#House Lannister

[novaursa]

Legacy (union of fire and gold)

- 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

- Note: Just a reminder how events of this story differ from the canon.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: homecoming

- Next part: by his design

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

The day dawned overcast, with a pale, muted light casting a gray hue over the city as the bells of the Sept of Baelor tolled, echoing throughout King’s Landing. The streets were lined with onlookers, commoners and courtiers alike, whispering in anticipation of the union about to take place. News had spread quickly, tales of the Targaryen princess returned to the capital and soon to be bound to the most powerful lord in Westeros. The marriage of a lion and a dragon—an alliance many had once thought impossible.

The Sept itself was adorned for the occasion, candles flickering in every alcove, their soft glow illuminating the vast marble hall. The high arches soared above, casting an almost ethereal light across the space as the silent sisters moved through the aisles, their white robes sweeping the floors in solemn reverence.

You stood in the antechamber, waiting for the ceremony to begin, your heart steady but your mind a storm of thoughts. The gown you wore had been chosen carefully, a testament to your heritage as well as a nod to the new life you were stepping into. The fabric was deep crimson, almost black in certain lights, shot through with threads of silver that shimmered faintly as you moved—a tribute to the colors of House Targaryen as well as House Lannister. The gown’s neckline was modest but elegant, dipping just enough to reveal a thin, intricate necklace of Valyrian steel, a rare piece that had been salvaged from the relics of your family. It rested cool against your skin, a silent reminder of the bloodline you carried.

The sleeves were long, fitted tightly down your arms before flaring at the wrists, each cuff embroidered with delicate silver dragons coiling around golden lions. The waist was cinched with a slender belt of red and gold, inlaid with small rubies that glinted like fire in the dim light. Your hair had been swept up, held in place by delicate silver pins shaped like dragon wings, with a few tendrils left to frame your face. You’d refused a veil; this was no ordinary marriage, and you would meet the eyes of every witness with your own head held high.

As the silent sisters moved to open the door for you, a figure approached—Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak a stark contrast to the richness of the ceremony’s decor. He regarded you with a warmth that softened the lines of his face, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Your family would have been proud to see you today,” he murmured quietly, his voice steady. “I know they would have been.”

You nodded, offering him a grateful smile, but said nothing. The memories of your family weighed heavily on you, but this day was one of duty, of survival. You took a steadying breath as the doors to the Sept opened, revealing the crowd of nobility that filled the pews. Each head turned, and whispers began to ripple through the hall as you entered.

Ahead, Tywin stood waiting at the altar, his posture as commanding as ever, dressed in rich red and gold that seemed to amplify the severe lines of his face. His expression was impassive, though his eyes met yours with a piercing intensity that was both reassuring and possessive. The High Septon stood beside him, adorned in robes of white and gold, his hands folded before him as he waited to perform the rites.

You moved forward with steady steps, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you, each step a deliberate, measured acceptance of the path you had chosen—or had been chosen for you. As you neared the altar, you caught a glimpse of Cersei in the front row, her expression a tightly controlled mask of resentment and bitterness. Beside her, Joffrey watched with a cruel smirk, his eyes glittering with an amusement that made your skin crawl. Sansa was seated a few places away, her eyes wide, filled with something close to awe and hope as she watched you.

The High Septon began the ceremony, his voice solemn and resonant, echoing through the hall as he recited the ancient vows. His words seemed to fade into the background as you faced Tywin, your eyes locked on his, each of you a picture of calm control amidst the ceremony’s grandeur.

“Do you, Lord Tywin Lannister, take Lady Y/N of House Targaryen as your lawful wife, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?” the High Septon intoned, his voice formal.

Tywin inclined his head, his voice strong and unyielding. “I do.”

The High Septon turned to you, his gaze solemn. “And do you, Lady Y/N of House Targaryen, take Lord Tywin Lannister as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?”

You swallowed, the weight of the vow settling over you as you answered, your voice steady. “I do.”

The High Septon lifted his hands in blessing, and the audience fell silent as he spoke the final rites, joining your hands together in a ceremonial binding. The feel of Tywin’s hand over yours was firm, unyielding, his grip a silent promise that left no room for uncertainty.

“With this union,” the High Septon proclaimed, “House Targaryen and House Lannister stand as one. May the Seven bless this bond, now and forever.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the ceremony concluded, and Tywin leaned in, placing a chaste but possessive kiss on your forehead—a public gesture of claim, a declaration to all present that you now belonged to him.

The bells of the Sept tolled once more as you and Tywin exited the altar, arm in arm, each step echoing through the hall as you faced the court together. The nobility stood, bowing as you passed, each of them aware of the significance of this marriage, the union of two great houses brought together by fire and ambition.

When you reached the doors, they opened to reveal the courtyard filled with onlookers, each one craning to catch sight of the newly wed couple. Tywin’s gaze was fixed forward, his grip on your arm as steady and unrelenting as his own sense of purpose. This was his victory, his triumph—and now, it was yours as well, even if it had come at the cost of your past.

The crowd cheered as you descended the steps, and the sound grew louder as you made your way toward the Great Hall, where a grand feast awaited. The tables were laden with the finest dishes King’s Landing could offer—roasted boar, honey-glazed fruits, thick stews and freshly baked bread, each dish arranged with meticulous care.

You took a seat at the high table beside Tywin, your gaze sweeping over the hall as you settled into your new place. The nobility began to fill the room, each one eager to partake in the feast, to toast to the union of fire and gold. The sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the hall, the air thick with the scent of wine and spices as the night began.

You kept your gaze steady, a quiet resolve in your expression as you prepared to face what lay ahead. This was your new reality, your new path. And as the feast began, you knew that whatever challenges awaited, you would meet them head-on, just as you had met the vows you’d taken that day.

The hall was alight with celebration, filled with the sound of laughter, clinking goblets, and lively music. Nobles from across the realm raised their glasses to toast your union with Tywin, each vying for favor, some more genuine than others.

At the high table, you sat beside Tywin, who remained as composed and impenetrable as ever. His gaze swept over the crowd, his mere presence commanding respect, if not fear, from those who dared approach.

Not long into the feast, you noticed a figure making his way over to the high table, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips: King Joffrey. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, and his green eyes held a glint of malice barely concealed behind a play of princely decorum. He stopped in front of you, giving an exaggerated bow that was more mockery than respect.

“Lady Y/N,” he drawled, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Or should I say, Lady Lannister? My, my… congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with a calm, steady expression, refusing to rise to his bait. “Thank you, Your Grace,” you replied, your voice polite but cool. “It is kind of you to offer your well wishes.”

Joffrey’s smirk widened, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Yes, I imagine it must feel… different, being back in King’s Landing after so long. Such a shame, really, that you had to spend all those years in the North. But then, not everyone can be so… fortunate as to live here in the capital.”

You held his gaze, letting a faint, knowing smile play at the corners of your lips. “Indeed, Your Grace,” you replied smoothly. “But I’ve found that those who endure hardship often come out stronger for it. And King’s Landing, as I recall, isn’t without its own�� challenges.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Joffrey’s face, and you saw his hand twitch as though he longed to wipe that smile from your lips. Before he could retort, Tywin’s voice cut through the tension, cold and commanding.

“Enough, Joffrey,” Tywin said, his tone laced with steel. “This is neither the time nor the place for your petty provocations. Show respect or be silent.”

Joffrey’s smirk faded, and he flushed with anger, but he dared not defy his grandsire. He cast a sharp look at Cersei, who was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, a mixture of irritation and helplessness on her face.

“Mother,” Joffrey snapped, turning on his heel. “It seems I am unwanted here.”

Cersei stood, a warning in her gaze as she took her son’s arm, steering him away. “Come, Joffrey,” she murmured, her tone firm but placating. “You have guests to attend to.”

As they left, Tywin’s gaze remained fixed ahead, a faint look of satisfaction in his eyes. “That boy would do well to remember his place,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Moments later, you noticed another familiar face approaching, and this time, your heart lifted with genuine joy. Sansa, dressed in a soft gown of light blue that brought out the gentle hue of her eyes, approached tentatively, her expression filled with a mixture of awe and warmth.

Rising from your seat, you extended a hand, and she took it gratefully, allowing you to pull her into a gentle hug. Tywin said nothing, merely casting a brief glance in her direction before returning his attention to the festivities.

“Sansa,” you murmured, your voice soft, filled with the affection of long-lost family. “It’s so good to see you.”

She pulled back, her gaze brimming with warmth. “And you, Lady Y/N… or should I say, Lady Lannister?” she teased lightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You offered a gentle smile. “I think for you, Sansa, ‘Y/N’ will do just fine.”

