#jaime is so real for this though | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

weemssapphic · 2 months ago

Text

Am I no good?

Brienne of Tarth x f!reader

“I loved him. I loved him and I-” She chokes on her own words, unable to verbalize what she did - but she doesn’t need to, you know already, and Brienne doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. You don’t either.

CW: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat - see A/N at end Cannibalism, slight gore, necrophilia, trauma, hallucinations, night terrors, hurt/comfort, smut, several mentions of Braime

Words: ~7.5k | ao3 link in title

Brienne gets night terrors.

As a member of the Kingsguard your room is adjacent to the Lord Commander’s and one night, not long after her return from the North, you’d woken to a blood-curdling scream that had pierced even the thick walls of the Red Keep’s tower. The Lord Commander had been, for a few terror-inducing minutes, inconsolable; thrashing about, trying to get out of bed, and, being that you were both closest to her and the only other woman amongst the knights, your peers had bowed out and left you to ‘deal’ with her.

At first you’d tried to restrain her, resulting in an accidental black eye. You’d changed your tactic as a result, tried to be gentle with her, coo her back to sleep - which, fortunately, had worked. Then the next night, it had happened again, and again you’d stayed with her until she’d fallen back asleep. Soon after, she’d begun to sleepwalk, and so, to prevent her from getting hurt, you’d started sleeping on a pile of furs on the floor beside her bed.

Eventually, and as your relationship with Brienne had slowly changed, evolved into something, you’d started sleeping beside her in bed - anything to keep her from hurting herself, to help lull her back into a fitful sleep.

It had never been like this before, not in the time you’d known Brienne, anyway. She’d always been a light sleeper, sure, but a sound one. Even after the most brutal of battles, she’d never even woken with a start from a nightmare as you and so many of your fellow knights had. But something had changed when she’d gotten back. Something had changed since she’d lost Jaime.

She talks in her sleep now, too. That’s partially how you know what happened during all those months when she was in the North.

When it first started, you thought the sleep talking was just a part of whatever nonsensical dream (or, more likely, nightmare) she was having, conjured up, perhaps, by the imagination of a person who has seen too much and suffered too greatly.

But then she’d woken with a start one night. It wasn’t a night terror - though she was clearly upset, she was fully lucid. This time, she didn’t scream. Didn’t thrash. Instead, she’d clung to you like a little girl, curling up against you in a way she never had before, seeking comfort. She confessed in hushed, shaky whispers between suppressed sobs the terrible things that had happened in the North. The unforgivable things that she’d done in the North. The real reason why half of her Kingsguard had disappeared. The real reason why Jaime hadn’t returned by her side.

~~~

You’ve known Brienne for years, becoming a member of her Kingsguard when she’d become Lord Commander. She’d wanted a woman under her command, and so she’d knighted you herself. The two of you had quickly become friendly with one another, sharing the unique bond of being women in a still male-dominated profession (and wasn’t that an understatement).

Though you found yourself slowly and quietly falling in love with her, your bond had never gone past friendship - it couldn’t, not with Jaime by Brienne’s side. Not when the tall, blonde knight looked upon her lover as if he held within him the key to the universe. Her first love.

Still, you were, out of all the knights in her Kingsguard, out of all her friends, closest to Brienne, and it filled with you a subconscious sense of smugness. It made you feel special, that the strong, courageous, just, loyal, beautiful Brienne of Tarth would value your company, your opinions. That she would consider you, as she once told you, her equal, a true friend. That she held love for you, even if it wasn’t romantic love, even if it wasn’t the same kind of love you held for her. It was clear you meant something to her, and the memory of the love shared between the two of you is what you would cling to in the many months during her absence.

King Bran had had official business in the North. Some threat looming past Winterfell, beyond the Wall. Whispers of White Walkers returning - mostly fear-mongering, Brienne had figured. But King Bran had made for Winterfell to convene with the Kingdom of the North, and the Lord Commander and her Kingsguard had followed, to protect him firstly and then to head even farther north towards the Wall and beyond, to scout out the supposed threat.

Except for you. You’d been nursing a fresh injury at the time of departure, and it had been deemed too risky to allow you to join, lest the threat be real and your injury be your downfall. Brienne had tasked you with taking over some official duties during her absence - in a month or two they’d all be back, anyway. On the day that they’d left, she’d left you at the entrance of the Red Keep with a smile on her lips, that kind of crooked, cheeky one she had reserved solely for you. The one that would be seared onto the backs of your eyelids, conjured up every time you closed your eyes, for months to come.

~~~

She shouldn’t have followed that absolute dolt’s directions, Brienne thinks bitterly. She trusts her men, she truly does - she wouldn’t have appointed them to her Kingsguard if she didn’t. But today, for the first time, she wishes she could strangle one of them with her bare hands - the one who led them off the path, convinced he’d known exactly where they were going, until it had become clear that he had absolutely no idea.

They set up camp for the night and Jaime has to calm Brienne down in her tent as the others set about lighting a fire. The cold is brutal this far north - it cuts at their skin and claws its way down to their bones, and Brienne huddles close to Jaime to share in the warmth he always seems to radiate.

Despite the cold, and despite how tired he is after trekking through the snow all day, Jaime cracks a joke, and despite how cold and tired she herself is, Brienne chuckles and rests her head on his shoulder. He reassures her that they’ll get a good night’s sleep and find their way tomorrow, and they’ll only really have lost a few hours, a few miles, at most.

Brienne trusts him.

A few hours and a few miles turn into a few days and a few more miles. It seems to Brienne, the more time passes, that the vast, icy wilderness of the North is actively conspiring against them - dead set on keeping them from both their goal and, in turn, from returning to Winterfell.

At first, it’s more of a nuisance than anything. They still have plenty of food and water. They camp out each night, huddle around the fire, weary from trekking for miles and seemingly getting no closer to anything. But optimism lingers - they’ll find their way soon, Brienne thinks, and Jaime affirms her, and her other men agree. They trust her.

Once, after a particularly long day and to keep Brienne’s spirits up, Jaime makes love to her - or tries to, anyway. The biting chill ruins it a bit, he can’t focus long enough to keep it up, keeps going soft as the cold seeps into his bones and makes his teeth chatter. Brienne cannot help but to find it funny - she laughs, and Jaime shushes her, a little embarrassed, but at least he’s made her pale lips turn up into a rare smile, and at least she’s holding him close and wrapping him up in her strong, loving embrace underneath their furs, and at least they have each other.

~~~

A few weeks in, one of her men falls ill from the cold, already weakened from the lack of sustenance as their food supply has dwindled down to nothing. He develops a cough, complains of chest pains. He stops often, slows down the group. Wheezes audibly as he clambers to keep up with the others. He’s feverishly warm and he looks to be a hopeless case. In just a few days, he’s gone - he dies in his sleep, and Jaime is the one to find him beside the fire, unmoving.

What ensues after will haunt Brienne for the rest of her life.

She suggests that they hold a short funeral for the fallen knight, burn the body then continue on, in the hopes of finding their way back to Winterfell - their plans to scout out the threat past the Wall all but abandoned, so long as they make it out of the North’s unforgiving clutches alive. Everyone agrees, and they use the extra wood they have for the fire to build a small, makeshift funeral pyre. Brienne says a few words and Jaime lights the fire, sets the warrior’s body ablaze.

After a somber moment of silence, Brienne orders her knights to pack up camp. One of them lingers near the pyre, staring at the charred body of his former peer, stepping closer even as the others turn their backs to him. He ignores his Lord Commander when she says it’s time to leave. He’s hungry, he says - yes, we all are, the Lord Commander replies, a bit impatiently.

They could use the strength, they need to eat something, he argues, or they’ll meet the same fate as the knight roasting over the fire. Brienne doesn’t understand - until she does. Then she’s horrified, by both the suggestion itself and the lack of horror that the rest of her knights display. She argues - Jaime tries to back her up - but they’re overruled.

As her men feast on the body of the fallen knight, she sits on a fallen tree trunk away from the group. She refuses to eat one of her Kingsguard for breakfast.

But things are never that easy. Her men have had a taste of the meat. They remember, finally, what it’s like to have full bellies, to have enough energy to carry themselves through the day, to keep their legs going for miles on end. And, with that, any trust that Brienne has in her knights, and they in her, slowly disintegrates.

The North is a strange place, and it has a tendency to drive even the most composed, civilized men mad. Hunger, also, has a tendency to drive men mad. And driven mad they are. With no knowledge of how much longer they’ll be stuck out in the wilderness, and thus no knowledge of when their next meal will be or where it will come from, with a taste for the flesh that may be their only chance at survival in the barren wasteland beyond the Wall, the knights begin to practically search for reasons to turn on one another.

So, inevitably, begins what haunts Brienne for the rest of her life - the Hunt.

It’s simple: Hunt or be Hunted. Kill or be Killed. Eat or be Eaten.

It’s almost a blur to Brienne.

Except for Jaime. When it comes to Jaime, she remembers every detail vividly. Too vividly.

Jaime twists his ankle one day, starts to limp a bit as he drags himself through the snow. Brienne pulls him roughly aside, her brow furrowed with fury and her grip tight.

“You cannot let them see that you’re hurt. You have to walk normally, goddamnit,” she spits out. The words are filled with vitriol - because she’s afraid. Terrified. If any of the other knights sense his weakness, Jaime will be next. And, for all that he’s one of the strongest, most strategic warriors Brienne has ever known, even Jaime cannot outrun a group of hunger-crazed men on a twisted ankle.

He insists that he’ll try, but Brienne can see the doubt in his eyes - she can feel it when he kisses her and soothes his hands down her arms; the hesitation, the trepidation. Her heart thumps so loudly she’s sure he can hear it, too.

Try as he might, even Jaime Lannister is unable to escape his fate. The knights are restless - it’s been two weeks again (or maybe three?) since their last proper meal, and they’re hungry. Brienne is hungry, too, but when Jaime suggests he sacrifice himself so that she can eat, knowing that he’s growing too weak to go on as the pain in his ankle spreads up his leg, she gets angry. Brienne knows he’s getting weaker, but such a sacrifice is unthinkable.

“Get. Up!” Brienne shouts vehemently, the blood flowing through her veins turning to ice when, as the group treks through the snow one afternoon, Jaime feels a sharp pain in his leg and falls to the ground. She doesn’t like the resignation in his gaze, she doesn’t like how the others advance on him like he’s prey, she doesn’t like how she’s powerless to stop them because she knows, even if she fights for Jaime - defends his life - that he’s a lost cause one way or the other. She doesn’t like the sound Jaime’s neck makes as it snaps at the hands of one of her men.

She insists on being the one to handle his body and, because she’s still their Lord Commander but mostly because the others know they’ll have full bellies in a few hours, they let her. They give her privacy as they wait, huddling around the fire they’ve built.

Jaime’s eyelashes are frosty, and Brienne places her hand over his eyes, closes them. His lips are blue - they’re cold against her own and the absence of his warm breath makes her heart clench. She pushes her tongue into his mouth, exploring, memorizing. One last taste. Tears burn her cheeks - it’s not the same when he doesn’t kiss back. She flicks her tongue against his - still, unmoving - and moans, and it turns into a sob.

She rests her forehead against Jaime’s, her breath tickling his face, her tears dripping onto his cheeks, her hands starting to undo his furs, his cloak, his armor, his shirt - lovingly, almost as if she were undressing him, as she often used to do, after a long day of work. She places her hands on his bare chest. It’s cold. His lungs don’t expand and his heart doesn’t beat. It feels both achingly familiar and completely alien to Brienne. She tosses his clothing to the ground, the pieces of his armor clattering against each other and disrupting the quiet peace of the forest. Her hands move to his trousers - as she undoes them, her lips trail down his jaw, his beard scratching at her skin in a familiar sort of way. She reaches his pulse point and sucks - she pretends she can feel a pulse, she smiles in spite of herself and she sucks and sucks and sucks at his skin, before kissing her way down the column of his throat, his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his shallow breaths.

Jaime’s trousers and undergarments join the rest of his clothing in the snow, and Brienne’s hands curl around his upper thighs as her lips find the crease between his hip and his thigh. She breathes him in and lets out a shuddering moan, and she can feel his hands scratch at her scalp, pull at her golden locks. She squirms - it makes her wet. She can feel his hips rise beneath her lips and her fingernails scratch at his outer thighs as she runs her tongue along the seam of his crotch.

Her stomach rumbles audibly and she sobers, just enough to pull back from the cold, unmoving corpse of her dead lover, hunger and guilt promptly replacing her arousal.

She straightens, reaches for the knife at her side, places the blade against Jaime’s chest. She sniffles and uses her free hand to wipe the remaining tears and a bit of snot off her face. Then she makes a clean cut down the length of Jaime’s torso.

There’s a ritualistic quality to her movements. She prepares his corpse with precision, her mind going blank, blissfully blank, as she saws off his extremities, removes his organs. It’s serene, ceremonial, as if she’s in a trance.

Later that evening, as Brienne lifts a chunk of warm, tender meat to her lips, chews it slowly, savors it, she feels a warm glow in her chest. As if Jaime is now with her, always - a strange, twisted sense of intimacy unfurling within her, a wave of peace washing over her.

~~~

When you first see Brienne again, you run to hug her, but something stops you in your tracks. She stands still, watching you stoically, trembling. You reach out to touch her but she shrinks away from your hand. You’re so focused on her that it takes you a moment to notice that she’s only come back with two of her men, and that Jaime isn’t one of them.

All you know is that the expedition in the North was unsuccessful - with no further details as to what happened, or why your Lord Commander and her men were gone for so long. You hope that she’ll let you comfort her as time passes, that she’ll confide in you, but she doesn’t. King Bran works out a plan for Brienne to slowly take over her duties again, the ones you’ve been carrying out - she insists upon it, and he trusts her. The next few weeks are filled with strained council meetings, and it’s the only time Brienne allows you to interact with her, only ever about ‘official’ topics, skillfully side-stepping anything remotely resembling something personal, anything to do with her time in the North, anything to do with Jaime.

Until the night terrors begin.

~~~

You pass Brienne on your way to breakfast the morning after her first night terror. The corridor is narrow and, with each of you clad in armor, you have to turn to the side a bit as you pass each other in order to not bump shoulders. Brienne’s gaze sweeps your face, then pauses. It gets stuck on the fresh bruise around your eye, and her brows knit together in confusion.

“How did this happen?” she asks softly, raising her hand to your face but stopping just shy of touching you, as if she can’t bear to. Her fingers twitch and she drops her arm back down to her side.

You frown. “You don’t remember?”

She’s silent for a moment - you can almost hear the cogs turning in her head. She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling onto her forehead. It takes all of your restraint not to reach out and brush it back with your fingertips.

You almost want to make up a lie as to what happened - you don’t want to put her through any more misery than she’s already experiencing. But you know it’ll all come out sooner or later, so you tell her the truth.

As you explain what had happened, the lines on Brienne’s face deepen, her skin grows pale, her lips part to let out a shaky breath. Then she presses her lips into a hard line, offers you a slight nod of her head. There is an apology in her eyes, unspoken - she brushes past you and disappears around the corner without another word.

She doesn’t join you and the rest of the Kingsguard (what few men had been left, and a couple of newly appointed men) for breakfast, nor does she show up at lunchtime, and her seat remains empty at suppertime. You contemplate going to her chambers and seeing if she’ll talk to you. Remembering how unwilling she was to say even a word to you this morning, you decide against it - though you’re woken once again by a piercing scream at a quarter to four in the morning.

Again you sit with her, try not to touch her, to just let her screaming and thrashing run its course as you coo at her as you would a child. Again it works, but this time you linger a bit longer by her bedside once she’s fallen back asleep, just watching her.

Guilt muddles the sympathy and longing that gnaw a deep pit into your stomach. Brienne looks almost angelic, curled up on her side in the soft glow of moonlight filtering in through the window. It renders the eyelashes on one half of her face translucent, the other side cast in deep shadow. Her chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, her hair falls in sweaty strands across her forehead, her fingers twitch against the furs on her bed - it makes you long to curl up against her back, wrap your arms around her waist, bury your nose in her hair, feel her lungs take in air and her heart pump blood and all the things that make her alive and real. Watching Brienne sleep, a dam inside you breaks - all of the feelings you’d suppressed for her sake, for Jaime’s sake, come bubbling to the surface.

~~~

Against your will, you’ve fallen into a routine with Brienne.

Neither of you talk about it. You’ve never been more intimate with her, and yet you’ve never felt so separate from her. The worst part is that you can tell she feels the same, but whatever happened to her is preventing her from opening up to you. So you give her the space she needs during the day, and try to reign in your emotions during the night.

Your little routine changes after about a week and a half when, lying wide awake and staring at the ceiling, you hear the creak of a door. Padding to your own door and peering out, you see Brienne exiting her room.

“Brienne?” you call out.

She ignores you, closing her door behind her, and you creep into the hall, the stone floor cold as ice beneath your bare feet.

“Brienne, where are you going?”

“We need food, or we’re going to die out here,” she hisses urgently. You furrow your brow. What the hell is she on about?

“Brienne, it’s the middle of the night. Are you okay?”

“Make yourself useful and get wood for the fire.”

It takes a moment but then it hits you - she’s not awake. She thinks she’s still out there, in the North. You approach her cautiously, well aware that one wrong move could get you punched in the eye again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go,” you say softly, stepping in her way to prevent her from heading towards the stairs. You gently point Brienne back towards her chambers, trying to coax her into going back to bed with promises of finding food and getting her warm. Eventually you succeed and she’s crawled beneath her furs once more.

Sitting gingerly at the edge of her bed, every muscle in your body stiff as a board and every hair standing on end, you watch her intently, waiting until her eyes have fallen shut and her breathing has evened out. Even then, the thought of leaving her alone like this nearly kills you - you’re not sure you’re in your right mind but, spotting a woven blanket on the chair in front of Brienne’s wardrobe, you take it to her bedside and wrap it around yourself as you settle on the ground.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you try to generate enough warmth to be able to fall asleep. You’re only partially successful and sleep finds you an aching, shivering mess sometime just before dawn - only once your mind, running rampant with worries, has finally tired itself out enough to allow for an hour or two of rest.

~~~

Dawn breaks, the first rays of early morning sun licking at the windowsill, spilling onto the dusty floor of Brienne’s chambers and illuminating your sleeping form, and Brienne stirs in her sleep.

She stretches her arms over her head, letting out a soft groan at the ache that spreads through every muscle in her body. Mornings have been hard for her since she’s gotten back - she often feels as though gravity is conspiring against her, chaining her to the bed with a heaviness that takes over every limb, every muscle, every organ in her body.

As she turns onto her side, fighting the pull to just remain in bed all day and try to sleep away the pain, her gaze lands on a lumpy blanket beside the bed - a lumpy blanket that’s breathing, with a head of unruly curls poking out.

Brienne’s breath stutters in her chest and she props herself up on her elbow to lean over the edge of the bed. Relief floods her body as she realizes it’s just you - though that same thought, a mere moment later, causes her pulse to race.

Before she’s had a chance to wonder what you’re doing on the floor beside her bed, your eyelids begin to flutter and you shift beneath the blanket. Your eyes open and meet Brienne’s, and for one fleeting moment, it feels like the most normal thing in the world as your lips spread into an automatic smile and Brienne’s heart skips a beat.

Your smile quickly fades, however, when you wake up enough to see the perplexed frown etched onto Brienne’s face, and you quickly scramble to your feet, stuttering out an apology.

“Why are you sleeping on the floor?” Brienne says, pulling her own furs up to her chin, as if doing so will hide the vulnerability that’s crashing over her in waves.

Your brow furrows. Brienne’s stomach sinks - she hates feeling as though she’s being kept in the dark. “What?” she huffs out impatiently, anxiety lapping at her ribcage from the inside.

“You, um…” You hesitate, your voice still gravelly from sleep. You clear your throat. “I found you in the corridor last night, sleepwalking… I didn’t want you to get hurt so I stayed.”

It’s clear from the way you can hardly meet Brienne’s eyes, instead shifting your gaze to your feet as you subtly shuffle them, that you’re nervous. About what? Brienne wonders. Being reprimanded? She uses your lowered gaze to her advantage, her own gaze raking over your form from head to toe and back again, drinking you in. She feels a pang of regret. The two of you used to be close. She used to confide in you, used to trust you. But after everything that happened, who can she trust? Certainly not herself.

Still, she feels as though she owes you something.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. You look up and her heart clenches as a tentative smile spreads across your face. She offers you one in return - it feels a bit foreign, to smile again after so long. As if she’s forgotten how.

You reach down, folding the blanket and placing it at the foot of Brienne’s bed. “I’ll see you at training?” You look as if you’re about to say more - Brienne wishes you would say more - but you don’t.

Brienne swallows thickly, nods. “Yeah. See you.”

It’s not until you leave the room that she feels her fists unclench against her furs.

