#House Lannister

[cinematic-phosphenes]

Genna Lannister ASOIAF as historical paintings (33/∞)

Genna: I am sorry for your loss. Jaime: I had a new hand made, of gold. Genna: Very nice. Will they make you a gold father too? Tywin was the loss I meant. Lady Genna claimed her stool with a look that dared any man there to question her presence. None did. —thoughts of Jaime Lannister [AFFC by GRRM]

(Portrait of a Woman, 1581, by Francesco Montemezzano)

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (wayward daughter)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (nothing drastic yet, but it will be later)

- Teaser chapter, if you wanna know the gist of this story: the golden court - sneak peek

- Next part: what we are

- Tag(s): if you want to be tagged in future chapters, let me know.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep thrummed with music and revelry, the air heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Laughter echoed off the high vaulted ceilings as lords and ladies twirled in intricate dances beneath the flickering glow of a thousand candles. The wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon was a grand affair, a union meant to secure the loyalty of two powerful houses. Yet, amidst the splendor, a storm loomed on the horizon, one that would silence the hall and shift the course of the evening.

You had not set foot in King’s Landing for years. The weight of the Red Keep's walls and the accusing stares of the court had been left behind when your father, Daemon, whisked you away into self-imposed exile. He had been your shield, your guide, and, in some ways, your accomplice. You had grown into a woman in the shadows of your dragon, Haelle, and in the freedom of distant skies. But now, with your uncle Viserys perched on the Iron Throne and whispers of ambition and discontent filling the realm, Daemon had decided it was time to return. And, as always, you were by his side.

The massive doors of the Great Hall creaked open with a groan, the sound cutting through the din like a blade. Heads turned as two figures strode through the entryway. Daemon, clad in black and red, exuded his usual air of defiance. But it was the figure at his side that drew the sharp intake of breath from the gathered lords and ladies.

You stepped into the hall, every inch the Targaryen princess. Your gown, a masterpiece of dark crimson silk and black Valyrian lace, shimmered like dragonfire with every step. The neckline dipped daringly low, exposing the delicate curve of your collarbone, where a necklace of Valyrian steel and rubies rested. Your hair, the pale silver of your Valyrian heritage, cascaded down your back in intricate braids intertwined with thin chains of gold. But it was your face, striking and ethereal, that silenced the room. You had been beautiful as a child, but now, as a woman grown, you were devastating.

Beside you, Daemon smirked, clearly relishing the stunned silence. He guided you toward the royal table, where Viserys sat at its center, flanked by Alicent in her green gown and Rhaenyra in the traditional white and red of House Targaryen. Laenor Velaryon sat stiffly beside his bride, his expression unreadable.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, his voice tight with barely concealed irritation. “You were not invited.”

“Brother,” Daemon replied smoothly, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the chance to celebrate my dear niece’s wedding?”

Viserys’s gaze shifted to you, and his expression softened, though it remained cautious. “And you brought… her.”

“I did.” Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your arm. “Surely you remember my daughter, your niece. Y/N, who has grown into quite the lady.”

You curtsied gracefully, your eyes locking with Viserys’s. “Your Grace.”

The king’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering between you and Daemon. Rhaenyra, however, looked less composed. Her gaze lingered on you, her cousin and near-contemporary, with an emotion that was difficult to read—relief, perhaps, or jealousy.

“Where have you been?” Rhaenyra finally asked, her voice breaking the silance. “You disappeared.”

You smiled faintly, a touch of mystery in your expression. “With my father. He thought it best for us to see the world beyond the confines of court.”

“Court missed you,” Rhaenyra said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

Viserys cleared his throat, his kingly composure returning. “You are family,” he said, gesturing to the empty chairs near the high table. “Sit. Join us.”

Daemon inclined his head in mock gratitude, his smile sharpening. “Your hospitality knows no bounds, brother.”

The two of you ascended the dais and took your seats, the eyes of the hall following your every movement. As you sat, the murmurs began anew, hushed whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire.

“Is that truly Daemon’s daughter?”

“By the gods, she’s as beautiful as a queen.”

“What does this mean? Why has Daemon returned now?”

The conversation at the royal table was strained at first. Alicent barely looked at you, her fingers tightening around the goblet in her hand. Laenor, though polite, seemed unsure of how to address you, his glances brief and cautious. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, seemed torn between curiosity and wariness. Only Viserys seemed genuinely pleased to see you, though his concern for Daemon’s motives was evident in the tightness around his eyes.

“Your dragon,” Viserys asked at one point, leaning forward slightly. “Haelle, wasn’t it? The Nightmare Queen, they call her. How is she?”

“She is well,” you replied. “We flew in this morning.”

The statement hung in the air, a quiet reminder of the power you wielded. Dragons were more than mere beasts; they were weapons, symbols of House Targaryen’s dominion. And Haelle, with her black-and-gold scales and fiery temper, was a creature of legend.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Viserys said finally, his tone softer. “You’ve been gone too long.”

You inclined your head. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Daemon smirked at your politeness but said nothing, letting the silence fill the space where a more cutting comment might have fallen. The anxiety remained, an undercurrent beneath the music and laughter that resumed in the hall. Yet, as you sipped your wine and observed the court with an air of detachment, you knew one thing for certain.

You were back. And the realm would never be the same.

The Lannister table, seated to the right of the royal dais, was an island of golden splendor amidst the sea of colors in the Great Hall. Goblets of Arbor wine gleamed in the candlelight, and plates piled with delicacies were spread before the lions of Casterly Rock. Yet the chatter at the table had grown subdued, as the shock of Prince Daemon and his daughter’s entrance rippled through the hall. All eyes had turned toward the royal table at the dramatic reappearance, and among the Lannisters, curiosity was no less keen.

Jason Lannister leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as he studied the Targaryen princess from afar. His green eyes lingered on her, taking in her striking features and the way she carried herself with an effortless grace. She had a presence that filled the hall, one that seemed to command attention without effort. It was clear she was her father’s daughter, but there was a softer quality to her—a beauty both ethereal and dangerous. A dragon in a girl's skin, Jason thought.

Beside him, Tyland Lannister had resumed eating, though his movements were measured and deliberate, his expression betraying his thoughts. Unlike Jason, who brimmed with confidence, Tyland’s demeanor carried a wariness, as though anticipating the trouble that always seemed to follow Daemon Targaryen.

It was Lord Alton Lannister, their elder cousin, who broke the silence. “Well,” he said, lowering his cup and looking toward Tyland, “you’re on the Small Council. Surely you know—when was the last time the princess graced the court?”

Tyland paused, wiping his mouth with a silk cloth before answering. “Not since she was a child,” he replied. “I doubt she was older than ten or eleven when Daemon left.”

Alton let out a low whistle. “And now she returns, fully grown and radiant as the Dawn. The court must be in a frenzy.”

Jason smirked, setting down his goblet. “Frenzy is one word for it. Look at them—they’re still whispering about her. The Nightmare Queen, isn’t that what they call her dragon? A name like that has a way of capturing the imagination.”

“Names like that breed fear,” Tyland interjected, his tone clipped. “She is bonded with a dragon said to rival Caraxes in ferocity. The Nightmare Queen is no empty title.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You make her sound like a menace. She’s a young woman, not some beast.”

Tyland met his brother’s gaze evenly. “A young woman raised by Daemon Targaryen, no less. Don’t let her beauty fool you, Jason. She’s her father’s daughter through and through.”

Jason chuckled, leaning forward on the table. “And what’s wrong with that? I’ve always found Daemon… entertaining.”

“Entertaining until he decides he doesn’t like you,” Tyland said, his voice lowering slightly. “If you think you’ll charm her, be careful. You may find her less receptive than the ladies you’re used to.”

Jason’s smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Now, Tyland, when have you ever known me to back down from a chaellenge?”

Tyland sighed, setting down his fork. “I’m merely saying, tread lightly. The Targaryens are not like the women of the Westerlands. They play their own games, and they play them well.”

Jason didn’t respond immediately, his attention drawn back to the royal table. The princess sat beside Daemon, her posture regal and unyielding, her expression serene as though she were utterly unaffected by the stares and whispers. She sipped her wine with an almost deliberate grace, her eyes occasionally flicking to the crowd as if assessing the room. Even from this distance, Jason could feel the pull of her presence.

“I intend to offer my congratulations to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor,” Jason said at last, adjusting the collar of his finely embroidered doublet. “And while I’m at it, I might take the opportunity to exchange a few words with her.”

Alton raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Brave of you, cousin. You’d risk the wrath of Daemon Targaryen for a chance to speak with his daughter?”

“Daemon isn’t the one I intend to speak to,” Jason replied smoothly. “Besides, if I let him intimidate me, I’d hardly be worthy of the name Lannister.”

