#cersei lannister x male reader

[c0ffe3c4t]

❝ THE WOLF AND THE LION MAKE A RARE COMBINATION. ❞

PAIRING : Cersei Lannister x Male! Stark! Reader

SYNOPSIS : Lovers were made to defy fate, even when it tears them apart.

WARNINGS : Explicit sexual content, mentions of violence, torture, toxic relationship, attempted murder, murder, morally questionable actions, infidelity.

They say that first love is never forgotten, and the one between Reader and Cersei was one that overflowed with the inevitability of destiny. Wolf and Lion, Lannister and Stark, two forces so antagonistic that, when united, they seemed to defy all logic. Their story was more than a forbidden love; it was a bond so deep that neither the whispers of the court, nor betrayals, nor the weight of the years could undo it. Over the years, their relationship shifted from a secret, fiery romance to a silent, almost imperceptible alliance, where they no longer recognized each other as lovers, but as something more: as those who were made to be together, despite the fate that opposed them.

Though their love began in darkness, in the shadows of broken promises and unlikely alliances, what grew between them was more than passion: it was an unbreakable complicity. Cersei loved Reader like no one else. He was not only her first lover, her first betrothed, her first everything, but also the only person who ever understood the desire and fear that nestled in her heart. When her engagement was torn apart to marry Robert Baratheon, a close friend of Reader’s, her world collapsed. But that was not enough to separate them. It couldn’t, and she didn’t want it to. The passion they shared didn’t die; it grew in secret, fueled by the certainty that, despite everything, their love would endure.

Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella were the tangible proof of their hidden relationship. Bastards born from a love that no one saw, but that had always been there. As for Reader, he also came to know fatherhood with the birth of Sansa, a daughter born under painful circumstances, after the death of his wife, Cassandra Tully. He had never loved Cassandra, but he didn’t hate her either. Her death was a silent shadow that never disappeared, but Sansa filled that space with her presence. And despite the discomfort in his chest from losing the mother of his daughter, his love for her was a comfort in his heart.

Cersei, for her part, had loved Reader with the purity of a first love that neither time nor ambition could corrupt. In fact, over the years, she came to forget her desire to be queen. She didn’t care about the throne or the crown; all she wanted was him. Only him. No one else could take his place, no one else could understand her the way he did. The ambition for power faded when she realized that Reader’s love was all she needed, more than any golden crown.

Fate, however, had other plans. When Jon Arryn discovered their secret, he planned to reveal the truth to Robert, but death came to him from a sudden “illness,” and Reader was named Hand of the King. Upon arriving in the capital, his relationship with Cersei not only continued but intensified. They found each other once more, between the shadows and hallways of a palace full of lies. The walls could hear their whispers, and the servants saw the looks charged with desire, but the world would never know the truth they shared.

Yet, it didn’t matter what the world thought. Cersei and Reader, despite their flaws, were two beings destined to unite, two souls born to intertwine despite the challenges life presented them. Both were selfish, ambitious, bad people by the court’s judgment, but together, in their secret union, they were invincible. Wolves disguised as lambs, ruling with cunning and passion, while the world beyond their doors continued to ignore who they truly were.

Fate could try to separate them, but they would always, always find their way back to each other. Because somewhere in the universe, where the stars couldn’t see, the wolf and the lion had chosen each other, and there was no force in this world or the next that could break that bond.

Made to be together, they always had been. Though the world was a stage of lies and betrayals, they remained the only truths amidst the chaos. And perhaps that was the most beautiful thing of all: that their love, though veiled in shadows, was stronger than anything that could separate them.

Cersei Lannister was not a particularly affectionate woman. Her love, when she gave it, was often harsh, wrapped in thorns, camouflaged in biting words and sharp looks. But she knew Reader well enough to notice when something tormented him, when the demons of his mind swirled around him with an intensity that not even the strongest wine could dissipate.

That morning, she found him sitting by the window, a cup in his hand, his gaze lost in the horizon. The golden sunlight of King’s Landing illuminated his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the shadow of a thought he didn’t share with anyone.

Without a word, Cersei approached and slid a hand across his cheek, an unexpectedly gentle gesture. Reader blinked, surprised, and their eyes met. In silence, she brought her palm to her lips and placed a soft kiss on his skin.

—Since when are you so melancholic? —Cersei murmured with a hint of mockery, though she didn’t move her hand.

Reader didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he drew Cersei closer and rested his head against her hip, like a wolf seeking refuge in its lioness. Her scent enveloped him, that intoxicating mix of wine and floral perfume that felt so familiar.

—I’m not melancholic —he finally replied, his usual nonchalant tone, though his posture betrayed something else.

Cersei clicked her tongue, running her fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

—Of course not —she said with a sly smile—. You’re just clinging to me like a puppy needing affection.

Reader let out a low laugh, not moving.

—I’m surprised you didn’t call me a “dog” instead of a “puppy.”

—I respect you too much for that —Cersei replied, pretending to be serious. Then, leaning in just slightly, she whispered against his ear—. Besides, wolves are much more entertaining.

Reader shook his head, smiling faintly.

—If this is your way of consoling me, I must say it’s terribly ineffective.

Cersei laughed softly, tangling her fingers in his hair with a gesture that seemed more instinctive than deliberate.

—I don’t console —she said with her usual arrogance—. But if you want a distraction… I can offer that.

Reader raised an eyebrow, looking up at her.

—you have a very particular idea of what compassion is, dear.

—And you of what distraction is? —Cersei retorted with a mischievous smile, leaning in to steal a quick kiss.

Reader sighed and, without thinking much, rubbed his face against Cersei’s fine dress, enjoying the texture of the fabric against his skin.

—Sometimes you’re so tame, did you know that? —she said with amusement and a hint of curiosity.

—You’re comfortable, beautiful —he replied, his voice muffled against the fabric.

Cersei let out a brief laugh, part amused, part incredulous.

—you could have said something more poetic.

—I could have —he conceded—, but I prefer the truth.

Cersei sighed, but didn’t pull away. Her fingers continued to slide through his hair absentmindedly, as if the gesture had become a silent habit between them. It wasn’t something she would do with anyone, not even with her own children, but Reader had always been the exception.

—Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you’d better fix it quickly —she said in her usual carefree tone, though there was a hidden truth in her words—. I don’t like seeing you like this.

Reader smiled faintly.

—Do you care about my well-being?

Cersei clicked her tongue.

—Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just saying I don’t like seeing you with that beaten-dog look. It ruins my mood.

Reader let out a soft chuckle.

—Oh, how considerate of you.

—I know —she said with a teasing smile.

Definitely, the lion and the wolf were a strange combination, two beasts who shouldn’t coexist, but somehow, they worked. In their twisted way, their love was a balance between arrogance and devotion, between mockery and loyalty. And, against all odds, they kept choosing each other. Again and again.

୨୧

The Red Keep was a labyrinth of intrigue and silence, but that night, the solitude of the walls and the flickering shadows of the candles created the perfect atmosphere for a forbidden meeting.

Cersei had entered without warning, as always, with her elegant bearing and presence that seemed to fill every corner of the room. Reader was at his desk, going through some papers, but their eyes met with the same intensity they had crossed paths with so many times before. There were no words at first, just a look, one that carried more history and desire than words could describe.

Cersei approached, not in a hurry, with a smile on her lips that reflected a mix of amusement and challenge.

—Don't you get tired of working so much, Reader? —Her voice was soft, but there was something sharp about it, as always.

—And don't you get tired of entering without being invited? —he replied, not lifting his eyes from the papers, though his tone suggested he enjoyed the situation.

Cersei walked towards him, with the confidence that defined her, and when she reached his side, her fingers lightly touched his shoulders, moving up toward his neck. Her proximity always had an effect on him, though he tried not to show it.

—Sometimes I wonder how someone as... serious as you can be so much fun. —Cersei let out a low laugh, one that was both a mockery and an invitation.

Reader finally lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers, and the tension between them became palpable. It wasn't the first time Cersei was in his space, and it wasn't the first time they shared such closeness. Both knew that what existed between them was something impossible, something that should never exist, but like a sweet poison, it always resurfaced.

—Maybe it's because I'm so serious that I make things more interesting for you. —His tone grew a little more challenging, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Cersei couldn't help but smile again, this time more seductively. Without saying more, she sat in Reader's lap, without asking permission. Her body adjusted easily to his, and her hands began playing with the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them with an almost exasperating slowness, while her lips brushed against his neck with that familiarity only Cersei could achieve.

—You're very confident for someone who doesn't have control, —she said, as her hands slid over his skin.

Reader, with a smile that escaped between his lips, held her hips, not with force, but with a gentleness that conveyed everything they both knew, even though they didn't speak it aloud.

—And you, very impatient for someone who has everything under control. —His voice was filled with sarcasm, but also a calm amusement.

Cersei laughed, moving a little more, enjoying the game between them. He was her challenge, her temptation, and although both knew it wasn't something meant to last longer than the night could offer, there was something about those stolen moments that was irresistible.

—We'll see who has control in the end, Reader —she said, raising an eyebrow as her lips sought his, trapping him in a kiss that left them both breathless for a moment.

And so, the distance between them faded once again, in a secluded corner of the Red Keep, where shadows danced and time seemed to stop. Without words, without promises, only the heat of their bodies and the need to give in to a dangerous, yet inevitable desire.

In the heart of the darkness, unseen by anyone, the wolf and the lion surrendered to their own game. A forbidden love, but one that always found a way to be reborn, time and time again.

The candles flickered with the night breeze, casting trembling shadows on the walls of the Hand of the King's chambers. Cersei's wine glass had been forgotten on the table, and the only thing left between them was the shared warmth of their bodies and the tension that always enveloped them when they were alone.

Cersei was still on him, with her lap as an improvised throne, Reader's hands firm on her waist, as if he were holding her there purely by instinct. She played with the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them with an almost irritating slowness, while a mocking smile adorned her lips.

—You're always so patient, —she whispered, brushing her lips against his without kissing him completely—. I wonder how much more you can bear.

Reader let out a sigh, part amused and part exasperated.

—Patience is a virtue, dear.

—A virtue you don't have, —she replied, sliding a nail down his exposed collarbone.

He raised an eyebrow.

—You offend me.

Cersei smiled maliciously, leaning in slightly to bite his lower lip softly before trapping it in a deep kiss, one that he responded to with equal intensity. Her hands slowly descended down his sides until they met the ribbon of her dress, but before releasing it, she paused.

—Doubt? —she teased, her voice barely a whisper.

—No —he answered without hesitation—. I just enjoy watching how impatient you become when you don't have control.

Cersei let out a soft, dangerous laugh.

—I let you believe you have control because it amuses me, not because it's true.

Reader smiled to the side, not taking his eyes off hers.

—Then amuse me.

The air between them grew even thicker, and this time, there were no more provocations, just the brush of skin against skin, the broken sound of their breaths, and the echo of a love that was never meant to exist... but always found a way to be reborn in the dark.

Cersei adjusted herself better on his lap, moving just enough to provoke a reaction in him. Reader didn't give her the satisfaction of reacting immediately, although his grip on her waist tightened slightly. The queen noticed and smiled, with that sly expression that had always fascinated and exasperated him equally.

—You still haven't done anything, —she murmured against his ear, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.

Reader let out a low laugh, tired but amused.

—Since when do you enjoy torturing me so much?

Cersei ran her fingers along the opening of his shirt, her nails barely grazing his skin.

—Since I discovered how easy it is to make you lose your head.

He looked at her with feigned indifference, though his eyes betrayed him. It was always like this between them. A dangerous game, a constant struggle for control that, in the end, they were both willing to lose.

—What if someone enters? —he asked, his tone clearly mocking.

Cersei let out a soft laugh.

—You're the Hand of the King, no one would dare interrupt you.

—Oh, what an honor —he said sarcastically, finally sliding a hand to remove her low-cut dress.

She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation, before looking at him with intensity.

—Is that all you've got, Stark? —she challenged, with a dangerous smile.

Reader smiled to the side.

—You tell me.

There were no more words. They didn't need any.

Reader, without letting go of her, lifted her with surprising ease, his hands firm on her hips. He carried her to the large mahogany desk, gently letting her fall onto the cold, polished surface. The impact made her moan, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the silence of the room. Her dress, already partially torn from their passionate struggle, slid down her legs, exposing her naked body, her breasts pressing against Reader's chest.

—Shit, Stark... —Cersei gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her full, firm breasts moved with each thrust, brushing against his skin, creating friction that sparked the fire of her desire even more.

Reader looked at her, the intensity in his eyes reflecting the passion that consumed them. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to penetrate her, his body moving against hers with a force that made her arch over the desk. Each thrust was a strike, a claim, an act of possession.

—You're a delicious whore, Cersei... —murmured Reader, his voice rough with pleasure. His hands gripped her hips, squeezing tightly, as his body moved in an unrelenting rhythm.

—Fuck... yes... more... —Cersei moaned, her words broken by pleasure. Her nails scratched his back, leaving red marks that would soon become memories of their encounter. Her breasts, pressed against his chest, moved with each thrust, the friction intensifying the sensation.

The sound of their bodies colliding, the rubbing of skin against cold mahogany, the gasping of their breaths intertwined, filled the room with a symphony of unrestrained passion. Reader kissed her fiercely, his lips seeking hers, his tongue exploring her mouth with a hungry urgency. His hands roamed her body, caressing her skin, exploring every curve, every inch.

—I want you... —Cersei whispered, her voice barely audible among her moans. The words, spoken in the middle of ecstasy, carried greater weight, an intensity that transcended mere physical pleasure. It was a total surrender, a confession of love and desire amid the whirlwind of their bodies.

Reader, overcome by passion, thrust into her with more force, his body moving with brutal intensity. Cersei moaned, her body arching, her fingers gripping his hair. The pleasure intensified, a wave that dragged them both to a point of no return. Their bodies became one, a whirlwind of sensations that took them to the limit.

—Bastard... —Cersei gasped, just before reaching climax. Her body tensed, a powerful release that left her trembling, exhausted but satisfied.

Reader collapsed on top of her, his body heavy on hers. Silence returned, broken only by the sound of their labored breaths and the rapid beating of their hearts. The heat of their intertwined bodies, the scent of their sweat, and the memory of their passion remained as an indelible mark on the cold mahogany of the desk. The wolf and the lion, united in a wild and dangerous act of love, had surrendered completely to the storm of their desire.

୨୧

Reader was not known for being a good person. His reputation was dark, tainted by the shadows of his past. During Robert's Rebellion, he had played a feared and bloody role, a man willing to capture and torture those on the opposite side of the Lannisters. Those who did not yield under the weight of his interrogations knew that the reward for their resistance was even more cruel: the torture with which he extracted secrets, breaking men down to their bones, to their souls. The stories that circulated about him said that he had even forced a direwolf, with black fur and a mark around its eye, to tear apart alive the men who dared to be loyal to the Targaryens. There was no mercy in his methods, no remorse, only the need to get what he wanted, at any cost.

Cersei, of course, was not much different. Though her name was wrapped in the gold of House Lannister and the intrigues of the court, her heart was as hardened as Reader's. She, the woman who had witnessed betrayals, murders, who had maneuvered through shadows with cunning and without hesitation, dirtying her hands with blood if necessary. She was not the protective mother she pretended to be, nor the just queen the stories claimed her to be; her ambition and desire for power were above all else, even the family bonds she so loudly proclaimed. The idea of morality was never something Cersei embraced; the end always justified the means, and her enemies were always enemies to the death.

In the context of their relationship, both Reader and Cersei understood each other in their harsh view of the world. It was not about finding comfort in each other, but about finding a unique complicity, one that only men and women willing to dirty their hands could understand. They were two pieces of the same board, willing to do whatever it took to win, regardless of what the rest of the world thought of them.

Of course, they knew they were not good, nor did they pretend to be. On the contrary, they embraced their darkness, knowing that the world they lived in left no room for the weak. In that sense, there was a palpable attraction between them: both moved through the same shadows, willing to do whatever necessary to seize power, even if it meant descending into vileness.

Reader did not expect Cersei to understand him in the same way that he understood her. Their minds were as sharp as their swords, but they shared a mutual respect for their indifference toward good and evil. There was only what they wanted, what they needed, what they were willing to sacrifice to achieve their goals. And in that moral abyss, they found each other again, seeking solace in the company of another monster, knowing that the world would not stop to judge them.

It was a dirty game, one of power, of survival, and both knew that in this game, only the most ruthless would come out victorious.

୨୧

Reader wrapped his arms around Cersei’s waist from behind, his hands gliding over her abdomen with deceptive softness. He leaned in just enough to leave a kiss on her bare shoulder, a gesture almost absent, more habit than tenderness. Cersei, with her gaze lost in the dimly lit room, didn’t react immediately. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and he noticed.

—I don’t like it when you get like this —murmured Reader against her skin, his warm breath sliding over her collarbone.

Cersei let out a soft sigh before responding.

—The boy woke up.

Reader paused his caresses for a moment. He didn’t need to ask which boy she was referring to. Bran Stark. Her nephew. The little one who, without thinking too much, had seen them kiss and halfway undress, and hadn’t hesitated to throw him from the tower. Not with hate, not even with rage, but with the cold determination of a man who knew secrets were nothing more than daggers waiting to pierce the backs of the careless.

—And he still doesn’t remember anything —Reader replied, his tone indifferent, though it didn’t quite match the tension in his jaw.

Cersei then turned to face him, her golden eyes sharp as the edge of a sword.

—For now. But if he ever does…

—If he ever does, we’ll take care of it —Reader declared, placing a hand on her cheek. His thumb caressed her skin with an unexpectedly intimate gesture, briefly dispelling the coldness of the matter they were concerned with.

Cersei tilted her face slightly, enjoying the touch. Despite everything, Reader always had that way of calming her mind, anchoring it to the present.

—We can’t afford mistakes —she whispered, more to herself than to him.

—We’ve never allowed them, and we won’t start now —Reader murmured, drawing close enough for their lips to brush in a silent promise.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she slid her fingers through his hair, gripping it as if she could extract certainty from the contact. Then, with the same calm with which they shared every dangerous secret, their lips met in a slow kiss, more possessive than affectionate.

Reader smiled faintly against her mouth.

—Don’t look at me like that —he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.

—Like what? —Cersei asked, arching an eyebrow.

—Like you want to devour me.

Cersei let out a brief laugh and tangled her fingers in his hair more firmly.

—Maybe I will.

Reader tilted his head, his gaze burning.

—Do it.

And as so many times before, amidst intrigue and danger, they abandoned themselves to each other in the only certainty they had left: their own.

Reader loved Cersei, and Cersei loved Reader. It was not a tender or gentle love, but a love that was ravenous, possessive, and dark, fueled by desire and ambition. They belonged to each other, body and soul, but more than that, they consumed each other with a mutual obsession.

They understood each other on a level beyond words. Reader could read in Cersei’s golden eyes every thought, every fear disguised as arrogance. And she, in turn, knew that he would never hesitate to stain his hands with blood for her, just as she would for him. No boundaries or morals mattered, only the two of them.

—You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you? —Cersei whispered, a cryptic smile on her lips as she ran her fingers along the line of his jaw.

—You know I would —Reader replied without hesitation, leaning in to brush his lips against hers, barely a touch but full of silent promises.

—Even if it meant burning the entire world?

—On the ashes, you’d still be my queen.

Cersei smiled, satisfied with the answer, and pulled him closer, intertwining her fingers in his hair. They kissed with the same passion with which they ruled, with the same intensity with which they destroyed.

They weren’t the kind of love that inspired bards’ songs. They were the kind of love that would be whispered over wine, the kind of love that brought ruin to those who stood in their way. And yet, neither of them cared.

Because in the game of power, the only safe refuge they had was in each other.

—Maggie ☕

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (1/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+ (rating will go up in the next part)

- Next part: 2/2

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

The great hall of the Red Keep gleamed with the firelight of countless torches, their glow reflected in the polished stone floors and the intricate banners that hung from the towering columns. The dragon’s sigil was everywhere—deep crimson, stitched in black, a symbol of power that had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for centuries. The air was thick with the scent of roses and sandalwood, the perfume of courtiers mingling with the faint lingering aroma of charred logs from the grand hearth.

It was a day of great significance, for Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived at court, and with him, his wife and golden daughter, the jewel of Casterly Rock. Queen Rhaella had ensured that the reception was properly prepared—nothing too extravagant, nothing too humble. Just enough to show the power of House Targaryen without appearing desperate for the Hand’s favor.

Cersei Lannister stepped into the hall with all the grace of a future queen, her golden curls neatly arranged, her dress of Lannister red trimmed with cloth-of-gold. She was young, only a girl, but already carried herself with the poise of a lady twice her age. Her mother, Lady Joanna, stood at her side, her beauty still evident despite the years that had passed since she had served as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. They walked forward with measured steps, heads held high, as though they owned the place, as though the Red Keep was just another extension of the power of the Rock.

Cersei's emerald eyes were searching, eager, expectant. She had dreamt of this moment countless times. She was here to see him—the prince of her dreams. The silver-haired, harp-playing Rhaegar, the one who was meant to be hers, the one her father spoke of in veiled, careful words when he discussed the future.

But Rhaegar was not here.

Instead, her gaze found someone else.

He stood at the foot of the throne, half-shrouded in shadow, but there was no mistaking him. The younger prince, the other dragon, the one who was spoken of in whispers and nervous glances. He was taller than she expected for his age—twelve, no more—but there was nothing soft or poetic about him.

Where Rhaegar’s features were almost ethereal, delicate as though sculpted by the gods themselves, his younger brother was sharp edges and intensity. His cheekbones were pronounced, his jaw strong, his mouth set in a firm line that did not hint at laughter or songs. His hair was the color of pale silver, falling past his shoulders in an unruly mane, not neatly brushed and tied as Rhaegar’s always was. But it was his eyes that caught her most of all.

Dark violet. Almost black in the dim light. Eyes that did not wander dreamily or hesitate in uncertainty. No, his gaze was piercing, cutting, as though he saw straight through whatever was placed before him and had already judged it unworthy.

Cersei felt her breath hitch for the briefest of moments.

The boy—no, the young man—was watching her. Not in the way the sons of lesser lords did, fumbling with their manners and shy smiles. He studied her like one might a new horse, assessing its strength, its potential, its worth.

A chill ran down her spine. And yet, she did not look away.

“Prince Rhaegar regrets he could not be here to greet you,” Queen Rhaella spoke, her voice as smooth and formal as always. She smiled at Lady Joanna, a forced thing, full of practiced pleasantries. “The Crown Prince has taken to his books this morning.”

Cersei knew it was not a true excuse. He did not wish to be here. He did not wish to see her.

The realization stung, but before the feeling could settle, a voice cut through the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Do you intend to greet the court or stand there like statues?”

Cersei's head snapped toward the speaker. It was him. The younger prince. His voice was not kind nor particularly cruel—it was simply commanding, as though he had every right to speak as he pleased, regardless of who was present.

Lady Joanna hesitated for only a heartbeat before she smiled, dipping her head. “Forgive us, Prince Y/N. We did not mean to delay.”

Cersei, however, did not bow her head. She held her chin high, staring at him, unafraid.

The prince’s lips curled slightly, as though amused. “And you are Cersei Lannister.” It was not a question.

“Yes, my prince.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and she felt something shift in the air between them. It was not the soft, sweeping romance she had imagined with Rhaegar. This was something else—something colder, sharper, more dangerous.

“You have your father’s arrogance,” he mused.

Cersei’s fingers curled into her skirts, though her face remained composed. “And you have your father’s cruelty.”

The queen inhaled sharply. Lady Joanna stiffened. The court fell into a hush.

For a heartbeat, she thought she had overstepped, that he would lash out, that she would be sent away in disgrace. But the prince only tilted his head, considering her with those dark, dragon’s eyes. And then, to her astonishment, he laughed. A short, low chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Well,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence like a storm rolling in. “Perhaps this court will not be so dull after all.”

And just like that, the world she had envisioned shattered. Rhaegar was a ghost in her mind, forgotten in an instant.

Because this prince, this dragon with his words and unreadable eyes—he had stolen her attention, and he did not intend to give it back.

The morning sun spilled amber light over the Red Keep, casting shades across the polished marble floors of Cersei’s chambers. The scent of fresh marigolds and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint salt-kissed breeze drifting from the sea beyond the city walls. Servants moved about her rooms with quiet efficiency, their hands deft as they worked, brushing, pinning, lacing. They had come with her from Casterly Rock, sworn to her service, and yet today, their movements seemed to irritate her more than usual.

Cersei sat before an ornate mirror, her emerald eyes fixed upon her own reflection as her maids carefully arranged her curls, weaving delicate strands of silk ribbon through the shimmering locks. The dress they had chosen for her was a masterpiece—deep crimson, embroidered with golden lions along the bodice, the Lannister pride stitched into every inch of fabric. It was meant to dazzle, to command attention, to remind the court that the blood of Casterly Rock ran strong in her veins. And yet, despite the finery, despite the grandeur of the day to come, she felt strangely restless.

"You’re nervous," Melara Hetherspoon's voice cut through the hush of the chamber, filled with the quiet certainty that only a childhood friend could have.

Cersei’s gaze flickered away from her reflection to meet Melara’s in the mirror. The girl sat on the edge of the bed, her brown curls pinned up neatly, her hands folded in her lap. Melara was dressed finely but plainly in Lannister colors, the daughter of a steward, a companion rather than an equal. Yet despite the difference in their stations, she had been Cersei’s shadow for as long as she could remember, the one who listened to her every whisper, shared in her every scheme and dream.

"Nonsense," Cersei scoffed, though the word lacked the sharpness she had intended. She turned her head slightly as her maid tightened the laces of her gown, the pressure making it momentarily difficult to breathe. "Why would I be nervous? It is just a tourney."