~~~

Brienne sleepwalks again the following night, and again you guide her back to bed and make a nest for yourself on the floor beside her. This time, you manage to sneak back into your chambers just before dawn, though you leave the blanket on the floor, so that she knows you were there, so that you don’t feel like you’re sneaking around.

The night after, Brienne wakes as you try to sneak back to your own bed (your back is stiff as a board). Her voice calls after you in the darkness as you’re halfway to the door, giving you a start.

“Just get in the bed, for God's sake…”

You can hear the sleepy exasperation in her voice and you quickly insist that you should go back to your own bed, that it would be improper - the moonlight casts an eerie glow on Brienne’s eyes when she rolls them. She scoots towards one edge of the bed and awkwardly pats the space next to her.

Neither of you sleep a wink for the rest of that night. You’re too distracted by the heat of Brienne’s body, too afraid that, if you fall asleep, you might wake up spooning her. She’s too focused on your breathing, acutely aware that you’re lying awake beside her, wishing she could take comfort in your presence but too afraid to do so. Your combined warmth beneath the furs is like a furnace, but you don’t dare move, for fear of spooking Brienne and being sent away.

As dawn breaks, you climb out of one side of the bed and Brienne swings her legs over the opposite side. You say “see you” and Brienne grunts in response, and the whole experience is so awkward and tense that you almost don’t go to her chambers the following night. Habit, however, guides your feet right to her door, and she opens it as she hears your footsteps approaching, as if she were waiting for you. This alone, the lack of rejection, makes you braver - that night, you dare to lie just a little bit closer, your arm touching hers.

Every evening you get a bit more daring, and every morning is a little less awkward than the last. Brienne’s walls are far from torn down, but every so often she shows a sliver of genuine warmth that makes your heart skip at least three beats: a shadow of a smile flitting across her face when you show up at her door in the evening; a lingering glance after the two of you have said goodnight, filled not with annoyance or trepidation but with curiosity, perhaps even a hint of gratitude; a gentle brush of soft fingertips against your arm as she adjusts the furs so that you’re both covered.

The night that she wakes with a start and tells you everything would be seared into your mind for the rest of your life as the turning point in your relationship with Brienne. It isn’t about the things she confesses to you - though horrified at the anguish that plagues Brienne, you can’t find it in you to judge or condemn her. Not when she’d woken you in tears, her hand tentatively curling around the sleeve of your night shirt, her lower lip trembling as she’d whispered that she had to tell you what had happened, and then, later, pleaded with you to stay. Nothing she told you, nothing she would tell you, could make you leave. Quite the opposite, in fact - the worse her confessions seem to get, the closer your bodies get, until she’s curled into you with her face against your chest and your arms wound tightly around her, your lips pressed to the crown of her head - anything to provide some semblance of the comfort that she’s sorely been missing.

Once the dam has broken, once Brienne has laid bare all of her sins - and is met not with condemnation but with unwavering support - she starts to let you in, little by little. Little by little, she starts to trust you again and, little by little, she lets you care for her.

~~~

Brienne is standing in front of the fireplace when you enter her chambers. You can’t see her face but you don’t need to - you know that her eyes are fixated on the flames, flecks of warm orange licking at bright sapphire irises. Lost in thought, in some place deep within her where you cannot join.

You close the door with a bit of force, so that Brienne hears it, knows you’re there. You approach her from behind with audible footsteps, then wrap your arms around her waist. You turn your head to rest your cheek between her shoulder blades. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. She smells like soap and burning wood and something else, something ineffable, something distinctly Brienne.

She stays where she is but folds her arms over your own, leans back ever so slightly. You don’t know how long the two of you stand there, but eventually Brienne starts to turn and you loosen your grip to allow her to face you. She looks down at you, her eyes dancing between your own. You think she might kiss you, like she sometimes does nowadays. You’re certain that there’s a hopeful glint in your eyes as your gaze flicks briefly to her lips, then back up to her eyes, though you try not to show it, try to let Brienne set the pace.

Instead of kissing you, she takes a step back, and you let your arms fall to your sides, feeling a bit cold after the sudden loss of her body heat. Brienne’s eyes never leave your own as she starts to untie her shirt at the front with long and nimble fingers. In your peripheral vision, you see her fingers work their way down her shirt, which then slides off her shoulders and falls to the floor. You cannot break eye contact, however - there’s something in her gaze that you’ve never seen before, not directed at yourself anyway, and it has you pinned in place, frozen in space and time.

Brienne’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips and she steps closer again, and the movement breaks you from whatever spell you’re under. Your gaze drops to her bare breasts, the small mounds of flesh pale and supple, nipples soft and pink, not quite fully hard yet. A wave of arousal washes over you as you allow your eyes to trace her body - every soft, womanly curve, every hard, toned muscle. Brienne, the woman. Brienne, the warrior. You feel her eyes on your face - you know she’s watching you drink her in, and it makes your breath quicken.

Reaching up to your own shirt, you start to untie it - until Brienne’s fingers brush against your own, gently pushing them aside and taking over for you. She takes her time, and her fingertips caress your skin, and you shiver as your shirt joins hers on the floor.

She steps closer still, until there’s no more room between the two of you. Her breasts press against your own and her skin warms yours, and then her hand slides into your hair, cupping your neck just beneath your ear and pulling you towards her until her lips meet your own. They’re impossibly soft and a little wet, and you’ve kissed Brienne before but it feels different this time, and it makes you moan - not a soft, sweet moan of pleasure but a deep, guttural moan of desire, and then Brienne pushes her tongue into your mouth and her free hand flattens against the small of your back, keeping you flush against her as she walks you backwards in the direction of her bed.

“I want you,” you whisper against her lips as the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and Brienne pushes against you, until you’re on your back and she’s on top of you. She resumes the kiss, her breath coming out in little pants against your lips as she straddles your waist and you scoot back into a more comfortable position.

Large, callused hands slide down your torso, leaving a blazing fire in their wake. They reach the waistband of your trousers and you raise your hips, silently inviting Brienne to pull them down - she does, along with your underwear, and discards both.

Her lips trail along your jaw and you tilt your head back and to the side, giving her more access to nuzzle and kiss and suck and nip. The little noises that escape her lips and vibrate against your skin are heavenly, stoking the fire in your belly and ringing in your ears like the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard.

Her teeth, hard and dull-edged, sink into the junction between your shoulder and your neck - a stark contrast to the feeling of her tongue, warm and velvety, running up the side of your neck just a moment later - pausing at your pulse point, feeling the pounding of your heart, the rushing of warm blood through your body. Your pulse quickens even more as she lingers there, and then you feel a wetness.

You feel no pain but, still, you wonder if it’s blood, if she’s somehow broken skin.

Then you realize that the droplets dripping onto your neck are Brienne’s tears.

You pull back, placing your hands on her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are dark and stormy as she wrestles with something that you aren’t privy to. Her shoulders start to shake beneath your palms, her entire body trembling as she begins to sob in earnest, sitting up and dropping her head into her hands, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes as she lets out a low, shaky wail.

“Brienne?” you whisper cautiously, sliding your hands from her shoulders up to her neck, prying her hands off of her face and cupping her cheeks, urging her to look at you. Your thumbs soothe across her cheekbones, wiping away each tear as it falls - her eyes dance between your own, uncertainty and pain reflected back at you in equal measure. But there’s something else there, a deep longing, a hunger, and you aren’t sure what for and you aren’t sure if you want to know.

“I love you,” you say, your voice quiet yet firm. You say it partially because you don’t know what else to say, but also because you know it’s true. You do love her, more than you’ve ever loved anyone else, more than you ever thought you could love another person, more than life itself, perhaps.

“Don’t say that,” Brienne chokes out, her brow scrunching as she sniffles and tries to suppress another sob, making her chest heave.

“I love you.”

“P-please…”

“You’re not a bad person, Brienne, in spite of what you may think.”

“I am,” she spits back, her tone harsh in contrast to the softness in her eyes as she wants desperately to believe that you could be telling the truth. That you could love her, and think she’s a good person, worthy of being cared for. “I loved him. I loved him and I-” She chokes on her own words, unable to verbalize what she did - but she doesn’t need to, you know already, and Brienne doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. You don’t either.

Brienne sobs. Her forehead wrinkles and her mouth turns down at the corners and she sobs. She buries her head in your chest, squeezes her eyes shut. Her tears wet your bare skin, her hand curls around your waist hard enough to bruise, gripping as if she’s holding on for dear life. As if you’ll evaporate if she lets go.

You coo at her. Run a hand through wavy blonde locks. Let your fingertips trace her spine. You tell her how good she is, that she’s safe, that you care for her. You tell her that you love her, over and over again, as many times as it takes to make her believe it. You tell her that Jaime loved her, too. That he would have understood, and forgiven her. That he would want her to be happy. She sobs harder, shakes her head, and you cup her cheek and stroke your thumb across her cheekbone. He would want the world for her, you tell her, and you believe it. You believe it because it’s what you want, and if Jaime loved her half as much as you do, then, surely, he would want that, too.

Finally, her tears subside. She hiccups, and it makes you smile in spite of it all. You kiss the tears off her cheeks, lick gently at her salty skin. Then you capture her lips in a sweet, wet kiss. She kisses you back. You keep it slow, gentle - you part your lips, an invitation for Brienne to set the pace. She licks into your mouth, entangling her tongue with your own, whimpering softly.

“You t-taste so good,” she mumbles, and then she freezes. The double entendre doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you ignore it - you moan and deepen the kiss, because it feels good, and because Brienne tastes good, too.

Her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, keeping you close, and your hands slide down her back. They slip beneath her trousers and cup her ass, and she rolls her hips against you with a breathy sigh.

You push her trousers down, then her undergarments, and she helps you remove them completely. You push her onto her back, hovering over her - you give her a sweet kiss, then trail your lips slowly and reverently down her body. Your hands caress her sides, curling around her waist as your thumbs trace over her ribs and your tongue runs down the center of her abdomen.

Brienne’s hips push upwards as her head tilts back, and you look up through your lashes to see the underside of her jaw clenched; her breasts rising and falling; her nipples hard, rosy peaks that jut out into the air. You moan as you settle between her legs and kiss the crease of her hip, the scent of her arousal strong and heavy, making you feel dizzy.

You trace a path up her slit, using the tip of your tongue to part her sticky folds. Her arousal gathers on your tongue, exploding on your tastebuds like sweet ambrosia - you savor it, swallow it down with a hum. You get greedy as you retrace the path of your tongue, eager for more, humming gutturally, and then you feel Brienne’s fingers thread into your hair, her legs parting even further as she pushes you towards her clit.

Latching onto the throbbing bud, you suck feverishly, relishing in the wanton moan that erupts from deep within Brienne’s chest. Her fingers tighten in your hair, knuckles going white as her back arches off the bed and her abdomen ripples. You can feel the heels of her feet press into your back as her legs bend at the knees, her entire body responding to your hungry ministrations.

Brienne quivers. Releases the tension in her body like an arrow gone into flight. Her arousal coats your chin, sticks to the furs beneath her ass. She tugs at your hair, insistently, even as you lap at her folds, cleaning her up. You relent and allow her to pull you up, allow her lips to meet yours, and she moans at the taste of herself on your tongue and licks her own arousal off your face, desperately, as if she’s trying to devour you.

Her hand remains threaded in your hair as her other hand slides down your abdomen. Short, labored breaths leave her lips and hit yours in little puffs as long fingers feel how wet you are, smear your juices across your clit, dip into your center, stroke your walls.

Her eyes are open and she maintains eye contact with you as she fingers you. Her gaze is soft and loving beneath the lust, drinking in your every reaction and holding your heart, soul, body captive. She can tell you’re getting close and she pulls her fingers from your cunt, pushing you onto your back and sinking between your legs to finish you off with her mouth. Her lips latch onto your clit and she sucks hungrily, her eyes still on yours, her pale eyelashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks as she brings you over the edge.

When you cum, she kisses your inner thigh, mumbles “I love you” as if it were a confession. Then she says it again. And again. Repeats it as if it were a mantra. It rings in your ears, as if all you’ll hear for the rest of your life is the echo of Brienne of Tarth telling you she loves you. You.

~~~

The embers of the fire are slowly dying. Brienne is on her back and you’re curled up against her side, an arm slung around her waist. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness and are tracing her side profile, your heart swelling at the sight. It feels different after what you’ve just done. You feel light - euphoric.

“Do you like it when we lay like this?” you ask her softly, suddenly. Your voice is gravelly with a pleasant exhaustion and your eyelids are starting to feel a bit heavy, but you feel you cannot rest if you don’t ask.

Brienne pauses for a moment, as if she’s mulling over your question in her head. Her lips curl into a small smile - the special one, the one reserved for you, the one you feared you might never see again. She turns her head and meets your gaze in the semi-darkness. “Yes,” she says decisively.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but Brienne sleeps through the night.

---

A/N: I know this is truly a very ~niche~ fic, but if you made it to the end, thank you! This fic popped into my head late last year when I was obsessed with Yellowjackets and kind of imagined a Yellowjackets-type scenario with Brienne - the smut was actually the first thing I wrote, and then I wrote the rest around that. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

#brienne of tarth x reader #brienne x reader #dead dove: do not eat

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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The Flames We Loved

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it.

- Summary: There are many stories about the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, and whispers still exist about their bloody deaths written in the tomes of Fire and Blood. And then there are those who were there to witness it all.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: The reader is Rhaegar's twin sister and they were both born at Summerhall on the day of its tragedy. This chapter contains various characters and their retellings of deaths of Y/N and Aerys.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Next part: to wake a dragon

Robert and Eddard

Robert Baratheon sat in front of the hearth, the flicker of the flames casting shadows across his face as he stared into the fire. His large hands gripped the mug of wine tightly, his knuckles white, as if he could crush it between his fingers. The years had not been kind to Robert. His once broad, powerful frame had grown soft, his face ruddy with drink, and his eyes—once filled with the fire of rebellion—now carried a deep, bitter weight. But even with all the years that had passed since the rebellion, since the sack of King’s Landing, one memory lingered in his mind, haunting him still.

Ned Stark sat across from him, his own expression quiet, as always, waiting patiently for Robert to speak. He had heard this bitterness before, seen the weight that sat on his old friend’s shoulders whenever the past was brought up. But tonight, there was something heavier in the air, something darker.

Robert took a long, hard swig of wine, letting the burn of it warm his throat before he finally spoke, his voice thick with bitterness. "You know, Ned," he began, his words slurred slightly with drink, "there’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about that day. The day we took King’s Landing. When we… found them."

Ned said nothing, letting Robert speak at his own pace. He had never been comfortable speaking of that day either, but he knew Robert needed to unburden himself, and so he listened, his grey eyes steady.

Robert’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t shake the memory. "Aerys… the Mad King. We all expected him to be in a pool of his own blood, lying on his damned Iron Throne, dead and done for. And he was, thanks to Jaime Lannister. But what I didn’t expect… what I couldn’t have expected… was finding her there too."

"Y/N," Ned murmured quietly, filling the silence that hung between Robert’s words. The name of Aerys’ daughter, Robert’s own cousin, carried a weight all its own. The truth of her end, and what had happened in those final moments, had been a point of pain and fury for Robert ever since.

"Aye," Robert spat the name out like a curse, though there was a strange conflict in his voice. "Y/N. The gods-damned daughter of Aerys. You know, I almost pitied her once. They said she was a beauty—Targaryen through and through, with that silver hair and violet eyes. But when we found her…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as the memory overwhelmed him.

Ned knew what Robert was going to say. He had heard it before, but it still made his heart heavy. He had been in the Red Keep that day as well, seen the destruction, the carnage that had been wrought.

"When we found her," Robert continued, his voice quieter now, but still filled with venom, "she was lying there in a pool of blood, her throat slit, and Aerys was holding her like she was some damned treasure he’d lost. Even in death, he clung to her like a man drowning in his own madness."

Robert’s grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles turning white. "Tywin’s men were the ones who did it, of course. Slit her throat right in front of the mad bastard, just to break him. And break him they did. The great Mad King, the last dragon—reduced to a sniveling wreck as he watched his own daughter bleed out at his feet." He let out a harsh laugh, one devoid of any real amusement. "Justice, some would call it. For what he did to your father, to your brother. But it didn’t feel like justice. It felt… wrong."

Ned’s eyes flickered, his expression grim. He had known Y/N, not well, but enough to know she had not deserved the fate that had befallen her. She had been swept up in her father’s madness, a victim of Aerys’ cruelty and obsession. "She was with child, wasn’t she?" Ned asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

Robert nodded, his face twisting in disgust. "Aye. She was with child when they killed her. A third Targaryen brat. They didn’t even give her a chance. Not that it matters, though. She was as much Aerys’ as the rest of them—his lover, his daughter, his whore. Gods, Ned, what kind of monster beds his own blood like that?"

Ned stayed silent. He knew Robert’s hatred for the Targaryens ran deep, but there was something more in Robert’s tone, something that went beyond mere disgust. There was bitterness there, a wound that had never fully healed.

"I remember walking into that throne room," Robert continued, his voice low, as if the memory still played in his mind like a nightmare. "Aerys was already dead—Jaime Lannister had run him through—but he was still clutching Y/N’s body, holding her like she was the last thing that mattered in the world. Her blood was everywhere, staining his robes, the floor. I wanted to kick the corpse, make sure the bastard knew he’d lost everything, but Tywin…"

Robert shook his head again, a deep scowl settling on his face. "Tywin wouldn’t let me. Said it wasn’t right to leave them like that. He insisted they be burned together, in the same position we found them. Like some gods-damned lovers’ pyre. I wanted to see them tossed into the dirt, but I let him have his way. Even now, it sickens me to think of it."

Ned took a deep breath, his thoughts heavy. He remembered that day too well—the scent of fire and blood, the sight of Aerys and Y/N, dead together as the Red Keep crumbled around them. It had been a fitting end for the Mad King, but Y/N… she had been something else. A tragedy caught in the crossfire of her father’s madness.

"You think often of them," Ned said quietly, his voice steady. "Aerys and Y/N."

Robert snorted, lifting his mug to his lips again. "Think of them? Aye, Ned, I think of them more than I’d like. They haunt me. But it’s not just them, is it? It’s everything—their damned legacy. I killed one dragon, but the others are still out there, waiting to strike. Viserys, Daenerys… they’re still Targaryens. And you know what Targaryens do, Ned. They burn everything in their path."

Ned nodded slowly, understanding the depth of Robert’s hatred. It wasn’t just Aerys or Y/N—it was the entire Targaryen line, the fire that had claimed so many lives, including Robert’s own family.

Robert stared into the fire again, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I’ll see the last of them dead before I rest easy, Ned. Every last one of them."

Ned said nothing, his heart heavy with the weight of Robert’s words. The rebellion had ended years ago, but the ghosts of the past still lingered, haunting the halls of power, and those who had survived the flames of war.

Jaime and Tyrion

The sun dipped low over King’s Landing, casting a golden light over the Red Keep as shadows stretched long across the city. In one of the keep’s smaller courtyards, Tyrion Lannister walked alongside his brother, Jaime, savoring the warm breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. The day’s heat had finally begun to ease, leaving a comfortable coolness that made it almost pleasant to be outside. Almost.

Tyrion glanced up at his brother, noting the tightness around Jaime’s eyes, the way his jaw clenched as if he were biting back something unpleasant. His golden hair caught the light of the setting sun, but there was a darkness in his expression that was at odds with the warmth of the evening.

