#asoiaf gifs

[novaursa]

A Fire Worth Burning (ruins of an empire)

- Summary: Aegon loved you since you were children, but your father, Daemon, would never let him have you. Not while he lived. 

- Paring: cousin!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: 1

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

The world was fire and ruin. The smoke hung thick in the air, choking the sky until it was a dark, ashen gray. The battlefield of Rook’s Rest was strewn with the broken bodies of men and dragons alike, and at the center of it all lay Vermithor.

Your dragon—your great, ancient beast—lay sprawled across the blood-soaked earth. His once-mighty bronze wings, tinged with dull gold, were torn and scorched, his powerful chest rising and falling in uneven, rattling breaths. His golden eyes, dimmed by agony, still turned toward you where you lay beside him. His long tail twitched faintly, a final act of defiance against the death that clawed at him.

You could not move, though you were alive. Your body felt heavy, your limbs pinned to the ground by the weight of exhaustion and pain. Blood trickled down your forehead, stinging your eyes, and you tasted copper with every breath.

The sound of boots—deliberate and slow—crunched against the blackened earth. Through the haze, two figures loomed above you.

Ser Criston Cole stood at your feet, his white cloak now a sullied gray, splattered with soot and streaked with crimson. His expression was unreadable, the gaze of a man accustomed to watching the fallen.

Beside him stood Aemond Targaryen, clad in blackened steel, his pale hair streaked with ash. His violet eye burned cold and bright, fixed on you with a cruel sense of satisfaction.

“You fought well,” Aemond said, his voice even and void of sympathy. “But it ends here.”

You managed to glare at him, though the effort cost you. “I will see you in the Seven Hells before this is done.”

Aemond tilted his head, his lips curling into something that might have been a smile had it not been so devoid of warmth. “Perhaps. But you will arrive first.”

“Put her out of her misery,” Criston said curtly, his voice carrying the air of finality.

Aemond drew his sword, the steel glinting dully in the low, smoke-filtered light. “A fitting end for the Rogue Prince’s daughter.”

The moment stretched, time slowing as he took a step toward you. You forced yourself to lift your head, to summon the last scraps of defiance that burned within you.

But then—a roar.

It tore through the sky, deep and furious, shaking the earth beneath you. Sunfyre descended like a golden star, his shimmering scales glowing through the haze of smoke. His wings struck the air like thunder as he landed with a tremor that forced both Aemond and Cole back a step.

A figure leapt down from the saddle before Sunfyre had even stilled, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war. Aegon.

His pale hair was streaked with sweat and grime, his armor dented and scorched from the battle. His eyes—wild and bright with fury—locked onto you. And in an instant, he was moving.

“What are you doing?” Aemond demanded, his voice sharp.

Aegon ignored him. He strode past his brother and shoved him hard, enough that Aemond stumbled back a step, his grip on the sword loosening.

“Get out of my way,” Aegon snarled, his voice a low growl.

“My King—” Criston began, but Aegon silenced him with a glare before falling to his knees beside you. He cupped your face in his hands, his gauntleted fingers surprisingly gentle as he tilted your head toward him.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “Gods, you’re alive.” His violet eyes roamed over you, his face contorted with something that looked suspiciously like panic. “I thought—”

Your vision swam, but you managed to rasp, “What… are you doing here?”

“Saving you,” Aegon muttered, as though it were obvious. “You’ve made a mess of things, haven’t you?”

Aemond stepped closer, his face twisted with anger. “What are you doing, Aegon? She is the enemy.”

“She’s not your concern,” Aegon bit back, his voice low and venomous. He looked up at Aemond, his grip on you tightening. “She’s mine.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, his face a mask of cold fury. “Have you lost your mind? She rode against us. Her dragon burned our men.”

“And I don’t care,” Aegon snarled, his words as sharp as steel. “If you so much as touch her again, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Aemond sneered. “She’s a traitor, Aegon. She should die with her dragon.”

“I said shut up!” Aegon roared, his voice echoing across the battlefield. He turned his attention back to you, his hands cradling your broken form as though you were made of glass. His voice softened then, cracking with something raw and unspoken. “I won’t let you die here.”

Criston stepped forward. “Your Grace, you are making a mistake.”

Aegon shot him a glare over his shoulder. “You will say nothing, Ser Criston.”

Aemond’s voice cut through like ice. “This will be your undoing.”

“Then so be it,” Aegon snapped, his gaze never wavering. Without another word, he slipped an arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly despite the weight of your wounds. You let out a soft sound of pain as he moved, but Aegon hushed you, his lips close to your ear. “I’ve got you. I won’t drop you, I swear.”

You wanted to protest, to tell him he was a fool, but the warmth of his arms and the steadiness of his hold kept you silent.

As he carried you toward Sunfyre, Aemond called out one last time, his voice ringing with a warning that felt like prophecy.

“You’ll regret this, brother,” he said coldly. “She will be your downfall.”

Aegon paused at the base of Sunfyre, his gaze sharp as he looked back. “Better her than you.”

With that, Aegon climbed onto Sunfyre’s back, settling you securely against him. The dragon let out a low, resonant growl, sensing his rider’s urgency. As Sunfyre’s wings unfurled, Aegon whispered to you, his voice soft and fierce all at once.

“I’ll keep you safe, Y/N. I promise.”

And as the golden dragon rose into the sky, carrying you far from the battlefield, the last thing you saw was Aemond standing amidst the ruins—his face etched with fury and something else: fear.

The flames in the great hall of Harrenhal danced wildly. The room reeked of smoke and I'll omen. The whispers of Vermithor’s return to Dragonstone without his rider had traveled quickly, and now, the Rogue Prince stood at the head of the hall, his face a mask of fury. The embers of his rage smoldered as dangerously as the fires of his dragon.

Daemon Targaryen was unhinged when angry, but this—this—was something else. He paced like a caged beast, his hands clenching and unclenching as if they itched to draw blood. Dark Sister hung at his hip, and his crimson cloak billowed with every sharp turn he made. His silver hair, usually so carefully kept, had fallen loose around his face, tangling in the heat of his movements.

“Gone!” Daemon roared, his voice echoing off the walls like thunder. “My daughter is gone, and all you fools can tell me is that Vermithor returned riderless?!”

A group of men stood near the far end of the room, silent and wary. Among them was Lord Simon Strong, a nervous sweat glistening on his brow as he wrung his hands. He had known war and bloodshed all his life, but the fury of Daemon Targaryen was another matter entirely.

“My prince,” Simon said cautiously, his voice calm though strained. “The situation—”

“Don’t speak to me of the situation!” Daemon cut in, rounding on the man with a snarl. “Vermithor would not abandon her willingly. He returned because he was forced to—because she is gone!” He spat the word like venom. His dark violet eyes blazed as he scanned the room, searching for someone to bear the brunt of his wrath. “Where were my scouts? Where were my riders? You’re telling me that self proclaimed king—a drunken, halfwit fool—swooped in like a vulture and took her, and no one could stop him?”

Simon Strong hesitated. “The… the king had Sunfyre. And Prince Aemond. It is said they struck as one.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a snarl, his teeth bared like a wolf’s. “Aegon… and Aemond.” He turned his back on the men, running a hand through his hair before slamming his fist into the stone wall beside him, the impact reverberating like the crack of a whip. “Those treacherous, lecherous bastards will burn for this.”

“My prince,” Simon tried again, his tone edging toward pleading, “we must think carefully. This is war, and emotions—”

Daemon wheeled on him, his voice sharp as a blade. “Carefully? Did Aegon think carefully when he stole my daughter from the battlefield? When he carried her off like some prize to his golden beast?” His breathing was ragged now, and his eyes burned with something feral, something unrestrained. “No. This is no longer war. This is blood feud.”

“Prince Daemon—”

“They have made it personal,” Daemon said darkly, his voice dropping to a low growl. “They have taken my child. Do you understand what that means, Lord Strong?”

Simon swallowed, taking an uneasy step back. “It means the war escalates further.”

“It means I will tear them apart,” Daemon corrected, his voice dangerously calm now. “Piece by piece, until there is nothing left but ashes and screams.” He began pacing again, his hands twitching as though he wished to summon Caraxes with a mere thought. “Rhaenyra must know of this immediately. The queen will decide our next move, but I will have my vengeance. I swear it.”

“Perhaps your daughter still lives,” Simon ventured cautiously. “Aegon may have taken her for… other reasons.”

Daemon froze, his back to the lord, shoulders stiffening. The silence that followed was suffocating, and when he turned back to face Simon, his expression was murderous.

“Do you think that comforts me?” Daemon hissed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “If that drunken boy so much as lays a finger on her, I will gut him myself and leave his entrails for Sunfyre.”

The room fell silent, the men avoiding Daemon’s gaze as though the fire in his eyes might consume them too. The Rogue Prince was unpredictable, and at this moment, there was no line he would not cross.

Finally, Simon dared to speak again. “What would you have us do?”

Daemon’s gaze turned sharp as a dagger, a dark smile tugging at his lips as he spoke. “I will take to the skies. Send ravens to Dragonstone��Vermithor must not fly again until he is ready. Rhaenyra will rally her forces; the Black Council will not suffer this insult. But make no mistake.” His voice lowered to something far more dangerous. “I will find her.”

“And what of Aegon, my prince?” Simon asked carefully.

Daemon turned his eyes to the banners that hung from the hall—Targaryen dragons on red and black fabric fluttering faintly in the draft. His smile was cold as death itself.

“Aegon has given me cause to kill him,” he said softly. “And so I shall.”

The wind howled as Sunfyre soared through the darkening sky, his golden scales still glowing faintly with the embers of battle. Aegon sat atop his dragon’s back, one arm wrapped securely around you, cradling you against him as the dragon’s wings beat steadily.

You were still weak, your head lolling against Aegon’s shoulder as your eyelids fluttered. The chill of the air bit at your skin, but you barely felt it. Your body ached, your mind still swimming with fractured memories of the fight.

“Aegon…” you murmured weakly, the words barely leaving your lips.

“I’m here,” Aegon said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. He looked down at you, his violet eyes clouded with worry. “You’re safe.”

“You… stole me,” you said, though the accusation carried no real heat.

Aegon smirked faintly, though there was no true humor in it. “I saved you.”

“You are a fool,” you whispered, your strength waning. “My father…”

Aegon’s jaw tensed, but he tightened his grip on you protectively, as though he could shield you from everything—your father, the war, even the gods themselves. “Let him rage. Let him bring all the fury of the Seven Hells. I’ll face him if I must.”

You managed to look up at him, your voice weak but clear. “You’ll start a war you cannot win.”

Aegon met your gaze, and for a moment, you saw something in his expression that startled you. Determination. Devotion. And something more—something you had never seen before in those violet eyes.

“Then so be it,” he said quietly. “I’ll burn the world if I have to.”

As Sunfyre carried you both through the clouds, the war below shifted. The bloodshed to come would be worse than any before it, for Aegon had stolen the Rogue Prince’s daughter, and there was no wrath like that of a dragon robbed of its kin.

The skies above King’s Landing were blackened with dragons. Caraxes and Syrax descended upon the city like vengeful gods. The sound of their wings beat against the air like the drumming of war, a herald of doom that sent the city’s inhabitants into a panic. Bells tolled, their frantic clang swallowed by the deep, echoing roars of dragons and the cries of terrified smallfolk.

The Red Keep burned with the fires of conquest. The gates had been thrown open, the gold cloaks scattered or turned. King’s Landing belonged to Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The Great Hall was empty of its usual opulence. Banners bearing the golden dragon of Aegon II still hung above the Iron Throne, but now they were a mockery. The weight of silence pressed heavy in the chamber as Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen entered. Rhaenyra strode forward with regal fury, her black and red gown trailing behind her like spilled blood. Daemon followed close, his presence a storm barely contained, his violet eyes glinting with a fire that could set the room ablaze.

At the foot of the Iron Throne stood Alicent Hightower, her face pale but her expression proud and defiant. To her left, Otto Hightower stood with the measured calm of a man who knew his life hung by a thread. Beside them, Helaena Targaryen clutched her hands to her chest, her eyes wide, her lips whispering something inaudible as she swayed slightly where she stood.

Rhaenyra stopped at the base of the steps leading to the Iron Throne, her chin lifted. “Where is he?” she demanded, her voice clear and unyielding.

Neither Alicent nor Otto answered.

“Where is Aegon?” she repeated, her tone sharper this time, as though the words might slice through their silence.

Still, the Hightowers said nothing. Otto’s gaze met Rhaenyra’s, but he offered only the cold poise of a man who refused to break under pressure.

It was Daemon who stepped forward then, his voice low and lethal. “And my daughter?” he growled, his words dripping with venom. “Where is she?”

Otto turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. “We do not know.”

Daemon’s lips curled into something dark and feral as he took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Do not lie to me, Otto. You’re no stranger to betrayal, but I will not suffer you to speak false in my presence.” He paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Where is Y/N?”

Alicent lifted her chin, meeting Daemon’s fury with an uneasy calm. “We do not know where she is,” she said, though her voice trembled faintly. “Nor where my son has gone. We have not seen them since—”

“Since when?” Daemon interrupted, his anger boiling over. He moved forward, and for a moment, it seemed he might draw Dark Sister right there in the hall. “Since you let your drunken bastard son steal her away like a prize for his beast?”

Alicent’s face paled, but she did not falter. “We had no hand in his actions.”

“No hand?!” Daemon snarled, his voice filling the chamber like a clap of thunder. He turned on Otto now, his eyes ablaze. “Is that what you tell yourself, Otto? That you had no hand in this? That you didn’t whisper into your grandson’s ear to steal away my daughter—my child—to escalate this war? To bait us?”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the room, sharp as steel. Her expression was cold, though the fury in her eyes burned just as bright. She placed a calming hand on Daemon’s arm before turning back to Otto. “You will tell us what you know.”

“I have already told you,” Otto said, his voice steady. “Aegon vanished. He took his dragon, and she was with him. That is all we know.”

Daemon’s laughter was a low, hollow sound. “So you let your so-called king run like a craven, and now you stand here and lie to my face.” He took another step forward, his hand resting ominously on the hilt of Dark Sister. “Perhaps a few heads on pikes will loosen your tongues.”

Helaena flinched at his words, her whispering growing louder as she clutched herself. “The golden beast flies… the golden beast burns… two heads, one shadow…”

Alicent turned to her daughter quickly, her hand resting on her arm. “Helaena, hush,” she whispered, though there was a tremor in her voice.

Daemon’s eyes flicked toward Helaena, narrowing at her words. “What did you say?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze turned to Helaena as well. “What shadow?”

“The shadow,” Helaena murmured, her voice soft and distant. “Two heads, black as night, chasing flames.”

Rhaenyra turned to Alicent then, her voice biting. “What does she mean?”

“She means nothing,” Alicent snapped, though her calm was finally cracking. “Helaena has always spoken in riddles.”

“And her riddles are no comfort to me,” Daemon said darkly, his voice vibrating with menace. “If she knows something—”

“She does not!” Alicent shot back, her voice rising as desperation bled through her carefully crafted mask.

“Then perhaps you should pray to your Seven that you are telling the truth,” Daemon hissed. “Because if I find out that you knew where Aegon has taken her—if you have kept her hidden from me—I will burn this keep to the ground, stone by stone. I will see every last one of you fed to my dragon.”

Alicent’s face was pale, her breathing shallow, but she held his gaze, her defiance flickering like a flame in the wind. “Then you will find nothing, Prince Daemon. Because I know nothing.”

Daemon’s glare burned into her, the silence thick and suffocating as tension hung over the room like an executioner’s axe.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice cool but unrelenting. “We will find her. And when we do, the consequences of this act will fall upon all of you.” Her gaze swept over Alicent, Otto, and Helaena, before settling on the Iron Throne itself. “The time for mercy is over.”

Daemon turned on his heel, his cloak swirling behind him as he stalked out of the hall, his rage palpable. Rhaenyra followed after him, her jaw tight, her expression unyielding.

As their footsteps echoed down the corridor, Alicent let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she clutched Helaena to her side.

Otto turned his gaze to the smoldering doors of the hall, his expression grim. “This will only end in fire and blood.”

And far above the city, as smoke still curled from the ruins, Caraxes and Syrax roared into the heavens, their cries echoing the wrath of dragons unleashed.

The realm bled for a year under the shadow of war. Villages turned to ash, rivers ran red, and the cries of dying men became the music of Westeros. The realm whispered of Daemon Targaryen, the Black Prince, the Rogue Prince—a man possessed by fury, scouring the land atop Caraxes for the daughter he had lost. Towns burned in his wake, not out of cruelty but desperation, for no whisper of her whereabouts could satisfy him.

It was in the dead of autumn's cusp, beneath a gray and bloody sky, that Daemon finally heard the words he had been waiting for. Aegon was hidden in a long-forgotten holdfast near the Stormlands. And Y/N—his daughter—was with him.

Daemon’s eyes burned as he heard the news, his mind sharpening into a singular purpose. The war would end today. Either Aegon would die, or Daemon would.

The day of reckoning came cloaked in storm clouds. Caraxes roared as he descended over the jagged cliffs of the Stormlands, his serpentine wings casting long shadows over the crumbling holdfast below. His cry split the heavens, louder than the rolling thunder that chased them. Daemon sat rigid in his saddle, clad in black armor as cold and unforgiving as the wrath burning in his chest.

From below, the unmistakable gleam of gold emerged. Sunfyre’s roar answered Caraxes, piercing and defiant. Aegon sat astride him, his polished golden armor glinting dully in the gray light, the green cloak of his house fluttering wildly in the wind.

Daemon’s lips curled into a snarl as he urged Caraxes forward.

The dragons met in the sky with the force of titans. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, twisted through the air like a snake, his long, sinewy body moving with impossible grace. His scales were deep crimson, as though he had been bathed in the blood of fallen men. Sunfyre, the golden dragon, gleamed even through the storm, his wings vast and mighty, his form a vision of dragonkind’s majesty—terrible and beautiful.

Sunfyre struck first, his jaws snapping at Caraxes’s neck, but the Blood Wyrm was faster. Caraxes coiled his body, twisting out of reach, and lunged in return. His claws raked across Sunfyre’s side, shredding through golden scales with a sound like tearing steel. Sunfyre let out a scream of pain, and Aegon’s grip on the saddle faltered as his dragon dipped through the air.

“Hold, Sunfyre!” Aegon shouted, his voice hoarse as he clung to the reins. Sunfyre, in agony, rallied and beat his massive wings, rising again to meet Caraxes.

The dragons collided mid-air, their bodies smashing together with bone-jarring force. Claws tore, teeth sank deep into flesh, and blood began to rain from the sky, dark and thick. Caraxes sank his talons into Sunfyre’s underbelly, holding him fast as he raked his hind legs across the golden dragon’s sides, gouging deep, bloody furrows into his shimmering hide.

Sunfyre screamed and twisted, his massive jaws latching onto Caraxes’s shoulder. Teeth sank deep, piercing scales and drawing a torrent of blood. Caraxes roared in fury, but his grip did not falter. The two dragons plummeted toward the earth, their wings entangled as they tore at each other, desperate to kill.

