#CERSEI LANNISTER: INTERACTIONS. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

catsteeth · 3 months ago

Text

She's My Collar

Sandor "The Hound" Clegane x Baratheon Princess

+:✿ Request ✿:+

Request: “This request is for sandor of course!! I am all for angsty, yearning sandor clegane!! My train of thought is all over the place but heres a list of something I hope you could include in the one shot: •hozier level yearning •unrequited love/want •perhaps stark!reader or baratheon!reader •fleeting interactions like something small but it sticks with sandor •“im not a religious man but ill follow her” kinda vibe if that makes any sense!!" CW: MDNI, ANGST, afab reader, alcohol consumption, unrequited love, yearning, misogyny, arranged marriage, violence, joffrey being joffrey, mention of death. A/N: He’s pathetic and I love it

Word Count: 5K

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The girl was born a Baratheon, born to Robert Baratheon during a previous marriage. Her mother, born to some wealthy house. But her memory would be lost in time after she died in childbirth. Robert did not speak of her. Cersei despised the mention of her name. So not much was known of her. Though she must’ve been pretty, as the girl born to Robert Baratheon was a girl of beauty. And soon after her mother’s death, Robert married Cersei Lannister.

Either due to jealousy or embarrassment Cersei would treat the girl with malice, and hostility. But unlike the King's eldest son, the girl was kind and good.

The boy was born to a man who wanted nothing more than for his sons to be knights of the Seven Kingdoms. His ambitions blinded him, allowing his eldest son Gregor to commit horrid acts. So long as the boy was a knight, none else mattered. The man's youngest son was kind. He was just a boy, no more than six years old.

The little boy dreamed of being a knight just as his father did. Dreamed on the good deeds he would do in the name of his king and the Seven Kingdoms. Though those dreams would be dashed and discarded once the boy's older brother showed him the cruelty the world is capable of. The cruelty he was capable of. The cruelty the world rewarded him for.

The boy grew into The Hound, Sandor Clegane the second most feared man in the Seven Kingdoms. The girl grew into a princess, one hated by her stepmother and eldest half brother. But loved by her father, her half siblings, the realm, and by a Hound.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

The Hound and the princess grew alongside one another most of his life. He could remember when he and she were much younger. The Lannisters and the Baratheons were traveling across the Stormlands. It was a hard journey, soon food became scarce. Naturally the scraps of whatever the royals did not eat were left to the guards and any other member of the traveling crew. But the princess would offer a young hound the meat from her plate every night. He always hesitated, but was too hungry to deny her charity. She never held her charitable act over him, never even mentioned it.

He was not one to appreciate beauty, nor was he one to indulge himself in fantasies of love. But the princess’s beauty was one that haunted Sandor. His whole life he looked at her as though she were the maiden herself. And the princess did not look upon the Hound with grotesque curiosity. Nor did she flaunt his presence to others in a manner of threatening them. No, the princess was kind towards him, kind when she did not have to be. He often found kindness a weakness in people, but in her kindness he found a comfort.

The girl was different from her father, different from her brother. She was kind, she was honest, and he would follow her as if she was a God.

He could also remember the first time she bestowed her favor onto him.

Sandor never feared the tourneys he fought in. He did not fear the joust, he did not fear the competitors. What he did not like was the tradition of asking a noble lady for her favor.

Sandor never liked this tradition. Never liked having to speak to noble ladies much less ask them to favor him. Not only was it ridiculous to him, the ladies often grimaced at his gesture. But at this tourney, and every tourney after it, he would pick the lady he wished to have picked each time before.

As he rode his intimidatingly large black ill tempered stallion around the tournament pit. He looked up at all the noble ladies above him, looking down at him. They all sneered at his gaze, wishing not to be picked. The noble men all snickered amongst one another. But there was one person who looked upon him with indifferent eyes. The Baratheon girl’s eyes were not filled with pity, disgust, nor anticipation for the violence he was about to insight for the high lord's entertainment. She simply watched him with her same kind eyes.

He did not think much of it, it came naturally to him as he stopped his horse in front of the royal family's seating. “I ask the favor of the Princess.” He said begrudgingly.

The princess rose from her seat with a smile. She grabbed a ring of florals and silk. The flowers were yellow and the silk ribbon was black, the colors of both her house and his. As she approached him, she smiled upon him and placed the favor upon his joust. “I wish you good fortune, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor, he did not know she knew his name. Her voice itself was gentle and hushed, only for him to hear. Her smile was gentle and warm, one that he would have killed to see each night. One that he won the tourney for.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Once, Joffrey had decided that a servant boy had shot him a momentary disrespectful glance. If he had, it would not have been unwarranted, though who is to say if he even did. Joffrey, sometimes bored, would pretend small disrespectful gestures were made against him. Allowing him to justify any horrid act he found amusement in subjecting any poor soul to.

“I am sorry, my prince! Please if you would give me another chance-” The servant boy pleaded on his hands and knees. His cheek red from the blow Ser Meryn had given him moments before.

Sandor never liked being Joffrey's sworn shield. Never liked that blonde cunt at all. Whenever he wanted to feel powerful, wanted to hurt someone weaker than him for no good reason, it bored and irritated him.

Though it hardly ever embarrassed him, until she stepped into that room.

“Brother stop this!” The Baratheon princess commanded with a look of disgust. Sandor, though he’d not laid a hand on the boy, swallowed hard and stood straighter at her sudden presence. He worried how she’d look at him now, would her kind eyes fade for him?