Tyland shook his head, exasperation flickering in his eyes. “You never listen, do you?”

Jason shrugged, a confident smile playing on his lips. “You worry too much, brother. A lion knows when to strike.”

He rose from his seat, straightening his shoulders and smoothing his doublet. His golden hair caught the light as he prepared to make his way toward the royal dais, his movements deliberate and self-assured. Tyland watched him go, shaking his head once more but making no move to stop him. The rest of the Lannisters exchanged looks, some amused, others skeptical.

As Jason began his approach, the hall seemed to recover its rhythm, the music resuming its lively pace and the hum of conversation rising once more. Yet amidst the revelry, the presence of the Targaryen princess remained a focal point, her return an unspoken reminder of the power and danger that lurked beneath the surface of this seemingly joyous occasion.

And Jason Lannister, ever the bold lion, was about to step into the dragon’s den.

The hum of the hall seemed to fade into the background as Jason Lannister made his way toward the royal table. His steps were measured, his shoulders squared, and his golden lion-emblazoned doublet shone in the candlelight, catching more than a few admiring glances from nearby ladies. But Jason’s focus was singular. His eyes fixed briefly on Rhaenyra and Laenor, seated in their places of honor, before flickering to you, the Targaryen princess whose presence had thrown the entire hall into a hush mere moments ago.

As he approached, Daemon’s gaze caught him first, those dark violet eyes narrowing slightly, as if already weary of the encounter. But Jason was not easily cowed, and with a disarming smile, he dipped into a bow before the royal table, addressing the newlyweds first.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor,” he began, his tone warm and practiced. “Allow me to extend my sincerest congratulations on this joyous occasion. House Lannister is honored to celebrate your union, which I’m certain will only strengthen the realm.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was polite, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lord Jason, your presence here is noted,” she replied, her tone cool but courteous.

Laenor, for his part, seemed distracted, his gaze darting to you and Daemon before quickly returning to his goblet. He managed a half-hearted, “Thank you, my lord.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter as he straightened, though his true intent was clear as his gaze shifted toward you. His smile softened, taking on a charm that had won him many admirers in court. “And Princess Y/N,” he said, inclining his head toward you. “It is a rare and welcome honor to see you back at court. Your presence graces this hall.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, you said nothing. The weight of your gaze was like the lingering heat of dragonfire—intense, unyielding, and wholly unnerving. Jason felt a flicker of unease, but he quickly masked it, maintaining his confident demeanor.

“It has been some time, Lord Jason,” you replied at last, your voice smooth and measured. “I suppose much has changed since my departure.”

Jason chuckled, sensing an opportunity to engage you. “Indeed, much has changed,” he agreed, his tone light. “Though I must say, some things remain constant—such as the splendor of House Targaryen. You remind us all of its magnificence.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, though it was hard to tell whether it was amusement or something else entirely. “You flatter me, my lord.”

Jason took the smile as encouragement and pressed on. “It is not flattery, my princess, but truth,” he said smoothly, leaning in slightly as if to draw you into a more intimate exchange. “You are the very image of Valyrian grace. I can see why the court is so captivated by you.”

Before he could say more, Daemon shifted in his seat, the subtle movement enough to remind Jason of the dragon that hovered nearby. Jason glanced at the prince briefly but found Daemon watching him with a faint smirk, as if curious to see how far he would go.

Jason returned his focus to you, determined not to let Daemon’s presence unnerve him. “I imagine the world beyond King’s Landing must have been quite the adventure,” he said, his voice turning conversational. “I wonder if you ever found anything to rival the beauty of our court.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression thoughtful. “I have seen many wonders, my lord,” you replied, your tone almost wistful. “The ancient cities of Essos, the hidden isles of the Summer Sea… and, of course, the freedom of the skies atop Haelle. But beauty, I have found, is subjective. What some call magnificent, others might see as… fleeting.”

Jason blinked, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or an insult. Still, he pressed on, determined to regain control of the conversation. “Fleeting or not, beauty is worth cherishing while it lasts. And if I may be so bold, Princess, your presence here tonight is a reminder of that very truth.”

The faint smile on your lips grew ever so slightly, and for a moment, Jason thought he had succeeded in charming you. But then you spoke, your tone laced with an edge so subtle it took him a moment to catch it.

“Such eloquence, Lord Jason,” you said softly, your eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “One might almost think you rehearsed it.”

Jason’s confident smile faltered for the briefest moment. The barb was so delicately delivered that it took a beat for him to fully grasp it. Around you, the conversation at the royal table continued as if nothing had happened, but Jason felt the sting keenly, though he hid it well.

Recovering quickly, he gave a polite laugh. “Perhaps I’ve simply had the good fortune to be inspired,” he countered, bowing his head slightly. “In any case, I hope to continue our conversation another time, Princess. Perhaps under less… formal circumstances.”

You inclined your head, your smile unwavering. “We shall see, my lord.”

Jason lingered for a moment longer before stepping back and offering another bow to the table. As he turned to leave, he felt the weight of your gaze on him, though whether it was one of amusement or dismissal, he couldn’t quite tell. Behind him, Tyland’s words echoed faintly in his mind, a warning he had been too proud to heed. For all his charm and confidence, he realized, you were not a woman to be easily swayed—or easily fooled.

Jason Lannister returned to his seat at the Lannister table, his movements brisk and his expression carefully neutral. He lowered himself into his chair with the practiced ease of someone who refused to show any hint of disappointment, even if the exchange had not gone entirely as planned. He reached for his goblet, taking a measured sip of Arbor gold, before setting it down with a faint clink against the polished wood.

Tyland, who had been watching the royal table with narrowed eyes, wasted no time. “That didn’t look promising,” he remarked, his tone as dry as the wine in his own goblet. He cut a piece of venison and brought it to his lips, his movements unhurried but precise, as if his focus wasn’t entirely on his meal.

Jason shot his younger brother a sidelong glance, leaning back in his chair. “You always were a pessimist, Tyland. I thought you’d have more faith in me.”

Tyland smirked faintly, shaking his head. “It’s not a matter of faith, Jason. It’s a matter of practicality. You shouldn’t be doing this—not now.”

“And why not?” Jason chaellenged, his voice low enough to avoid carrying beyond their table. He gestured toward the royal dais with his goblet. “She’s a princess of the blood, a rare beauty, and clearly one of the most captivating women in the hall. Why shouldn’t I take the opportunity?”

Tyland set down his knife and fork, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he turned his scholding gaze on his older twin. “Because you’re negotiating with Lord Westerling for the hand of his daughter. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? Word reaches far and fast in court, Jason. You wouldn’t want him to think you’re… distracted.”

Jason scoffed, his lips curling into a grin that bordered on arrogant. “Distracted? Lord Westerling would count himself lucky to have me as a son-in-law, and he knows it. Besides, it’s just conversation. I’ve done nothing improper.”

“Yet,” Tyland countered, his tone pointed. “But Daemon Targaryen doesn’t need a reason to take offense, and the princess—”

Jason cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Daemon can posture all he likes. He doesn’t intimidate me. As for the princess…” He trailed off, glancing toward the royal table where you sat beside your father, your expression calm but unreadable. “She’s intriguing, Tyland. You don’t meet women like her every day.”

Tyland didn’t respond immediately. His gaze followed his brother’s, settling on you for a moment too long before he quickly looked away. He reached for his goblet, swirling the wine absently as he spoke. “She’s intriguing, yes. She’s also dangerous. You saw how she handled your charm—it didn’t take much for her to put you in your place.”

Jason chuckled, though there was a slight edge to it. “She’s sharp, I’ll give her that. But that only makes the game more interesting.”

Tyland sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a game, Jason. You’re playing with fire, and I don’t just mean Daemon. She’s not some simpering Westerlands maiden who’ll swoon over your pretty words. You’ll get burned.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Maybe I like the heat.”

Alton, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, his tone amused. “It’s rare to see you so persistent, Jason. Most women are won over before you’ve even said a word. But the princess… she’s a different breed.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s what makes her worth pursuing.”

Tyland frowned, his gaze flickering to the royal table once more despite himself. He couldn’t help but study you—the way the candlelight caught the silver in your hair, the way you held yourself with an air of quiet confidence that seemed to make the very air around you heavier. There was something magnetic about you, something that made it hard to look away.

“And you?” Jason asked suddenly, catching Tyland off guard. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been stealing glances at her too?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, and he straightened in his seat. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jason smirked, his expression turning teasing. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You’re usually so composed, but I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Tyland didn’t respond, instead lifting his goblet to his lips to avoid further comment. Jason’s grin only grew, pleased to have struck a nerve.

“You know,” Jason continued, his tone light but laced with mischief, “if I weren’t careful, I’d say you’re as captivated as I am.”

