#legacy

[novaursa]

Legacy (the others)

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

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

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

- Previous part: of the west

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The bitter cold of the unending winter gnawed at the hunting party as they moved through the shadowed woods beyond Casterly Rock. Snow crunched beneath their boots, muffled by the oppressive silence that blanketed the land. The pale light from the perpetually overcast sky offered little warmth, and the occasional gust of wind bit sharply at their exposed skin.

Tywin, clad in thick fur-lined armor and a crimson cloak, rode at the head of the group. His keen eyes scanned the trees ahead, ever watchful. His presence alone kept the men focused, though the unease among them was palpable. Kevan rode just behind him, his usually calm demeanor showing faint cracks as his gaze flicked warily to the surrounding darkness.

“Tracks,” called one of the scouts from the front of the line, pointing to a fresh trail in the snow. “Spider tracks.”

Tywin reined in his horse, dismounting with practiced ease. The others followed suit, forming a loose perimeter as the scout knelt to examine the tracks. Tywin stepped closer, his boots crunching softly as he moved. The tracks were unmistakable—long, deep impressions made by unnaturally large legs, the kind that belonged to creatures out of nightmare.

“How fresh?” Tywin asked, his tone calm and precise.

The scout hesitated, then replied, “An hour at most, my lord. Perhaps less.”

Kevan crouched beside the tracks, his expression grim. “They’re headed east—toward the cliffs. If these things make their nests there, we’ll need to act quickly.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he surveyed the trail. “We follow. Keep your weapons ready.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances but nodded, gripping their spears and swords more tightly. As they moved eastward, the forest grew darker, the trees thicker and more gnarled. The air felt heavier, colder, and a faint, almost imperceptible hum seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath their feet.

“Do you feel that?” one of the younger hunters whispered, his voice trembling.

“Quiet,” Tywin snapped, his tone cutting through the growing tension. “Stay alert.”

After another quarter hour of tracking, the party came to a sudden halt. The trail had led them to a clearing near the cliffs, and what they found there made even Tywin pause. The ground was littered with webbing, thick and glistening like frozen silk. Shards of ice clung to the strands, and the faint stench of decay lingered in the frigid air.

At the center of the clearing lay the carcass of a stag, its body wrapped tightly in layers of webbing. Its lifeless eyes stared blankly ahead, and its neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. The hunters murmured uneasily among themselves, crossing themselves or muttering prayers under their breath.

Kevan stepped forward, his boots crunching over frozen strands of webbing. “They’re killing everything in their path,” he said grimly. “Even the wildlife isn’t safe.”

Tywin approached the carcass, his gaze steady and calculating. He crouched beside it, studying the webbing with an intensity that made the others uneasy.

“This isn’t random,” he said after a moment, rising to his full height. “They’re hunting. Organizing.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed. “You think they’re… intelligent?”

Tywin didn’t answer immediately. His gaze swept the clearing, taking in the web patterns and the direction of the tracks. “Not in the way we understand, but there’s purpose here. Coordination.”

One of the men, a grizzled veteran named Ser Rowan, cleared his throat. “My lord, with respect… what if these things aren’t just spiders? What if they’re something worse?”

Before Tywin could respond, a sharp cry rang out from the edge of the clearing. One of the scouts stumbled back, his face pale as he pointed toward a shadowed patch of trees.

“What is it?” Tywin demanded, moving quickly to the man’s side.

“There’s… something else,” the scout stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I saw it—just for a moment. It wasn’t a spider, my lord. It was… taller. Standing upright.”

The men stiffened, their grips tightening on their weapons. Tywin’s jaw clenched as he turned toward the direction the scout had indicated.

“Show me,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

The scout hesitated but nodded, leading Tywin and Kevan to the edge of the clearing. The trees here were dense, their twisted branches forming eerie shapes in the dim light. A faint trail of broken branches and disturbed snow led deeper into the forest.

Tywin motioned for the others to stay back as he and Kevan followed the trail. They moved slowly, their breaths visible in the freezing air. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of branches in the wind.

And then they saw it.

At the end of the trail, partially obscured by the shadows, stood a figure. It was humanoid in shape but unnaturally tall, its limbs too long, its movements jerky and wrong. Its eyes glowed faintly, an icy blue that pierced the darkness. The creature tilted its head, as if studying them, and then it vanished into the trees with inhuman speed.

Kevan sucked in a sharp breath. “What in the Seven Hells was that?”

Tywin didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the spot where the creature had disappeared, his mind racing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.

“Something worse than spiders,” he said grimly. “We need to return to the Rock. Now.”

Kevan nodded, his usual composure shaken. “Do we tell the men what we saw?”

Tywin turned to him, his expression hard. “No. Not yet. Panic will only weaken them.”

They made their way back to the clearing, where the hunters were waiting anxiously. Tywin wasted no time. “We’re returning to the Rock. Double the watch on every wall and gate. No one leaves without my command.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances but followed his orders without question. As they began the trek back through the forest, the sense of unease only grew. The trees seemed darker, the wind colder, and the shadows deeper.

The forest seemed to close in on them as they made their way back, the oppressive cold deepening with each step. Shadows grew longer, twisting unnaturally against the gnarled trees, and the silence felt like a weight pressing down on their chests. The snow, once crisp and white, appeared gray in the low light, marred by the faint traces of the spider tracks they had been following.

Tywin rode at the head of the party, his eyes observing every shadow, every flicker of movement. His men were on edge, their breaths visible in the frigid air as they clutched their weapons tightly. Beside him, Kevan kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his jaw clenched as if bracing for the inevitable.

“Stay close,” Tywin ordered, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “No one wanders from the group.”

The hunters nodded, their faces pale and tense. The silence was so absolute that the faintest creak of leather or crunch of snow sounded deafening. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

Then it came.

A sound like nothing they had ever heard before—a low, guttural chittering that seemed to echo from all directions at once. It was not the sound of spiders; it was something deeper, something far more sinister. The horses whinnied in fear, stamping their hooves and pulling at their reins as the men tried to calm them.

“What was that?” one of the hunters whispered, his voice trembling.

“Something’s watching us,” Kevan muttered, his hand tightening on his sword.

Tywin held up a hand to silence them, his gaze fixed on the trees ahead. The chittering grew louder, joined by a faint rustling sound that seemed to come from the ground itself. The men shifted nervously, their eyes darting to the shadows that now seemed alive.

“Form a circle!” Tywin barked. “Torches up! Steel ready!”

The men obeyed, their torches flickering weakly in the cold wind. The circle of light they created was feeble, barely pushing back the encroaching darkness. The rustling grew louder, more insistent, and then the first attack came.

A creature burst from the shadows, moving with impossible speed. It was humanoid in shape but grotesquely elongated, its limbs unnaturally long and thin. Its skin was a pale, glistening gray, stretched tight over bones, and its eyes glowed an icy blue. It moved on all fours, its clawed hands digging into the snow as it lunged for the nearest hunter.

The man screamed as the creature dragged him into the darkness, his cries cut off abruptly. The others shouted in panic, their weapons swinging wildly as more creatures emerged from the trees.

“Hold the line!” Tywin shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The creatures were relentless, their movements erratic and unnatural. They seemed to melt in and out of the shadows, striking and retreating with terrifying precision. The hunters fought valiantly, but the creatures were faster, stronger. One man was pulled down, his torch extinguished as the snow was stained red.

