#crimson lion queen

[koneko-pi]

A YCH (your character here) commission for the lovely @thoughtfullyrainynightmare

Its always a pleasure to draw one of my favorite ships 😌 please check out their account for their quality content!

[koneko-pi]

[404shcats]

Ok can I just say I absolutely love evergreen/arsonist, the lyrics are amazing (and a bit too relatable), and it was written and produced by a story time animator. Also the music video is just gorgeous.

… Maybe you should listen to it.

[novaursa]

Web of Gold (royal wedding)

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Paring: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen (+Aemond Targaryen?)

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: aegon is jealous

- Next part: honeymoon

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @purple-1995 @thisbiann @whiteoakoak

- A/N: The last part was skipping from present to past. I forgot to mention that. It has been fixed now.

The grand hall of the Red Keep has never looked so splendid. Golden tapestries hang from the walls, catching the light from the myriad of candles that bathe the room in a warm, shimmering glow. The floors are strewn with rich red and gold carpets, their colors a perfect match for the union taking place today—a union that has the blood of the dragon and the wealth of the lion entwined.

Your wedding to King Aegon II is nothing short of a spectacle. All of the nobility of Westeros is in attendance, their finery dazzling, but none more so than the families of the bride and groom. The Hightowers and the Lannisters are well represented, their seats in the front rows filled with dignified faces that watch every movement with keen interest.

At the head of it all stands Aegon, his usually unruly silver hair smoothed back for the occasion, though he still carries that familiar smirk as if he's already thinking about the revelry that will follow. He’s dressed in a regal black and red ensemble that reflects his Targaryen heritage, but with touches of gold embroidery—no doubt a nod to your Lannister lineage. As you approach down the aisle, his eyes are fixed solely on you, and his smirk softens into something more genuine, more admiring.

You, in turn, glide down the aisle with all the grace expected of a Lannister bride. Your gown is a masterpiece, shimmering gold and crimson silk, with intricate embroidery that mimics the flames of dragons and the roaring lions of your house. The entire court seems to hold its breath as you make your way toward Aegon, your steps light and confident, a smile playing at your lips.

Behind you, your uncles, the infamous Lannister twins, Tyland and Jason, follow with their usual contrasting expressions. Tyland, ever the composed and political one, watches the proceedings with an air of satisfaction, knowing how well this match bodes for the Lannister name. Jason, on the other hand, appears more relaxed, casting admiring glances around the hall and clearly enjoying the pomp and grandeur of it all. He leans over to Tyland at one point, whispering something, likely a comment on the opulence of the Red Keep, which Tyland responds to with a curt nod, his face impassive.

At the altar, Dowager Queen Alicent stands beside Otto Hightower, her father, both of them watching the ceremony with varying degrees of restraint. Alicent’s expression is one of controlled politeness, though there’s a tightness around her eyes that betrays her discomfort. She still hasn’t entirely warmed to the idea of her beloved son marrying someone who so effortlessly draws his attention away from her. Otto, however, seems entirely pleased, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if mentally counting the alliances being forged today.

Aemond stands beside his brother, his face a mask of impassivity, though you know him well enough by now to catch the faint flicker of amusement in his eye. No doubt he finds the spectacle of Aegon getting married as something of an ironic twist, considering how hard Aegon fought to maintain his so-called "freedom." Aemond’s hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, as always, a silent reminder of his ever-watchful nature.

Helaena is there too, her dreamy expression focused on something far beyond the festivities, though she smiles softly when you pass her by. She’s dressed in a lovely gown of pale blue, her hair adorned with delicate silver ornaments shaped like butterflies. She murmurs something to herself, perhaps a quiet blessing for your future, though it’s impossible to tell for sure.

As you finally reach Aegon’s side, the High Septon Eustace begins the ceremonial words, his voice echoing through the hall. You can feel the eyes of the court on you, but your focus remains on Aegon, who is staring at you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and barely restrained mischief. His hand, warm and steady, slips into yours as you both face the High Septon, the weight of the crown on your head a constant reminder of the power this union represents.

“Do you, Aegon Targaryen, take Y/N of House Lannister to be your lawful wife, to honor and protect, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?” the High Septon intones.

Aegon’s grin spreads wide across his face, a flash of amusement dancing in his eyes. “I do,” he says, his voice rich with confidence, though there’s a playful edge to it that makes it clear he’s already thinking of what comes after the ceremony.

“And do you, Y/N of House Lannister, take Aegon Targaryen to be your lawful husband, to honor and stand beside, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

You meet Aegon’s gaze, the room around you momentarily fading as you reply, “I do.”

The High Septon raises his hands in blessing, proclaiming you husband and wife, and the hall erupts in applause. Aegon, ever the dramatic, doesn’t wait for the formal conclusion before leaning in to kiss you, his hands cupping your face as if you’re the only person in the room. The kiss is bold, full of the reckless passion Aegon is known for, and the court watches with varying degrees of approval and amusement.

Tyland and Jason exchange glances, Jason stifling a chuckle while Tyland remains impassive, though his eyes gleam with pride. They know the political weight of this match—House Lannister is now further entwined with the crown, and their power has only grown.

Alicent, however, watches the display with barely concealed annoyance, her lips pressed into a tight smile. She claps politely, though there’s a stiffness to her movements, a reminder that, in her mind, no one could ever truly be good enough for her precious son. Otto, on the other hand, seems entirely pleased, his eyes flicking toward Alicent as if to gauge her reaction, though he remains composed.

Aemond watches the kiss with a raised brow, a flicker of bemusement crossing his features. He shifts slightly, as though resisting the urge to roll his eye, though a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

The rest of the court stands, applauding as you and Aegon turn to face them, now husband and wife. You can feel the weight of expectation on your shoulders, but you stand tall, regal, with Aegon by your side. The cheers of the courtiers fill the hall, a cacophony of voices celebrating your union, and for a moment, it feels as though you and Aegon have already won over the entire kingdom.

As the feast begins, Jason Lannister raises his goblet in a loud toast. “To King Aegon and his golden bride! May their union bring strength to the realm!” His voice booms across the hall, earning cheers and nods of approval from the Lannisters in attendance.

Aegon, never one to miss an opportunity to revel in attention, raises his own goblet and smirks at you. “And may she forever spoil me with her affection, wine, and… other delights.”

The court erupts in laughter, and you can’t help but laugh too, casting a glance at Aemond, whose eye twitches in amusement, though he’s quick to hide it behind another sip of wine.

The night is long, filled with feasting, laughter, and the clinking of goblets as alliances are silently solidified with every toast. And as the evening draws on, you and Aegon bask in the glow of your new roles—King and Queen, dragon and lion, forever entwined in the history of Westeros.

The grand feast is in full swing. Laughter echoes off the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep’s great hall, the clink of goblets and the shuffle of servants bringing more trays of roasted meats, fruits, and breads filling the space. At the high table, you sit next to Aegon, who is already well on his way to being pleasantly drunk. His cheeks are flushed, his laughter a little too loud, and every so often, he leans in to whisper something entirely inappropriate in your ear—something about what he intends to do later, no doubt—but you smile and nod, indulging him.

Across the table, Helaena sits quietly, her dreamy eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight as if it holds secrets only she can see. She picks absentmindedly at her plate, her fingers twirling a piece of bread like it's a delicate piece of embroidery. You catch her eye and smile warmly.

"Helaena," you say softly, leaning toward her, "are you enjoying the feast?"

She blinks, her gaze shifting to you as if coming back to the present from some distant dream. Her lips curve into a small, sweet smile. "It’s beautiful," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "But the butterflies… they’re dancing too close to the fire."

You pause, tilting your head, unsure whether she’s speaking in metaphors or if this is just one of Helaena’s usual cryptic musings. Either way, you smile back. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on the butterflies, then.”

She giggles softly, her fingers finally releasing the bread as she takes a sip from her goblet. There’s something endearing about Helaena, her quiet innocence standing in contrast to the rowdy festivities around her. You find her company refreshing—though you’re well aware that others find her eccentric nature unsettling.

As you pour another cup of wine for Aegon, who is now thoroughly engaged in a one-sided conversation with Ser Criston about something involving dragons (though Criston’s blank stare suggests he’s only pretending to listen), you feel a sharp gaze on you. Without even looking, you know it’s Alicent.

You glance up to find her watching you with that familiar tight-lipped expression of disapproval. Her hands are clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles have gone white. It’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the way you cater to Aegon’s whims, particularly when it involves filling his goblet over and over. But tonight, she says nothing, her lips pressed into a thin, sour line as she watches you with silent judgment.

You flash her a smile, sweet as honey, and deliberately pour Aegon’s cup a little fuller than necessary, making sure the wine sloshes right to the rim. He grins up at you with a sloppy, grateful smile, lifting his goblet with an exaggerated flourish.

“Ah, my perfect queen!” Aegon slurs, raising the cup in a toast that sends a bit of wine splashing over the side. “Always knows exactly what I need.”

You pat his hand and nod, biting back a laugh. “Yes, my love. Always.”

Alicent’s expression tightens even further, but she still says nothing, clearly choosing to hold her tongue rather than cause a scene at such a grand occasion. Her frustration, however, is palpable.

With Aegon now thoroughly distracted by his wine and the increasingly nonsensical conversation with Ser Criston, you take the opportunity to slip away for a moment. The noise of the feast dulls slightly as you move toward the quieter end of the hall, where Aemond stands, ever the watchful observer, his gaze scanning the room like a hawk searching for prey. He doesn’t sit—Aemond never seems to relax the way Aegon does. Instead, he stands with a goblet of wine in hand, his tall frame as rigid and poised as ever.

As you approach, he glances at you, his single eye cool but alert, that faint smirk already playing on his lips as if he knows exactly why you’ve come.

“Your husband looks quite… spirited this evening,” Aemond says, his voice low and smooth. His gaze flickers to where Aegon is now halfway through another story, clearly embellishing the details for the benefit of anyone still bothering to listen.

You chuckle, standing beside him, your fingers brushing the stem of your own goblet. “Yes, well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it? A wedding and an endless supply of wine—it’s a dangerous combination for Aegon.”

Aemond’s lips twitch with amusement. “Dangerous for him, perhaps. More tiresome for the rest of us.”

You raise your goblet slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. “I suppose you’re used to enduring such… tiresome things, aren’t you, Aemond?”

His eye narrows slightly, a knowing glint in it. “I endure what I must. Though some things…” He pauses, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction longer than necessary, ��are more tolerable than others.”

You hum in response, your lips curving into a small, playful smile. “How kind of you to say. And here I thought you preferred your solitude over any company.”

Aemond sips his wine, his eye never leaving yours. “Solitude has its merits. But there are certain… exceptions.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you, subtle but unmistakable. You glance back toward Aegon, who is now attempting to stand, swaying slightly as he raises his goblet in yet another toast, clearly drunk beyond reason. The sight is both amusing and pitiful, and you can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for your new husband. But at the same time, the pull of Aemond’s presence is undeniable, the tension between you two thickening with every passing second.

“And would I be one of those exceptions?” you ask softly, turning your attention back to Aemond. Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s a sharper edge beneath it.

Aemond’s smirk deepens, his gaze darkening as he lowers his goblet. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You already know the answer to that.”

Your heart quickens, but you keep your expression neutral, unwilling to give too much away. This dance between you and Aemond has been ongoing for some time—never spoken of directly, never acted upon, but always there, clawing just beneath the surface. And tonight, with Aegon too drunk to notice, the tension feels sharper than ever.

Before you can respond, Aegon’s voice cuts through the room, loud and slurred. “Y/N! Where are you, my queen? Come! We must… celebrate!”

You bite back a laugh, casting Aemond a glance that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “Duty calls,” you say, stepping away with a sigh.

Aemond’s eye follows you as you move back toward Aegon, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like a silent promise.

[19burstraat]

ketterdam dashboard simulator

goedmedbridge420

who up boeking they canal

10,345 notes

drydens follow

I can't believe some of you log on here and thirstpost about barrel vagrants. it makes me so sick. these men are the very pits of society and have never honoured ghezen a day in their lives. there are so many other young men who make their living in a reverent way. have some dignity.

#ghezen #inghezenssight #ghezenhonouring #churchofghezen #handofghezen

2 notes

kooperomno1fan

lionsroar12 follow

omg HOW is kaz brekker winning this he's SO problematic he's not even good for the economy he killed members of his own gang and kidnapped councilman van eck's son

dregsundrained

cranky coz your gang fell apart aren't you

17,860 notes

oskervoexchange follow

guys is this a mandela effect or what bc I SWEAR this painting used to be in the university district art museum, I literally saw it this week??? but I went today and it was GONE?????? there wasn't even a plaque?? guys pls I'm so confused why is everyone acting like this is normal for ketterdam? do priceless antiques just VANISH? am I being gaslit?

450 notes

stadhall-clerking

guys I'm so sorry I've been MIA :( I found out that my landlord was using my rent on the staves rather than fixing my black mould problem so I pushed him out the window and told the stadwatch he must have fallen and died because he wasn't honouring ghezen and got away with it. anyway I think maybe the black mould explains the dirtyhands/sturmhond fic I was writing sorry :( but I WILL finish my fairy queen of istamere meta post once I've moved into my new lodging

670 notes

dregsconfessions follow

SUBMISSION: sometimes I lie awake thinking about the time I fell down an entire flight of stairs at the slat when kaz was at the bottom, and he just stared at me (still lying on the floor), and then asked if I'd changed the beer kegs at the silver six yet. GIRL NO?!?!?!

#submission #dregs #dirtyhands #admin comment: laughed so loud my upstairs neighbour threatened to shoot me

546 notes

dregsconfessions follow

ADMIN NOTE: if the razorgulls don't fucking stop sending anon hate to this blog we'll tell dirtyhands n he'll send you your own IP address back

#see what happens you hack job seagulls

500 notes

kerchtourismboard

it's us, the real kerch tourism board, here to tell you what we're putting in the new summer season pamphlet. we got 1) three pages all about kaz brekker that end up being more of an advertisement than a deterrent 2) list of slipperiest spots in the barrel where you will fall over and get a concussion when ur drunk 3) top 10 ways to get your wallet stolen by a child in broad daylight 4) paintings of the komedie brute 5) advert for sten's stockpot 6) map of public toilets

570 notes

kerchtourismboardreal follow

we are not affiliated with any degenerate impersonator accounts who claim to be us. we are the only real kerch tourism account.

23 notes

kerchtourismboard-real follow

grafcanal smells like piss and you should bite everyone you see wearing the mister crimson costume

450 notes

stensstockpot follow

it's all 'fuck sten's stockpot' and 'I got food poisoning from the special at sten's stockpot' until you realise you don't have the money for cilla's fry, and then you come CRAWLING back to the loving arms of sten's stockpot and our special. you fucking traitors. you'll be back! you'll all be back

canaljumpings follow

what's in the special sten's stockpot

stensstockpot follow

it's a surprise ;)

bertskerch follow

nah I thought this was the real stens lmao

stensstockpot follow

bert smit you still have 45 kruge to pay on your tab and if you don't cough up we'll send our debtors to break your legs

230 notes

exchangingbabey follow

my grisha girlfriend who still wears a kefta and says things like 'nikolai lantsov is a bastard': ugh they're still debating whether or not the council of tides should be able to control kerch shipping, I hate inter-country politics

me: I think I hauve the queen's lady

4500 notes

(insp) (insp)

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

A Tyrell in the Lion's Den (Part 5)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Word count: 2.8k

Pairing: Tywin Lannister x Tyrell!reader

Summary: Y/n navigates the complexities of her new life in King's Landing, contending with the political intrigue and personal dynamics of the Lannister family

Warnings: Mature Themes, Possessiveness

_________________________________________________

The day dawned clear and bright over King’s Landing, the air heavy with the weight of expectation. Word of our wedding had spread quickly, a union that would shake the foundations of Westerosi politics. Whispers followed me wherever I walked, eyes full of curiosity, envy, and, in some cases, fear. Tywin Lannister, the most powerful man in the realm, was marrying again, and not just anyone—me, a Tyrell, a daughter of one of the wealthiest and most influential families in the Seven Kingdoms.

The sept was adorned with Lannister crimson and gold, blended tastefully with the green and gold of House Tyrell. It was a show of strength, of unity between two great houses, but I knew the truth beneath the façade. This was not just a marriage of convenience or strategy—it was something far more complicated, more intimate. It was the culmination of everything that had passed between Tywin and me, a union that neither of us had planned for but one that now seemed inevitable.

As I stood in my chambers, my ladies helping me into my gown, I felt the weight of the day pressing down on me. The dress was a masterpiece, a deep emerald green trimmed with golden lions at the cuffs and neckline, an unmistakable symbol of my new allegiance to House Lannister. My hair had been braided and adorned with delicate golden chains, Tywin’s way of showing the world that I belonged to him now.

