I am afroLatina, I have curly hair, I like cats and lana Del Ray and Billie eilish and sade and duran duran.
I am house arryn/Martell (i want two)
You can call me little pet names but i go by Carmen. I Like heated rivalry, superheroes, I dont really ship, stucky, sambucky.
I am team black in house of the dragon, I am a shy person. I like watching movies and watching videos on youtube.
I like sanrio, my style changes every full moon, I like romance and comedy and action.
Feel free to ask me questions about myself (nothing crazy tho). I take requests.
my guidelines / dni's are .
Homophobia, Racism, MAGA, Misogynist, Ageist.
disrespect - this goes for racial , religious , identity , and any overall form . i don't condone rudeness or hatred of any kind.
Lies - Do not ever spread lies about my writings, or my work. I have had been message me about how i lie about my work, I spend my own time writing my stories, coming up with my OC's, ect.
Dont be rude or mean.
I sometimes get requests, to write smut stories, I do not do SA type stories of any kind.
I am a Christian, i was born and raised on the religion, i do not throw my beliefs onto people. I spread the gospel to people who actually want to hear it
I am Kind of new to tumblr, I have never used tumblr before, I just started using it a few days ago.
I LOVE BUCKY BARNE SO MUCHHH!!!!!
I make repost a lot and i write stories, mostly fluff and a little smut.
1. What is you zodiac sign? Virgo
2. What color is your hair? Black
3. When is your birthday? september 19
5. What is your favorite color? Dark purple and dark blue and red and a soft pink
6. What’s your lucky number? Any even number
7. Do you have any pets? 4 Cats
8. What time are you? Central
9. How tall are you? 5'6
10. are you male or female or do you transcend gender? Female
11. Fav Movie of all time? Matilda and Grease
12.Biggest celeb Crush? When i was little it was Robert pattinens (Idk how to spell his name), I grew out of that when i hit puberty so right now the second biggest crush i have is Sebastian Stan.
13. Marvel or DC? I used to like DC when i was little, i still do but i like marvel more.
14. Fav animal? Any breed of a cat, snow leopard, house cat, black panther, ect.
14. Dream job? I want to be an actress but if that does not work out then a reporter or a writer
15. A fav show? Hannibal
16. Morning person or night owl? Both
17. Coffee or tea? ICED coffee
18. Early bird or night owl? early bird
19. Physical book or eBook? Physical book
20. Cozy inside or out exploring? neither
21. Rain or snow? HEAVY rain
22. Spicy food or sweet treats? sweet
23. Tattoos or piercings? BOTHHHH
24. What is your go-to emoji? 🍰💕💗👌🏻🦢🦉
25. If you had to delete all but 3 apps from your phone, which would you keep? Pinterest, Tumblr, Spotify
26. What is the weirdest dream you’ve ever had? I was in a cave and the ceiling looked like the norther lights and the second weirdest dream was i was tiny, VERY tiny and dracula was chasing me.
27. If you could live in a different country for a year, where? Norway. it is consistently ranking at the top for gender equality, safety, and quality of life. Women enjoy high workforce participation, strong political representation, generous paid parental leave, and high safety levels. It offers exceptional work-life balance
28. Are you a good dancer? Nope i dance like a white woman
29. What is your favorite cures word? You arrogant son of a bih
30. What's the last thing you drank and ate. Water and chicken soup
31.What is your favorite book, movie, or song right now? Song is 20 bands
32. What is your favorite item you've bought this year? a big ahh squishmallow
33. What is your favorite scent or candle smell? Rose
34. What is your go-to comfort food or beverage? Chips and Chocolate milk
35.What is your favorite way to spend a weekend? sleep
36. What is your most visited website? tumblr and spotify and pinterest
37 .Do you have a favorite place to go on vacation? Italy
38 .What race are you? I am afro Latino
39. are you the oldest or the youngest or the middle child? I am the youngest of my siblings
40. Fav female Marvel superhero? Black widow
41. Fav male Marvel superhero ? (MYYYYY HUSBAND) SERGEANT JAMES BUCHANAN “BUCKY” BARNES, WWII VETERAN, HOWLING COMMANDOS OPERATIVE, DECORATED U.S. ARMY SOLDIER — CONGRESSMAN JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES. And black panther and blue marvel
42. My fav men of the month:
I got more but these are the biggest ones. I know i got GOOOOODDD taste.
Hello, I just started watching game of thrones, these people or fricking crazy. I got inspired, I hope you like this story, let me know if he have any notes or anything. Sorry if this is a little long, I have a BUNCH of ideas. let me know if you have any either.
