#summerwines | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 2 months ago

Text

The Golden Court (the hunt)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/trag!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (nothing drastic yet, but the next chapter will be)

- Previous part: what we are

- Next part: the pact

- Tag(s): @scarletdfox

The Red Keep’s corridors were never truly silent. Even in the late afternoon, when the court had retreated to its private pleasures—lounging in shaded gardens, sipping at summerwine, indulging in whispered affairs—there were always echoes. The murmur of lords and ladies passing judgment in hushed tones, the hurried steps of servants carrying secrets, the ever-present hum of power shifting unseen beneath the surface.

You were no stranger to it.

Which was why, when you stepped into your chambers, finding Rhaenyra already waiting for you, arms crossed, expression tight, you were not surprised in the slightest.

She stood near the balcony, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, her silver-gold hair loose over her shoulders, the jewels at her throat catching the light.

“Rhaenyra,” you murmured, unbothered, moving past her to set aside your gloves. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Rhaenyra turned, her lips pursing. “I assume you already know.”

You let out a soft hum, unlacing your riding belt with slow, deliberate ease. “Many things are said in this castle, cousin. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Rhaenyra exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “Do not play coy with me, Y/N. I heard what happened in the stables.”

Ah. So the whispers had already spread.

You smiled—slow, amused, not confirming, not denying. “And what, exactly, have you heard?”

Rhaenyra frowned, stepping closer. “That you were… seen,” she said carefully, watching your expression. “Alone. With Lord Jason Lannister. And that he—” She hesitated, as if the words themselves displeased her. “—had his hands on you.”

You let out a breath of laughter, utterly unruffled. “How scandalous.”

“Do you deny it?”

You turned to face her fully, tilting your head slightly, voice smooth as Valyrian silk. “Do I look as though I am denying it?”

Rhaenyra’s violet eyes narrowed, searching your face for any sign of discomfort, any trace of something that might confirm or deny the rumors outright. But you had always been good at this—at making men and women alike wonder, at letting them circle the truth without ever touching it.

After a beat, Rhaenyra huffed, shaking her head. “You should be careful.”

That made you laugh. Truly laugh.

“Careful?” you echoed, amused. “Coming from you?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened, her shoulders tensing just slightly. “I am not the one risking my reputation in broad daylight.”

You smirked, stepping closer, your voice dropping into something smoother, sharper. “Oh, but you are, aren’t you?”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

You tilted your head, watching her with mock curiosity. “Should we speak of your husband, dearest cousin?” you mused. “The one who shares your bed in name only? Or shall we speak of the whispers that follow you wherever you go?”

Rhaenyra’s throat bobbed slightly, her breath a touch shallow, but she kept her expression carefully schooled. “Mind yourself, Y/N.”

You chuckled, lifting a hand to toy with one of the rings on your fingers. “Shall I mind you, then?” You let the words linger before adding, “The court has always been quick to wonder. Why Laenor Velaryon, for all his titles, does not seem particularly interested in his wife.”

Rhaenyra stiffened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

You smiled. “And yet, there is another name, isn’t there?” You leaned in slightly, whispering, “Strong.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed, her breath hitching just slightly.

But she did not deny it.

She did not flinch, nor did she demand you take back the words.

Which told you everything you already knew.

After a moment, Rhaenyra exhaled, shaking her head, composing herself once more. “The difference between us, Y/N, is that I do not make a spectacle of myself.”

You chuckled, stepping back with ease, stretching your arms slightly, unbothered. “Oh, my sweet cousin,” you murmured, “you have been the court’s favorite spectacle since you were crowned heir.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, but there was no true anger in her gaze now—only frustration, only the knowledge that she could not argue against the truth of it.

You smiled. “Do not be jealous, Rhaenyra. It doesn’t suit you.”

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, rubbing at her temples, muttering, “You are terrible.”

You grinned. “I have been told.”

There was a pause, and then, Rhaenyra sighed, her earlier sharpness fading, replaced with something wearier, more familiar.

“…You should be careful, Y/N,” she murmured.

You tilted your head. “You said that already.”

She looked at you then, truly looked at you, and this time, there was no judgment, no rivalry in her gaze—only the kind of concern that came with kinship, with history, with being one of the few people in the world who understood what it meant to be a Targaryen woman surrounded by men who wished to tame them.

“Jason Lannister is not a man who knows how to lose,” she said quietly.

You studied her, then let out a slow, knowing breath.

No, he wasn’t.

But that was what made it fun.

You smirked. “Then let us see how he fares when he realizes he has already lost.”

Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head with a half-smile, before finally making her way toward the door.

Before she left, she paused, glancing at you over her shoulder.

“…You know,” she murmured, amusement lacing her voice now, “you truly are your father’s daughter.”

You laughed, stepping toward the wine that had been left by your bedside. “The highest of compliments.”

Rhaenyra scoffed before turning away, the door closing softly behind her.

You sighed, pouring yourself a goblet of wine, amused as you swirled the deep crimson liquid.

Yes.

Jason Lannister did not know how to lose.

But neither did you.

The halls of the Red Keep were quieter in the late evening. Court had retired for the night, the nobles retreating to their chambers or seeking pleasure in private corners.

And yet, here you were, in one such corner, with Tyland Lannister—a man who had, until now, exercised far more restraint than his elder brother.

