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novaursa · 2 days ago

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To Save Us Both

- Summary: Aegon was your shadow ever since you were a child. And once you come of age and Viserys gives your hand to Lord Tyrell's son, Aegon makes a decision that would save you both—and ruin you all the same.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

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

You had always been the quiet one, the shadow lingering just outside the gilded glow of your family’s attention. As the second daughter of King Viserys and Queen Alicent, you lived in the space between your mother’s careful plans and your father’s indulgent dismissiveness. Helaena had her dreams and riddles, and Aegon—your elder brother—had his bravado and recklessness. And then there was you.

From the earliest days, Aegon sought your attention with a peculiar intensity. At first, it was innocent enough. He would seek you out during lessons, deliberately sit beside you at the long table in the Red Keep’s library, or tug on your sleeve when you were absorbed in your Valyrian texts.

“Y/N, look at this!” he exclaimed one day, barely past eight, holding a wooden dragon he had carved—or at least claimed to have carved. It was crude, the wings uneven, but you smiled at him regardless.

“It’s… unique,” you replied, your voice soft, careful not to wound his pride.

“Unique?” His face fell slightly before he puffed up with exaggerated bravado. “I think it’s better than that. It looks like Vhagar, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a little smaller than Vhagar,” you teased gently, a rare flicker of mirth dancing in your eyes. Aegon’s pout faded into a grin, and he sat beside you, his body leaning just a little too close.

It was always like this with Aegon. He thrived on your smiles, craved your laughter, and seemed to falter when you turned away from him. When Helaena pulled you into her world of strange, whispered riddles or Aemond showed off his knowledge of dragons to impress you, Aegon’s mood would darken.

One afternoon, the court gathered in the gardens for a brief reprieve from the heat of the Red Keep. You had found a shaded spot beneath a weeping willow, a book of High Valyrian poetry resting in your lap. Aemond stood beside you, his expression serious as he recited lines from memory, his voice low and earnest.

“Se perzys ipradagon ziry ry,” he said, his pale gaze fixed on you. “The flame consumes it all.”

You nodded thoughtfully, your lips curving in approval. “You’ve improved,” you said, your voice warm, and Aemond’s face lit up with quiet pride.

From across the garden, Aegon watched, his jaw tightening. He drained his goblet of wine in one swift motion and made his way toward you, his steps purposeful.

“What’s this?” Aegon interrupted, his tone light but sharp around the edges. He flopped down beside you, ignoring Aemond entirely. “High Valyrian poetry? How dull.”

“It’s not dull,” you said, looking up at him with a small frown. “Aemond has been practicing.”

“Oh, Aemond’s been practicing,” Aegon mocked, his voice dripping with exaggerated awe. “How impressive.” He reached over and plucked the book from your lap, flipping through it carelessly. “You should do something more fun, Y/N. We could go riding or��”

“She doesn’t have time for your games,” Aemond said coldly, stepping closer.

“And you don’t have time for your lessons, apparently,” Aegon snapped back, his smile sharp. “Run along, little brother.”

“Aegon,” you said, a note of warning in your voice. He turned to you, the sharpness in his expression softening instantly.

“What? I’m just saying we could have more fun.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’d rather spend time with me, wouldn’t you?”

Your brows knit together, and you glanced between your brothers, torn. “Aemond and I were having a conversation.”

“But I’m more interesting,” Aegon pressed, his grin widening as he tilted his head, his violet eyes searching yours.

You sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Only for you, dear sister,” he replied, the words carrying a weight you didn’t fully grasp.

As you grew older, Aegon’s attempts to claim your attention became bolder. When suitors began to glance your way at feasts, he was quick to position himself between you and them, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, his voice louder, his laugh more boisterous.

One evening, a young lord from the Reach had spent far too long at your side, his compliments earning your shy smiles. Aegon, seated nearby, clenched his goblet so tightly that the metal bent under his grip.

When the lord finally excused himself, Aegon slid into his place, his eyes narrowing as he looked after the retreating figure. “Do you actually enjoy listening to that drivel?” he asked, his tone laced with disdain.

“He was kind,” you said simply, glancing at him.

“Kind? He was duller than a broken sword,” Aegon retorted, his gaze fixed on you. “You deserve better.”

“And who would that be?” you asked, your voice carrying a note of challenge.

His smirk faltered for a moment, his expression turning uncharacteristically earnest. “Someone who knows you. Someone who’s been by your side all along.”

Your breath caught, his words lingering in the space between you. But before you could respond, he laughed, the moment breaking as quickly as it had come. “But not him,” he added, his usual arrogance slipping back into place. “You’re mine, little sister.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scold him, but the possessiveness in his tone left an unspoken promise lingering in the air. Aegon would always vie for your attention, no matter who tried to steal it away.