“Tywin, behind you!” Kevan shouted, swinging his sword to intercept a creature that had leapt toward his brother.

Tywin turned in time to drive his blade into the creature’s chest, its icy blue eyes flickering out as it collapsed into the snow. But there were more—dozens of them, their glowing eyes a haunting constellation in the dark forest.

“They’re driving us apart!” Kevan yelled, his voice barely audible over the chittering and the screams.

Tywin realized he was right. The creatures weren’t just attacking—they were herding them, splitting the group. The circle was broken, and the men were being picked off one by one.

“Fall back!” Tywin ordered. “Regroup at the clearing!”

But it was too late. The creatures were everywhere, their movements so fast they seemed like blurs. The remaining hunters were scattered, their torches extinguished one by one. The sounds of the fight grew fainter as men were dragged into the darkness, their screams fading into eerie silence.

Tywin and Kevan found themselves alone, their backs against the gnarled trunk of a massive tree. Tywin’s sword was slick with black ichor, and Kevan’s breathing was ragged as he clutched a torch that barely sputtered in the icy wind.

“Do you hear that?” Kevan whispered, his voice trembling.

Tywin nodded, his gaze fixed on the darkness. The chittering had stopped, replaced by an even more unsettling sound—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and coming closer.

“They’re toying with us,” Kevan said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Stay calm,” Tywin said, his tone cold and steady despite the dread coiling in his chest. “They want us to panic.”

The footsteps grew louder, joined by faint whispers in a language neither man could understand. The torch flickered and died, plunging them into complete darkness. The air felt colder, heavier, as if the forest itself was closing in.

“Tywin,” Kevan said, his voice shaking. “What do we do?”

Tywin didn’t answer immediately. His hand tightened on his sword as he stared into the void, his mind racing. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and resolute.

“We wait.”

The whispers grew louder, more insistent, and the sound of movement surrounded them. The creatures were there, hidden in the shadows, watching. The two men stood side by side, their breaths visible in the freezing air, as the darkness pressed closer.

And then, from somewhere deep in the forest, a single, piercing shriek echoed through the night—a sound so inhuman, so bone-chilling, that it froze them in place.

The forest fell silent once more, save for the faint sound of movement. The creatures were still there, circling, waiting.

Tywin gripped his sword tighter, his gaze unyielding as he stared into the blackness. 

The warm glow of the hearth filled the breakfast chamber in Casterly Rock, but the room’s comfort did little to dispel the lingering tension brought by the endless winter. You sat at the head of the table, your sons, Damon and Maelor, on either side of you, their chatter filling the space. Damon was holding a piece of bread in one hand, his legs swinging beneath the table as he peppered the servants with questions about his father. Maelor clutched his cup with both hands, his wide violet eyes fixed on you expectantly.

Across the table sat Varys, freshly arrived from King’s Landing that morning, his expression unreadable as he observed the familial scene. The servants moved quietly in the background, bringing plates of warm porridge and steaming cups of tea to the table.

“When is Father coming back?” Damon asked, his tone curious but with a hint of impatience. “You said he’d be back hours ago.”

You reached out to brush a stray strand of silver-gold hair from Damon’s face, offering him a soft smile. “Soon, little lion. He had to stay a bit longer than planned, but he will be home.”

Damon frowned slightly, poking at his food with a spoon. “He promised.”

“And he always keeps his promises,” you assured him, your voice steady. “Sometimes important matters keep him away longer than expected.”

Maelor looked up at you, his small voice breaking through the conversation. “Does he have to fight bad people? Like the spiders the hunters found?”

The question caught you off guard, but you quickly masked your unease. “Your father is making sure we are all safe. That’s what matters.”

Varys interjected smoothly, his tone light but with a hint of curiosity. “Lord Tywin’s dedication to his duty is unmatched. The realm could learn much from his example.”

Before you could respond, a distant roar shattered the relative peace of the morning. It was deep and resonant, carrying through the stone walls like a thunderclap. Plates rattled on the table, and the servants froze in place, their faces pale.

Damon’s eyes widened with excitement. “Viserion!” he exclaimed, nearly knocking over his cup as he scrambled to his feet. “She’s awake!”

Maelor clung to your arm, his small hands trembling. “Mama, why is she roaring?”

You stood quickly, your heart racing as another roar echoed through the castle. This one was sharper, more agitated—a sound you had learned to recognize as a warning. Varys rose from his seat, his calm demeanor betraying a flicker of unease.

“What’s happening?” Damon asked, looking between you and the window.

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice steady despite the knot forming in your stomach. “Stay here with Maelor.” You turned to the servants, your tone firm. “Do not let them out of your sight.”

Just as you were about to leave the room, Ser Barristan burst through the door, his expression uncharacteristically urgent. “My lady,” he said, his breath visible in the frigid air. “Viserion has emerged from the mine. She took off into the night—agitated, roaring.”

The room fell silent as the weight of his words settled over everyone. You exchanged a glance with Varys, whose expression, for once, showed genuine concern.

“Why?” you asked Barristan, your voice sharp. “What could have provoked her?”

“We don’t know,” Barristan admitted, his brow furrowed. “But something has disturbed her. The guards say she flew toward the northern cliffs.”

Damon, who had been listening intently, tugged at your sleeve. “Is she looking for Father? Did something happen to him?”

You knelt in front of him, placing your hands on his shoulders. “Your father is strong, Damon. He’ll be fine,” you said, though your heart ached at the uncertainty. “Viserion is a clever dragon. She’ll find what she’s looking for.”

Maelor buried his face in your skirt, his small voice muffled. “I’m scared, Mama.”

You stroked his hair gently, your voice softening. “There’s no need to be scared. We’re safe here.”

Varys stepped forward, his calm tone breaking the tense silence. “My lady, if I may, Viserion’s agitation could be linked to something beyond these walls. Dragons, after all, are tied to forces we cannot always understand.”

“Whatever it is, I need answers,” you said, rising to your feet and turning to Barristan. “Double the guard around the castle. Ensure the boys are kept safe at all times.”

Barristan nodded. “At once, my lady.”

You glanced back at your sons, your heart heavy as Damon looked up at you with those bright, curious eyes. “Stay here,” you told him firmly. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

As you moved to leave, Varys spoke again, his tone measured. “A word of caution, my lady. Dragons are unpredictable creatures, especially when their instincts are heightened. It would be wise to tread carefully.”

You didn’t respond, your mind already racing with possibilities as you followed Barristan out of the room. Behind you, Damon’s voice called out, tinged with worry. “Bring Father back, Mama!”

You paused briefly, glancing back at him with a reassuring smile. “I will, my little lion. I will.”

The snow crunched beneath the hooves of your horse as you rode through the icy wilderness surrounding Casterly Rock. The air was bitterly cold, each breath forming a visible cloud as you pushed further into the dark expanse. The faint tracks left by Viserion’s massive claws guided you, though they grew fainter with every passing mile. The pale winter moon barely illuminated your path, casting long shadows that twisted like phantoms among the frost-covered trees.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and determination driving you forward. Viserion’s sudden departure had unsettled you deeply. The she-dragon had always been attuned to you, and for her to act so erratically meant something was wrong.

Barristan’s voice echoed in your mind from earlier that evening.

“She’s not acting without reason, my lady. Dragons sense what we cannot.”

Your grip on the reins tightened as you scanned the eerie, frozen landscape. The world felt unnatural, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional howl of the wind. You tried to shake the creeping sense of unease, focusing instead on the faint tracks ahead.