Tonight, it seemed, restraint had limits.

It had started subtly, as it always did. A meeting in passing, a quiet exchange of words weighted with meaning, a lingering touch that should have been harmless—but was anything but.

You had let it happen.

Because Tyland Lannister was far more interesting than his brother realized.

And unlike Jason, he did not move with reckless arrogance, did not announce his intentions boldly.

No—Tyland was measured, strategic, a man who played his hand with care.

Perhaps that was why you let him stand so close now, the heat of his body nearly brushing yours, the scent of clove and citrus clinging to him.

You smirked, tilting your head slightly, your voice a smooth purr. “Tell me, Tyland—was this something you and your brother devised together?”

Tyland let out a quiet breath of amusement, his green eyes glinting as he studied you. “No,” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate. “Jason acts on impulse. I, however, am far more… practical.”

You let out a soft hum, considering. “And what is practical about this?”

Tyland’s fingertips brushed against your wrist, barely there, but enough to send a slow, deliberate thrill through you.

“A great many things,” he said smoothly. “For one, I could be of use to you.”

Your lips curled. “A Lannister, admitting usefulness to another? I do hope your pride is not too wounded.”

Tyland smirked. “Pride is nothing if one does not know when to wield it.” His touch trailed upward, slow and exploratory, the warmth of his fingers grazing your forearm, his thumb brushing against your pulse.

You allowed it.

For now.

You tilted your chin slightly. “And how would you be useful to me, my lord?”

Tyland’s breath was closer now, his voice barely above a murmur. “Unlike my brother, I am on the Small Council. That alone could be… practical.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, utterly amused. “How generous of you to offer your service.”

Tyland’s hand moved again—up, over the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, his thumb barely grazing the spot beneath your jaw.

Not claiming, not demanding.

But testing.

You arched a brow, allowing your own hand to trail up his chest, your nails barely scraping against the fine embroidery of his doublet. “And what would I owe you in return?”

Tyland’s gaze lowered, lingering, watching the way your fingers traced patterns against the rich fabric.

His voice was quiet, smooth.

“Nothing,” he said, “yet.”

The weight of the word hung between you, thick with meaning.

You chuckled softly, your nails dragging ever so slightly before your hand moved higher, to the nape of his neck, your fingers twisting into the golden curls there.

Tyland exhaled, his breath hot against your cheek, his grip on you tightening slightly.

You leaned in, lips hovering just near his ear, your own whisper almost mocking.

“How very diplomatic of you.”

Tyland smirked, his fingers pressing at the base of your spine, drawing you just a breath closer—not quite flush, but near enough that the air between you felt heated, charged.

But before either of you could push the moment further, there was the distant sound of footsteps.

You both stilled.

Tyland sighed, stepping back first, his touch lingering before pulling away entirely.

Your own fingers trailed away from his neck, slow, deliberate.

But the tension between you remained.

Your smirk returned, watching the way Tyland steadied himself, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves like a man who had not just been touching you.

He exhaled, green eyes flicking up to meet yours, his smirk more controlled now, but still there.

“We will speak again, princess.”

You grinned. “Oh, I imagine we will.”

And then, as quickly as it had begun, you both turned, stepping back into the world of propriety, of whispered secrets and hidden games.

The halls of the Red Keep were alive with the quiet hum of courtly affairs, but Viserys Targaryen had learned long ago that it was not the words spoken aloud that carried weight—but those whispered in corners, those implied behind forced smiles and polished courtesies.

And lately, there had been many whispers regarding House Lannister.

It had been one week since Rhaenyra’s wedding feast. One week since Daemon had returned, bringing his daughter back into the fold of the court. And yet, the golden lions of the Westerlands still lingered in King’s Landing, their presence unexpectedly prolonged.

Viserys, ever the dutiful king, had taken note of this.

And today, he had decided to find out why.

Flanked by Otto Hightower, his ever-watchful Hand, and a pair of Kingsguard, the king moved through the upper corridors of the keep, his expression betraying both curiosity and mild irritation.

“It is unusual,” Viserys muttered, his tone laced with suspicion. “The Lannisters were expected to leave for Casterly Rock days ago.”

Otto, walking at his side, nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Your Grace. It would seem Lord Jason has found a reason to delay his departure.”

Viserys exhaled sharply. “And I suspect you already have an idea as to what that reason may be.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “There have been… rumors, Your Grace.”

Viserys let out a tired sigh, rubbing at his temple. “Gods save me from the rumors of this court.”

“Yet they are often not without merit,” Otto countered, his sharp gaze flickering toward the king. “There is talk that Lord Jason has taken a particular interest in your niece.”

Viserys grimaced, shaking his head. “I expected this.”

Otto raised a brow. “You did, Your Grace?”

Viserys scoffed. “Of course I did. She is Daemon’s daughter—a dragon among men. She was bound to draw attention.” He sighed. “And Jason Lannister is a man who has never learned to resist something he wishes to claim.”

Otto hummed in agreement. “And yet, Your Grace, I wonder if this is merely a passing fancy, or if the lion truly believes he can stake a claim.”

Viserys frowned at that. “I mean to find out.”

They descended down the marble staircase, the polished stone cool beneath Viserys’s palm as he steadied himself on the railing. His body had grown weaker with the years, but his mind remained sharp—sharp enough to recognize that the Lannisters were lingering for a reason.

