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feyhunter78 · 1 month

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Chapter Fifteen - Your aunt has news, and you find you quite like the taste of blood on your fangs. Ch 16

The air finally returns to your lungs when Tommen proclaims Jon a Dayne, trueborn, of noble linage. You had been waiting, anxious, your nerves on edge, since Ser Arthur and Jon entered the hall, but now, now you feel yourself calming.

Your Uncle Jaime looks as if he will be sick, and as Jon makes his way towards you, your uncle makes his way toward Ser Arthur. You knew the older man was something of a mentor to your uncle, that he revered the man, and you know not how this new knowledge will truly sit with your uncle.

“My Lady.” Jon says, taking your hand in his and pressing it to his lips, a beautiful smile on them, his touch lingering a moment too long as judged by your aunt’s sharp cough.

“Lord Dayne.” You say, returning his smile. There is a new confidence in his eyes, the violet hues peeking through the gray, like amethysts within stone.

“Lord Dayne, my congratulations.” Margaery says as she makes her way out of the hall, throwing you a quick smile.

“Thank you, My Queen.” Jon says, bowing his head.

Your Aunt Cersei takes your hand from Jon’s. “Lord or not, you are still her sworn sword not her suitor, it would do you well to treat your charge with the respect of her station.”

You purse your lips but say nothing in retaliation, simply smiling up at your aunt. “You must excuse us, dear Aunt, we were simply caught up in the excitement. It is similar to how Uncle Jaime names you Queen of Love and Beauty each time he wins a tourney.”

Your aunt’s face becomes unreadable, and she turns on her heel, storming away.

Jon offers you his arm. “Shall we talk a walk through the gardens, Lady Lannister?”

You take his arm, ignoring the stares of the others as you lean ever so slightly into him. “That sounds delightful, Lord Dayne.”

You find yourselves sitting on the large flat rim of a fountain, water spurting from the mouths of various animals, flower petals floating peacefully atop the water collected within the basin. You trail your fingers through the water, the cool sensation feeling quite pleasant as you release a deep breath, your face tilted up towards the sun.

“How does it feel to be a true Dayne?” You ask Jon, your eyes closed against the bright light of the sun.

“Is it strange if I say I do not feel any different? People still stare, they surely will still whisper.”

“It has not even been a day Jon, allow the news to travel, soon dozens of young ladies will be vying for your hand.” You tell him, a soft smile on your face when you feel his fingertips ghost over the apples of your cheek.

He laughs softly. “They shall be sorely disappointed then, for my hand has already been taken.”

“They shall be.” You agree, opening your eyes and tilting your face towards Jon. There is no one here, no one is looking, it would be so easy, so simple to lean forward and kiss him.

“Y/N…we should not, someone might see.” He says, reading the look in your eye even as his own drift down to your lips.

You nod, even as you lean forward ever so slightly on your hand, your lips a hairsbreadth from Jon’s. “We should not, and yet…”

“And yet I find myself quite compelled.” He breathes, closing the distance, his lips soft against yours, a blissful moment before he pulls back.

You give him a confused look, but he nods towards his direwolf. Ghost’s ears have perked up, his ruby eyes turned towards the far entrance of the garden.

You scoot away from him, clasping your hands in your lap, as Jon stands, his arms behind his back.

Then Ghost darts forward, quick as a whip, a crunching sound makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, fills the air, then the direwolf trots back over, dropping a squirrel at Jon’s feet.

You cover your mouth to stifle your laughter, and Jon groans. “Ghost, why?”

Ghost simply nudges at the squirrel with his nose.

“I think he wants you to throw it, like the ball Tommen throws for his kittens.” You snicker.

“I will do no such thing.” Jon says.

Ghost whines and Jon sighs, shaking his head.

“Go on Ghost, your master will not play with you, might as well eat your kill.” You coo at him.

Ghost picks the squirrel up and trots a few feet away before he begins to eat, nearly swallowing it whole.