Melara tilted her head, studying her with a knowing look. "You have seen many tourneys before, and not once have you been like this. You did not even blink when Ser Tygett nearly killed that hedge knight in Lannisport, yet now you fidget like a girl half your age. Your hands," she gestured to Cersei’s lap, "you keep clenching them."

Cersei stilled, forcing her fingers to relax. She had not even noticed.

"It is excitement," she said, her voice smooth, practiced, the lie slipping easily from her tongue. "The festival is a grand occasion. The King himself declared it in honor of the Maiden’s Bounty."

Melara let out a quiet laugh, soft but not entirely believing. "No one truly celebrates the Maiden’s Bounty, not like this. It is only an excuse for the lords to drink and fight, and for the knights to show off before the court."

"Then I shall enjoy the spectacle," Cersei replied coolly, returning her gaze to the mirror.

Melara did not respond immediately. Instead, she watched, thoughtful, as the maids finished their work, stepping back to admire their handiwork. Cersei looked flawless—her golden curls spilling down her back like molten sunlight, her gown a perfect fit, the crimson deep enough to remind those who looked upon her of power, of blood, of the lion’s hunger.

Melara waited until the maids had drifted away before speaking again, this time in a quieter tone. "It is him, isn’t it?"

Cersei stiffened.

Melara took her silence as confirmation. "Not Rhaegar," she continued, her voice just above a whisper, as if speaking his name would summon him into the room. "The other one. The younger prince."

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her expression into something unreadable, something detached. "Do not be foolish, Melara."

But her friend only smiled, leaning forward slightly, as though she had just uncovered a great secret. "I saw the way you looked at him in the hall. And more importantly, I saw the way he looked at you."

Cersei felt her pulse quicken, though she did not allow her face to betray her. That moment in the great hall had been playing in her mind ever since, playing over and over like a song she could not banish. She had come expecting Rhaegar—gentle, poetic Rhaegar. Instead, she had met his brother, a dragon of an entirely different kind.

"You mistake curiosity for something else," Cersei said, reaching for the gold bracelet on her vanity, fastening it around her wrist with deliberate movements. "He is different, that is all. Not like Rhaegar."

Melara smirked. "No. He is nothing like Rhaegar. Rhaegar is the song before the storm." She hesitated, as if weighing her words. "But he… he is the storm itself."

Cersei’s fingers stilled against the bracelet. She hated how well Melara knew her, how easily she saw the things Cersei had not yet dared to name.

"It does not matter," Cersei said at last, standing, the silks of her gown rustling as she did. "I am to be queen one day. It will be Rhaegar at my side, not him."

"Are you certain of that?" Melara asked, rising as well, her expression unreadable. "It seems to me that fate rarely follows the path we expect."

Cersei did not answer.

The tourney field awaited, filled with banners and lords and knights eager to spill blood in the name of sport. The whole court would be there. Rhaegar would be there. And so would he.

As she walked toward the doors, she could not deny the thrill that curled deep in her stomach, the thrill she had not felt when thinking of Rhaegar.

She had dreamt all her life of the perfect prince, the perfect future.

But dragons were unpredictable things. And she was beginning to wonder if she had been looking at the wrong one all along.

The tourney grounds outside King’s Landing were alive with the roar of the crowd, the banners of a hundred noble houses fluttering in the late morning breeze. Dust rose from the well-trodden earth, mixing with the scent of sweat, steel, and horses. The air thrummed with anticipation as the latest round of jousts unfolded before the assembled court.

The high stands, raised above the lists, were draped in black and crimson, the sigils of House Targaryen billowing in the warm wind. King Aerys sat upon his elevated throne, his expression impassive for the moment, his mind not yet clouded by the madness that would one day consume him. His queen, Rhaella, sat beside him, pale and drawn, her beauty diminished by the toll of years and sorrow.

Cersei sat among her family, her curls gleaming like spun sunlight as she leaned forward, her eyes alight with a different kind of hunger. Lady Joanna sat beside her, regal and poised, though her gaze flickered to her husband with veiled unease. Tywin Lannister watched the field with the keen, calculating stare of a man weighing every detail, his arms folded across his chest. Jaime, seated next to Cersei, was grinning at the displays of skill, though his hand often went to the sword at his hip as though he longed to test himself against the knights below.

Beside Cersei, Melara Hetherspoon nudged her lightly. “You’ve hardly said a word,” she whispered, her voice barely heard over the din of the crowd. “I think you’re holding your breath.”

Cersei ignored her, her gaze locked onto the field, onto him.

The younger prince, the dragon who did not sing songs, the one who wielded a blade as though it were an extension of his own will, was preparing to ride. His armor gleamed a shade darker than the polished steel of his brother’s—blackened plate, edged with gold filigree in the shape of dragon wings that spread across his pauldrons. His breastplate was adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its eyes set with dark rubies that burned like embers in the midday sun. Unlike Rhaegar, whose armor bore an air of chivalric elegance, his was made for battle, built not for the beauty of poetry but for the raw, unyielding force of war.

His destrier was as fearsome as its rider—a great black beast, towering and powerful, its mane braided with silver rings. Its eyes, dark as night, flared with barely restrained aggression, its breaths coming in great snorts as it stomped the ground impatiently. This was no simple tournament steed, trained to parade before noble ladies; it was a warhorse, a creature that had seen battle, that had felt the clash of steel and the charge of foes beneath its hooves.

Cersei exhaled slowly, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown.

Across the field, his opponent prepared to meet him. Robert Baratheon.

The young Lord of Storm’s End was already a force to be reckoned with. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered even at his age, he was clad in armor of gold and black, the stag of his house emblazoned proudly upon his chest. His warhammer was absent for the joust, replaced with a lance, but his strength was undeniable. He had bested several knights already, his victories cheered by the stormlanders in the crowd.

As the herald called their names, the field fell into a hush.

Robert set his lance, gripping it tightly as he eyed his cousin with a grin, his confidence unshaken. But the younger prince only adjusted his grip, lowering his helm with a slow, deliberate motion.

The trumpets sounded.

The horses sprang forward, pounding the earth with thunderous force. Dust and sand kicked up around them as they closed the distance, lances aimed true, speed and strength converging in a single violent moment.

The impact was deafening.

Robert’s lance shattered upon the younger prince’s breastplate, but it did not unseat him. The force of the blow barely made him falter, his grip on the reins unshaken.

But his lance—his lance struck Robert square in the chest with a force so brutal, so unrelenting, that it sent the stag lord flying.

The crowd gasped as Robert crashed onto the ground with a resounding thud, the air driven from his lungs. His armor caved slightly where the lance had struck, the impact merciless, unyielding. 

The younger prince did not hesitate. He did not celebrate, did not raise his lance in victory as other knights might have. Instead, he dismounted in one fluid motion, his black cloak billowing behind him as he strode forward, his boots kicking up the dust that still hung in the air.

A predator approaching fallen prey.

Robert gasped, rolling onto his side, one gauntleted hand clawing at the grass as though trying to pull himself upright. His face was red, veins standing out on his thick neck as he fought to regain his breath.

The prince stopped a pace away, tilting his head as he observed the fallen stag. He said nothing, simply watching, waiting.

From the stands, Steffon Baratheon surged to his feet. “Maester!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “Fetch a maester!”

Beside him, Stannis sat stone-faced, his blue eyes unreadable. Renly, still too young to understand, only clutched at his mother’s skirts.

King Aerys, whose interest had been fleeting throughout the day, leaned forward, his gaze flickering between the two young men. There was no amusement on his face, only the glint of something deeper, something calculating.

“End this,” Steffon called out again, his voice edged with fury. “The boy is hurt!”

Still, the prince did not move, did not offer Robert a hand, did not mock him, did not even acknowledge the cries for the match to be halted. He simply stared.

Robert’s breaths came shallowly, his chest still heaving, but he met the prince’s gaze with a look of smoldering defiance. He coughed, forcing himself onto his knees, his fingers curling into fists.

For a long moment, the two merely looked at one another—two boys who would one day be men, two warriors who would one day lead armies against one another, two forces destined to collide not just in sport, but in war.

Then, without a word, the younger prince turned, his black cloak trailing behind him as he strode away, leaving Robert to rise on his own.

The crowd cheered, but Cersei did not hear them.

Her heart was pounding, not from fear, not from shock, but from something far more dangerous.

Robert Baratheon had been struck down before the eyes of the court. But the only thing Cersei could see was the dragon who had done it.

The roar of the crowd echoed across the tournament field, a storm of voices calling for the victorious prince, for the younger dragon who had shattered the stag in a single devastating charge. The nobles in the stands cheered, their voices raised in admiration or in shock, their eyes drawn to the spectacle that had unfolded before them.

Cersei, however, did not join in the cheers.

She sat stiffly in her seat, her hands curled into the fabric of her gown, her lips pressed together as her gaze followed the figure in blackened armor. The younger prince strode away from Robert Baratheon’s crumpled form, his movements slow, deliberate, untouched by hesitation or triumph. The way he walked—without flourish, without the performative airs of a knight playing to the crowd—was something primal. Something cold.

And yet, he did not stop. He did not bask in the victory, did not raise his fist in conquest or turn to acknowledge the lords who called his name in approval. There was no pause, no moment of indulgence, no seeking of favor from the ladies in the stands as was tradition.

Cersei’s fingers tightened.

She had watched every other knight and noble son in the lists play their part in the tournament’s pageantry. When they won, they turned to the high stands, their eyes sweeping over the noble ladies assembled, seeking the favor of a maiden to bless them for the next round. Garlands of flowers were tossed from delicate hands, a ritual of admiration, of courtly love. Even Rhaegar had done it—turning his solemn, poetic gaze to some lady, offering her the ghost of a smile before accepting her token with princely grace.

But not him.

The younger prince gave the ladies of the court nothing. No glance, no acknowledgment, no gesture to suggest that he sought the favor of any woman. Not even a flicker of amusement at the hopeful looks cast his way.

He walked past the edge of the lists without even turning toward them.

Cersei felt something painful twist in her chest.

“He doesn’t look up,” Melara murmured beside her, her voice laced with intrigue. “Not at all.”

Cersei’s nails dug into the embroidery of her gown. “So it seems,” she said coolly, her voice controlled, measured. But inside, a slow heat was rising, curling around her like a fire starved for air.

The knights who played at chivalry always turned to the ladies, always sought their admiration, their favor. They fought for love, for glory, for the approval of noble maidens.

But this one—the younger prince—fought for nothing but himself.

“He didn’t even glance this way,” Melara mused, as if she, too, could not quite believe it. “Do you think he will at least claim a favor before the next round?”

Cersei exhaled sharply, not looking away from the retreating figure. “He should.”

But the moment the words left her lips, she knew the truth.

He wouldn’t.

He had no need to.

The realization made her blood run hot, an unfamiliar and infuriating feeling settling deep within her. Men had sought her favor since she had been old enough to understand what it meant. She had seen the way boys and young lords looked at her, the way their eyes lingered, the way they blushed and stammered in her presence.

But not him.

The younger prince had stolen the attention of the entire tournament, had commanded the field with the same ruthless efficiency that he carried in his every step, and yet he did not spare so much as a glance toward the highborn ladies watching from the stands. He had bested Robert Baratheon in a way that left no doubt of his dominance, had torn through the young stag’s pride as easily as his lance had broken against his chest—and still, he gave nothing of himself to the audience.

Not to the lords who cheered him.

Not to the ladies who waited with hopeful eyes.

Not to her.

Cersei’s jaw tightened.

Across the stands, she saw her father’s expression remain unreadable, but she knew him well enough to recognize the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. Tywin Lannister was assessing, weighing, calculating—as he always did.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Melara’s voice was quieter now, but edged with curiosity. “I wonder why.”

Cersei inhaled slowly, forcing her face into a mask of calm. “He thinks himself above it,” she said. “That’s all.”

She did not know if she believed her own words.

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he did not need the affections of noble ladies, nor the empty gestures of courtly love. But that did not make it any less infuriating.

Her green eyes followed him as he disappeared beyond the tournament tents, swallowed by the shadows cast by the towering banners.

He had left the field victorious.

And he had left her burning.

The cheers still echoed behind you as you strode from the lists, the weight of your armor pressing against your shoulders, though it was not fatigue that urged you to leave. The tournament field was a spectacle for those who played at war, for lords who measured their worth in the eyes of gathered ladies, for knights who thought glory was something that could be won in an afternoon’s game.

You had no use for it.

Victory meant nothing to you. Not here. Not in a contest where the lances were dulled and the stakes were nothing more than favor and pride. You had dismounted Robert Baratheon not out of desire for admiration, nor for the hollow cheers of the court, but because it had been expected. Because the moment you entered the lists, you had known there was only one outcome—one where you stood, and the other fell.

The warhorse beneath you had sensed it as well. The beast had known that there would be no hesitation in your grip, no tremor of uncertainty as you set your lance and charged. A horse was a reflection of its rider, and your destrier had carried you with the same unrelenting force that burned in your blood.

Yet now, as you removed yourself from the noise, from the fluttering banners and the awed-eyed stares from the stands, you felt something else stirring. Not regret. Not satisfaction.

Only impatience.

The sun burned high overhead as you moved past the tournament tents, past the gathered squires and stable boys who scrambled to make way. You tore off your helm, the metal still warm from the heat of the day, your pale hair damp with sweat. You loosened the clasps of your gauntlets, flexing your fingers as you stepped into the shade of a pavilion, exhaling a slow breath.

Then came the sound of footsteps behind you. Light, deliberate, lacking urgency yet unmistakably seeking you out.

You did not need to turn to know who it was.

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Rhaegar’s voice was as calm as ever, smooth and measured like the notes of his harp. But beneath it, there was something else. A quiet accusation.

You did not immediately respond, instead unfastening the last of your armor, placing it aside with deliberate movements. The weight of it had never felt burdensome, but it was a relief to be free of it nonetheless.

“You left before the final bout,” Rhaegar continued, stepping closer. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, searching. “You know what they will say.”

Finally, you turned, meeting your brother’s eyes. They were different then your own, softer, their depths filled with thoughts that did not concern themselves with war or blood.

“They will say whatever they wish,” you said, your voice lacking the concern he so clearly wished to find in you. “It changes nothing.”

Rhaegar studied you, his silver hair falling in waves over the high collar of his tunic, his princely robes immaculate even in the dust of the tournament grounds. He had never been one for these games either, not in the way knights and lesser lords were, but he understood their importance. He understood what was expected.

And you? You had never cared for what was expected.

“What was that?” he asked at last, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “With Robert Baratheon.”

You tilted your head slightly, expression unmoved. “A joust.”

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened. “No. It was more than that.”

A flicker of amusement touched your lips. “You always see more in things than is there, brother.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, his patience a thing that had been tempered by years of dealing with courtiers, with sycophants, with those who sought his favor with honeyed words and false adoration. But with you, there was no pretense, no masks. Only the truth as it was, sharp and unyielding.

“You could have unhorsed him without such force,” Rhaegar said finally. “You could have made it a match of skill, of grace. Instead, you chose to break him.”

You shrugged, feeling the tension still coiled in your muscles. “He should not have entered the lists if he was not prepared to fall.”

Rhaegar shook his head slightly, as if trying to decipher something that had no easy answer. “This is a festival. A tourney meant to honor the Maiden’s Bounty, not a battlefield.”

“And yet, even you did not let your opponent win,” you countered, watching him closely.

Rhaegar’s lips pressed together. “That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. The sounds of the tourney continued in the distance, the cheers for the next round of jousts ringing out across the field, but here, beneath the shade of the pavilion, it was only the two of you.

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched at his side, as if he longed for his harp, for something to ground himself. “You should have taken a favor.”

You let out a short breath of amusement. “And who would I have asked?”

Rhaegar’s expression shifted slightly, though whether it was amusement or exasperation, you could not tell. “Do you truly not see it?”

You arched a brow.

“The way they look at you,” Rhaegar said simply. “The way she looks at you.”

You did not need to ask who he meant. You had felt the weight of her gaze, the way it followed you even after you had left the field, the way it burned with something that was not admiration nor simple curiosity.

Cersei Lannister.

Golden-haired, green-eyed, the lion’s daughter, the girl who thought herself already a queen. You had seen the way she carried herself, the way she held her chin high, her pride wrapped around her like a cloak. She had come to court for Rhaegar, had set her eyes upon the prince she believed would be her match.

But now, her gaze had shifted.

You had felt it.

And you had ignored it.

“I do not fight for garlands,” you said simply.

Rhaegar’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps you should.”

You gave him a look. “Would that have pleased you? If I had played the game, if I had turned to the high stands and sought some lady’s favor? If I had chosen her?”

Rhaegar exhaled quietly, his hands clasping behind his back as he shook his head. “It does not matter what pleases me.” He met your gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “But it matters what pleases her.”

You did not respond.

Because you knew, in that moment, that Rhaegar was right.

And that made it all the more infuriating.

The air in the woods outside Lannisport was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, the trees bending overhead like silent sentinels as Cersei and Melara made their way deeper into the dark. The torches they carried flickered weakly against the wind, casting long, trembling shadows over the twisted roots and jagged rocks that jutted from the ground like bones protruding from flesh.

The night was cold, colder than it should have been in late summer, and the unease that curled in Cersei’s stomach had nothing to do with the chill. She had wanted this—had insisted upon it ever since the whispers first reached her ears, since she had learned of the woman they called Maggy the Frog, the fortune-teller who lived beyond the safety of the town, in a hovel of wood and straw, wrapped in the stench of strange potions and foul magics.

Melara had tried to protest, had spoken of bad omens, of curses, of the punishment they would face if they were caught sneaking out of the Rock in the dead of night. But Cersei had silenced her with a look, her green eyes burning with something deeper than mere curiosity.

She needed to know.

Would she be Rhaegar’s? Would she be queen? Would the life she had dreamed of since she was a girl come to pass, or was it all just a story told to her by her father to keep her obedient, to keep her waiting?

The door to the hovel creaked as Cersei pushed it open, the wooden frame swollen with dampness, resisting her entry. The scent that met her inside was almost unbearable—mildewed herbs, stale sweat, the coppery tang of something older, something rotten. A single candle burned on a wooden table, its wax dripped over the edge in thick, hardened streams.

Maggy the Frog sat hunched in the dim light, her yellowed eyes lifting from whatever foul concoction she had been stirring in a chipped clay bowl. Her skin was a sallow, papery thing, stretched too tight over her sharp bones, her lips cracked from age and the sharpness of whatever she had been chewing.

“You’ve come,” Maggy rasped, her voice thick with phlegm, as though she had been expecting them all along. “Come closer, golden child.”

Cersei swallowed, forcing herself to move forward, ignoring the way Melara hovered near the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“I want my fortune told,” Cersei said, her voice strong despite the unease that curled around her.

Maggy’s lips peeled back into something that was not quite a smile. “They all do.”

Cersei pulled the pouch from her cloak and placed it on the table with a deliberate motion, the weight of the gold inside clinking softly as it settled.

Maggy did not reach for it. Instead, she tilted her head, her yellowed eyes gleaming. “Gold won’t buy you truth, little lion. Truth is paid in blood.”

Melara made a small sound in the back of her throat, but Cersei did not hesitate. She pulled a small dagger from her sleeve and pressed the tip to her palm, slicing just enough for a bead of crimson to well up against her pale skin.

Maggy’s gnarled fingers shot out with surprising speed, catching Cersei’s wrist in a grip far stronger than it should have been. She turned her hand, watching as the blood gathered, thick and glistening, before she brought Cersei’s palm to her lips and licked the drop away with a tongue that was too hot, too rough.

Cersei recoiled, but Maggy’s grip held firm for a moment longer before she released her, letting her palm drop. The old woman’s pupils dilated, her breath rattling through her teeth as she leaned back, her bony shoulders shaking with a sound that could have been laughter.

“You will marry,” Maggy said, her voice lower now, heavier. “But not to a prince.”

Cersei’s breath caught. “That’s not true.”

Maggy’s lip curled. “Oh, but it is, little lion.” Her fingers traced a slow, deliberate pattern on the table, the candlelight flickering against the sharp angles of her face. “You will marry a king. A great king, a terrible king.”

Cersei frowned, confusion warring with the certainty she had always carried. She was meant for Rhaegar. Her father had said so. Rhaegar was the prince, the heir, the one she had dreamed of since she was a girl playing at being queen.

“And will I be his queen?” she demanded.

Maggy’s laughter scraped against the inside of her skull. “Oh, yes. A queen you shall be, golden and fierce, with a crown as heavy as your father’s ambitions.” Her yellowed eyes gleamed. “But it is not the prince who will take you to his bed, not the prince who will plant his seed in your womb.”

A shiver coiled down Cersei’s spine.

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “How many children will I have?”

Maggy inhaled sharply, her body shuddering, as though she had drawn in something unseen. For a moment, she was silent, her head tilted as if listening to a voice only she could hear. Then, her lips curled back, revealing blackened gums.

“Three.”

Cersei's fingers were now pressing against the cut in her palm, as if grounding herself. “And will they be strong?”

Maggy’s gaze snapped to her, and in the dim candlelight, her pupils looked like slits. “Oh, yes.” Her voice was thick with something dark, something ancient. “Strong, with sharp teeth and scales beneath their skin. Born in fire, bound in blood.”

Melara whimpered beside her.

Cersei felt the air shift, as if the walls of the hovel had drawn closer. “That’s nonsense,” she said, but her voice was quieter now.

Maggy leaned forward, her breath sour, her lips splitting into something that was not quite a smile. “You asked for truth, child. And truth is what I have given you.”

Cersei’s heart pounded. She did not know why, but something in her bones told her that this was not the prophecy she had wanted. Not the fate she had been promised.

And yet, in the deepest parts of herself, she felt it stir.

A king, not a prince. A brood of children with sharp teeth and scales.

The scent of blood was thick in the air.

And for the first time in her life, Cersei Lannister felt afraid.

The halls of Casterly Rock had always been grand, towering above the sea with their ancient stone walls carved deep into the mountainside, but in the moons since Joanna Lannister’s passing, the castle felt emptier, colder. The great hall, where once warmth and laughter had filled the air, now seemed a place of solemnity, where meals were taken in silence, where the weight of loss pressed heavy upon those who still remained.

Cersei sat at her father’s table, her hands resting in her lap, her fingers curled against the rich embroidery of her gown. She barely touched her food, though the feast was laid out in abundance—roast venison, thick slices of crusty bread, buttered turnips, and a golden swan stuffed with figs and almonds. The scents filled the air, rich and indulgent, but they did not stir her appetite.

She had not recovered.

It had been several moons since her mother’s passing, and yet the ache in her chest remained as raw as the day Joanna had been taken from her. The wailing of the babe had been the last sound she had heard before the world cracked apart. He had come screaming into the world, red-faced and monstrous, and in his place, her mother had gone cold and still.

She did not look at him.

Tyrion sat at the far end of the table, where the nurses had settled him, fussing over the child who had ruined everything. He was too small, too weak, his head misshapen, his eyes different—one green, like hers, the other a muddled color that she did not care to name. He did not belong.

Tywin Lannister had not once looked at the boy. Not truly. He had named him, had ensured that he was fed, but there was nothing in his eyes when they rested upon his youngest son. Tyrion might have been a ghost for all the attention he received.

But he was not the ghost that haunted them.

The clatter of silverware against a plate broke the heavy silence. “Prince Rhaegar is to be wed,” Tywin said at last, his voice calm, measured, as though discussing trade routes or taxation. “The match has been set.”

Cersei’s heart clenched, her fingers tightening against the fabric of her skirts.

“Elia Martell,” Tywin continued, taking a sip of his wine. “Of Dorne.”

Jaime, seated beside her, exhaled through his nose, his golden brow furrowing. “Dorne?”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to his son, his expression unreadable. “Dorne,” he confirmed. “It seems the King has found their alliance of greater worth than ours.”

Cersei stared at her father, trying to read his face, trying to find some sign that this was not true, that he would not allow this.

“But you said—” she stopped herself, her voice tight.

She had spent her whole life believing she was meant for Rhaegar. That she would sit beside him, golden and radiant, the queen of Westeros, the woman who would bring House Lannister to its rightful place of prominence. It had been promised. Her father had spoken of it, had planned for it.

And now, it was gone.

Tywin did not so much as blink. “What I said is irrelevant. Aerys has made his choice.”

Cersei’s chest burned. The wine in her cup sat untouched, her appetite forgotten. She had dreamed of Rhaegar, had imagined the way he would look at her when they were wed, how he would lift her hand in court, how they would rule together. But now, all of it—everything—had been stolen from her.

And by a Dornish woman.

She swallowed, her voice colder when she finally spoke. “Elia is sickly.”

“A match is not made for love, nor for health,” Tywin said, his voice stern. “It is made for power.”

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “And what power does Dorne offer that we do not?”

Tywin did not answer at once, simply staring at his son in that way that made Jaime bristle like an unruly boy before his tutor. But then, he took another slow sip of his wine before answering.

“Dorne remains untouched,” he said. “They do not bow easily, nor do they forget the past. Aerys believes that by binding Rhaegar to the Martells, he will ensure their loyalty should the day come that he has need of them.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It is a foolish decision.”

Cersei barely heard him.

Her hands trembled beneath the table, rage curling in her chest, coiling like a serpent around her ribs. She had never wanted something so badly in her life. It was meant to be hers. It was supposed to be hers.

“Then what of me?” she asked, her voice quiet, but the sharpness in it cut through the air like a blade.

Tywin’s gaze settled on her, cold and considering. “You will marry well,” he said, as though it were an answer, as though it could possibly be enough.

Cersei’s throat burned.

