#got jaime

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (to go back)

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

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This is the last chapter of this series.

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

- Previous part: what is dead

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy @nestvrn

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood, the cold seeping into your skin as they dragged you across the uneven ground. Every struggling step sent rocks digging into your boots, your breath coming in ragged gasps as their iron grip tightened around your arms.

The Brotherhood moved with grim purpose, their faces hidden beneath the flickering torchlight, shadows distorting their features into something almost inhuman. The rope in their hands was coiled, waiting, its purpose clear, its intent unquestionable.

You dug your heels into the dirt, twisting in their grasp. "Stop—stop! I am Y/N Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark! My father was Warden of the North, my mother—"

A harsh jerk nearly sent you to your knees.

"You were a Stark," one of them corrected, his voice rough, cold. "You’re a Lannister now. That’s all that matters."

The words cut deeper than any blade.

"You think a Lannister's wife deserves mercy?" another spat. "After what they’ve done?"

"No—please—"

Panic twisted in your gut, your pulse roaring in your ears.

But there was no stopping them.

They hauled you forward, toward the twisted tree that loomed ahead, its thick, gnarled branches stretching into the sky like skeletal fingers. The noose dangled from its highest limb, swaying slightly in the night air, waiting.

Waiting for you.

"No!" You struggled harder, thrashing against their grip, but they were too strong, too many—

"Lady Stoneheart has judged you," one of them intoned, tightening the rope around your wrists. "And the gods do not forgive traitors."

Your breath came sharp and shallow, your chest tightening as the noose was looped around your throat. The rough fibers scraped against your skin, every heartbeat thundering like war drums in your ears.

"This isn't right," you gasped, your vision blurring. "I am not your enemy!"

They never listened.

They didn’t listen.

The rope tightened.

The world tilted as they kicked the stool from beneath you, the force of it wrenching the ground away, sending you into freefall—

The pressure crushed your throat.

Panic exploded through you, your body convulsing, your lungs screaming for air. The darkness pressed in at the edges of your vision, your fingers clawing at the rope, your legs kicking against empty space.

A snarl.

Then—

A snap.

A blur of pale silver.

The impact of the ground sent shockwaves through your bones, knocking the breath from your lungs as you crumpled onto the earth, coughing, choking, gasping for air. The taste of blood filled your mouth, raw and bitter, your throat burning as you struggled to push yourself upright.

The noose gave way.

Shouts erupted around you, steel clashing, screams cutting through the night like sharpened blades.

A flash of white fur, a snarl, a man’s scream cut short—

Winter was everywhere.

The dagger.

Your fingers grasped desperately at the dirt, your vision swimming, and then—

It lay inches from your grasp, fallen from the belt of one of the men now lying motionless on the ground.

You lunged for it, fingers curling around the hilt just as another set of hands grabbed you, yanking you back.

You barely caught the glint of steel before the pain tore through you.

A stab—low, beneath your ribs, sinking in deep.

"Winter—!"

A gasp tore from your lips, your entire body seizing, white-hot agony exploding through your core.

The direwolf turned, his maw still wet with blood, but he was too far, still tearing through the men that had dared to stand against him.

The man holding you grinned, pushing the blade in deeper.

"Lannister whore," he sneered, his breath hot against your ear.

And then drove the dagger into his throat.

You snarled, twisting despite the pain—

The gurgling sound was immediate, blood spilling over his lips as his grip slackened, his body sagging. You shoved him back with what little strength you had left, watching as he collapsed to the ground, his lifeblood pooling beneath him.

Your vision blurred.

The ground tilted.

The pain in your side burned, spreading like wildfire through your veins. Your limbs felt heavy, your breath shallow, your fingers twitching as your body refused to obey—

Everything went dark.

And then—

The battlefield was silent now, save for the low, wet sound of flesh being torn, of ragged breaths heaving through bared teeth. The scent of blood was thick in the air, saturating the damp earth, soaking into the torn cloaks and broken bodies of the men who had once stood tall, blades in hand, righteous in their cause.

Now, they were nothing.

Winter stood in the center of the carnage, his pale silver-white fur streaked with crimson, his muzzle still damp with the blood of those he had torn apart. His blue eyes, biting as ice, flicked across the corpses, searching for any sign of movement.

None came.

He had ended them.

His ears twitched, his breath coming in low, steady pants. The wind carried the dying embers of the fires they had set, smoke curling lazily into the night sky, the stars above indifferent to the violence that had unfolded beneath them.

Then—

Her scent.

A scent.

Winter’s head snapped toward the crumpled figure on the ground, his body moving before his mind could even process it fully. His paws thudded against the dirt as he closed the distance, stopping just short of where she lay, her form motionless, her breath nearly too shallow to detect.

He nudged her once, his cold nose pressing against her cheek.

She did not stir.

Another nudge, more insistent this time, his head pushing against her shoulder, his breath huffing softly against her skin.

Still nothing.

His ears flattened, a low whine escaping his throat.

He stepped over her, sniffing, his nose tracing along the curve of her ribs, the scent of blood assaulting his senses. The copper tang was strong, but it was hers—not just the men he had ripped apart, not just the iron stink of war.

Deep, beneath her ribs, torn fabric soaked through, the dark stain spreading across her side. His heart pounded, his muscles twitching with unease.

He found it then—the wound.

But barely.

She was still breathing.

Winter let out a huff, his head lowering, his muzzle pressing against her again. He nudged her harder, but her body remained limp, unresponsive.

No.

Another sharp nudge. His breath was ragged now, a growl rumbling deep in his throat—not at her, but at the world, at whatever cruel thing had done this.

Now.

He had to move her.

Winter opened his powerful jaws, his sharp teeth sinking gently into the flesh of her shoulder—not to harm, but to hold. He felt the give of her muscles beneath his grip, tasted the faintest trace of blood, but he ignored it, his instincts burning through him with singular purpose.

He pulled.

The weight of her body shifted, dragging against the dirt, and he adjusted his grip, bracing his paws against the ground before tugging her further. The wound in her side bled sluggishly, but he knew it was worse than it looked. He had seen death, had scented it, and it clung too closely to her skin now, coiling like a viper around her too-still frame.

He growled low in his throat, his grip tightening as he hauled her away from the blood-soaked ground, away from the bodies, away from the twisted tree and the rope that had nearly stolen her life.

He would not let her die here.

With steady, deliberate strength, Winter dragged her into the dark embrace of the forest, his massive form moving with urgency, his paws digging deep into the earth. The trees swallowed them whole, the shadows wrapping around them like silent sentinels, the moonlight barely cutting through the thick canopy above.

The farther he pulled her, the fainter the stench of death became.

She did not stir, did not make a sound.

Winter did not stop.

Somewhere where death would not follow.

He would find a place. Somewhere safe.

And gods help anyone who tried to take her from him again.

The stench of death lingered thick in the air.

Jaime reined in his horse, his left hand tightening around the pommel of his sword as his eyes swept over the carnage. Bodies lay strewn across the clearing, their forms twisted in unnatural angles, limbs stiffened by the passage of time. Blood had dried in dark, sickly patches across the dirt, staining the roots of the great tree that loomed over them all.

A tree with a rope still hanging from its highest branch.

The air felt wrong here. The silence was heavy, not the silence of an abandoned battlefield, but something more sinister—something that made the hairs on Jaime’s arms prickle beneath his armor.

Bronn rode up beside him, pulling his horse to a halt as he surveyed the scene with a keen eye. He let out a slow, low whistle, shaking his head. "Hells, looks like someone had a real party here." He clicked his tongue. "At least a day old, maybe more."

Jaime exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. He had pushed his men hard, riding through most of the night, but they had still lost time. Too much time.

The bodies bore wounds that spoke of two different kinds of violence. Some had been cut down by steel—slashed throats, pierced armor, the clean brutality of swords and daggers. But others…

Jaime dismounted swiftly, boots crunching against the dirt as he stepped forward, his gaze narrowing on one of the corpses. The man’s throat had been torn open, but not by a blade. Flesh had been ripped apart, ragged and uneven, as if—

"Shit," Bronn muttered, crouching beside another body, his fingers tracing the deep gashes that ran from the man’s shoulder down to his chest. "This wasn’t all done by men."

Jaime turned, his stomach tightening. "What do you mean?"

Bronn flicked his gaze toward the ground, nodding toward the disturbed earth near one of the corpses. "Prints. Big ones."

Jaime followed his line of sight. The dirt bore deep, deliberate impressions—paw prints, far larger than any hound’s, pressed into the ground in a way that suggested swift, brutal movement.

Jaime’s breath hitched slightly. "Winter."

Bronn exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Yep. Your lady’s mutt made a real mess of these bastards." He gestured toward another body, where half the man’s face had been ripped off, the flesh and bone gnawed away by powerful jaws.

Jaime’s stomach twisted, not at the gore—he had seen worse—but at what it meant.

And if Winter had been here, so had you.

Winter had been here.

Someone was meant to hang here.

His heart pounded, his mind racing. The sheer number of bodies suggested a slaughter, an ambush, but the rope—the godsdamned rope—meant something else had been planned first.

His gaze snapped back to Bronn. "She was here."

Jaime’s mouth went dry.

Bronn sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Aye. Looks like it."

Or perhaps, something had gone right.

Jaime took a step back, his mind whirling. You had been here. You had been caught, captured, nearly hanged. But something had gone wrong.

Winter had been here. And the dead men around them—torn apart, ripped apart—suggested that if you had been meant to die beneath that tree, your direwolf had made damn sure that hadn’t happened.

But where were you now?

Jaime turned back toward the tracks, his throat tight. The paw prints led away from the clearing, deeper into the woods, as if Winter had dragged something—someone—with him.

Jaime inhaled, his jaw setting.

"You think she’s still alive?" Bronn asked, his tone unreadable.

Jaime didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

Bronn studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Then let’s bloody find her before someone else does."

Jaime nodded once, the cold determination settling into his bones as he turned back toward the forest.

You had been here.

And now, he would find you.

You had survived.

The forest was thick, the trees stretching high, their branches tangling together to cast deep, shifting shadows over the ground. The further they rode, the more the air changed—the scent of death from the battlefield gave way to something damp and earthy, the crisp, lingering cold of untouched wilderness. The underbrush had been disturbed, snapped twigs and churned-up dirt marking the passage of something heavy being dragged. The deep paw prints remained, guiding them forward like an unspoken promise.