“You spoil him.” Jon remarks, taking a seat beside you once more.

“How can I not?”

“It is quite simple, you simply do not. ”

You roll your eyes. “Ah yes, I did not think of that, what a brilliant suggestion.”

You wish you had not encouraged Ghost to eat that squirrel because now you wished him to eat a rat instead.

“My dear, Lady Jayne Westerling, told me what she saw. That Jon had you pinned against the wall like a barbarian.” Your Aunt Cersei says, her voice laid thick with faux sympathy and concern.

“Jayne Westerling is nothing but a bored little girl with no spine, or mind of her own. Clearly this is the work of our enemies, seeking to drag down the reputation of House Lannister.” You say, keeping your expression neutral as your aunt taught you, though you were unable to keep the venom from leaking into your tone.

You are glad Jon had gone to visit with his father, he would tear himself apart with guilt hearing your aunt’s words.

“Many say she is sweet, if not a bit dull, certainly not a liar.” Your aunt says, looking up at you from her place at the table. It is small, round, set in the solar she inhabits while you all remain at Highgarden.

You grip the back of your chair, still not yet sitting as she had bid you to when you entered. “And I am?”

She smiles, it is supposed to be gentle, ones she directed at Sansa when her marriage to Joffrey still remained on the table. “No, no, but you are protective of him, and I understand. You care for him, but y/n you cannot care for him over yourself, that is foolishness.”

“Listening to Jayne Westerling is foolishness. ” You snap, keeping your head held high. “And I thought you smarter than that. A useless daughter of one of our bannermen is attempting to slander our name, she must be punished.”

Your aunt’s smile turns sharp, a lioness bearing her fangs proudly. “You will be the lady of a great house someday soon; I have taught you to deal with slanderous servants, have I not?” There is blood dripping from her fangs, her claws.

It ignites the bloodlust within you, and you smile, bearing your own set of fangs. “You have.”

“Then I trust you to deal with this Westerling waif.” An indirect order from the leader of the pride, one that sets you into motion, stalking down the halls until you find Jayne.

You can almost laugh, Jayne has found herself with Jon somehow, standing, flirting with him in the gardens, Tommen and Margaery at a table in the far corner enjoying pastries with Margaery’s grandmother.

Jon sees you first, gratefully breaking away from Jayne. “My Lady, you should have sent a servant to fetch me once you had finished speaking with your aunt.”

You go to respond, but Jayne beats you to it. “I am sure the Dowager Queen advised her to keep her distance, a shame she has not followed such wise advice.” The look in her eyes, and the disgusted wrinkle of her nose, is not well hidden, and you nearly laugh at the sight.

“Yes, well, I simply reassured my aunt that she should not believe such slanderous lies.” You say coolly, looking down at Jayne.

“Is it slander if I merely repeat what I saw with my own eyes?” She asks innocently, batting her eyelashes at Jon, as if he too was not implicated in the deed she spoke of.

You take a step forward, a sickeningly sweet smile on your face. “You saw nothing, a trick of the light perhaps, and it does you no good to run around spreading lies about your liege lord’s family.”

“I do not lie.” Jayne snaps. “I saw you, pressed up against the wall like a common whore.”

Your eyes narrow. “You speak of a Lannister, to a Lannister, you will watch your tongue you little chit.”

Jayne smirks. “It is not my fault you could not rein in your lust; it must run in the family. You, the Dowager Queen, King Joffrey, the Kingslayer, all horrid and perverse, tell me is it true that while in Winterfell you let Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy take turns with you before you let the bastard into your bed?”

You taste blood on your tongue and lunge, grabbing at her hair, your fist connecting with her cheekbones. “You bitch, I will have your head for those words.”

She screams but tries to kick at you, hands flailing wildly. “Lord Dayne, help me!”

“He is mine, he will not help you.” You snarl, twisting the hair caught in your fist.

Jayne gets a hand in your hair, yanking hard, getting in one good shot. You claw at her, cursing under your breath as the fight devolves into a rabid struggle. Your rings make cuts and indents in her skin, your lip bust open and bloodied.

