot find the answer to.

He then looks across the room and fills with loathing when he spots Ser Hugh, who clearly has his sights set on you. He begins to head in your direction and Otto suddenly steps away from Hobert then, without so much as excusing himself as he tries to make his way back to you, forcing himself through throngs of people, even pushing a few aside carelessly, his shoulder bumping into another’s—he knows he must seem the image of discourtesy right now—as he finally reaches the high table, Ser Hugh only a few feet away and pausing in his steps as Otto leans down toward you, offering you his hand.

“Come with me,” he says quietly.

You blink up at him, torn from dark thoughts of wasting away in a castle somewhere, your sanity slowly slipping as you lose pieces of yourself day-by-day as all sense of joy and safety leave you.

“Where?” You ask, wondering if, perhaps, he is going to escort the two of you back upstairs finally.

You would be completely content with that; sitting silently with him, perhaps draped in one of his soft robes as he lies his head in your lap—you are sure he must have a headache by now from all the excitement today has held—and the two of you converse quietly in his private quarters.

“You shall have to join me to find out.”

You slide your hand into his then, and hold securely to him as he weaves his way deftly through the crowded room, both of you slipping away with hardly being noticed.

“Why are we in the Godswood?”

The music from inside is loud enough that it carries through the walls even to out here.

Otto pulls you close, unable to even recall the last time he’d done this. In truth, it was one of the benefits of growing older—no longer being expected to partake in such foolish customs. But, if it will make you happy—he had seen the way you had watched Rhaenyra with her many dance partners, with a look of yearning—he will do it again. This one last time.

“Dance with me,” he whispers.

You stare up at him, blinking and in disbelief. Dance. He wants to dance? You then wonder if he even still recalls how. You find it difficult to imagine him ever sweeping across a ballroom floor with a woman in his arms.

“I—”

He takes your right hand into his left, then positions your own atop his tall shoulder while he settles his right against the small of your back.

He steps forward and you step back, following his lead. He does so again and again, moving the two of you across the soft grass of the Godswood, only the moon and stars bearing witness to this intimate moment.

He then extends his arm, you stepping outward, then pulling you back to him, holding you close as he gently dips you, then slides his fingers into your hair, holding your gaze to his as he takes you back in the other direction, gently turning the two of you as he continues your shared waltz.

You smile up at him, tears of joy shimmering in your eyes as he then twirls you around, then pulling your chest back against his own.

“You’re quite good at this,” you say, breathless.

He smiles softly down at you. “And you, My Lady, shall be the last I take in my arms like this.”

He presses his lips to your forehead then and your eyes flutter closed, tears slipping down your flushed cheeks as you continue to move across the yard.

Finally, the music slows and then quiets, leaving your heart pounding, soft breaths escaping your lips, his own now close to yours as he leans down to you.

Please.

His fingers tangle in your hair once again, his body pressed to yours, and your eyes unfocus as you wait, anticipating, hoping.

Praying. For him.

“The hour is late.”

Your heart shatters.

You stare up at him then, feeling heartbroken. Stupid girl. Always so stupid. You were young enough to be his daughter. Of course that was why he had done it. Why he has done…everything he has. Whatever this is—it is clear now, that he sees it as some sort of surrogate relationship. You, a young, hopeless girl, and him a man who has tried to help guide you back to…health? You do not know now.

In what world would he ever feel…that. And for you, of all people.

No. You will never have that. Best to accept it now. You should’ve done so long, long ago.

You step away from him then, staying silent.

“I will escort you back to your room.”

You shake your head. “There is no need. You should rejoin your brother. I will do just as well on my own. I bid you goodnight, Ser Otto.”

You turn to leave then and his face falls at you addressing him by title now. Not that he does not have himself to blame for it.

“Y/N—”

“I am tired. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening with your family, Ser.”

He watches you go, not speaking another word.

It takes everything you have to keep yourself together as you all but race back to your room. And once you are closed inside—the door locked behind you—you fall to the floor and break.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to the floor as you sob. You had loved your birth-mother and she had died. And then Aemma, and she, too, was now gone.

Everyone leaves.

You have tried to connect with your father, but it has always been well and obvious that Rhaenyra is favored by him. And with Rhaenyra, Alicent might as well be her sister instead.

You had convinced yourself that you were contented with being alone—you had even done an experiment shortly after Aemma’s passing, when grief had overtaken every facet of you: you’d not spoken for a day. You had wished to see if anyone would notice, would bother speaking to you instead.

Not a soul had.

After that, you had decided to lock your true self away from all others. You would be polite. Would do as expected. Be whoever you needed be for anyone that you were in the company of. But you would no longer open up. Would no longer even think to share yourself with any of them. Because you finally knew the horrible truth: no one cared.

Not about you.

But then Otto had come to you—made amends. He had looked after you. Had ensured your health, your safety, even your happiness. You…you had shared a bed together. Not in that way, perhaps, but you had. Thrice. And it had meant such a great deal to you. He had begun to.