And that reason, he suspected, had silver hair and dragon’s blood.

Upon reaching the western wing, the guards standing outside the Lannister guest chambers straightened at the sight of the King’s arrival.

Viserys’s expression remained carefully composed as he gestured for one of the guards to announce him.

Within moments, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, revealing the lavishly adorned chambers where Jason Lannister resided.

And there he was.

Seated in a high-backed chair, Jason Lannister exuded an aura of easy confidence, a goblet of Arbor wine in hand, his golden hair catching the light from the nearby candelabra.

He rose swiftly, ever the picture of a gracious host, a wide smirk forming on his lips.

“Your Grace,” Jason greeted smoothly, bowing deeply. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Viserys stepped inside, his expression neutral. “Lord Jason,” he said, his tone even. “I have noticed that you and your kin have remained at court longer than anticipated.”

Jason’s smirk did not falter. “The capital has its charms, Your Grace.” He lifted his goblet slightly, taking a measured sip. “I saw no harm in lingering to enjoy them.”

Viserys’s brow arched. “Indeed.”

Otto stepped forward then, his voice calm but pointed. “And is there a particular charm that has caught your attention, my lord?”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “You wound me, Lord Hand. Must there always be ulterior motives?”

Otto did not blink. “When it concerns the House of the Dragon? Always.”

Jason laughed, setting his goblet down upon the mahogany table nearby before regarding them both with thinly veiled amusement.

“I will not insult the intelligence of my king,” Jason said smoothly. “You suspect that my prolonged stay is due to a certain princess.”

Viserys’s expression hardened slightly. “Is that not the case?”

Jason sighed, though there was no true resignation in it. “I will not deny that your niece is… remarkable.” His lips curved slightly, as if recalling some secret amusement. “Fascinating, even.”

Viserys narrowed his eyes. “And you believe this fascination grants you the right to pursue her?”

Jason smirked. “Would I be the first to try?”

Otto frowned, but Viserys merely exhaled, shaking his head. “You are playing a dangerous game, Jason.”

Jason tilted his head. “Aren’t we all?”

Viserys studied him for a long moment before stepping closer, his voice lowering.

“My niece is not a prize to be won, Jason,” he said, his tone edged with warning. “If you think yourself clever, if you think Daemon will stand idly by while you weave your golden net around his daughter, then you are gravely mistaken.”

Jason’s smirk did not fade.

But there was something behind his eyes now—something unreadable.

“I have no ill intentions, Your Grace,” Jason said, inclining his head. “But can you blame a man for being drawn to greatness?”

Viserys let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You have always been bold, Jason. But do not let your pride make you a fool.”

Jason merely lifted his goblet once more, his smirk returning.

“I’ll take your warning to heart, Your Grace.”

But the glint in his eyes told another story entirely.

And Viserys knew.

This was far from over.

One Moon Later

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alive with celebration. The vast chamber, adorned in red and black, pulsed with the murmur of conversation, the clinking of goblets, the laughter of lords and ladies gathered beneath the glow of a thousand flickering candles. Banners of House Targaryen hung high above the crowd, their three-headed dragon sigil rippling in the warm air, a reminder that this was a night in honor of King Viserys’s nameday.

The feast tables were overflowing, platters of roasted meats and spiced fruit filling the air with their rich aroma, while flagons of Arbor gold and Dornish reds flowed freely into the goblets of those eager to drink in the king’s health—and their own indulgence.

At the center of it all, upon the royal dais, sat Viserys himself, the king adorned in deep crimson, his crown sitting slightly askew, his face flushed with wine and merriment. He had laughed often tonight, his earlier concerns seemingly forgotten in the glow of the celebration.

To his left sat Alicent, ever composed, her green gown pristine, though her fingers clutched her goblet a touch too tightly as her eyes flitted across the room. To his right, Rhaenyra, resplendent in deep red, her smile measured, but her gaze searching. She, too, was watching.

And at the opposite end of the hall, standing with his kin, was Jason Lannister.

His goblet rested loosely in his hand, but his attention was elsewhere, his green eyes flickering toward the entrance to the hall every few moments, his anticipation growing with each passing second.

You were taking your time.

Jason let out a slow, satisfied breath, his smirk widening. “She does this on purpose,” he mused aloud.

Beside him, Tyland scoffed, taking a measured sip of his own wine. “You are deluded.”

Jason merely chuckled, utterly unbothered. “Come now, brother—you see it too.” He gestured toward the empty space near the entrance, where you had yet to arrive. “She makes us wait. A woman who understands the power of her own presence.” He took another sip of wine, relishing the thought. “And gods, do I adore it.”

Tyland rolled his eyes, adjusting the cuffs of his doublet. “You speak as though the world revolves around you.”

Jason smirked, unrepentant. “Tonight, I believe it just might.”

Tyland shook his head, exasperated, but said nothing further.

The rest of the Lannisters were scattered throughout the crowd, engaging in polite conversation, their presence ever visible, ever golden. House Lannister did not go unnoticed in a court such as this. Their wealth and power ensured that their names were spoken often—though tonight, it was not Jason’s gold or name that had the court whispering.

It was his infatuation.

A few lords had already given him knowing glances, some in amusement, others in mild concern, wondering whether the golden lion of Casterly Rock would find himself singed by dragonfire before long.