Suddenly, your horse reared back with a panicked whinny, its hooves thrashing in the air. You barely had time to steady yourself before it bucked violently, throwing you to the frozen ground. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, and pain shot through your side as you struggled to get up.

A chilling screech pierced the night, and you froze, your hand instinctively going to the small dagger at your belt. From the shadows emerged a massive spider, its long, spindly legs clicking against the ice as it advanced. Its glistening black carapace reflected the pale moonlight, and its glowing blue eyes were fixed on you with predatory intent.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart racing as the creature lunged. The cold steel of your dagger felt pitifully small in your hand, and you knew there was no way you could face such a monstrosity alone.

“Viserion!” you screamed, your voice echoing into the void.

The spider reared back, its grotesque mandibles clicking menacingly as it prepared to strike. Just as it lunged, a deafening roar split the air, shaking the ground beneath you. The sudden blast of heat that followed was searing, and the spider was engulfed in a torrent of flames before it could reach you.

Viserion descended from the sky like a golden comet, her massive wings stirring the snow into a whirlwind as she landed between you and the charred remains of the spider. Her molten eyes glowed fiercely as she let out another roar, her long neck arching protectively over you.

You stumbled backward, your breath coming in ragged gasps as Viserion turned her head toward you. The fierceness in her eyes softened as she lowered herself, her snout nudging your side gently.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, reaching out to place a trembling hand on her warm scales. “Thank you.”

Viserion huffed, her hot breath clouding the air as her eyes scanned you for any sign of injury. You could feel the deep rumble of her concern vibrating through her body.

“I should have known you’d come for me,” you said softly, running your hand along her neck. “You always do.”

Viserion let out a low, comforting rumble, her massive form towering over you like a shield against the darkness. The snow around her had melted into steaming puddles, and the cold no longer felt so biting with her warmth enveloping you.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you moved toward her saddle, which was still secured to her back. Your muscles ached from the fall, but you pushed through the pain as you climbed up. Viserion remained still, her body tense and alert as if she were waiting for another threat to emerge.

Once you were securely seated, you leaned forward, your hands gripping the reins tightly. “Let’s go, girl. We need to find Tywin.”

Viserion roared once more, a sound that echoed into the vast, desolate night. Her powerful wings unfurled, snow and ice scattering as she launched herself into the air. The ground fell away beneath you, and the cold wind bit at your cheeks as the stars blurred overhead.

The clearing was a battlefield of ice and blood. Tywin and Kevan Lannister stood back-to-back, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they fought against the relentless tide of creatures. The grotesque forms of the attackers slithered and crawled from the shadows, their blue, glowing eyes piercing through the winter gloom. The beasts were monstrous amalgamations of man and nightmare—elongated limbs, pale and leathery skin stretched tight over sinew and bone, and claws that glinted like daggers in the faint moonlight.

Tywin drove his sword into the chest of one, the steel biting deep into its unnatural flesh. Black ichor sprayed across his armor as the creature let out a piercing wail before collapsing. He didn’t pause to catch his breath, turning sharply to strike another that lunged at Kevan.

“They keep coming!” Kevan shouted, slashing at a creature that tried to claw at his leg. “We won’t hold them off much longer!”

Tywin’s jaw tightened as he parried another strike, his face as unyielding as ever despite the chaos surrounding them. “Then we make them regret every step they take toward us,” he said coldly.

The air was bitter and thick with the scent of death. The last of their torches had been extinguished in the fray, leaving only the faint glow of the creatures’ eyes to light the scene. Their guttural chittering grew louder, a symphony of horror that sent chills down their spines.

Kevan stumbled slightly, narrowly avoiding the swipe of a claw that would have taken his head. “Tywin!” he shouted, his voice laced with desperation. “We can’t keep this up!”

Just as the creatures closed in, a deafening roar shattered the night, drowning out the horrifying sounds of their attackers. The ground trembled as a shadow passed over the clearing, followed by a sudden blast of searing heat.

From the sky, Viserion descended like an avenging flame, her golden scales glinting in the pale light of the moon. Her massive wings stirred the air into a tempest as she landed with a ground-shaking thud. A wave of fire erupted from her maw, consuming the creatures closest to Tywin and Kevan. Their screams echoed into the void as they dissolved into ash and blackened bones.

Kevan shielded his face from the intense heat, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror. “Seven Hells…” he muttered.

Perched atop Viserion, you clung tightly to the saddle, your hair whipping around you in the storm of her wings. “Tywin! Kevan!” you shouted, your voice carrying over the chaos.

Tywin’s head snapped up, his green eyes narrowing as they met yours. Despite the blood staining his armor and the ichor streaked across his face, his expression remained stoic.

Viserion roared again, her molten gaze fixed on the remaining creatures. They hesitated, their movements faltering as the she-dragon advanced. Another blast of fire erupted from her jaws, scattering them into the shadows. The few that remained retreated, their glowing eyes disappearing into the darkness.

“They’re falling back!” Kevan shouted, his voice filled with relief. “She’s driving them away!”

As the last of the creatures vanished, Viserion lowered her massive head, letting out a low, rumbling growl. You leaned forward in the saddle, your face pale but determined. “Climb on!” you called, your voice urgent. “Now!”

Kevan froze, staring at the dragon with wide eyes. “Climb… on?” he echoed, as if the very idea was unthinkable.

“There’s no time to argue!” you yelled, holding tightly to the reins. “More could come! You won’t make it back on foot!”

Tywin glanced at his brother, his expression unreadable but his tone stern. “Do as she says, Kevan. We’re out of options.”

Kevan hesitated, his hand gripping his sword tightly. “Tywin, this is—”

“A dragon doesn’t wait, Kevan,” Tywin snapped, his voice cutting through his brother’s protest. “Climb!”

Kevan swallowed hard, glancing at the massive creature before him. Her eyes flicked toward him, unblinking and intense. With a resigned nod, he sheathed his sword and approached cautiously.

“Come on!” you urged, extending a hand to him as Viserion lowered herself slightly to allow them to mount. “She won’t hurt you!”

Kevan reached up, his movements stiff and uncertain, as he took your hand. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up behind you, gripping the saddle with white-knuckled hands. Tywin followed suit, his movements precise and calculated despite the situation.

Once they were both secure, you tugged on the reins. “Hold tight!” you warned. “She’s going to take off!”

Viserion roared once more, her wings unfurling with a powerful sweep. Snow and ash scattered as she launched into the sky, the ground falling away beneath you. The wind roared in your ears as the three of you ascended into the night, leaving the horrors of the forest behind.

Kevan clung to the saddle, his face pale. “Tywin,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You owe me for this.”

Tywin’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression as unyielding as ever. “Be grateful you’re alive, Kevan.”

You couldn’t help but smile faintly despite the tension. “I told you she wouldn’t hurt you,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”

Kevan let out a weak laugh, though it was tinged with disbelief. “If we survive this, I might.”

The rest of the flight passed in tense silence, the cold wind biting at your skin as Viserion carried you toward safety. The night was dark and endless, but for now, you were alive—and together.

The sound of Viserion’s massive wings beating against the icy air signaled her arrival as she descended into the courtyard of Casterly Rock. Snow swirled in her wake, the gusts sending men staggering back as the she-dragon landed with a resounding thud. Her scales glimmered faintly, dusted with ash and streaked with blood from the battle, and her fiery eyes scanned the gathered guards with a wary intensity.