Rhaegar was slipping through her fingers, his name already entwined with another. Her father would not challenge the King’s decision, not openly, and so she would be left with whatever match he deemed suitable.

It wasn’t fair.

She was about to speak, to press him further, when Tywin set his goblet down with a firm clink, his expression shifting slightly. “There is still the younger prince.”

The room fell silent.

Cersei felt something inside her shift.

Jaime glanced at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The younger prince?” he repeated, his tone wary.

Tywin met Cersei’s gaze, his gold-flecked eyes unblinking. “Rhaegar will be wed, but Prince Y/N remains unspoken for. A match could still be made.”

Cersei’s pulse quickened, something hot and sharp rising inside her.

The younger prince.

Not the prince of songs, not the one who played his harp and whispered of prophecy. Not the dreamer with faraway eyes.

No.

The dragon who did not bow.

The one who had looked at Robert Baratheon like prey before sending him crashing into the dirt. The one who had walked past the highborn ladies of the court without so much as a glance, who had denied her the recognition she deserved.

She had spent years trying to forget the way he had made her feel that day. And yet, here was her father, offering him to her, as if that had been the plan all along.

Cersei’s fingers curled against the table.

The lion and the dragon.

Her future had been stolen from her once.

She would not allow it to happen again.

The Sept of Baelor was ablaze with the light of a thousand candles, their glow reflecting off the pale marble columns and the golden inlays that adorned the high domed ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the perfume of the lords and ladies who had gathered to witness the wedding of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. The nobility of Westeros had come in droves, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, the colors of their houses woven in elaborate embroidery that shimmered under the light of the stained-glass windows.

Cersei stood among them, her hands clasped before her, her expression composed, yet beneath the rich fabric of her gown, her fingers dug into her palms. She wore Lannister crimson, the color of blood and power, her hair woven into intricate braids threaded with gold. The weight of her jewelry, heavy with rubies, felt suffocating. Yet none of it—none of the wealth, none of the grandeur—could mask the fury simmering beneath her skin.

This was meant to be her day.

She had spent her life imagining herself in Elia Martell’s place, had dreamed of walking these steps, of standing beside Rhaegar as he lifted the crown from the Septon’s hands. But instead, she was here as a spectator, as an outsider watching her future slip from her grasp.

The Dornish princess stood beside Rhaegar at the altar, delicate and dark-haired, her features refined, yet too thin, too frail. Cersei’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked wrong beside him. The silver-haired prince should have had a queen of gold and fire, not one of sand and shadow.

Jaime stood beside her, his posture relaxed, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched every time he glanced toward their father. Tywin Lannister stood tall, unmoving, his face impassive as he observed the ceremony. His pride had been wounded when Aerys had denied him, when the King had chosen a Martell over a Lannister. But he was not a man who sulked. He was a man who planned. And Cersei knew—knew—that her father was already thinking of his next move.

And then, she saw him.

He stood near the altar, clad in blackened armor chased with gold, the sigil of House Targaryen embossed upon his breastplate. But he was no boy anymore. No longer the sharp-tongued prince who had scorned the pageantry of the tourney, no longer the youth who had dismounted Robert Baratheon with merciless precision.

No, this was a man.

He was taller now, broader, his presence commanding even among the finest knights and lords of the realm. His hair, the color of pale silver, was longer, untamed by the careful braiding of the court, falling over his shoulders like strands of white fire. His face had sharpened with age, his features cut from something harder than mere Valyrian beauty. And his eyes—those dark violet eyes—held the same piercing weight as they had years ago, but now they had deepened, grown colder.

Cersei felt her breath catch, only for a moment.

He had always been different from Rhaegar. Where her first love had been soft, poetic, a prince out of songs, his brother had been something else entirely. He did not play harps, did not dream of prophecy. He was the fire itself, untamed, unpredictable.

And now, as he stood among his kin, watching the ceremony unfold, he carried himself with the confidence of one who did not need to seek approval, of one who knew his place and took it without asking.

Cersei swallowed, her nails biting into her palms.

The sight of him unsettled her. Infuriated her.

For years, she had burned under the slight of his disregard, under the weight of the moment in the tourney when he had walked past the highborn ladies, past her, as if she had been nothing. Even when her father had spoken of a match between them, she had seethed at the idea that she had been an afterthought, that she had been offered only because Rhaegar had been lost to her.

And yet, standing here, looking at him now, something twisted deep inside her.

This man—this dragon—was not lesser than his brother. He was not a shadow to Rhaegar’s light.

He was something else entirely.

The ceremony moved forward, the Septon speaking his words, the crowd solemn in their reverence. But Cersei barely heard them.

Because the younger prince had turned his head—just slightly, just enough.

And his gaze met hers.

A single moment. A flicker of recognition.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, he looked away.

As if she were no more than a passing detail in the grander scheme of things.

Cersei’s chest tightened, a slow heat curling through her veins.

Oh, she would not be overlooked again.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with revelry, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine, roasted meats, and the heady perfume of silk-draped nobles. Banners of House Targaryen and House Martell hung above the high table, their colors vibrant in the glow of the massive chandeliers overhead. Musicians played a lively tune, the sound of lutes and drums filling the chamber as lords and ladies twirled across the polished stone floor in practiced, elegant steps.

Cersei sat with her family, a goblet of wine in her hand, though she barely touched it. Her gaze flitted over the guests, her lips curving slightly as she noted the spectacle before her—Elia Martell, seated beside Rhaegar, her dark eyes alight with quiet laughter as she spoke with the princess of Dorne. Rhaegar, as always, held himself with careful grace, nodding along to whatever pleasantries were exchanged.

But it was not them she sought tonight.

Her green eyes drifted past the lords and ladies, past the highborn maidens whispering behind their jeweled hands, past the knights exchanging boasts over their cups.

And then, she found him.

He lingered at the edge of the feast, away from the laughter and the dances, his presence like a shadow against the light. He had shed his armor for the evening, but there was nothing soft about him. He wore black, as was his custom, his tunic trimmed with gold embroidery in the shape of dragon wings. His silver hair, long and unbound, fell over his shoulders, the candlelight catching on the strands, turning them into something almost molten.

He was watching. Not the dancing, not the king’s table, but the room itself—the people, the movement, the way power shifted within the chamber like unseen currents in the sea.

Cersei smirked. He had no love for the games of court, and yet here he was, playing them all the same.

She rose smoothly from her seat, ignoring the way Jaime’s gaze flicked toward her, questioning. She did not need his approval.

Her steps were slow, deliberate, the golden fabric of her gown pooling around her feet as she moved through the crowd. She could feel eyes on her as she passed—some admiring, some envious—but she paid them no mind.

When she reached him, she did not wait for an invitation. "You do not dance," she said, tilting her head as she looked up at him. It was not a question.

He turned his gaze to her, dark violet eyes unreadable. "No."

Cersei arched a delicate brow. "You should. It is a wedding, after all."

He exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to amusement she had ever seen from him. "Then let the newlyweds dance."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "That was not a request."

Something flickered in his expression then, something biting and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might refuse her outright. But then, to her satisfaction, his lips curved—not in a smile, but something close. "So it’s a demand, then?"

She stepped closer, the warmth of the hall making the space between them feel smaller. "It is."

He regarded her for a moment longer, then, with an almost lazy motion, offered her his hand. "Very well, Lady Lannister."

Cersei’s breath caught, but she did not let it show.

He led her to the dance floor with slow, measured steps. The moment they stepped into the swirling mass of couples, the music shifted into something deeper, richer, the lutes strumming a more sensual tune.

His hand settled at her waist, firm but not rough. His grip was steady, unyielding, nothing like the soft, feather-light touch of the boys who had danced with her before. There was no hesitation in him, no need to impress, no eagerness to please.

Cersei had danced with Rhaegar once, at a feast long ago. He had been graceful, ethereal in the way he moved, as if he was not quite of this world. But this… this was different.

This was heat. Strength. Control.

She pressed closer, just enough to test him, just enough to see if he would pull away. He didn’t. "You are not like your brother," she murmured, tilting her chin up to look at him.

He smirked slightly, but his grip did not loosen. "I should hope not."

"Rhaegar is kind," she continued, her voice smooth, measured. "He sings songs. Writes poetry." She let her nails graze over the back of his hand where it held hers. "But you…"

His gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Me?"

"You are sharp edges and fire," she whispered. "You burn."

The music swelled, and he spun her, his hand steady as he guided her movements, never faltering, never letting her out of his grasp. "You play a dangerous game, Lady Lannister," he murmured as he pulled her back to him.

Cersei smiled, her pulse quickening. "And if I win?"

His expression shifted, darkened, something unreadable flickering in those violet depths. He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, his lips so close that she could almost taste the wine on them.

For a heartbeat, she thought he would kiss her.

But instead, his hand found her throat.

Not with force. Not with cruelty. But with purpose.

His fingers rested just below her jaw, his thumb ghosting over her pulse. He did not squeeze, did not press, but the weight of his hand was unmistakable. A silent reminder that he could.

Cersei inhaled sharply, her chest rising against his. She did not pull away.

His lips grazed over hers, so close that she could feel the ghost of a kiss that never quite came. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rich, curling around her like smoke. "Be careful what you wish for," he murmured. "You just might get it."

Cersei’s pulse thrummed beneath his hand, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "I always get what I want."

A slow smirk touched his lips, and then—just as quickly as he had drawn close—he released her.

The music slowed, and they stepped apart, the space between them charged with something unsaid.

Cersei exhaled, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she lifted her chin.

No, he was nothing like Rhaegar.

And that was precisely why she wanted him.

[floatyflowers]

Male! Cersei Lannister x Lannister! Reader

Cedrik Lannister is spitful, and narcissistic.

But he managed to make you, his cousin, fall in love with him.

A little manipulation about how 'Lannisters belong together' he managed to seduce you.

Especially since your husband Robert cheats with every female in the corner and only thinks about Lyanna.

But Cedrik made you felt loved even though you tried to stay loyal, but you ended up falling for your cousin.

And what made you fall harder for him is when he refused to get married because he has no eyes except for you.

That is true even if he is a toxic person.

You managed to have Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen as Robert's children with the plotting of Cedrik.

But when Robert dies, and your eldest child with him becomes the king, Cedrik makes himself present at your side and children's side.

Especially when Ned threatens to reveal the truth.

That didn't end well for the Starks, did it?

Tywin also takes charge of advising Joffrey, knowing very well that he is his grandchild.

When you begin to see how Joffrey is unfit to be a king and Cedrik being a horrid father figure, you tried to take Tommen and Myrcella and flee.

But you failed, and Cedrik made Joffrey lock you up.

"We are getting soon, we will become a real family, didn't you always want that, my dove?"

Seeing all your three children die drove you to become more depressed

Not knowing that your husband is suffering as much as you.

When Cedrik is certain that Daenerys burned down King's landing and was coming for him.

He went straight to your chambers, and laid in your embrace just like you used to do in your and his youth.

All you did is smile down at him as he cries and keeps apologizing for everything that happened.

You only comfort him with a head pat and a sentance.

"We can join our children now"

[aphroditelovesu]

Hello there. May I request a Yandere letter from Cersei Lannister sending to her older brother Lannister Reader? Where Yandere Cersei left Kings Landing with her father, while Lannister Reader stayed there. Pretty please? I’m not rushing you or anything and I didn’t mean to sound rude. Anyway have a good day/night

My beloved brother,

I write these words as my soul yearns for your presence. Ever since I left for King's Landing, I have felt a deep void in my heart, and that void can only be filled by you, my beloved brother. I miss you with an intensity that is difficult to put into words.

I remember the moments we shared at Casterly Rock, the laughter, the conversations, and even the disputes. You have always been my safe haven, my confidant, and my anchor in this turbulent world. Now, far from your presence, my heart is filled with indescribable anxiety.

Every day I spend in King's Landing is a constant reminder of your absence. I realize now, more than ever, how much you mean to me. Every sunset, I look at the horizon, wishing you were here with me.

I want you to know that my love for you is unwavering, it is the strength that guides me through the lonely days and restless nights. I can't wait for the day we'll be together again, when I can look into your eyes and hug you like never before.

Until then, my dear brother, hold this letter close to your heart, for it is the echo of my longing and my eternal love for you.

With love and longing,

Cersei.

[blumenflowergelb]

Love and Soulmates (2/2)

• Yn Tyrell was a very beautiful man, Jon thought. The way his eyes shone when he caught blue butterflies and the way his curly blond hair had fallen over his face while trying to prep the butterflies to display, made Jon‘s heart warm. He wasn’t just beautiful. At times he wished to hide him in a box and never allow anybody to look at him, other times he wished to show Yn to the whole world so that they can understand how wonderful he was. Jon wasn’t stupid, he knew that most thought Yn a fool. And truth to be told it did not help that Yn was often found doing strange things. Jon will never forget the day after their wedding night Yn woke him up to search for ‘northern worms’. Jon did find this strange but still went with him and dawn had found them digging around the dirt of the Godswood. The few months of their early marriage left Jon with an impression that the Gods hated him for making him a bastard and giving him this soulmate. However overtime Jon got used to the weirdness of Yn and he even grown to love him. Now Yn‘s eccentric ways were the usual and Jon couldn’t believe that once he lived without Yn.

• They had an idyllic life, filled with adventures, love and most importantly family. Baby Rickon grew and was barely a baby anymore, Bran was climbing around as always, this time with Yn. Even Robb has grown to like Yn. It wasn’t a secret but in the beginning Robb tried to hide his dislike towards Yn as much as he could. Jon never had a feeling that Yn was bothered by it but never said anything until one day Robb and Yn got into a fight, which ended with both of them falling in the ice cold waters around Winterfell. At the time he was playing with the girls and only heard about what had happened when Luwin asked him to go to the infirmary. Jon went but he was never told what went down between Robb and Yn, only that they had made peace. To the surprise of everybody Sansa has taken Yn as well as ducks to water. It was probably because Yn liked sewing, he was very good at it, and when Lady Catelyn was not looking, he joined Sansa and Arya in the sewing circle. What nobody surprised was how much Arya loved Yn. If Yn wasn’t at Jons‘ side than he was on Arya‘s, making trouble. Even if they were bothersome and outright annoying at times, Jon couldn’t be more happier. He got a fuzzy warm feeling in his chest just thinking about Yn and the way Yn looked, made the warmth light up and burn through him. His laugh, just the way he talked made his heart burn throughout his whole body and Jon felt home at Yns‘ side. His soulmark was a reflection of his inner happiness. His compass, filled with Tyrell roses, became more meticulous. New animals appeared, for example a snail whom Yn called Joe, and even other flowers like the Flower of Ladies. It was beautiful.

• Of course, nothing goes as planned in life. Jon Arryn died of old age. He passed away silently in his room at the Red Keep, and the King wanted Jon‘s father as the new Hand. This led to Jon‘s family being separated, and now sitting at the Red Keep, looking out on the courtyard Jon felt his heart ache. He has sworn to never forget the sight of Bran and Arya winking at them, the way Lady Catelyn was ready to let her tears fall and the sad look on Robb‘s face as he held a crying Rickon. Sansa tried to look like a lady who knows her duty but Jon knew her too well. Even Yn was not capable of making her as happy as she was before. When Jon told this his father, Ned just nodded and told him that everybody has to do their duty but he will talk to Sansa.

• After the gruelling months of leaving Winterfell for the Red Keep they arrived and both Jon and Yn were sent to their room. Their room. A fact that Jon was avoiding as much as he could. They never truly shared one room, expect sometimes like when Yn was in so much ecstasy about the fuzzy cows of the North that he had fallen asleep in Jon‘s room. The only night they shared a bed intentionally was on their wedding night, but they only slept. Jon wasn’t even sure if Yn knew and understood what was supposed to happen if they shared a bed. Usually people knew about such things but Yn was not usual. Regardless Jon wasn’t interested telling Yn what was expected of them, he just layed next to Yn and tried to sleep. And now they had to share a bed again. The only difference was their age, and Jon knew that Yn was interested on certain matters. The looks of Yn did not evade him, but he was too embarrassed to talk about it. So he just went in the room, which was bigger than Jon has ever expected a room being, and sat down on one of the chairs before a window looking out on the courtyard. Yn stood there for a second but hesitantly sat down. They didn’t speak until Yn sighted and begann to talk about the future. They were to remain in the Red Keep for a moon‘s turn and then go to Highgarden for a year. After that year they could decide to either stay or go to Winterfell. There were talks of Jon getting a holdfast but nothing was certain yet. As far as Jon knew, the Lady of Highgarden already wrote Yn asking him to stay for a few years and than decide whether they are going North or not. As of now they are only going to stay for a year.

• The days in the Red Keep were very boring. Because of Jons‘ status as a bastard he couldn’t just go everywhere he wanted, especially because the Queen looked like he was the Stranger come again whenever she saw him. As Yn didn’t care to go anywhere without Jon they mostly stayed inside. On some occasions they went out of their room, like supper with Ned and Sansa but they spent every minute together. If Jon could be honest he enjoyed Yn‘s presence. He had always to say something about the strangest things that existed and whenever Jon wished for silence he stayed silent. The only time Yn‘s eyes were not on him was when Loras arrived. He was a very beautiful young man but quit arrogant too. Still Jon liked him and looked forward to seeing him again. However after staying in their rooms for half a moon turn Yn turned restless and he spoke so often about going to the city that Jon yielded. They went and Jon hated it. The smell, the people, the sights and smells were strange to him. The people were rude and truly he felt so small and unimportant. Yn tried to take him to several different places but Jon couldn’t befriend this new world. After Yn told him that he would like it overtime Jon looked very sceptical and Yn kissed him. They were behind a tavern in a little alley where only the drunken or the whores went. Yn kissed Jon like there was no tomorrow and by the time they were done Jon‘s lips were all bruised. He felt lightheaded, his blood was boiling for something more. It didn’t help that they went by a street full of scantily dressed people, and by the time they were in their room Jon was ready for anything. To his delight they did end up doing more kissing but Yn clearly did not want anything more. That night Jon slept deeper than ever.

• They repeated their outings to the city several times, but only nights. By the time dawn arrived they were in their room acting like nothing happened. Ned hasn’t remarked anything about their tired faces, only slightly nodded at Jon after their fourth night. As little Jon‘s father spoke, as much did Loras talk. He was making jokes all the time and if it didn’t include Jon too he would have found it funny. But it was more annoying than ever, particularly after Loras found a slight bruise behind Yn‘s ears. At this found his cheekiness reached a new point. Yn was clearly bothered by it, which lead him to leave his room when Loras was coming. But as always Jon had to come too. Usually they were either in the Godswood with Sansa, who took a liking to sewing with Yn under the shadows of the large brown oak tree, or they were in the library. Jon would read books about History and Yn always took books about plants and animals of the known world. Yn always took a great care of not being seen by the servants or by the people and it made Jon‘s heart warm every time. Than one day Yn wanted to go to the highest point of the Tower of the Hand. While reading he had found a species of spiders that lived very high and made webs looking like gemstones. Jon found this particular and was dubious of finding a spider like what Yn mentioned but he still went up for Yn. They deliberately choose a day where Ned would be in the tower, busy with his counsel. The walk up the stairs was long and Jon was growing to be more unsure the higher they went. Yn tried to calm him by saying they they will climb out of a window but it won’t be harder than the ones in Winterfell. When Jon asked how he knew where this window was Yn just smirked. Before Jon could repeat his question they arrived at the end of the staircase. Yn was already walking to the end of the corridor and as he was about to tell Jon something they heard the voices. Jon had to make sure he heard correctly but by the way Yn stood there he knew he has heard something. It came from behind a door, in truth it was more of a panel in the wall, that Jon couldn’t see before standing in the hallway. The voices were not speaking. They were moaning and grunting.

• Before Jon could do anything Yn was already opening the door. In that second a lot of things happened. For one a woman shrieked, than a a thud was heard and Yn looked like somebody slapped him. He took a step back and shoved Jon just out of the way as a sword descended on Yn. The next moment Jon heard a sick crunch and Yn crying out. He could smell the blood but before he could do anything Yn was already pulling him down the corridor onto the stair. He didn’t understand what was going on only that Yn was shouting for the guards and that they almost flew down the stairs. Then Yn simply collapsed while taking a step, just in time to fall on a Stark guard. He heard the guards asking what was going on but he couldn’t care less. As he crouched down to see Yn he went pale. Blood was seeping out of him in small rivers, Yn tried to say something but only the words Queen and Kingslayer were understandable. Jon‘s compass was burning and burning and his head was hurting too, and as a guard touched his shoulders he shouted at him to go up and take them. He wasn’t sure who they were but he was sure that somebody pulled a sword on Yn. The next hours went by in a haze. Jon couldn’t remember to save himself how they arrived at the maesters room, he couldn’t remember if the guard caught the perpetrators or not. But he could remember the way Yn looked and the way his blood smelt like.

• Ned Stark was sitting in one of the counsels talking about new laws to generate more money for the crown and pay of the dept when a boy came inside and told Ned that his son was with the maester because Yn Tyrell was attacked. Ned was out of the room and was running to the maester‘s chamber while asking the messenger what had happened. At hearing that Yn was attacked and was dying he let out curses but at hearing that the Queen and his brother were being held by his own guards he cursed freely. Upon arrival at Pycelle‘s chamber he saw Jon, bloodied. He went in his knees before Jon and cradled his head in his hands. He couldn’t care less that Jon was already a man, his son was looking like he bathed in blood. Two streams of tears were going down his cheeks and Ned couldn’t help himself but hug him. While trying to soothe Jon Ned looked to Jory who was standing before the door with his sword unsheathed. He looked grimm and Ned could see some splatters of blood on his hands. Before he could ask Jory what has happened, Jon begann to talk about spiders and the highest point of the tower, the voices and the sword gleaming before Yn. At this point he was crying again and he tried to hide his face between Ned‘s shoulder. Ned could hear the rest of the counsel yelling and talking and than Renly Baratheon was standing behind Ned. He has already sent for the King and for Loras Tyrell.

• It was already the Hour of the Wolf when Pycelle came out of the chamber. He signed Jon to go inside while he himself stayed out to talk with Yn‘s brother. Jon heard the door close but he only had a sight for Yn. He knew that Yn was alive but not the state he was in. And it wasn’t good. He looked ashen, his curls were matted with blood and his whole upper body was wrapped in linen. He looked awful. Jon just simply brought a chair and sat down next to Yn‘s bed. He didn’t hear anybody come in until Loras touched his shoulder. He didn’t say anything and just stared at his brother. After some time he left. At one point Jon has fallen asleep because the next time he opened his eyes it was already dawn. His father was sitting next to him, a new scar on his cheeks. Jon looked at him but before he could ask Ned told him that they found the Queen and the Kingslayer participating in an intimate relationships. Probably that was the reason why Jaime Lannister cut Yn down. The Queen and his brother were under arrest and their children were held in their rooms. The King was raging and Ned was trying to grasp the situation before it escalated. It was a big mess, and Sansa was in the middle of it. By the time Ned arrived to put the Lannister bastards under house arrest, Joffrey was already threatening to cut Sansa‘s throat. Robert was needed, who then barged in Joffrey‘s chamber and beat him up. For now Sansa was staying with the guards in the Hand‘s room but she will go back to Winterfell via ship with Arya. Letter were sent across Westeros to meet at a Great Council deciding the punishment on House Lannister and the heir of Robert Baratheon.

• Yn woke up seven nights after the attack. While he was delirious, he could understand and talk enough to tell who was in the room. A month after Yn‘s wakening the Queen and his brother were executed. Joffrey Waters was sent to serve on the Walls and his brother Tommen was to follow him after he was of age. Myrcella was sent to exile on Essos. The sister of Yn was to marry the King in a small wedding but because of the Tyrells the wedding was grander than ever. They were seventyseven courses and seventyseven option of drinks. Seven singers and seven groups of seven dancers entertained the wedding guest and Margaery was bedded the same night. Jon would have enjoyed the wedding more if Yn was in a better shape but duo to blood loss he was pale and looked very weak. The good thing was that he regained his ability to walk. Maester Pycelle was skeptical about his recovery but Yn became better and better. However against his mother wished Yn decided to go back to the North with Jon. They were to leave two days after the wedding alongside with Robb and Lady Catelyn and the guards that accompanied them from Winterfell to the wedding.

• The day they left was on one side sad on the other side happy. Jon was to see his sisters and brothers and than in two years time he would even get his own stronghold in the north. Yn was healed enough to make the journey and Robb has invited both of them to see the league lords of the North. But Jon would probably not see his father for years as he was permanently the Hand of the King. Once he was old enough he would leave his post but everything could happen. And Jons‘ stronghold was very close to the Wall, which meant that he would not see Winterfell for a long time. But at least he had Yn.

[starsofjewels]

GREETINGS!! was wondering if you feel up for it if you could do a tyrion x autistic reader? idk how you could make autism fit into the GoT world but I always feel like an outsider even in the real world and i feel tyrion would be one of the few who'd actually be accepting and not judgemental

A Kitty Cat in the Lion’s Den

Tyrion Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

(Feat.) Tywin Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

CONTENT: Autistic meltdown, small! Mention of blood/ injury, self-deprecation, the Lannisters are their own warning

Word count: 1.5k (lil pookie bear)

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Hi, beautiful. I absolutely loved this request !! This was only semi triggering to write, and I hope you like it. <3

I’ve just started back at college, so the drip might be dry (not that it wasn’t to begin with). I may or may not have published this during a Free Study period…

This is proof I don’t just write Gregor Clegane fics. But I do love big squishy man and his cock.

I think I probably need to make a masterlist..

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

(A teeny PSA before we begin- I, unsurprisingly given the shit I upload on here, am autistic. I’ve struggled with it my whole life, and this is an interpretation of my own experience with autism. ASD is, as the name suggests, a spectrum, so this can’t really be a generalised fic. I put my own personal experiences with my condition into this, so if you’re also autistic/ otherwise neurodivergent and this doesn’t fit your vibes, that’s why. I can’t really explain it any other way, so yeah, here you go.)