“Now, now, brother,” Tyrion began, his voice light with practiced humor as he adjusted his grip on his wine cup. “You look as if you’ve swallowed something bitter. Surely even the great Jaime Lannister can manage to smile on such a fine evening? Or is there some poor soul I should apologize to on your behalf?”

Jaime’s lips twitched, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He glanced at Tyrion, then turned his gaze back to the city sprawling out beneath them, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. “Not every day can be a jest, Tyrion,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. “Some things aren’t so easily laughed off.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his expression sharpening as he studied his brother more closely. Jaime was no stranger to brooding, but there was something different in his mood today—something heavier, like a shadow that clung to him and would not be shaken. Tyrion took a sip of his wine, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment before he spoke again, his tone softening.

“True enough, I suppose,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “But I know you, Jaime. You brood when you think no one is looking, but you’re usually better at hiding it. What’s on your mind?”

Jaime’s shoulders tensed at the question, his expression tightening as if he wanted to brush it off with a laugh. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of old memories, and ran a hand through his hair, turning away from the view of the city. His gaze drifted over the courtyard, over the stone walls that had stood witness to so many secrets and betrayals.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said at last, his voice rough, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “It’s... it’s something I can’t shake, no matter how many years go by.”

Tyrion watched him closely, his curiosity piqued. Jaime rarely spoke of the past, especially the parts of it that haunted him. But there was a rawness in his voice now that Tyrion had rarely heard—a vulnerability that made him pause, setting aside his usual jests in favor of something more serious.

“Try me,” Tyrion suggested gently, taking another sip of his wine. “You might be surprised at what I can understand. And if it helps ease that troubled look on your face, well, consider it my good deed for the day.”

Jaime shot him a look, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it quickly faded. He seemed to wrestle with something inside himself, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words. Finally, he turned back to face Tyrion, his expression somber, his voice low and raw.

“It’s the throne room,” he said, the words coming out like a confession. “I still have nightmares about it. What happened that day, when I killed Aerys... and Y/N. The way they looked when I... when I saw them together.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, his flippant demeanor slipping away as he took in the pain in Jaime’s eyes. He had heard bits and pieces of what had happened on that day during Robert’s Rebellion, the day Jaime Lannister earned the name “Kingslayer.” But Jaime rarely spoke of it in detail, and there was a haunted look in his eyes now that made Tyrion set aside his usual barbs.

“Tell me, then,” Tyrion said quietly, leaning closer, his voice filled with a rare seriousness. “What is it you see in those nightmares, Jaime?”

Jaime swallowed hard, his gaze distant as if he were looking at something far beyond the walls of the Red Keep, beyond the years that had passed since that day. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the memories that clung to him like old blood. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of things long left unsaid.

“I see them, Tyrion. Aerys and Y/N, lying there on the throne room floor, their blood pooling together on the cold stone. I see the way Aerys looked at her even as he died, like she was the only thing left in his world. Like... like he thought holding her would somehow make it right, even with a sword through his back.”

He paused, his throat working as he tried to find the words. “She was already dead when I got there. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat before Aerys’s eyes, and he just... he lost what little was left of his mind. He was screaming for fire, for his pyromancers to burn the city. But all he could do was hold her, cradling her in his arms like she was some broken doll. And when he looked up at me, just before I... before I put my sword through his back, he looked like a man who’d already died.”

Tyrion’s grip tightened around his wine cup, the seriousness in his brother’s voice cutting through the usual banter that defined their conversations. He had never heard Jaime speak with such rawness, such naked pain. The image Jaime painted—the mad king and his daughter, bound together in death—was one that sent a chill through him, making him understand, perhaps for the first time, the true burden Jaime carried.

“And the nightmares?” Tyrion asked softly, his voice filled with a gentleness that he rarely showed. “What do you see, Jaime?”

Jaime’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. He turned away, his expression twisting with something like self-loathing. “I see her eyes, Tyrion,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Y/N’s eyes, wide and empty, staring up at the ceiling as if she couldn’t believe she was dying. I see the blood on my hands, on my sword, and I hear Aerys’s voice, echoing through the hall, calling for fire. It’s always the same. I wake up, and it’s like I’m back there, standing over their bodies, with the whole world burning around me.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and pained. “They call me Kingslayer, but that isn’t the part that haunts me. It’s the way he held her, like she was the last piece of his soul, even when everything else had gone to hell. It’s the way I felt when I put my sword through his back—like I was ending something that should have been over long before it ever came to that.”

Tyrion listened in silence, his heart aching with a strange, unexpected sympathy for his brother. He had always known that Jaime carried the weight of his actions, but he had never truly understood the depth of the scars they had left. He reached out, placing a hand on Jaime’s arm, offering a small gesture of comfort.

“You did what you had to, Jaime,” he said softly, his voice filled with a rare earnestness. “Aerys would have burned the city if you hadn’t stopped him. And Y/N... whatever she was to him, she couldn’t have changed that. You spared King’s Landing from a fire that would have consumed us all.”

Jaime shook his head, a hollow, humorless smile twisting his lips. “Maybe I did,” he murmured, his voice raw. “But it doesn’t change what I see when I close my eyes. It doesn’t change the fact that I stood in that throne room with blood on my hands, and I couldn’t save them. Not her, not the child inside her... and not myself.”

Tyrion squeezed his brother’s arm gently, offering what comfort he could, even though he knew that some wounds could never truly be healed. “The past is a heavy burden, brother,” he said quietly. “But it’s not one you have to carry alone.”

Jaime met his gaze, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something like gratitude in his eyes. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he turned his gaze back to the distant city, the shadows lengthening as night began to fall.

And as they stood there together, in the fading light of the Red Keep, the ghosts of the past lingered between them—unseen, unforgotten, but perhaps just a little less heavy in the presence of a shared understanding.

Varys and Petyr

The throne room was quiet now, save for the soft, measured footsteps of Varys as he glided across the cold stone floor, his hands tucked neatly into the wide sleeves of his robe. The Iron Throne loomed in the center of the room, its jagged metal spikes casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. The grand hall felt emptier than usual, almost hollow, as though the weight of history still lingered in the air, thick and oppressive.

Varys had always found it strange how even after years had passed since the rebellion, the specter of Aerys Targaryen and his tragic end still clung to this place, like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. And not just Aerys—his daughter, Y/N, whose death had been just as shocking, just as poignant in its cruelty.

He approached the throne, his eyes drifting up to the twisted mass of swords that made up its formidable structure, a reminder of power and the price it demanded. But today, Varys wasn’t alone.

Littlefinger stood near the base of the throne, his back turned to Varys, his fingers lightly tracing one of the throne’s twisted metal arms as if he were considering it for himself. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but Varys knew better than to be fooled by such nonchalance. Petyr Baelish was never without calculation, never without purpose.

"Lord Varys," Littlefinger said smoothly, not bothering to turn as Varys approached. "I trust you’ve come to share some new secret, some whispered truth from your little birds?"

Varys smiled slightly, though the expression never quite reached his eyes. "I find it curious, Lord Baelish, that you seem to think I’m the only one with secrets in this city. You, after all, have a few of your own, do you not?"

Littlefinger chuckled, finally turning to face the spymaster. His eyes glittered with amusement, but behind that amusement was something far more dangerous. "Oh, we all have secrets, Varys. That’s what makes this game so interesting, don’t you think?"

Varys raised a brow, his gaze drifting from Littlefinger to the throne itself, a symbol of everything they both sought to control. "Indeed. But some secrets," he said softly, "carry far more weight than others."

Littlefinger's smile didn’t waver, but there was a sharpness in his gaze now. "And what secret, pray tell, weighs on you today, my dear spider?"

Varys moved closer, his hands still tucked into his sleeves as he regarded the throne with a look of quiet contemplation. "I was just thinking," he began slowly, "about how this throne has seen so much bloodshed, so much betrayal. And yet, the events of Robert’s Rebellion still echo the loudest within these walls, do they not?"

Littlefinger tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Ah, yes. The Mad King. His death was certainly… memorable."

Varys nodded, his expression grave. "But it wasn’t just Aerys who met a tragic end that day, was it? His daughter, Y/N… Her death was far more personal. And far more devastating."

At the mention of Y/N, Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed. "Y/N Targaryen. A beauty, they said. A daughter caught in her father’s madness." He paused, his voice softening just enough to hint at something deeper. "And his lover, if the rumors are to be believed."

Varys inclined his head slightly. "More than just rumors, I’m afraid. Y/N’s fate was sealed long before the rebellion reached King’s Landing. Aerys’ obsession with her was well-known, though few dared to speak of it openly. She was both his daughter and his most prized possession, and in the end, it was her death that drove him to his final madness."

Littlefinger leaned against the throne, his fingers lightly drumming on the armrest as he considered Varys’ words. "I’ve heard the stories, of course. How Tywin’s men stormed the Red Keep, how they found Y/N at Aerys’ side… and slit her throat before his eyes." He gave a small shrug, as if the brutality of the act meant little to him. "It’s always the innocent who suffer, isn’t it?"

Varys’ gaze darkened, and for a moment, his usual composure faltered. "Y/N was pregnant at the time," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "With Aerys’ third child. They didn’t just kill her—they killed the unborn child as well. Aerys watched it all happen, and it broke him. When Jaime Lannister finally put an end to Aerys, he was holding Y/N’s body, clinging to her as if she were the only thing left in the world that mattered."

Littlefinger’s eyes flickered with interest. "A tragic love story, then," he mused, though his tone was devoid of sympathy. "One could almost feel sorry for the man, if not for the fact that his madness nearly destroyed the realm."

Varys looked away, his expression unreadable. "There was a time when Aerys was a king of great promise. But power… power corrupts even the best of men. And for those born with fire in their veins, that corruption can become something far more dangerous."

Littlefinger smiled, the gesture cold and calculating. "It’s always the Targaryens, isn’t it? Fire and blood, madness and greatness—two sides of the same coin, as they say."

Varys sighed softly, his eyes fixed on the throne. "Perhaps. But the deaths of Aerys and Y/N were more than just the end of a dynasty. They were a warning, a reminder of what unchecked power can do. Of what happens when love is twisted by madness."

Littlefinger stepped away from the throne, his gaze lingering on Varys as he moved closer. "And yet, the game continues. The throne still stands, and new players take their turn. Power will always draw those willing to do whatever it takes to claim it."

Varys smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. "Yes, my lord. But it’s worth remembering that even the most powerful can fall. And when they do, the consequences are far-reaching."

Littlefinger’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. "You’re right, Varys. Everyone falls eventually. Even kings and queens." He paused, his gaze drifting back to the throne for a moment. "But until then… the game must be played."

Varys nodded, his expression calm once more. "Indeed, Lord Baelish. The game never truly ends."

As Littlefinger turned to leave the throne room, Varys remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on the Iron Throne, the weight of history and tragedy settling over him like a shroud. The ghosts of the past still haunted this place, and though the players had changed, the stakes remained the same.

And somewhere, in the depths of Varys’ mind, the memory of Aerys and Y/N—two lives consumed by fire and madness—lingered, a reminder of the price of power.

Cersei and Tywin

Cersei stood by the window of her chambers, staring out at the city below, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The years had passed since Robert’s Rebellion, since the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, had met their fiery end, but the bitterness that lingered within Cersei had never truly faded. The memory of that day, of her father’s decision to allow them to be burned together on the pyre, still made her blood boil.

Tywin Lannister entered the room without ceremony, his presence commanding as always, though there was a distinct chill in the air between them. Cersei didn’t turn to greet him. She didn’t need to—her father’s shadow always loomed over her, even when she wasn’t looking.

"You summoned me," Tywin said, his voice as measured and cold as ever. It wasn’t a question, but a simple statement of fact. He never spoke without a purpose, and Cersei knew he had no patience for games.

She didn’t respond right away, her eyes still fixed on the city below, the weight of her resentment pressing heavily on her chest. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke, her voice sharp and filled with the bitterness she had carried for so long. "I still don’t understand why you did it."

Tywin’s brow furrowed, though he didn’t move from where he stood. "Did what?"

Cersei turned then, her green eyes flashing with anger, with something that had festered in her for years. "Why you allowed Aerys and her to be burned together," she spat, the venom in her voice unmistakable. "Y/N Targaryen, the whore who thought she could cling to her father’s madness and get away with it."

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Watch your tone, Cersei," he warned, his voice low but firm. "I did what was necessary for the realm, as I always have."

Cersei laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "Necessary for the realm? Or necessary for your own pride?" She took a step toward him, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. "You should have left their bodies to rot, to be thrown into the dirt like the traitors they were. But instead, you gave them the dignity of a pyre, as if they were worth something."

Tywin’s eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over Cersei. "I gave them a pyre because it was the right decision," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Aerys was the last Targaryen king, and Y/N was his daughter. Their deaths had to be handled with care, or the realm would have descended into chaos. The rebellion may have ended, but the legacy of the Targaryens was not something that could be dismissed so easily."

Cersei’s lips curled in disdain, her anger barely contained. "You gave them too much," she hissed. "Y/N deserved worse. She stood by Aerys, even as he destroyed everything, even as he lost his mind. She was no better than him. And yet, you allowed them to die together, to be honored as if they were some tragic lovers."

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, though his gaze bore into her with cold intensity. "Y/N was a pawn in Aerys’ madness," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. "She was manipulated, used, and ultimately destroyed by her father’s obsession. Her death was part of a greater tragedy, one that needed to be handled delicately."

Cersei scoffed, shaking her head. "You speak of delicacy, but all I see is weakness. You could have crushed them completely—destroyed any trace of the Targaryen name. Instead, you gave them a pyre. You gave them dignity. And for what? For the sake of appearances?"

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "You forget your place, Cersei," he said coldly. "I made the decisions that were best for House Lannister and the realm. Do not presume to question me."

Cersei’s eyes blazed with fury, her resentment spilling over. "I will question you," she snapped. "Because you’ve never seen it from my side. You’ve never understood how much I hated her. Y/N, with her silver hair and violet eyes, thinking she could claim the love of a king and still be seen as innocent." Her voice trembled with rage, old wounds that had never healed. "She was no better than her father. And yet, you allowed them to be remembered together, as if their deaths were some tragic ending to a noble house."

Tywin’s gaze hardened, and he stepped closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. "Y/N’s death was a necessary part of ending the Targaryen reign," he said slowly, each word deliberate. "But even in death, she held a place of importance. The realm needed stability, and allowing her and Aerys to be burned together ensured that no one questioned the finality of their fall. The last of the dragons, reduced to ash."

Cersei’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "And yet you still gave them more honor than they deserved."

Tywin stared at her for a long moment, his eyes cold and calculating. "You let your hatred cloud your judgment, Cersei," he said quietly. "Y/N was nothing more than a victim of her father’s madness. Aerys destroyed everything, including her. But in the end, they were both just pieces in a larger game. A game I played, and won."

Cersei’s fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with the weight of her anger, her resentment, and the memories of all the years that had passed since that day. She had always hated Y/N—hated the way her father had shown her even a shred of respect, hated the way the Targaryens had been allowed to die with any semblance of dignity.

But she said nothing more. The conversation had reached its end, and as always, Tywin had the last word.

Tywin turned away from her, his expression unreadable as he walked toward the door. "Let this go, Cersei," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. "There is no point in clinging to old hatreds. The Targaryens are gone. We are the future of the realm."

As the door closed behind him, Cersei stood in the middle of the room, her chest heaving with the weight of her fury. She had hated Y/N then, and she hated her still—even in death. The pyre that had consumed the last of the Targaryen legacy had not been enough to quell the fire of her hatred.

And she knew, deep down, that it never would be.

Daenerys and Barristan

Daenerys found herself standing on the balcony of her chambers in Meereen, the warm breeze carrying the scent of the sea and distant fires from the city below. It was a strangely comforting smell, reminding her of her childhood in exile, of the nights spent staring out over the Narrow Sea, wondering what lay beyond. But tonight, her thoughts were far from comforting. The truth that had come to light—her true parentage—had set her mind spinning with questions and memories she had never thought to revisit.

It wasn’t just the knowledge of her parentage, but the way her mother had died—brutally, violently, in front of her father. The thought of it haunted her, and she had so many questions, questions only a few people might answer. And there was one person in her service who might have been there, who might know the truth of what happened on that fateful day.

She sent for Ser Barristan Selmy, the loyal knight who had served both her father and her family for years. He had been there, in King's Landing, in those final moments, she was certain of it. She needed to know what he had seen—what he could tell her about Y/N, her true mother.

When Ser Barristan entered her chambers, his expression was calm, though his eyes were laced with concern as he watched the girl returning inside. He had always been able to sense when something weighed on Daenerys’ mind. He bowed before her, his white hair gleaming in the candlelight.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?" he said, his voice steady, as always.

Daenerys nodded, gesturing for him to sit across from her. For a long moment, she simply studied him, wondering how to begin. Ser Barristan had always been forthright with her, but this was different. This wasn’t about strategy or battle. This was about the past—their shared history.

"Ser Barristan," she began softly, her voice carrying the weight of the question she was about to ask. "I have learned the truth… about my mother."

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He nodded, as though he had expected this conversation eventually.

"I have been told that my true mother was not Queen Rhaella, but Y/N Targaryen," Daenerys continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "Is this true?"

The knight was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded. "Yes, Your Grace," he confirmed. "Y/N was your true mother. Rhaella, your grandmother, raised you as her own after Y/N… after what happened in King’s Landing."

Daenerys felt her heart tighten at the mention of it. The story Viserys had told her of Y/N’s death was brutal, and though she had always imagined her father’s end, she hadn’t known the details until now. She looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling small in the enormity of the truth she had uncovered.

"And what happened to her?" she asked softly, her voice filled with quiet sorrow. "Were you there, Ser Barristan, when she was killed?"

There was a pause, and Daenerys dared to glance up at him. The old knight’s eyes were filled with something she rarely saw in him—regret, deep and profound. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and he spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I was in King's Landing when it happened," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "But I was not there in the throne room when your mother was killed. By the time I arrived, the Lannisters had already breached the Red Keep, and the city had fallen into chaos. Jaime Lannister…" His voice tightened. "He killed your father. But it was Tywin Lannister’s men who killed your mother."

Daenerys’ breath caught in her throat, and she leaned forward slightly, hanging on his every word. "How?" she whispered, though the answer already chilled her.

Barristan’s face darkened. "Your mother was with child when it happened. She stood by Aerys’ side until the very end, trying to calm him, trying to stop the madness. But when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, one of Tywin’s men grabbed her, and… he slit her throat, right in front of Aerys. She died instantly."

Daenerys closed her eyes, her heart breaking at the thought. Her mother, Y/N, had died fighting for her family, standing by Aerys even as the world crumbled around them. And she had been pregnant, carrying another child—another sibling Daenerys would never know.

"And my father?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ser Barristan shifted again, his expression grim. "Your father… Aerys… he was consumed by madness at the end, Your Grace. He screamed for his pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of defiance. But Jaime Lannister killed him before he could give the order." Barristan’s voice grew quieter, almost reverent. "He died holding your mother’s body, clinging to her even in death. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together."

Daenerys sat back, her chest tight with the weight of everything she had just learned. Her mother and father, burned together on a pyre in the ruins of King’s Landing. It was a cruel, tragic end to a story she hadn’t even known was hers. She had been whisked away to Dragonstone, just an infant, and now, years later, she was finally learning the truth of her family’s downfall.

"They died together," she whispered, more to herself than to Barristan.

The knight nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. They did."

Daenerys stared into the flickering flames of the candle beside her, her heart aching with the loss of a mother she had never known, and the father she had never truly understood. The stories of her father’s madness had always been in conflict with the image she had carried of him—a dragon, fierce and proud. But now, knowing how he had clung to her mother in the end, she wondered if some part of him had still been capable of love, even in the depths of his madness.

"Thank you, Ser Barristan," she said quietly, her voice steadying as she processed everything. "For telling me the truth."

Ser Barristan rose from his seat, bowing his head respectfully. "You deserved to know, Your Grace. And I am sorry… for all that you have lost."

