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thesongoficeandfir3 · 2 days ago

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Mine to take care of

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

Warnings: brief talk of gore, talks of menstrual cycle, slight description of menstrual blood, smut alluded

Genre: Fluff

Prompt: Jace taking care of his wife who’s on her moon blood

A/n: You’re next Cregan Stark

You changed your position on the four-poster bed for what felt like the hundredth time as your mind bops in between sleep and wakefulness. You had a long and irritable day just wanting to sleep but your body had other ideas as it writhed in some unknown pain that worsened throughout the night. Finally accepting the fact you weren’t getting any sleep you allow your body to fully wake up and once your mind comes back to the waking world, your eyes burst open when you realized what was keeping you from sleep.

You jolted to a sitting position ripping the furs from your body. Your eyes snapping down and a string of curses leaving your lips and you leap out of bed. The room was somewhat dark, all the once tall and bright candlesticks now mere stubs hardly sputtering flames and the fireplace reduced to embers. Yet you could still make out the dark bloodstain, a stark contrast to the white sheets. You are pulled from your panic when you hear soft mumbling and Jace shifting awake. You move quickly and hide the stain covering it with the furs.

“What is it?” He mummers out still half asleep and his voice raspy with sleep.

“It is nothing my love,” you stutter out, failing horribly to conceal the distraught in your tone. “Please just go back to bed.” Though you had succeeded in covering the truth on the bedsheets with the furs, you failed to remember it also seeped through your rather thin and white nightgown.

“If it were nothing then why does your voice-” he pauses mid sentence once his eyes land on you, his mind still not quite in the waking world “what is that on your-” his eyes then widen in realization and you prayed to all the gods above to end you right there.

Despite being betrothed for two years, it was not until a fortnight ago that you two were married and started to share a marriage bed. Thus there were still a few more intimate and more private things yet to be revealed in your relationship, your moon blood being one of them. While from the very first day you had met Jacaerys he had been nothing but kind and gentle with you, at this moment your insecurities got the better of you making you feel ashamed and embarrassed about your own moon blood.

Jacaerys was not as savage nor dumb like many of the other men of Westeros when it comes to a woman’s anatomy (something you found out rather quickly on your wedding night). Due to reading and having female family members he was more than aware of what a moon blood was. This however was not enough to prepare him for how it truly looked and he can not help be slightly taken aback. He had been to war, he has seen men’s heads crushed, animal’s stomachs ripped open, people skins bubble and burn from dragon fire, but seven hells was that a lot of blood for a person who was not injured or cut.

“Oh is that your… you know” He desperately tries to act casual.

His words go through one ear and out the next, not only was the lower part of your nightgown stained with blood but as you sleeped with nothing more than a nightgown the blood also dripped and stained down your legs.

Mayhaps it was the lack of sleep or the raging and unpredictable emotions that always came with your moon blood but your eyes immediately became watery with tears.

“Sorry” your voice breaks and you prepare for him to make any signs of disgust or try to pretend he doesn't see anything and go back to bed as you told him early.

This is more than enough to snap him out of his surprised state, he mentally slaps himself for his initial dumbfounded reaction. He quickly shifts right back to the loving and caring man you know so well and needed more than ever at this moment.

“Hush now my love, there is nothing to apologize for,” he is at your side in an instant “this is a natural part of a woman’s body and you should never apologize for it.” His voice is soft and gentle. Despite his encouraging words he can still see your heart aching and it doesn't help when your arm quickly wraps around your abdomen when a painful cramp surges through. “Come now, let's get you out of that and cleaned up” he says as he reaches for the laces of your nightgown.

You recoil, not because of him but because of yourself. “I am repulsive, I should do it myself”

His face twists in disappointment, his disappointment pointed toward your words not at you. His hands grab your biceps slightly squeezing them in an attempt to stop you from walking away from him and for you to listen to what he had to say.

“Stop that you are anything but, what you are is my queen, my woman and you are mine and i intend to take care of what belongs to me” he ends the sentence with a soft kiss on the forehead before undoing the laces. Once undone he slips it over your head leaving you completely bare, you both instantly noticing how even bloodier in between your thighs were.