The announcement had been made during a routine gathering of the family, with King Viserys seated at the head of the table, Alicent by his side. His words were spoken with the offhandedness of someone making a trivial decision, though the weight of them crashed into Aegon like a hammer.

“It’s time we secure another alliance,” Viserys had said, his gaze landing on you. “Lord Tyrell has expressed interest in a match between his eldest son and our daughter.”

You sat frozen in your seat, your wineglass trembling slightly in your hand. Across the table, Aegon’s face darkened. His lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Instead, he stared at Viserys, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table.

The conversation moved on, Viserys discussing trade agreements and naval concerns, but Aegon heard none of it. His mind was a whirl of chaos, his heart pounding so fiercely it drowned out the voices around him.

Later that evening, he stormed into Alicent’s chambers, his face pale and his violet eyes wild. She was seated by the hearth, embroidering a handkerchief with practiced precision. When she saw him, her calm expression shifted to one of concern.

“Aegon?” she asked, setting the embroidery aside. “What’s the matter?”

“I need to speak with you,” he said, his voice strained. He paced the room, running a hand through his hair, the usual air of arrogance stripped away. “It’s about Y/N.”

Alicent’s brow furrowed, her motherly instincts kicking in. “What about her?”

“They can’t marry her off,” he blurted, turning to face her. “Not to the Tyrell boy. Not to anyone.”

“Aegon,” she said softly, rising from her chair. “It’s a good match. Lord Tyrell is powerful, and his son—”

“I don’t care about his son!” Aegon interrupted, his voice rising. “I don’t care about alliances or power or any of it. She belongs here, with us. With me.”

Alicent froze, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied her eldest son. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t let this happen.” He took a step closer, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Mother, you have to stop it. You’re the only one he listens to.”

She reached out, placing a hand on his arm to steady him. “Aegon, you’re being irrational. Y/N’s future—”

“My future doesn’t exist without her!” he cried, his voice desperate. “Don’t you see? She’s the only thing in this world that matters to me.”

Alicent’s lips parted, her expression shifting from concern to something more conflicted. “Aegon…” she began, but he cut her off.

“She’s everything to me,” he said, his voice softer now, trembling with vulnerability. “When she laughs, it’s like the sun breaks through the clouds. When she looks at me, I feel like I’m someone worth being. And the thought of her—of her with someone else—” His voice broke entirely, and he turned away, his shoulders shaking.

Alicent watched him for a long moment, her mind racing. Finally, she spoke, her tone measured. “You care for her deeply.”

Aegon let out a bitter laugh. “Care for her? Mother, I love her. I’ve always loved her. And if they take her from me, if they marry her off to that Tyrell boy or anyone else…” He turned back to her, his face etched with anguish. “I’ll die. Do you hear me? I’ll die.”

The rawness of his words struck Alicent to her core. She had always known Aegon’s feelings for you went beyond brotherly affection, though she had hoped it was a passing infatuation. But the desperation in his voice, the tears brimming in his eyes—it was undeniable. This wasn’t a childish crush. This was a man willing to set the world aflame for the one he loved.

“You must speak to Father,” he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Convince him. Tell him it’s not the right match, that she’s too young, that the Tyrells aren’t trustworthy—anything. Just stop it.”

Alicent hesitated, torn between her role as a mother and her duty as queen. Finally, she nodded, her voice firm. “I will speak with him. But, Aegon…” She stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek. “You must tread carefully. This path you’re walking—it’s dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice resolute. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her by my side.”

Alicent sighed, pulling him into a brief embrace. “Then let us hope the gods are merciful.”

As Aegon left her chambers, a flicker of determination replaced the despair in his eyes. If his mother couldn’t stop the betrothal, he would find another way. He would fight, scheme, beg—whatever it took. Because losing you wasn’t an option. Not now. Not ever.

The candles burned low in Aegon’s chambers as he paced the floor. The wine on his table sat untouched, an unusual sight for him. Tonight, Aegon’s mind was too sharp, too focused, to indulge in his usual vices. The Tyrell betrothal still loomed like a sword over his head, and every moment that passed without a resolution tightened the noose around his heart.

He had spoken to Alicent, begged her to intervene, but her assurances felt fragile against Viserys’s iron will. His father had grown increasingly indifferent to the pleas of his children, too consumed by his own decaying health and dream of uniting the realm. If Alicent couldn’t sway him, Aegon knew he needed to act. He needed to ensure that there was no choice but to keep you by his side.

The idea had taken root in his mind slowly, twisting and growing until it consumed him entirely. It wasn’t honorable, nor was it kind, but Aegon was neither of those things. He was desperate. And desperation made monsters of men.