Your entire life has served as a reminder that, whether by your own fault or some cruel will of the Gods, you are not wanted. You are the outsider, the youngest Lannister, not beautiful enough to marry off young and, decidedly, not male. Lord Tywin is consistently busy with his duties as the Hand, Tyrion hides with his wines and his whores, and Jaime has his own place in the Red Keep. You are forced to sit with your sister and her ladies, who talk too loudly and prattle on about nonsense.

Cersei, you have long established, does not like you. You aren’t really sure anyone likes you, in the traditional sense, but you know that your sister only keeps you around for fear of Tywin’s wrath. There is something in the back of your mind that remembers a younger, softer Cersei putting you in her lap, of brushing your hair and putting it in gold bows. But, that was before. Before you could walk or talk properly, before you spouted random facts on unasked for topics, before she realised you were different.

Everyone knows you are different, and no one can explain why. Not even you. All they know is to stay away from you, all they know is they’ll never understand how your little mind works.

So, you sit as nicely as you can on the outside of Cersei’s circle of ladies, and you try to focus on your sewing. You don’t like sewing, but it’s what all of the noblewomen do to pass the time, and all you want is to fit in.

“Your sewing is coming on well, my lady.”

The septa tilts your sewing slightly to look at it just a little more. It’s supposed to be a gift for your father, and it is not good. You see every uneven stitch, all of the oddities and bumps in your work that make it so you can hardly look at it. You hate it, and you hate that you can’t even sew properly.

“The stitching is all wrong…”

She takes your hands as you try, again, to pick out your newest stitch, a learned behaviour with you. Despite being with you near your whole life, since you weaned off of your nurse, you aren’t sure the septa completely understands your fascination of perfection,

“It is fine,” Her voice is soft, but you can feel her disappointment, “you are still learning, my lady, some mistakes are natural. You do not need to pull it apart- again.”

You jump when Cersei’s ladies giggle at some joke you haven’t heard, the woman beside you takes your hand, and you are reminded why you keep her so close. At least, in some way, she understands what you like and what upsets you.

Tea is served for the ladies. They give you what Cersei likes, what her ladies eat, green and red things that squish and squelch in your mouth and taste like you’ve eaten rags. And the queen sees you push them around your plate, and scoffs.

“At least try it, sister,” She sips from her wine. You feel each of her noblewomen shift, in turn, to look at you, “a Lannister lady can’t just survive off of the children’s food you eat, we can’t all eat nothing but cakes and plain bread all day.”

But you don’t, and you starve. Tywin will get you something later, you’re sure of it, as he sighs, and gently suggests you’ll need a more varied diet if you’re to marry a good husband.

The women’s giggles practically turn to cackles, which do not stop for what feels like hours. You wish they’d stop, or that you could understand what they find so utterly hilarious, so at least you may join their hysteria. You’ve put your sewing down in your lap, and you fiddle with your hair. The sept doesn’t like that, she guides your work back into your hands.

“Your father doesn’t like it if you mess your hair, sweet girl, you know that,” Her hands find your hair, carefully untangling the knots you’ve made, “try a few more stitches.”

And then, inevitably, it happens. You prick your finger on your needle, and a soft ruby comes from your noble, incomprehensible skin.

Throwing your project to the ground, you rush off as fast as your legs can manage. No one comes to find you.

You are long practised with the subtle art of trying not to cry. You pace back and forth, away from anything and everything, your hands in your hair as you do. The tears in your eyes hurt, they make you tired, and only add to your humiliation. You can do nothing right, why can you do nothing right?

You think of your sister, of perfect, beautiful, poised Cersei- She has a gaggle of women to do her bidding she is loved, and desires and you doubt she paces the halls trying not to cry. She is the lion queen, and you are her kitty-cat of a sister.

And then, you hear your name called. Followed by hurried footsteps toward you. Tyrion takes your hands in his, but you cannot even look at him.

“Has someone upset you? Cersei?”

All you can do is give him whines in response. You feel a sob bubbling in your throat, and you cannot give him the satisfaction of seeing you weak.

“Tell me.”

So you look down, you watch his eyes change from confusion, to the pity you are so used to seeing. But he is your older brother, and you know he won’t run back to Cersei, like Jaime would.

It comes in one, huge splurge, as tears fall against your skin and ruin the pretty powders your maids spent so long putting on you this morning,

“I- Was making a gift for Father-” You gasp, “And they didn’t give me anything to eat, and- and the sewing was terrible, but Septa is lying and saying it’s good and-” Another. “And I cut myself!”

His arms wrap around you, and he puts his head against you. Though much smaller than you, it offers greater comfort than he knows it does. All you can do is sob. You feel like a child.

No words are spoken as he takes you down to the kitchens, and puts you at the staff table. You are given something you eat with relish, and get a plate of pudding for your effort. There is no need for you to have any medical attention for your injury, but he has it wrapped anyway. A psychological comfort, if nothing else.

Tyrion helps you into bed, letting you reach out for the rag dolls your sister claims you’re too old for. You want your father, you want him to go and tell off Cersei, but you have your brother instead, and he at least semi-understands what it’s like to be different.

“I’m sorry,” you turn and look up at him,

“Sorry?”

He stands, walking to your window to look out at the courtyard below.

“When you look at me, what do you see?”

Tyrion is going somewhere with this, you know that much, but what, you are left wondering,

“I see… my brother.”

“Yes, you do. But the world? What does the world see? They see a drunk, lustful little man with a lion on his chest he doesn’t deserve.”

Something in you knows that it’s true. Tyrion is nothing more than his condition to the eyes of most in the Keep, most of the kingdom.

“You, you look like a Lannister. Your brokenness is inside. And I wish I could understand it.”

“It’s alright-” You sit up, clutching your doll, “It’s just… what it is. I have you, I have Father.”

Tyrion almost scoffs, he comes back from the window, passing you your water,

“Yes, you get Father, but that’s because you are utterly adorable.”

“I am adorable, aren’t I?”

“And humble, it appears.”

When Tyrion leaves, he kisses your forehead, and you know he is going to tell Father. You are the one thing they share something of a common interest in, and you suspect Tywin will make an appearance at some point. You’re right, of course.

It is Tywin’s heartbeat you listen to to calm yourself down for sleep. Your father strokes your hair, half-dozing himself. A soft, sweet moment that you are reminded Tyrion doesn’t have the privilege of.

Cersei is no longer allowed to be your main caretaker, you spend your afternoons out in the gardens, or sit entertaining yourself in Tywin’s solar. Tyrion takes you on walks, and there is something of a peaceful normality brought about.

You are still terribly disappointed in how Tywin’s gift turns out, it looks like a child made it, and when you become obviously quite upset over the manner, you have the Old Lion and his younger son to calm you. He loves it, he assures you, and Tyrion is so enamoured by it he requests his own. You know they are simply making you feel better, but you let it happen anyway.

And, perhaps, life is not so bad after all.

[ornii]

“I Do not love you, …I Tolerate You.”

Daenerys Targaryen X Male Lannister Reader

(Y/n) Lannister, King of House Lannister, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, and the Father of Golden Lions, Mourning the Death of his Love, an unknown force calls claim to the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons.

Warning: Hey, you like thighjobs? No? Well too bad we got them!

Kings Landing, the final destination for kings and queens to either rule or die trying. For you it was the first, but it came with much loss.

Being born a Lannister you had some obligations to uphold, son of an Imp, you had much to live up to and deal with. But more importantly, you had fallen for one woman specifically.. Margery. Unlike Tommen and Joffrey, you weren’t as Naive and Foolish as them, Tyrion made sure of that. Teaching you the way the game of thrones is played was essential to survive in this world. She respected your opinions, ideals, wishes. Her Marriage to Joffrey was one of necessity, yours was out of love. A love that was quickly shattered and burned by one Cersei Lannister.

Joffrey was Murdered, Your father Tyrion put on trial, and in return he escapes, Kills your grandfather Tywin, and escapes. Leaving Tommen to pick up the pieces, Tyrion was never seen in Kings Landing again. Still keeping your relationship a secret you continued your affairs, but it only had gotten worse, the Sparrows using their holy influence to capture Margery, Tommen, nothing but a mere child in the mind did nothing, and his Mother Cersei was also taken, her plan backfiring. You only wished that was the end of the nightmare.

Cersei executes a plan that lead to the explosion of the Sept, killing Margery, her brother, The High Sparrow and so many more. Your cousins, Grandfather, Father, and now your Love, all gone. All of that set in motion your path to the crown, forming the Golden Roar rebellion you overthrew Cersei and took the Iron Throne as your own, it didn’t take much of course, using your connection to the people you exposed her true nature, and her actions. The people rebelled, you rebelled, it was perfect. With all obstacles moved, you now have the power to change everything, to change the world, but one obstacle stood left; The Last Targaryen.

Sitting upon your iron throne, and Gregor at your side, you listened to the concerns of not only nobles but of the people. They were small at best, tedious. It wasn’t until your kings guard, your Uncle Jamie knelt down to slightly whisper.

“There is something I must speak to you about when time is available.”

“Is it important?” You asked calmly, your eyes darting to him. Jamie nodded, it was rare your uncle often spoke during your court. You ended the proceeding for now and walked to the high chambers with your uncle.

“It’s about—“ Jamie began but you had an idea of what he was going to ask.

“As I have said before uncle, I shall not Kill Aunt Cersei, as much as she deserves it.. I made that promise to you, I intend to keep it. She will be locked away. And when I have complete control, you can live out your days with her in Casterly Rock.” You said, while your blood boiled at the idea of Cersei living, for your uncle who treated you as equal, you honored your promise.

“No, House Tarly might consider to support the Targaryen.” He began, you knew about Her, but you didn’t care at the time. You picked up your pace, trying to focus and Jamie kept up.

“Really now?” You asked intrigued.

“They’re the only house that has not claimed loyalty, and if we lose their house—“

“We might have a problem.” You finish the statement for him. “We had the Tyrell’s but Cersei made sure of that.. although.” You slowly had an idea coming together, Jamie halted in his footsteps as a smirk crept on your face.

“We won’t need the Tyrells… if the False Queen truly wishes to take the throne. Then I should at least hear the woman out..” You said, admittedly you wished to see this last living Targaryen. Stepping into your bedchamber you overlooked Kings Landing, the debt slowly being pushed down, people attempting to rebuild after the sept, all your doing. And if this Targaryen Pureblooded Freak wished to take this from you, then she must kill you in order to take it. Your mind wandered until you stepped out to the balcony, enjoying the warm air, smells of earth and rock, but something else caught your attention.. something was moving across the horizon of the ocean.

Standing on the massive port gate of Kings Landing, You, Ser Jamie, Maester Quburn stood at the port, watching ships slowly enter, but they were not yours. They belonged to the Greyjoys. Standing with soldiers surrounding and arrows ready to massacre the platoons, you wait. They dock and descend out, and your eyes laid upon Euron Greyjoy, the sadistic cold bastard of what’s left of the Greyjoys, that shit eating grin was unsettling, as if he had some master plan for you. He gave a fake bow and kept his sly eye on you.

“My King.” He said, having your hands behind your back you calmly raised your hand, and placed your fingers down, allowing the archers to put their bows down.

“You must be, Euron.” You said, what could a Greyjoy Possibly want here?”

“It’s a simple request, although I expected the queen to be greeting me.” He replies, look around slowly, as if to expect Cersei.

“Unfortunately she’s been.. replaced. Allow me to welcome you and your men to kings Landing, Respect our Laws and you shall be respected in kind.” You offer him to walk with you, and he does.

“Your business here must be important if you wished to speak with me.” You look around, noting that there are still arrows trained on Euron, for your safety after all.

“Yes, what I ask requires some.. finesse. Finesse only the true king of Westeros would have.” Euron plays it up, but you knew better and cut though his words.

“What would you wish?” You reply, entering the throne room you said. “How would.. command over the waters of All Westeros sound?” He said, you halted, and slowly went up the stairs, ascending to a higher position than him. You sit down upon the throne, gently placing your hands together.

“I have the power to give this, but why would I give it to you, a Greyjoy in fact.. I gain, nothing.” You explain, and Euron snaps his fingers laughing.

“You see that is where you are wrong, my king. My loyalty, I will swear to you, and the entire Greyjoy fleet will be yours to command at your demand, all I ask is reign over the waters.”

“That is an imposing proposal.. but how do I know you will keep your word?” You reply, and Euron grins. “I have a.. gift.”

Minutes pass as you sit in your Throne, Jamie by your side waiting. Hoping this “Gift” will be of some worth. And it was, the doors open to Euron and his men, having three women captured and tied like cattle to follow. You looked at them, while two were from Dorne, the other wasn’t. Jamie gripped his saber hilt with his good hand. You noticed the shift in his emotion, and tilted your head.

“I believe these women are from Dorne.. why do you have them?” You asked, you vaguely recognize one as Oberon’s lover.

“This is Ellaria and Tyene Sand.. your Cousins Killers.” Euron smiles, presenting a good gift, your eyes slowly filled with malice and hate, a feeling you’ve only ever truly felt a few times in life. The feeling came back with a vengeance and you calmly but somehow with boiling fury stood up and walked down the stairs, you calmly approached Ellaria her eyes were wary off course, you were a Lannister unknown, meaning you were unpredictable.

“Ellaria sand… for your daughter’s Sake, tell the truth.. did you kill my cousin Marcella?” You whispered so coldly and raspy into her ear, like a growling lion before he pounces and tears apart zebras flesh. You watched her quiver, heavy breathing, and in the last moments of reality she nodded, confirming the truth. You took a step back and bit your lip to keep from showing tears. “The Cell.. all of them.” You gave the shallow order and the guards took them away. You could care less about the last one and allowed her to be taken away as well. Sitting back on your throne you looked to Euron, and gave the nod.

“The seas.. are yours.”

It had been a Week since Eurons reign, and all was calm, until you had an unexpected visitor, standing at the gates of Kings Landing with your men and council, you watched as an army of Unsullied and Dothraki approach, you couldn’t make out anyone you knew and prepared to rain Wildfire on them, but someone’s presence was well known, you heard the intense roar and the echo of massive wings in the sky, you saw the dragon, the most powerful beings in Westeros, they land on the ground. And its blood red eyes looked at you, admittedly a wave of fear hit you.

“Quburn.. are the Dragon Slayers reader?” You asked.

“Ready to launch, my King.” He replies, you sigh with relief and then watched a tiny figure step from the army.

“..Father?” You said, almost speechless. Tyrion approached, looking older, more stern. You signaled to let him in.

Sitting across from each other inside a Tent. You didn’t have much to say to him, even after all these years.

“You.. did it.” Tyrion said, seeing his son as king was, an unreal feeling. “You achieved greatness, as I always expected. Besides you’re half of me, so you should have.”

“Amusing father.. but, are you truly with this woman?”

“She.. has a vision for Westeros I simply cannot allow to go to the wayside, besides this place needs someone willing to show mercy instead of the blade.” Tyrion responds, you could somewhat understand his predicament.

“I suppose, but I won’t allow my throne to be taken by some Targaryen child. I will lead Westeros to peace, and she can go back to ruling whatever sand hill she wishes, as long as it isn’t on my soil.”

“That.. may not be your soil for much longer.” Tyrion quips, your eyes glare at him as he sips his wine.

“Not by us, the Winter.. the cold.. the undead. They’re real, and it seems their plan is to go from the wall and destroy along. Westeros, it would not be long before they raid Kings Landing..”

You consider your father’s words carefully, if this is true. Then the Queen of Dragons isn’t your main focus. “Is there a way to stop them?” You ask.

“Dragons glass and fire, that seems to be our only two, unfortunately the Queen lost one to the White Walkers. If we’re to survive and surpass this darkness, you and the Queen must come to an understanding and work together.”

“I.. see..” You rubbed your chin, truly considering all of this. “And where is the Queen?”

“Winterfell.”

“I can spare twenty thousand Men, leave a few here to run while I go.” You said, standing up you look out to the army still awaiting.

“May your return back to your Queen be swift father.. but know that when this is done, you must choose a side.” You left your father with those parting words, and Made way for The North.

Entering Winterfell felt like a death sentence, you felt eyes all over you, knowing at any moment you could be swarmed and killed, thankfully your army surrounded the rest of Winterfell, so a siege would immediately commence if you were killed. Standing in the Great Hall, you were gazed upon by Many house, and sitting at the center of the table was none other that the Queen, Denreyes Targaryen. You have a bow of courtesy.

“Your Grace, my father informed me of the.. issue we’re facing, this night king, these.. white walkers. They’re a plague slowly burrowing into the heart of Westeros, and it would take us all to stop them, so I fully intend to lend aid.” You said, it was silent besides a few Murmurs, some surprised you came here, others surprised you’re actually helping, Lannisters are usually selfish.

“Your help will be paramount to stopping this invasion. And I suppose the terms of your surrender was spoke about as well?”

“Apologies but I have no intent to surrender..” you reply, and smile. “A beautiful and intelligent woman such as yourself should know I am not here to surrender but to lend aid. We can discuss the throne when we know there will be a throne left.”

It was silence in the room now, and before Dany could say something she bit her tongue to keep it. “Understandable.. we shall discuss this when ample time is available. Please, enjoy Winterfell for the time being.” Her words sounded kind, but obviously it had a hint of malice behind it, knowing better you didn’t call her out, and simply went to your bedchambers. Walking along the frozen planks of Winterfell you felt unease, as if someone was watching you. You hit a corner and kept up the pace, knowing someone was there. As you turned the corner you prepared to face your chaser, you stepped out to attack but, no one was there. Something was wrong, but unfortunately it was too late.

You felt the cold steel against your neck and the abrupt grip of a hand around your wrist. Death was mere moments away, but it didn’t come, a voice came from behind you.

“Still too slow for your own good.” It said, it may have been years since you’ve seen her, but you recognized that voice from anywhere.

Arya.

“Always too slow for you.” You replied in jest and the cold steel was removed, you sigh and turn around to see her, she’s taller now and, you couldn’t help but notice that she’s a full fledged woman now. You met Arya when her Sister and Father were taken to Kings Landing, she had this tomboyish attitude that made you adore her, always being so friendly and practicing her fighting skills even as a girl, and now you both had grown up.

“You look..” you started, your eyes going up and down and back into her eyes.

“Scary?” She responds

“Amazing.” You said, she had a sly grin and gave you a playful poke with her finger. “And you look like a real king now.”

“I try.” You respond, “Arya.. about Kings Landing—“ you start but she stops you.

“You saved me when you made me leave when my father was killed, if not I’d end up like Sansa, your family isn’t you.” She said to you, so earnest and kind. That weight was taken off your shoulder. You nodded and Arya walks past you.

“I’ll see you soon. I’m sure you, have a lot deal with.” With those words Arya parted. You watched her leave, and the curves she developed would make a man’s steel resolve melt. You shook your head and pressed forward, entering the room you took a step in, and closed the door behind you, unfortunately you weren’t the only one in the room, Daenerys. She sat in your chair, as if she was awaiting your arrival.

“That did not take you long.” You said, ready to debate.

“Your presence has made it an issue with the northerners, not only do they question my rule as Queen of the North because of Jon, but so does yours.” She clenched her jaw slightly and you chuckled. You calmly removed your cape. You noticed the bottle of wine on the counter and didn’t hesitate to take it.

“Stop clenching your jaw. It’s bad for your teeth darling, you’re too pretty to lose your teeth now.” You calmly placed your cape on the table and approached to sit across from her.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Your Grace flattered has gotten me into a lot of things, thankfully one is the throne.” You gently combed back your hair, looking into her eyes, She was ferocious like a dragons, but also a merciful side. They were.. beautiful.

“Well I hope your flattery will work against the Night King and his horde of undead.” She obviously has a chip on her shoulder to say the least, a chip you intend to knock off.

“I doubt, he doesn’t seem the type to be swept off his cold decrepit feet.” You tapped the table, just to annoy her. “I say a good dagger to the heart does the same thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose it does. I am.. surprise you came.” She admits, you raised an eyebrow.

“You think of me as a liar?” You asked, She didn’t want to say yes but obviously you had your answer, your smirk fades and you calmly sit up, you popped the cork off the bottle and took a swig of it.

“I am nothing, if not a man of my word, and I came here to fight them myself as well. I said I would, so I would. And so you would know I truly mean it when I said.. I would Marry you and Make you Queen Denyeres Targaryen, you wouldn’t have to take my last name.” You meant every word, you offered the bottle of wine to Deny, she stared at it for a moment and took it for a drink of it. A warm smile was already on your face, hours of talking and drinking left you two actually getting along.

“You have no idea, it’s fucking cold, I hate it here, everyone cannot understand why I deserve the throne because I dont have a cock between my legs.” Deny rants on, and you slip up and said, “You could use mine.” You blurted out, jokingly but, she didn’t see it as a joke. She tilts her head a way that make you shutter a bit. You saw a sly smirk creep along her face.

“Is that a true request?” She asked you. You blinked a few times and decided why not and took the risk. “Sure, I don’t see why not. Just put it between your thighs.” You shrugged and watched Dany stand up, slowly unblocking her lower garments. You watched her smooth legs for show and an eyes trail upwards to what’s between her legs. A soft slightly trimmed bush, the blood stopped rushing to your head and to your dick. Kings Landing didn’t Lack whores and women, but something about Dany felt fresh, and desire burned. She giggled, seeing your thousand yard gaze at her privates. She knelt down, her soft legs stroking your thighs, and looking into your eyes. “Am I.. going to have to take them off myself?” She said, and you shook you head, gripping your trousers and pushed them down, and Dany got an eyeful of the Lions Tail.

“It’s… wow.” Dany was taken aback, but didn’t hesitate, she turned around, and plopped right on your lap, her bare ass brushing against your legs, she gently opens her legs and watched your dick fly up and softly slapped her couch. A dumbfounded giggle comes from her and she closes her legs. “So.. this is what it feels like.”

“It feels, amazing.” You leaned your head back, her soft thighs brushing and warmly gripping your dick. And softly moving around. It was mostly a Slightly Drunk Dany moving her legs around to play with her “Kings Cock.” Once it brushed against her crotch and a sensation catches her off guard. It felt good, and she wanted more. Dany placed her hands on the chair’s armrest to balance herself as she motions around, her breathing getting deeper and softer, the sensation you were feeling was something beyond imagination. Your hands gripped her waist to assist her.

“This is.. better than… i expected..” panting, Dany leaned her head back, and your hands slipped up her shirt, you slid your hands up, feeling her soft supple breasts underneath her. You leaned in, planting soft but deep kisses along her neck and it drove the Dragon Queen, a soft pinch of her nipple, a deep kiss on her neck. Her moaning filled the room, and you decided to give the dragon Queen what she deserved. Adjusting your cock you pressed against her pussy.

“Now, slide~” you held her body so warmly.

“Y-Yes~” she whines in your ear.

“Yes.. What?~” you replied.

“Yes.. my King~” she gasped, and with his Queens request you gently lowered her down on it, you felt your dick immediately get swallowed by warmth and wetness. Her gasp and deep moan signaled that she’s ready, you wrapped your arm around her waist and held onto the arm of the chair thrusting upward, you were stronger than her, making it easy to handle her body around with each punch and thrust, she bit her bottom lip to keep from yelling in pleasure.

“D-Dany.. you feel so.. fucking good! You squeezed tighter around her, the hot and sweat bending off your bodies hit the hard wood floor, which creaked slightly as you rammed your dick inside her.

“Damn you… for being so good!~” Dany let out a heavy groan. You felt the clenching of her walls on your cock, trying to drain it. You let her have it, bucking like a horse, making Dany bounce. “Fuck!” You held her waist, letting your seed erupt from the tip and into the air tight hold her pussy had on your cock. You watched her body stiffen up and her legs quiver as she has an actual orgasm. Panting, Dany leans back against you, panting, didn’t know what to say.

“Was that.. your first Orgasm?” You asked

“My.. First what?” She asked, still a bit confused of what she just felt, you laughed, softly putting your arms around her as she rested.

“.. So, you must love me now.” You say jokingly, “To have sex with me when you’ve barely known me for a day.”

Dany realized how it looked, and scoffed.

“I don’t.. I don’t love you, I.. Tolerate you.” She replied.

“Oh, well when we marry.. you can tolerate me like this for years.” You joke and snuggle up with her, Dany didn’t have the energy to argue with you, feeling your hot sweet pour down her leg. She thought to herself that yes.

She can tolerate you.

[j-k-writes]

Soulmates!au with Jaime lannister x stark male (benjen's twin brother) reader pretty please?🥺

With prompts: you're a demanding little thing, aren't you? And i will never be able to carve you from my heart. you are embedded too deep.

Summary - Jamie Lannister does not remember much of the first night he spent with Y/N Stark, but the night still haunts him for years after he stormed out of the younger man's chambers.

Warnings - General GOT warnings, implied sexual content, drinking

Jamie scarcely recognized Winterfell as he rode through the open gates. 

The castle he had spent weeks in all those years ago was loud and full of life, but the one he took in now was on its last breaths. The people who bustled around the keep had no life in their eyes, their posture and eyes giving away the impending doom that was coming their way. 

Jamie made himself scarce amongst the Northerners, sticking mostly to his brother’s side as war plans were made and the castle was fortified. It was during one of the war councils, that Tyrion was welcome at but Jamie was not, that he saw him. 