“This is a womanly thing, many men would be off-put by this so I will not shame you if you are.” you know he said just a few moments ago it was fine, but seeing blood stains was one thing and seeing its source was a whole other.

“Don’t you dare compare me to those dimwitted fools,” he takes your hand and leads you to the wash basin “a real man will not be fazed by his wife's body functioning the way it's supposed to.”

Once at the wash basin, he picks up a clean cloth and soap. He kneels in front of you getting to work at cleaning off all the blood, you can feel the tender love and care through his touch. It was quiet the entire time he washed you, but a it was a comfortable silence as you two reached a new level of intimacy.

Jace felt honored that you allowed him to see this side of you. So raw and vulnerable yet you still trusted him and for that , he did not think it was possible, but he fell in love with you more. After the cleaning is done he leans forward pressing a long and gentle kiss where your womb would be.

“Guess what,” he murmurs, his breath felt warm against your skin “Your womb has not been seeded yet.” he stands once more “so that means I can try again and again until my seed starts to bloom in your beautiful garden.”

He pulls you flush against him and you laugh at his words, his heart swells being able to hear the sound again.

“And once you give birth to our beautiful king or queen I will plant hundreds more.

You bite on your bottom lip, the insecurity from earlier passing and you feel more bold now.

“Well then what is stopping you from starting now?”

“Nothing my heart” his eyes darkened with love and desire, he lifts you up taking you two to the bed.

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novaursa · 24 hours ago

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A Lion's Folly (the hopeful)

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

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (deaths scene)

- Previous part: duty

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

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was adorned in a spectacle of wealth and grandeur that could only accompany a royal wedding. The banners bearing the crowned stag of Baratheon and the rose of Tyrell hung from the high ceilings, while the scent of roasted meats and sweet wine filled the air. Musicians played lively tunes from a raised platform, their music barely audible over the clamor of voices and the clinking of goblets.

At the high table, King Joffrey sat with his new queen, Margaery Tyrell, resplendent in golden robes and a crown that glittered under the glow of countless candles. His face bore a smirk that had grown more insufferable with every toast, and Margaery’s polite smile was the only counterbalance to his arrogance.

You were seated at a table near the center of the hall, flanked by Jaime on one side and Brienne on the other. Your expression was stormy, your lips pressed into a thin line as you picked at the food on your plate. Across the room, Sansa sat beside Tyrion, her face pale and drawn as Tyrion raised his goblet to Jaime in a silent toast.

Jaime returned the gesture with a faint nod, his gaze lingering on Sansa for a moment before shifting to you. You hadn’t touched your wine, and the stiffness in your posture was visible.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Jaime said, his tone low enough not to carry beyond your table.

You turned your head slightly, your eyes narrowing at him. “Does this look like enjoyment to you?”

Jaime smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re in a room full of food, wine, and music. Some might call that a celebration.”

“And some might call it a spectacle of arrogance,” you shot back, your voice biting. “But I suppose that’s what Lannisters do best.”

Jaime chuckled softly, though there was no malice in it. He raised his goblet, the light catching on the metal as he swirled the wine inside. “Careful, Y/N. If you keep glaring like that, you’ll frighten the musicians.”

“I’d consider that an accomplishment,” you muttered, glancing toward the high table where Joffrey was laughing loudly at something Margaery had said.

Jaime followed your gaze, his smirk fading as his expression grew thoughtful. Before he could say anything, you turned back to him. “How does it feel, watching your bastard brat get married?”

The question hung in the air like a blade, cutting and deliberate. Jaime stiffened slightly, though he recovered quickly, his smirk returning with a faint edge. “Ah, so you’ve decided to be cruel tonight. I suppose I deserve that once more.”

You raised an eyebrow, your gaze unflinching. “I’m just curious. You seem so proud of him, after all.”

Jaime’s expression darkened briefly, but he let out a soft sigh, his voice quieter now. “Proud isn’t the word I’d use. Joffrey… is complicated.”

“Complicated,” you repeated, your tone dripping with disdain. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jaime leaned closer, his gaze locking onto yours. “And what would you call it, Y/N? What would you call me?”