Guiding her a little farther down the hall, away from the prying ears and eyes, you found a quieter corner where you could speak more freely. Once you were sure no one would overhear, you turned to her, an apology already forming in your eyes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner,” you said softly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “I had hoped to speak with you before all of this began.”

She shook her head, her gaze filled with understanding. “I know… I understand. Everything has been so chaotic.”

A shadow crossed your face as you recalled the recent tragedies. “I heard about your father, Sansa,” you whispered, your voice laced with sympathy. “I am… so deeply sorry. Lord Stark was an honorable man.”

Sansa’s eyes welled up, and she quickly looked down, her voice barely a murmur. “Thank you. It’s… it’s been difficult.” She glanced up at you, a flicker of hope in her gaze. “But having you here… it’s like having a part of Winterfell again.”

You smiled gently, squeezing her hand. “Then perhaps I can be that, in some small way.” Leaning closer, your voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And Sansa… I saw Arya.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching as she gripped your arm. “Arya? She’s… she’s alive?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your gaze warm and reassuring. “I saw her, briefly. She was dressed as a boy, keeping herself hidden. But she’s alive, and she’s strong, just as you’d expect her to be.”

Tears gathered in Sansa’s eyes, and she stifled a small, choked laugh. “That sounds like Arya,” she murmured, her voice filled with a mixture of relief and longing. “Thank you… for telling me.”

You brushed a hand over her arm, giving her a look of quiet assurance. “She’s out there, Sansa. And she’s doing everything she can to survive. Just as you are.”

Sansa nodded, composing herself as best she could, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “Thank you, Lady Y/N. You don’t know how much this means.”

You shook your head. “You don’t need to thank me, Sansa. Just remember, I’m here for you.”

She gave a final, grateful nod, her gaze filled with gratitude as she glanced back toward the high table. The weight of everything unsaid lingered between you, but the connection you shared was unbreakable, stronger than any marriage or alliance. And as you both returned to your places, the sounds of the feast washing over you, you felt the quiet strength of family—a bond that would survive the walls of the Red Keep and beyond.

Returning to the high table, you slid back into your seat beside Tywin, feeling the weight of the hall settle back over you. The brief conversation with Sansa had brought a sense of warmth and familiarity—a small reminder of the bonds that had shaped you. But now, as you glanced at Tywin, that warmth turned to steel, a reminder of the duty you now carried.

Tywin watched you with that piercing gaze, a subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He gave a slight nod, as if approving of your composure. For a moment, he was silent, his attention seeming to linger on you a moment longer than usual.

“You handled yourself well,” he said, his tone low, barely carrying over the noise of the hall. “The nobility are already whispering of you. They’ll see you not as some relic of the past but as an ally to House Lannister.”

You met his gaze, reading between his words. His approval was visible, but there was something else—a faint softness beneath the iron, something almost akin to pride. His voice, though guarded, held a trace of something warmer, something almost close to affection.

"Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your own tone carry a subtle warmth. “I’m merely living up to the role I’ve been given. And, I must say, I find myself… intrigued by it.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, almost imperceptible but enough for you to notice. “Good,” he said, his gaze softening, just for a moment. “The strength to endure is as important as any alliance. I expected nothing less of you.”

The hint of pride in his voice surprised you, leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, loud and already tinged with the effects of a fair amount of wine.

“Ah, Father!” Tyrion’s voice carried a note of barely restrained amusement as he approached, goblet in hand. His eyes were sharp with mirth as he took in the sight of you and Tywin seated side by side. “I trust everything is precisely as you envisioned? After all, I took such great pains to ensure every detail met your exacting standards.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to Tyrion, a faint flicker of irritation flashing across his face, though he maintained his composure. “It will suffice, Tyrion. I see you managed not to make a mockery of the occasion.”

Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “High praise from you, Father. I shall cherish it.” He turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “And as for you, Lady Y/N, I do hope my arrangements have been satisfactory. It was quite the ordeal to bring King’s Landing up to par for a Targaryen-Lannister wedding. One can hardly imagine the stress.”

You matched his grin, letting a glint of amusement show in your eyes. “I daresay you succeeded, Lord Tyrion. The feast is exquisite, and I confess I’ve never seen a hall so thoroughly adorned with lions. Though I imagine it’s less about my comfort and more about making a statement.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly pleased with your wit. “Ah, perceptive as well. My, my, Father, it seems you’ve made an excellent match. A woman who sees the truth behind all the finery.” He raised an eyebrow, giving you an appreciative nod. “Quite a feat, Lady Y/N. I can only hope my efforts haven’t gone entirely unappreciated.”

You inclined your head, playing along with his jest. “On the contrary, Lord Tyrion. I’ve found your touch to be both charming and… pointed. King’s Landing certainly knows who reigns here.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted between the two of you, a glimmer of something like amusement, though he hid it well. “Perhaps, Tyrion, you’d fare better showing less charm in your wine and more restraint in your presence,” he said, his tone clipped but lacking its usual severity.

Tyrion merely chuckled, entirely undeterred. “Ah, but Father, what is a wedding without a bit of wine and wit?” He leaned in closer to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “After all, Lady Y/N, you’ll soon find that in this court, a sharp tongue can be a most valuable ally.”

You smiled, meeting his eyes. “A lesson I learned long ago, Lord Tyrion. Though I’ll admit, it’s refreshing to see it wielded so… skillfully.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly enjoying your exchange. “And here I thought I might have to work to keep you on your toes. It seems, Father, that Lady Y/N has a mind of her own.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though you could sense his approval as he studied you. “A mind put to use in furthering our family, I trust.”

Tyrion raised his glass once more, a gleam of amusement in his eyes as he looked between you and Tywin. “Indeed. A toast, then, to our union and to the surprises yet to come.” He grinned, bowing his head in your direction. “And to you, Lady Y/N. May you continue to be every bit as sharp as you’ve shown yourself to be tonight.”

With that, he gave a small, mocking bow and moved off, blending back into the crowd, his laughter carrying over the music as he raised his glass for another drink.

As you watched him go, Tywin’s gaze lingered on you, the hint of approval in his eyes once more. “You handle him well,” he remarked, his voice low. “Perhaps even better than I expected.”

You smiled, letting your gaze flicker toward him. “I’ve found that wit is a language, Lord Tywin. And I’ve learned to speak it well.” You paused, choosing your next words carefully. “I believe I’ll find my place here, as I have wherever fate has taken me.”

Tywin regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held a trace of something warmer, perhaps even respect. “Excellent,” he said, his tone softer, almost approving. “Then perhaps this is where you’re meant to be.”

You held his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you as the noise of the feast rose around you.

Tyrion moved through the bustling hall, goblet in hand and a lightness in his step that came only after a certain amount of wine. He spotted Jaime leaning against one of the pillars near the edge of the festivities, his face thoughtful as he observed the high table where you sat beside Tywin. Tyrion approached, raising his goblet in a silent greeting.

“Enjoying the spectacle, dear brother?” Tyrion asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he joined Jaime.

Jaime’s gaze didn’t waver from the table, his expression thoughtful, almost nostalgic. “I was just thinking,” he murmured, “about how strange it is to see her there. Lady Y/N… sitting beside Father, wearing Lannister colors.” He shook his head slightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I remember when she was a girl, wandering these halls. Back then, she moved through the Red Keep like she was born to it, like it was her domain.”

Tyrion took a long sip of his wine, studying his brother’s expression. “And now?”

Jaime chuckled softly, though there was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Now… she’s a guest in her own home. She’s not the same as she was, but she still carries herself with that Targaryen pride.” His gaze flicked to Tywin, then back to you. “It’s strange, seeing her beside him. Like fire and stone.”

Tyrion nodded, his gaze shifting thoughtfully as he watched the high table. “A strange match, to be sure,” he mused. “Though it seems they understand one another in a way that few could. A meeting of wills, perhaps.”

As they spoke, Ser Barristan Selmy approached, his white cloak trailing softly behind him. He inclined his head to both brothers, his gaze lingering on the high table with a look of quiet pride.

“Ser Barristan,” Jaime greeted, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Admiring the new Lady Lannister?”

Barristan nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile touching his lips. “I am,” he admitted, his voice carrying a rare warmth. “It’s a relief to see her alive and well. She was… always a light in these halls. Her family’s pride and spirit lived through her, and it’s heartening to see she survived.”

Tyrion tilted his head, intrigued. “You almost sound proud, Ser Barristan,” he remarked, his tone playful but curious.