That night, as the Red Keep grew silent and the court retired to their chambers, Aegon found you in the library. You were alone, the firelight illuminating your soft features as you poured over a book. It was a scene he had seen a hundred times, but tonight it struck him differently. Tonight, he couldn’t afford to wait, to hope that things would somehow fall in his favor.

“Still reading?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorway.

You glanced up, startled but not displeased to see him. “I could say the same to you. It’s unusual to find you here without a cup of wine in hand.”

He smirked, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose even I have my moments of sobriety.”

You smiled faintly and returned your attention to the page, but Aegon didn’t move. He stepped closer, his boots soft against the stone floor, and you glanced up again, your brows knitting in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” you asked.

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re hovering,” you said plainly, though there was no malice in your tone.

Aegon chuckled, but it sounded hollow even to his ears. He sat beside you, closer than usual, his knee brushing yours. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. “About the Tyrell boy.”

You stiffened slightly, your gaze dropping back to the book. “Father has made his decision. There’s little point in discussing it.”

“Do you want to marry him?” Aegon pressed, his voice low and urgent.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you said, your tone soft but resigned. “My duty is to the family, to the realm.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, leaning closer. “Do you want him, Y/N? Do you want to leave the Red Keep, leave me, and go to Highgarden?”

You turned to him, your eyes wide with surprise and something else—confusion, perhaps. “Why does it matter to you?”

Aegon swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Because I can’t lose you. You’re mine.”

“Aegon—”

“Listen to me,” he said, his hand reaching out to grasp yours. “You don’t belong with him. You belong here, with your family, with me.”

You tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened. “Aegon, you’re not making any sense.”

“I love you,” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I’ve always loved you, Y/N. And I can’t let them take you from me.”

Your lips parted, shock evident on your face. “You’re my brother.”

“And that makes it wrong?” he challenged, his voice trembling. “Our blood of the dragon is the same, our bond stronger than any lord or knight could ever offer you. Don’t you see? We were meant to be together.”

You stared at him, your mind racing, but before you could respond, Aegon leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he were testing the boundaries of what you would allow. When you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his hand moving to cup your cheek.

You pushed him back abruptly, your eyes wide with a mix of confusion and anger. “Aegon, this is madness.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, his voice raw. “And I’ll prove it to you. If they try to marry you off, I’ll stop them. I’ll make sure you stay here, with me.”

“How?” you demanded, your voice rising. “What are you planning?”

He hesitated, the weight of his scheme hanging heavily between you. “If Father won’t listen, then I’ll give him no choice. If you’re mine, truly mine, he can’t send you away.”

The implication of his words hit you like a blow, and you took a step back, your chest heaving. “You mean to ruin me,” you whispered, horrified.

“To save you,” he countered, his expression desperate. “To save us.”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “Aegon, this isn’t the way.”

“It’s the only way,” he said, reaching for you again. “Don’t you see? I’d burn the whole world to keep you.”

You turned away, your heart pounding, and fled the library, leaving Aegon alone in the flickering firelight. He stood there for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists, his mind racing.

If you wouldn’t accept his love willingly, then he would ensure there was no other path for you to take.

Whatever it cost, whatever it took, you would be his.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #hotd aegon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon targaryen #aegon the second #aegon x reader #house targaryen

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novaursa · 1 day ago

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Legacy (long live the king)

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware how the timeline is all over the place and canon doesn't quite match some events of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: strings of time

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

The Red Keep was quiet that morning, the soft hum of activity muted as you made your way through the winding halls toward Sansa’s chambers. The air smelled faintly of salt and stone, a familiar scent that seemed to linger in every corner of the fortress. You had waited a few days after the marriage between Sansa and Tyrion, giving her space to adjust to the reality of her situation. But now, your concern for her outweighed the necessity of distance.

Ser Barristan followed you closely, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword as always. His presence was a comfort, though you had grown so accustomed to it that you barely noticed him anymore. The two Lannister guards Tywin insisted on also trailed behind at a respectful distance.

As you reached Sansa’s chamber door, you heard the faint rustling of fabric and soft footsteps beyond. You lifted your hand to knock, but before you could, the door opened, revealing a young woman in simple garments, her hair pinned neatly back.

Shae.

The recognition was instant. You’d seen her before, flitting around Sansa as one of her attendants, her presence always discreet but strangely attentive. She froze when she saw you, her eyes widening briefly before she quickly lowered her gaze, her posture stiff.

“My lady,” she said awkwardly, dipping into a shallow curtsy. Her voice was polite, but there was a stiffness in her tone that didn’t escape your notice.

