#once again what did Sansa DO

[jonsastarks]

my toxic trait is that I have never once thought that sansa bullied arya lol. two sided teasing and fighting ≠ one sided bulling. Sorry!

[melrosing]

why did martin made cersei evil from the beginning? tyrion and jaime are very fucked up but they still have some kindness and empathy in them. at age 7 she was torturing baby tyrion by pulling on his genitals and threatening the wet nurse her tongue would be cut out. she killed her friend at age 10. having all these negative traits baked in from the beginning makes her more flat for me. plus martin made her stupid and mockable. she has zero self awareness. she is dishonest with herself. even d&d had more respect for her. do you think cersei is a sociopath? i think martin doesn't like her. do you agree with me?

ok you pose several arguments here but I will try and reply as entirely as I can.

why did martin made cersei evil from the beginning?

I've questioned this choice sometimes but I don't think it was necessarily the wrong one?? the scene with baby Tyrion is to me a deeply disturbing but still very interesting one that says a lot about Cersei, her relationship with Tywin, and the greater part she's played in shaping her relationship with Tyrion.

here, she has obviously very quickly absorbed Tywin's 'the baby killed Joanna' narrative, and is punishing Tyrion in a manner that's like. both childish and horribly violent at once, like she doesn't fully understand how violence is usually applied (pinching is a really childish form of violence in my mind), but she knows how to make it hurt.

then there's also the fact that perhaps Tyrion now represents a rival to second place - her status over him is that she's able-bodied, but his over her is his sex. maybe Cersei has some vague understanding of this at seven, and that's another part of why she hurts Tyrion is this extremely particular way.

and also like. Tywin is ultimately a man of extreme violence, and Cersei has always been listening at the door trying to learn from him. it makes sense that she'd be trying to apply his teachings where she sees fit, and that this would result in disturbed behaviour like what she does to Tyrion. I think it's also interesting that we can distinguish this from what Joffrey does to the cat, for example. there's a kind of obliviousness to that act of violence in Joffrey's early childhood (making more the case for nature over nurture, though nurture plays its part). Cersei's childhood violence is a lot more intentional: it feels like she's trying to exercise power of her own, and that is very much fitting with adult Cersei's story.

however, I think Cersei herself identifies the Melara incident as something of an outlier in her childhood. I don't say this to suggest that Cersei was not a very violent child, but that she didn't do it out of pure evil. I think the key factor driving Cersei to do what she does to Melara is a fear for her own mortality - Melara points out that if noone talks of Maggy's prophecy, it needn't be true, and so Cersei kills the only other person who knows of it (besides Maggy). I do think spite towards Melara for yearning for Jaime factored insofar as this helps Cersei build just enough spite towards Melara that she's able to do what she does, but it is primarily an act of self-preservation, I think. I think many evil acts of Cersei's are self-preservation, though taken way past the line of what's justifiable to that end.

and ofc, Cersei as an adult feels some level of guilt about what she did to Melara. it does fuck with her a bit. I think the main reason is that Melara was a friend and confidante for a time, someone who she could have held close but instead cast out (same as how she briefly reflects on Sansa and how she might have done better by her). so..... again, it does come down to self-preservation in the end, but I don't think Cersei was a two-dimensional evil kid. you can find the sense in her reasoning, which is pretty absent in what Joffrey does to the cat.

tyrion and jaime are very fucked up but they still have some kindness and empathy in them.

i personally find the cersei/her brothers dichotomies kind of frustrating cos like. not every character needs the traits of empathy and kindness. Cersei is not the only character in ASOIAF who lacks these traits. Littlefinger, Euron, Roose, Ramsay, Tywin himself, etc, all lack these traits, and yet are not afforded anything close to complexity Cersei is. she is the only POV character among these villains. and whilst I do think that the whiplash between Cersei's occasionally-played-for-laughs foolishness and her sexual trauma is sometimes verging on ill-judged, fandom should take more accountability for the extent to which they relegate Cersei to dark comic relief. she was not written as this.

and as I've said before, whilst I do think it's notable that Cersei is our primary female villain yet written as often foolish and ridiculed as such, yet male villains comparably tend to be much savvier, it still makes sense that Cersei would lack these smarts: she wasn't taught them. still, sure, to some extent I agree that GRRM should not have played this for laughs so often.

returning again to Cersei lacking empathy etc - well, you have other characters who lack evil. Brienne hasn't really got a gram of darkness in her body, yet is enormously complex in other ways. then you've got characters like Asha, who have more of a balance of the two, and yet aren't even half as complex as Cersei (despite being a POV). GRRM has not refused Cersei complexity, and he has not written her, on his own part, without empathy. we see Cersei grieve, we see Cersei traumatised, we see Cersei frightened, we see Cersei humiliated. again, as I've said before, GRRM makes us hold Cersei's cruelty in the one hand, and Cersei's pain in the other, and reckon with both at once. neither excuses the other, as they might in a lesser story - like Game of Thrones!

and i'm not going to go deep into GOT right now, but I don't agree that d&d had more respect for Cersei as a character. d&d cannot conceive of Cersei as anything besides a mother. they reduce everything about her to motherhood, and when she runs out of children, they stick another one in her. they cannot imagine what might drive a character like Cersei beyond motherhood. it is essentially the final note of her story - 'I don't want our baby to die' etc. i don't think i need to say much more to explain that I think reducing a character like book Cersei to this, is deeply misogynistic. if you want to see that misogyny in action elsewhere, see how the finale ultimately frames a dichotomy between the childless Dany, a freak tyrant, and the pregnant mother Cersei, who the writers think we'll want to escape to Pentos to survive with her baby, and who we're supposed to weep for when she doesn't make it out. and now remember what happened like. one episode before with Missandei, the last black woman on this show. d&d couldn't respect a woman if their lives depended on it

do you think cersei is a sociopath?

GRRM says she has an 'almost sociopathic' view of the world, but obviously shies away from identifying her as such, and I think he's right to - these kinds of labels are far too prescriptive when what you're trying to write is a character in a book, not an article for a medical journal.

do you agree with me?

nah not really. ultimately I think whilst Cersei is written as unabashedly evil, this doesn't mean that that evil is two dimensional. she exists on the darkest end of the spectrum because I think that is the most interesting place for her to occupy - I don't believe Cersei's story would be improved with a redemption arc, or a couple of instances where she sneaks Sansa a sweet or w/e. grey characters are interesting, yeah, but they are not invariably more interesting than those in the darkest shades, and I don't think GRRM has done Cersei an injustice by not painting her lighter.

[anyarose011]

Anya's Totally Bitchin Masterlist

"Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call"

{Angus Tully x Reader} ->The Holdovers

Summary: Being stuck at the snooty, all-boys school your father works at is NOT how you wanted to spend Christmas (especially with Angus Tully...asshole). Still, the Winter of 1970 leading into 1971 is one you will not forget. A stubborn teenager, a professor with a stick up his ass, a woman with a heart of gold, and a mini feminist who's pissed at everyone 99% of the day (yours truly)...what could go wrong?

Tropes/keywords: Academic Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Young Love, Mystery, Hurt/Comfort, Feel Good, CHRISTMAS, and Found Family.

Chapter 1: "Bah, Humbug!" Chapter 2: "You're a Mean One, Miss Hunham" Chapter 3: "Emotional Motion Sickness" Chapter 4: "Too Late to Turn Back Now" Chapter 5: "One More Reason to Control Myself" Chapter 6: "December Never Felt So Wrong" Chapter 7: "Christmas Time is Here" Chapter 8: "The Most 'Wonderful' Time of the Year" Chapter 9: "Dimensions" Chapter 10: Coming Soon

"The Woman at the Well"

{Aemond Targaryen x Reader} -> House of the Dragon: Season 2

Summary: You allowed men to follow you in the dark for a living. One night, a man you never expected (nor wanted) to do so did just that. Over the weeks to come, you become...more acquainted with him. Still, despite how fun it is to dance with dragon fire, one must do their best to remember the chances of being burnt.

Tropes/keywords: Strangers to Friends to Lovers to Strangers (again), Mostly Angst, Little Hurt/Comfort, Somewhat Toxic Love, This story has a happy ending (but not in the way you'd expect)

Chapter 1: "There Must Be Something in the Water" Chapter 2: "Crawling Back to You" Chapter 3: "Nursing on the Poison that Never Stung" Chapter 4: "I Would Not Change it Each Time"

"The Favourite"

{Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius} -> Gladiator II Summary: Once a lowborn girl of Rome, now a favored slave of Emperor Geta, hope at reclaiming your life comes when the return general Acacius brings Rome to a weeks' worth of entertainment.

Tropes/keywords: Minor Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Marriage of Convenience [Lucius], Slavery/Abuse [Geta], Reader is Sansa Stark coded, Scheming, Action, Hurt/Comfort, Healing, and Reader knows how to play the game [and not at the same time].

Chapter 1: "Et tu, Brute?" Chapter 2: "Agape"

[entitled-fangirl]

A change of sigil.

Robb Stark x Baratheon!reader

Summary: After wedding Robb Stark and becoming the Lady of Winterfell, the reader learns about the king's death and the treason of Ned.

Masterlist

..............................................................

The newly wedded Y/N Stark (once Baratheon) ran through the corridors of Winterfell. 

Her eyes fell upon the Stark's Maester. Her eyes lit up. "A letter from my father? Has he finally written me back?"

The older man's eyes softened with guilt, "I'm afraid not, my lady."

Her face fell but she quickly recovered it, "oh. M… May I still see it?"

"This," He held it back from her, "Is for Lord Stark to read."

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks and she nodded. "Right. How foolish of me."

His lips pulled into a smile and he held his arm out. The North did like the gentle girl, after all, "C'mon, my lady. Walk to me to him so we may discuss the reason for such a letter."

She smiled back and took his arm.

…

"Treason?" Robb's brows furrowed and his teeth grit, "Sansa wrote this?"

"It is your sister's hand, but the queen's words."

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, unsure of what to think. Her mother was a cunning woman, and it did not surprise her of such a thing.

"You are summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king."

"My father is dead?" She interrupted quietly.

The men's eyes flickered to her.

Robb's anger did not falter, "Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his ass kissed?"

The Maester sighed, "This is a royal command, my lord." His eyes flickered between the lord and lady, "If you should refuse to obey-"

"-I won't refuse," Robb quickly butted in. "His grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing. But not alone."

He rolled the letter up and handed it back to the maester. "Call the banners."

"All of them, my lord?"

"They've all sworn to defend my father, have they not?"

"They have."

"Now, we see what their words are worth."

"Very well." The maester left quickly.

Y/N's eyes remained on the table, not once wavering. Robb noticed it and rounded the table to sit by her. His head tilted to study her further. His hand reached up to gently grab her jaw, moving her head to face him.

Her eyes connected with his, and they were filled with tears, "My father is dead?"

His lips pull into a line as he looks to Theon and back, "I'm afraid so."

She took a shaky breath in to keep the tears from falling. "Murdered?"

Theon stood at her words, angered a bit inside. He quickly bowed his head and left the room in a huff.

Robb shook his head, "No. Animal attack while hunting is all Sansa wrote."

She was quiet a while before she spoke again, "He loved me."

Robb gritted his teeth. "He had a funny way of showing it."

"But he did love me. I am worth nothing now."

"Hey." His voice lowered at his words. His grip on her jaw tightened. "Do not say such things. You are worth everything to me. Winterfell is your home. Its people are your people. They are loyal."

"Loyal to you. To your name."

"No." He pushed. "They will be loyal to you. You are still a princess after all, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"And more importantly," he kissed her forehead gently, "You are my wife."

She nodded again before a thought came to her. "What is keeping those that rule from killing your father and sisters just the same?"

His eyebrows raised and he shook her head, "Nothing, I suppose. I must hope they fear the North enough or I drive my sword through your brother before they can touch the Starks." He tilted his head, "I need your loyalty. I know I have it. But the people need it."

"I am loyal to you, Robb. You are all I have."

He smiles and caresses her face before shaking his head, "I don't want loyalty for fear or power. Your loyalty should be of trust and honor. I ask again, are you loyal to me, my love?"

"Without my father, the Baratheon sigil means nothing to me. I belong to House Stark now."

His smile grows and he kisses her gently, "I will win this. For you. For my family. I promise you."

..............................................................

A/N: I feel a series coming onnnnn

[novaursa]

Legacy (the north and the south)

- 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: homesick

- Next part: sisters

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

The raven arrived early in the morning, its cries echoing across the stone corridors of Dragonstone. The castle was shrouded in mist, the waves crashing relentlessly against the cliffs below. You were sitting in your chambers, cradling Maelor in your arms while Damon played with wooden soldiers on the floor. The warmth of the fire contrasted with the chill that lingered outside, but the peace of the morning was soon interrupted by a knock on the heavy oak door.

A servant entered, carrying the sealed letter. "My lady," he said respectfully, offering the parchment.

You handed Maelor gently to his wet nurse and took the letter, the seal unmistakable—the direwolf of House Stark. Your heart quickened as you broke it open, your eyes scanning the words written in Jon’s unmistakable hand.

“From Jon?” Tywin’s voice came from the doorway, calm yet piercing. He entered the room, his keen green eyes narrowing as he studied your expression.

You nodded, rereading the letter before speaking. “Winterfell is his again. Sansa is safe.”

Tywin approached, standing beside you. “And?”

A shadow passed over your face as you continued. “Rickon… he’s dead. Killed by Ramsay Bolton.” Your voice caught, and you paused to compose yourself. “Jon says there is still no word of Bran or Arya.”

Tywin remained silent for a moment, his jaw tightening. “The boy was a casualty of war. The North would have suffered greater losses had the Boltons not been stopped.”

You turned to him, your eyes sharp. “He wasn’t just a casualty. He was a child. My family.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, though his tone softened slightly. “I do not diminish his loss. But this is the cost of reclaiming Winterfell.”

Your fingers tightened around the parchment as you continued reading. “Jon plans to come here. He wants to meet Damon and Maelor.” You paused, the next part of the letter weighing heavily on your heart. “And he intends to speak with you, Tywin.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—curiosity, perhaps, or annoyance. “To what end?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Jon says he will demand justice for what has been done by your family to his.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, his features a mask of control. “Justice,” he said, the word laced with cold amusement. “The Starks have always had an idealistic view of the world.”

“Jon is no idealist,” you countered, your voice firm. “He’s been through too much to cling to fantasies. If he seeks justice, it’s because he believes it’s owed to him.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned to the window, gazing out at the misty sea. “He may demand what he wishes, but justice is not so easily defined. What does he expect? For me to undo the past?”

“He expects accountability,” you replied, your voice softer now. “He’s lost so much—almost his entire House. He blames you for what Boltons did and for the death of his father.”

Tywin turned back to you, his gaze piercing. “And do you?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You met his eyes, your heart torn between loyalty to your husband and the pain that lingered for your family. “I don’t know. Roose followed your orders for the Red Wedding, the rest of it was done by him alone,” you admitted quietly. “But Jon deserves to be heard.”

Tywin regarded you for a long moment before nodding once. “Very well. Let him come. I will hear what he has to say.”

You nodded, your shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you.”

Tywin’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his hand brushing against your cheek. “I understand what this means to you,” he said quietly. “But do not let sentiment cloud your judgment. The world is not built on fairness.”

You placed your hand over his, your heart heavy but grateful for his understanding. “I know.”

As the day stretched on, the letter weighed on your mind. You found yourself watching Damon and Maelor more closely, their innocent laughter a reminder of what was at stake. Tywin’s words lingered, but so did the promise of Jon’s arrival.

The North and the South would meet again, but this time, it would be in the halls of Dragonstone.

The war council convened in the Great Hall of Dragonstone. The dark stone walls, lit by flickering torches, seemed to absorb the heated conversations as lords and knights debated the many pressing issues facing the realm. At the head of the long table sat Tywin Lannister, his presence as commanding as ever. Beside him, you occupied a seat of equal prominence, your gaze steady as you listened intently to the discourse.

Maps and reports were spread across the table, but the topic dominating the room was not one of politics or armies—it was the juvenile dragon that had made its home in Dragonmont. The beast had eluded every attempt at capture, growing bolder and more dangerous with each passing week.

Tywin tapped his fingers against the polished wood of the table, silencing the room. “The creature cannot be ignored any longer,” he began, his voice cutting through the tension. “It is a liability, one that poses a threat not only to this castle but to our control of the realm.”

Ser Jaime Lannister, seated further down the table, leaned back in his chair, his golden hand resting on the edge of the table. “A liability that breathes fire,” he quipped, though his tone lacked his usual humor. “If we can’t trap it, how do you propose we deal with it?”

Varys, standing near the shadows as was his custom, interjected smoothly, his hands folded before him. “Perhaps the question isn’t how to deal with it, but rather how to use it.”

All eyes turned to the spymaster. Tywin’s gaze narrowed. “Explain.”

Varys stepped forward, his silken voice carrying easily across the room. “The dragon is young, yes, but it is still a dragon. A creature of power, a symbol of strength. Instead of attempting to subdue it through force, perhaps we should consider… nurturing it.”

The suggestion drew murmurs from the lords, some of them uneasy. Tywin raised a hand, silencing them once more. “Nurturing a creature that has already killed men? Do you expect it to be tamed?”

“Not by just anyone, my lord,” Varys replied, his eyes brilliant with calculated intrigue. “But there are two in this very castle who share its blood. Your sons, Damon and Maelor.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Varys’s words sinking in. You stiffened slightly, your gaze darting to Tywin. His expression remained unreadable, though his fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping.

“You propose I send my children into a lair with a creature that has killed grown men?” Tywin said coldly, his voice dangerously low.

Varys inclined his head. “Not immediately, of course. The creature is still young, impressionable. Dragons have always responded to those with Valyrian blood. The sooner a bond is forged, the greater the control. If one of your sons were to claim it, my lord, it would no longer be a liability—it would be an asset.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though some lords exchanged uneasy glances. Tywin’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes searching your face. “What is your opinion on this?”

You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on you. “I won’t deny that Varys has a point,” you said carefully. “But Damon is only three years old, and Maelor is barely out of the cradle. It’s too dangerous.”

“And yet your ancestors bonded with their dragons at a young age,” Varys pointed out gently, his gaze sliding to you. “Your blood allowed it. Why should your sons not have the same potential?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his focus returning to Varys. “You suggest we gamble the lives of my heirs on the whims of a dragon.”

“I suggest you secure your house’s future,” Varys countered smoothly. “Two dragons are better than one, my lord. And with a Lannister’s hand on their reins, the realm will bend the knee without question.”

Jaime, who had been silent until now, leaned forward. “You’re assuming the dragon will accept either of them,” he said. “What happens if it doesn’t? If it sees them as prey instead of kin?”

Varys spread his hands in a gesture of feigned helplessness. “All things in life carry risk, Ser Jaime. But this is a calculated one.”

The room fell into a tense silence as Tywin considered the spymaster’s words. His mind weighed the potential benefits against the undeniable dangers. Finally, he turned to you once more. “You are the only one here who understands the bond between dragon and rider. If this course is pursued, it will fall to you to guide them. Can you do that?”

You took a deep breath, your heart heavy with the implications of what he was asking. “I can,” you said quietly, “but only when the time is right. Damon and Maelor are too young now. Forcing it would be a mistake.”

Tywin nodded once, his decision made. “Then we will wait. The dragon remains undisturbed for now. But preparations will be made. If the creature cannot be bonded to one of my sons, it will be dealt with.”

The lords murmured their agreement, the tension in the room easing slightly. Tywin dismissed the council with a curt wave of his hand, and the men began to file out. Varys lingered for a moment, his expression unreadable, before offering a slight bow and disappearing into the shadows.

When the room was empty save for Tywin and Jaime, the latter rose to his feet, a faint smirk on his lips. “A dragon bonded with the blood of Lannister. It’s a strange thought.”

Tywin glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Strange, perhaps. But necessary.”

Jaime shook his head, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t see Damon as dinner.”

Tywin said nothing, his gaze shifting to the door as if already contemplating the battles yet to come. You placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to you.

“This isn’t just about the dragon, is it?” you asked softly.

“No,” Tywin admitted, his voice quieter now. “It’s about ensuring the legacy of this house—whatever the cost.”

The sea breeze swept across the battlements of Dragonstone, carrying with it the scent of salt and the promise of change. You stood beside Tywin atop the castle's walls, your eyes fixed on the horizon where ships emerged from the mist, their sails bearing the stark grey direwolf of House Stark. The sight filled you with a strange mixture of pride and apprehension.

“They’re here,” you said softly, the words almost lost to the wind.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady on the approaching fleet, his expression unreadable. “Punctual,” he remarked, his voice carrying its usual commanding tone. “As expected of the North.”