Barristan’s gaze softened as he watched you, his expression almost paternal. “I am proud,” he replied quietly. “To see her here, despite everything. Princess Y/N survived when so many of her kin did not. But I can’t help but feel sadness too.” He sighed, a shadow passing over his face. “She’s separated from her family, from the brother she loved and the sister she never met. A Targaryen alone in a city that once belonged to her blood.”

Jaime’s gaze hardened slightly, his expression sharpening. “She’s no longer a princess, Ser Barristan,” he pointed out. “Lady Y/N is a Lannister now, by marriage.”

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, his voice steady as he replied. “Titles are given and taken by men, Ser Jaime. Blood, however, is eternal. She was born a princess, a Targaryen. No marriage can change that.” His gaze shifted to Jaime, a subtle challenge in his eyes. “Even now, sitting beside your father, she holds more claim to the Iron Throne than any in this hall combined.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange with interest. “A bold statement, Ser Barristan,” he murmured, swirling the wine in his goblet. “One that I suspect would be poorly received by certain parties in this room.”

Barristan’s eyes held firm, unwavering. “The truth doesn’t change to suit the comfort of others,” he replied, his tone measured but resolute. “She is the last of her line, the daughter of a king. That is not something even Lord Tywin can strip from her.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking back to you as you sat beside Tywin, poised and composed, your Targaryen heritage evident even in your Lannister colors. “Perhaps not,” he conceded quietly, though his voice held an edge. “But claiming the throne and ruling are two different things. And she seems… content with her place.”

Barristan’s gaze softened as he looked at you. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she’s merely playing the game, biding her time. That’s what a true Targaryen would do. Endure and rise, against all odds.”

Tyrion chuckled, taking a long sip of his wine. “Well, I can certainly drink to that,” he said, raising his goblet in a small salute. “To fire, and to survival. Qualities, it seems, our new step-mother possesses in spades.”

Barristan inclined his head, his gaze lingering on you, admiration and loyalty etched into his expression. “She’s her family’s legacy, as much as she is her own,” he murmured. “And I, for one, am grateful that legacy endures, even in these halls.”

The lively atmosphere of the feast was beginning to settle as goblets emptied and platters were slowly cleared. Laughter and music filled the hall, though an underlying unease lingered in the air, an anticipation that rippled among the guests. As the night wore on, Joffrey rose from his seat, a sly, mischievous grin spreading across his face. He raised his goblet, calling for attention.

"Well, now that we've all had our fill of wine and merriment," he drawled, his voice carrying across the hall, "it's only fitting we send the bride and groom to bed, don't you think?" His smirk widened, and he gestured theatrically toward you and Tywin. "After all, what would a wedding be without a bedding ceremony?”

The hall fell into a hushed silence, a murmur rippling through the guests as they turned to look at you and Tywin. The flicker of amusement on some faces hinted at their eagerness to indulge in Joffrey’s suggestion, but Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed coldly on his grandson.

The young king leaned forward, his grin growing sharper, relishing the moment. "Come now, Grandsire. Surely you don’t mind allowing the court a bit of sport? I’m sure Lady Y/N would love to be escorted to her marital bed in true royal fashion.”

You felt a flush rise in your cheeks, your stomach tightening as the weight of every gaze settled on you. But before you could respond, Tywin’s hand gripped yours firmly, grounding you, his touch unyielding.

With a single, cold glance, Tywin silenced the murmur in the room. "There will be no bedding ceremony tonight," he stated, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable authority that cut through the hall like a blade. “This is a matter of dignity, not sport. And I expect the court to respect that.”

Joffrey’s face twisted in irritation, his eyes narrowing. His pride had already been bruised earlier, and he was clearly in no mood to back down. “But it’s tradition,” he argued, a petulant edge creeping into his voice. “The people expect a show, a proper send-off. Surely, Grandsire, you wouldn’t deny them that?”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy, his grip on your hand never loosening as he rose from his seat, standing to his full height as he regarded Joffrey with a look of utter disdain. “Tradition,” he repeated, his tone laced with contempt. “Is not an excuse for vulgarity, Your Grace.”

Joffrey flushed, anger sparking in his eyes as he clenched his goblet tightly. “I am the king,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “And I think I’ll decide what is or isn’t vulgar.”

Before he could continue, Cersei rose quickly, placing a calming hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, her voice soft and soothing. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her tone placating, though there was an underlying edge of desperation. “Let us not ruin such a joyous occasion. Your grandsire only wishes to maintain the dignity of the court.”

Joffrey shook her hand off, his gaze fixed stubbornly on Tywin, his face red with frustration. “I am not a child to be chastised in my own hall,” he spat, glaring at Tywin. “You do not command here, Grandsire. I do.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, his gaze steady, cold, and unyielding. “Then act like a king, Joffrey,” he said, his voice low but filled with steel. “A true king commands respect, not indulgence.”

The hall fell into tense silence, every eye fixed on the standoff between Tywin and Joffrey. For a moment, it seemed as though Joffrey would argue further, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But under Tywin’s relentless gaze, his confidence faltered, his resolve wavering. He looked away, muttering under his breath as he took his seat again, his face twisted in humiliation.

Cersei exhaled quietly, her expression a mix of relief and simmering anger as she settled back into her seat beside her son, casting a sidelong glance at Tywin that spoke volumes.

Tywin’s attention returned to you, his hand still firmly gripping yours as he turned, addressing the guests in a final, dismissive tone. “The feast is over. The court may enjoy the remainder of the night as they see fit. Lady Y/N and I will retire.”

Without waiting for a response, he drew you to your feet, guiding you away from the high table. His grip was steady, possessive, a silent reminder that he had claimed you, that tonight, you would not be subjected to the mockery and spectacle Joffrey had intended.

As you left the hall, the noise of the feast faded behind you, replaced by the quiet footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the Red Keep. Tywin’s silence was as unyielding as ever, his gaze forward as he led you through the winding passages, his presence a wall of unbreakable resolve.

Finally, as you neared your chambers, he spoke, his voice calm, his tone laced with something you could almost mistake for gentleness. “This is your night, Lady Y/N,” he said, glancing down at you. “And no one—not even a king—will take that dignity from you.”

You met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude and perhaps even warmth in your expression as you nodded. “Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of his protection as much as his authority.

He didn’t respond, merely nodding as he continued forward, guiding you into the privacy of your chambers, where the rest of the night awaited you—without the eyes of the court, without the mockery of a bedding ceremony, and with only the silent understanding between you and the man who now, irrevocably, held your future in his hands.

As the heavy doors of your chambers closed behind you, the sounds of the feast, of laughter and music, faded away, leaving only silence in their place. The faint light of candles cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the rich tapestries and the faint gleam of polished silver in the dimness. You could hear the soft clicking of your jewelry as you began to remove the more intricate pieces, each one a reminder of the ceremony, of the role you had stepped into today.

Tywin moved to unfasten his cloak, his motions slow and deliberate. The silence between you grew, thick with unspoken words and expectations. He caught your gaze in the reflection of a nearby mirror, his expression impassive, though his eyes held a glint of steel.

“Do you know what is expected of you, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low but firm, carrying an authority that left no room for hesitation.

You met his gaze steadily, nodding as you removed a bracelet, feeling its weight slide from your wrist. “I do,” you replied, your voice calm, though there was a trace of quiet defiance there. “I am well aware of my duty, Tywin.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of approval mixed with his usual severity. “Good,” he replied. There was a beat of silence, and then, his tone became almost matter-of-fact, his words carefully chosen. “You understand, then, that I have no clear male heir for Casterly Rock. Jaime’s oath binds him to the Kingsguard, and I would sooner see Casterly Rock crumble than pass it to Tyrion.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “Yes,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “That particular… predicament has been common knowledge since my first time at court. The succession, or lack of it, has always been a concern, hasn’t it?”

A flicker of something crossed Tywin’s face, a momentary shift in his expression. He looked away, his hands pausing briefly on the golden clasp of his ceremonial cloak before continuing. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone taut, controlled. “It has.”

As you removed the last of your jewelry, a thought crossed your mind, one that lingered at the edge of this silent conversation. “Then why wait so long to address it?” you asked, your voice soft but curious. “Why didn’t you… find a solution sooner?”

For a moment, Tywin was silent, his back turned as he removed his cloak, laying it across a nearby chair with precise care. The question hung in the air, unanswered, but his silence spoke volumes. There was a slight stiffness in his stance, a subtle shift that hinted at something unspoken, something deeply personal, though he would not allow it to surface.

He turned back to face you, his gaze colder, more focused, as though he’d shut down any hint of whatever sentiment had momentarily slipped through. “This is not the time for speculation, Y/N,” he replied, his voice as unyielding as iron. “You have agreed to this union, and you know your role in it.”