Jaime rode in silence, his heartbeat a steady drum against his ribs, his mind fixed on what they might find at the end of the trail. His hands were steady on the reins, but his breath came faster than it should have, his muscles coiled too tight.

The others followed, uneasy. The further they went, the quieter the world became—no birds, no rustling leaves, only the distant creak of trees shifting in the wind.

Bronn halted his horse. "There."

Through the trees, in a small clearing nestled against the thick roots of an ancient oak, a massive form lay stretched out, unmoving.

Jaime turned abruptly, his breath catching.

Winter.

The direwolf’s silver-white fur was streaked with dried blood, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His head rested atop something—someone—his large frame partially covering the body beneath him, shielding it.

Jaime was off his horse before he had time to think.

"Jaime—" Bronn started, but Jaime ignored him.

His boots hit the earth hard, moving forward with slow, deliberate steps, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Winter’s head lifted immediately, his ice-blue eyes snapping to Jaime, a low, deep growl vibrating through his throat. His ears flattened, his lips peeled back, revealing sharp, bared teeth.

Jaime stopped, hands raised slightly, his breath coming fast.

"Easy," he murmured.

Winter’s growl deepened, a warning. His massive frame was still tense, his muscles coiled, his body half-curled over yours, his head low and ready to lunge if necessary.

"Jaime," Bronn muttered behind him. "That’s a very bad idea."

Jaime barely heard him. His eyes were locked on you, barely visible beneath the direwolf’s form.

A fear struck through him, something cold, something panicked.

You weren’t moving.

His voice was quieter now, but firm. "Let me see her."

Winter growled again, shifting slightly, his body remaining protectively over you, his tail flicking with agitation.

Jaime took another slow step forward.

Winter’s breath huffed through his nose, his teeth still bared, his eyes fixed on Jaime with something both intelligent and wary.

Jaime swallowed hard. "You trust her, don’t you?" he murmured. "Then trust me."

The direwolf’s breath was heavy, his gaze locked onto Jaime’s for a long, stretched moment. His ears twitched, his tail stilled. His breathing slowed.

Then, finally—hesitantly—Winter shifted, just enough.

Jaime moved forward immediately, falling to his knees beside you, his stomach twisting at what he saw.

You were pale—too pale, your skin sickly and cool to the touch. Your breathing was shallow, barely more than a whisper of air against your lips.

Winter snarled sharply, his ears flattening again.

"Gods," Jaime breathed. His hands moved instinctively, pushing Winter’s thick fur aside, searching—

Jaime exhaled, steadying himself. "I have to find it."

Winter remained tense, his massive body still close, still watching every single move Jaime made.

His hand met something wet.

Jaime ignored the wolf’s gaze, his fingers moving carefully, pushing aside layers of torn fabric—

A sharp intake of breath left him, his fingers coming away red.

"Shit," Bronn muttered behind him, stepping closer. "That’s bad, isn’t it?"

Jaime barely heard him. His throat was tight, his jaw clenched as he peeled back more of the fabric, his stomach churning at the deep wound below your ribs.

It was jagged, torn, still bleeding, the edges already darkening with something foul.

Too close to being too late.

Too deep.

Jaime let out a shaky breath, his mind racing.

"Get me water," he snapped, already pressing his hand against the wound. "Now."

He had no time to think.

Bronn didn’t argue.

Jaime’s breath came fast, his heart hammering as he pressed harder, his palm slick with your blood.

"You stubborn girl," he whispered under his breath, voice hoarse. "I swear to the gods, if you die on me—"

You didn’t stir.

And Jaime had never been more terrified in his life.

You didn’t move.

The air was filled with dread, pressing against Jaime’s skin like an iron weight as he knelt beside your still form, his hand slick with your blood. Every breath he took felt strained, every second stretching unbearably long as the wound beneath his fingers bled sluggishly, dark and damning.

Winter hadn’t moved.

The direwolf remained coiled over you, his large body still half-draped across your form, his breath coming in low, measured pants. His pale silver fur was stained with drying blood—not his—and his ice-blue eyes never left Jaime, unwavering, watching.

The growl in Winter’s throat had not ceased.

Jaime pressed his lips into a tight line, exhaling sharply through his nose as he applied more pressure to your wound. Your breathing was still there, but it was weak, far too shallow, and if they didn’t get the bleeding under control—

"Well, this is a fucking mess," Bronn muttered as he stepped closer, carrying a waterskin in one hand and a strip of cloth in the other. Two more soldiers followed behind him, their movements hesitant, their eyes darting between the direwolf and Jaime, clear uncertainty on their faces.

One of them swallowed audibly, shifting his grip on the spare waterskin he carried. "Ser, are you certain it’s safe to—"

"No," Jaime snapped, his patience worn too thin to entertain their fears. "But we don’t have a choice, do we?"

Winter’s ears twitched at the sharpness of Jaime’s voice, but the direwolf remained where he was, muscles tensed, the deep growl in his chest rumbling lower, more pronounced.

"Right," Bronn sighed, handing Jaime the cloth. "Then how exactly do you plan on moving your wife’s oversized mutt before she bleeds out?"

Jaime pressed the cloth against the wound, his jaw clenched. "He trusts her. And she trusts me."

Bronn raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Tell that to him."

Jaime turned his attention back to the direwolf, his good hand steadying against Winter’s thick fur. "Move," he ordered, his voice low but firm. "Let me help her."

Winter’s lips peeled back, his teeth bared in a silent snarl.

Jaime stiffened.

Bronn let out an amused scoff. "Oh, aye, that worked real well. Got another plan?"

Jaime ignored him. He shifted forward, pressing slightly against Winter’s side, trying to coax the wolf away, trying to ease him—

A flash of white, a sharp snap—

Winter’s jaws clamped shut barely an inch from Jaime’s face, his breath hot against Jaime’s cheek, his fangs glistening.

Jaime froze.

The two soldiers took several steps back, their hands immediately going to their swords.

"Fuck," Bronn muttered, not bothering to hide his grimace. "Told you this was a bad idea."

Jaime’s pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself not to react, not to flinch, not to move. Winter’s teeth were still bared, his warning clear, but he had not bitten him.

Not yet.

The direwolf’s body remained curled around yours, his large paws placed protectively over your arm, his head lowered between Jaime and you like a barrier, like a shield. His growl deepened, his blue eyes narrowed, his message unmistakable.

Jaime exhaled slowly. "I know."

Winter’s ears flicked slightly, the growl pausing for half a second before resuming.

"I know," Jaime repeated, softer this time, shifting his weight back slightly. "You think you’re the only one who wants to protect her?" His voice was quieter now, lower, his breath even. "You’re the only one who’s ever tried, aren’t you?"

Winter’s snarl lessened, but his muscles remained taut, his tail flicking.

Jaime hesitated for only a moment before reaching out again, his hand steady, his movements slow. "Let me save her."

Winter watched.

Jaime pressed his hand against your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin—cold, too cold. His stomach twisted.

"She’s dying," he murmured, barely more than a breath. "Let me help."

For a long, stretched moment, nothing happened.

Winter moved.

Then—

Not much, just enough. His body shifted slightly, his massive head lifting just enough for Jaime to see more of you, for his hands to move more freely. But his body remained close, his breath still huffing against you, his growl still lingering in the back of his throat, teeth still bared slightly, a silent promise of what would happen should Jaime fail.

"Hells," Bronn muttered. "This better work."

Jaime ignored him, his focus narrowing to you—your shallow breaths, your too-pale skin, the warmth of your blood beneath his hand.

His fingers found the wound beneath Winter’s fur, pressing gently, gauging, his heart tightening as the warmth slicked across his fingers.

It was bad.

Too deep.

Jaime inhaled sharply, pressing the cloth down harder, his stomach coiling.

Too much blood lost.

"Stay with me," he murmured under his breath, his voice quiet, almost pleading. "Just stay with me."

And Jaime knew the wolf was thinking the same thing.

Winter’s blue eyes flicked to his.

Jaime’s men moved with urgency, their boots crunching against the ground as they hurried to prepare the carriage. A spare one had been brought forward, its wooden frame sturdy enough to withstand the journey back to Casterly Rock, but it was far from ideal.

Jaime barely spared it a glance. His attention was fixed solely on you, on the shallow rise and fall of your chest, on the too-pale shade of your skin. The pressure of his hand against your wound was steady, but the blood still seeped through the cloth, staining his fingers red, warm and slick, far too much of it.

He clenched his jaw.

Not enough time. Not enough hands. Not enough—

Bronn crouched beside him, studying the wound with a critical eye before exhaling sharply. "She’s still bleeding, Jaime. We can’t just keep pressing rags against it and hoping she doesn’t slip away before we get her back to the Rock."

Jaime glared at him. "You think I don’t know that?"

Bronn shook his head. "I think you don’t want to hear what we should do."

Jaime said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.

Bronn exhaled again, his lips pressing into a firm line before he spoke. "We burn it."

Jaime stilled.

The words settled between them like an axe waiting to fall.

One of the soldiers shifted uneasily behind them. "Ser, that’s—"

Jaime shot him a glare, cutting him off immediately.

Bronn ignored the exchange, continuing. "If we don’t close the wound, she won’t make it to the Rock, Jaime. You know it, and I know it. We burn it now, and she’s got a fighting chance."

His golden hand twitched at his side, useless. His fingers on his remaining hand curled tighter around the bloodied cloth. He forced himself to swallow past the lump in his throat, past the fear clawing at the edges of his mind.

Jaime’s chest tightened.

"If we burn it," he said, his voice lower now, quieter, "we could kill her from the shock alone."

Bronn didn’t deny it.

"But if we don’t, she dies anyway," he countered.

Jaime’s throat worked as he sighed.

He looked down at you, at your too-pale face, at the way your body remained slack beneath him, unconscious, unmoving.

He closed his eyes briefly before nodding. "Do it."

One of the soldiers moved quickly, grabbing a dagger and a torch from his belt. The blade was held over the flame, the metal heating quickly, the glow brightening as the seconds stretched unbearably long.

Jaime shifted, his good hand gripping your arm firmly, bracing himself.

Winter’s low growl rumbled deep in his chest again, his ears pinned back, his body still curled around you protectively.

Jaime met the direwolf’s eyes, his voice quiet but firm. "This is the only way."

Winter didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His growl didn’t cease, but he didn’t lunge either.

That was as much trust as Jaime was going to get.