If someone asked, Jamie forgot about Y/N Stark the moment the door slammed behind his back in a fit of rage all those years ago. But the truth of the matter was that Y/N Stark had plagued Jamie’s every waking thought and dream for the last three and half years. Jamie remembered next to nothing about his last night in Winterfell, but the feel of Y/N rough stubble against his skin and teeth against his neck were forever burned into his mind. The Northerner’s chest was impossibly warm pressed against Jamie’s skin, and his lips had tasted like the very same wine that got Jamie into his bed in the first place.  

Jamie made eye contact with him across the yard, the gooseflesh that crawled down his arms had nothing to do with the cold when Y/N’s eyes lit up in recognition. From the look of him it was clear to the ex-kingsguard that he was not the only one of them to have a rough few years. His face which had been rough from labor at the wall yet still full of life and humor was scarred and lacking the warmth that Jamie remembered. All of the life that Y/N’s presence had brought to Winterfell's halls all the years ago was dead; it seemed as Jamie watched him from afar for days. 

Y/N spent his days moving almost mindlessly, preparing Winterfell for siege and talking in hushed whispers to Jon and the other commanders. He didn’t join the rest of them for meals or training, and the time he did spend out of his chambers he spent with the Wildlings, comfortable enough with them that Jamie could tell there was a story there. It wasn’t until the night before the Long Night, possibly their last night, that Jamie worked up the balls to track him down and talk. 

“Jon I alre-” The door the chambers opened with a clang as Y/N threw the door open, he paused at the sight of Jamie standing there, a pitcher of wine in his hand. “Jamie?” 

“I brought wine.” 

Y/N shook his head, letting out a short laugh, “Come in.” 

They ended up splitting four pitchers of wine between them before Y/N cut them both off, “We’re fighting a war tomorrow. We’ll be no use drunk.” 

Y/N leaned over to place the empty pitcher back on the table and Jamie could smell the wine on his breath as the man entered his space. The smell of wine and the sudden closeness brought Jamie back to the last time they’d been left alone drunk with each other. 

Jamie could never figure out just exactly how Y/N had convinced him into his bed, but he remembers the moment where Jamie decided that it was what he wanted. 

‘You’re a demanding little thing, aren’t you?’  The man had whispered in his ear, pressing up against the door and pushing the breath out of Jamie's lungs. Jamie had been drunk, arrogant, and controlling throughout their journey up to the room, making snide comments about Y/N’s vows that Y/N had returned tenfold with taunts of Jamie and Cersei’s relationship that he had been too drunk to deny. As soon as Y/N’s rough laugh and taunting words had reached Jamie’s ears his resolve had broken and his knees had gone weak. 

“Jamie?” Y/N said cautiously, snapping the man out of his memories. 

“I still think about that night.” The words tumbled out of Jamie’s mouth before he could stop them and Y/N froze. Before the wine induced bravery could leave him, Jamie continued. “It’s been three years since and you still plague my dreams. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to speak to you since I arrived, can you imagine? The Kingslayer, scared of a conversation.” 

Y/N laughed, “You’re drunk.” 

“No.” Jamie shook his head. “If being drunk is what makes me think of you this way, I've been drunk every waking moment for the last three years. I know what I said to you all those years ago, but I was wrong. I will never be able to carve you from my heart. you are embedded too deep.” 

Y/N’s breath caught, but before Jamie could regret opening his big mouth Y/N surged forward. He grabbed Jamie’s face, bringing their mouths together. Nothing about the way Y/N was claiming his lips was sweet, it was rough bitten kisses and rough hands grabbing his hair and bringing him closer to him. It was so familiar to the way that Y/N had claimed him all those years ago that Jamie couldn’t do anything but smile and melt into the man as he dragged him toward the bed. 

Jamie was hyper-aware of the war looming over them as Y/N undressed him, lips trailing down his body with each new piece of skin that was revealed. But he couldn’t find it in himself to be too upset by the deadline, content to finally take something for himself even if it was just going to be one last time. 

[atomic--peach]

Her Grace's Handmaiden. Pt3

(Cersei Lannister x Fem Reader x Jaime Lannister: SMUT threesome, voyerism, praise kink, oral (Male receiving) )

AO3 VERSION: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

After the event with the mare, the queen saw fit that you would be given basic riding lessons.

"Right, now just do exactly as he says" Cersei emphasized. "No second guessing or backtalk. Treat him as you would me."

"Of course, Your Grace" You were wrapped in a thin wool cloak and worn leather boots, bracing against the chill of the coming autumn. The summer had to end sometime, you supposed.

"My brother is being very generous, offering to teach you." Cersei reminded you.

"I am very grateful for the help" You kept your eyes trained ahead, not wanted to see presumptuous by looking at the queen too much or talking too much.

It was bizarre, two high-borns taking such an interest in someone like you. It made you uneasy, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I certainly don't to embarrass myself more than I already have."

Jaime was waiting for you by the stables, dressed in sturdy riding leather. His blonde hair flopped into his eyes and was brushed back with a gloved hand before he spotted your approach and smiled charmingly.

"Sweet sister" he greeted Cersei before resting his pale green eyes on you "And your new plaything."

"Now Jaime" Cersei chided him, "Be nice, Y/N isn't used to your teasing like I am."

"She will be" Jaime smirked at you, watching the blush creep up your neck and across your face. "Come, let's get started."

"I'll be waiting with the party, my dear." Cersei touched your shoulder, quickening your pulse as you whipped around.

"Your Grace, you're leaving?"

"Rest assured, you are in good hands" The queen insisted, flashing you a cryptic smile. "Good luck"

"Charming, isn't she?" Jaime came from behind you, watching as his sister left you to your own devices. "Come now, the faster we start, the faster you can stop being bullied by Clegane and that rabid stallion of his."

Eager to stand (er, ride) on your own two feet, you followed him before realizing there was only one horse readied.

"Uh, Ser?"

"You didn't think I'd jump to letting you ride on your own that quickly, did you?" Jaime practically laughed in your face. "Here, you first."

"I..." you gawked at the saddle the horse was set with. "You mean riding astride?"

"Something wrong with it?"

You thought for a moment before embracing your mistress's request to trust the knight.

"No, not at all"

He hoisted you up onto the back of his sturdy mount before swinging his legs up behind you. You swallowed a gasp, suddenly finding yourself pressed between the pommel of the saddle and Ser Jaime's chest.

"Let's get into some open terrain so you have space to learn"

Before you could protest, the knight had set the beast off at a quick gallop, one hand gripping the reigns and the other arm wrapped firmly around your waist to keep you from falling off.

Once you were well away from the party and in a broad scope of field, Jaime stopped the horse.

"Now," He handed you the reigns and without preamble place two solid hands on your shoulders. "The first thing to know about proper horse riding is your posture. You want to guide the beast properly? You have to sit it properly."

He gently guided your shoulder back, straightening your spine in the process.

"Now there's a saying my riding master taught me as a boy. And while it may seem forward, I need you to trust me."

Your skin prickled at the near constant contact between your bodies but tried to push it down and focus on the lesson. "Her Grace insisted you were the best. You have my full trust, Ser."

"Good Girl" Jaime praised in a tone that almost melted into a purr. "Now the first thing you want to remember about riding a horse is; Shoulders like a Soldier..."His hands slid from your shoulders, down your arms, before coming to rest on your hips. "and Hips like a Whore."

"Ser!" You gasped but Jaime tutted you into submission.

"I warned you it was forward, but just trust me." He soothed, "Now I am going to drive the horse forward slowly, and I want you to just-" His grip on your hips tightened "Follow the motion."

The beast began to move forward at a gentle walk and as the they went; Jaime's hands slowly guided your hips to match the motion of the horse's gait.

"A little faster?" He asked and you nodded, growing in confidence.

The walk turned to a trot, and the trot to a brisk cantor, and finally to a full gallop which left you breathless, clinging to the horse with your thighs as if you might fall off at any moment.

"Very good" Jaime practically cooed in your ear, slowing the beast back down to a peaceful trop. "You are everything my sister promised."

You beamed at that, proud to have lived up to your mistress's praises.

As your breath returned to you, you began to notice something different. Something that hadn't been there when you started your ride.

A hardness pressed against your ass, brushing up against you with the motion of the beast below you.

"S-ser Jaime." You swallowed. "We should go-"

"Go back, so soon?" Jaime crooned, pulling you closer to him in the saddle and bringing the horse back to a quick trot. "It's a lovely day, we should take advantage of it"

The hardness grew, and you tried not to notice until you felt it twitch slightly and Jaime muffled a moan in his throat.

"I don't think Her Grace would-"

"Would what?" Jaime grinned knowingly at your confused tone. "Sweetling, why do you think she left you out here all alone with me?"

"Because she trusts you, you're her brother."

"Hm" Jaime's hands massaged your hips slowly, running over your soft thighs and even venturing around to the front to cup your sex through your skirt.

You gasped at the sudden touch, pulse pounding as his two fingers skillfully located your slit and began to rub gently through the fabric of your dress.

"Ser" You breathed, trying to organize your thoughts as Jaime pulled your hips back to him, your back flush against his chest, rubbing slow circles through your skirt with the tips of his fingers.

"Just relax, sweetling" He breathed into your ear, "If you get too excited, the horse will sense it. Then we're both in trouble."

"We shouldn't..."

"I don't see you stopping me." He pointed out, hips continuing to brush the length of his cock against your ass. "All I feel is your body heating up against mine. Are you getting excited?"

"Oh Gods." Without thinking, you scrambled off the horse, falling onto your back as you did so.

Jaime laughed out loud, dismounting skillfully and grabbing you by the ankle before you could run for camp.

"Easy, easy girl" He chuckled, batting off you attempts to kick him like they were nothing. "Just calm down."

"The Queen will know." You gasped, heart suddenly pounding. "Her Grace, she trusted me, she's done so much for me, and now I'm here with you and she'll be so angry."

Hot tears began to stream down your face as you began to panic. Jaime paled, not expecting this to go this badly as he attempted to shush your sobs.

"No, no, no, Darling. Just listen, just listen" He tried to grab your attention. "Look, we'll go back to camp. We'll see my sister. Everything will be okay; I swear to you."

Not quite believing him and half convinced your mistress would abandon you here in the wilderness as soon as she heard, you wiped your tears and nodded.

Jaime gathered you in his arms and guided you back to the horse and ferried you both back to the party. He did his best to hide your distress from everyone else as you approached the queen's royal caravan.

"Enter." Cersei turned eagerly as her brother entered, giddy to see how her plan unfolded before her face fell. "What happened?"

Jaime opened his mouth to explain but before he could, you fell to your knees and bowed lowly.

"Your Grace," You sobbed into the ground. "I'm so sorry, I have failed you and betrayed you. I am not worthy of your mercy, but I beg for it all the same."

"I-" Cersei starred at Jaime who shook his head, shrugging in a helpless fashion. "Jaime, what did you do?"

"Exactly what you told me to do, I swear." Jaime insisted,

"Oh" Cersei's mind clicked with understanding and an amused smile crept across her face. "Oh, Y/N. You stupid little thing. Get up."

You obeyed, wiping your tears as the Queen knelt down to look at you.

"Y/N, I sent you out with Jaime *hoping* he would seduce you."

"What?"

"Yes, sweetling." She laughed, "You've been so good for me these last few weeks, and I wanted to reward you. You foolish girl, look at you worked up over nothing. Don't you feel ridiculous?"

You did, ridiculous and embarrassed and ashamed.

"Ser Jaime, I owe you an apology." You couldn't meet his eye, "Her Grace told me to trust you and instead I took you for a villain. Please forgive me?"

"I suppose I can." The knight nodded. "Though you did leave me in quite the uncomfortable position."

"Oh" a blush flooded your face again. "I'm sorry."

"Sweetling" Cersei placed a hand on the top of your head, "You aren't thinking of denying my reward for you, are you?"

"I-" The words caught in your throated. "Your Grace, I-. But-"

"Jaime, come here." Cersei beckoned her brother closer, leaning in to whisper in your ear, "You haven't quite earned the privilege of my bed yet. Treat Ser Jaime as you would me."

Your instructions were clear, and if it pleased your mistress, you were more than happy to comply.

Cersei's nimble hands reached forward to undo the laces of Jaime's trousers, pushing you forward to do the rest as she returned to the chaise with an eager gleam in her eye.

"Have you ever bedded a man before?" Jaime asked and you nodded. It had only been once, but you remembered how everything worked.

Peeling through layers of fabric, you freed the knight's semi-hard cock from his small clothes and scooted closer to him on your knees. A deep rumble of a groan filled the caravan as you took the tip in your mouth, sucking gently before taking more and more length down your throat. Before long, the tip of your nose was buried in the patch of fine blond hair at the base.

"Gods" Jaime breathed, a hand reaching down to grasp at your hair. "Gently, darling gent-" His words caught in his throat as you drew your tongue up the length of him before swiftly taking it whole, gagging slightly to accommodate it. The taste of salty pre-cum coated your taste buds and you hummed with satisfaction.

"That's enough."

You paused your ministrations when your mistress cut in sharply.

"Jaime," she crooned lowly, "Don't be greedy."

Jaime sighed, his brow already shining with perspiration as he withdrew his cock from your throat, a thin strand of saliva hanging from your lips as you gazed up at him.

"The queen is right, sweetling." He sighed, guiding you up by the tip of your chin. "This is supposed to be your reward, not mine."

Eagerly, you allowed him to unlace your bodice and aided him in removing your skirt and small clothes.

"Excited little thing, aren't you?" He chuckled, pulling you in for a deep kiss. His tongue prodded at your lips pleadingly until you parted them, making sure to explore his mouth as much as he did yours. He growled at this, unaccustomed to not being the dominant one, but you responded by sharply nipping his lower lip and grinning. He pulled away with a challenged look, as if calculating his next move.

"Come here" He spat, spinning you around and pulling your back flush against his chest, one hand snaked to your throat as the other danced across your chest. His calloused fingers grazed over your nipples, which responded eagerly as he palmed the softness of your breasts.

"Look" He breathed in your ear, rubbing his hips against your ass as he had in the field. "If you'd been a good girl, we'd have had privacy. Now look at you, about to be fucked in front of your queen."

You moaned at this, biting your lower lip and closing your eyes as he chuckled against your shoulder.

"Or maybe you like this better? Tell me, how long has it been since you've been properly fucked, hm? Years, perhaps?" His hand wondered between your legs once more, locating the sensitive bundle of nerves he knew drove women wild.

"That's right sweet girl," He breathed, firmly pressing his fingers against your clit. Your body tensed and your hips didn't know if they should chase the pleasure of his fingers or flee the intensity of the electricity building between your legs. "Now now, you stay right there."

One hand tweaking your hard nipples and the other pressing your ass against the knight's cock as it circled your clit, you knew you wouldn't last long like this. Your thighs trembled and tried to tighten around his hand, which only made him tease you more.

"Look at this sister, only a few minutes and her body is begging for release. Is that what you want, sweetling? To cum in front of your mistress?"

"Gods, yes! Please, please, please." You begged, skin slick with sweat.

"What a sweet girl, begging so nicely for us." Jaime cooed, sucking on the crook of your neck with a humming laugh. "What do you think, sister?"

You looked up and saw your mistress's face alight with excitement, her own thighs squeezing together as she watched the show her brother put on for her.

"I think....not"

You whined when Jaime all at once withdrew his touch from your body.

"Take her to the bed. I want to watch her cum around you." Cersei requested and Jaime gladly obliged.

"Tell me, sweet sister," Jaime hummed, watching Cersei leave her chaise to meet him at the bed where he deposited your aching, desperate body. "How would you like your little slave fucked?"

"Bend her over" Cersei demanded without hesitation, cupping your face almost gently as Jaime flipped you on your stomach. "I want to watch your face when he fucks you."

Her words drove another spike of need between your legs as Jaime spread your thighs and thrust into your dripping cunt without preamble. The sudden intrusion made you instantly clench around him and claw at the bedding desperately as he drove into you over and over.

"Look at me." Cersei cooed, watching your eyes dart rapidly trying to find her, "Gods, you look so pretty like this. How does he feel inside of you? What I would give to fuck you like this." Her hands petted your hair, damp and clinging to your neck and forehead with sweat. When she spoke to you like this, it was like the whole world melted away and became an extension of her. Even Jaime, especially Jaime, was just an extension of her and her will. She was the one who was fucking you right now, and it was her who made the muscles in your core snap as waves of pleasure washed over you.

When your body began to spasm under him, Jaime could only hold back long enough to pull out as quickly as he possibly could, coating your ass and back with ropes of cum. His weight collapsed on top of you for a moment, both of you breathing heavy. Both of you feeling like you'd been fucked by someone who hadn't even touched you.

Cersei rose up off the bed and tossed a rag at Jaime before leaning over you again, peppering soft kisses over your still sensitive skin.

"Good girl, sweet girl, how wonderful you've been for me." she purred.

[starogeorgina]

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Baratheon reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of animal cruelty

Chapter: 1.01

You stand before the iron throne teary-eyed; this was the goodbye you had been dreading for over a year. It was time for you to leave your home and travel to Dorne to meet your betrothed, Prince Oberyn Martell, the red viper.

The king's eyes move over the different entrances to the throne room, and many knights from the king's guard, including your uncle Jamie, stand at attention, ready to cut down any threat to the king and his family. “Your mother?”

Your mother visited your chambers the night before to inform you that Dornish men were known for ravaging women, and your wedding night will be one of the most unpleasant and painful experiences you’ll ever live through. You hadn’t seen her since then.

“We said our goodbyes last night, my king.”

He knows you’re lying; you often did when it came to Cersei. He stands and motions for you to step closer.

Your grandsire, Tywin Lannister narrows his eyes and nods. He was in full agreement that using you as a political pawn was the way forward. Joffrey stands beside him, looking bored, while Myrcella and Tommen both cry. You didn’t want to leave them, but it was your duty.

As the first legitimate child of King Robert Baratheon, you should have been next in line to the throne, but you were a daughter. So the throne would bypass you and go to the eldest male, Joffrey. The irony was that your father made you sit in his council meetings, would ask your opinions on different matters, and allowed you to sit in on your brother's sword lessons, something that your mother disapproved of. Your father had never once shown any interest in Joffrey or prepared him to rule one day.

Your father cups your face, wiping away a fallen tear with his thumb. “Y/n, my daughter, do not cry again, as I won't be there to wipe your tears anymore.”

“I will miss you, father.”

“Next time I see you, I will be at your wedding, and you will be the most beautiful bride the seven kingdoms have ever seen.”

—

“There she is.” Ellaria nudges Oberyn's shoulder and points in the direction of a young, timid-looking girl sitting on a staircase overlooking one of the ponds. “I expected her to have the famous golden lion hair.”

“Perhaps this one really is a Baratheon,” he quips. The Prince wasn’t sure if it was common knowledge or not that Cersei’s three youngest children were rumored to be fathered by their uncle Jamie. However, it appears his future bride wasn’t the result of incest.

“Princess y/n Baratheon, the eldest daughter of King Robert, and Cersei fucking Lannister.”

Oberyn smirks at hearing the venom in his lover's voice; she hates House Lannister just as much as he does. He watches as the girl, who couldn’t have been much older than seventeen, twitches her jaw; she can sense them looking at them. He had argued with his elder brother, Prince Doran, when he agreed to the betrothal between Oberyn and the daughter of his enemy without his permission.

“Trust me, brother, this is the way.”

He should be going over to at least introduce himself, but the girl looks so terrified that Oberyn thought it was best to give her some time.

Ellaria Scoffs asks, “Why did she bring those things? Does she think Dorne doesn’t have cats?”

“Because if she left them behind, Joffrey would have killed them.”

Oberyn looks away from the girl and turns around to see the infamous imp, Tyrion Lannister, walking towards them. He was the only one willing to travel to Dorne with the princess.

Tyrion graciously accepts a cup of wine, then sits down and indulges the drink in full before continuing. “Years ago, Robert gifted my niece a kitten on her name day; he picked that particular one because he said it had curious eyes that matched his oldest daughter’s. She named it Milady. She loved the little thing, and against my sister's wishes, she let it sleep in her bed, and it followed her around the keep, wherever my niece was, the kitten wasn’t far behind. It was quite cute, actually. Then one day it went missing, and y/n searched the full red keep and cried herself to sleep every night for weeks missing it.”

Tyrion had a way of telling a story that was very intriguing, almost as if it were an old tale passed down through generations. The prince sits down on a plush yellow chair across from his guest, his arm casually swinging over the back of it. “Then what? Did she ever find it?”

A look void of emotion passes through Tyrion’s features; he clicks his tongue while refilling his cup with wine. He takes a large gulp. “One evening during dinner, Joffrey claimed to have a gift for his sister, something to cheer her up. He had a servant bring in a red silk bag, and inside it was whatever remained of Milady. Robert was horrified, of course, but Cersei stated that cats were horrid little creatures and continued eating her meal as her daughter bawled her eyes out.”

“A cunt.”

Tyrion lifts his cup in agreement with Ellaria’s statement. A Lannister’s cruelty never surprised him, but a brother being allowed to treat his own sister like that was... Oberyn had no words.

“And that was my sister being kind to her. Does that answer your question?”

“What question?”

Tilting his head back, Tyrion gives them a knowing look, as if he knew what question was burning on the tip of their tongues. “Why is this marriage allowed to go ahead? It’s because even Robert, a drunken fool of a king, knows he can’t protect his daughter from her mother’s hate.”

“The girl's eyes are swollen; is she scared that the Dornish aren’t as kind as the people of King's Landing?” Ellaria asks sarcastically.

“Y/n didn’t want to leave her father, Tommen, or Myrcella,” Tyrion answers truthfully. “She’s been shipped off to a foreign country to marry a stranger who’s twice her age, with customs she doesn’t know or understand, and it may have possibly crossed her mind that she may be used to get revenge for the sack of King's landing. Of course she’s scared.”

Ellaria's brows pull together; being a mother herself, she couldn’t fathom the idea of putting her own child in harm's way. “And the Lannisters were still willing to send her to Dorne, thinking we were nothing more than monsters wanting revenge?”

Oberyn clenches his jaw. “What was done to my sister and her children—”

“Was a travesty,” Tyrion says, cutting him off. “But my niece had nothing to do with it. And the girl is not dim; she’s under no false allusions to who her mother, father, and grandfather are.”

“And yet she loves them still.”

Tyrion shrugs. “Hmm, she loves Robert, but I wouldn’t be so sure about her feelings towards my father and Cersei.”

Oberyn crosses his legs; he was curious to learn if Tyrion was saying these things in the hope he would be sympathetic towards the girl. “Why do you think the princess should be married to Martell?”

Looking over his shoulder, Tyrion smiles, observing his niece take in her new surroundings for a moment before answering. “Because I don’t believe you’ll treat her any worse than she already has been.”

—

After speaking with his guest for some time, Oberyn decides to go and introduce himself to y/n. From everything Tyrion had told him, he felt nothing but pity for his future bride. He looks across the garden and notices his paramour glaring at the girl, who seemed content playing with her pets. Since the wedding would be held in a few months, Oberyn had extended the invitation for Tyrion to stay in Dorne so that she wouldn’t be so alone.

Y/n doesn’t look back as he gets closer to her, even though she would have been able to hear him since the Prince was deliberately making his steps louder than normal. The Baratheon girl looks out of place by the way she was dressed; he’d need to have clothing that was more suited to the Dornish climate made for her.

A large black cat was stretched out across her lap, while two others playfully fought on the ground beside her feet, the sand sticking to their fur.

Oberyn sits down on the step beside her. She was so caught up in her creatures that she merely offered him a polite nod before turning her attention back to the cat, which caused him to smile. “What’s its name?”

“This is Balerion. The brown one is Vhagar, and the white one is Meraxes.”

His brows arch in surprise. “You have an interest in Westeros history?”

“Mainly house Baratheon and Targaryen.”

“Why those houses?"

She continues to focus on the animal sprawled across her, scratching behind the cat's ear. She nips at her tongue before answering, as if she’s thinking of an acceptable answer. “I like learning about my family’s history.”

“I imagined you’re tired of hearing about Robert’s rebellion.”

She scoffs, “The septa who taught myself and Myrcella was rather skilled in telling us the histories she wanted us to learn.”

He raises his brows and asks, “Is that so?”

“Nobody was ever going to tell us the full truth of what happened, only the parts they wanted to be remembered.”

Oberyn becomes so lost in his thoughts of the sacking of kings landing that he doesn’t even realise one of the cats had climbed up onto him until he feels the pinch of his claw on his thigh. He swallows back the poison, ready to jump from his mouth, reminding himself that the poor girl couldn’t help who her parents were. “So, who’s your favorite Baratheon then?” He asks, hoping to lighten his sudden, tense mood. “Your father?”

“No,” she chuckles. “The founder of House Baratheon, Orys Baratheon. He was the bastard son of Aerion Targaryen and stepbrother to the three conquerors.”

“The Dornish refused to bend the knee to house Targaryen during Aegon’s conquest.”

“Your words. Ours are unbowed, unbent, and unbroken. You may burn us, my lady, but you will not bend us, break us, or make us bow. This is Dorne. You are not wanted here. Return at your peril.”

The prince was impressed; he didn’t think the Baratheon princess would have any knowledge of who Meria Martell was, let alone his house words. They sit in silence for some time, and Oberyn watches as the sun begins to disappear. The stillness is only disturbed when she speaks again.

“I’m sorry, Prince Oberyn.” She finally looks up at him, her eyes full of sorrow as they meet his. “For what my family did to house Martell, I’m sorry.”

Oberyn was lost for words; he had accepted many thoughts from the daughter of Robert and Cersei, but for her to show genuine remorse wasn’t one of them.