As he left the room, Daenerys remained seated, her mind swirling with the ghosts of her past. The truth had been revealed, but it did nothing to ease the ache in her heart. Her parents, her true parents, had died in a fire of madness and betrayal, and now the only thing left to her was the path forward—the one that would lead her back to Westeros, to the Iron Throne, where she could reclaim the legacy of House Targaryen.

And for Y/N, her true mother, she would rise from the ashes and make the realm remember the blood of the dragon.

Viserys and Illyrio

Viserys paced back and forth in the low lit room, the rich tapestries and fine silks draped over the walls doing little to calm the storm that had been brewing inside him for days. His heart beat heavily in his chest, anger simmering just beneath the surface as he mulled over the many slights and indignities he had suffered. But it wasn’t just the loss of his birthright that weighed on him tonight. It was something deeper, something far more unsettling.

He had always known that Illyrio Mopatis had secrets—he could see it in the man’s calculating eyes, in the way he spoke of the past with a vague, elusive familiarity. But what the magister had promised to reveal tonight went beyond anything Viserys had ever imagined.

"Are you ready to hear it, Your Grace?" Illyrio’s voice, smooth and persuasive, broke through Viserys’ thoughts. The large, imposing figure of the Pentoshi magister loomed nearby, his gold rings glinting in the candlelight as he poured two cups of wine. "The truth of your birth. Of who you truly are."

Viserys stopped pacing, his silver-gold hair falling into his eyes as he turned to face Illyrio. He had been impatient for this conversation, had demanded answers about his family, about the whispers that had haunted him since he was a boy. But now, standing on the edge of knowing, he felt an unexpected tremor of unease.

"What truth?" Viserys asked, his voice sharp but betraying the hint of uncertainty that had begun to creep into his mind. "What are you talking about, Illyrio?"

Illyrio handed Viserys one of the cups of wine, gesturing for him to sit. "Please, Your Grace. You should be seated for this."

Viserys remained standing for a moment, defiant, before slowly sinking into the chair, his eyes fixed on Illyrio. The magister took a seat across from him, his heavy frame settling into the cushions with a groan, his expression thoughtful.

"You were born as Viserys Targaryen," Illyrio began slowly, his voice gentle but deliberate. "You were told you are the son of King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella, the last true scions of the Targaryen line. That much is true in part, but not entirely."

Viserys narrowed his eyes, suspicion flaring up in his chest. "What do you mean ‘in part’? My father was Aerys. My mother was Rhaella. My sister, Daenerys—"

Illyrio raised a hand, silencing him. "Daenerys is your sister, yes. But your mother was not Rhaella. Nor was she Daenerys’ mother."

Viserys stared at him, his mind reeling. "What are you saying?"

Illyrio took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "Your true mother was Y/N Targaryen. Aerys’ daughter. She was your father’s… favorite."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Viserys felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath him. He stood abruptly, knocking the cup of wine from the table, the liquid spilling across the floor in a dark stain.

"That's impossible!" Viserys shouted, his voice trembling with rage and confusion. "Y/N was my sister, Aerys’ daughter—she couldn’t have been—" He stopped, unable to form the words, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief. "She wasn’t my mother."

Illyrio remained calm, his hands resting on his large belly as he watched Viserys process the revelation. "I know it’s difficult to accept, but it’s the truth. Y/N was your mother, and Aerys was both your father and your grandsire."

Viserys turned away, his hands running through his hair as his breath came in ragged gasps. It felt as though the world was spinning, as though everything he had ever known had been shattered in an instant. "And Daenerys?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Is she…?"

"She is Y/N’s daughter as well," Illyrio confirmed. "Y/N gave birth to Daenerys on Dragonstone, just as she had you. After the fall of King’s Landing, Varys whisked her away with you across the sea, to keep you both safe from Robert’s wrath."

Viserys collapsed back into the chair, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of the information. His mother… had been his sister. The thought made his stomach twist, his mind rebelling against the idea. Aerys, the father he had idolized as a child, the man who had been revered as the last true king of Westeros, had kept this dark truth from him all along.

After a long silence, Viserys turned to Illyrio, his voice quieter but filled with barely suppressed emotion. "Tell me how they died," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists. "Tell me the truth."

Illyrio sighed, his face taking on a somber expression. "Aerys was betrayed. You know that. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, drove a sword through his back as he gave the order to burn King’s Landing. But before Aerys was killed, Y/N…" Illyrio hesitated, as if the words were difficult to say.

Viserys’ heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching as he waited for the truth he had long feared.

"Y/N was killed first," Illyrio continued, his voice softer now, as though the memory pained him. "She stood by his side when Tywin Lannister’s men stormed the Red Keep. One of them… slit her throat. Aerys watched it happen."

Viserys swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as the weight of the words hit him like a blow to the chest. He could picture it—the Red Keep in chaos, fire and blood, his mother, his sister, standing before Aerys, her life snuffed out before his eyes. "And he… he didn’t stop it?"

"Aerys tried to fight," Illyrio said quietly, shaking his head. "He screamed for the pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of madness, but Jaime Lannister killed him before the order could be given. Aerys died holding Y/N’s body in his arms. Even in death, he clung to her. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together on a pyre, much to Robert Baratheon’s disgust."

Viserys was silent for a long time, the shock of it all settling over him like a suffocating weight. His mother—Y/N—had died in front of his father, and he had never known. He had never been given the chance to mourn her, to understand the truth of what had happened.

The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the crackling of the hearthfire. Illyrio watched Viserys carefully, knowing that the young Targaryen’s mind was now filled with questions, doubts, and a deep, simmering anger.

Finally, Viserys spoke, his voice low but filled with a quiet, burning intensity. "I will take back what is mine. For her. For all of us."

Illyrio nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And you will have your chance, Your Grace. The realm still remembers the dragon, even if it trembles at its memory."

But Viserys wasn’t listening anymore. His thoughts were consumed by the image of his mother and father—dying together in a ruined throne room, their legacy lost to fire and blood.

Joffrey and Margaery

The Sept of Baelor loomed over them as Joffrey guided Margaery through the grand, stone hallways, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. The flickering light of candles cast long shadows across the walls, and the scent of incense hung heavy in the air. It was a place of reverence, where the bones and ashes of kings and queens were laid to rest, but there was something unsettling about Joffrey’s demeanor as he led his bride-to-be deeper into the heart of the sept.

Margaery, ever composed, smiled softly at her king as they walked, though she could sense the tension in his movements, the excited energy that simmered beneath his boyish grin. She had learned quickly how to read Joffrey, to anticipate his moods, and today, something darker lurked beneath the surface.

"This is one of my favorite places in the city," Joffrey said suddenly, his voice sharp and high with enthusiasm. "A place where the history of Westeros is written in bones and ash."

Margaery tilted her head, feigning interest. "It is a place of great history," she replied gently, her voice measured. "Many kings and queens are honored here."

Joffrey nodded, clearly pleased by her response. "Yes! The great monarchs of House Targaryen, those so-called dragons." He spat the word, a sneer twisting his lips as they approached a series of alcoves where urns were kept, marked with plaques of names long since forgotten by most. "They once ruled everything. Fire and blood, they said. But in the end, they burned like anyone else."

They stopped before an alcove near the end of the row, where two intricately carved urns were placed side by side. Joffrey’s smile widened as he gestured toward the urns, his voice filled with glee. "This is where they keep the ashes of the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, and his daughter, Y/N. They were burned together after Robert’s Rebellion. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?"

Margaery’s eyes lingered on the urns, her mind racing as she tried to follow Joffrey’s sudden shift in tone. She had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. But there was something unsettling in the way Joffrey spoke about it, as though it were a tale of triumph, of cruelty rewarded. She smiled softly, keeping her voice calm. "Yes, Your Grace. They are well-known."

Joffrey laughed, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet of the sept. "But do you know the real story?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light. He took a step closer to the urns, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as though sharing a secret meant only for her. "Aerys was mad, of course. Everyone knows that. He wanted to burn the entire city, to let the wildfire consume everything. But it wasn’t just him, you know."

He gestured toward the urn that held Y/N’s ashes, his smile twisting into something darker. "His daughter, Y/N, she was just as mad as he was. She stood by him, loyal to the end. They say she loved him in ways a daughter shouldn’t love her father. It’s sickening, isn’t it?"

Margaery swallowed, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown as she tried to keep her expression neutral. "That… is not how I have heard the story," she said carefully, her voice measured.

Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not. They want to make her a victim, but she wasn’t. She stood by him, even when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep. When Tywin’s men found her, she was still defending that madman, even though he was raving about burning them all alive." He leaned in closer, his eyes wide with glee as he recounted the tale. "Do you know what they did to her?"

Margaery shook her head slightly, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized where this was going.

"They slit her throat right in front of him," Joffrey said with a grin, as if sharing a delightful joke. "Aerys was covered in her blood, holding her like she was his lover. And even then, all he cared about was burning the city. Can you imagine? Watching your daughter die in your arms, and all you can think about is setting everything on fire."

Margaery’s breath caught, her stomach twisting in revulsion at the way Joffrey seemed to take pleasure in the gruesome details. He stepped back, looking at the urns as if they were trophies, a reminder of his family’s triumph over the Targaryens.

"They burned together, in the end," Joffrey continued, his voice gleeful. "Grandsire had their bodies placed on the same pyre, like some tragic love story. Isn’t that sweet?" His smile faded for a moment, replaced by a scowl. "But they weren’t lovers. They were mad. And they died like the madmen they were."

Margaery forced a smile, her mind racing as she tried to keep her composure. "A tragic end, indeed," she said softly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside.

Joffrey’s mood shifted again, his smile returning as he turned to her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "One day, I’ll be the one they remember, Margaery," he said, his voice filled with pride. "The one who put an end to the last of the dragons."

He reached out, taking her hand in his, the pressure of his grip uncomfortably tight. Margaery smiled up at him, her heart pounding, knowing full well that Joffrey’s thirst for cruelty and power would only grow with time. But she had learned how to play this game, how to survive in the dangerous world she had chosen to inhabit.

"As you should be, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice smooth and practiced. "You will be remembered as the greatest king Westeros has ever known."

Joffrey beamed at her words, his grip loosening just enough for her to pull her hand away without him noticing. He turned back to the urns, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if the ashes of Aerys and Y/N were nothing more than relics of a forgotten era—one that had been crushed beneath the weight of the Iron Throne.

And as they left the Sept of Baelor, Margaery couldn’t shake the cold knot of dread that had settled deep in her stomach, knowing that Joffrey’s thirst for power and cruelty would only continue to grow.

The servents

The soft murmur of servants echoed through the halls of the Red Keep as the younger attendants went about their duties, the clang of dishes and the shuffle of feet filling the air. In the far corner of the kitchen, an older servant, her back bent with age, quietly polished a stack of silver plates. Her movements were slow but precise, the wisdom of years in her every gesture. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced ease, though her eyes—cloudy with age—seemed far away, as though seeing something beyond the present.

A younger servant, a girl no older than sixteen, stood nearby, wiping her hands on her apron nervously. She had been with the royal household for only a short while and had heard the whispers, the stories that floated through the Red Keep like ghosts from another time. But today, with her curiosity gnawing at her, she decided to speak.

She stepped closer to the old servant, her voice hesitant as she broke the silence. "Old Nan," she said, addressing the woman with the name the younger servants had given her, though her real name had been long forgotten by many. "Is it true? What they say about the Mad King and his daughter?"

Old Nan paused for a moment, her hands stilling over the silver plate in her lap. She didn’t look up immediately, but the girl could see the tension in her fingers, the way they tightened just slightly over the plate. When she finally spoke, her voice was raspy, like the creak of old wood, but there was a weight to her words, a heaviness that made the younger girl lean in closer.

"You’ve been listening to the wrong sorts of people, child," Old Nan muttered, setting the plate down with a soft clink. "There’s always been talk about the Targaryens. Fire and blood, they say. And madness runs in their veins, or so the lords and ladies tell themselves."

The younger servant bit her lip, shifting nervously. "But… I’ve heard the other servants say strange things. About King Aerys. And his daughter, Y/N. They say…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say she wasn’t just his daughter. That he… did things to her. That she stood by him even when he went mad."

Old Nan finally looked up, her eyes narrowing as she studied the girl. There was a long, heavy silence before she spoke again, this time with more steel in her voice. "Be careful what you say, girl," she warned. "There’s truth in some tales, but not all of it."

The younger girl swallowed hard, but she pressed on. "But you were here, weren’t you? You served in the Red Keep when King Aerys ruled. You must have seen things."

Old Nan sighed, her eyes drifting to the distant shadows of the kitchen, as if the past were playing out in front of her once again. "Aye," she said quietly. "I was here. I served him, just like all the others. But what I saw… it’s not a story you’d want to hear."

The younger servant’s heart pounded in her chest, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear. "Please," she whispered. "I need to know."

Old Nan was silent for a long moment, her mind clearly caught in the web of memories she had long tried to forget. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, as though she were afraid the walls might hear her.

"King Aerys was mad, that much is true," she said slowly. "He was once a proud man, a king with ambition, but something dark took hold of him in the later years. He trusted no one. He saw enemies everywhere, even among his closest friends. The burnings…" She shook her head, her voice trailing off. "I saw them. I saw what he did to those who displeased him. He called it justice, but it was madness, plain and simple."

The younger girl shivered at the thought of the burnings, of the terrible things she had heard whispered about the Mad King’s cruelty.

"And what about Y/N?" the girl asked softly. "What happened to her?"

Old Nan’s expression hardened, and for a moment, it looked as though she wouldn’t answer. But then, slowly, she began to speak again. "Y/N…" she said, her voice heavy with something deeper than just sorrow. "She was the light of the court once. A beauty, they said. The jewel of the Targaryen line. But she was her father’s daughter, through and through. He doted on her, more than was proper, more than was right. She could do no wrong in his eyes."

The younger servant leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. "Did he… love her? In that way?"

Old Nan’s gaze darkened. "He loved her in a way no father should love his daughter," she said bluntly, her tone sharp. "There were rumors, of course. Whispers in the halls, behind closed doors. But it wasn’t until the rebellion, when the end came, that the truth became clear."

The girl’s hands trembled slightly, but she couldn’t stop now. "What happened in the throne room? Is it true… that they died together?"

Old Nan’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and sadness. "Aye. They died together. But it wasn’t some grand tragedy, no matter what the lords and ladies say. When the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, they found Y/N standing by her father’s side, even as he raved about burning the city. She stood by him until the end, just like he wanted. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat right in front of him. She was with child when it happened."

The girl gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. "She was pregnant?"

Old Nan nodded grimly. "Aye. With Aerys’ child, no doubt. She was loyal to him until the very end, even when it cost her everything."

The younger servant’s stomach turned at the thought, her mind racing with the terrible realization of what had truly happened in that throne room all those years ago.

"And King Aerys?" the girl asked, her voice trembling.

Old Nan’s gaze fell to the floor. "He died holding her body," she said quietly. "Even in death, he clung to her like she was all that was left of his madness. Jaime Lannister put an end to him, but by then, Aerys was already lost."

The younger girl felt a cold shiver run down her spine, the weight of the truth settling over her like a heavy cloak. She had heard the stories, the rumors, but to hear it from someone who had been there, who had seen it all unfold—there was a horror in it that words could barely capture.

Old Nan sighed, her hands resuming their slow, methodical polishing of the silver plates. "The Targaryens were fire and blood, child," she said softly, her voice filled with the weariness of age. "But sometimes, that fire burns too bright. And when it does, it consumes everything in its path."

The younger servant stood in stunned silence, her mind reeling from what she had just learned. The story of the Mad King and his daughter was not just a tale of madness—it was a tragedy born of twisted love and the ruin it brought to those who lived in its shadow.

As she turned to leave the kitchen, the weight of the past heavy on her shoulders, Old Nan’s voice called out to her once more.

"Remember this, girl," she said quietly, her eyes dark and solemn. "No matter how much fire you carry in your blood, it always leaves ashes behind."

194 notes · View notes

odiesdayoff · 1 year ago

Note

JAIME REYES NSFW ALPHABET?? PLEASE ANYTJING NSFW JAIME ��🏽‍♀️

IM GONNA BE SO REAL I HAVEN'T EVEN WATCHED BB YET BUT I YEARN FOR HIM. SO BADLY. this may change when I see it like...tomorrow.

NSFW under the cut <3

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He’s a cuddler. He’ll plant kisses all over you and hold you against him. He’ll keep telling you how much he loves you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his arms. Specifically how strong he is and how it allows him to pick you up and spin you around all romantic-like.

He loves your eyes. The color, the way you look at him, the way you squint when you laugh or smile. He can stare into them for days.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s a bit more traditional and likes to cum inside. He’ll always wear a condom, though. He likes the closeness. Also includes your mouth!

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He’s into cockwarming. Or falling asleep like that. He doesn’t know how to approach doing that. The thought of having to do some work and just you sitting with him inside? Makes him swoon.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He went through law school. In GOTHAM. Briefly a city boy. He’s had a few dates before you and he knows how to make you lose your mind. It took a bit of a learning curve to adjust to you specifically, but he’s GOOD.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

When you’re, like, laying down together and spooning while fucking? Idk what that’s called. But that. He loves that. It’s just so intimate. He can hold you close.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He loves to laugh. He enjoys spending time with you and doesn’t let it get too serious.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Trimmed. Dark and curly. That's all I'm at liberty to disclose.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s so romantic. Definitely would be the type of person that lights candles and throws flower petals all over the bed. He’s such a sweetie. Will constantly tell you how attractive you are and how good you make him feel.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’ll never admit it, but he totally jerked off using a pair of your underwear that you had left at his place once. He’d rather not masturbate when he has you, but he has needs!

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Heavy on a praise kink. Whether it’s giving or receiving. He’s also into you being in charge!

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He’s a little basic. In the bed. He thinks it's incredibly romantic. That, or in the kitchen and dining room.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

When he wakes up in the morning before you and you’re sleeping, he thinks you’re so hot he will actually melt. He would fight for his life not to wake you up and ask to fuck. You getting along with his family gets him going fr. Just seeing the people he cherishes the most getting along with you fills his heart.

Also…neck kissing!!! He looves it.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He’ll absolutely NEVER do any of the step-family or things related to family, even as a pretend thing or scene. That’s just way too weird. He’s far too close to his family to think about any of them sexually in any way.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He’s a sucker for making you come and oral is one of his favorite things to do. Bro will literally get under the table and give you head while you’re eating dinner if you even mention being a little horny or maybe someone that flirted with you. He’s gotta show you that nobody can make you feel as good as him. He’s a bit jealous.

He loves to receive, but is far too shy to ask for it. If you put it on the table, he’s giddy. He’ll somehow think that he’s degrading you by asking you to suck his dick.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He takes it slow. Sometimes painfully slow, making you feel every vein in his dick each time he’s inside of you. If you asked him to be a little rougher with you, he ain’t gonna say no! When you’re on top or in charge, he lowkey loves when you kind of use him as a sex toy and go as fast as you need to reach your orgasm. He likes to prolong the moment as long as he can when you’re under him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He prefers not to have a quickie. He wants to spend time with you as much as he can and take his time making you feel good. He definitely would not say no if you asked him right before either of you left for work and after you woke up. He just prefers a night full of lovemaking.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

It would definitely take a lot of convincing to get him to do more outlandish kinks, but he likes to try some things at least once. He’s not a “it’s hotter if we might get caught” person. Very much a behind locked doors kind of guy when it comes to sex.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can go a few rounds. Again, the scarab would increase that stamina by a little bit.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Let’s be so real. Yeah. I don’t think he would have toys for his personal use, but getting things for your pleasure is his favorite thing to do. He loves watching you squirm as he presses a vibrator against you. He would literally ask you to watch a movie, then use the vibrator on you while you sit on his lap the entire time.

Also…that suit? It can literally be whatever he wants it to be…IF YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He looves to tease you. At the grocery store, while you’re having dinner with your/his family, washing the dishes. He wants you to be completely dripping/rock hard by the time the two of you get to fuckin’.