The Lannister men stood frozen, their hands hovering near the hilts of their swords. Their expressions ranged from awe to outright fear as they watched the dragon settle. Slowly, she lowered herself, her massive frame taking up most of the courtyard as her molten gaze swept over the figures before her.

Perched atop the saddle, you turned to help Kevan dismount. His face was pale, his hands still gripping the saddle with white-knuckled tension. “You’re on solid ground now,” you said gently, extending a hand to him.

“Solid ground has never felt so unsteady,” Kevan muttered as he slid down, stumbling slightly before regaining his footing. His wide eyes darted toward Viserion as he backed away. “I don’t know how you’ve made a habit of this.”

You offered him a faint smile before turning to Tywin, who sat behind you. “Your turn,” you said, your voice soft but firm.

Tywin’s movements were deliberate, his gaze sweeping over the courtyard as he dismounted with practiced ease. The blood and grime staining his armor seemed to weigh heavier on him now that the chaos of battle was over. He stood straight, his expression unreadable, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his discomfort.

As soon as Tywin’s boots hit the ground, Viserion let out a low rumble and stretched her wings. She nudged you gently with her massive snout, as if ensuring you were unharmed, before retreating toward the entrance of the mines. The men in the courtyard parted quickly, clearing a path for the dragon as she disappeared into the shadows of her lair.

“Stand down,” Tywin ordered the guards, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “The dragon has done her part. She is no threat.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances but lowered their hands from their weapons, their shoulders relaxing slightly.

You stepped toward Tywin, your eyes immediately scanning him. The adrenaline from the flight was beginning to wear off, and the full weight of what had just happened settled heavily in your chest. “Let me see,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument as you motioned toward his armor.

“I am fine,” Tywin replied curtly, brushing off your concern.

“No, you’re not,” you countered, your voice sharpening as you reached for the straps of his armor. “There’s blood.”

Kevan, who had been catching his breath nearby, glanced over. “She’s right, Tywin. I saw it too. You took a hit back there.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, irritation flickering in his eyes. “It’s nothing but a scratch.”

You ignored his protests, pulling at the clasp of his breastplate. As the heavy piece of armor fell away, the source of the blood became clear—a jagged tear in his tunic just beneath his ribs, dark with crimson. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was angry and raw, the skin around it beginning to swell.

“Nothing but a scratch,” you repeated, your tone laced with sarcasm as you glared up at him. “You could have bled out, Tywin.”

His expression didn’t waver, though there was a faint flicker of something in his eyes—irritation or perhaps reluctant acknowledgment. “It’s not as dire as you make it out to be.”

You turned sharply to the guards standing nearby. “Fetch Maester Aldren, now,” you ordered, your voice firm.

One of the men nodded quickly and hurried off, leaving the others standing awkwardly in silence.

Tywin crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on you. “This is unnecessary. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“And yet you’re still here to argue with me about it,” you shot back, your hands on your hips. “Let the maester tend to you, Tywin. You are no use to anyone if you’re laid up in bed with an infection.”

Kevan stepped closer, his voice lighter as he tried to ease the tension. “Listen to her, Tywin. She’s right, as always.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent, his jaw tightening as he reluctantly allowed your concerns to take precedence.

You stepped closer, your hands softening as you touched his arm. “You’ve just fought horrors most men couldn’t dream of. You’re human, Tywin, not invincible.”

His green eyes met yours, and for a moment, the weight of his exhaustion was visible. “Very well,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of its edge. “If it will put your mind at ease.”

“It will,” you replied, your tone softening as you gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you.”

The sound of hurried footsteps announced the arrival of Maester Aldren, who approached with his satchel of supplies. “My lord, my lady,” he greeted, his tone cautious as his gaze darted toward the blood on Tywin’s side. “I will see to it at once.”

You nodded, stepping aside to allow the maester access. “Take him inside,” you said firmly. “He’s done enough for one day.”

Tywin cast you a pointed look but allowed himself to be guided toward the keep. Kevan followed closely, his expression a mixture of relief and weariness. As the courtyard began to clear, you stood alone for a moment, your gaze lingering on the dark entrance to the mines where Viserion had disappeared.

The dragon had come for them when they needed her most, but the cost of what was stirring beyond the safety of Casterly Rock was growing clearer by the day. And now, with winter tightening its grip, the stakes had never felt higher.

The air smelled faintly of herbs and salves as Maester Aldren worked methodically at Tywin’s side, carefully cleaning and stitching the jagged wound beneath his ribs. You stood a few steps away, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your expression guarded but your worry plain for anyone to see.

Tywin sat on the edge of the bed, his posture as straight as ever, despite the pain that must have been coursing through him. His shirt had been removed, revealing the taut lines of his chest and the angry gash that Maester Aldren was tending to. Tywin’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, catching the stiffness in your stance.

“You shouldn’t be standing there, watching like a scolded child,” Tywin said, his tone as even as ever despite the situation.

You took a slow breath, your voice tinged with exasperation. “I’m not leaving until I know you’re fine.”

Maester Aldren glanced between the two of you, his movements careful as he worked. “The wound is not as deep as it could have been, my lord. With rest and proper care, it should heal without issue.”

“That’s what I said,” Tywin muttered under his breath, though his wince betrayed him as Aldren applied a fresh layer of salve.

You stepped closer, narrowing your eyes at him. “And yet you didn’t think to tell me about it until I saw the blood.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply immediately. The maester finished the last stitch and began wrapping a clean bandage around Tywin’s torso. When Aldren stepped back, his task completed, Tywin dismissed him with a nod.

“Leave us,” Tywin commanded. Aldren gathered his supplies, bowed, and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

The silence stretched for a moment as you watched Tywin reach for his discarded shirt, his movements precise but slower than usual. You stepped forward, taking the fabric from him before he could strain himself further.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” you said softly, your voice still carrying an edge of frustration. “Let me help.”

Tywin regarded you for a moment before relenting, allowing you to drape the shirt gently over his shoulders. He straightened, his eyes locking onto yours. “You shouldn’t have come after me.”

Your brow furrowed, your hands stilling as you processed his words. “Of course, I came after you,” you replied, your voice quiet but firm. “How could I not?”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, though there was something sharper in his expression now. “You could have died,” he said evenly, though the weight of the words lingered heavily in the air.

You met his gaze, your own eyes soft but resolute. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point,” Tywin snapped, his voice rising slightly for the first time. “You put yourself at risk—for what? To ride into danger when you should have been here, safe, with our children?”

You stepped back slightly, your arms crossing once more. “You were out there, Tywin,” you countered, your voice matching his intensity. “What was I supposed to do? Sit here and wonder if you’d ever come back?”

“Yes,” Tywin replied without hesitation, his tone icy. “That is exactly what you should have done. Your place is here, ensuring the safety of this house, of our children.”

“And your place is with them, too,” you shot back, your voice trembling slightly with emotion. “But you were out there, fighting creatures no one understands. How could I stay here knowing you might not return?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration evident, though he didn’t immediately respond. The fire crackled softly in the silence.

“I can’t lose you,” you said finally, your voice breaking slightly as you looked away. “Don’t you understand that? I can’t.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, his stern features softening just a fraction. “And I cannot lose you,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of its usual bite. “But that is exactly what you risked.”

You stepped closer, reaching out to place a hand gently on his uninjured side. “I didn’t die, Tywin. I didn’t. And I won’t apologize for doing what I had to do.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his green eyes studying your face as if searching for something. Finally, he let out a soft sigh, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

“You always had a mind of your own,” he muttered, though there was a trace of something warmer in his tone.