“Why should I?” Joffrey asked her back with a raised brow.

The girl, bravely scoffed and took a few steps closer to her younger ‘brother’, “Because I commanded you to.” She said with angry eyes, an expression Sandor rarely saw from her. She looked beautiful even when she was angry.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes at her, “Who are you to command anything of me?” he stifled a laugh which only enraged her more. And only enraged Sandor more.

She took another step closer to him. Her hand gently trailed along the extravagantly dressed wooden table. “Your elder sister, the Kings first born-”

“First born daughter.” Joffrey finished her words for her. “Daughter. You are not heir to anything. I’ll be king one day and you, a princess for a lifetime.” He said laughing as if he were amused by some great jest. “And as your king, I could have anything done to you that I like.” He walked closer to her, with a threatening gaze. “In fact, as heir to the throne, I could do anything I like. I could have Ser Meryn hold you down and-” And with that the girl's temper got the better of her. She grasped a glass goblet from the table she stood by, and threw it with great force at her brother’s feet. The goblet shattered into a hundred pieces. Bits of it flew and cut Joffrey’s right hand. And some other bits cut Sandor’s cheek, not deeply but enough to bleed. “You cannot do that!” His shrill voice cracked as he grasped hold of bleeding palm.

“Clearly I can.” The girl said with little emotion. It would have made Sandor laugh if he didn’t have to worry about the other royal guards. He worried that they would put their filthy hands on you, or would be foolish enough to draw their swords.

Though none would. The guards were shocked by the scene. This princess had never done so much as raised her voice, and now she was assaulting their future kind. They had to think of defending one of the King’s children from the other. They stood, unsure of how to act.

Furiously Joffrey shouted, “I’ll tell my mother!” Knowing his father would do nothing but ridicule him.

The princess raised her hand, and slapped the boy across the cheek, “Tell her I did that as well.” She added.

Her slap was enough to leave a red imprint across the boy's face.

In a fit of anger, the young prince grabbed hold of his sword. Prepared to draw its blade and point it at the princess. Just before Sandor could grab the prince, a different Kingsgaurd stepped between the two royals. “Stop this!” the man commanded. Joffrey let go of the sword's hilt and the girl began to walk away, ready to face whatever punishment her step mother desired.

With her back turned, and the guards' attentions divided. Joffrey ceased his moment, and drew the thin blade of his sword and readied himself to strike the princess.

“Boy!” The princess turned back as the Hound’s loud voice boomed out through the dining hall. She was stunned by the sight before her. The prince’s attack was stopped by the Hound ceasing the blade with his bare hand. Blood from his hand trickled down the blade of the sword.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Soon the two royal children were brought before their father the King.

“How the fuck did any of this happen? You are meant to protect my blood!” King Robert questioned the KingsGuard furiously.

“Never had to protect a princess from a prince.” Ser Meryn attempted to explain, “Or a prince from a princess.” He said in a lower tone that angered Joffrey.

“Shut up!” King Robert angrily shouted, sick of hearing whatever excuse they had. He sat back in his chair, and huffed loudly. He looked between his two children. “Well done, my girl.” He said in a gruff low tone.

Joffrey looked surprised his father would congratulate her on striking her brother. “But look what she-“ Joffrey began, holding up his cut palm.

Though Robert interrupted him, “How could you ever be a king if you cannot win a fight against a woman?”

“Father!” Joffrey’s shrill voice shouted,

“Leave!” Robert shouted back. With an infuriated huff, Joffrey left accompanied with two guards by his side. Though Sandor stayed in the room. “Girl, come ‘ere.” Robert commanded much softer to his daughter, waving his hand, beckoning her to come closer.

She did as her king commanded. Stepped closer to him with her head lowered. Robert stood before her, and held her chin up with his fingers. “You’re more of a man than your brother.” He said proudly. He meant it as a complement, it was a rare thing to receive as a child of Roberts. With a sigh he patted the girl on the back, “Go on then.” He said softly dismissing her.

She nodded and took her leave as her father requested.

As the girl left, Sandor turned to follow her out. Though the King’s voice beckoned out, stopping him in his steps. “Dog.” Sandor stopped, and turned towards the King, “If that yellow haired shit lays a hand on my girl you beat him.” The King commanded. Sandor needed no other instruction. He was quite content to do so. “Understood?” The King pressed.

Sandor nodded, “Aye.”

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As the Hound walked down the Halls of the keep, he saw the princess walking in the opposite direction. He tried to keep his eyes ahead, not looking at her at all.

Though his illusion of disinterest did not deter the girl, “I beg pardon, ser.” Her serene voice called out gently. It felt like a cool breeze on a hot day, a relief.

Sandor looked up at her, hoping she was not speaking to him. If she was, he knew whatever words she spoke to him would haunt his thoughts. As he looked at her, he knew she was speaking to him. He swallowed and then croaked out, “I’m no ser.”

The Baratheon princess shook her head, “No. You are more true than any knight.” He knew her words would haunt him, but now they would torture him. The girl stepped forward, making him almost flinch, “All the knights in that room were content to let my brother kill me. What you did today-“

The girl began but the Hound interrupted her, knowing if she thanked him, his stomach might turn. “It’s my duty to protect you.” He grumbled, attempting to not look the girl in the eyes. Her beautiful eyes.