Tyland set his goblet down with a touch more force than necessary, fixing his brother with a stern look. “I’m not captivated. I’m cautious. Someone has to be.”

Jason laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried a note of triumph. “Well, cautious or not, I’ll take my chances. Life’s too short to ignore an opportunity like this.”

Tyland shook his head, but his gaze flickered toward you one last time, lingering just long enough to betray his thoughts. Whether he would admit it or not, Jason wasn’t the only one drawn to the princess at the royal table. But unlike Jason, Tyland understood the risks—and he doubted his brother had the skill or patience to navigate the storm you represented.

The music in the Great Hall swelled, the first notes of a lively melody filling the space as dancers took to the floor. The tension that had lingered after your and Daemon’s arrival was beginning to dissipate, drowned in wine and merriment. Yet, as laughter and conversation filled the air, your mind remained focused, your senses attuned to the atmosphere around you.

Seated beside your father, you swirled the deep red wine in your goblet, observing the court with the detached amusement that Daemon had taught you well. The weight of curious and lingering stares had not diminished. You had spent years away from court, but here, in the heart of the Red Keep, your absence had only made you more of a mystery—one that lords and ladies alike sought to unravel.

Daemon leaned slightly toward you, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Well, that was a performance.”

You took a measured sip of your wine before glancing at him. “You expected anything less?”

His smirk deepened. “From you? Never.” He lifted his goblet in a silent toast. “But I must say, you handle lions well. I think Jason Lannister thought he had you ensnared.”

A small smile played at your lips as you turned your gaze to the Lannister table, where Jason had returned to his seat, wearing his usual mask of confidence—though you had seen the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes when he realized your words had been a well-placed barb. “He thinks himself a master at the game,” you mused. “But he underestimates his opponent.”

Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased. “Good. You should keep them all on their toes. Let them wonder where they stand with you.” He glanced toward the royal table, where Viserys sat observing the scene with an expression of quiet thoughtfulness. “And speaking of those who wonder…”

You turned just as Viserys shifted toward you, setting aside his goblet and offering a warm, albeit cautious, smile. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rich with something akin to relief. “I must say, it gladdens me to see you here again. It has been far too long.”

You inclined your head respectfully. “It has, Uncle.”

He studied you for a moment, as if searching for traces of the girl he once knew beneath the composed woman before him. “I had often wondered how you fared,” he continued. “I sent letters, you know.”

You did know. They had arrived in the Free Cities, where you and Daemon had spent your exile, yet your father had always intercepted them before they reached you. Not out of cruelty, but because he believed that no good would come from lingering attachments to the court you had left behind.

“I never received them,” you said, not unkindly.

Viserys’s expression darkened slightly, his gaze flickering toward Daemon, who merely smirked and took another sip of wine. The animosity between the brothers was ever-present, a wound that had never truly healed.

“I see,” Viserys murmured, though it was clear he didn’t. He exhaled slowly before offering a gentler smile. “I trust you have been well, then? Daemon’s company… agrees with you?”

You glanced at your father, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I have seen the world beyond these walls,” you replied. “Traveled farther than most lords could dream. It has been… enlightening.”

Viserys nodded, though something in his eyes hinted at regret. “Still, you are family,” he said after a moment. “No matter the distance, that will not change.”

You offered him a small smile, and for now, the conversation seemed to settle. The king looked relieved that you had not outright rejected his attempts at connection. But you knew this was only the beginning. You had returned, and there would be more conversations, more questions, more attempts to weave you back into the court’s web.

The music swelled, and the first couples began to take to the floor, the polished marble reflecting the flickering candlelight. The dance was one of tradition, one expected at any grand feast—a display of grace, skill, and status. You watched as Rhaenyra and Laenor stepped forward first, the newlyweds taking their place at the center as the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon leaned toward you again, voice tinged with amusement. “I wonder how long before someone dares ask you to dance.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, resting your chin against your knuckles as you observed the growing number of couples joining the dance. “I imagine they are debating whether it’s worth the risk.”

Daemon grinned. “Good. Keep them guessing.”

From across the hall, you caught sight of Jason Lannister rising from his seat, his movements deliberate. Tyland, still seated beside him, muttered something that made Jason roll his eyes before shaking off his brother’s words and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

You already knew his intention before he even turned toward the royal table.

Daemon noticed as well, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “And the first lion dares to approach the dragon once more.” He tilted his goblet toward you. “Shall we see how long he lasts this time?”

You merely smiled, watching as Jason made his way through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who had never known rejection. The game had begun, and you intended to play it well.

Lords and ladies subtly shifted in their seats, eyes drawn toward him—some with curiosity, others with mild surprise. It was one thing to exchange words over wine, but to boldly approach the royal table twice in one evening was a statement.

Daemon had already noticed, of course. He exhaled a small chuckle, sipping at his wine as though thoroughly entertained. “Persistent,” he murmured. “I’ll give him that.”

Jason reached the royal table and bowed slightly, his golden hair gleaming under the candlelight. His lion-embroidered doublet fit perfectly over his broad frame, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. But there was something in his gaze as he met yours—not just admiration, but amusement, perhaps even chaellenge.

“Princess Y/N,” he greeted smoothly, his tone warm and inviting. “I find myself drawn back to your company so soon. I hope you will forgive my lack of restraint.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “Is restraint something you struggle with, my lord?”

Jason chuckled. “On occasion. Especially when it comes to remarkable company.” He straightened slightly, offering his hand. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

There it was. The unspoken question that had lingered in the air, the moment that so many lords hesitated to seize for fear of stepping too close to the fire.

You regarded him for a moment, tilting your head slightly. “Are you a misogynist, Lord Jason?”

There was a brief flicker of confusion before Jason laughed, rich and unbothered. “Not in the slightest, princess. Why do you ask?”

You leaned back in your chair, amusement gleaming in your violet eyes. “Because I cannot think of another reason why a man negotiating a betrothal would be so bold as to pursue another woman so publicly. Either you do not value the girl you are meant to wed, or you do not value women at all.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the royal table—Daemon smirked into his goblet, while Alicent, who had been quietly observing, arched an intrigued brow. Viserys, for his part, let out a slow sigh, though he did not intervene.

Jason, to his credit, did not flinch. Instead, his green eyes gleamed with something sharper, something entertained rather than insulted. “Or, princess,” he countered, “perhaps I simply value the things that are rarest.” His hand remained outstretched, unwavering. “And you are the rarest woman in this hall.”

Daemon’s smirk faded slightly, his fingers tapping against his goblet. His gaze flickered to Jason’s outstretched hand before landing on you.

“Careful, Lannister,” he drawled, the sharp edge in his tone unmistakable. “You might think yourself a lion, but there are creatures far deadlier than you in this hall.”

Jason turned his head, locking eyes with Daemon. And for the first time that evening, there was no humor in his expression. “I am well aware of the dangers, my prince,” he replied smoothly. “But I do not fear them.”

A breath of silence passed between them. It was brief, but it carried weight. Jason had made his move, and Daemon was weighing whether to let him take the step forward or crush him where he stood.

You watched them both, feeling the tension coiling in the space between them. Then, with deliberate grace, you reached forward and placed your fingers lightly in Jason’s palm. His grip was firm yet careful as he helped you to your feet.

Daemon’s eyes darkened slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his goblet again and took a slow sip, though you could feel the unspoken warning in the way he watched Jason.

As the music swelled, Jason turned to you, amusement flickering back across his features. “I must say, princess,” he murmured, guiding you toward the dance floor, “you do know how to make a man work for his victories.”

You smirked, allowing yourself to be led. “Then tell me, Lord Jason,” you mused, “what makes you think this is a victory?”

His chuckle was soft but confident. “Because you’re dancing with me.”

And with that, the two of you stepped onto the floor, the world around you watching as a lion and a dragon met in a game of fire and gold.

Tyland Lannister sat back in his chair, watching with a carefully neutral expression as Jason led you onto the dance floor. The golden embroidery of his brother’s doublet caught the flickering candlelight, gleaming as he moved with a lion’s confidence, his hand resting firmly on your waist. You, however, were more difficult to read. Though you followed Jason’s lead with practiced ease, your expression remained poised, your violet eyes unreadable.

A soft scoff came from his left. “Bold of him,” muttered Ser Stafford Lannister, one of their cousins, his voice laced with amusement as he sipped at his wine. “Even bolder of her.”

Lord Alton Lannister, seated across from them, chuckled under his breath. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Jason is trying to court her right in front of the entire court.” He swirled his goblet, his gaze flickering between the dancers and Tyland. “Should we expect a royal announcement soon, Tyland? Perhaps to a princess of Valyrian blood?”