"Hold her still," Bronn muttered. "If she wakes up, we don’t need her thrashing."

Jaime tightened his grip.

The blade pressed against the wound.

The sound of sizzling flesh filled the air, the scent of burnt blood thick and acrid.

You jerked, an unconscious, pained sound escaping your lips, but Jaime held you firm, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath, something he wasn’t even aware he was saying.

The wound seared shut, the bleeding finally ceasing, but your body remained limp, weak, your breath shallow.

Jaime released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Done," Bronn said, tossing the dagger aside, wiping his brow. "Now let’s get her the fuck out of here before something else decides it wants a Stark for supper."

Jaime nodded, his movements sharp, efficient. He shifted carefully, adjusting your weight beneath Winter’s still-watchful gaze. The direwolf’s ears twitched as Jaime slid his arms beneath you, lifting you as gently as he could.

Winter stiffened, his growl increasing again, his body tense as if ready to lunge—

"I will protect her."

Jaime met his gaze.

Then, finally, he moved.

Winter’s breath came heavy, his massive head lowering, his tail flicking once.

Jaime rose to his feet, your body cradled against his chest, your head lolling slightly against his shoulder. You were still too pale, too weak, but he could feel the faintest breath against his collarbone, the slow, struggling rhythm of your heart.

He carried you to the waiting carriage, stepping inside carefully, his men securing the area.

Bronn leaned against his horse, watching with a raised brow. "Didn’t think the wolf would actually let you take her."

Jaime settled you gently against the makeshift bedding inside, his hand still resting over your wound. "Neither did I."

Bronn smirked. "Guess you’re growing on him."

"I hope so."

Jaime exhaled, shaking his head, his gaze fixed on you.

The camp was silent save for the low crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees. The men were settled for the night, some murmuring quietly among themselves, others already asleep. The scent of still damp earth and pine clung to the air, mingling with the faint traces of smoke. It was a peaceful night—or it would have been, had Jaime not been watching you so intently, his stomach twisted with something close to dread.

You lay where he had placed you, nestled in the makeshift bedding inside the carriage, your body still, too still. The flickering light of the fire cast soft shadows across your face, illuminating the pallor of your skin, the slight furrow between your brows even in sleep. Winter lay curled close beside you, his large frame pressed against you as if he could will warmth back into your body. His fur glowed beneath the firelight, his eyes barely open, always watching.

Jaime ran his hand through his unkempt hair, his fingers pausing briefly against the cool metal of his golden hand. He didn’t know what to do. He had done everything he could—bandaged you, kept your wound clean, ensured you had water, forced broth down your throat when you were conscious enough to take it. But it wasn’t enough.

You were still slipping away from him.

His jaw clenched, frustration burning in his chest. He was Jaime Lannister. He had survived battlefields, captivity, starvation, losing his own godsdamned hand. But this? Watching you waste away, knowing that no sword, no gold, no fucking Lannister name could keep you safe from whatever war your own body was fighting?

He was helpless.

Winter suddenly perked up, his ears twitching, his head lifting slightly. His eyes focused on you.

Jaime sat forward, brows furrowing. "What is it?"

"Jaime."

Then, a whisper.

His breath hitched.

Your voice was barely more than a breath, rasping and weak, but it was there. Your eyes fluttered open—just barely, your gaze unfocused, as if keeping them open was a battle in itself.

Jaime was beside you in an instant, his golden hand resting carefully on the bedding, his good hand reaching for yours instinctively. "I’m here," he said quickly, his voice rough, desperate. "I’m here."

You blinked slowly, your lips parting slightly before the faintest ghost of a smile crossed them. "You came back."

Jaime let out something between a sharp breath and a broken laugh, his fingers tightening around yours. "Of course, I did," he murmured. "You didn’t really think I’d let you run off without me, did you?"

You swallowed with visible effort, your throat working as though even speaking was exhausting. "I want to go home."

Jaime’s heart clenched. "We are," he reassured you quickly. "We’re going back to the Rock. You just have to hold on a little longer."

"No."

There was something in your voice—something strained, something hollow, something that made the breath in his lungs turn to ice.

Jaime froze.

You weren’t talking about Casterly Rock.

Realization dawned in his chest like a slow, sinking weight.

You meant Winterfell.

The home he had helped take.

You meant the home that had been stolen from you.

A lump formed in his throat. "I’ll take you there," he promised, his voice thick. "Once you’re well, I’ll take you to Winterfell. I swear it."

Your lashes fluttered slightly, your gaze slipping in and out of focus. "You don’t understand," you murmured.

Jaime leaned in, his grip on your hand tightening. "Then help me understand."

You didn’t answer.

Your gaze was growing distant, unfocused, your lids growing heavier.

"No," Jaime muttered, shaking you slightly. "No, stay with me. Stay awake."

Winter let out a low whine, his large head nudging against your shoulder.

"Y/N," Jaime said sharply, his voice cracking, his thumb stroking your knuckles insistently. "Open your eyes. Stay with me."

Your body slackened slightly, your breathing growing shallower.

"Damn it, open your eyes!"

Nothing.

Jaime felt his stomach drop, his pulse roaring in his ears. "No, no, no—"

The sound was deep, mournful, echoing through the silent forest like a ghostly lament.

Winter howled.

Jaime shook you, his breath ragged, his voice breaking. "Wake up, damn you!"

But you were already slipping away.

Bronn’s hands were on him before Jaime could even register the weight of them, yanking him back, away from you, his grip firm, unrelenting.

"Jaime," Bronn barked, shaking him once, his voice strong. "Jaime, she’s gone!"

Jaime fought against him, twisting, his golden hand nearly catching Bronn’s shoulder as he tried to wrench himself free. "No!" His voice cracked, wild and raw, his chest heaving. "She’s not—"

"She is!" Bronn snapped, his own breath coming fast, his fingers digging into Jaime’s tunic. "Look at her, damn you!"

And his world ended.

Jaime looked.

You lay there, impossibly still, your chest no longer rising, your breath no longer misting in the cold night air. Your skin, already pale from blood loss, had taken on the lifeless stillness of death. Your lashes, dark against your cheekbones, did not so much as flutter.

Jaime choked on his own breath, his body going rigid.

"No," he whispered, barely a breath, barely a sound.

Bronn's grip loosened, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t release him entirely. "I’m sorry."

Jaime shook his head. "No."

His knees hit the dirt, the cold seeping into his bones as he stared at you, uncomprehending. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek. You were still warm—just barely—but it was fading. The last remnants of life, slipping from your body like sand through his fingers.

A ragged breath tore through him. "This is my fault."

Bronn was silent.

Jaime swallowed, his throat raw, his vision blurred. "From the moment Catelyn Stark ordered Brienne to smuggle me out of Robb's camp—" He exhaled shakily, his fingers curling against the fabric of your tunic. "I should’ve begged her to let me rot in that cage. Should’ve begged her to put an arrow through my eye when she found us."

His voice broke on the last word, his head bowing, his shoulders shaking.

Bronn was still standing there, still watching, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or hollow comforts. There was nothing to be said.

Jaime had done this.

He had been the hand that set these events in motion, every choice leading to this moment, every decision carving the path that had led you here—bleeding in the dirt, your body broken, your soul stolen before he had ever found the words to tell you what you meant to him.

The weight of it pressed against his ribs, heavy, suffocating.

And yet, as he knelt there, as his fingers traced the sharp line of your jaw, the memory of your warmth already fading, he couldn’t help but feel like he had been doomed from the moment he first laid eyes on you.

He had never been the kind of man who believed in fate.

And now, he would never belong to anyone else.

You never belonged to him.

His breath came in uneven bursts, his throat tight, his hands clenched into fists as he whispered, "I’m sorry."

The wind stirred slightly, rustling the trees, carrying the last of the night’s chill through the camp.

Jaime barely noticed.

What he did notice was the eyes on him.

Slowly, he turned.

Winter sat just beyond your still form, his silver-white fur ghostly in the moonlight, his blue eyes locked onto Jaime’s with something deep, something ancient, something knowing.

Jaime met his gaze, the air thick between them, something unspoken passing in the silence.

The direwolf had known this was coming.

Perhaps he had always known.

Or pity.

And now, Jaime could only wonder if Winter was looking at him with hatred.

The years that followed passed like a slow, grinding tide—unstoppable, unrelenting, each moment pulling Jaime further from the night he lost you, and yet, never far enough. Time dulled the rawness of the wound but never truly healed it. There were days he almost believed he had forgotten, that the weight in his chest had lightened, that he could go days without seeing your face in the back of his mind.

But then, in the quiet, in the empty halls of Casterly Rock, in the moments between duty and expectation, you would return.

Some ghosts did not fade.

Jaime never returned to King’s Landing after that night in the woods. The letter from Cersei remained forgotten, discarded somewhere on the long road back to the Rock. He knew what it had said. He knew the demands, the anger, the expectations of his place at Tommen’s side, of the war she saw coming, of the family she expected him to protect.

But Jaime no longer cared for duty the way he once had.

Instead, he carried your body back to Casterly Rock himself.

Not on the back of a cart, not in the hands of his men. His arms.

For miles, through rain and sun, through the broken silence of his soldiers, through Bronn’s rare, uncharacteristic quiet, Jaime bore the weight of you as if it were his own personal cross to carry.

Bronn never spoke about it, not then, not after. The sellsword had looked at him once, long and measured, but said nothing. And for that, Jaime was grateful.

Winter had followed.

Through it all, the direwolf had remained, padding silently behind the procession, a spectral shadow against the golden banners of Lannister men. His blue eyes held a quiet fury that never dulled, never softened, not even when Jaime lowered you onto the cold stone of the Rock, not even when he refused to let any hand but his own prepare you for burial.

Tywin had tried to speak, once. Had tried to reason, to command, but Jaime had only looked at him with something *hard, something unchangeable.

And for the first time in his life, Tywin had backed down.

Jaime had built your tomb facing the sea.

Not in the dark depths of the Rock, not in the cold crypts beneath its halls, but atop the cliffs where the wind could reach you, where the sound of the crashing waves could echo against the stone, where the sky stretched wide and open, as if to carry you home.

Winter had stood beside him as the last stone was set.

Then, without hesitation, the direwolf had turned and walked away.

No one had stopped him.

Jaime had watched until the silver-white form disappeared over the hills, until there was nothing left but the sound of the sea and the hollow ache in his chest.