“I’d call it brave.” She chimed, making him stop and turn to face her once again. He was about to tell her it was not brave but she continued, “But I know you’d not. You are a hard man with many scars. You needn’t courage, nor praise. But I thank you for what you've done.”

Fuck.

He was never thanked for doing his duty. Never thanked for anything. He was commanded and he did as he was told.

Her eyes wandered over the Hound’s face. It made him feel weak, for the first time in a very long time. “I am sorry-” She said, her voice sickeningly sweet. Sandor looked at her with confusion, “Are you hurt?” She asked as she reached her hand towards the cut on his cheek. Her sudden movement made him flinch.

“No.” He rasped quickly.

The girl however was scared of the Hound. She continued forward and placed a hand on the Hounds shoulder. Even though her hand was separated from his skin by his thick armor, he still felt a chill run over his body. “Oh but you are-” She began, concerned for him. A feeling that was new for him.

“It’s a scratch.” Sandor interrupted the girl.

She shook her head, “Still, I caused it.” The girl reached into the neckline of her gown, making Sandor almost blush. Such a strange thing, a man who had seen every part of a woman, and every sexual act no matter how deviant in almost every brothel in KingsLanding would blush at such a thing. She pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with her name, “Take this.” She said holding it out to him.

He could not take it. He could not, no matter how badly he wanted to. “Don’t need it-”

“I command you to take it, as your princess.” The girl said without hesitation. Reluctantly Sandor grabbed the cloth, “I am sorry.” She said once more before continuing on and walking past Sandor.

She did not know that he would worship that cloth. Keep it in his armor, and keep it in his rooms when he slept.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

When Robert mixed drinking and hunting too often, a boar attacked him. Leaving him so injured he was on a deathbed.

The princess visited her father each day, morning, noon, and night. And when he died, she stayed confined to her chambers. Her only company she’d allow was her Septa. Though the girl was grown enough to be without a Septa, hers was closer to a mother. Since the girl never had one, her septa was there for all her girlhood. So she insisted on keeping around.

Sandor often checked on the girl, though of course she was not wise to this.

He would open her door, just a crack. He would listen in just to be sure she was alright. One day when he decided to open her door he heard her and her Septa speaking plainly.

“Do you think the boar was the Gods doing?” The girl asked as she stared out her window with a stoic and dazed expression.

“Hm?” Her septa responded, looking up from the needlepoint she mindlessly toyed at.

The girl did not look at her septa. Simply continued to stare out her window into nothingness. She paused for a moment, not speaking, “I’d a dream the Stranger came to those woods. He changed into a boar and killed my father for his deviance.” She spoke of such morbid dreams with no emotion attached to it at all.

“How awful.” Her septa gasped, throwing her needle point down onto the table in front of her. “No dear girl I don’t think it was.” She said more gently, “You dream too much.”

The girl shrugged, still not looking at the old woman. “I suppose I’m trying to find the Gods in everything I do.”

“Prayer is best for that. Not such morbid dreams.” The old Septa said, picking her needle point back up.

The girl did not respond for a moment, still simply staring out into nothing. “Do you think they’re real?” She asked softly and without shame. “Do you truly believe it? Never did you doubt it?” She asked, finally looking at the Old Septa.

“They are real.” She asserted sternly, “You believe they aren’t?”

The girl sighed, not wanting for a lecture, “I know the Gods are a necessity for people. Like food, water. I know they must exist. But I also know they don’t.” She said calmly. Her words stuck with Sandor like a knife driven into his back.

“What a terrible thing to say.” Her septa said shocked.

“Is it?” The girl's eyes narrowed in confusion, “It’s just my thoughts.”

The septa shook her head looking back to her needle point. “You think too much, dear girl.”

The girl sighed and went back to looking out her window, “Seems I do too much and not enough.”

Without many words at all, this lonely girl would consume Sandor’s every thought. She was smart and kind. Two things Sandor did not think of himself.

He did not believe in the Gods, because if there were Gods, why did they punish this girl? Perhaps she was his punishment. Perhaps he was hers. Perhaps it was the world that was their punishment.

This girl should be queen. She’d be a good one, a better one then her cunt brother. She’d be loved by the small folk and no doubt able to keep some kind of peace, even with the war. She’d not let her pride keep the seventh kingdom. If they wanted independence they’d have it. Clearly they could fight well enough on their own. But she was not queen. But she was his.

How her hair laid against the delicate fabric of her pillow. She was all too precious for his affections. He couldn’t help it really, he felt drawn towards her. Felt a stronger pull towards her than he felt towards anything, even food or water. But he’d never subject her to his presence.

He simply needed to see her, needed to know she was safe.

She slept sweetly, her breathing though loud was the calmest noise he’d heard. It was like the sounds of waves meeting the sands.

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes he would fantasize about what it would feel like to sleep beside her. For her to invite him into her bed. To sleep in his arms. He’d feel her heartbeat against his own. He’d smell her scent, and feel her chest rise and fall with each breath. He never slept well, but he believed if she was in his arms, perhaps he could.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As time went by, the royal family debated what to do with the girl. She was not a Baratheon Lannister, she was the reminder of Robert's first marriage, a reminder that Joffrey was not the true king.

Sandor stood guard by the small council’s chamber door as he heard the girl’s step mother Cersei say, “She’s as wild as the boar that killed her father. No man would want her, she is too difficult. So give her to the Tyrell’s, a poisoned gift.”