“Burn him!” Aegon bellowed as he wrenched the reins. Sunfyre opened his jaws and let loose a torrent of flame. The fire licked across Caraxes’s flank, charring scales and flesh alike, but Daemon did not cry out. He held fast to his saddle, his face a mask of cold fury.

“Caraxes!” Daemon roared, his voice carrying above the winds.

Caraxes responded in kind, twisting his long neck to avoid the flame and snapping his jaws around Sunfyre’s wing. With a sound like tearing leather, Caraxes ripped the wing, shredding the membrane and sending Sunfyre spiraling down in a torrent of blood and broken scale.

Aegon screamed, clutching desperately at his saddle as Sunfyre plummeted to the earth. Caraxes released his prey at the last moment, pulling up into the sky as Sunfyre crashed to the ground with a sound like thunder. The golden dragon screamed, his massive body writhing as he lay broken on the rocky earth. Aegon fell from the saddle, landing hard with a sickening thud.

Daemon descended then, Caraxes landing with a rumbling growl beside the dying Sunfyre. Blood dripped from the Blood Wyrm’s jaws and claws, steaming where it struck the earth. Daemon dismounted, his armor streaked with soot and blood, Dark Sister gleaming in his hand as he strode forward.

Aegon groaned, struggling to push himself up from where he lay. His armor was dented, his face bloodied and streaked with dirt. He lifted his head to see Daemon approaching, and for the first time, fear flickered in the young king’s violet eyes.

“Stay back!” Aegon rasped, his voice shaking.

Daemon did not stop. He stepped over Aegon, barely sparing him a glance as he moved past the fallen king and toward the holdfast beyond. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice as cold as death itself.

Aegon dragged himself up onto his hands and knees, coughing blood. “You won’t… take her,” he gasped. “Not from me.”

Daemon paused, turning back to look at him. The derision in his gaze was palpable. “You’ve lost, boy. You’re beaten. And you’ll die here with your dragon.” He turned his back on Aegon again, striding toward the shattered doors of the holdfast.

“No!” Aegon cried, dragging himself forward with shaking limbs. 

Daemon ignored him, his boots echoing ominously as he entered the darkened stone ruins. Behind him, Sunfyre let out a final, pained roar, his body twisting as blood pooled beneath him.

The holdfast was silent—too silent. Daemon Targaryen strode through its broken halls like a shadow, his steps echoing against the cold stone. Dark Sister hung at his side, its blade slick with the blood of men who had tried to stand in his way. Caraxes waited outside, his roars still rumbling through the air like distant thunder, but inside, there was nothing. Just the heavy stillness of a place long abandoned.

Daemon’s violet eyes scanned every doorway, every shadow, his heart thundering against his ribs. He could feel it—some terrible truth waiting at the edge of his mind, clawing at him as he moved deeper into the ruins.

And then he heard it.

A faint, muffled sound. A whimper? A cry? It came from behind an iron-bound door at the end of the hall. Daemon’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as he approached, his breath slow and deliberate. He pressed against the door—it creaked on its hinges, heavy and reluctant—before he stepped inside.

The air struck him like a blow.

The chamber was dim, the torches burning low, their light flickering feebly against the stone walls. The smell hit him next—blood, sweat, something sour and sickly. And there, in the center of the room, was you.

You lay sprawled on a narrow bed, your body pale as milk, a sheen of sweat clinging to your brow. A bloody sheet was pooled around you, and your breathing came in shallow, broken gasps. Two attendants hovered beside you, their faces taut with fear, their hands stained red.

For a moment, Daemon did not move. His mind froze, unable to reconcile the sight of his daughter—his child—so small and fragile beneath that sea of blood.

“Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it cut through the heavy air.

You turned your head weakly, your glassy violet eyes finding his. You blinked as though unsure whether he was real. “Father?” you rasped, your voice barely audible.

Daemon crossed the room in an instant, dropping Dark Sister with a clang. He fell to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering near your face, afraid to touch you. “What have they done to you?” he demanded, his voice breaking with a fury that could have brought down the heavens.

One of the attendants stepped forward, trembling as she spoke. “My lord—”

“Silence,” Daemon barked, his glare enough to freeze her in place. His eyes turned back to you, softening. “I’m here. I’m here now.”

You smiled faintly, a ghost of the child he had once known. “You came…” Your voice cracked as you winced, your body shuddering with another wave of pain.

Daemon looked down—and that was when he saw it. The attendants were pressing bloodied cloths between your legs, their hands stained crimson. It was clear now. You were giving birth, but something had gone terribly wrong.

“No,” Daemon muttered, his voice raw. He turned to the attendants, his expression murderous. “What are you doing? Save her!”

“We cannot stop the bleeding, my lord,” one of the women whispered, her face pale with terror. “It is too late.”

“Liar!” Daemon roared, rising to his feet. “You will save her, or I will have your heads!”

“Father,” you murmured, your voice faint. You reached for him with a trembling hand, and Daemon immediately dropped back to his knees, his fingers curling around yours. “Don’t shout… It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right,” he growled, his voice shaking as he looked at you. His thumb traced the back of your hand, desperate to keep you grounded. “You will not leave me. Do you hear me?”

You said nothing, your breathing growing weaker. A strained cry cut through the air then—a sharp, desperate sound. One of the attendants moved away from you, holding something swaddled in bloodied cloth.

“The babe, my lord,” she said softly.

Daemon turned his head sharply, his gaze narrowing on the squirming bundle in the woman’s arms. He stared at it as though it were a serpent, his expression darkening. For a long moment, there was silence.

You tried to speak, but your words were slurred, barely more than a whisper. “…a boy?”

The attendant nodded hesitantly. “A boy, my lady.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, but the light was fading from your eyes. “Good,” you murmured. “Aegon will… be pleased…”

Daemon flinched at the name, his teeth grinding together as he looked at you. “Don’t you dare say his name. He’s the reason for this—he’s the reason you—” His voice broke, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your clammy hand. “Stay with me, Y/N. Please.”

But you were already slipping away. Your breath rattled once more, then went still.

Daemon froze.

“No.” The word was a whisper, trembling and desperate. He lifted his head, his gaze fixed on your still face. “No.”

Silence answered him.

The attendants exchanged nervous glances as they stood, watching him carefully. Daemon sat motionless for what felt like an eternity, his hand still clutching yours as the storm of his grief began to swell.

The babe let out another cry, sharp and thin, cutting through the silence like a dagger. Daemon’s head snapped toward the child, his eyes wild with grief and rage.

The attendant flinched back, clutching the boy closer. “My lord—”

Daemon stood, his face carved from stone. “Give him to me.”

“My lord?”

“Give him to me.”

Trembling, the attendant stepped forward and placed the swaddled babe into Daemon’s arms. The child was small, red-faced, and screaming, his tiny fists waving uselessly in the air. Daemon stared down at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he tightened his grip, his knuckles white, as though he might crush the life from the boy then and there.

He remembered your pale face. Your soft words. “A boy… Aegon will be pleased…”

Daemon’s breath hitched, his throat tightening as he looked at the helpless child. The babe’s cries softened, his violet eyes—so much like yours—blinking up at him.

Daemon’s hands trembled. His grief and rage battled for dominance, screaming for him to act. To avenge you. To end this.

But he couldn’t.

With a ragged breath, he turned to the attendants, his voice low and unsteady. “Take him. Keep him warm. If he dies, I’ll burn you alive.”

The women nodded quickly, taking the child back with care.

Daemon turned back to you then, kneeling beside your still form. He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cooling skin. “I will avenge you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I swear it.”

Outside, Caraxes let out a mournful roar that echoed through the ruins, as if the dragon himself grieved with his rider. The storm raged on, but in that chamber, there was only silence—and the promise of fire and blood.

The door creaked as Daemon stepped outside, and the biting wind hit him like a blade. The air was thick with the scent of blood, smoke, and rain. He could hear Caraxes breathing nearby, the deep, guttural rumble of the dragon’s rage vibrating through the earth itself. Daemon’s steps were slow and deliberate, each one weighted with grief and fury.

Ahead of him, Aegon lay slumped against the broken form of Sunfyre. The golden dragon, once the most magnificent creature to grace the skies, was shattered, his scales streaked with crimson, one wing mangled and useless. His shallow breaths rattled through his great chest, the rise and fall slower with each moment. Aegon clung to Sunfyre’s neck as though the dying beast’s warmth might save him. His armor was battered and smeared with mud and blood. He was broken—utterly ruined—and yet he still lived.

Daemon approached him, his shadow stretching long over the king. His armor was black as night, spattered with soot and blood, and his face was carved from stone. Behind him, Caraxes crouched low, his red scales gleaming darkly in the storm light. The Blood Wyrm’s slit eyes were fixed on Aegon, as if the dragon knew who was responsible for the pain that had driven his rider to the edge.

Aegon stirred weakly, one hand clawing at the mud to drag himself forward. “Daemon…” he croaked, his voice barely audible. His head lifted just enough for his violet eyes—bloodshot and dazed—to meet Daemon’s cold, unyielding gaze.

Daemon stopped a few paces away, Dark Sister still clutched loosely in his hand. “You look pathetic, boy,” he said quietly, his voice empty of pity.

Aegon coughed, blood spilling from his lips as he slumped back against Sunfyre. “Where… where is she?” His voice cracked, raw with desperation.

Daemon stared at him for a long moment, his face unreadable. “She’s dead.”

The words were simple, devoid of embellishment, but they struck like a hammer. Aegon froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. “No…” he whispered, his voice trembling. He shook his head, tears welling in his violet eyes. “You’re lying.”

Daemon’s expression did not change. “She bled to death alone in that chamber, surrounded by strangers. Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Aegon’s face crumpled. His hands trembled as he pressed them into the mud, trying to lift himself. “No,” he gasped, his breath ragged. “No, she can’t—she can’t be…”

“You killed her, Aegon.” Daemon’s voice was calm, but his words were sharp as a dagger. “You stole her from her home, from her family, and you dragged her into your madness. She paid the price for your pride.”

Aegon let out a broken sound—a sob that caught in his throat. His head fell forward, his silver-gold hair matted with blood and rain. “I loved her,” he choked out, his voice shattered. “I loved her…”

Daemon’s lip curled into a sneer, though there was no satisfaction in it. “You loved her?” He took a step closer, looming over Aegon. “What you did to her was not love. Love would not leave her pale and broken, gasping her last breath while you clung to life like a coward.”

Aegon’s breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his grief. “The babe?” he rasped after a long silence. His eyes flickered up to Daemon’s, wild with desperation. “Our child—where is it?”

Daemon stilled. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his gaze, though it was impossible to tell what. Then his face hardened once more, the mask of a man who had nothing left to give.

“I owe you no answers.”

Aegon stared at him, his expression crumbling further. “Daemon—please,” he begged, his voice hoarse. “Tell me—”

Daemon turned his back on him without another word, his boots crunching over the wet earth. Caraxes shifted as Daemon approached, the dragon’s great head lowering, his nostrils flaring as he regarded his rider. For a moment, the Rogue Prince paused, one hand resting against the Blood Wyrm’s scarred jaw. His voice was low when he spoke, though Aegon could not hear him.

“Let’s leave this wretched place.”

Daemon climbed into Caraxes’s saddle, his movements heavy with the weight of loss. The dragon’s wings unfurled, their span vast and terrible against the gray sky. A single roar escaped Caraxes’s throat as he leapt into the air, the sound echoing through the ruins like a death knell.

Aegon remained on the ground, shaking and broken. Sunfyre’s breathing had gone still, the dragon’s golden form lifeless beside him. Aegon leaned into the mud, his tears mixing with rain and blood as the truth clawed at him.

She was gone.

His child lived, but Daemon had taken it.

And in that moment, the mighty King Aegon II Targaryen was nothing but a shattered man, left alone with the ruin he had wrought.

[lenoirexv]

EWAN MITCHELL As AEMOND TARGARYEN | House of the Dragon 2x08 | The Queen Who Ever Was.

[lokidbadguy]

OMGGGGGG THIS IS SO CUTEEEEE

A Lion in the Garden -Tywin Lannister x Reader- (Part 7)

WARNINGS: Mentions of rape and gore

Word Count: 7k

—————

My grandmother was set upon hearing it from a firsthand witness. ‘It’ being whether or not King Joffrey truly was a beast, or whether he was over exaggerated. I had a feeling deep inside of me that he was the first, but my grandmother desired to speak with Sansa Stark either way, for who else but she would know?

That was how I found myself sitting with my grandmother and Margaery in the gardens, patiently waiting for Loras to retrieve the girl from her chambers. I resigned to the covered balcony in the meantime, for it was much quieter and I could watch the sea. 

“Is it too much?”

I turned to look at Margaery as she approached me, and gave her a slight nod. She was of course referring to the various members of our family who had decided to join us in King’s Landing, as they constantly populated the gardens and were currently quite loud with their chatter.

“I would complain about how many men and women came with us from Highgarden, but I know it helps you and grandmother feel more familiar in this horrid place, and that’s enough for me,” I told her, leaning over to kiss her hair as she came to my side and linked our arms. There was so much in life that burdened me, but to be her older sister was never one of them. I supposed I’d been enamored with my siblings from the moment they came into the world, and I’d taken it upon myself to protect and care for them in any way that I could.

“I don’t know how you manage it,” Margaery said, sighing and leaning her head on my shoulder. I returned the gesture, laying my head on top of hers. 

“Manage what?”

“Being here without any… any friends.”

I smiled softly and looked down.

“I have you, grandmother, and Loras. That’s quite enough for me. Most of my friends at home are soldiers anyway, and I get quite enough of them here. Plus, Ser Elias arrived in the capital a few days ago and it has certainly made me much happier,” I assured her, hand coming up to gently rub her back. His wife had finally given birth; it was a healthy young boy.

“Well, at least there’s that. On the subject of soldiers, though, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I overheard Father talking with Loras yesterday. Some of our men had quite the brawl with the Lannister soldiers, it seems,” Margaery confessed, giving me quite the shock in doing so. Our men had never been indecent, it was something I demanded of them. You can only keep and command such a large army with rules of behavior and decorum in place, and I’d certainly done so in my father’s stead. That’s why I was rather shocked, because what on earth would have caused such a thing to happen? 

“What? What happened, and how is it that Father knows before I do? Yes, they’re technically his armies, but he appointed me head of it years ago for a reason. Usually I’m the first to know when these things happen,” I wondered aloud, also somewhat frustrated by the fact that my father had not even had the sense to tell me such a thing. Nor had anyone else, for that matter, which was especially odd. I usually got quick reports when brawls happened, even if they were rare.

“Well, from what I heard… it was about you,” Margaery noted, and I could hear the hesitation in her voice. I got the sense that she knew more than she was letting on and did not entirely want to tell me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, apparently two Lannister soldiers were making harsh insults and rather…tasteless comments about you. That was what made our men lunge,” she explained, making me exhale through my nose. I wasn’t surprised in the least.

I’d dealt with men from other armies and groups for quite some time, and just like any woman, I’d been subjected to plenty of insults and lewd comments for nearly my entire life as well. At the very least, it felt good to know my soldiers had my back and would not allow my name to be tarnished in such a way.

“Is Father afraid I’ll be upset?”

“I’m not certain. He told Loras he was meeting with Lord Tywin so they could discuss the conflict. They were supposed to meet yesterday, I believe. I meant to tell you beforehand, but I didn’t see you,” she informed me, making my dread even worse. Dear gods, why had my father thought that going to Tywin Lannister without even mentioning it to me was the best option?

“Don’t worry yourself with it, Margaery. I’m just- I’m quite frustrated that Father did such a thing. He undermined my authority and made me look weak in doing so, even if he didn’t realize it. I’ll speak to Lord Tywin today and clear things up. After this whole interrogation is done, anyway,” I remarked, shaking my head with sheer anger. Of all the things for him to do.

“(Y/N)! Come here, you’ve received a letter.”

I turned around at the sound of my grandmother’s voice, finding Ser Elias standing beside her. I raised a quizzical eyebrow at Margaery, but she shrugged and followed behind me as we approached the two of them.

“A letter?”

“A Lannister soldier brought it,” Ser Elias explained, scratching his short, dark beard. I took it from his free hand and inspected it carefully; the seal was the Lannister sigil, not that of the Hand. Confused and somewhat curious, I opened it and quickly discovered—by the noticeable handwriting of course—that it was in fact from Lord Tywin. I quickly began to read.

Lady (Y/N),

The smith that I requested from Essos arrived in King’s Landing yesterday. I’m asking you to accompany me today, as I’m unfortunately busy the rest of the week, and presume that you would like the sword finished sooner rather than later. Bring your blade and meet me in the stables.

-Tywin Lannister

I smiled as I folded it back up, slipping it into the pockets of my dress. I would finally make this weapon mine, and that thought was thrilling. 

“Would you accompany me to my chambers and then to the stables, Ser Elias? There is something I need to get,” I asked rather vaguely. He nodded, but my grandmother raised an eyebrow. 

“So, you get some letter and suddenly you’re exempt from this? Shame on you, dear. You ought to care more about your sister's future husband,” she lectured, to which I merely laughed, nodding at her with sarcastic agreement. She was only playing, of course.

“It is from the Lord Hand, grandmother, it would be rude to leave him waiting,” I said, voice full of insincerity. Both my grandmother and Margaery laughed, giving each other a knowing look. 

“Oh yes! The Lord Hand, gods forbid he do anything that isn’t on his own time or in his own interest. Go on then, attend to whatever damned thing he’s mentioned. All I ask is that you try not to end an alliance while doing it,” my grandmother scoffed, waving me off. 

I merely smiled and gave her an ambiguous shrug, walking away with Ser Elias at my side. As I left, I heard Margaery whisper something which I couldn’t make out. Well, it wasn’t of any importance to me, but the laughs the two of them let out while gazing in my direction were certainly curious. 

“So, may I ask what the letter said?” Ser Elias inquired after a moment, turning his head toward me and raising an eyebrow at the sheer excitement on my face. He, more than most, was quite aware of my hatred for Lord Tywin, and so naturally I was sure he thought I’d gone insane.

“A smith has arrived from Essos, one that knows how to work Valyrian steel. Lord Tywin summoned him for me, for nothing moves men like gold does. Either way, I want to get my sword reworked. You’ve seen how big it is right now, I could probably get at least two daggers off the thing,” I explained, feeling myself absolutely beam at the thought. Ser Elias had already seen the sword—in fact, it had been one of the first things I’d shown him when he’d arrived in King’s Landing. Still, the blade had been big for him, and he was around 6’6”. I suspected the man who’d split my side with the thing was at least 7 feet tall. 

“It was rather kind of Lord Tywin to do that. We’ll have quite a lot of fun practicing once you’re able to wield the blade. Though, I’m afraid I’m not very well suited for going against you if you’re using two daggers,” he noted, making me smile to myself.

“I know you’re sick of hearing me complain, so I won’t comment upon your first sentiment, but yes, I agree, practice will be fun. As for daggers, the man I was practicing with before you got here seemed to be rather good with that kind of combat. Perhaps I could ask him to join us at some point,” I suggested, walking through the keep and up various flights of stairs without anything more than the gentlest pain. My wound practically was fully healed now, even if there was still the slightest hint of pain. As far as the maesters were concerned though, I could do whatever I wanted to without worrying about it. It had been 10 years since hearing something had made me so happy. 