@smallcouncilnotes @luvcerecita
The Lion’s Daughter ☀️🗡️🦁 (Part 2)
For weeks, Tyrion Lannister’s life had shrunk to a single, relentless purpose: to ensure the safety of the girl in the basket. He spent hours in the library and the solar, poring over maps of Westeros, histories of noble houses, and treatises on wealth, influence, and cunning. Every house, every lord, every small lordling who might protect her—or exploit her—was cataloged in his mind. He weighed their resources, their loyalty, their proximity to the Iron Throne. Each page he turned, each note he scribbled, brought him closer to finding a place where she might survive—where the Lannisters’ shadow, and especially Cersei’s, could not reach her.
He had given her a name, a small act of love and defiance: Marina. The name carried the memory of Tysha, of sunlit mornings by the sunset sea, of songs whispered in the quiet hours before dawn. “Marina,” he whispered often, rolling the word on his tongue as if it were a charm, a shield. He imagined saying it aloud one day, free of danger, when she could answer back with laughter or curiosity.
Cersei, of course, had her own ideas about the girl. Tyrion knew he would never escape her interference. She delighted in bestowing an endless stream of names upon Marina—each more cruel or mocking than the last. Filthy Imp, Little Tyrant, The Future of House Lannister, and once, in a particularly sharp jest, Prince in Petticoats. She reveled in reminding Tyrion how “imp-like” he was, and now, she took glee in drawing the girl into the same web of ridicule. Sometimes, she would put Joffrey in the crib alongside Marina, whispering to him that this was the rival, the one who would take your place, prompting the boy to poke, jab, and pull at the child with a precocious, malicious glee.
Joffrey, even at his young age, was quick to seize the opportunity. He yanked at her hair, tugged her tiny hands, and poked her chubby arms with a sharp, gleeful intensity. When she cried, he laughed, small and cruel, proud of his power. Tyrion, who had always regarded Joffrey with mild amusement, felt a new, bitter heat rise in his chest.
He had tolerated the boy before—kept a polite distance, regarded his tantrums as the harmless display of a spoiled child. But now, when Joffrey’s cruelty touched Marina, Tyrion’s patience evaporated. His jaw clenched, his hands twitched, and a surge of protectiveness unlike anything he had ever known filled him entirely.
One afternoon, he caught Joffrey attempting to press Marina’s tiny hand beneath his tiny fist while Cersei watched with amusement, cooing at the scene. Tyrion’s rage snapped. With swift, surprising strength, he swept the boy up and flung him away from the crib.
“You will never touch her again!” he roared, and for a moment, the entire nursery—the small, sunlit room filled with toys, cloth dolls, and tiny blocks—fell silent. Even the baby paused, as though sensing the storm in Tyrion’s voice.
Joffrey’s eyes widened, the fair child blinking up at him with a mixture of defiance and shock. “She’s only a girl!” he spat.
“Yes,” Tyrion said, voice low, venomous, deliberate, “and she will be smarter, faster, and kinder than you ever are. Keep your hands to yourself, or you will regret it.”
Cersei’s laughter, sharp and brittle, echoed from the doorway. “Listen to him,” she said, mockingly. “The Imp thinks himself a father already.”
“I am a father,” Tyrion said, and the words surprised even him.
The baby in his arms shifted, pressing closer, her small weight warm against his chest. Tyrion felt a flood of protectiveness unlike anything he had ever known. She was his responsibility, his secret, his child in every sense that mattered, even if the world refused to recognize it.
Cersei, never one to miss an opportunity to belittle, stepped closer. She did not need to loom; she was always taller, always commanding. But she leaned toward him anyway, bringing her face near the crib as though to remind him of his place.
“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, voice smooth and dangerous. “How does it feel to be small? To look up at the world and know it looks down on you?”
Tyrion’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond.
She crouched, lowering herself to her knees to bring her face level with the baby. Her green eyes flicked between Tyrion and the girl, glittering with something cruelly curious. “Do you know,” she said softly, mockingly, “what your mother liked to read? What she ate for her last meal? What she wore the day she died, just before you were born?”
Tyrion’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the basket, knuckles white.
“She was beautiful,” Cersei continued. “And gone. And you—your father’s ‘imp’—live.”
The words were venomous, but Tyrion did not flinch. He did not falter. He only tightened his arms around Marina, rocking her gently against his chest. The girl’s tiny hand curled around his finger, and he felt her heartbeat against him—a fragile, furious, living thing he could not let go.
Cersei straightened abruptly, laughing lightly as she rose. “Do what you like with her,” she said. “Hide her, send her away, pretend she matters. But remember—she will learn, oh yes, she will learn.”
Robert’s voice followed from somewhere down the hall, warm and amused. “Keep her alive if you can, Imp. Might be amusing to see what she becomes.”
Tyrion exhaled slowly, steadying his racing mind. Marina shifted in his arms, her dark brown hair soft against his chest, her light brown eyes blinking up at him as though sensing the weight of all that had passed in these few weeks.