With that, he moved to unfasten the buttons of his doublet, his movements precise, measured. His gaze lingered on you, a silent command as he spoke. “Undress yourself,” he said, his voice low, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his authority but also recognizing the power you still held. You began to undo the fastenings of your gown, your movements as calm and deliberate as his own, feeling the layers of fine fabric slide from your shoulders and pool at your feet. The air felt cooler against your skin, a reminder of the vulnerability and duty that now lay between you.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes as he continued to remove his own attire, his gaze unwavering as he observed you. There was a quiet intensity in his stance, as he guided you to the bed.

The cool night air of the room barely reaches you, as Tywin’s weight starts pressing you down into the silken sheets. His gaze is steady, his hands firm yet surprisingly gentle as he guides you beneath him. There’s a glint in his eyes—something raw, something primal. You’re all too aware of the closeness between you, of his warm breath as he hovers just above, taking in every detail of your face.

Tywin’s hand moves between you both, adjusting as he positions himself. You feel the pressure as he presses forward, the unfamiliar stretch drawing a sharp, stifled yelp from your throat. His expression doesn’t soften—no, Tywin Lannister isn’t the sort of man to show tenderness in moments like this. But his eyes close briefly, and a low, rumbling exhale escapes him, something between pleasure and satisfaction.

When he begins to move, his pace is deliberate, calculated. His breaths, warm and shallow, mingle with yours as his mouth hovers just near enough to feel the brush of his lips on yours without fully meeting. Each motion is purposeful, and he watches you, every flicker of discomfort and pleasure written across your face. His hand comes up, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close as his body presses deeper, filling you in a way that sends ripples of sensation down your spine.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel, both commanding and restrained. You meet his gaze, feeling yourself yielding under the weight of it. His thumb strokes along your cheek in a rare gesture of softness as his movements grow a fraction more urgent, his rhythm deepening.

The ache in your body slowly melts away, replaced by a growing, unfamiliar pleasure. Small sounds escape your lips, and you sense the change in him as he takes them in, each soft moan seemingly driving him further. His mouth hovers near your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, almost as if to himself, “You’re mine now, truly.”

Your hand rises instinctively, finding purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts to the rhythm he’s set. “You didn’t need to send me North for that, Tywin,” you manage between breaths, the faintest hint of defiance lacing your words.

A smirk tugs at his lips, a rare crack in his composed facade. “It was necessary,” he says, his voice steady even as his own breathing grows heavier. “Winterfell kept you safe… untouched, unspoiled, exactly as you should be.” His words settle over you, a possessive edge to them that sends a thrill down your spine. It sounded almost like a confession.

As the pace quickens, any response dissolves into breathless gasps, the friction of his movements drawing forth pleasure in waves. You arch against him, feeling the tightness between you, the way his hands press into your sides, urging you closer with each thrust. His hand slips down to your waist, securing you firmly as he drives forward, every part of him focused on drawing out every sound, every sigh.

The sensation builds, your body yielding to his with every motion, every glance, the sound of his breath mingling with your own until there’s nothing else—only this connection, this raw and unspoken understanding between you.

As he finally stills, the silence in the room settles around you both. His eyes are still on you, a lingering intensity in his gaze as he brushes a stray pale strand of hair from your face, his thumb resting briefly against your cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he repeats, quieter this time, as if sealing a promise with each word.

Tywin remains within you, his presence filling every space, grounding you beneath him. His weight and warmth press down, possessive, as he settles himself closer, his hands still resting on either side of you. His gaze sharpens, fixing on you with a commanding steadiness, yet there’s something more—a shadow of restrained intent.

“You understand, of course, that you’ll be expected here often,” he begins, his voice low, each word crisp and certain. “Until you are with child, my needs in the bedchamber will be met… regularly.”

You don’t flinch, don’t look away; instead, you meet his gaze with equal resolve. “I’ve told you already how I know my duty, Tywin,” you reply, a calm edge to your voice. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes—just the faintest flicker of acknowledgment, of approval. You continue, your voice soft but unwavering, “But I am more than that.”

A rare silence follows your words, and you watch as his jaw tenses, a flicker of something that almost resembles surprise crossing his features. His fingers brush down your arm, lingering, and for a moment, Tywin seems almost… caught, suspended in a gaze that feels somehow intimate, yet distant. His eyes search yours, calculating, introspective, as though weighing every word, every glance. There’s something in his expression—something unspoken, raw, and real—that betrays a hint of what he might not dare to say aloud. Perhaps he’d imagined this moment more times than he would admit, even to himself.

You feel his hand tighten gently at your hip, and his voice comes, low and rough, the barest hint of a softened edge. “More than that… perhaps.” He leans down, his mouth lingering just above yours, close enough to feel his breath. “But I am not a man who permits sentiment to cloud his purpose. You are here because you serve that purpose. You are mine, in name and blood.”

There is a pause, one weighted with the tension between you, the undeniable pull beneath the surface of his words. “But understand,” he continues, his tone dipping as his eyes trace your features, “you are not some idle decoration or a tool. If you wish to be ‘more,’ then prove it. Show me what more means to you, and perhaps… I’ll allow it.”

His words hang between you like a challenge, his gaze penetrating, unwavering. And as his fingers brush your cheek, there is a finality to his touch, a promise that neither of you will speak aloud but feel all the same.

“You know well enough,” you murmur, your voice steady and unyielding, “that I am more than that. And if I am yours, then let it be known that you are mine as well. I will not be merely the mother of your heirs.”

A rare, subtle smirk pulls at his lips, and he lets out a breath, something between resignation and faint amusement. “Bold words,” he replies, his voice softening ever so slightly. His gaze intensifies, locking onto yours with a fierceness that borders on admiration. “Perhaps that boldness is what drew me to this arrangement after all.”

His lips find yours, a kiss as demanding as the man himself—hungry and consuming, yet just gentle enough to hint at a restraint he rarely affords anyone. When he finally pulls back, you feel his thumb brushing over your cheek in the barest hint of tenderness before his gaze hardens again, as though the moment of softness never existed.

“You will come to know your place here,” he says quietly, but there is an understanding in his words, a promise that, while unspoken, settles deeply between you both.

In this silence, his hand lingers on your skin, a shared recognition passing between you—one that speaks of purpose and strength, of duty and the rare, guarded understanding that neither of you may ever speak aloud.

[chachamaru-sama]

Lady Joanna Lannister

Wife to Lord Tywin Lannister and mother to his three children Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion.

[visenya-targarye]

it's always a lannister beefing with a child

(honorable mention)

[lmaowh-at]

They put the slay in kin(g)slaying

[quixoticclown]

Yes, these Muppets have taken Manhattan. The question now is can they HOLD it

[hylora]

Still a work in progress but I will post the timelapse one day, even if I never finished the piece

[barbieaemond]

GAME OF THRONES S2E7 "A Man Without Honor"

[kudriaken]

House Lannister. My fanart series for the Great Houses from the ASOIAF. I wanted to make this for the longest time.

[greenbloods]

honestly hilarious that the lannister siblings are all history freaks in different direction. cersei rolls her eyes that jaime doesn't know what the second blackfyre rebellion was about while he rattles off the tale of ser luthor pisseryon of daeron i's kingsguard, who served for all of seven moons before he died shitting himself en route to dorne. meanwhile tyrion's sitting in the corner reading maester leomore's neo-myrxist critique of archmaester hargreave's account of the Storming of the Dragonpit (The Warrior Himself: Examining the Dying of the Dragons in the Light of the Seven) and not paying attention to it one bit because he’s moping about how everyone in kings landing hates him, the imp, because he’s ugly and rich, and not because he’s a feudal overlord who is fundamentally detached from the immediate concerns of his starving subjects

[wodania]

round three of my six fanarts!!! thank you so much to everyone who participated and funded by elden ring addiction. keep an eye out for round four!

[novaursa]

To Win a Princess (stolen moments)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You. 

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: watchful

- Next part: coming to light

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

The festival of the Mother has come to life within the walls of the Red Keep, filling its halls and courtyards with laughter, music, and the scent of burning incense. Lanterns of every color line the pathways, casting a warm, golden glow that flickers against the stone. Nobles and commoners alike have gathered to celebrate, each bowing their heads in respect to the deity, their offerings placed upon the shrines scattered throughout the grounds. It’s an evening of reverence, but beneath the surface, the usual courtly games continue, hidden by smiles and honeyed words.

Amid the throng, Tyland finds himself watching you. Across the courtyard, your laughter mingles with the music, your face illuminated by the lantern light. Though you’re surrounded by your handmaidens and other lords and ladies, there’s an unmistakable spark of joy in your eyes, a warmth that makes you shine brighter than the festival lights themselves. And for a moment, Tyland allows himself the indulgence of simply watching you, feeling his heart stir in a way that has become all too familiar.