My heart raced as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, wondering how the world would see me after today. A Tyrell by birth but a Lannister by marriage. A new player in the game of thrones.

“Y/n ,” Margaery said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. She had been unusually quiet, her own ambitions simmering beneath the surface. She was to be Queen, and I her grandmother by marriage—our fates intertwined in ways neither of us had ever anticipated. “You look beautiful.”

I nodded, offering her a small smile, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I wondered how the day would unfold—how Tywin would act, what would be expected of me. The bedding ceremony loomed in the back of my mind, a tradition I found distasteful, but one I knew would be demanded by the court. Still, I had learned enough about Tywin to know that he would not let such a vulgar display take place, not with me. He was possessive, protective in his own way, and I suspected that even the suggestion of other men touching me would not be tolerated.

The sept was filled with the most powerful lords and ladies of Westeros. The great houses had sent their envoys: Olenna Tyrell sat with her usual smirk, clearly amused by the whole affair. I could feel her eyes on me as I walked down the aisle, arm in arm with my father. I had seen her speaking with Tywin earlier, no doubt testing him as she always did, teasing him about the growing bond between our houses.

“Closer than ever now,” I could imagine her saying with that knowing smile. Tywin, of course, would not have been amused, though he respected Olenna’s wit. She was one of the few people who could match him in cunning.

As I approached the altar, I saw Tywin waiting for me, his expression as impassive as ever. He looked regal, powerful, every inch the Lord of Casterly Rock. Yet, when our eyes met, there was something else there—something only I could see. A flicker of warmth, of pride. Perhaps even affection, though he would never admit it.

The ceremony itself was a blur, the words of the septon washing over me as I stood beside Tywin, our hands joined in a grip that was both firm and intimate. As we said our vows, pledging ourselves to each other, I could feel the weight of the moment, the realization that I was now bound to this man in every way. He was my husband, my partner in every sense of the word.

The feast that followed was lavish, as expected. Long tables stretched across the hall, filled with the finest foods and wines. The high lords and ladies raised their cups to us, toasting our union, though I knew many of them were more interested in what this marriage meant for the balance of power in Westeros. Tywin sat beside me, his hand resting possessively on my knee under the table, a subtle reminder of his claim over me.

Margaery, sitting nearby, smiled serenely, though I could see the gears turning in her mind. She was focused on her own future, her own ambitions to become Queen. She glanced at me occasionally, as if to assess my own plans now that I was married to the most powerful man in the realm. I met her gaze, offering nothing but a quiet, knowing smile in return. We were both playing the game now, but we were on the same side—at least for now.

As the feast drew on, I could feel the tension building. The time for the bedding ceremony was approaching, and the lords were beginning to grow restless. I saw the glint in their eyes, the anticipation of the vulgar tradition where they would carry me to the bed, stripping me of my clothes and dignity.

But before anyone could make a move, Tywin stood, his voice cutting through the noise of the hall with the sharpness of a blade. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” he announced, his tone brooking no argument. “Any man who so much as touches my wife will lose his hands.”

A silence fell over the hall, the weight of his words sinking in. Tywin’s gaze swept across the room, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did. The lords averted their eyes, suddenly interested in their food and wine.

His display of authority sent a thrill through me, my pulse quickening. It wasn’t just his power that excited me, but the way he wielded it so effortlessly, the way he made it clear that I belonged to him and him alone. It was possessive, yes, but in a way that made me feel more desired than I had ever been.

As Tywin took my hand and led me from the hall, I could feel the eyes of the court on us, their whispers following in our wake. But I didn’t care. All that mattered now was the man beside me.

Once inside our chambers, the door closed behind us, the tension from the hall melted away, leaving only the two of us in the quiet of the room. Tywin turned to me, his eyes dark with intent, his hands already moving to undo the laces of my gown.

“You are mine,” he said, his voice low and rough as he pulled me close, his hands firm on my hips. “And no one else will ever touch you.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver through me, and I nodded, my breath catching in my throat as his hands roamed over my body. “Yes,” I whispered, meeting his gaze. “I am yours.”

He didn’t waste any time, his hands deftly removing the rest of my clothes until I stood bare before him. He took a moment to admire me, his eyes roaming over every inch of exposed skin before pulling me to him, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that was both fierce and tender.

As he laid me down on the bed, his body pressing against mine, I felt a surge of desire unlike anything I had ever known. His touch was firm, commanding, and I responded eagerly, my hands gripping his shoulders as he moved over me.

“I will give you children,” he growled into my ear, his breath hot against my skin as he positioned himself between my legs. “Strong sons. Daughters to carry on our legacy.”

His words sent a thrill through me, and I arched beneath him, my body trembling with anticipation. “Yes,” I gasped, my nails digging into his back. “Give me your children.”

With that, he entered me with a forceful thrust, his hands gripping my hips as he began to move with a steady, unrelenting rhythm. Each thrust was filled with purpose, with the promise of the future we would build together.

I clung to him, lost in the intensity of our connection, my body responding to every movement, every word. I had never felt so desired, so utterly claimed, and the thought of bearing his children, of being the mother to his heirs, only heightened my pleasure.

Tywin’s thrusts grew more forceful, more desperate, and I could feel the tension building in him as he neared his release. “You will bear my sons,” he growled again, his voice thick with lust.

“Yes,” I moaned, my body trembling beneath him. “I will give you everything.”

With a final, powerful thrust, he spilled into me, his body tense as he held me close, his breath ragged against my neck. For a moment, we lay there, our bodies intertwined, the weight of our future hanging over us.

But as we lay in the afterglow, I couldn’t help but wonder—what kind of father would he be? If he could be so cruel to his own children, what would he be like with mine?

I pushed the thought aside for now, focusing on the man beside me, the man who had just made me his in every way. Whatever the future held, I would face it with him.

And I would make sure that my children—our children—knew love, even if I had to teach Tywin how to give it.

______________________________________________________________

The days following the wedding were an exercise in learning the intricacies of my new life as Lady Lannister. While I had anticipated the whispers and careful gazes from the court, I hadn't fully understood just how much my marriage to Tywin would shake the foundation of King's Landing. It was no longer just a political alliance between Houses; it was a new chapter for the Lannisters, a merging of ambitions and legacies that would echo through the halls for years to come.

Tywin was already at work consolidating his plans, as expected. He wasted no time returning to his role as Hand of the King, and now, with me by his side, he seemed even more intent on securing his family’s dominance. But for all his strength and power, I could sense the slight tension in him when it came to his own children.

Jaime, always the more impetuous of Tywin’s children, had met me with a degree of indifference that bordered on cool curiosity. He observed me, his golden lion gaze flicking over me with the faintest hint of judgment. Yet, for all his disapproval of our marriage, he had not openly voiced it. Perhaps because he, more than anyone, understood his father's pragmatism. He could see what our marriage meant for the Lannisters, but there was something else too—a distance in him, as if he was unsure how to react to having a stepmother younger than himself. He greeted me with a forced smile and the kind of gallant charm expected from the Kingslayer.

“Welcome to the family,” Jaime said at one of our first dinners after the wedding, his tone bordering on teasing, though there was a guardedness behind his words. “It’s rare to see Father so... invested in someone.”

His comment didn’t miss its mark. I could feel Tywin tense beside me, but he made no outward reaction to his son’s veiled barb.

Cersei, on the other hand, was far less subtle in her hostility. Her disdain for me was evident from the first moment I entered the hall as Tywin’s wife. She made no effort to mask her contempt, her lips curling into a sneer whenever we were in the same room. I had anticipated as much; Cersei had lost her position as the only woman in Tywin’s life, and she resented me for it. What I hadn’t expected, however, was the coldness that came with it.

At one point, when we found ourselves alone in the gardens, she approached me, her voice dripping with malice. “Don’t think for one moment that you can replace my mother,” she hissed. “You may be Lady Lannister now, but you are still just another pawn in my father’s game.”

Her words were harsh, but I knew better than to take the bait. Instead, I smiled calmly, refusing to let her provoke me. “I have no intention of replacing anyone, Cersei,” I replied softly. “But we are family now, and it would serve us both better to work together rather than against one another.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more, storming off in a whirl of crimson and gold. I knew she would be a thorn in my side for as long as we remained in King’s Landing, but I wasn’t concerned. I had dealt with powerful women before—Olenna had taught me well. Cersei was dangerous, but she was also predictable.

Tommen, however, was a different matter entirely. Sweet, innocent Tommen had taken to me far more easily than his older brother. His childlike admiration for his new grandmother soon to be sister in marriage was endearing, and I couldn’t help but feel protective of him. He was the boy king, thrust into a world of power and deceit, and yet he retained a gentleness that neither Joffrey nor Cersei possessed.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Tommen asked one afternoon as we walked through the gardens, accompanied by Ser Pounce. “That you’re my grandmother, but also my soon to be wife's sister.”

I laughed softly, ruffling his hair as he beamed up at me. “It’s a bit complicated, isn’t it? But I suppose we’ll have to navigate these strange family ties together.”

He nodded, content with the answer, and I felt a surge of affection for him. Tommen was an easy boy to love, and I knew that Margaery was already wrapping him around her little finger. She was the perfect queen for him—clever, kind, and ambitious. I had seen her ambition grow ever stronger since our marriage, her eyes constantly trained on her future as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Margaery had perfected the art of subtle manipulation. She showered Tommen with affection, and he adored her in return. There was no doubt in my mind that she would succeed where Cersei had failed. Margaery knew how to handle power, how to keep her enemies close while presenting the perfect image of a loving wife.

As for Myrcella, her fate had been one of the first topics Tywin and I discussed after our wedding. There had been talk of bringing her back from Dorne, but Tywin was firm in his decision. The marriage to Trystane Martell was still advantageous, and he saw no reason to disrupt the arrangement. I had questioned him about it, wondering whether he feared for her safety in such a volatile kingdom, but Tywin had been resolute.

“She is safest where she is,” he had told me one evening as we sat in our chambers, his hand resting on mine. “The Martells may hate us, but they will not harm Myrcella. Not while we hold such power over the realm.”

His logic was sound, as always, but I couldn’t help but worry. Myrcella was an innocent girl, much like Tommen, and I didn’t trust the Martells any more than he did. But I knew better than to challenge Tywin’s decisions on matters of strategy. He had spent his entire life mastering the game of thrones, and I had no doubt that he would keep his granddaughter safe, even from afar.

The court, meanwhile, had been thrown into a whirlwind of speculation following our marriage. I was the new Lady Lannister, and though I was born with the Tyrell name, I was now firmly embedded in the lion’s den. Some welcomed me with open arms, eager to curry favor with the new power couple. Others were less enthusiastic, their eyes full of suspicion and jealousy.

Whispers followed me wherever I went, but I had grown used to them. The courtiers may have thought they could undermine me with their gossip, but I had learned well from Olenna. I had my own sources of information, and I knew exactly who could be trusted and who couldn’t.

What surprised me the most, however, was the respect I garnered simply by standing at Tywin’s side. His authority was absolute, and by marrying him, I had inherited a portion of that power. People deferred to me, not just because of my position, but because they feared Tywin’s wrath should they slight his new wife. It was a heady feeling, knowing that I could wield influence over the court simply by being his partner.

But with that power came responsibility, and I knew I had to navigate the court with care. I had to maintain the delicate balance between being a supportive wife to Tywin and asserting my own place in the game. Tywin respected strength, and I intended to prove that I was not just another pawn in his plans.

[kingorqueenofnarnia]

Narnia Headcanons

Queen Lucy the Valiant

Did not experience falling in love, and did not feel attracted enough to anybody to go for a casual relationship. She did pester Edmund about being in a relationship and drove him to madness— he already hated the number of suitors Susan had and thinking of people asking for Lucy made him fume even more. She took great amusement in riling him up with imaginary situations.

In Narnia, she was called Lucy the Lionheart, the Fanged Queen, the Merry Child, Queen Lucy the Healer, Lover of the People and more. She was known to be a happy person, always with a smile on her face, but also to be a lethal force in battle. She earned the name the Fanged Queen for her daggers— they were like a Lion's fangs in her skilled hands; fast, razor sharp and deadly.

Outside Narnia, she was known for her childlike smiles and her battle madness— the Child Queen, the Mad Queen, the Wild Child, Lucy the War Hungry, Bloody Lucy, the Merry Murderer and such terrifying titles. It was quite a shock for everyone who had heard her titles before meeting her, for she was nothing other than a little girl with the sweetest smile and the softest voice. Until, that is, the time for war came.

Peter's right hand when it came to battle strategy. Initially, it had been Edmund that had helped Peter, but as Lucy grew older they found she had a penchant for war, and Edmund immediately handed over the responsibilities to her to focus on the judiciary. People learnt very soon not to underestimate the 13 year old with dual daggers— she was as savage and deadly as a lion, and was not afraid to spill blood. Indeed, she was known to laugh as she killed on the battlefield.

Was the Spymaster of the espionage ring, and was extremely competent at it. She employed and trained unlikely creatures that would fly under the radar— Mice and Birds for their ability to appear dumb, Satyrs for their unassuming demeanor, Snakes for their stealth, and other small animals. It was the most successful spy organisation ever seen on the mainland.

Kept her hair short compared to the others. Went just below her shoulders, and had dozens of tiny braids following Peter's tradition. She braided white jasmines into her hair every morning for their smell, earning her the title the Crimson Jasmine after too many instances of the white flowers being drenched in her enemies' blood. When they fell out of Narnia, she had an impressive fifty-four braids— the highest out of all siblings.

Hated studying. Absolutely did not like to sit in one place poring over books for hours on end. She would rather be outside with the dryads and the satyrs, tracking the dumb animals through the forests on hunting expeditions.

Her favourite subjects were Strategy, Dancing lessons and Navigation— she was fond of sailing, and would usually accompany Edmund on his political journeys to the Islands and archipelagos. By the time she turned 16, she commanded her own fleet of warships, specifically to deal with the attacks on Narnian trade ships from pirates. She earned the title the Mad Queen for her daring and outrageous strategies to deal death on the sea.

Dancing with the Satyrs and the Dryads was her favourite passtime. If she was not on the sea and not in the archery range, she was in the forest, dancing around the fire in a circle. Her favourite dances were the Sword Dance and the fast paced Centaur's Canter.

Very often, she would assist Edmund with his ridiculous pranks. Equally often, she would blame him for her own pranks. Nobody other than the older pevensies ever believed that the sweet queen would ever prank anyone, which annoyed the three others to no end.

Playing Chess with Susan was also a treasured activity, for her. Often, the reason she came up with her outrageous battle strategies was that she had already thought of them when going up against Susan on the chessboard. Susan was a formidable opponent on the board and Lucy had to pull all the stops to defeat her. It helped when planning for actual war, and not to mention it was entertaining.

[katerinaaqu]

The Why never asked and the Because that never mattered

This is a fic I was planning for quite a long time but I wanted to post for the birthday of @dionysism !! Happy Birthday!

Helen was being pulled. That was what she knew because what she felt was an absolute mess inside her like a skein of red wool that was given to a cat to play with and that cat had tangled the thing beyond recognition; it could be that several threads were already severed and yet they were tangled again and again and there was no way of whether they were indeed cut off or not. Helen of Troy, former considering herself Helen of Sparta was feeling a similar way. She was being pulled by the steady hand of her husband covered with his crimson chlamys, not being able to see anything around her but the dirt beneath her feet and yet the sounds that came to her ears; cries of pain mixed with wild triumph wouldn’t let her calm. The smell of fire was also apparent and the metallic scent of blood. She had taken a glimpse of that before and yet Menelaus had chosen to cover her from this. When she was driven to his presence Menelaus was silent. His eyes; those flaming eyes she had missed so much to see from up-close were only staring at her as if he aimed to burn holes into her soul. Helen would stare at him for hours. He had prepared herself for the reunion almost the full decade that she spent at Troy, somehow she knew her husband would come for her; she knew it deep down her soul, knowing his pride, his honor… The moment she lay a foot to the holy city of Troy accompanied by her then new husband Paris, she knew that moment that Menelaus would want to see this city burn. Somehow he had succeeded. She had heard also the plan created by her previous suitor Odysseus. Menelaus and Odysseus had showed up in Troy to negotiate, after arriving at their doors with over 1000 ships. Helen knew. She didn’t need the intelligence she had to realize that if her husband had called upon Odysseus that it didn’t matter what the elders would say. Menelaus would burn the city! Odysseus would help him and do what it would be necessary for victory regardless the price! Seeing the two so mismatched men (one of tall and royal structure with blondish-red hair and honey eyes like the sunset and the other shorter yet immensely structured, hairy and curly like a ram, black of hair and eyes like the night) looking towards her she knew. She knew that these two would make the world burn. Ever since she was preparing herself for the inevitable confrontation with her previous, her true husband… But nothing truly helped when she saw those flaming eyes of his, framed by the blood that had splattered his face, staring at her; blood dripping from his bronze sword.