He had a plan. He would find her a place. A house. A protector. Somewhere she could grow strong, beyond the cruelty of Cersei, beyond the reach of Robert’s negligence, beyond the shadows of the Lannisters’ games.
And for the first time in his life, Tyrion felt that his small stature, his “impish” body, his misjudged cleverness—all of it—might actually serve a purpose.
He tightened his grip on Marina and whispered softly, “They will not have you. Not while I live.”
And with that, he began to plot, to move, to shield her with every ounce of wit, cunning, and determination he had, for the weeks to come, for years to come, for the rest of his life.
Tyrion woke to the sound of his name.
Not shouted.
Not whispered.
Spoken.
“Tyrion.”
That alone was enough to pull him from sleep.
Tywin Lannister did not repeat himself.
Tyrion pushed himself upright, wincing slightly as his body protested the sudden movement. The room was dim, the light just beginning to creep in through the narrow window—but he was not alone.
Tywin stood near the door, hands clasped behind his back, as immovable as a statue.
And behind him—
Cersei Lannister, watching.
Jaime Lannister, quiet, unreadable.
And Robert Baratheon—
holding the child.
Tyrion’s breath caught.
Marina.
She was larger now. Nearly a year old. Dark hair thicker, her small face more defined, her light brown eyes alert as she shifted in Robert’s arms, grabbing clumsily at his beard.
Robert chuckled. “Strong grip on this one.”
Cersei did not smile.
She was looking at Tyrion.
That same look.
The one she had worn when they were children, when something was about to be taken from him.
“The child,” Tywin said, his voice cutting cleanly through the room, “will be taken to House Arryn.”
Tyrion felt the words before he understood them.
Taken.
His hands tightened on the edge of the bed.
“I see,” he said carefully.
Tywin gave a single nod, as if the matter were already concluded.
Then he turned and walked out.
Cersei followed at once, her silks whispering across the stone floor. Jaime hesitated only a moment before going after them.
Robert lingered just long enough to shift the girl in his arms.
“Well,” he said, glancing at Tyrion, “better mountains than graves, eh?”
Then he, too, left.
With Marina.
Tyrion was moving before the door had fully shut.
He dressed poorly, quickly—pulling on boots, shrugging into his tunic, not bothering with laces or dignity. By the time he reached the corridor, they were already halfway down it.
“Father,” he called.
Tywin did not stop.
Of course he did not.
Tyrion quickened his pace, uneven but determined, until he fell into step behind them.
“What does this mean?” he demanded.
“It means,” Tywin said without looking at him, “that the child will be placed where she cannot embarrass this house.”
Cersei let out a soft laugh. “Such a delicate way of saying it.”
They turned a corner, their footsteps echoing.
“House Arryn,” Tyrion said. “Why?”
“Because,” Tywin replied, “it is distant, secure, and politically useful.”
Cersei’s voice slipped in, smooth and cold. “Ancient. Pure Andal blood. Honor, or so they like to pretend.” She smiled faintly. “And the Eyrie…”
Her eyes flicked toward Tyrion.
“Such a beautiful place. High above the world. Untouchable.”
The Eyrie hung in the air between them, even unspoken—white stone, sky, and isolation.
“A fitting place,” Cersei continued, “for something that should not be seen.”
Tyrion ignored her.
“And what, precisely, is the plan?” he asked.
Tywin stopped.
At last.
He turned, his gaze settling on Tyrion with measured weight.
“The child will be fostered in the Vale,” he said. “Her identity will be… adjusted.”
“Adjusted,” Tyrion repeated.
“She will not be known as yours.”
Tyrion’s jaw tightened. “She is mine.”
“And she will live,” Tywin said flatly. “If you are wise enough to accept the terms.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Cersei stepped closer then, circling slightly, as though inspecting both Tyrion and the idea of the child being taken from him.
“She will look lovely in blue,” she mused. “Falcons and sky. So pure. So noble.”
Her lips curved.
“So unlike where she came from.”
Tyrion did not rise to it.
“Who will raise her?” he asked.
“A bannerman of House Arryn,” Tywin said. “Loyal. Discreet.”
“And if they are not?”
“They will be.”
Cersei laughed softly. “Or they will fall from a mountain. Accidents happen in the Vale.”
Robert shifted the child again, frowning slightly now. “That’s enough of that.”
Cersei ignored him.
“Such a long fall,” she went on lightly. “The Eyrie is famous for it, isn’t it? One step too close and—”
“Enough,” Robert said, sharper this time.
She exhaled, annoyed.
But she stopped.
For now.
Tyrion’s eyes were on the child.
Marina had grown quiet, her small hand tangled in Robert’s beard, her gaze drifting between faces she could not yet understand.
Unaware.
Always unaware.
“That is your plan,” Tyrion said slowly. “And mine?”
Tywin held his gaze.
“You will agree to it.”
Tyrion smiled faintly. “Ah. So I do have a role.”