“By all means, ask him. Gods know that you’re far too advanced for me now,” Ser Elias replied, chuckling to himself as we approached my room. We’d gotten here rather quickly, much to my surprise. 

“Well, I’d like to remind you that you’re the only reason I am so advanced. You were my first teacher, Elias, and I’ll always be grateful for it,” I said, making sure he wouldn’t forget that fact. He was the one who’d made me passionate about fighting, and who knows if another teacher would’ve done the same?

He only smiled as he pulled the door open for me, and I quickly went to grab the sword. I was impossibly giddy, like a child again. It was already beautiful, I could hardly comprehend how breathtaking it would be once it had a handle to match my armor.

“Can you sheathe it while we walk to the stables? I fear a woman walking around with a sword as big as that might raise lots of eyebrows and questions,” I asked Ser Elias, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind me. He instantly nodded, putting it in his belt and walking a step or two behind me on our way to the stables, for it wouldn’t have seemed proper to any nobles that we passed by if he was next to me.

It thankfully didn’t take very long to get there either, and when we arrived I found Lord Tywin waiting for me. Both of our horses were prepared, and though I didn’t notice it, so were the ones of two Lannister guards.

“Lord Tywin,” I nodded at him, and he did the same in turn, also replying with a brief ‘Lady (Y/N)’. He looked Ser Elias over then, presumably because he was quite tall, and was especially so while standing next to me. I turned back to look at him, and he handed me the sword. Lord Tywin only stood and watched. 

“Thank you, Ser. No need to accompany us, Lord Tywin and I should be fine,” I reasoned, to which he simply bowed his head and left. I did not want Ser Elias to be there if my bickering with the Lord Hand got particularly bad. Plus, the two of us had done fine on our own the last time we’d rode through King’s Landing, and we were only going to the street of steel anyway.

“Quite the man, isn’t he?” Lord Tywin said suddenly, pulling his eyes away from the door and looking at me now. I shrugged, handing him the sword so that he could sheathe it for the same reason that I’d had Ser Elias do so.

“Ser Elias has been my guard and closest friend since I was a girl. I suppose I’m used to his height. He’s really not that intimidating at all,” I replied, mounting my horse and looking over as Lord Tywin did the same. He said nothing back, but there was a vague annoyance on his face that I couldn’t figure out. He grumbled something, though I didn’t hear it. I considered asking, but I knew it was not addressed towards me or it would’ve been audible. Lord Tywin was not the kind of man to speak softly.

We spurred the horses, riding casually down the main road of the Red Keep. As we did, I realized two Lannister guards were riding behind us. So much for going on our own, then.

“You know, Lord Tywin, if you were going to have your men accompany us, I could’ve had Ser Elias come instead,” I told him, wondering why he hadn’t protested. Ser Elias and I combined would’ve been ten times more effective than the two fools with us.

“I’m aware,” the Old Lion replied curtly, not even bothering to look at me as he said it. I sighed, knowing that just like always I was going to have to put up with his foul moods before he warmed up.

“There’s no need to be rude, Lord Tywin. I don’t know what has you in such a bad mood, but you did invite me here today, so there’s no point in being bitter. Unless you’re merely afraid of looking happy in front of your men,” I told him, grinning as a sudden urge developed in my head. Before he could say anything, I turned to look back at the guards. I couldn’t see their eyes, but I could feel their discomfort at my observation of them.

“What do you think, gentlemen? Wouldn’t you like to see Lord Tywin smile for once?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at them to suggest I wanted a reply. The two looked between each other and gave me a silent nod, for my word was less incriminating than their lord hearing them say yes. Satisfied, I turned back to Lord Tywin and laughed quietly.

“The vote is unanimous, my lord, you’re allowed to cheer up,” I announced, grinning. He only stayed quiet, and my smile faltered. Even as we left the Red Keep, he still remained silent, and I was beginning to grow irritated. Usually he would at least show frustration and entertain me; right now he was only being boring.

“I regret not bringing Ser Elias, he might’ve made this outing more enjoyable, as clearly you don’t intend to talk to me,” I said rather passive aggressively, looking around the streets as we rode. We were in the nicer part of King's Landing and I still felt miserable. I might as well have been questioning Sansa Stark about Joffrey right now.

“How old is Ser Elias?” Lord Tywin asked suddenly, still sounding rather irritated. I hissed with feigned pain, grabbing at my ears to suggest that he hadn’t spoken in so long that the sound of his voice was too loud for me. When he glared, I rolled my eyes and relented. So he wasn’t a statue after all.

“He’s 13 years older than I am, so I suppose about 38 now,” I guessed, doing the math in my head and shrugging. I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d thought about it.

“Is he married?”

“Yes, his first son was just born this month, that’s why he’s only now arrived from Highgarden. Why?” I adjusted my grip on the reins, glancing back and forth between the street and the man beside me as I waited for an answer. Lord Tywin again, said nothing, and I sighed. Why did he care so damn much about Ser Elias? That was when it clicked.

Did he believe Ser Elias had romantic feelings for me? 

I began to laugh, and I gaped at Lord Tywin, who had raised a quizzical eyebrow in response to my rather loud giggling. He did not look amused, but still felt obligated to question me anyway.

“What?”

“Did you think that Ser Elias was in love with me? Is that why you were asking questions about him?” I asked, still laughing and finding myself unable to stop. That was the most impossible scenario on earth, though I supposed that anybody who hadn’t really seen the two of us interact wouldn’t be aware.

“If you’ve known him for that long and are so close to him, it was only a natural assumption. If he doesn’t have affection for you now, he has at some point, I promise,” Lord Tywin said, a slight hint of anger in his voice. I had positively no clue why he was angry about such a random subject, but I supposed he was always angry in general.

“And how would you presume to know anything about Ser Elias? It’s a very bold assumption to make,” I told him, thinking it absolutely ridiculous. I could still recall listening to him go on about how beautiful and perfect his wife was, even long before they’d gotten married. Plus, he’d always referred to me as a daughter of sorts. If anything, that should’ve made Lord Tywin vehemently against the idea, for he was quite good at denying the existence of incestious relationships.

“He’s a man and he’s got a pair of working eyes. Not to mention, he has at least half a brain,” he said, looking over at me with both eyebrows raised. I scoffed at him, shaking my head and almost finding his sentiment amusing.

“By those requirements, Lord Tywin, you ought to be madly in love with me. You disprove your own point. Ah, well, I suppose you did say at least half a brain. You may fail to reach that standard,” I reasoned, watching his face go tense for a moment. I grinned, enjoying that at least the insult had gotten to him, for I’d never seen him make that expression before.

“Let’s dismount here, the street gets too narrow up that way, and it’s a short walk,” he said suddenly, changing the subject. I huffed out, but did as he suggested anyway. The two guards behind us did the same, and Lord Tywin handed his reins to one of them.

“Go tie them up, and take Lady Tyrell’s horse too,” he ordered, only looking at the men briefly. The other one came up to me, taking my own horse and moving off to the side. 

Lord Tywin looked at me after a moment, motioning that we walk. I moved over to be beside him, and from there we began our stroll toward the smith. I was only grateful that the weather was nice today.

“Lord Tywin, now that the guards aren’t with us, may I ask you something?” I questioned after a moment, noticing that we’d left them a bit behind. He merely raised an eyebrow at me, which I knew was a signal for me to do so. I swallowed, trying to figure out how to begin.

“I- well, I’ve heard that my father met with you over a conflict between our bannermen. May I ask why I was not included in that discussion? I am the head of the Tyrell army, and I know the conflict began because of comments made about me, but I would have liked to be consulted in the matter regardless,” I said, folding my hands behind my back to not appear so anxious.

“And I had told your father as much, but he was adamant that it was unnecessary to involve you. I would guess that he simply did not wish to upset you, though he should’ve known you’d find out anyway. I did not fight him on it, I’ve got far too little time for such things. Either way, it’s all been dealt with, and rest assured we kept your best interests in mind,” Lord Tywin informed, keeping his gaze ahead of us at all times just as mine was. Even if not in Flea Bottom, it was important to be alert at all times in King’s Landing. 

“What happened? In terms of consequences, I mean,” I asked him, desiring to know what the outcome of their meeting had been. I was going to be rather upset if my men had been subjected to some harsh punishment at Lord Tywin’s command, though he had sounded genuine enough. Then again, what did he and my father know about ‘my best interests’?

“For your men, nothing. I assured your father that they were in the right to defend you, especially because they were being provoked. However, the two Lannister soldiers that were making rude and distasteful comments have lost their tongues.”

I stopped walking, my mouth falling open for a moment. I was shocked, but Lord Tywin did not seem phased at all. He only stared at me blankly as I attempted to process what I had just heard him say.

“You cut out their tongues for making a couple of lewd comments about me?” I clarified, wondering if that was not the only reason. At least, I hoped it wasn’t, because if it was, it naturally meant that the two men had said something quite serious.

“Yes, I did. Lannisters, even soldiers, have a reputation to uphold. I will not have my men making unbecoming comments about noble women, and especially not about you. As the head of the Tyrell army, of course,” he said, pausing after the ‘especially not about you’ bit. I swallowed, finding it in myself to begin walking again. Lord Tywin did the same once I was at his side.

“What could have possibly been so horrible it warranted that? What in the seven hells did they say? And don’t bother making it more ‘proper’, I deserve to know,” I told him, not able to imagine what would’ve been so bad that he’d felt the need to take such an action. Lord Tywin was quiet for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not he ought to tell me. When he opened his mouth, he could not meet my eyes.

“From what the two men told me personally, they were taunting your soldiers and saying they would… ‘rape you’ and ‘enjoy making the tears stream down your face’ as they…” Lord Tywin trailed off, and when I looked over at him there was a deep conflict in his eyes—a sort of solemn anger. My stomach had already dropped; I figured I might as well hear all of it. 

“Please tell me, Lord Tywin,” I whispered, giving him a pleading look. He swallowed and licked his lips nervously. I’d never seen him act so anxious before, and it was extremely unsettling. 

“As they made you… ‘gag on their cocks’, and took turns- took turns… ‘filling your cunt’,” Lord Tywin said quietly, clearly struggling to get through it. His eyebrows contorted in all different manners, and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. I could hear the disgust—along with the upset—in his voice, and he only looked down at me once quite a bit of silence had followed his statement.

I was quiet, trying to process what I’d just heard. I was no longer even thinking about the fact that they’d had their tongues removed, only about what they’d said. There was a cold anxiety rushing over me, because even if I knew that they couldn’t actually do such a thing to me, the picture of it was still in my mind. 

I felt my lower lip begin to tremble involuntarily, and I could not make it stop. I was afraid, even despite the bravery that I was so accustomed to flaunting during tourneys and battles. I had already been assaulted before, and that had impacted me in a quite significant way. I could not even comprehend how I would manage to move on if men like those two, or even the Baratheon soldier, ever got the chance to act on their words. 

“I shouldn’t feel grateful for what you ordered, but I am,” I said quietly, finally looking up at Lord Tywin with glossy eyes. His own eyes softened when he saw the look on my face, and he nodded gently.

“After the Battle of Blackwater, Lady (Y/N), you chided me that the man who gives the order ought to do it himself. You will be pleased to know that I took your statement to heart,” he told me, somehow filling me with even more shock. 

“You- You cut their tongues off yourself?” I asked, clearing my throat from the block that had seemed to form as a response. I was looking over at him with wide eyes, and when he met my gaze, he was perfectly composed.  

I saw it in his eyes: him ordering his guards to grab the two men after they’d been interrogated. The two faceless men would have panicked as they watched Lord Tywin pull out his blade, informing them that he intended to remove their tongues. I could picture them squirming and struggling to break free, but they would not. The only thing they would do was scream as the guards held their mouths open and the Lord of Casterly Rock himself gripped and cut. In my sick fantasy, I could see their blood splattering onto his hands, and I could see just how unphased Lord Tywin looked while doing it. 

When I came back to the present, Lord Tywin stopped walking and turned to face me. I similarly froze, waiting for whatever he was going to reply with. His breathing had become more intense.

“Yes, I did, and I’ll do it again if any man dares to say such things about you, gods forbid actually act upon it. You may criticize my brutality, Lady (Y/N), but know that if a man ever does such a thing, he will face more wrath than you can possibly imagine. I promised to keep you safe from such assault, and I will do so,” he assured me, voice more than just serious as he did so. My lips parted as I gazed up at him, looking back and forth between his eyes. 

The Great Lion of the Rock, that was what they called him. My heart—despite how much I claimed to hate this man—swelled at his sentiments. I ought to have been angry, or to have lectured Lord Tywin about his cruelty, but I could not. Somewhere inside this cruel, cold man, there was genuine care, and it made me feel more safe than anything ever had. 

I said nothing, but I nodded at the Lord Hand, and he knew that I was too overwhelmed to speak. We began to walk once more, and I felt myself drifting closer to him. I did not look at him as I did it, but I reached for Lord Tywin’s arm and clung to it with both of my hands. When he adjusted himself so that I could hold on more comfortably, I leaned my head against his shoulder. 

Today had changed something for me, even despite the fact that I’d tried very hard to uphold my hatred for Tywin Lannister. It was not the gifts that had done it, nor had it been saving my life, but it had been this gesture. To know that he genuinely sought to protect me, to make certain that I was safe. That was what had broken my firm hatred for this man.

“Are you alright, Lady (Y/N)?” Lord Tywin asked softly after a moment, looking down at me. I nodded against his arm, not particularly knowing what to say. There really wasn’t anything for me to say. He cleared his throat after a moment, looking ahead again as we turned onto another street. “I’m well aware of the fact that you detest me, but please know that-”

“I don’t,” I said quickly, cutting him off. With his usual stern look, he raised an eyebrow at me. I swallowed, stuttering quite a bit as I tried to get my point across. “I- I apologize for interrupting you, Lord Tywin, but I merely wanted to clarify that, well, I don’t hate you. Sure, you’re still an insufferable cu- you’re still insufferable a lot of the time, but I don’t hate you, per say.”

“And what of your infamous vow to loathe me until the day you die?” he questioned, surprising me with his knowledge of its existence. I supposed it made sense that he’d found out, it wasn’t as if I’d exactly kept my vow a secret. 

“Well, perhaps my heart stopped beating for a few moments during the Battle of Blackwater. At least, I hope it did. It would be a far less degrading explanation,” I replied, lifting my head and giving him a somewhat cheeky smile. He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head at how ridiculous I was. He had laughed though, and that was quite enough for me, even if it was rather strange to grapple with the fact that I didn’t entirely detest him.

After a few more minutes of walking we finally arrived at the smith, and when we stepped inside I could smell the fresh forged steel, not to mention the sweat of hard working men. The man in charge—or so it seemed—noticed us rather swiftly and came over to greet us. I was quick to let go of Lord Tywin’s arm. 

“How may I help you today, Lord Hand?” he asked, wiping his hands with a cloth. It seemed Lord Tywin must’ve been here at least once or twice before. Either way, he merely reached into his pocket and handed the smith a small, sealed parchment. When the man finished reading it, he motioned for us to follow. 

We were led through a small door, and from there down a large set of stairs. Our destination was an expansive basement, and I could instantly feel the heat coming from a gigantic fireplace in the middle of the room. There, we found two men working on a rather detailed helmet. When they heard us enter, they turned around and bowed their heads out of respect. 

“My lord, good morning. Thank you for calling upon me. You wished for me to rework a sword, correct?” the bald one confirmed, coming up to us and adjusting the apron around his neck. 

I could hear the distinct accent in his voice, and I wondered which part of Essos he was from. I assumed that he was the smith Lord Tywin had sent for, and that the young man with him was either a son or an apprentice—or perhaps both.

“Yes, that’s correct. However, it is the lady’s sword, not mine. You ought to speak to her about it,” Lord Tywin said, motioning to me and removing my blade from his belt. He handed it to the smith, who took it and examined it quite carefully. The man looked at me and nodded, motioning to follow.

“I did not realize the blade would be quite this large. Would you like me to forge it into two, my lady?” He asked, placing it sideways upon a narrow stone block. The apprentice came over and held it properly while the smith reached for a hammer.

“I was hoping for a sword and two daggers. If it leaves the sword still a bit relatively large, that’s fine. I could use the advantage,” I told him, watching as he slammed down on the current handle and slid it off once it came loose. I suddenly recalled doing the same thing to a man’s sword during the Greyjoy Rebellion, though he had been far less excited about it.

“A sword and two daggers? Are these…” the man trailed off, moving away from my blade and looking around. He picked up three handles—one big and two small—and held them up for me to see. “Are these for you then? One of the men upstairs gave them to me and said they were for a distinguished customer.” 

“Yes, those would be for her. The same man made her armor, they’re meant to match,” Lord Tywin answered, coming up beside me with his hands clasped behind his back. I hadn’t even realized he’d proactively had the handles made, I’d only briefly mentioned wanting to make daggers out of it that once. 

Though, I was grateful for it, as they were just as absolutely breathtaking as my armor. All three of them were ornamented with golden vines, full of thorns, roses, and nightshade. And of course, they were not missing the gorgeous jewels that had been added to my helm. 

“Of course. Very well, a sword and two daggers,” the smith nodded in confirmation, motioning for the boy he was working with to bring the blade over. Lord Tywin and I watched attentively as the two of them placed it down onto a unique table, fire soon enveloping the stone and beginning to melt the steel.

I found myself possessed as I began drifting closer toward it, utterly mesmerized by the sight, but the Hand of the King gripped my wrist. When I turned to look at him, he gave me a knowing look. I only took a step back, sighing out as I observed the steel becoming a sort of molton looking thing. 

“Stay put for a moment, hm? I want to go look at some of the other weapons they have displayed. The king will be in need of a wedding present,” Lord Tywin muttered, to which I only rolled my eyes and nodded. Of course, the second that he went over to the wall to admire the smith’s other work, I moved closer to the table and began asking questions.

“Can you add details to the metal?” I questioned, folding my hands together and looking at the man with eager curiosity. It was Valyrian steel, so I was not sure what could and could not be done to it, but I figured I ought to ask anyway. The worst reply would only be no.

“Yes, but it would have to be small. Did you have something in mind, my lady?” he answered, snapping at the other boy to go and check on Lord Tywin. I smiled, nodding and looking down at the fully melted blade.

“There is a design on my handle, a small berry with star shaped leaves. Could you add that at the base of the blade?” I requested, to which he instantly said ‘of course’. I turned my head at the sound of Lord Tywin’s voice, though I relaxed when I realized he was only speaking to the apprentice. A sudden idea came to mind.

“How fine can you make the details?” 

“As fine as you would like them. What do you desire?”

“It is an odd request, and I know that you’re accustomed to weaponry, but do you think you could take some of the steel and turn it into a ring?” 

“I certainly could.”

“Then please do. I would like to make the ring for the Lord Hand. Do you think you could put the head of a lion at the front, and then a pattern of small roses around the entire thing, just through the middle?” I whispered, hoping it wasn’t too specific a request and simultaneously hoping that Lord Tywin was busy contemplating Joffrey’s wedding present. The smith smiled and nodded.