Helen was looking at him and he was looking at her. Those eyes that belonged to a lion staring upon a beautiful doe in the forest; was something Helen could barely handle. She stood steadfast like the queen she was. She was dressed in a very simple dress without any makeup to her beautiful face and her tresses cascaded down her sides like a waterfall of gold. She had no jewelry on her or anything else to prove her royal status but her fierce eyes; those fierce dark gray, almost black eyes with the small irises of gold that made Menelaus weak at the knees once. However now Menelaus too was staring deep in them and his eyes seemed to be unmoving. Helen had hoped to manipulate some sympathy into her husband so that she could at least save the life of her daughter, Helen, the last daughter she had left from her marriage with Paris. She hoped her husband would see her as a woman now; not as a casus belli. He hoped that at least her daughter would escape his rage. She had never seen Menelaus so enraged before. Never.

“Helen…”

That voice was a throaty growl. It wasn’t human! She looked at his face; she memorized every new wrinkle that the 10 years of warfare had placed upon him. She could truly see him for the first time after a decade. Oh, how changed and how same he looked at the same time! His mouth was tight; the lips that kissed her so passionately before, now were like a tight line, playing and twitching in fury.

“Menelaus…” she forced her throat and lips form the name

Right there and then her voice broke a spell in the air. Her husband had also not seen her in a decade, hadn’t heard her voice in a decade. Then she saw the true meaning of his name before her; The Rage of the People! It was as if the rage of the entire Sparta was gathered in his gaze! His hand clenched upon the sword he was holding and slowly raised it. Fear twitched in her eyes.

“Please…” she croaked out

Menelaus made a step. And another. And another.

“Please!”

For once second her previous courage left her; it was the instinctual fear of every creature before the face of doom. Menelaus raised his sword over his head and then she just felt her knees buckle.

“NO!”

Her scream was unhinged; raw. She threw herself at his feet, getting to grab onto his knees the last second. Menelaus stiffened. He tried to break free but she held him close.

“Please! I beg of you! Have mercy! Have mercy! Let me at least explain myself! Do not do this before I have the chance to explain to you!”

Menelaus growled and tried once more to kick himself free but he knew he couldn’t. His reaction was weak! She realized it was the first time she touched him and, by gods, it was hugging his legs that were splattered with dirt and blood from the city that sheltered her from his rage!

“What is there to explain?!” Menelaus roared, “How can you explain what you did! Ten years, Helen! Ten bloody long years!”

“Please! Have mercy! I beseech you! In the name of our daughter!”

“Don’t you DARE to mention MY daughter!” Menelaus roared, “You left her behind! Like a beast of the forest who leaves their offspring behind to heal your passion! You have no right to bring her name to your wrenched lips! Damn the moment she was born to see the shame of her own mother! You have no right to speak the name of MY Hermione! Not anymore!”

Helen wailed once more as every word he spoke was a knife to her heart sharper than the sword that was now ominously threatening to take her life.

“Don’t…please…!” she cried, “Have mercy…don’t kill me with your words like this! Don’t be so cruel to me! Don’t say this about my daughter! There was not one day in my life that I didn’t think of her! That I didn’t wish she was there to hug her and apologize to her! Please Menelaus! I beg of you…give me one last chance to explain! That’s all I ask! Please!”

“Say what you have to say!” Menelaus growled, “Get up! Get up, woman!”

He practically raised her back to her feet in a violent, bruising grip and yet Helen was intelligent enough to notice the shift in his voice. Her pleading had reached some part of his heart that he dressed in stone. She knew his touch and he knew hers. He knew she was telling the truth. She tried to collect herself and her thoughts.

“I didn’t…I didn’t wish for this to happen, Menelaus. I…the gods have played a cruel game to me…to you…to this city and the Greeks! It was Aphrodite! She promised my hand to Paris! She sparked this cursed feeling inside me! I never stopped loving you, Menelaus! Never, I swear! I swear it upon the life of my children! I have no more sacred oath than that!”

The shadow that passed over her husband’s eyes made her heart stop. It was as if her words only sparked more anger inside him; the anger he was accumulating and nourishing for over a decade of war!

“How DARE you!” he whispered dangerously, “The gods?! Aphrodite?! How DARE you use the gods to mask your sins and infidelity! How DARE you use the name of my daughter for this!”

“Menelaus…stop please!”

“I should have known!” Menelaus ignored her, “The spawn of a woman who felt her passion being sparked by a beast! I should have known better than falling for such a charm! I should have known better than hoping that such a spawn wouldn’t be happy news for me! Cursed the moment I met you! Cursed the moment I married you! Cursed the moment I lo-…”

The word choked in his throat. Her heart clenched. He hesitated to declare his love for her. He hesitated for the first time she ever knew him. That chocked word shocked her much more than his half-blasphemy to her divine father; much more than his sudden action. He grabbed her arm in a bruising grasp, turning to his soldier.

“COME HERE!” he ordered, “Take this woman outside where she will be stoned to death! She will pay for the lives she took upon her! She will pay for the lives she DESTROYED!”

“NO!” Helen now shrieked

Adrenaline gave her probably strength beyond her human capabilities for she broke free from her husband’s painful grip with one violent yank of her arm. Not this, she thought! Any form of death was welcome now that she failed to break through her husband, but not this! She couldn’t die like a common traitor.

“NO! PLEASE!” she begged, “If I am to die, let me die with dignity! Let me die by your own hand! Let me end my own life if you have to! Let me die like a queen! Not like a traitor! Please!”

She violently tore her dress apart. Her naked breasts came in sight. Menelaus’s gaze fell upon them; the way this chest hosted her beating heart; the heart he had rested his ear against so many times, feeling her breathing soothing him! Her breasts remained youthful and beautiful like the day he met her! The years hadn’t withered her divine beauty away!

“RIGHT HERE!” Helen cried, tears running down her cheeks, “Put your sword here right now! I’d rather die by the hands of the man I love than this! Please! Let me die with dignity! You owe me this! Please!”

Menelaus looked at her; the violent palpitations of her chest…and then he looked at her face; her beautiful face scarred by tears and despair; her face that remained divinely beautiful despite the years, no, the years of sadness and agony seemed to have transformed her even more beautiful than before. It was as if her sadness, her GENUINE sadness that she had felt all these years, the suffering and longing, had made her even more beautiful in his eyes. Her hair was messed up, her face pure without any paint or cosmetics; her natural scent that didn’t need any perfumes or aromatic oils to make him longing for her; her body and heart and spirit. How could such a beauty go to waste? How could he destroy this divine creature? How could he destroy the woman he loved?

“ARGH” he roared throwing his sword away, “DAMMIT!”

“My lord?” his soldier asked, “Shall we proceed?”

“No!” Menelaus yelled, “I can’t! I can’t!”

Yes, he realized he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill her, he couldn’t watch her getting killed, and he couldn’t order her death. He couldn’t part from her again!

“I can’t! Damned be my name and my weakness but I can’t see this through! Zeus and the immortals forgive me, I can’t destroy this woman! If I do, I am destroying myself! If I kill her I die with her!”

Helen felt her tears increasing but this time the warm tears were coming straight from her heart; this organ that was pumping her blood steadily but also this wrenched tool that betrayed her after goddess Aphrodite clouded her judgment. She saw Menelaus now; the man she loved and chosen as her husband! Taking a bald step she took his hand, the hand painted in blood and tar. Wetting it with her own salty tears she kissed it. She was placing her life in his hands. There was nothing else she could do; nothing else she wished to do. She felt him stiffen but it was not unpleasant this time. Not like before. As she was bended down, she felt the chlamys covering her head like a veil.

“Dammit!” Menelaus cursed again, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

She felt her husband pulling her away and fast. Helen didn’t know what her fate would be; what her position would be now and she didn’t expect much but she felt like she could trust Menelaus. More than just her love for him was her trust to his heart.

That had happened quite a couple of hours prior, however it felt like an eternity to Helen. They reached his tent, that much she knew, judging from the sounds of the soldiers around. Beneath her fit she could be the ends of the Achaean tents that were set up very fast just enough so they could pass the night; obviously not like the organized camp they were before thanks to the ploy by Odysseus to pretend they were leaving. Quite frankly most soldiers didn’t even have their tents ready. Just the kings and lords were having some shelter for the night (which was getting over anyways). He saw the material of the tent open and Menelaus pushed her in. Only then his chlamys left her head. Menelaus had spoken no word to her ever since that encounter. She heard him yelling orders hither-thither but not one word had reached her ears that was addressed to her; no words of anger but neither words of encouragement either. She was at least relieved that some of the orders he made were concerning her little girl, making sure she came with them. That seemed enough for her. They entered the cozy environment of the tent. Helen clenched her dress closer, covering herself the best she could. However her husband, half staggered inside, removed his helm and let it fall somewhere. He was feeling crushed and tired; too tired to even bother himself with his armor. His hair was matted, painted in blood. Helen even noticed some white strands coming out of it. How much had he suffered too? How much had the longing and waiting cost him? Menelaus, the king of Sparta, even tiredly half-tripped against his own helm, ignoring its existence on the tent’s floor. A slave rushed to pick it up.

“Leave it!” Menelaus roared, “Out! Everyone out!”

She saw them all run out, terrified by his sudden yell. She stood her ground. She watched him struggle with his armor as if it would choke him but she didn’t dare to come closer to assist him. She felt like he needed his space; what had happened that night was not easy for anyone. Helen still mourned the city; the people who didn’t judge her. She mourned herself too; for feeling happiness being with her husband again even with such a terrible price to pay. Menelaus, finally free from the leather and bronze, he let the armor fall to the floor with a clang. Helen couldn’t remember seeing him this exhausted; this burnt out before. He moved his head, hearing cracking sounds from his nape. He silently went to a bronze bowl of water and splashed plenty on his face and over his hair, in some attempt to make himself presentable. With some of the blood gone, Helen clearly saw the gray hairs in his reddish head; like snowflakes on top of dry leaves. Menelaus…her Menelaus seemed drained and prematurely old despite his face being as handsome as she remembered. She watched him dry himself with a towel, which he also abandoned on the floor. She saw the blood stains on the towel and she cursed herself for thinking “Thank gods! This isn’t his blood…he is not hurt…” The thought brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t want to know how many people’s blood he was carrying on him. Menelaus poured a glass of wine for himself and drank deeply from his golden cup. How strange, she thought, gold and jewelry; how insignificant these seemed now before the face of war and death! How much death had they brought upon this earth! The silence was choking her. She couldn’t stand it!

“Menelaus…I…”

Her whisper was cut off by one move of Menelaus’s hand; a silent order, perhaps a silent pledge. She obeyed. Menelaus once more finished his drink and then he sat upon his couch, or perhaps it was his bed now. Helen saw how, despite the fact the tent was cozy and wide; she noticed the difference of her life and his all these years; Menelaus lived in a military camp for more than 10 years while she was living in the palace. No wonder he was so older than his age now; the sorrow, the guilt, the longing in combination to the conditions he lived in, could have their toll at any man. Menelaus seemed to be taking a breath to speak; as if to collect his thoughts.

“For ten years…” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and tired, “During all these years I had dreamt of this moment, Helen…”

It was the first time he addressed her so softly after a decade. Helen felt her heart palpitating and shivering. His rage before was all forgotten to her. His voice now was making her weak at the knees; the softness of her husband she had missed so much.

“I have played it in my head so many times that I had thought I knew every word I wanted to say or reply to you…” he scoffed humorlessly in self-sarcasm, “But, by gods, now I cannot even find a single word to say! The only thing I can say now -the one thing that tormented me all these years- is… Why, Helen? Why?”

His eyes locked with hers; her almost dark and yellow ones; the eyes that looked like stormy sky plundered by lightning.

“Why did you do this to me? Why…?”

The pain! The seer agony! She could almost see the tears down his cheeks even if he heroically was holding them back.

“Menelaus…I…”

“Yes, I know” he interrupted her, “Aphrodite… By gods, Helen…I don’t know what to believe! However that is not what I am asking…”

She waited. She didn’t even need to speak again to know his intentions.

“Why did you…for ten years, Helen…you waited there for ten years… You saw me nearly slaying your precious Paris…him being saved by gods… You still chose him, Helen…even then…you chose him…”

Then she saw it. One single tear ran down his cheek. His voice broke.

“Why, Helen…” he repeated like a mantra, “Why did you push me to the edge? Why did things have to go this way?”

There were a million things she would want to say; many excuses and true reasons. She could have said how she was still under the influence of Aphrodite. She could have said that she had a family she wanted to protect; her precious children that were not at fault, the children that died so unfairly in an earthquake and the children she mourned. She could have said how grateful she was to king Priam for understanding and protecting her, to Hector who supported her, to Andromache who accepted her. She could speak on the years she spent with these people. She could speak on her daughter, her little Helen, that remained alive…on the fact that they chose a new husband for her against her will. However none of this seemed useful now. Her tears ran down her cheeks again, her throat burning and feeling tied in a knob.

“Does it matter now…?” she whispered, “Would anything I say make things better now after so long? Will this give back the lives to all the Greeks that fell or the Trojans that got slain? Will anything I say undo this disaster we did…?”

Yes, she included him. She knew he would have too. Menelaus called upon the greatest army in the world, he agreed upon a bloody war, he agreed upon a scheme to take the city at night and the slaughter of innocents. She knew he knew he was not innocent; just like she wasn’t.

“No…” Menelaus whispered, “No, it doesn’t…”

His honey eyes locked in hers. She didn’t know what to make of it. His stare was as intense as the needle that pierces through the skin when the healer closes a wound. As if being self-conscious, she clenched her dress close to her chest again. Menelaus followed the movement with his eyes. Then his arm extended.

“Come here…”

It was a soft order; a pleading. Helen moved slowly, taking his hand in hers; eliminating the distance between them. She followed his lead as she slowly knelt before him, looking up at his face. His hand softly touched her cheek. She shivered. The night was cold but his hand was so warm! His fingers traced her cheek; phantom touch against her skin. His thumb trailed her lips. Helen felt more tears running but this time it wasn’t despair. His hand slowly went down the side of her throat, slowly slipping in her dress to caress the flesh of her shoulder. She turned her head by instinct, kissing his wrist. She felt him shiver. There was a soft squeeze on her shoulder; en encouragement to make her stand again. She did. His hands then opened her dress again to reveal her chest. He looked at her for a few seconds and then she saw him come undone, like a dam collapsing, filling a lake with water fast!

“Gods!” he whispered

And his arms pulled her close. It was a desperate embrace! It was the type of hugging a dying man would do to their deity, begging for a few more seconds upon the land of the living! His face buried in her bosom and she felt his wet tears on her skin; his arms, strong and secure, fisting upon the material of her dress and her back. Her own arms by instinct flew around him; around his head and she pulled him in her even further as the king of Sparta sobbed. This time Helen’s eyes were dry. It was as if she needed to be strong for him; allowing him to be weak now, to be with her! His shoulders were shivering from sobbing but he made no sound. He half raised his head only to kiss each one of her breasts. His lips were burning! Her heard raised her pulse. The last kiss was placed right in the middle; right over her heart, hammering against her ribcage.

“Please…” he begged, “Hold me, Helen! Hold me like this…”

“Yes…” Helen whispered hugging his head again, “Always…always…”

The man she loved more than life itself looked up and softly pulled her on his knees.

“Kiss me…” he begged again, “Please…kiss me…!”

The encouragement was not needed. She cupped his cheeks with both her white soft hands and her lips landed on his. She heard him whimper. His hands desperately clasped her hair and the other around her body. He kissed her like his life depended on it; like her soul was being transferred inside him. After ten long years! Finally Tears escaped his eyes. It was as if he was dying. The lip locking lasted a few seconds before Menelaus pulled back and half-fell behind. One of his arms was still holding her but the hand that clasped on her locks so tightly before, flew behind him as if to stop his fall. It was as if his heart had stopped for a small second.

“Menelaus!” she worriedly held onto his shoulders

“I’m fine…” Menelaus panted softly, “I’m fine…”

She used the edge of her sleeve to mop the droplets of sweat off his forehead; suddenly his skin feeling cold to the touch his breath coming out harshly. She could tell something was wrong with him; worry biting her soul like a snake. He tried to stabilize his breath as he looked up at her.

“Don’t look at me like that…” he begged weakly, “Please…not you…not like that!”