“You will not interfere.”
There it was.
The truth.
Tyrion looked at Cersei.
At the satisfaction barely hidden in her eyes.
She still wanted the child dead.
That much was clear.
This plan was not mercy.
It was compromise.
Temporary. Fragile. And dangerous.
Tyrion exhaled softly.
“Very well,” he said. Cersei’s brows lifted slightly, surprised.
“But,” Tyrion added, “if she is to go, she goes properly.”
Tywin said nothing.
Tyrion continued, voice steady now.
“She is not to be treated as a servant. Not a cast-off. Not a mistake hidden in the mountains.”
Cersei smirked. “And what would you have her be? A princess?”
“No,” Tyrion said. “Safe.”
A pause.
Then:
“Educated,” he added. “Fed. Protected.”
Tywin studied him for a long moment.
Measuring.
Weighing.
Then, finally—
A slight nod.
“See that you remember your place in this,” Tywin said.
“I always do,” Tyrion replied quietly.
His gaze dropped to Marina.
Dark hair.
Light brown eyes.
Tysha’s eyes.
His voice softened, just enough that only he could hear it.
“The Vale, then,” he murmured.
High.
Distant. Beyond Cersei’s reach. For now. It would have to be enough. Because for the first time since she had been placed in his arms—
Tyrion understood something clearly. He was not choosing where she would go. He was choosing how she would survive. The next morning came too quickly. Tyrion had not slept much that night.
Marina sat in his lap, small and warm, her dark hair soft beneath his fingers as he carefully brushed it. She squirmed now and then, letting out small squeals of protest that quickly turned into laughter. She liked the brush—liked the attention more.
“There now,” Tyrion Lannister murmured. “A lady of the Vale must look the part, mustn’t she?”
Marina responded with a delighted noise, grabbing clumsily at his sleeve.
He had fed her himself that morning, slowly, patiently. Dressed her, too—simple but clean, softer colors than Lannister crimson. He found he preferred it that way.
Less like a lion.
More like herself.
The door opened without warning.
Cersei Lannister entered as if she owned the air itself.
Tyrion tensed immediately.
Cersei said nothing at first. She simply walked toward them, her expression unreadable—and then, without asking, she lifted Marina from his arms.
Tyrion’s hands lingered in the empty space where the child had been.
Cersei smiled.
Not at him.
At the baby.
“Well,” she cooed softly, her voice suddenly warm, almost musical. “Look at you.”
Marina squealed in delight.
She did that often now—small bursts of sound, bright and unfiltered. Her tiny hands reached up at once, grasping for Cersei’s golden hair, fascinated by the light it caught.
Cersei laughed.
A real sound, this time. Light. Easy.
For a moment, it was almost… normal.
Tyrion did not trust it.
He rose slowly, watching closely as Cersei adjusted the child in her arms and began to walk.
He followed.
Of course he followed.
Cersei moved through the room at an unhurried pace, gently bouncing Marina as she spoke to her.
“And where are you going, little one?” she asked sweetly. “Far away. Oh yes. High up in the mountains.”
Marina babbled in response, tugging at her hair.
Cersei smiled down at her.
“You’ll grow up there,” she continued. “Learn your letters. Your manners. How to sit, how to smile, how to be silent when men speak.”
Tyrion’s jaw tightened.
Cersei went on, her tone soft, affectionate—even as her words cut.
“And then, one day, they’ll marry you off. Some lord, perhaps. Or a knight, if you’re fortunate.” A pause. “You’ll have children. You’ll serve your husband. You’ll forget all of this.”
Marina squealed again, oblivious.
Cersei tilted her head slightly.
“Or perhaps you won’t,” she added lightly. “Perhaps you’ll remember… just enough.”
Tyrion stepped closer. “That’s enough.”
Cersei glanced at him.
Amused.
She lowered herself and set Marina down gently on a cushioned bench.
The baby wobbled slightly, then steadied, her small hands pressing into the fabric as she looked up, curious and unafraid.
Cersei straightened.
Her gaze lingered on the child one moment longer.
Then she turned and left without another word.
Silk whispered.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Tyrion exhaled slowly.
He crossed the room and lifted Marina again, holding her close—perhaps tighter than necessary.
“She does enjoy the sound of her own voice,” he muttered.
Marina blinked up at him, then smiled.
It broke something in him.
“Come,” he said quietly.
From his table, he retrieved a small object—a thin chain, delicate, with a tiny pendant shaped like a lion.
Lannister gold.
The only piece of that name he would allow her to carry.
“For you,” he said softly.
He fastened it carefully around her neck, his fingers lingering just a moment.
“So you remember,” he added.
Even if she never knew what it meant.
They did not leave quietly.
They never did.
The halls of the Red Keep seemed longer that day, heavier. Each step echoed.
Tywin Lannister walked at the front, unyielding as ever.