“Of course, my lady. I will keep some of the metal and forge it later so he does not notice it.”

“Thank you so much. I will pay you extra for it.”

Realizing that Lord Tywin was coming back over, I only smiled and stepped away, though not without meeting his scrutinizing gaze. I wasn’t entirely sure why he’d expected me to stay put in the first place; I was not fond of listening to people, and especially not him.

“You’re quite the burden, Lady (Y/N),” he chided me after a moment, watching the two men now pour the metal into a separate jar and take it to another table. They had already set out the molds for my sword and daggers.

“Oh, and you’re not?” I remarked, raising an eyebrow at him. He did not look at me, but there was a slight amusement on his face. I only shook my head, deciding to focus on the molten metal as they poured it into the molds. 

It was practically flaming, with red and orange embers sizzling off due to the sheer temperature. I’d never seen a more beautiful sight, and my mouth fell open involuntarily. That steel was to be mine; I could hardly comprehend it.

Once it began to harden, I saw the smith forming the design I’d requested at the base of it, much to my satisfaction. Lord Tywin placed a hand on my upper back, and when I turned my head to look up at him, he gave a subtle smile.

“Are you going to name the daggers too?” he questioned after a moment, watching as they subjected the metal to a rather interesting cooling process. Gods, Valyrian steel was gorgeous. 

“I ought to,” I agreed, trying to think of what I could possibly call them. The names should fit together, for they would be matching daggers besides the slight variation in jewels. That was how I could tell them apart, though. “Perhaps- Perhaps I’ll call them Thorn and Claw. Even if it is rather unoriginal, at least my brother will feel his suggestion has been honored.”

“After you spent so much time criticizing the name Ice.” Lord Tywin shook his head at me, and I smacked his arm with the back of my hand, laughing at his lecturing. What did he expect? Flowers only have so many sharp components, after all. I supposed it did make me a bit hypocritical, but I could live with that.

“If you’re going to be mean about it, I’m more than happy to change Claw to something else,” I shot back, having chosen the name as a small reference to him, or House Lannister at any rate. Plus, it did sound rather intimidating. 

“I’m not being mean, Lady (Y/N).”

“Ahuh.”

I’d been so busy bickering with Lord Tywin, that by the time we’d ended our small discussion the smith and his apprentice were approaching us with the freshly forged blades, already attached to their handles. When they handed the sword to me, my mouth fell open once again.

It was breathtaking, and I was instantly approaching the fire so that I might see it better. The thing practically had my name written all over it, and I was utterly ecstatic. Side Splitter was the best thing I’d ever had the privilege of owning, and I was quite certain that among all the ancestral Valyrian steel in Westeros, this was the most beautiful of them all. 

When Lord Tywin came up to me and presented the daggers, I felt even happier. I took one in my hand and found that the weight of it was utterly perfect, just as my sword was. Tears had begun to fill my eyes, and I was smiling when they rolled onto my cheeks. The Lord Hand wiped them away.

“Are you satisfied with them?” he questioned softly, also admiring the blade in my hands. I instantly nodded, sniffling and sighing out with content.

“More than. They’re beautiful, Tywin. Utterly beautiful,” I whispered, so preoccupied with them that I hadn’t even noticed myself using his first name alone. He shifted beside me, but did not remark about it. 

“I’m glad that you’re happy with them.” He turned around then, approaching the smith again and reaching into his pocket. When he removed his hand, I saw a decent sized pouch of gold and realized that he intended to pay for it himself.

“Lord Tywin- my lord, that’s quite alright, I can cover the cost,” I attempted to interrupt, placing my sword down on another table and then rushing over to them. The Great Lion only shook his head.

“I will cover it. I have the gold on hand,” he noted, then thanking the smith and receiving a small bag and wrap to safely keep the daggers in. I sighed, shaking my head and going back to get the sword. Lord Tywin followed knowingly and sheathed it when I handed it to him.

“We will discuss this outside, Lord Tywin,” I muttered, to which he only grumbled in response. We both gave the smith and his apprentice another genuine ‘thank you’ before leaving, and I subtly confirmed that I would pay them more for the ring later on. From there, we went back upstairs and then out of the establishment. 

“I’ll pay you back whatever sum you gave the man, and you’re not going to argue with me about it,” I said once we were on the street. Lord Tywin did not even bother to meet my eyes.

“There is no need.”

“It is my sword, I ought to repay the debt-”

“It’s not a debt, Lady (Y/N), it is a gift.”

That was all he said before offering me his arm. My previously annoyed glance dissipated, and my face softened as I took it. The small fluttering in my stomach was a strange sensation, and I found myself wondering if perhaps I had not eaten enough at breakfast. It was of no importance, I was certain that grandmother would have lemon cakes and cheese ready in the gardens. 

What was of importance, however, was the fact that I had just cemented this sword as part of my legacy. It would be passed on through the generations, but it would never lose the distinct design of nightshade. It would never lose me. Because family lines die out, and ink fades away, but Valyrian steel never rusts. 

—————

“Let her in!”

I was standing outside the Hand’s chambers, and after being announced, that was the prompt response I’d heard through the thick double doors. The Lannister guards reached to open it, and I stepped inside the office with a small box behind my back. Lord Tywin only looked up at me from his desk once the door was closed. 

“Close your eyes, Lord Tywin,” I said, making my way into the room and closer to him. He gave me a rather annoyed look, for I was sure he did not appreciate being interrupted in the middle of his work. I couldn’t have cared less.

“Why?”

“Just trust me,” I told him, smiling as he sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes now shut. I made my way past the rather long table and over to his actual office space, observing the room as I did, for I hadn’t really spent any time in the Tower of the Hand before. 

I couldn’t help but let out a soft giggle as I placed the small box on his desk, and I watched his eyebrow raise at the sound of it even though his eyelids were shut. It was very amusing to see him like this.

“May I open them now?” he asked after a moment, to which I nodded. Of course, I then remembered he couldn’t see me and gave the verbal ‘go ahead’. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking a few times and then realizing there was now a box on his desk. He reached for it carefully, as if asking for permission, and I motioned for him to open it. 

Gently, Lord Tywin took it in his hands and pulled the lid off. Inside, he found the Valyrian steel ring—just as I had instructed it be made—surrounded by cotton to keep it safe. Not that Valyrian steel needed to be kept safe, but still, it prevented it from rolling around. 

I watched his mouth fall open, a true and genuine shock overcoming him. It surprised me, for Tywin Lannister did not gape. It filled me with quite a lot of joy to know I had made him do so.

“(Y/N)…” 

That was the only thing he could mutter, and it made my cheeks heat. Lord Tywin had never only used my first name. I wished more than anything to know what thoughts were running through his head.

“Try it on. It should fit, but just to make sure,” I prompted, smiling as he lifted it from the box and slid it onto his fourth finger. He had placed it onto his left hand, for his right already had a poison ring on his middle finger, and I assumed he did not want the weight to be uncomfortable. But most importantly, the Valyrian steel ring fit perfectly on his hand, and he couldn’t stop staring at it.

For a moment I wondered if I’d sent Lord Tywin into shock, because he hadn’t said anything other than my name, but he suddenly inhaled and stood from his chair. He took my hands in his, his eyes desperately searching mine.

“You stupid, stupid girl. Why would you bother making me a ring out of Valyrian steel?” He asked, raising one hand to my cheek. My lips parted, and I found myself stuttering as I spoke. There was that odd fluttering again.

“I- I wanted you to have it, Lord Tywin. I had excess steel, and it’ll serve as a good reminder of our… our alliance. Our friendship,” I replied, swallowing. His eyes stared deep into mine, and I saw something change on his face. His hand dropped from my face, and he nodded as he once again admired the ring.

“Thank you, Lady (Y/N). Thank you very much.”

At that moment, I had no clue that whenever he was stressed, upset, or angry, Lord Tywin would end up rubbing his thumb on that ring to soothe himself. I had no idea he would end up grazing the lion's head against his lips when contemplating. But, most importantly, I had no clue that when he was lying awake tonight, the ring I’d given him would make him settle on a rather harsh decision. One that would make both of us realize something that we had initially believed to be utterly unthinkable. 

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@thanyatargaryen @rey26 @hexandale @pkawaiidesu5394 @aimsro @gbatesx @lockleysgrl

[ladythornofrivia]

Mr. Targaryen Will See You Now || (PT. 2)

Modern!Aemond x Reader (four parts)

warnings: (for the future chapters): sex, oral sex, loss of virginity, squirting, stalking, obsession, manipulation, reader being clueless, but not totally innocent, blackmail, p in v sex, blood kink, knife kink, gun kink, handcuff kink, bdsm, masturbation, fingering, cum play, tease, mommy issues.

a/n: now you’ve all been waiting for! Part 2! this time, the reader will be as his soon-to-be secretary. i went to the studio for a photoshoot. i won’t say why, but i’ll be announcing it around next year. stay tune for part 3.

You were thinking about him.

His offer.

It was the night where the decision made you toss and turn into your bed. A one chance in a lifetime, something that will change your life and status for good. Getting a steady job meant a steady source of income and societal actions in the higher system that Aemond Targaryen is in. Meaning challengers. Rules and expectations are higher, something that you’re not easy to strive to change pace or comfort zone. It wasn’t your ideal.

The source of all things common and strivers, you weren’t exactly the type to flip the switch on exact moment. A steady job in a steady life is enough. But what Aemond’s offered you says it all.

Risky.

Practical.

Stability.

Peace for bank account.

A high life devoid of privacy and self-recollection. A highly paced environment will not stop their time for you. You’re a slow turtle.

Your friend teased about how Aemond went stuck in your head. It wasn’t fair, at all. It wasn’t like Aemond ambushed you to say yes, but told you to contemplate of his proposal. How his gleaming violet hues pierced into your soul, begging and demanding all at once. The duality was simple enough for you to understand what kind of man he is.

A perfectionist.

Fumbling your mechanical pencil over and over as you studied the notes on your papers, stack after stack, followed by several energy drinks and stained coffee cups all over a once tidy desk. Horrifying as it sounds, you wished for a proper solution for a distraction to settle down permanently. Your friend hasn’t teased you for days, thank god for that, but you needed a second opinion.

But you didn’t want to call your parents because you chose to sever ties with them, not that anyone needs to know the detail, so you tried improvising a solution other than your friend or anyone else you know. You searched on Google, typing:

“How to make a right decision when some hot guy offered you a high-salary job?”, “How to relax after getting offered a job by a hot CEO?” “How to relax and forget for today after days of thinking about the CEO’s offer?”, “How to sleep properly after trying to distract yourself for days after the amount of torturous hours of endless teasing from a friend and a flashback?”

So far no answer came, just the ones where people often complain on the blog on how bosses are viciously toxic, others posted recordings of the bosses that eventually got fired, both boss and ex-worker. Some co-workers fucked the CEO all the way to the top, and others disposed others by any means necessary in a way of safety net.

Your head was reeling with ache and burn, as if someone crushed your skull and penetrated to a point where the pulse tightened, ready to implode. Spine landed back of your office chair, your head thrown back, mouth parted open and tired eyes closed, needing cold air. The break you took was finding your usual posture slouching and limping, as if you were floating in water. Your arms and back were shivering, and it felt good.

You hated wearing a damn big sweater. You thrashed, screamed for a short second, arms stretched and flung, hair tossed and turned, scrunchie loosened up. Then you were still, back to a limp form on a chair, not sitting like a proper lady with legs spread.

Staring at the white ceiling, you grumbled, “I can’t take this anymore.”

Maybe I should relax for now…too much caffeinated drinks doesn’t serve me enough purpose to stay focus on my final exams. Maybe a hottest shower would do the trick and forget my exams for now. And for tomorrow. Get a massage, and be naked for the night.

Thus, you stood up and left.

The phone rang.

Inwardly groaning, you read the number on your screen.

Unknown.

Eh, I’ll call in for the night.

Clicked your phone to silence, and hopped in naked into the shower. Or a bath that will make you fall asleep naked until the morning.

~~~

The phone rang three days later.

You fell asleep, not being as productive, laziness can be good once in a while.

But who the hell would try to call you first thing in the morning without a fresh cup of matcha latte as a today’s starter?

Yawning and stretching your limbs, cracking your spine, you did the best of your ability to be awake in the system. Relaxing and—

Shit.

I have 30 missed calls!!!!!

Who the hell keeps calling me?

It freaked you out, so you blocked the unknown caller.

A small sense of relief escaped from your parched lips. Drank a bottle of cold water to unwind the coils on your belly and went for a warm shower.

Days after break, you returned to your studies—after a long process of washing and scrubbing the mugs, thrown trashes of empty cans by the kitchen, and wiped surfaces on your desk. As a slow perfectionist, like art, it takes perfection. Not a crease or stain to see in plain sight. For the whole morning, with amount of lavender spray in the bedroom and replacement of new bedsheets from your sweat stain, and carpet vacuumed, everything must feel light and right. According to the website, changing bedsheets for every week. Not two weeks or three. Bacteria infested god knows what, you hated the idea of being sick. Even when sick, you still clean, but your friend insisted she’ll do the chores done in an instant, but you knew that your friend is efficient in her job, but she’s no expert with chores.

Lavender scent carried off on a cold air, you slumped back on the desk, starting over with a writing assignment from one class, chugging on a matcha latte, your phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

Again.

This time, you answered.

What could possibly go wrong?

Miss (Y/N).

“Hello,” you said, pausing. “Who’s this?”

“Have you thought about my offer?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand—you must have the wrong number.”

“You are wasting the benefit of my time and success, Miss (Y/N).”

Your spit choked back. “Sir—Mr. Targaryen. Yes, hello! How may I assist you?”

“Have you come to an important decision?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m still studying for my exams. I haven’t been able to sleep properly for days. I…” you paused again, treading the words wisely. “This is something I can’t miss. I have to graduate.”

You heard him sigh.

“There are no excuses, Miss (Y/N). It’s now or never.”

This time, you sighed, foot tapping in an uneven beat, boisterous and clumsy.

“I’ll give you another day to reconsider. But if you don’t answer my call, I’ll pass this offer to someone who will be more sufficient and quick in my service than you’ll ever be. I don’t think you’ll have what it takes to be in my company.”

Your heart leapt.

You bent forward, suspense caving in. “Ah, no, that’s not what I meant, sir—”

“I don’t think so. Not with your late response. I like my staff members to be as punctual, strictly on time. I could only excuse this once to those who are abnormally late. Anyone who shows up with punctuality meant they’ve got what it takes to be more potential regarding to future promotions.”

“I—First of all, how did you get this number?”

“We’ll meet again tonight around 9. Don’t silence your phone.”

And hang up without a second thought.

“What a fucking jackass,” you stated, and with anger rising, you took out on the scrubbing and dusting off furniture.

~~~

Hours later, you anticipated for the phone call, since you’ve done all the studying and cleaning without a hassle on being cranky—not a person disrupted you since your friend went out the whole day to god knows what she’s doing. Results concluded that a proper, lazy rest for three days has been helpful to late cranky hours.

Plopping on a couch with blank television staring back at your tired posture, you weren’t in the mood to watch romance or comedy, especially those characters who are acting like jerks at the first part. Maybe as a kid, you hated bad boys, when as a teen, you loved—you’re a die hard fan of bad boys, thanks to young adult romance novels. But as a grown woman, you’re unsure, but it’s clear-cut that you hated men who carried themselves in their attitude like a dumb child that’s required to be babied.

One man-child after another. It makes you think you wanted a flamethrower to burn, and eating boxes of truffles and a Starbucks drink, watching a whole building collapse to ashes.

The back of your head thumped onto the couch pillows, counting one to ten, more like counting sheep, but you knew it was a bad idea, so you ate heavy chunks of strawberry ice cream on a white ceramic bowl, thinking whether you should do a pros and cons list.

Shit, I made a total embarrassment of myself to a hot young CEO. Even when he did tell me to reconsider his proposal, there’s no way in hell he’ll promote me. Not with the plans I have, not with my delays. He’ll shoved it down on my throat by making me watch another lady settling a high score at the office, and him smirking at my direction. I had a feeling he wants me to be part of his company, it’s weird how he’s the first person—the first CEO—to beg for my existence and be part of a rescue team on his prestigious company. Almost like he’s been ready his whole life. No other CEO would do this; every CEO would think of middle class people as nobodies or a pile of trash. How did he get my number? I wish I know.

Wait, did I just say “hot”?

The phone rang, in a familiar tune.

Nearly tossing the bowl behind you, you settled on the coffee table and picked up the call.

“Miss (Y/N)?”

“Sir.”

“Have you come to make a decision?”

Good money, good pay, and peace for the bank account.

“I have.”

“Well?”

“What time should I be there for work?”

“8 AM. You’ll begin working here around 9.”

“Done.”

“I knew you’ll give in. Eventually.”

“Huh, persistent much?”

“Persistence is a good quality in a man.”

“Right.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night’s rest.”

“Good night.”