Tears burnt again in Helen’s eyes. The daughter of Zeus shook her head negatively, placing a kiss on her husband’s forehead, curling against him like a dove. His arms embraced her tighter than before. Her ear caught the sound of his heart; it was irregular! Only to stabilize bit by bit. She held him tightly as if she wanted to transfer her health to him. She wouldn’t let him go again! Never!

“Hold me, Menelaus…” she now begged back, hoping transferring her need for him would help, “Please...never again! Let me stay like this with you…never let me go again!”

Her palm rested against his chest; against his heart. She thanked all gods of Olympus that the heartbeat had stabilized. She could tell by his breathing and temperature too.

“Promise me…” she urged, “You will not let me go…you will not leave me! Never again!”

It was a foolish wish, she knew, but the deteriorating of his health alarmed her. She wanted him, only him, she would never marry another man again but him. She made a promise to herself that even if it cost her, her life, she would keep this man on this earth. He deserved it! Menelaus softly sighed and held her tighter.

“I promise…” she heard him whisper

There was no more need for words between them. No more reasoning was necessary.

***

Sooo yeah I feel lke we do not have so many Helen x Menelaus fics out there and is a shame given how much of a couple they are and how they have been through so much together! And how their love was enough to forget the years they spent apart!

Menelaus trying to kill Helen but being moved by her beauty or her pleading for her life is a detail mentioned in later sources, also depending on the source he wanted to kill her himself or have her stoned to death! As usually I decided to combine sources! Hahaha! Hopefully this works!

For the scene in Menelaus's tent I was severely inspired by an amazing Greek composer named Kostas Kapnisis (Κώστας Καπνίσης) who created soundtracks for some greek movies including an amazing movie for the greek revolution and one of the heroes taking part in it, Papaflessas. In the movie of 1971, one of the pieces of the soundtrack is called Erotiko (Ερωτικό) aka "erotic" or "of love" or "of eros" and on my word is was just perfect in my head!

Just listen the soft melody! TT-TT So them!

I also wanted to show Helen's strength and intelligence but also the fact that all characters were broken in sadness at that time.

Also Menelaus collapsing, you can see my headcanon of Menelaus suffering from his heart. I had made a small analysis on it you can find it here

Now I can memorize many good blogs here that create really beautiful Menelaus and Helen art. Some of those that I know and follow are @thehelplessmortals for some more historic style and others like @smokey07 in a more anime-like style. I must say Menelaus definitely needs more love out there! Both for his friendship with Odysseus as well as for his relationship with Helen and the reconsiliation they had!

Now the design for Helen I had in mind was blonde woman due to beauty standards plus how it is generally much rarer color especially for south Europe also Dares the Phrygian elleged account also names her as such but honestly I have seen great designs of hers looking amazing in red or brown or black hair! The eyes of hers (dark gray with sparkles of yellow) was a totally random thing in my head maybe to connect her with Zeus. Just a random idea I had this morning!

[fromstormsend]

“I don’t want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We’ll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you’ll see. I’ll give him a son with golden hair, and one day he’ll be the king of all the realm, the greatest king that ever was, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion.” -AGOT Sansa III

“Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back. Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed.” -AGOT Jon I

***

These two summer children thought that being blonde was everything then. And there more many quotes from them that they think appearance is everything.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Datura Pt 5

Summary: Trapped Under the Mountain you're trying you best to learn to navigate Amarantha's Court and your own, budding powers.

Content Warnings: Allusions to assault, slavery, mild cursing

Author's Note: This one hurt me to write, but my depression got the better of me and I needed to let my angst out somewhere; I'm so sorry.

Pt 1, 2, 3, 4

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It’s been three weeks since you’d been dragged under the Mountain, each day counted with a little tally scratched into the wall behind your bed post where no one can see. Two weeks without word from your uncle. Two weeks without sunlight. Sometimes you sit in the dark wondering if, when this is over and you finally get to step into the sun again, if your eyes will be able to bear it, or will they be permanently altered?

The weeks are taking a toll. The girl you see in the mirror each morning is paler and paler each passing day, the lines of your face a little thinner as hunger becomes a constant companion. Amarantha has tasked someone with feeding you, but meals are few and far between, save for the assortment of stale snack Rhys has been sneaking into your training sessions. The male has spent hours each day running you through shielding techniques, followed by sparring sessions to “keep you limber” he’d said, and has only just begun to touch the well of power that sleeps beneath your skin. He’s still tight lipped about what he suspects it was, no matter your questioning. Things are, well you wouldn’t say pleasant necessarily, sometimes he still makes you want to hurl things at his head, but there has been no more threats from Amarantha to enforce upon you and so things are fine between you. The Queen has kept to herself for the last three weeks, until the Attor came knocking on your door.

The creature has the decency to not attempt to carry you by the back of the shirt this time. Instead, it walks ahead of you, leathery wings and talons scrapping the floor, it’s every breath a horribly, squeaking, rasp through it’s crooked teeth. It’s only spoken to inform you that you’re being summoned to the Queen’s chambers and than it clamps it’s thin lips shut and shoves you into the hall.

No throne room today, for that you’re relieved, most nights you can still see the bodies pinned to the wall when you shut your eyes. Instead, the Attor leads you up and up, the climb stealing your breath as you head to what you can only assume is the Mountain’s peak. Someone has painstakingly carved steps into the rock, each stone smooth and worn down over time. The door at the top is the same carved stone as all the other doors, but this one is guarded by masked sentries, both armed to the teeth. Spears glisten in their gloved hands, and you keep your questions about how well those could be wielded in such a small space to yourself. Questioning Rhys about her operations is one thing, the Attor and the rest of her cronies is another.

The sentries knock twice before pushing the door open for you.

Unlike your room, the space of her chambers is cavernous, the walls smoothed over and held by pillars of marble and sandstone. Faelights glitter and twist around each pillar, bathing the room in an unnaturally red glow.

Red seems to be her favorite color.

Her sleeping chambers are set in the side of the space, hidden from you by a crimson curtain. The rest of the room is left open, decorated with plush couches and chairs around a roaring fireplace in the shape of a lion’s head. Beneath the worn coffee table, currently plated with tea cups and scones, is a pelt of some sort of monster, the head bearing curling horns and an open mouth of jagged teeth, the glassy eyes starring right at you as the Attor all but shoves you into the room.

There’s a heavy scent of mirthroot and incense in the room that makes your head feel fuzzy.

The Queen emerges from behind the curtain wearing little other than a silk robe, the bare expanse of her legs on full display.

You reign in the disgust you feel at seeing her, try not to picture what she was doing back there, so flippant after she’d ordered an innocent male killed simply for knowing you. She’s a monster. But she’s also the monster with the power of the High Lords and you’re not so foolish as to upset her here in the quiet of her chambers where no one will hear you scream if she decides she wants to punish you for any slight you might offer.

“Y/N,” she says with a grin that looks wrong on the sharp planes of her pale face. “Glad you could join me! Come, sit.”

The Attor watches you move towards the couch opposite her like he thinks you might pounce on her and drag your claws across her throat.

The couch sinks in when you sit, like it’s been used a lot. You try not to think about why.

“Tea?” She asks as she grabs her own cup, her red lipstick smearing across the rim as she takes a deep drink.

Your stomach rumbles, a reminder that they’d forgotten to feed you again. You pull your hands into your sleeves, trying to keep your hands from reaching out to take what’s offered on instinct. “No.” The chances of you being drugged in here are high, you’re not taking any chances. Mentally, you do a quick check of your shields, just as Rhys had shown you, to ensure the doors of your mind are shut from whatever power of his she can wield over you.

She frowns. “I can see that you’re scared of me.”

You lean back in the couch, arms across your chest.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like that,” she says as she sets her own cup down. “I’ve been training with Hybern for many years, I’ve often thought of him like a father, and so I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward when I say I hope that some day you’ll see me like a sister.”

The urge to unleash your claws and slash them across her face is overwhelming. You’re thankful you’d had the good sense to pull your hands into your sleeves, it hides the way you dig your nails into your palms to keep yourself still. “Oh?”

She clasps her hands together, the eyeball in her ring swiveling to look at you. “My relationship with my own family was… rocky, I’d like to think fate is giving me another chance with you.”

You’re not so desperate to get out that you buy it, but you know, from somewhere deep inside of you that if she’d waited a few more weeks, if the hunger and the dark were really starting to get to you that she could have been convincing. That’s what scares you the most.

“I know I come across extreme,” she continues like she hasn’t noticed your reservations. “But, girl to girl, I really want to see you thrive. Rhysand has been telling me of your progress. He says you’re a fast learner.”

He’d told you that too. “He’s a good teacher,” you say carefully. You mean it, he’s very patient with you, even if he is an ass about how he gets results, he’s never been harsh, never pushed too far--not since that first day had he come into your mind uninvited--but you can’t have her getting suspicious of why you’ve been such a dutiful student. If she suspects you’re trying to awaken your powers too soon, you’re as likely to end up chained to her as the High Lords are. Hybern needs a weapon, not a time bomb, you have to play your cards steadily to unsure you can get out of here at the end of this.

“Charmed, are we?” She asks in what feels like it’s meant to be conspiratorial girl talk, but the look in her eyes... You swear the eye on her finger widens in warning.

“I haven’t had any training before this. It is nice to have a guide for my questions.” As close to the truth as you can get.

Amarantha leans back in her seat, arms spread across the back of the couch, as she studies you. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black, nothing but cold calculations in a gaze you know has been wielded with extreme precision on the battlefield. It’s like she’s pinpointing all your weak spots when she looks at you. You can’t look her in the eyes, not without fidgeting, you find yourself picking at the fraying edges of your shirt sleeves instead.

“You poor thing,” she coos. “You must have been so confused.”

That much is true too. You still haven’t been able to figure out why they’re doing all this. What terrible power does she think you posses that she’s so desperate she’ll invite you into her personal chambers instead of attempting some dramatic event in the throne room?

You stare at the wall. You can’t give her the satisfaction of asking her those questions. Maybe she does have the answers, but they’re from her mouth and you know better than to trust a damn think that comes out of it.

“I thought everybody was ahead of me,” you admit. “We travelled a lot so regular schooling was out of the question.”

“Oh I’m sure your uncle was a master at weaponizing your naivety. Most males are.” She brings her hand with the ring up to her chest and begins to trace a pointed nail over it, as if she’s thinking about something else.

“He’s a good male,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

She huffs a laugh, “Good males do not steal children from their parents.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

“Your parents were very powerful people once, and your uncle had always been jealous of your mother. I wish you could have seen her, Y/N, when she stepped onto a battlefield, males coward. I watched them piss themselves just at the sight of her. She was everything I hoped to be as Hybern’s general.”

You’d always imagined your love of books and ancient things had come from your mother. In your mind she’d been a soft woman who grew gardens and was always reading books under big oak trees. In your mind she was kind and gentle and had lost you tragically in some sort of accident. To hear anything else, from Amarantha of all people, made you want to throw your hands up over your ears. Your uncle had alluded to your father not being the best of people, but you had never imagined it would be this bad either.

“Your uncle couldn’t stand it,” she continues, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “I tried to warn them that he was a jealous and dangerous male, but your mother loved him too much to see it. And when he stole you out of your room that night, well, her heart couldn’t handle it. That’s our curse as women, I suppose, we care too much.”

You look into the fire. That can’t be true! You don’t want it to be true. Because, if it is, you’re not only wrong about your parents, you’re wrong about your uncle too and then you will have no family left at all.

“And look at you, following in her footsteps,” she presses. “Caring so much about him that you’ll sacrifice your own peace of mind to spare his miserable life. He’s a monster, Y/N, why are you protecting him? All he has ever done is hurt you.”

The flames dance in the fireplace, reaching towards the carved teeth of the lion’s head. You trace the ash that’s dusted up the creature’s face with your eyes, anything to avoid looking at her. Your shields might be in place, but your face will betray you all the same.

She stands and comes to sit next to you, the heavy scent of earth and incense a cloud around her. “Your powers could have driven you insane without the right teaching. He very well could have killed you. You want to protect a male like that?”

 Maybe it is all true, gods above you can barely stomach the thought, but even if it is, you can’t sell him out to her. “I already told Rhys where he would be. I’m not protecting anyone.” These last few weeks, no news of him had been a relief, it meant he was safe, but as time ticked on, the doubts were starting to get to you. None of her huntsman had even heard whispers of where he’d gone. Was it possible he’d abandoned you?

She reaches out and places her nails under your chin, turning your head until you’re looking into her eyes. “You poor thing. I feel for you, I really do. I know the terrible sting of betrayal all too well.”

The eye on her ring swivels to stare at her, like it’s questioning the statement.

Maybe it really is alive; the thought makes your stomach roll.

“What do you want?” You ask.

She laughs like you’d told a joke. “As I said, I want us to be friends.”

“You killed a male to threaten me into submission and suddenly you want to be friends?”

She stiffens a little.

“This is about the twins, isn’t it?”

“Do you smoke?” She asks instead.

The shift makes you pause for a second, long enough for her to shout for someone behind the curtain leading into her sleeping quarters. A moment later, the same male from the throne room appears, shirtless, wearing nothing but his boxers and a glittering, golden collar. In his hand is a small, silver tray and as he seats himself on the arm of the couch, he holds it out to her. A rolled cluster of cigarettes sits on the tray next to a golden lighter and she grabs the nearest cigarette. Out of what can only be habit, the male sets the tray on the table and lights the cigarette for her as she brings it to her mouth. You’ve been in enough taverns to know mirthroot when you smell it, the smoke making the room hazy.

“Helps with my headaches,” she says, holding it out to you.

You glance at the male, now draped over the edge of the couch like this is normal. Like it’s normal that there are scratch marks across his chest; a collar clinging to his throat. So much had happened the last time he’d been around you hadn’t really noticed what was happening, but now…

Amarantha is speaking again but you honestly can’t hear what she’s saying.

What kind of female does this to people?

There’s something prowling beneath your skin, a caged animal pacing the bars of it’s enclosure. The first bits of your talons poke through your skin, digging into your palms to keep it at bay.

“Y/N?” She asks, and by the tone its clear this isn’t the first time she’s called you by name.

You force yourself to draw a breath, then another. You cannot fight her here like this, no matter how badly you want to. No matter how much the sight of that collar makes you want to destroy everything she’s ever touched. She has the power of the High Lords and if you fight her here in her chambers, untrained, you will loose.

You draw another breath. Rhys had said that half the battle was knowing when to throw the first punch. It isn’t time yet.

You repeat it to yourself, to the thing that slumbers in your chest until it quiets.

You know Amarantha is watching, can feel that oily gaze on you. You draw another breath and force yourself to look at her. “I’m sorry, I… I was just wondering…” You should placate her, pretend your just some untrained, naive little girl she found on Calanmai. At the start of this conversation you might have, but the shift you feel beneath your skin…

You need to get out of the room before you implode.

And you need her to know you’re not just some stupid pet.

“I was just wondering what’s so bad about the twins that’s got you rattled, Your Highness?” Maybe you can’t meet her gaze yet, maybe you can’t win a physical fight, but you’re not some helpless toy at her whims. The last couple weeks have weakened you, but they haven’t beat you.

She growls at you, eyes flashing dangerously.

The male on the end of the couch scatters out of range, ducking behind the curtain long enough for you to get a flash of the room, see another body laying in her silk sheets.

You’re going to rip this mountain apart brick by fucking brick if you have to.

“Is this what you’d rather do, little mouse?” She asks, her voice dangerously low. “Play games with me?”

It's too late to take it all back now. The words are out and despite the shiver running down your spine, you know if you back down now she will hold it over your head forever. Might as well stand your ground and see what she'll reveal to you if you keep pushing. “I’m bored in my cell,” you counter.

She takes a drag of the mirthroot. You'll ask Rhys later why she needs so much of it. Is it possible that holding all that power is effecting her physically somehow?

“How forgetful of me to not keep you entertained.”

“Isn’t that what friends do?” You over emphasize the word, put all your venom into it. You can’t spar with her physically yet, but you’ve always been quicker with your words than your fists anyway.

She flicks the cigarette away. “You should come to dinner tonight, if you’re so bored.”

You hope she can’t hear the way your heart thunders in your chest. This is dangerous, so very dangerous. You’re almost sure you can hear Rhys screaming in your head. “I’d be delighted,” you say as sweetly as you can.

Amarantha motions the Attor over, a dismissal. “I was hoping to protect you from the cruelty of this court until you were ready. My subjects aren’t always as kind as me, but since you’re so keen on getting out of your room, I suppose I can’t help you.”

She’s going to throw you to the wolves.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’ll have to get acquainted with my father’s court eventually.”

“You’ll remember this conversation after dinner,” she hisses as the Attor grabs your shoulder and lifts you off the couch.