You met his gaze without flinching, your voice low but firm. “I’d call you a man who’s spent his life doing whatever he pleased, without a care for the consequences. And now, you’re finally seeing what those consequences look like.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t look away. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see the mistakes I’ve made?”

“You act like it doesn’t matter,” you retorted.

“Maybe it didn’t,” Jaime admitted, his voice softening. “But it does now.”

The tension between you was broken by the sound of laughter from the high table. Joffrey had risen, raising his goblet as he called for the attention of the hall. His voice boomed over the crowd, and Jaime glanced toward him briefly before returning his focus to you.

At the other end of the table, Cersei’s face was a mask of barely concealed fury. Her menacing gaze flicked between you and Jaime, her knuckles white as she gripped her goblet. It was clear she was barely tolerating the sight of the two of you seated together, the announcement of your betrothal looming over her like a storm cloud.

Sansa, meanwhile, looked miserable beside Tyrion, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as she avoided looking at the high table altogether. Tyrion, for his part, seemed determined to lighten the mood, though his attempts at conversation were met with little more than nods and faint smiles.

Jaime leaned closer to you again, his voice quieter this time. “I know you don’t want to be here,” he said. “And I know you don’t want to hear this, but… I’m trying, Y/N. I’m trying to make this right.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your gaze fixed on the goblet in your hands. When you finally looked up at him, your eyes were colder than he’d hoped. “Then try harder.”

The weight of your words settled heavily between you, and Jaime found himself at a loss for how to respond. For the first time in a long while, the man who always had a clever retort or cutting remark was silent.

The feast continued around you, the noise and laughter a stark contrast to the tension at your table. And though the hall was filled with hundreds of people, Jaime couldn’t shake the feeling that the only person who mattered was sitting right beside him, her words lingering in his mind like an unshakable truth.

The hall quieted as Tywin Lannister rose from his seat at the high table. His imposing presence alone was enough to command attention, but when Tywin stood, everyone knew it meant something significant. The clinking of goblets and murmured conversations faded into silence as all eyes turned to him. Even Joffrey, seated with Margaery beside him, paused in his incessant boasting to look at his grandsire.

You tensed instinctively again, your hands gripping the edge of the table as Tywin surveyed the room. Beside you, Jaime straightened in his chair, his expression unreadable, though his golden hand gleamed in the candlelight, catching the eye of more than a few nobles.

"My lords and ladies," Tywin began, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "Today we celebrate the union of two great houses. King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, and Queen Margaery Tyrell have joined in marriage, securing a bond that strengthens the realm."

There was a polite smattering of applause, though it was clear the room was waiting for something more. Tywin let the applause die before continuing.

"But this wedding is not the only union we celebrate," he said, his stern gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles. "As Hand of the King, it is my duty to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm. To that end, I am pleased to announce another betrothal—one that will further secure the future of our great house and the realm itself."

Your stomach twisted as his words sank in, and you felt Jaime shift beside you. His gaze flicked toward you briefly, but he said nothing.

Tywin raised a hand, gesturing toward your table. "Ser Jaime Lannister, soon to be named the heir to Casterly Rock, will be wed to Lady Y/N Stark of Winterfell."

The hall erupted into murmurs and gasps, the announcement sending a ripple of shock through the gathered nobles. Even the ever-composed Margaery raised her eyebrows slightly, though she quickly masked her surprise with a polite smile.

At the high table, Joffrey leaned forward, a gleeful smirk spreading across his face. "Another Stark and a Lannister match? How quaint," he said loudly, earning a few scattered chuckles from the courtiers closest to him.

Cersei’s reaction was far less subtle. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her goblet, her lips pressed into a thin line of fury. Her green eyes darted between Tywin, Jaime, and you, her barely contained rage simmering just below the surface.

You, however, sat frozen, your jaw tightening as both the reality of the moment and weight of the announcement settled over you like a crushing wave.

Tywin ignored the murmurs, his expression calm and composed as he continued. "This union symbolizes the strength of our alliances and the enduring power of House Lannister. Together, Ser Jaime and Lady Y/N will ensure further stability in both the Westerlands and the North, binding two great houses in common purpose."

Jaime leaned toward you slightly, his voice low and laced with tension. "Say something before the entire hall sees your fury."