Then, as if sensing his gaze, you look up, your eyes meeting his across the distance. It’s a fleeting glance, subtle enough to escape the notice of others, but to Tyland, it feels like an unspoken invitation. The corner of your lips lifts in a small, private smile, and before he can even process it, you turn and slip quietly into the shadows beyond the courtyard.

Tyland’s heart quickens. With a murmur of polite excuses to those around him, he slips away, weaving through the crowd with a practiced ease. The festive sounds of music and laughter grow softer as he moves into the quieter, more secluded corridors of the Red Keep. He knows the paths you likely took, the hidden alcoves and winding halls where you would wait for him. He’s barely rounded the corner when he hears footsteps behind him—footsteps that are too firm, too purposeful to belong to you.

Turning, he comes face-to-face with Daemon.

Daemon stands there with his usual nonchalant arrogance, arms crossed, his gaze holding a glint of amusement. “Well, well, Tyland. I didn’t take you for a man who would abandon a festival so soon. The Mother’s blessings are still being celebrated, after all.”

Tyland composes himself quickly, his face falling back into its usual impassive mask. “Prince Daemon,” he greets, inclining his head in respect, though his tone remains guarded. “I was simply taking a moment to find some air. The festivities can be… stifling at times.”

Daemon’s smirk deepens, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes. “Ah, I see. Though from where I stood, it seemed like you had your eyes on something—or someone—quite specific.”

Tyland’s expression doesn’t falter, though there’s a slight tension in his jaw. “I have no idea what you mean, my prince.”

Daemon chuckles, a low, knowing sound that seems to reverberate through the empty hall. “Come now, Tyland. We are both men of the court. We both know how to read a glance… and yours was quite telling.”

Tyland meets Daemon’s gaze evenly, refusing to let himself be intimidated. “Forgive me if you read something that wasn’t there, my prince. My concerns are only for the well-being of House Lannister and the realm.”

Daemon steps closer, his gaze sharpening, probing, as though he can see through Tyland’s carefully constructed facade. “House Lannister, the realm… noble causes, certainly. But tell me, Tyland, do they account for the look you shared with my niece?” He pauses, his smirk widening as he watches the briefest flicker of reaction in Tyland’s eyes. “Or was that glance merely… incidental?”

Tyland holds Daemon’s gaze, his tone calm but firm. “I hold Princess Y/N in the highest regard. As any nobleman would.”

Daemon’s smile turns cold, predatory. “Ah, but I suspect your regard goes beyond mere nobility, doesn’t it?”

Tyland doesn’t respond immediately, choosing his words carefully. “My respect for Princess Y/N is nothing that should concern the prince, surely.”

Daemon lets out a laugh, one that’s sharp and mirthless. “Oh, but it does concern me. You see, she is my blood, and I have a keen interest in those who seek to move close to her.”

There’s a beat of silence, charged with unspoken warnings. Tyland takes a steadying breath, refusing to let Daemon unsettle him. “I would never wish anything but the best for her,” he replies, his voice firm, carrying a weight of sincerity that seems to temper Daemon’s amusement, if only slightly.

Daemon’s eyes narrow, his smile fading as his gaze turns calculating. “The best for her… that’s precisely the issue, isn’t it? Because what is best for her, Tyland? Is it a quiet life away from schemes and ambitions, or is it someone who can protect her from them?”

“I would never let any harm come to her,” Tyland replies quietly, his voice carrying an edge of protectiveness that does not go unnoticed by Daemon.

“Good.” Daemon steps back, his posture relaxed once more, though his gaze remains cold and assessing. “I’ll take you at your word… for now. But remember, Tyland, Y/N is family. And family, to me, is something worth protecting—by any means necessary.”

The threat, though unspoken, lingers heavy in the air between them. Tyland inclines his head, his tone steady. “I understand perfectly, my prince.”

Daemon’s smirk returns, though it’s devoid of humor. “Then we’ll have no trouble, will we?”

Without waiting for an answer, he strides past Tyland, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. Tyland watches him go, feeling the anxiety thrumming in his veins, the weight of Daemon’s unspoken threat settling heavily upon him.

Once he’s certain Daemon has gone, Tyland continues down the corridor, his steps quickening as he reaches the hidden alcove where he knows you wait. His heart pounds as he rounds the final corner, and there you are, standing in the soft glow of the candlelight, a hint of a smile on your lips as you see him.

“Tyland,” you murmur, relief and warmth in your voice as you reach for his hand.

He takes it, pulling you close, his face burying in the curve of your neck as he lets out a shaky breath. The warmth of your embrace soothes the stiffness Daemon left in his chest, grounding him in a way that only you can. For a moment, he says nothing, simply holding you, letting the comfort of your presence wash over him.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes meet yours, a flicker of worry there. “Your uncle… intercepted me on my way here.”

You frown, concern shadowing your face. “What did he say?”

“Nothing direct,” Tyland murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “But he knows… or at least, he suspects.”

Your gaze softens, a faint smile playing on your lips as you cup his face, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Let him suspect. He cannot prove anything.”

Tyland’s eyes close briefly, his voice filled with quiet determination. “If he ever threatens you, Y/N—if he ever even tries—I will not stand aside.”

You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, a silent reassurance in the gentle touch. “I know, Tyland. But he does not scare me.” Your voice softens, becoming a whisper. “No one could keep me from you.”

The words wrap around him like a promise, and he pulls you closer, feeling the world fall away as he kisses you. In this moment, beneath the flickering glow of the candlelight, with the festival of the Mother echoing faintly beyond the walls, nothing else matters. Not Daemon, not Otto, not even the shadow of the court’s prying eyes.

Only you.

His hands find your waist, fingers curling possessively, and he pulls you close, capturing your mouth in a fierce, unyielding kiss. The world narrows to just the two of you, your hearts pounding in perfect rhythm as he lifts you against the cold stone wall, the contrast of heat and chill sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your skin as he whispers your name, his voice laced with a desperate tenderness that only makes you cling to him more tightly.

Your hands move with purpose, parting his cloak, unfastening the layers between you with a practiced, hurried ease, as he does the same. Clothing falls away in a tangle of silks and linens, until there is nothing left but skin pressed to skin, the electric thrill of each touch amplified in the quiet seclusion of the alcove.

With a single, swift motion, he brings your bodies together, a shared gasp mingling in the unbroken kiss as you give in to the passion that has been carefully concealed for too long. His hands hold you steady, supporting you as you both move in perfect accord, each movement a silent expression of devotion and need. Soft moans escape between your kisses, the sound a gentle harmony to the faint murmur of the festival outside, yet all thoughts of the world beyond have faded, leaving only the fierce intensity of this moment.

Elsewhere, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep, the court gathers in celebration, oblivious to the secret unfolding nearby. Gwayne Hightower moves through the crowd, his expression increasingly troubled as he scans the faces around him. At last, he spots his father, Otto, deep in conversation with King Viserys. With a quick nod to himself, Gwayne approaches, his concern apparent as he interrupts with a respectful bow.

“Father,” he murmurs, glancing between Otto and the King, “forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but… have either of you seen Princess Y/N?”

Viserys’s attention, until now absorbed by Otto’s counsel, shifts abruptly to Gwayne. The King’s face registers a flash of surprise, then a shadow of concern. “Y/N? No, I haven’t seen her since earlier in the festivities. I assumed she was with the ladies… or perhaps with Rhaenyra.”

Otto’s expression is thoughtful, though a hint of curiosity glints in his eyes. “The princess is often in Rhaenyra’s company. It would be unlike her to stray far, Your Grace.”

Alicent, standing nearby, offers a gentle smile, stepping forward with a look of quiet assurance. “Perhaps she was feeling unwell,” she suggests, her tone soft, careful. “It is a lively evening, and the heat can sometimes be overwhelming.”

Viserys nods slowly, considering her words, though a hint of worry lingers. “Yes, perhaps…” he mutters, his gaze drifting across the courtyard as though searching for a glimpse of his youngest daughter. His expression hardens subtly, and he turns to Gwayne with a nod. “Ser Gwayne, perhaps you might seek out Rhaenyra and inquire after her. If anyone knows of Y/N’s whereabouts, it will be her sister.”

Gwayne bows immediately, his face a mix of relief and determination. “Of course, Your Grace. I will seek out the Princess Rhaenyra at once.”

As he hurries away, Otto and Viserys exchange a glance, each noting the unease in the other’s expression. Otto clears his throat, his voice careful and measured as he speaks. “If Y/N is unwell, I’m certain Rhaenyra would know… but it may be wise to keep an eye out nonetheless.”