“I’m sure it’ll be a good laugh for both of us,” you say like you don’t hear the threat.

As the door opens, you throw over your shoulder, “I’ll see you tonight.”

The powers she’s stolen rumble as the door slams shut behind you, the mountain shaking.

You tuck your trembling hands into your pockets as you walk back the way you came. At least no one is dead this time, but still you can’t shake the feeling that you’re royally fucked.

Doesn’t help matters that, as you turn the corner back towards you room, Rhysand is there, frowning as he leans against the closed door. That intense violet gaze roams over you as you approach, as if he’s cataloging every detail of you, then the Attor.

“Why is she out?” He snarls at the Attor.

“Well hi to you too,” you grumble.

You’re not entirely sure what powers come with being High Lord of the Night Court, but you’re sure he once was able to burn holes through people’s heads, judging by the intensity of the anger in his eyes. He won’t even make eye contacting with you, only the Attor, who lumbers past you, chuckling.

“Her Majesty requested an audience.”

“She’s only to leave her room with me,” Rhys snarls, pushing away from the wall so he’s standing at his full height. Wisps of darkness unfurl from his shoulders, thrashing behind him like living things.

You shiver a little. These last few weeks had made you forget the male you had seen on Calanmai--what Darkness Incarnate was capable of given the right push.

“Funny,” the Attor rasps, unbothered by the display. Maybe when you spend so much time with Amarantha, only big, powerful displays matter. “She hasn’t mentioned you all morning. Maybe she’s gotten tired of you.”

“And maybe,” Rhys prowls forward, the stars you can sometimes see glittering in his eyes winking out with each breath he takes. “I was out dragging Tamlin’s sorry ass in for you.”

The Attor pauses, wings twitching. “Spring surrendered?”

“His time is up,” Rhys snarls. “He didn’t even fight me.”

Shit shit shit. She’s actually done it. Tamlin had been the last High Lord on his throne. When Hybern came in a couple of months, there’d be no one standing in his way. Amarantha would have all the High Lords sitting and waiting for him to do whatever he wanted with them.

You look at Rhys, really look. There’s no damage on him, no cuts or bruises, not even dirt, no hint that he was lying about bringing Tamlin in. He doesn’t look at all bothered by it either, as if this is just another part of the job.

The Attor makes a hissing sound, “Guess we both didn’t get what we wanted today, lordling.”

“This will be the last time you take her anywhere,” Rhys snarls, his voice wholly taken over by a High Lord. Not the male that sits on the floor in the training room, showing you how to shield; not the male who sneaks you snacks to ensure you’re not starving to death in the dark. There is no room for argument, no room for a fight, he is High Lord and he will get his way. “And if I find out any harm came to her while she was under your watch I will take my gods-damned time flaying the skin from your measly bones.”

Measly? The Attor is twice Rhys’s size, yet you know, just by looking at him that he’d win. It’s no idle threat.

“You talk a lot of game, whore,” the Attor snarls as it backs away. It knows it’ll loose too. “But lets see you put that same energy out in front of Her Highness when she has her new pet out for dinner tonight. I’m sure with the Lord of Spring joining us, things will be interesting.”

It scurries away before Rhys can ask what that means, or before you can tear it’s ugly face off it’s bones. Yours claws are piercing into your palms, blood pooling between yours fingers. You hadn’t realized you’d done it, they’d slipped, your control waning at his words. Rhys hadn’t seemed to notice them, hadn’t reacted at all, just as he hadn’t that night in the throne room, but you can’t stand it. And you can’t even explain why.

“Are you hurt?” Rhys asks as soon as the Attor is gone. The wisps of darkness disappear in a rush, like all the energy needed to summon them had suddenly vanished.

“No, I’m fine,” you reply, but you can’t stop yourself from looking down at your hands, the indents you’d left in your palms. Little tendrils of your own darkness slip from them, like it’s leaking out of your skin.

Rhys is on you in an instant, taking your hands in his own, looking at the damage.

“Guess I was clenching my fists a little tight,” you say.

The world tilts and spins, the sound of wind rushing in your ears, and then you’re standing in another bedroom. It’s as barren as your own, lit with a dozen, half melted candles, most of the space taken up by a bed with black silk sheets. There’s some furniture covered in dust around a cold fireplace; it looks less used then your own had been when you’d arrived.

Rhys’s hand is around your wrist, pulling your towards the bathing chambers. He’s breathing hard, as if the winnowing had taken a lot out of him; his skin a little more pale, dark circles around his eyes. How much of his power does Amarantha steal on the daily?

“What did the Attor mean about tonight?” He asks as he motions you to sit on the edge of the tub. It’s bigger than your own, not by much, but there’s enough of a lip around the edge that you can sit without falling completely in. He lets the water run until it’s warm.

You pinch your eyes shut. “She gave me this whole speech about how she wants to be friends.”

He guides your hands under the water and you wince against the sting.

“I was going to wait her out, just not say anything at all, but…” but you kept seeing that male in that godsdamned collar, and the bodies pinned to the wall of the throne room, and the male who had been murdered on the floor.

You know you should be careful here too, no one has explained what his role in all of this is. Was he like Tamlin once? Dragged in when he ran out of options? Or had he come on his own? And you can’t shake the queasiness you get in the pit of your stomach when someone calls him a whore, because all you can do is wonder if Rhys has any say at all what happens to him down here?

“But?”

“But she’s a monster and the last fucking thing I want to be is her friend.”

He steps away long enough to get a towel and dab at the open wounds, still bleeding, the water red as it runs down your hands.

“So I guess I kinda goaded her into doing something with me instead of leaving me in my room all the time.”

Rhys huffs, but you can’t tell if it’s annoyance or anger. He doesn’t say anything beyond that as he shuts off the water and start rummaging through the cabinet under the sink. There’s a lot of vials and bottles and hand towels organized in the small space, the only real sign that anyone ever stays in the room at all.

“You’re lucky she didn’t tear you apart,” he growls as he comes back with a bottle of what looks like antiseptic. He dabs some on another towel and presses it to your palms, ignoring the hiss you make at the sting. “She’s ripped off people’s arms for less.”

“Yeah well one of the joys of being me is she needs me alive,” you drawl.

He tosses the used rag in the tub and then opens a small bottle of salve. It’s half empty, the contents clinging to the sides of the container. It’s applied to your hands with the care of someone who has done this over a dozen different wounds.

“How’d you find all this stuff?”

He’s got gauze too; wraps your hands carefully. “One of the joys of being me is she needs me in one piece,” he returns.

When your hands are all wrapped, he puts all the stuff back and washes his own hands.

“What…” this is dangerous ground, it sounds an awful lot like you care about him. You run a finger over the bandage, trace the sleeve of the shirt you only have because he’d given it to you. You’d still be in a shift in this frozen place if it wasn’t for him. You’d be a lot worse off, if it wasn’t for him.

“What exactly do you do for her?” Do you even want to know? Why torture yourself with the truth when you find out he’s done all of this for her because he wants to? Because he was born a monster just like she was and had only decided to latch onto you because maybe you were as much a ticket to Hybern’s graces as you were for Amarantha?

You watch the way his back shudders as he draws a shaking breath.

Something in your chest cracks and you jump off the edge of the tub.

“Whatever she wants,” he says so softly you almost can’t hear him.

You take a step closer, then another, until you’re right behind him. “And do you… want to do that?”

He turns slowly, head to his chest.

You take the final step so that you can look up into his eyes. So you can see him. There is so much there, in his eyes, in the shadows across his face that you’re pretty sure you have an answer. But you can’t be pretty sure of anything Under the Mountain. You need to hear it said.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he whispers.

“Yes it does,” you press.

He shakes his head, onyx hair falling over his eyes. This is the most rumpled you’ve seen him, he’s always so put together. “Not with what I stand to loose.”

“What could be worth all this?” You’ve unconsciously brought your bandaged hands up on his chest, the beat of his heart quickening beneath your palms. He lets you, as if that pulse might show you that he really does have a heart that works under his shirt.

He brings a hand up slowly, gently running his fingers over the back of your knuckles. His mouth opens, and closes without an answer.

“Rhys-”

He pulls your hands away, straightening, whatever emotion had been on his face before is gone, that cold mask of indifference in it’s place once again. “I am High Lord,” he explains, “my duty is to protect my people at all costs.” Whatever he was going to say before will remain buried behind that mask. You don’t know how he does it so easily. Just when you think he might open up, might let you in, might show you that the male you had met on Calanmai was real, he shuts it out behind this mask.

“And who protects you?” You dare to ask, because even though you know you can’t get past that mask, you can’t stop yourself from trying.

“I don’t need protecting,” he says, but it’s not confidence in his voice, nor pride, it’s… broken, as if he doesn’t think he’s worth protecting. “Careful, Y/N, I might think you care about me.”

Caring in a place like this very well may get you killed. But if you stop, if you find your own mask and shut down every piece of yourself behind it, aren’t you just as bad as him?

 “Would it be so bad?” You whisper. You can’t help but feel small in a place like this, would having a friend be so terrible?

“Yes!” He snarls and darkness leaks from him again. “The more people you care about in this gods forsaken mountain the harder it is to get out! You might only get one shot and if you don’t take it, you’re likely to get stuck here forever.”

Somehow this is worse than Amarantha asking to be friends, this feels an awful like some sort of rejection and that chasm you often feel after Calanmai, when you’d ignored him, cracks and splits wide open in your chest. You feel yourself tumbling down, down into the dark void.

“Why do you care so much if I get out then?”

“Because you’re-” he bites down on the rest of the sentence, shakes it off with a deep breath. “No one else will tell you the truth, so here it is: You will be the death of all of us if you stay. So yes, I want you out of here. I want you as fucking far away from here as possible!”

You can’t breathe.

The chasm swallows you, drags you under until you don’t know what way is up. You know you’re crying, but you can’t stop the tears that stream down your cheeks. Rhys doesn’t bother to try and wipe them away this time.

“Fuck you,” you whimper.

“It’s not my fault you were so damn isolated the first scrap of attention you got you confused with something else,” he replies. “I’ve kept you alive out of necessity and I will continue to do so until it is no longer required of me. And when the time comes for you to get out, you’ll take it and not look back, understand?”

The world spins again and you’re suddenly back inside your own room.

“Do you understand?” He repeats again.

“Perfectly,” you hiss.

“Good. Now let’s fucking hope I can get you out of this gods-damned dinner before your throw away your chance.”

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Tag List: @mariahoedt, @lovelydove, @twsssmlmaa, @sleepylunarwolf, @judig92, @willowpains, @annaaaaaa88, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @myheartfollower, @uniquecolorwizard, @eternallyelvish

*I've seen that some of my tags aren't working for this list, I'm trying to figure out why it will let me tag some of you and not others, but I'll keep trying until I figure it out. :) As always, if you want to be added to the list, let me know! :) Thank you all for your support in this fic you guys are amazing! <3 *

[koneko-pi]

*Casually whistles*

It was done real quick, but it had to be done U3U the kindess must be returned

@thoughtfullyrainynightmare

[koneko-pi]

Nozel gets stabbed so often its tragically funny at this point... please let him rest Tabs. he said goodbye to his mother just to get stabbed by her...

The moment you realize Nozel probably introduced the high collar/choker-like component of the Silva attire, the golden part around his neck specifically, to hide the runes of the curse, that resulted as collateral "damage" from Megicula

[neverchecking]

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˚ ✦Twilight shows just how good he can be (Sub! Twilight)

Muddled Thoughts❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦With some altered affects form the Muddle Bids, Twilight shows you exactly what he wants (Breeding kink, Dom! Twilight)

A Rainy Day❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦After being caught in a rainstorm, you're left with limited options to keep warm. Twilight has a few. (Cockwarming)

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Big Bad Wolf and His Teeth❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦Twilight finally understands what about danger excites you so (Knife play)

Lion's Heart💖

˚ ✦How does this Hero react to a Lynel hybrid?

NSFW Alphabet❤️‍🔥💖 💚

˚ ✦What it says on the tin <3

Sky:

Divine Temptation❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦Hylia's chosen hero is tempted from Skyloft~ (Sub! Sky)

Welcome Home❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦Sky shows you just how glad he his that he's home. Even if it's just for the night.

Crimson Feathers ❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦What if Sky's Loftwing could shape shift into a Hylian?

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Butterfly Kisses 💖💝

˚ ✦This Hero finds the child of King Rauru and Queen Sonia...Who are no longer around. Well, you know what they say. Finder's keepers. (Platonic! Dad! Heroes!)

Warriors:

Tell Me I'm Pretty ❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦How far can some pretty words get you with the Captain? (Praise kink)

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Butterfly Kisses 💖💝

˚ ✦This Hero finds the child of King Rauru and Queen Sonia...Who are no longer around. Well, you know what they say. Finder's keepers. (Platonic! Dad! Heroes!)

Legend:

The Cheaper Things in Life💖 💚

˚ ✦Legend would lay down his life, and the lives of others, for you. He soon finds out that you would do the same.

Chicken ❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦You and Legend play your own version of Chicken (Cockwarming)

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Hyrule:

Thinking of You❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦The Traveler gets a peak into Reader's thoughts. (Sub! Hyrule)

Wild:

Lost and Found❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦Wild figures out just how to keep you tied to him (Breeding kink)

His Home❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦Wild learns just how little you actually have to do to turn him to putty (Premature ejaculation, Sub! Wild)

The Champion of Masks 💖 

˚ ✦BotW! Link, and champions, with a Reader who has the Masks from Majora's Mask

Do You Hover on a Chair? ❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦Wild offers you a seat. (Face sitting)

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

A Tick ❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦He had to prove he was better. Needed to. Even if he needed to use some unconventional methods to do so. (Threesome, Ft. Sage!)

NSFW Alphabet❤️‍🔥💖💚

˚ ✦What it says on the tin <3

Fours a party❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦ He's going to continue using those unconventional methods to prove he's the best. Even if now there's more than one opponent. (Foursome, Ft. Cal and Sage!)

Four:

Handling the Heat❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦Four sees just how much heat he can handle (Slight sub! Four)

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Hypnotic❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦four figures out just how quiet you can make the voices in his head (Hypno kink)

Butterfly Kisses 💖💝

˚ ✦This Hero finds the child of King Rauru and Queen Sonia...Who are no longer around. Well, you know what they say. Finder's keepers. (Platonic! Dad! Heroes!)

Wind (Platonic):

˚ ✦Nothing yet!

Sage (TotK Link):

TotK Link💖 

˚ ✦The first introductions of Sage

The Switch💚

˚ ✦Reader gets separated from the Chain with nothing but their switch and just so happens upon a certain someone.

A Rusted Link💖 

˚ ✦Sage's place in the chain isn't as smooth as the other's.

'Tis the Season❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦After being reunited with his dragon lover, Sage proves that he can handle Mating season (Breeding Kink)

The Dragon's Daughter❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦When faced with the once lost Daughter of King Rauru and Queen Sonia, he realizes that maybe there is a reason to save Hyrule. (Breeding Kink, Baby trapping)

Rattled Chains💖 

˚ ✦Sage finally interacts with the rest of the chain. He's not happy.

Putty❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦Sage laments about how easily you can get under his skin...While you show how easily you can get under his skin. (Sub! Sage, but he's a butt about it, bondage, and slight nipple play)

A Tick ❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦He had to prove he was better. Needed to. Even if he needed to use some unconventional methods to do so. (Threesome, Ft. Wild!)

Love Me ❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦After being used to nothing but harsh actions and hissed words, Sage is quite affected by someone showing him nothing but love.

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Butterfly Kisses 💖💝

˚ ✦This Hero finds the child of King Rauru and Queen Sonia...Who are no longer around. Well, you know what they say. Finder's keepers. (Platonic! Dad! Heroes!)

Fours a party❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦ He's going to continue using those unconventional methods to prove he's the best. Even if now there's more than one opponent. (Foursome, Ft. Cal and Wild!)

Calamity (AoC Link):

Fours a party❤️‍🔥💚

˚ ✦ He's going to continue using those unconventional methods to prove he's the best. Even if now there's more than one opponent. (Foursome, Ft. Sage and Wild!)

The Chain:

Sit on my Face❤️‍🔥💖

˚ ✦Reader wants to repay the chain. They discuss how. (W/Sage!)

 (Pt. 2! Ft. Time)❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦ Reader pays their dues~

Courage (Animated Link):

A Bird's Eye View❤️‍🔥💖 

˚ ✦This hero proves how well he can breed his Harpy lover~ (Breeding Kink)

Bro, It's not gay if you say no homo, bro.❤️‍🔥💖💚

˚ ✦They even kept their socks on. (Ft. Dalton and Dante, and Ko*idai IG.)

Ko*idai (CDI Link):

Golly ❤️‍🔥

˚ ✦Ko*idai has a breeding kink. That's it. That's the post.