You turned to him, your lips curving into a faint smile. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate Northern punctuality.”

“I appreciate men who understand the value of time,” Tywin replied, his eyes never leaving the approaching ships. “Your adopted Stark child appears to have that much sense, at least.”

Your gaze returned to the sea, the sight of the ships stirring memories of Jon—his determination, his sense of honor, his quiet strength. “Jon isn’t like most men,” you said, almost to yourself. “He’s been through so much, and yet he’s still standing.”

Tywin’s silence spoke volumes, his mind likely dissecting every possible outcome of Jon’s arrival. “The question is whether he’ll remain standing after this meeting,” he said finally. “The North has a tendency to act before thinking.”

You shot him a look, your amusement tinged with exasperation. “Jon isn’t Robb.”

“No, he isn’t,” Tywin agreed, though his tone carried a note of caution. “But he is still a Stark. And Starks are ruled by their emotions.”

“Perhaps,” you conceded. “But Jon’s emotions are tempered by experience. He’s seen things most men couldn’t imagine, let alone survive.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted to you briefly, his green eyes seeing through you. “You seem eager to defend him.”

“I’ve raised him,” you said simply, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And he’s been through enough betrayal for one lifetime.”

Tywin’s expression hardened slightly at your words, though he said nothing. Instead, his attention returned to the ships, which were now closer, their banners fluttering in the wind. The soldiers aboard could be seen moving about, their armor shining faintly in the sunlight.

“Cersei won’t like this,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence. “The idea of a Stark setting foot on Dragonstone—of all places—will drive her mad.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Cersei’s opinions are of no consequence. She can seethe in King’s Landing while I ensure this house’s future.”

You folded your arms, leaning slightly against the stone battlement. “Still, she’ll see it as a betrayal. First me, now Jon. In her eyes, we’re all traitors.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, a sound that could have been amusement or irritation. “Cersei has always been blind to the larger picture. She clings to power with the desperation of a drowning woman, never realizing the waters are rising because of her own actions.”

You watched him closely, his words a rare glimpse into his thoughts about his daughter. “And you?” you asked softly. “How do you see this?”

“I see it as necessity,” Tywin replied, his tone measured. “The Boltons are finished, the North is once again Stark territory, and Jon Snow has proven himself capable. If an alliance with him strengthens our position, I’ll entertain it.”

You nodded slowly, your heart heavy with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. The waves crashed below, their sound a steady rhythm against the silence that stretched between you.

Finally, Tywin spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “Do you trust him?”

The question caught you off guard, though you didn’t hesitate in your answer. “I do.”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the sea. “Then let us hope your trust is not misplaced.”

You followed his gaze, the ships now close enough to make out the direwolf emblems clearly. The sight filled you with a strange sense of both hope and foreboding.

The wind carried the salty spray of the sea across the rocky shore of Dragonstone as Jon Snow and his men disembarked from their boats. Clad in dark furs and armor befitting the harshness of the North, they moved with quiet purpose, their eyes scanning the formidable fortress looming above them. Davos Seaworth stood at Jon’s side, his steady presence a stark contrast to the tense expressions of the other Northern men.

At the head of the welcoming party stood Tywin Lannister and you, flanked by Jaime, Varys, and a host of household guards and attendants. The Lannister crimson and gold stood out prominently against the dark grey skies and the volcanic black stone of the island. Tywin’s eyes were fixed on Jon, assessing the young man with the cold precision he was known for.

As Jon and his men approached, you stepped forward, breaking protocol with a determined stride. Jon’s grey eyes widened slightly as you closed the distance, your pale hair catching the light of the overcast sun. Before he could say anything, you enveloped him in a warm embrace, your arms wrapping tightly around him.

“Jon,” you said softly, though your voice carried enough for everyone to hear. “It’s been too long again.”

Jon stiffened, clearly uncomfortable under the gaze of so many powerful men. “It has,” he replied awkwardly, his arms hesitantly returning the embrace. His gaze darted to Tywin, whose expression was as unyielding as stone.

Davos cleared his throat, stepping forward to save Jon from further discomfort. “May I present Jon Snow, King in the North,” he announced, his tone formal but respectful.

At this, Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Jaime’s healthy hand rested casually on his belt, his expression unreadable, while Varys watched with quiet curiosity.

You, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the title. Pulling back from the embrace, you took Jon’s face in your hands, your violet eyes scanning his features with a motherly intensity. “You’ve lost weight,” you said, your voice laced with concern. “And you’ve been fighting again. I can see it in your eyes.”

Jon’s cheeks flushed faintly, and he shifted on his feet. “I’ve had… responsibilities.”

“And you’re not taking care of yourself,” you replied firmly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. “It’s just like when you were a boy. Always too serious.”

The Northern men behind Jon exchanged uneasy glances, unsure how to respond to the unexpected display. Even Davos looked slightly amused, though he wisely kept his expression neutral.

“Mother,” Jon said quietly, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “There are… people watching.”

You smiled warmly, unbothered by his discomfort. “Let them watch.”

Finally, you released him, your hand lingering briefly on his arm before you gestured for him to follow. “Come,” you said, turning back toward Tywin. “There’s someone you need to speak with.”

Jon’s gaze shifted to Tywin as he approached, the older man standing tall and unyielding as ever. Tywin’s piercing eyes locked onto Jon’s, his expression betraying nothing but a cold, calculating air.

“You must be Jon Snow,” Tywin said, his voice calm but edged with authority.

Jon nodded, his posture straightening under Tywin’s scrutiny. “I am.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Tywin remarked, his tone neither warm nor hostile. “And for a purpose, I presume.”

“I have,” Jon replied evenly, his gaze unwavering. “There’s much to discuss.”

Tywin studied him for a moment longer before nodding curtly. “Then let us not waste time.”

As Tywin turned and began walking toward the castle, Jaime fell into step beside him. Varys lingered near the back of the group, his watchful eyes taking in every detail.

You walked alongside Jon, your hand resting briefly on his arm as you leaned closer. “You handled that well,” you said softly, a faint smile playing on your lips.

Jon glanced at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not sure I did.”

“You did,” you assured him. “Tywin respects strength. Show him that, and he’ll listen.”

Jon nodded, though his shoulders remained tense. “And what about you? Will you listen?”

“I always have,” you replied, your voice gentle but firm. “And I always will.”

As the group ascended toward the fortress, the sound of the sea fading behind them, the weight of the impending discussions loomed heavy over everyone. But for now, Jon was here, and you were determined to stand by him, no matter what the future held. The North and the South were about to collide, and the world would never be the same.

The Painted Table in Dragonstone’s council chamber was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its intricate carvings depicting every mountain, valley, and river of Westeros. The torchlight cast light over the map, making the painted seas shimmer as though alive. It was around this table that warlords and kings had planned their conquests, and now, another pivotal moment was unfolding.

Jon Snow stood at the far end of the table, his posture straight and resolute. Beside him, Davos Seaworth hovered silently, his experienced eyes scanning the room. Across from them, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. To his right, you sat with quiet grace. Jaime Lannister leaned casually against a pillar nearby casually like always, while Varys stood in the shadows, his hands clasped before him, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Jon’s eyes swept the room, taking in the power gathered before him. He drew a deep breath, his voice steady as he spoke. “I came here for justice.”

The room stilled, all eyes on him. Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, though his fingers tapped idly on the edge of the table. “Justice,” he repeated, his tone carrying a faint edge of mockery. “A vague term, often misused. What form of justice do you seek, Snow?”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground. “For the deaths of my family,” he said firmly. “For my father, who was betrayed and executed. For my brother, murdered at the Red Wedding. For my stepmother, who died defending him. House Lannister’s hands are soaked in Stark blood.”

The accusation hung heavy in the air. Jaime stiffened slightly but said nothing, his eyes flickering briefly to Tywin. You reached out and placed a hand on Tywin’s arm, a subtle gesture meant to steady the mounting anxiety.

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his expression as cold as steel. “Your grievances are well known,” he said coolly. “But war is not won by clean hands, nor by mercy. Your father, Eddard Stark, chose to defy the crown. Your brother, Robb Stark, declared himself King in the North and took up arms against the rightful king. The consequences of their actions were inevitable.”

Jon’s voice rose, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes. “The rightful king was a tyrant who murdered innocents. You chose to stand by him until it served you to betray him. Don’t speak to me of rightful kings, Lord Tywin.”

The room grew colder, the tension palpable. Tywin’s gaze narrowed, but his voice remained calm. “Mind your tone, boy. You stand here as a petitioner, not an equal.”

Before the tension could escalate further, you spoke, your voice gentle but firm. “Jon, this is not a battlefield. It’s a council chamber. Speak plainly, and let us find a path forward.”

Jon’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his resolve didn’t waver. “Very well,” he said, his voice steady. “The North has bled enough for the South’s wars. We’ve fought for kings who’ve betrayed us, and we’ve been punished for our loyalty. I’ve come to demand two things: justice for my family and recognition of the North’s independence.”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. Jaime arched a brow, his expression one of faint amusement, while Varys’s smile widened ever so slightly.

Tywin’s lips thinned. “Independence,” he said slowly, as though tasting the word. “You seek to break the Seven Kingdoms apart.”

“The North is already apart,” Jon replied. “We’ve always been different—our customs, our gods, our way of life. The Iron Throne has brought us nothing but suffering. Let us govern ourselves, as we did before Aegon’s conquest.”

Tywin leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. “And what will you offer in return for this independence? Loyalty to a crown you no longer recognize? Trade agreements? Military aid? Or will the North retreat into its icy wasteland, leaving the rest of the realm to fend for itself?”

Jon met his gaze evenly. “The North will not retreat. We’ll fight for our survival and for the survival of the realm. But we won’t bow to a king—or a queen—who sees us as nothing more than a tool.”

You watched the exchange carefully, your heart torn between the two men. Jon’s words carried the weight of his father’s honor, but Tywin’s pragmatism was undeniable. Finally, you spoke again, your voice calm but resolute.

“Perhaps there’s a compromise to be found,” you said. “One that ensures the North’s safety and autonomy without severing it entirely from the realm.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to you, his expression thoughtful. “Compromise is not my preferred method,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone. “But I am not blind to the value of the North.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head slightly. “Then let’s find that compromise. But know this—I will not leave here without securing my family’s future. The North remembers, Lord Tywin.”

The room fell into silence once more, the weight of Jon’s words settling heavily over everyone. Tywin’s strategic mind was already turning over the possibilities, while you sat quietly, your heart heavy with the knowledge that this was only the beginning of a long and difficult road.

The Painted Table had seen the plans of conquerors and kings, but today, it bore witness to something far more uncertain—the hope for a future where the North and the South might find common ground, however fragile.

The day’s negotiations ended in stalemate, the members of the war council disbanded, each retreating to their respective quarters with heavy thoughts. No agreement had been reached between Tywin Lannister and Jon Snow, their views seemingly irreconcilable. Though composed, Jon’s frustration had been evident as he left the Painted Table, and Tywin’s silence spoke volumes about his unwillingness to compromise without gaining something in return.

As the sun set below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the Dragonstone courtyard, you sought out Jon. He was standing near the cliffs, gazing out at the crashing waves. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid as he appeared lost in thought. Beside him, Ghost sat vigilantly.

“Jon,” you called softly as you approached, one hand resting on Damon’s shoulder while the other cradled little Maelor against your chest. Damon walked beside you, his small feet padding softly on the cobblestones.

Jon turned at the sound of your voice, his brooding expression softening slightly as he saw you. His gaze flicked to the two children, his brow furrowing with curiosity.

“I thought you might like to meet your brothers,” you said warmly, gesturing toward the boys.

Jon’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “Brothers?”

You nodded, kneeling beside Damon to encourage him forward. “This is Damon,” you said, ruffling the boy’s silver-gold hair. “And this little one,” you added, lifting Maelor slightly, “is Maelor.”

Damon eyed Jon curiously, his eyes wide as he clutched a small wooden lion in his hands. Maelor gurgled softly, his tiny fists waving in the air.

Jon knelt to Damon’s level, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Hello, Damon,” he said gently. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Damon tilted his head, studying Jon for a moment before stepping closer. “You’re big,” he observed matter-of-factly, his voice innocent.

Jon chuckled softly, glancing up at you. “He’s observant.”

“He gets that from his father,” you replied with a faint smile.

Jon’s expression shifted at the mention of Tywin, though he quickly turned his attention back to Damon. “Do you like it here on Dragonstone?” he asked.

Damon nodded, his grip on his toy tightening. “It’s loud. The waves are loud. But I like Viserion. She’s big too.”

Jon’s brow arched in mild surprise. “You’ve seen her?”

“Seen her?” Damon echoed, his tone incredulous. “She’s my dragon!”

Jon glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Your dragon, is she?”

You laughed softly, adjusting Maelor in your arms. “He’s not entirely wrong. She’s protective of him. And of Maelor.”

Jon’s gaze softened as he looked at Maelor, who was now babbling happily. “They’re… beautiful,” he said quietly. “Both of them.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice tinged with emotion. “They’re the reason I fight, Jon. For their future. Just as you fight for yours.”

Jon’s expression grew somber, his dark eyes meeting yours. “Do you think Tywin understands that?”

“He does,” you said after a moment. “In his own way. But he’s also a man who doesn’t give without taking something in return. It’s how he’s survived this long.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “The North isn’t something to bargain with. It’s my home. My people.”

“And Tywin sees it as a key piece of the realm,” you replied gently. “But that doesn’t mean there’s no hope. These things take time, Jon. And you’ve already proven yourself stronger than most.”

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark curls. “It feels like I’m fighting against a mountain.”

“Mountains can be moved,” you said softly. “But it takes patience and persistence.”

Damon tugged on Jon’s sleeve, drawing his attention. “Do you have a wolf?” the boy asked, pointing to Ghost.

Jon smiled faintly, reaching out to scratch Ghost’s ears. “I do. His name is Ghost.”

Damon’s eyes widened. “Can I pet him?”

Jon hesitated, glancing at Ghost. The direwolf stared back, his gaze calm and steady. “He won’t hurt you,” Jon said finally. “Go ahead.”

Damon stepped forward cautiously, reaching out to pat Ghost’s thick white fur. The direwolf remained still, his ears flicking slightly as the boy’s small hand stroked his side. Damon’s face lit up with delight.

“See?” you said, your smile returning. “Even Ghost knows you’re family.”

Jon chuckled softly, standing and watching as Damon continued to pet the wolf. 

You and Jon Snow continue to stand on the edge of the courtyard, watching as Damon eagerly followed Ghost, his small feet pattering on the cobblestones as he giggled with delight.

Jon’s expression remained thoughtful, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Do you truly think he’ll listen?” he asked quietly, his voice breaking the silence. “After all this—will Tywin Lannister agree to anything?”

You sighed, folding your arms as the weight of the question pressed on you. “Tywin is… complicated,” you admitted, your gaze shifting to the keep where the man in question likely sat in calculated thought. “He doesn’t respond to emotion or appeals to honor. He needs something tangible, something he can’t deny. Proof.”

Jon frowned, his brow furrowing. “Proof of what?”

“That the North’s independence won’t destabilize the realm,” you replied. “That the sacrifices he’s made to secure the Iron Throne’s dominance won’t unravel. Tywin’s a man who weighs everything in terms of power and legacy.”

Jon’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “How do you prove something like that? Winter is coming, the Long Night is coming—and if we’re not prepared, there won’t be a realm left to fight over.”

You turned to him, your expression softening. “I’ve tried to make him see that. I’ve told him about the things I’ve seen, the threats that are coming. But Tywin doesn’t believe in visions or warnings. He believes in what he can see and touch.”

Jon exhaled slowly, his hand running through his dark curls. “Then we’re already at a disadvantage. By the time he sees what’s coming, it’ll be too late.”

You placed a comforting hand on his arm, your voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll find another way to prepare. Tywin may be slow to believe, but he’s not a fool. If he sees the North as an ally in what’s to come, he’ll act.”

Jon turned to you, his gaze searching. “And do you believe he’ll act in time?”

You hesitated, the weight of your own doubts pressing heavily on you. “I hope so,” you said finally. “For all our sakes.”

Damon’s laughter drew your attention, and you smiled faintly as the boy ran toward Jon, clutching a small stick in his hands. He held it out triumphantly, his violet eyes gleaming with excitement. “Jon! Look! I found a sword!”

Jon crouched down, taking the stick from Damon and examining it with exaggerated seriousness. “A fine weapon,” he said with a faint smile. “You’ll make a fierce warrior one day.”

Damon beamed, clearly pleased with the praise. “Can you teach me?”

“Damon,” you interrupted gently, your tone light but firm. “Jon has more important things to do than play swords with you.”

Damon’s face fell slightly, but he turned back to Jon with hopeful eyes. “Will you?”

Jon hesitated, glancing at you before returning his gaze to Damon. “Maybe later,” he said, his voice kind. “But for now, I need to talk to your mother.”

Damon nodded solemnly, though his excitement quickly returned as he turned back to Ghost, who was lying nearby with an air of patient tolerance. The boy reached out to pet the direwolf, his small hands running through the thick white fur.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “You’ve made an impression on him,” you said to Jon. “Don’t be surprised if he follows you all over the castle now.”

Jon smiled faintly, his eyes softening as he watched Damon. “He reminds me of Robb when he was little,” he said quietly. “Full of energy, always curious.”

You nodded, your heart aching at the mention of your late nephew. “He’s a lot like Robb,” you agreed. “And like you. Stubborn, determined, always asking questions.”

Jon’s gaze returned to you, his expression serious once more. “I’ll stay,” he said firmly. “I won’t leave until Tywin hears me out—until the North has what it needs. I owe it to my family, to the people who died for it.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And I’ll stand by you, Jon. Whatever happens, you’re not alone in this.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, the weight of the coming battles heavy on your shoulders. Behind you, Damon’s laughter echoed through the courtyard as Ghost licked his face, the innocence of childhood a brief reprieve from the storm that loomed on the horizon. The North and the South were converging, and the future of the realm hung in the balance.

[cdragons]

❄︎ House Stark & Spicy Food ❄︎ - w/ spicy loving reader

Cries if there's too much pepper:

All of them, Sansa and Robb - these two will actually die if they have the slightest sense of heat to any food they try. Like their hair, they get it from their mother.

Robb will try so hard to pretend that he has any spice tolerance...he doesn't...he REALLY doesn't

This boy wants to impress you so badly while also dying and you are not being very helpful bc you keep laughing at how red his face gets

You didn't even put that much in, it was barely a dash of cayenne or one jalapeno seed and he will DIE

If you ever try to put spice in his dishes, he will look at you with the biggest look of betrayal

Redding Wedding what? Nope, the real, most unforgivable act of treason against this King of the North was putting a ghost pepper in his stew after he pissed you off and drinking all his water to make sure that there wasn't any left near him.

Are the two of you married? Does not matter - off to the dungeons with you.

Okay, not really, but he will be seriously pissed and have a huge pouty face for the rest of the week.

He feels even more betrayed when he sees Grey Wind sleeping next to you after you put the pepper in his food.

"Are you on my side or hers?" - Grey Wind is on Team Cuddles and Being Spoiled.

If you end up eating something too spicy for you, he WILL be the most insufferable person about it

Sansa is literally no different, if not worse, than her brother.

Everything that was written above -> multiply that by 10000 in terms of spice intolerance, and you get Sansa.

She does NOT care about impressing you with improving her spice tolerance.

You could try to convince her that spicy food is better for her body and there are a ton of health benefits, but you will FAIL

You once gave her a Cubanelle pepper (About 1,000 SHU) bc the only less spicy option was a bell pepper and bell peppers are only peppers in name and not in spirit

She did not react well

She RAN 🏃‍♀️ to the well and drank the water out of the pail.

...Was it bad that you laughed at her reaction? Yes

Would you do it again? Also, yes

Was it totally worth being banned from nighttime cuddles and kisses for an entire month?...Okay, maybe you won't do it again

You could make fun of her unseasoned potatoes and closer-to-water soup all you want. She is not interested in damaging her stomach lining and developing stomach cancer.

She WILL make fun of you if you end up eating something too spicy for YOU, and you let her because you love seeing her more childish smile and side.

Slightly Dying, but Otherwise Okay and Kind of Digs It:

Jon can eat spicy foods...theoretically.

He's eaten Wilding food and the rotten food from Castle Black -> compared to that, he can take a little heat.

He was wrong - He was so very, VERY wrong. Your level of heat and spice was something that only a demon could take.

Jon was convinced that you were part dragon bc he can't think of any other reason as to how and WHY you put yourself through this?