No one saw Winter again after that.

Some said he had vanished into the North, beyond the Wall, beyond the reach of men, into the wild places where no banners flew. Others whispered that he still lingered near the Rock, a ghost in the hills, watching over a grave with a loyalty that stretched beyond death.

Jaime did not know what to believe.

All he knew was that, for the first time in his life, he had lost something he could never undo.

Years passed.

Tywin died, cut down in his own chambers by the very son he had spent a lifetime molding.

Cersei burned King’s Landing in her own madness, and when the war was done and winter came, Jaime found himself standing in the ruins of everything he had once known, holding the shattered remnants of a family he no longer recognized.

Bronn got his castle, just as he always wanted.

Jaime gave it to him without hesitation.

And Jaime himself?

He returned to the Rock, the place he once swore he would never call home.

It was not a home. It never had been.

But it was where you lay, where the stone bore your name, where the wind carried whispers of something he could never touch again.

Some nights, he thought he heard Winter’s howl.

And some nights, he wished he never woke up to hear it.

[doe-drawz]

A Lannister always Drinks and Knows Things or Something like that

🐺STARKS OF WINTERFELL DRAWING HERE

They are all terrible but I love them all so much, they’re consistently making me laugh.. maybe not Cersei too much in the later seasons but Peak Lannister is season 2 in my opinion so! Here’s some season 2 lannisters! (Except Jaime since I’ll have a new post in the future with Prisoner Jaime ) So! Take Jaime in his goldcloak uniform instead!

[spicy30]

Second place is just the First Loser

My newest story on the way based on this poll.

[visenya-targarye]

it's always a lannister beefing with a child

(honorable mention)

[foudreika]

Game of Thrones 3D keychain designs 💅

In case you're not familiar with what I do, I'm also a merchmaker and used to make various merch of stuff I like :D I've been wanted to do GoT merch for years but was too afraid before because I didn't have the skills etc...

But not anymore!! 😼 So here's the designs I've been working on for a while. It was quite a challenge but I'm happy with the result, the backgrounds were the most challenging part lmao!!

I'll post pics of them when I'll have them and ready to be purchased on my shop! 🤸‍♀️ For now, hope you'll like the designs! (I also have some HotD charms that I'll post later, but did months before so I'm less happy with how they look lmao)

[i-smoke-chapstick]

saw that you're in your got era so perhaps jealousy headcanons for the got or hotd characters? 👀 literally anyone from these characters - robb, jaime, margaery, oberyn, theon, cersei or ramsay, I'd love to see your interpretation on any of them ! ( or aemond, alicent, aegon, gwayne, OTTO !!, larys, daemon or mysaria for hotd, again whichever era you feel like it !!) and just for future reference, do you write for asoiaf characters or mainly the shows?

'LOVE CAN KILL, [jealousy! hcs]

-GOT / HOTD CHARACTERS X READER-

⋆ Characters ↬ Robb, Jaime, Margaery, Oberyn, Cersei, Joffrey, Ramsay, Tyrion, The Hound, Aemond, Aegon, Alicent, Gwayne, Daemon

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; jealousy, and how some characters deal with it ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. GOT and HOTD!characters x female reader. SFW! But naturally, some of these characters get a bit suggestive! Possessive behavior, canon typical violence, etc. Please send in more GOT/HOTD requests! Apologies this took so long, this is more characters in a post than I've ever done lol. Unfortunately I'm not super familiar with Otto, Larys, Theon, or Mysaria, so I decided to pick some characters I'm more familiar with! (Joffrey is my #1 favorite of all time, my sincerest apologies.) Whew, 14 characters ! For right now I'm only writing for the TV shows! (i've only read book 1, lol)

𝑅𝛰𝐵𝐵 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐾

♫ “I wasn't thinking when I told you to stay.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

With Robb, it's all about the body language. And boy, he's horrible at hiding it.

He can have a hard time placing the feeling as jealousy. He was raised to be honorable. But feelings of...neglect run deep with him. Oldest child syndrome, if you will.

Which is why his jealousy most likely manifests in subdued, quiet behavior. Part of him will recognize he's being ridiculous, while another part of him is silently fuming. Fists clenched, he'll send you an intense stare as he watches you converse with another lord.

His emotions leak through his expressions. When he catches you staring back, his gaze will flit down, and he'll wait patiently for you're time. Or...in most cases...he'll march right up, placing himself between you and the man. Maybe a small, "I'll take it from here." If the lord is offering to help you with something.

A subtle touch on the small of your back. It's a small claim, a subtle "back-off."

A lot of his jealousy also transforms into protectiveness more than anything. He'll offer to accompany reader to places he wouldn't normally be concerned about. He's close by, and he's reminding her wordlessly, he's watching over her and any threat.

Finally, when you two are alone, will he drop down that guard of his. Covering up that burning pit inside him with casual humor, you can sense the underlaying seriousness of his voice in his light teases.

"You’re quite popular these days. Should I be worried that I’m not your only admirer?"

He certainly beds you, having something to prove. And only afterwards when you are in his arms, sweaty and warm from the candlelight, wrapped in furs...will he calm down.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you… It’s them I don’t trust. Some men don’t know how to keep their place." He'll whisper, holding onto you firmly.

𝐽𝐴𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “You don't know that you're in over your head.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Jaime's jealousy is burning. It's simply the way he was raised. And gods, you are his.

Numerous sarcastic remarks flow between the two of you and the man who he believes has essentially stolen your affections. His taunts are offhand, dry remarks, often directed towards his "opponent" or even you, if he's feeling bitter enough.

"I didn’t realize he was such a comedian. Maybe I should ask him for pointers." He'll say, with that sarcastic drawl. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me jealous. Not that it would work, of course." He chuckles, but his gaze is sharp.

Depending on the offense, Jaime's reactions differ. If you simply have an admirer, a few...well chosen words are directed towards them. His confidence allows him to not be too bothered. Maybe standing closer, clearly showing off to whatever poor soul thought they had a shot with you.

It's a different story if you are friends with the person involved, or entertain their advances even mildly or jokingly.

That's when the uncharacteristic tension comes out, full of small twitches in his jaw and curt, smug responses. His visible annoyance is uncontrolled.

We saw how he was with Loras when it came to Cersei. If he feels truly threatened, whether it's by another pretty boy, or just someone he feels could...hypothetically...have the upper hand...He'll corner them when you're off somewhere else. And give a small warning, from the Kingslayer himself.

"You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with, so let me remind you." He leans in just close enough for his words to sink in. "Whatever you think you might be to her… you’re not. Let’s keep it that way, hm? I'd hate to see you make any...lasting mistakes."

𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “It was just too hard to push you away.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Margaery is smart with her feelings. She knows how to play the game, and play it well. Instead of showing her jealousy openly, she's a touch more composed than most characters on this list.

She recognizes just how precious you are, and admires that. She doesn't necessarily blame others when they become...attached to you.

When jealousy arises, she views it more as a small problem in need of being handled. And she knows how to handle things.

She embraces the graceful competition, subtly outshining anyone who seems to get in the way of her goals. Her goal being you're affection, of course. You're already hers, and she sees no problem in working to keep it that way.

This appears in gestures of strategic sweetness to keep you close, perhaps wearing your favorite gowns on her, and offering that charming smirk. She doesn't shy away from manipulating you, just a teeny bit.

"They’re certainly captivated by you. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention." She teases, "Besides, who could ever compare to us?"

Her words carry a playful undertone, but she makes her point clear. Laughing charmingly, threading her arm through yours.

Very rarely does she think she's in any serious danger. She prides herself on being yours and knowing how to keep you on a tight leash. Though...if she feels genuinely worried, she expresses her feelings quite clearly but still gently. She reminds her lover of their shared goals, and all that they've built together.

"My, you do attract admirers easily, don’t you? I’ll have to start guarding you more closely." She gives you a playful look, though her touch on your arm will linger just a bit longer than usual.

𝛰𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑁 𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “Let me go, but you won't let me go.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oberyn doesn't feel insecure. How could he? He knows, deep down, that you're his. Jealousy isn't something he confines himself too, he views it as an ugly emotion, capable of getting rid of the true wonders love has to offer.

That being said...he is only a man. And he is fiercely protective. If anyone were to flirt with you and you were clearly uninterested, it would be a swift death, or at the very least, he'd make his point clear with a blow or two and a cutting edge remark. Especially if they are a Lannister. He enjoys you being admired, but only to a certain extent.

"Your efforts are wasted, they’re far too captivating for someone like you. I’d suggest you find someone more... suited to your charms." He begins, hand itching for his spear, "Consider this your first and last warning."

Yeah, he means business.

Most of the time, he spins the situation to show-off. Showcase his own passion and devotion to you. If it's simply a friend of yours, he may even offer them to join in. If not, he'll spend the entire night practically worshipping you, promising that he's the only one who could ever make you feel like this.

Similarly to Margaery, he teases you lightly.

"You have a lovely laugh. But I must admit, it’s much better when it’s for me alone."

Oberyn doesn't shy away from PDA either. It's that assertive reclaiming he seems to favor, pulling you close, whispering something that affirms your affections for each other. He'll revel when he watches the other mans face fall in dismay.

He might get cocky, and push it a bit far. By the time he's done, the 'competition' will be utterly humiliated and embarrassed. He'll be smirking at his own quips.

"I assure you, my friend, my lover favors...more substantial things." He motions to the poor mans crotch.

You're gonna have to give him a slap on the arm.

𝐶𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸𝐼 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “Consequence of loving me can be cruel.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Cersei's jealousy is intense and multifaceted, to say the least. It manifests in a mix of cold fury and harsh threats, channeling that anger into much more controlling behavior.

Deep down, she is terribly insecure. Once another man or woman as your attention, and she catches on, she's coolly lashing out. And she catches on quickly.

At first she may appear indifferent, but if you look close enough, you can see the subtly giveaways. The way her lip curls, her nostrils flare, and her knuckles go white gripping her wine chalice.

If you're the first one to confront her, and attempt to reassure her, you'll save yourself some trouble down the line. Guaranteed, she'll deny it, but still make a passive-aggressive remark here and there. But eventually she'll calm down, edges softening.

That rare moment of vulnerability that you're not sure is manipulation or not. She'll look towards the ground, running her thumb over you're hand on her cheek. She'll sit on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched.

Now, it's a whole different story if you don't catch on to the early signs. If you don't manage to reassure or call her out in time, that jealousy implodes.