On the other hand, he likes when you tease him. He’s a firm believer that whatever he does to you, you can do to him. A hand on your thigh under the table at the family dinner? He won’t be surprised when you “accidentally” drop your fork and lean over him to grab it from the floor.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Some guys are afraid to moan, Jaime’s in his partner's ear losing his mind. Initially, he’d be hesitant to be noisy and all, but once he gets comfortable (or you get a place alone) he’ll make sure that you know how good you’re making him feel. He’s a whimperer. Hardcore. You can play with his hair and his breathing gets shaky.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

I have a feeling that he would want to try to fuck while dressed as a priest. Maybe he watched Fleabag in college. Or had some religion in his childhood. Either that or have you dress in religious clothing and act that out. He’s not sure yet, but he wants to try it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s about average size, maybe six inches hard? Uncut. Slight curve upward.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He would be a few times a week guy normally, but after the scarab fiasco, his drive increases. You could bend over picking something up and he needs to have you right now.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

I feel like he would absolutely pass out after a heated night. Like, I'm talking honk shoo mimimi with one leg off the bed and only half the blanket over his body.

#jaime reyes x reader #blue beetle #odiesdayoff #blue beetle x reader

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dp-marvel94 · 3 months ago

Text

Real -Chapter 1

Summary:

While hiding from his parents in Gotham, an ill-timed encounter with his neighbor, Jason, has Danny pretending to be his own twin. Fortunately for Danny, the more he pretends the easier it gets. Until he is not pretending at all. Or: Danny names a duplicate and via ghost logic, said duplicate ends up becoming real.

Next->

Also on AO3

Notes:

This story was written thanks to @jackdaw-sprite who commented on a Tumblr post a wrote asking what I should write next with "I haven't read nearly as many of your works as I'd like to before saying which ones I'd like to see continued, but there's one where Danny names a duplicate, and because of ghost logic, the duplicate becomes real. It feels like such a neat idea to play with!" So here I am writing a whole fic about it! Structurally, this is still very much half-fic outline with some important scenes written out. I'm not planning on expanding it beyond what it is. Still, I hope you enjoy the story. :) A note for readers, those here for the DC content especially: this is very much a Danny heavy fic. The focus will be on Danny and Jamie's relationship as the clone goes from just a duplicate without its own life, to a real person with his own identity. The Bats, Jason especially, will be present, and important for Jamie becoming his own person. But those relationships are definitely secondary to Danny and Jamie's.

After a reveal gone wrong, Danny runs from his parents and the GIW. Soon, he finds himself living in a crummy apartment and trying to keep a low profile. He doesn't have very much, so he is very excited to find an actually in decent shape couch that someone was throwing out. It's late so, figuring no one will see him, Danny duplicates to have two pairs of hands to get the furniture up the stairs and into his apartment.

Of course, Danny does get spotted by his neighbor, Jason, who offers to hold doors open and help with the unwieldy couch. Names are exchanged: Danny and, after a pause as Danny realizes he has to come up with something for his duplicate, Jamie. The "three" manage to get the couch inside. But now Jason is worried about what appears to be a pair of twins, 16 years old at the most, living alone in the apartment with one ratty couch and a bookbag between them. Jason isn't pushy or overly concerned, but he does make a point to check on his new neighbors regularly.

After the second time running into Jason and being asked about "Jaime," Danny realizes he's going to have to pretend to be his own twin. Duplication is very helpful for that, though he tries not to do it too often and for too long; it does use a lot of energy. He'll just have the "twins" make regular, short appearances together. It's not like he's trying to get close to anyone in Gotham

But inevitably, short appearances escalate into having dinner with Jason. The first is a one off; man claimed he made too much and Danny didn't really have money for food. Plus it was really good. Accepting the hospitality just this once wouldn't be that bad. Of course, "Jamie" has come to dinner too.

One dinner leads to more meals with his neighbor, to Jason trying to teach "the twins" to cook more than easy mac.

Jason's youngest brother meets the "twins" when he pounds on the door during dinner and barges in, complaining that "Father is being unreasonable" and had ground him.

Damian and "the twins" end up huddling in Jason's apartment during Danny's first rogue attack since he arrived in Gotham. Jason ran off as soon as the alert went off, claiming that he was needed at the fire station where he worked. He pointedly says that Damian can stay and look after his non-Gothamite neighbors since he's grounded. The preteen is prickly but does stay put. Danny starts to get restless, unable to re-merge and starting to fear that his energy will waver and "Jamie" will pop out of existence. He nervously eyes the door and Damian threatens to stab him if he tries to leave, saying that "Todd is apparently fond of you both and will be quite peeved" with Damian if something happens to Danny and Jamie.

Well.... Jamie will definitely disappear if Damian stabs him. So Danny manages to maintain his duplicate for five hours, more than twice as long as any time before. By the time the threat is over and Danny can go back to his apartment, he is straining, desperately trying to hide how exhausted and shaky he is from the excursion. He loses hold of the duplicate as soon as the door is closed.

Despite the hardship, maintaining a duplicate is somehow so much easier after that. He can stay duplicated for longer and gradually, he realizes controlling the secondary body is becoming easier. At the beginning, he needed a lot of effort and control to pilot the duplicate, having to mentally direct it to speak or move. He played "Jamie" as being shy and quiet, so there was less talking to dictate. But overtime, the need for mental prompting becomes less and less. Playing "Jamie" became more automatic, more instinctual. Almost like the duplicate runs on auto-pilot, mostly acting how Danny himself would, though more reserved. To an outside perspective, it looks like "Jamie" is finally getting comfortable and coming out of his shell. But to Danny, this was a relief, spending less energy running his duplicate and less time worrying about being found out.

Slowly, Danny meets more of Jason's family. One of Jay's brothers, Tim, runs into him at his coffee shop job and, blinking sleepily, asks which twin he is, before realizing that Danny is wearing a name tag. This leads to Danny's coworkers finding out about "Jamie" and his "twin" visiting him at work.

As the act grows and more people end up meeting "the twins," Danny spends more and more time pretending to be a pair of twins in more and more ridiculous situations. Playing both of them gets easier and easier, more and more comfortable until the twins can banter, share inside jokes, and tell stories from their childhood. Maybe it is intentional, maybe it's subconscious. But slowly, differences develop to differentiate the twins. "Jamie" is growing out his hair. He loves toast and watching documentaries about history. Danny, more and more convincingly, pretends to have a brother until at some points... it no longer feels like he is pretending.

Despite his new friends, Danny is still so lonely. The apartment is still almost bare, the money he gets from his job barely enough. It's never the job he wanted; he wants to be in school now, applying to colleges so he can get into NASA. But he can't do anything to draw attention to himself, not with the government breathing down his neck or the danger of the vigilantes running him out for being a “meta”. And he misses his friends and sister so badly.

One particularly hard night, when he is heartbroken and hurting, Danny lies on his second-hand mattress in the dark, weeping. He mourns his parents turning on him, his heart aching for Sam, Tucker, and Jazz. He wishes more than anything that he was not alone right now.

Suddenly, there is a yanking on his core that leaves his gasping. A full body pulling sensation that almost feels like being peeled, except somehow it does not hurt. A second later, it is over and through his blurry eyes, Danny can barely make out a figure kneeling in front of him. Arms coax him into sitting up and pull him into a hug. Danny cries for a long while, not thinking about what just happened, not thinking about what... or who... is holding him. He just accepts the comfort, savors the feeling that he is not alone.

Finally, after the tears slow, Danny pulls back and looks. He lets himself realize what he is looking at. And as he takes in eyes like his, the feeling is something between awe and fear. There is a light in the blue eyes, a spark that he does not recognize.

And as the brow wrinkles in confusion and the mouth slowly works, words spiral out. Words that Danny could never have predicted.

"If we... if you keep doing this..." Each word is slow and deliberate, as if each takes great effort. "This...." One hand motions slowly, vaguely, as if un-used to movement. "Jamie won't be a lie anymore."

Danny is stunned. He stares for a long while, unable to process. He does not understand what the words mean, why the spark in those eyes makes him just as elated as it makes him afraid.

So he takes the duplicate's hand and pulls the ecto-energy back inside himself. He reabsorbs it and "Jamie" disappears. And Danny thinks.

Slowly, he realizes how easy staying duplicated has become, how distant and foggy memories from his duplicate's perspective are. He replays the words in his head. 'If you keep doing this... Jamie won't be a lie anymore.' He wonders if they mean what they suggest, and most startlingly.... he wonders where they had come from, if not from himself.

For a few days, he avoids anyone who has met the twins or claims that his "twin" is busy whenever someone asks. But inevitably, his trusty neighbor Jason notices the avoidance and invites himself over to cook dinner. Reluctantly, Danny duplicates; there is clearly no avoiding this conversation.

The dinner is awkward. Danny has a hard time looking at Jason.... and an even harder time looking at his seeming twin. None of the three say much and by the end, their neighbor huffs a sigh and says his piece.

“Look. I know that no one, especially two teens, live in a shitty apartment in Crime Alley if they can avoid it. I don't know if you got kicked out, ran away from home, are hiding from something. And I don’t care. I won't ask. But I was an alley kid. I lost my mom younger than both of you, ended up on the street. I know what it's like just scraping by, trying to survive all on my own. That's why I look out for the kids here. I want to help you guys, no matter what your story is.”

Danny stammers out a disbelieving thanks. He is touched, really, despite the fear of discovery, of vulnerability quivering in his heart. Jason is a good guy and it feels good to have someone who cares. But... the maybe-not-a-lie sits on the couch beside him. A story he could never hope to explain...

Jason smiles, ruffling both of the twin's hairs. He stands to leave. "Take care," he says, almost afterthought. "You're lucky to have each other."

"Jamie" seems to lean, just the tiniest bit closer to Danny at the words.

Jason leaves and it is just Danny and his duplicate. The half ghost releases a breath, letting some of the tension release. He reaches to reabsorb his double and-

A shaky hand grips his forearm. Danny looks, meeting the blue eyes. The spark is back, just the smallest hint in the posture that something is different. Slowly, the brow wrinkles, becoming something worried.

"What is it?" Danny finds himself saying, as if he expects a real response.

"Have... each other." Again, the words are slow as if just the act of thinking is hard. "Not a lie."

Now Danny's brow is wrinkled. "Not a lie? Are you saying that's true? Or asking if it is?"

"Not a lie." The words repeat. "Jamie not a lie."

Danny's stomach knots. He’s heard his duplicate speak dozens of times, even been surprised by some offered puns. But this…

“Not a lie.” One more repeat, this one faster, surer, almost desperate.

Danny looks up again. “Jamie.” He says the name. He’s spoken to his double before in front of other people, as part of the act. But this… it feels as bizarre as it feels right. “Jamie…. Are you… real?”

For just a second, there is something like hope in the other’s eyes. Then, the brow furrows in great effort. “Yes… No….” One more longer, unsure pause. “Becoming.”

“You’re… becoming real?” The words are breathy. Danny isn’t sure whether they make him feel that same hope, or if he feels sick.

The half ghost looks away, staring down at his lap. He doesn’t know what this is, how this is happening. A moment of panic stabs. Is he sick or insane? Or… is it a trick? A trap?

Danny reaches with his mind, trying to feel. A parasite infecting him? Another ghost, trying to overshadow. There is a connection, a bundle of a dozen fine threads. It is a link to… something not quite separate. Danny feels the almost presence at the end, the not-quite himself he is speaking with. And… It is like cradling a baby bird. Small, fragile, and so young. No malice, just pure innocence.

The half ghost looks up again. His hand shifts, feeling the cold flesh. His fingers press, the almost flutter of a heart beneath the skin.

The awe from that late night rises, a question echoing in his head. What happens if he lets this continue?

He… won’t be alone. Danny remembers that night, crying on his mattress and desperately wanting comfort. And all those times hanging out with Jason. The jokes and banter started as an act to sell the lie. But… weren't they so much more now? Danny had pretended to have a brother and in pretending had imagined one… Now that brother, that twin sat beside him.

But at the same time… fear spiked. What would happen if he didn’t stop this? Could he even stop this if he wanted to? It feels inevitable, unstoppable. Not if he stays living next to Jason. But… if he tells the truth? Or if he runs, starts again somewhere else. He could reabsorb his duplicate now and let this whole thing fade into memory. Jamie would disappear…

A wave of fear surges from outside himself. Danny meets terrified eyes. Something in him softens, crumples.

“Jamie?” Danny asks again and can almost feel the heart-flutter solidifying. “Do you want to be real?”

There is a pause, the fearful face becoming something narrowed eyes and sure. “Yes.” So much determination. Danny feels the one thread of dozens snap.

“Alright then.” Danny heaves a sigh, deciding.

He will hold out as long as he can. He will stay duplicated, keep Jamie here until he’s not a duplicate at all. Jamie will be real.

#Danny Phantom #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp crossover #dpxdc #dcxdp #my fic #Danny Phantom clone

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inbloomwriting · 2 years ago

Text

If I had you II Jamie Tartt

Plot: Jamie Tartt is hard to love. At least he thinks so. Reader thinks it's the easiest thing in the world. Pairing: Jaime Tartt x female reader Warnings: Swearing, mentions of food and alcohol. Notes: This is inspired by the song "a daydream away". It's 5.2k words of pure friends-to-lovers sweetness. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please

Jamie Tartt is hard to love. At least he thinks so. It’s a chore to love him, the real him not the overly confident golden boy he portrays on the pitch. Just look at his track record, that just proves his point. Sure his mom loves him, he never questioned that, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for her. He’s convinced he’s made her cry more than once with yet another stupid decision. Then there’s his father who loves nothing more than to belittle him and lay out all his flaws for him and the world to see. And if even your own dad doesn’t love you, how can you expect others to.

So maybe that’s the reason he doesn’t let anyone close enough to even begin to love him. Sooner or later they’ll figure out how much of an effort it takes and that he, of all people, truly isn’t worth it.

And maybe, perhaps, that’s also the reason he doesn’t allow himself to explore the feelings he harbors for his best friend. He tried to deny them to himself for so long. Tried to pass it off as pure, unfiltered friendship. That’s bullshit though. He knows the feelings are there and there is no use in denying them. That doesn’t mean he can ever allow himself to act on them though. He’d just fuck it all up, the way he usually does with everything he touches.

The shiny hardwood floor feels cold and smooth as he sits leaning against the kitchen counter, legs stretched out before him. A smile is permanently etched onto his face as (Y/N) talks about something that happened at her work today. He should listen, it’s probably a fun story judging by the way her giggles make her stop talking every few seconds. He should listen but he is so enamored with her that he can not pay attention to anything else. In a perfect world, in a world where loving him was easy, he’d lean over and kiss her. He'd kiss her silly and she’d kiss him back and life would be sweet and it would make sense. In that perfect world, she would love him back the same way he loves her and it would be easy and he’d deserve her.

But that is not the world he’s living in. That is not his reality. Just a beautiful daydream he allows himself to escape to every once in a while. Loving her in a daydream is safe. It’s secret and quiet and there is no hurt there and no rejection.

“Why are you grinning like that, huh Tartt?”

She asks before taking a sip from the beer bottle clasped tightly in her hands. It’s an unusually hot summer’s day. One that makes it impossible to do anything but sit on the floor in as little clothing as possible and drink one cold drink after the other. Even if that means getting a little tipsy on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Nothing. Just happy to have you here. Missed you.”

“We didn’t see each other for a week and you already missed me?”

He misses her the minute she leaves. It’s like his heart isn’t complete if she isn’t there but he can’t really say that can he? Friends don’t tell friends things like that. And a friend is all she is. His best one but still. Telling her any of this could jeopardize their friendship and Jamie doesn’t think he could handle life without her. Not when a week already felt like torture.

“Well yeah, I’m proper shit at cooking. I need you to feed me.”

“Oh, is that so? Thought Mr. Bigshot footballer could get free food at any restaurant he fancies.”

She’s teasing but never mean and never hurtful. That’s something he cherishes so much about their friendship. His feelings, his fears — all of it is safe with her. There is no hurt or pain or fear. Just her and her friendship and warmth. And a pair of open arms ready to catch him whenever he stumbles and falls.

“True. But some fancy place in Mayfair will laugh at me if I ask them to make me dino nuggets, won’t they?”

Her laughter, he decides then, is his favorite sound in the world. It makes everything feel alright even if it’s just for a fleeting moment. He needs to keep his feelings locked up in that beautiful daydream because he can never lose this melody her laughter creates. And anyway, he wouldn’t even know what to do if he ever really had her.

— It’s not like she’d say yes anyway.

“You’re probably right about that,” she says and leans her head against his shoulder. And though it’s muggy and hot and he’s sure he can feel their skin stick together, he doesn’t shake her off. She’s part of his heart already, might as well melt into one completely. “You want me to make you some nuggets?”

“Nah,” Jamie replies and places a soft kiss on the top of her head. Friends kiss friends on the head all the time, everyone knows that. Right? "That's okay. Already had a Kebab with Roy earlier.”

“You guys are becoming friends then? Should I be worried I’m gonna lose my best friend status?”

Jamie lets out some mix between a chuckle and a scoff. As if anyone in all the world could ever replace her. What a ridiculous thought.

“Well he doesn’t make me nuggets, does he? No alphabet soup either. So no. Not yet.”

The little shake of her fist she does in victory makes him grin even bigger. He must look like a damn fool.

“I should probably get going sometime soon, I need to finish up some work and do laundry and do all that boring adult stuff that’s waiting for me at home.”

There are lots of things he should be doing instead of sitting on his kitchen floor on a Tuesday afternoon getting half drunk on cheap beer and half on his overwhelming love for her. He’s sure there are a bunch of texts and emails waiting for him to sort through. Keeley might be popping a blood vessel soon if he doesn’t answer her about that brand requesting to work with him on some ad campaign. And he will get back to her — soon.

Right now it doesn’t matter. Right now all that matters is him and (Y/N) and their little corner of safety and — home.

“But I don’t want to.”

“Yeah, me neither. Just want to sit here with you and — “

“ — hang out?”

“Mh. Hang out.”

That was not what he wanted to say but none of the words ghosting through his head are meant to be spoken out loud. They are his to feel and think and keep hidden and quiet.

“Good, we can hang out a little longer I think.”

And he’ll take what he can get. All the precious minutes she grants him he cherishes.

Right now could last forever and he wouldn’t mind at all.

Not as long as he’s with her.

Some early 00s pop song is blasting from the speakers of the bar. Everyone’s in good spirits and drinks are flowing freely.

(Y/N) is leaning against the bar talking to Colin, laughing about something he said, radiating joy and happiness.

She loves his friends, his boys, his family. Jamie loves that she loves them so dearly, so fiercely as if they are her own family. At this point, they might as well be. She remembers all their birthdays, drops by unannounced with cookies for everybody, cheers them on louder than anybody else. Hell, she even gets Roy to smile and that’s quite something. She’s as much a part of the AFC Richmond family as she is a part of his life.

“Jamie-Jam-Jam what are you sulking over here for,” her voice cuts through the crowd and the music as she slides into the booth next to him. She looks gorgeous in the hazy neon lights. Then again, she always looks gorgeous.

“Not sulking. Just — thinking.”

“About what?”

You. He’d say if he was honest and not such a coward. You and how much I adore you and how hard it is not to tell you any of this and fuck up our friendship.

“Was considering getting me nipples pierced. I’d have to take them out though and I imagine that would be quite annoying.”

“Probably,” she agrees and nods her head before adding “It would look sick though.”

“Right? I reckon it would.”

She laughs at that and once again it shakes his entire world. Like little earthquakes inside his heart.

Her voice is quieter after her laughter subsides, soft and gentle, and with the loud music it feels like her words are only meant for him. “I like this,” she says almost wistfully.

“The song? Who’s that, Rihanna?”

“Not the song, silly boy. This — “ she gestures around the room towards all their friends, dancing and laughing and having the time of their lives. And then she motions to the two of them, secluded and safe inside their own little bubble. “escaping our busy lives for a moment.”

“Lot of journalists would disagree with you there, love. That my life was busy.”

“They don’t know you like I know you.”

There’s a sincerity in her eyes, a warmth, something he can’t quite explain. It’s familiar and foreign all at once.