But Jason was undeterred.

No—he was exhilarated.

And then—

The doors opened.

A hush rippled through the room, as if the very air had shifted, as if the very flames of the torches had bent toward the new presence in the hall.

And there you were.

Stepping through the entrance with a grace that commanded attention, your presence radiant, undeniable, a woman who did not simply walk into a room—you took it.

Jason’s breath hitched.

Tyland sighed, shaking his head. “Here we go.”

But Jason wasn’t listening.

His smirk had vanished, replaced by something darker, something hungry, something completely enthralled.

Because tonight, you were more radiant than the sun itself.

The moment you entered, the room shifted.

The Great Hall, once alive with conversation and laughter, seemed to still for a breath, as if the very walls had leaned forward to watch. Lords and ladies turned, their eyes drawn as if by an unseen force, their lips parting in whispers, in admiration, in envy.

And Jason Lannister, who had been so certain you played this game for him, felt the first prickle of frustration when you did not even look at him.

Not once.

But Tyland?

You had glanced at Tyland.

His younger twin, ever the careful one, took a slow sip of wine, but Jason did not miss the flicker of something else in his gaze.

Jason’s grip on his goblet tightened.

But gods, even his irritation could not stop him from drinking you in.

Tonight, you were beyond radiant.

Your gown was a masterpiece of Valyrian silk, dyed in deep black, a shade that did not simply catch the light but seemed to consume it, a dress woven to shimmer like dragon scales. The fabric clung to you like a second skin, its bodice adorned with delicate embroidery of coiling dragons stitched in pure gold, the creatures winding around her ribs and collarbone, as if they were alive, as if they belonged to you.

The sleeves, sheer and trailing, whispered against your skin as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of bare shoulders, the faintest brush of your collarbones, a design made to appear effortless—but Jason knew better.

This was calculated.

This was warfare, woven into silk and gold.

Your hair, as silver as moonlight, had been styled into intricate braids, some woven with delicate golden chains, others left loose, cascading down your back in waves that moved with every slow, deliberate step.

At your throat, a necklace of Valyrian steel and rubies gleamed in the candlelight, the gems catching the warmth of the torches and glowing like embers—as if fire itself pulsed beneath your skin.

You were fire and night, a dragon wrapped in silk, a queen who needed no crown to be worshiped.

And behind you, Daemon followed, ever the shadow to her flame.

If Jason had not been so blinded by his own fixation, he might have noticed the slight smirk on Daemon’s lips, the knowing gleam in the prince’s violet gaze as he watched the effect his daughter had on the room.

You did not rush.

No, you savored the moment.

Your movements were measured, precise, a woman who understood the weight of expectation, who knew she had the power to make men wait, to let them hunger.

Jason watched, his fingers drumming against his goblet as you ascended toward the royal table, your expression unreadable, your lips curved in that infuriating, knowing smile.

And yet—

Not once did your gaze meet his.

But as you passed the Lannister table—just for a fraction of a second—

You looked at Tyland.

A glance, a flicker, a brush of amusement in your violet eyes before you turned away, before you moved past them without hesitation.

Jason’s jaw tightened.

Tyland, to his credit, did not react outwardly, but Jason could see it—the knowledge in his younger twin’s eyes.

Jason exhaled slowly, his smirk returning, but this time, it was forced.

So, that was how she wanted to play?

Fine.

Jason Lannister was a patient hunter.

He had learned, long ago, that the best way to claim a prize was not to chase it blindly, but to wait—to circle, to lure, to let the prey believe it held control before striking.

But tonight, his patience had limits.

As he watched you ascend the royal dais, his fingers tightened around his goblet, the rich red wine swirling against the polished gold. His mind pulsed with a singular thought, a vow he made to himself with unwavering certainty.

Tonight, I will have her beneath me.

Tonight, she will know she is mine.

But a hunter does not rush.

Jason exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his body, allowing his usual smirk to return as he leaned back in his chair.

His game was far from over.

No—it was just beginning.

If you wanted to toy with him, if you thought you could ignore him, then he would make you wait.

You would search for his gaze and find it elsewhere.

You would listen for his voice and hear it laughing with others.

And when the moment comes—when you least expected it—he would strike.

Jason lifted his goblet, taking a measured sip of wine before turning to Tyland, whose expression remained as unreadable as ever.

“Well, brother,” Jason murmured, voice low, “did you enjoy your moment?”

Tyland’s green eyes flickered slightly, but he remained collected, sipping his own wine. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jason chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Tyland didn’t respond immediately, merely shifting in his seat, watching Jason as one watches a blade being sharpened—with quiet, wary amusement.

“I find it fascinating,” Jason continued, swirling the wine in his goblet, “how easily you attract the attention of those who should be looking elsewhere.”

Tyland exhaled, shaking his head. “And yet, here you are, once again speaking of me rather than making your own move.”

Jason smirked. “Oh, don’t worry, dear brother. I will make my move.” His gaze drifted toward the royal table, toward you, radiant and untouchable. “In due time.”

Tyland sighed, clearly exasperated. “You act as though this is a battle campaign.”

Jason chuckled, setting his goblet down. “Isn’t it?”

Before Tyland could reply, their cousin, Alton Lannister, leaned forward, amusement dancing in his hazel eyes.