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite the gravity of the conversation. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Tywin’s lips twitched, but he said nothing, instead reaching up to rest a hand lightly over yours. The weight of the moment lingered, unspoken but understood.

The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room as you remained close to Tywin, your hand resting gently against his side. The weight of everything that had happened, everything you had seen, pressed heavily on both of you. It was a silence thick with unspoken fears and shared understanding.

Tywin’s eyes, usually focused and commanding, were distant now, as if the horrors he had faced lingered just beneath the surface. He finally broke the silence, his voice low and steady but carrying an unusual note of weariness.

“You were right,” he said, his words deliberate.

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “About what?”

He met your gaze, the faintest flicker of something vulnerable showing through his usual stoicism. “The visions you spoke of—the things you warned me about. I dismissed them as fever dreams, shadows… I should not have.”

The admission startled you. Tywin Lannister was not a man who easily admitted fault, much less one to concede that someone else had seen further than he had. You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “Tywin, we’ve done everything we could to prepare. The Westerlands are stronger than most of the realm right now because of your leadership.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head slightly. “Strength means little against what we faced out there. Those creatures…” He trailed off, his gaze hardening. “They’re unnatural. An affront to everything we know.”

You nodded slowly, your own memories of what you’d seen with Viserion still vivid. “They’re not just creatures, Tywin. They’re death itself, and they’re coming for all of us.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he said nothing, the firelight casting shadows across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost reluctant. “I’ve spent my life fighting battles I could win—battles I could control. But this... this is something else entirely.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his cheek, the gesture tender. “You’ve done more than anyone could ask, Tywin. You’ve kept your people alive during the darkest winter the realm has ever seen. That’s more than most lords can claim.”

He exhaled softly, leaning into your touch just enough for you to notice. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is,” you assured him, your voice firm but gentle. “You’ve given us a chance. That’s more than anyone else could do.”

For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze searching. Then, with a deliberate motion, he reached up and cupped your face in his hands. His touch was warm despite the chill that seemed to linger everywhere these days. “You’re the only one who’s ever dared to tell me the truth,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Even when I didn’t want to hear it.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing against his wrist. “Someone has to keep you in check.”

His lips twitched into what might have been a smile, and then he leaned forward, pressing a firm but tender kiss to your lips. The weight of the world seemed to fall away for a moment, replaced by the shared warmth between you. His hands remained steady, holding you close as if anchoring himself to something real amidst the chaos.

When the kiss broke, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the still air of the room. “You’re not alone in this, Tywin,” you murmured. “We’ll face it together, no matter what comes.”

He nodded slightly, his fingers brushing against your jawline. “I know.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted the moment, and you pulled back slightly, glancing toward the sound. One of the household staff called out from the other side. “My lady, your sons are asking for you.”

You smiled, a warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of Damon and Maelor. Turning back to Tywin, you placed a hand lightly on his chest. “They’re waiting for you too, you know.”

His brows lifted slightly, and for a moment, the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. “They’ve been spoiled.”

You chuckled softly. “And whose fault is that?”

He didn’t answer, but the faint smirk that played at the corners of his lips was answer enough. You kissed him one last time before stepping back and extending a hand toward him. “Come. They’ve missed you.”

Tywin stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he straightened his posture. Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, there was a renewed determination in his eyes. He took your hand, and together, you left the room to join your children, the weight of the world still present but somehow a little lighter with each step you took side by side.

[thewinterraven]

First Page — Previous Page — Next Page 02nd February

Read the Prequel Starliner first on Tumblr, or Comic Fury!

Read Legacy on Comic Fury Here!

Character pages

Timeline

Notes

Guess who nearly forgot to upload omg

Drama ~

[littlefrenchsims]

[viniciusvill]

The Sims 4 - The Eras Legacy

By Viniciusvill & grenesims

Don't be strict while following the rules. Let your imagination fly free, follow your story and have fun!

Acknowledgements:

To Taylor Swift for creating amazing songs that bring me so much joy.

To grenesims, my co-writer who kindly agreed to help me create this challenge.

[call-me-oluss]

Legacy

[englishsimmercc]

Legacy Challenges if you're burnt out on the game

Sims in Bloom by a-sims-garden

Whimsy Stories by kateraed

Occult Legacy by asphodelmoon

Occult Legacy Graphics by kimbasprite

Solar System Legacy by GinovaSims

Star Sign Legacy by GinovaSims

Joy of Life Challenge by simelune

Hallmark Lore Legacy by WestCoastCowgirl

Bromance Legacy by maice

[incorrectstarwarslegendsquotes]

Star Wars Legends + text posts (part 4/?)

[pratchettquotes]

There'll come a time when it'll all be clear, Sweeper had said. A perfect moment.

The occupants of these graves had died for something. In the sunset glow, in the rising of the moon, in the taste of the cigar, in the warmth that comes from sheer exhaustion, Vimes saw it.

History finds a way. The nature of events changed, but the nature of the dead had not. It had been a mean, shameful little fight that ended them, a flyspecked footnote of history, but they hadn't been mean or shameful men. They hadn't run, and they could have run with honor. They'd stayed, and he wondered if the path had seemed as clear to them as it did to him now. They'd stayed not because they wanted to be heroes, but because they chose to think of it as their job, and it was in front of them--

"I'll be off then, sir," said Reg, shouldering his shovel. He seemed a long way away. "Sir?"

"Yeah, right. Right, Reg. Thank you," mumbled Vimes, and in the pink glow of the moment watched the corporal march down the darkening path and out into the city.

John Keel, Billy Wiglet, Horace Nancyball, Dai Dickins, Cecil "Snouty" Clapman, Ned Coates, and, technically, Reg Shoe. Probably there were no more than twenty people in the city now who knew all the names, because there were no statues, no monuments, nothing written down anywhere. You had to have been there.

He felt privileged to have been there twice.

Terry Pratchett, Night Watch

[luthqrs]

JENNIFER ‘JJ’ JAREAU in CRIMINAL MINDS 2x22 | 'Legacy’

[eastwardnest271]

My boss going insane lmaoo /ref

TW:FLASHY BRIGHT COLOURS!!!

Bro's tryna regain control of his mind😭😭😭

Anyway uhh this is my new TikTok pfp welcome skibidi toilet (2020 vibes? That's the point)

[novaursa]

Legacy (dinner with a lion)

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

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: power play

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

Tywin sits alone at the head of the table, his fingers steepled as he waits, his expression as unreadable as the darkness pooling around him. The faint rustling of armor and the heavy door opening signals the arrival of his guest, and a faint smirk tugs at Tywin's lips as Petyr Baelish enters, eyes sharp, glinting with his characteristic cunning.

"Lord Baelish," Tywin greets, his voice a quiet command in itself, and he gestures for Petyr to join him. "I trust the journey from King’s Landing was not overly burdensome."

Petyr steps forward with a slight bow, his expression betraying nothing as he takes a seat. "Lord Tywin," he replies smoothly, "one grows accustomed to the roads in these trying times. Though, it is a relief to find oneself back in civilized company."

Tywin nods slightly, acknowledging the thinly veiled compliment, though his gaze remains sharp. "There is much to discuss, Littlefinger. I trust your recent activities in the capital have yielded… profitable results?"