Viserys nods, his gaze thoughtful, tinged with a father’s concern. “Yes, indeed. Y/N has always had a spirit… one that’s hard to contain.” He sighs softly, his tone distant. “Perhaps a little too much like her mother.”

Alicent reaches out, placing a reassuring hand on Viserys’s arm. “She is strong-willed, Your Grace,” she says softly, her gaze kind. “But she will return soon, I’m certain. The festival, after all, can be quite… overwhelming.”

Viserys offers her a faint smile, though the concern does not fully fade from his eyes. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Yes, of course. She is a Targaryen, after all. A free spirit.” But the worry lingers, silent and unspoken, as he glances once more into the depths of the Red Keep, his thoughts lingering on the unseen, unknown whereabouts of his youngest daughter.

Gwayne moves through the crowded halls, his gaze intent as he searches for any sign of you or your sister. The festival’s lively sounds—music, laughter, and the hum of conversation—swirl around him, but his focus remains unwavering. At last, he spots Rhaenyra standing in a quiet corner near a set of columns, deep in conversation with Ser Harwin Strong. Her face is animated, a small smile playing on her lips, though the moment Gwayne approaches, Harwin catches sight of him and quickly makes his exit, offering Rhaenyra a respectful bow before slipping away.

Gwayne inclines his head in greeting, glancing after Harwin as he departs. “Princess Rhaenyra,” he begins, a touch of urgency in his voice, “forgive the interruption, but I’ve been sent by the King. He wishes to know the whereabouts of your sister, Princess Y/N.”

Rhaenyra’s smile doesn’t falter, though her eyes sharpen ever so slightly as she regards him. “Y/N?” She pauses, adopting a look of thoughtful consideration as if trying to recall something specific. “Ah, yes… she did mention feeling somewhat overwhelmed earlier. I believe she may have taken a moment to herself.”

Gwayne hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “Is she unwell, then? Perhaps I could arrange for someone to attend to her…”

Rhaenyra shakes her head quickly, her smile softening into one of reassurance. “No need for concern, Ser Gwayne. She’s merely in need of some quiet. The evening has been quite… lively.” She glances back toward the main festivities, her tone remaining light but subtly dismissive. “I expect she’ll return to the festival soon enough.”

There’s a momentary pause, a flicker of uncertainty crossing Gwayne’s face as he considers her words. “If… if that is the case, I will wait for her return.” He clears his throat, his voice softening. “I had hoped to speak with her tonight.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpens again, and for a moment, a shadow of protectiveness flickers in her eyes. She offers him a patient, slightly amused smile. “I’m sure Y/N will be flattered by your attentions, Ser Gwayne. But as I said, she is resting, and it would be best not to disturb her.”

Gwayne straightens, offering her a reluctant nod, though he cannot fully mask the disappointment in his expression. “Of course, Princess Rhaenyra. I understand.” He pauses, glancing once more toward the direction he came, as though hoping you might emerge at any moment. “I’ll wait, then, in the hope that she returns to the festivities.”

“Patience is a virtue, Ser Gwayne,” Rhaenyra replies smoothly, a slight arch of her brow adding an edge of amusement to her words. “And I’m sure Y/N will appreciate it.”

As he steps away, clearly unsure of how to proceed, Daemon strides forward, emerging from the shadows with an amused smile, his keen gaze flickering between Gwayne’s retreating form and his niece.

“Nicely handled,” he murmurs, an edge of approval in his tone as he stops beside her. “Poor Gwayne looked positively crestfallen. You’d almost think he believed he had a chance.”

Rhaenyra gives her uncle a look of mild exasperation, crossing her arms. “Gwayne’s harmless, Daemon. He doesn’t need your mockery.”

Daemon chuckles, folding his arms as he leans casually against the stone column. “Oh, I have nothing against the poor fool. But you and I both know he doesn’t stand a chance of catching our dear Y/N’s eye.” He casts her a sidelong glance, his tone lowering. “Though, I suspect you know exactly where she is, don’t you?”

Rhaenyra lifts her chin, her gaze unwavering. “I know where my sister is, yes. But that’s my concern, not yours.”

Daemon’s amusement only grows, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. “So protective, dear niece. One might almost think you’re hiding something… or someone.” He tilts his head, watching her intently. “Perhaps our Lady Y/N has found… other company this evening?”

Rhaenyra’s expression remains impassive, though there’s a glint of defiance in her gaze. “Whatever Y/N does is her choice, and hers alone. And I’ll not have you prying, Daemon.”

Daemon lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained by her resolve. “Very well. Far be it from me to interfere.” He straightens, though his gaze remains fixed on her, a knowing glint in his eyes. “But mark my words, Rhaenyra… secrets have a way of unraveling, especially in this court.”

She doesn’t flinch, her voice calm and steady. “Then I’ll be certain to guard them well, Uncle. Y/N deserves her privacy, as do I.”

Daemon’s smirk softens, though there’s a hint of something darker in his gaze as he nods. “Just remember, Rhaenyra, even the closest of allies can become rivals… when it comes to matters of the heart.”

With that, he strides away, his laughter echoing faintly as he disappears back into the shadows of the Keep. Rhaenyra watches him go, her expression unreadable, but a flicker of determination glimmers in her eyes as she stands alone, a silent guardian of her sister’s secrets.

In the quiet intimacy of the alcove, you and Tyland find a lingering closeness as you both reach that shared, breathless moment, hearts pounding in sync, bodies entwined in the soft shadows. His hands remain on you, fingers brushing along your skin, gentle and reverent. For a moment, there is only silence between you, a silence filled with unspoken words, your breaths mingling as you stay in each other’s arms, feeling the aftermath of your passion wash over you like a warm tide.

Tyland leans his forehead against yours, his gaze tender, his voice soft as he murmurs, “Moments like this… I wish they could last forever.”

You smile, brushing a gentle kiss against his lips. “Forever is a long time, Tyland. But as long as we have this…” You squeeze his hand, letting your gaze linger on his with a warmth that speaks of promises beyond words.

For a few lingering minutes, you stay wrapped together, savoring the rare freedom this stolen time has allowed. But gradually, the sounds of the festival filter back into your awareness, reminding you of the world beyond this secluded space.

Tyland sighs, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your forehead. “We should return, before anyone grows too suspicious.”

You nod, a hint of reluctance in your smile as you help each other straighten your clothing, smoothing out the creases left by your embrace. “Yes, I suppose they’ll wonder where I’ve gone.”

He chuckles, stepping back to watch you adjust your gown with a look of barely hidden admiration. “I’ll return first. Give it a few moments before you follow, so no one suspects.”

“Very well,” you murmur, reaching out to straighten his collar, your touch lingering before you let him go. “Until the next moment, then.”

With a final, shared glance, Tyland slips away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he returns to the festival. You wait a few beats, allowing your heart to settle, the lingering warmth of your shared encounter filling you with a quiet sense of contentment. Then, with a steady breath, you follow, slipping back through the hallways, your steps light as you return to the festivities.

As you emerge into the main courtyard, the brightness and noise envelop you, and you quickly fall into the rhythm of the festival once more. Almost immediately, you spot your father, King Viserys, striding towards you, his face a mix of concern and relief. Alicent trails behind him, her expression caught between curiosity and worry.

“Y/N!” Viserys’s voice is warm but edged with a father’s concern as he approaches, his gaze scanning your face. “Where have you been? I feared something had happened.”

You smile gently, offering him a reassuring look. “Forgive me, Father. The festival was lively, and I felt a bit overwhelmed. I simply needed a moment to catch my breath.”

Viserys sighs, nodding slowly as though weighing your words. “Ah, yes… I can understand that. It’s easy to feel lost in all this celebration.” His hand rests on your shoulder, a soft, fatherly gesture that makes his relief clear. “Next time, though, do let someone know, won’t you? We were beginning to worry.”

“Of course, Father,” you reply, smiling warmly. “I didn’t mean to cause concern.”

Alicent steps forward, her eyes flicking over you with a careful, assessing gaze. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Y/N. Sometimes these festivities can be overwhelming for anyone. And you looked so… thoughtful earlier.”

Her tone is soft, her words almost probing, as though she suspects there’s more to your disappearance than a simple need for solitude. But you meet her gaze with calm poise, offering her a gentle smile.

“Yes, it was nothing more than a need for some fresh air. Thank you, Alicent,” you say, your voice smooth and reassuring.

Viserys squeezes your shoulder gently, his expression relaxing. “Very well, then. I’m just glad to have you back with us.” He gestures toward the gathering. “Enjoy the rest of the evening, my dear. The festival wouldn’t be the same without you.”