And now you see. See that you have made a grave mistake. You should’ve let things persist as they had. If only you had refused to let him in, you would not be drowning in tears now.

After you have exhausted yourself, you fall asleep like that—lying on the floor; utterly empty, knowing you are back to the way you had been somewhere over a month ago: completely alone.

The way you should have remained.

Otto sits in his chambers with his head in his hands, wondering if he should not go to you.

The way you had looked at him as you danced, smiling at him, tears of happiness in your lovely eyes… In that moment he knew that he had finally done it: made you his. So, he had pressed his lips to your forehead, knowing he felt the same.

But as you waited with bated breaths for him to kiss you… He had finally snapped out of whatever delusion he has been living in for weeks on-end and realized that this can not be.

His late Lady Wife would be his last. That was what was right—proper. He would not dishonor her memory.

It was not just your age, but also your social standing—your circumstances of birth—which had prevented him from taking things further. Not that it would have been seemly to do so in general.

Or, those are the excuses he feeds himself, anyway.

He does not much care what others say or may think of him, but he has a reputation to maintain. Carrying on with a bastard-born girl, come from a whore from Flea Bottom—he cannot stomach the thought.

But as he sits there, picturing you with another man—him never to see you again as your fears of wasting away come to life…that is what truly fills him with revulsion.

He does not find sleep this night.

[fan-goddess]

I wish you would write a fic where...Aemond forces a lady at court to marry him because she used to bully him when she was young, and he wants revenge. But the sexy kind lol

Authors Note: Oh my god I love thatttttt honestly I should write for a more darker Aemond tbh don’t know why I don’t. This is less bully more torment still I hope you like it

Warnings: angst, bullies, revenge, dark!aemond, mentions of rape, not direct consent, simp!Aemond, hinted at smut but none written, (if I miss any let me know!)

Taglist: @humanpurposes @watercolorskyy @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee

When Aemond first laid his eyes on the daughter of Ser Tywin Lannister, he had no idea of the thorns that lay hidden beneath the beautiful rose.

He would find himself staring at you whenever he could, but to his disappointment, like everyone else before you, you chose to spend your time with Aegon and his little duo of puppies that were his nephews.

When he trained with Ser Criston in the training yard whilst you sat in the crowd, he worked hard to try and ensure your attention. Though everytime he looked at you, your eyes never left his brother.

After training one day, Aemond left feeling dejected due to your unspoken rejection, and walked with his head held low to the familiar route of the library. He tried to take his mind off you with some old texts on ancient Valyria before the doom, and yet with every minute Aemond tries to concentrate on his studies he found himself thinking only of you.

It’s something he found himself doing a lot recently since the discovery of your existence. He thinks of your hair and how soft it must be to feel through his fingertips. He thinks of your eyes and how pretty they look whenever he catches your eye. He thinks about how loving your soul is and the warmth your kindness would be to feel against his skin.

Aemond has never felt like he had the soul of a poet, and yet one afternoon he finds himself writing about your beauty on some paper with a quill that had been previously left at the table he sat on.

To my lady sun,

How does it feel to know that your beauty radiates more than the sun, and to be its only envy? I am sure it is grateful for night so that it is not forced to compare to you, and yet even then the jealousy does not sleep, for now the moon must be forced to bear witness to your glowing skin.

Your body is a temple handcrafted by the gods, and I am sure they watch in anticipation for their greatest creation to walk amongst its divergent brethren. With how your head remains high, I am sure you must be aware of your own greatness. So no doubt these words seem meaningless. Yet I hope they spark something within you still.

With care,

a simple worshiper

It wasn’t very good, but then again, Aemond never expected to sound like the greatest poet of the seven kingdoms. He never expected anyone to read his letters ever. But of course, Aegon went snooping and found something that didn’t belong to him that he felt entitled to take.

“Did you really think she would love you?!” Aegon laughed, dangling one of the pieces of paper before Aemond while he tried desperately to grab it before you came and saw it.

“Why would she want a dragon less twat like you when she could have me?”

“What’s going on?” A very familiar voice spoke, a horror filled jolt going down Aemonds spine as he turned to confirm his horror. Lady Lannister stood there as beautiful as ever with your brow furrowed in adorable confusion, and your eyes trained on the paper still in Aegons greasy grasp.

“My little brothers turned into a poet my lady! Just look at what he’s had to say about you!” Aegon laughs while Aemond once more tries desperately to stop him. But with just a simple shove to the floor Aemond is weak and helpless as you take the paper in hand and begin to read.

And when you finish, Aemond feels his heart shatter into a thousand pieces as you begin to laugh at him.

“Did you think I would thank you?” You begin, that once delicate smile turned poisonous as you slowly make your way over to him still laying where he fell. “You were right about one think little Prince. These words are meaningless. But they’re especially so coming from a boy like you. Still, I must thank you for this little Prince, as at least I’ll have something to laugh at when I’m bored.”

Aemond feels the tears brim against his eyes and for the first time since falling he gets the strength to stand and run away. The sound of yours and Aegons cruel laughter echoing through his mind as he does, with a vow of revenge brewing behind it.