You turned your head toward him, your eyes narrowing. "I have nothing to say that wouldn’t disgrace myself further."

"Better silence than that look," he muttered, his lips twitching faintly as if attempting to lighten the moment.

Across the hall, Sansa’s face was pale, her hands clenched in her lap. Her gaze darted to you, worry etched into her delicate features. Tyrion leaned toward her, murmuring something that earned only the faintest nod of acknowledgment.

Lady Olenna Tyrell, seated beside Margaery, tilted her head, her bright eyes glinting with interest. "Well, that was expected," she said, her voice carrying just enough for those nearby to hear. "I wonder how that poor girl feels about being bound to the Kingslayer."

Tywin remained standing, his presence unwavering as the murmurs in the hall gradually subsided. "The details of the betrothal will be announced in due course," he concluded. "For now, let us continue our celebration of the king’s wedding."

He sat down, his expression as composed as ever, and the hall hesitated for a moment before resuming its earlier clamor.

You didn’t move, your hands still gripping the edge of the table as your mind raced. Jaime, sensing your turmoil, leaned closer again. "You wanted to be out of your chambers," he said quietly. "Welcome to the spotlight."

You glared at him, your voice low and sharp. "If I had known this was what awaited, I would’ve stayed locked away."

Jaime’s smirk faltered, and he turned his attention back to his goblet, swirling the wine absently.

As the anxiety at your table grew, the clamor in the hall shifted. Servants entered carrying an enormous pie, its golden crust steaming and adorned with intricate designs of lions and stags. The murmurs of curiosity quickly turned to applause and cheers as the pie was presented before Joffrey and Margaery at the high table.

Joffrey clapped his hands, his grin widening. "Ah, the finest delicacy in all the Seven Kingdoms!" he proclaimed, his voice loud and theatrical. "Let us feast as a king and queen should!"

The pie was set before the king and queen, and a servant handed Joffrey a gilded blade to cut into the crust. As the crowd’s attention shifted to the spectacle, you found yourself grateful for the brief reprieve, though the weight of Tywin’s announcement still hung heavily in the air.

Jaime, sitting beside you, couldn’t help but glance at you out of the corner of his eye. Despite your anger, despite your defiance, he still found himself captivated. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if there was any way to make you see him as something other than the man you despised.

The air in the Great Hall shifted the moment Joffrey brought a piece of the pie to his mouth. The crust crumbled as he bit into it, and for a brief moment, the only sound was the clinking of goblets and scattered laughter among the courtiers.

Joffrey chewed with exaggerated enthusiasm, his smirk firmly in place as he leaned back in his chair. “A fine pie,” he declared loudly, though his tone carried a note of disdain. “But dry. Tyrion, fetch me some wine.”

At the far end of the high table, Tyrion stiffened, his goblet poised mid-air. His mismatched eyes flicked to Sansa beside him before he rose slowly, his expression unreadable. A servant had already begun to pour the wine, but Joffrey waved him away impatiently.

“No,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “I want my uncle to serve me. It seems only fitting.”

Tyrion approached the king cautiously, his every movement measured. The dread in the room was palpable, the laughter and conversation fading as eyes turned to the scene unfolding at the high table.

Jaime leaned slightly toward you, his voice low. “He never misses an opportunity to make a fool of himself, does he?”

You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed on the king as Tyrion reached for the goblet.

Joffrey snatched the cup from his uncle’s hands with exaggerated flair, lifting it high for all to see before taking a long, dramatic sip. He set the goblet down and reached for another piece of pie, but as he took the first bite, his expression shifted.

At first, it was subtle—a slight narrowing of his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But then his face contorted, his hand flying to his throat as he began to cough violently.

The hall fell silent, the only sound Joffrey’s gasping breaths and the scrape of his chair as he stumbled to his feet.

“Joffrey?” Margaery’s voice was soft, uncertain, as she reached out toward him.

The king’s face turned red, his coughing growing more frantic as he clawed at his throat. His goblet fell to the floor with a clang, the wine pooling darkly on the stone.

“Joffrey!” Cersei’s scream cut through the chaos, her face twisting in panic as she rose from her seat.