With a nod, you watch as Viserys and Alicent move away, their concern gradually dissipating as they return to the festivities. A flicker of relief passes through you, your heartbeat still echoing the intensity of your recent encounter, though you manage to regain your composure with each passing second.

Across the courtyard, you spot Tyland standing among a cluster of nobles, his face a careful mask as he converses with Otto and Lord Jasper Wylde. His eyes flick briefly in your direction, a barely perceptible warmth flashing in his gaze before he returns his attention to the conversation.

Otto, standing beside Tyland, leans slightly toward him, his voice carrying a tone of practiced authority. “Lord Tyland, I trust the festival finds you well?”

Tyland offers him a polite nod. “Indeed, my lord. It’s a fine celebration, honoring the Mother as we do each year.” His tone is even, respectful, though there’s a subtle glint in his eyes that only you would recognize—a glint that speaks to the hidden secret shared between you.

Otto hums thoughtfully, his gaze flicking over Tyland with that calculating look of his. “I trust your attention has been… focused, as always.”

“Of course,” Tyland replies smoothly. “I am always mindful of my duties, Lord Hand.”

Jasper Wylde chuckles, oblivious to the underlying tension in Otto’s words. “Yes, Tyland, I hear you’ve been most… attentive lately.” He gives Tyland a friendly clap on the shoulder, unaware of the double meaning behind his words.

Tyland takes the comment in stride, his smile polite but reserved. “A man’s attention should always be directed to that which matters, my lords.”

As the conversation drifts into pleasantries, you and Tyland exchange a final, fleeting glance from across the courtyard. In that brief, wordless moment, you feel the echo of his presence, the memory of his touch lingering even as you both slip back into the roles demanded by duty and decorum.

The murmuring hum of the festival surrounds Otto, Tyland, and Jasper as they remain in a small circle near the edge of the courtyard, the glow of the lanterns casting warm light over their faces. Tyland raises his goblet, taking a small sip as Otto continues, his tone smooth and measured, though tinged with an unmistakable undertone of ambition.

“Of course, it is only natural for a father to consider the future of his children,” Otto begins, glancing meaningfully at Tyland. “And I think my son Gwayne has developed a… strong fondness for Princess Y/N. I see great potential in a match between them, aligning two loyal families in the interests of the realm.”

Tyland’s expression remains composed, though he feels a flicker of tension settle in his chest. He keeps his face neutral, listening as Otto speaks, yet a slight crease appears between his brows.

Jasper nods in agreement, his expression bright with approval. “Ah, yes, Gwayne is a good lad, Lord Otto. I can’t say I haven’t noticed him trailing after the princess on more than one occasion. Young love can be an endearing thing.”

Otto’s lips twitch in a faint, calculated smile. “Indeed. Y/N is a true gem of the realm, and her… virtues are well known to all.” He glances meaningfully at Tyland, as if to emphasize the purity and dignity he imagines surrounding the young princess. “A young woman of her standing deserves a husband who can uphold such values—protect them, even.”

Tyland, who had just taken a sip from his goblet, nearly chokes as Otto’s words hit him with unexpected irony. He quickly turns his head, covering his mouth as he struggles to maintain composure. His throat burns from the abrupt swallow, but he manages to regain himself, coughing softly to disguise his reaction.

Otto’s eyes narrow, his gaze drifting to Tyland with mild curiosity. “Lord Tyland, are you quite well?”

Clearing his throat, Tyland nods, his face carefully neutral though his heart races. “Yes, forgive me. The wine… a bit stronger than expected.”

Jasper chuckles, patting Tyland’s shoulder. “Careful now, Tyland. We wouldn’t want the Hand of the King thinking Lannisters can’t hold their drink.”

Tyland forces a polite chuckle, casting a subtle glance at Otto, whose expression remains contemplative, as though piecing together Tyland’s reaction. He can feel Otto’s calculating gaze lingering, the man’s sharp instincts perhaps sensing that Tyland’s reaction wasn’t purely incidental, not after the argument they've shared after that small council meeting.

Otto continues, his voice smooth as silk, though his tone has grown more pointed. “I was merely saying, Lord Tyland, that a young lady’s virtue is the most delicate thing she possesses. It must be… carefully guarded. I am certain you would agree.”

Tyland meets Otto’s gaze evenly, schooling his features into a look of mild agreement, though the tension in his jaw is apparent. “Of course, Lord Hand. Virtue is indeed something that should be cherished… and respected.” He takes another sip of his wine, his grip on the goblet firm as he pushes down the urge to respond more strongly.

Otto’s smile is thin, his eyes gleaming with a trace of satisfaction. “Precisely. That is why I believe Gwayne, who is devoted, honorable, and… eager, would be a perfect fit for the princess.” His gaze lingers on Tyland, as though expecting a reaction.

Tyland forces a nod, his voice steady but his words chosen carefully. “Gwayne’s devotion to the princess is… certainly evident.”

Jasper laughs, seemingly oblivious to the tension between Otto and Tyland. “Indeed! The young Hightower can hardly keep his eyes off her. I say, it’s good for a princess to have admirers. Reminds everyone that she is cherished, wouldn’t you say, Tyland?”

Tyland inclines his head, managing a small smile. “Cherished… yes. The princess should be cherished by someone who truly values her for all that she is.”

Otto’s gaze sharpens, catching the subtle emphasis in Tyland’s words, as always. “Quite. Which is why I take such care in considering potential suitors for the princess. Her future, after all, is… a matter of great importance.”

Tyland meets Otto’s gaze directly, his expression unreadable though a hint of defiance gleams in his eyes. “The princess is indeed fortunate to have so many… interested parties. But, as with all matters of importance, I trust her own wishes will be taken into account.”

A flicker of something dangerous passes over Otto’s face, but he quickly masks it, offering Tyland a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Naturally. We all desire her happiness, after all.”

The animosity settles over them, thick and charged, as each man’s words seem to carry layers of unspoken meaning. Tyland holds Otto’s gaze for a moment longer, refusing to back down, until Jasper, blissfully unaware of the exchange, clears his throat and gestures back toward the festival.

“Well, I say we enjoy the evening, gentlemen!” Jasper exclaims, raising his goblet in a toast. “To the Mother, and to the future of the realm!”

Tyland raises his goblet, his eyes still fixed on Otto. “To the future,” he murmurs, his voice steady, though the glint in his gaze speaks of a silent promise to protect what matters most to him.

Your heart is steady, though a touch exhilarated, as you slip seamlessly back into the crowd, maintaining a composed demeanor despite the lingering traces of passion that only you know.

As you make your way toward the main gathering, a shadow moves into your path, and you glance up, catching the sharp, familiar gaze of Daemon. His eyes, keen and observant, settle on your face, taking in every subtle detail—the color in your cheeks, the faint brightness in your eyes, and the way you stand with a slight breathlessness still in your posture. A smirk curves his lips, and he leans in, his tone a low murmur meant only for you.

“Well, niece,” he drawls, his voice laced with amusement, “you look… quite radiant this evening. Almost as if the Mother herself has blessed you.”

Your cheeks warm, though you hold your composure, meeting his knowing gaze with a steady, polite expression. “Perhaps it’s simply the joy of the festival, Uncle,” you reply smoothly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of any reaction beyond what is proper. “The celebration has a way of bringing out the liveliness in everyone.”

Daemon chuckles, his eyes glinting as he leans in slightly closer. “Oh, I’d say it’s something more than that. You have a certain… glow about you. It’s almost intriguing enough to make one wonder.” His smirk deepens, an edge of mischief in his gaze. “Care to share the source of it?”

You raise an eyebrow, keeping your voice steady and your expression poised. “Your imagination, Uncle, is far more creative than any reality could match. I assure you, there’s nothing more than the joy of the night.”

He laughs, a low, rich sound, clearly entertained by your response. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. But, as always, you keep your secrets well.” His gaze lingers, a glint of challenge in his eyes, as though daring you to reveal even the smallest hint of the truth.

Before he can press further, another voice cuts through the conversation, firm and unmistakably authoritative.

“Daemon.” Viserys steps forward, his expression stern as he looks at his brother. There’s an edge of warning in his eyes as he regards Daemon, his voice steady and unyielding. “Leave my daughter be.”

Daemon raises his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, though the smirk never leaves his face. “Come now, brother. I was merely exchanging pleasantries with my dear niece. Surely that’s not so threatening?”

Viserys’s gaze hardens, unamused. “Find someone else to pester, Daemon. This is neither the time nor the place for your games.”