“No one knows me like you do. You had pity on Jamie Tartt, messy little prick from math class. They just know Jamie Tartt, the footballer from Richmond.Still a prick but now with better hair.”

Before he knows what’s happening, her hands take hold of his face and gently rest against his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. Really look at her.

“I never had pity on you, Jamie. I thought you were funny and exciting and infinitely cool. That’s why I wanted to be your friend. And I was right! About the funny part, not the cool part.”

“Obviously.”

“But I never took pity on you. I don’t think you realize how highly I think of you. Now let me get a sip of that drink.”

He’s still in some sort of haze brought on by her words when a groan coming from her shakes him from his thoughts. Her face is all scrunched up in disgust as she places his glass back on the table. “Ew, what the fuck is that?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. Barkeeper said she’d mix me a Jamie Tartt and I was like fuck yeah, a drink named after me.”

“It’s disgusting. Did you shag and dump her at some point? Like, is she mad at you for some reason?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that woman before in my life … so yeah maybe.”

Shaking her head with a smirk on her face she grabs a hold of his hand and pulls him out of the booth and towards the bar on the other side of the place, the one with the older male bartender with the impressive beard.

“You ever had a thing with him?” she asks as she leans against the counter, trying to get the man’s attention.

“Nah, I’d remember that facial hair.”

From then on the night tastes like tequila and beer and it feels like a warm hug. She doesn’t join in on all his drinks, stops herself after a beer and a shot, but she does join him in all the other shenanigans. Like when they make up ridiculous backstories for strangers and have a laugh about some corporate douchebag trying desperately to get with some woman who clearly has no interest in him.

“Henry from accounting.”

“Nah, that’s Charlie from HR.”

“Well, either way, Maisie from South Shields is not interested.”

He could stay here forever, laugh the night away. Drunk on happiness, on love — and also on quite a lot of booze.

“Come on, Jamie-Jam, “ she says and hands him his jacket. She’s all gentle hands and gentle eyes. “Let me give you a ride home.”

“We’re going home?”

“I think it’s time. Think someone had a little too much.”

“I’m sorry.”

He is but also not. He’s sorry for being a burden — again. He’s not sorry for letting himself enjoy a night of unadulterated happiness with the people that mean the most to him.

“No need to apologize, Jamie. I’m glad you had fun. Now come on, silly boy. I’m tired.”

And when they step out of the place and into the night, all sweaty and hair a mess, he thinks that of all the things his eyes have ever seen, the best by far is her. Then and always.

London passes by in a blur as (Y/N) drives them towards his house. All the bougie buildings and the iron fences and the trees in the parks, it’s all one kaleidoscope of color, a smudge of light and shadows.

It’s not like he can really focus on that though. Partly because all he can think of is her and partly because he’s absolutely wasted. Mostly her though. Definitely mostly her.

“Did you have a good time?” his voice slices through the comfortable silence.

“I always have a good time when I’m with you, silly boy. Did you?”

He rests his cheek against the smooth leather of her car seats and regards her with an infinite sense of wonder and adoration. In any other situation, this position would be deeply uncomfortable but he’s numb to anything but the beating of his heart and the strings that pull him towards his best friend.

“Obviously. Had my best girl with me. “

“Keeley?”

His eyebrows raise in confusion. “Keeley? No you numpty, you!”

“Me?”

“Why would you think I was talking about Keeley?”

He wishes he could see the look on her face. This is not a car conversation.

“Uh, she’s the only real adult relationship you ever had and you had a poster of her on your wall. Makes one think things. In fact, I believe that poster is still up.”

Jamie can’t help but scoff at her words. Not in a dismissive way necessarily but this whole conversation seems so silly to him. Yeah, he loved Keeley in a way and yeah she’s still one of his best friends but never has she come close to (Y/N). Keeley hardly ever got to see the real Jamie, the one that didn’t hide behind this larger-than-life footballer persona. (Y/N) met him before that persona even existed.

“Stop thinking things then. You’re my best girl, always.”

He still can’t see her face since she is looking at the road in front of them, but he can see the smile pulling the corner of her lips upwards, and for the moment that’s good enough for him.

Her car comes to a stop in front of Jamie's house but while he drags himself out of his seat, she stays put.

“What are you doing, love?”

“Dropping you off?”

“Are you not coming inside then?”

“Do you want me to come inside? We spent pretty much all week with each other, I thought you might be sick of me by now.”

A ridiculous thought if he’s ever heard one. He could never get sick of her. They could be glued to each other for the rest of eternity and he wouldn’t mind one bit.

Even in his drunk state of mind though, he realizes that’s not something he can tell her. That crosses out of friend territory. So he just chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“Do I want you to come in? What a dumb question is that? Of course, I do. I have a bag of those disgusting spicy crisps waiting for you in my kitchen.”

“In that case —”

10 minutes later they’re sitting on his couch, her legs across his lap, munching away at those god-awful crisps as some overly dramatic American home renovation show flickers across the TV screen.

In moments like these, love lives here. In these walls and on this couch. And it’s terrifying because thinking about love also makes him think of the possibility of losing it. But every once in a while, Jamie lets himself feel a tiny bit of it. Just enough to keep him going.

“Hey Jamie,” she speaks up, her face only illuminated by the light coming from the TV. She’s wearing his shirt and he wills himself not to focus too hard on that because that will cause images to ghosts through his mind that he can’t allow himself to ever think about. Images that cross every line ever drawn when it comes to friendships.

“Yes, love?”

“You’re my best boy too. Not sure I ever told you.”

He doesn’t answer, not in words at least. But he squeezes her legs as they rest on him, and he hopes she knows. Oh god if only she knew.

Jamie Tartt is hard to love. At least he thinks so. (Y/N) knows he thinks so because he let it slip once or twice when he was drunk and his words were all jumbled and his mind was all hazy.

And every damn time it breaks her fucking heart. Because loving Jamie Tartt is the easiest thing she ever did. It comes as natural as breathing. It feels like a nice ray of summer sun on her skin, sizzling and exciting and warm.

Loving Jamie is a gift.

Now if only there was a way she could make him realize that. But every time he lets himself be even a little vulnerable he is so quick to cover the cracks with stupid jokes or misplaced arrogance before a real conversation can happen.

She needs him to realize it though. To understand that loving him isn’t difficult. Because how can you tell someone you love them and make them understand just how much they mean to you when they deem themself unlovable?

Turning her head to the side she looks at his sleeping face. Somewhere between Fixer Upper and House Hunters, he fell asleep, leaving her alone with her thoughts. He’s snoring something awful but she still thinks he’s adorable. Jamie has a mischievous, lovable quality to him that just makes you open your heart to him whether you want to or not. Yeah, sure, he’s let people down, he’s done shitty things, but he’s trying. He’s learned and he’s changed and the price for being young and stupid and cocky should not be a life spent questioning if you deserve other people’s love.

Jamie Tartt is not hard to love. But loving him and not being able to tell him because he doesn’t love you in quite the same way, that’s just fucking cruel.

The air is loaded with static. Everyone is on the edge of their seat. (Y/N) is huddled in between Rebecca and Keeley, holding their hands and nervously biting at her lip. Emotions are running high as Richmond is playing Manchester. Correction — they’re not only playing them, they are kicking their asses.

It’s 2-0 for Richmond and they’re already 1 minute into the 3 minutes of additional time. If Manchester doesn’t get a miracle, Richmond wins. The thought of that makes a fluttery feeling spread in (Y/N)’s stomach. If this is how she feels, she can only imagine what Jamie must feel like.

1:30

2 minutes

2:30

3 minutes.

“Blow the whistle. Come on. Blow the fucking whistle.”

And as if he heard her pleading, the referee blows the whistle giving Richmond their win.

Laughter and cheers and songs fill the air as every Richmond fan is on their feet celebrating a win they so desperately wanted and that the team fought so hard for.

The win Jamie fought so hard for.

She tries to find him across the pitch but there are too many people, hugging and celebrating, too much noise. She just hopes he knows how proud she is.

And she hopes that somewhere out there his dad is watching. Sees him win, with the team he doesn’t approve of. Watches him succeed and be the man he never was and never will be.

She hopes somewhere deep in the inky black pit that is his heart, he finds a glimmer of pride for his only son, even if it comes entirely belated.

Jamie has won quite a few matches by now and it’s always a great feeling but some wins stand out. This is one of them.

His heart is filled with gratitude and pride, and his entire system is flooded with adrenaline and utter euphoria. He’s positively buzzing as the team gathers in the hallway leading toward the locker room. Some of them have been whisked away to give short post-match interviews — as if there is much to say other than how fucking awesome it feels to win — while the others are waiting for them to come back so they can all meet up at the locker room for some after match briefing.

“Superstar, you did it!”

Her voice carries through the hallway above the rest of all the noise. Like a siren calling out to him, she can’t hear anything but her, it all shifts into the background.

She weaves through the crowd like a fucking goddess in blue. He always thought she looked good in the Richmond colors and seeing her with his name on her back never fails to make his heart shutter with delight. But there’s something about today that makes this even more special.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline of winning. Of making his mom proud and proving his dad wrong. Of proving himself wrong. Maybe it’s seeing her in his kit, with his name and his number smiling that radiant smile of hers. Maybe it’s a combination of all these things. But something makes his brain short-circuit for a moment. Just a fleeting moment but long enough to make him push through the crowd until he’s standing in front of her, matching smiles on their faces. Just long enough for him to softly place one hand on her waist and pull her closer, so unbelievably close. Just long enough to cradle her face in his other hand, gentle and careful, like the most precious thing in the world. Long enough for him to place his lips on hers in a kiss so sweet, so long in the making, it feels surreal. It feels like he’s still stuck in his saccharine daydream.

And then reality snaps back and he pulls away, opening his eyes to a smiling (Y/N) staring back up at him through curious eyes.

“Silly boy, what was that?”

She doesn’t sound upset, in fact, his delusions might even make him think she sounds delighted.

“I — “

“Jamie, locker room. Let’s go, boy!”

Ted’s voice calls out to him all full of glee and jubilation. The guy sounds even more chipper than usual and that says a whole lot.

Pulling away from her feels like having a bubble suddenly popped. Every what-if that has been clouded by post-win euphoria suddenly bears their ugly head again. Sometimes Jamie wishes his thoughts weren’t so fucking loud all the time.

“Go, your coach is asking for you. I’ll see you at the after-party. We’ll talk then, yeah?”

Only they don’t because, for some inexplicable reason, Jamie avoids her like the plague.

Everyone is gathered at the bar for celebratory drinks, it’s a private function, just the team and family and associates. Spirits are high, everyone’s excited. And all things considered this night should be magical. Only it’s not, because once again Jamie refuses to let himself be loved.

Rejection tastes bitter. It’s sharp and metallic. Rejection also tastes quite a lot like tequila.

The salt, the lime, the liquor — it’s supposed to make her feel better. It’s supposed to mend the cracks in her heart, if only for a night.

It doesn’t do any of that, it only makes her fucking sad.

How foolish of her to believe that he’d feel the same, that he’d finally pick up on the hints she’s been dropping for over a decade and reciprocate the feelings. Maybe they never stood a chance anyway. Maybe —

No, actually fuck that.

He can’t do this, it’s unfair. You don’t kiss someone, not like that at least, and then ignore them for the rest of the night. Especially not when that person is your best fucking friend.

Bumping against people left and right, she makes her way across the room to stand next to a smiling Jamie deep in conversation with a pretty girl, who (Y/N) is quite sure is the sister of one of his teammates.

“I need to talk to you.” It’s not a request. Not this time. This conversation has been a long time coming. It’s time, she thinks, to finally be brave. One can only swallow down their feelings and emotions for so long, until they come bubbling to the surface like a fucking volcano rolling over Pompeii. She just hopes that once the dust settles there will be hope instead of death and destruction.

“Uh, kind of in the middle of something here.”

She can’t stand this part of him. This fake, unbothered cool guy who has no empathy for her or anyone other than himself. She hates it mostly because this is not the real Jamie, just some cardboard cutout version of him.

“Too bad, that'll have to wait.”

She doesn’t give him another second to resist or shake her off, just grabs onto his arm and pulls him through the crowd and towards the exit.

The nightly London air feels cold against her skin, making her shiver as goosebumps appear on her arms.

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

“What the fuck is going on with me?”

He can’t be serious.

“Yeah. I had something going there. She was well fit too.”

The urge to smack him across his stupidly handsome face is seriously fighting her desire to kiss him again right about now.

“Good for her but you owe me a conversation.”

“(Y/N), I — “

The way he rolls his eyes so dismissively, so suave and cool, it’s like a dagger straight to the heart.

“No, you know what — fuck you, Jamie. I know you have a hard time letting people in completely, and I get that that’s something you have to work through on your own time but the way you're treating me right now is really shit. You can’t kiss me like that and then run. I’ve been waiting for that fucking kiss for over a decade.”

“What?”

He looks at her with the signature Jamie Tartt look of confusion and innocence. Like a damn puppy or something. And if she wasn’t so annoyed, so hurt, maybe she’d find it endearing.

“I’m in love with you, Jamie. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you. I’ve been in love with you since I was sat next to you in class and you asked me if Pythagoras was that French guy. I’ve loved you when you were just a chaotic teenager. I’ve loved you when you won your first game and when you lost. I’ve loved you when you signed your first contract and when you made a complete fool of yourself on that ridiculous tv show. And I love you now. So to think you finally picked up on it and reciprocate my feelings was — I was so happy, Jamie. Only for you to completely ignore me for the rest of the night. I don’t deserve that. Not from you of all people. “

“Will you let me talk?”

“No, I’m not done yet.”

“Alright, go on.”

“I love you, Jamie and I know you think I shouldn’t and that you don’t deserve it, but guess what? I don’t care. I love you anyway and I am not asking for permission to love you. That’s not how it works. And I don’t love you despite your flaws, I love them too. Even your stupid 2003 looking haircut and your ridiculous clothes that make you look like a male Bratz doll sometimes. Sorry people in your life made you feel like you had to earn it just because they couldn’t see how phenomenal you are. Just you, Jamie Tartt, messy little prick.”

Silence wraps around them like a thick blanket as a moment passes, then two. Jamie raises his eyebrows in question.

“Can I?”

“Yes, you can!”

“Jesus, alright. Stop yelling at me.”

“Well, I’m upset!”

“And I’m sorry about that. I never meant to upset you. Ever. I just — do you remember that one birthday, I think I turned 12, when me dad showed up and he was just being his usual asshole self and he made me play against him and then yelled at me in front of all the guests when he won? “

She sure does. Even at 12, she wanted to put her tiny little fist straight between Mr. Tartt’s eyebrows. “Yes.”

“You sat with me when I went to my room to escape. Refused to leave my side. Called my dad a wanker and you made me laugh. Then you got me a piece of cake and we ate it on my bed while watching Spongebob.” A smile plays on his lips as he reminisces about that day.

“I was 12 and I didn’t know a lot but I knew that night that I was in love with you and I immediately promised myself I wasn’t gonna do anything about it. Losing you is the scariest thing I can think about and my track record with people is pretty shit, honestly. So yeah I didn’t want to even risk fucking up with you. Rather have you as a friend than not have you at all.”

“So why did you kiss me earlier after all?”

“For one, you looked so fit in blue, with my name on your back. I was full of adrenaline and just so fucking happy. I uh — I think my mind was telling me that it’s finally time to be brave for once.”

Hearing him say it, it’s something she never expected but always hoped for. She’s played this scene out so many times in her dreams and yet she doesn’t know what to say or do now that it is actually happening.

“So what now?”

“Well, if you let me, I was gonna kiss you. Because if you think that other kiss was great, this next one is going to change your life.”

As those words fall from his lips, (Y/N) can’t get close to him quick enough. Pulling him towards her by the front of his shirt. Closer and closer until there is no room left between them and he gently nuzzles his nose against hers.

“Jamie Tartt?”

“Hmm?”

“Change my life!”

Jamie Tartt is hard to love. At least he thought so. And maybe a part of him still does and always will. But kissing (Y/N), his best girl, the fucking love of his life, it feels quite easy to let himself be loved.

Feels as easy as breathing. And for once in his life, the reality is so much sweeter than the daydream.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x female reader #jamie tartt x f!reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt fanfic #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt imagines #jamie tartt oneshot #ted lasso tv show fanfiction #I dont know what else to tag this as my friends ....#inbloomwriting

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stitched-mouth-vs-the-world · 1 year ago

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Pegging Fantasy

Pairing: Jaime Reyes x Fem! Reader.

Summary: Jaime tells you his biggest sex fantasy and you make it your mission to make it happen.

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, Pegging, Strap-On used, Established relationship, Sex fantasy becomes real, Reader is desperate to ass fuck her boyfriend, Mention of Jaime having ass pain afterwards, Jaime is worried about sounding gay even though I HC him to be bisexual.

Writing Time: 20 minutes.

Word Count: 383.

Format: Kinktober Headcannons, Day 23.

A/N:

I'm pretty proud of my first Jaime Reyes work. Enjoy!

Here are my other Kinktober 2023 works.

---///---

• Jaime found it truly embarrassing, admitting what he wanted you to do it him.

• He thought it was gross, filthy and completely emasculating.

• Not to mention, something no woman wanted to even hear from their boyfriend because of gay it sounds.

• Well, it's 2023 and the amount of women who want to peg their boyfriend's is astounding, so Jaime must of been missing something.

• He was shocked when you were more than willing.

• In fact, you was so excited.

• You had a spare unused strap on dildo that was just waiting for this moment.

• Proof that you were just waiting for this moment.

• Once Jaime told you about this fantasy, you eagerly grabbed the lube and strap on and asked him if he was ready now.

• He barely finished nodded a yes before you forced him onto his stomach and ripped his jeans and underwear off together.

• You had no shame, you really wanted to peg your boyfriend.

• So you saddled up, straddled your boyfriend's hips and lubed both of you up.

• Before slowly easing in.

• Jaime is tight!

• Definitely had to give him time to get used to the foreign feeling and create space to move around.

• It took a while till he gave the nod.

• But once he did you both acted like animals.

• You fucked his ass all nice and proper.

• Then he growled and turned over, pushing you on your back and riding you like his life depended on it.

• You both needed this.

• Poor Jaime didn't even know how sore he was gonna be tomorrow.

• He didn't ever consider why you never like him fuck your ass.

#stitched #stitched talks #stitched mouth #stitched writes #stitched’s kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #blue beetle #blue beetle 2023 #jaime reyes #jamie reyes #jaime reyes x reader #jaime reyes smut #blue beetle smut

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mixedcontents · 4 months ago

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I think Tyrion and his barely sleeping and spending his nights distracted by women or books until he exhausts himself enough to sleep and even then not for long is 100% his chronic pain and I appreciate that about his character if not for his pov chapters would we as readers pick up from other characters that he is in intense chronic pain all the time? Probably not but then again it's rare for anyone to see someone in intense chronic pain even if they know they are and be able to tell people in chronic pain are SO good at masking it (though it comes out in ways that are obvious when one knows what to look for) like Tyrion is in intense pain even before he is further disabled by battles and people in chronic pain need more sleep ok average than healthy people and then there's the brain fog and irritability that chronic pain people have to deal with and even so Tyrion handles all three extremely well though at times he can't control his temper and snaps and then immediately tries to get it under control again and apologizes idk I hate what Tyrion did to Shae and Tysha (though let's be real he had little choice in the matter and has spent the years since thinking of her trying to convince himself he hates her ect) I believe he's a character who not only cares for people not just the 'important' people but the small folk the disabled the deformed ect and I really believe he could have a really interesting redemption and spend the rest of his life as hand or possibly a ruler/lord working to redeem himself and try and make up for all the worngs he and his family has done

On the other hand we had the mountain that rides Clegane who we also know is in intense chronic pain (migraines) and yet he lashes out and purposely inflicts as much damage and pain as possible on others even his own younger brother he has spent his life causing others pain at worse killing them at best he has no want to be or do good he has no desire for redemption no nor chance at it now that he is well not dead but rather Qyburn's creature of some sort (hinted at)

Idk if there is one thing i love about grrm it's his writing has many a disabled character main characters with their own pov chapters and non ones that are explicitly shown and stated to be disabled and ones that are only hinted at and I just really appreciate that hus disabled characters are as varied and alike in their disabilities as they are as people/characters but also how we see that affect their lives the perception of them as characters/people and what they do from Bran and Jaime to Tyrion and the Clegane brothers and many many more

#tyrion lannister #sandor clegane #gregor clegane #brandon stark #asoiaf

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heavenlytouches · 4 months ago

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i saw you write for Game of thrones, can you write a female reader and Kingslayer (Jaime Lannister) taking a bubble bath together in his chambers? That bath scene with Brianne is still etched in my head. Thankss

Hi darling! Thank you so much for a great request! And yes of course I can write about Ser Lannister :0 let's go, head first El <3

Ser Jaime Lannister- a splash of love

.ೃ࿔*:･

FEM reader

<3 (SFW)

TW- mentions of blood, suggestive talk (nothing too bad)

Helping Kingslayer after a rough day

SERVANT! reader

Ser Jaime Lannister

As you move quietly through the opulent halls of the Red Keep, the scent of lavender and beeswax fills the air, a stark contrast to the dark bloodstains smeared against the polished stone walls.