“Shae,” you greeted evenly, inclining your head slightly. “I see you’ve been attending to Lady Sansa.”

“Yes, my lady,” she replied, her words rushed. “I was just… bringing her fresh linens. She’s resting now.”

Her unease was visible, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her skirts. You studied her for a moment, noting the way her gaze flitted away from yours, unable to hold it for long. There was something guarded in her demeanor, something that hinted at more than the role she claimed.

“Good,” you said finally, your tone calm but edged with curiosity. “Sansa needs someone she can trust.”

Shae nodded quickly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Of course, my lady. I do everything I can for her.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching as she shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. It wasn’t uncommon for people to act this way around you—your Targaryen blood, your place in the Red Keep, and your closeness to Sansa all carried weight that unsettled many. But with Shae, it felt different. More personal.

“Thank you for your service,” you said finally, your voice softening slightly. “Sansa speaks well of you.”

Shae blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she nodded again. “Thank you, my lady. I’ll… I’ll leave you to her now.”

She stepped aside quickly, her head bowed as she brushed past you. You watched her retreating form for a moment, your mind turning over what you knew—or suspected—about her. Her relationship with Tyrion was no secret to you, though you had never spoken of it. It was not your place, nor did you see any benefit in bringing it to light. But her discomfort in your presence was something you could not ignore.

“Interesting,” you murmured under your breath as you turned back to the chamber door. Ser Barristan gave you a questioning glance, but you shook your head slightly, dismissing his unspoken query.

You knocked gently on the door and waited for Sansa’s soft voice to call out, “Come in.” When you entered, you found her seated by the window, the morning light casting a golden glow over her auburn hair. She looked up at you with a faint smile, though her eyes were tired, shadows lingering beneath them.

“My lady,” she said, rising to her feet. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

You crossed the room quickly, taking her hands in yours and guiding her back to her seat. “Sansa, please. There’s no need to stand for me.”

She allowed herself to be seated, her smile growing a little warmer. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you,” you replied, pulling a chair closer to sit beside her. “How have you been?”

Sansa hesitated, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I… I’m fine,” she said quietly, though her voice lacked conviction.

You frowned slightly, leaning closer. “Sansa, you don’t need to lie to me. I know this has been difficult for you.”

Her lips trembled, and for a moment, you thought she might cry. But she took a deep breath, steadying herself before meeting your gaze. “Tyrion has been kind,” she said softly. “More than I expected. But it’s still… hard. Everything feels so wrong.”

You squeezed her hands gently, your voice filled with compassion. “I know. And I’m sorry. You deserved better than this.”

She shook her head, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… it’s all too much sometimes.”

You reached out, brushing the tear away with a gentle touch. “You’re stronger than you know, Sansa. You’ve endured so much already, and you’ll endure this too. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

She nodded, her expression softening as she leaned into your touch. For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you.

Then, in a quieter voice, she asked, “Do you think… do you think it will ever get better?”

You hesitated, knowing the answer she wanted but unable to lie to her. “I think it will take time,” you said carefully. “But you have allies, Sansa. People who care for you. Hold onto that.”

The room was modest by the standards of the Red Keep, tucked away in a quieter wing where the hum of courtly life was less invasive. You shifted in your chair, trying to find a comfortable position as your swollen belly made even the simplest task a challenge. Olenna Tyrell sat across from you, her sharp eyes glinting with their usual mix of amusement and calculation. To your irritation, Petyr Baelish lingered nearby, leaning casually against the stone wall, his lips curved in a faint, knowing smirk.

“This is an… interesting gathering,” you remarked, folding your hands neatly over your lap. “I wasn’t aware I’d been summoned for such unique company.”

Olenna chuckled, the sound dry but warm. “My dear, you flatter us. And here I thought you’d be delighted to spend time with two of the most intriguing minds in the capital.”

You arched an eyebrow, glancing briefly at Baelish before returning your attention to Olenna. “Intriguing, perhaps. But intrigue can be exhausting, and I’m in no mood for games.”

Olenna’s smile widened, and she leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the head of her cane. “Very well, I’ll spare you the pleasantries. I love my granddaughter, you see. Margaery is as clever as she is beautiful, and she will make an excellent queen. But the king…” Her expression soured, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Joffrey is a menace. He’s dangerous, unstable, and entirely unsuited for the throne.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly, though you kept your tone neutral. “I cannot argue with that assessment. But why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Olenna said, her eyes locking onto yours, “Joffrey is not just a threat to my granddaughter. He’s a threat to the realm, to all of us. Including you and your child.”

At her words, your hand instinctively moved to rest on your belly. The thought of Joffrey’s unhinged malice extending toward your unborn child sent a shiver through you, but you kept your composure. “I’ve no doubt he poses a danger to everyone around him,” you said carefully. “But what do you expect me to do about it?”