Eventually, he DOES develop a bit of spice tolerance, and you take full credit for it, especially because this means his taste palette is more on your level. You aren't as afraid of accidentally killing him with your cooking preferences.

But it ends up lowkey backfiring on him bc you won't stop sneaking spicy food into his meals, and sometimes Tormund and his brothers in Black will sneak a bite off his plate (no one died...everyone lives...shhhhhhhhh)

Sam is dead - he died, you killed him. Gilly is officially out for your blood, and little Sam is raised with the single goal of piercing you with a pointy stick bc you killed his dad.

Pyp and Edd are also lowkey dying. Still, they actually enjoy the heat and are always happy to taste test for your dishes...despite their bowels hating them for it

Grenn and Tormund fucking LOVE the heat. They can easily down bowl after bowl after bowl of your cooking.

Bran SHOULD not eat spicy food...but he does because it makes you so happy, and he will literally do anything for your smile and cuddles.

Like his love of climbing and scary stories, he honestly lives for the thrill of taking the heat.

All of his siblings are terrified he's going to get a stomach ulcer one day because he keeps adding more spice to his food, and they are ALL blaming you, and you're just like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

While he's traveling with Osha, Hodor, Rickon, and Reed Siblings, it's your cooking that helps keep them warm.

When he becomes the Three-Eyed Raven and King of the Seven Kingdoms, he and you will go to the kitchens to make your favorite dishes from your shared past because it brings a little of the old Bran back.

It's only around you that he can still smile and laugh, and you love him no matter what.

Love Spicy Food and Can ACTUALLY Take it

Arya LOVESSSSS the heat - All Day, Everyday Baby

While she was in Braavos and training in the House of Black and White, she sampled so many dishes and spices from the markets.

This opened a whole new world to her tastebuds, and when she returned to Winterfell - she still loved the food because it was all the food of her childhood, but it just tasted...boring.

You and her actually met while she was training in Braavos, and your family ran a spice stall in one of the markets.

You were fascinated by the girl and always offered a warm meal and housing if she ever needed it. While cooking for her, Arya would tell you stories about Ned and Jon and all her other siblings.

When she reunited with her family at Winterfell, she thought it was adorable how happy and excited you were to meet them. She also highly encouraged you to share one of your spiciest dishes with them.

Bran didn't have much of a reaction save for a small cough, but Jon immediately reached for his water while Sansa just fainted from the shock of the heat assault in her mouth.

Rickon is the only sibling who can actually eat your food and so he automatically becomes your favorite Stark after Arya.

Rickon and you met while traveling with your siblings (Meera and Jojen) to find Bran. You carried many foreign spices with you (for whatever reason).

Immediately, he was smitten with you because you were the youngest sibling around his age. Shaddydog also loved you from the beginning, which helped your case.

A lot of the spices you carried also had medicinal purposes, so you were in charge of cooking while Meera handled the weapons and Jojen helped guide Bran to the 3ER.

It was during the coldest and most freezing blizzard nights, you used one of your hottest spices to make a stew. It was a miracle by fate that Rickon LOVED it.

Since then, he's always begging you to put hotter spices in the meals, but you refuse bc your spices are expensive and because you don't want to accidentally kill the rest of the "Save The World" Gang.

Shaddydog is a huge issue when you're making food because he's very curious about all the different smells and tastes, and you have to keep booping his nose out of the way because you love adding garlic, and it's not good for canines to eat garlic and salt.

*BONUS*

Catelyn - cannot eat anything spicy for the life of her

Ned - same as his wife, tbh lol

[catsteeth]

Sugar & Violence

Podrick Payne x reader 

+:✿ Chapter 3 ✿:+ : Waves Of Emotion

Chapters: 1 | 2 | _ | 4

Summary: You’re a Mormont being held hostage by House Lannister.  You are acting now as the Handmaiden for Margery Tyrell, whom you’ve grown quite close with. But it seems that a squire has caught your attention as you have caught his. 

CW: afab reader, SMUT, MDNI, Oral (Mutual), unprotected P in V sex, praise, insanely sweet fluff, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of NSFW themes.

Word Count: 5125 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

It had been some time since your night with Podrick. 

Since then you and he rarely had a moment together alone longer than a few moments. On the walks back from Tyrion's chambers you would speak quietly. About anything. And when you arrived at your chamber if there were no one around you would kiss him. However, that was all. 

Ever since Margery and Joffrey were engaged, your moments together had grown fewer and far between. 

Tonight was the wedding of Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa. One that you knew was not going to be a happy one. But with this wedding on the way it would seem Margerys was becoming closer. With her as queen you’d be free soon enough. 

“What was it like?” Margery asked as she rummaged through her gowns in her wardrobe. 

“He finished me first. No man has ever done that.” You said as laid on a lounge chair while you chewed on some grapes.

“If you were paid to do it, would you refuse the money?” She said not turning her attention away from the dresses in front of her. 

“I never refuse money.” You said as you plucked another grape off its vine. 

“Do you believe another would?” She asked looking back at you,

“Perhaps.” You looked at the grape vine you stripped clean. You realized you’d no interest in disclosing any intimate details about Podrick. As if it were a betrayal to him. You changed the subject as you threw the bare grape vine onto a tray next to you. “What was your evening with Joffrey like?”

She looked back at the dresses in front of her. “Enchanting as always.” She said sarcastically, “Let's change the subject shall we?” She spun around holding two dresses, “Black or Red?”

“We already dressed you.” You said with a raised eyebrow

“This one is for you.” She said with a smirk

“I have to come to that repulsive ceremony?” You whined

“You are my lady,”

“I am your handmaiden.” You corrected her,

“And I wish for you to be with me during such a repulsive ceremony.” She held the dresses up higher trying to direct your attention back to them. 

“No green?” You pout your lips. 

“It’s a Lannister wedding, you are fortunate I am not making you wear gold. Or perhaps one of those terrible wrapped gowns Cersei wears.” You continued to pout and she felt the need to convince you, “Joffrey already does not like all the green you wear.” She sighed

“Black.” You conceded, at least black was the second color of your house. 

Margery buttoned and tied you into the gown. she turned you around and rested her chin on your shoulder as you looked into the mirror. 

“You are going to need moon tea after that boy sees you tonight.” 

“No need, he won’t finish in me. He says he does not want to “sully my body”” You said the last part in a mocking tone

“He said that?” Her eyes widened and you nodded, “I’d say he does love you.” 

“No, he doesn’t” You shook your head. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The ceremony was as droll as you imagined. 

However it did once again give you an opportunity to dance and drink. 

As the night went on you tried your best to get on with the things that brought you joy, like drinking and dancing however none of them were helping. You danced from man to man, all of them pleasant enough but none of them made you feel the way Podrick did. 

You looked around the room that night and saw Podrick standing behind Tyrion’s wedding table. He was dressed somewhat nicer than normal, wearing a cape. He stood there with his arms crossed and a timid yet stoic expression. As soon as your eyes found him, his eyes met yours. 

You took a break from dancing and grabbed a chalice of wine. You made your way over to Podrick, once he noticed this he stood up straighter.

“Podrick,” You said with a slight nod, greeting him. 

“Lady (Y/N),” He looked flustered, “You look beautiful.” He said softly

“It’s Lady Margery's dress,” You said, running your hands over the fabric of the gown.

“No, I meant you.” He said softer, and your eyes went back to him. “I would like to ask you for a dance, really I would but I cannot leave my Lord.” He said, keeping his eyes low as if he were disappointed in himself.

“I see,” You said looking over to Tyrion, who was drowning himself in his cups. “He seems to be enjoying himself. In one way or another I suppose.” You said with a smirk, making Podrick smile “Besides, I have grown tired of dancing. Hardly seems appropriate.” You said into your chalice.

“How do you mean?” He asked 

“Does this appear to be a happy or willing union?” You asked as your eyes wandered from the drunk older lord to the young to the miserable young lady.

“Well I-“ He began but was interrupted by the shouting of Joffrey. 

“Come, everyone! Time for the bedding ceremony!” Joffrey shouted pulling Sansa along with him

“Bedding ceremony, a great joke.” You said sarcastically lower.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Tyrion said,

“Where is your respect for tradition, uncle? Come everyone pick her up and take her to her wedding bed, rid her of her gown she won't be needing it any longer.” Joffrey commanded Podrick however took a step backwards, 

“Ladies attend to my uncle, he’s not heavy.” Joffrey said mockingly

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Tyrion reaserted.

“There will be if I command it!” Joffrey Shouted back,

“Then you will be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock!” Tyrion shouted as he stabbed the table with his knife.

As the tension grew, Podrick slowly moved his arm in front of you and gently pushed you behind him. You were unsure of how he planned to protect you if anything did happen but the gesture made you feel a warmth growing in your belly. 

You stood behind Podrick, standing closer to his back as you watched the exchange dwindle out. As Tywin was able to play Tyrion’s justified rage filled outburst as a joke and drunken foolishness. 

Tyrion eventually got up and began to walk away with his new bride. 

As the two of them walked off, you leaned toward over Podricks shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Not quite a happy union, would you say?” 

You then walked past him and out of the feasting hall. 

The scene that played out in front of you made you feel sick. How Joffrey's cruelty may lay dormant towards Margery for now it may not forever.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

You went for a walk outside. Walking along the stone walls that stand beside the ocean sea. You took in the sounds of the sea, how comforting it was to hear. It reminded you of the Island, how the ocean wrapped around it beautifully. You held yourself tightly as the cold air blew past. 

“Are you running away?” Podrick’s voice beckoned uncharacteristically loud, it made you jump. You turned around and saw him standing there, like a scared puppy.

“You scared me!” You clenched your neck, 

Podrick walked closer towards you, “I am sorry- are you leaving?” He reiterated his question,

“No, no I’m not.” You relaxed a bit, walking closer to him, “How’d you find me?” You questioned.

“I-I-” He stammered

“Were you following me?” You asked with narrow eyes.

“I wanted to be sure you got to your room safely.” He kept his eyes low

“I can ensure my own safety.” You said, still a little angry how he scared you.

“I know, I know you can, I’m sorry.” He said about to leave you, 

“Podrick,” You said as you walked to him, grabbing ahold of his arm, “It’s alright, I’m sorry. I was only frightened.” 

“I didn’t want to scare you,” He said as his hand found yours, “I just saw you out here and I-” He stammered again, “I thought you might be leaving.” 

“I’m not. I needed to get away for a moment.” You pulled him along, walking along the water. “The water calms me.”

“Reminds you of home?” He asked softly. 

You nodded, “I miss it terribly.” 

“I’m glad you’re not leaving.” he pulled your arm closer, pulling you closer. “I’m sorry I did not dance with you tonight.” He looked at you, his eyes were deep and loving, it scared you.

“I didn’t ask you to,” You say, looking away from his gaze.

“No but I regret not doing it.” 

“You had a duty.” You say lowering your head, before looking back at him “Besides, you still can.” 

“Now?” He asked as he stopped walking.

“Why not?” You smiled softly,

“There's no music-” He began as you pulled him closer in front of you, wrapping one of your arms around his neck and the other taking his hand.

“There is, there is the sound of the ocean.” You said as you rested your head on his shoulder. His hand found your waist as you both swayed together. Using the sounds of the waves to keep your rhythm. 

“I know nothing of your life.” You said sweet and soft into his ear. 

“I told you, I squired for ser-” 

“I know that but I don’t know about your life. Before all of that.” 

“Not much to say I fear. I mean there is, but it's not interesting.” He stammered slightly as your hand trailed across his back, “I was born in the Westlands. My father died in Greyjoy’s Rebellion, my mother left when I was young. I was taken in by my cousin.”

“Was he kind to you?” You asked sweetly into his ear as you continued to sway back and forth.

“I suppose he gave me shelter. I did things for him, tended his horses, cleaned his mail-”

“You were his squire.” 

He couldn’t argue with it, it was true. 

“I had a dog, Hero.” His voice was softer than velvet.

“Was he one?”

“No, but he was a good dog.” 

“Do you ever miss it? Your home?” You asked as you let go of his hand, wrapping both arms now around his neck.

“No. I didn’t really have one, I mean I did but… I didn’t.”

“You must think I’m silly for wanting to leave mine.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, now having the courage to look him in the eye.

“I wouldn’t think that. But I am curious as to why you did.”

“When you’re on the Island, they believe there is nothing outside of it. Nothing of value or beauty. Life there had become dull, but I miss it. The dull is comfortable.” You said with a sadness in your voice,

“What was it like?” He asked you, wanting to know more about you desperately. 

“I’ve told you, cold and dark.” You smirked,

“No, not the Island, your life. What kind of clothes did you wear, what did you do everyday, what kind of foods did you eat, who did you know?” He asked you softly

“Well,” You sighed, “I wore much more than this,” You looked down at your dress. “Furs, leathers, armors,” 

“I’d like to see you in that.” He said with a uncharacteristically confident smirk,

“Would you?” You said with a flirtatious smile.

“Mhm” He said, his hand coming up to brush some of your hair behind your ear, “Keep going,”

“What was next?”

“What did I do everyday?” “What did you do everyday?” You asked in unison, making you giggle,

“Mm lets see, riding, archery, and sword trainings. But I grew tired of that quickly, and turned my attention to healing.”

“You’re quite good at it.” 

“Thank you,” You smiled, and he nodded at you wanting you to continue with his questions, “Right… Foods were less decadent as the foods here. Hardly ever any fruits. Kidney or liver pie, soup, really anything hot. And as for people, I knew everyone on that Island.” 

“Any men?”

“Yes, many men.” You smiled holding back a giggle

“Did you love any of them?” He held you slightly tighter,

“No.” You shook your head, “I had been with men, not many. However none of them I loved, much less did they perform well enough to inspire any interest.”

“Do I do well enough?” He leaned in closer and spoke softly, just in case anyone was around to hear it.

“Very well,” You smiled, “but you already know that.” You said leaning your forehead against his, rubbing your nose against his. When you pulled away you asked softly, “Have you ever loved a woman?”

“No.” He responded quickly

“You’ve been with a woman before though,” You asked with a raised eyebrow

“Yes. But, it was… only.. Physical.” He seemed flustered by the question.

“Other handmaidens?” You teased

It only flustered him more, “No- no, no, they were…”

“Whores?”

“How did you-”

“Rumors spread quickly, though I suppose worse rumors have been told.” 

“You do not judge me for it?”

“Every man has done it. Very little of them admit it. Even fewer of them would admit it to a woman, I’d not judge your honesty.” You smiled softly

“I won’t be doing it again.” 

“You’d not enjoyed it?”

He shook his head “I wouldn’t anymore.” His eyes became desperate, and filled with longing “I’ve missed being near you.” His voice was lower, and his grip on you tighter. It didn’t feel like lust. It felt like something that scared you terribly. 

“Stop that.” You said, almost a plea.

“I don’t believe you see how wonderful you are. I don’t know how you don’t, but you don’t.” His hands went from your waist to your face, cupping your jaw. “When you asked me if I had ever loved a woman. I said no, but that was a lie because the answer was yes and it was now. I love you.” His voice was desperate.

“Stop that I said-“ You said pulling his hands away from your face, 

“I can’t, I can’t hold it inside any longer, I love you.” He said as you passed him, almost running away. 

Spending so long being used for one thing, it didn’t make sense for someone to love you. And for you to love someone else. 

How could you love someone when you were so close to leaving this place. As you walked down the halls, tears in your eyes. You realized you weren’t walking back to your own room but his. You realized that you did love him. And you realized that he loved you. If you were going home once Margery was queen and you’d never see him again. You wanted, no you needed to tell him at least. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

When you walked into his chamber you waited for him. It wasn’t long till he arrived. 

Podrick walked into his chamber. He looked like he had cried. A he noticed you and you could see the relief wash over him.

“I thought I scared you off.” You said, breathing a sigh of relief as he approached you.

“It wasn’t you that scared me. But you were right, I am frightened.” You said as you wrapped your arms around him

“Tell me why?” He pleaded as you petted your hair.

“Once Margery is queen, she had promised me that she’d send me home. I was frightened of how much pain I’m going to be in when that happens.” You held his face in your hands, “But I could be content here. If you were with me.” You smiled softly, eyes still glassy from the tears.

“I can’t make you stay somewhere like this if you’ve a chance to leave it. A chance to be somewhere where you’d be treated as you deserve. Where your name has weight. Where you’d have power.” He said softly his eyes filled with a heavy sorrow

“You wouldn’t be making me.” You shook your head.

“(Y/N),” He began

“Stop,.. I admit I find it hard to find the language to describe this. Where I come from we don’t speak of such things. It’s silly and pathetic to us. But I find the urge to tell you this now.” You pleaded, “I’ve not felt this emotion toward another. Ever. It is greater than any ambition or desire I have. It makes me forget the things I miss because I know if I’m without you, I’ll miss you far greater than all that. I believe this to be what they say love is. Tell me, have you felt what you feel for me for anyone other than myself? If you have, say it now, plainly. And I will not burden you-“ 

Podrick took you by your face and kissed you deeply. Desperately. 

He broke your kiss, he held his grasp on your cheeks. 

“It’s a feeling that consumes me and my thoughts. I feel it surrounds me whenever I am near you, and I feel it’s absence when I am without you. Like a cold emptiness in my chest. Each night, when I lay alone I think of your face. No, no I have never felt this for another.” He brushed your cheek with his thumb, he looked into your eyes in awe. “This must be that companionship they talk about in songs and books, but it feels like we’re inventing something.” He said, a small smile pulling slightly at the corners of his mouth.

“Do all lovers feel that way?” You asked, breathlessly as you held him close.

“I only care for us, how we feel, how you feel.”

“I miss your lips on mine, kiss me again.” You said into his lips as he kissed you again. 

This kiss was desperate, passionate, and loving. His lips were gentle but firm. Your lips left his as they kissed his jaw and his neck. Your hand roamed from his back to shoulder down to his stomach and then to his cock.

Breathlessly Podrick spoke again, “I watched you all night,” He said stifling a moan as you palmed his hardening cock through his breeches.

“Did you?” You whispered into his neck,

“I did,” He moaned softly, “I envied every man who danced with you-”

“Envied?” You whispered into his ear as you kissed and licked at his ear. 

“Hated.” He corrected, his voice deeper than it was before.

“You’re the only man I want.” You said, breathlessly as you pulled the ties of his breeches loose

He shook his head, “You’re the only woman I have ever wanted.” He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, you kissed his thumb.

“I want you to feel good.” You said, almost in a moan.

“I feel very good-” He said but was catch off guard by you getting on your knees, he stammered slightly “You don’t have to”

“You don’t want me to?” You asked as you slowly released him from his breeches. You took him in your hand. Admiring just how pretty his cock was. It was girthy enough that you just about couldn’t close your fist around it. 

“I- I do but I don’t want you to feel as if you need to.” 

“Sweet boy, “ You kissed the head of it making him swallow hard as his cock twitched, “would it change how you think of me if I told you I want to do this.” You asked, looking up at him with doe like eyes.

He shook his head no, and was about to tell you how he would never think of you differently when he let out a moan as you licked up and down his shaft. 

He grasped at your hair instinctively but released his grasp almost immediately not wanting to feel like he was forcing you. But his hand stayed on top of your head. 

“Beautiful,” He cooed as he petted your hair

You pulled your tongue away from his tip,

“You like it?” you asked sweetly as you took his tip into your mouth. 

“Ve-Very m-much” He stammered trying not to moan

You took him out of your mouth once more, “You can tell me,” you said before sinking him into your mouth completely. 

“I don’t want to be vulgar to you- mmmm,” He gripped slightly harder onto the crown of your head as you sucked harder, working your tongue so skillfully up and down his shaft “but it’s so good. Gods!” He winced

“(Y/N), please, I need to- to-“ He stammered as he pulled himself out of your mouth. He dropped to his knees and kissed you deeply. “I wasn’t going to last long, I don’t want to finish yet,” He whispered into your mouth. 

His mouth moved away from yours to kiss your cheek, and your jaw, then your neck. “I’ll be careful not to bruise you this time, I promise” He said sickeningly sweet. 

“I don’t care if you do,” You said as he wrapped an arm around your lower back, he began moving closer and closer to you, slowly pushing you down onto the ground. 

You smiled up at him as you laid on the ground. You pulled your skirts up exposing your dampened small clothes. Podrick took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, then your palm, then each of your fingers. 

“I want you,” You said softly, 

He kissed from your hand, to your wrist, down your arm, all the way to your shoulder, til finally he kissed your neck. 

“Can I do… something.” He whispered into your neck, you nodded back in return. 