Tyland exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. “If that were Jason’s goal, he should have chosen a safer conquest,” he remarked dryly. “Daemon Targaryen is not a man who takes kindly to men sniffing around his blood.”

Ser Stafford snorted. “Daemon doesn’t take kindly to anyone. And yet Jason dances with his daughter without a sword between them. That must count for something.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered back to the dance floor. Daemon was watching from the royal dais, his fingers tapping against the stem of his goblet. The smirk on his face did little to hide the sharp edge beneath it. He was letting Jason dance with you—but how much further he would let things go was another matter entirely.

“You can’t deny she’s a prize,” Alton continued, leaning forward with interest. “Look at her. She walks like a queen, and gods, that dragon of hers—Haelle. That alone makes her the most dangerous woman in the realm.”

“She is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen,” Tyland said, taking a measured sip of his wine. “Dangerous is in her blood.”

“Exactly,” Stafford said, shaking his head with a small grin. “And Jason, the reckless fool, is dancing straight into the fire.”

Tyland sighed, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied his brother’s movements. Jason was a master of charm, that much was undeniable, but you… you were different from the women who usually fell so easily under his spell. You held yourself with an authority that even Rhaenyra, the realm’s heir, could not match. There was something in the way you looked at Jason—not with shyness or demure flirtation, but with the same calculating assessment one might give a potential adversary.

And yet, you danced with him.

“She’s testing him,” Tyland murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Alton turned his head. “Hmm?”

“The princess,” Tyland elaborated. “She’s seeing how far Jason will go before he realizes she’s the one holding the leash.”

Stafford chuckled. “And what happens when he finds out?”

Tyland took another sip of his wine, watching as you leaned in slightly, murmuring something into Jason’s ear. Whatever you said made his brother grin, though there was a flicker of something else behind it—surprise, perhaps. Maybe even intrigue.

“He’ll keep playing,” Tyland said finally. “Because he won’t believe he can lose.”

Alton smirked. “And do you believe he will?”

Tyland’s gaze remained locked on the dance floor, watching as Jason twirled you, your silver hair catching the candlelight like molten starlight. The entire hall watched you—some entertained, others wary, but none indifferent.

The game had begun in earnest.

And Tyland, for all his caution, wasn’t sure if his brother realized just how dangerous his opponent truly was.

The dance between you and Jason was a slow, deliberate thing. Each step, each turn, each brush of his hand against your waist was performed under the scrutiny of the entire court. The Great Hall was alive with music, the lively melody filling the space, yet there was a tension beneath it—a quiet, anticipatory hum that carried through the crowd as they watched a lion and a dragon circle one another.

Jason led with confidence, his grip firm but not overpowering, his movements practiced and smooth. He was a man who knew his own appeal, who had likely charmed many a woman with his easy smile and golden tongue. But you were no wide-eyed lady from the Westerlands, no soft-spoken courtly maiden easily swayed by flattery and gallant words. You moved with effortless grace, matching his every step, a silent reminder that he did not lead this dance alone.

Jason leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke. “I must admit, princess, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage.”

You arched a delicate brow, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. “How so, my lord?”

His lips curled into a smirk, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You spoke of my betrothal negotiations as though you were seated at the table yourself. I find that rather intriguing.”

You allowed yourself a slow, knowing smile. “Only a fool would return here without learning everything about this den of vipers.”

Jason let out a short, surprised chuckle. “Vipers, is it? And here I thought you might still see this court as home.”

Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested in his grasp. “Home,” you mused, letting the word roll off your tongue as if testing its weight. “Such a delicate thing. So easily turned into a cage if one is not careful.”

Jason hummed in thought, his grip on your waist pressing slightly firmer as he spun you, your silken skirts fanning out in a swirl of deep crimson and black. The movement was effortless, controlled. He was good at this—dancing, charming, making women feel as though the world revolved around him.

But you knew better.

“I wonder,” Jason mused, his voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “What else did you learn, princess? Do I have other secrets I should be concerned about?”

You tilted your head, watching him through half-lidded eyes as you allowed a playful smirk to grace your lips. “That depends. Should I be concerned about how many women’s fathers you have sat across from, promising them the honor of being Lady of Casterly Rock?”

Jason barked a quiet laugh, his grip on you tightening for a fraction of a second. “Now that is an unfair assessment,” he mused. “It is not as though I am in the habit of making such promises. Just one or two… perhaps three.”

You smirked, tilting your chin up as you let him guide you through another turn. “How noble.”

“I am nothing if not honorable,” Jason quipped, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, the sharp gleam in your violet eyes never dimming. “And yet, despite all this honor, here you are,” you murmured, your voice as smooth as silk. “Dancing with a woman who is not among those negotiations.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “I am an opportunist, my princess. It would be a crime to let such a moment slip away.”

You studied him for a long moment, the dance moving through another slow, deliberate step. His confidence was unwavering, his charm effortless. But there was something else beneath it—curiosity, perhaps even fascination. He had danced with many, of that you were certain, but you were something different.

You leaned in just enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me, Lord Jason, do you dance with all the women you court so publicly?”

Jason’s breath hitched for the briefest moment before he recovered, his smirk sharpening. “Only the ones who make my blood run hot.”

Your smile was slow, calculated. “How fortunate, then, that I am not in the market for a husband.”

Jason chuckled, his fingers pressing against your lower back as he guided you into another turn. “A tragedy, truly,” he said smoothly, though his voice held a thread of something more—something bordering on chaellenge.

You did not respond immediately, letting the music fill the brief silence between you as the two of you moved in perfect sync. Around the hall, whispers floated between courtiers, lords and ladies speculating, watching, assessing.

You knew what they saw.

A lion circling a dragon.

Jason, ever the confident rogue, thought himself the predator in this game. But you could see it now, in the way his grip tightened just slightly when your body brushed against his, in the way his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to intrigue. He had entered this dance thinking to seduce a princess.

Instead, he was the one being ensnared.

And gods, he was enjoying it.

As the final notes of the melody rang through the Great Hall, the dance drew to a close. Jason's grip remained firm for a moment longer than necessary, his fingers warm against your waist, as if reluctant to let you go. But you had already decided the game would not be his to control.

With a graceful step back, you withdrew from him, dipping your head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “A fine dance, my lord,” you murmured, your voice smooth as silk, deliberately impersonal despite the intensity of your earlier exchange.

Jason smirked, sensing the shift in your demeanor. You were retreating before he could press his advantage further. Clever girl.

“The pleasure was mine, princess,” he replied, his tone laced with amusement.

You turned before he could say more, stepping away from the golden lion and back into the sea of onlookers. And that was when the court descended upon you.

Like vultures drawn to fresh meat, lords and ladies swarmed, eager to claim a moment of your attention. Some came with flowery compliments, others with thinly veiled curiosity, their eyes hungry for any morsel of information about you.

“It has been far too long since we have seen you at court, Princess Y/N.”

“You dance as if the gods themselves had shaped you for it.”

“Your father must be proud to have raised such a striking lady.”

Questions came next, wrapped in silk but cutting as Valyrian steel.

“What has brought you back to King’s Landing?”

“Do you intend to remain at court?”

“Has His Grace spoken of a match for you yet?”

The last question was the one whispered most eagerly, rippling through the gathered nobles like a slow-burning ember. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The game of marriage, alliances, and power. A dragon returned to the Red Keep was no small thing, and they all wanted to know where you would fall on the board.

You answered them with practiced ease, offering smiles without true promises, words with just enough weight to keep them wanting more. You had spent years away from court, but the game had not changed. If anything, you had learned it better than ever.

Jason Lannister strode back toward his seat, his smirk wider than ever. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, the way your body had moved with his. He poured himself another cup of Arbor gold, feeling the eyes of his kin on him.

“Well?” Alton Lannister asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Shall we expect a royal announcement soon, Jason? Or did she turn you into cinders?”

Jason let out a rich chuckle, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “I’d say I handled myself rather well,” he said smugly, taking a deep sip of his wine. “She did not burn me, nor did she bite. That, dear cousins, is a victory.”

Ser Stafford scoffed, shaking his head. “A victory? You think one dance is a conquest?”

Jason leaned back, grinning. “One dance is the start of many things. She did not deny me, did she?” He gestured toward the court, where you stood amidst the nobles, captivating the entire hall. “They may all be circling her now, but I had her first.”

Tyland, who had remained quiet during Jason’s boasting, exhaled sharply before finally speaking. “You’re a fool.”

Jason turned his head, raising an amused brow. “Oh?”

Tyland’s expression was tight, his hands clasped before him as he leaned slightly forward. “Daemon Targaryen was watching you like a hawk the entire time. If you truly think he will let you dance with his daughter freely, you’re more arrogant than I thought.”