[godjustkys]

╰┈➤ ❝ masterlist;

FANDOMS I WRITE FOR;

- Teen wolf

- Marvel Cinematic Universe

- Supernatural

- The Walking Dead (AMC)

- Merlin (BBC)

- Stranger things

- Dune

- Game of Thrones

- F.R.I.E.N.D.S

- The Maze Runner

- Lord of The Rings

- The Hobbit

- Harry Potter

- Brooklyn Nine-Nine

- IT

- Diary of a Wimpy Kid

- Dead Poet's Society

- Shameless

- Handsome Devil

- The Black Phone

- Sweet Home

- Arcane

- Spider-man Universe

- The Goldfinch

- The Last of Us

- The Beekeeper

- Weak Hero Class 1

- Bad and Crazy

ANIMES;

- Demon Slayer

- My Hero Academia

(the anime list will get updated as long as I continue watching anime.)

Characters I will to write for;

Teen wolf:

- Stiles Stilinski

Stiles Stilinski x top!m!reader (smut)

- Scott McCall

none yet..

- Derek Hale

none yet..

- Allison Argent

none yet..

- Lydia Martin

none yet..

- Isaac Lahey

none yet..

- Jackson Whittemore

none yet..

- Peter Hale

none yet..

- Malia Tate

none yet..

- Kira Yukimura

none yet..

- Liam Dunbar

none yet..

- Theo Raeken

none yet..

- Jordan Parrish

none yet..

- Erica Reyes

none yet..

- Ethan Steiner

none yet..

- Aiden Steiner

none yet..

- Christopher Argent

none yet..

- Mason Hewitt

none yet..

- Danny Mahealani

none yet..

Marvel Cinematic Universe:

- Tony Stark

none yet..

- Peter Parker

none yet..

- Bruce Banners

none yet..

- Thor Odinson

none yet..

- Loki Laufeyson

none yet..

- Steve Rogers

none yet..

- Natasha Romanoff

none yet..

- Stephen Strange

none yet..

- Wanda Maximoff

none yet..

- Clint Barton

none yet..

- Bucky Barnes

none yet..

- Carol Danvers

none yet..

- Shuri

none yet..

- Sam Wilson

none yet..

- Okoye

none yet..

- Wade Wilson

none yet..

- Pietro Maximoff

none yet..

- Vision

none yet..

- Yelena Belova

none yet..

- Peter Quill

none yet..

- Gamora

none yet..

- Nebula

none yet..

- Matt Murdock

none yet..

- Frank Castle

none yet..

- Xu Shang-chi

none yet..

- Eddie Brock

none yet..

Supernatural:

- Dean Winchester

'What a perv.' Dean x top!m!reader (smut)

Hate sex with Dean (male reader, smut)

smut drabble (male reader)

- Sam Winchester

sam being the subbiest of them all (smut, male reader)

- Castiel

none yet..

ALL; SUPERNATURAL HEADCANONS (NSFW)

(I have little knowledge of supernatural.)

The Walking Dead:

- Rick Grimes

none yet..

- Carl Grimes

none yet..

- Michonne

none yet..

- Negan

none yet..

- Daryl Dixon

male reader x daryl dixon (smut)

- Eugene

none yet..

- Rosita Espinosa

none yet..

- Maggie Greene

none yet..

- Glenn Rhee

none yet..

- Carol Peletier

none yet..

- Andrea

none yet..

- Gabriel Stokes

none yet..

- Dwight

none yet..

- Simon

none yet..

Merlin:

- Merlin

none yet..

- Arthur Pendragon

none yet..

- Morgana Pendragon

none yet..

- Guinevere

none yet..

- Lancelot

none yet..

- Mordred

none yet..

- Gwaine

none yet..

- Percival

none yet..

- Elyan

none yet..

- Leon

none yet..

Strangers things:

- Mike Wheeler

none yet..

- Nancy Wheeler

none yet..

- Will Byers

none yet..

- Jonathan Byers

none yet..

- Joyce Byers

none yet..

- Jim Hopper

none yet..

- Jane 'Eleven' Hopper

none yet..

- Lucas Sinclair

none yet..

- Dustin Henderson

none yet..

- Steve Harrington

none yet..

- Maxine Mayfield

none yet..

- Billy Hargrove

none yet..

- Dmitri 'Enzo' Antonov

none yet..

- Eddie Munson

none yet..

- Henry Creel

none yet..

- Robin Buckley

none yet..

ALL; stranger things headcanons.. pt 1.

Dune:

- Paul Atreides

none yet..

- Leto Atreides

none yet..

- Chani

none yet..

- Feyd-Rautha

none yet..

- Duncan Idaho

none yet..

- Stilgar

none yet..

Game of Thrones:

- Ned Stark

none yet..

- Catelyn Stark

none yet..

- Robb Stark

none yet..

- Jon Snow

none yet..

- Theon Greyjoy

none yet..

- Sansa Stark

none yet..

- Arya Stark

none yet..

- Tywin Lannister

none yet..

- Jaime Lannister

none yet..

- Cersei Lannister

none yet..

- Tyrion Lannister

none yet..

- Tommen Baratheon

none yet..

- Joffrey Baratheon

none yet..

- Daenerys Targaryen

none yet..

- Jorah Mormont

none yet..

- Sandor Clegane

none yet..

- Samwell Tarly

none yet..

- Margaery Tyrell

none yet..

- Tormund Giantsbane

none yet..

- Brienne of Tarth

none yet..

- Podrick

none yet..

- Ramsay Bolton

none yet..

- Jaqen H'ghar

none yet..

- Grey Worm

none yet..

F.R.I.E.N.D.S:

- Rachel Greene

none yet..

- Phoebe Buffay

none yet..

- Monica Geller

none yet..

- Ross Geller

none yet..

- Chandler Bing

male reader x chandler bing headcanons!! (SFW + NSFW)

- Joey Tribbiani

Joey Tribbiani dating headcanons (SFW+NSFW)

The Maze Runner:

- Thomas

none yet..

- Newt

none yet..

- Minho

none yet..

- Gally

none yet..

- Frypan

none yet..

- Aris

none yet..

- Janson

none yet..

Lord of The Rings:

- Frodo Baggins

none yet..

- Samwise Gamgee

none yet..

- Pippin Took

none yet..

- Merry Brandybuck

none yet..

- Aragorn

none yet..

- Legolas

none yet..

- Boromir

none yet..

- Faramir

none yet..

- Galadriel

none yet..

- Arwen

none yet..

- Éowyn

none yet..

- Éomer

none yet..

The Hobbit:

- Bilbo Baggins

none yet..

- Thorin Oakenshield

none yet..

- Kili Durin

none yet..

- Fili Durin

none yet..

- Tauriel

none yet..

- King Thranduil

none yet..

- Elrond

none yet..

Harry Potter:

- Harry Potter

none yet..

- Hermione Granger

none yet..

- Ron Weasley

none yet..

- Fred Weasley

none yet..

- George Weasley

none yet..

- Draco Malfoy

none yet..

- Blaise Zabini

none yet..

- Oliver Wood

none yet..

- Seamus Finnigan

none yet..

- Luna Lovegood

none yet..

- Neville Longbottom

none yet..

- Dean Thomas

none yet..

- Severus Snape

none yet..

- Sirius Black

none yet..

- Regulus Black

none yet..

- Remus Lupin

none yet..

- James Potter

none yet..

- Lily Potter

none yet..

- Bill Weasley

none yet..

- Bellatrix Lestrange

none yet..

- Cedric Diggory

none yet..

- Lucius Malfoy

none yet..

- Narcissa Malfoy

none yet..

Brooklyn Nine-Nine:

- Jake Peralta

none yet..

- Amy Santiago

none yet..

- Charles Boyle

none yet..

- Gina Linetti

none yet..

- Rosa Diaz

none yet..

- Terry Jeffords

none yet..

- Ray Holt

none yet..

IT:

- Richie Tozier

none yet..

- Eddie Kaspbrak

none yet..

- Beverly Marsh

none yet..

- Bill Denbrough

none yet..

- Stanley Uris

none yet..

- Ben Hanscom

none yet..

- Mike Hanlon

none yet..

- Henry Bowers

none yet..

- Patrick Hockstetter

none yet..

Diary of a wimpy kid:

- Greg Heffley

none yet..

- Rodrick Heffley

none yet..

Dead Poet's Society:

- Neil Perry

none yet..

- Todd Anderson

none yet..

- Charlie Dalton

none yet..

- Knox Overstreet

none yet..

- Steven Meeks

none yet..

- John Keating

none yet..

Shameless:

- Fiona Gallagher

none yet..

- Lip Gallagher

none yet..

- Ian Gallagher

none yet..

- Debbie Gallagher

none yet..

- Carl Gallagher

none yet..

- Liam Gallagher

none yet..

- Mickey Milkovich

none yet..

- Mandy Milkovich

none yet..

- Kevin Ball

none yet..

- Veronica Fisher

none yet..

- Jimmy Lishman

none yet..

- Karen Jackson

none yet..

Handsome Devil:

- Ned Roche

none yet..

- Conor Masters

none yet..

- Dan Sherry

none yet..

The Black Phone:

- Finney Blake

none yet..

- Robin Arellano

none yet..

- Vance Hopper

none yet..

- Bruce Yamada

none yet..

- Billy

none yet..

- Griffin

none yet..

Sweet home:

- Cha Hyun-su

none yet..

- Lee Eun-hyuk

none yet..

- Pyeon Sang-wook

none yet..

- Jung Jae-heon

none yet..

- Seo Yi-kyung

none yet..

- Lee Eun-yu

none yet..

- Yoon Ji-su

none yet..

- Jung Ui-Myeong

none yet..

Arcane:

- Jinx

none yet..

- Vi

none yet..

- Viktor

none yet..

- Caitlyn

none yet..

- Silco

none yet..

- Sevika

none yet..

- Ekko

none yet..

- Vander

none yet..

- Mel

none yet..

- Jayce

none yet..

Spider-Man Universe:

- Peter Parker (A. G.)

none yet..

- Peter Parker (T. M.)

none yet..

- Peter B. Parker

none yet..

- Miles Morales (Earth 1610)

none yet..

- Miles Morales (Earth 42)

none yet..

- Miguel O'Hara

none yet..

- Hobie Brown

none yet..

- Pavitr Prabhakar

none yet..

- Gwen Stacy

none yet..

The Goldfinch:

- Boris Pavlikovsky

none yet..

- Theodore Decker

none yet..

The Last of Us:

- Ellie Williams

none yet..

- Joel Miller

none yet..

- Tommy Miller

none yet..

- Tess Servopoulos

none yet..

- Abby Anderson

none yet..

- Dina Woodward

none yet..

- Lev

none yet..

- Yara

none yet..

- Jesse Pinkman

none yet..

- Manny

none yet..

- Owen

none yet..

- Mel

none yet..

The Beekeeper:

- Derek Danforth

none yet..

- Adam Clay

none yet..

Weak Hero Class 1:

- Yeon Si-eun

none yet..

- Oh Beom-seok

none yet..

- Ahn Su-ho

none yet..

- Park Hu-min

none yet..

- Kang Woo-young

none yet..

- Jeon Seok-dae

none yet..

Bad and Crazy:

- Ryu Soo-Yeol

none yet..

- Do In-beom

none yet..

- K

none yet..

- Oh Kyung-Tae

none yet..

- Boss Yong

none yet..

- Andrei Kang

none yet..

Demon slayer:

- Tanjiro Kamado

none yet..

- Nezuko Kamado

none yet..

- Zenitsu Agatsuma

none yet..

- Inosuke Hashibira

none yet..

- Genya Shinazugawa

none yet..

- Kanao Tsuyuri

none yet..

- Aoi

none yet..

- Shinobu Kocho

none yet..

- Tomioka Giyuu

none yet..

- Rengoku Kyojuro

none yet..

- Uzui Tengen

none yet..

- Mitsuri Kanroji

none yet..

- Obanai Iguro

none yet..

- Shinazugawa Sanemi

none yet..

- Muichiro Tokito

none yet..

- Gyomei Himejima

none yet..

- Muzan Kibutsuji

none yet..

- Akaza

none yet..

- Douma

none yet..

- Gyutaro

none yet..

- Daki

none yet..

- Kokushibo

none yet..

- Murata

none yet..

HASHIRA; hashira headcanons, pt.1 (angst)

My Hero Academia:

- Izuku Midoriya

none yet..

- Katsuki Bakugou

none yet..

- Shoto Todoroki

none yet..

- Tenya Iida

none yet..

- Ochako Uraraka

none yet..

- Denki Kaminari

none yet..

- Eijirou Kirishima

none yet..

- Tokoyami Fumikage

none yet..

- Shoji Mezo

none yet..

- Momo Yaoyorozu

none yet..

- Hanta Sero

none yet..

- Kyoka Jirou

none yet..

- Mashirao Ojirou

none yet..

- Mina Ashido

none yet..

- Yuga Aoyama

none yet..

- Monoma Neito

none yet..

- Shinsou Hitoshi

none yet..

- Rumi Usagiyama

none yet..

- Keigo Takami

none yet..

- Aizawa Shouta

none yet..

- Hizashi Yamada

none yet..

- Oboro Shirakumo

none yet..

- Touya Todoroki

none yet..

- Tomura Shigaraki

none yet..

- Toga Himiko

none yet..

- Jin Bubaigawara

none yet..

adding anime back cause I watched demon slayer,,, :3

[c0ffe3c4t]

—﹙💰﹚⑅ @CERSEI LANNISTER ♡  ₊

🦁(Nsfw) │ 🥞(Angst) │ 🍸(Soft)

❝ THE WOLF AND THE LION MAKE A RARE COMBINATION. ❞ 🦁🥞🍸

—“Lovers were made to defy fate, even when it separates them.”

[novaursa]

What Was Promised (2/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

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

- Previous part: 1/2

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

The torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep flickered as a warm evening breeze drifted through the open archways, carrying with it the distant echoes of music and laughter from the great hall. The wedding feast continued in full splendor, but you had long since removed yourself from the revelry, slipping past the crowd with the ease of someone who did not wish to be found. The air outside was cooler, touched with the salt of Blackwater Bay, the night sky above the city dark and endless, save for the dim glow of scattered lanterns below.

You had always preferred solitude over the noise of court, and tonight was no different. The games played within the walls of the great hall were of little interest to you—hollow displays of feigned loyalty, careful smiles masking hidden ambitions. You had known the outcome of this day long before the first vows were spoken. Rhaegar was wed, the match sealed, the ties between Targaryen and Martell forged in ceremony. And yet, you had seen it in your father’s eyes during the feast, the way he had watched Rhaegar with something akin to contempt, the way his fingers had clenched against the armrest of his chair whenever Dorne was mentioned.

Aerys was slipping. The cracks in his mind were beginning to show, and the court whispered of it more freely now, no longer only in hushed corners but behind veiled hands at feasts and in council chambers.

You had just stepped into the open courtyard, inhaling the cool night air, when you heard the measured footfalls behind you.

You did not turn immediately.

Instead, you let the silence stretch, waiting, listening. The steps were deliberate, steady—not the hurried movement of a squire or the cautious gait of a servant. No, this was a man who knew he had a right to be here, who had no need to rush, no need to announce himself.

When you finally turned, you were unsurprised to find Lord Tywin Lannister standing there.

The lion of Casterly Rock regarded you with his piercing gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever. His golden cloak barely shifted in the breeze, his posture rigid, composed. He did not bow, nor did he feign pleasantries. Tywin Lannister did not waste words on things he deemed unnecessary.

“Leaving the festivities so soon, my prince?” he asked at last, his voice smooth, deliberate.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I find them tedious.”

Tywin gave a small nod, as if he had expected that answer. He stepped closer, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I had hoped to speak with you,” he said. “In private.”

You leaned back against one of the stone pillars, arms folding across your chest. “Then speak.”

For a moment, he only studied you, his green eyes measuring, weighing. Tywin Lannister did not enter a negotiation without first assessing his opponent. And though he was a man who commanded respect, a man who had shaped the realm through his rule as Hand, you knew well enough that he did not see you as his equal. Not yet.

“There is much uncertainty in the realm,” he began. “Much change. The King’s mind… wavers.” He did not say the word madness, but it hung unspoken between you.

You said nothing, waiting.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “Dorne is a weak alliance.”

That caught your interest. Your lips curled slightly. “My brother seems to disagree.”

“Your brother is not the King,” Tywin countered, his voice edged with finality. “And he may never be.”

You let that settle between you, watching the way his eyes flickered, the careful way in which he chose his words.

You had known this conversation would come eventually. Tywin Lannister had spent years molding himself as the true power behind the throne, his command as Hand unchallenged for over a decade. He had built the might of House Lannister not through blind loyalty, but through strategy, through precision, through patience.

And now, as Aerys slipped further into paranoia, as his trust in his former Hand crumbled, Tywin was looking elsewhere.

“You speak as if you are ready to break from the King,” you said evenly.

Tywin’s face remained impassive. “I speak of alliances, my prince.”

A small breath of amusement escaped you. “And how, Lord Lannister, do you propose we form such an alliance?”

The words lingered in the night air.

Tywin’s silence was his answer.

Your smirk deepened. “You offer me your daughter.”

Still, Tywin did not blink.

“It would be a strong match,” he said simply. “Your father has already made his disdain for Dorne clear, even as he binds our future to them. House Lannister is a stronger ally, with resources unmatched by any in Westeros.”

You watched him carefully, noting the steel in his tone, the unwavering certainty. Tywin Lannister did not beg, nor did he request. He offered, knowing full well that what he brought to the table was of worth.

But he was not a man without pride.

And there was one flaw in his plan.

“Tell me, Lord Lannister,” you said, voice light, yet cutting, “do you truly believe my father would allow such a match?” You tilted your head slightly. “Would he not laugh in your face again?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, though his expression did not shift. “Your father is not the man he once was.”

“No,” you agreed. “He is not.”

You let the silence stretch again, considering. Tywin was not wrong—Dorne was a fragile ally at best, their fealty given only as long as it suited them. Aerys had made his choice, binding Rhaegar to Elia, but Aerys himself was no longer seen as a stable ruler.

And you?

You had always known your place in the shadows of your brother’s legacy, in the court that adored him, in the eyes of a father who only saw one true heir. But things were shifting. Rhaegar had secured his future. Perhaps it was time you secured yours.

Cersei.

Your mind drifted back to the dance, to the way she had met your gaze, unflinching, taunting. The way she had pressed you, provoked you. She did not cower. She did not shy away from the fire.

No, she burned just as fiercely.

You inhaled slowly, turning your attention back to Tywin. “I will consider your offer.”

Tywin Lannister gave a small nod, as if that was all he had expected. “That is all I ask.”

He did not bow as he turned to leave, his golden cloak sweeping behind him.

You watched him go, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

The lion had made his move.

Now, it was time to decide your own.

The tourney at Harrenhal was the grandest spectacle the realm had seen in decades, a gathering of lords and knights, of banners unfurled and sworn swords eager to prove themselves in the lists. The crumbling walls of the cursed castle loomed over the vast expanse of the field, its shadow stretching long across the gathering of nobility seated beneath richly adorned pavilions. The banners of every great house in Westeros fluttered in the early spring breeze, a riot of colors against the dull grey of Harrenhal’s ancient stones.

Cersei sat in a place of honor now, her seat among the royal family, though she was not yet their own. Not officially. But the whispers had long since spread, and the colors she wore today left no doubt.

Gone was the crimson and gold of House Lannister alone. In its place, she wore a gown of deep black, embroidered with dragons of gold and red—the colors of her betrothed. The weight of the silk clung to her as she sat beside her father, the great Lord Tywin Lannister, who had never looked more pleased, nor more controlled in his satisfaction.

She did not sit with Queen Rhaella or with Rhaegar’s Dornish wife, though Elia Martell was not far, her dark eyes keenly watching the jousts, her delicate hands clasped over the swell of her belly. Cersei knew the Martell princess found no joy in these games of blood and sport, but she played the role expected of her. Just as Cersei did.

Except today, there was something different.

Cersei’s gaze remained fixed on the field, watching as the next round of jousts commenced. The crowd was alive with anticipation, the rumbling excitement growing as knights rode forth, their lances gleaming in the afternoon light. The banners of House Baratheon, House Tyrell, House Tully, and a dozen others stood proud along the edges of the lists.

But none commanded attention quite like the black dragon.

He sat atop his destrier, the warhorse a beast of night-dark muscle, its breath misting in the cool air as it pawed at the earth. He wore no elaborate flourishes upon his armor, no unnecessary embellishments of pageantry this time. His armor was blackened steel, the filigree of golden dragons glinting faintly along the pauldrons and gauntlets, the sigil of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. His helm, adorned with nothing but the sharp ridges of Valyrian steel, concealed his expression, but Cersei did not need to see his face to know the weight of his gaze.

He had always been like this. Unyielding. Relentless. More dragon than courtier, a man who commanded without words, without poetry or song. Where Rhaegar had always been the prince of dreams, this one had been forged in fire and steel.

The crowd hushed as the joust began.

His opponent was formidable—Ser Jonothor Darry, a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, a man known for his prowess in the lists. But skill meant nothing when faced with sheer, unrelenting force.

The moment the signal was given, the two knights charged.

Their lances struck true, but where Ser Jonothor’s shattered harmlessly upon the black dragon’s breastplate, the younger prince’s struck with the precision of a predator. The impact was brutal, sending the Kingsguard knight crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust and splintered wood.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Cersei did not stand, did not clap. She only watched, her breath held in anticipation of what she knew was coming next.

He did not linger at the far end of the lists.

Instead, he turned his horse sharply, guiding the great beast along the edge of the stands, his movements controlled, deliberate. The other knights had played their part well today, accepting their victories with bows and flourishes, basking in the admiration of ladies eager to toss them favors.

But he did not stop for them.

He rode past the fluttering hands of noble daughters, past the bright smiles of eager young maidens hoping to catch his eye. Past the noblewomen who whispered his name behind their fans, their gazes lingering on the untamed silver of his hair, the unshakable confidence in his stride.

And then, he came to a stop.

Before her.

The hush that fell over the crowd was almost tangible, a collective breath held as the black dragon lifted his lance, tilting it toward Cersei in an unmistakable request.

A request for her favor.

She had waited years for this.

The moment she had been denied at the tourney so long ago, when he had walked past the ladies of the court without so much as a glance. The moment she had burned in silence as he had shown no interest, no desire to play the game that others so eagerly indulged in.

And now, here he was. A man, no longer a boy, standing before the court—before her—and making it known.

Cersei did not hesitate.

She rose from her seat, the black and gold of her gown pooling around her as she stepped forward. Her hands were steady as she unpinned the silken ribbon from her sleeve, the colors matching his own, a deliberate declaration that she was his and he was hers.

The crowd watched, murmuring, as she leaned down, tying the ribbon to the shaft of his lance with slow, deliberate movements. The cool steel beneath her fingers felt warm, thrumming with something unspoken, something electric.

When she finished, she met his gaze, her green eyes locking with his through the narrow slit of his helm.

She did not smile.

She did not need to.

The message was clear.

And then, without a word, he turned his horse and rode away, the black and gold trailing behind him like a banner of conquest.

Cersei sat back down, her heart pounding beneath her ribs, her fingers still tingling from where they had brushed against his.

This was no song of courtly love.

No empty gesture meant for admiration.

No, this was a claim.

And Cersei Lannister had never wanted anything more.

The chaos of the tourney had settled into an uneasy hum by the time you strode through the halls of Harrenhal, your blood still burning with the fury of what had just transpired. The air inside the great castle was thick with smoke and murmured voices, the remnants of feasting and celebration still clinging to the walls. But all of it felt like a distant haze compared to the storm raging inside you.

You had left the lists. You had withdrawn from the tourney just before facing Barristan Selmy, a match that had been anticipated by lords and knights alike. And in your absence, Rhaegar had taken your place.

And he had won.

That, in itself, did not matter. He was your brother, and if anyone was to best Barristan Selmy, it was him. But it was what came after that had sent the court into uproar, that had left the lords whispering and the ladies gasping.

Rhaegar, in all his silvered grace, had ridden past his own wife. Past Elia Martell, who had watched with her dark eyes brimming with quiet resignation. Past the woman he had sworn himself to in the sight of gods and men.

And he had crowned Lyanna Stark instead.

The blue roses had looked almost like an omen in his hands, their color rich and vibrant against the pale skin of the northern girl who stood frozen in the stands. The moment the wreath had touched her lap, the world had cracked apart.

A prince did not forsake his wife in such a way. A Targaryen did not snub Dorne. A husband did not humiliate his bride before the entire realm.

But Rhaegar had.

Because of some dream. Because of something he had seen in the flames or the stars or whatever foolish thing he had let consume his mind.

And now, you were going to make him face it.

The door to his chamber swung open with force as you stepped inside, the wood slamming against the stone wall. Rhaegar was standing by the hearth, his silver hair catching in the dim light, his hands braced against the mantel as if the weight of what he had done had only just begun to settle upon him. He did not turn immediately, as though he had been expecting you, as though he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

"You sentimental fool," you spat, your voice edged with barely restrained fury. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Rhaegar exhaled, slow and measured, before finally facing you. His indigo eyes were calm, but there was something else beneath them—something distant, something unshakable.

"I did what I had to," he said simply.

You laughed, the sound bitter. "Had to? Had to?" You took a step closer, your boots heavy against the stone floor. "You crowned a Stark bitch as your Queen of Love and Beauty. You humiliated your wife, insulted Dorne, and made an enemy of the North in the span of a single moment." Your voice dropped, sharp and cutting. "For what? A dream?"

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "It is more than that."

"You think the gods whispered to you?" You sneered, your patience unraveling. "You think some prophecy—some foolish, half-formed vision—is worth tearing the realm apart?"

Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "She is important."

"She is a girl," you snapped. "A girl with a wolf’s blood in her veins and a house that will burn the world to see her returned to them."

"She is more than that," he insisted, his voice firm, unwavering.