You are just a servant, quietly carrying out your duties, but you feel the weight of the world around you- a world where the rightful lords and ladies command power, while you merely serve. Today, though, the world holds a peculiar charm.

You approach the lavish bathing chamber, where a warm bath awaits, its steam curling into the air like whispers of long-hidden desires.

Jaime Lannister sits in the tub, tired and covered in the remnants of his last battle- a unique blend of blood and grit smeared over his golden skin. He glances up at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

He gives you that familiar teasing smile, the one that always makes your heart race, and you feel a heat rise to your cheeks.

“Come on, don’t you have a task to help with? Or do you plan to stare at me all day?”

His tone is light, but you can see the fatigue behind those mesmerizing blue eyes.

"Ser, I have to.."

You begin, your voice barely above a whisper before you catch yourself, flustered. You shouldn’t get too close, but the urgency of your duties pulls you toward him.

“Help me wash, perhaps?”

He suggests, delighted by your evident struggle. The words tumble out like a gentle tease, and you can’t help but feel the electricity that crackles between you, teasing the edges of propriety.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, my lord,”

You murmur, your heart pounding as a flurry of sensations engulfs you: his warmth, the inviting water, and the very real danger of crossing lines you never dared imagine.

“Come now, I promise I don’t bite.”

Jaime chuckles, his cocky bravado hanging in the air. He knows how to charm, and the glint in his eye beckons you, pulling you closer even as doubt whispers in your mind.

You hesitate, your hands clenching nervously at your sides. Yet something deep within you ignites; the mundane fades, replaced by curiosity and an unexpected desire to ease the weariness stamped across his rugged features. Clenching your jaw, you take a tentative step closer.

“I suppose I could help, my lord..”

You murmur, your voice wavering from nerves as you set the basin on a small table beside him. His grin only widens, reflecting a mixture of appreciation and mirth.

As you dip your hands into the warm, fragrant water, you feel an undeniable thrill at the thought of touching him, the bravery you muster as vital as any shield he wears as a knight.

You reach for a cloth and begin to gently scrub at his shoulders, the tension in your shoulders melting under the steam and the soft lapping of water.

“Ah...that's good..”

Jaime lets out a low sigh, letting his head fall back against the edge of the tub. You can’t help but sneak a glance at his face- the way the sunlight cascades through the windows highlights his sharp features, making him seem as though he’s carved from the finest ivory.

“How is it? How does it look?”

He asks, his voice soft, almost intimate. He was asking about his blood stained body, your eyes watching something else. You look at him, caught between a world of duty and an aching need to remain close.

“Nice,”

You whisper, your voice hushed as you try to conceal the warmth rising in your chest.

“I mean the bath, um, it looks nice.”

A teasing laugh escapes his lips, and he captures your gaze.

“Is it just the bath, my dear? Or are you noticing something else?”

His tone is lightly suggestive, turning heated, and your heart evens out in a chaotic rhythm as you feel the intensity of his stare.

You scold yourself internally; this is absurd! The attraction between you seems both uniquely magical and utterly reckless. You fight the urge to retreat, to hide behind the modesty surrounding your position.

But as your hands glide across his muscular form, the warmth of the water and the connection between you both grow.

“Most servants would turn on their heel at such an offer.”

He remarks playfully, breaking the tension as you wash his arm.

“Mainly because they’re worried about their standing, or about getting into trouble. But here you are, helping me.”

“I- well, I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. You looked like you could use some help, ser.”

You admit, your fingers tracing across his skin as a gentle flush brightens your cheeks once more.

“Helpful servants are hard to come by, but I suppose I’m lucky today.”

His tone turns serious then, and for a moment the teasing facade falls away.

“You know, I’m grateful for your kindness. It’s the little things that carry me through.”

The sincerity in his words sends a flush through you, and you smile nervously as you catch his eyes.

“It’s just, um, my duty my lord.”

You reply modestly, even as a multitude of thoughts scatter in your mind, overwhelmed by his charm and allure.

“Not everyone sees it that way.”

He whispers, the hidden meaning in his words resonating deep within you.

“They are often so caught up in what they think they deserve.”

He takes the cloth from your hand unexpectedly, catching you off guard with his attitude; then he begins to wash your arms in return, the warm water slipping down your skin in soothing waves.

Your breath catches in your throat again; there is something intoxicating about the shared intimacy of the moment- a spark igniting across the surface.

“This must be how we find solace; even if only for a moment in our turbulent lives...”

He murmurs, his eyes darkening with emotion.

Your heart fights against the weight of what you know: the chasm of class between you, the rules that separate servant from lord. Yet here you are, soaked in warmth and laughter, and for just this fleeting moment, nothing else matters.

“I think you’re right, Ser Jaime.”

You say, your pulse quickening.

“And while we both know this can’t last, I…”

You falter, biting your lip to stem the rush of emotion. You wish you could capture this moment forever- the warmth, the laughter, and the gentle brush of hands against skin.

The bathwater swirls around you like possibilities yet to unfold. Acceptance and longing tangle deliciously, leaving you breathless, as the kingdom outside carries on unaware of the magic forged in a king’s guard and a humble servant's hidden connection.

"Maybe... maybe if no one knows. I am Ser Jaime, no one will question my actions or attractions."

With a soft laugh, Jaime splashes water toward you, breaking the tension, and you can't help but smile brightly as every droplet shimmered like hope- a secret you both would carry, one that stretched across the burdens of nobility and servitude alike.

“Let’s just enjoy this moment a little longer, shall we?”

He invites, mischief twinkling in his eyes. And as you lean closer with warmth against warmth, the world fades away, leaving you only with a heart that races in the bubble bath of Kings Landing.

Phewwww I love this one! Jaime is such a tease tho TwT

I can write anything for any character babes and don’t forget- requests are always open and welcome <33

I love you guys so much

El <3

(all images were made by: El via canva & paint)

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 2 years ago

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A Lion's Vow

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x Stark!Reader

Warnings: canon character death

Words: 7251

Summary: This game the both of you played was your only real entertainment in the mess that was the Red Keep. Knowing it’s true nature, your father attempted to keep you close to his side. Reminding you not to trust anyone easily, especially those that belonged to the House of the Lion.

“What are you up to today, Lady Stark?”

You whip around, long dark hair swishing from the movement and instantly plaster a cheesy smile once you see it’s Jaime Lannister himself. “Whatever are you talking about Ser Jaime?” This game the both of you played was your only real entertainment in the mess that was the Red Keep. Knowing it’s true nature, your father attempted to keep you close to his side. Reminding you not to trust anyone easily, especially those that belonged to the House of the Lion.

He would not approve if he knew of the interaction between you and the Kingslayer.

Humoring you, Jaime cocks an eyebrow suspiciously. “Looks like you’re up to something.”

Posing a hand to your chest, you gasp and feign hurt. “Me? I am the good Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter. There is no mischievous. bone in my body, Ser.”

Jaime’s lips curl fiendishly. “Oh we both know how false that is. Your father would be disappointed if he discovered you tried to lie to someone in the Kingsguard.”

Ned did instill a strong sense of truth and justice in all of his children. Often he would drone on to how powerful the truth was and to live an honest life.

This was harmless lying though. Jaime knew it to be all part of your fun.

With a roll of your eyes, you cluck your tongue. “What we should really be talking about is why you aren’t doing your job. Shouldn’t you be guarding the king and his imperious family?”

Unconsciously you walk next to him, resuming your gentle stroll with Jaime. His armor makes clattering noises as he moves. White coat billowing in the breeze that lazily rolled through King’s Landing; an overall lovely day made better by the Lannister knight by your side.

“There are six others protecting them. Doubt they’ll miss me for an hour or two.” Jaime’s voice grew distant when his duties were brought up, l;Ike he didn’t want to think about it. Not when he was with you.

“Aren’t you the best swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms?” Teasingly, you boost his ego just a little bit and earn a broad smile from his handsome face.

“Won’t argue that.” He comments with a roll of his shoulders causing you to laugh at his outlandish display. “Even someone as amazing as me needs a break though.”

That’s how you really got to know him. Not that much after first arriving did you stumble upon Jaime during one of his breaks. He’d been relaxing on the grass, back pressed against the trunk of a tree, with his sword laying upon his lap. You and Arya had escaped your septa and were running around the keep gleefully. There were many hidden doors and stairs that you and your youngest sister enjoyed exploring.

You felt after that interaction, Jaime purposefully planted himself there since it was near the tower of the Hand of the King.

If anyone was with you, he would merely offer you a nod and a small smile. When alone, he spoke to you. Small conversations here and there until you both started to linger together for longer periods of time. While most times he carried himself like an arrogant bastard, you got to know the other side of this infamous man. He loved to tease and be playful.

You enjoyed your sister’s company but it was a breath of fresh air to have finally made a local connection in the Red Keep and not feel so isolated. How wild life was to make that connection in Jaime Lannister. Brother to the queen and the slayer of the Mad King. He was a legend walking on two legs.

Your fatrher’s worries were never too far from your mind though. After a few days as Hand of the King, Ned warned you of the green eyed lions and how they could not be trusted. Jaime may have liberated the Seven Kingdoms, but now he is condemned for the act of killing Aerys.

Shaking off the echo of Ned’s words, you gaze up at the tall trees that lined both sides of the cobbled walkway. Small white flowers flutter in the breeze like specks of snow. Home sickness prods at you not for the first time.

“My sister Arya is learning how to use a sword. By some Braavosi.” You lightly tell him, waiting for his reaction. Uncommon was it for a woman to learn how to fight, you knew your father wasn’t happen that Arya was interested but found her an excellent instructor nonetheless. Even your septa and Sansa regarded Arya with disdain after that.

Jaime wasn’t phased by this information. He continues to smile and hums. “She is a feral child. It’s not surprising. Just one look at her and you can see the Stark direwolf. You didn’t want to join her?”

Instantly you remember Robb, Jon and Theon teaching you the basics of how to use a sword once it was decided that Ned would be leaving to the Crownlands. They were understandably worried about your safety and took it upon themselves to sneak you out of your chambers late in the night to show you. You protested in the beginning. Robb begged you though so you caved in.

“Because not all men will act like chivalrous knights.” Robb had told you. This wasn’t just for you, it was so you’d be able to better protect Sansa and Arya.

“No. . . No, I’m not one for violence.” Images of bloody direwolves flash in your mind. A lump develops in your throat as you try to banish them. Your own wolf, Storm, had escaped with Nymeria. Lady was their sacrifice. Feeling like it was your duty, you bore witness to your father executing poor Lady under the whim of that damned Joffrey. It had truly pained him to do so. You would never forgive Joffrey or Cersei for forcing this brutal act upon your father. “I never want to wield a blade.”

Jaime stops, addressing you with a soft and understanding expression. “Hopefully you’ll never have to, Lady Stark.”

"What a surprise, Ser Jaime and the Lady Stark." came the chilling voice of the queen, Cersei Lannister.

Dread made you put a distance between yourself and Jaime. "Your Grace." You detested Cersei. Still, you were the daughter of a warden of the Seven Kingdoms. You still maintained court etiquette and gave her a low curtsy.

Her bright green, cat-like eyes regard you with reservation. Regal chin tilted up, her attention moves to her brother who also gives her a perfectly acted bow. "Pray tell what the two of you were doing alone?" Behind her are two ladies-in-waiting hiding behind their hands as they whisper conspiratorially. No doubt there would be a bit of gossip to be produced from this interaction. Flanked behind them are three guards. All wore the insignia of the Lannisters.

That's the last thing you or your family needed was speculation involving the Starks.

"I bumped into the Lady Stark all by her lonesome. Figured I should escort her back to her father's keep. I'm sure Ned will be missing her." Jaime comes up with the lie just as easily as he would breathe.

"Is that so." Cersei's voice was flat in reply. She didn't buy any of what her twin told her but would not reprimand him in public. You hope you didn't get Jaime into too much trouble but second guessed yourself as to why he would get in trouble. There was no rule or vow that forbade him from speaking to you. In the eyes of others, he was doing the chivalrous thing that everyone expects from a knight.

Expelling your own trepidation, you force a pleasant smile to the golden queen. Sweet syrup laced your tone. "It is, Your Grace. Apologies if I unexpectedly detained Ser Jaime."

Eyes flick from you to her brother before she clasps her ringed hands in front of her. "Of course. Well, Ser, finish escorting the Lord Stark's daughter and get back to your main priority, protecting the king."

Jaime's smile is full of charm as he nods. "Yes, Your Grace."

Once Cersei and her squadron went around the corner, you and Jaime started a fit of giggling.

"She is not happy." Jaime chuckles with a shake of his head. "My sister has always been a temperamental thing. She hasn't changed one bit since childhood."

"I can't imagine Cersei as a child." You comment dryly as you and Jaime change your course to the Tower of the Hand. To you, Cersei may as well have sprung from her mother a full grown woman. Childhood was reserved for innocence which you doubt Cersei ever was.

Jaime smiles. "Even she was small and defenseless once upon a time. But she was always regal and knew her value. That has never changed."

The way his tone was so tender when he spoke fondly of Cersei made something ugly in you take wing. It hissed and spat venom making your insides twist and contort with bitterness.

Of course he loved his sister. It was natural to love your sibling, but to love one that was so foul like Cersei. . . This was unthinkable to you.

He was quick to catch your sudden silence and the subtle furrow of your brow. His smile falls. The tension between your two families started when Jaime was found sitting on the Iron Throne after killing Aerys. Your father found him there once his forces had finally stormed King's Landing. From there, Ned knew the Lannisters should never be trusted.

"I'm truly sorry for what she did to your sister's direwolf." He whispers and you can detect the genuine regret. "A mother's love is blind and irrational at times. Still. . . the wolf shouldn't have been killed. I can't tell her the truth, that she's spoiled Joffrey rotten. Not like she would listen to me anyway."

You toe a rather large pebble that was in your path off to the side. Anything so you wouldn't have to look at Jaime. The backs of your eyes burn, a warning that if he spoke anymore about Lady, tears would fall. "I'm just happy Nymeria and Storm were able to get away. Even if I can't have her by my side anymore, at least she's still alive."

Danger permeated the atmosphere in the Red Keep. This unnerved Jaime even more than the skittish attitude of (y/n). Since the death of King Robert Baratheon, the Starks had begun to act differently. This included the eldest daughter (y/n). Jaime barely saw her anymore and when he did, she was personally escorted by a few of her father’s bannermen. A solemn expression drawn on her face as she hadn’t even noticed Jaime off on the sidelines.

The death of his close friend took it’s toll on Ned Stark and caused much friction between the Hand of the King and the capitol. And according to Cersei, he’d started poking around things he shouldn’t be. The implication being that he might find them out soon. This in particular caused Jaime worry. Did Ned divulge his findings to (y/n)? She seemed to be his confidant in King's Landing and he revered his eldest daughter. That could explain why she'd been avoiding him for weeks on end.

On top of it all, Tyrion was recently captured by Catelyn Tully on the accusation that he had some part in the attempted murder on not just Bran, but herself as well. Great strife was the result causing quite the headache for Lord Tywin and Lord Ned. The new King Joffrey was definitely using this to his advantage as he drank in the chaos and animosity of the two great houses.

Each day, Jaime's concern rooted deeper into him for (y/n). A premonition perhaps had been a dream he'd have of a direwolf being beheaded.

Then came the arrest.

Those who swore their loyalty to Joffrey and House Lannister hunted down bannermen of the northern lord. Cersei, acting quickly within the hour, had already obtained Sansa Stark as a hostage. The auburn haired young lady was locked up in her rooms where she had been accosted.

"You can't let Joffrey do this." Jaime hissed to his sister who was leisurely drinking an elegant glass of blood red wine. "You need to release Ned and Sansa. . . Wait, where are (y/n) and Arya?"

She arched a golden brow. Why was he so concerned about them? Slowly Cersei sets down her glass. "Men have been sent out to retrieve them. They will be locked with the other sister."

He felt something tighten in his chest at the thought of (y/n) in chains like her father. Had they not suffered enough?

"Sit, Jaime." Patting the chair next to her, Cersei couldn't fathom why her twin was acting so riled up. He paced back and forth like he was the caged animal. Did he not realize that they were relatively free now? Their son was finally king and she, the queen mother. All the Seven Kingdoms were in the control of the Lannisters now.

Jaime couldn't though. Couldn't sit down and wait to hear of the other two sisters.

When was the last time he experienced true panic? If this was it, well, he didn't miss it. The fate of (y/n) made him feel panic. Gods, he had grown so attached to her in a short amount of time.

"Jaime."

Impatiently he looked at his sister. His beautiful, cruel sister. His first and only lover.

"I have to go."

She called after him as he fled. From windows he caught glimpses of soldiers and knights alike dashing all over the place. The search for the last two Stark sisters seemed to prove to be a difficult one.

He began his own frantic pursuit of them. Hoping that he could find both of them in time. Then what? Helping them to escaping would be in direct betrayal of not just the throne but Cersei as well. He would be an oath breaker. A crime like this would be cause for his execution.

Death did little to scare him.

Convicted with his decision, Jaime perhaps for the first time prayed to anyone who would listen to him that he would find (y/n) before anyone else did.

You didn't see where Arya had dashed off to. While you were worried for your sister, it was the least of your concerns at the moment. You were running for you life. Complete confusion drove your flight instincts.

Yesterday, Ned had told you and your sisters that he planned to ship all three of you back to Winterfell. Sansa had been bereft, not wanting to leave her betrothed. This sudden news was alarming to you. Fear had begun to control your father since Robert's death. You saw it in the way he gazed at you and your sisters.

Wanting to take such a burden off his shoulders, you'd gone to Ned in his private quarters to find out what was going on. He was more inclined to tell you the truth than the younger ones.

He didn't tell you though. Ned was determined to keep whatever worries to himself.

Maybe if he had told you, you wouldn't be running around the Red Keep like a frantic idiot. Where was there for you to hide? You were in enemy territory. There was nowhere safe for you. The bannermen who normally guard you had been slaughtered right before your eyes. Their blood still stained your face and gown. Such had been the bloodshed that caused you to freeze and watch the whole thing. Until Lannister guards started advancing toward you.

Blindly running for your life, you try to conjure up all of the hidden doorways you and Arya had discovered. One was in the bedchambers of the Hand. But that area was most likely surrounded. You couldn't risk it. That's where you had seen Arya being accosted alongside her Braavosi mentor.

Unconciously your feet were running toward the godswood of the Keep. You didn't realize it until you saw the all too detectable face on the trunk of a large oak tree. It may not have been a weirwood, but you knew from that solemn face that you were in the godswood.

Between thick, white tree trunks, you sought refuge in something familiar. You hid under foliage and attempt to calm your mind enough to think of a plan. The godswood looks out onto Blackwater River. A river that stretched through the near entirety of Westeros as well as leading to Blackwater Bay.

Debating which way was more optimal, the fast crunching of leaves and grass alert your ears to someone else entering the godswood.

You further hid into the shrubs, heart racing.

The intruder stops just a few feet away from your hiding spot. Leather clad feet idle, a blonde head swiveling this way and that. There was no armor but you'd recognize Jaime even when he was in civilian clothes. His sword swayed on his hip.