Cersei beside him.
Jaime Lannister just behind.
Robert Baratheon followed, half-interested, half-bored.
And little Joffrey Baratheon trailed near his mother, watching everything with sharp, curious eyes.
Tyrion walked among them.
Carrying Marina.
For the last time.
At the gates, they were waiting.
Men in blue and silver.
Falcon sigils.
House Arryn.
One stepped forward—a knight, older, composed, his expression carefully neutral.
Tyrion studied him.
Measured him.
This man would shape her life.
“Is it done?” Tywin asked.
“It is,” the knight replied.
Tyrion stepped forward before he could be stopped.
He looked down at Marina.
She reached up again, catching his finger, holding it.
For a moment, he could not move.
Then, slowly—
He placed her into the knight’s arms.
Carefully.
Reluctantly.
Final.
“She is to be protected,” Tyrion said quietly.
The knight inclined his head. “She will be.”
Tyrion held his gaze a moment longer.
As if he could force truth out of it.
Then he stepped back.
Marina made a small sound—confused, questioning.
Tyrion did not reach for her again.
He could not.
The knight turned.
The banners shifted.
And just like that—
She was leaving.
Tyrion stood still as stone, watching until she disappeared from sight.
Only then did he allow himself to breathe.
Only then did he realize—
The silence she left behind was louder than anything he had ever known.
Hello, I just started watching game of thrones, these people or fricking crazy. I got inspired, I hope you like this story, let me know if he have any notes or anything. @luvcerecita
The Lion’s Daughter ☀️🗡️🦁 (Part 1)
The Small Council chamber smelled faintly of wax, parchment, and old stone warmed by the midday sun. Tyrion Lannister found the scent comforting in a distant, ironic way—this was where the realm was ruled, where great decisions were made… and where men lied most elegantly.
He shifted in his chair, too tall for him, as always, and let his mismatched eyes wander while the Master of Coin droned on about tariffs no one intended to enforce.
At the head of the table, King Robert Baratheon looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.
“Gods,” Robert muttered, rubbing his beard, “if I hear one more word about grain—”
“You will hear ten more, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Pycelle said gently.
Robert groaned.
And beside him sat Cersei.
She was radiant, as ever—golden hair catching the light, her posture perfect, her expression carved from something colder than marble. In her arms, wrapped in crimson and gold, was the newest pride of the realm: Prince Joffrey.
Tyrion let his gaze linger there.
A baby. Small, soft, pink-faced.
And golden.
So very golden.
He took a slow sip of wine.
Strange, he thought.
Not because the boy was fair. The Lannisters were fair. Cersei was fair.
But Baratheons…
He had read enough. Heard enough. Seen enough.
Black of hair. Strong of jaw. Storm in their blood and in their look.
Robert himself was proof enough—broad, dark, loud as thunder.
Tyrion’s eyes flicked from the king to the child.
No resemblance.
Not in the nose. Not in the eyes. Not in the shape of the face.
Certainly not in the hair.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the infant with more attention than was polite. Joffrey yawned, tiny mouth opening, and Cersei adjusted him with practiced ease.
“Is something amusing you, brother?” she asked without looking at him.
Tyrion smiled faintly. “I was admiring the prince.”
“Then admire quietly.”
“As you wish.”
But he did not stop looking.
Instead, his gaze drifted—casually, lazily—to the other side of the room.
Jaime stood near the window, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, white cloak falling perfectly around him. The Kingslayer looked bored, as usual.
But not entirely.
Jaime was watching the child.
Not the way a knight watches a royal heir.
Not the way a man watches his king’s son.
Something else.
Something quieter.
Something… personal.
Tyrion’s smile deepened, though there was no humor in it now.
Interesting.
Jaime noticed his gaze then, just for a heartbeat. Their eyes met across the chamber.
A flicker passed between them—so quick it could have been imagined.
Jaime looked away first.
Tyrion turned back to his wine.
“—and if we increase the levy by even two percent,” the Master of Coin was saying, “we may recover losses from the eastern ports—”
“No,” Robert snapped suddenly. “No more levies. The people hate levies.”
“The people always hate levies, Your Grace.”
“Then stop giving them reasons.”
Cersei sighed softly, adjusting the baby again. Joffrey made a small, fussy sound, and she hushed him with a whisper.
Tyrion watched her now.
There was something fierce in the way she held the child. Possessive. Protective.
Not unusual for a mother.
But still…
His mind turned, slow and careful.
Black hair, he thought.
Every Baratheon.
Black hair.
He took another drink.
Coincidence, perhaps.
Children favored their mothers sometimes. It was not unheard of.
And yet…
His eyes flicked once more to Jaime.
His brother was no longer looking at the child.
But his jaw was tight.
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Curious.
Very curious.