“Jason, for the love of the gods,” Alton drawled, smirking, “we can all see it. You’re practically salivating. If you stare any harder, you’ll set fire to the princess’s dress.”

The gathered Lannister kin chuckled at the remark, some shaking their heads, others merely amused by the entire ordeal.

Jason, however, merely smirked, ever unbothered, ever certain.

“You jest,” Jason said, his voice smooth, “but I’ve found that fire only burns those who do not know how to handle it.”

Alton laughed, taking a sip of his drink. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

Jason shrugged. “I speak only truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

Jason leaned forward slightly, his smirk deepening.

“That before this night is over, she will be mine.”

Alton whistled lowly. “Confident, aren’t we?”

Jason lifted his goblet in a mock toast. “Always.”

Tyland exhaled through his nose, looking away.

Jason merely chuckled, then adjusted his stance, smoothing the embroidery of his doublet.

He would not be reckless.

No, he would be patient.

He would make his appearances, mingle with lords and ladies, flash his winning smile, and let them think he was simply enjoying another celebration, unconcerned, unbothered.

And then—

When the moment was right…

He would go on the hunt.

And he would catch you.

Jason Lannister was a man of indulgence.

He enjoyed the finer things in life—the best wine, the softest silks, the thrill of the chase. And tonight, as the Great Hall pulsed with the celebration of the King’s nameday, he found himself indulging more than usual.

Not in wine.

Not in food.

But in anticipation.

You was here, somewhere, weaving through the night like a living ember, and he was waiting for the moment to snatch you from the flames.

And so, he moved through the crowd, smiling, laughing, exchanging pleasantries, his mind entirely elsewhere as he played his part in the grand theater of courtly life.

His goblet, filled with rich Dornish red, was warm in his hand as he approached a cluster of noble ladies, their laughter rising above the hum of the hall.

“Ah, Lord Jason,” one of them cooed, a lady of House Tyrell—soft curls, dark eyes, a mouth made for smiling prettily at men of power. “You grace us with your presence.”

Jason smiled easily, tilting his goblet toward her. “A terrible habit of mine, my lady. It seems I cannot help myself.”

She giggled, her companions tittering as they leaned in, their silk-clad arms brushing against his sleeves.

“You have been quite the talk of the court,” another lady purred, her fingers trailing lightly over the rim of her goblet. “There are whispers that your attention is quite… fixed as of late.”

Jason let out a low chuckle, feigning innocence. “Whispers? I do hope they are kind.”

The ladies exchanged amused glances.

“Oh, they are scandalous,” one teased. “Is it true that the golden lion has set his sights on a dragon?”

Jason smirked over the rim of his goblet, taking a slow sip before responding. “It would be unwise,” he mused, “to speak too boldly of matters that are not yet decided.”

The lady nearest to him tilted her head, eyes glinting. “And do you expect them to be?”

Jason chuckled, swirling the wine in his goblet. “My lady,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something lower, smoother, “you insult me.” He met her gaze, ever confident, ever assured. “When have I ever set my sights on something and failed to claim it?”

The women laughed, though one of them—the Tyrell girl—sighed wistfully, trailing a finger along the golden embroidery of his sleeve.

“A shame,” she murmured. “I might have enjoyed being the subject of such… dedication.”

Jason grinned, lifting her hand and brushing a mock kiss against her knuckles. “Ah, my lady, you wound me. Who’s to say I do not have enough dedication to go around?”

She blushed, giggling behind her hand, while the others laughed.

But Jason was only half-listening now.

His eyes flickered toward the royal dais, toward where you sat, ever serene, ever untouched, surrounded by those who whispered their flattery and empty words into your ears.

Jason exhaled slowly, downing the rest of his wine in a single, deliberate swallow before turning back to the ladies.

“If you’ll excuse me, my dears,” he murmured, setting his goblet down on a passing tray, flashing them a smirk that had charmed half the Westerlands into his bed, “it seems the night is still young.”

And he had a hunt to begin.

Tyland Lannister was not his brother.

He did not parade. He did not boast. He did not move through the court like a man who believed the world should bend to him.

And yet, he watched.

He had always been a man who observed more than he acted, a man who understood the value of silence. While Jason thrived on flamboyant displays—smirks, laughter, teasing hands on the arms of noble ladies—Tyland moved carefully, choosing his words as if he were weighing them on a golden scale.

Tonight was no different.

The Great Hall pulsed with life, wine flowed freely, and the air carried the warmth of candlelight and whispered ambition. While Jason prowled like a lion looking for fresh prey, Tyland remained at the Lannister table, exchanging words with their kin, his expression ever collected, ever unreadable.

But he was watching.

Not his brother.

Not the King, nor the Hand, nor the many lords who danced around them, each vying for a moment in the sun.

You.

You were seated at the royal dais, exuding an untouchable elegance, your gown woven from night and fire, your posture effortless. A woman who knew exactly how to hold a room’s attention without so much as a single gesture.

And you had looked at him.

More than once.

Tyland did not react.

He had spent years mastering the art of restraint, of keeping his expressions even, his thoughts his own, never betraying more than he intended.

But one of his relatives had noticed.

His cousin, Ser Reynard Lannister, a man just a few years their elder, leaned in with a slow smirk, swirling the wine in his goblet.