He pulled your small clothes off, and kissed your inner thighs gently. “If we were wed,” He kissed your other thighs' delicate inner skin, “I’d never let them perform the bedding ceremony.” He bit your inner thigh delicately making you whimper and squirm, “I’d never let any man handle you that way.” He said into your weeping cunt, the vibration of his voice made you mewl. He began by simply kissing your clit. One of his hands ran up and down your inner thigh, while the other he used to run his thumb up and down your aching slit. 

“More, please..” You mewled, 

“Whatever you wish,” He said before he pushed a finger into your weeping core as he began to suck on your clit. You arched your back at the sensation, your eyes went to the back of your head as you whimpered out his name. 

Then he pushed in a second finger, and curled his fingers upwards into that sweet spot in your cunt. Pulsing his two fingers against it, again and again. It made you moan out, “Podri-Mphm!” you curled your toes and gripped his hair tightly, making him moan into your cunt, the vibration against your clit only making the pleasure that more intense. “Aaawh!” You practically cried out. 

You could believe someone would refuse payment for this. 

You couldn’t help but buck and grind against his face, which he didn’t seem to mind telling by the way he moaned into your cunt. 

But you didn’t want to come undone on his fingers and tongue, you wanted more, needed more.

“Podrick,” You said softly, and he immediately halted his actions and looked up at you. 

Those big brown puppy eyes, so sweet and loving. You petted the top of his head, rubbing your thumb against his temple a few times. “I need you, all of you.” 

He arose from between your thighs. Panting, and immediately pulling you into a kiss. You could taste the sweetness, the bitterness, the saltiness, it was intoxicating, and it was you. 

“You taste so good, so good,” He whispered into your lips as he positioned his aching cock against your soaking entrance.

“I love you,” He said, and before you could say it back he was sliding inside of you, you moaned loudly and clenched around him making him bury his face into your neck and moan out your name so desperately. 

You gripped at his back. With his face in your neck, you kissed into his ear between your own desperate moans. As he pumped himself in and out of you, his hand found your face, cupping your cheeks and looking into your eyes with awe and wonder. Love. 

“Do- Mmmphm! Do I fe-feel good enough?” You asked breathlessly between moans. It made him smile and thrust even harder into you, 

“Very,” He thrusted harder, “Very,” and harder, “Very” and harder again, “Very good.” 

As his thrusts continued, faster, and harder, he trailed down your body and to your cunt again. Circling your clit, he somehow always knew just how much pressure to apply. You felt yourself tightening, and so could he. 

You thrusted against him, the lewd sounds of your bodies colliding mixed with the sounds of your shared moans filled the room. 

As you felt your peak reaching you grabbed ahold of his throat, tightening your grip only slightly. Enough for him to feel the pleasure of it. 

“I want it this time, I want it in me.” You whimpered against his lips as you held him by his throat,

He nodded frantically in return as his thrusts became more and more erratic and you clenched down on his cock more and more. The heat is tightening in your stomach more and more. 

Soon you finally felt his hot seed spill inside of you, you felt the heat spread inside of you. It was too much for you and you came alongside him. 

He stayed in you for a moment. You both held one another panting, sometimes kissing one another before he pulled out of you. 

Still panting he laid beside you, on the floor of your chamber, still in your disheveled clothing, your fingers entwined. 

You looked over at him, still trying to catch your breath, “How did you get so good at that?” you asked softly.

“I hoped for so long I would find someone I loved. I imagined it all, countless times.” He looked over to you, “Waiting for you.” 

“You dreamt of it?” You asked in a whisper,

“No, I thought of you.” 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

NOTE:

If anyone gets the Portrait of a lady on fire reference I will kiss you on the mouth. 

BELOVED TAGS: 

@ryn-away @boojaynaqueen @holierthancunt @symonedoesart

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 9 | chapter 10

You had always thought being betrothed to the one you love would finally make you happy. The one you'd remember as you grew old. A memory you'd cherish forever.

Yet you never thought it would be a complete torture — wanting someone who doesn't want you. Not even a bit.

Queen Mother Cersei continued to ignore you through the days that come, as if you were a common guest in the Red Keep. Queen Margaery however, were already talking nonstop with you, asking how the two of you first met and interacted with each other.

Everyone had apparently heard the news. Tommen had avoided you. Jaime looked bitter everytime you saw him at dining halls and hear his father Lord Tywin discuss your engagement to Cersei and where to hold such event.

The Tyrells did not take it lightly at first, but knowing Ser Loras' character, the decision was for the best. In fact, the Tyrell Lord was happy he was set free from marrying the vicious queen, he'd always talk about inviting you both to see Highgarden to spend time as newlyweds.

Of course, there was always the talk about your sexuality and your special appendage, and you knew Cersei was shamed about all of it as she kept shoving glass of wine into her mouth, as if she needed to be drunk for that kind of conversation. You knew then her father meant this proposal as her punishment. And yours.

Tommen was crowned as King the following day, finally diminishing the gossip.

Yet, the continuing appearance of Jaime inside Cersei's chambers, or along side her at times, never not following her, only made your blood boil. Even after the engagement, he knew how to make you furious, he knew what was your weakest point.

One time you even stopped Jaime by holding unto his fake hand, making him almost stumble. He was about to follow Cersei into her chambers once again. You knew he was part of the Kingsguard, yet it didn't sit well on you for him to guard Cersei. You'd request Lord Tywin to change that once you had the courage.

"What are you doing?" you spat, glaring at the golden haired man.

"Following the Queen—"

"You don't have to do that," you interjected, maintaining your hold. "I trust another loyal Kingsguard can do your job."

He then laughed. "Are you jealous I might start another scandal?"

"You—"

"He's my Queensguard and my brother, Lady Y/n," Cersei spoke, making you both glance her way. "Let him go."

You swallowed a lump in your throat before your grasp weaken.

~~~

"I hear congratulations are in order," Tyrion said, laughing. "Here I thought you had listened to my advice. Yet you had to wear the noose or lay your head down unto the guillotine."

You sighed as you looked at the ground, kicking dirt after dirt. With nothing else to do and nowhere else to hide, you decided to visit Tyrion in his cells in the castle's dungeons.

"I . . . I don't know what I'm going to do," you said. "I . . . I have sent a raven to ask for my father's help. She . . . She doesn't . . . doesn't return my feelings."

"See, I told you she's cruel."

"I . . . I have loved her, you know. I . . . I know she has done terrible things in life, but I. . . I still find myself at a loss of words around her. My heart would still skip a beat every time she's near me. And I hate it. She's . . . She's my weakness and I hate it."

Tyrion looked at you sympathetically. "She's always adored when she doesn't deserve it."

You only stayed silent. Tyrion observed your dilemma and sighed. "I was once betrayed by the one I truly loved."

You glanced at him. "Surely you're not talking about Sansa—"

"No, no." He laughed. "Shae. She's a whore. I fell in love with a whore. And I truly believed my feelings were reciprocated. I should've trusted my gut that it was all a farce. I thought she was different. I thought she'd love a dwarf like me. Funny how that turned out when she told the court the other day how I was guilty in killing Joffrey."

You both stayed silent for a moment, regretting about your past actions.

"I mean, it can't be that bad, right?" you asked expectantly. "Marrying Cersei."

"She'd torment you, of course."

He coughed, leaning against the wall. "I want to feel sorry for you though. However, I might no longer be there to give my sympathies."

"What do you mean?"

"I requested for a trial by combat as a result of betrayal in court," he began. "And Cersei picked the Mountain as her champion."

You stared at him in disbelief. "The Mountain?"

The Mountain. Gregor Clegane. He was the largest, strongest and most feared man in Westeros. No one had ever outmatched him.

"You see, Y/n. When my sister hates someone, she'd do everything in her power to get rid of them. I have lost Bronn to my father's nicer offers. I lost my brother Jaime to Cersei even since birth, but I doubt he can even fight with one hand against the Mountain."

"What are you going to do then?"

"Well, Y/n," he said, smiling weakly. "I have always enjoyed having our talks, no matter how brief. But I believe this is goodbye."

~~~

You were heading back to your chambers when you accidentally bumped into Jaime only coming out from Cersei's. It made you push him against the nearby wall and clutch his armor.

You were envy, it wasn't a question anymore. You couldn't decipher how attached the twins were, and how no one could intervene.

"What do you think you're doing inside? Queensguard are supposed to stay outside the doors."

He chuckled, making you let him go. "She's in a good mood right now, Y/n. Don't try to break it."

"You—"

"I told you we have each other's backs no matter what," he went on in a whisper. "I know you'll be married one day. And one day, Cersei will finally bear another child. I'm sure you couldn't help but wonder once your son or daughter would be born with golden hair," he leaned closer into your ear, "Would it be yours or mine? Robert didn't notice. But I know you're clever enough to see."

The argument stopped when Cersei stepped out the door of her chambers. Your gazes met, and somehow underneath you could still see the Cersei you had known the past couple of weeks. And you knew then you had to let her go. For your own sanity. And hers.

What was once a hardened gaze softened as you stepped away from the Knight.

"Your Grace." You bowed at Cersei before hurriedly leaving.

~~~

You had avoided the Lannisters the following days. It was the only way you could move forward without getting affected. You knew you had to face them one day, but at the moment, you'd savor the time away from them.

At dinners, your seat was always empty, making Lord Tywin ask Oberyn of your daily activities.

You had found a secluded place in the Capital, one that's rarely visited. You could see the entire King's Landing from where you sat and wondered how you wanted to leave that place, how you wouldn't want to be tied down to Cersei in such a depressing place.

If she could only love you, her love would make this view bearable. But she didn't. She wouldn't.

You were still waiting for your father's response to your letter. The violent way was to offer Princess Myrcella, Cersei's daughter, in exchange. But you doubted Tywin would see that as a threat. And you knew you wouldn't choose that way anyway.

You met with Tyrion in his cells later that night when a certain idea finally came to you.

It was the only thing keeping you sane as you finally made your presence known inside the Red Keep. Oberyn even wondered why you were suddenly enthusiastic out of nowhere.

And even when you saw Cersei and Jaime as they entered the dining halls together, you didn't let it affect you. Oblivious of the way Cersei's eyes widened when she saw you at your seat, you went on talking to Margaery about her upcoming marriage to Tommen. You then could see why Cersei never liked Margaery. She was a parasite. And she thought you were too, marrying the Queen Mother and all.

~~~

Offer him Castle Yronwood. He'd set you free from the arrangement.

Yronwood. The castle you won fighting against the lords from the Stormlands when you were young. It was the reply your father sent to your raven.

You knew you had to offer it to Tywin to set you and Cersei free. She wouldn't ever have to marry anyone she doesn't like. She wouldn't have to marry you.

Deep in your thoughts, you didn't notice Cersei approaching you in the balcony.

You greeted and stepped back as she approached the railing and stared at the horizon.

The Queen would always stay beautiful in your eyes, no matter how ugly she was inside.

"Can't sleep?"

You shook your head. "Been thinking a lot."

She snorted a soft chuckle. "Aren't we all these days?"

You smiled at the horizon. There was a long silence before you spoke, "Don't you feel like running away from all this?"

"To where?"

"Anywhere."

"Having cold feet?"

And you laughed, realizing she was referring to your marriage.

"I am not," you managed to reply. "It would be an insult to deny your hand, Your Grace."

She looked at you. "Why are you still nice to me when I'm nothing but awful to you?"

You fell silent as you avoided her gaze. She went on. "Kindness is a weakness, Y/n. For women like us. You should know that by now."

You could see Jaime on the grounds below, talking at another Kingsguard and when you finally looked at Cersei, she was also looking at him. And if your heart could only break more, it would.

"I am cold," you announced as you shivered, stepping away from the Queen. "I'm heading back inside. And I suggest you do too, Your Grace. It won't be wise to catch a cold these days."

"Y/n?"

You stopped in your tracks. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Nothing happened between me and Jaime," she said, making you glance at her. She sported a genuine look in her face. Yet, you didn't know if you should believe her or not. Maybe, she did care for you. Or maybe she's scared you'd tell her father about it.

But what was the difference if she was saying the truth. She didn't want you. She'd never love you. She hadn't ever loved you once. And you knew that now.