Olenna smiled faintly, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I don’t expect you to do anything, my dear. I simply thought you’d like to know where certain parties stand.”

Baelish chose this moment to speak, his voice smooth and unhurried. “The queen-to-be is beloved, and her marriage will solidify her position. But with a king like Joffrey, beloved can quickly turn to forgotten, or worse. Surely, Lady Lannister, you understand the importance of securing the future for those we care about.”

You turned your gaze to him, your expression cool. “Spare me the riddles, Lord Baelish. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

Baelish smirked, his head tilting slightly. “I merely observe. And my observations tell me that those who act swiftly tend to find themselves… in better positions.”

Olenna waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, enough, Petyr. She doesn’t need your oily little hints.” Her sharp gaze returned to you, softening slightly. “You’re here because you’re intelligent, my dear. And I value intelligence in a city that seems to have it in such short supply.”

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your expression. “And what exactly do you want from me, Lady Olenna?”

Olenna leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping lightly on the head of her cane. “Nothing… yet. But tell me, what do you know of a certain poison called the strangler?”

The room seemed to grow quieter at her question, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Baelish’s smirk grew more pronounced, his eyes darting between you and Olenna with barely concealed amusement.

You met Olenna’s gaze steadily, your mind racing as you considered your response. Whatever game she was playing, it was clear you were now a part of it.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was resplendent, its banners and tapestries shimmering in the warm glow of countless candles. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of roasted meats, fresh bread, and spiced wine as the royal wedding celebration reached its peak. You sat beside Tywin, your back straight, your hands carefully folded over the swell of your belly. The weight of your pregnancy was a constant presence, but you refused to let it compromise your regal posture.

The crown of your braided hair shimmered faintly in the light, and you wore a deep crimson gown trimmed with gold, an unmistakable nod to your Targaryen heritage now blended with the Lannister lion. Tywin, ever composed, sat beside you, his expression an impassive mask as he observed the festivities. His sharp gaze missed nothing, though his attention occasionally flicked to you.

You let your eyes sweep over the hall, first landing on Olenna Tyrell, who sat further down the high table. The old woman caught your glance, her sharp eyes twinkling with mischief, and she gave you the faintest of nods. You inclined your head slightly in return, a silent acknowledgment of her presence before shifting your gaze to where Sansa and Tyrion sat.

Sansa’s expression was a mask of polite detachment, her hands folded tightly in her lap, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of sadness. Tyrion sat beside her, his goblet of wine barely touched, his mouth set in a grim line as he observed the revelry. Your heart ached for the girl who had once been like a sister to you, though you knew no comforting words could ease her current predicament.

Further along the table, you noticed Cersei, seated beside Tywin’s other side, her expression one of carefully cultivated disdain. Her green eyes occasionally flicked to you, though she said nothing, her attention mostly focused on the goblet of wine in her hand.

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Jaime, newly returned to the capital after his long captivity. He stood near the edge of the hall, his golden hand gleaming in the light as he exchanged a few quiet words with Ser Loras Tyrell. His presence was both familiar and strange, the absence of his sword hand a glaring reminder of how much had changed. He caught your gaze briefly, his expression unreadable before he turned his attention back to his conversation.

The royal couple was at the center of the hall, all eyes on them. Joffrey, resplendent in his golden tunic and crown, basked in the attention like a vain peacock, his laughter grating and overly loud. Margaery, ever the diplomat, played her role flawlessly, her smiles radiant, though her eyes occasionally flickered with calculated coolness. The crowd roared with approval as Joffrey raised his goblet to toast the union, his words dripping with arrogance as he mocked anyone and everyone who dared challenge his rule.

You shifted slightly in your seat, feeling a sudden, sharp pang in your abdomen. Your breath caught for a moment, and your hand instinctively rested on your belly. The pain subsided quickly, leaving only a faint ache, but it was enough to unsettle you.

“Is something wrong?” Tywin’s low voice broke through your thoughts, his sharp eyes already fixed on you.

You shook your head, forcing a faint smile to your lips. “All is well,” you replied quietly, your tone steady. “Just the usual discomforts.”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he nodded and turned his attention back to the proceedings. Despite his composed exterior, you could tell he was watching you closely, his concern evident in the way his hand rested subtly closer to yours on the table.

The hall erupted into applause as the wedding pie was brought in, a massive confection wheeled out by servants, its crust decorated with golden lions and roses. The guests leaned forward in anticipation, their cheers growing louder as the spectacle approached the high table.