“Well, well,” Reynard mused, voice low so only Tyland could hear. “You’re awfully still for a man who’s caught the eye of a dragon.”

Tyland didn’t look at him, merely exhaled slowly. “Drink your wine, Reynard.”

Reynard chuckled, clearly amused. “Come now, cousin. Do you think no one sees it?” He took a leisurely sip, his hazel eyes glinting. “She’s looked at you twice now—not in passing, not idly.” He grinned, teeth flashing. “And unlike Jason, I do believe you noticed.”

Tyland adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, taking his time before responding. “You misinterpret glances.”

Reynard hummed, unconvinced. “Do I?”

Tyland finally looked at him, his own gaze calm but firm. “There is no meaning in it.”

Reynard laughed, clearly entertained. “If you say so.” He leaned back in his chair, still smirking. “But I’d say you’d best be careful, cousin. There’s one lion already prowling after that particular prize.”

Tyland exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering across the hall—toward Jason, who was currently charming a cluster of ladies.

Prowling indeed.

Reynard watched him closely. “You could challenge him, you know.”

Tyland arched a brow, expression unreadable. “Could I?”

Reynard grinned. “You might surprise him.” He tilted his goblet toward the royal table. “And perhaps… her as well.”

Tyland said nothing, merely lifting his own goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip as he let the words settle.

Because he had noticed.

And more importantly…

So had you.

Seated upon the royal dais, you barely listened to the drone of conversation swirling around the table. The evening had unfolded precisely as you had expected, yet there was still entertainment to be had.

You took a slow sip of Dornish red, the rich wine coating your lips like silk, your fingers toying absently with the stem of your goblet. You could feel the eyes on you, the stolen glances, the quiet whispers woven beneath the hum of laughter and merriment.

And beside you, Daemon had noticed.

Your father lounged in his chair with the ease of a man who had seen a thousand feasts like this before and found most of them dull. His goblet rested lazily in one hand, his dark violet gaze keen, following the movements in the hall like a man watching for weaknesses in battle.

He smirked before turning his attention fully to you.

“You’ve done it again,” he mused, swirling his wine with slow amusement.

You arched a brow, glancing at him. “Done what, exactly?”

Daemon exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Stirred the entire court more than a dancer from Lys.” He tilted his head, watching as another group of lords pretended not to be looking in your direction. “One would think you had descended from the heavens with how they gawk.”

You smirked, setting your goblet down with deliberate ease. “Should I take offense, Father?”

Daemon chuckled, resting his chin against his knuckles. “You? Offended? No, my dear, I think you planned this.”

You said nothing—because it was true.

You had not rushed your arrival. You had not hesitated to let them wait. And when you entered, you commanded the room without so much as a whisper.

Daemon studied you, his amusement never fading. “I almost feel bad for them.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting your head. “Almost?”

Daemon grinned. “Almost.”

Your gaze flickered across the hall, past the gold and crimson of the Lannisters, past the green-clad Hightowers, past the curious nobility still murmuring among themselves.

And then you noticed it.

Or rather, the absence of something.

“Laenor is not here.”

Daemon smirked, as if you had just said something mildly amusing rather than pointing out a conspicuous absence.

“No,” he said simply, drinking from his goblet. “No, he is not.”

You exhaled, watching Rhaenyra from across the table. She was speaking with Viserys, her expression composed—too composed.

“She must be growing tired of pretending,” you murmured.

Daemon huffed a quiet laugh, stretching his arms. “She’s lucky her father pretends not to see it.”

You arched a brow. “And you? What do you see?”

Daemon turned his gaze back to you, a knowing glint in his eyes. “I see a king who drinks to avoid reality. A daughter who weaves lies into her smile. And a court full of wolves who smell the blood in the water.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And what does that make us?”

Daemon smirked, reaching for more wine.

“Dragons.”

Your lips curved as you lifted your goblet once more.

Yes.

Let them all watch. Let them wonder. Let them circle like vultures, picking apart what they thought they understood.

Because at the end of the night, it would be you who decided which man burned the most.

The music swelled, a lively tune played by the court musicians, filling the Great Hall with an air of movement and celebration. The polished marble of the floor gleamed beneath the shifting candlelight, skirts swishing and boots clicking as lords and ladies twirled in the traditional steps of the dance.

You had remained seated long enough.

With a slow, deliberate grace, you placed your goblet back on the royal table, the deep red of the wine catching the light. The moment you shifted, Daemon glanced at you, his lips twitching into something between amusement and approval.

You were going to indulge them.

Let them come.

You rose, your gown cascading like molten silk, the black and gold shimmering as you stepped away from your seat, as if you were a goddess descending from her throne. The weight of eyes on you was immediate, the shift in the hall palpable as nobles whispered and lords straightened, some stepping forward with hesitation, others with bold determination.

One lord was faster than the rest.

Ser Lyonel Staunton, a well-bred but unremarkable noble, was the first to approach. He was eager, his eyes flickering with the thinly veiled pride of being the first to have you in his grasp.

He bowed swiftly. “Princess, would you grant me this dance?”

You smiled—not too much, not enough to encourage delusions, but just enough to be polite, alluring.

“It would be my pleasure, Ser Lyonel.”

A murmur rippled through the court as you took his offered hand, allowing him to lead you toward the center of the dancing floor. The eyes of the hall followed, but there was one gaze in particular that burned hotter than the rest.