"It's okay, Cersei." You gave her a weak smile before leaving.

~~~

"What the seven hells is this, Y/n?" Oberyn's yell surprised you when you entered the breakfast hall where the Martells dine the next morning. Ellaria was holding back his hand as if to control his temper. But you knew, she had no chance of doing that.

You then looked at the scroll he threw at you, giving him a sarcastic smile before reading the contents.

"Your father would kill me, Y/n!" he said. "The Mountain would kill you."

Yes, you had offered yourself as Tyrion's champion for his upcoming trial.

"I had to help him, Oberyn. Someone has to help him—"

"It doesn't have to be you!"

"Come on, my dear," Ellaria interrupted, rubbing Oberyn's chest to calm him down. "I'm sure Y/n can still back down-"

"And let the innocent man die? There's no justice in the world unless we make it."

You had never seen Oberyn this furious before. And you were at the receiving end. He then looked around the soldiers and ordered, "Leave us."

You then added once the Dornish soldiers had left, "Besides, Cersei won't get to marry me if I die—"

"You can't die, Y/n. Not in my watch. I won't let you die," he said with gritted teeth.

"Thank you for your support. I can fight well on my own—"

"The Mountain has his own mind. He only knows two things, and that is to kill and kill."

"I've fought worse enemies than him, you know that, Oberyn."

"You can't die because you are one of the rightful heirs to the throne," he said in a whisper.

"What?"

"You're my brother Doran's bastard daughter."

"Our cousin Prince Doran? You must be losing your mind."

"He had an affair before Robert's Rebellion, before the Mad King became madder. And Doran had no idea, of course. Still has no idea. For he would have given you away, Y/n. Your mother hid you under her Maester's care in the Capital, but before your mother left for Dragonstone, she sent for me to take you to Dorne. Me and Elia took you to Y/f/n, a distant relative of ours, under your father's care."

"Why would he give me away?"

"Because your house was meant to be removed from existence. Because you weren't supposed to be alive. Your mother is none other than Rhaella Targaryen."

[knightsickness]

Hi! I hope that I don't bother you with my question. I'm asking out of genuine interest for an analysis and also because it has been 5 years since I last read any asoiaf book.

Coming from you comparison of Cersei's and Tyrion's time as Hand, what obvious mistakes did Tyrion make? I was probably not paying too proper attention because Tyrion did a lot of sympathetic things like ending Jeoffrey's terror on Sansa, or came up with a great strategy to limit casualties during Stannis invasion. His downfall struck me as Cersei conspiring against him, and Tywin taking all the credit for the work his son did. But I feel like I missed something here, and don't have all the details. (Again genuine question, not a "how dare you imply that perfect innocent angel uwu did anything wrong" way!)

i originally wrote a much longer list for this but i think the myrcella episode sums up most of the problems w tyrions politicking in microcosm

the entire point of the scheme is to embarrass cersei and undermine her with the removal of one of her spies. a lot of tyrions moves in acok are ridiculously cersei-focused because it makes him feel good to get petty wins over her he enjoys doing kings landing spy vs spy antics. constantly asking ‘what is cersei doing? does cersei know what im doing?’ when the answer to both is invariably ‘spying on each other’. when theyre still actively fighting three major enemies all this effort to plot and spy feels like it could be focused elsewhere. the scene where they laugh at stannis and renly pettily stupidly fighting each other rather than them obviously an acknowledgment of this neither of them notice

the idea to tell all the small council members different plans and then identify whichever one he told the story cersei gets mad at him for as her spy is good on paper a lot of tyrions moves are motivated by what makes him feel clever. in practice its kind of a mess

the idea of littlefinger having harrenhal is initially proposed to him by tyrion (who notes littlefinger looks extremely excited) as a reward for him arranging a hypothetical myrcella arryn match and then snatched away annoying and alienating him. its then next raised when littlefinger has obviously requested it to kevan/the tyrells/etc as his prize after the battle of the blackwater and he gets it. this isn’t necessarily direct cause and effect littlefinger always wanted to be a big lord he could have wanted harrenhal on his own but it seems like he was told he would have it, formulated his affc taking-over-the-vale plan, and then found out tyrion was fucking with him. again getting one over littlefinger makes tyrion feel good its gratifying to have the biggest schemer at court going grr you used me as a pawn and lied to me do NOT do that shit again

one of the main strengths of the situation tyrion inherits is a hypercompetent small council he immediately sets to turning on him (petyr) and giving them dangerous personal secrets (varys) while fantasising about having all their heads on spikes over the city walls

the idea of an elaborate plan to prove pycelle of all people is an incompetent lannister toady is absurd. you can tell that by talking to pycelle once. worse this makes pycelle hatee tyrion when if tyrion hadnt noticed he is ALSO a lannister he could have benefited from this !!

the sending myrcella to dorne plot that tyrion commits to lest cersei thinks he wasn’t serious and this was a finding-the-mole ploy (in which he gave them plans so obviously shocking and upsetting to cersei that if theyre her allies theyd immediately tell her) is terrible on the face of it and in affc proves to also be terrible in practice. the two outcomes are she gets crowned or killed both explicitly to start a war with the lannisters + burning one of your two spare heirs on the outing pycelle as a fraud and annoying cersei and littlefinger plan is. misguided. its insane to me he goes through w it he could still say ohh i changed my mind + let cersei think she’s persuaded him out of it (giving her a false win) or even just say yeah i was fucking with you haha you fell into my trap and exposed your own spy but he doesnt do either

tyrion’s conclusion on the plan is ‘this doesnt actually prove i can trust varys and littlefinger. theyre just untrustworthy in a subtler way. nobody in the world is as smart as me nobody has ever been this good at politics’

[silverflameataraxia]

Arya never hates Sansa or any other traditionally feminine woman for being able to sing, dance, sew, and mind their courtesies. She hates herself for not being able to do those things. She thinks her family would love her more, or that Catelyn would have been more willing to ransom her, if she was more feminine and could do those things.

On the other hand, you have Sansa who wishes that Arya was a bastard and that she could have another - more feminine - sister.

Why couldn't Arya be sweet and delicate and kind, like Princess Marcella? She would have liked a sister like that.

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their Lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon's mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn't been some mistake. Perhaps the grumkins had stolen her real sister.

- Sansa I, AGoT

Sansa is ashamed of Arya for being a tomboy instead of being more feminine.

They don't know me, Arya realized. They don't even know I'm a girl. Small wonder; she was barefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by cat claws and brown rough-spun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don't wear skirts and silks when you're catching cats. Quickly she lowered her head and dropped to one knee. Maybe they wouldn't recognize her. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Septa Mordane would be mortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame.

- Arya III, AGoT

Sansa attacks Arya for not being good at something traditionally feminine.

Sansa threw her head back in disdain. "You?" You couldn't sew a dress fit to clean the pigsties."

- Sansa III, AGoT

Sansa thinks that Arya was unsatisfactory as a sister because she wasn't feminine.

Sister. Sansa had once dreamt of having a sister like Margaery; beautiful and gentle, with all the world's graces at her command. Arya had been entirely unsatisfactory as sisters went.

- Sansa II, ASoS

Now where does Sansa get her sexism from? Catelyn (and Septa Mordane).

Arya wonders if her family would even want to ransom her because she's not traditionally feminine.

"What if my brother doesn't want to ransom me?"

"Why would you think that?" asked Lord Beric.

"Well," Arya said, "my hair's messy and my nails are dirty and my feet are all hard." Robb wouldn't care about that, probably, but her mother would. Lady Catelyn always wanted her to be like Sansa, to sing and dance and sew and mind her courtesies.

- Arya VII, ASoS

Catelyn telling Arya she could be pretty...if only she were more feminine.

Her mother used to say she could be pretty if she would just wash and brush her hair and take more care with her dress, the way her sister did. To her sister and sister's friends and all the rest, she had just been Arya Horseface. 

- The Blind Girl, ADwD

[llonelygoddess]

Ned Stark wife headcannons ❤️👀

Being Ned Starks wife

A/N: Thank you for the request!! I'm always so excited to get these<3 I also added what I thought would be a cute wedding dress! Feel free to send more requests!

Marrying Ned after Catelyn's death was not easy and you knew this coming into the relationship. Your father was close friends with Ned, so to help stave off unwanted advances from other houses he offered you.

You knew Ned didn't love you, that this was solely a political move to strengthen both your houses, but you refused to let that get to you. This was your life now and you'd do your duties to the best of your ability.

The first few months after the wedding Ned requested that you slept in separate rooms and you respected his decision. It gave you time to settle into the home but left you quite lonely.

You found yourself watching over the younger children. Rickon, being too young to really know his mother, latches onto you quickly as well as Bran. While Bran knew his mother, he confided in you that they never got to spend time with her the way you were able to. This told you all you needed to know to take care of these kids and hopefully make your husband happy. 

In the mornings before breakfast, you made it a habit to greet Ned and wish him well on his daily activities. With Rickon on your hip, you and Bran would spend time reading in the library until the older boys came to train with him. Watching them shoot arrows and spar together was exciting, and more than once you found yourself cheering them on. 

You didn’t see it but soon the boys started competing to see who could get you to cheer for them.

Some days you'd sit in on Sansa and Arya's stitching lessons and honestly you could use the lessons as well. Showing off your horrendous stitches made both of the girls laugh and feel better about their own. Sansa felt a sense of pride whenever you complimented her stitching and once gifted you a beautiful flower bouquet she made.

Arya, of course, felt that once again she was being looked over for her sister. You could easily spot the hurt within her and went out of your way to compliment her on the things she was good at even if they weren't "proper".

One day, she sneaks off to the training area and tries shooting arrows. You discover her and instead of calling her back inside you decide to assist her with the little knowledge you’ve picked up from the boys. The first time she gets a bullseye she runs up to you giving you a tight hug. You both hear clapping in the distance and notice Ned standing off to the side with a brilliant smile on his face. 

That night Ned asks you to his room for the first time since your wedding night. It caught you off guard but you gathered yourself and made your way over. It started off innocent with the both of you laughing and sharing stories about the kids. Then the discussion of your wedding night comes up, and how it was never truly consummated (because he’s a gentleman and didn’t want to pressure you). A glass of wine later and you both find yourselves under the sheets entangled in each other.

From that day forward you started sleeping in his room together. 

The way this man can balance all his responsibilities and still be doting and loving is crazy.

Life with Ned is peaceful. He wakes you up in the morning with a kiss on the cheek, and prefers you to call him Ned in private. It wasn’t often you both had alone time but when you did it was spent reading to each other or talking about the day you had. He loved watching you with the kids, especially the younger ones.

On more than one occasion he’s had to break up a disagreement between the kids only to find out it’s about who can spend more time with you.

He couldn't help but smile at the small piece of happiness he's created with you here.

[goodqueenaly]

Does it seem odd that when Robert Arryn brings up the hope of marrying 'Alayne' the issue of them being officially stepsiblings isn't brought up? Does this indicate that it is considered acceptable in the 7K or could it just mean that it doesn't occur to Sansa as they're merely cousins or she doesn't feel that Robert is really able to understand this? After all, Lyonel Hightower had trouble with the Faith over marrying his stepmother. Though if we're looking for real-world analogues, in Islam stepsiblings is permissible but stepparents aren't.

A couple things.

Number one, when Lysa first mentioned the marriage between Robert and Sansa (when the latter was disguised as “Alayne Stone”), she did so knowing full well who “Alayne” really was:

“I … [sic] I am married, my lady.”

“Yes, but soon a widow. Be glad the Imp preferred his whores. It would not be fitting for my son to take that dwarf’s leavings, but as he never touched you … [sic] How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?”

(It goes without saying, of course, that this proposed marriage was never so much as formally announced, much less actively planned, in the brief period between Sansa and Littlefinger’s arrival and Lysa’s murder.)

Number two, whether or not Robert ever learned from his mother that he would marry “Alayne” someday, I wouldn’t take the beliefs of young Robert as any sort of accurate reflection on Westerosi politico-religious statutes or tradition regarding marriage. Having lost essentially the only woman in his life, not to mention the only person who ever showed him anything resembling affection (a full critical review of her parenting notwithstanding), Robert has very clearly taken to Sansa-as-Alayne as a sort of surrogate mother. Being all of eight, not to mention very sheltered and infantalized by his mother, Robert does not have a real, practical idea of what marriage in a Westerosi context means; for Robert, marriage to Sansa-as-Alayne would mean “sleep[ing] in the same bed every night” while Sansa-as-Alayne would “read [him] stories”, “sleep[ing] and kiss[ing] and play[ing] games” with him - that is, essentially what Robert already did with or wanted from Sansa-as-Alayne. Robert isn’t thinking about what the Faith of the Seven or Westerosi law would say about marriage between step-siblings (or, maybe to put it more accurately, a stepson and a bastard daughter); Robert is trying to keep close to Sansa-as-Alayne as the only person giving him some modicum of comfort, stability, and love as his mother had.

Indeed, to that point, Sansa-as-Alayne underlined the impossibility of their union for Robert:

She put a finger to his lips. “I know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am bastard born.”

“I don’t care. I love you best of anyone.”

You are such a little fool. “Your lords bannermen will care. Some call my father upjumped and ambitious. If you were to take me to wife, they would say that he made you do it, that it was no will of yours …[”]

…

Alayne stroked his fingers. “There, my Sweetrobin, be still now.” When the shaking passed, she said, “You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth.”

“No. I want to marry you, Alayne.”

Once your lady mother intended that very thing, but I was trueborn then, and noble. “My lord is kind to say so.” … “Any child of ours would be baseborn. Only a trueborn child of House Arryn can displace Ser Harrold as your heir. My father will find a proper wife for you, some highborn girl much prettier than me. You’ll hunt and hawk together, and she’ll give you her favor to wear in tournaments. Before long, you will have forgotten me entirely.”

Again, because none of this has ever gone beyond the imaginations of Lysa or Robert, it is impossible to say whether the aristocracy of the Vale, much less anywhere else in Westeros, would have reacted to a betrothal ostensibly between Robert and “Alayne Stone”. (And I say “ostensibly” because even in Littlefinger’s current nuptial scheme, Sansa is going to reveal herself as Sansa Stark, rather than “Alayne Stone” at her wedding to Harry Hardyng.) It is interesting to point out that Sansa-as-Alayne’s argument to Robert isn’t that they can’t marry because his stepfather is (officially) her natural father, but that they can’t marry because this marriage would be seen as too ambitious and tyrannical a move by Littlefinger - not necessarily mutually exclusive ideas, but certainly not synonymous either. That’s not to say Sansa is any more versed in the nuances of Westerosi law and/or the doctrines of the Faith to know whether or not this marriage would also be unlawful in the eyes of man or the Seven, of course, but at bare minimum we can say that Sansa-as-Alayne’s instinct with Robert regarding this marriage is to cite the gulf of rank between them, and the perceived influence of Littlefinger, rather than any idea that such unions are objectively forbidden.

(And, when it comes to Westeros legal-religious tradition, I don’t think GRRM has really put much thought into it, as indeed I’m not sure, for example, what the High Septon could or would have done about Samantha Tarly’s allegedly incestuous marriage. Generally speaking, I don’t think GRRM puts very deep thought into the religious and legal details around rules for marriage, much to my curiosity and sometimes chagrin.)

[eruherdiriel]

Not all tears are an evil

Jonsa ficlet Rating: T Universe: Post-canon, bookverse Other: Fluff and a bit of sadness, Jon POV, King Jon

Also on AO3.

“Why are you crying?” Jon asks.

Sansa is standing by the window of their bedchamber, wrapped in a large fur despite the warmth of the room. Outside, the sun has risen on what might be one of the final summer days before autumn. It has been a good season, bountiful and warmer than Jon remembers summer being when he was a boy.

“I am not,” she lies.

The truth is in the thickness of her voice. Jon hadn’t noticed the signs at first, when he opened his eyes to find her gone from their bed and then rolled over to see her by the window. There was no shake of her shoulders or sounds of weeping coming from her, not until she sniffled. That is when he knew.

Tucking his legs up and settling his feet on the floor, Jon reaches for his sleep shirt and pulls it on over his head so he is not entirely bare when he crosses the room. When he reaches his wife, he wraps his arms around her, her back against his chest, and presses his cheek to the side of her head.

He wants to ask again what upset her. She was coy but elated last night, when she told him of the babe, and then eager in their lovemaking when he did not know how else to properly convey his own happiness.

Did he miss some sign of her distress earlier, or did the feeling come after? He wants to ask. 

Instead, he waits.

“I was thinking about how my mother is not here to tell me what it is like,” Sansa says finally. “Having a child, being a mother. And your mother is not here either.”

“There are plenty of women at Winterfell who have had children. And Maester—”

“It’s not the same.”

It is not. He knows it, but he cannot take this reality from her, from both of them.

One of his hands drops lower from where Jon has his arms wrapped around her, and he splays his fingers across her belly, feeling what is not fully there yet.

“I wish they were here,” Sansa says. Fresh tears have sprung from her eyes, and desperation coats her voice. “All of them. Everyone we have lost.”

“As do I,” he murmurs into her hairline.

She twists in his arms until they are facing each other, then presses her forehead to his. She is so close that he can smell the salt of her tears. 

“I feel torn in two. I have you and now this child, but so many we loved are dead. It has been years, but it still hurts, and … those wounds may never heal. Every moment of joy will be tinged with loss, won’t it?”

Yes, he thinks, but Jon wants to say something more, something comforting. “At least it will be a shared grief. You do not have to endure it alone.”

This has happened before, he realizes. The day of their wedding, she had cried as they said their vows beneath the heart tree, and when Jon asked what was wrong, she said they were happy tears. He wonders now if the truth was more complicated, that despite their love for each other, she did not know or trust him well enough to speak the whole truth back then.

“I should be happy,” Sansa insists.

Jon lifts his arms so he can take her head in his hands, then leans back slightly so they may see each other better. “It is not wrong to feel sorrow. Or to feel two things at once.”

His own life has always been full of contradictions, so perhaps he is more accustomed to the feeling than his wife is. Highborn, but a bastard. Loyal to his brother and the Starks, but jealous that Robb was to become Lord of Winterfell and then was raised up as King in the North. And when Jon found out who his parents were, it stole from him Ned Stark as his father and Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon as his siblings. But it gave him Sansa as a cousin, then as his love, and finally as his wife.

Two things can be true. Joy and sorrow take flight together.

“You do not find my tears frivolous and weak?”

“Never,” he says, almost too sharply. “They speak to what we have lost. What you survived but did not let steal your tenderheartedness. Whether happy or sad, your tears are your strength, Sansa.”

A small laugh leaves her, then she leans closer and nudges his nose with hers. “You say the most beautiful things sometimes.”

At his look of surprise, she sighs and adds, “You don’t even realize when you are saying something sweet to me, do you?”

Whenever he tries, the words come out wrong, ungainly and inelegant. And while he was attempting to reassure her now, he was not trying to be romantic or sweet, yet that seems to have been what she heard.

“The other day, Arya told me you and I were perfect for each other because we are both romantics.”

Jon scoffs. “She did not.”

It has been three years since they wed, but Arya can still barely look at Jon and Sansa when they are at all affectionate with one another. She keeps a neutral face in public, savvy enough to understand that any derision toward their marriage could be disruptive to Jon’s rule, but as a family, she lets her true feelings be known. It is almost a joke now, and he wonders if that is part of why she keeps up her exaggerated gags, rolled eyes, and disgusted faces.

“She did. And she called us dramatic. The dramatic romantics.”

“That sounds more like her.”

Sansa smiles for a moment, then the edges of her mouth tip down again. “I wish you could have known your mother. She would be so proud of you, Jon. I never meant to suggest that my loss is greater, or that I think about it more.”

“I never thought you did.”

“Whatever we are, whatever we feel, we’ll do it together?”

“Always. Happy, sad, or both,” he promises. “Now come back to bed.”

Her head turns back to the window where the sun stretches over the castle walls, telling the time. “It’s late. We both have much to attend to today, my king.”

“As we do every day. Duty can wait for once, Sansa.”

She looks back at him with a lifted brow. “Can it?”

“Aye.”

Bending at the knee, he scoops one arm under her legs and the other around her back, causing his sweet wife to gasp in surprise. Her hands grab at him, and the fur around her shoulders slips, revealing more of her pale skin.

“Why bother being a bloody king if I cannot decide how to pass my days every once in a while?” Jon says as he carries her to the bed.

“That’s precisely why you are a good king! Sacrifice … being selfless … putting the people’s needs above your own desires.”

He frowns as he sets her on the featherbed. The fur falls all the way open. “A king must bring stability to his realm. Heirs are one part of creating that stability, and you are newly with child, my lady. Ensuring your health and happiness is critical.”

His queen is laid bare before him, but it is her eyes he cannot look away from as he braces himself above her—the deep blue of her irises even more pronounced by the red lines that run through the whites of her eyes, evidence of her earlier tears. “You might even say that it is my duty to the people to spend the day with you.”

She shakes her head and laughs, but when he kisses her, she kisses back, all her protestations gone.

[raspberryfingers]

A Lion in the Garden -Tywin Lannister x Reader- (Part 12)

A/N: this chapter is probably my favorite addition of the rewrite :)

WARNINGS: NSFW

Word Count: 5.6k

—————

I sighed as I watched the last of my luggage be loaded into the wagon. I had packed light, because hopefully this excursion would only take two weeks at most. Both Sansa and Loras had packed a bit more, however, for if all went well they would not be returning to King’s Landing.

It was so early in the morning that the sun had not yet risen, and the only people at the entrance courtyard of the Red Keep were the nightguards and the men accompanying us. I regretted that we had to leave so damned early, as I’d wanted to say goodbye to Tywin. 

It made me rather sad, because I hadn’t a clue if he’d even remember me helping him to the Tower of the Hand when he woke up. His last memory of me might be the feast, and he would not see me again for two weeks.

“Are you alright?”

Feeling Ser Elias’ hand at my shoulder, I turned around and looked up at him with raised eyebrows. Processing what he’d said, I instantly nodded.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just rather anxious, I suppose. Quite a lot relies on this going right,” I said with a sigh, holding my arms and trying not to think about how much could go wrong on this trip. Elias nodded with understanding, removing his hand from me. 

“I understand. However, know that if it should go wrong, it is not your fault. If you cannot wager peace, there’s not a soul on earth who would’ve been able to.”

“Yes, well, the peace agreement was also my idea.”

“And one that I consented to.”

Ser Elias and I turned our heads at the sound of another’s voice, and I was surprised to find Tywin approaching us. I instantly smiled, going over to him and meeting him halfway.

“How are you already awake? Do you feel alright?” I questioned, pressing my hand to his forehead and examining him. Even in the darkness he still looked quite miserable. There was no doubt in mind he’d already vomited at least once.

“I feel entirely awful, but I had to come see you off. I told my guards yesterday that they were to wake me early this morning with no exception,” he explained, reaching for my hand and holding it in his. The feeling sent goosebumps up my arm, and I was somewhat flattered by the fact that he was this ill and had still come all the way down here.

“Will you be alright getting back to the Tower of the Hand?” I asked, noting that he had no coat on over his shirt and pants, just a cloak. I was certain he intended to go back to sleep after this. I prayed he would, he desperately needed it.

“I will be fine. My head hurts quite terribly, that’s all. How are you feeling?” Tywin’s free hand came to my arm, and it made me oddly sentimental. I did not want to leave him.