“My Prince regent, with this new position, there is a matter of marriage I must bring forward.” Lord Wylde begins, an edge to his voice as he knows the delicacy behind it all.

It’s been years since the embarrassment of his writings, and yet Aegon and you as well had made sure to bring it up almost everyday before you traveled back home. Whether that is by a memorised line from one of the pages or with seemingly innocent words with hidden meanings and a not so hidden smirk, Aegon and you had deployed them all to make Aemonds life miserable.

Aegon continued though long after you went away, and Aemond supposes that’s what made the act of burning him all that sweeter. To know the taste of revenge against one of the ones who hurt him was as sweet as honey against his bitter tongue.

“Borros Baratheon has four unwed daughters who-“

“I have made my decision already in who I should have by my side as my wife my lord.” Aemond interrupts, a ghost of a smile on his face as he thinks of the lady in question and watches the lords at the table furrow their brows. My my how fun was it to watch the rats fumble like a puppet show.

“And who is this lady my prince regent?”

Aemond smirks at Ser Tyland, who sits there unaware of what is about to occur to his family.

“I intend to marry your very own niece Ser Tywin. The young, and I am correct in presuming still unmarried, lady Lannister.”

Silence radiates through the council room as all attempt to process the news Aemond has just released to them, while Aemond himself is just sitting there like the dragon who ate the hatchling.

“My Prince regent, I-it is an honour!” The man stutters out, knowing if he didn’t say anything it would be much more worse for him.

“As it should be Ser Tyland. Tis an honour to be wed to a member of house Targaryen. I trust you to be the man to call for your niece, but please, do not tell her the reasoning. I wish for it to be a surprise that I myself shall tell her, if you would do be the honour?”

“Of course my Prince. I shall write to her soon as we finish this meeting and request for her to arrive the beginning of the next week.”

Aemond would’ve preferred her to arrive on the morrow, but he supposed he shouldn’t be too picky. You’re coming back to him. That’s what he chooses to focus on.

The rest of the week though he waits in anticipation for your arrival. He thinks of you constantly, but unlike him as a boy, he doesn’t write these thoughts down on a paper. At least Aegon can’t steal his thoughts.

Aemond though must confess he is anxious about seeing you. The last time he had, you’d embarrassed him and made him feel worthless. But now, he is no longer that scared little boy who you tormented. Now, he is the Prince Regent of the seven kingdoms. And he has the power to take what he wants and do what he wants.

And what he wants is to take you. He has a plan on what he wants to do, and he thinks of it every day since that council meeting.

Aemond Targaryen wants to defile you and leave you with nothing. Perhaps he’ll even force you to be married to some old lord who’ll use you for a boy or two. Or send you to the citadel and make you become a septa. It all depends on how he feels at the moment he supposes.

Yet on that first day of the new week when he’s standing in the courtyard and seeing your golden carriage pull up, sick anticipation curls and builds in his gut like a fearsome storm.

“Little prince?” You say as you get out of the carriage, sending Aemonds inner storm into an all out raging war.

“That is Prince regent to you little lion.” He snaps, relishing in the way you frown at his words.

“Where is my uncle? In his letter he said it was of upmost importance and to come with haste to Kingslanding today.”

“Ah yes little lion I know of the letter he had delivered to you. I was the one who requested it to be sent. Let us go somewhere more private so we can discuss it.” Aemond purrs, walking forward so he can get his hand on your lower back and lead you into the keep.

You do not protest to his sudden demands, yet still he finds humour in your confusion still.

Aemond as he walks makes sure that servants and ladies alike see him leading you to a room with no chaperone. Or more specifically, see him leading you to a room with a bed.

“What is it you wish to tell me, my Prince regent?” You ask, emphasising the title just to tease him for sure.

“I wish to congratulate you my lady!” He smirks, watching your face further contort in confusion.

“Congratulate me? Congratulate me on what?”

“On your marriage my little lion of course.” Aemond finally reveals. He watches your face turn in its final form, and he’s delighted to know your fire has not been yet destroyed when fury takes over your entire body.

“Who?” You demand.

“It’s me.” Aemond simply says, watching with even further delight what that once dragonlike flame instantly vanish for cold hard horror.

“You?”

“Yes. And I shall take my wedding present now I think. I believe it is what I deserve for what you did to me all those years ago.” As he speaks, Aemond begins to slowly prowl towards you like a predator stalking its prey towards the bed.

“That was years ago!” You shout, looking at him in shock.

“And yet I never forgot what you said.” He simply says, pushing you backwards so with a yell you fall backwards on the bed and look at him with fear in your eyes.

Good, he thinks, you should be scared right now.

He wants to make the oh so proud Lannister she lion be reduced to a mere mewling kitten, and all by his hand alone.

“I suppose I must ask,” he begins, leaning forward and forcing your body to be pressed against his own. “Have you had anyone touch you? Just by looking at you I can think your maidenhead has been given to some poor impressionable lad thinking only with his cock.”