For a moment, Daemon meets Viserys’s gaze with a flicker of defiance, as though contemplating a response. But instead, he chuckles, stepping back with a sweeping, exaggerated bow in your direction. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He glances at you one last time, a lingering, amused look in his eyes. “Enjoy the festival, niece.”

With that, he slips back into the crowd, his departure leaving a faint ripple of tension behind. You exhale quietly, steadying yourself, and turn to face your father, who watches Daemon’s retreating form with a look of thinly veiled frustration.

Viserys’s gaze softens as he looks at you, concern and curiosity mingling in his expression. “Are you all right, Y/N?” he asks gently, his tone carrying the warmth of a father’s care. “I know how… persistent Daemon can be.”

You offer him a reassuring smile, grateful for his protection. “I’m fine, Father. Daemon is Daemon. I know how to handle his ways.”

Viserys nods, though a hint of worry lingers in his gaze. “Good. I’d rather he not meddle in matters that don’t concern him.” He pauses, studying you closely, as if searching for something unspoken. “But I didn’t just approach because of Daemon.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a touch of curiosity.

He sighs, his expression turning more thoughtful, yet tinged with a father’s impatience. “We’ve spoken before about the many suitors for your hand. The petitions, the endless proposals… all of it is becoming tiresome, and frankly, it’s wearing on me.”

You chuckle softly, knowing well the weight of his exasperation. “I remember, Father. I promised to introduce you to my choice once all the proposals were cleared, so that no house would be slighted.”

“Yes, you did,” he replies, nodding, though there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he looks at you. “And while I’ve respected your wish to keep it discreet, I hope you’ll introduce him soon.” He glances around, lowering his voice. “This secrecy, this waiting… it’s becoming unbearable.”

There’s a spark of amusement in your eyes as you consider his words. “Unbearable, Father? I never thought you so easily troubled by matters of the heart.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Troubled is an understatement, my dear. Your marriage is more than just a matter of the heart; it concerns the realm, our alliances, and… well, my peace of mind.”

You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading through you as you think of Tyland. “I understand, Father. And I assure you, it will not be long now. Every day, I grow more certain of my choice.”

Viserys’s expression softens, a glint of hope brightening his eyes. “Then there is truly someone? A man you’ve chosen?”

“Yes,” you murmur, the warmth of your feelings evident in your voice. “And I believe he is… everything I could ask for.”

Your father’s face lights with relief, his hand resting on your shoulder, giving it a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “That is all I needed to hear. If he makes you happy, that’s all I can ask for. And when the time is right… I’ll be waiting.”

You nod, feeling a sense of gratitude and affection well up within you. “Thank you, Father. Your support means more than you know.”

Viserys smiles, his gaze filled with pride and fondness as he looks at you. “Then enjoy the festival, my daughter. And remember—when you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

With a final, reassuring squeeze of his hand, he steps back, leaving you to the night’s festivities. And as you turn back to the brightly lit courtyard, your heart feels lighter, knowing that the moment will come soon when you can stand proudly by Tyland’s side, and your father will know the man who holds your heart.

The festival is in full swing, but Tyland remains on the edges, a quiet observer as the lively gathering unfolds around him. His goblet is in hand, his expression composed and pleasant, a carefully crafted mask that betrays nothing of the secret thrill lingering beneath his calm exterior. Yet, every so often, his gaze flickers to where you move through the crowd, your presence a quiet beacon that he can’t help but gravitate toward, if only in glances.

He takes a measured sip, bringing his attention back to the conversation at hand, only to feel a familiar hand clap down on his shoulder. Turning, Tyland finds himself face-to-face with his twin, Jason, who grins broadly, his expression one of easy, confident charm.

“Tyland! Avoiding the merriment as usual, I see?” Jason’s tone is teasing, though there’s a hint of curiosity as he looks at his brother. Beside him, a few other Lannister cousins and nobles linger, joining the conversation with casual greetings.

“Just observing,” Tyland replies smoothly, offering a faint smile. “You know I prefer to watch the festival unfold rather than throw myself into it.”

Jason laughs, his gaze sharp as he claps Tyland on the shoulder again. “Always so composed, aren’t you?” He takes a swig from his own goblet, his eyes narrowing with that uncanny perceptiveness he often wielded with subtlety. “But you’ve seemed… distracted tonight, brother. Something on your mind?”

Tyland’s response is cool, measured. “Nothing more than usual. The festival is an eventful night, after all.”

Jason nods, though his gaze lingers on Tyland’s face with a touch more scrutiny than before. They exchange a few more pleasantries, the other members of their family chiming in with lighthearted banter, but Jason’s eyes never fully leave his brother. And then, Tyland’s gaze strays, almost involuntarily, toward you, lingering for just a split second as you cross the courtyard with an effortless grace that catches his attention even from a distance.

It’s a fleeting glance, something so small that to anyone else, it might appear insignificant. But Jason notices. His expression sharpens, a glint of intrigue flashing in his eyes. Waiting until the conversation lulls, he leans closer, murmuring quietly.

“Walk with me for a moment, Tyland.”

Tyland nods, schooling his expression as he follows Jason to the side, away from the others. The sounds of the festival become softer, a gentle hum as they step into a more secluded part of the courtyard. Jason’s expression shifts, his easygoing demeanor slipping into something more discerning, his gaze fixed intently on his brother.

“Care to tell me what that was about?” Jason’s tone is deceptively light, but there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it, a look of recognition as he studies Tyland.

Tyland raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

Jason’s smile turns sly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “That look you gave the princess just now. To anyone else, it would seem like nothing. But I know you too well, Tyland. That wasn’t just a passing glance.” He pauses, his voice lowering, filled with the weight of realization. “You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you?”

Tyland maintains his composure, but there’s a moment of hesitation, the faintest slip in his expression that only serves to confirm Jason’s suspicions. He says nothing, knowing his twin well enough to understand that denial would be pointless.

Jason chuckles softly, his expression shifting from surprise to something more intrigued, even impressed. “I can’t believe it… the younger princess. Y/N herself. How did you manage that?”

Tyland’s gaze sharpens, his voice firm but hushed. “Jason, this isn’t a game.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it is,” Jason replies smoothly, though his eyes gleam with mischief. “But you can’t deny it’s impressive. She could have any man at court… and yet she’s with you.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “How exactly did you get her into your bed?”

Tyland’s jaw tenses, though he keeps his tone measured. “Respect, Jason. Y/N is not some conquest, nor is she some prize to be won. She chose to be with me, and I respect her choice. Whatever we have is between us, and it’s not for idle gossip.”

Jason raises his hands in mock surrender, though his amusement doesn’t fade. “Easy, brother. I’m only curious. It’s not every day one of the realm’s most sought-after women chooses a man quietly standing at the edges of the court. And the fact that it’s my own brother…” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I suppose even I have to admire your restraint.”

Tyland sighs, rubbing a hand over his temple. “This isn’t something I took lightly, Jason. We care for each other. And I would do anything to protect her.”

Jason studies him for a moment, a flicker of genuine understanding in his gaze as he sees the sincerity in Tyland’s face. “You really are serious about her, aren’t you?”

Tyland nods, his expression softening. “More than I’ve ever been. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep this to yourself. The last thing she needs is more scrutiny.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, don’t worry. I have no intention of ruining whatever you’ve managed to build with her. Besides…” He pauses, casting a glance back toward the bustling crowd. “I rather like knowing you’ve got a taste for something more meaningful than courtly games.”

Tyland’s gaze softens, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Thank you, Jason. I mean it.”

Jason shrugs, his expression turning thoughtful. “Just be careful, brother. Affairs like this… they don’t stay secret forever, especially in a place like the Red Keep.”

Tyland nods, his voice firm. “I know. But until then, I’ll protect her with everything I have.”

Jason studies him for a moment longer, then nods, the faintest glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Then you have my support. Just… make sure it’s worth the risk.” With that, he claps Tyland on the shoulder one last time, the unspoken bond between them sealing the quiet understanding as they rejoin the bustling festival.

[oananovicov]

Jaimie of House Lannister - The Kingslayer.

[robynnnn311]

i know the kingsguard lodging situation hit a sexually repressed 15 year old jaime lannister like a truck

[lmaowh-at]

Lanns n Starks lineups/costumes sketches that I will probably add other houses to. Tywin and Joff & the rest aren't here because I was lazy and Cerseis dress took all of my energy. Don't ask me about inspiration or historical basis for these

[motorway-south]

criston cole wasn't real he was jaime lannisters dance era self insert oc. the only reason hes in fire and blood is bc the lannisters have connections in oldtown. the maesters are lying to us

[barbieaemond]

GAME OF THRONES, season 2 episode 1