Jaime stood abruptly, his hand clenching at his side as he watched his son—no, the king—struggle for breath. For a brief moment, he was frozen, unsure whether to move toward Joffrey or remain where he was.

You instinctively reached for Jaime’s arm, your own confusion and unease mirrored in his expression. “What’s happening?” you whispered, though there was no answer.

Joffrey collapsed onto the floor, his body convulsing as his mother rushed to his side. Margaery backed away, her hand covering her mouth in horror.

“Help him!” Cersei screamed, her voice shrill as she cradled Joffrey’s head. “Someone, help him!”

The courtiers erupted into chaos, their murmurs and gasps filling the hall as guards pushed forward to surround the royal family.

Tyrion, still standing near the high table, looked down at the fallen king with a mix of shock and dread.

“You!” Cersei screeched, her eyes blazing as she pointed a trembling finger at Tyrion. “Guards! Seize him!”

The Lannister guards moved quickly, surrounding Tyrion as he raised his hands in protest. “I had nothing to do with this!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Take him away!” Cersei screamed, her voice cracking with hysteria.

The guards grabbed Tyrion roughly, dragging him back through the hall as the chaos continued to unfold.

Jaime turned to you, his face pale, his voice low and urgent. “Stay close to me.”

You nodded, your hand tightening on his arm as Tywin appeared at Jaime’s side, his expression grim. “We’re leaving,” Tywin said curtly, his tone brooking no argument.

Jaime nodded, pulling you closer as Tywin’s men surrounded you both. Brienne appeared beside you, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she scanned the chaotic scene.

“Come,” Tywin barked, his men ushering you toward the exit.

As you were led out of the hall, you cast one last glance over your shoulder, your gaze falling on the fallen king. His face was purple now, his mouth twisted in a grotesque grimace as Cersei sobbed over his body.

The last thing you heard before the doors closed behind you was Cersei’s anguished scream, her voice echoing through the stone walls.

Jaime’s grip on your arm tightened slightly as he guided you through the corridors. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes.

The Red Keep had always been a place of intrigue and danger, but tonight, it felt like a powder keg ready to explode.

The stone corridors of the Red Keep stretched endlessly as Tywin’s guards led Jaime and you toward safety. The clamor from the Great Hall faded behind you, replaced by the steady rhythm of boots on stone. Jaime’s face was pale, his jaw clenched so tightly you could almost hear his teeth grinding. He hadn’t said a word since they left the chaos of the feast, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

You glanced at him, noting the way his hand was clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. For all his usual composure, Jaime looked shaken, unmoored.

The guards finally stopped at a small chamber off a side hall, gesturing for you both to step inside. Jaime entered first, his movements stiff and mechanical, as though he were barely aware of what he was doing. You followed, casting a wary glance at the guards before the door closed behind you.

The room was sparse, with only a few chairs and a small table, but it was quiet—a sanctuary compared to the chaos you’d just left. Jaime leaned against the wall, his head falling back against the cold stone as he exhaled a shaky breath.

You hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. “Jaime?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

“Jaime,” you said again, your voice softer this time.

He finally looked at you, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you care,” he said, his voice edged with bitterness. “You hate me. Remember?”

You frowned, crossing your arms as you studied him. “I don’t hate you,” you said, surprising yourself with the honesty in your tone.

Jaime let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “You could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I hate what you’ve done. There’s a difference.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, the bitterness in his eyes gave way to something raw. “That makes one of us,” he muttered.

You furrowed your brow, stepping closer. “Jaime, what happened back there—”

“Was my fault,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “All of it. Joffrey… Cersei… the way the whole damn realm looks at me. It’s all my fault.”

“You don’t know that,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “What happened to Joffrey—”

“He was a monster,” Jaime said bitterly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And I made him that way. I didn’t stop him when I should have. I didn’t—” He stopped, his voice breaking slightly.

You hesitated, then stepped closer, your hand hovering near his arm before you finally placed it there gently. “You can’t carry all of this,” you said softly. “What happened to Joffrey wasn’t your doing.”

Jaime laughed again, though it was a broken, humorless sound. “You think I don’t know what people say? The whispers? The rumors? The Kingslayer and the queen. The bastard king born of sin.”