You hang up and screamed into the nearest pillow you find.

~~~

Months later….

It’s been forever since you were welcome into the company by the CEO himself. Long story short, you got accepted, without a process of long interview and long wait for phone calls for a confirmation. Easy does it. New office, drinking cups of coffee by the fancy coffee machine and water dispenser and a fridge with ingredients and proper food—not a TV dinner. Most are healthy quality.

But it came with a cost.

You were now under training and supervision of your new boss, who won’t stop staring at you. Clearly he was still fuming of the last interactions he attempted through your phone, labeled as Unknown.

You understood why it was an unknown number. Privacy is a top priority for someone who is known in a local news article online and on social media. Most pictures on social media were focused on the other side of his family, the only time Aemond’s shown in the pictures was blurry.

The usual routine has routine, but one remained the same. You always tied your hair to an updo with a scrunchie.

Stacking and organizing the files and binders by name and number in order, after dusting off of his shelf and toss the useless files on a shredder machine. Whirring on the machine has gotten louder, but didn’t ease your anxiety from his ever watchful eyes. His nose somewhat flaring, and his hands kept opening and closing, attempting to stay tranquil by touching the fabric on his pants, sometimes the items on his large desk.

Aemond kept staring at you for as long as he could and you found yourself at a most vulnerable position. Everything was a mess, but thankfully all of his files are on his computer, including your laptop and Bluetooth headset and ergonomic pens, solely provided by the company, as you play fetch with the CEO, playing his do’s and don’t’s.

Day by day, each time you clocked into work mode, Aemond’s presence drew near. As if he was critiquing you through gaze.

“Why is Aemond staring at you? Have you done something to piss him off?” your co-worker asked.

“I had no clue. Is he always like this?”

“His face usually scowls to everyone, but he’s staring at you without blinking. Kinda freaks me out. Gives me the hibbie-jibbies.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you said in silence, knowing he has sharp ears he might fire you on the spot.

“Like he could hear us.”

“Shh! Would you keep it down!?”

“Anyway, I have to go. Oh, and, Mr. Targaryen wants to see you.”

The thing was, he always wanted to see you.

The past conversation went away as you tried to focus on the present.

Turning back again, and gathered the files Aemond needed for the next appointment. He didn’t need to go at the meeting. If he simply wanted to go, he would, but everything is convenient with advanced technology, online meetings have been a thing for today’s world. If he does want to show up at a mundane event, he would’ve done in a flash, and all eyes would be on him.

“Here are the papers that you requested, sir,” you uttered, low lashes fluttered towards him, hoping to release you from his sky-high office.

“This should be easy to handle with the indulgences of the client I’m working with. Awful man needs to be settled immediately.”

He flicked his wrist.

The screen on his computer brightened with an annoying tune. And deep, distorted voice on the other side of the screen.

You could only offer a short nod, not knowing what he meant. So you bowed and exited.

Finally free.

Without the dark hours, you were the only one left, aside from a janitor and couple security guards roaming the building to dismiss anyone who’s still resided at the office. The office hours are usually closed at 7:30 PM. But for this month, the boss’s notified the staff that they’re off around 5 PM. Aemond’s had been testing the work hours, based on New Zealand with a total of 6 hours of work instead of a regular 9-5. But not for the CEO.

There’s no rest for the wicked.

Finally, at the coffee lounge and a cafeteria, the last member of the cooking staff gave you two packs of cherry cheese danish and an empty cup for a caramelized coffee by the coffee machine standing nearby. You haven’t ate since the moment you stepped in at work. You were in the rush. Stomach twisted in pain now loosened from a good chunk of appetite stuffed into the mouth.

Sat by the ceramic bench, you hummed in delight, feeling like a warm hug, with a touch of caramelized coffee with cream powder. You haven’t had a good break since you were stuck in the room with him. A good coffee weighs the heaviness on your shoulders.

Suffocating.

With that, you emptied the food in your stomach and threw the cup and brown packets in the trash bin, and leaving the tray on top, striding forward to head back and grab your belongings and call it for tonight.

With a quiet office, all surrounded by sturdy walls and soundproof glass, you managed to relax, determined to go home.

The door shut in.

You turned and spotted Aemond locking the door.

“Sir,” you uttered, in question.

Without warning, he pinned you down on desk with a knife close to your face, the pointed end nearly touching your eye.

You screamed, but silenced you with a kiss.

Your first kiss.

“Don’t say a word,” he snarled.

And with the knife he held against your face, his hot breath tickled your face.

“You wouldn’t want to say a word to anyone, would you?”

Frightened, you shook your head. Laying still as if you’re trying to please him in a way to leave you alone.

He hadn’t inched away; knife on his hand slithered its tip across your skin, leaving your staggered, breath held captive, watching his blank and unsteady focus drinking it all in. The knife pinched your skin; Aemond slashed the black stockings in one swoop. Then, his knife went his way inside the ripped skirt he torn off, your pink thongs displayed before him.

You wanted to kick him, but he made sure to keep you still.

Rip!

The panties torn apart cleanly, your wet cunt displayed. It was a nightmare. Blush fell onto your cheeks as you watched him knelt down, still pinning you down, he licked your parted folds, lapped his warm tongue in three deep strokes.

By then, your cunt squirted shortly.

And he found it amusing.

“Be a good secretary,” he said, and plunged the hilt of the knife inside you.

Your moans escaped but Aemond kissed your lips, you could taste yourself in his lips, still in shock and denial that your lips could barely move.

Terror flooded within you; his hand bloodied as he inserted the knife’s hilt inside, urging your desperate, clinging cunt, growing warmer, tighter, coiled to a tight flex, oozing and flowing. You never had proper sex.

The knife has taken your virginity.

“Stop~” you uttered breath ragged breaths, nearly bucking your hips, cunt yearning.

Aemond denied, attempted to go faster, and the dark hilt of the knife pinched your walls right. The flush of hot squirt splashed on his uniform, even yours. Humiliating as it was, at least you’re somewhat thankful that it wasn’t his cock.

How long has he wanted this?

“Sir, please stop—”

“I will stop when I wanted to stop, Miss (Y/N). You’re going to love this. Whether you like it or not.” He unzipped his pants with one hand while his other pinned your hands above your head and stroke himself in front of your exhausted state. You couldn’t object anymore. His climax is about to reach, and his hot cum exploded, splashing everywhere on your skin. Even your face. His ragged breath overtook the silence, and left you defenseless. Letting your wrists go.

Everything was hot inside your private office.

“Fuck,” he moaned, eyes closed.

It felt right for him.

Seeing you all bruised and bloodied up. The hilt of the knife he held on his bloody hand—from the gripping the sharp end—it was a mix of your cum and blood, from tightening its grip.

Then he zipped his pants up, and left you cold on the table, saying, “Make sure no one sees you, Miss (Y/N). And if you mention this to anyone, I’ll kill you.”

His hand yanked the scrunchie out of your hair, some hair stands plucked, leaving your lips a soft yelp.

Then the door slammed shut.

Hollow. And emptiness.

Only your cries filled the stained and wrecked office, wondering how it went wrong, wondering how you can still breathe. The scars on your thigh wasn’t deep, but needs medicine and a clean shower, and a long rest. From there, you contemplate without hesitation. Your heart ached from shock and distress, a feeling where you wanted to throw up all the good food you ate earlier, but it was no use.

Perhaps you made a mistake on taking his offer.

~~~

As for Aemond, it was the first part of his plan. The red bruises on your wrist and absolution on your skin, laced in dark and wet crimson, from a torn underwear and stockings, the rush stirred in his veins and heart. And thus, more games he plans to pursue, seeing if you could withstand and beyond.

Somewhere in his head, the voice came in again. He wanted it to go away. The blood on his hand went cold, stinging from gripping the blade so tightly when he forced the hilt inside her warmth.

In the midst of stopping, he snapped his neck. In anger, he didn’t want to hear that voice again.

It’s about damn time he found a new toy to play with.

With a scrunchie he confiscated from you, yanked it away, as he went to the nearest elevator, reaching to his office, rushing to his chair to undo his pants once more and wrapped your scrunchy in several movements, until he became undone with his pleasure. He didn’t care of his staff coming in. But nobody entered. The staff went home and no one could hear Aemond’s throaty pleasure emanating.

The fainted smell of flowers on the scrunchy and his cum and blood from his injured right hand intertwined, as he sniffed it.

Divine and innocence.

Just the way he liked it.

reblogs/comments are greatly appreciated 🌹

Taglist: @kittendoll05 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @heavenly1927 @snh96 @httpsmenace @screaming-potato @dixie-elocin @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @galactict3a @fun-loving-peach @jmliebert @ilikechocolatemilkh @20thcentwriter @sepherinaspoppies @venmondiese @snowprincesa1 @lionneee @witchy-v1xen @1800-fight-me @fan-goddess @persephonerinyes @anukulee @maxshortformaxine @lcolumbia1988 @ilikemintpeassss-blog @hippiedippiekitty @bellaisasleep @barnes70stark @vipervixxen @f1girlieee @darylandbethfanforever9 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @chobab0wu @smokiwereee @pandemonium105 @summerposie @peculiarlyayse @wenris @blackswxnn @crymeariversworld @aemondswifeisme @katie-xoxo66 @heartagram-vv @wisemiraclesweets @zenka69

[endiness]

trop 2x08 // a clash of kings

[thequeenwechoose]

Daemon & Caraxes arrive at harrenhall 4k

[berriesandcherry]

King Viserys Targaryen I carrying the future queen, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, away from the funeral pyre of Queen Aemma of House Arryn (105 AC)

[onekeii]

Wyman the Snowman

Day 1: First snow Game of Thrones: Robb Stark x Fem!Dornish!Reader Warnings/Genre: arranged marriage, fluff, show robb, light hearted game of thrones (god forbid) Word Count: 1,729 Summary: Your first time seeing snow. AN: Been working on a super long Robb fic for a while (10+ chapters in!) so this is a little teaser <3 excited for the rest of this challenge :))

Read on AO3

Weeks have passed since you first moved to the North, but it seemed the cold was something you might never adjust to. Just when you thought you discovered the ideal number of logs for your fireplace, or the minimal number of layers you needed to wear to not shiver while dining in the great hall, the next day would surprise you. The seasons turned; barren tree branches bent to the howling will of the wind and the sun dipped below the horizon faster with each cycle. You, too, had all but retreated, hugging your knees by the desperate fire.

“It’s snowing!” Laughter and footsteps barrel down the corridor outside your room, just as they pass your door the shrill voice rings again, “It’s stuck to the ground, come on- come on Bran, let’s go!” Slower footfalls follow, and they descend the spiral staircase together with varying levels of care.

Snow. The first snow of the winter season, and the first snow you had ever experienced. Dorne was lucky that it ever rained at all; snow was not something to dream about. It didn’t even appear in stories. All you knew was that it was cold and white, it looked soft but would sting your bare skin… Of course, you needed to see it for yourself.

You reluctantly crawl away from the fire and cringe at the draught that pours in through your window. But it pleasantly faces the courtyard, and for a moment you are blinded by how bright it is, like the Dornish summer sun. The courtyard is devoid of its usual drab of greys and muddy browns and darker greens, covered instead by a thick, white blanket. Already, Bran and Arya had ruined the perfectly flat surface, free from any grime or imperfection, in their valiant attempt to wade through. Now two lines streaked from the corner - the great keep’s exit - to the very centre of the courtyard. You’re a married woman, you remind yourself as you look away, you can’t just throw yourself face-first into the snow.

So, of course, you put on your layers and cloak, a warm hat and gloves… You’re still pulling them on your icy fingers when you, too, descend the spiral staircase. The doors at the bottom swing open for you and there it is: a wall of pure, white snow that reaches well past your ankles - the paths carved out by Arya and Bran before you would have to suffice to stop your skirts from getting soaked.

With one hand still bare, you reach out and close your fingers around a chunk, digging your nails in deep and prying a misshapen handful from the low wall. It really does bite, you wince but refuse to let go. It doesn’t slip through your fingers like sand. It just stays. And then it stings.

You drop the ball to the ground, wiping the cold and wet from your red palm on your skirts before finally putting on your glove. I’ll just check on Arya and-, you bravely step into the path they left for you, like trampled wheat in a field, when you notice a third party leaning against the stone wall - your husband.

“Good morning,” you say. Robb dips his head in acknowledgement, his attention still fully on his siblings playing in the snow. You hope that was enough to distract him from your spirited attempt to hold the snow bare-handed. There’s no way you can join the kids now unless your husband might start taking you for a fool. You turn to the door.

“This is your first time in the snow?” he calls out. He’s looking at you now, brown curls scattered with snowflakes and falling wildly about his face. He doesn’t wait for your answer and just holds out his own gloved hand - of course it’s your first time in the snow. “Let’s help Bran and Arya make their snowman.”

Robb leads you through one of the small paths, stopping now and then to push more snow aside with his foot or free hand, widening the path. Your skirts still scraped past it, but at least you didn’t need to push through with so much force. “What exactly is a ‘snowman’?” you ask.

He snaps his head around, “You don’t know?” You shake your head. Robb sighs, his breath turns to mist on its flight into the early winter morning, “It’s, uh, a man made of snow- We usually just roll up two balls of snow and stack them, and give it a face.”

You push your eyebrows together, “Why?”

“Why not?” A fair point. When you finally stop in the centre of the yard, you’re able to stand comfortably without the snow pushing into your dress - Arya and Bran had already cleared out an almost perfect circle in their excitement. “Here, if you push the snow together,” Robb grabs some from the infinite supply, clasping it carefully between cupped hands before holding it out to you, revealing a flawless ball, “It sticks, and we make our snowman like this, but bigger.”

You take the ball from him, watching it roll from one of your palms into the other with awe. “Man-sized?” You say. A laugh sticks to his throat. “Yes, man-sized, my lady,” he smiles.

The two of you spend the morning scraping and pushing snow into the centre of Arya and Bran’s carved-out space. Icy cold seeps through your thick leather gloves, rendering your fingers immobile, but you were desperate to see this snowman. Just when you thought the pile was tall enough, Arya piped up, “Taller! You’ve got to make his body taller!”

Looking at Robb in exasperation, your face twists in pain and horror when he simply nods at his sister and says, “Yes, ma’am.” She huffs in satisfaction and returns to the smaller pile that she and Bran are working on - it is to be the head, according to Robb. Finally, when the snow is piled as tall as you, and Arya gives a nod of approval. You and Robb start shaping it into a ball. He kindly offers to work on the lower half, so you don’t have to crouch and ruin your dress. Part of you wants to retire and just watch from your cosy window above - you swear you’d never forsake that draught again - but shaping really took no time at all. Sometimes he’d get carried away with his handiwork, sliding his hand over yours before you snapped your hand back. It warmed your face up just a little every time, making you thankful the cold had already bruised it red, and each glove-to-glove kiss reminded you of the last time you two actually touched.

Embarrassingly for a woman long-married now, it was when you exchanged vows on your wedding day. Robb’s warm hand, calloused and rough from swordplay, grasped yours gently. At night, you shivered in front of him in just your night shift, and he shook his head. “Only when you’re ready,” he said. You should have stopped him from leaving the room, but you didn’t want to. Weeks of nothing passed since; only polite, awkward conversations and short-lived glances.

“Finally!” Arya says. She was crouching by her perfectly round, smaller ball of snow. Bran smiled sheepishly on the other side as he watched his older sister spring to her feet and wrap her arms around their own masterpiece, lifting it up with ease and waddling over to Robb. He graciously lifts it from her without a word, carefully placing it in the divot the two of you left at the top of your perfect sphere. Robb steps back, and you follow, to admire the fruits of your labour. He leans over your shoulder and whispers in your ear before you can protest his proximity, “He looks like Lord Manderly, does he not?”

You scoff, trying to stifle your laugh, but it takes you by the shoulder and shakes you, “He does.”

Rickon soon comes flying into the clearing, holding out his hands to reveal several black and jagged stones in his palms. He looks up at you and Robb with blue eyes blown wide and mumbles, “I want to give him a face, but he’s too tall.”

“Oh dear,” you crouch down to face him properly. His lower lip is stuck out, pulling the corners of his mouth down, and his lopsided hat is evidence of a struggle to dress him properly. You tug it over his ears before scooping one arm around his shoulders and the other around his backside, pulling him close to your chest and standing up with effort. “How about now?” you bring him closer and he beams when he is perfectly level with the snowman’s soon-to-be face.

One stone is slightly off-centre - the nose, he says - followed by two eyes, one much bigger than the other. Then he presses the remainder into a jagged, upward-curve smile, underneath the nose. “Perfect,” you marvel. Robb smiles at you from the corner of your eye, and you shoot one back.

“Yeah! His name is Wyman,” Rickon exclaims, throwing out his arms in celebration and nearly throwing you off balance.

“Gods,” you whisper in shock.

Unsurprisingly, you were bedridden by the next morning. You weren’t even in the cold for as long as you thought, but your body had yet to adjust to such extreme conditions. The Maester assured you would be better in a few days. You hoped the snow would come again before then, staring fondly at the now lopsided Wyman, who smiled at your window from the courtyard below.

Two knocks at your door pulled you from your thoughts. “May I come in?” Robb’s voice was muffled through the thick wood.

Your hair was unbraided and, instead of the usual shapely dresses, you were just a ball of blankets and furs. You were sick, you could say no. What could he possibly want, anyway? To slide his ungloved hands over yours? To warm your shivering yet feverish touch? Finally, you speak up, “Come in.”

Robb slips into the window nook next to you, but you don’t take your eyes off the men at work in the dwindling snow. Every single one makes an effort to leave the proud snowman uninterrupted. A smile creeps across your face at the sight, at Robb’s presence, and at the way his fingers so naturally slip through yours.

@12daysofchristmas

If you enjoyed, please consider helping out by dropping a reblog or follow ☆

P.S. Thank you for letting me do this according to how I traditionally celebrate Yule !

[rheanyraaaa]

Robb Stark Headcannons

random thoughts some of it explicit

some of it is like modern au and some of it you could say could work in the GOT canon universe but that’s on you.

——————————————————————————

i feel like he’s a very bold guy, he takes his work seriously, and he takes YOU seriously. If you’re upset at him, even if it’s a joke, he’ll get stressed for a moment, he’ll laugh and then be like “you’re not actually angry are you?” and then you’ll fall into a fit of laughter at his silliness.

Robb’s the type of guy to sleep late and then wake up early, he prefers seeing you all snuggled into the pillow before he drifts of to sleep. When you guys were just friends you found he was always able to get out of bed and not cause a stir, but when you guys started dating you started to realise how groggy he really gets in the morning. You tell him to sleep in but he hates it, says it makes him feel lazy.

when it comes to sex, he’s more into the aftercare and makes sure that’s equally as important, he’ll never ever push you so hard, even if you’re eager to please him or give him head, he’ll look into your eyes and see the tiredness and not give you a chance. He’s definitely good in bed though, an absolute animal, he likes it when your on top though, the first few times he found it fun, he liked you all dominating made you look cute, but also it was easier to wrap his arms around you up there, but later on into your relationship he’d take the lead, only in the beginning did he let you do what you want, then it was hair grabbing and tit sucking.

When it’s christmas or holiday season, he’ll watch as you decorate the whole house, running up and down sticking fairy lights and tinsel all over, he wasn’t that handy, wouldn’t help, and you’d get angry and you’d have to drag him to come help you.

He likes it when your with kids, makes him feel all queasy inside, watching you take care of them, turns him on, then he starts thinking of getting you pregnant and that’s been on his list for time, but he better put that ring on it before you get mad about being pregnant and unmarried. You’ve had this conversation before, he doesn’t really care about getting married, he wants to, for sure, with you and no one else but he really cannot be asked about the whole child after marriage, he’s always desperate to put a pup inside you and gives you a good old puppy look when you take the morning after pill, and you give him a good smack on the arm and thats gets him back to normal.

nonetheless he’s so inlove with you, he gets sad when your not holding his hand or touching him or being in his presence and he gets angry when his siblings are all over you, he wants your attention, that’s the reason why he doesn’t like bringing you to events, you at first thought it’s because they didn’t like you, but no Robb confesses on a drunken night how jealous he gets when his family is all over you, and it makes you giggle.

Robb’s a heavy smoker, he’s always got a packet of cigarettes, you hate the stench so he never smokes infront of you, but once you caught him smoking in the garden and him putting it on the floor instead of the bin and so you threw a slipper from the window at him, and he picked it up and put it in the bin.

Robb does like his beer as well, and you’ve threatened to sell it or give it away every time he doesn’t do as you tell him, but he begs on his knees and you let him go, with those puppy eyes of his.

[stargareed]

Jon seeing 7-year old Myrcella smiling

[snowprincesa1]

😳😳😳😳

[novaursa]

Legacy (contingency)

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dragonfire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

Rich banners of crimson and gold draped from the high vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall, the sigil of House Lannister roaring above the gathering. The long tables overflowed with food: roasted boar glazed in honey, fragrant spiced wine, golden loaves of bread, and sweetcakes decorated with little sugar lions. Music filled the air—a lively tune played by minstrels whose strings and pipes accompanied the hum of conversation and laughter.

At the center of it all sat King Tommen Baratheon, his crown polished to perfection, seated proudly at the head of the royal table. Beside him, Queen Margaery looked radiant in a gown of green silk embroidered with golden roses, her bright smile lifting the mood of the hall. To Tommen's left sat Cersei Lannister, though her face was a mask of cold disinterest as she stared pointedly at her cup of wine, refusing to so much as glance toward her twin brother Jaime, who stood behind the king as his sworn protector.