Your breath came harshly as you stared at him, your older brother, the golden son, the one everyone adored, the one who had been meant to lead. But looking at him now, all you saw was a man lost in his own delusions, a man who had damned them all for a whisper in the dark.

"Do you think Aerys will forgive this?" you demanded. "Do you think our father will let this pass? Or do you think he will see treason in your actions and burn every Stark in the process?" You stepped closer, your voice a growl. "You have destroyed us. You have destroyed her."

That struck something in him. A flicker of pain. Of doubt. But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I know what I am doing," Rhaegar said, but there was a crack in his voice, a hint of hesitation.

"No," you said, your voice low, dangerous. "You don’t."

And then, you moved.

Rhaegar barely had time to react before your fist struck his jaw, the force sending him stumbling back against the table. He caught himself, his eyes wide with shock, but you did not stop.

You lunged, grabbing the front of his tunic, shoving him back with enough force that the wooden chair beside him toppled over. He struggled, but you were stronger, your grip unrelenting as you slammed him against the stone wall, your forearm pressing against his throat.

"Do you think love will save you, brother?" you hissed. "Do you think the North will sing your praises for this?" You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his skin. "They will kill you. They will kill all of us."

Rhaegar struggled against your grip, his hands bracing against your arms, but you did not relent. You could feel the way his breath came faster, the way his pulse quickened beneath your hand.

"You would strike me?" he rasped, his voice strained.

"I would kill you if it meant saving our house," you snarled.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled behind you, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Your breathing was harsh, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears.

Then, with a sharp exhale, you shoved him away, releasing him with enough force that he staggered forward, coughing as he caught his breath.

"You are my brother," you said, your voice calmer now, but no less lethal. "But if you do not stop this madness, if you do not think before you act again, I will not be so merciful next time."

Rhaegar straightened, his hand rubbing his throat, but he said nothing.

You turned, striding toward the door. But before you left, you cast one final glance over your shoulder.

"Whatever it is you think you saw," you said, your voice quiet but firm, "forget it. Before it consumes you."

Then you were gone, leaving Rhaegar standing alone in the flickering firelight, his hand still pressed against his throat.

The waters of the Trident ran red with the blood of men. The clang of steel and the screams of the dying echoed over the riverbanks, drowning in the roar of war. The banners of Targaryen and Baratheon clashed in the wind, torn by the fury of battle, their colors sullied by the mud and gore that painted the ground beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of death—iron and sweat, flesh burned from the torches that had set the fields ablaze.

You had seen war before, but never like this. Never had you seen the river choke on the bodies of the slain, never had you watched knights drown beneath the weight of their own armor as they clawed at the surface, only to be pulled under by unseen hands. Never had you seen the dream of your house shatter like this.

And all for what?

For a woman. For a prophecy. For a foolish love that had turned a kingdom to ruin.

Rhaegar had always believed in destiny. He had believed in the songs, in the visions, in the whispers of things unseen. And now, here he was, fighting in the waters of the Trident, his silvered armor glinting with each desperate strike of his sword, his breath coming ragged, his strength waning.

And then, Robert Baratheon’s warhammer struck.

You saw it before you could stop it, before you could move, before you could call out. The heavy iron weapon swung through the air with terrifying force, smashing into Rhaegar’s chest with a sickening crunch. The dragon’s armor, the rubies embedded in the plate, shattered on impact, scattering like drops of blood across the river.

Rhaegar reeled back, his body crumbling into the shallows, the water around him churning red. His sword slipped from his fingers, sinking beneath the current as he struggled to breathe.

The world slowed.

Robert turned, lifting his hammer once more, his body heaving from exertion, his face twisted in victory. He did not see you coming.

You moved like the shadow of death itself.

Your sword was in your hand before thought could form, the weight of it an extension of your will. You had been trained for this since the moment you could walk, forged not in prophecy but in war, not in dreams but in blood. You were not the prince who sang songs. You were not the prince who spoke of destiny.

You were the prince who killed.

Your blade found Robert’s flesh before he could react, slipping between the plates of his armor, piercing through his ribs. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening, a guttural sound escaping his lips as he staggered. You twisted the blade, feeling the warmth of his lifeblood spill over your hands as you wrenched it free.

Robert Baratheon, the would-be usurper, the man who had sworn to take the Iron Throne, collapsed at your feet, his warhammer falling from his grasp, sinking into the bloodied waters of the Trident.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Silence fell, but only for a moment.

The battle still raged around you, but you did not hear it. Did not see it. Your world had narrowed, had funneled into a single moment, into the broken body of your brother lying in the shallows, his chest rising and falling in shallow, struggling gasps.

You dropped your sword.

The water sloshed around your knees as you stepped toward him, the sounds of war fading into a dull roar. His hands trembled as they pressed against his ruined chestplate, as if he could hold himself together, as if he could stop what was coming.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady as you pulled the helm from his head. Silver hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead, his indigo eyes unfocused as he looked up at you.

You had never seen him like this.

Rhaegar, the golden son, the dragon who had been promised, lay broken before you. The prince of prophecy, the man who had abandoned reason for fate, was dying in the waters of a river that had swallowed the dreams of so many before him.

You swallowed, your throat tightening as you reached for him. He flinched, just barely, his body trembling beneath your hands.

“I told you,” you murmured, your voice quieter than it had ever been, “this would consume you.”

His lips parted, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He was trying to speak, but the words would not come. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, his body shuddering beneath the weight of his wounds.

You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I am sorry, brother,” you said, your voice steady.

And then, you took your dagger and drove it into his heart.

He gasped, his body jerking beneath you, his fingers twitching before going still. His indigo eyes, softer then yours, stared up at the sky, unseeing.

The river carried the rubies from his breastplate downstream, scattering them like drops of blood upon the current.

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of what you had done settle deep into your bones.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince of prophecy, was dead.

And you had kept your promise.

The Red Keep had never felt so suffocating. The great hall, with its towering pillars and high vaulted ceiling, had always been a place of power, a chamber where kings commanded and courtiers whispered. But today, there was a weight in the air, thick and stifling, pressing down upon every soul gathered within its walls. The torches burned low, the flickering flames illuminating the wary faces of those who stood in silence, waiting.

Cersei stood among them, adorned in the black and gold of her betrothed, her gown draped in rich silks, the embroidery of dragons curled along the sleeves, a symbol of the union that had been promised. She had been here before, had stood in this hall countless times, had walked these corridors knowing that one day, this would all be hers. But today, for the first time, she felt something akin to unease curling beneath her skin.

The war was won. Robert Baratheon was dead. Rhaegar was dead. The rebellion had been crushed before it could consume the realm entirely. And yet, there was no celebration in the Red Keep, no triumphant feasts or songs of victory. The court lingered like a gathering of ghosts, their eyes flitting between one another, between the door and the Iron Throne, where the king—her king—sat, unseeing, unknowing, slipping further into the madness that had taken root in his mind.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, his hands folded within the heavy sleeves of his robes, his expression carefully schooled, but even he could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing deeply, his white beard brushing against his chest, “Prince—” he hesitated, correcting himself, “—your son, and Lord Tywin Lannister, stand at the gates of the city. They come with their armies, victorious.”

A hush fell over the chamber, the words settling like a cold weight upon them all.

Cersei felt it, the pang of relief that coursed through her at the knowledge that her father was here, that he was here. She had waited for this moment, had clung to the certainty that they would return, that they would see this war ended, that they would not let the realm descend into chaos.

But the silence that followed Pycelle’s words was heavy, stretching unbearably long before Aerys finally stirred upon his throne.

The king’s fingers tapped against the armrest, slow and erratic, the nail of his smallest finger broken, dark with dried blood. His robes, once resplendent in crimson and black, hung loose around his thinning frame, his silver hair unkempt, his lips twitching as he glanced toward the gathered court, eyes darting from face to face, searching for treason in every shadow.

“And you would have me open my gates to them?” Aerys’s voice was biting, brittle, like glass that had already cracked but had yet to shatter completely.

Pycelle hesitated. “They are your loyal subjects, Your Grace. They have won your war.”

Aerys let out a short, high laugh, a sound that sent an uncomfortable shiver through the chamber. “My war?” he echoed, his voice rising. “My war?” He shifted upon the throne, his fingers curling into the carved dragon heads at its arms. “This war is far from over. The traitors still breathe. The wolves, the falcons, the dragonslayers.” His lips peeled back in something that was not quite a smile, his teeth bared like a starving dog eyeing a fresh kill. “My fire has yet to consume them all.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her hands folding at her waist to keep them from trembling.

This was not the king her father had once served. This was not the ruler of Westeros. This was a man who had been swallowed whole by his own madness, who had turned his throne into a cage from which he would never escape.

She looked to Jaime, standing rigid in his white cloak, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but she could see it in his eyes—the quiet war within him, the battle between duty and the reality of the man he had sworn to protect.

Aerys shifted again, his gaze snapping back to Pycelle. “They mean to replace me,” he whispered, though the words were spoken loudly enough for all to hear. “They mean to usurp me, just as Rhaegar—” he cut himself off, his mouth twisting as if he had bitten into something rotten. “I will not open my gates. Let them beg like the rest.”

Before Pycelle could find his voice, before anyone could speak, the great doors of the hall groaned open, the heavy iron hinges shrieking under the weight of movement.

The court turned.

And the world shifted.

The golden lion entered first.

Tywin Lannister stepped into the hall with the same measured confidence he had always carried, his cloak billowing behind him, his armor polished and gleaming, the lion of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. The light of the torches flickered against the edges of his face, his cold green eyes scanning the chamber with the practiced ease of a man who had already decided the fate of those within it.

And beside him, walking with slow, deliberate steps, was the dragon.

He was no longer the prince who had once stood at Rhaegar’s side, no longer the shadow behind the dreamer. He was something else entirely now.

The black and gold of his armor had been darkened by war, the dragon wings carved into his pauldrons glinting like the edges of a blade. His long pale hair, damp with sweat, clung to his jawline, his face unreadable beneath the weight of the past days. He had killed Robert Baratheon. He had killed Rhaegar. He had crushed the rebellion at the Trident with his own hands.

And now, he had returned.

The hush that fell over the court was suffocating. No one spoke. No one dared move.

Aerys, for the first time in days, was silent.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

She had seen him fight before. Had seen him ride, had seen him command. But this… this was something new.

This was not a man returning in victory.

This was a conqueror standing before a king who no longer ruled.

And as Tywin Lannister took another step forward, as the prince followed in silent, watchful step, the entire court felt it.

The tides had turned.

And the Red Keep would never be the same again.

The silence in the great hall stretched unbearably, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to come. Cersei sat rigid in her place among the courtiers, her green eyes locked upon the two figures now striding toward the throne, toward the unraveling king who perched atop it, his fingers twitching against the armrests of blackened iron.

Tywin Lannister was composed as always, his every step slow, deliberate, a lion stalking the last moments before a kill. He did not look at the assembled lords, did not acknowledge the way their gazes flickered nervously between him and the throne. He had served in this hall for years, had commanded from behind the throne, had once been the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. And now, he had returned, but not as a servant.

At his side, the younger prince walked in equal silence, though his presence was something altogether different. There was no caution in his steps, no hesitation in the way he carried himself. His violet eyes, dark and unreadable, did not waver as they settled upon the throne and the mad king who sat upon it.

Cersei’s breath was shallow, her fingers gripping the fabric of her gown beneath the table, unseen. She had spent years longing for this moment, for the war to be over, for her father’s return, for her betrothed to claim what was rightfully his. But now that it was happening, now that the moment had come, she could not shake the feeling curling in her stomach—the certainty that nothing would be the same after today.

Aerys Targaryen tilted his head slightly as Tywin and his son approached, his lips parting into something like a smile, but it was wrong—stretched too thin, twitching at the corners. His nails drummed erratically against the throne, the jagged edges of his seat pressing into his thin frame. He had wasted away in these last moons.

Tywin stopped before the dais, but it was the younger prince who spoke first.

“The war is over,” his voice cut through the chamber like a blade, smooth but firm, unyielding. “You have won, Father. Step down. Rest.”

Aerys blinked.

And then, he laughed.

The sound was shrill, fractured, peeling into the air like the screech of metal against metal. It rang through the chamber, bouncing off the walls, sending a ripple of unease through the assembled lords and courtiers.

“Step down?” Aerys cackled, shaking his head violently. “Step down?” His eyes darted between them, lingering on his son, his expression twisting. “You sound just like Tywin. Is that what this is? Has he turned you against me? Has he promised you something grand? Has he filled your head with ambition?”

Cersei saw the flicker of something in her betrothed’s eyes, but he did not react, did not shift under his father’s manic scrutiny. “There is no one left to fight,” he said simply. “No one left to burn.”

Aerys stilled, his fingers curling tightly against the armrests.

“I will burn them all,” he whispered, his voice suddenly low, almost childlike. “I will burn them all before I let them take my throne. Before I let you take my throne.”

The king’s breathing was erratic, his lips twitching as his gaze darted wildly, his mind slipping further from reason. His fingers found the edge of his robes, curling into them, as if seeking comfort, as if seeking control.

The younger prince took a slow step forward.

“Then kill me.”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to his son, his body tensing.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

The room went still.

The younger prince spread his arms slightly, exposing the dark armor that bore the sigil of their house, the dragon of three heads gleaming in the dim torchlight. His dark violet eyes were steady, unblinking, fixed solely upon his father.

“If you believe I mean to take your throne,” he continued, his voice calm, unwavering, “then do it. Kill me, and prove to them all that you are still king.”

Aerys’s fingers twitched.

Cersei saw it then—the hesitation, the flicker of confusion in the king’s eyes, the way his mind scrambled to process the words, to grasp at what was real and what was not.

Aerys let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze flickered to the guards, to the pyromancers standing near the edge of the chamber, to the ones who had whispered to him of fire and destruction, who had fed the growing madness within him.

His lips curled, baring his teeth.

He opened his mouth—

And then, steel flashed.

A gasp rippled through the chamber, a choked sound of surprise and horror as Aerys jerked forward, his body convulsing.

For a moment, he sat motionless upon the throne, his breath caught in his throat, his hands twitching.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

And behind him, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, was Jaime Lannister.

His white cloak billowed slightly, his sword still buried in the king’s back, his expression unreadable. Blood pooled around the hilt, a crimson stain spreading against the deep red of Aerys’s robes.

The king let out a ragged breath, his body shuddering as his hands gripped the arms of the throne. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Only the sound of a wet, choking gasp.

Jaime ripped the sword free.

Aerys pitched forward.

He tumbled from the throne, falling in a heap at the younger prince’s feet, the light in his wild eyes flickering out before his head hit the stone.

The chamber was deathly silent.

Cersei stared, her mind racing, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had imagined Aerys dead before, had dreamed of it, had longed for it in the quiet of her thoughts, but never had she imagined it would happen like this.

Never had she imagined that it would be Jaime who struck the fatal blow.

Jaime stood rigid, his Kingsguard whites now stained crimson, his breath coming harsh and uneven. His sword—his oath-sworn blade—was slick with the blood of the man he had once sworn to protect.

The silence was still deafening.

Cersei could not breathe.

The king was dead.

Her betrothed stared down at the body, his expression unreadable, his dark violet eyes cold and fathomless.

And then, he sighed.

He stepped over the corpse, past the fallen king, past the pools of blood that seeped between the cracks in the stone.

He did not look at Jaime.

He did not look at Tywin.

He only walked forward.

And with each step, Cersei knew.

The throne was his now.

And nothing—not gods, not kings, not the ashes of the war—would ever take it from him.

The Sept of Baelor had never felt so vast, nor so heavy with silence. The high, arched ceilings, adorned with delicate carvings of the Seven, loomed above, their presence eternal, unyielding. The colored light from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of crimson and gold, deep blue and shadowed green, reflecting the gods who watched as the realm turned upon its axis.

It was quiet now, save for the soft murmurs of the septons preparing the altar, the shuffle of feet as nobles found their places among the pews. The air smelled of myrrh and melted wax, of incense curling through the air in thin, ghostly tendrils. The weight of history settled over the sacred space, for today was not just a wedding—it was the binding of a kingdom, the final stitch in the tapestry of a conquest that had begun with fire and ended with blood.

And at the altar, waiting beneath the flickering glow of a hundred candles, stood the king.

He was clad in black and gold, the armor of war now set aside for the regality of rule. His tunic, woven from the finest Valyrian silk, bore the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest in thread of red and black. The heavy cloak that draped over his shoulders was fastened by a golden clasp in the shape of a dragon’s head, the metal gleaming in the dim light. His silver hair, untamed as ever, fell past his shoulders, unbound by the ceremonial circlet of Valyrian steel that crowned his brow.

He was a king now. Her king.

Cersei stood just beyond the great doors of the Sept, waiting as the moment stretched unbearably. The weight of her gown, a cascade of golden silk embroidered with dragons in red and black, felt heavier than it should have, the tightness of her bodice almost suffocating. The jewels at her throat gleamed, the rubies nestled within gold settings catching the light as she breathed. She was beautiful—radiant even—but there was a sharpness beneath her beauty now, something carved from the past moons, from the war, from the weight of what was about to happen.

Tywin Lannister stood beside her, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back in that controlled, measured way of his. But Cersei could feel it—the change in him, the subtle shift of his ambitions, the moment when he realized that what was unfolding before him was not the future he had originally planned.

No, this was something far more terrible. And far more perfect.

He had once envisioned his daughter as the wife of Rhaegar, the quiet queen beside the dragon prince who played his harp and dreamed of prophecies. That had been his path to power, his way to secure his dynasty. But now, she was to wed not the prince of songs, but the dragon of war.

She was not marrying a man who played at prophecy.

She was marrying the man who had killed his brother to take the throne.

"You should be proud," Tywin said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "You will be queen, as I always intended."

Cersei turned her gaze to her father, tilting her chin slightly. "You did not intend this," she said, her voice light, almost teasing, but there was an edge beneath it.

Tywin studied her, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "No," he admitted after a pause. "Not like this."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "And yet, this is better, isn’t it?"

Tywin did not answer immediately, but she saw it—the way his jaw shifted slightly, the way his gaze flickered toward the doors of the Sept, toward the man who waited within.

"This is not a man who will be ruled," he said at last.

Cersei’s smile did not fade. "No," she agreed. "He will not."

Her father exhaled, a slow breath, before offering her his arm. "Come, then. It is time."

Cersei placed her hand upon his arm, her fingers resting lightly against the crimson silk of his sleeve. Together, they stepped forward, the great doors of the Sept opening before them, revealing the path to the altar, where the man who had reshaped the kingdom in fire and blood stood waiting.

She felt every pair of eyes upon her as she walked—lords and ladies, knights and septons, the great and the powerful, all witnessing the moment that would bind her fate to the most dangerous man in Westeros.

And as she stepped closer, her gaze met his.

His dark violet eyes held hers, steady, unblinking, as if he had known all along that it would come to this. As if he had always known that no matter what had been planned before, no matter the fate her father had once written for her, this had been inevitable.

She was not marrying a dreamer.

She was marrying a dragon.

And she had never wanted anything more.

The chambers given to the King and his new Queen were vast, their grandeur unmatched by any in the Red Keep. The canopy bed, carved from dark mahogany, was adorned in black and crimson, the silks smooth beneath Cersei’s fingers as she stood in the center of the chamber, feeling the weight of expectation settle upon her shoulders. The air was thick with the lingering scent of wine and candle wax, the remnants of the feast still echoing in the halls beyond, though the laughter and music had long since faded.

She barely heard it now.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but it was not from fear. No, she had never feared this. This was what she had longed for, what she had envisioned in the quiet corners of her mind, in the years she had been denied.

The doors shut behind her with a deep, resonant sound, sealing them within the chamber. She did not turn immediately, but she felt him. Felt his presence like the heat of a fire growing ever closer.

When she did turn, he was there, standing in the flickering glow of the hearth, his violet eyes dark beneath the crown he had not yet removed. The circlet of Valyrian steel rested upon his brow, but his tunic was already loosened at the collar, his hands working at the fastenings with deliberate ease.

Cersei exhaled, slowly, tilting her chin upward, her green eyes locking onto his with the same unshakable defiance she had carried through the years. She was not a timid maiden, not some meek girl to be taken gently, to be coaxed with whispers of love and careful touches. That had never been what she wanted.

She stepped toward him, the golden embroidery of her gown catching the candlelight.

"Are you going to make me wait?" she murmured, her voice smooth, edged with challenge.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained focused, unwavering. He said nothing, only watching her, assessing, as though weighing the hunger in her voice against his own.

Then, with a single motion, he shed the heavy cloak from his shoulders, the fabric pooling onto the floor behind him.

The space between them vanished in an instant.

His hands were upon her, not soft, not hesitant—strong fingers curling around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body searing through the silks that still clung to her. She gasped, but it was not in protest. No, she arched into him, her fingers finding the clasps of his tunic, working them apart as his mouth found the skin of her throat, his breath hot against her pulse.

"Not gentle, are you?" she whispered against his ear, her nails scraping against his skin as she shoved the fabric from his shoulders.

His response was a low, amused growl. "Would you want me to be?"

Cersei laughed, low and breathless. "No."

She felt the shift, the way his grip tightened, the way his restraint frayed like a rope pulled too taut. He did not waste time, did not treat this like some delicate courtship. He was fire and strength, unyielding in the way he pressed her back against the edge of the bed, in the way he tore at the laces of her gown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

Her skin burned beneath his touch, every nerve alight, but she did not falter. She met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair, her mouth claiming his with the same demand, the same hunger that had simmered between them since the moment she had first seen him.

Their bodies collided, limbs tangled, hands bruising, lips parting only for breath, only for more.

He did not worship her like some fragile thing.

He took her.

And she let him.

The world narrowed to the heat of his body above her, to the way his fingers dug into her hips as he thrust into her, each movement forcing a gasp from her lips, each stroke deeper, rougher, claiming her in a way no man had before.

She met him with the same force, her nails scoring against his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer, taking all that he gave and demanding more. There was no patience, no soft murmurs of affection. Only the raw, unrelenting rhythm of their bodies, the sound of their mingled breath, the fevered gasps swallowed by the night.

It was not sweet.

It was not gentle.

It was a battle.

And neither of them surrendered.

It was only when the fire reached its peak, when the pressure built to the breaking point, that he groaned her name against her throat, his body shuddering as he spilled inside her, the last vestiges of control snapping as he buried himself deep within her.

Cersei gasped, her own release crashing over her like a wave, her back arching, her fingers curling against his skin as she trembled beneath him.

The world stilled, their breath the only sound in the chamber.

His weight pressed against her for a moment longer before he shifted, his lips brushing against her shoulder, his breath warm against her damp skin.

Then, his voice came, low, rough, edged with something unreadable.

"Is this what you wished for?"

Cersei turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze, her own breath still uneven.

She did not smile.

She did not hesitate.

"Yes," she whispered. "And more."

The great hall of the Red Keep had always been a place of power, but now, as the banners of House Targaryen draped over the towering pillars and the Iron Throne loomed above, it was something more. It was the beating heart of the realm, the seat of a dynasty reforged in war, tempered in fire and blood. The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows over the polished stone floors, their light dancing across the scaled sigil of House Targaryen carved deep into the walls.

Cersei sat upon the dais, clad in black and crimson, her golden hair bound in intricate braids that crowned her head like a queen’s diadem. She had ruled beside her husband for years now, had seen the kingdom shaped under his reign, had birthed his heirs. And now, as she watched the great doors of the hall swing open, she knew that today would be another moment upon which history would turn.

Eddard Stark stepped into the chamber, his steps slow, deliberate, the wolf of Winterfell standing tall even in the lion’s den. The banners of House Stark, grey and white, did not fly here, but he carried the weight of his house in his stance, in the quiet steel of his gaze. His wife, Catelyn, walked beside him, her expression composed but wary, and behind them followed their household—Benjen Stark, grim and watchful, and the great lords of the North who had ridden south in the name of justice.

And yet, before their eyes could settle upon the throne, before they could bow before the dragon who ruled from its seat, their gazes fell upon something else entirely.

Three children sat at their mother’s side, dressed in Targaryen black, their silver hair gleaming beneath the light of the torches.

The eldest, Aerion, no more than ten, sat with all the composure of his father, his dark violet eyes steady, his expression unreadable. He bore the strength of his lineage, the sharp lines of his father’s face already beginning to take shape. Beside him sat his sister, Rhaenys, seven, her curls cascading over her shoulders, her gaze keen and curious, though tempered with the same regal poise as her mother. And the youngest, Daemon, barely five, leaned slightly against Cersei’s arm, his small fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve, though his sharp eyes studied the Northern guests with unblinking intensity.

The sight of them was undeniable. They were dragons.

And for the briefest moment, Eddard Stark faltered.

Cersei saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he had glimpsed a future that had long been denied him.

"Lord Stark," she greeted, her voice smooth, unwavering. "Winterfell has come a long way from the North to stand in our halls."

Eddard inclined his head, slow and measured. "Your Grace." His gaze flickered briefly to her children before returning to her. "It was not a journey made lightly."

Cersei smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Few journeys are."

A beat of silence passed, heavy with the weight of the years that had led to this moment.

"I have come to speak with the King," Eddard said finally, his voice firm, but not without caution. "To demand justice for the deaths of my father and brother, slain under the rule of Aerys Targaryen."

The hall was silent save for the distant crackle of the torches.

Cersei tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving his. "Justice?" she echoed, amusement curling at the edge of her voice. "And tell me, Lord Stark, what justice do you seek from a man who had no hand in their deaths?"

Eddard’s jaw tightened. "Aerys may be dead, but his crimes remain unpunished."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow upon the armrest of her chair. "The Mad King burned your father alive, yes. And his son, the one you would have raised banners for, the one you fought against us for, stood by and did nothing." She let the words sink in before she continued. "My husband did not."