“People will always whisper,” you said quietly. “No matter what you did.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes searching yours as if trying to find some hidden meaning in your words. For a moment, the weight in his gaze lifted, replaced by something almost vulnerable.

“Why are you saying this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you need to hear it right now,” you replied simply. “You can’t change the past, Jaime. But you’re not the man you were. I’ve seen that.”

He blinked, as if startled by your words, and his expression softened. For a moment, he looked like he might say something, but then he shook his head, his smirk returning faintly. “I must be losing my mind,” he said. “A Stark, of all people, trying to comfort me.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in the gesture. “Don’t get used to it,” you muttered.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He pushed off the wall, standing straighter as he adjusted the golden hand at his side. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his tone so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

You nodded, stepping back to give him space. “Get some rest,” you said. “We’ll need it for whatever comes next.”

Jaime didn’t respond, but as you turned to leave the room, you couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze lingered on you, as if trying to memorize something he didn’t want to forget.

The room grew quiet again after you left, the echo of the door shutting behind you lingering longer than it should have. Jaime stood motionless in the stillness, his golden hand resting heavily at his side. For the first time in what felt like ages, his thoughts weren’t dominated by his usual blend of regret and bitterness but by the soft cadence of your voice.

"You’re not the man you were. I’ve seen that."

Your words replayed in his mind, over and over, like an unfamiliar melody that refused to fade. He didn’t know why they mattered so much—why you mattered so much. He told himself it was nothing more than circumstance. You were tied together by a situation neither of you wanted, bound by duty and the scheming of his father. But it was more than that, wasn’t it?

Jaime paced the small chamber, his hand brushing against the edge of the table as his thoughts spiraled. You had every reason to despise him. The weight of what he’d done to your family, to your brother Bran, should have made you hate him with every fiber of your being. And yet, in that fleeting moment, you’d offered him something he hadn’t realized he needed: warmth.

Not forgiveness—not yet, perhaps not ever—but a glimmer of something softer.

It unsettled him. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the golden lion, didn’t need warmth. He didn’t deserve it. And yet, when you placed your hand on his arm, when you spoke to him without venom for the first time, it was as if the walls he’d built around himself began to crack.

He sank into a chair, resting his forehead in his good hand. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to your father.

Eddard Stark.

It was almost laughable, the parallels he found himself drawing between you and the man who had loomed over his guilt for so long. You carried yourself with the same unyielding strength, the same unwavering commitment to doing what was right. Even your sharp tongue reminded him of the late Lord of Winterfell, though Eddard’s disapproval had been quieter, colder. Yours burned hotter, cutting like the edge of a blade.

But there was something else, something Eddard had lacked: your ability to see past the surface, to find cracks in the armor. Eddard had judged Jaime the moment they met, and that judgment had never wavered. Yet you, even after all you’d endured, had looked at him tonight with something that felt almost like understanding. Just like you did at Harrenhal.

Jaime leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts churned. He had told himself countless times that he didn’t care what others thought of him. The world saw him as a monster, a liar, a Kingslayer, and he had worn those titles like armor. But with you, he found himself wanting to be more, to prove he could be more.

It was a dangerous thought, one he couldn’t afford to indulge. And yet, it lingered.

He thought of your father again, of the quiet strength Eddard had carried, even when it had cost him his life. Jaime had envied that strength once, resented it even. But now he wondered if you had inherited it, if you were somehow cut from the same cloth, carrying the same impossible weight with the same unyielding resolve.

And then there was the warmth. Eddard Stark had been many things, but warmth was not one of them. You, despite your fire and your defiance, had offered Jaime something he hadn’t felt in years—a moment of reprieve, of connection.

He hated how much it mattered.

Jaime stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he paced the room once more. He had spent years burying himself under layers of cynicism and self-loathing, but you were peeling them away without even realizing it. It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair.

"Don’t pretend you care," he had said, but now he wondered if you did, even just a little.

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. It was a weakness, this newfound longing for your approval, your forgiveness. He couldn’t afford weaknesses, not now, not ever.

But as Jaime stared out the narrow window, the city lights flickering in the distance, he couldn’t help but think of your words again.

"You’re not the man you were."

He didn’t know if it was true. But for the first time in years, he found himself wanting to believe it could be.

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