Farther down the hall, the laughter of ladies mingled with the squeals of a happy child.

You stood near the far end of the hall, where a small play area had been set up for your son. Damon, now a year old, was surrounded by noblewomen who cooed and fussed over him as if he were the very center of the world. He sat on a plush blanket, his chubby hands reaching for the wooden lion and dragon toys set before him. His silver-gold hair shone under the light of the great chandeliers, and his bright eyes sparkled with curiosity as he looked from one lady to the next.

“My, but he’s a handsome little boy,” cooed Lady Tanda Stokeworth, bending down slightly to smile at Damon. “And clever, too, I’m sure.”

“Very clever,” agreed Lady Falyse, her hands clasped before her. “He has his mother’s eyes, but I daresay the strength of his father will be in him as well.”

“And the fire of a dragon,” added Lady Taena of Pentos, her dark curls spilling elegantly over her shoulders as she smiled warmly. “The realm will speak of him for generations to come.”

“Enough fluttering about,” came the sharp voice of Lady Olenna Tyrell, who sat nearby, cane resting against her chair. “You’ll have him thinking he’s a lord before he can even string a full sentence together.”

The ladies fell silent momentarily, though some tittered softly behind their hands as they moved away. You sat down beside Damon, brushing a hand gently over his soft hair as he giggled, delighting in the attention he’d received. “It seems you’re already a favorite,” you murmured with amusement.

Olenna sniffed, though there was a faint, approving smile on her lips. “That’s the way of things with babes and dragons. Give them a pretty face and a silver mane, and everyone flocks to them like flies to honey.” Her gaze softened faintly as she looked at Damon. “But he is a fine boy, I’ll grant you that.”

Damon responded by dropping his wooden lion and reaching for his dragon toy, gnawing happily on its tail. You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over his chubby cheeks. “He’s my heart,” you said softly.

“Let’s hope he has a good head on his shoulders, then,” Olenna remarked, though her tone was lighter. “He’ll need it, surrounded by spiders and vipers alike.”

You looked across the hall, your gaze landing on Tywin Lannister, who stood tall near the royal table. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked as proud and imperious as ever, his crimson and gold doublet immaculate, his presence commanding the respect—or fear—of every lord who circled him. They spoke in hushed tones, each vying for his attention, trying to curry favor with the lion who now had a dragon under his roof. Tywin listened with polite indifference, his face betraying none of the irritation he no doubt felt at the incessant politicking.

You caught his eye across the hall, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked at you and Damon. He inclined his head a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of the family he had built—a momentary respite from the endless droning of opportunistic lords.

Nearby, Varys, the ever-watchful Spider, lingered in the shadows. His gaze flicked toward the small gathering where you sat with Damon, his expression unreadable. It was no secret that Varys knew more than most, and the way his eyes lingered on your son made your stomach tighten with unease. You had no doubt the whispers of Damon’s first nameday would soon travel across the Narrow Sea and beyond.

At the royal table, Tommen’s young laughter rang out as he watched one of the performers juggle apples. Margaery leaned close to him, smiling warmly as she spoke softly, no doubt ensuring the boy king enjoyed the celebrations.

Cersei, however, sat rigid, her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her goblet. Her face was pale with irritation, her lips pursed as she stared at nothing. When she finally spoke, it was low and bitter, though loud enough for those nearest to hear.

“A feast for a babe,” she sneered. “One would think we were crowning him king.”

Margaery smiled sweetly, not missing a beat. “Perhaps we celebrate because it is a moment of joy, Your Grace. Something rare and precious in these times.”

Cersei turned a cold glare on Margaery, though she said nothing more, her expression souring further when her gaze landed briefly on Jaime, who stood silently behind Tommen, his golden hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He offered her no support, no comfort, his eyes fixed instead on the room at large, detached and quiet.

“Your Grace,” said Varys softly, suddenly at Cersei’s side, his voice as silken as ever. “The realm rejoices at unity, no matter how small the occasion.”

Cersei looked at him sharply. “And what unity do you see, Spider? The kind bought with dragons?”

Varys offered his smooth, enigmatic smile and said nothing, his gaze drifting briefly to where Damon sat.

Across the hall, Tywin watched the exchange with the faintest flicker of disdain in his eyes, though his mask of control never slipped. He turned his attention back to the lords surrounding him, his tone clipped and final. “Enough of this,” he said coldly, brushing them aside as he moved away.

He approached you and Damon, his steps measured and deliberate, cutting through the murmurs of those who watched him move. When he stopped before you, Damon immediately looked up, his bright eyes wide as he recognized his father. He cooed happily, waving his dragon toy as though offering it to Tywin.

The corners of Tywin’s mouth twitched ever so slightly as he regarded his son. “He grows quickly,” he said, his tone softening just enough that only you noticed.

You smiled faintly, lifting Damon into your arms. “Too quickly,” you replied, brushing a kiss against the boy’s head. “Soon he’ll be running through these halls, terrorizing everyone.”

“I expect nothing less,” Tywin replied, his gaze lingering on the boy before shifting back to you. “The feast is a success.”

“For you, perhaps,” you teased lightly. “The lords seem eager to bow before the man who holds a dragon’s leash.”

Tywin’s expression turned cold, though his words were measured. “A dragon bows to no one. But appearances must be maintained.”

You glanced toward Varys, who still watched quietly from the shadows. “And the whispers?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly. “Let them whisper. Whispers are meaningless unless we let them become something more.”

You nodded, though a flicker of unease remained in your chest. For now, though, you pushed it aside as Damon squirmed in your arms, reaching out toward Tywin with chubby hands.

Tywin hesitated for the barest moment before extending a hand, allowing Damon’s small fingers to curl around his thumb. It was a brief gesture, but one that spoke volumes. The Great Lion of Lannister stood proud, the boy in your arms his legacy, his triumph.

And as the hall rang with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets, you allowed yourself to smile. For tonight, at least, the future felt secure.

The air in the Red Keep’s halls had grown cooler as the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, in the shadowed passageways away from the celebration, the silence was heavy. The distant echoes of music and laughter barely carried this far, and the flickering torchlight did little to soften the cold stones of the castle walls.

Cersei Lannister walked with purpose, her gown trailing behind, though her movements were sharp, her face still drawn with irritation. Her goblet of wine, long emptied, dangled carelessly from her fingers as she turned a corner and found Jaime Lannister where she expected him: standing near an open window, his white Kingsguard cloak a stark contrast to the gloom. The faint breeze tousled his hair as he leaned one elbow against the stone ledge, staring out toward the darkening sky.

“You always find the quiet places,” Cersei remarked, her voice breaking the stillness as she approached.

Jaime turned his head slightly, though he didn’t look at her. “Perhaps I prefer them,” he said simply, his tone disinterested.

She frowned faintly, stopping a few paces away from him. “You missed half the feast.”

“And yet,” Jaime replied dryly, finally turning to face her, “you followed me here. Did the wine run out already?”

Cersei’s face tightened, though she ignored the jibe. “No. But you’ve sulked long enough tonight. Or is it that you can no longer stomach these celebrations?”

Jaime exhaled through his nose, his green eyes sharp as they met hers. “Is it sulking to prefer the quiet over the spectacle?”

Cersei’s lip curled faintly. “And yet you remain, standing guard over Tommen like a dutiful knight. Always at a distance, always watching.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change. “I do what I must.”

“And is that why you say nothing?” Cersei shot back, her tone edged with frustration. She stepped closer, dropping the empty goblet onto the stone ledge with a hollow clink. “You stand there, silent and cold, while Dorne sends me nothing but empty words. ‘Myrcella is well.’ Those are their only replies to my ravens. No assurances. No promises.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “And you think I have the answers? You were the one who sent her there.”

“She was safer in Dorne than in King’s Landing!” Cersei snapped, though her words lacked the conviction they once carried. “Father would not listen, you wouldn’t listen—no one would listen to me.”

Jaime shifted, his gold hand resting lightly against the stone ledge. “And now you want me to do what? March to Dorne and demand Myrcella’s return? Or simply assuage your guilt?”

Cersei flinched, though she masked it quickly with anger. “I don’t need your lectures, Jaime. I need your support.”

Jaime looked at her long and hard, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. “Support for what, Cersei? Myrcella is well, or so we’re told. If something had happened to her, you would know.”

“And what if they lie?” Cersei pressed, her voice quieter now but no less fervent. “What if Doran Martell sends nothing because he’s toying with us? He despises our house—do you think he has forgotten Oberyn?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened slightly. “What I think is that worrying aloud will not change anything.”

Cersei glared at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You sound just like Father.”

Jaime’s lips pressed into a thin line at that, but he didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he turned his gaze back out toward the night sky, his voice low. “If you have nothing to say beyond paranoia and blame, then perhaps you should return to the feast.”

Cersei stepped forward, the shadows deepening around her. “Do you remember, Jaime?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Do you remember our own namedays?”

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly, though he didn’t turn to look at her. “Why bring that up?”

“Because Father never threw us feasts,” Cersei replied bitterly, her tone carrying the weight of old wounds. “Not after Mother died. There were no celebrations, no music. Just silence, year after year, as though we didn’t matter.”

Jaime finally looked at her then, his expression softening slightly. “You know why.”

“Because he couldn’t bear the memory,” Cersei answered, her voice sharp. “But what of us? We were children, Jaime—children who wanted to be seen. To be celebrated.”

Jaime studied her carefully now, his face unreadable. “What are you implying, Cersei?”

Cersei took a breath, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “Do you not find it curious that our father throws such a grand feast for his new son? Yet for us, there was nothing. Nothing.”

Jaime shook his head faintly, though his voice was tinged with exasperation. “You’re reaching for something that isn’t there. Damon is a babe; he means the world to his mother, and through her, to Father. That is all.”

Cersei stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “No, Jaime. It’s more than that. Can’t you see? That dragon—her dragon—flew across the Narrow Sea to her. To her. And Father—our father—stands at her side as though she were his queen, as though she has replaced us.”

Jaime stared at her for a long moment, his features hardening. “And what would you have me do about it? Challenge her? Challenge him?”

Cersei’s gaze flickered with something desperate, something unspoken. “You’re the only one who listens, Jaime.”

Jaime’s shoulders sagged slightly as he looked at her, his voice low and tired. “I don’t know what you want from me, Cersei. But whatever it is, I can’t give it to you.”

Cersei’s lips parted, as though she might say more, but the words died on her tongue. For once, her twin brother had no answer for her, no comfort to offer. Jaime turned away again, his gaze drifting back to the distant lights of the city.

“Go back to the feast,” he said softly. “Tommen needs his mother.”

Cersei stood still for a moment longer, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Then, with a sharp exhale, she snatched up the goblet she’d abandoned and turned on her heel, the silk of her gown trailing behind her as she stalked back into the shadows of the corridor.

Jaime remained where he was, alone beneath the stars, his expression etched with something far darker than silence.

The sounds of the feast began to ebb and swell like the sea, the lively music and laughter punctuating the occasional clinking of goblets and roar of cheer. Yet away from the revelry, in a quieter alcove of the Great Hall, Tywin Lannister stood tall and still, his expression as unyielding as the walls of the Red Keep. Lords and sycophants continued to circle near him like moths to flame, eager to curry favor or win a moment of his time.

But when the soft, measured footsteps of Varys approached, the subtle murmur around Tywin dissipated, as though even the air itself sensed the Spider’s presence.

Tywin’s stren green gaze flicked toward Varys, who approached with a serene smile and hands tucked neatly within the folds of his flowing lavender robes. The Master of Whisperers stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head. “My lord,” he said smoothly, his voice as silken as ever. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though there was a faint narrowing of his eyes as he studied the eunuch. “And what congratulations do you offer, Lord Varys?”

“For your son’s first nameday, of course.” Varys’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head. “Young Damon is a remarkable boy—strong and spirited, like his parents.” His gaze briefly flickered across the hall to where Damon sat on your lap, still surrounded by noblewomen and cooing servants. “The realm watches him closely, my lord. A lion born under the shadow of a dragon. It makes for an extraordinary tale.”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, though it was more a tightening of his mouth than a smile. “The realm has a penchant for tales,” he said curtly. “I deal in truths.”

“Indeed,” Varys replied smoothly. “And it is truths that bring me to you now, my lord. Truths carried across the Narrow Sea, where the fires of another dragon burn.”

Tywin turned his full attention to the Spider then, his presence looming even more than before. “Speak plainly, Varys. I’ve little patience for riddles tonight.”

Varys inclined his head once more. “Very well. It seems your younger son, Tyrion Lannister, is alive.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into a still pond. Though Tywin’s face remained unreadable, there was a sharpness to his posture, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Alive,” he repeated, his voice low and cold. “And where?”

“In Essos,” Varys said softly, as though revealing the answer to a carefully guarded secret. “To be more specific, he is now serving as an advisor to your wife’s younger sister, Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of Meereen.”

Tywin was silent for a long moment, his piercing gaze fixed on Varys as though trying to unearth the depths of his machinations. “Should I believe you had nothing to do with his escape, Varys?” Tywin asked at last, his voice a blade honed to perfection. “Or with this news?”

Varys’s smile never wavered, though there was a faint flicker of amusement in his pale, watchful eyes. “I would be lying, my lord, if I claimed to be entirely blameless. I may have… facilitated certain circumstances during his escape from the capital. After all, chaos often creates opportunity.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained measured. “You’ve spent your life weaving webs, Spider. I wonder how much of this one is yours.”

“I assure you, my lord,” Varys replied calmly, “Tyrion’s path has been his own. I merely find it curious how Lannisters are so often drawn to flame. First you, with your Targaryen bride and her dragon… and now your younger son, whispering counsel to her sister.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, the weight of Varys’s words settling heavily between them. “What is your aim in telling me this?”

“My aim?” Varys echoed softly, his voice feigning innocence. “My aim is only to keep you informed, my lord. Knowledge, as you well know, is power.”

Tywin regarded him with a cold intensity, his mind already working through the implications. “A Targaryen queen rising in Essos is no secret. But Tyrion’s involvement complicates matters.”

“As it often does,” Varys replied with a faint smile. “Your son has always had a penchant for surviving where others would not. And now, it seems, he has aligned himself with a queen who bears the blood of Old Valyria and speaks of reclaiming the Iron Throne.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “Daenerys Targaryen is a child playing at power. Her sister has proven far more pragmatic.”

“Perhaps,” Varys said mildly, “but the young queen across the sea has grown formidable. Her dragons are a little bigger than Viserion, and with Tyrion at her side, her ambitions gain focus.”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy. “Then it will be dealt with—like every other threat.”

“Of course,” Varys murmured. “I have no doubt of that, my lord. Though I would suggest keeping your eye firmly on both sisters, lest fire burn unchecked.”

Tywin’s stare lingered on the Spider for a long, silent moment, unblinking and unyielding. Finally, he inclined his head ever so slightly, dismissing Varys with a flick of his fingers. “Go.”

Varys offered a smooth bow, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he turned to leave. Before disappearing fully into the shadows, he paused just long enough to add, “It is curious, isn’t it, my lord? How the lion and the dragon always seem destined to meet.”

Tywin said nothing, though his expression was carved from stone.

When Varys was gone, the Lord of Casterly Rock turned his gaze back toward the feast, where the sounds of music and laughter carried on without pause. Across the room, you cradled Damon in your arms, a faint smile on your lips as you whispered to him, oblivious to the storm now brewing in Tywin’s mind.

The Spider’s words lingered like smoke in the air, and Tywin’s jaw tightened as his thoughts raced. Tyrion. Daenerys. Dragons.

Whatever flame had drawn his family to it would soon demand reckoning—and Tywin Lannister would ensure it was met on his terms.

The hum of the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, on the far side of the chamber, where the air was quieter and the firelight softer, you sat with Damon cradled in your arms. The plush cushions around you provided comfort as Lady Olenna Tyrell remained seated close by, her sharp gaze scanning the room like a hawk watching prey. Damon cooed softly, his fingers grasping at the edge of your sleeve, his bright eyes filled with wonder as he looked around at the grand surroundings.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers through the boy’s curls. “You’ve quite the audience tonight, haven’t you?” you murmured to him softly. Damon giggled, clutching at your hand, his laughter like a balm amidst the constant thrum of the hall.

Olenna sniffed lightly, tapping her cane against the floor in idle rhythm. “They’re all waiting for the child to do something miraculous, no doubt,” she quipped dryly. “As if every noble babe doesn’t giggle and drool all the same.”

You chuckled, adjusting Damon in your lap. “Let them look. He’s a child born into a world where lions and dragons share a room. That alone makes him a marvel to them.”

“Indeed,” Olenna said with a smirk. “They’ll either worship him or fear him in time, depending on which beast roars loudest.”

Before you could reply, a shadow swept across the edge of your vision. You looked up, and there she was—Cersei Lannister, gliding toward you with a goblet of wine in hand, the golden silk of her gown flowing like liquid sunlight. Her face was composed, but there was a hardness in her gaze that was impossible to ignore.

“Lady Olenna,” Cersei greeted coolly, though her eyes barely brushed the Tyrell matriarch before settling on you. “And you, mother,” she added, the word “mother” dipped in a faint edge of mockery.

Olenna raised a brow, her expression sharp as ever. “How rare to see you so far from the royal table, Cersei. I was beginning to think you’d been fused to that chair.”

Cersei’s lip curled slightly, though she ignored the barb, her attention fixed on you and Damon. “You seem content tonight,” she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker. “The proud mother, adored by all.”

“I have every reason to be content,” you replied smoothly, glancing down at Damon, who stared curiously at Cersei with his wide, violet eyes. “He is my joy.”

Cersei’s gaze lingered on Damon for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. “He looks like father,” she said at last, though the words carried no warmth. 

You raised a brow at her. “You sound almost complimentary, Cersei.”

She tilted her head, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps I am. After all, your son is a Lannister—is he not? My father has made that abundantly clear to all of Westeros.” Her voice was calm, but there was venom beneath it.

Olenna’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “It’s rather amusing, isn’t it? How quickly the world forgets old grudges when dragons return.” She tapped her cane sharply against the stone. “But here you are, Cersei, nursing one still.”

Cersei turned her gaze on Olenna, her expression hardening. “And why should I forget?” she countered, her voice dropping slightly. “A Targaryen sits where my mother once did. Her dragon looms where my son should reign without shadow. Should I smile and clap like the rest of you?”

You shifted Damon slightly in your arms, your tone calm but firm. “I sit beside your father because he chose me, Cersei. And this dragon you so despise would burn those who would harm your family—just as I would.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp as she leaned closer. “Do not pretend that your fire is for us. You serve your own blood first and the rest of us second.”

Olenna let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, do calm down, girl. You sound like a fishwife.”

Cersei shot Olenna a glare before looking back at you. “Tell me,” she continued, her voice deceptively soft, “do you think this peace will last? That my father will dote on you forever, while the realm holds its breath over your son and your dragon?”

You met her gaze evenly, your fingers brushing gently over Damon’s hair as his small hands clutched at the edge of your gown. “I think that the realm will endure so long as we do not tear it apart out of jealousy and spite.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around her goblet. For a moment, you saw the flicker of something deeper—loneliness, fear—but it vanished quickly, replaced by her steely veneer.