Bro, It's not gay if you say no homo, bro.❤️‍🔥💖💚

˚ ✦They even kept their socks on. (Ft. Dalton and Dante, and Courage IG.)

Fierce Diety:

NSFW Alphabet❤️‍🔥💖💚

˚ ✦What it says on the tin <3

Misc:

His Forbidden Fruit

˚ ✦ A non-Link specific little tid-bit.

Rauru Headcanons

˚ ✦Link's sister proves her worth to the first King of Hyrule...Maybe a little too well. (Breeding Kink)

Worshipper Ravio

˚ ✦Ravio as your devoted follower.

Sage and the Chain rambles

˚ ✦Some interesting thoughts with Sage and the Chain, and the chaos behind it.

Cottagecore home

˚ ✦My thoughts regarding Sage, his old Hateno home, and his thoughts towards that and Zelda.

Double Standard

˚ ✦Some thoughts with Wild having a dirty dream and the Chain's reaction.

Stuffy Recovery

˚ ✦How would the Chain help you fix your plush? (This was so soft and I love how it came out. It's not Yandere, and not long enough to count as a drabble, so here it goes!)

Talk about the Triplets (Wild, Sage and Calamity)

˚ ✦Just some thoughts about the triplets and why they would be Yandere. (WARNING: Talk of unsubscribing from life, so please proceed with caution)

Wild and Sage sleeping habits

˚ ✦And why they have to sleep with Reader (Get your mind out of the gutter >:()

A Submitted Sage Tid-bit

˚ ✦Go read this. Right now >:(

The Triplets (Ft. Plus sized Reader!)

˚ ✦This too.

Let's get Loud

˚ ✦Who's having the most fun making the Reader break their quiet streak?

Spitballing Cal Hc

˚ ✦Cal headcanons that aren't enough to be their own post.

Spitballing Wind Hc

˚ ✦Wind headcanons that aren't enough to be their own post

Twilight Comic

An absolutely ADORABLE Comic submitted to me. <333

Aaliyah's Corner:

Aaliyah Ref. Sheet~

˚ ✦Yall seem to love Aaliyah so I'm linking her art here.

She's barbie.

˚ ✦And Sage is just Ken.

Eye of the Storm

˚ ✦Where does her story begin? Right here :)(Head the CW warnings).

Art Piece Take one!

˚ ✦I can art. who knew?

Ceres and Aaliyah meet (Which can only end well, of course.)

˚ ✦Please note, this is mostly pure smut between my own Oc and Ceres (Who belongs to @angry-trashcan) Totally self-indulgent but I love it sm.

Part 1: Bound (Bailey's Piece)

Part 2: Two on One Special (My Piece)

Part 3: Girl(S) Interrupted (Bailey's Piece)

Part 4:

Mae and Aaliyah Meet

Another OC x OC storyline with Mae (Who belongs to @jcs-radiostation) Also self-indulgent but i also love them sm <333

My part 1: Here!

[novaursa]

Legacy (of dragons and gods)

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Canon events have been altered to compliment the plot for this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: the march

- Next part: dragonfire

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

The Lannister procession had stopped for the night along the banks of a winding river, its waters sluggish under the pale light of the waning sun. The camp spread out like a sea of crimson and gold, with soldiers pitching tents and stoking fires, the metallic clink of armor and the murmur of voices filling the evening air. At the center of it all, beneath the largest tent adorned with a golden lion on a blood-red field, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a table, his mood as cold and unyielding as the steel dagger he turned between his fingers.

The air within the tent was stifling, thick with the heat of the gathered torches and the heavy silence that followed the latest report. Kevan Lannister sat to Tywin’s right, his face pale and set in a stern frown. Jaime stood near the tent flap, his armor dull beneath the flickering light, his expression impassive. Between them, the messenger—a frail man in dusty robes—shifted uneasily on his feet, his gaze flicking nervously between the powerful men before him.

Tywin’s voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, like the first rumble of thunder before a storm. “Repeat what you just said.”

The messenger swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “M-my lord, the High Sparrow… the Faith has taken hold of the city. King’s Landing is no longer under full control of the crown. The Sept has been fortified, and the Faith Militant patrols the streets.”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the dagger. “And my daughter?”

The man visibly flinched at the icy edge in Tywin’s voice. “Queen Mother Cersei… she was arrested, my lord. The High Sparrow accused her of sin and impropriety, and…” He faltered, choosing his next words carefully. “She has been made to atone. Her… walk has already taken place.”

There was a beat of silence so heavy it felt as though the air itself froze. Kevan let out a soft breath, his face etched with disbelief and anger, while Jaime remained silent, his jaw tense as he looked away, refusing to meet his father’s gaze.

Tywin’s expression, however, was unreadable, his green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trembling messenger. “You will tell me every detail,” he said coldly.

The messenger hesitated, but there was no escaping Tywin’s command. “The queen was stripped of her clothing and marched from the Great Sept to the Red Keep, barefoot and unarmed. The people were… merciless, my lord. They hurled insults, food, stones. The walk lasted hours.”

Tywin’s grip on the dagger finally stilled, his eyes narrowing. “And you allowed this to happen?” His voice barely rose, but the fury in it was enough to make Kevan stiffen.

“The Faith controls the city, my lord,” the messenger stammered. “The crown has lost its power.”

Tywin’s silence was thunderous. He turned his gaze to Kevan, whose face was carved in stone. “This is the result of my daughter’s arrogance. Her foolish decisions have not only humiliated herself but sullied the name of House Lannister. She has given our enemies something they will not soon forget.”

Kevan nodded curtly. “The Faith must be dealt with. This cannot stand.”

“And it will not,” Tywin replied, his voice as sharp as a blade. His gaze snapped to Jaime, who still stood motionless by the tent flap. “You have nothing to say, Jaime?”

Jaime finally turned to look at his father, his face unreadable. “What would you have me say? That it should never have come to this? That I warned her?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly in disgust. “Your warnings fell on deaf ears because you failed to command her respect.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Before another word could be exchanged, a deep, thunderous roar echoed across the camp, cutting through the murmurs of men and the crackling of fires. The ground beneath them trembled faintly, and every man within the tent turned sharply toward the sound. Outside, voices rose in alarm, and the shadow of something vast passed briefly over the canvas walls of the tent.

Kevan shot Tywin a concerned look. “The dragon.”

Tywin straightened, setting the dagger on the table with deliberate care. “Dismiss the men,” he commanded curtly.

Kevan opened his mouth to object but thought better of it, rising swiftly to usher the remaining guards and the messenger out of the tent. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing toward his father, but Tywin waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand. “Go.”

Once the tent had emptied and silence returned, Tywin rose from his seat and strode to the entrance of the tent. He stepped outside into the fading light, the faint chill of evening brushing against his face as he looked up toward the source of the disturbance.

Viserion descended from the darkening sky, her great wings beating the air with an almost deafening rhythm. The fires of the camp guttered and danced wildly in her wake as she landed with a massive thud just beyond the edge of the tents. Her cream and gold scales gleamed in the twilight, and her neck curved as her golden eyes fixed on the men who scattered in fear at her arrival. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her chest rumbled with a sound so deep it made the earth itself shiver.

And then you appeared, sliding smoothly from the dragon’s back, your dark riding cloak billowing around you as you landed with practiced ease. You placed a steadying hand on Viserion’s snout, murmuring something softly to her before turning to face Tywin.

Tywin stood his ground, unflinching even as Viserion’s great eyes fixed on him. The anxiety in the camp was felt, men watching from the shadows as the Lord of Casterly Rock and the dragon stared one another down. For a moment, it seemed as though Viserion might let out another roar, but at your touch, she stilled, the smoke in her breath dissipating as she settled.

“Tywin,” you greeted coolly, pulling back your hood to reveal the silver cascade of your hair. The wind carried faint embers and the scent of smoke, as though the dragon’s fire lingered on your skin.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver as he took in the sight of you and the creature at your side. “Your arrival was… dramatic.”

“Viserion does not know subtlety,” you replied smoothly, stroking the dragon’s warm scales. “Neither do the Lannisters, from what I’ve learned.”

Tywin’s lip twitched faintly, though it was impossible to tell if it was amusement or irritation. He stepped forward, stopping just a few paces away from you, though his gaze remained locked on Viserion. “Is she so wild that you cannot control her?”

“She is not wild,” you countered sharply. “She is mine. She answers to me.”

“And yet her presence unnerves my men,” Tywin said, his voice cold. “You do not need to remind them of their place.”

“Then perhaps they should find their courage,” you replied pointedly. “The dragon will be with us in King’s Landing. They had best learn to accept it.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered briefly to you, something sharp and considering in his expression. “We’ll see about that.”

You stepped closer, your violet eyes steady as you looked up at him. “What is it you summoned me for, Tywin?”

He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his words. “The city is no longer what it was,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “The Faith has seized power, and my daughter—has humiliated this house through her recklessness.”

You frowned slightly, sensing the anger simmering beneath his carefully measured tone. “What has happened to her?”

Tywin’s expression darkened. “She was paraded through the streets, stripped and shamed for all to see. It was a spectacle. A disgrace.”

You exhaled softly, a flicker of pity passing through you despite everything. “And you blame her for this.”

“I blame her for giving our enemies the means to harm us,” Tywin snapped. “Power demands discipline. She has forgotten that.”

You tilted your head slightly, your tone measured. “And what of the Faith, then? What do you plan to do about them?”

Tywin’s gaze was hard, unrelenting. “I will deal with the Faith as I have dealt with every other threat to my house.”

“And me?” you asked softly, your voice almost a challenge. “What do you plan for me and Viserion in the capital?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “You will stand where I tell you to stand, Y/N. And your dragon will serve as a reminder to those who would oppose us.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “I hope you know what you’re inviting into that city, Tywin. Fire does not play by the rules of men.”

Tywin stared at you for a long moment before his voice dropped to a soft, dangerous murmur. “Then we will ensure the fire serves our cause.”

Viserion shifted behind you, her chest rumbling faintly as if echoing your thoughts. You turned back to the dragon, running a hand along her warm scales. “Be careful, Tywin,” you said quietly. “Fire is not so easily tamed.”

Tywin watched you for another moment, then turned sharply away.

The soft light of candles flickered inside the tent as Tywin Lannister ducked through the heavy flap, the air still tinged with the chill of the evening. Outside, the camp buzzed faintly with the sounds of men settling in for the night—boots on dirt, the crackle of fires, distant voices murmuring—but inside, there was nothing but quiet. A welcome reprieve.

The tent was a well-ordered sanctuary. Rich crimson fabrics lined the walls, the Lannister sigil subtly embroidered into their folds. The centerpiece was a sturdy bed with a carved wooden frame, draped in thick furs and silken sheets. Across the room, Damon slept soundly in his crib, his soft breathing barely audible beneath the gentle hum of the wind outside. The sight of his son—safe, warm, untroubled—brought the faintest softening to Tywin’s otherwise stern features.

You sat by the small table, clad in a loose gown of black and silver that cascaded around you like a midnight cloud. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders, illuminated faintly by the golden glow of the lantern. At the sound of his arrival, you glanced up, your violet eyes catching the light and shining with that unspoken challenge you always seemed to carry.

“Your men are watching Viserion like she might swoop down and devour them whole,” you remarked quietly, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you sat back in your chair. “Is she making them nervous, or are you?”

Tywin snorted softly, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as he began to remove his crimson cloak, hanging it on a nearby hook. “The dragon unnerves them, as does her rider. It is a good lesson in fear.”

“And what of you, Lord Tywin?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I unnerve you?”

He shot you a look that could have flayed lesser men, but there was no true sharpness in it. “Not nearly as much as you would like to believe.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you stood, walking toward him with deliberate grace. “It’s been a long day. You must be exhausted.”

“Exhaustion is a luxury,” Tywin replied simply, though there was no denying the faint relief in the way he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. His gaze flicked briefly to Damon, still asleep in the crib. “He is well?”

“Fast asleep,” you replied, glancing toward your son with a softness that did not often appear in your voice. “It seems he takes after you. He barely stirs, even with the roar of a dragon.”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, as if considering a retort, but he let it pass. Instead, he stepped toward the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, the liquid dark as blood beneath the candlelight. “Tomorrow will be a day history records,” he said finally, the weight of his words deliberate. “Our arrival in King’s Landing, with a dragon at our side—it will not be forgotten.”

You folded your arms across your chest, the playful edge fading from your expression. “That depends, doesn’t it?”

Tywin turned toward you, brow arching faintly. “On what?”

“On how it goes,” you replied smoothly, stepping closer until only a breath of space separated you. “If the city welcomes us with open arms, it will be a moment of strength. If they resist, if they see us as a threat…” Your voice trailed off, your gaze steady. “The histories could tell a very different story.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “Then I will ensure they see it the way I intend them to.”

You reached out, your hand brushing lightly against the front of his tunic. “You always did believe you could shape the world to your will.”

Tywin’s green eyes locked onto yours, the flicker of heat behind them unmistakable. “Because I can.”

“And what will you do with me?” you murmured, your voice softening into something huskier. “Am I to be part of this vision of yours? A Targaryen astride her dragon, or something far less… mythic?”

He set his goblet down with deliberate care, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you just slightly closer. “You are my wife,” he said, his voice low but firm, as though that truth alone carried all the weight in the world. “And you are more than myth. You are fire made flesh.”

The words sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as you looked up into his face. Tywin Lannister, cold and unyielding to the world, was a man of stone to everyone but you. With you, there was something deeper—something raw, something burning just beneath the surface. And in moments like this, when the world outside fell away, you saw it in him.

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze darkened with desire, and in an instant, his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips descended on yours, firm and demanding, sending sparks across your skin as you melted into the kiss. Tywin was not a man prone to tenderness; he kissed with purpose, with possession, and yet there was something almost reverent in the way his hand came up to cradle your jaw.

You responded in kind, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed closer, your body molding to his. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss, feeling his breath catch ever so slightly. When you pulled back, lips swollen and breath shallow, you looked up at him with a wicked smile.

“Undress me,” you whispered, your voice a challenge and a plea all at once.

Tywin’s gaze roamed over you, his eyes dark with hunger as his hands moved to the laces of your gown. He was deliberate, each tug of fabric exposing more of your skin, his fingers lingering where they brushed against you. He lowered the gown slowly, letting it pool at your feet until you stood before him, bare but for the faint glow of firelight against your skin.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice rough with restrained need.

You stepped forward, your fingers moving to the buckles of his leather doublet, loosening each one until you could push the heavy garment from his shoulders. You tugged at his tunic next, your touch lingering against the hard planes of his chest and the scarred strength of his body. When he stood before you, equally bare, the fire between you seemed to burn hotter.

Tywin’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm as he guided you toward the bed. You stepped back with him, the furs cool against your calves as he eased you onto the mattress. He followed, his body pressing over yours, the weight of him grounding you as he braced himself above you.

You reached for him, your legs parting as you drew him closer, the anticipation thick between you. “Tywin,” you whispered, your voice soft and wanting.

His gaze met yours, his green eyes locking with your violet ones as he lowered himself. You felt him press against you, the sensation sending a thrill through you as your body arched instinctively beneath him. He entered you slowly, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though savoring every inch of you. Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely.

For a moment, he stilled, his face hovering just above yours as you both adjusted to the intimacy of the moment. You reached up, cupping his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t stop.”

Tywin’s control began to fray as he started to move, his thrusts steady and powerful, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from you. You met him with equal fervor, your hips rising to meet his rhythm, your nails dragging lightly down his back as the pleasure built between you. His mouth found the hollow of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there before trailing up to claim your lips again.

“Mine,” he murmured against your mouth, the word rough and possessive.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking as you clung to him, the world outside fading to nothing but the two of you.

The pace quickened, the tension coiling tighter with each movement, the fire between you consuming everything. You cried out softly as the pleasure crested, your body trembling beneath his as he followed moments later, his breath ragged as he buried himself fully within you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still entwined as you caught your breath. Tywin finally shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist. The quiet of the tent wrapped around you like a blanket, the faint sounds of the camp distant and unimportant.

You turned your head to look at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Do you still think you can control fire?”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, though he did not open his eyes. “I control what matters.”

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple as you whispered, “We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”

And with that, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day finally giving way to the warmth of sleep, Tywin’s steady breathing a comforting presence beside you. Outside, the fires burned low, and the dragon watched, her golden eyes glowing in the dark.

The air in Cersei’s chambers felt stifling, heavy with the scent of lavender oil that did nothing to soothe the throbbing ache in her body or the sharp sting of her pride. She sat on the edge of a cushioned divan, draped in a simple gown of muted black. A far cry from the golden silks and rich velvets she had once worn as queen. Her golden hair—shorn during her walk of atonement—barely grazed her shoulders, and her face, though still beautiful, was pale and hollowed with weariness.