Eddard’s eyes darkened. "Your husband is a Targaryen, just as Aerys was."

"And your friend, Robert Baratheon, was a traitor," Cersei countered, her voice sharpening. "Yet you followed him to war. You killed for him. You bled for him." She smiled, slow and cold. "Tell me, Lord Stark, is it justice you seek? Or is it vengeance?"

Eddard exhaled through his nose, his hand clenching at his side.

Cersei did not move, did not break his gaze, but she felt the small shift beside her, the way Aerion straightened slightly, the way Rhaenys glanced between them, already keenly aware of the weight of the conversation. Even Daemon, barely past his fifth name day, watched with quiet intensity.

Finally, after a long moment, Eddard spoke.

"There must be peace," he said. "The North will not rise against the throne, but neither will it forget what was done to us."

Cersei inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

"You stand in a hall that bears the banners of House Targaryen," she said, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "You stand before the wife of the King, before his heirs. The war is over, Lord Stark. It has been over for years. Whatever vengeance you carry in your heart, whatever ghosts still haunt you, they will not change what is."

Eddard’s gaze flickered, but he said nothing.

The great doors of the hall creaked open once more, and the presence that filled the chamber was undeniable.

The King had arrived.

The hush that fell was immediate, a ripple of bows and lowered heads as the ruler of Westeros strode toward the dais, his cloak billowing behind him, his dark violet gaze taking in the gathered lords with quiet command.

Cersei did not turn to greet him; she did not need to.

She simply smiled.

The dragon had come.

And whatever justice Eddard Stark sought, he would find only the rule of fire and blood.

...

The silence between you and Eddard Stark stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, unspoken words simmering between you, unyielding as the cold of the North he had come from.

His eyes, grey as a winter storm, held no fear, no wavering hesitation. He had come here not as a petitioner, not as a man seeking favor, but as a son, as a brother, as the last of his house who remembered the day Aerys burned Rickard Stark alive, the day Brandon Stark strangled himself in chains, clawing for a sword that would never come.

“I ask for my father’s and brother’s remains,” Eddard said, his voice steady but edged with something deeper, something that had been buried beneath years of duty and restraint. “They were left to rot in the dungeons of this keep. I would see them returned to Winterfell, to be laid to rest beside their kin.”

The hall was silent.

Cersei sat beside you, watching with an expression as still as a painted mask, her golden hair glinting under the dim light of the torches. Your children, the future of your house, watched with quiet intensity—Aerion, regal and composed, his eyes betraying nothing, Rhaenys, sharp and curious, and Daemon, young but already understanding that power was not just in words, but in how they were spoken.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the armrest of your throne before nodding. “It will be done,” you said simply. “You have my word.”

Eddard held your gaze for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of your promise, as if still trying to reconcile the man who sat before him with the legacy of the house you bore. Then, he inclined his head, slow, deliberate. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He turned, the final act of his duty seemingly fulfilled, his cloak shifting as he moved toward the doors. The North had come for its dead, and soon it would leave, retreating back to the lands of snow and silence.

But you were not done.

“Stark.”

Your voice carried across the hall, smooth, measured, but there was something beneath it, something that made him stop in his tracks.

Slowly, Eddard turned back, his grey eyes wary.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, watching the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly beneath the weight of what he thought had been laid to rest.

“They were both fools,” you said, your voice quiet, but edged with something biting. “Your brother, my brother. But Lyanna… she was just as much to blame.”

The shift in him was subtle, but you saw it. The way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something behind his eyes, something long buried, long silenced.

“You know it,” you continued, watching him carefully, gauging the way his breath came just a fraction slower, as if he were bracing himself. “Perhaps you have always known it, but you could never say it. You could never let yourself believe it. Because if she was not stolen, if she was not taken… then what does that make her?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

A muscle in Eddard’s jaw twitched, but still, he did not speak.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your forearms against the arms of your throne, your gaze never leaving his. “I was there the day my brother died, Stark. I saw it. I saw the way his chest was caved in, the way the rubies from his armor scattered into the river like blood upon the water. And in his final breath, do you know what he looked for?” You tilted your head. “Not his wife. Not his children. Not his house. He looked for her.”

Eddard’s breath came slow, controlled, but you saw the tremor in his fingers, the way they curled into fists at his sides.

“They destroyed us,” you murmured, your voice lower now, the words curling through the air like embers caught in the wind. “Together. Not just Rhaegar. Not just Aerys. Lyanna, too. She was no mere girl stolen in the night, no innocent thing torn from her home. She ran with him. She chose him.” You let the words sink in, let the weight of them settle upon the man who had built his life upon the ruins they had left behind. “And for what? A prophecy neither of them understood? A love that was doomed before it even began?”

Eddard’s throat worked, his breath heavy, controlled, though his face betrayed nothing.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I wonder, Lord Stark, how long you’ve known the truth,” you mused, tilting your head slightly. “Or is it that you never allowed yourself to see it?”

A long silence stretched between you, the weight of unspoken truths pressing upon the hall like the final embers of a dying fire.

Finally, Eddard inhaled, slow and steady. His face remained unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes now, something colder, something resolved.

“I came for justice,” he said at last. “Not for ghosts.”

You smiled, slow and knowing. “Then you have what you came for.”

Eddard Stark turned without another word, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the doors, the weight of the past trailing in his wake.

The doors groaned open, the cold wind of the North whispering through the hall as he disappeared into the shadows beyond.

And just like that, the last remnants of the rebellion, the last echoes of the war that had shaped the world, faded into silence.

Cersei exhaled softly beside you, her fingers brushing over the armrest of her chair, her golden hair catching in the dim light as she watched the doors close.

You did not move.

The past was gone.

And the future was yours, like it was promised.

[floatyflowers]

Hi could you do a one shot story about a male dark daenerys targaryen and his future wife reader?

Male! Daenerys Targaryen x Baratheon Reader

Daeron Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the father of Dragons, the Khal of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.

Hearing those titles was enough for you to predicate what will happen to King's Landing if your mother, Cersei Lannister, didn't bend the knee.

And your prediction turned out to be a reality when the Targaryen burned down King's Landing.

You weren't with your mother and uncle Jaime in the Red Keep when that happened, no, you were with your uncle Tyrion.

Little do you know, that Daeron has done it all for you, for you to be his and only his.

He saw you one time at the meeting that was held to plan the end of the night King, that's where he decided you would become his woman.

Right now, you can't help but weep in distress, as you are forced on your knees in front of the iron throne, as its new king sits on it.

"None of that would have happened if your father hadn't started a rebellion against my brother, Rhaeger"

Daeron states as if that is solely Robert's fault.

"None of that would have happened if Rhaeger didn't kidnap my father's betrothed"

Instead of telling you the truth about Lyanna's and Rhaeger's love story, he only smirks, before uttering the next words.

"I have got a solution to fix all the past mistakes"

Daeron doesn't move from his place as he stares at you with his violet eyes.

"We marry, and reunite the realms together"

You shook your head in fear and disgust at the thought of marrying a madman like Daeron Targeryen.

"Oh, did I forget that you have no choice? " his eyes narrow as he continues

"That's an order and you shall obey it"

[6rookie-writer0110]

Master list - 96!

Feeling it slower - Cersei Lannister X Male Reader (Smut)

You're mine forever - Freya Allan X Male Reader (Smut)

Trance Love - Male Reader x Freya Allan

Staying Home - Inko Midoriya X Male Reader (Smut)

Sadly, I want you - Wally Clark x Male Reader

Unknown Dream - Descendants Mal X Male Reader.

We found time -Chase Stein x Reader

A spade is not a spade - Jacob Elordi x Male Reader (Smut)

[blumenflowergelb]

Even after death our paths cross

Jaime Lannister x male!reader

• They spent the last day together drinking and talking. The cold never truly left, the sight of the sun was only in their dreams. The endless cold has been going on for weeks, the numbers and hopess of those who made it dwindled. The walk from Winterfell until the Gods Eye was hard and deadly. Most died, the children first than the women and lastly the men. The weak didn’t come, they were left behind in Winterfell with the last soldiers of the North so they could be burned upon death.

• Three days ago a scout reporter the wights coming down the neck, Moat Cailin has fallen and the survivors were caught up by the wights and the White Walkers. Yn could barely think about what happened to Winterfell and their occupants, the men and women and his nephew, Jon. Arya and Sansa came with Yn but left for the south, Bran and Rickon were behind the Wall and Yn was in the middle of the Gods Eye with the weirwoods and Jaime Lannister’s company. Their were some soldiers but most have left already to the South. The men and women who have stayed were either dying or could fight and decided to stay as the last defence. Because they were the last defence. If they failed Westeros, even the Free Cities could end.

• First the night came. It was always dark but dark like before nightfall and not this dark. They couldn’t even see Harrenhal, only the darkness. Then the cold came, the kind of cold which leaves you tired and you don’t even notice that you have fallen into an endless sleep. With the cold came the wind, and with it came the White Walkers and their servants. First they could hear feets walking on ice and the sounds of bones scrounging against each other. Than they saw the first wight and everything went downhill. The alcohol they consumed almost disappeared entirely and the last warmth fleed their bodies.

• The night was long and the hard. More died than they killed, some fled, but they hold out. The Children helped them with the Green Men on their sides, even Daenerys and Jon showed up. With them came hope again and they felt that maybe they would win. The slaughter was bloody and brutal, too much has been lost but when the King was killed the night lifted. The wights dropped dead and the remains of the White Walkers scattered around.

• Yn felt so weak, without Jaime and his family. He was sure that Jon went against a snow bear but not long after that Yn lost him and never seen him again. Jaime was dead, pulled apart by some dead crows, which made Yn hearth heavy as lead. He truly loved the man. Not the man he was before Lady Stonehearth but the man he became. Their love was a secret, a secret that Yn could never tell anybody.While Jaime has gotten his redemption it didn’t erase what he had done over the years. But Yn still loved him and felt like he could cry but he had no energy for tears. He went in and out of his dreams, sitting against a weirwood tree, and opened his eyes for the last time to see the new sun coming up.

• Then he opened his eyes again to see his old room in Winterfell. For a second he didn’t dare to move or even just exhale to loudly, he tried to listen to the soft voices around him. Feet scattering, the sound of swords, children laughing, a few wolves howling and somebody shouting ‚Uncle‘ at the top of his lungs. Then his door opened with a loud swish and Yn snapped out of his daydreaming. Rickon, baby Rickon with his small hands and feets and chubby face, run inside with Catelyn behind him shouting. Yn barely had any time to sit up, for Rickon jumped on him still shouting his name. Yn kissed his little face and looked up to the red faced Catelyn. She tried to apologize but Yn just shook his head and stood up with Rickon in his hands. After promising Catelyn that he will look after Rickon, Yn played with him while trying to get a hold of his situation. He was sure that he had died. The last years were definitely real, he couldn’t have dreamed about something like this. Besides he never took anything but alcohol to himself. Still the whole thing was unexplainable. He wasn’t sure what was going on. Rickons and his session was interrupted by a knock from Sansa. It was time for lunch so they went down and when Yn stepped in the room he couldn’t help but almost kneel over. Seeing his whole family well and alive was his biggest wish, a wish which got fulfilled. But it didn’t help his emotions. He wished to cry one second and laugh in the next.

• Yn tried to control himself and sat down. He barely ate, he got a side eye from Ned, and tried to talk as less as he could. Just listening made him happy and melancholic, his wish was fulfilled but he too has lost something along the way. After they were done and everybody went to their way, Ned has kindly left Yn alone, Yn wasn’t enterly sure what to do so he went to the library. He was reading about Daeron the First when he truly realised what had happened. The revelation left him shocked, his breath was labored and he felt cold and hot waves crashing through his body. He missed Jaime, he missed everything but at the same time not. He felt lonely because their was no other person who saw and lived through the wars and the coldness. This feeling left him breathless, the panic tightening his chest. His long forgotten , or just hidden?, memories resurfaced, from the day he left Storms End with an angered Young Griff to the past when he was playing with his brothers and sister in the deep cold snow, until red, blue and black spots begann to appear before his eyes. He felt somebody touching him and shaking him but it was his body that felt it, not him. And then he passed out.

• By the time he awoke it was dark. He was in his room and maester Luwin was busying around with Ned at his side. After they saw him wake they almost jumped to him and Luwin begann asking questions. Yn answered them but Luwin expressed his worry to Ned, talking as if Yn wasn’t here. They decided that Yn had to rest in bed for a fortnight and that he was to be daily examined by the maester. Luwin left, and Ned sat down. Neither of them talked for a long time until Ned said that he thought the worst. Yn was found in the library by Arya who has called for help the moment she saw her uncle looking like he was actively dying. When Ned asked Yn what had happened he couldn’t answer him. Yn only told him that he shouldn’t worry since he was too young to die. Ned shook his head and left the room.

• As he was alone Yn had time to process what was going on. He was found by Arya, the small little girl must have been affraid thought Yn, and later brought to his room. Maester Luwin suspected that he had wronged his hearth since his breath was erratic and his nose bleeded too much. He didn’t die but he was ordered on bedrest. But still this didn’t explain why he was here. Yn was sure that he died, seeing the First light of Dawn but than he woke up at Winterfell in his younger body. Yn tried to think about the how but the only sound idea he had were the Old Gods. He died by a weirwood on the Gods Eye so they must have seen him fit to travel back in time. Yn hoped that he wasn’t alone. Seeing his lost or dead family was a dream come true but that didn’t change the fact that he has lost people too. The people he had known and even lived with in the future didn’t even know him. Jaime didn’t know him. This relevation brought a bitter taste in Yn mouth. He didn’t wish to think about the man so he rolled to his side and tried closing his eyes. But dreams didn’t come. The whole fiasko bothered him and while turning around trying to sleep he accidentally hit his soulmark.

• He had his soulmark since birth, a rare thing since most people didn’t even have one, especially not since birth. He remembered his parents worrying about the age of his soulmate, affraid that his mate was old. Yn‘s father wished for Yn to marry a good southern noble woman with wide hips, but ironically his mate wasn’t a woman. Still his other wishes were fulfilled, maybe without the wide hips part. The fact was that as a child Yn always know that he would not marry a woman. He never said that to anybody too affraid of what could have happened but after Roberts Rebellion there was no need for it. His family was dead only Ned and Benjen survived. Of course there was Catelyn and the children but Yn always imagined his future with Brandon and Lyanna. After Ned came home and Benjen left, Yn decided that it was time for him to search for his mate. Thinking back this was more of an excuse to leave his life behind, but Yn was happy with his decision. He saw the side of the world which has been rarely seen by anybody. He experienced different people and their lifes, their foods and their different views. There is where Yn first realised why he never wanted women. He never found his soulmate but he found harmony. After a few years of sailing around he came back to Winterfell, happy to see Ned and his ever expanding family. He went on adventures but never as long as before, he always found his way back to Winterfell.

• When the War of Five Kings broke out he was on the way to Asshai and didn’t realise that his family has died only leaving Jon at the Nights Watch and Sansa at the clutched of the Lannisters. By the time he came back Sansa has already disappeared so Yn went on an adventure with Brienne of Tarth and her squire, who was not hers but Tyrion’s, and later on with Jaime too. They realised that they were soulmates by accident. Their were lingering touches but Yn thought that Jaime only wanted closure. He wasn’t right and when Jaime kissed him Yn‘s world changed. His soulmark burned and the love he felt for Jaime took his breath away. He wished and only wished to be by Jaimies side. They spent the nights together, always close but never truly touching. Yn tought that he had found his long awaited love but of course live wasn’t that nice. After the confrontation with Lady Stonehearth Yn left both Jaime and Brienne. He couldn’t find it in himself to see Jaime again. He still loved him, fierce as ever, but what he has done to his family was inexcusable. He couldn’t forgive him.

• They didn’t see each other until the Long Night has fallen. The people of the north left as quickly as possible only the fighter of the noble houses stayed. Some from the south came to help, including Jaime. The day before they left Winterfell they talked. It was hearth wrenching but needed. After discussing what had to be discussed they spent the night together. It wasn’t planed, Yn wholeheartedly thought that he and Jaime were not meant to be regardless their soulmark but Yn couldn’t bring himself to not do it. It was sweet and loving, a feeling which Jaime never associated with sex. They learned it together and enjoyed each other.

• But now Yn was alone without his soulmate. It was very bitter, the only thing Yn was happy about was that he at least know who his mate was. But just thinking about the way Ned or even Tywin Lannister would react to Jaime and Yn made him shiver. He couldn’t bare to think about Cersei, to affraid of a slighted narcissistic woman.

• The days have came and went until it was time for the Royal Familie‘s arrival. When Yn heard that they were coming, albeit a little late since their was a rumored accident on the way, he realised how stupid he was. He had the chance to save his family. He planed what he could do and started with Sansa and Jon. Yn know that Jon wanted to join the Nights Watch and he tried to talk him out of it at first but Jon didn’t take it well. Yn understood him, but he still tried to positively influence him. Sansa wasn’t an entire succes either since she lived for her stories. The only good thing he has done was mending Sansa‘s and Arya‘s relationship. Yn told them stories he had learned on his voyage about lovers and betrayal, trying to influence Sansa about critical thinking, and Arya has found this stories so intriguing that she listened to them too. The girls bonded through the stories and, while not entirely, they had a good relationship.

• The royal family came the same way they did the last time. They were a lot of them, the King was still fat, Joffrey still looked like a bitch but Jaime wasn’t the same. He looked the same at first glance but perhaps because Yn knew him like no other he noticed the difference instantly. Jaime was a little pale, his eyes weren’t that arrogant and he stood away from Cersei. The second he rode inside Winterfell their eyes locked and Jaime only looked away when he had to get off the horse. Seeing that Jaime clearly stayed away from Cersei left Yn feeling pleasant. Usually he wasn’t a jealous person but the bond the twins had shared, very disgusting in Yn opinion, made jealousy course through him. Both of them played with death throughout the years, and they even had children together. Yn couldn’t deny that Jaime did love Cersei even if it was a misplaced love.

• The King greeted the Starks the same as last time and went down to the crypts with Ned. Everybody dispersed after that, however Jaime didn’t go with Cersei. To escape the servants and their judgement, Yn signaled to Jaime and they went to the godswood. Yn was sure that nobody was there and he was right. It was silent, even the birds chirping wasn’t as loud. Yn sat down at the little creek and waited until Jaime came. Jaime stepped closer and after looking around he sat down. They didn’t talk for a few seconds but than Yn begann asking about their adventures in a subtle way. After Jaime answered every single question right, Yn kissed him. It was supposed to be an innocent kiss but Jaime deepened it and they only separated because of the lack of air. It was perfect. Yn felt his mark burn with satisfaction and love. Looking at Jaime he felt it too and Yn never has wished more to be just alone with Jaime. After dying and living in his past life with nobody at his side, Jaime felt like water on a hot sunny day. Yn needed him now more than ever before. They sat there for more time just holding each others hand until Jaime had to go to see the King. They separated with the promise of spending the night together.

• After a very interesting welcome feast for the royal family, in which Yn could experience how much Robert loved women and how much Cersei hated this love, Yn sneaked back in his room. He bathed while listening to the castle slowly settling. The sounds of the feast died out and only the occasional howls of the wolfs could be heard. Until Jaime knocked on the door and nothing mattered for Yn anymore. Jaime stepped in the room, smiling at Yn. They exchanged a few flirty remarks, Jaime sounded like usual, but then the two settled down to discuss what had happened. Yn got to know that yes Jaime did indeed got ripped apart by wights and that he came back weeks before Yn did. He had fallen ill shortly after that and Pycelle, Jaime hated him, had almost given up on him. Even Lord Tywin came to the capital after hearing his son, and heir, supposedly sickness. Jaime got better and than the date to leave for Winterfell has arrived. Jon still died, he couldn’t stop the Tully bitch Jaime said, so the journey for Neds hand has arrived. When Yn asked Jaime about Cersei he had only replied with bitterness. What Yn could puzzle together was that Cersei noticed Jaime‘s coldness and arrived at the conclusion that her handmaids have seduced him. The women were expelled but Jaime didn’t return to her so Cersei made up more stupid theories. After a while Cersei must have noticed that Jaime hasn’t changed so she became more aggressive and cold to Jaime. But he didn’t care and Cersei stayed as the spurned lover.

• After a while of talking they became silent. It was a lot to progress so they decided to continue tomorrow. But before they went to sleep Jaime shyly asked Yn if he would want to marry him. Yn just laughed and after remarking that Jaime was silly he said yes. The confirmation made Jaime‘s face light up with joy and they kissed. It almost progressed to something more but after hearing a door being closed to loudly they just went to sleep, affraid of anybody catching them.

• Yn woke up and said a very personal goodbye to Jaime, then went to play with Rickon and Bran. He felt a slight suspicion after seeing how bright Jaime‘s face was but quickly forgot it after seeing his family. Looking back he should have at least asked Jaime if he was alright but by the time they met it was already too late.

• Unknowingly to Yn, Jaime didn’t just go to the King to oversee his duties. After confirming that the King has drank and fucked last night until the morning he felt that it was the perfect time to do what he had to do. He knocked on the door and received no answer so he went inside and woke the King and his yesterdays choice up. The girl quickly ran out and the King awoke with a great rumble. Robert shouted profanities at Jaime but he just simply smiled back at him and said: „ I am retiring. Your grace.“

• Silence followed the statement. Robert stared at Jaime for a second and laid back on his bed muttering that he was still asleep. Jaime simply replied with a no and the King sprung up and begann shouting so loud that Barristan Selmy barged in the room. Seeing that the King was standing naked in the room while shouting at Jaime, he turned to the man in question and paled at seeing Jaime smile at him. The smile was strange to him, Selmy never saw him smile with so much joy. He tried to clear the situation up but did not succeed. Some servants stood behind the open door, glancing at them some even giggled. This ongoing problem wasn’t solved until Ned stepped in. He looked around the room silently, but judgingly. Seeing Ned Robert tried to hold his anger in but his red face was a tell tale sign of his feelings. Jaime and Selmy were standing silently before the King, although Barristan was before Jaime. Before Ned could ask what had happened the King huffed and looked for his breeches. He tried to kick everybody but Ned out but Jaime went up to Ned and asked for his brothers hand in marriage. Only a gasp was heard from outside before Ned jumped on Jaime.

• Yn was playing something, he still didn’t understand what the game was, with the boys when they were interrupted by an erratic Sansa. She asked Yn to go to Ned‘s solar, so he went. When he stepped inside the solar he was greeted with a furious Ned, an even angrier Robert, a stone face Barristan Selmy and a cheeky Jaime with a red mark on his face. Yn was surprised to see the hand mark on Jaime‘s face, sure that it was not there the last time they saw each other. Regardless the hit Jaime seemed pretty happy. Well he was the only one in the room who had a high spirit, Yn couldn’t decide who was the angriest. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything Ned went to him and asked him if it was true. Seeing Yn confused face Ser Selmy explained what had happened in the last hour, from Jaime wanting to retire to Ned and Jaime fighting. By the end of the story everybody was looking at him, but Yn only sent a deathly stare at Jaime. When Ned asked again he nodded and told him that Jaime and he were soulmates. Ned paled, the King paled, even Baristan looked strange. Only Jaime looked like a child who got those rare candies from the Summer Isles. Jaime quickly stood up and went to the door, not before saying that he will discuss the wedding details with Lady Catelyn. At his words Yn felt his knees get weak but he ran after Jaime who almost disappeared in the corridor.

• They were gettin married. While the law and the Seven didn’t permit men marrying each other, the law of soulmates did allow soulmates of any kind to share a bed and life. Usually same sex soulmates were seen as unnatural and were recorded in history as best of best friends who were very very close but as friends and not as spouses. Only society saw same sex marriage as an issue, and there was rarely anybody of high society who went against these unsaid laws. But Jaime and Yn. They got married under the hearthtree of Winterfell, where hundreds of Starks have married before, with the happy Stark family on Yn side and the happy Tyrion on Jaime‘s. Cersei didn’t bother showing up and wouldn’t have allowed her children, but Robert wanted their attendances. The sudden wedding, and of the same sex, meant that only house Baratheon and Lannister attended from the south and some lords of the North. Yn was sure that Jaime only wanted to be quick about the wedding so that his father couldn’t say anything, since the ravens they sent out were still definitely on their way to the South.

• The ceremony itself was small but beautiful. The lords who attended behaved and were happy to eat and drink, the Royal Family itself wasn’t that happy. Robert was angry and bitter about Jaime leaving the Kings Guard but since the law of soulmates was even above the King he couldn’t do anything. Tyrion was happy but clearly confused what his brother was doing by a northerner side and Cersei was fuming. Yn often jokes that he will be poisoned but maybe there were some truths. The children of Cersei didn’t understand what was going on but the two youngest seemed content. Joffrey only attended because of Robert but whenever he looked up from his food his eyes were full of venom. Jaime and Yn enjoyed the wedding and were happy to spend their life together, they could forget about the future for one night.

• After a week the court has decided to venture back to Kings Landing, this time with Bran, Jon and Yn on their side. Jaime‘s plan has worked and he had caught Bran from falling down the Tower, and Bran has sworn to never ever go alone climbing after seeing his mother cry her hearth out. Yn wasn’t sure how long his promise would last but Jaime has taken him as an unofficial squire, alongside Jon who was very happy to bask in Jaime‘s presence. They were working with Jaime from morning till nightfall, never having free time although neither complained. Yn spent his time with the girls. Their bond got better but not perfect so Yn tried to mend it. Both Yn and Jaime felt ready for their future in Kings Landing, happy that they would be together through the hardships, like facing the whole court with all their lords. But they still had a lot to plan!