Your vision is red, Lannister red, bleeding royal blood, purging your mind of any doubts, any hesitations. You are a lioness, you will taste blood, you will darken your claws and fangs with it.

Then you are ripped away from Jayne by Jon and you fight against his hold as Tyrell guards rush forward to carry Jayne to a maester.

“I want her tongue ripped out for her words.” You scream after them, sounding so like your Aunt Cersei for a moment you think she has spoken the words not you.

“Y/N, please, calm, calm, you are not thinking clearly.” Jon urges, setting you down and turning you to face him.

“Vile, what she said was vile, and untrue, you must know that.” You say, trying to make him understand. The world feels as if it is spinning, a frantic, manic energy ricocheting beneath your skin.

“I know, I know my starlight, I know.” He reassures you, gently running his fingers through your tangled hair.

Your father confines you to your chambers while the maesters look over Jayne, but not without giving you a kiss on the cheek and a fond pat on the hand. Your aunt visits you next and strokes your cheek, with a small but proud smile.

Tommen visits you next, wringing his hands, he should not be having to deal with these things, not when he is so young. Guilt runs through you, washing away any lingering anger.

“Tommen I am so sorry; I should not have lost my temper.”

He shakes his head and buries his hands in his pockets. “I cannot take her tongue y/n, it is too mean, but I can send her home if that would make you feel better?”

You pull him into your arms, he is still a baby in your eyes, sweet Tommen who has never harmed anyone, who loves kittens and his family. “It will, thank you.”

He nods but does not remove himself from your embrace. “I do not think Margaery likes me very much.”

You stiffen, but smooth your hand down his back. “Why do you say that?”

“She never wishes to play with me, she spends all her time writing letters to her cousins, and she only smiles when we do things that she likes, and she likes boring things.”

You release him and sit cross-legged on your rug arranging your skirts out before beckoning Tommen to sit as well as lean his head against your shoulder, fitting himself into your side. “She is quite older than you, which you know, and that can make it difficult for her to find the enjoyment in the things you do. I do not think that means she does like you, though.”

“I see…”

You card your fingers through his hair, you wish Myrcella was here, she always knew what to say to brighten Tommen’s mood. “Is there anything else you wish to speak of?”

“I do not like being king.” He whispers, holding onto your skirts as he did when he was a toddler and wished to be everywhere you were.

“It does not seem to be much fun, but it is a great honor, and you are doing much better than Joffrey did.” You poke him in the side playfully, trying to get him to laugh.

“Do you think you could talk to grandsire and see if he will take me with him back to Casterly Rock?” Tommen asks, looking up at her with tears brimming in his eyes.

“Who would rule then, silly boy?” You ask softly, squeezing him tightly.

“Margaery is better than I at ruling, she is a good queen, she can have the throne I want to go back to the Rock and take Ser Pounce with me.”

Gods you wish it was that simple.

“I will speak with grandsire and see if we cannot spend some time in our ancestral home, once we return to King’s Landing, perhaps you and I can go together.”

Tommen nods and rubs his eyes before laying his head back down on your shoulder. “Can I sit here for a little longer?”

You rest your head atop his, wishing you could spare him this pain. “You can sit with me for as long as you would like.”

Note: Tommen is like 8-9 at this point he's a babyyy, and his life is so stresful :(

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x y/n #jon snow x you #lannister!reader #Jon Dayne #jon snow imagines

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feyhunter78 · 2 months

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I’m actually DYING for part 14 of the Dreadful Need of the Devotee, like my pain is clinical and your writing is the only thing that will cure me 🙏

No rush of course, I’m just in love with this story!! (But please, I need it badly)

I got you babe!!!! Enjoy <3

Chapter Fourteen - Ser Arthur Dayne has returned to court. Ch 15

Jon sits in Tyrion’s solar, the small table that sits between you all laden down with breakfast foods and teas. He is seated across from Tyrion, while you are seated next to Jon across from Ser Arthur, your soon-to-be good-father.