Overcome with a myriad of emotions, anger, sadness, and grief, Sandor rushed to the girl's chambers.

Sandor stood behind her door. His hand firmly grasped the door handle, and his forehead rested against the wood of the door.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity.

He wanted to open the door, ask- no beg you to run away with him. He wanted to tell you all the things he felt for you. Wanted to protect you.

But he was a second son, a kingsguard, he had no land, and no money. He had nothing to offer you, he didn’t even have a handsome face to bargain with.

And so, he let the handle of the door go, and he walked down the hall. He considered it mercy.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Instead of subjecting that poor girl to his company he decided to subject tavern dwellers to him instead. That night, as her marriage was announced, Sandor sank into his cups.

Though even there he was not protected from talks of her betroval.

Beside Sandor at another table were four men,

“Say what you will, I think it’s a perfect match! Loras Tyrell loves a Baratheon!” Some oaf shouted as he slammed his cup onto the table laughing.

“Aye but she’s missin’ a cock now isn’t she!” A shorter guard shouted out.

Sandor wanted to break the fool's jaws for speaking of her situation with such amusement. “Too bad for Loras, and too bad for all the other men in the realm!” A bald guard added,

The shorter guard raised his cup, “Hear hear. I’ll miss seeing that girl… Miss seeing her bend over to pick flowers.”

The bald guard nodded in a facade of sadness, “Aye that ass will be missed-”

“No, her pair of tits will be missed!” The fatter guard spoke up.

“Nay her cunt! Ah and what a waste she’ll be giving it to a boy whore.” One of the men said, it was enough for Sandor to slam his cup onto the table in anger. He was trying with all his might to hold onto his restraint.

Though this did not go unnoticed by the men at the table. The oafish one spoke up again, “What of you Clegane?” He said getting closer to the Hound, “You guard that sweet stag so loyally. Surely you’ve thought of what her cunt tastes like-”

Without another thought, Sandor took the man by the back of his head and slammed it into the table. His nose broke and his teeth cracked. Sandor took his dagger out and stabbed it through the man's hand. His blade took one of the man’s fingers.

Sandor stood, taking his drink with him, “You speak to me like that again, I’ll take more than a finger.” He warned as he left the tavern in a huff.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

Against his better judgment, that night Sandor checked in on that girl.

She was with her Septa again. He hoped that she were alone, if she were perhaps in his drunken state he’d have actually begged her to run off with him.

“My father would never have allowed this.” The girl said with a scared and sorrowful waiver of her voice, “Though I suppose it will be a relief to be gone from this place.” She sniffled, “I just don’t want to be forgotten.”

“You’ll not be forgotten, dear girl.” Her Septa said petting her hair.

“I suppose if I were to marry anyone in this city it would be him.” She shrugged, “But, I am unsure of how I could please him. You know of his nature. Know of his relationship with my uncle. I care not for any moral righteousness and I hold no judgment of it. But how could I ever make him happy?” She asked desperately, frightened by the prospects of her future.

Her Septa grasped the girl by her shoulders tightly, “You will make him happy by giving his children royal blood.”

“And how can I even do that?” The girl put her face into her hands,

“You are familiar with the act, I have explained it-”

The girl interrupted, “I won’t want it.”

Her Septa sighed, “A dreadful duty for some wives. Just lay there. Look at the ceiling and memorize the pattern of the trim. Count the seconds. Anything to let your mind wander away from your body.” She tried her best to comfort the girl, but clearly was doing nothing to help the girl’s fear.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As Sandor took leave of his duties. He threw off his armor without caution, and nearly ripped his clothing off himself. He was angry, no, he was enraged.

This girl did not deserve this. She deserved none of the shit those blonde shits put her through. And the words of ‘advice’ given to her by her septa only enraged him more. She should have told her to slip poison in his wine.

Sandor sat down on his bed in his small clothes with a huff. His weight made the bed creek and bow. He drank from a wineskin as he thought of it all. Soon his anger subsided, replaced with a defeated sorrow.

Naught could be done for her. This much he knew for certain.

So, after his wineskin ran dry he laid down. Finally allowing his body to rest even though his mind could not.

As he laid there, stripped of his armor and steel. As his sensitive skin laid against the rough material of his bedding he was reminded once more that he, and his body were punished. Punished by both too much, and not enough.

Too much combat, too much drinking, too many tourneys, too many cuts and bruises. So much he endured, and his body was punished for it. He ached and felt pains all over his body all the time. His scars were sensitive and hurt in warm bath water.

But as he laid there he was again reminded how he had not enough. Not enough gentle touches, enough love and care. Though of course he’d never admit it to anyone. His body felt truly alone in his bed. He wished he could have felt her around him. He’d fucked before, that would not shock anyone. But he’d never made love to anyone. And Gods did he need to.

He thought of it often, kissing her. He’d do it gently. He’d be gentle with her. She deserved gentleness. He’d kiss her while he held her face in his palms. Kiss her neck, press his lips against her skin and lick where she was most sensitive- wherever those spots were. Gods he wanted to know where they were.

He felt shameful for thinking this way, he really did. He was no better than those men in that tavern. But, he’d be good to her.

He’d make her his wife, in the eyes of The Seven. He’d build her a home. It wouldn’t be like the one she’d been brought up in. Not a castle, but a house made of stone and wood. He’d give her safety, love. And as his hand began to wonder his punished body he thought of how he’d give her children.