You stay silent initially, but he has ways of making you talk. Including but not limiting to him using his dagger that was strapped to his side to tear your dress from your body.

“Just a stable boy…” You finally confess, gasping as Aemond moves to firmly grip at your upper thighs with a growl on his own lips once he forces the delicate fabric away to reveal you to him.

“Tell me his name.” Aemond demands, his singular eye firm as he forces you to look at him. “I shall rip off his hands and his cock myself for dare touching what is rightfully mine to claim. For what was meant to be taken by me all those years ago.”

“Are you saying you’ve thought of me?” You attempt to tease, only realising your mistake when he answers with a serious tone.

“Of course. I have thought of this moment endlessly. The idea of me ruining you for all has always delighted me, just as much as the idea of actually fucking you does to me.”

And with that, whether you called for him to stop or keep going, he continued with his plan. He ravished you senseless committing the sound of your voice to memory. The guards outside he had posted in order to bear witness to your taking also most likely memorised them, but he’s comforted by the fact he’s going to kill them by the end of the week.

His mother yells at him later that day about how selfish he’s been and how much like Aegon he is being. But the thought comforts him when he thinks of what Aegon had and what he now possesses.

The crown. The people. The power.

He has it all and he’s able to throw it away at the drop of a hat.

From what Aemond has heard, after he had announced to the entire court he would not be marrying you due to your broken maidenhead, you were condemned back to casterly rock and are being prepared for a marriage to a lord from the stormlands named Riordan Rael.

Form what he has been told, Lord Rae is an elderly man long since due for a meeting with the stranger who has yet to father any children from his other past seven wives that have all tragically died young.

Aemond does not care for you anymore now that his revenge has been thoroughly completed. Even if he has had several letters in the last moon detailing the fact you had given birth nearly two months early to a babe with hair as pearly as the moon.

For the power is all his, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Not unless they want to be put to his sword and taste his Valyrian steel.

[agentrouka-blog]

Jon the future Father

An early hint that it's Jon and not Robb who is destined to carry on the line of House Stark is how GRRM chooses to portray them with children, especially their younger siblings.

It's Jon who advises Bran, gently guides Rickon, comforts and encourages Arya, who is shown jubilant when Bran wakes, who worries about his sisters. It's Jon who gave Bran a fish to take home, Jon who tells Tyrion to comfort Rickon with the promise of "all my things".

GRRM could have given Robb similar scenes to interlink with the way his younger siblings idealize him in his absence. But we get no such thing. He is overwhelmed with Rickon's distress, receives comfort from Bran rather than giving it, leaves Bran behind in the woods, is given zero interaction with his sisters and only mentions them to complain about Sansa's lettter, compassionlessly unable to comprehend her obvious situation. He'll go on to refuse to trade for them, remains focused on his role as Ned's avenging son, rather than as protector of his living family.

While Robb needs an "heir", it is Jon who is described to have dreamed of "children". It's not Robb who mirrors Jon in what he would name his sons, that was only ever Jeyne, the only one whose grief is shown over the lost opportunity. "He liked that, I think." She isn't even sure.

Robb is a warrior king, but GRRM utterly avoids showing him in a position that could be interpreted as fatherly. And he never gets to live long enough to become a father to the next generation of Starks. GRRM makes sure to emphasize that his enemies prevented it from ever happening. He remains the Young Wolf forever.

Jon, meanwhile, is shown in a paternal caring light in his very first appearance.

Jon likes children. He is good with children. He wants children. This matters because of the massive role parenting styles play in the books. Tywin's children are monsters because he made them that way. Ned's children are resilient because he and Catelyn raised them responsibly, lovingly, in spite of some failings.

Jon being emphasized to have the skillset to raise children well is a very important signal that he is fit to have a hand in the next generation of House Stark, that his presence and influence will be not just possible but vital. It's not his "blood and seed" that is required, it is his whole person.

[ladyempty]

Hello. About Yandere Rhaegar and Baratheon(Steffon'sdaughter).And at the banquet. The Starks (Brandon/Ned), Jaime are flirting with the reader. What would Rhaegar's reaction be?

"The cold freezes a dragon"

° | This is a yandere work and may contain triggering behavior. I'm not in favor of that in real life.| ° | pairing: Yan! Rhaegar Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader ° | !English is not my first language!|

The atmosphere was lively, bards and musicians entertained everyone present in the great hall with endless singing. Under the darkness of the night, the only source of light was the countless candles held by metal brackets and a large old chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Laughter and conversations mixed and echoed around the room, filling the large space with ease

The ladies, tired of dancing, were with other ladies, fanning themselves with colorful fans while whispering among themselves like little mice.

It was a great celebration filled with everyone's happiness and satisfaction. But Rhaegar had something else on his mind, determined to be victorious in the battle he has been fighting since a young age. The battle for his heart.

But the irritating Lannister, Jaime, heir to the proud lord Tywin Lannister also seemed determined to have the same achievement tonight. The boy with golden blond hair and emerald eyes who had never, in his entire existence, irritated Rhaegar more than at that moment.