Introductions had gone well, you complimented his father, he complimented you, your betrothal was announced, and Jon had to keep himself from kissing you. The joy that radiated from you was so intense, he could not help but smile like a lovesick fool. But now, now the doubts begin to creep in.

If he had been told at the age of two and ten, he would be sitting with his soon-to-be wife a Lannister, the Imp Lannister and Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning who was also his true father, Jon would not have believed whoever spoke such things to him. Truly he would have thought them playing a cruel joke, but now he sat in that very position wondering if it would all be revealed a horrid prank. A test to see how much the bastard boy could be convinced to believe.

You place your hand atop Jon’s where it rests on his knee, your brows furrowing in concern, and he waves you off, focusing on the meal set in front of him. You and him often broke fast together, and it was not too uncommon for your father to join the both of you, but this time it was different.

“Lady y/n, your father tells me you are a talented seamstress.” His father says, cutting into his sausage, his eyes, those dark purple eyes, so like Jon’s in the right light, observe you with an oddly formal air.

“I am, in fact the tunic Jon is wearing this morn is one I made myself.” You say, gracing Jon with a smile so bright it rivals the sun, and he turns further towards you following it as crops do, ever reaching, ever seeking your warmth and light.

His father hums in acknowledgement, examining every stitch of his tunic. “It is well-made; and the embroidery is quite detailed. It is not what one would think a sworn sword would be given by his charge.”

“He is my champion, seen as an extension of myself, I would never leave my chambers in rags, or dull, dreary clothing, so why should my sworn sword?” You say, taking a sip of your tea, sizing the man up.

“An interesting perspective.” His father comments, his eyes flickering to Jon.

“I suppose so.” You respond, dabbing your mouth with your cloth napkin.

“She is also a wonderful dancer.” Jon adds, unsure of his place in the conversation. He has never before been privy to these situations, and it is both exhilarating and terrifying.

“I am only wonderful because I have such an excellent partner that allows me to keep my skills sharp.” You smile prettily at him, and he watches the mask slip into place, you are attempting to charm the father by charming the son.

“They are a most excellent pairing, even Robert before he oh so tragically passed said they would make a good couple.” Tyrion says, spreading strawberry jam onto a thick slice of bread.

If I were not a bastard. He said we would be a good match if I was not a bastard. Jon thought bitterly.

“It pains me to know my son had love within his grasp for so long and could not claim it, I would soon see that rectified.” His father says, pulling a folded letter from his pocket. “I have kept this for you, it is a signed statement from the septon that presided over your mother, and I’s wedding. It was quick, not the lavish affair I would have wished to give her, but it was true in the eyes of The Seven.”

Jon feels you lean into him, reading the letter along with him.

“I fear it will not be enough. Aunt Cersei tore up Uncle Robert’s will, what if someone does the same to this?” You ask.

“Your Uncle Robert was dead he could not defend his will, but Ser Arthur is here, in the flesh.” Tyrion says.

Jon folds the letter and returns it to his father. “When would this take place? I would like to inform my siblings; they should not hear it from strangers or gossip.”

“They know, Lord Stark told them and Lady Stark once I had confirmed Ser Arthur was alive and wished to see you.” Tyrion assures him.

Jon pokes at his eggs, the yolk running, yellow-orange liquid tainting the white outer edges. He is glad the truth is known, but will this change how they see him? Will little Arya no longer trust him, will she keep him at a distance as Sansa had now that he is revealed as an impostor, a stranger? And Robb, his brother, will he still call him by that name, will he still hold the same love for him? At least Lady Catelyn will no longer have reason to hate him, he is not proof of her husband’s indiscretions, but his love for his sister.

“Where does Jon fall in the line of succession for Starfell?” Y/N directs the question towards his father, bringing him out of his gloom-stricken thoughts. “I know Lord Edric Dayne is your eldest brother’s son, but he is still a child close to Arya’s age, and your sister does not yet have children, does this not make him third after you?”