“Jealousy?” she echoed softly. “No, Y/N, you mistake me. I do not envy you. I pity you.”

Olenna laughed sharply, breaking the tension like a slap to the face. “Pity? How very charitable of you, Cersei. What next? Will you hand her alms like some poor beggar in Flea Bottom?”

Cersei turned on Olenna, her voice icy. “You should hold your tongue, old woman. You’ve meddled enough in my family’s affairs.”

Olenna merely smirked. “And yet here you are, meddling in hers.”

You shifted Damon in your arms, his small yawn breaking through the animosity. “Enough,” you said softly but firmly, your gaze steady as you looked at Cersei. “If you wish to speak of jealousy and pity, do so elsewhere. My son will not grow up hearing such poison.”

Cersei’s gaze flicked to Damon once more, lingering as though searching for something in his innocent face. Finally, she straightened, her expression smoothing back into icy composure. “Enjoy your moment, Y/N,” she said coolly, turning to leave. “Moments rarely last.”

As she walked away, Olenna muttered under her breath, “What a tiresome woman.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to Damon’s head as his small hands curled against your chest. “She is a lioness protecting what she thinks is hers,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Olenna leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes watching Cersei’s retreating figure. “She’s a lioness who doesn’t yet realize the cage has been locked behind her.” She paused, her voice turning thoughtful. “Watch her closely, my dear. Women like Cersei are most dangerous when they feel cornered.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze drifting back to Damon, who had finally begun to drift to sleep in your arms. His quiet breathing, soft and rhythmic, grounded you against the undercurrent of tension still lingering in the air.

For now, the feast continued, the music played, and the Great Hall hummed with life. But somewhere deep in your heart, you knew Olenna’s words were true.

Cersei Lannister was dangerous—and her resentment burned just as brightly as any dragon’s fire.

The moon hung high over the Red Keep, its silver light spilling across the stone walls and bathing the castle in a cool, ethereal glow. The festivities of the day had finally come to an end, and silence reigned where music and laughter had once filled the air. The halls were empty save for the faint footfalls of a passing guard or the soft flicker of a torch burning low.

In your chambers, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls. The room smelled of lilies and warm candle wax, a comforting presence as you stood before the tall mirror, unpinning your silver hair. Damon had long since been carried off to the nursery, fast asleep after the excitement of the day. Now, the only sounds were the pop of the fire and your quiet movements.

The door opened with the faintest creak, and you glanced up as Tywin entered, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of the night. He had already shed his formal doublet, his crimson tunic and dark trousers immaculate, though his shoulders bore the faint weight of the long day. His gaze swept the room before settling on you.

“You’re still awake,” he observed, his tone calm but expectant.

You turned slightly, offering him a faint smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I decided to retire here,” he said, moving toward the desk where a decanter of wine and goblets had been left for you. “The rest of the castle is far too restless for my liking.”

You nodded, returning to unpin the final strands of your hair. “The feast was a success, by all accounts. Though it seems you had little patience for the lords that circled you.”

Tywin poured himself a small measure of wine, his movements deliberate as he spoke. “They are drawn to strength, like carrion to a fresh kill. They think proximity to me will bring them power. Fools.” He turned, taking a slow sip of his wine, his sharp green eyes lingering on you.

You finished with your hair and moved toward the large bed, sitting on its edge to unlace the ribbon at your sleeve. “And yet you endure them.”

“I endure many things,” Tywin replied coolly, though something in his voice hinted at the weight of what lay beneath. He watched you for a moment longer before setting his goblet aside and approaching.

You could feel his eyes on you as he neared, the faint creak of the floorboards under his measured steps. His silence, though not unusual, felt heavier tonight. When he finally spoke, his tone carried the careful weight of deliberation.

“What do you know of your sister?”

The question caught you off guard. You paused mid-motion, turning your head to look up at him. “Daenerys?”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though his gaze was unrelenting. “Yes.”

You tilted your head slightly, frowning faintly. “I know probably what you do. She was born on Dragonstone, after I had already been taken north to be a ward of the Starks. I never met her.” You paused, as though searching for fragments of memories long buried. “We exchanged letters, a handful over last year—most of which were formal, polite. There is little else I could say.”

Tywin regarded you carefully, as though dissecting your words for any trace of deceit. “And you never wondered about her? About the sister who shared your blood and hatched dragons?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, your voice calm but firm. “What is this about, Tywin?”

He exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms as he stood before you, his towering form framed by the firelight. “Tyrion is alive.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. You blinked, the revelation settling into you like a cold weight. “Alive?” you repeated softly. “How?”

“Varys,” Tywin said curtly, the name like poison on his tongue. “The Spider facilitated his escape after the trial.” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “And now my son sits in Essos as an advisor to your sister, Daenerys Targaryen.”

You stared at him, absorbing the full weight of his words. “Daenerys,” you said slowly, realization dawning. “She means to push her claim.”

“She will,” Tywin replied with certainty, his gaze unyielding. “A Targaryen queen with dragons at her back cannot be ignored. She will come for the Iron Throne.”

You shook your head faintly, your voice steady. “And you think she’s a threat to me? To Damon?”

“Not yet,” Tywin answered, though his expression remained hard. “But she will be. Your sister carries the blood of Old Valyria, as you do. She has armies, she has dragons, and now she has Tyrion whispering in her ear.”

You frowned, searching his face. “Why tell me this now? Why tonight?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his voice deliberate. “Because one of the dragons she hatched flew to you. Not to her. That matters.”

You rose from the edge of the bed, the tension in your body unmistakable as you stepped closer to him. “Viserion came to me, yes, but not because I called for her. She came for reasons beyond my understanding—perhaps instinct, perhaps fate.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You speak as though that makes no difference. But it does. To the realm, to your sister, to me.”

“And what of my claim, then?” you asked sharply, your voice rising slightly. “Is that what this is about? You would pit me against her because the blood of kings runs in my veins?”

Tywin did not flinch, his voice calm but firm. “You are a Targaryen. Your son is a Lannister and a Targaryen. That blood gives you a claim that will be undeniable to many—more so than hers. You could unite the realm, secure its future.”

“And at what cost?” you countered, meeting his gaze without wavering. “My sister is not my enemy, Tywin. She has never been.”

“Not yet,” Tywin said coldly. “But blood has turned to fire before. It will again.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there, locked in a silence that crackled with unspoken anxiety. The fire in the hearth danced wildly, casting fleeting shadows across the room.

Finally, you exhaled softly, your voice quieter but no less firm. “Do you fear her?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, though his tone betrayed a flicker of something deeper—calculated pragmatism, perhaps even unease. “I fear nothing. I prepare for everything.”

You shook your head faintly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Dragons do not bow, Tywin. Not even to lions.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze holding yours, “Viserion flew to you. And now you bow to me.”

The words stung more than you cared to admit, though you refused to show it. Instead, you lifted your chin, holding your ground. “I chose this path—for my son, for myself.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flicker of the fire reflecting in his green eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, though still edged with purpose. “Do not forget the world we live in, Y/N. It will not tolerate two Targaryens. When the time comes, you must decide where you stand.”

You stared at him, your heart heavy as his words sank in. Tywin Lannister, ever the pragmatist, had laid the truth bare. And though you knew the fires of your blood would burn brightly in the days to come, you could not yet see which flame would consume the other.

The winds howled around Dragonstone, whipping against the cliffs with the fury of an ancient beast. The grey skies above the island hung low and brooding, heavy with the salt of the narrow sea. Below, the waves crashed relentlessly against the jagged rocks, echoing through the labyrinthine halls of the Targaryen stronghold.

Within the belly of the island, deep in the Dragonmont, the air was heavy with heat, thick with the scent of sulfur and ancient fire. The men of House Lannister—armored in crimson cloaks and polished steel—moved with uneasy steps as they followed their lord through the dim passageways. The sound of their boots echoed ominously against the black stone, though not a single man spoke.

At their head, Tywin Lannister strode forward with his usual measured calm, a figure of unwavering authority even in the heart of this dragon’s lair. Beside him, Jaime Lannister walked in silence. Unlike the other soldiers, Jaime’s face remained composed, though there was a flicker of doubt in his gaze as he looked toward his father.

“Is this wise, Father?” Jaime finally broke the silence, his voice low but clear. “Approaching the beast without her rider? Without your wife?”

Tywin did not slow his pace, his green eyes focused ahead on the faint glow that grew brighter with every step. “My wife is attending to our son,” he replied coolly. “She is not needed for what I intend to do.”

“And what is it that you intend?” Jaime pressed, though his tone carried the weight of caution.

Tywin glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. “To remind the beast of who I am.”

Jaime’s brows furrowed as they stepped into the vast, torchlit cavern that was the Dragonmont. The air was sweltering here, filled with the heavy pulse of something ancient and alive. The black stone walls shimmered faintly with heat, their edges glowing with the faintest ember-like gleam.

And there, at the center of the chamber, lay Viserion.

The she-dragon’s cream-and-gold scales reflected the torchlight like molten metal, shimmering with every slight movement. Her massive wings lay tucked against her sides, rising and falling gently as she breathed. Viserion’s head was curled over her claws, her eyes closed, though even in sleep, the slow rumble of her breathing filled the cavern like a distant storm.

The Lannister men froze where they stood, their faces pale as they took in the sheer size and power of the dragon before them. One of the soldiers murmured a prayer under his breath, though the words were swallowed by the cavern’s silence.

Jaime hesitated. “Father—”

Tywin raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture. Without another word, he moved forward alone, his polished boots striking the stone floor with deliberate precision.

Viserion shifted. The great muscles along her flanks rippled as her wings twitched slightly, the air around her growing hotter. A low, warning growl vibrated through the chamber, deep enough to rattle the bones of every man present. The sound was primal, unmistakably a sign of her awareness.

“Father—” Jaime hissed again, his tone sharper now, though Tywin did not stop.

Tywin stepped closer still, his face a mask of calm as he approached the massive creature. Viserion’s growl deepened, and her golden eyes snapped open, locking onto the man who dared intrude upon her rest. Her pupils, slitted and sharp as blades, narrowed dangerously.

The men behind Tywin tensed, gripping their weapons instinctively though they knew they would be of no use against the beast. Jaime cursed under his breath, his hand hovering near his sword despite its futility.

Tywin stopped mere paces from Viserion, unflinching as the she-dragon lifted her massive head, her teeth bared in a display of power. Her wings unfurled slightly, casting vast, jagged shadows across the chamber walls.

“Viserion,” Tywin said, his voice steady, unwavering, as though he were addressing a courtier rather than a dragon. “I know you understand me.”

The growl from Viserion deepened into something more—half warning, half challenge. She loomed over him now, her neck arching as her throat began to glow faintly with the embers of fire. Her breath was like a furnace, a searing gust of heat that washed over Tywin as she let out a roar so loud the walls themselves seemed to tremble.

Still, Tywin did not move.

The Lannister men stumbled back in fear, one dropping his sword with a clatter. Jaime stepped forward instinctively. “Father, enough! She’ll—”

Tywin lifted a hand to silence his son once more. His sharp green gaze never left Viserion’s molten gold eyes. “You know who I am,” he said evenly, his voice cutting through the dread like steel. “And you know that I am not your enemy.”

Viserion bared her teeth again, her throat glowing brighter as smoke curled from the edges of her mouth. The heat was unbearable, the air thick and stifling. Tywin took another step forward, close enough now that he could see the faint flicker of the fire within her.

“You are fire made flesh,” Tywin said softly, his voice carrying across the cavern. “But you are also her dragon. You know that. And through her, you know me.”

Viserion’s gaze flickered, her growl hesitating for the barest of moments. Her massive claws scraped against the stone floor as she shifted slightly, her wings folding back closer to her sides. The light in her throat dimmed just enough to hint at restraint.

Tywin stepped forward one last time, his hand lifting slowly, deliberately. The men behind him murmured in shock and disbelief, but Tywin ignored them. Viserion watched him warily, her head lowering ever so slightly, her growl softening to a deep, vibrating rumble.

The moment stretched unbearably long, the firelight flickering against the metal of Tywin’s rings as his hand brushed against Viserion’s snout.

The she-dragon let out a deep, guttural sound—not quite approval, but not rejection either. Her massive body shifted again, settling against the stone floor with a huff as she allowed the touch, her eyes half-lidded and watchful.

Tywin let his hand linger for a moment longer before withdrawing. He turned on his heel, facing the men who had watched the impossible unfold before them. Jaime stood frozen, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Tywin’s voice rang out, calm and authoritative. “I want armor made for her—Valyrian-inspired, reinforced and worthy of her size.” His gaze swept over the soldiers, cold and unwavering. “She is to be well-fed and kept under watch. This dragon is not some wild beast. She is a weapon, and like all weapons, she will be sharpened and honed.”

The men exchanged stunned glances but nodded quickly, murmuring their assent.

Jaime finally found his voice, stepping forward as Tywin approached. “You mean to arm her?” he asked, incredulous. “Father, why—”

Tywin cut him off with a sharp look. “Because I will not leave the fate of this realm to chance, Jaime.” His gaze flicked back toward Viserion, who now watched them with wary stillness. “Her fire is ours to wield. And we will wield it.”

Without another word, Tywin strode past Jaime and the men, his footsteps echoing through the cavern. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing back at the she-dragon as she settled herself, the fire in her eyes watching them all with quiet menace.

He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath as he followed his father out of the Dragonmont.

Behind them, Viserion’s growl rumbled softly, a sound that seemed to promise that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could ever hope to fully control the fire she carried within.

[nikinikori]

“My son, do not be over bold or rash; be cautious, keep within the bounds of propriety, and protect our home and family.”

— "The Odyssey" by Homer

[westerosiladies]

[lokidbadguy]

OMGGGGGGG?!?!?!?!?!?

A Lion in the Garden -Tywin Lannister x Reader- (Part 12)

A/N: this chapter is probably my favorite addition of the rewrite :)

WARNINGS: NSFW

Word Count: 5.6k

—————

I sighed as I watched the last of my luggage be loaded into the wagon. I had packed light, because hopefully this excursion would only take two weeks at most. Both Sansa and Loras had packed a bit more, however, for if all went well they would not be returning to King’s Landing.

It was so early in the morning that the sun had not yet risen, and the only people at the entrance courtyard of the Red Keep were the nightguards and the men accompanying us. I regretted that we had to leave so damned early, as I’d wanted to say goodbye to Tywin. 

It made me rather sad, because I hadn’t a clue if he’d even remember me helping him to the Tower of the Hand when he woke up. His last memory of me might be the feast, and he would not see me again for two weeks.

“Are you alright?”

Feeling Ser Elias’ hand at my shoulder, I turned around and looked up at him with raised eyebrows. Processing what he’d said, I instantly nodded.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just rather anxious, I suppose. Quite a lot relies on this going right,” I said with a sigh, holding my arms and trying not to think about how much could go wrong on this trip. Elias nodded with understanding, removing his hand from me. 

“I understand. However, know that if it should go wrong, it is not your fault. If you cannot wager peace, there’s not a soul on earth who would’ve been able to.”

“Yes, well, the peace agreement was also my idea.”

“And one that I consented to.”

Ser Elias and I turned our heads at the sound of another’s voice, and I was surprised to find Tywin approaching us. I instantly smiled, going over to him and meeting him halfway.

“How are you already awake? Do you feel alright?” I questioned, pressing my hand to his forehead and examining him. Even in the darkness he still looked quite miserable. There was no doubt in mind he’d already vomited at least once.

“I feel entirely awful, but I had to come see you off. I told my guards yesterday that they were to wake me early this morning with no exception,” he explained, reaching for my hand and holding it in his. The feeling sent goosebumps up my arm, and I was somewhat flattered by the fact that he was this ill and had still come all the way down here.

“Will you be alright getting back to the Tower of the Hand?” I asked, noting that he had no coat on over his shirt and pants, just a cloak. I was certain he intended to go back to sleep after this. I prayed he would, he desperately needed it.

“I will be fine. My head hurts quite terribly, that’s all. How are you feeling?” Tywin’s free hand came to my arm, and it made me oddly sentimental. I did not want to leave him.

“Nervous, but that’s to be expected. If I tell myself everything I told you, it helps me calm down. I’m rather convincing that way. I just need to focus on rationality instead of my nerves,” I told him, unable to resist the urge to crack a joke as I squeezed his hand. He smiled gently, not enough for anyone else to notice if they were looking. 

“Well, you convinced me, and I had no qualms with the messier route. You are doing a good thing, remember that.”

“But… what if… what if things go horribly wrong, Tywin? What if I give Robb Stark his sister and two war prisoners with her? Then what?” I voiced my fears, for Tywin was the only person I felt comfortable voicing them to. He instantly shook his head, an entirely serious look on his face as he did.

“That is not going to happen. You will persuade the Young Wolf and you will end this war. You are capable of that, I am certain. And, in the impossible scenario that Robb Stark is utterly stupid and decides to take you hostage, I will call every last bannerman and come for you. I will be dead and rotting before any harm is ever done to you,” Tywin assured me, raising the hand on my shoulder to my cheek and holding eye contact as he said it. Somehow, his words were more comforting than I’d even thought possible.

“Oh Tywin…”

I embraced him then, my face pressed against his chest as I shut my eyes and just let him hold me. One arm wrapped around my torso, and the other hand came to my head, fingers intertwined with my hair. I could feel his breath on my scalp, and after a moment his lips too.

“You will return to me, (Y/N), safe and victorious. And when you do, I will hold you just like this. Do you understand?” Tywin whispered, pulling back a bit so he could look at me again. I nodded, giving him a frightened, desperate smile as though I was trying my hardest to believe his words. I needed him to be right. 

He kissed my forehead then, and I wanted to sob. I had just barely admitted to being in love with him, but either way, knowing that I had to part with him for two weeks was impossible to accept. 

“I’m going to miss you, Tywin,” I muttered, looking up at him solemnly. His lips parted, and he looked entirely shattered at my statement. He nodded, closing his eyes.

“I will miss you as well, dear girl.”

We stared at each other for a moment more, but Loras calling my name from across the courtyard made both of us look over. I sighed, knowing it was time for us to leave.

“I will see you in two weeks, Tywin. I will make sure of it,” I said, giving his hand one last squeeze before turning around and going up to my horse. I quickly mounted up, trying my hardest to make the aching go away. 

The large gate to the Red Keep opened, and as our small group began to move out, I looked at Tywin one last time. He only stared, but it was reassuring all the same. The fear dissipated, and in its place came determination. Yes, I would see him in two weeks, and when I did, I would smile from ear to ear as I announced the end of a war. 

—————

It had only been a few days since you’d left, but Tywin was already utterly miserable. He’d become accustomed to your visits in the morning before either of you had anything to do. It was a pleasant way to start his day, and without it he found himself somewhat aggravated. Now he found that it was hard to get work done without thinking about you or wondering where you were.

He had no idea if you were safe, or if you’d reached Robb Stark yet. He suspected not, but it was a small group and would allow you all to move quickly. Still, it irked him to not be 100% certain of your safety and wellbeing. He was glad you weren’t traveling in a wheelhouse, for that would’ve attracted far too much attention.