The meeting dragged on, as such meetings always did. Numbers were argued, decisions delayed, responsibilities shifted like cups in a mummer’s trick.
But Tyrion barely listened now.
Instead, he watched.
The king, who did not see.
The queen, who revealed nothing.
The knight, who revealed too much by trying to reveal nothing at all.
And the child—
Golden.
Perfect.
Wrong.
At last, Robert slammed a hand on the table. “Enough. I’m done with this. We’ll speak of it again tomorrow—or never, if the gods are kind.”
Chairs scraped as the council rose.
Cersei stood gracefully, cradling Joffrey close. For a moment, the child’s small hand curled against her gown, and she smiled—not for the room, not for the court, but for herself.
Tyrion saw it.
And filed it away.
As the others began to leave, he lingered.
Jaime moved toward the door, but Tyrion’s voice stopped him.
“Brother.”
Jaime paused.
“Tell me,” Tyrion said lightly, swirling the last of his wine, “did you ever notice how little the prince resembles his father?”
Jaime turned slowly.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Jaime smiled—that easy, careless smile he wore like armor.
“Babies change,” he said. “Give him time.”
“Ah,” Tyrion replied. “Of course.”
Jaime held his gaze a moment longer.
Then he left.
Tyrion remained where he was, staring into the empty cup in his hand.
“Babies change,” he murmured softly.
Perhaps they did.
Or perhaps…
Some things never did.
He set the cup down.
And for the first time, the game began to feel… interesting.
Tyrion Lannister woke to silence—and to eyes.
That, more than anything, told him something was wrong.
He blinked against the pale morning light spilling through the shutters, his head thick with wine and sleep. For a moment, the world swayed lazily into place… the carved bedposts, the scattered clothes, the lingering taste of last night’s poor decisions.
And then he saw them.
All of them.
Tywin Lannister stood at the foot of his bed, hands clasped behind his back, face carved from stone. Beside him, Cersei Lannister burned—green eyes bright with something sharp and eager.
Near the window, Jaime Lannister leaned in his white cloak, calm as ever.
And slouched in a chair, broad and amused, sat Robert Baratheon.
“Well,” Robert said, grinning, “there he is. The lion wakes.”
Tyrion pushed himself upright slowly. “If this is a dream,” he muttered, “it is a cruel one. I had hoped for naked women, not my family.”
Cersei’s lips curled. Not in anger—no, this was something else. Something pleased.
It was a look Tyrion remembered from childhood.
The look she wore when he had done something wrong… and she knew it before he did.
A cold thread slipped down his spine.
“What have I done now?” he asked lightly.
“Open it,” Cersei said.
Tyrion followed her gaze.
On the table sat a basket.
Small. Covered.
Innocent-looking.
He stared at it for a long moment, then sighed. “You know, I have opened such gifts before. Once it was a snake. Another time a spider. I do hope you’ve grown more creative.”
“Open it,” she repeated, sharper now.
Tyrion slid from the bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold stone. He moved toward the table, slow but steady, aware of every eye on him.
Jaime said nothing.
Robert chuckled softly.
Tywin did not move.
Tyrion reached the basket.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then he lifted the lid.
No snake struck.
No spider skittered.
Instead—
A sound.
Small.
Broken.
A cry.
Tyrion froze.
Inside the basket lay a baby.
Tiny. Wrapped in rough cloth. Dark brown hair soft against her head. Her face red from crying, her little hands clenched as if the world had already wronged her.
For a moment, Tyrion simply stared.
The room seemed to tilt.
“A girl,” Robert said, leaning forward with interest. “Well now. Didn’t think you had it in you, Imp.”
Cersei rose in a sweep of silk. “Explain yourself.”
Tyrion did not answer.
He could not.
The child cried again—louder this time, sharper, as if demanding to be seen.
And something in his chest… shifted.
“She is yours,” Cersei said, voice cutting. “A common whelp. Filth brought into this house.”
Robert barked a laugh. “Filth? She looks better than half the babes I’ve seen in Flea Bottom. Strong lungs, at least.”
“Silence,” Tywin said.
The word fell like a blade.
Cersei turned to him at once. “Father, this is an outrage—”
“It is a complication,” Tywin corrected, cold and precise.
“A disgrace,” she snapped. “He breeds with peasants and brings their spawn into—”
“She is a Lannister by blood,” Tywin said.
Cersei’s mouth tightened. “Then all the more reason to deal with it.”
There it was.
Not hidden. Not softened.
Deal with it.
The baby cried harder.
Tyrion’s hands twitched at his sides.
“She need not live,” Cersei went on, almost casually now. “It would be a mercy. Better than letting her grow into—”
“Enough,” Robert said, more sharply than before.
Cersei turned, surprised.
“She’s a babe,” Robert added. “Seven hells, woman, you speak of her like she’s done you harm already.”
“She will,” Cersei said. “All his kind do.”