“Nervous, but that’s to be expected. If I tell myself everything I told you, it helps me calm down. I’m rather convincing that way. I just need to focus on rationality instead of my nerves,” I told him, unable to resist the urge to crack a joke as I squeezed his hand. He smiled gently, not enough for anyone else to notice if they were looking. 

“Well, you convinced me, and I had no qualms with the messier route. You are doing a good thing, remember that.”

“But… what if… what if things go horribly wrong, Tywin? What if I give Robb Stark his sister and two war prisoners with her? Then what?” I voiced my fears, for Tywin was the only person I felt comfortable voicing them to. He instantly shook his head, an entirely serious look on his face as he did.

“That is not going to happen. You will persuade the Young Wolf and you will end this war. You are capable of that, I am certain. And, in the impossible scenario that Robb Stark is utterly stupid and decides to take you hostage, I will call every last bannerman and come for you. I will be dead and rotting before any harm is ever done to you,” Tywin assured me, raising the hand on my shoulder to my cheek and holding eye contact as he said it. Somehow, his words were more comforting than I’d even thought possible.

“Oh Tywin…”

I embraced him then, my face pressed against his chest as I shut my eyes and just let him hold me. One arm wrapped around my torso, and the other hand came to my head, fingers intertwined with my hair. I could feel his breath on my scalp, and after a moment his lips too.

“You will return to me, (Y/N), safe and victorious. And when you do, I will hold you just like this. Do you understand?” Tywin whispered, pulling back a bit so he could look at me again. I nodded, giving him a frightened, desperate smile as though I was trying my hardest to believe his words. I needed him to be right. 

He kissed my forehead then, and I wanted to sob. I had just barely admitted to being in love with him, but either way, knowing that I had to part with him for two weeks was impossible to accept. 

“I’m going to miss you, Tywin,” I muttered, looking up at him solemnly. His lips parted, and he looked entirely shattered at my statement. He nodded, closing his eyes.

“I will miss you as well, dear girl.”

We stared at each other for a moment more, but Loras calling my name from across the courtyard made both of us look over. I sighed, knowing it was time for us to leave.

“I will see you in two weeks, Tywin. I will make sure of it,” I said, giving his hand one last squeeze before turning around and going up to my horse. I quickly mounted up, trying my hardest to make the aching go away. 

The large gate to the Red Keep opened, and as our small group began to move out, I looked at Tywin one last time. He only stared, but it was reassuring all the same. The fear dissipated, and in its place came determination. Yes, I would see him in two weeks, and when I did, I would smile from ear to ear as I announced the end of a war. 

—————

It had only been a few days since you’d left, but Tywin was already utterly miserable. He’d become accustomed to your visits in the morning before either of you had anything to do. It was a pleasant way to start his day, and without it he found himself somewhat aggravated. Now he found that it was hard to get work done without thinking about you or wondering where you were.

He had no idea if you were safe, or if you’d reached Robb Stark yet. He suspected not, but it was a small group and would allow you all to move quickly. Still, it irked him to not be 100% certain of your safety and wellbeing. He was glad you weren’t traveling in a wheelhouse, for that would’ve attracted far too much attention.

Sitting at his desk now, Tywin caught himself considering all these things. It was late morning, and he’d be having lunch soon. He could picture you doing the same, sitting with your brother and his wife. He tried not to think about the fact that Ser Elias was there with you too.

There was the frustration again. Tywin groaned as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling hopelessly. It was a never ending cycle of missing you and wishing you were here, then onto thinking about whatever you might be doing, and finally remembering that Ser Elias was with you the entire time. 

He knew that you were probably right, Ser Elias surely only saw you as a sister or a daughter, but how could Tywin not feel any jealousy at all? The man was six and a half feet tall, not to mention tremendously fit and good looking. It made the Old Lion miss his youth, for once upon a time he wouldn’t have felt insecure compared to a man like that.

Tywin sighed, blinking a few times as he considered just how badly he wished to have you all to himself. Gods, what would it be like to kiss you? To hold your cheek and feel the softness of your lips? He couldn’t even fathom it.

He thought back to the day at the inn, remembering how his breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you in the tub. He hadn’t even meant to look, for he’d never wanted to make you uncomfortable, but gods, you were beautiful.

Tywin hated the way that he thought about you, because he knew that whatever had happened to you as a girl had clearly made you wary of men and their intentions. He could not blame you, and yet somehow even he desired you. It made him feel disgusting, almost as though he was no better than the two soldiers whose tongues he’d cut off.

Of course, it was different. Those men had wanted to rape you, he wished to make love to you. The vision of it was only erotic because Tywin pictured you wanting him just as much as he wanted you. And, it was not as if desire was the thing he could feel when he thought of you. The affection and love had come first, then with it the lust. 

It was odd, for he had fucked whores at various points in his life, but that was merely to relieve his lust. There had been no desire for any of those women, he had simply paid them to make him feel good. He never kissed them, either. But gods, he wanted to kiss you.

That was the difference, he guessed. When he pictured himself fucking you, it was imagining your moans that made his blood rush. Because yes, he could certainly think about how good it would feel to be inside of you, but it was not nearly as attractive as the thought of you being pleased by him. You would look so pretty that way.

Tywin sighed, lifting his head from the back of his chair and looking down to find what he already knew was there. The strain in his pants had grown uncomfortable as he’d allowed his imagination to run wild, and now he simply felt frustrated. 

It had been quite some time since he’d requested a whore from the brothel. Normally just being around you left him content enough to simply touch himself when he grew aroused, but he felt quite insatiable now. Then again, he did not want to fuck a whore, he wanted to fuck you. And thus an idea sparked into his head.

Tywin reached for a blank sheet of parchment, instantly scratching down his instructions on it. He was sending for a whore, though not just any random one. He wanted a girl with your hair color, your eyes, and your height. He pictured every feature of yours perfectly in his head, discovering that if he’d wanted to he might’ve described you in exact detail. But no, the request must be general. Even then, it already was risky enough for him to be doing this.

Before he could think twice, the Lord Hand found himself finishing and sealing the letter. He would take it through the tunnel after he had eaten lunch, and that would be that. He expected a girl would be waiting in his chambers after supper. Somewhere deep down, Tywin knew it would be the last time that tunnel would ever be put to use. It was quite the relieving thought.

—————

Tywin was grateful to be back in his chambers, for he’d just told the king of your plan. True to his word, the Lord Hand informed his grandson about something he ought to know. Unfortunately, Joffrey had not taken well to the news. Tywin hadn’t expected anything less, hence why he’d waited to tell him until after you had left with Loras and Sansa.

But gods, that boy was cumbersome. So much so that Tywin had almost entirely forgotten about the request he’d given to the brothel earlier that day. Entering his bedroom, he was surprised to find a whore there waiting for him. She was still dressed, though only in a transparent fabric, and she had draped herself across the sofa.

Tywin froze as he took in her appearance. In terms of characteristics such as hair and skin, she matched you quite well, but in terms of actual features there was hardly a resemblance. Taking a deep breath, the Lord Hand told himself it was fine. He did not need to look at her face while fucking her, even if he had looked at yours in all his fantasies. 

“My Lord,” the girl greeted, slowly sitting up and giving him a seductive smile. Tywin found that her boldness irked him. You were not timid, to be certain, but he’d found there were some respects in which you were surprisingly vulnerable, and this would certainly be one of them.

She stood from the sofa, striding toward him in a somewhat teasing manner, almost as if trying to trigger some sort of instinct. Standing before Tywin now, she began to undo his coat. He did not deny her, but he did not do anything to encourage her either. 

With her face closer now, he noted that she was similar to you in age, probably in her mid-20s. That made him feel a bit better, at least. But still, when she smiled up at him it was almost aggravating. You did not smile like that. Yours was much prettier.

Tywin began to wonder if he even really wanted to have sex with this woman. She was not you, and you were all he wanted. But then again, he was still annoyed over the conversation with his grandson, and surely it couldn't hurt to blow off some steam this way.

“Would you like to undress me, my Lord Hand?” she asked with a giggle, completely removing his coat and his shirt. Tywin looked down at her, remaining silent for a moment.

“Undress yourself and go sit on the sofa,” he commanded, not a single hint of emotion in his voice as he did. The whore smiled and nodded, making quite a display of herself as she shed the thin gown off. She moved back to her original spot with a very seductive sway of her hips. 

Tywin let himself admire her for a moment, for he couldn’t deny that she was attractive. She had spread her legs as she sat, giving him quite the view. He wished he could see you in such a position; it would be the prettiest painting he ever saw.

Slowly, Tywin removed his boots and then approached the woman. She sat a bit straighter with expectation, batting her eyelashes as she looked up at him. Again, he found himself thinking of you. What might it be like to have you gazing up at him in expectation like this? He could imagine himself brushing your cheek with his fingers and tucking your hair behind your ears. 

He would not touch this whore like that, though. Such intimacy was reserved for you alone. Instead, he merely undid the ties on his pants, pushing them down just enough to free himself. Tywin wasn’t fully hard yet, for truthfully the thing arousing him most was picturing you in place of this woman.

But, either way, he welcomed her to touch him as he stood before her. The whore examined his cock with a smile, instantly reaching from him and beginning to stroke. The sensation was pleasant, but Tywin remained entirely composed until she moved forward a bit and took him in her mouth.

In response to that, he let out a deep exhale, looking down at the top of her head and nearly moaning when he realized that she looked just like you from this angle. Her hair was perhaps her largest similarity to you, and Tywin found himself reaching for it eagerly. His fingers weaved through it, and his grip was firm yet tender. 

The thought of you licking and sucking him this way fully hardened the Great Lion, and his hips involuntarily bucked into the whore’s mouth as he pretended that it was yours. He groaned rather loudly, fighting back the urge to let your name slip from his tongue. 

All sorts of ideas about you began flooding through his head. He could imagine your hands grabbing at his hips, pulling him in even farther. And to have those lips, those soft, convincing lips wrapped around his cock… gods, it sent a shiver up his spine. 

The whore swirled her tongue around his tip, but he did not feel that. Instead he felt you doing it, and he cursed out with utter delight. Of course, he could not entirely convince himself. Had it really been you he would’ve laid you across the sofa and buried his face between your legs already. For some odd reason, he also felt that you would be a woman bold enough to grab his balls while doing this. It was no particular fantasy of his, but the idea of you touching him in any way was absolutely titillating. 

Tywin felt his abdomen beginning to tighten, and he shook his head, opening the eyes that he hadn’t even remembered closing. He glanced down at the whore, removing his hand from her hair. Feeling this, she glanced up at him.

“Enough of that. Get up and bend over,” he instructed, swallowing and catching his breath as he took a step back. He watched the woman do as he’d requested, hands planted into the sofa with her ass raised toward him, and he nodded to himself. Her build was not exactly like yours, which of course served to disappoint Tywin, but it was close enough that—if he were to really put some effort into it—he could convince himself.

He approached her then, one hand grabbing at her hip and the other reaching for his erection. Tywin found his breath catching in his throat as he lined himself up at the girl’s entrance. He simply kept his eyes focused there as he pushed in, imagining how you might moan his name and arch at the feeling of him stretching you this way.

Well, that was what he had been imagining until he was interrupted by the sound of the whore’s moan. Her voice was nothing like yours, and even if he had never heard your cries of pleasure before, logic told him it would be nothing like the sound he’d just heard.

As he slowly began to thrust into her, he attempted to ignore her whines, simply shutting his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the walls around his cock, because even if she wasn’t you, it obviously still felt rather good. Whores were paid for a reason, after all.

Both of Tywin’s hands were on the woman’s hips now, and again he thought of you. He remembered what it had been like to wake up at the inn with his arm wrapped around you, how his breath had caught in his throat when he realized. 

That memory made him thrust a bit faster, and he let out a low moan as he did. The whore replied the same way, though her moans were far louder and much more exaggerated. It made Tywin increasingly annoyed, for not only did it not sound like you, but he knew it was fake. 

This kind of stimulation might warrant a few soft moans or gasps, but nothing like the lusty cries that this woman was currently making. Tywin had enjoyed plenty of late nights with Joanna, and was not ignorant to what actually made a woman feel good, which was exactly how he knew that the current moans coming from below him were entirely exaggerated. 

Attempting to ignore it, Tywin simply shut his eyes again and chased his own pleasure. He wondered if he even should’ve bothered asking for a woman that looked like you, for he was not spending very much time with his eyes open. Well, it had at least been convincing when she’d taken him in her mouth. 

Already thinking of the subject, Tywin found himself imagining how you might moan. More than that, he imagined the way you might gasp his name and shudder as you did. Well, he was trying to. It was hard to do when the whore was quite so loud.

Opening his eyes and looking down at the woman, he decided he’d had enough. Perhaps it was rude, but as he gave the command he did not particularly care. “Hush. Be silent.”

The air felt tense for a moment as the whore silenced herself; she was certainly unaccustomed to men requesting such a thing. Normally, the more she moaned the more they enjoyed it. Well, it didn’t matter. She would stay quiet for the amount that she was being given.

Now that it was quiet besides the slapping of skin, Tywin felt free to give in to his fantasies. He ran his hands over the woman, though really he was running his hands over you. He craved the warmth of your skin, the feeling of you beneath his hands. 

His thrusts became stronger now, and Tywin groaned rather loudly as he gave the whore’s ass a firm squeeze. This was pathetic of him, and he knew that, but his lust for you was so immense that he couldn’t help it. More than that, he simply wished to kiss and hold you. He certainly would not do that to a whore.

Tywin licked his lips, swallowing and breathing heavily as he exerted himself. He could feel his orgasm approaching, and so he leaned over the woman a bit to hit a deeper angle inside of her. However, upon doing so, he inhaled her scent.

He thrusted a few more times as he processed it, but for some reason Tywin could not ignore the perfume she was wearing. It was rather nice, but it smelled nothing like yours did. For some reason, he’d been able to ignore every other difference, but this was his breaking point. He could not ignore just how different from you this woman was any longer, and he sighed out with disappointment—more in himself than anything—as he pulled out of her.

The whore turned her head to look back, confused at what had just happened. Tywin was pulling his pants up, and he walked over to his nightstand to fetch the coin purse for her.

“For your time,” he said, bringing it back over to her. She was sitting on the couch now, feeling rather displaced and anxious. She’d never had a man just full on stop without finishing before.

“My lord, I apologize if I was unsatisfactory. Would you- would you like someone else?” she asked, looking up at him with a sort of embarrassment. Tywin took a deep breath as she said it, shaking his head. He suddenly felt bad.

“No, don’t apologize. It wasn’t that. And I’m fine, thank you,” he said, trying to reassure her without revealing anything. Had he spent a night with her a year ago, he would’ve found it rather satisfactory. But that was obviously very different now. Tywin could’ve been given the most desired whore in the world and he still wouldn’t have been content. 

“Would you like me to be someone else..?” she trailed off, seeing the look in the Lord Hand’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with a man who was clearly imagining another. Usually they had little shame in moaning other girls' names. 

Tywin only stared at her, handing her the coin purse and then stepping away. She nodded at him, not wanting to push it. She rose from the couch, grabbing her discarded dress and showing herself out through the tunnel. In the morning, Tywin would have a letter sent to seal the thing off. There was no use for it now.

The Lord Hand merely sighed, going to the small table and pouring himself some wine. Surely he was disgusting for this. He didn’t even want to think about how you would react if you knew he’d fucked a whore with you in mind. Again, the guilt came back to him as he considered that perhaps he was like every other man. Gods, it was horrible to love you and want you this way when he was 100% certain you did not feel the same in any capacity. 

Tywin sighed as he set his cup down and made his way over to the bed. He still had an erection to handle, and he supposed he’d get by just fine on his own. He undid his pants completely now, going fully nude and sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

He reached toward his nightstand, pulling out a handkerchief from inside the small drawer so he wouldn’t make a mess when he finished. Though, he wiped the whore’s slick off of himself first. As he did that, however, he noticed your handkerchief still sitting on top of the stand. He had eaten the cookie the morning you’d left, but he had not moved the cloth itself at all. 

An odd urge gripped Tywin, and he set aside the white cloth in his hand and instead reached for yours. He smiled fondly as he examined it, wondering if perhaps your sister or grandmother had embroidered the red roses around the edges of it, for you had once noted to him that you’d never been quite as good at it as them. The first letter of your name was also there in the corner, big and somewhat dramatic. It was pretty, and Tywin liked it. 

He intended to put it back on his nightstand, but a sudden whiff of flowers hit his nose and he instantly stopped. Slowly, with an unparalleled amount of hope, he brought your handkerchief up to his nose and inhaled. 

Smelling your perfume on it, he instantly exhaled and shut his eyes, allowing himself to fully take in the scent. Somehow, the familiarity of it made him feel as though he was holding you in his arms, or perhaps even just sitting beside you. 

Tywin Lannister had never imagined himself being overly fond of some floral scent, but suddenly he could not get enough of it. He found himself burying his nose in this damn cloth, laying back on the bed and getting comfortable as he continually inhaled. He was so obsessed with your scent that he nearly moaned out.

Before he could even fully process what he was doing, Tywin was reaching down with his free hand, taking a hold of his cock. He was practically throbbing now, and the ache for you was so intense that even the slightest pleasure—combined with the rosy perfume filling his lungs—made him shake.

He began to rub himself, slowly at first, as he moaned out. He could picture you sitting beside him, your hair perfectly messy and a smile on your face as you touched him. You would take joy in seeing him become a mess under your hands like this, wouldn’t you? Tywin gasped, handkerchief still pressed to his face.

He forced memories of you saying his name into his mind, his hold on his erection tightening now. He began to rub a little faster, breathing catching in his throat as he looked down at himself. Compared to the warmth of his hand, the feeling of the cold valyrian steel ring made him shudder. The texture of it was almost painful, but you had given him that ring. You had held it in your hands.

Again, he moaned out, still bathing in the scent of roses. In his mind you were still there beside him, watching him moan as you squeezed and tugged. He could see you, naked and beautiful as you tortured him this way. He wanted to kiss you.

He started to rub himself even more vigorously now, a moaning mess as his hips came up to meet his hand. Tywin practically whimpered, and his legs were beginning to shake. It was never like this when he touched himself. The scent of you alone had turned him into this.

“(Y/N)… (Y/N)! Oh gods… (Y/N)…” Tywin applied extra pressure to the tip of his cock, choking out your name with absolutely ecstasy. He could feel every single muscle in his body tensing, as though he were some sort of wild animal.

He found himself rolling onto his stomach, momentarily stopping and reaching for the body pillow against his headboard. With absolute desperation, he lifted himself up for just long enough to push it under him. Once he’d done that, his hand went straight back to doing what it had been before, and he groaned again.

The handkerchief was still against his nose, and with the pillow beneath Tywin, he could imagine himself on top of you. Not only that, but he felt your stomach pressing against his as your back arched, and he saw you throwing your head back with pleasure. 

Tywin moaned as he continued to pleasure himself, not caring at all how hot the room was growing. He was sweaty and tired, but your scent urged him to keep going; he listened quite obediently. 

He was thrusting into his hand—and the pillow as well—with extreme vigor, forehead pressed to the mattress as he panted out. Even if he’d wanted to, Tywin could not keep your name from his lips, especially as he imagined how you might shake and quiver beneath him in the midst of an orgasm.

He felt like a madman envisioning all the ways that he would take you. He wanted you beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist. Or perhaps he would kneel before you, thrusting with your legs over his shoulders. Then he would take you from behind, his hand on your back as your forearms collapsed beneath you out of sheer pleasure. Tywin wanted you on top of him, hips rolling against his as your breasts bounced and he sat up to kiss them. There was the scent of roses again.

Tywin shuddered, for there was too much on his mind. That was not all he wished to do to you. He saw himself inserting his fingers into you, curling and pumping as his thumb rubbed your clit. Surely that would make you sing his name, which was erotic enough as it was. Not only that, but the Great Lion imagined what it might be like to bury his face between your legs, holding them open as they shook. He would feast like a man starved.

Gods, it was a euphoric vision, and he’d found a particularly enjoyable rhythm with his hand. Tywin knew he was close, and his moans had become entirely pathetic, whiny and loud in a way they hadn’t been in years.

Suddenly, his abdomen squeezed tighter than before, his hand clenching around the handkerchief as he took another good inhale. Roses, roses and you. That was all that existed as he felt an all-consuming pleasure in his groin. 

The fresh cloth from earlier was entirely forgotten about, and Tywin did not care whatsoever as his seed spurted from his cock onto the pillow beneath him. He had surely ruined the case, but that was not even a thought to him as he cried your name out, so overwhelmed that his hand was forced to slow itself.

For a few seconds, the Great Lion was entirely frozen, moans becoming quieter and more relaxed as he came down from the peak of his orgasm. He had to swallow and catch his breath, exhaling deeply and blinking a few times to reorient himself. 

Tywin was so exhausted that he nearly fell asleep then and there, but the thirst in his throat forced him to roll over onto his back so that he’d wake up. He glanced over at the pillow, surprised at just how large his spend had been. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d spilled so much.

Your handkerchief was still in his hand, and he stared at it for a few seconds before bringing it to his nose again. The scent had previously aroused him, but now it was comforting. He suddenly wished to hold you, to pet your hair and kiss your head. 

Though, the reality of what he’d just done also hit him and drove utter shame and guilt into the Hand of the King. As if he had not degraded you enough by imagining you when he was with a whore. 

Tywin sighed, sitting up slowly and reaching for the cup on his nightstand. The wine felt good in his throat, not to mention it soothed whatever nerves were gathering in his stomach. He was overthinking now. 

As he laid back in bed and cleaned himself up, Tywin also thought about how you were doing at the present moment. It was weird having no contact with you, and it would stay that way until you arrived back at the Red Keep. At least, he prayed that was what would happen.

He merely sighed as he contemplated, pushing the body pillow off the bed and onto the floor. He slipped under the covers then too, trying to get comfortable. It was extremely late now, and there was no doubt in Tywin’s mind that he’d fall asleep rather quickly.

After all, the scent of roses still hung in the air around him, and he prayed that it would never fade away. Perhaps, for once in his life, the gods would listen.

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[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Hi, I was wondering if you could answer a question I had about how much authority a lord has over his extended family members. Like if a lord wants to marry off one of his brother’s daughters, can he do so even if his brother refuses to agree? Who holds the most authority in a situation like that? Does it change depending on the status of the lord in question- like if he was a king, lord paramount or someone from a great house rather than a more typical lord?