The dragon prince's fingers closed against his cup, so tightly that his fingertips took on a whitish hue. The dark purple eyes, always so lackluster even when he was young, were fixed on the scene that was unfolding like torture before his eyes. The darkness of his pupils consuming the rich purple of his irises with dark intentions.

The Lannister's movements were bold, he twirled a thick platinum curl under his ring finger, admiring the color up close and softness against his skin. An act that seemed so gallant to others, but so despicable to Rhaegar. How dare he be so close? To insinuate yourself so blatantly? Any rational being in this room knew very well of the prince's obvious interest in his second cousin. Was Jaime blind or simply too stupid to see the obvious? The fact known to everyone?

The green poison of jealousy rose in his throat with every little exchange of words between them, threatening to boil over at any moment and force Rhaegar to commit acts he didn't want to do. Or he would like it more than he should.

And the fact that you didn't push him away only served to hurt him deeply. When you were married, would you continue to allow other men to advance? The sudden thought came to his mind and a deadly pain shot through his insides, a pain as fierce as if you were already his wife and had been unfaithful.

Well, that's enough. He thought furiously, standing up quickly as the young lion grew even bolder, lips hovering dangerously close to his as he whispered words that would make any other Lady blush.

Rhaegar's warm hand suddenly rested on his shoulder, making you jump in your seat at the sudden contact, turning your head to study him.

"Forgive me, but I simply have barely had time to talk to you since the beginning of the banquet, dear cousin." He smiled, a smile that never reached his eyes that were still fixed on Jaime. "I hope you don't mind me stealing from her for a moment." And forever and ever, he completed in his mind.

"How could I be so rude as to disturb a family moment, right?" The bold Lannister hummed, a feline, mocking smile on his lips as he rose from his seat to leave the table he was at, not before placing an infuriatingly long kiss on the back of Lady Baratheon's hand.

"I do not like him. I don't want you near him." Rhaegar growled, his tone always so calm that it perfectly hid his anger. "He's the kind of man no respectable Lady should have around." And you are respectable, aren't you my dear cousin?"

Rhaegar quickly stole Jaime's place at the table next to him, his hand cautiously clasped your, which was hidden between the folds of the skirt of your dress, a gentle but not loose grip, sharing the warmth of his hands to the woman.

"Are you cold? Perhaps the very low temperatures are not the most appropriate place for you." He smiled with a small lift at the corner of his lips. His eyes quickly migrated to the figure of Ned Stark standing in the corner of the hall talking to Robert. Rhaegar has already added the man to your list since the beginning of the night, when the hateful Stark boldly, out of character, stole all the dances with you that night.

"It's a good thing the dragon's blood runs through my veins, so I can keep you warm whenever I want. Forever.”

[slavicdelight]

The Last Embrace

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Lannister! OC

Summary: Lorelle, Tywin Lannister's youngest daughter, forms an unexpected alliance with Oberyn Martell after defeating him in a duel. Their love blossoms, but tragedy strikes when jealousy leads to everything falling apart.

Warnings: death, cursing, angst

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In the heart of the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister welcomed his youngest daughter into the world, a fierce and spirited girl named Lorelle. From the beginning, her fiery nature clashed with the traditional expectations of a lady born into such a prestigious family.

As Lorelle grew, her independent spirit grew with her, driving her further away from learning of noble etiquette. She abandoned needlework for the training yard, where she observed the art of swordsmanship. Tywin, torn between pride and concern, could only watch as her interest differed from other young noble ladies. Word of Lorelle's exceptional skill with sword spread through the Seven Kingdoms, reaching the ears of Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne. Although he despised the Lannisters for what happened to his beloved sister Elia, he was curious if the rumours were true.

The first encounter between the two was marked by a clash of swords, or in this case - a spear and a sword. Each duel became a battleground for dominance, a fierce dance where neither was willing to yield.Oberyn's disdain for the Westerlands and its houses fueled the fire of their rivalry. In his eyes Lorelle was not just an opponent but a symbol of everything he despised about the realm.

Despite their hatered for each other, they decided to combine forces to travel together through Essos.The tension between them kept both nobles balanced on the egde.Yet, amidst the clashes, moments of understanding and mutual respect began to emerge.It wasn't until a decisive duel where Lorelle emerged triumphant that Oberyn's disdain began to shift. As he lay defeated, he finally acknowledge her skill. The dislike eventually evolved into a strange alliance, a bond forged on the edge of blades and the heat of their conflicting personalities.

During their tumultuous journey, Lorelle and Oberyn faced numerous challenges, each encounter adding layers to their complex relationship.One day, as they were riding through Pentos, a group of men attacked them. They were strong and quick. It was obvious that they’ve been trained to steal and kill. Thankfully, Oberyn's quick thinking and combat finesse saved Lorelle from an ambush, blurring the lines between adversary and ally. The tension that once defined their interactions slowly transformed into something more.