Jason Lannister.

The moment you stepped into the first turn of the dance, he saw red.

He had waited.

He had played the patient hunter, the prowling lion, his anticipation building with each passing moment. And now, just as he had planned to strike, this boy—this insignificant lordling—had dared to claim your first dance.

Jason’s jaw tightened, his goblet nearly snapping in his grip before he set it down forcefully, plastering a charming smirk over his annoyance.

Fine.

If you wished to toy with him, then so be it.

He would not be ignored.

He moved swiftly, extending a hand to Lady Maris Rowan, a woman of fine breeding but little intrigue. She gasped softly at his sudden attention, blinking up at him with open admiration, but Jason wasn’t looking at her.

His eyes were locked on you.

The music swirled, the partners turning in their rhythmic steps, their hands barely touching, yet never straying far, every move calculated. You let Ser Lyonel lead, your smile demure but your gaze keen, aware of the game being played.

And with each turn, Jason was getting closer.

Lady Maris spoke, something pleasant, meaningless, but Jason barely heard her. He guided her through the steps with effortless grace, his body moving through the motions on instinct alone. His mind was fixed on you, on how the flickering candlelight glowed against your skin, on how your gown clung to you with each precise movement.

His blood burned, his patience wearing thinner with every passing second.

And then you turned.

For the briefest moment, your gaze flickered toward him mid-step, your eyes locking onto his through the sea of dancers.

You did not smile.

You did not falter.

But Jason felt it—the unspoken challenge, the way your glance carried a silent dare, as if asking:

Are you watching, lion?

Jason’s grip on Lady Maris tightened ever so slightly, just enough for her to inhale sharply. He forced himself to ease his hold, his smirk returning, but now it was sharpened, his expression brimming with something more dangerous, more primal.

Fine, princess.

Enjoy your little game.

But by the end of the night—

You will be dancing with me.

The music swelled, the rhythmic hum of strings and flutes weaving through the Great Hall, guiding the dancers through their intricate steps. The partners changed as the tradition dictated, hands exchanging, fingers grazing fleetingly, bodies shifting in graceful unison—a game of movement, touch, and temptation.

With each turn, with each measured step, Jason drew closer.

He watched as others took their turns—lords grasping at moments they believed meant something, fools caught in the spell of your smile, in the way your gown swirled like liquid night, in the way your eyes glowed with amusement.

But Jason knew better.

This dance was not for them.

You let them believe it was, let them think they held your attention, let them think they were worth your time—but all the while, you were waiting.

Waiting for him.

And when the next partner shift arrived, Jason took you into his arms.

His grip was firm, his touch practiced, possessive, his palm pressing against the small of your back as he guided you into the next step.

The world narrowed.

The other dancers blurred into irrelevance, the music itself becoming nothing more than the slow, measured beat of anticipation pulsing between you both.

Jason’s smirk returned, his breath warm as he leaned in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed teasing them, princess,” he drawled, his green eyes flickering with intent, “because you and I both know this dance was always meant to end here.”

You smiled, but it was not a soft thing—it was sharp, knowing, edged with the kind of amusement that unsettled men.

“Oh?” you mused, your steps matching his with flawless ease, your body moving with him as if you had done this a thousand times before. “And how do you imagine this night will end, my lord?”

Jason chuckled, dipping you slightly as the dance called for, taking full advantage of the closeness it allowed. His nose nearly brushed your throat, his lips hovering just close enough to let you feel the heat of them.

“I imagine,” he murmured, voice huskier now, weighted with meaning, “that by the time this night is through, you’ll be where you belong—beneath me.”

Your laugh was soft, breathless, but not in the way he wanted. Not flustered, not yielding.

No, you were amused.

“How original,” you murmured, your steps fluid, your movements graceful as the music guided you both in a slow, deliberate circle.

Jason’s smirk faltered slightly, his jaw tightening. “I don’t recall you rejecting the idea.”

You hummed, tilting your head, your lashes lowering as if to feign interest, though the glint in your gaze was something else entirely.

“Should I be flattered?” you asked lightly. “Or is this just another speech you’ve whispered to a hundred other women?”

Jason let out a breath of laughter, his grip on you tightening just slightly, his fingers pressing into the fabric at your waist.

“You misunderstand me, princess.” He leaned in further, his lips almost brushing your cheek as he whispered, “What I’ve said to others doesn’t matter. Because I will be the one between your legs tonight.”

Your breath didn’t hitch, your pulse didn’t quicken—you were not a woman so easily swayed by mere words, and gods, Jason wanted to devour you for it.

You merely smiled, your gaze flickering up to his beneath pale lashes, your voice a sultry murmur.

“And you’re so sure of that?”

Jason exhaled through his nose, his grip flexing against your waist, his arousal unmistakable, his certainty unshaken.

“Don’t feign innocence, princess,” he murmured, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re curious. I can feel it.”

Your laughter was silk, the sound dancing between you, wrapping around his resolve like chains meant to pull him under.

But you didn’t deny it.

And that was all he needed.

The music swelled, and Jason spun you—deliberate, firm, a move meant to claim, to conquer, but you merely let him, your smirk never fading, your body never faltering.

When he pulled you back against him, closer than before, his pulse hammered against yours, but your expression remained utterly serene.

You were still in control.