You sat back slightly, allowing the momentary distraction to draw attention away from you. Your hand brushed over your belly again, the earlier pang still lingering faintly in your mind. You stole another glance at Sansa, who was watching the pie with detached politeness, her hands trembling slightly. Olenna, meanwhile, observed the scene with a faint smirk, her cane resting beside her as she leaned slightly forward.

As Joffrey stood, gesturing dramatically for his sword to cut the pie, you felt the weight of the moment settle over the room. You exchanged a brief look with Tywin, who raised an eyebrow as if to silently ask if you were still well. You gave him the faintest of nods, determined not to let anything mar the carefully constructed image of composure you had worked so hard to maintain.

The pie was set before the king, its golden crust glinting in the light as Joffrey raised his sword, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. The crowd held its breath in anticipation, and you felt a dread in the air that went far beyond the spectacle itself.

The young king held his sword aloft, grinning like a child about to open a prized gift. Margaery stood beside him, ever the picture of grace, her hands delicately clasped as she encouraged the crowd’s cheers with her radiant smile.

The blade came down with a dramatic flourish, slicing through the pie. A flurry of pigeons erupted into the air, their frantic wings scattering crumbs and flour as they soared over the assembled guests. Laughter and applause echoed through the hall, the spectacle delighting the nobles as Joffrey puffed out his chest, basking in their adulation.

Margaery reached out to pluck a piece of pie and lifted it to Joffrey’s mouth, her expression demure as she fed him. The young king accepted it with exaggerated relish, chewing loudly as the crowd continued to cheer. A goblet of wine was handed to Margaery by a servant standing near Olenna, and she, in turn, presented it to Joffrey with a delicate bow.

Your eyes flicked to Olenna for a fleeting moment, catching the faintest twitch of her lips as she turned her attention back to the spectacle. A chill ran down your spine as you realized what was about to unfold.

At the same time, another sharp pain shot through your abdomen, this one far more intense than before. You stifled a gasp, your hand flying to your belly as the sensation nearly stole your breath. Beside you, Tywin’s hand immediately found yours, his sharp gaze snapping to your face.

“What is it?” he asked in a low, urgent tone, his other hand already bracing your arm.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were lost as the scene before you erupted into chaos.

Joffrey froze mid-laugh, his expression contorting into one of confusion and pain. His hand flew to his throat as he stumbled backward, knocking over the goblet of wine. The crowd’s cheers faltered, confusion rippling through the hall as the young king began to gag violently. His face turned a sickly shade of purple, and his eyes bulged as he clawed at his neck.

“Joffrey!” Cersei’s scream pierced the air as she rushed toward her son, her golden gown billowing behind her. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands fluttering uselessly as she tried to help him. “What’s happening? Help him! Someone help him!”

The hall descended into chaos. Lords and ladies stood from their seats, some frozen in shock, others shouting orders or calling for the maesters. Guards pushed through the crowd, their armor clanking as they fought to reach the king.

Tywin rose to his feet, his hand never leaving yours as he pulled you up beside him. His tall frame loomed protectively over you as his sharp eyes scanned the room, assessing the situation with cold efficiency. “Stay close,” he commanded, his voice low but firm.

Another wave of pain rippled through you, this time so intense that you couldn’t suppress the gasp that escaped your lips. Your knees buckled slightly, and Tywin caught you immediately, his arm wrapping around your waist. His gaze snapped to your face, his eyes narrowing as realization dawned.

“You’re in labor,” he said, his tone clipped but tinged with alarm.

You nodded weakly, clutching his arm as another contraction seized you. The cacophony of the hall faded into the background as your world narrowed to the pain coursing through your body and the steady presence of Tywin beside you.

“Come,” he said decisively, his hand tightening around yours. “We’re leaving.”

Before you could protest, he began to guide you out of the hall, his movements quick but discreet. The guards who had been stationed nearby fell into step behind you, forming a protective barrier as Tywin led you toward the exit.

Behind you, the chaos in the hall reached a fever pitch as Joffrey convulsed on the floor, foam and blood spilling from his mouth. Cersei’s screams echoed through the space, her voice raw with grief and fury as she cradled her dying son.

“Don’t let anyone leave!” Cersei shrieked, her voice cutting through the noise. “He’s been poisoned! Find who did this!”

Tywin didn’t look back, his focus entirely on you as he guided you through the corridors of the Red Keep. Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps as the contractions grew stronger, each one threatening to overwhelm you.

“You should have told me,” Tywin said sharply, though his tone was tempered by the urgency of the situation. “You should have said something sooner.”

“There was no time,” you managed between breaths, gripping his arm tightly as another wave of pain hit.

Tywin muttered something under his breath, his expression hardening as he quickened his pace. “You’ll be taken to your chambers,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ll have the maester brought to you immediately.”