When Oberyn knelt before her, proposing a marriage with sincerity in his eyes, the tension reached its zenith. Tywin, recognizing the potential for an alliance, reluctantly agreed to their union. Lorelle became the Princess of Dorne, thrust into a political landscape that mirrored the complexities of her relationship with Oberyn.Yet, tragedy struck their already fragile union.

Ellaria Sand, fueled by jealousy and resentment, plotted against Lorelle. In a venomous act of betrayal, she poisoned the Princess of Dorne. As Lorelle's life slipped away, Oberyn's grief transformed into a burning desire for revenge, reigniting the tension between them in a different, more profound way. In a fit of righteous fury, Oberyn confronted Ellaria. The clash was brutal, mirroring the intensity of his battles with Lorelle.

In the end, justice was served, but the cost was high. Oberyn stood still after delivering avenging the woman he loved, a shattered man, his heart torn between the love he discovered and the unresolved tension that lingered between him and the memory of Lorelle.

In the aftermath, the halls of Sunspear echoed with a haunting silence. Oberyn, having avenged Lorelle, found himself with conflicting emotions. The memory of their fierce clashes lingered, intertwined with the love he discovered and the unresolved tension that defined their relationship.

As Princess of Dorne, Lorelle's absence left a void in the court. The alliances formed through her marriage hung in delicate balance. Oberyn, once fueled by a desire for revenge, now faced the aftermath of his actions. The people of Dorne witnessed a Red Viper who had lost his venom, a man torn between the love he found and the ghosts of his tumultuous past. The court of Sunspear whispered of Lorelle's legacy – a fiery princess who defied conventions, a skilled swordswoman who left a mark on the pages of history. Yet, the tragedy that befell her cast a shadow over the realm, a stark reminder of the fragility of alliances and the cost of vengeance.

Oberyn, haunted by the memories of Lorelle, retreated into solitude. The tension that once fueled their clashes now manifested as an internal struggle within him. The flames of revenge had consumed him, and in their wake, he was left with the ashes of regret.In the quiet corridors of Sunspear, Oberyn's gaze lingered on the places where he and Lorelle had faced both adversaries and each other. The sword that once clashed with hers now rested, a silent witness to the battles fought and the love lost.As the years passed, Dorne found itself in a delicate dance of politics and intrigue.

The memory of Lorelle became both a symbol of defiance and a cautionary tale. Oberyn, a once vibrant force, moved through the shadows of the court, a man forever marked by the flames that burned between him and the Princess of Dorne. And so, the tale of Lorelle and Oberyn became a legend – a story of love, rivalry, and the high cost of vengeance that echoed through the corridors of Sunspear, leaving behind a legacy as enduring as the ancient stones of the castle.

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A/N: This is a shorter story, but I hope you'll enjoy it just like the other ones.

[alicentofficial]

re: my last post about jaime and alicent being parallels, i got an anon claiming they couldn't be similar because jaime as a man is privileged in ways alicent isn't since westeros is a patriarchy. this fact is correct! however! characters can have shared experiences, internal conflicts and dare i say, even themes, despite the fact that they are in different situations. let me explain why jaime and (show)alicent are similar characters.

rape/sa mentions below the cut

(1) okay so fundamentally jaime's thing is that he views himself as being sworn to so many conflicting ideals that he will never be able to uphold all of them. he is essentially in debt to so many people that anything he does will make him an oathbreaker. i think alicent views herself in a kind of similar way, only its through loyalty rather than oaths. hence that "i have endeavoured to serve both my house and my country etc" line because alicent basically FEELS like she has sworn conflicting oaths to everyone and everything around her - her father, her children, viserys, rhaenyra, the gods, the ideals of house targaryen, the abstract concept of what it means to be a "good woman" in society, and the list goes on, they don't call her Alicent "Where is Duty Where is Sacrifice" Hightower for nothing! both alicent and jaime see themselves trapped in moral paralysis because they are so concerned with what they are or should be loyal to, and as a result they are both constantly being eaten alive by guilt and self-loathing.

(2) both became deeply entrenched with the royal family at young ages whilst simultaneously living under their extremely ambitious hand of the king fathers. both fathers basically do not care who their children turn out to be and are only concerned with them as far as they can aid in his own ambitions. in jaime's case this was lessened by the fact that it was essentially divided between him and cersei, but tywin aggressively only gives a fuck about jaime as being the heir to casterly rock (hence his underlying insistence that jaime will do this despite the fact that he has sworn an eternal oath preventing it) - jaime does everything else to become tywin's lion-of-lannister golden boy but he will still never truly have tywin's love or affection or approval because tywin is incapable of that. otto basically pimped out his teenage daughter to viserys, and then after she spent 20+ years doing whatever he wanted he STILL doesn't respect about her, firstly because shes a woman, and secondly because he doesn't view her as a person, he views her as a political tool. and both of them are intensely loyal to said fathers and compulsively seek the approval which they know (on some level) is never coming.