Baelish’s lips curve in a shadow of a smile, his hands folding on the table before him. "Profitable indeed, my lord. The city is ever a place of opportunities for those with an eye keen enough to see them. But I must admit, I did not expect to find you here in Harrenhal… or to hear of a rather unique guest in your company."

Tywin’s expression remains unreadable, though a glint in his eye betrays his satisfaction. "Ah, yes. The rumors travel quickly, I see. It is true. She’s here."

Littlefinger raises an eyebrow, his tone careful. "The sister of Rhaegar Targaryen herself. I’d thought her lost to the North, tucked away under the Starks’ protection."

"The Starks’ protection can only go so far, especially in times such as these." Tywin’s tone is cold, final. "Lady Y/N’s presence here is… fortuitous, and I intend to ensure she remains under Lannister protection from now on."

Petyr’s face shifts, his surprise only barely concealed. "Lannister protection," he repeats, musing over the words, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "So… I am to assume her role will extend beyond mere ‘protection’?”

Tywin’s lips thin into a faint smile, a calculated gleam in his eyes. "Quite astute, as always, Lord Baelish. Lady Y/N will accompany me back to the capital, where preparations for our union will commence."

For the first time, Petyr’s mask falters, his expression flickering with a trace of genuine surprise. He recovers quickly, smoothing his expression back into one of neutral interest. “Your union?” he asks, as if testing the weight of the words.

"Indeed," Tywin replies, his gaze unwavering. "A union that will serve to secure her position—and mine. A Targaryen, legitimized under Lannister rule, will silence whispers on both sides. There are… strategic benefits to the arrangement."

Petyr’s eyes narrow, the cogs turning in his mind as he weighs this unexpected twist. “A fascinating decision, my lord. I must admit, I didn’t think you the type to take a wife again.”

Tywin’s gaze hardens just slightly. "One must be prepared to make certain sacrifices, Littlefinger. This is more than a mere alliance—it is an investment in the future stability of the realm."

Baelish gives a small nod, masking his surprise with the smooth, charming smile he so often wears. "And who better than you, my lord, to secure such stability." Yet, there’s a glimmer of something deeper in his gaze—curiosity, calculation, perhaps even a hint of envy. The wheels in his mind turn, each possibility shifting into place.

Just then, the door opens again, and Arya steps in quietly, her gaze downcast as she approaches Tywin with practiced caution. She keeps her movements careful, her head bowed, hoping to avoid the sharp eyes of Petyr Baelish. There’s a stiffness in her posture, a wariness that one would notice if looked closely enough—an instinct to stay hidden, out of his direct line of sight.

She clears her throat, addressing Tywin in a low, subdued tone. “The kitchens have been notified, m’lord. They’re preparing dinner for two as you requested.”

Tywin gives a curt nod, a faint note of approval in his voice. “Good. Remember to relay instructions clearly. I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Arya’s reply is measured, steady, and she bows her head again before taking a step back, hoping to blend into the background.

Baelish glances at her, his eyes narrowing slightly, though he says nothing. Tywin’s attention returns fully to him, cutting off any opportunity for deeper scrutiny.

“Now,” Baelish continues, his tone sliding back to its usual ease, though he seems unable to completely mask his curiosity. “Your decision to bring Lady Y/N back to the capital… and to wed her… It’s a bold choice. But surely, there are risks in aligning with a Targaryen, especially with her brother’s allies still stirring trouble in the North.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpens. "Risks are inevitable in any pursuit worth undertaking. Lady Y/N is no mere Targaryen pawn; she has spent her years with the Starks, understanding the value of loyalty and the strength of alliances. She is an asset, one who will be as useful to us as she is beautiful. I would expect you, of all people, to understand the value in seizing such an advantage.”

Littlefinger inclines his head slightly, accepting the reprimand with his usual grace. “Of course, my lord. It’s clear you have considered all angles… as always.”

Tywin’s lips curl into a faint smile, though there’s a coldness in his gaze, an unwavering sense of purpose. “She will remain under our protection, a union that will secure her future and strengthen our own. And rest assured, Lord Baelish—there is nothing I have not accounted for.”

Arya shifts subtly in the background, watching the exchange with quiet intensity, her gaze carefully averted as she fights to remain unnoticed. But one can sense her unease, the tension coiled within her as Baelish’s eyes flit in her direction once more, though Tywin’s commanding presence keeps his curiosity in check.

Baelish clears his throat, breaking the silence. "It seems, then, that Lady Y/N’s fate is sealed, under Lannister protection, as you say. I shall be sure to offer my… congratulations, Lord Tywin.”

Tywin’s response is a mere nod, curt and dismissive, as if the matter were already resolved. “Indeed. There is nothing more to discuss on this subject. And as for Lady Y/N, she will be prepared for what lies ahead, with or without any further interest from others.”

With that, Tywin’s gaze flicks to Arya, signaling her dismissal. "You may go, Ary. And remember—take care to stay out of trouble. I won’t tolerate mistakes.”

Arya nods quickly, mumbling a quiet “Yes, m’lord,” before slipping out of the room, her heart pounding as she escapes Baelish’s prying eyes. She leaves Tywin and Baelish behind, aware that her role here is as dangerous as it is vital, even as the weight of Tywin’s plans settles heavily over Harrenhal, casting shadows that will follow all who stand in his path.

The chamber is warm, filled with the scent of lavender and rosewater, and for a moment, you almost forget where you are. The tub is a luxury you haven’t felt in weeks, perhaps months—hot water, scented oils, and a rare sense of solitude. Yet even as you sink deeper into the warmth, you’re keenly aware of what this bath signifies: preparation. Tywin's plans have already begun, each detail meticulously arranged, as if even your appearance belongs to him now.

After the bath, you’re helped from the water by two servants, silent and efficient as they wrap you in soft, thick cloth. They don’t look you in the eye, their faces carefully composed, trained not to betray any thoughts of their own. You’re led to a chair by the mirror, and another servant—a younger girl with nimble fingers and a gentle touch—begins to work on your hair, combing it slowly, carefully, her movements practiced.

For a time, no one speaks, the only sound the gentle scrape of the comb through your damp hair, the crackle of fire in the hearth, the whisper of fabric as they prepare the gown laid out for you.

Finally, the young girl ventures a quiet comment, her voice respectful yet tinged with a hint of curiosity. “My lady… you have beautiful hair. Unusual, like silver.”

You meet her gaze in the mirror, offering a polite smile. “Thank you,” you murmur, though the compliment feels hollow, an echo of a different life. In the North, your hair had set you apart, a reminder of your Targaryen blood, a mark of both your family’s glory and ruin. And here, in Harrenhal, that same hair becomes another detail in Tywin’s plan, something to be arranged and polished for presentation.

The girl continues her work, separating strands to braid, her fingers working with delicate precision. She doesn’t ask further questions, sensing perhaps that this is not the place for conversation, or perhaps trained to keep her thoughts hidden.

As she finishes a braid and moves to another, she glances at the woman standing near the door—an older servant, clearly in charge of overseeing your preparation. The woman nods, as if giving silent permission, and the girl reaches for a small box, retrieving something that catches the firelight—a thin golden thread, gleaming against the dull stone of the chamber.

Your breath catches. “What is that?” you ask, though you already know.

The older woman steps forward, her expression unreadable. “Lord Tywin’s orders, my lady. A touch of gold, to complement your gown.” She gestures toward the dress, a rich shade of crimson with subtle golden embroidery, unmistakably Lannister colors. “He thought it fitting.”