Jason gritted his teeth slightly, frustrated and desperate all at once.

But he wouldn’t let you win.

Not yet.

So he smiled instead, a slow, wicked thing, his fingers flexing against your waist.

“Shall we test that curiosity, then?” he whispered.

You smirked.

The final notes of the melody rang through the Great Hall, the echoes of the strings and flutes lingering in the charged air. The moment the music ceased, applause rippled through the crowd, but it barely registered.

Not to you.

Not to Jason.

He still held you—one hand firm on your waist, the other cradling your fingers—his grip lingering, possessive, as if reluctant to release you.

Your breath was steady, your expression serene, but Jason could see it.

The challenge, the dare, the unspoken game neither of you had ended.

As much as you had toyed with him, as much as you had kept him waiting, watching, wanting—you had not pulled away.

Jason’s smirk was slow, filled with certainty, his thumb tracing a brief, deliberate circle over the silk at your waist before he finally released you.

He took a measured step back, his green eyes dark with intent, his voice a low, confident murmur only for you.

“Come to my chambers later.”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a promise.

You arched a brow, amusement flickering across your features, not answering, not confirming, not rejecting—and that made Jason’s pulse thunder against his ribs.

He continued, his voice smooth, his smirk edged with wicked knowing.

“So you can indulge your curiosity.”

His fingers brushed yours, a brief touch before pulling away completely, but his heat remained, the memory of his hands still lingering.

Jason tilted his head, taking in the faint glint in your violet eyes, the way your lips curved—not surprised, not scandalized, just amused.

“You’ll come,” he murmured, stepping back, his confidence unchallenged. “And I’ll be waiting.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, tilting your head slightly. “Shall I take you for a man of patience, Lord Jason?”

Jason chuckled, reaching for the goblet a servant offered him without tearing his eyes from yours.

“I can be patient,” he mused, his gaze raking over you in open appreciation. He took a slow sip of his wine. “For the right prize.”

You smiled—slow, mysterious, infuriatingly unreadable.

And then, without another word, you turned away.

You stepped toward a cluster of nobles, leaving him standing there, watching, leaving him to wait.

Jason smirked, rolling the wine across his tongue, savoring the moment.

It wasn’t a yes.

But it sure as hell wasn’t a no.

He leaned against the nearest pillar, his grip on his goblet relaxed, but his mind already set.

The night was still young.

And so was his hunger.

...

Tyland Lannister had always been a patient observer, a man who understood the art of waiting, of listening, of knowing when to act and when to simply let the world unfold before him.

And tonight, there was much to observe.

The Great Hall still thrummed with celebration, the sound of laughter rising and falling in waves as nobles indulged themselves in the excesses of courtly life. Yet, amid the revelry, Tyland’s gaze was fixed elsewhere.

On his twin.

Jason stood near the great stone pillar, his goblet held with practiced ease. But to Tyland—who had spent a lifetime reading his brother’s moods—the mask of ease and control was slipping.

Jason had indulged in more wine than usual, his movements still precise but looser, his smirk still in place but edged with impatience.

Because he was waiting.

Waiting for you.

Tyland had seen it unfold—the way Jason had closed in on her during the dance, the way they had moved together in a way that bordered on scandalous, the way he had leaned in, whispered something only she could hear.

And now Jason was waiting.

For you to make your move.

Tyland took a slow sip of his own wine, keeping his expression neutral as his cousin, Reynard Lannister, leaned in, voice lowered.

“Jason looks restless,” Reynard murmured, tilting his goblet toward where Jason stood. “That’s never a good sign.”

Tyland let out a quiet exhale, not bothering to glance at him. “He’s had too much wine.”

Reynard chuckled. “Or too much anticipation.”

Tyland remained silent.

Because it was true.

Jason was pacing now—subtly, but pacing nonetheless. He would drink, exchange a few words with some passing lord, let out a practiced laugh, but his eyes would always flicker back to one place.

To you.

Tyland followed his gaze just in time to see it.

You were leaving.

Not rushed, not hurried, but deliberate—the way a queen might take her leave when she had decided she had played long enough.

And Jason noticed immediately.

Tyland saw it—the straightening of his shoulders, the way his smirk twitched wider, the way he set his goblet down with a soft thud, already preparing to move.

Reynard exhaled a low whistle. “He’s going after her.”

Of course he was.

Tyland knew Jason.

His brother had set his mind to this, had chased after many women before, but this was different. This was not some Westerman lady swooning over his golden hair. This was not a woman who would be won over by a few whispered words and a well-placed hand on her waist.

She was choosing to play the game with him—and that meant Jason was all in.

As Tyland watched, Jason finally pushed away from the pillar, moving toward the doors of the Great Hall, waiting just long enough for the moment to feel unsuspicious, but not so long that she was truly out of reach.

Reynard laughed under his breath. “And now he thinks he’s won.”

Tyland let out a slow breath, draining the last of his wine before setting his goblet down beside Jason’s.

He didn’t know what his brother would do once he caught up with her.

But he knew Jason.

And Jason was not one to handle frustration well.

So, after a moment, after just enough time had passed to ensure he would not be noticed, Tyland Lannister pushed himself away from the table, straightened his sleeves, and followed.

Discreetly.

Because someone had to make sure Jason didn’t ruin everything before the game was truly played.

68 notes · View notes