He wished to know how her body would feel in hands. How it would feel to have his hands caress her breasts, the curves of her body, the soft plumpness of her belly. He wondered how it would feel to be inside of her. How his cock would feel to slide in and out of her slick, warm, inviting cunt. He did not know, but he did know it would have felt oh so much better than his calassed hand that was wrapped around his length now.

Though his actions were vulgar and sexual, he did not think of it as that. He couldn’t think of her for long without feeling the need to have her. To be close to her. To please her. To hold her close and make her feel safe under his touch, to make her feel loved and desired with his body, his hands, and his mouth.

He thought of what her septa told her. That she’d have to lay down and take it. If she was with him she’d want it, she’d never be forced. Bedding would be a pleasure not a duty.

His groans loudened, and his breathing quickened as he thought of how she’d ask him for it. How gentle her touch would feel on his ruined skin.

Soon he was awoken from his day dream as the hot splash of his release jolted his mind back to reality.

He did not have her, and she for all he knew, did not want him.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

And so the Hound was left with nothing to do but sit and watch as the love of his life was preparing to leave his life forever.

He felt his heart breaking as he escorted the royals to the docks with the rest of the Kingsguard. He felt his eyes water as she began to step onto the dock, and approach the boat that would take her away from him.

Naught could be done for her.

So without a word the Hound offered the girl his hand. She took it, gently. He helped her into the boat. Her gaze fell onto him, and Gods it felt warm. He wanted to cut through them all. Wanted to take her off that boat and ride her away on Stranger. He’d do all the things he thought of the night before. Build her a home, keep her safe, and he’d love her. But they didn’t live in that world.

The princess would marry that Tyrell. She’d have his sons, whether she wanted it or not. And she would never know how much her dog loved her.

The Hound watched as the boat sailed away with the girl he had loved all his life.

It’s the world that’s awful.

Thank you so much for your request! It was so much fun to write!!

Requester: @rhinestonecowboysworld

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novaursa · 1 month ago

Text

Legacy (the judgment)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what was promised

- Next part: high heart

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The throne room was filled with an oppressive air, its gilded walls and high ceilings doing little to mask the dread that radiated from every corner. The Iron Throne loomed at the center, its jagged blades catching the low light, casting specters over the assembled crowd. Tywin sat upon the throne with his customary air of authority, his expression a mask of calm indifference as his sharp eyes surveyed the hall.

To his right, you sat in a high-backed chair, your posture regal despite the lingering discomfort of childbirth. The seat felt hauntingly familiar, the same place you once occupied during your father’s reign, though the room had changed. Gone were the dragon motifs and Targaryen heraldry—now replaced with the lion banners of House Lannister. Yet, the weight of the past lingered, a silent reminder of the cycles of power and loss.

To Tywin’s left sat Cersei, resplendent in a golden gown that mirrored her father’s austere demeanor but failed to hide the venom in her gaze. Her green eyes were fixed on the empty space where Tyrion would soon stand, her lips curling in disdain.

The other judges sat further below, Lord Mace Tyrell looking uncomfortable in his ceremonial robes, his ruddy face betraying his nervousness. Beside him, Prince Oberyn Martell leaned back in his chair, his expression one of casual amusement. His dark eyes flicked to you, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as if to say, How fitting that you’re back here, of all places.

You met his gaze briefly but offered no response, your attention shifting as the heavy doors of the throne room groaned open. A ripple of murmurs swept through the crowd as Jaime entered, his golden hand gleaming in the torchlight as he escorted Tyrion toward the throne.

The crowd fell silent as Jaime stopped before the throne, his green eyes flicking briefly to you. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in his movements, a subtle stiffness that betrayed his unease. Tyrion, by contrast, wore a mask of sardonic calm, his lips twitching with what might have been amusement as he glanced around the room.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister,” Tywin’s voice rang out, deep and commanding, silencing even the faintest whispers. “You stand accused of regicide, the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon. How do you plead?”

Tyrion raised his chin slightly, his sharp eyes meeting Tywin’s unflinchingly. “Not guilty,” he said, his voice clear and steady, though a flicker of defiance danced in his tone.

Cersei scoffed audibly, her hand tightening on the armrest of her chair. Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on Tyrion, his expression unmoving as he nodded to one of the attendants. “Proceed.”

The trial began with a parade of witnesses, each more damning than the last. Servants recounted Tyrion’s sharp words to Joffrey, the veiled threats that had peppered their interactions over the years. Cersei herself gave testimony, her voice thick with feigned grief as she painted her brother as a monster, a jealous schemer who had always resented Joffrey’s ascension.

You watched in silence, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Though your face betrayed nothing, your heart clenched as Tyrion sat through the onslaught, his expression growing darker with every word.

Oberyn leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his chair as he observed the proceedings. He caught your gaze again, his smirk returning, but this time there was something sharper in his eyes, as if he were silently assessing your thoughts.

When it was Jaime’s turn to testify, he hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering to Tyrion before he spoke. “My brother has always been… direct,” he said carefully, his tone measured. “But he is no murderer.”

Cersei’s scoff echoed through the hall, but Tywin silenced her with a single look.

The trial continued, the accusations piling higher, the weight of the evidence threatening to crush Tyrion beneath its sheer enormity. You shifted in your seat, your gaze drifting to Tywin. His face was as unreadable as ever, though you had spent enough time with him to sense the faint strain in his posture, the unspoken calculation behind his silence.