Jason chuckled, clearly unbothered. “Daemon is many things, but he is not blind. He knows what his daughter is—she’s a prize, and he knows men will seek her. What better man than a Lannister?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened. “You’re playing with fire, Jason.”

Jason merely smirked, swirling his wine. “I rather like the heat.”

Tyland let out a sharp breath, his patience thinning. “You do not understand what you’re dealing with,” he said, voice low and edged with warning. “She’s her father’s daughter through and through. If you think you can win her with empty flattery and boasts, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying his brother. Then, to Tyland’s irritation, his smirk only widened.

“Is that what’s bothering you, little brother?” Jason drawled, his tone mockingly thoughtful. “You’re jealous because you didn’t have the courage to approach her first?”

Tyland’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the goblet before he set it down with deliberate force. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Jason chuckled, leaning closer. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You watched her just as much as I did. And yet, I was the one who walked up to her. I was the one who danced with her while the whole court watched. You? You sat here and brooded like a scolded child.”

Tyland’s nostrils flared, but his face remained composed, his eyes cold as steel. “I am cautious,” he corrected. “Something you seem to lack entirely.”

Jason grinned. “And where has caution ever gotten you, brother? Sitting at council meetings while the rest of us play the real game?” He took another sip of his wine, shaking his head. “You’re always so careful, Tyland. So restrained. But tell me, how long will you sit on the sidelines while I enjoy the spoils?”

Tyland said nothing, but the look in his eyes was dark and unreadable.

Jason laughed, slapping his brother’s shoulder before leaning back in his chair. “Ah, don’t sulk. There are plenty of ladies in court who’d welcome your attention.” He tilted his head toward you, watching as you effortlessly navigated the growing circle of nobles vying for your favor. “But that one? She’s mine.”

Tyland didn’t respond. He simply reached for his wine and took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. But something in his grip, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, told Jason that his words had struck their mark.

And that, perhaps, his younger brother was not as unaffected as he wished to appear.

Meanwhile, during the dance

The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight, laughter, and the hum of conversation as the wedding feast carried on. At the center of it all, King Viserys I Targaryen reclined in his seat at the royal dais, watching the court dance and revel. The unease that had settled over their table when Daemon arrived with you had lessened now that you had stepped away, but a shadow still lingered over his features.

Beside him, Queen Alicent sat stiffly, her green gown immaculate, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze flickered between Viserys and the court below. On the dance floor, Rhaenyra and Laenor moved gracefully in tandem, their laughter light and effortless, as if for one night, at least, they could play the part expected of them.

Daemon, lounging in his seat across from them, swirled his wine lazily in his goblet, his expression unreadable. His presence was as unwelcome as ever, but he looked utterly unbothered by it, his smirk never quite fading.

Viserys exhaled slowly, setting down his goblet. The weight of the crown felt heavier than usual tonight. With you away from the table, he finally allowed himself to speak more freely.

“She looks just like her mother,” he muttered, almost to himself, as his eyes followed you amidst the courtiers.

Daemon’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

Viserys glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I have not seen that face in years, and now… it’s as if Daena walks among us again.”

A muscle ticked in Daemon’s jaw. He brought his goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering. “She is her own woman, brother.”

“Perhaps,” Viserys allowed, though his voice remained distant, thoughtful. His eyes traced your movements through the hall, watching as lords and ladies swarmed around you, eager for a moment of your time. “She was meant to be my daughter’s sister by marriage,” he mused. “A match for the son Aemma and I never had.”

Daemon scoffed softly, swirling his wine. “And if Aemma had birthed a boy, do you truly think he would have been worthy of her?”

Viserys turned sharply at that, his expression darkening. “That was the plan.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, smirking again. “Plans change.”

Alicent, silent until now, finally spoke, her voice measured but firm. “The princess has returned to court,” she said carefully. “Surely, Your Grace should consider her future—what will become of her?”

Viserys rubbed a hand over his brow. “She has just arrived, Alicent. Must we already speak of alliances?”

“Is it not prudent?” Alicent replied, ever the queen, ever practical. “She is a woman grown. And a princess of your blood. If her hand is left unclaimed, lords will fight for it soon enough.”

Daemon smirked, turning toward her with something dangerously close to amusement. “Is that concern I hear in your voice, good-sister?”

Alicent’s fingers tightened around her goblet. “I merely think the matter should not be ignored.”

Viserys sighed, watching you again as Jason Lannister spun you in a graceful turn. He could see the murmurs it was causing, the way the court whispered at the sight of a golden lion dancing with a dragon.

Daemon followed his gaze, his smirk deepening. “The Lannister seems eager,” he mused. “Would you have her as Lady of Casterly Rock, brother?”

Viserys frowned. “Jason Lannister is a braggart.”

“He is a powerful braggart,” Alicent interjected. “And wealthy.”

Daemon chuckled. “Oh, now this is amusing. Tell me, Alicent, do you think a Lannister would know how to handle her?” His voice was full of wicked amusement, and something else—something sharper.

Alicent stiffened at his tone. “It is not a matter of ‘handling’ her, Prince Daemon. It is a matter of what is best for the realm.”

Daemon scoffed, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “What’s best for the realm?” He gestured toward the dance floor, where Jason was clearly reveling in his own success, his confidence growing with every turn of the dance. “Tell me, then. Would you see her given to a man whose greatest skill is pouring gold over his problems?”

Viserys exhaled sharply. “Enough.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, watching his brother carefully. “Then tell me, brother—what is your plan for her?”

Viserys did not answer right away. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, his gaze heavy as he studied you once more. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted at last. “But she is my niece, and she deserves a choice.”

Daemon’s smirk was slow, knowing. “A choice, you say? How generous.”

Alicent’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in her posture, the way she held herself, that spoke of unease.

“She is a woman grown,” she said again. “And no woman of noble birth has complete choice.”

Daemon leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his gaze locked on hers. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning. “Daemon, must you always—”

“I’m merely stating the truth, brother.” Daemon’s voice was light, but his eyes were cold as steel. “We all make sacrifices, do we not?”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Finally, Viserys exhaled, turning his attention fully back to the scene before them. The music was changing, signaling the end of the dance. Jason Lannister, looking immensely pleased with himself, was guiding you back toward the gathered nobility, where the next wave of suitors waited eagerly for their chance to approach.

The sight made Viserys feel… uneasy.

“She is the last of Daena’s blood,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She deserves more than to be a prize to be won.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading for the briefest moment. “Then let her decide, brother.”

Viserys sighed again, rubbing a hand down his face. “I will speak to her.”

Daemon smirked. “Do that.”

Alicent sipped her wine in silence, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before she turned her attention elsewhere.

And so, the night continued, but in the shadows of the revelry, the pieces of a greater game had already begun to shift.

The morning sun bathed the Red Keep in golden light, cutting through the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. The Great Hall was quiet now, the last traces of spilled wine and crushed flower petals having been swept away by servants at dawn. Yet, in the lingering hush of the castle, whispers of the wedding feast remained, carried in the murmurs of courtiers and the amused glances exchanged in the corridors.

You had taken refuge on one of the open balconies overlooking the courtyard, reclining lazily against the carved stone railing. The air was warm but pleasant, a soft breeze lifting strands of your silver hair as you gazed at the sprawling city below. King’s Landing was loud, restless, always teeming with life—but from up here, it all seemed small, distant.

The events of the previous night had left you amused, entertained even, but not surprised. The court had flocked to you as expected, eager to assess, to charm, to scheme. Jason Lannister had danced with you beneath the watchful eyes of the realm, playing his game with all the confidence of a man accustomed to winning. And yet, even he had sensed that the victory was not his alone to claim.

A sudden clack of boots against the stone floor drew your attention, the measured rhythm cutting through the quiet. You turned your head slightly, expecting yet another bold lord eager to test his luck.

And then, you sighed.

“Of course,” you muttered, tilting your head as you watched the approaching figure. “There’s another one.”

Tyland Lannister came to a slow stop, his expression betraying nothing as he studied you. Unlike his brother, he did not smirk, did not grin like a man too confident in his own charm. His stance was relaxed, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

He inclined his head slightly. “Princess.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “I should have known House Lannister only moves in pairs.”

Tyland exhaled a quiet chuckle, stepping closer but maintaining a respectable distance. “An unfortunate reputation, I admit.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a level gaze. “Though I’d wager most would consider twice the attention from our house a compliment.”

You gave him a slow, assessing glance. “Would they?”

He did not answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his presence feel intentional rather than coincidental. Then, with the same calmness, he spoke again.

“Tyland Lannister,” he said smoothly. “In case you tire of calling me ‘another one.’”

Your smirk deepened. “And I suppose you are here to make your own attempt at charming me?”