Tommen sat nervously beside her, perched like a boy who no longer knew how to comfort his mother. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he glanced toward Qyburn, who stood silently near the hearth. The man had been her most trusted ally since her fall, but even he could not erase what had been done to her.

“Mother,” Tommen spoke softly, his voice tentative. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up in here. The maesters say you should—”

“I know what they say, Tommen,” Cersei cut him off sharply, her tone brittle. Her green eyes turned to him, and her expression softened—just barely. She reached for his hand, her grip weak but insistent. “I am not hiding. I will not cower before them again.”

Tommen nodded faintly, though his youthful face betrayed his unease. “We still have Margaery,” he offered quietly. “She’s in the Sept. You told me the Tyrells were weak. If Tywin—” He faltered, unsure if the word still applied. “If Grandsire returns, he’ll make things right, won’t he?”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “Your grandsire will see what I’ve done and scorn me for it. He’ll act as though it’s his house they mocked, not mine.” Her voice turned cold, a faint tremor of fury beneath it. “He’ll set the world right as he always does—through fear, not shame.”

Qyburn cleared his throat softly, stepping forward. “My queen, if I may. Tywin Lannister’s return could provide you with a path to redemption. There is still strength in your name.”

Before Cersei could answer, a loud blare of horns echoed from outside the Red Keep. The sound was sharp and jarring, splitting the quiet of the morning like a blade. Tommen jumped slightly, his head snapping toward the window, where the banners of the capital fluttered lazily in the breeze.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice high with worry.

Cersei straightened, her back stiff despite the lingering pain. “Horns,” she murmured, a shadow crossing her face. “A summons.”

The door burst open before another word could be spoken, and Varys stepped inside with his usual calm grace, though his expression was far from serene. His eyes darted briefly to Tommen before settling on Cersei. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “Lord Tywin has returned.”

Cersei’s face remained still, though her nails dug faintly into the cushion beneath her hand. “So soon,” she said coldly. “And what has brought such a spectacle with him that the horns must scream about it?”

Varys inclined his head, his tone careful. “Your father does not travel lightly, as you know. His banners march through the gates as we speak. But…” He hesitated.

Cersei’s gaze snapped to him. “But what?”

Before Varys could reply, a sound pierced the air—high, unearthly, a shriek so terrible that it seemed to silence everything else in the world. It echoed through the walls of the Red Keep, reverberating like a distant wail of doom. Tommen clutched his ears with a cry, and even Qyburn startled visibly.

“What in the name of—” Cersei began, but another shriek cut her off, louder this time. Outside, chaos erupted. Horns blared anew, more frantically now, and distant screams carried on the wind. The sound of boots thundering across the courtyard and the cries of panicked soldiers filled the air like a rising tide.

Cersei stood quickly, ignoring the ache in her limbs as she crossed the room to the window. When she looked out, her breath caught in her throat.

The streets of King’s Landing swarmed like an anthill kicked apart. People scattered in every direction, pointing toward the sky. Guards yelled orders that fell on deaf ears, their swords raised uselessly. In the distance, high above the city, a vast shadow passed across the sun.

And then she saw it.

A dragon.

Viserion’s cream and gold scales gleamed like molten fire in the morning light, her massive wings stretched wide as she soared high above the capital. Her shadow swept over the streets and rooftops, darkening everything it touched, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very air stilled in her wake. She circled the city, her movements graceful and deliberate, her shrieks echoing as though announcing the end of all things.

“She’s circling,” Varys said softly, his gaze fixed on the sky with something akin to awe. “Three times.”

Cersei’s fingers gripped the edge of the window frame tightly, her knuckles white. “Is this Tywin’s doing?” she asked, her voice trembling with fury. “Did he bring this to my city?”

Varys’s gaze remained calm, though his words were clipped. “Yes. And it appears he means to make a statement.”

As Viserion completed her second circuit, the shrieks grew louder, almost deafening. The city below had descended into chaos—citizens dropping to their knees in prayer, others fleeing into doorways and alleyways. Mothers clutched their children, and soldiers, pale-faced, stared upward as though witnessing the stuff of nightmares made flesh.

The dragon dipped lower, her wings sending gusts of wind across the streets, rattling shutters and banners. And then, as she began her third circle, she turned sharply toward the Sept of Baelor.

The Sept loomed in the center of the city, its grand dome a beacon of the Faith—and a fitting perch for a creature of fire and fury. Viserion beat her wings powerfully, rising higher before descending with deliberate grace. Her talons curled as she landed atop the dome, the metal groaning under her weight. Her body coiled, tail curling down one side of the structure while her wings folded tightly against her back. From the streets below, she appeared like a living statue of destruction.

The city watched in stunned silence, awe and terror mingling as one.

Cersei took a step back from the window, her breath shallow as she turned to Varys. “Where is she? Where is the Targaryen whore who rides that beast?”

Varys did not flinch at the venom in her tone. “Your Grace, it is Lady Y/N. She has returned with your father. On his orders, I presume.”

Cersei’s face twisted with fury, though it was undercut by something far more dangerous: fear. She turned back to the window, her lips pressing into a thin line as she watched the dragon remain perched atop the Sept, her eyes scanning the city as though she owned it.

“She circles us like prey,” Cersei murmured darkly, her voice trembling with rage. “And my father allows it.”

Tommen crept closer to the window, his wide blue eyes fixed on the dragon with awe. “It's… beautiful,” he whispered.

Cersei spun on him, her voice sharp. “It's a weapon, Tommen. And don’t you forget it.”

Outside, the horns continued to blare, but the panic had begun to ebb as soldiers recognized the banners of House Lannister streaming through the city gates. The gold lions marched in disciplined formation, banners unfurling like rivers of blood and gold. The Lannister host had returned—but with a dragon at its back, the city would never see it the same way again.

Cersei turned away from the window, her face pale and taut with anger. “Summon the council,” she snapped at Qyburn. “And find out where my father is. I want answers.”

Qyburn bowed quickly and exited the chamber, leaving Varys standing in silence beside the window.

“This changes everything,” Varys murmured softly, half to himself as he looked out at the dragon. “Fire has returned to the capital.”

Cersei sank heavily onto the divan, her hands trembling faintly as she curled them into fists. “And so has my father.”

She stared blankly ahead, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “I will not let him take everything from me.”

But even as she spoke, the faint shrieks of the dragon echoed again in the distance, a sound that promised power, chaos, and a future that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could fully control.

The streets of King’s Landing trembled under the boots of marching soldiers. The sound was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls of buildings and the cobbled streets as Tywin Lannister’s procession carved its path toward the Sept of Baelor. The golden lions of House Lannister gleamed in the sunlight, their banners streaming like rivers of fire and blood, punctuated only by the green-and-gold sigils of House Tyrell fluttering in time with the wind. Lord Mace Tyrell, stout and beaming, rode at Tywin’s side with all the self-importance of a man convinced of his own worth.

The city had quieted. Fear still lingered thick in the air—fear of the dragon that perched atop the Sept like an ancient god made flesh—but there was also the growing hum of curiosity. Windows cracked open, and desperate eyes peered down from rooftops as the procession approached the grand square before the Sept. The people were quiet, hushed, too afraid to jeer, too in awe to cheer.

At the head of it all rode Tywin Lannister, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, his golden armor polished to a mirror’s sheen. His face was cold, composed as always, though his green eyes carried the weight of expectation, the certainty of a man who did not come to parley but to rule. Beside him, Mace Tyrell bounced slightly in his saddle, his bearded face twitching nervously as he glanced toward the looming form of Viserion still perched atop the Sept.

“Your dragon is a fine deterrent, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, tugging nervously at his green doublet. “The Faith will surely see reason now.”

Tywin did not look at him as he replied, his voice clipped and firm. “They will see what I tell them to see.”

The Sept loomed before them, its massive steps already filling with robed figures. The Faith Militant gathered like a black tide, armed with spiked cudgels, spears, and shields marked with the seven-pointed star. The sun gleamed off their crude armor, their faces hidden beneath thick hoods, yet the fervor in their posture was unmistakable. At the head of them, emerging from the shadowed entrance to the Sept, came the High Sparrow.

The man was as Tywin remembered him—frail, weathered, his simple robes of grey and beige hanging loosely from his thin frame. But it was his eyes that held a strange power, the unwavering gaze of a man who believed himself unshakable. He moved slowly, his hands clasped in front of him as he descended the steps. The Faith Militant parted for him like water, their presence unyielding but silent as the grave.

Above them, Viserion moved. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. With the practiced grace of a creature far more agile than her size would suggest, Viserion began to climb down from her perch. Her talons dug into the sides of the Sept, causing great plumes of dust to rise as bits of stone crumbled under her weight. She slithered to the square below, wings furling close to her body as her long tail swept the ground with ominous finality.

Atop her back, you sat tall in your saddle, silver hair gleaming like molten silk in the light. The dragon’s motion was fluid beneath you, and when Viserion’s massive body finally came to rest upon the square, her wings curled neatly, and she let out a low, ominous hiss. You were a vision of power—your black riding leathers embroidered with Valyrian sigils in silver thread, the saddle a masterpiece of black and gold.

The High Sparrow stopped mid-step, his gaze fixed not on Tywin Lannister, but on you and the beast at your command. For the first time, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossed his otherwise serene expression.

Tywin reined his horse in at the foot of the Sept steps, dismounting with practiced efficiency. His polished boots struck the stone square as he turned sharply to face the High Sparrow. Mace Tyrell followed clumsily, huffing as he struggled to dismount with his dignity intact. Behind them, the Lannister and Tyrell men fanned out in disciplined ranks, swords at their sides, their banners snapping in the wind.

The High Sparrow inclined his head faintly, his weathered face calm. “Lord Tywin,” he said, his voice soft yet clear enough to carry across the square. “It has been some time since you last darkened the steps of the Sept. What brings you to this holy place with such… pageantry?”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, the expression cold and humorless. “The Faith has overstepped its bounds, as foolish men often do. I have come to see that order is restored.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze did not falter. “Order, my lord? Or obedience? There is a difference.”

“Semantics do not concern me,” Tywin replied curtly. “You will surrender Queen Margaery back into the custody of her family. You will dissolve your hold over this city and the throne. Do this, and you may yet live to see another sunrise.”

The gathered Faith Militant bristled at the words, their grips tightening on weapons, but the High Sparrow raised a hand, calming them. He turned his attention to you now, his gaze lingering as though assessing something far older, far more dangerous than the man standing before him.

“And you,” he said softly, addressing you for the first time. “A child of fire and blood, astride a creature of chaos. Tell me, do you serve the lions of House Lannister willingly? Or have they chained you as men have always sought to chain beasts?”

You smiled faintly, unbuckling yourself from the saddle and sliding gracefully down Viserion’s side. The dragon shifted slightly at your absence, but remained still, her golden eyes locked on the gathered men before her. You stepped forward, your boots striking the stone square as you came to stand at Tywin’s side.

“I am not chained,” you replied coolly, your voice carrying easily. “And I am no beast. I stand here because I choose to.”

The High Sparrow tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Then you choose to stand with those who corrupt and defile. With those who believe power grants them the right to rule without faith, without penance.”

Tywin’s voice cut through like a blade. “Save your sermons for the fearful and the weak. I am neither.”

The High Sparrow turned back to him, his expression calm once more. “And yet you come here demanding surrender. Why? Because you hold swords? Because you bring a dragon?” He gestured toward the Sept, the great dome behind him rising high and holy above their heads. “This is the house of the gods. No beast, no army, no man is greater than the Seven.”

Tywin stepped forward, his presence looming like a shadow cast across the square. “The gods cannot save you from what comes next, Sparrow. Nor will your Faith Militant hold against my men.”

The High Sparrow held his ground, though his followers shifted uneasily behind him. “You are a man of numbers and gold, Lord Tywin, but you do not understand faith. Faith cannot be cut with swords. It cannot be burned with fire.”

A sound interrupted him then—a low, guttural rumble that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Viserion shifted her great head, her golden eyes narrowing as she bared her fangs, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils. The sound of her growl carried across the square like a warning, sending chills down the spines of those gathered.

The High Sparrow turned slightly to look at the beast behind you. For the first time, his voice faltered. “Dragons do not belong here anymore.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but edged with steel. “They belong wherever we will them to be.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze before he turned back to the High Sparrow. “You have until sunset to decide, High Sparrow. Surrender Queen Margaery, dissolve your militant farce, and relinquish control of this city. Defy me, and the Faith will burn.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze lingered on both of you, his expression unreadable. “The gods will decide,” he said softly. “Not men, and not dragons.”

Tywin did not reply. He turned sharply, motioning for his men to hold their positions as he stepped back toward his horse. You lingered a moment longer, your gaze meeting the High Sparrow’s. For a moment, it seemed as though he would speak again, but he did not. Instead, he turned and ascended the steps of the Sept, the Faith Militant closing ranks behind him.

You glanced at Tywin as you rejoined him, your tone low. “Do you think he’ll surrender?”

Tywin’s expression was hard as stone. “Men like him never surrender willingly.”

“Then what happens next?” you asked, your voice calm.

Tywin glanced back toward the Sept, his gaze lingering on Viserion as she loomed like a living weapon in the center of the square. “Negotiation,” he said quietly. “And if that fails, fire.”

You said nothing, but as you looked back at the great dome of the Sept, you could not shake the feeling that the High Sparrow’s defiance would be his

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, its gilded edges dulled by years of neglect and turmoil. The Iron Throne loomed at its far end, a jagged monstrosity of twisted steel, a reminder of power as cruel as it was absolute. Today, the room buzzed with quiet tension, courtiers and guards lingering in uncertain clusters as the sound of heavy Lannister boots echoed through the long hall.

Tywin Lannister entered first, flanked by rows of his crimson-cloaked guards, each step measured and deliberate. His polished armor glinted in the light, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a mantle of blood. At his side, you strode with equal confidence, your black riding leathers and silver-threaded cloak still dusted with the residue of dragon flight. Every eye in the room turned to you—whispers rising like a storm—but none dared to linger too long on the sight of the dragon bride of the Lion of Lannister.

A distant, haunting roar shattered the murmurs, sending a ripple of fear through the gathered crowd. The sound echoed over the castle walls, reverberating through the Red Keep with primal force. Viserion’s massive shadow swept across the narrow windows of the hall as she circled above, her shriek a declaration that fire and power had returned to the capital.

Tommen sat on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by the immense seat of swords. His face lit up with joy and relief at the sight of his grandsire, the golden curls of his hair catching the dim light as he rose to his feet. “Grandsire!” he called, his young voice breaking the silence as he all but ran down the steps of the dais to meet him.

Tywin’s expression softened—slightly—as he stopped to face his grandson. Tommen’s small hands reached for him, clutching his grandsire’s armored forearm as though anchoring himself. “I knew you’d come,” Tommen said breathlessly, his blue eyes wide. “They said you were still marching, but I knew you’d come.”

“You are a king,” Tywin said, his voice steady and calm as he studied the boy. “A king should never doubt the strength of his house.”

Tommen nodded fervently, smiling. “It’s stronger now. You’re here. And… and the dragon is real, isn’t it?”

Before Tywin could reply, another voice cut through the air—sharp and biting.

“So it *is true,” Cersei said, her tone dripping with venom as she descended the steps of the dais. She wore a gown of dark gold that hung loosely on her diminished frame, her face pale, her hair shorn and harsh against the sharp lines of her features. But despite her weakened state, her green eyes burned with resentment as they landed on you. “The Targaryen whore and her beast have come to King’s Landing under your banners, Father.”

The room fell silent at her words, the tension thick enough to choke. Even Tommen flinched, turning to look at his mother in confusion. You said nothing, though your expression remained cold, your violet gaze meeting hers without so much as a blink.

Tywin did not look at her immediately. Instead, he turned to one of his men and gestured curtly. “Take the king to his chambers. He does not need to be here for this.”

“Grandsire—” Tommen began, but Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply toward him, brooking no argument.

“Go, Tommen,” he commanded softly, though there was steel behind the words. Tommen hesitated, glancing between his mother and his grandsire before reluctantly following the guards who ushered him out of the hall.

As the doors closed behind him, Tywin turned fully to face Cersei. His presence seemed to darken the hall itself, his expression one of pure, cold fury.

“Watch your tongue, Cersei,” he said, his voice low and even, yet it carried through the hall like a physical blow. “I will not have my return marred by your pettiness.”

Cersei’s lip curled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Pettiness? You bring dragons and Targaryens into my city, and you call me petty?”