As yet another witness took the stand, you glanced at Tyrion. His head was slightly bowed, his hands clenched on the table before him. For all his bravado, that strain now was beginning to show.

The sinister athmosphere in the room grew thicker with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations pressing down on everyone present. And yet, through it all, a single thought echoed in your mind: This is a performance, carefully orchestrated, a game with stakes higher than anyone here realizes.

The sound of the witness’s voice droned on, but your focus remained on the players of this deadly game, each one a piece on the board, moving toward an end that none of them could fully foresee.

The memory was vivid, as if it had only just occurred. You had been in Tywin’s chambers, a place that had become strangely familiar to you in recent weeks. The hearth was ablaze, its warmth filling the room as you cradled your newborn son in your arms. Damon stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of your hair as you hummed softly, swaying gently to soothe him.

Tywin sat at his desk, his quill scratching against parchment as he worked tirelessly on matters of state. Scrolls and letters were piled neatly before him, his focus unshakable as always. The faint clinking of his signet ring against the inkpot punctuated the silence. Despite his formidable presence, there was a strange domesticity to the scene, a quiet rhythm that had developed between you.

But the peace of the moment was fleeting. You had been turning over your words for days, waiting for the right time. Finally, you spoke, your voice soft but steady.

“What will you do with Tyrion?”

Tywin didn’t look up immediately, the quill pausing only briefly before continuing its path across the parchment. “Tyrion will stand trial, as is proper.”

“And then?” you pressed, shifting Damon slightly as you sat on the edge of a chair near the hearth.

He set the quill down, his sharp green eyes meeting yours, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “Justice will be served.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers brushing over Damon’s soft hair. “Justice, or Cersei’s version of it? You know what she wants.”

“Cersei’s emotions are irrelevant,” Tywin said firmly, leaning back in his chair. “She may cry for blood, but she does not dictate the law.”

“Does she not?” you countered gently, though there was an edge to your tone. “She’s already laid the groundwork, turning the court and the people against Tyrion. And you’ve allowed it.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze locked onto yours.

“Tyrion is your son,” you continued, your voice softening. “You may not show it, but he is. And whether you care to admit it or not, he’s more like you than anyone else.”

Tywin scoffed faintly, though the reaction was muted. “Tyrion is a disappointment. He always has been.”

You shook your head, cradling Damon closer as you leaned forward slightly. “He is clever, resourceful, and determined. Just like you. You may not approve of how he uses those qualities, but they are the same ones you value in yourself.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded you.

“If you allow Cersei to destroy him,” you said quietly, “it will only weaken the family. Tyrion may not be the son you wanted, but he is the son you have. He has proven his loyalty to this house time and again, despite how you’ve treated him.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

You looked down at Damon, his small, peaceful face a stark contrast to the tension in the room. “You care deeply for legacy, Tywin. I know that better than anyone. But legacy is not just power and gold. It’s the people who carry your name. Tyrion is part of that legacy, whether you wish it or not.”

Tywin’s expression was inscrutable, his eyes flickering briefly to Damon before returning to you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured. “What would you have me do?”

“Ensure the trial is fair,” you replied without hesitation. “Keep Cersei’s emotions from poisoning the outcome. And if he is found guilty—if there is truly evidence to condemn him—don’t let it be her hands that carry out the punishment.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his stern features. Finally, he leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. “You presume much, Y/N.”

“Perhaps,” you admitted, your tone unwavering. “But I speak because I know you value strength and reason above all else. Tyrion embodies both, even if you refuse to see it.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping briefly to the papers on his desk. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter, almost contemplative. “You are more forthright than most. It is… refreshing.”

You blinked at the unexpected compliment, but before you could respond, Damon stirred in your arms, drawing both your attention. Tywin’s eyes softened imperceptibly as he looked at the boy, and you seized the moment.

“For Damon’s sake,” you said gently, “keep this family intact. He deserves to grow up surrounded by strength, not destruction.”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you and Damon for a moment longer before he straightened, his mask of composure returning. “I will do what must be done.”

It wasn’t the answer you’d hoped for, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. You nodded, knowing you had planted a seed, even if Tywin would never openly acknowledge it. As the memory faded, your attention returned to the present trial. Tyrion stood before the court, defiant and alone, but you held onto the faint hope that your words had reached the man seated on the Iron Throne.

Witness after witness had been paraded before the court, each painting Tyrion in a darker light. You sat silently to Tywin’s right, your composure a carefully maintained mask, though inside, you felt a growing sense of unease.

Tyrion had held himself together remarkably well through most of the trial, responding to the accusations with biting sarcasm and cold wit. But now, as another name was called, you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor.

“Shae,” the court crier announced.

The air in the room seemed to freeze. Tyrion’s head snapped up, his mismatched eyes narrowing as Shae stepped forward. Your own heart sank as you recognized her, the woman Tyrion had once confided in, loved even. She was dressed plainly, her usual warmth replaced by an icy resolve as she avoided Tyrion’s gaze and walked to the stand.

You cast a quick glance at Cersei, seated on Tywin’s left. Her satisfaction was evident, a smug smile curling at the corners of her lips as she watched Shae take her place. It became painfully clear that Shae had been turned, manipulated into playing a role in this farce of a trial.

“What is she doing here?” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible. Tywin didn’t react, his gaze fixed on Shae as the questioning began.