Tyrion flinched, almost imperceptibly.
Tywin exhaled slowly. “You will do nothing,” he told Cersei. “Not without my command.”
Her eyes flashed. “And if I choose otherwise?”
“You will not.”
Silence stretched.
Then Tywin turned and left the room.
Cersei followed at once, fury trailing behind her like a cloak.
Robert pushed himself up with a grunt. “Well. This just got interesting.” He glanced at Tyrion. “Congratulations, I suppose.” Then he strode after them.
Jaime lingered a moment.
His eyes flicked to the basket. To the child.
To Tyrion.
Something unreadable passed across his face.
Then duty called him, and he went.
The door shut.
Silence returned.
The baby’s cries filled it.
Tyrion stood alone.
He looked at the basket.
At the tiny, furious, helpless thing inside it.
Slowly, awkwardly, he moved.
The table was too high.
Of course it was.
He stretched, fingers brushing the edge, but not enough. The child cried louder, as if protesting his failure.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “I hear you. Impotent in many ways, but I am trying.”
He dragged a stool closer, climbed it with effort, wincing as his legs protested. Carefully—so carefully—he lifted the basket.
It felt heavier than it should.
Or perhaps that was something else.
The crying softened, just a little.
Tyrion looked down.
Dark hair.
Light brown eyes, blinking through tears.
Something in his throat tightened.
“Gods,” he whispered. “You are real.”
The child quieted, as if listening.
He swallowed.
Then turned toward the door.
Voices echoed in the corridor beyond—sharp, angry.
Cersei.
Tywin.
Robert.
Tyrion stepped out, clutching the basket as best he could, each step uneven but determined.
“…not to kill the child,” Tywin was saying.
“And why not?” Cersei shot back. “It is mercy compared to what she will become.”
“I will not have you—”
“She is nothing!”
“She is mine to decide—”
“She is his,” Cersei spat. “That should be reason enough—”
“Enough!” Robert roared. “I’ll not have babes murdered in my halls.”
Tyrion stopped just short of them.
Listened.
Learned.
The baby stirred in his arms.
And in that moment—small, fragile, and easily crushed—an idea came to him.
Not a kind one.
Not a gentle one.
But a necessary one.
Tyrion tightened his grip on the basket.
And stepped forward.
The corridor was colder than Tyrion remembered.
Or perhaps it was simply that everything had changed.
He stood at the edge of the argument, the basket cradled awkwardly in his arms, the child inside shifting and fussing as if she already sensed the danger surrounding her.
Cersei Lannister stood opposite Tywin Lannister, her posture rigid with fury barely contained.
“We could send her north,” Cersei was saying, her voice sharp with false calm. “To Eddard Stark. His wife already raises one bastard. What is one more?”
Her lips curled slightly.
“Or would that offend her delicate sensibilities? Perhaps we should claim the child as Robert’s. Gods know he’s scattered enough seed across the realm.”
Robert Baratheon snorted. “Don’t look at me. I don’t remember this one.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Cersei replied.
Tyrion stepped forward then, his voice cutting in before he could reconsider.
“She is not a parcel to be shipped from castle to castle.”
Cersei turned slowly.
Her eyes found him at once.
And narrowed.
“Well,” she said softly, “it speaks.”
Tyrion ignored that. “If she is to be placed anywhere, it should be somewhere safe. Quiet. Away from court.”
“Listen to him,” Cersei said, glancing at Tywin with mock delight. “He thinks himself a father already.”
“I am a father,” Tyrion said.
The words surprised even him.
The child stirred.
Cersei laughed—a cold, brittle sound. “You are many things, brother. Father is not among them.”
She stepped closer.
Then closer still.
Until she stood over him.
She did not need to loom—but she did.
She always had.
Tyrion held her gaze, though his grip on the basket tightened.
“What would you suggest?” he asked evenly.
“Oh, I have many suggestions,” she said. “We could send her to the Silent Sisters. Let her grow in silence, as she ought. Or give her to some lord who needs a servant more than a daughter.”
Her eyes flicked to the basket.
“Or we could be kind,” she added lightly. “End it now. Spare her the life that awaits.”
The baby whimpered.
Tyrion felt it like a blade.
“No,” he said.
Cersei tilted her head. “No?”
“No.”
Something in his tone made even Robert glance at him.
For a moment, the corridor stilled.
Then Cersei smiled.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
She lowered herself to her knees before him.
Not in submission.
Never that.
In control.
Always that.
Her gaze dropped to the child, studying her face with unsettling intensity.
“Well,” she murmured, “at least she is not as… malformed as her father.”
Tyrion said nothing.
“She is almost pretty,” Cersei went on. “Strange, that. You managed something almost… normal.”
Her hand hovered near the child’s face, not touching—just close enough to unsettle.
Then her eyes flicked up to Tyrion.