You nodded weakly, too focused on the mounting pain to argue. The world around you blurred as Tywin’s strong arm guided you forward, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos.

By the time you reached your chambers, the shouts and cries from the hall had faded into the distance. Tywin eased you into a chair, his hand lingering on your shoulder as he barked orders to the guards outside.

“Fetch Pycelle,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “And send for the midwives.”

As the door closed behind him, Tywin knelt briefly at your side, his hand brushing yours. “You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Do you hear me? You’ll be fine.”

You nodded, gripping his hand tightly as the pain consumed you, trusting in his presence even as the world around you seemed to tilt into chaos.

The air was filled with the scent of herbs and sweat as your labor dragged on, each hour stretching endlessly as the midwives moved around you like shadows, their voices low and soothing. You gripped the edge of the sturdy wooden chair, pacing slowly across the room, refusing to give in to the pain that racked your body.

Your breaths came in sharp bursts, but you swallowed down every scream, refusing to let the agony reduce you to helplessness. A low yelp escaped your lips, and you bit down hard, your nails digging into the back of the chair as you braced yourself against the next contraction. The midwives followed you like silent sentinels, their hands hovering near but never daring to touch unless you allowed it.

Pycelle stood awkwardly to the side, his gray beard quivering as he wrung his hands. “My lady,” he began, his voice wheedling and nasal, “this is highly irregular. You should be lying down. I must examine you to ensure—”

“Out,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended, though the pain lent it an edge you couldn’t temper. “You will not touch me, Pycelle. I will not have your hands near me.”

Pycelle flinched but recovered quickly, turning his imploring gaze to Tywin, who stood near the hearth with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on you like a hawk watching its prey. “Lord Tywin,” Pycelle said, his voice bordering on desperation, “surely you understand the danger of allowing this to proceed without my expertise.”

Tywin didn’t even glance at him, his voice low and firm as he replied, “You will remain where you are, Pycelle. She has made her wishes clear.”

“But—” Pycelle began, only to be silenced by the slightest flicker of Tywin’s gaze in his direction, cold and unyielding.

The maester’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but he wisely said no more, retreating to a corner of the room to stew in his indignation.

The contractions grew stronger, each one a wave of fire and steel that left you gripping the chair until your knuckles turned white. The midwives murmured encouragements, their hands deft as they prepared towels and basins of water. You moved methodically, pacing the chamber to distract yourself from the pain, your breaths hissing between clenched teeth.

“Lady Y/N,” one of the midwives said softly, “you’re progressing well. It won’t be much longer now.”

You nodded tersely, unable to summon the strength for words. Tywin remained silent, his presence a steady anchor in the room. You felt his gaze on you, assessing, calculating, but also something else—concern, perhaps, though he would never admit it.

A soft knock at the door broke the tense rhythm of the room. Ser Barristan opened it slightly, allowing Varys to slip inside, his silk robes whispering against the stone floor. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes carried a hint of urgency as he approached Tywin.

“My lord,” Varys said in a low voice, inclining his head slightly. “May I have a word?”

Tywin hesitated, his eyes flickering to you. You met his gaze briefly, nodding faintly to indicate you could manage without him for a moment. With a curt nod, he followed Varys out of the room, the door closing softly behind them.

In the corridor, the air was cooler, the sounds of the bustling keep faint in the distance. Tywin turned to Varys, his expression hard. “Speak.”

Varys leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “The queen regent has accused your son Tyrion of poisoning King Joffrey. He has been arrested and taken to the dungeons.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “And Lady Sansa?”

Varys hesitated, his hands clasped in front of him. “Gone, my lord. There is no trace of her. It seems she fled the Red Keep shortly after the chaos began.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Tywin’s face, though he quickly masked it. “And how is the queen?”

“Distraught, as you can imagine,” Varys replied, his tone neutral. “She demands swift justice. She believes Tyrion acted out of ambition, though… I am not certain she truly believes it. The accusation is convenient, nothing more.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing. “I will deal with it. Ensure that no further word of Lady Sansa’s disappearance spreads for now. The last thing we need is more speculation.”

“Of course, my lord,” Varys said, bowing slightly. “And… the lady within?” He glanced toward the door leading to your chambers.

“She will deliver safely,” Tywin said curtly, though there was a flicker of something softer in his tone. “Her child is my priority.”

Varys nodded, his expression unreadable as he straightened. “As you say, my lord. I shall see to it that the necessary measures are taken.”

Tywin watched him go, his mind already turning over the implications of Sansa’s disappearance and the precarious situation unfolding in the wake of Joffrey’s death. But for now, his focus was on you, the woman carrying his legacy. With a final glance down the corridor, he re-entered the chamber, his gaze immediately seeking you out as another contraction gripped your body.