“Your city?” Tywin’s voice turned sharper, his words slicing through her like a knife. “Is this the city you claimed as your own when you were paraded naked through its streets? The city you surrendered to the Faith Militant through your arrogance and your utter lack of discipline?”

Cersei recoiled as though struck, her pale face flushing crimson. “I did what I had to do to protect our family!”

Tywin advanced toward her, and for all her bravado, she stepped back, her eyes wide. “Your recklessness has humiliated this house. You invited the Faith into power, thinking you could wield them as a tool. Now, they rule your city while you cling to scraps of pride and wounded vanity.” His voice grew colder still. “And in your folly, you lost the respect of every lord who might have stood by you.”

Cersei’s mouth opened as though to retort, but Tywin cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Do not speak.”

She faltered, her teeth snapping shut as she seethed in silence, her fists clenched at her sides.

Tywin turned slightly, his gaze shifting to you where you stood calm and unbothered. “Lady Y/N is here because I brought her. She is my wife and the mother of my heir, and her dragon now stands as a symbol of our strength.” He turned back to Cersei, his words a final blow. “You will accept that, or you will leave this city entirely. I will not tolerate your undermining of what must be done.”

Cersei’s chest heaved with barely contained fury, her face pinched and red, but she said nothing.

Viserion’s roar split the air once more, louder this time as she flew low over the Red Keep, her wings casting vast shadows across the throne room. The distant cries of startled courtiers carried faintly through the heavy windows.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on his daughter for a long moment before he turned away dismissively. “Return to your chambers. You are no use to me here.”

Cersei froze, her face twisting with indignation. “Father—”

“Go,” Tywin said sharply, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Cersei’s hands trembled at her sides, her mouth opening and closing as though searching for words that would not come. Finally, she turned on her heel, her movements stiff with humiliation as she strode toward the doors, her shorn hair catching the light like a tarnished crown.

The room remained deathly silent as Tywin turned back toward you. His expression had softened—slightly—as he regarded you with a measured calm. “We have work to do,” he said quietly.

You nodded faintly, stepping toward him. “The Faith Militant will not yield easily.”

“No,” Tywin agreed, his voice like steel. “But they will yield.”

The doors to the throne room closed behind Cersei with a heavy thud, and Tywin’s presence seemed to fill the hall once more. The Lion of Lannister had returned to King’s Landing, and with him came the fire and fury of the dragon at his command.

[witchpassing]

My lord has many tails,

nine all told, each more beautiful than the last. At the end of every burning day of conquest, she returns to me breathless and radiant, her tread painting crimson shapes upon the rug, her perfect teeth red and shining. When the worst of the welter has sloughed off in her bath - and I do not envy those who bathe her - I am tasked with the finer points of care.

She reclines beneath the scarlet canopy of her war tent, sating her appetites in liquor, flesh, and smoke, and as she feasts and talks and laughs her ringing laugh I do my work quietly, in her shadow. The long-fingered comb, polished amber coral, was a queen’s dowry once, and one night’s worth of her perfumed coat-oil could buy a duchy. I will speak not of the cost of the chiming ornaments I hang upon my lord; to see them is to understand, and if you are lucky you will not see her.

It slickens my hands to the elbows, the coat-oil. I smell of her, always.

It isn’t just the tails, of course - the great cascading mane of her hair, the fine particularities of her ears, these are my charges too - but her tails are my favourite, and their silken magnificence demands the lion’s share of my attentions. They trail behind her like the wake of a ship on a red-gold sea; I could plunge my arm into kingly fur to the elbow without touching flesh.

I will not speak at length of the resulting mess when one so resplendently endowed sallies forth upon the field of war and personally unmakes two-to-three-score men (on average). To see it is to understand, and et cetera.

Sometimes my lord speaks to me, about this or about that, snatches and barbs of little consequence murmured over her shoulder - the quality of the harpist, the ill habits of a general, isn’t that courtesan pretty. I think it pleases her to have someone unimportant to confide in, this crimson prince, this churner of men into their constituent parts. She knows her secrets are safe with me; I, who was once a prince myself, and am now a serving-girl of no consequence. To take what I know, someone would first have to assume that I know anything at all - and, ah, they never will.

Most often it falls to me conduct my duties in silence, listening to the art of the harpists or to the sussuration of advisors, combing blood from the pelt of my conqueror. The scented oil clings to my skin; I will never be free of the smell of it.

[claymoresword]

Come Out And Haunt Me

Cersei Lannister x Catelyn Tully Stark

Summary: When her raven goes unanswered, queen Cersei Lannister decides to pay the Starks a visit herself.

Wordcount: 2.4k

Disclaimers: omegaverse, alpha!cersei, omega!catelyn, cheating, angst & fluff, robert baratheon does not exist

Note: hi! so i initially only planned to post this on Ao3 but I've decided to share it here as well

honestly not sure what this is i just had a random burst of energy one night and decided to write it lol

to all 2 of you who clicked on this, welcome! hope you enjoy <3

The parchment clutched tightly in her hands, Catelyn skims the letter once more. As though dwelling would make a difference to the words already etched into the page.

An egregious insult.

Nine years; Catelyn had been forced to wallow in the harsh and cold North. Nine years and she had just managed to find a sort of peace amidst her sorrow.

Ned no longer insists on sharing her bed and her children, aside for Rickon, have all outgrown her attention.

She is finally comfortable.

Perhaps even happy.

Now the queen intends to summon her to King's Landing– like a dog.

The alpha is as bold as she is cruel.

I am not meant to be Hand any more than Cersei is fit to be queen.

Catelyn traces the crimson seal with the pad of her thumb, a war raging within her.

It is a cruel jape, even after everything, she still yearns to be in the alpha's presence once more.

To thread her fingers through golden curls, look upon delicate features in which time has certainly only made more beautiful.

Catelyn scoffs at her own feebleness, she harshly wipes the tears that have already began drying upon her cheeks.

This is all folly.

The omega allows her eyes flutter shut for a moment; she banishes Cersei from her mind.

Wringing the letter in her hands as she rises from her seat, Catelyn storms towards the hearth, eventually feeding the crumpled parchment to the fire.

Cersei Lannister; ever delicate and enchanting. The worst person Catelyn has ever met, once the love of her life.

This is what it has come to; for all of her sins, the Gods see fit to mock her.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

A month has come and gone since the queen sent a raven, and Catelyn is content with the knowledge that Cersei has taken her silence for an answer.

She will not go to King's Landing. She cannot set eyes on the queen once more– for the omega is certain she will not survive it.

"Brandon Stark! How many times must I tell you? No climbing." Catelyn exclaims, she watches her son descend clumsily from the roof.

Bran appears unfazed by his mother's warnings, as always. A genial expression covers his features; the careless joy of a young boy.

"I just saw hundreds of people riding down our road." The boy exclaims amidst a grunt, hoisting himself off the parapet before finally landing on his feet in front of his mother. "I saw a large wheelhouse, with horses.. and men in armor."

"It must be your uncle Benjen and his men who have come to visit your father again." Catelyn decides, but her son pays her no mind as he continues.

"They were carrying crimson banners, with a lion–” Catelyn's expression falls at his son's words. Suddenly she senses a gnawing in her belly, as though she might wretch.

"What did you say– about the banner?" The omega asks as she grabs her son by the shoulder, urging him to look up at her.

"It was crimson, with a yellow lion." Bran repeats as he stares at his mother.

"–Lannisters." Maester Luwin emerges, overhearing their exchange. "Is it possible the queen has come to Winterfell?"

The man asks as he searches Catelyn's expression; she has gone quiet, all colour drained from her face.

"My Lady.." Maester Luwin then attempts to coax a response, with a light hand on Catelyn's forearm.

It restores Cat to her senses just enough to muster a single sentence. "Please, inform my Lord husband. Tell him, the queen is on her way."

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Catelyn smooths out her gown for the dozenth time, not having been given much option or time, she was forced to don a dark blue gown, one that her Lord husband often insists match her eyes.

Although the dye on the fabric has now faded, and the sleeves wrinkled– but it matters not. Most of her dress remains covered by her sheepskin cloak.

Nearly all of her dresses always are. The weather in the North does not warrant beauty, only practicality.

Catelyn breath catches in her throat as she observes the queen's approach. Cersei leads the assembly on a gold and white palfrey, she halts infront of the gates before dismounting her horse with grace.

It is no secret that the years have since done its work on them both. The queen is no longer the young woman she had served at court, the same way Catelyn is no longer a girl of ten and five.

Cersei wears a few wrinkles around her eyes, yet, her beauty remains as ethereal as Catelyn remembers it to be. More than anything, the sight of the alpha makes her ache; she has no choice but to focus her gaze elsewhere.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.” Ned declares after placing a chaste kiss on the back of the queen's hand.

He remains kneeling on the ground as Cersei studies him. She regards him with a piercing emerald stare before instructing him to rise.

“I hope you can forgive my sudden attendance, I have rather urgent business with your wife.” The queen avows, not appearing to be sorry at all.

Whilst Ned is visibly taken aback by Cersei's declaration, any doubt or query he may have on the matter– he keeps to himself.

The Lord of Winterfell steps aside as the queen swiftly turns her attention towards his wife.

“My queen.” Catelyn greets the golden haired woman with a curtsey. The omega only manages to hold Cersei's gaze for a heartbeat before once again, willing herself to look elsewhere.

The alpha moves to reach for Catelyn's hand, but as though just only recalling the importance of propriety, she stops herself.

Cersei is not given a chance to do much else before her wife falls in next to her.

Taena smiles brightly as she envelopes Catelyn within her embrace, without much warning. “Cat, it's been far too long!” The Myrish woman exclaims.

Catelyn feigns a smile of her own, out of courtesy, she embraces the queen consort in return.

“You are just glowing.” Taena states as she breaks away to look at her. Catelyn soon feels a hand upon her cheek.

The omega wears a bashful expression; one that is just as contrived as the other woman's attempt at a compliment.

She gently pries Taena's hand away from her face. “You are far too gracious.. you look well yourself, Your Grace.”

Taena sighs, as though she wishes for Catelyn's words to be true. “Oh, please, I look a fright.”

“We have been travelling for weeks.” She adds, and the glare Taena throws at her wife calls attention to the barely concealed asperity within her tone.

Yet, Cersei only smiles in return, no doubt her way of retaliating to Taena's grievance is to simply ignore it entirely.

She addresses Ned instead. “My Lady wife and I hope to lay in a proper bed tonight.”

“Of course, Your Grace. We have rooms enough to accommodate you both.. and your children, if it please you.” Ned states curtly as he ushers the queen through the gates.

“Good, I look forward to seeing your castle.”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

After a busy morning, Catelyn had decided to lock herself away in her solar for the remainder of the day. In truth, aside for a desperate solution to escaping the queen and her lady wife– solitude was also the only way Catelyn could avoid Ned's incessant questioning.

Of course his confusion is warranted, and her husband means well, to be sure, Ned always does– but Catelyn cannot stand to lie to him anymore.

-

As the lady of Winterfell sits by her window, she manages to get a view of Bran and Arya, currently playing in the yard; their direwolf pups by their feet.

The queen’s children have since joined them. Tommen and Myrcella are no doubt every bit like their mothers, both with emerald green eyes of the Lannisters and olive skinned like their Myrish mother.

The sight of their children playing together strikes Catelyn as something that was painfully ironic. In fact, it was nearly amusing, in a rather bleak way.

Lost in her thoughts, the omega fails to hear the latch on the door behind her.

The oak doors open, and soon shuts. It is only when Catelyn notices shuffling behind her that she turns around to inspect the cause.

“Are you hiding from me?” Cersei asks. with her question, she tilts her head slightly. The same way she used to when they were mere children together.

The sight unsettles Catelyn in a way she does not care to acknowledge. She scrambles to her feet, hugging her robe around her slender frame.

"Your Grace. I- no, I'm just not well." She tells a half-truth and she prays for a miracle.

Catelyn hopes, stupidly, that the other woman will decide to leave her alone, without much interrogation.

"Are you ill?" Cersei asks, as expected, approaching her.

The alpha's tone of genuine concern only makes Catelyn want to weep, but she shakes her head, forcibly suppressing the urge. "It must be something I ate." She lies.

"Oh, then you must rest.” Cersei suggests in response, a smirk tugging on the corners of her mouth.

The omega's brows furrow at the sight. She mocks me. Catelyn observes.

The lady of Winterfell decides she no longer possesses the will for feigned courtesies. All she has the strength to do now is stare at the other woman, unamused.

This works to unnerve the queen slightly, as though thrown off balance, Cersei clears her throat.

The alpha averts her gaze before resting her hand on the hilt of her longsword, assuming a confident stance once more.

“Have you given any thought to my proposal?” Cersei finally states it plainly, and Catelyn scoffs in response.

The alpha possesses just enough audacity to appear confused by the other woman's reaction. “What?”

“Stop that. Don't pretend as though you have given me a choice.” Catelyn hisses, and she watches as Cersei opens her mouth to retaliate, but she swiftly cuts off the attempt.

“If that was true, you would not be here.” Cat challenges and Cersei merely shrugs, unconcerned yet dignified.

The queen always does so in a way that managed to make others seem small, inconsequential.

It was infuriating.

“Come to King's Landing, serve as my Hand.” “and you should take Sansa, our daughter will do well in the capital.” Cersei renders aloud as she advances forward.

Now standing close enough that Catelyn can smell the lavender oil in her hair.

“Such beauty shouldn't stay hidden up here.” Cersei continues, reaching up to caress the omega's cheek.

Catelyn stiffens and then sighs involuntarily against her touch. Once again she feels the urge to weep, to scream. The omega wants to lean in and kiss the other woman, to feel her warm embrace.

Instead, she slaps her hand away, bristling. “Don't. do not do that.”

“and don't call her your daughter.. as if you have ever been a sire to her.” She mutters, a scowl covers Catelyn's features as she tries to slip past the alpha.

Although Cersei quickly catches her by the arm before she can go far at all, forcing a proximity between them once more.

"You know that I regret– I regret how it all ended between us.” The queen utters, her voice low, only for Catelyn to hear.

The sincerity in which Cersei speaks her sweet words does nothing to douse the rage within her.

Years of longing and wanting for a woman that has no regard for her honor, no respect for her feelings. Cersei has been nothing if not careless with her; with her heart.

Catelyn does not believe a word the alpha says– she cannot allow herself to.

“Do you?” She challenges, her jaw clenched in anger.

“Nine years without a word from you.. not so much as a raven.” She adds with a raised voice, though Cersei appears entirely unfazed by it, this time her arm slips around Catelyn's waist.

“Don't touch me.” She tries, attempting to wriggle out of the alpha's hold, but it is no use.

"I missed you.. I wanted to write to you, I truly did.” Cersei reveals, cupping the other woman's cheek once more.

“I just thought–”

“What?” Catelyn provokes, unsatisfied.

“You thought what?” Despite herself, she feels her eyes begin to well with tears.

“You told me you loved me... I gave myself to you, and then you chose her.”

Cersei own expression shifts at the other woman's declaration. She wipes away the omega's tears with the pads of her thumbs tenderly.

“I had no choice.” The queen insists, her tone gentle and sincere– almost vulnerable.

“I assume you are happier.. with your husband.” Cersei alleges, and Catelyn feels the urge to laugh in her face.

“How could you possibly think that?” She questions, and Cersei acknowledges the mistake she had made, at long last.

“Forgive me.. I never meant to hurt you.” The queen articulates, threading her fingers through auburn locks.

Catelyn allows herself to lean into the other woman's touch, her brows still furrowed as she speaks. “Well, you did. You broke my heart.”

The omega attempts to shove Cersei away once more, but still, she refuses to budge.

The alpha is stronger, and far more determined.

“I know, I am sorry.” The queen says again, this time she boldly kisses the shell of Catelyn's ear.

As the omega continues to try and fight out of her hold, Cersei kisses her again, this time further down, her tender lips meeting her jaw.

Catelyn shivers at the sensation, just as instinctively, she rests her hand on the nape of Cersei's neck.

“I'm sorry.” The alpha mutters once more as she kisses the corner of Catelyn's mouth.

This time, she does not fight the urge. Catelyn turns her head, capturing the other woman's lips with her own for a real kiss.

As their mouths moved against each other with aching familiarity, Cersei's hand shifts to the small of the omega's back, causing the other woman to lean further into her.

They kiss for what feels like an eternity; only breaking apart when both their lungs clamour for air.

Catelyn's face burns from the intensity of the moment, she soon wraps both her arms around the other woman properly, concealing her face in the crook of Cersei's neck.

“I despise you.” The omega mutters, almost petulantly.

Cersei merely lets out a light chuckle at that. A kind of acceptance and forbearance; a quality she truly only finds less of a challenge to display around Catelyn.

“I know.”