His expression did not shift, nor did he reach for dramatics the way Jason would have. Instead, he merely gave a small shrug, as if the matter was of no true consequence. “Would you like me to?”

That was… unexpected.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, intrigued. Unlike his brother, Tyland did not seek to overwhelm with wit or flair. His confidence was quieter, subtler, a blade hidden beneath silk rather than one displayed openly for admiration. He was not playing Jason’s game. He was playing his own.

Interesting.

You leaned back against the railing, tilting your head. “And if I said no?”

Tyland didn’t hesitate. “Then I would simply continue on my way to the council chamber.”

Your smirk did not fade. “How dutiful.”

“I try,” he said, though there was a flicker of something behind his words.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “Two Lannister brothers,” you mused. “One comes to me with theatrics and golden smiles. The other appears as though he could take or leave the interaction entirely.” Your violet eyes gleamed with amusement. “Tell me, Lord Tyland, which approach do you think is more effective?”

Tyland studied you for a moment, his gaze steady. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped forward, close enough that the space between you was no longer so impersonal.

“I suppose that depends,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Would you rather be chased, princess?”

You arched a brow, your fingers tapping idly against the stone railing. “Is that what Jason was doing last night?”

Tyland’s lips quirked slightly. “Jason is… determined. But determination does not always yield success.”

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting your chin up slightly. “And you? Are you determined?”

He watched you carefully. “Not in the way my brother is.”

Your smirk deepened. “How fortunate. I was beginning to wonder if I should expect a marriage proposal before midday.”

Tyland let out a quiet breath of amusement, but he did not press further. His restraint was noticeable—calculated, even. Jason had filled the air with words, but Tyland allowed the silence to breathe, his presence speaking for itself.

You watched him for a moment, then let your gaze flick toward the corridor leading to the council chamber. “You should be going, should you not?”

His head tilted slightly. “Are you dismissing me, princess?”

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “No, my lord. I am simply wondering how long you plan to stand here, feigning indifference while ensuring I remember your name.”

Tyland’s expression remained unreadable, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his green eyes.

“A fair observation,” he admitted. “Perhaps I should take my leave before I become predictable.”

You leaned slightly closer, your voice barely above a murmur. “It is far too late for that.”

For the first time, Tyland’s lips twitched in something that almost resembled a real smile.

He inclined his head. “Until next time, princess.”

And with that, he stepped away, his movements as measured as before, as if the interaction had been nothing more than an afterthought.

But as you watched him go, your smirk did not fade.

Unlike Jason, Tyland had not sought to impress you.

And that, you thought, might have been his most impressive move of all.

[visenya-targarye]

it's always a lannister beefing with a child

(honorable mention)

[quixoticclown]

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

[lmaowh-at]

They put the slay in kin(g)slaying

[hylora]

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

[oananovicov]

Jaimie of House Lannister - The Kingslayer.

[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.

[quiddling]

gay son OR thot daughter? i thought you said gay son AND thot daughter 😟

[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]

A Lion's Folly (the honest)

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

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what may come

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

The grand halls of Casterly Rock bustled with quiet efficiency as servants moved swiftly, setting the final touches for the upcoming wedding. The air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut roses, imported from the Reach, their crimson petals arranged meticulously along the golden-lined tables in the Great Hall. Candles were being placed in towering candelabras, their flames soon to illuminate the grandest feast the Westerlands had seen in years.

Jaime walked through the preparations with Bronn at his side, the sellsword looking entirely unimpressed by the extravagance.

"Remind me again why I have to be here?" Bronn drawled, arms crossed as his gaze flicked from the pristine gilded goblets being arranged to the heavy velvet banners that draped the walls. "I’m not the one getting married to a Stark.”

Jaime scoffed, running his fingers over the golden lion crest embedded into the nearest banquet table. "Because if I have to suffer through this, I see no reason why you shouldn’t."

Bronn smirked. "You’re in a right foul mood for a groom. Aren’t grooms supposed to be excited? Joyous? Dreaming about the wedding night and all that?"

Jaime shot him a glare. "Would you keep your voice down?"

Bronn chuckled, adjusting the belt at his waist. "Come now, Kingslayer. Are you telling me you’re not looking forward to it? Your blushing bride, draped in silk, waiting for you in—"

"If you wish to keep that tongue, I suggest you bite it," Jaime interrupted, his patience wearing thin.

Bronn raised his hands in mock surrender. "Touchy, touchy. Fine, let’s talk about something else—like how much bloody coin they’re spending on this farce."

Jaime’s eyes flicked toward the towering cake being constructed in one corner of the hall, layers of honeyed sponge and sugared fruit arranged so decadently it looked like something out of a song. Tywin had spared no expense, and it was clear that this wedding wasn’t just about sealing a political alliance—it was about displaying Lannister power to the entire realm.

"It’s excessive," Jaime admitted, his voice low. "Even for my father."

Bronn snorted. "Now that is saying something."

Jaime sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It’s all for show. The banners, the food, the music, the guests. Tywin doesn’t just want a wedding. He wants a spectacle. A reminder to every lord and lady in Westeros that a Lannister does not bow, does not break. That even the Starks, once his greatest enemies, are now bound to him."

Bronn exhaled, glancing around before lowering his voice. "And does the Stark girl know she’s just another jewel in his golden crown?"

Jaime clenched his jaw, his gaze drifting toward the high table where he and you would sit the next night. "She knows," he said quietly.

Bronn studied him for a moment before shaking his head. "You’ve got it bad."

Jaime turned toward him, brows furrowed. "What?"

Bronn smirked. "The way you talk about her. The way you keep looking for her in every room. You’re starting to care, Jaime."

Jaime scoffed. "I don’t—"

"Oh, save it," Bronn cut him off, waving a hand. "You might not admit it, but I see it plain as day. If this was just duty to you, you wouldn’t be brooding about it. But no, you’re actually thinking about how she feels. And that, my friend, is dangerous."

Jaime exhaled slowly, his hands tightening into fists. "It doesn’t matter how I feel. This is happening, whether either of us wants it or not."

Bronn studied him, then chuckled. "You know what I think? I think you’re more worried about what happens after the wedding than the wedding itself."

Jaime turned away, his golden hand pressing against the edge of the banquet table. He didn’t answer.

Because Bronn was right.

It wasn’t the vows, the feast, or even the spectacle that troubled him.

It was the uncertainty of what came next.

Would you ever accept this union? Would you ever forgive him for all that had been taken from you? For all the pain his family had caused yours?

And, more unsettling than all of that, why did he care so much about the answer?

Bronn clapped him on the shoulder, snapping him from his thoughts. "Well, good luck with that. I’ll be drinking through the whole thing, if you need me."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Of course you will."

As the final preparations continued, Jaime lingered for a moment longer, staring at the grand hall before him.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

For better or worse.

The corridors of Casterly Rock were eerily quiet as Jaime made his way toward your chambers. The great fortress, usually filled with the sounds of servants and courtiers, felt heavier tonight, as if it, too, was bracing for what was to come. He had spent the day overseeing the final preparations for the wedding, had endured Bronn’s mocking, Tywin’s scrutiny, and the suffocating weight of expectation.

Yet, despite it all, he found himself here.

He had told himself it was only to ensure that you were prepared for tomorrow, that he was fulfilling his duty as your betrothed. But deep down, he knew better. He had been thinking about you all day, about the way you had been so quiet since their arrival, the way your sharp retorts had lessened, the way you had withdrawn more and more into yourself.

He knocked lightly before stepping inside, finding you standing near the window, your arms wrapped around yourself as you gazed out over the darkened sea. You didn’t turn at his entrance, but he could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers dug into the fabric of your sleeves.

“You’ll be my wife tomorrow,” Jaime said lightly, trying to inject a bit of humor into his tone as he closed the door behind him. “Are you ready to wear Lannister colors at last?”

You exhaled, but it wasn’t a laugh. It was something closer to resignation.

Jaime frowned, stepping closer. “Y/N?”

Still, you didn’t look at him. “It feels real now,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jaime stopped just behind you, close enough to see the way your hair moved slightly with each breath you took. “It was always real,” he said quietly.

Finally, you turned to face him, and what he saw in your eyes struck something deep within him. Fear. You were afraid. Not of him, not in the way others feared him—but of tomorrow, of what it truly meant to be bound to his house, to his family, to him.

Jaime’s hand twitched at his side before he reached out, hesitantly brushing his fingers against your arm. You didn’t pull away.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Don’t I?”

Jaime swallowed, his grip on your arm tightening just slightly. “I won’t hurt you.”

Your eyes flickered with something unreadable, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to lean into his touch—just slightly, just enough for Jaime to feel the warmth of you against his fingertips. It was the closest you had ever allowed him to be.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Jaime’s golden hand rested at his side, useless, while his other hand remained against your arm. “Neither do I.”