You bite back the urge to scoff, keeping your expression neutral. “Fitting,” you repeat softly, watching as the girl weaves the golden thread through your braid with painstaking care. The irony is not lost on you—this thread, this symbol of Lannister wealth and power, woven into your Targaryen hair, a mockery of your heritage. Even here, in this small detail, Tywin’s influence surrounds you, binding you to his house in every visible way.

The girl glances up, sensing your unease. She hesitates, fingers still for a moment, before speaking in a low, cautious voice. “Is… is it not to your liking, my lady?”

You force a small, restrained smile. “It’s… a thoughtful touch,” you reply, keeping your tone steady. “One must always consider appearances, after all.” The words feel brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering, yet the girl seems relieved, resuming her work with renewed focus.

As she finishes, she steps back to admire her handiwork, eyes bright with pride. She’s braided your hair into an intricate design, the golden thread glinting subtly, woven through each plait like veins of sunlight in silver. It’s beautiful, in a way—refined, elegant, and utterly foreign. The girl beams, clearly satisfied.

“It suits you, my lady,” she says, a note of admiration in her voice.

You look at yourself in the mirror, studying the unfamiliar reflection. The gown clings to you in shades of red and gold, Lannister colors draped over Targaryen blood. And the braids, laced with golden thread, feel like a chain, binding you in a way more powerful than any metal could.

“Fitting, indeed,” you murmur under your breath, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of your lips. To anyone else, this might look like elegance, like opulence. To you, it feels like an ironic jest, as if Tywin himself were mocking your heritage, stripping it away strand by strand.

The older woman watches you carefully, sensing the tension but saying nothing. “Lord Tywin values appearances,” she says finally, her voice neutral, almost mechanical. “A mark of respect, my lady, to make you feel at ease.”

“At ease,” you echo, a quiet scoff escaping despite yourself. “Yes, I’m sure his intentions are nothing but respectful.”

The woman says nothing, only inclines her head in a gesture of polite acknowledgment. There’s no room here for rebellion, no space for protest, and she knows it. Her role is simply to prepare you, to mold you into the image Tywin desires. To make you presentable, obedient, fit for his plans.

Finally, they finish, the servants stepping back to assess their work one last time. The young girl looks at you, her eyes shining with pride as if she’s just created a masterpiece. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she says softly, a note of genuine admiration in her voice.

You manage a tight smile. “Thank you.” The words feel hollow, an acknowledgment of her work rather than any reflection of your own thoughts. As you rise, smoothing the folds of the gown, you catch a final glimpse of yourself in the mirror—transformed, adorned in Lannister colors, the last threads of Targaryen fire hidden beneath layers of Tywin’s calculated opulence.

They lead you to the door, and the weight of what lies ahead settles over you like a shroud. Every braid, every glint of gold, a reminder that Tywin’s influence is woven into every part of this encounter. You steel yourself, breathing deeply as you prepare to face him, feeling each golden thread in your hair like the bars of a cage.

The servant by the door opens it, bowing low as she gestures for you to proceed. “My lady,” she murmurs, voice soft with a hint of reverence. You take one last glance at the mirror, the reflection now foreign, then step forward, leaving the chamber behind.

Tonight, you wear the colors of the lion, but the blood of the dragon remains, burning beneath the surface, silent yet unyielding. And as you make your way to the private dinner Tywin has orchestrated, you cling to that thought, holding onto it as your only reminder of who you truly are.

The dining hall Tywin has selected for tonight is secluded, almost intimate, a stark contrast to the grand banquet rooms of the Red Keep. The servants lead you to a table set for two, where Tywin sits waiting, his gaze fixed upon you the moment you enter. He surveys you with his usual piercing scrutiny, noting the golden thread woven through your hair, the crimson gown that drapes over your form—an image carefully crafted under his direction.

As you approach the table, your eyes catch the carefully arranged plates, and you feel a jolt of surprise. It’s a meal reminiscent of days long past—rich dishes that you once enjoyed as a princess, delicacies served at your family’s table in the Red Keep. Each plate a small piece of memory pulled from a life you’ve long since lost.

The first dish is braised quail in honeyed wine, garnished with sprigs of rosemary and roasted chestnuts. Next, a bowl of spiced chickpea stew with saffron and sweet currants, the same recipe your mother once had the cooks prepare for Rhaegar’s nameday feast. A platter of thick slices of duck, glazed with honey and dusted with ground cinnamon, sits at the center, flanked by roasted figs and fresh pomegranate seeds. And beside your plate, a familiar goblet of chilled summer wine, the floral scent wafting up as it mingles with the rest of the meal.

Tywin’s gaze follows your eyes as you take in each dish, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “I trust the menu is to your liking?” he asks, voice cool and unruffled, though there’s a note of satisfaction beneath the surface.

You settle yourself across from him, lifting the goblet and taking a measured sip, the sweet wine coating your tongue in flavors that feel almost foreign after so long. “It seems your memory is as sharp as ever,” you reply, setting the goblet down. “Or perhaps I should say, disturbingly accurate.”

Tywin inclines his head, his gaze unyielding. “One does not achieve much in this world by forgetting details… especially not ones that are so important.”

Your lips curl into a faint, sardonic smile. “Important,” you echo, glancing down at the spread before you. “Yes, I suppose there’s value in knowing how to replicate the past.”

A ghost of amusement crosses his face, and he leans back slightly, watching you with those steady, calculating eyes. “I thought it fitting to make you comfortable, Y/N. You are, after all, accustomed to a certain… standard.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead selecting a piece of quail, savoring the tender, honeyed meat. The taste is perfect, achingly familiar, yet tinged with bitterness. “Comfortable,” you repeat, the word tasting strange in your mouth. “And yet, the golden thread in my hair, the crimson gown… it seems comfort isn’t the only thing you had in mind.”

Tywin’s smirk grows, his gaze unwavering. “You always had a sharp tongue. I appreciate honesty, even if it borders on impertinence.”

You place your fork down, fixing him with a steady gaze. “I’m not here to amuse you, Lord Tywin. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

For a moment, he merely watches you, a faint glimmer of amusement lingering in his eyes. “I didn’t bring you here to pretend, Y/N,” he replies, his voice laced with that unyielding authority he wears like armor. “I brought you here because you are a valuable asset. Because, regardless of your feelings on the matter, our union will strengthen both our positions.”

You scoff softly, not bothering to hide the disdain curling in your voice. “A union?” you echo, your tone sharp. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to see myself as anything but a tool in your grand design. What I think, what I want, seems irrelevant to you.”

Tywin raises an eyebrow, clearly unruffled by your bluntness. “What you think does matter, more than you may realize. I respect intelligence, even if it comes with… resistance.” He lifts his own goblet, regarding you over the rim. “But you would be wise to remember that, in this world, power is the only true form of freedom. I’m offering you that power.”

You feel a bitter laugh rising in your throat, barely holding it back. “Power,” you repeat, your voice laced with irony. “The illusion of control, perhaps. Yet you know as well as I that this marriage would bind me to you, to your family’s name and interests. I would simply be another piece on your board.”

A flicker of something passes across his face—amusement, irritation, it’s hard to tell. “You are correct in that it binds you,” he replies smoothly. “But you are wrong to think that it would leave you powerless. The position of Lady Lannister, bound to both the lion and dragon, is one of influence. You would be free to wield it, to shape it as you see fit.”