"(y/n)?"

Nearly sobbing out your relief, you topple over and out of the brush; startling Jaime. He slides onto his knees and gathers you in his arms. Spotting the blood on your face and clothes, you see a coldness overcome his face.

"I-It's not mine." You quickly tell him and that severe expression dissipates into worry. "What's going on?! I don't understand!"

"Your father has been arrested on charges of treason." He hastily explains while helping you get to your feet. "We need to get you out of here."

You shake your head. "My sisters-"

"Cersei already has Sansa detained. There's no news of Arya. We don't have a lot of time to get you out of the city." Jaime tells you, pleading in his voice. Still you kept shaking your head, insisting that you had to help your sisters.

Maybe it was the trauma from what you had witnessed that made you so adamant. Jaime was right, you were aware of that and how you should heed his words. Abandoning them to Cersei and Joffrey though?

Reading your mind, Jaime holds your hands. Striking green eyes crinkle and tell you of his own unease. Vocally he would not beg you to leave with him. You read it on his face. Even if you wanted to, it was not feasible to save your sisters.

You let Jaime lead you out of the godswood. He had you cover your head and yourself with his white cloak that he had torn off his armor before going to look for you. You tuck away your thick sections of dark hair under the white cloth.

The Old Gate, despite it being quite the walk from Aegon's High Hill, was the best way out. "There are secret tunnels all through the capitol."

"I know." You say and his brow raises. "Arya and I did some snooping around the Keep and found a few of them. It's difficult to navigate the tunnels themselves though."

"Ah, so that's what you were really up to." Jaime grins your way.

You return his grin with a beaming one that could be considered prideful.

Jaime said he knew a few of the tunnels but not all. One, if he could follow it correctly, led out to an opening in Flea Bottom.

Traversing the labyrinth of tunnels, Jaime kept you close to his side. The two of you spoke softly. The sound of your echoing voices still bounce around you. He tells you what exactly was happening. Ned being accosted by Lannister bannermen. The charge was treason for attempting to usurp King Joffrey and take his birthright away from him. Obviously it was a load of hog shit.

An itch in the back of your brain kept going back to that last conversation you had with him. You’d caught him flipping through page upon page in a rather large book. Grave lines shadow his features. It hadn’t been the first time you had spotted him in such a state. What had he been reading?

Like wildfire though the news of Ned’s arrest had already spread through half of King’s Landing. By the time you and Jaime had resurfaced in a dirty alley, there were scores of City Watch soldiers patrolling the streets.

Both of you kept your heads down on the off chance anyone might recognize you. Venturing onto the streets, Jaime makes sure to have a secure grip on your arm so neither of you are separated.

The amount of soldiers congregating toward the direction of the Old Gate didn’t bode well to either of you.

“What do we do if we can’t get through the Old Gate?” You whisper. You felt sick to your stomach with anxiety.

Jaime keeps his eyes ahead. “One way or another, I’m getting you out of the city and taking you to your mother and brother. I may have to use some unsavory methods though.”

“But-“

He pulls you aside and stares at you. “Do you trust me, (y/n) Stark?”

You let your apprehension seep onto your face. Why was he doing this? He had nothing to gain but everything to lose.

Then in the middle of broad daylight, he gets down on one knew and bows his head low. “I, Ser Jaime Lannister, make this oath to you, (y/n) Stark, that I will get you back to your family safely. I will honor this oath and defend you with my life.”

Getting selfconcious with the attention you might draw, you urge him to get back up. “Okay okay!!” You hiss. “Get up! I trust you!”

His crooked grin lightens the severity of the situation. When he gets back up, Jaime holds out a hand to you. Gingerly you lace your fingers with his; relishing in the roughness of his callused hands. You did trust him, well, you wanted to trust him. No matter what your father claimed about the Lannisters, you at least wanted to trust this one.

Thinking back to Ned's warning, you feel a lump in your throat as Jaime leads you through the dirty streets of Flea Bottom. "They're going to kill him, aren't they."

Jaime's hand tightens on your's. "A trial will be held for him. There is a proposition to be made for him most likely."

Joffrey was in power now. A trial under Joffrey's jurisdiction could hold no justice for your father. You felt it. Whatever Jaime may have been told could go right out the window when the trial actually happens.

You look back to the red structure of the Keep. Jaime could give you no other words of comfort. Maybe he was thinking the same thing you were. He's acknowledged the depravity of Joffrey many times before. He had to know that much like with Lady, he would order the death of Ned Stark for even posing a threat to his reign.

The Old Gate was indeed riddled with heavy patrol. No one was permitted to leave the city unless they had written consent from the crown. Many having been turned away skulked back to wherever their living quarters were.

Jaime analyzed the situation while keeping you under his arm.

"Ser Jaime?" A gold cloak squints his eyes when he spots you and Jaime lurking around the gatehouse. You feel Jaime's body tense and he subtly pulls your hood over your face a little more. "What a surprise to see you out here." The man eyes you suspiciously but looks back to Jaime. He was timid in front of the Kingslayer which served a good purpose.

Squaring his shoulders, Jaime puts on an air of self-importance. "Yes, considering the arrest of the Lord Stark, I have been sent out by the king himself to check the security of the gates. They're worried that a Stark loyalist may try to escape." He explained his clothes as attempting to blend in and not cause more of a stir in the city.

"Y-Yes. Of course."

They pass by a few others as Jaime sits you down inside of the gatehouse. A warm fire crackled in a hearth. The men who had been occupying the inside were promptly forced out by Jaime and the gold cloak that was attending him.

Jaime leans down to whisper in your ear. "Stay here until I come back. Don't speak to anyone and keep your hood drawn down. I'll be back in a few minutes." he promised.

You nod and anxiously watch him leave. The entirety of your time by yourself in the guards' room, the pounding of your blood filled your ears and your hands shake. Jaime said that he might have to use some unsavory methods in order to smuggle the both of you out. Somehow you knew that meant killing anyone who opposed him.

Suspicions were confirmed when you hear a few close by screams, Jaime came back in to retrieve you after fifteen minutes. He was holding his sword in one hand and motioning for you with the other. Blood glints off his blade.

The old rusty gate was lifted up a few inches from the ground. A dead sentry sat propped up against the wall. You promptly avert your gaze when you caught sight of bright red across his throat.

Crawling underneath the opening, both you and Jaime book it into the open fields outside of the city. Both of you kept low to the ground until the city walls were but speck behind you.

From his pack that Jaime brought with him, he pulls out an expertly drawn map. "Alright, it will take us several days to reach Riverrun. Here's the thing though, the north will not be taking too kindly to the arrest of their warden. I'm guessing once the news reaches them, your brother will call upon his bannermen to march to King's Landing. Your mother is possibly still in the Eyrie with Tyrion. The track to the Eyrie is too far and dangerous. Your grandsire should be able to house you until either your brother or mother come."

There was so much to take in that you were quiet for a while.

Frowning while examining the map, your eyes trail from where Jaime had pointed to your position. You eye the territory of the Riverlands, remembering that Tywin Lannister had planted a small army near your grandsire's home. "What about your father?"

His lips purse. "I'll deal with that if it comes to it." Jaime rolls the map back up and puts it away. "We'll use the rest of the evening and night to travel to the God's Eye and recoup there. I hope you're ready for the trek."

You bend over to tighten the laces of your boots in affirmation.

By the time they reached the shores of the great lake, (y/n) collapsed on the ground. She'd laid out the white cloak Jaime had given her and passed out soon after.

Late at night, God's Eye lake appeared to be filled with black ink. Across the water Jaime barely made out the outline of the Isle of Faces that was right in the middle of the lake.

Jaime took his place right next to the sleeping (y/n) and drew the edge of the cloak over her body. Her lips were parted as she slept.

He'd forsaken his own family for her.

If forced to do it again, he would. Jaime was her sworn sword now. His loyalty lay with her.

By himself though, he allowed his mind to think of Cersei. For most of his life, he had clung to her. She was the very reason he was in the Kings guard so he wouldn't have to marry anyone.

From childhood he revered his older sister who he often compared to the Maiden. After getting to really know (y/n) though, that image was morphed into the true reality of Cersei's character. Much like with their own brother Tyrion, Cersei had been tactfully cruel to the Stark sisters. She followed the whims of Joffrey blindly, as only a mother could. Jaime did feel sorry for (y/n)'s two younger sisters. There had been no time to even think of rescuing them too. He'd been too focused on (y/n). She was his priority.

Deciding to keep watch for the night, Jaime kept his ears trained to his surroundings and his eyes fixed on the stillness of the lake.

The sun crept up into the sky not too long after. With the rise of the sun, (y/n) stirred and opened her gray eyes. They flutter so prettily that Jaime is forced to avert his gaze. He'd once heard Robert mention how (y/n) was like a prettier version of Lyanna. She had the structure of lovely Catelyn Tully's face with alluring pale gray-blue eyes and the darkest lashes he'd ever seen.

Dried blood was still on her face from when she witnessed her father's bannermen being slain. He worried if she had nightmares about it while she slept but she didn't mention any when she sat up and rubbed sleepily at her face.

Nodding toward the lake, Jaime suggests she wash up. Before leaving, he'd gathered a few extra clothes with him. They were men's clothes but that was probably better for (y/n) while they were traveling.

A bashful blush livens her pale cheeks as she nods. Jaime, to give her some privacy, turns his back to the lake and keeps an eye out toward the trees.

He's hyper aware though of the rustling of her clothes as she removes them. His own ears reddened with warmth when he heard movement in the water. Not for the first time, he wondered what she looked like naked. What did the slopes and contours of her body feel like? Was the rest of her body soft like her hands?

(y/n) didn't spend too much time in the water. Just enough to scrub her face and wash the rest of her body from the grime and sweat that had accumulated during her flight from the capitol.

She nervously cleared her throat once she was fully dressed. Jaime turned around. (y/n) in his clothes didn't something carnal to Jaime. His large tunic did little to hide her figure as he could still make out the shapeliness of her breasts. Trousers had been cinched tightly at her waist and accentuated her wide hips.

Her long, black hair was still wet as she was in the process of tying it up into a ponytail.

She didn't need gowns and jewels to look exquisite.

"Cat got your tongue, Ser Jaime?" (y/n) grinned when she saw his outward gawking.

"I've never seen a woman wear my clothes with such finesse before." He smirked.

Laughing, (y/n) picks up the white cloak that was still sprawled out on the grass and wraps it once more around her shoulders. "If I could, I would wear men's clothes more often than dresses. You can imagine how uncomfortable it is being laced into a bodice for hours on end."

He startles both of them when Jaime tucks away a stray, soggy lock behind (y/n)'s ear. It had been bouncing around her face, begging for attention. Jaime apologizes in a halfhearted manner. At least it was an excuse to touch her. "Lets get going. We have a long way till our next stop."

Looking once again at the map, it was decided to take the longer way along the river in order to avoid populated areas.

During their walk, they shared a piece of bread between one another and spoke more about their childhoods. Maybe it was a way to soothe the aching wound of (y/n)'s heart after having to force her to leave her family defenseless in King's Landing.

There was great love in the Stark household, evident from the tenderness of her voice. Something that hadn't been present in Casterly Rock since the death of his own lady mother Joanna.

He liked imagining (y/n) as a spunky little girl playing with the boys and struggling to thread her needle for embroidery, braiding Sansa's rich auburn hair and reading under the grand weirwood tree in her family's personal godswood.

She painted a beautiful picture.

Jaime didn't really have such stories. His childhood had been filled with his endless need to be the best swordsmen out there. He trained from dusk till dawn and kept his mind focused on his goals. For him, there was no time for childish whimsy.

They stop to rest for a bit. (y/n) took off her boots to rub at her sore feet and Jaime knelt by the river to fill up their canteen that had been bone dry for hours. There wasn't much food he had packed since there was urgency to get out. Plenty of bread was still available in his pack but not much else.

Bare foot, (y/n) went about searching for wild berries and mushrooms. Jaime couldn't resist watching her through her wanderings. Ned had taught her and her siblings many things about wild berries back in Winterfell. She used this knowledge to gather an armload. While it wasn't meat it still filled their bellies along with chugging mouthfuls of water.

After that little respite, they were up and at it again until the sun dipped back down behind the mountains, replaced by a sliver of the moon and a multitude of stars. Starry skies always reminded (y/n) of her mother’s gown, she told Jaime as they walked. The Lady Catelyn possessed a gown of the deepest blue. Woven intricately onto the fabric were small crystals. They dazzled in thee light and as she moved about.

Joanna passed so long ago that Jaime could barely recall her. Something that he was able to share with (y/n) was his mother’s laugh.

She was a snorter.

For all her grace and beauty, when Joanna Lannister laughed, she really laughed. So much so that it resulted in her snorting during such throes.

Odd how that was the sole thing Jaime could think about when trying to remember her.

He must have sounded sad to (y/n) for sure grabbed his hand with warmth. Strong radiance flowed from her to Jaime. His insides flutter. Around her, he felt like such a young and naive boy. He was a man grown. She was the only woman to make him feel like this; not even Cersei made his heart thump vulnerably. With his sister, it was all about lust and satisfaction. There was no coyness to her seduction. Cersei always was straight forward.

If Jaime didn’t know any better, he would say he was falling in love with the Stark girl. That couldn’t be it though, right?”

For the following nights, Jaime insisted that he stay up to keep watch. A ridiculous thing considering that even the great Jaime Lannister needed sleep. No human could go so long without slumber.

He compromises. When the two of you take a break from your walking, he would take that opportunity to nap.

“You still know how to use this?” Jaime holds out his sword to you making you widen your eyes.

You stare at the hilt. The same sword he used to kill many people. Fingers twitch forward and brush up against it. “Yes.”

He nods when you finally take hold and put it off to the side of you on the grass. Situating himself onto hiss makeshift blanket and pillow, Jaime closes his eyes and is asleep in minutes.

This was an opportunity for you to outwardly admire him. He really was quite handsome. A perfect aquiline nose paired with cheek bones to die for. His upper lip was a perfect bow arch and absolutely kissable. You wonder what he dreams about.

While he rests, you go over the map. There’s bits of Jaime’s handwriting on the parchment too. Sloppy letters smashed together. You grin reminiscing that that was the way Robb wrote as well. Was that a habit of all men? No, your father wrote properly enough.

Naturally, Jaime would start to wake after an hour’s worth of sleep then back to the road it was.

All together, it took near a week to reach the Red Fork of the Trident. The river where Rhaegar Targaryen was slain by Robert Baratheon. The Red Fork lead all the way to Riverrun.

You were almost there. Considering why you were traveling in the first place, you would admit there was fun had while with Jaime. Away from the city, Jaime was freer. Boyish sides of him that he wasn’t able to display while in the Kingsguard. His smile, oh. . . This new smile of his was breathtaking. A bright beam that almost blinds you.

Certainly he was still arrogant, but a little less now.

“What will you do once you deliver me safely to my grandfather?” You ask him as you refill the canteen for one last time.

“Well, that’s if your family even allows me to leave.” Jaime chuckles. “Can’t imagine I’ll be welcomed back in King’s Landing or Casterly Rock. Don’t suppose you will employ a knight such as myself?”

The muscles on your face automatically make you smile at his confession of wanting to stay with you. You tamper it down and cough into your hand. “I can try to work something out.”

A light moment like this was bound to be ruined soon after.

Men on horseback and on foot surround you and Jaime. Swords aimed at the both of you.

Jaime holds up his hands to show that he was harmless and you immediately shout “I’m (y/n) Stark! Daughter of Catelyn Tully. Granddaughter of Hoster Tully!” Their red and blue livery reveal their allegiance.

Slowly, they lower their weapons; those on the ground get closer to see you better.

Then they register the man beside you. Their weapons went back up until Jaime forfeit his sword and allowed them to tie him up. One of the men helps you onto a horse while you beg lenience for Jaime the entire time. Proclaiming that he was actually helping you and bore no ill will.

All fell on deaf ears as they drag Jaime all the way back to the Riverrun fortress.

Spotting you from Hoster Tully’s chamber balcony, your mother met you at the front gate. She was indeed a sight for sore eyes.

As you’re assisted to the ground by helpful hands, Catelyn is already pushing aside men to get to you. She throws her arms around you and pulls your body tightly to her chest.

“Thank the gods!” Her fingers tangling them in your thick hair and buried her face in your neck. “(Y/n)-“

You encircle your arms around her. In her arms was the smell of home.

“Lady Catelyn,” came one of the soldiers. “Jaime Lannister was found with her.”

She sharply inhales and in one swift move she has you behind her as she steps forward for the rest of the men to present her Jaime.

They force him onto his knees in front of her.

“Mother please, Jaime helped me escape the Keep.”

Her eyes turn to you sharply. “(Y/n), the Lannisters are the reason for all that has befallen our family.”

Not Jaime though. He had done everything to help you. You grab Catelyn’s arm. “Without him I would have been like Sansa.”

“I swore myself to your daughter, Lady Tully. I am her sworn sword.” Jaime passionately declares. “Made an oath to protect her from this day to my last.”

“I recall you made that same oath to Aerys.” Scrutinized Catelyn.

His eyes are hard and unrelenting. Jaime doesn’t cower or back down. “It’s different with (y/n). She is worthy of protecting. I want to dedicate my life to her.”

Gods.

His words made you soar.

Narrowing her gaze, your mother folds her arms in front of her chest. “Well, Ser Jaime, it sounds like you have certain. . . Affections for her.”

Jaime turns to you with a hint of a smile. “I would say so.”

“(Y/n), go inside.” She snaps at you and with a wave of her hand, her father’s men take ahold of Jaime and bring him to the prisons of Riverrun.

Desperately you watch as Jaime meekly follows them. He doesn’t put up a fight, not once.

“He’s trying to make you a fool, (y/n).” Catelyn accosts you once inside the secure walls of the castle. “Please. . . Please tell me you don’t share these feelings he’s pretending to have?”

You were still stunned at what Jaime had admitted.

“(Y/n)?”

He swore his sword to you twice now in the presence of others. Catelyn made a point about Aerys, but what else was Jaime supposed to have done in that moment? Aerys was about to blow up King’s Landing with enough wildfire to wipe it off of the map.

Turning your spine to steel, you straighten your back and address your mother. “He’s not pretending. And if you must know, yes I do.”

You hate the pain that flashes across her face. “No. . .”

Before she could pull away from you, you grab her hands firmly and keep her there.

“I would not be here had it not been for Jaime.” You tell her sternly. “I am holding your hands now because of him. He kept his word to me that he would safely return me to you and even wanted to stay my sworn sword after the fact he had accomplished his goal.”

Squeezing her hand tighter, you add “He had everything to lose and nothing to gain.”

She was conflicted but you were adamant that she have Jaime released.

“Give him a chance.”

You were fierce, reminding Catelyn of Ned. Unwilling to back down to what you believed to be the right thing.

“I honestly can’t believe I was let out so soon.” Jaime muses.

Not without conditions of course as you glance at the Tully guards that watch him like a hawk. He wasn’t allowed his sword back. Not yet.

“Did you mean what you said? Before they took you away.”

He pauses to watch a low flying birds swoop down to the running water of the river. It pulls out a small silver fish and carries it away.

“I’ve thought about it a lot.” He admits. “What I feel for you. It’s confusing but it makes me feel alive. I’m not going to pretend that I’m even worthy of you. (Y/n), I’m not a good person. No one in the Kingsguard is except maybe Barristan Selmy. I’ve done some things that would horrify you. I didn’t like who I was in King’s Landing. But I like who I am when I’m with you.”

Your first instinct is to kiss him. You’re sure that the guards wouldn’t be too happy about it. Might even report it to Catelyn who was already uneasy with letting Jaime walk free. She’d given him the option to even leave the Riverlands but he refused.

“Bet you wanted to kiss me just then.” His grin is stretched from ear to ear.

You laugh and shove his arm lightly.

Like the first day following your exodus from King’s Landing, Jaime tucks a stray strand of hair that had escaped it’s confines. “I really meant what I said. My life is your’s, my lady. If war is to come, I will gladly protect you from my own house. This I vow.”

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