Again re feudalism, a lord has as much authority as his vassals allow him, and vassals include family members. (And "allow" includes what they feel they must do per traditions and societal pressures.) Look at how Hoster Tully tried to marry off his brother Brynden to Bethany Redwyne. Brynden refused, and though this pissed off Hoster and strained his relationship with his brother, that's how he left it. A more cruel lord, who loved his brother less and his status more, might use more pressure to get his way. Lords are not bound by any law or custom to support their family members, so in the case you mention, that lord might then tell his brother "fine, then, you and your daughters have to leave". And faced with having to make his own way in the world while supporting his girls, the brother might bow his head and submit. Or maybe he would decide to be a hedge knight after all, or maybe he'd have in-laws he could look to for support, it all depends.

Though again re feudalism (because the feudal contract goes both ways), theoretically this brother could try to go over his lord brother's head and appeal to their overlord. See for example Lord Wyman Webber, who when faced with a daughter, Rohanne, who refused to marry per his command, instead wrote a will that said she had to marry within two years of his death or the lordship and the castle of Coldmoat would go to her cousin instead. It was asked within the story, couldn't Lady Rohanne appeal to her overlord, Lord Rowan, and have him override the will? Well, she tried, but that Webber cousin just happened to be married to Lord Rowan's sister, and so he upheld the will. But maybe in a different situation something could be done -- perhaps the overlord is known to be particularly noble, or perhaps this pressured brother has a connection to the overlord (maybe via his wife, maybe they were companions in battle or as squires). But still, the brother would have to take his daughter with him during this appeal, or he might return to find out she's been married off in his absence.

And as for the girl herself, could she not refuse? Even if she's underage, isn't it true, as Sansa thinks, "Not even the High Septon himself could declare a woman married if she refused to say the vows"? Well, we have Sansa's own example, where when she was faced with marrying Tyrion, Cersei told her she could be dragged to the altar and make a spectacle to be laughed at but they'd still make her do it anyway... and so Sansa submitted and said the vows. See also how Randyll Tarly forced his son Sam to join the Night's Watch. Sam didn't have to submit, there is no law saying he had to obey, but his father threatened to kill him if he didn't, and due to Sam's experience with his father's abuse (and what that abuse did to his personality), he fully believed him. Someone once asked me if an overlord could help there (though weirdly they mentioned Stannis, who wouldn't be able to do anything even if he wanted to), and the point I had to explain was that Sam was so beaten down by the abuse he never would have even considered going over his father's head, even if he could have somehow escaped his father's guards on the way north.

So with these examples, you can see where the status of the lord in question may change things -- a king, for example, has no overlords to appeal to. A lord paramount's brother could only appeal to the king. This status also changes what pressure the lord can bring to bear -- a very small lord may only have a sworn sword to threaten his brother with, a bigger lord could have a whole garrison, and the king would have not just the Kingsguard and the castle guard and the city guard but theoretically every lord and soldier in the country to use as pressure. Again, feudalism works both ways.

And generally none of this is even stated aloud. Everybody just knows the answer to "you and what army?" and so even family members understand what their lord pressuring them means. (Girls particularly innately understand this, along with patriarchal pressure; like Roslin Frey had no real choice at the Red Wedding but to obey her father, brothers, uncles, and cousins.) So, like so many things in ASOIAF's medieval-inspired era, the personal is the political. Only the personalities of the people involved, and their means of pressure or access routes to escape, are what truly defines what can happen in cases like this.

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 4 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Four: I Will Be Your Executioner

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attack,

Word Count: 9k

A/N: OMFGGGGGG I’m actually writing non-stop. Wtf. Guys this part is heavily inspired by many quotes from the Glory. It’s so goooooddd! Go watch it. ALSO LMAO sorry for the chonky chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: No Choir by Florence + The Machine

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THE WEDDING RECEPTION  

KING'S LANDING GARDEN, RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

The once-vibrant garden has turned into a scene from a nightmare. Joffrey’s lifeless body lies in his mother’s lap, the blood trickling from his nose and mingling with the vomit caking his lips. Cersei’s scream cuts through the chaos like a blade, her finger trembling as it points directly at Tyrion. 

"You did this! You did this!" she shrieks, her voice cracking with grief and rage.

Tyrion barely has time to react before three guards seize him from behind, their grip firm, dragging him back. The entire court is thrown into disarray, nobles scrambling, unsure where to look or what to say. The shock hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Your eyes flick to Sansa as she watches, wide-eyed and frozen in place. Ser Dontos Hollard, the fool, sidles up to her, his face pale with urgency.

“We have to leave,” he whispers frantically, his hand tugging at her sleeve.

Sansa looks to you, her expression a mix of confusion and terror, searching for an answer. You meet her gaze and give the smallest, subtlest nod, speaking in the quietest voice that only she can hear.

"Run."

You keep your posture relaxed, every movement calculated, as though the chaos around you is nothing but a passing storm. Let it swirl, let them scream, none of it touches you.

Cersei’s piercing voice shatters the air again. “Take him! Take him!”

The guards drag Tyrion away through the crowd, his face a mask of resignation. You shift, sliding further to the edge of the gathering, your eyes tracking Sansa as she and Ser Dontos disappear, swallowed by the throng of horrified nobles. As Cersei’s head whips around, searching for a new target for her grief, her shrill voice rises again.

"Where is his wife? Where's Sansa?!"

Tywin's voice booms over the garden, commanding attention with the force of authority, “Find her. Bar the gates of the city. Seize every ship in the harbor.”

The tension mounts as Cersei, distraught and frenzied, clings to Tywin. “Where is she?!”

“No one leaves the capital!" Tywin's voice echoes like a decree from the gods themselves. "No one!”

The wheels are turning, but you remain steady, unmoved, watching everything unfold like a distant observer.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — DUSK

The bells toll ominously across the city, signaling not just the king's death but the beginning of a lockdown. What had begun as a celebration of young love and power had spiraled into a suffocating horror—a wedding turned funeral. The streets were locked down, the gates barred, and whispers spread like wildfire among the servants. Every corner of the Red Keep hummed with dread.

You sat in the dim light of your chambers, fingers tracing over the pages of your journal. On the list of names you had scrawled, Joffrey’s stood out, now crossed out in thick ink. The weight of his demise did not lift your heart, but there was a cold satisfaction in seeing that line through his name. 

A knock on your door broke the silence. You didn’t even look up, your voice calm, measured. “Enter.”

Serena stepped in, her movements quiet and careful as she shut the door behind her, turning the lock with a soft click before coming to sit beside you. Her eyes fell to your journal, to the page you’d been reading, and her gaze lingered on the crossed-out name.

Her voice was soft when she asked, “Did you…”

You didn’t hesitate. “It wasn’t me who slipped the poison.” Your tone was blunt, matter-of-fact. Serena was smart—she could piece together the rest on her own. She nodded slowly, absorbing the truth behind your words.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “I’d still like to thank you. For doing this.”

Her gratitude was real, but it didn’t touch you. Nothing did anymore. You turned to her, your expression as unreadable as stone.

"I didn’t do it for thanks," you said, your voice as cold as the air before a storm. “I did it because people like him—people like them—will only understand one thing from now on.” You paused, holding Serena’s gaze, unblinking. “They will suffer, just as we have.”

Serena nodded, her lips tightening into a thin line. She knew. She understood.

And so, your revenge continued. Joffrey’s name may have been crossed out, but there were others. And as you sat there, cold and detached, you knew this was only the beginning of a longer reckoning. The suffering had only just begun.

THE NEXT DAY 

STREETS OF SILK, CHATAYA’S BROTHEL — DAY

The city pulsed with a nervous energy, the fallout of Joffrey’s death rippling through every alleyway, every corner of King’s Landing. It was rare for you to have a day free from the palace, but amidst the chaos, no one had cared when a few servants slipped away. The Red Keep had become a den of paranoia, each person trying to avoid the eye of suspicion. A perfect time to disappear—even if just for a while.

As you walked through the streets, your steps silent, deliberate, you overheard a conversation between two guards. Their voices were low, yet their words unmistakable. Tywin plans to confront Oberyn. The Hand of the King knew of Oberyn's frequent visits to Chataya’s brothel—it was no secret that the Dornish prince indulged himself openly. Tywin’s suspicions were spreading like wildfire, and you needed to be there to hear what he might uncover.

Pulling your cloak tight around you, you kept to the shadows, slipping between the narrow alleys that twisted like veins through the streets of silk. The map of the city was etched into your mind as clearly as the secrets you kept—memorized over years of service, of watching and waiting. 

You reached the brothel just as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Slipping through the back door, you moved with the practiced silence of someone who knew how to remain unseen. A shadow among shadows. The moans and laughter of the brothel’s patrons created a cover of noise, perfect for hiding in plain sight.

The scent of incense and sweat filled the air, thick and cloying, but you barely noticed. Your eyes were fixed ahead, scanning for any sign of Tywin or his men. You crept further into the brothel, slipping behind a large stone pillar that stood near one of the darker corners of the room. Hidden in the gloom, you were just another part of the architecture, unseen, unnoticed.

The dagger strapped to your thigh pressed reassuringly against your skin, a small comfort in the uncertainty of the moment. You had long since learned that in King’s Landing, secrets and steel were your best companions. One cut as deep as the other, and both had their uses. If anyone saw you, anyone grew suspicious—you would be ready.

You crouched lower behind the pillar, listening as Oberyn’s voice carried faintly from one of the rooms. His tone was as smooth and dangerous as ever, a man who never feared consequences, not even from Tywin Lannister. You stayed still, your heart steady but your mind sharp, waiting for the moment when Tywin would confront him. 

You could feel it—the unraveling was only just beginning. The tension in the city would soon give way to something far darker, and you were determined to be ahead of it, to see everything before it was hidden away in shadows again.

As footsteps echoed down the hall, heavier, more deliberate, you pressed further into the shadows. Tywin. You could not afford to be seen, but you could not afford to miss this either. Information was your weapon. And today, you would sharpen it.

Just in time, you watched as three naked whores and Ellaria Sand stepped out of one of the rooms. Her dark, wavy hair cascaded down her bare shoulders as she laughed softly, her gaze briefly scanning the room before she and the others disappeared down the hall. The guards trailed after them, though one remained standing by the entrance. Close, but not too close.

The door to Oberyn’s room was slightly ajar.

You slipped inside with practiced precision, the heavy scent of incense clinging to the air. The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of the midday sun, filtering through the heavy curtains. Oberyn Martell was seated on the bed, shirtless and glistening with sweat, his bronzed skin catching the light as he stretched with the grace of a panther. The gods must have shown you some favor—he was still clothed from the waist down. 

His gaze shifted lazily toward you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as if your presence amused him. He knew you were there long before you entered.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked, his voice low, teasing. He gestured casually toward a chair in the corner, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Tywin Lannister stood at the other end of the room, his expression as hard as stone, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of irritation. “No, thank you,” Tywin replied curtly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Oberyn’s movements were slow, deliberate, as he rose from the bed, his lean body practically dripping with confidence. He stepped toward a small cart by the window, where a tray of wine and goblets waited. “Some wine?” he offered again, pouring himself a generous amount, the dark liquid swirling in the cup.

Tywin, still standing near the door, remained unmoved. “No, thank you,” he repeated.

Oberyn, with a patterned towel draped over his shoulder, took a slow sip of the wine, his eyes never leaving Tywin’s. “I'm sorry about your grandson,” he said smoothly, though the sincerity in his tone was questionable.

Tywin’s lips twitched, barely containing his disdain. “Are you?” he asked, the question laced with accusation.

Oberyn shrugged, moving across the room like a predator sizing up his prey. “I don't believe a child is responsible for the sins of his father. Or his grandfather. An awful way to die.” His voice was casual, but his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—were watching Tywin’s every move.

The tension in the room was recognizable, thick enough to choke on. You remained hidden in the shadows, every word falling like stones in a still pond, sending ripples of suspicion through the air.

“Which way is that?” Tywin asked, his voice sharp.

Oberyn tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you interrogating me, Lord Tywin?” he purred, settling onto a plush bed of pillows, lounging with the practiced grace of a man who feared nothing.

“Some believe the king choked,” Tywin mused, watching Oberyn closely.

“Some believe the sky is blue because we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant,” Oberyn replied, his tone mocking. He took another sip of wine before adding, “The king was poisoned.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, the faintest hint of suspicion creeping into his expression. “I hear you studied poisons at the Citadel.”

Oberyn’s smile widened, like a cat who had caught the scent of a mouse. “I did. This is why I know.”

Tywin’s voice dropped, edged with danger. “Your hatred for my family is rather well known. You arrive at the capital, an expert in poisoning, and days later my grandson dies of poisoning.”

Oberyn didn’t miss a beat. “Rather suspicious,” he agreed with a chuckle. “Why haven’t you thrown me in a dungeon?”

Tywin's gaze hardened. “You spoke with Tyrion in this very brothel on the day that you arrived. What did you discuss?”

“You think we conspired together?” Oberyn raised an eyebrow, amused.

“What did you discuss?”

Oberyn’s playful demeanor faltered, as he moved to stand, approaching Tywin, his voice dropping into something darker, colder. “The death of my sister.”

Tywin did not flinch, though his eyes gave away nothing. “For which you blame me.”

Oberyn leaned forward slightly, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. “She was raped and murdered by the Mountain. The Mountain follows your orders. Of course I blame you.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken threats. You remained perfectly still, your heart a steady drumbeat in your chest as you watched the two men circle each other, both poised for an attack that would never come.

Tywin, calm as ever, gave the faintest shrug. “Here I stand unarmed, unguarded. Should I be concerned?”

Oberyn smiled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You are unarmed and unguarded because you know me better than that. I am a man of reason. If I cut your throat today, I will be drawn and quartered tomorrow.”

“Men at war commit all kinds of crimes without their superiors' knowledge,” Tywin said, almost conversationally.

“So you deny involvement in Elia's murder?”

Tywin’s voice remained steady. “Categorically.”

Oberyn’s gaze sharpened, his smile fading into something colder. “I would like to speak with the Mountain.”

“I’m sure he would enjoy speaking with you,” Tywin said evenly.

Oberyn’s lips curled into a grim smile. “He might not enjoy it as much as he thinks he would.”

Tywin’s eyes flickered with a dangerous glint. “I could arrange for this meeting.”

Oberyn’s brow arched, intrigued. “But you want something in return.”

Tywin’s voice was calm, measured. “There will be a trial for my son. As custom dictates, three judges will render a verdict. I will preside. Mace Tyrell will serve as the second judge. I would like you to be the third.”

Oberyn’s amusement returned, but his tone remained cautious. “Why?”

“Not long ago, the Tyrells sided with Renly Baratheon. Declared themselves enemies of the throne. Now they are our strongest allies.”

Oberyn shrugged, taking another sip of his wine. “Well, you made the Tyrell girl a queen. Asking me to judge at your son's trial isn't quite as tempting.”

Tywin stepped forward, his voice dropping low. “I will also invite you to sit on the small council to serve as one of the new king's principal advisors.”

Oberyn studied Tywin, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I never realized you had such respect for Dorne, Lord Tywin.”

“We are not the Seven Kingdoms until Dorne returns to the fold,” Tywin replied, his voice cold, calculated. “The king is dead. The Greyjoys are in open rebellion. A wildling army marches on the Wall. And in the East, a Targaryen girl has three dragons. Before long, she will turn her eyes to Westeros. Only the Dornish managed to resist Aegon Targaryen and his dragons.”

Oberyn’s smile returned, slow and sharp. “You're saying you need us? That must be hard for you to admit.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change. “We need each other. You help me serve justice to the king's assassins, and I will help you serve justice to Elia's.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Oberyn fell silent, his gaze turning inward, distant, as if he were calculating a hundred possibilities all at once. The tension lingered, thick and unspoken, between him and the absent Tywin. The delicate balance of power that had just played out was clear—two predators circling one another, masking threats with diplomacy.

You pressed yourself deeper into the shadows, watching Oberyn with a sharp, practiced gaze. His expression remained contemplative, still lost in the aftermath of his exchange with Tywin. Outside the room, the echo of Tywin’s footsteps faded into the distance, and the door clicked shut with finality, leaving behind an uneasy stillness that hung thick in the air.

But you had lingered too long. In a silent breath, you pulled back into the shadows, slipping toward the door like a shadow yourself. You moved swiftly, soundless, as you had been trained—disappearing without a trace. The world outside was teeming with noise and life, but none of it noticed your departure. You melted into the alleyways, your cloak drawn close, your steps swift and measured as you darted through the maze of streets that threaded King’s Landing. 

The market was alive with its usual chaos, the scent of spices mingling with the salt of the sea, merchants shouting over one another, selling everything from silks to stale bread. You wove through the crowds, your face hidden beneath the hood of your cloak, eyes scanning your surroundings. You had always known how to vanish in plain sight.

But then, the sound hit you.

A sharp sizzle, the searing of meat against hot metal. Your steps faltered as the scent of charred pork filled the air, thick and overwhelming, clinging to your skin like smoke. For a moment, the world around you seemed to blur—the market, the people, the shouts—it all dimmed. Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as the memories surged, unbidden, unstoppable.

Flames licking at your skin, the scent of burning flesh, the sound of your own screams echoing in the back of your mind. The fire that had marked you, that had seared itself into your memory, now clawed its way to the surface.

Your hands trembled as you stumbled into a corner of the street, your back pressed hard against the cool stone of a wall. The sounds of the market seemed distant now, drowned out by the roar of the fire in your mind. The panic clawed at your chest, squeezing tighter and tighter until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

You gasped, desperate for air, the weight of your cloak suddenly too heavy, the noise of the market too loud. The edges of your vision blurred, and the ground beneath you felt like it was spinning. The world seemed to close in on you, suffocating, the past and present melding into one.

Burning.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms in an attempt to ground yourself, to remind yourself that you were no longer there. But the searing sound, the scent—it was too much. The memories flooded you, pulling you under. You pressed your back harder into the wall, trying to fight your way out of the suffocating panic, trying to escape the fire that only existed in your mind.

But it felt so real.

Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps, and your vision swam. You had to get out. Away from the market, away from the noise, away from the memory that gripped you like a vice. You pushed yourself off the wall, your legs shaky but determined, and forced yourself back into the crowd, pulling your cloak tighter around you.

With every step, you fought to steady your breathing, to clear the haze from your mind. The streets blurred around you as you moved, each footfall feeling heavier than the last, but you pressed on. Away from the market. Away from the sound.

Away from the fire.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

By the time you returned to the castle, fatigue weighed heavily on your limbs. The maze of tunnels under the Red Keep stretched out before you like a winding serpent, familiar yet suffocating. Each step felt heavier than the last, your breath shallow, as the cool stone walls seemed to press closer. 

As you rounded a corner, your thoughts interrupted by hurried footsteps, you almost collided with someone—Podrick Payne. His wide-eyed expression immediately softened when he realized it was you.

“Oh, my apologies,” Podrick stammered, stepping back in his usual bashful manner. 

You shook your head, waving off the apology. "No, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going."

He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Oh well…"

There was something about his awkwardness, a sincerity in the way he held himself. Podrick was kind, genuine—a rarity in King's Landing. You had a peculiar way of prying information from him without much effort. It wasn’t something you set out to do, but it was almost as though the right questions spilled from your lips, and he couldn’t help but answer.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing as you noticed the tension in his shoulders. "Are you heading somewhere urgent?"

Podrick blinked in surprise, glancing at the wineskin he carried. “Yes, I’m on my way to see Lord Tyrion in the cells.”

Your gaze dropped to the wineskin, lips curving into a faint smirk. "You’re bringing him wine?"

He nodded, looking somewhat guilty, as though he’d been caught red-handed. 

"The guards will take it from you, you know that, right?"

Podrick’s expression flickered with brief defeat, but he nodded again. The innocence in his eyes spoke volumes, but you weren’t fooled. Deep down, you knew he was smuggling more than just wine. You sighed, rubbing your temples as the exhaustion from the day wore at your patience.

"They've chosen the judges for his trial," you added, your voice soft but deliberate.

Podrick glanced around as if someone might overhear, then leaned in slightly. “I heard. Lord Tywin, Mace Tyrell, and Prince Oberyn of Dorne."

"Word travels fast," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. Your eyes drifted over his face, reading the tension etched into his features. His frown deepened, and you couldn’t help but ask, “What’s wrong? You’re frowning.”

Podrick’s sigh was almost inaudible, but in the quiet of the dimly lit tunnel, it seemed to echo. He lowered his voice as if confessing a secret. "There’s something else. A man—someone I didn’t know—came to me. He asked if I’d testify against Lord Tyrion. Said I’d be named Ser Podrick Payne if I told the judges Tyrion bought a poison called the Strangler.”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of the poison, but your expression remained impassive. You frowned, though, as the weight of his words sank in. Podrick, in his innocence, stood at the crossroads of something much darker than he fully understood.

"You…" You took a slow, deep breath, steadying your tone. "Lord Tyrion has been kind to you."

He met your gaze, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "He has."

There was a heavy silence between you, the kind that lingered just long enough to feel uncomfortable. The weight of your secrets hung in the air, unspoken, but Podrick wasn’t foolish. He knew you were holding back, but he never pressed. 

"Do you know what happened?" he asked softly, as though afraid of the answer. His voice was tentative, laced with the hope that you might offer him clarity. "Who did it?"

You blinked, your gaze distant, the apathy you had so carefully cultivated slipping back into place. His question lingered, but you gave him no answer—just a soft pat on his shoulder, a rare gesture of kindness in a world that had none to spare.

"You better be careful, Podrick," you said, your voice low, carrying a quiet weight. "You’re one of the rare ones out there who are truly good. Take care of yourself."

His lips parted as if to say something more, but you had already turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the castle, leaving him standing there beneath the flickering torchlight.

KING’S LANDING, QUAY OF THE PORT BY THE SEA OF THE RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

The salty breeze whipped across the sea, crashing waves against jagged rocks below as you crouched beneath the cliffsides. Hidden from sight, you watched with keen eyes as Jaime Lannister and Bronn sparred near the water's edge, the sound of clashing steel ringing in the air.

Jaime’s face was flushed, his breath labored, but his movements were sharper than before. He spun his sword with renewed vigor, pressing the attack against Bronn. But the sellsword was as sharp as ever, his parries quick, his footwork steady. They deadlocked, Jaime’s golden hand clashing with Bronn’s grip. With a wicked grin, Bronn swatted Jaime across the face, sending him sprawling onto the ground with an unceremonious thud.