She may confront you first, anger bleeding through her. She runs on it. She may even threaten you, oblivious to the potential consequences her words might have.

“You think you can charm your way into my affections by paying attention to that little fool?" She's standing up, loathing distorting her features. Her voice raises. "Perhaps I should throw a feast in her honor. Let’s see how charming she is when surrounded by my people."

It's threats and threats and more and more threats...which can be especially worrying if the person she's jealous of is a friend of yours.

Almost every scenario ends with you having to comfort her, treading carefully with the words you say.

Now, when it comes to confronting the competition, she makes it very clear. Though, these threats are often much more impulsive. A swig of wine, and she gracefully moves towards them when you're out of sight.

A faux compliment or two, before she whispers, close.

“You’ll find that my guards are quite loyal to me. A simple command, and they’ll ensure you never breathe the same air as her again.”

It only makes her feel a bit better. But, regardless, she's smiling smugly, feeling proud of herself when the offenders face turns white.

𝐽𝛰𝐹𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑌 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝛰𝑁

♫ “Too much love can kill.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh, Joffrey. I'm obsessed with him.

Yeah. He has the worst jealousy issues out of everyone on this list. It's baaaaad. It's a cocktail of insecurity, possessiveness, and entitlement. As someone who has been raised to believe he is above others, and has been coddled his entire life...it infuriates him.

It's the same feeling you get as a child, when someone steals one of your toys. You belong to him. He never grew out of that mentality, or that feeling.

Be prepared for plentiful outbursts of anger. He's a tantrum personified, especially if he feels disrespected. Insecurity grips him tight and refuses to let up until he's either been heavily reassured...or the other person is... taken care of.

And even then, after reassuring him for hours, it may not be enough. You know how he hired a knight to take out Tyrion in the Battle of Blackwater? Yeah. That person will be paid a little 'visit.'

When reassuring him, similar to Cersei, you really have to be careful what you say, or it might make the situation even worse. At that point, he's seeing red.

"I’m the king! You should be grateful for my attention, not chasing after scraps!" He's huffing, pointing to himself as his breathing increases. He'll look at you with an ice cold glare, nose wrinkled in distaste.

He might even force his hand around your face, harshly grabbing you. He looks dead into your eyes, voice clear and low. "You're mine. You belong to me." He's seething.

If he notices you simply looking at anyone else too long, he'll feel beyond threatened in both his masculinity and position as king. Especially if you laugh at another mans jokes, or simply attempt to be friendly with a commoner or lord.

"What’s so amusing? You’d think you’d find better entertainment than that fool." He mutters under his breath harshly, bad habit of picking at his fingers. He'll shuffle uncomfortably. He'll look to you expecting agreeance. It's 100% that mentality of 'Friends? You don't need friends. You have me.'

Yeah, he keeps the very blunt insults coming. Petulant name calling is not above him. Includes, but is not limited too, "Degenerates, Idiots, Commoners, Peasants, or Cretins" which he may describe as being "Stupid, Disgusting, Repellent, Sickening, or Revolting." He's got a LOT of those angry remarks in the bank.

While he may not directly confront the offender, (he doesn't have time for idle threats.) He has his own ways of dealing with them. And that is a public humiliation ritual, making a mockery of any rival. And if they disobey ANY whim of his, they're gone. That one scene with Tyrion at his wedding? That "Kneel!"? He's commanding the same of any man unlucky enough to have threatened his claim on you. Oh, and they're going to be his cupbearer.

Even if they do as he asks, by now his anger will have transformed into that renewed sense of cruelty. "You're fingers or your tongue?...Or I could just cut your throat."

𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑆𝐴𝑌 𝐵𝛰𝐿𝑇𝛰𝑁

♫ “You're gonna suffer now, whatever you do.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

His jealousy may not be as overtly intense as Joffrey's, but it certainly is the scariest.

In his own words, he prefers being an only child. That same kind of mentality certainly carries over to his relationship with you. He prefers to be the only one you see that way.

He loves a good game, and that's what this is. If anything, it's quite exhilarating for him. Though, he is a huge hypocrite. For a man who thinks jealousy is boring coming from you, he feels it quite freely.

Sees it as a means of asserting dominance, whether that be through intimidation or overt manipulation. He doesn't deny it like most characters on this list. When he's feeling jealous, he says it. It's a small warning for you not to go any farther, lest worse things occur for you or the perceived threat.

He'll go up to whoever you are talking too, saccharine and honorable smile on his face. He'll casually interrupt, introducing himself as Lord Bolton's successor. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a tightness in his face, and a wicked look in his eyes, that only you can recognize. It will make you shiver.

If the rival persists, he'll find it all too amusing.

"You're bold, I'll give you that." He says with a boisterous laugh, and you already know the mans fate is sealed.

Looks like his hounds will be having another meal tonight. He'll have his men go out looking for the man, and he'll question him more...privately, when you aren't there to witness his tortuous taunts.

But for now, his focus is on you, and your loyalty to him. When he excuses the both of you, his hand is gripping yours painfully tight.

By the time you're in his chamber, he's on you, ripping your clothes off with a harsh intensity and pushing you to the wall. His nose is twitching in barely kept anger, forcing you to look at him.

We all saw that scene between him and Myranda when she threatens to marry someone else, and it was not pretty. His eyes are borderline bloodshot, and he can't keep his hands off you or your throat.

"You're mine." He leans forward, through gritted teeth. It's better you don't put up a fight, because he'll be having you and your attention one way or another.

Que the numerous kisses and bite marks soon to follow. And he is not gentle when he's inside you.

You'll never hear from the flirtatious lord again...and if you do, it's only in the prayers of his grieving family.

𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐼𝛰𝑁 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “My love, you are not safe with me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Now, Tyrion's jealousy is more subdued and introspective versus some characters on this list. He has a good sense of self-awareness, and he's intelligent to figure out what he's feeling quite quickly.

At first he'll dismiss it as nothing more than an annoying feeling of insecurity he attempts to cover up. But...it doesn't last long. Especially when someone else makes you laugh. Or when Bronn makes a taunt with a half smirk, that some other fancy lord has taken a keen interest in his lady. (Bronn, you instigator!)

As such, Tyrion resorts to his usual humor to deflect any unpleasant feelings he may have when he's jealous. Similar to his brother, these witty remarks are are subtle intimidation technique, meant to dryly convey his displeasure.

"Ah, the sound of laughter. How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to earn your amusement." He forces a smile, masking his discomfort. "I didn’t realize I was competing for the title of Court Jester."

These feelings of inadequacy manifest in more self-deprecating ways for Tyrion, given his anger is more controlled. He might opt to drown his sorrows, so don't be surprised if you catch him drunkenly waving his chalice around, doing poor impressions of the so-called-lord that had your attention.

This doesn't mean he won't confront the rival, though. Quite the opposite. While he won't seek the man out, (For his sake, he isn't privy to seeing the tall handsome lord in person. He's not a masochist.) If he happens to come across him flirting with you first hand, or sees him during a feast, he'll make sure to throw one or two gibes out there.

"Desperation looks unflattering on you, my friend. Perhaps you should tone it down a notch." He speaks carefully, nodding to Bronn as a subtle warning. "Or at least the best you can manage..?"

If the rival flirts with you blatantly and in front of him, I can 100% imagine him putting them down. After a flirtatious remark directed towards you, he'll make a dry comment, "Flattery is wasted on me, but do go on; I’m always entertained by those who think they can win my affection." As if it was directed towards him. Probably shuts the man up for a moment.

When the two of you are alone, he'd be very grateful if you could just hold him. Give him that reassurance he craves when his carefree facade breaks. That moment of vulnerability means the world to him.

𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝛰𝑅 "𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑁𝐷" 𝐶𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐸

♫ “I need you to go, don't fight me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Listen up, Sandor doesn't take shit.

Jealousy isn't an emotion Sandor is particularly used too. In fact, he didn't think he'd find anyone to love in his lifetime, so the feeling is foreign and unpleasant. And, like a mean dog, Sandor's first reaction is to growl.

He doesn't like it. Says it's constricting, and it pisses him off. Not just the pretty boy lord flirting with you, but the whole situation in general. Makes him feel vulnerable, and weak.

Naturally, his first reaction is to distance himself. He may avoid you, grumbling, spitting out vile and vulgar comments to get you to run with your tail between your legs. It's better for the both of you that way.

"You think they’re worth your time? Just a pretty smile to distract you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You could do better. But then again, you always choose to suffer." He motions at himself, and it's a glimpse of that self-depreciation he buries.

But you love him for a reason, and you know that won't end well. Best way to handle him when he's jealous is to be gentle, and to listen.

He doesn't want empty reassurances. He's complicated that way, even if they are genuine. He isn't one for flowery words or overt displays of emotion, so the best way to comfort him would be to give him some space, but continue to take care of him.

It will still frustrate him, but eventually he'll cave. He'll rejoin you, silently, eventually. Won't offer any apologies, but maybe a gruff nod, and you two will commence whatever it is you two have.

In future instances, he becomes much more brutally honest with how he feels. Doesn't sugarcoat it. If he doesn't like someone, even if they are a friend, he expects them gone- or he'll take care of them regardless. That kind of possessive behavior is just something you'll have to work through.

I can imagine him silently brooding if he witnesses someone flirting with you first hand. Typically his size and reputation is enough to scare whoever away. He's looming over them, eyes dark, and ready to defend what's his.

When you take your leave, he'll confront the person with a very explicit threat or two.

"If you don’t back off, I’ll find a nice dark corner to stuff you in- preferably with a pile of shit." Or, "Get any closer, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."

𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “Get swallowed by the weight.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aemond has the most...complex jealousy out of everyone on this list. It's layered, and the outcome may be unpredictable. It's an emotional and volatile nature that's been building up for years since he was a child.

He often had feelings of jealousy for his brother, his nephews, etc. That trauma is deeply rooted in him, and it's hard to let go of old habits, given it's been present all his life.

You'll watch his head bow in distaste when you make small conversation with other lords. How his eye will gaze at you, almost warningly. His jaw will be clenched tight, and he'll avoid eye contact, looking off to the side in anger. He doesn't want to watch.

If it's a friend of yours, he can be a bit mean, questioning your loyalty a bit harshly.

"Friendship? Is that what you call it?" He speaks, angrily. A thinly veiled threat is directed to you, "It seems more like a prelude to betrayal."