(3) both of them have extremely complicated relationships with parenthood - alicent because her children are all products of her sexually abusive marriage, because she essentially grew up alongside them, and because they too are viewed as political tools more so than as people. as a result she's pretty emotionally cut off from them (struggling to connect with helaena, the unhealthy dynamic with aemond etc) meanwhile jaime can't ever openly acknowledge his children or act like a father to them and sees them as an extension of his relationship with cersei. alicent's feelings about aegon (and to a lesser extent aemond) are this weird dynamic where she loves him a lot and wants to protect him but is also aware that he's an abusive monster. in asos there's a jaime chapter after joffrey dies where he has this moment of awareness that joffrey is his firstborn son, and he kind of wonders if he should feel anything, but he can't bring himself to, basically because joffrey is also an abusive monster. he kind of awkwardly tried to bond with tommen at one point and seems vaguely fond of myrcella but can't really get himself to properly contemplate his feelings towards them either. for both of them parenthood is so wrapped up in all these other layers of pain and guilt that they struggle to have healthy, loving relationships with any of their kids.

(4) they both use copes - alicent with religion and jaime with dissociation - to essentially avoid engaging with their inner conflicts. jaime started dissociating to avoid having to deal with any of the injustices he saw around him i.e. listening to aerys raping rhaella and deciding he could absolve himself of his bystander guilt by "going away inside". meanwhile alicent uses religion as an outlet for her rage because when she throws herself fully into religion and convinces herself that she hates things because they're sacrilegious she doesn't have to confront her own trauma and anger. like a big part of why she hates rhaenyra's children is because they're physical manifestations of the freedoms rhaenyra has which alicent doesn't, but she's not emotionally equipped to deal with that, so the only option is to really really REALLY convinces herself that they're abominations cursed by the gods and thus she is justified in how she feels.

(5) okay here's where you have to hear me out. i think, narratively, jaime sees cersei's role towards him in a similar way to how alicent views criston. cersei and jaime's relationship is obviously built on the recurring themes of lannister exceptionalism and pseudo-incest within their house, but i also think jaime holds on to cersei as this symbol of pre-kingslayer him. she is his other half so when he knows that he's failed and become a terrible person, he can just hardcore project all his hopes of what he could have been onto her and see her as this paragon of beauty and love and nobility. and because of this he spends a lot of the series wilfully blind to the fact that their codependent relationship has turned them both into extremely violent and unstable people. to a certain extent alicent also projects a lot of her own childhood idealism onto both criston and rhaenyra - rhaenyra is literally her childhood girlfriend companion and i think because she's so emotionally stunted she's still obsessed with their relationship as like, the simplicity and tenderness of childhood before her marriage. hence why she seems so in denial about the fact that the war is about more than just their their relationship - but more so i think her relationship with criston is similar to that of jaime and cersei. (up until recently lol) i think she also saw criston as this white knight tragic courtly love figure because theyre BOTH still obsessed with the ideals of chivalry and knighthood and can reflect it back onto one another, whilst at the same time continuing to practice their own hypocrisy. she is basically (in a very jaime fashion) sticking her fingers in her ears to the fact that criston is deeply unstable and and punches people to death when he gets angry. both cersei and jaime's relationship and alicent and criston's relationship are essentially echo chambers that make them both worse while allowing them to view themselves and each other as idealised figures of the white knight and the noblewoman.

[15-lizards]

It fucks that there are so many characters that are an antithesis to one of The Seven while still embodying their traits and technically representing them. Cersei is the Mother in that she only has love for her own children, but no mercy or any sense of nurturing. Tywin represents the Father’s protection, his justice, but that justice is always unfair, and serves only him, not even his own children. I have a Rolodex of all the knights that warp the values of the Warrior. Jamie and Arthur have to break one vow to stay true to another. Sandor is vile and cruel and dishonorable, but still protective of the innocent. Tyrion does his best to mend the broken city and protect its people like the Smith would do, but is also actively destabilizing things and fucking shit up for his own personal gain. Margaery had managed to maintain being the idea of the Maiden while being married three times, and hiding her plotting under the guise of innocence and virtue. Bran is a young Crone, his wisdom and foresight forced upon him instead of being obtained naturally through age. And Arya is a wanderer with no identity, a killer who takes life at random. But unlike the Stranger, Arya is still Arya, no matter how she tries to hide herself. She is a scared girl with a bias, not killing unthinkingly but rather in order to enact her revenge and seek justice, the opposite of what Death would do. Anyways these kinds of foils absolutely fuck

[sassypossumm]

Answers

Who In their right mind would ever want to marry Tywin Lannister....

The tittering of the ladies around her had bled into a monotonous sort of scrabbled noise, as she ran her needle through the fabric on her embroidery hoop one more time. Why Margery insisted on dragging her to these sewing circles, she'd never understand. Slipping into the recesses of her mind, she turned to glance out the window.

How she'd love to be anywhere else besides this stuffy room. 

Tyrion was late for a meeting of the small council. In and of itself that fact wouldn't be terribly important. It wasn't as if his punctuality would have caused his father to look at him with any less disdain than he did on a daily basis. He shook his head and quickened his pace as he passed by the solar, currently spilling over with the eligible young hens of the Seven Kingdoms. 