Jaime let out a grunt, pushing himself up from the dirt. “What the hell was that?” he spat, wiping the dust from his tunic.

Bronn tossed Jaime’s golden hand back to him with a smirk. “That was me knocking your ass to the dirt with your own hand."

Jaime caught it, shaking his head. “You’re a rare talent. When you’re fighting cripples, anyway.”

“You learned to fight like a good little boy," Bronn quipped, his grin widening. "I’ll bet that thrust through the Mad King’s back was pretty as a picture. You want to fight pretty, or you want to win?”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. “You talk to my brother this way?”

“All the time. He got used to it.”

They sat together on a low stone wall, the tension easing between them. Jaime took a swig from a wineskin before handing it to Bronn.

“Do you think he did it?” Jaime asked, his voice low, hesitant.

Bronn shook his head. “No. Oh, he hated the little twat, sure. But who didn’t? Poison’s not his style. Or murder, for that matter. You want to know for sure, why don’t you ask him?”

Jaime remained silent, his gaze distant.

“You haven’t been to see him yet, have you?” Bronn probed, his tone carrying an edge of judgment.

Jaime stood abruptly, tossing the wineskin back to Bronn. “We’re done for today.”

As Jaime walked away, Bronn called out, “Your brother ever tell you how I came into his service?”

Jaime paused, his back still turned. “You stood for him in his trial by combat at the Eyrie.”

“Aye,” Bronn replied, his voice steady. “But only when Lady Arryn demanded the trial take place that day. You were his first choice. He named you for his champion because he knew you’d ride day and night to fight for him. You gonna fight for him now?”

Jaime’s silence lingered, the weight of Bronn’s words hanging in the air as he disappeared into the distance. 

Once Jaime was gone, Bronn stood alone, shaking his head. That’s when you emerged from your hiding spot, the faint sound of your boots scraping against the stone catching his attention. He turned, spotting you walking towards him, your loose long-sleeve tunic billowing slightly in the wind, trousers and boots practical for the sparring you had in mind. The sword sheathed at your side glinted in the afternoon light, a far cry from the ladylike appearance most would expect.

You let out a low whistle, drawing a chuckle from Bronn as you approached. “You really handed it to him, huh?” you remarked, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Who knew today would be the day you make a joke?” Bronn quipped, his smirk never far from his lips.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Might as well get a laugh in once in a while.”

Bronn gave you a quick once-over, his eyes sharp as always. “You here to practice?”

In response, you tossed a small pouch of gold coins at him, which he caught with a practiced ease. “It’s been a while. Was wondering if you were simply busy or if you’d run off.”

You shrugged, the weight of the past few days pressing on your shoulders. “Well, it hasn’t been quiet at the Red Keep.”

“Aye,” Bronn said with a knowing look, his expression softening for just a moment. Then, with his usual swagger, he added, “Well, let’s see if that sword of yours still works.”

The two of you squared off, the tension of the moment melting into the familiar rhythm of training. Bronn was a formidable opponent—quick, sharp, and never one to play by the rules. He tested you immediately, launching a fast strike aimed at your side. You parried it easily, the weight of your sword light in your hands.

"You've gotten faster," Bronn noted, his tone almost begrudging as he stepped back to assess you, his sharp eyes taking in every movement, every subtle shift of your stance. 

You shrugged, gripping your sword a little tighter, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than he realized. Faster—it wasn’t just speed you needed. Strength. Precision. Ruthlessness. All of it would be necessary if you were going to do what needed to be done. Your thoughts flickered briefly to him, to the Mountain, and the moment you had been turning over in your mind, rehearsing endlessly in the quiet of your own head.

One well-placed strike—that’s all it would take. You’d studied his movements, watched how he fought. Brutal. Unforgiving. He crushed his opponents like insects beneath his feet, but there was always a weakness. There had to be. You just had to find it, and when you did, the Mountain would fall.

But you didn’t say that out loud.

Instead, you offered Bronn a casual shrug, masking the storm of thoughts beneath your calm expression. “Learned a few tricks while I was busy,” you replied with a half-smile, keeping your voice light.

Bronn smirked, though his eyes still lingered on you as if trying to peel back the layers of your thoughts. "Busy, huh? Hope those tricks keep you alive long enough to show me more."

He didn’t press, and you were grateful for it. There was no need to tell him, not yet. The time would come soon enough, and when it did, you'd be ready.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KING'S LANDING, THE THRONE ROOM — DAY

You stand off to the side, shrouded in the shadows of the grand pillars, your eyes flickering over the scene before you like a predator studying its prey. The High Septon stands at the heart of it all, his voice booming as he leads the coronation of Tommen Baratheon. The crowd has gathered, a sea of nobles dressed in their finest silks, feigning respect and devotion. Your gaze drifts, settling momentarily on Ser Jaime Lannister, who patrols near the back, his golden hand gleaming in the soft light.

"May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in these perilous times," the High Septon intoned, his voice heavy with ceremony. "May the Smith grant him strength that he might bear this heavy burden. And may the Crone, she that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead."

Tommen’s face, still soft with boyish innocence, betrays the weight of the moment. You can see it in his eyes—the bewilderment, the fear hidden behind a facade of calm. He’s a puppet, and the strings are woven through the hands of those more powerful. But he’s not the one you’re watching.

The High Septon finishes, his hands raised toward the heavens. "In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Long may he reign!"

"Long may he reign!" the crowd echoes in unison, their voices a rehearsed chorus.

Your eyes narrow as Tommen bows, exchanging a fleeting glance with Margaery Tyrell. The hint of a smile plays on her lips, barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for. It’s the look of a woman who knows exactly what she wants—and how to get it. Cersei sees it too, her expression tightening, though she maintains her grace.

You smirk to yourself. The plot never stops, not for a moment.

The grand hall is quieter now, though the air still buzzes with soft chatter. Tommen sits awkwardly on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by its looming presence. Tywin Lannister stands beside him, commanding the room with nothing but his cold, stern silence. The line of courtiers shuffles forward, each taking their turn to bow and offer hollow pleasantries.

"Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle rasps, his aged voice grating against your ears.  

"Your Grace," Varys follows, his tone smooth, unreadable.

Tommen exchanges nods and small smiles, barely keeping up the appearance of a ruler. Margaery lingers nearby, her gaze soft but calculating. It’s Cersei’s eyes that catch yours, though, burning with possessiveness and suspicion as they land on Margaery.

Your fingers twitch at your side, the weight of your dagger pressing against your thigh through the fabric of your cloak. There’s no need for it now, but the comfort of steel is a constant reminder of why you’re here—watching, waiting, collecting secrets like coins.

The crowd parts as Cersei approaches Margaery, offering smiles to the onlookers as she moves through the room with the grace of a lioness on the hunt. You observe it all, taking in the flickers of power, the undercurrents that ripple beneath the surface of every interaction.

You sigh, stepping away from the scene and slipping back into the shadows. There’s nothing more to see here. The coronation is just another piece in the larger puzzle, and the trial—the real battle—is yet to come. Your secrets can wait, for now.

KING'S LANDING, THE GARDEN — DAY

The day was warm, the sun casting a golden glow over the lush greenery of the royal gardens. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the salty air from the sea, but none of that registered as you went about your tasks. Servant duties, tedious and endless, consumed most of your time. Today, it was carrying supplies from the kitchen to the gardens—bundles of herbs, fresh fruits, a few linens. You balanced them carefully in your arms, eyes scanning for a spot to drop them off before you moved to the next errand.

As you passed through the garden's winding paths, the soft murmur of voices caught your attention. You stilled, instinctively pressing yourself into the shade of a tall shrub, out of sight. The voices were familiar—Cersei Lannister and Oberyn Martell. The temptation to eavesdrop, to gather just a bit more information for yourself, was too great to resist.

You shifted slightly, your heart thudding in your chest, trying not to rustle the bushes as you angled your body closer. From where you stood, you had a clear view of Oberyn sitting on a stone bench, writing on a scroll. He paused as Cersei approached, her guards flanking her.

"Your Grace," Oberyn greeted her, his voice low and polite as he stood.

Cersei’s cold smile barely reached her eyes. "Prince Oberyn. Writing letters?"

"A poem, actually," Oberyn replied, his tone light, yet unreadable.

Cersei’s eyebrow raised slightly, more curious than amused. "May I show you the gardens?"

Oberyn glanced down at the scroll he had been working on before standing fully to his feet. "I couldn’t very well refuse a royal escort."

"No, you couldn’t," Cersei said, a slight edge in her voice. You could almost see the power shift between them as they started walking side by side through the winding paths of the garden, their steps measured, calculated.

You trailed discreetly behind them, clutching your bundle tightly, ears straining to catch every word.

"I didn’t realize you were a poet," Cersei remarked, her voice laced with feigned curiosity.

Oberyn chuckled. "Not a very good one."

"For your paramour?"

"For one of my daughters," Oberyn corrected, his voice softening at the mention of his children.

Cersei’s eyes flicked toward him. "You have several, don’t you?"

"Eight," he said, a touch of pride in his voice.

"Eight? Eight daughters?" Cersei repeated, incredulous.

Oberyn nodded. "The fifth is difficult. I named her after my sister, Elia."

At the mention of Elia’s name, your heart clenched. You had always known the depth of his loss, but hearing it aloud, even in passing, reminded you of the storm that brewed constantly beneath Oberyn’s surface.

"Beautiful name," Cersei mused.

"Yes," Oberyn agreed, though his tone darkened. "But I can’t say it without turning sad. And after I turn sad, I grow angry."

"Perhaps that’s why she’s difficult," Cersei remarked, her tone dripping with cynical wisdom. "The gods love their stupid jokes, don’t they?"

Oberyn's gaze narrowed slightly, intrigued. "Which joke is that?"

Cersei’s smile was sharp, almost mocking. "You’re a prince of Dorne. A legendary fighter. A brilliant man feared throughout Westeros. But you could not save your sister. I’m a Lannister. Queen for nineteen years. Daughter of the most powerful man alive. But I could not save my son. What good is power if you cannot protect the ones you love?"

Her words struck like venom, her bitterness palpable. You watched Oberyn’s face shift, his jaw tightening as the memories of his sister undoubtedly flashed behind his eyes.

"We can avenge them," he said after a pause, his voice resolute, cutting through the air like a blade.

Cersei met his gaze, her lips curling slightly. "Yes, we can avenge them."

Oberyn tilted his head, watching her intently. "You really believe Tyrion murdered your son?"

Without hesitation, Cersei replied, "I know he did."

Oberyn’s expression remained calm, though you could sense his skepticism. "We will have a trial, and we will learn the truth."

"We’ll have a trial, anyway," Cersei muttered, her voice tight with impatience. "I haven’t seen my daughter in over a year."

Oberyn’s face softened slightly. "The last time I saw her, she was swimming with two of my girls in the Water Gardens. Laughing in the sun."

Cersei’s eyes briefly glistened with unshed tears. "I want to believe that. I want to believe she’s happy."

Oberyn’s tone was gentle now, sincere. "You have my word. We don’t hurt little girls in Dorne."

Cersei’s voice was a mere whisper, filled with more sadness than she would ever admit aloud. "Everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls. Would you bring her a gift for me? I wasn’t there for her name day. I don’t know when I’ll see her again."

Oberyn’s gaze softened as he nodded. "Anything at all."

Cersei pointed toward the bay, her eyes lingering on a ship. "The best shipwrights in King’s Landing have been working on it for months. Myrcella loves the open water."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a small, understanding smile. "I will have it sailed down to Sunspear for her."

Cersei turned to face him fully, her expression momentarily vulnerable. "Please tell her... her mother misses her very much."

She left then, her guards following behind as her regal figure disappeared from the garden. Oberyn stood still, watching her go with an unreadable expression.

In the silence that followed, Oberyn’s voice cut through the air, calm and composed. "You can show yourself now."

Your breath hitched, but you stepped out from behind the pillar, clutching the supplies you had been carrying, your heartbeat still racing from all you had overheard.

Oberyn's dark eyes, gleaming with that unspoken intensity, never left yours. The weight of his gaze made the space between you feel smaller, heavier, as though every unspoken word lingered in the air. He took a slow step toward you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

"I still don’t know your name," he said, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though his tone remained casual, as if this was just another conversation, nothing more than passing the time.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you swallowed, straightening slightly. "It’s..." You hesitated for a second, then finally offered, your name.

Oberyn hummed in acknowledgment, his smirk widening just a little, as though your name now held a secret weight between the two of you. He moved closer, studying your face carefully. He repeated your name, tasting the name on his tongue like it was something to be savored.

A silence hung between you for a moment, but Oberyn had a way of piercing through it with his words. His eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze again. "Tell me," he began, his voice soft but laced with a quiet danger, "did you poison the king?"

Your chest tightened at the question, though you knew it was coming. You didn't flinch, your heart steady despite the accusation hanging in the air. Meeting his gaze, you shook your head firmly, your voice calm but resolute. "No. I didn’t."

Oberyn’s intense gaze lingered on you, as if he was peeling away the layers of who you were, searching for the truth hidden beneath your calm exterior. His dark eyes burned with quiet judgment, tempered by curiosity. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, barely perceptible, when he let out a soft hum, the tension in his posture easing. "Good," he murmured, the single word carrying weight, as though it was meant to confirm something greater. Yet, behind his eyes, the storm never ceased, always swirling, always waiting.

You inhaled deeply, the air between you thick with unspoken things. For a long moment, you said nothing, your mind racing through the years, the faces, and the memories long buried under the weight of time and pain. The ocean waves crashed in the distance, steady and unyielding, much like the man before you. The ships bobbed on the horizon, their sails catching the wind as if they were fleeing toward freedom, away from all that was this city—this place of blood and betrayal.

You turned your gaze toward the sea, your voice low as you spoke, almost as if the memory itself had pulled the words from your lips. "You were right, your grace. I knew her… your sister, Princess Elia." 

Oberyn’s expression flickered, a subtle shift from curiosity to something more personal, more vulnerable, as he stepped closer to you. His presence was quiet but commanding, the warmth of him beside you drawing your attention. You didn’t look at him; instead, you watched the ships, the waves crashing against the cliffs in the distance. 

"It was a long time ago," you continued, your voice soft, filled with a kind of sorrow that time couldn’t quite erase. "I wasn’t a good person then… I don’t know if I am now." Your words hung in the air, fragile but true.

The wind whipped through your hair as the memory surged forth, pulling you back to that day—the day you first met her. You had been standing on the cliffs near Sunspear, staring down at the waters below. The waves had seemed so inviting, so final. You’d been ready to let go, ready to fall and end the pain that had gripped you for far too long. 

But then, you heard a cry. 

Princess Elia had been in the water, struggling against the currents, her graceful arms failing to keep her afloat. It was instinct, something primal within you that made you dive into the water, though you had been moments away from letting it take you. You swam with a strength you didn’t know you possessed, reaching her, pulling her to the shore. You’d saved her, though you had been prepared to die.

When you reached the sand, both of you gasping for breath, Elia had looked at you, her deep brown eyes searching yours, knowing, seeing far too much. "You were going to jump, weren’t you?" she had asked, her voice soft but piercing. 

You had only nodded, the pressure of your decision still clinging to you like the seaweed wrapped around your legs. 

Elia had smiled then, a gentle, sorrowful thing. "Thank you for saving me… even when you couldn’t save yourself." Her words had haunted you ever since.

The memory faded, and you were back in the present, the ocean still stretching before you, endless and indifferent. Oberyn stood beside you, silent for a long moment, absorbing your words. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered with understanding, with a shared pain.

"You were the one," he said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself. "The servant girl… the one who survived." His voice was careful, probing, seeking confirmation of a story long buried under the rubble of war and tragedy.

Your face remained void of emotion as you turned to meet his gaze, your eyes hollowed by the weight of the years and the scars you carried. "I haven't forgotten even a day," you replied, your voice eerily calm, devoid of the turmoil you felt. "Some hatred resembles longing. It's impossible to get rid of." 

Oberyn's gaze lingered on you, his expression softening, though the tempest within him still raged. His eyes, dark and intense, mirrored the turmoil that churned beneath your own surface. “I’ve also hit rock bottom before,” he said, his voice carrying a rare gentleness. “So, I understand the weight of your anger.”

His words hung in the salt-tinged air, a bridge between the two of you—both bound by memories of a woman long gone, and a shared desire for something that felt like justice but tasted more like vengeance. The sea continued its relentless assault on the cliffs, indifferent to your pain, your histories, and the scars neither of you could erase. The world moved on, as uncaring as ever, while you stood still in the face of it.

Oberyn turned slightly toward you, his expression more searching now. "Is that why you came to King's Landing?" His question was quiet, but the weight of it settled between you like a stone dropped into a deep well.

Without turning to face him, you let out a bitter laugh, the sound lost in the crash of waves. "Isn’t that why you’re here too?"

The words hit him with a force that made him pause, a flash of something unreadable passing across his face. Oberyn was silent for a moment, studying you as if trying to gauge the depth of your resolve. He shifted, his usual confidence tempered by something more cautious now. "You know what revenge does to people," he said softly, his tone laced with concern. "I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. It devours you, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but the anger. It’s… not something someone like you should carry."

You scoffed, the words cutting through you, sharper than any blade. "Someone like me?" you echoed, turning to face him fully for the first time since the conversation began. Your eyes locked onto his, challenging, as if daring him to explain what he meant.

Oberyn’s brow furrowed, a rare crease in the otherwise unshakeable mask he wore. "You carry enough," he said, voice low but firm. "You shouldn’t be the one to deal with this. It will change you."

His worry was unexpected, disarming even, and for a moment, you saw the weight of his own guilt reflected in his gaze—the burdens he carried, the losses he had never fully avenged. But there was also a flicker of something protective, something he wasn’t ready to admit to.

You turned back toward the sea, your heart heavy with a mix of rage and sorrow. The waves below crashed louder now, their rhythm matching the pounding in your chest. "I’ve already been changed," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the roar of the ocean. "There’s nothing left to take." 

Oberyn stepped closer, his presence warm beside you, though the space between you felt vast. “There’s always something left,” he murmured, his voice softer now, the edge of worry still lacing his words. “You just don’t see it yet.”

The silence between you stretched long, as the sea kept its pace, unbothered by the weight of two broken souls standing on the cliffs above it. Neither of you spoke again for some time, each lost in your own thoughts, but bound by an understanding neither of you had expected.

Both here for vengeance. Both already paying its price.

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — EVENING

The evening air clung heavily to the Red Keep, filled with the scent of the sea and the distant hum of King’s Landing. After leaving Oberyn by the cliffs, the weight of exhaustion settled into your bones, dragging you through the motions of the day. Each task completed, each conversation had, felt like a necessary distraction—an anchor to keep you from drowning in your thoughts. Yet, none of it could quiet the storm within.

Once your duties were done, you retreated to your small chambers, the flickering light of a lone candle casting shadows against the stone walls. You sat at the edge of your bed, a leather journal resting on your lap. The worn pages were a map of your thoughts, your plans, your vengeance. You traced a finger over the spine, staring down at the leather-bound book that held all the pieces of your story. It was here, in the quiet of the night, that you could feel the weight of everything you’d worked for, everything you had planned.

Your revenge.

You glanced at the drawer where your dagger rested, a constant companion in this journey, but tonight you would leave it behind. Tonight was not for the blade, but for something else entirely. Whispered words from the servants confirmed that Ellaria was out in the brothels, and that knowledge settled something within you. 

You changed swiftly into a nightgown, the soft fabric brushing against your skin, and draped a dark cloak over your shoulders. It shrouded your form as you slipped through the halls of the Red Keep, every step measured, your path taking you toward the guest quarters. Toward Oberyn.

MAIDENVAULT, GUEST CHAMBERS

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP - EVENING

The corridors were dimly lit, and you moved like a shadow, slipping unnoticed through the Keep. The cold stone beneath your feet did little to deter you as you made your way to the door of Oberyn’s chambers. 

You hesitated for only a moment, then pushed the door open, slipping inside before the guards could take notice. The room was dim, lit only by the pale silver of the moonlight filtering in through the window. Oberyn stood near the bed, surprised by your sudden presence, his dark eyes meeting yours as you stepped into the moonlight, the cloak falling away from your shoulders. 

He closed the door behind him, his gaze flickering over you, curiosity and something else stirring in his eyes. "I didn’t expect company tonight," he said, his voice low, a touch playful as he stepped closer. "Is this what I think it is?"

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, your fingers moved to the ties of your nightgown, pulling them loose until the fabric slipped down from your shoulders, falling in a whispering heap at your feet. Oberyn’s smirk faltered as the moonlight revealed the truth—scarred, burned, and marred flesh stretching across your body like a grotesque map of past pain.

"It felt like a white night, and sometimes it felt like a polar night, too."

His amusement vanished, replaced by horror, by understanding. "Gods…" he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper as he took in the damage that covered every inch of you.

“Ugly, right?” Your voice was toneless, cold. “My scars.”

Oberyn’s eyes darkened, but not with revulsion—only fury, a quiet, simmering rage that burned behind his otherwise calm exterior. He didn’t need to ask who had done this to you. The answer was written in the jagged lines that crisscrossed your skin. He knew. He had always known the darkness that resided in this city, but seeing it on you, it seemed to strike deeper.

“They’re not ugly,” he said softly, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “They’re injuries.” His voice was a mixture of defiance and sympathy, the edges rough with something dangerous.

You shook your head, meeting his gaze with a stark intensity. "I’m not looking for a prince," you said, your voice steady and without emotion. “What I need is not a prince, but a headsman who will join me in the sword dance.”

Oberyn’s jaw tightened, the weight of your words sinking into the space between you. For a moment, you could see the conflict in his eyes—the warrior who knew the toll of vengeance, and the lover who wished to shield you from it. But as he looked at the scars on your body, the decision seemed to solidify within him.

"Once your revenge is over, your world will also be in ruins," he said, his voice still holding the trace of concern, but it was quickly fading.

"I’m already in complete ruins with no dignity left," you replied, your voice like iron. "So, go back. I’d like to stay faithful to my rage and vice"

Oberyn exhaled slowly, the storm within him finally breaking. His fingers flexed at his side, as if already reaching for the hilt of his sword. “I’ll do it,” he said, stepping even closer until his presence was all-encompassing. “I’ll be your headsman. I’ll join the sword dance.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sunk in, the finality of them sending a thrill through you. “I’ll do whatever you say,” he continued, his voice like a vow. “As if it’s a royal command. Anything at all.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the violence in his words. “I’ll show you a wild sword dance,” he promised, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a deadly sort of resolve. 

In that moment, you both knew there was no turning back. The sword dance would begin, and neither of you would emerge the same.

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