He'll brood in the corner, silently waiting. That is, unless, he deems the man goes too far.

In the scene where he gets his eye put out by Lucerys, the conversation that starts before it happens pretty much sums his jealousy up. He's firm with his claim to Vaghar, and the same goes for you.

When Rhaena states that Vaghar was hers to claim, Aemond responds in kind, "Then you should've claimed her." And puts up a hell of a fight to prove his point. That same possessiveness carries over to his relationship with you. He doesn't back down. You're his.

He has no problems getting in between you and the man he feels threatened of. He offers a blunt threat.

"I could have you torn apart, limb by limb, and I’d sleep soundly at night. Be certain of that."

Guaranteed, mixed feelings of insecurity will rise to the surface. When you two are alone, he'll continue to brood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and body language tight.

Please do reassure him. He needs it. His eye will soften, and he'll place his hand over yours, leaning into your touch. With a soft huff of an air, a final warning slips past his lips.

"Don’t make me remind you why I’m the only one worthy of you."

𝐴𝐸𝐺𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “I wanna hold on tightly.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aegon handles jealousy poorly, much like he seems to handle everything else.

It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Once that feeling in his chest flares up, it's shown through erratic behavior, sarcasm, and attempts to assert his claim in juvenile, insecure ways. Unlike his brother, he lacks the restraint to simply brood.

No, be prepared for plenty of mocking comments directed towards the man he's threatened of, and showy displays to prove he's the better choice.

Everyone knows he is unpredictable and reckless, and possessiveness drives him to act out. He certainly overindulges to cope with his insecurity, (getting shitfaced) and will gladly push your boundaries to get your attention back on him.

Not to mention the belittling comments he'll make.

"Oh, is that who you’ve chosen to entertain now? I didn’t realize your taste had grown so dull."

Prone to acting overtly clingy, almost like a restless cat. He will attempt to slide over into the conversation, resting an arm around you, or even pulling you away. He doesn't care if it's 'improper.' He probably brings up his status, his bloodline, acting over-the-top.

He's also no stranger to outbursts. His temper may make him lash out impulsively, whether that be towards you or the man whose got your attention. If he's in a particular mood, be ready to deal with a screaming Aegon, threatening to slaughter and burn said rival. His fist will come down hard on the council table.

He also doesn't care if he's making a show of it in front of the council members. Que Alicent or Otto attempting to placate him. He needs to have a cooler head if he's going to be ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and this type of behavior isn't very becoming.

He definitely thinks he's owed some make-up sex, if only to quell the insecure storm raging inside him.

"You think they could satisfy you? Truly?" He says, firmly, as he steps closer. Anger is burning in his words, volume raising. "They wouldn’t even know where to begin."

And he plans to show you that he's right.

𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “I'm afraid I'll pull you over the edge.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Alicent experiences jealousy complexly, just like Aemond. It gnaws on her until she's at her breaking point. Rather than overt displays or confrontations, she attempts to employ more strategic distance...but it always ends up resorting in icy politeness.

She's making her displeasure known through restrained, pointed remarks. Out of duty and pride, she'll attempt to avoid direct confrontation, but she wears her jealousy on her sleeve.

I imagine her withdrawing from the situation at first, if not for anything but her own sake. Her gut reaction, out of insecurity, is to escape the situation. It honestly makes her feel sick.

Unless she's forced to stay...then she'll begrudgingly offer a tight smile. Her responses are carefully measured, and she slips into that role of "queen" rather than a lover.

A part of it stems from passive aggressiveness, and another part of it is purely subconscious.

Speaking of passive aggressiveness, she'll make some pretty cutting remarks, either questioning your loyalty or purposely feigning ignorance to the situation.

"Perhaps I’m mistaken. But I know loyalty when I see it. Or when I don’t."

It's an all bark, no bite threat towards you. But it serves as an aggressive reminder of your connection with her, and that you are now apart of her duties.

If she does interfere beforehand, she'll make indirect remarks about the person causing her jealousy, but will most likely frame it as merely her own curiosity.

Maybe just a touch of self-depreciation, unintentional manipulation. Years of Otto's techniques have rubbed off on her.

"It’s of little consequence, truly. I simply thought I was the one you preferred to spend your time with. I may have misjudged."

𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑁𝐸 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “Hurts to say it over, over again.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

In contrast to Alicent, Gwayne has no problem when he feels threatened to step in. He's a member of a powerful house, and a knight no less. Those two things have taught him to be prideful and honorable.

He will defend your honor whenever he deems in necessary, and there are no exceptions. He certainly has a flash of a temper, but he believes he's much more restrained than others, given his training.

If he thinks someone is crossing a line, he'll interfere. He'll position himself quite closely to you, making his presence known.

He offers the man a silent warning, offering a cool, assessing look. It would be enough to communicate his disapproval.

And if the man persists...well...they'll end up with the end of a sword pointed at them.

Similar to Robb, Gwayne's jealousy appears more in his heightened protectiveness. He insists on staying close for your safety.

"Do they need to be reminded that you’re already spoken for?"

Obviously, his noble pride carries on. If he gets pushed, his jealousy will show more openly, taking the man aside, and telling them that he is more worthy of her time and attention. Might throw in a comment about his noble standing.

He'll take you aside when everything is said and done, reminding her his intentions are honorable. Everyone else is just...unworthy.

"You may not see it, but I know men like him. If he truly respected you, he wouldn’t need to linger around someone else’s beloved."

𝐷𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ "No matter how you feel." Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh boy, you'll have to keep this man on a tight leash when his jealousy flares up. It's as intense as he is, and he shows it openly.

He'll deny it, or embrace it, depending on the severity of the perceived offense. It's closely tied to that desire for power within him he can't seem to shake. Any affront to your loyalty is an affront to his own standing.

He switches from possessive protectiveness to outright hostility. There's really no in between. It's a raw and unfiltered fury that makes his hand shake and his eye twitch.

He doesn't tolerate rivals, and he's very upfront that he's the only one fit to be by your side. This comes through when he has you all to himself on his bed...

He'll confront the person whether you want him to or not.

"If they value their limbs, they’d remember you’re mine." He mutters casually, pacing around the room.

He carries that hard glint in his eyes. He may even mildly appreciate the sheer balls of the man stupid enough to attempt to flirt with you, but he'll shut it down quicker than anyone on this list.

"You’ve got a bold tongue. I wonder if I should cut it out..?" He'll look to you for permission. It's up to you if you wanna let the dragon loose!

[duckysprouts]

please read the books for my boy jaime lannister who speedran his character arc when he realized that 99 percent of his problems can be cured with buff girl tiddy

[kudriaken]

House Lannister. My fanart series for the Great Houses from the ASOIAF. I wanted to make this for the longest time.

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in ALT] I've made posts before about Talia/Dick co-parenting Damian moments (will never happen but let me dream) and this came to me in a vision. Took me ages to finish for some reason 😭 and then even longer to post

[irlplasticlamb]

loyal past the point of sense.

prints + merch + commission info pinned to profile :)

[francy-sketches]

cringe ass family ❤

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly

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

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: sins

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

The cold air bites at his face as Jaime Lannister dismounts his horse, his armor catching the pale Northern sunlight. Around him, the bustling retinue of the royal procession begins to settle, attendants scattering to prepare for the King’s arrival. Yet, as his gaze sweeps across the courtyard of Winterfell, Jaime’s mind is far from the cold, far from his duties, and even far from Cersei.

You stand by your family, a quiet and poised figure amidst the wolves. Your dark cloak, trimmed with fur, clings to your shoulders, framing the soft lines of your face. Your hair glints in the light, a rich hue reminiscent of autumn leaves, and Jaime’s breath catches in his throat. There’s something about the way you hold yourself, the proud tilt of your chin, the quiet intensity in your eyes as you watch the King approach your father.

For a man who had once thought himself incapable of wanting anything beyond what he already had, this moment feels like a betrayal of everything he believed about himself.

He shouldn’t look at you, yet he does. He shouldn’t think about you, yet he knows, already, that he will.

The evening feast is lively, as all gatherings in Winterfell tend to be. The great hall is warm with roaring fires, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filling the air. Jaime sits among the knights of the Kingsguard, a golden lion among his brothers in white, but his eyes stray across the room to where you sit at the high table with your family.

You laugh at something Robb whispers to you, your smile lighting up your face. It’s not a smile meant for him, but gods, how he wishes it were. He tells himself it’s a passing fancy, that you’re nothing more than a pretty distraction in a dreary northern hall. Yet, when your gaze briefly flicks his way—entirely by chance—his heart jolts. You look away almost instantly, oblivious, but it’s enough to set his blood aflame.

“You’re staring, brother.” Tyrion’s voice interrupts his thoughts, sharp and laced with amusement. The younger Lannister leans back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief as he follows Jaime’s gaze. “And at the Stark girl, no less. A dangerous game, wouldn’t you say?”

Jaime tears his eyes away from you, scowling at Tyrion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Tyrion replies with mock innocence. “But if you did, you might consider that our dear queen wouldn’t take kindly to your… wandering attentions. Nor, I suspect, would her father. And let’s not even think about Lord Stark. I hear he has a way of parting men’s heads from their shoulders.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens. He knows Tyrion is right, of course. Whatever this strange, sudden longing is, it’s not something he can act on. Yet, as he glances back at you, he finds himself wondering what it would take to make you look at him the way you look at your brother.

Later, as the hall begins to empty and the fires burn low, Jaime finds himself wandering the courtyard. He tells himself it’s for the fresh air, but deep down, he knows better. The truth finds him soon enough when he sees you there, standing by the kennels with your direwolf pup at your side. The creature is a pale, ghostly thing, its eyes sharp and intelligent as it watches him approach.

“Ser Jaime,” you greet him politely, your voice soft but steady. There’s no fear in your tone, only curiosity. “What brings you outside? The warmth of the hall doesn’t suit you?”

He smiles, a practiced, easy expression that hides the turmoil beneath. “Perhaps I needed a break from the noise. The North has a way of making a man appreciate silence.”

You nod, stroking the wolf’s fur absentmindedly. “Winterfell is quieter than King’s Landing, I imagine. Though I’ve never been.”

The way you say it, with a hint of longing, makes him pause. “You’ve never been to the capital?”