His father smirks and leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Do you wish him to be second?”

You mimic his posture, voice deadly calm, face unreadable. “I do not condone the murder of children, even if it would catapult Jon to heir of Starfell. I was merely asking a question.”

His father laughs, the sound warm, boisterous, filling the room as he leans back in his chair. “Your father has taught you well, lioness. But yes, Jon is third, if Edric, Seven forbid, were to die then I would take the seat, and Jon would follow after me.”

“We need not worry about that though, he will be by my side at Casterly Rock, is that not right, Father?” You hold your position, eyes still on Jon’s father.

“I have not yet heard word back on our family’s succession, your grandsire still holds out hope that Jaime will leave the Kingsguard and return home.” Tyrion drawls, before taking a sip of his tea.

“But he will not, and even if he did, would it not be shameful?” You venture, stirring your own tea with the tiny spoon provided.

“We shall see what options lay before him when our new king takes the throne, he could take Jaime’s head.” Tyrion says, his eyes on his bread, he has still not taken a bite, Jon feels confident that Tyrion will not be eating this morn.

“I am sure Robb will be merciful to Uncle Jaime, perhaps he could send him to the Wall? As loathe I am to think of him being sent far away, I imagine his skills would be of good use there?” You turn to Jon for confirmation.

Jon’s stomach churns, he wishes to tell you the truth, that it matters not what Robb thinks. “Yes, they are always in need of skilled and hearty men.”

“Oh, and then we could visit him, could we not?” Again, your question is directed at him, and he fights back the bile rising in his throat. He did not like this new weight, this new secret he must keep from you.

“The Wall is a long journey, even from Winterfell.”

“No journey is too long when it comes to family.” You say, dismissing his spoken worries with a smile and a wave of your hand.

“Little lion, perhaps we save our travel plans for after the new king arrives?” Tyrion suggests, seeming unfazed by the half-truths that roll off his tongue.

“Of course, Father.” You say, giving him a smile and tucking back into your breakfast.

Jon cannot eat, he can barely swallow. He wants to tell you the truth, wants to throw you over his shoulder and run, run all the way to Winterfell and hide you there until all this chaos has subsided.

“I think a wedding in Dorne is completely out of the question Ser Arthur, do you really believe people would attend a Lannister wedding that is not held at Casterly Rock or the Red Keep?” Tyrion says, pulling him back into the conversation that had proceeded without him.

“But it is not a Lannister wedding, it is a Dayne wedding.” His father smiles, sending Jon a wink.

“My daughter is a Lannister, in the eyes of Westeros it is a Lannister wedding, and truly it must be held at Casterly Rock, gods know the Red Keep has seen enough weddings.”

“House Martell will not attend if it is at Casterly Rock, which means Myrcella will not attend.” His father reminds Tyrion.

“Father could it not be held somewhere more neutral? I so want Myrcella to be able to attend.” You ask, looking at him pleadingly.

“I am sure once the new king comes into power, the Martells will not hold the same anger towards our family as they once did.” Tyrion reassures you, reaching across the small circular table to pat your hand.

Yes, because all who they hold anger towards will be dead. Jon thinks solemnly, guilt eating him alive.

“I will trust you then.” You say, before turning to Jon’s father. “Ser Arthur, are there any marital traditions that you would like us to observed for the wedding?”

He thinks for a moment, resting his hand on his chin, the dark stubble so like Jon’s but flecked with gray. “There are none that come to my mind at the moment, but I will think on it and if any return to me, I will inform you.”

“No bedding ceremony.” Jon says, he will fight for this, not only to spare you the brutality, but as an apology for the secrets he must keep.

“I will not argue with that.” You laugh, picking up two strawberries and handing one to him as you bite into the other one.

Jon takes it from you, his teeth breaking the delicate flesh, the sweet juice tasting like ash on his tongue.