"Oh, naturally Jaime Lannister." A feminine voice whispered with a giggle.

Tyrion paused and raised a brow. Taking several steps backwards, he leaned closer to the door curious as to the contents of this particular conversation. 

"And you, Lady Lorena?" 

"Oh, your own brother, my lady." Another higher pitched voice offered. Tyrion leaned against the wall and folded his arms. 

"And you, cousin?" Margery's eyes flit to her cousin and she sighed when she saw her looking longingly out the window. "Cousin!" Margery said more firmly, causing the woman to stiffen slightly before turning her head. 

"Yes, Margery? What is it?" She glanced around the circle and raised a brow at the conspiratorial looks many were giving each other, as if they'd traded secrets of a life-or-death magnitude. 

"I'm asking each lady," Margery shifted on her stool to better engage her cousin in conversation. "If they had the freedom to choose, of all the eligible men in Westeros, who would they take as husband." Her eyes danced mischievously. Her cousin looked unimpressed and hummed before returning to her embroidery. 

"That seems an exercise in futility, Margery." She said dryly, all the while never taking her eyes off of her needlework. 

Tyrion stifled a chuckle. The girl certainly had cheek. Something he appreciated in a woman. He sensed, however, that as reticent as this mysterious woman might be to answer her cousin's question, she'd likely cave under the hounding looks of those chattery hens. 

"Oh, come cousin. Everyone else has answered. Come now, you wouldn't want to spoil our fun, would you?" Margery coaxed softly, looking at her cousin encouragingly. She looked up at Margery skeptically for a moment before returning her attention back to her needlework. 

"Very well." She said simply. The very atmosphere seemed to be holding its breath waiting for her answer. Even Tyrion had to admit he was more than a little curious. No doubt she'd say Jaime or Loras as the other ladies had. "If given my choice, I'd wed a Lannister." 

Jaime. Tyrion thought to himself with a smirk. He raised a brow, amused at the image of all these noble women desperately chasing his brother, demanding his hand. 

"Come cousin, you can be specific. There are more than just one Lannister." Margery leaned forward on her stool and gave her cousin a knowing look. 

"Well, we can't very well all marry Jaime Lannister." One of the more garishly dressed ladies cut in swiftly. Keeping her eyes on her work, she refused to rise to that bate. 

"You may keep Jaime Lannister." The threaded needle ran through the material once more, distracting her attention. 

"That only leaves the imp and the father." The young lady scoffed. She hummed and cut off a thread to knot it. 

"Given my choice, I'd wed Tywin Lannister." The air seemed to freeze and shudder. Tyrion's eyebrows seemed determined to raise so far that they disappeared into his scalp.

"Tywin Lannister? He's practically old enough to be your father!" She merely shrugged and flipped over her needlework. 

"I believe I answered the question." Rising from the couch, she gathered her needlework and gave Margery a nod of her head. "If you'll excuse me, Margery. Ladies." She addressed the dumbstruck women, still reeling from her recent admission. No sooner had her skirts swished out of the solar, when the brood descended on Margery in a chattering, nosy huddle. 

Tyrion stayed pressed against the wall. He was dying to see what sort of woman would be so bold as to suggest that she wanted... well, his father. Her shoes made a quiet sound, and he was pulled from his revelry to see the backside of her as she began walking down the hallway. Sensing she was being watched, she turned to see Tyrion in the torch light. 

"Lord Tyrion?" She raised a brow and inched closer to him, tucking her needlework into her bag. Slowly Tyrion's eyes trailed up her form, studying her as if he were taking in her measure, which he was doing. She dressed well, but certainly not in a display of money as so many women seem fond of these days. 

"Lady Tyrell." He dipped his head. She responded in kind and glanced from him to the open door and back. 

"Were you spying on us, Lord Tyrion?" She blinked and affected a dethatched attitude. 

You two might be perfect for each other. He thought sarcastically to himself. 

"On the contrary, my lady, I merely passed by at an opportune moment and heard some rather... enlightening opinions." He looked up at her intently, curious as to what might be swirling around in that brain of hers. She merely smirked and met his eyes with unwavering certainty. 

She chuckled, a rusty sound. 

"Good day, Lord Tyrion." She turned to go. 

"Good day, Lady Tyrell." 

And with that, she rounded one of the corners in the halls. Standing for a moment longer, he was driven out of his thoughts by the sounds of the ladies gathering their things. Tyrion quickly hobbled down the other hall, hurrying to at least make an appearance at the meeting. Climbing the stairs to the Hand's Tower, he ran over Lady Tyrell's answer in his mind, and he still had no reasonable reason for why on earth such a woman would speak about his father with such a casual air. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and swung the doors open.

"Tyrion." His father's only word in his direction before he turned back to council discussions. Tyrion stared singularly at his father, taking every in every line on his face, curiosity still swirling around his mind. 

Why on earth would she want to marry Tywin Lannister?