Your lips parted slightly, surprised by his honesty, by the rare vulnerability he was offering you. The walls between you cracked, if only for a moment.

Jaime took a deep breath. “I know you didn’t choose this,” he said slowly. “And I know that you still hate me for it.”

You said nothing, but the silence was enough.

He forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But if there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that I’ll never force anything upon you. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jaime exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

The space between you felt charged, different than before. The firelight flickered in your eyes, reflecting something fragile, something uncertain. And then, slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his.

Jaime’s breath hitched. This was more than he had ever hoped for. The warmth of your touch, however hesitant, sent something shattering through him.

And then it happened.

Something inside him snapped.

He shouldn’t tell you. He knew he shouldn’t. But as he looked at you—your fear, your uncertainty, the fragile way you had let your guard down just for him—he couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his fingers tightening around yours.

You looked up at him, searching his face. “What is it?”

Jaime inhaled sharply. “Your brother.”

Your expression shifted instantly, your body tensing. “What about him?”

Jaime clenched his jaw. “He’s riding into a trap.”

The words hung between you, heavy and undeniable.

Your breath caught, your fingers going rigid in his grasp. “What?”

Jaime exhaled shakily, bracing himself for what was to come. “Roose. My father. They’ve already made their move. The North is going to fall, Y/N. Robb will—” He stopped himself, but you heard the unspoken words.

Your face drained of color, and suddenly, you ripped your hand from his grasp. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, you’re lying.”

Jaime’s chest tightened, his throat dry. “I wish I were.”

Your hands clenched into fists, your breath coming faster, ragged. “Why are you telling me this now? Why—why didn’t you say anything before?”

Jaime swallowed hard. “Because I didn’t know how.”

Your expression twisted with anguish, betrayal, fury. “How long have you known?”

Jaime hesitated, but you saw the truth in his eyes before he even spoke.

“Since the night we arrived.”

Your lips parted in shock. “Since—we’ve been here for days!”

Jaime stepped forward, but you recoiled.

“Y/N—”

“No!” Your voice cracked, your hands trembling. “You—you knew. And you said nothing.”

Jaime’s own chest ached at the look on your face. “I wanted to tell you. I did. But—”

“But what?” You spat, your voice shaking. “It would mean betraying your father? It would mean choosing between being a good son or doing what’s right?”

Jaime couldn’t answer. Because you were right.

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “He’s going to die,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “And you let it happen.”

Jaime’s throat tightened painfully. “I didn’t want this.”

Your eyes burned into his. “But you let it happen.”

Jaime had faced battle, had stood before kings, had endured the weight of his family’s expectations for his entire life.

But nothing had ever hurt quite like this.

He opened his mouth, desperate to say something, anything—but you turned away from him, your shoulders shaking as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

Jaime stepped forward again, hesitated—then sighed.

“Y/N,” he murmured.

“Get out.”

Jaime closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. Then, with a heavy heart, he turned and left.

The door shut behind him, but your quiet, broken sobs echoed in his mind long after he was gone.

The night air was thick with something unnamed, the silence of Casterly Rock disturbed only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. Within the courtyard, the pale silver form of Winter lay stretched across the cold stone floor of the makeshift kennel they had forced upon him. His blue eyes were open, glimmering faintly in the moonlight, his ears twitching at every distant sound.

Jaime had fought to let him roam free, but Kevan had been firm. A wolf does not belong within the Rock. They had caged him, kept him away from you. And now, he was restless.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, his thick tail twitching against the stone. He could feel it—something was wrong. His instincts clawed at him, his senses razor-sharp, his unease growing by the second.

And then, it happened.

A sudden clamor of hurried footsteps echoed from the northern walls. Raised voices, the loud ring of steel, and then—shouts.

She is running.

Winter surged up, his massive form slamming against the bars, snarling as the sounds of pursuit filled the air. His hackles rose, lips peeling back over gleaming teeth as he let out a deep, reverberating snarl.

Beyond the courtyard, torches flared to life as guards swarmed the outer halls of the castle.

“She’s escaping!”

“Find her! Now!”

Winter’s claws scraped against the stone as he pushed against the confines of his cage, his entire body tense with rage. He knew whose scent they were following. He knew who they were chasing.

And there was nothing he could do.

Outside the castle walls, your breath burned in your lungs as you sprinted through the winding paths leading toward the cliffs. The cold night air whipped against your face, your heart pounding violently against your ribs. Your boots kicked up loose gravel as you ran, the distant lights of Lannisport glittering below like a cruel promise of freedom.

But you weren’t free. Not yet.

Shouts rang out behind you, the clatter of armor growing closer.

“There! She’s heading for the lower paths!”

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to move faster. You had spent hours planning this, studying the guards’ rotations, waiting for the right moment. You knew the layout of Casterly Rock by now—knew which paths were less guarded, which tunnels could lead you down toward the port where you might be able to stow away.

But they were faster than you had expected.

You veered left, pushing through a narrow passage between jagged rocks, ignoring the sting of stone scraping against your arms. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Then—

A shadow moved ahead of you.

Too fast.

Bronn.

You barely had time to react before his arm shot out, grabbing you by the waist and spinning you around. You fought, kicking, twisting, but he was stronger, his grip like iron.

"Seven hells, girl," he grunted, wrestling against you. "You really thought you’d make it far, didn’t you?"

You hissed, slamming your elbow into his ribs. He grunted but didn’t let go. “Let me go!”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” he said, voice strained as he struggled to keep hold of you. “You’ve got a wedding tomorrow. Thought you might want to be well-rested for it.”

You thrashed against him, your breathing ragged, your body twisting with everything you had. “You bastard!”

Bronn sighed. “Look, I get it. Really, I do. But you running through the night like this? That’s just stupid.”

You growled, trying to reach for the small dagger tucked into your belt, but Bronn was quicker. He grabbed your wrist, twisting just enough to make you drop it.

“You little hellcat,” he muttered, exasperated. “If you weren’t worth so much, I’d almost be impressed.”

More guards arrived, torches lighting up the narrow path.

One of them stepped forward, panting slightly. “Shall we take her to Lord Kevan?”

Bronn shook his head. “No. Send for Jaime.”

The guard hesitated. “Lord Jaime?”

Bronn’s grip on you didn’t loosen, but his voice was firm. “Now.”

The guards exchanged glances before nodding, one of them turning to rush back toward the keep.

You were still breathing hard, your pulse a frantic drum against your throat. The realization sank in, bitter and cold.

You had failed.

Bronn sighed again, looking down at you. “You really thought you were gonna get away from here, didn’t you?”

You refused to answer, glaring at him with all the fury you could muster.

Bronn smirked. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

And so you stood there, surrounded by armed men, waiting for Jaime to arrive.

Jaime was pulled from restless sleep by the heavy pounding on his chamber doors. His mind was sluggish for only a moment before years of battle instincts kicked in, and he was out of bed in an instant. He barely had time to fasten his cloak over his nightshirt before the doors swung open, revealing one of the Lannister guards, breathless and wide-eyed.

“My lord, it’s Lady Y/N—she tried to escape.”

Jaime’s blood turned cold. “Where?”

“The cliffs below the keep. Ser Bronn caught her.”

Jaime didn’t wait for another word. He shoved past the guard and strode through the halls, his steps quickening as he made his way outside. The castle was alive with commotion now—guards murmuring, servants watching from the safety of doorways, their gazes flitting toward the path leading down to the lower courtyard.

When Jaime finally reached the scene, his chest tightened at the sight before him.

You stood there, struggling in Bronn’s grip, your hair wild from the night air, your cloak half undone as if you had barely fastened it in your rush to escape. Your face was flushed, streaked with dirt and sweat, and your eyes—your furious, broken eyes—met his the moment he stepped forward.

"Let her go," Jaime ordered, his voice sharp as steel.

Bronn hesitated for only a moment before sighing and loosening his grip. You stumbled slightly but regained your footing quickly, breathing hard, your fists clenched at your sides.

Jaime took a cautious step forward. “Are you hurt?”

Your head snapped up, fury blazing through your grief. “Don’t you dare ask me that.”

Jaime exhaled through his nose, running his left hand through his hair. “Y/N, what were you thinking?”

“I have to go,” you said quickly, desperately, taking a step forward as if you expected him to let you pass. “I have to warn Robb—he doesn’t know, Jaime. He doesn’t know what’s coming.”

Pain twisted in his chest at the sound of his name from your lips, laced with such raw emotion. But he shook his head. “I can’t let you go.”

You froze, your breath hitching. “You can’t or you won’t?”

Jaime clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “It’s the same thing.”