You shake your head. “No. My father prefers to keep us here, close to home. My mother says the South isn’t meant for wolves.”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, though he can’t help but think how wrong that is. You would shine in the South, your beauty and grace unmatched by any courtier or queen. The thought of you in the Red Keep—so near, yet so far—sends an ache through him.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Do you miss it? The South, I mean.”

He hesitates, caught off guard by the question. Does he miss the South? The warm sun, the endless intrigue, the weight of his family’s expectations? “Sometimes,” he admits. “But there are things worth appreciating in the North.”

It’s a simple statement, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says it betrays his meaning. You tilt your head slightly, studying him, but before you can respond, the direwolf lets out a low growl, breaking the moment.

Jaime chuckles, taking a cautious step back. “It seems your wolf doesn’t trust me.”

“Winter is protective,” you reply, patting the pup’s head. “But he’ll come around.”

Jaime isn’t so sure. The wolf isn’t the only one he’ll have to win over, and he knows it. Yet, as he watches you disappear back into the warmth of the castle, he can’t help but think that you might be worth the risk.

The next morning, Jaime finds himself once again in Winterfell’s training yard. The clang of swords fills the crisp northern air, accompanied by shouts from young men sparring under the watchful eyes of Jory Cassel. Jaime usually enjoys watching such displays, though they pale in comparison to his own skill with a blade. Today, however, his attention is elsewhere.

You stand on the edge of the yard, wrapped in a dark cloak to ward off the morning chill. Winter, your direwolf, sits dutifully at your side, her fur gleaming in the pale sunlight. Jaime notices the way your gloved hand absently strokes the wolf’s head as you observe your younger brothers practice with wooden swords. There’s a faint smile on your lips, one of quiet pride, and it’s enough to make his chest tighten.

For the hundredth time since his arrival, Jaime curses himself for this weakness. You are a Stark, born and bred, and your father would sooner see him dead than allow him to so much as glance your way. Yet his gaze strays to you regardless, drawn like a moth to flame.

“Are you going to keep staring, or will you finally say something?” The voice belongs to Jon Snow, who stands a few paces away with his sword in hand. His tone is quiet, but his grey eyes are sharp, a touch of irritation flickering behind them.

Jaime straightens, masking his surprise with a smirk. “Staring? I don’t know what you mean.”

Jon’s lips press into a thin line. “You’ve been looking at my sister since you arrived.”

At that, Jaime’s smirk falters. He glances toward you, but you’re still focused on the sparring match, oblivious to the conversation. Winter, however, seems to sense the tension and looks toward him, wolf's icy blue eyes meeting his.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Jaime says smoothly, though his pulse quickens. “Your sister is a lovely young lady, but I assure you, I have no improper intentions.”

Jon’s expression darkens. “You’re a Lannister. Everything about you is improper.”

The accusation stings, though Jaime hides it well. He steps closer, lowering his voice so only Jon can hear. “Careful, Snow. You might have Stark blood in your veins, but you’re still a bastard. Don’t presume to lecture me on propriety.”

Jon bristles, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. For a moment, Jaime wonders if the boy will strike him. Instead, Jon takes a measured breath and steps back, his gaze still burning with suspicion.

“Stay away from her,” he says simply before walking back toward the training yard. Jaime watches him go, his jaw tight.

The day drags on, and Jaime finds himself more restless than ever. Every time he catches a glimpse of you—walking with Sansa in the godswood, speaking quietly with Maester Luwin, laughing softly at something Arya said—his resolve weakens. By the time the evening feast begins, he’s resigned himself to another torturous night of stolen glances and unspoken desires.

The great hall is alive with laughter and conversation when Jaime enters, though he barely hears it. His eyes immediately seek you out, finding you seated beside your mother near the high table. You look radiant, even in the simple Stark colors, your hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders. He forces himself to look away, focusing instead on the goblet in front of him.

“Still pining, are we?” Tyrion’s voice cuts through his thoughts, low and amused. The younger Lannister has appeared beside him, a knowing smile on his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime replies, his tone clipped.

“Oh, come now, brother,” Tyrion says, pouring himself a generous helping of wine. “You’ve been staring at her as if she’s the Maiden herself come to life. It’s quite unlike you.”

Jaime glares at him. “Drop it, Tyrion.”

“Gladly,” Tyrion says, raising his goblet in mock surrender. “But you might want to be more careful. The Starks are an observant lot, and I doubt they’ll take kindly to a Lannister coveting their eldest daughter.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as Tyrion saunters away. He risks another glance at you, only to find your brother Jon watching him from across the hall. The boy’s expression is unreadable, but the weight of his scrutiny is unmistakable.

Later that night, Jaime finds himself wandering the courtyard again. The cold air bites at his skin, yet it does little to extinguish the fire raging within him. He curses himself under his breath, berating his foolishness. How could he allow his thoughts, his eyes, and now even his heart to betray him? A Stark of all people—a wolf, untouchable and pure in her Northern pride.

He’s so lost in his turmoil that he doesn’t notice your presence until Winter’s soft growl cuts through the silence. He looks up sharply, finding you only a few feet away, the wolf standing protectively at your side. The moonlight catches in your hair, casting an almost ethereal glow around you, and Jaime feels his chest tighten.

“Ser Jaime,” you greet him, your voice soft yet steady. There’s a hint of curiosity in your tone, as if you’re surprised to see him here.

Jaime straightens, his heart stuttering at the sound of your voice. He bows slightly, forcing himself to maintain his composure. “Lady Y/N,” he replies, his voice smooth despite the turmoil within. “Out for a stroll?”

You nod, your breath forming faint clouds in the cold air. “I could ask the same of you, Ser Jaime. Though I didn’t think knights of the Kingsguard wandered alone at night.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound hollow to his own ears. “Even knights need a moment of quiet now and then,” he says, his hand tucked discreetly behind his back. “The North, for all its chill, does have its charms.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him as Winter’s piercing gaze mirrors your own. “And what charms would those be?” you ask, your tone light, but your eyes keen.

Jaime hesitates, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment. The truth lingers on the edge of his tongue—that it’s you, your presence, the way you make the world feel brighter even in the dead of winter. But he swallows the words, masking his emotions as he always has.

“The stars, perhaps,” he says smoothly, gesturing toward the clear night sky. “King’s Landing rarely grants us such a view.”

You glance upward, and for a moment, your expression softens. “They are beautiful,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “The North feels closer to the heavens.”

Jaime watches you, his eyes tracing the curve of your profile. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, fearing that his voice will betray the yearning he’s so desperately trying to suppress.

After a moment, you glance back at him, your expression unreadable. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime,” you say simply, a polite smile gracing your lips. There’s no hesitation as you turn and begin walking back toward the castle, Winter padding silently at your side.

Jaime doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure. The ache in his chest grows heavier with every step you take, but he remains rooted in place, unwilling to call after you. He knows this desire is foolish—impossible, even—but gods help him, he can’t seem to let it go.

As the shadows swallow you whole, Jaime exhales slowly, the cold air burning his lungs. He turns back toward the castle, his mind a tangled mess of longing and guilt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Tyrion’s voice again, mocking him for his weakness, warning him of the consequences. And yet, for the first time in his life, Jaime finds himself wanting something he can never have, and he’s not sure he can stop.

The air inside the old tower is thick and stifling despite the chill that permeates Winterfell. Jaime paces restlessly, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone walls. His white cloak feels heavy, a constant reminder of the weight he carries—not just from his duty but from the turmoil in his heart. The torchlight casts specters across the room, but none darker than those in his thoughts.

Behind him, Cersei leans against the table, her arms crossed, her green eyes fixed on him with a mixture of irritation and suspicion. She looks as regal and dangerous as ever, her beauty as dangerous as a dagger. But tonight, it does nothing to soothe him. If anything, her presence feels suffocating.

“You’ve been different,” she says finally, her voice low and accusing. “Distant. Distracted. You barely look at me, Jaime.”

He stops pacing, turning to face her. “We’re in the North, Cersei. It’s not exactly a place for… indulgences.” His words come out clipped, and even as he says them, he knows she won’t accept them.

Cersei’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you all my life, Jaime. I know when your mind is elsewhere.” She steps closer, her tone softening, though the edge remains. “Is it that Stark girl? The one you keep staring at when you think no one notices?”

Jaime’s heart pounds in his chest, a flush of guilt and anger rising to his face. “Leave her out of this.”

Her laugh is cold and sharp, like the crack of ice. “Oh, how noble of you. Is that what this is, then? You’ve decided to play the gallant knight now? To pine for some Northern wolf pup who’d sooner slit your throat than look at you twice?”

“Enough, Cersei,” Jaime snaps, his voice harsher than he intended. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she interrupts, stepping closer until they’re nearly face to face. Her voice drops to a venomous whisper. “You’re mine, Jaime. You’ve always been mine. And now, in this frozen wasteland, you’re letting your mind wander to some girl who wouldn’t even know what to do with you.”

He exhales sharply, taking a step back. “This isn’t about her. It’s about us. About what we’ve become.” He gestures between them. “Do you even remember who we were before all this? Before the lies, the secrets?”

Cersei’s face twists in fury. “Don’t you dare lecture me about lies. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for us. For our family. And now you’re standing here, acting like you’re above it all.”

Jaime shakes his head, his voice dropping. “I’m tired, Cersei. Tired of living like this. Of hiding. Of lying to myself.”

For a moment, there’s silence between them, broken only by the distant howl of the wind outside. Then Cersei steps forward, her hands reaching for him, her expression softening into something almost pleading.

“We don’t have to lie, Jaime,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against his chest. “Not here. Not now. It’s just us.”

But as her hands move to pull him closer, Jaime steps back, gently but firmly pushing her away. The rejection is immediate and cutting, and he sees the fury ignite in her eyes.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice firm. “Not tonight, Cersei.”

Her face hardens, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You’re a fool if you think you can walk away from this. From me.”

Before Jaime can respond, a faint noise catches his attention—a soft creak from above. His eyes dart to the window, and there he sees it: a boy, perched precariously on the ledge, his wide eyes staring down at them.

“Bran Stark,” Jaime mutters under his breath, realization hitting him like a blow.

Cersei follows his gaze, her expression darkening with panic. “He heard us,” she whispers, her voice frantic. “He’ll tell.”

Jaime feels his heart race, a thousand thoughts colliding in his mind. If the boy overheard their argument, their secret could unravel everything—their lives, their children, their fragile hold on power. He takes a step toward the window, his movements measured.