You looked up at him, your face pale but determined, and for a moment, the chaos of the outside world seemed far away. Tywin crossed the room, standing at your side as the midwives worked diligently, his presence a silent promise of unwavering resolve.

The labor dragged on into the deep hours of the night. The room felt stifling now. You lay on the bed, propped up by pillows, your body drenched in sweat as the contractions came faster and harder. The midwives hovered around you, still murmuring words of encouragement, while Pycelle stood off to the side, his face drawn and pale with irritation.

“My lady,” Pycelle began again, his voice quivering with that patronizing tone you had come to loathe, “you must allow me to intervene. It is my duty to ensure—”

“Your duty?” you snapped, your voice sharp despite the pain coursing through you. Your hand gripped the edge of the bed, your knuckles white. “Your duty failed my mother. You call yourself a maester, yet you stood by while she suffered through endless labors—while her children died! I will not let you touch me.”

Pycelle flinched at the venom in your words, his beard trembling as he drew himself up. “That was many years ago, my lady,” he protested weakly. “I have gained much experience since then.”

“Enough,” Tywin cut in, his voice cold and final as he stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed. His sharp gaze pinned Pycelle in place. “She has made her wishes clear. You will not interfere unless absolutely necessary.”

Pycelle opened his mouth as if to argue but thought better of it, his jaw snapping shut with an audible click. He shuffled back into his corner once more, muttering under his breath.

Another contraction hit, and you bit down hard on the scream that threatened to escape, a low growl rumbling in your throat instead. The midwives rushed to your side, dabbing your forehead with a damp cloth and urging you to breathe through the pain.

“You’re doing well, my lady,” one of them said softly, her voice soothing. “It won’t be much longer now.”

You nodded weakly, your breaths coming in shallow gasps as you braced yourself for the next wave.

Just then, a knock at the door broke the tense atmosphere. One of Tywin’s personal guards stepped inside this time, bowing quickly before approaching him. He leaned in, murmuring something low and urgent into Tywin’s ear. Tywin’s expression hardened, and with a curt nod, he turned and left the room.

You watched him go, a flicker of unease curling in your chest, but the next contraction stole your attention, leaving you clutching the bed sheets as the pain consumed you.

Outside the chamber, Tywin strode down the corridor, his sharp footsteps echoing off the stone walls. He found Cersei waiting for him, her golden hair disheveled, her face flushed with anger. The fury in her emerald eyes was palpable, and she didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“How dare you leave us in the midst of this chaos?” she hissed, stepping forward to block his path. “Joffrey is dead, murdered before our eyes, and you—you—leave to tend to your new wife? Have you no shame?”

Tywin’s gaze was cold as he regarded her, his voice cutting like a blade. “Mind your tone, Cersei. This is neither the time nor the place for your dramatics.”

“Dramatics?” she spat, her voice rising. “My son is dead! The king is dead! And you abandoned the hall, leaving me to deal with the fallout!”

“Joffrey’s death was tragic, but it changes nothing,” Tywin said, his tone measured and controlled. “The succession is clear. Tommen will be crowned, and we will move forward. Your grief does not excuse insubordination.”

“Insubordination?” Cersei’s voice trembled with fury as she stepped closer, her hands clenched at her sides. “You dare speak to me of insubordination after you allowed this to happen? You left us vulnerable, him vulnerable, and now he’s dead! You failed him, Father.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, a flicker of genuine anger crossed his features. “I failed him?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “You forget yourself, Cersei. It was your indulgence, your inability to control him, that led to this. Joffrey was a liability, and you know it.”

“How dare you!�� she hissed, her voice breaking. “He was my son!”

“And a disgrace to this house,” Tywin snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. “You may grieve, but do not lay the blame at my feet. Joffrey was your creation.”

The argument had escalated into a full-blown confrontation, their voices echoing down the corridor as they hurled accusations at one another.

“You think you can replace him with Tommen? With that soft, malleable boy?” Cersei demanded, her voice trembling. “You think you can replace me with your Targaryen wife and her bastard child?”

Tywin’s eyes blazed with fury, and he stepped closer, his towering presence bearing down on her. “Mind your tongue, Cersei,” he growled. “You are walking a dangerous line.”

Before she could retort, a sharp, piercing cry echoed from the direction of the chamber. Both of them froze, the sound cutting through their argument like a knife.

“The child,” Cersei whispered, her face pale as she turned toward the sound.

Tywin’s expression shifted, the anger fading into something colder, more calculating. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the chamber, leaving Cersei standing alone in the corridor, her face a mask of fury and disbelief.