You shoke your head violently. “No. No, it isn’t. You promised me, Jaime. You swore you would protect him.” Your voice cracked on the last word, your body trembling from exhaustion, from anger, from grief.

“I know,” Jaime murmured, and gods, he meant it. He knew what this meant to you. He knew what he was taking from you.

“Then let me go,” you pleaded, your voice breaking entirely now. “Please, Jaime. Please.”

Jaime swallowed hard, looking at you—truly looking at you. Your eyes were brimming with tears, your shoulders shaking, your chest rising and falling with frantic, uneven breaths. He had seen you defiant. He had seen you furious. He had even seen you vulnerable. But this—this was something else.

This was heartbreak.

This was loss before it had even arrived.

Jaime took a step closer, reaching out without thinking, his fingers brushing against your arm. “If I let you go,” he said softly, “you will die.”

You let out a choked, broken sound, your whole body recoiling. “Then let me.”

Jaime’s breath caught, something deep and unmovable twisting inside him. He stepped forward fully now, reaching for you, grasping your arm before you could slip away.

You struggled. Gods, you fought—thrashing against him, your fists beating weakly against his chest, your voice a raw sob of protest. “You lied to me, Jaime! You lied! You said—you said you would—” Your words crumbled into incoherence, grief consuming them before they could be fully formed.

Jaime held on, his grip firm but gentle, letting you rail against him, letting you sob into his chest, letting you fall apart in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his chin resting against your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

But no apology would be enough. No words would take this away.

The guards shifted uncomfortably, some averting their gazes. Even Bronn—who had seen death and war and betrayal a hundred times over—seemed momentarily out of place, his usual sharp tongue silenced by the rawness of what lay before him.

And still, Jaime held you, feeling every tremor in your body, every shattered breath.

In this moment, he wished he had never been born a Lannister.

He wished he could undo something.

But he couldn’t.

And so, he simply held on.

The walk back to your chambers was silent.

Jaime kept his grip on you firm but not forceful, his fingers wrapped around your wrist as he guided you through the cold, empty halls of Casterly Rock. Your body had stopped trembling, the sobs had quieted, but the silence was worse.

You had given up.

You didn’t try to break free. You didn’t fight him. You just walked beside him, unseeing, unfeeling, your gaze fixed on some distant point only you could see.

Jaime hated it.

He had seen you burn with fury, had watched you stand against men twice your size with nothing but your will and your tongue to protect you. He had watched you defy kings and lords alike, had heard the bite in your voice when you swore to see your family safe.

But now?

Now you were hollow.

And it was his fault.

As they turned a corner, Kevan Lannister emerged from an adjoining hall, his expression carefully neutral as his gaze flickered from Jaime to you, then back again. He exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“So, she tried to run,” he said simply.

Jaime’s grip on your wrist tightened slightly, a silent warning for Kevan to hold his tongue. “It’s been handled.”

Kevan studied you for a long moment. “Has it?”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. “She won’t try again.”

Kevan hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze lingered on you. “She’s a Stark,” he murmured. “And a wolf will always try to escape its cage.”

Jaime stiffened. He knew it was true, but hearing it aloud made something twist inside him.

Kevan sighed, stepping aside. “Your father will hear of this.”

Jaime averted his gaze, leading you past his uncle without another word.

When you finally reached your chambers, Jaime pushed open the doors, guiding you inside before closing them behind him.

The room was as it had been—grand, lavish, a place fit for the Lady of Casterly Rock. But to you, it might as well have been a prison cell.

You moved like a ghost, stepping further inside without a word, your arms wrapping around yourself. You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t speak.

Jaime lingered by the door, watching you, struggling with what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, but it was empty, bitter. “You keep saying that.”

Jaime sighed, stepping closer. “Because I mean it.”

You turned then, your eyes red-rimmed, your expression unreadable. “Then do something about it.”

Jaime when numb.

He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to.

But he couldn’t.

And you knew that.

Your eyes flickered with something—anger, despair, something raw and unguarded. Then, just as quickly, you turned away again.

Jaime felt something snap inside him again.

Before he could stop himself, before he could think, he closed the distance between you in three quick strides, his hand reaching for your arm.

You turned, startled, lips parting just as his mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned. It was a desperate, reckless thing—filled with all the words he couldn’t say, all the things he wished he could change.

For a moment, you didn’t respond. You were frozen, caught between the weight of everything that had just happened and the shocking warmth of his lips against yours.

Then, slowly, your hands came up, pressing against his chest.

Jaime’s grip on you tightened.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

All he knew was that he needed to reach you.

To feel something other than the hollow ache in his chest.

To give you something—anything—to hold onto.

And for the briefest moment, you let him.

Your lips moved against his, hesitant, unsure. Your fingers curled slightly against his tunic, not pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either.

It was enough.

It was everything.

Then, as quickly as it started, you broke away.

Jaime’s breath was heavy, his forehead nearly resting against yours, his hands still holding you as if letting go would shatter whatever fragile thing had just passed between you.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t.”

Jaime swallowed, his heart hammering.

Neither could he.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting to.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released you, stepping back just enough to give you space.

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and for a moment, there was something in your eyes that he couldn’t name.

Then, softly, you whispered, “Goodnight, Jaime.”

Jaime closed his eyes for a brief moment before nodding.

And then, without another word, he left.

The door shut behind him, but his heart remained in that room with you.

The halls of Casterly Rock felt suffocating. The air, thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, seemed to press down on Jaime’s shoulders as he walked aimlessly through the dimly lit corridors. He had no destination, no purpose—only the weight of your words still lingering in his chest.

I can’t.

He ran a hand through his hair as he descended a flight of stairs that led out into the open-air courtyard. The night air was cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that still clung to him from your touch.

Jaime clenched his jaw, trying to push the memory of the kiss from his mind. It had been a mistake. A moment of weakness. A desperate attempt to reach something that was never his to begin with.

But gods, he couldn’t shake the way you had felt against him.

He wandered past the stone pathways leading toward the gardens, his footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet night. He had hoped the solitude would clear his head, but the turmoil within him only deepened.

Then, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Well, well. That’s one way to spend the rest of night before your wedding.”

Jaime sighed heavily, turning to find Bronn leaning lazily against a low wall, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

The sellsword pushed off the stone, sauntering toward Jaime with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep, or what's left of it? Big day tomorrow, after all.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Not in the mood, Bronn.”

Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Jaime exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking up at the night sky. “I just needed some air.”

Bronn snorted. “Air, is it? That what we’re calling it now?”

Jaime shot him a glare. “Don’t start.”

Bronn grinned, stepping closer. “Oh, I am starting. Because you look like a man who just had his guts ripped out and is trying very hard to pretend he didn’t feel a thing.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

Bronn studied him for a moment before his smirk deepened. “You told her, didn’t you?”

Jaime’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Told her what?”

Bronn rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t play stupid with me. You told her about the boy, didn’t you? About what your father and Bolton have planned.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the stone beneath his feet. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bronn let out a low whistle. “Hells. You really have it bad.”

Jaime snapped his head up. “Shut up, Bronn.”

Bronn only grinned wider. “You know, for all the time I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this—what’s the word? Lost.”

Jaime’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I am not lost.”

Bronn shrugged. “Then what are you?”

Jaime opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Bronn chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

Jaime exhaled sharply, turning away, staring out toward the distant sea. “She was going to run.”

Bronn leaned against the wall again. “I figured that when she tried to stab me.”

“She begged me to let her go.”

Bronn’s smirk faded slightly. “I was there. I heared. And you didn’t.”

Jaime let out a humorless chuckle. “Of course I didn’t.”

Bronn tilted his head. “And that’s what’s eating at you, isn’t it? Because for the first time in your life, you actually want to do the right thing, but you don’t know how.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched.

Bronn sighed, straightening up. “Look, I’m not one for sentiment, but I’ll tell you this—if you’re waiting for the perfect moment to choose between your father and her, it’s never going to come.”

Jaime glanced at him warily. “And what do you suggest?”

Bronn grinned. “I suggest you figure out exactly what you’re willing to lose, and then make your choice before it’s made for you.”

Jaime scoffed, shaking his head. “You sound like a bloody maester.”

Bronn clapped a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, even a sellsword knows when a man’s about to walk straight into a battlefield with no armor.”

Jaime shoke his head, but Bronn was already turning away.

“Get some rest, Kingslayer,” Bronn called over his shoulder. “You’ve got a wedding to survive.”

Jaime stood there for a long time after Bronn had gone, the weight of his words sinking deep into his bones.

Figure out what you’re willing to lose.

Jaime already knew the answer.

The problem was, he didn’t know if he had the strength to do anything about it.

[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

[maiapoetica]

[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

[tarokki06]

Queen Cersei and the (king)slayer (?