“Shae,” the prosecutor began, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You served as a handmaiden to Lady Sansa Stark and were in close proximity to Lord Tyrion during his time as Hand of the King, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Shae replied, her voice trembling slightly, though whether it was from fear or anger, you couldn’t tell.

“And during that time,” the prosecutor continued, “did you observe any… troubling behavior from Lord Tyrion?”

Shae hesitated, her hands twisting in her lap. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice growing stronger. “He… he was cruel. He spoke of Joffrey with hatred. He said he wanted him dead.”

You felt Tyrion’s entire body stiffed from where you sat. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table before him, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter.

The prosecutor pressed on, his tone becoming more insidious. “And did Lord Tyrion ever discuss how he might carry out such a desire?”

Shae looked down, as though ashamed. “Yes. He told me… he told me he would strangle the boy. With his own hands.”

The words sent a ripple through the courtroom, gasps and murmurs filling the air. Tyrion’s face twisted with a mixture of rage and pain, his control slipping with every word.

You leaned forward slightly, your heart aching for him. It was clear to anyone who truly knew Tyrion that the accusations were absurd, but in this room, truth mattered little.

“Why are you doing this?” Tyrion’s voice cut through the noise, raw and trembling with fury. He stood slowly, his gaze locked on Shae. “Why are you lying?”

Shae flinched but didn’t look at him. “You broke my heart,” she said quietly, the tremor in her voice betraying her conflicted emotions. “I loved you, and you threw me away like I was nothing.”

Tyrion took a step forward, his voice rising. “I sent you away to protect you! To keep you safe from them!” He gestured to Cersei and Tywin, his voice dripping with contempt. “And now you stand here and spit their lies like a puppet.”

Shae’s gaze finally lifted, but it was filled with a mix of anger and shame. She opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s voice cut through the tension.

“Enough,” he commanded, his tone icy. “The witness will step down.”

Shae hesitated, her lips trembling as though she wanted to say more, but she obeyed, retreating from the stand. As she passed Tyrion, she avoided his gaze, her steps quick and unsteady.

Tyrion turned to the court, his eyes blazing with fury. “Is this what passes for justice?” he spat, his voice echoing through the hall. “A parade of lies and manipulations, all to satisfy Cersei’s thirst for vengeance?”

“Mind your tongue,” Tywin said coldly, his gaze hard.

Tyrion laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and mirthless. “Why? So you can pretend this is fair? So you can continue this charade as if the outcome hasn’t already been decided?”

The dread in the room was set ablaze, the air crackling with the weight of his words. Tyrion stepped forward, addressing the gathered lords and ladies. “I did not kill Joffrey, but I wish I had. Watching him die gave me more satisfaction than I’ve felt in years.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd, and even you couldn’t suppress the flicker of shock that crossed your face.

“I wish I was the monster you think I am,” Tyrion continued, his voice rising, his anger boiling over. “If only to tear this family apart the way it’s torn me apart.”

You could feel Tywin’s gaze shift toward you briefly, though you kept your eyes on Tyrion, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I demand a trial by combat,” Tyrion declared, his voice ringing out like a bell, silencing the murmurs in the crowd.

The room fell into stunned silence. Even Tywin’s composed mask slipped for a fraction of a second before he regained control. Cersei’s face twisted in fury, her hands clenching the armrests of her chair.

You exhaled slowly, the weight of Tyrion’s words settling heavily in the room. The game had just changed, and the stakes had risen higher than ever.

The cold stone walls of the dungeons were damp, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the halls. Jaime Lannister made his way down the dimly lit corridor, his expression was a mix of frustration and concern, his strides purposeful as he approached Tyrion’s cell.

Tyrion sat on the small bench inside, his head leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. When Jaime’s footsteps stopped just outside the bars, Tyrion opened one eye, his lips curling into a wry smile.

“Well, well,” Tyrion drawled, sitting up and gesturing grandly. “The Kingslayer graces me with his presence. To what do I owe the honor?”

Jaime sighed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing, Tyrion? You had a way out, and you threw it away.”

Tyrion chuckled humorlessly. “Ah, yes, the way out where I grovel before our dear father, admit to crimes I didn’t commit, and let him send me to the Wall to freeze my arse off for the rest of my days. Tempting.”

Jaime gripped the bars tightly, his expression hard. “It was better than this! You think I don’t know what Cersei is planning? She’ll name the Mountain as her champion, Tyrion. Do you really think you can win against him?”

Tyrion shrugged nonchalantly, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “I’m not dead yet, am I? And who knows? Perhaps the gods will favor me.”

“The gods?” Jaime’s voice rose, incredulous. “You’ve never put stock in the gods, Tyrion, so don’t start now. This isn’t a game anymore.”

Tyrion leaned forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, it’s always been a game, Jaime. You’re just upset because I’ve decided to play by my own rules.”

Jaime slammed his golden hand against the bars, the sound ringing out in the still air. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Father was going to spare you. He wouldn’t let you die. All you had to do was plead guilty, and he would have sent you to the Wall. But now…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Now, you’ve spat on his mercy, and you’ve undermined all the efforts made to protect you.”

Tyrion’s smirk faltered slightly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Efforts? What efforts?”

Jaime leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Our stepmother—Lady Y/N—has been working tirelessly to sway him in your favor. She’s risked more than you know to ensure you had a chance. She even convinced him to temper Cersei’s influence over the trial.”