You take another sip of wine, letting the silence stretch between you, refusing to yield to his steady, piercing gaze. “So, in your mind, this is generosity?” you ask finally, the skepticism clear in your voice. “A benevolent act, done out of kindness?”

“Kindness?” Tywin repeats, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No, Y/N. This has nothing to do with kindness. It has everything to do with legacy—yours, mine, ours. Together, we can reshape the foundations of this realm. I thought you, of all people, would understand the value of that.”

Your jaw tightens, and you set down your goblet, meeting his gaze with equal intensity. “And do you think I’m so eager to cast aside the name I was born to? To let it be consumed by yours, to be dressed in red and gold and paraded as your prize?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpens, but his expression remains composed, almost amused. “You think yourself diminished by the name Lannister?” he asks, his voice quiet yet cutting. “You are mistaken. Names change. Blood, however, does not. You would do well to remember that.”

The statement hangs in the air, a reminder of the power struggle woven into every word between you. For a moment, you study him, this man who seems both captivated by your resistance and determined to conquer it. His amusement, his tolerance of your sharp words—it is almost as if he relishes the challenge you present.

“Perhaps you find my bluntness inconvenient,” you say, choosing each word carefully, your voice cool. “But make no mistake, Lord Tywin: I am not some empty vessel to be filled with your ambitions. I am a Targaryen, and that will not change, no matter how tightly you try to bind me.”

He chuckles softly, a sound that somehow both soothes and chills you. “Good,” he says, surprising you. “I would not want a weak-willed bride. It’s your fire that interests me, Y/N. You may resent this arrangement, but I know that you, too, have ambition.”

You hesitate, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t expected. He’s not wrong, and he knows it. You’ve spent your life as a toy in others’ games, yet a part of you longs for something more. Tywin sees it, and he knows how to wield that knowledge.

“If you think flattery will convince me,” you say, voice softer now but still guarded, “you’ll find it a difficult task.”

He merely lifts his goblet again, taking a slow sip before responding. “Flattery?” he echoes, an eyebrow arching. “I don’t waste time with it. I’m simply offering you a choice—join me willingly, and wield the influence you deserve. Or resist and remain a tool of others’ ambitions, a relic of a fallen dynasty.”

His words settle over you like a weight, cold and unrelenting. This is Tywin’s game—a careful blend of power and persuasion, of promises and threats. And though you’d rather cast aside the gown, the golden thread in your hair, the Lannister colors binding you like chains, you know that this is the hand you’ve been dealt.

For tonight, you’ll play along, if only to see what more Tywin Lannister will reveal. You lift your goblet, the bitterness easing just slightly, and meet his gaze across the table, the sharpness in your eyes matching his own.

“To legacy, then,” you say, voice cool, raising your glass in a half-hearted toast. Tywin’s smile deepens, as if sensing the smallest flicker of surrender.

“To legacy,” he replies, his voice as steady and unyielding as the stone walls of Harrenhal, sealing your uneasy alliance with the clink of crystal and the promise of a future neither of you fully controls.

Arya slipped down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps silent as a shadow. She’d left the kitchens moments ago, her heart pounding with the thrill of sneaking away from her tasks and Tywin’s ever-watchful gaze. She moved carefully, glancing over her shoulder to be sure she wasn’t followed. Finally, she ducked through a small doorway that led her toward the lower halls, where she hoped to find Hot Pie and Gendry.

After winding her way through the damp stone corridors, Arya spotted them near the flickering light of a sconce, their backs pressed against the wall as they whispered together. She crept up, tapping Hot Pie on the shoulder, causing him to jump.

“Ary! Thought you’d gotten caught,” he hissed, relaxing once he realized it was her.

Arya grinned, her grey eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and determination. “Not yet,” she whispered back, casting a glance down the hall. “I’ve got a knack for not getting caught.”

Gendry chuckled softly, crossing his arms. “And where’ve you been? Thought Tywin had you running about all day.”

Arya nodded, her expression sobering. “I’ve been doing what he wants, yeah. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Hot Pie shuffled his feet, glancing nervously between Arya and Gendry. “Ary,” he began, voice low, “is it true? That he’s got a… you know, a Targaryen locked up here?”

Arya’s expression softened at the mention, a flicker of emotion flashing across her face. She’d been careful not to speak too much about it, knowing the danger it might bring. But these were her friends, her brothers in everything but blood. She could trust them.

“Yes, it’s true,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “Y/N… she’s like a sister to me.” Her voice grew stronger, her gaze fierce. “And we’re going to help her escape.”

Hot Pie’s eyes widened, clearly caught off guard by her resolve. “But… but she’s a Targaryen,” he stammered. “Aren’t they… dangerous?”

Arya’s gaze turned steely, and she crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. “She’s not dangerous, Hot Pie. She’s family. More than most, anyway.” She looked away, her thoughts drifting back to the days they spent together in Winterfell—the shared laughter, the stolen moments of peace in a world that always seemed to be on the verge of war. “If anyone deserves freedom, it’s her.”

Gendry glanced between them, his brow furrowing as he took in her words. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said, voice quiet but understanding. “You want us to help her escape, along with ourselves?”

Arya nodded, her jaw set with determination. “She doesn’t belong here, locked up under Tywin’s watch. Once we get out, we’re taking her with us.”

Hot Pie shuffled his feet nervously, casting a wary glance down the hall as if expecting Tywin himself to appear out of the shadows. “But… how? Tywin keeps a close eye on everything. Even if we try, there’s no guarantee she’ll get out in one piece.”

Arya looked him dead in the eye, her tone fierce and unyielding. “We’ll find a way. She deserves better than this. And if there’s even the smallest chance we can get her out, we’re taking it.”

Gendry nodded, giving Arya a supportive look. “I’m in,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “If she’s as important to you as you say, we’ll help her. But we’ll need a plan.”

A flicker of relief crossed Arya’s face, but her voice remained steady. “We’ll think of one. Just keep your eyes open, and stay close. The moment we see an opportunity, we’ll act.”

Hot Pie sighed, shifting uncomfortably but nodding all the same. “Alright, Ary. If you say so.”

She gave them both a small, grateful smile, feeling the weight of her resolve settle more firmly on her shoulders. She knew the risk they were taking, the danger they faced. But for Y/N, for her sister-in-heart, it was worth it.

As they huddled closer, discussing possible ways to slip past the guards and navigate the castle’s many corridors, Arya’s eyes caught a familiar figure in the distance. The shadows played tricks in the dim light, but she recognized the silhouette of Jaqen H’ghar, his silent, calculating gaze lingering on her for just a moment before he turned and disappeared around a corner.

She felt a shiver run down her spine. Jaqen was mysterious, unpredictable—a man of many faces and secrets. And while he’d saved her life once, she wasn’t sure what he’d make of this plan. With a last, wary glance, she turned back to her friends, ignoring the figure as best she could.

“Alright,” she said in a hushed voice, returning her focus to Hot Pie and Gendry. “We keep to the shadows, stay out of sight, and don’t get caught. And when the time comes, we get her out of here. No matter what.”

With nods from her friends, Arya felt a surge of determination. She didn’t know how, or even when, they would make their move. But one thing was certain—they wouldn’t leave Harrenhal without Y/N.

[alwaysbewoke]

[apiratefellinlovewithastar]

legacy

[royaltysimblr]

Wilhelmina of Platz, Queen Consort of Windenburg & San Myshuno

had to make a render with my late 1600s/early 1700s sim after @sychik @denerdnr new beautiful dresses!