The boy’s gaze flicks between them, fear etched across his young face. “I didn’t see anything,” Bran stammers, his voice shaking. “I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

Jaime’s chest tightens. He knows the boy is lying. He would run straight to his father, to the honorable Eddard Stark, and the consequences would be disastrous.

“Jaime,” Cersei hisses, her voice sharp and urgent. “You have to do something.”

He looks back at her, then at Bran. His mind feels like it’s splintering in two, but deep down, he knows what must be done. Slowly, he moves closer to the window, his expression unreadable.

“The things I do for love,” he murmurs, the words bitter on his tongue.

Before Bran can react, Jaime reaches out, his hand striking with calculated force. The boy lets out a startled cry as he loses his balance, tumbling backward out the window and into the void below.

For a moment, there’s silence. Jaime stands frozen, his heart pounding as he stares at the empty window. Cersei’s breathing is heavy behind him, her hand clutching the table for support.

“It had to be done,” she says finally, her voice shaky but resolute.

Jaime doesn’t respond. He feels hollow, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a mountain. As he turns away from the window, he catches his reflection in the light—the face of a man who has just crossed another line he swore he never would.

The days after Bran Stark’s fall are cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the whispers of servants and the occasional sob echoing through Winterfell’s halls. Jaime feels the weight of it everywhere he goes. He had known the boy’s fall would ripple through the Stark family like a shockwave, but seeing the grief firsthand is something else entirely.

He avoids the godswood, where Lord Stark retreats daily, his shoulders heavy with unspoken blame. He avoids the Great Hall, where the Starks’ laughter has been replaced with quiet murmurs and somber meals. But he cannot avoid you—not when every time he catches a glimpse of you, his chest tightens with guilt.

You are a ghost of yourself now, a shadow lingering by Bran’s chambers. You rarely leave his side, seated by his bed with your mother, Lady Catelyn, as the boy lies in his endless sleep. The firelight from his room casts flickering shadows across your face, accentuating the hollowness in your eyes, the pallor of your cheeks. Jaime has never seen you like this, and it tears at something inside him.

On the third day, Jaime makes a decision he knows he shouldn’t. He tells himself it’s for appearances, to offer his condolences like any dutiful guest, but deep down, he knows it’s more selfish than that. He hopes, foolishly, that speaking to you—seeing you—might ease the gnawing guilt clawing at his chest.

He climbs the tower steps slowly, each creak of the stone beneath his boots echoing louder in his ears. When he reaches Bran’s chamber, the door is ajar, allowing him a glimpse of the scene within.

Catelyn sits closest to the bed, her face pale and drawn, her hand gripping Bran’s small, lifeless fingers. Beside her, you sit silent and still, your gaze fixed on the boy’s face. Winter and Summer curled at your feet, their fur dull in the dim light. There is something devastating about the stillness of it all, as though the grief in the room has frozen time itself.

Jaime clears his throat softly, stepping into the doorway. “Lady Stark,” he says, his voice measured, “Lady Y/N. I wanted to offer my condolences.”

Catelyn looks up abruptly, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and suspicion. You, however, don’t move. You don’t even glance in his direction, as if his presence isn’t worth acknowledging. It’s as though you know, and the thought sends a jolt of unease through him.

Catelyn rises slowly, her movements deliberate as she steps toward him. She doesn’t bow, doesn’t offer him the courtesy one might expect toward a knight of the Kingsguard. Instead, she crosses her arms, her voice cold as the northern winds.

“Your words are noted, Ser Jaime,” she says, her tone sharp enough to cut. “But they will not wake my son.”

Jaime swallows, keeping his composure. “I understand. I only wished to—”

“To what?” she interrupts, her voice rising slightly. “Ease your conscience? You’ve done nothing for this family but bring conflict and mistrust. My son lays in that bed, and you think your words will bring us comfort?”

Jaime doesn’t flinch, though her words land like blows. He glances past her to you, still seated by the bed, your expression blank as if you haven’t even heard him. His chest tightens further.

“I only wanted to offer my sympathies,” he says quietly. “For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth nothing,” Catelyn says firmly, her eyes blazing. She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You are a Lannister, and I would have you far from my family’s grief. Leave this room, Ser Jaime, and don’t come back.”

Jaime hesitates for a moment, his pride and guilt warring within him. Finally, he nods, stepping back into the hallway. Before the door closes, he allows himself one last glance at you, but you don’t even look up. If anything, your stillness feels more damning than Catelyn’s fury.

He retreats to his chambers, the cold stone walls offering no solace. The memory of your grief and your mother’s anger churns in his mind, mixing with the echo of Bran’s fall. For the first time in his life, Jaime wonders if he truly is the monster people whisper about.

Tyrion finds him later, pouring himself a generous goblet of wine as he takes a seat by the fire. “You look troubled, brother,” Tyrion says, his tone light but his gaze focused. “Let me guess—our hosts aren’t quite as warm as you’d hoped?”

Jaime doesn’t respond immediately, staring into the flames. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I went to see the boy.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “A bold choice. Let me guess—Lady Stark wasn’t particularly welcoming?”

“She threw me out,” Jaime admits, a bitter edge to his voice. “And she’s right to. What business do I have there, playing the role of the concerned guest?”

“None,” Tyrion says bluntly. “But I suspect it wasn’t Lady Stark you wanted to see.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens, his silence telling Tyrion all he needs to know. The shorter man studies him for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter now.

“You’re not yourself, Jaime. Not here. Not around her.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire. He knows Tyrion is right, just as he knows the truth of what he’s done will haunt him for the rest of his days. But the image of you by Bran’s bedside, broken and silent, refuses to leave his mind.

And for the first time in his life, Jaime Lannister feels truly powerless.

The day of departure dawns cold and gray, the kind of day that seems to stretch endlessly over the North. The royal procession is bustling with activity in the courtyard as servants load carriages, horses are saddled, and final preparations are made. Jaime Lannister stands near his mount, but his thoughts are elsewhere.

You are nowhere to be seen.

He tells himself he shouldn’t care. You have no reason to be here, no reason to bid farewell to those who brought tragedy to your family. But he had hoped—foolishly, selfishly—that he might catch a glimpse of you before they left. Even just a glance, a fleeting moment to reassure himself that you hadn’t vanished completely from his world. But the absence is palpable, heavy like the northern winds.

Instead, he watches as the Stark family fragments around him. Lord Eddard, ever the dutiful man, stands by King Robert, his expression as stony as the walls of his home. The young Stark girls, Sansa and Arya, hover nearby, each reflecting their own feelings about the journey ahead—Sansa’s excitement barely contained, Arya’s irritation unmistakable.

Robb Stark lingers at the edge of the courtyard, his eyes cold and watchful, flanked by the hulking presence of Grey Wind. His gaze catches Jaime’s for the briefest moment, and the hostility there is unmistakable. Robb knows nothing, but the tension between them has grown like frost on the castle walls.

Jaime turns away, his attention drawn to Jon Snow, who stands near the castle gates with Ghost at his side. The boy’s expression is unreadable, though there’s a certain heaviness to his movements. Tyrion, standing beside him, chats animatedly, his tone light despite the weight of the day.

Jaime moves toward them, if only to distract himself from the ache in his chest.

“Ah, brother,” Tyrion greets as Jaime approaches, his voice tinged with amusement. “Come to bid me farewell? Or perhaps you’re here to remind me not to fall off the Wall.”

Jaime smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m here to ensure you don’t disgrace the family name. Though I suppose that’s a futile effort.”

Tyrion laughs, clapping Jaime on the arm. “I’ll do my best to uphold our reputation. By which I mean, of course, drinking my weight in wine and pissing off the edge of the world.”

Jon Snow remains quiet, his eyes flicking between the brothers. Finally, he speaks, his tone low and wary. “I thought knights of the Kingsguard stayed close to the King.”

“I thought bastards didn’t speak unless spoken to,” Jaime retorts smoothly, though there’s no real venom in his words. The boy is too much like his father—stubborn, proud, and entirely too serious for his age.

Jon stiffens, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, but Tyrion interjects before the tension can escalate.

“Come now, let’s not start a duel before we even leave Winterfell,” he says lightly, though his gaze sharpens as he looks at Jaime. “We wouldn’t want the wolves feasting on a lion before we’ve even reached the capital.”

Jaime exhales, forcing himself to step back. He glances at Jon, then at Tyrion. “Be careful on the road,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “The North doesn’t take kindly to outsiders.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Neither does the Wall, I’m told. But I appreciate your concern, brother.”

Jaime nods, though his mind is already drifting elsewhere. As the final calls for departure echo through the courtyard, he finds his gaze sweeping the castle walls one last time, hoping against hope to see you there.

He doesn’t find you, but his thoughts linger on you regardless as the procession begins its journey south. The sound of hooves and wheels fades into the distance, leaving Winterfell behind. Jaime rides near the front of the column, his armor catching the occasional glint of sunlight, but his mind is far from the road ahead.

The memory of you at Bran’s bedside is seared into his mind—the grief in your eyes, the silence that cut deeper than any words. He can’t shake the feeling that you knew, somehow, that he was responsible. That you had looked through him, seen the guilt he tried so desperately to bury.

The road stretches endlessly before him, but his thoughts remain in Winterfell, lingering in the cold halls and shadowed chambers where he left a piece of himself behind.

And in the silence, he wonders if he’ll ever truly be free of it.

[everythingsdestiel]

Thinking about the bear pit from Brienne’s POV and going a little crazy.

Like this guy who you never liked (the Kingslayer, the man who has twisted Knighthood and made it a joke) he saves you from being raped, loses his hand, and confesses to you the truth about why he killed the mad king.

And then he leaves.

He leaves you to go home and you’re stuck with the same horrible men who maimed this guy that has began to weasel his way into your psyche. But it’s fine because he’s gone now and you don’t have to deal with it.

And then he just freaking falls out of the sky and saves you from the bear. A knight saving the damsel. (And for once him the knight and you the damsel.) And when you ask him why he came all the way back just to save you he says, “I dreamed of you.”

Insane.

[maiapoetica]

[blusandbirds]

anyone who says the blue beetle movie is a basic origin story is lying to you. in a normal superhero movie they get at least a day or two of fun hijinks—sticky fingers, zappy powers, quippy one liners—meanwhile jaime reyes over here is speedrunning the worst 48 hours i’ve ever seen anybody experience.

[copperpipes]

Same shit, different flavors.