Tyrion froze, his gaze sharpening. “And you think that would have worked? You think she, of all people, could change Tywin Lannister’s mind?”

“She already has,” Jaime shot back, his tone firm. “Father listens to her more than you realize. More than he listens to anyone.”

Tyrion blinked, genuinely taken aback by the revelation. “I suppose the dragon has tamed the lion after all,” he muttered, half to himself.

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “And now, with this stunt, you’ve disregarded all of it. You’ve thrown her efforts—and any chance of clemency—away. Cersei will use this trial by combat to destroy you. She’s already chosen the Mountain. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Tyrion’s expression darkened, and he let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know exactly what it means. Cersei’s idea of justice is ensuring my head is mounted on a spike. She’s wanted me dead since the day I was born.”

“And now you’ve handed her the perfect excuse,” Jaime said, his voice heavy with frustration. “Why, Tyrion? Why do this to yourself?”

Tyrion’s gaze hardened, his voice low but laced with venom. “Because I’m tired of being her scapegoat. I’m tired of being the monster everyone blames for their misery. If I’m to die, Jaime, I’ll die fighting. Not crawling to our father for scraps of mercy.”

Jaime shook his head, his frustration palpable. “This isn’t bravery, Tyrion. It’s foolishness.”

“Call it what you will,” Tyrion replied, his tone defiant. “But at least I’ll die on my terms.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching heavy between them. Finally, Jaime straightened, his expression grim. “If this is truly what you want, then so be it. But don’t think for a moment that you’re the only one paying the price for your pride.”

With that, Jaime turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Tyrion watched him go, his smirk fading as he leaned back against the wall, his thoughts a tumult of defiance and regret.

The warm midday sun streamed into the garden, the air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers. You sat on a stone bench beneath a canopy of vines, cradling a cup of water in your hands as you gazed out over the vibrant greenery. Despite the serenity of your surroundings, your thoughts were troubled. The trial had left an unsettling tension in its wake, and your concerns for Tyrion weighed heavily on your mind.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, and you turned to see Prince Oberyn Martell approaching, his movements as graceful as ever. Dressed in his signature Dornish attire, the colors of House Martell proudly displayed, he carried an air of effortless confidence. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he gave you a slow, exaggerated bow.

“My lady,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Or should I say, my queen in all but name? How lovely to find you among the roses.”

You managed a faint smile, though your unease lingered. “Prince Oberyn,” you greeted him, gesturing for him to sit beside you. “What brings you to my quiet corner of the world?”

He sank onto the bench with the ease of a panther, his gaze fixed on you. “I wanted to see how the most intriguing member of this… lion’s den is faring after yesterday’s entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You speak as if it were a play, not a trial.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the bench. “Was it not both? The intrigue, the betrayals, the grand declarations. It had all the makings of a fine Dornish tragedy.”

You sighed, your fingers tightening around the cup in your hands. “It was no tragedy for you, Oberyn. But for others…”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head, studying you. “You’re worried for the Imp,” he said, his tone more serious.

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the cup. “Tyrion is… not without his faults, but he doesn’t deserve this. Cersei’s hatred for him is blinding, and my husband—” You hesitated, then sighed. “Tywin will allow this charade to continue if it suits his plans.”

Oberyn’s lips curled into a sly smile. “And yet, you sit here, torn between loyalty to your husband and concern for your stepchild. You are a fascinating woman, Y/N.”

You gave him a sharp look. “This is no game, Oberyn. Tyrion’s life is at stake.”

He nodded slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. “You are right, of course. It is no game. But perhaps you’ll find solace in knowing that the Imp’s fate may not be as grim as it seems.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I will be Tyrion’s champion.”

The words hung in the air between you, their weight sinking into your chest. You stared at him, a mix of surprise and apprehension crossing your face. “You would do that?” you asked quietly. “Why?”

He tilted his head, his smile returning, though it was tinged with something darker. “You know why, Y/N. Elia. My sister, murdered by Gregor Clegane under orders from your husband. Our nephew and niece, butchered. This is my chance to avenge them.”

You swallowed hard, the name Gregor Clegane sending a chill down your spine. “And you believe you can defeat him?”

Oberyn’s smile widened, his confidence radiating from him like the sun. “I know I can. The Mountain may be a brute, but he’s slow, clumsy. I’ve trained my whole life for this. I’ve dreamed of this moment.”

You hesitated, your concern growing. “And if you fail?”

“I won’t,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “But even if I did, what better way to honor my family than to die fighting for them?”

You shook your head, your hands trembling slightly as you set the cup down. “This isn’t just about you, Oberyn. If you fail, Tyrion dies as well. And I… I cannot bear to see another innocent life taken in this pit of vipers.”

Oberyn reached out, placing a warm, steady hand over yours. “You have a kind heart, Y/N,” he said softly. “But kindness alone will not save him. Justice will.”

You met his gaze, the intensity of his conviction almost overwhelming. “I hope you’re right, Oberyn. For Tyrion’s sake, and for yours.”

He smiled, squeezing your hand gently before releasing it. “You’ll see, Y/N. By the time this trial is over, the Mountain will fall, and justice will be served.”

With that, he rose gracefully from the bench, offering you a slight bow before turning to leave. You watched him go, your heart heavy with conflicting emotions. As you gazed down at the roses blooming around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the thorns were drawing closer.

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