Sitting at his desk now, Tywin caught himself considering all these things. It was late morning, and he’d be having lunch soon. He could picture you doing the same, sitting with your brother and his wife. He tried not to think about the fact that Ser Elias was there with you too.

There was the frustration again. Tywin groaned as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling hopelessly. It was a never ending cycle of missing you and wishing you were here, then onto thinking about whatever you might be doing, and finally remembering that Ser Elias was with you the entire time. 

He knew that you were probably right, Ser Elias surely only saw you as a sister or a daughter, but how could Tywin not feel any jealousy at all? The man was six and a half feet tall, not to mention tremendously fit and good looking. It made the Old Lion miss his youth, for once upon a time he wouldn’t have felt insecure compared to a man like that.

Tywin sighed, blinking a few times as he considered just how badly he wished to have you all to himself. Gods, what would it be like to kiss you? To hold your cheek and feel the softness of your lips? He couldn’t even fathom it.

He thought back to the day at the inn, remembering how his breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you in the tub. He hadn’t even meant to look, for he’d never wanted to make you uncomfortable, but gods, you were beautiful.

Tywin hated the way that he thought about you, because he knew that whatever had happened to you as a girl had clearly made you wary of men and their intentions. He could not blame you, and yet somehow even he desired you. It made him feel disgusting, almost as though he was no better than the two soldiers whose tongues he’d cut off.

Of course, it was different. Those men had wanted to rape you, he wished to make love to you. The vision of it was only erotic because Tywin pictured you wanting him just as much as he wanted you. And, it was not as if desire was the thing he could feel when he thought of you. The affection and love had come first, then with it the lust. 

It was odd, for he had fucked whores at various points in his life, but that was merely to relieve his lust. There had been no desire for any of those women, he had simply paid them to make him feel good. He never kissed them, either. But gods, he wanted to kiss you.

That was the difference, he guessed. When he pictured himself fucking you, it was imagining your moans that made his blood rush. Because yes, he could certainly think about how good it would feel to be inside of you, but it was not nearly as attractive as the thought of you being pleased by him. You would look so pretty that way.

Tywin sighed, lifting his head from the back of his chair and looking down to find what he already knew was there. The strain in his pants had grown uncomfortable as he’d allowed his imagination to run wild, and now he simply felt frustrated. 

It had been quite some time since he’d requested a whore from the brothel. Normally just being around you left him content enough to simply touch himself when he grew aroused, but he felt quite insatiable now. Then again, he did not want to fuck a whore, he wanted to fuck you. And thus an idea sparked into his head.

Tywin reached for a blank sheet of parchment, instantly scratching down his instructions on it. He was sending for a whore, though not just any random one. He wanted a girl with your hair color, your eyes, and your height. He pictured every feature of yours perfectly in his head, discovering that if he’d wanted to he might’ve described you in exact detail. But no, the request must be general. Even then, it already was risky enough for him to be doing this.

Before he could think twice, the Lord Hand found himself finishing and sealing the letter. He would take it through the tunnel after he had eaten lunch, and that would be that. He expected a girl would be waiting in his chambers after supper. Somewhere deep down, Tywin knew it would be the last time that tunnel would ever be put to use. It was quite the relieving thought.

—————

Tywin was grateful to be back in his chambers, for he’d just told the king of your plan. True to his word, the Lord Hand informed his grandson about something he ought to know. Unfortunately, Joffrey had not taken well to the news. Tywin hadn’t expected anything less, hence why he’d waited to tell him until after you had left with Loras and Sansa.

But gods, that boy was cumbersome. So much so that Tywin had almost entirely forgotten about the request he’d given to the brothel earlier that day. Entering his bedroom, he was surprised to find a whore there waiting for him. She was still dressed, though only in a transparent fabric, and she had draped herself across the sofa.

Tywin froze as he took in her appearance. In terms of characteristics such as hair and skin, she matched you quite well, but in terms of actual features there was hardly a resemblance. Taking a deep breath, the Lord Hand told himself it was fine. He did not need to look at her face while fucking her, even if he had looked at yours in all his fantasies. 

“My Lord,” the girl greeted, slowly sitting up and giving him a seductive smile. Tywin found that her boldness irked him. You were not timid, to be certain, but he’d found there were some respects in which you were surprisingly vulnerable, and this would certainly be one of them.

She stood from the sofa, striding toward him in a somewhat teasing manner, almost as if trying to trigger some sort of instinct. Standing before Tywin now, she began to undo his coat. He did not deny her, but he did not do anything to encourage her either. 

With her face closer now, he noted that she was similar to you in age, probably in her mid-20s. That made him feel a bit better, at least. But still, when she smiled up at him it was almost aggravating. You did not smile like that. Yours was much prettier.

Tywin began to wonder if he even really wanted to have sex with this woman. She was not you, and you were all he wanted. But then again, he was still annoyed over the conversation with his grandson, and surely it couldn't hurt to blow off some steam this way.

“Would you like to undress me, my Lord Hand?” she asked with a giggle, completely removing his coat and his shirt. Tywin looked down at her, remaining silent for a moment.

“Undress yourself and go sit on the sofa,” he commanded, not a single hint of emotion in his voice as he did. The whore smiled and nodded, making quite a display of herself as she shed the thin gown off. She moved back to her original spot with a very seductive sway of her hips. 

Tywin let himself admire her for a moment, for he couldn’t deny that she was attractive. She had spread her legs as she sat, giving him quite the view. He wished he could see you in such a position; it would be the prettiest painting he ever saw.

Slowly, Tywin removed his boots and then approached the woman. She sat a bit straighter with expectation, batting her eyelashes as she looked up at him. Again, he found himself thinking of you. What might it be like to have you gazing up at him in expectation like this? He could imagine himself brushing your cheek with his fingers and tucking your hair behind your ears. 

He would not touch this whore like that, though. Such intimacy was reserved for you alone. Instead, he merely undid the ties on his pants, pushing them down just enough to free himself. Tywin wasn’t fully hard yet, for truthfully the thing arousing him most was picturing you in place of this woman.

But, either way, he welcomed her to touch him as he stood before her. The whore examined his cock with a smile, instantly reaching from him and beginning to stroke. The sensation was pleasant, but Tywin remained entirely composed until she moved forward a bit and took him in her mouth.

In response to that, he let out a deep exhale, looking down at the top of her head and nearly moaning when he realized that she looked just like you from this angle. Her hair was perhaps her largest similarity to you, and Tywin found himself reaching for it eagerly. His fingers weaved through it, and his grip was firm yet tender. 

The thought of you licking and sucking him this way fully hardened the Great Lion, and his hips involuntarily bucked into the whore’s mouth as he pretended that it was yours. He groaned rather loudly, fighting back the urge to let your name slip from his tongue. 

All sorts of ideas about you began flooding through his head. He could imagine your hands grabbing at his hips, pulling him in even farther. And to have those lips, those soft, convincing lips wrapped around his cock… gods, it sent a shiver up his spine. 

The whore swirled her tongue around his tip, but he did not feel that. Instead he felt you doing it, and he cursed out with utter delight. Of course, he could not entirely convince himself. Had it really been you he would’ve laid you across the sofa and buried his face between your legs already. For some odd reason, he also felt that you would be a woman bold enough to grab his balls while doing this. It was no particular fantasy of his, but the idea of you touching him in any way was absolutely titillating. 

Tywin felt his abdomen beginning to tighten, and he shook his head, opening the eyes that he hadn’t even remembered closing. He glanced down at the whore, removing his hand from her hair. Feeling this, she glanced up at him.

“Enough of that. Get up and bend over,” he instructed, swallowing and catching his breath as he took a step back. He watched the woman do as he’d requested, hands planted into the sofa with her ass raised toward him, and he nodded to himself. Her build was not exactly like yours, which of course served to disappoint Tywin, but it was close enough that—if he were to really put some effort into it—he could convince himself.

He approached her then, one hand grabbing at her hip and the other reaching for his erection. Tywin found his breath catching in his throat as he lined himself up at the girl’s entrance. He simply kept his eyes focused there as he pushed in, imagining how you might moan his name and arch at the feeling of him stretching you this way.

Well, that was what he had been imagining until he was interrupted by the sound of the whore’s moan. Her voice was nothing like yours, and even if he had never heard your cries of pleasure before, logic told him it would be nothing like the sound he’d just heard.

As he slowly began to thrust into her, he attempted to ignore her whines, simply shutting his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the walls around his cock, because even if she wasn’t you, it obviously still felt rather good. Whores were paid for a reason, after all.

Both of Tywin’s hands were on the woman’s hips now, and again he thought of you. He remembered what it had been like to wake up at the inn with his arm wrapped around you, how his breath had caught in his throat when he realized. 

That memory made him thrust a bit faster, and he let out a low moan as he did. The whore replied the same way, though her moans were far louder and much more exaggerated. It made Tywin increasingly annoyed, for not only did it not sound like you, but he knew it was fake. 

This kind of stimulation might warrant a few soft moans or gasps, but nothing like the lusty cries that this woman was currently making. Tywin had enjoyed plenty of late nights with Joanna, and was not ignorant to what actually made a woman feel good, which was exactly how he knew that the current moans coming from below him were entirely exaggerated. 

Attempting to ignore it, Tywin simply shut his eyes again and chased his own pleasure. He wondered if he even should’ve bothered asking for a woman that looked like you, for he was not spending very much time with his eyes open. Well, it had at least been convincing when she’d taken him in her mouth. 

Already thinking of the subject, Tywin found himself imagining how you might moan. More than that, he imagined the way you might gasp his name and shudder as you did. Well, he was trying to. It was hard to do when the whore was quite so loud.

Opening his eyes and looking down at the woman, he decided he’d had enough. Perhaps it was rude, but as he gave the command he did not particularly care. “Hush. Be silent.”

The air felt tense for a moment as the whore silenced herself; she was certainly unaccustomed to men requesting such a thing. Normally, the more she moaned the more they enjoyed it. Well, it didn’t matter. She would stay quiet for the amount that she was being given.

Now that it was quiet besides the slapping of skin, Tywin felt free to give in to his fantasies. He ran his hands over the woman, though really he was running his hands over you. He craved the warmth of your skin, the feeling of you beneath his hands. 

His thrusts became stronger now, and Tywin groaned rather loudly as he gave the whore’s ass a firm squeeze. This was pathetic of him, and he knew that, but his lust for you was so immense that he couldn’t help it. More than that, he simply wished to kiss and hold you. He certainly would not do that to a whore.

Tywin licked his lips, swallowing and breathing heavily as he exerted himself. He could feel his orgasm approaching, and so he leaned over the woman a bit to hit a deeper angle inside of her. However, upon doing so, he inhaled her scent.

He thrusted a few more times as he processed it, but for some reason Tywin could not ignore the perfume she was wearing. It was rather nice, but it smelled nothing like yours did. For some reason, he’d been able to ignore every other difference, but this was his breaking point. He could not ignore just how different from you this woman was any longer, and he sighed out with disappointment—more in himself than anything—as he pulled out of her.

The whore turned her head to look back, confused at what had just happened. Tywin was pulling his pants up, and he walked over to his nightstand to fetch the coin purse for her.

“For your time,” he said, bringing it back over to her. She was sitting on the couch now, feeling rather displaced and anxious. She’d never had a man just full on stop without finishing before.

“My lord, I apologize if I was unsatisfactory. Would you- would you like someone else?” she asked, looking up at him with a sort of embarrassment. Tywin took a deep breath as she said it, shaking his head. He suddenly felt bad.

“No, don’t apologize. It wasn’t that. And I’m fine, thank you,” he said, trying to reassure her without revealing anything. Had he spent a night with her a year ago, he would’ve found it rather satisfactory. But that was obviously very different now. Tywin could’ve been given the most desired whore in the world and he still wouldn’t have been content. 

“Would you like me to be someone else..?” she trailed off, seeing the look in the Lord Hand’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with a man who was clearly imagining another. Usually they had little shame in moaning other girls' names. 

Tywin only stared at her, handing her the coin purse and then stepping away. She nodded at him, not wanting to push it. She rose from the couch, grabbing her discarded dress and showing herself out through the tunnel. In the morning, Tywin would have a letter sent to seal the thing off. There was no use for it now.

The Lord Hand merely sighed, going to the small table and pouring himself some wine. Surely he was disgusting for this. He didn’t even want to think about how you would react if you knew he’d fucked a whore with you in mind. Again, the guilt came back to him as he considered that perhaps he was like every other man. Gods, it was horrible to love you and want you this way when he was 100% certain you did not feel the same in any capacity. 

Tywin sighed as he set his cup down and made his way over to the bed. He still had an erection to handle, and he supposed he’d get by just fine on his own. He undid his pants completely now, going fully nude and sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

He reached toward his nightstand, pulling out a handkerchief from inside the small drawer so he wouldn’t make a mess when he finished. Though, he wiped the whore’s slick off of himself first. As he did that, however, he noticed your handkerchief still sitting on top of the stand. He had eaten the cookie the morning you’d left, but he had not moved the cloth itself at all. 

An odd urge gripped Tywin, and he set aside the white cloth in his hand and instead reached for yours. He smiled fondly as he examined it, wondering if perhaps your sister or grandmother had embroidered the red roses around the edges of it, for you had once noted to him that you’d never been quite as good at it as them. The first letter of your name was also there in the corner, big and somewhat dramatic. It was pretty, and Tywin liked it. 

He intended to put it back on his nightstand, but a sudden whiff of flowers hit his nose and he instantly stopped. Slowly, with an unparalleled amount of hope, he brought your handkerchief up to his nose and inhaled. 

Smelling your perfume on it, he instantly exhaled and shut his eyes, allowing himself to fully take in the scent. Somehow, the familiarity of it made him feel as though he was holding you in his arms, or perhaps even just sitting beside you. 

Tywin Lannister had never imagined himself being overly fond of some floral scent, but suddenly he could not get enough of it. He found himself burying his nose in this damn cloth, laying back on the bed and getting comfortable as he continually inhaled. He was so obsessed with your scent that he nearly moaned out.

Before he could even fully process what he was doing, Tywin was reaching down with his free hand, taking a hold of his cock. He was practically throbbing now, and the ache for you was so intense that even the slightest pleasure—combined with the rosy perfume filling his lungs—made him shake.

He began to rub himself, slowly at first, as he moaned out. He could picture you sitting beside him, your hair perfectly messy and a smile on your face as you touched him. You would take joy in seeing him become a mess under your hands like this, wouldn’t you? Tywin gasped, handkerchief still pressed to his face.

He forced memories of you saying his name into his mind, his hold on his erection tightening now. He began to rub a little faster, breathing catching in his throat as he looked down at himself. Compared to the warmth of his hand, the feeling of the cold valyrian steel ring made him shudder. The texture of it was almost painful, but you had given him that ring. You had held it in your hands.

Again, he moaned out, still bathing in the scent of roses. In his mind you were still there beside him, watching him moan as you squeezed and tugged. He could see you, naked and beautiful as you tortured him this way. He wanted to kiss you.

He started to rub himself even more vigorously now, a moaning mess as his hips came up to meet his hand. Tywin practically whimpered, and his legs were beginning to shake. It was never like this when he touched himself. The scent of you alone had turned him into this.

“(Y/N)… (Y/N)! Oh gods… (Y/N)…” Tywin applied extra pressure to the tip of his cock, choking out your name with absolutely ecstasy. He could feel every single muscle in his body tensing, as though he were some sort of wild animal.

He found himself rolling onto his stomach, momentarily stopping and reaching for the body pillow against his headboard. With absolute desperation, he lifted himself up for just long enough to push it under him. Once he’d done that, his hand went straight back to doing what it had been before, and he groaned again.

The handkerchief was still against his nose, and with the pillow beneath Tywin, he could imagine himself on top of you. Not only that, but he felt your stomach pressing against his as your back arched, and he saw you throwing your head back with pleasure. 

Tywin moaned as he continued to pleasure himself, not caring at all how hot the room was growing. He was sweaty and tired, but your scent urged him to keep going; he listened quite obediently. 

He was thrusting into his hand—and the pillow as well—with extreme vigor, forehead pressed to the mattress as he panted out. Even if he’d wanted to, Tywin could not keep your name from his lips, especially as he imagined how you might shake and quiver beneath him in the midst of an orgasm.

He felt like a madman envisioning all the ways that he would take you. He wanted you beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist. Or perhaps he would kneel before you, thrusting with your legs over his shoulders. Then he would take you from behind, his hand on your back as your forearms collapsed beneath you out of sheer pleasure. Tywin wanted you on top of him, hips rolling against his as your breasts bounced and he sat up to kiss them. There was the scent of roses again.

Tywin shuddered, for there was too much on his mind. That was not all he wished to do to you. He saw himself inserting his fingers into you, curling and pumping as his thumb rubbed your clit. Surely that would make you sing his name, which was erotic enough as it was. Not only that, but the Great Lion imagined what it might be like to bury his face between your legs, holding them open as they shook. He would feast like a man starved.

Gods, it was a euphoric vision, and he’d found a particularly enjoyable rhythm with his hand. Tywin knew he was close, and his moans had become entirely pathetic, whiny and loud in a way they hadn’t been in years.

Suddenly, his abdomen squeezed tighter than before, his hand clenching around the handkerchief as he took another good inhale. Roses, roses and you. That was all that existed as he felt an all-consuming pleasure in his groin. 

The fresh cloth from earlier was entirely forgotten about, and Tywin did not care whatsoever as his seed spurted from his cock onto the pillow beneath him. He had surely ruined the case, but that was not even a thought to him as he cried your name out, so overwhelmed that his hand was forced to slow itself.

For a few seconds, the Great Lion was entirely frozen, moans becoming quieter and more relaxed as he came down from the peak of his orgasm. He had to swallow and catch his breath, exhaling deeply and blinking a few times to reorient himself. 

Tywin was so exhausted that he nearly fell asleep then and there, but the thirst in his throat forced him to roll over onto his back so that he’d wake up. He glanced over at the pillow, surprised at just how large his spend had been. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d spilled so much.

Your handkerchief was still in his hand, and he stared at it for a few seconds before bringing it to his nose again. The scent had previously aroused him, but now it was comforting. He suddenly wished to hold you, to pet your hair and kiss your head. 

Though, the reality of what he’d just done also hit him and drove utter shame and guilt into the Hand of the King. As if he had not degraded you enough by imagining you when he was with a whore. 

Tywin sighed, sitting up slowly and reaching for the cup on his nightstand. The wine felt good in his throat, not to mention it soothed whatever nerves were gathering in his stomach. He was overthinking now. 

As he laid back in bed and cleaned himself up, Tywin also thought about how you were doing at the present moment. It was weird having no contact with you, and it would stay that way until you arrived back at the Red Keep. At least, he prayed that was what would happen.

He merely sighed as he contemplated, pushing the body pillow off the bed and onto the floor. He slipped under the covers then too, trying to get comfortable. It was extremely late now, and there was no doubt in Tywin’s mind that he’d fall asleep rather quickly.

After all, the scent of roses still hung in the air around him, and he prayed that it would never fade away. Perhaps, for once in his life, the gods would listen.

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