The look upon Cersei Lannister’s face when his father steps into Highgarden’s Great Hall, is enough to make Jon forget why he is even standing before the royal family. His father wears a cloak of lilac, the white sword and falling star crossed in the center proudly displayed, Dawn strapped to his side. His curls are cleaned and styled, his beard trimmed, his armor and boots shining. When he takes a knee bowing his head to Tommen, Jon does the same, feeling a flicker of excitement when their knees hit the floor at the same time. Perfect synchronicity.

“Ser Arthur?” The startled exhale of his father’s name escapes Ser Jamie’s lips before he can stop it, his conflicted expression betraying far more than simply shock. There is grief, rage, longing, and confusion all whirling within Ser Jamie’s widened emerald eyes.

“My King, I have come to ask that you legitimize my son. I have brought the parchment signed by the septon that married myself and Lady Lyanna Stark. Jon is not a snow, he is a Dayne, my trueborn and only child.”

Tommen does not move, does not speak, he looks at Margaery who has her hand in her grandmother’s.

“Let us see this parchment.” Lady Tyrell says, holding a wizened hand out.

His father rises, and Jon does as well, watching as he delivers the paper to Lady Tyrell, who shares it with Margaery.

“You were thought dead Ser Dayne, why did you not return to King's Landing to take up in the service of your new king when my husband ascended to the throne?” Cersei asks, her jade eyes alight with rage, sparking like wildfire.

“I was badly injured at the Tower of Joy and was unable to make the journey for many years.”

“Unable to make the journey and to retrieve your son, it seems.” Cersei drawls, skimming the parchment, then handing it to Ser Jaime.

Jon can see how his hands shake, the color draining from his face.

“I was told Lord Stark treated him kindly, as if he were his own son, it was better for him to remain there than at the bedside of a nearly crippled man.” The shame that colors his tone clearly tugs on Tommen’s heartstrings.

He has not dared to think what his life would have been like if he had lived with his father. All he knows is he would not have met you, and he does not consider that much a life at all.

Tommen clears his throat, looking at Margaery once more, she nods.

“Ser Dayne, you swore an oath, Kingsguard cannot marry or have children.” Cersei cuts in, stepping forward, her head held high.

Jon bites his tongue hard. The irony in her statement…

His father fares better, nodding his head towards her, his tone steady. “I am no longer a whitecloak, I lost the right to that title when I aided Prince Rhaegar in stealing away my dear Lyanna. I am only a knight of the realm now, Queen Mother.”

Tommen goes to speak, surely in agreement with his mother, but Margaery puts her hand on his arm and leans down to whisper in his ear.

Jon tries not to fidget, tries not to look at you, you who sits beside your father, dressed in a well-tailored gown the shade of pomegranates, your hair swept away from your face, a golden pendant around your neck. He will ruin it all if he looks at you.

His father puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

“In honor of my queen’s nameday I will grant her request. Ser Jon Snow, you shall no longer be a Snow, but a Dayne, Lord or Ser Jon, whichever you would like, of House Dayne, son of Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning.” Tommen says, smiling brightly when Margaery plants a chaste kiss of thanks to his cheek.

His father gives his thanks, bowing low. Jon follows his example, keeping his expression grateful but neutral as they return to the sidelines, ducking behind the crowds of nobles as Tommen and Margaery begin to leave the hall. It is only when they have disappeared from view that his father embraces him, crushing him to his chest.

Jon returns the embrace, joy running wild through him.

His father pulls back, a wide smile on his tanned face. “My son, oh, it is good to say that aloud, to say it where anyone can hear. We must celebrate, do you have a preference for wine? ”

“No, Father.” Jon tests the word out, rolling it on his tongue, it feels strange but pleasant. “I do not.”

His father smiles. “We shall soon fix that, but first, you must return to your duties, no?” He jerks his head towards you.

Jon nods. “I must.”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x y/n #jon snow x you #lannister!reader #jon snow imagine #got fanfiction #jon snow #Jon Dayne

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