“How does it feel?” she asked softly.
Tyrion’s jaw tightened. “How does what feel?”
“To be small,” she said. “To look up at the world and know it looks down on you.”
Her voice was quieter now.
Sharper.
“You were always so… curious as a child. Always asking questions.” She smiled faintly. “Do you remember our mother?”
The name was not spoken.
It did not need to be.
Tyrion felt something cold settle in his chest.
Cersei’s voice softened—mockingly gentle.
“She loved to read, you know. Histories, mostly. Though she had a fondness for songs.” Her eyes drifted, distant for a moment. “She liked honeyed duck. And Dornish wine, though Father pretended not to notice.”
Tyrion said nothing.
He could not.
“She wore green the last day,” Cersei continued. “Do you remember that? No, of course you don’t.”
Her gaze snapped back to him.
“She was beautiful.”
The word hung there.
Heavy.
“And then,” Cersei said, her voice tightening, “she died.”
The child in the basket shifted again, letting out a soft cry.
Cersei looked down at her.
Then back up at Tyrion.
“And you lived.”
Silence.
Thick.
Suffocating.
Tyrion’s fingers curled around the edge of the basket until his knuckles ached.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Cersei searched his face, as if expecting something—anger, grief, shame.
He gave her none of it.
Only stillness.
Only control.
Something in her expression flickered.
Just for a moment.
Then it hardened again.
“What a cruel joke the gods play,” she said, rising smoothly to her feet. “To take one and leave the other.”
“Cersei,” Robert warned.
She ignored him.
Her gaze lingered on the child one last time.
“Do what you like with it,” she said to Tyrion. “Hide her. Send her away. Pretend she matters.”
Her lips curved faintly.
“She will learn.”
Then she turned and walked away.
Robert exhaled heavily. “Gods, you Lannisters are a cheerful lot.”
He clapped Tyrion on the shoulder—too hard, as always. “Keep the girl alive if you can. Might be amusing to see what she becomes.”
And then he, too, was gone.
Tywin remained.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then:
“She will not stay here.”
It was not a suggestion.
Tyrion lifted his chin. “No.”
Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“No?” he repeated.
“No,” Tyrion said again. “She will not stay here.”
A pause.
Measured.
Dangerous.
Then Tywin inclined his head—just barely.
“See that you choose wisely,” he said. “You will not be given a second chance.”
And with that, he left.
Tyrion stood alone in the corridor.
Again.
The child shifted in the basket, her small hand curling against the cloth.
Hey, I hope you like this little description of one of my OC's. 💕💕💕@luvcerecita
Marina Lannister Arryn ☀️🗡️🦁
She has that soft, almost storybook kind of beauty—the kind that makes people underestimate her completely.
Her face is gentle and open, with clear eyes that seem to trust too easily, and a smile that comes quietly, like she isn’t used to being the center of attention. There’s something untouched about her, not in a fragile way, but in a way that feels… unspoiled by court politics. Like she still believes people mean what they say.
Her hair is always done properly—softly parted, brushed until it shines, often pinned back in simple, elegant styles. Nothing too extravagant. A few delicate braids woven in, sometimes small pins or ribbons, but never anything loud. The kind of hairstyle that says she was taught to be a lady… and she listened.
Her dresses match that same feeling. Pale blues, soft creams, silvery greys—flowing fabrics that move when she walks, sleeves that gather at the wrist, bodices laced neatly but never showy. She looks like she belongs in a noble court, like she should be sitting beside queens… and yet there’s something almost too gentle about her for a place like King’s Landing.
And then there’s the detail people start to notice:
When she gets nervous, her fingers move.
She twists the rings on her hands—slowly, over and over, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Sometimes she presses them into her skin, grounding herself when conversations turn sharp or dangerous. It’s subtle, but observant people—like Tyrion—pick up on it immediately.
She only has one lady’s maid, which quietly says a lot about her position. Not poor, not unimportant… but not powerful either. It makes her stand out among the highborn girls surrounded by attendants. She doesn’t complain about it—if anything, she seems more comfortable that way.
Personality-wise, she’s… soft.
She likes quiet things. Walking in the gardens, especially in the early morning or just before dusk, when fewer people are around. She reads often—romances, histories, songs of knights and queens—and she believes in them more than she should.
She is kind in a very natural way. She listens when people speak, asks gentle questions, and doesn’t interrupt. That’s why characters like Tyrion notice her—because she treats him like a person, not something to be mocked or pitied.
But underneath all that softness, there’s something unexpected:
She likes axe throwing.
Not in a loud, boastful way. She doesn’t brag about it, doesn’t perform it. But when given the chance—away from court, away from watching eyes—she’s very good. Precise. Focused. It’s one of the only times she isn’t hesitant.
That contrast is what makes her interesting:
She looks like a perfect lady
Acts like a dreamer
But has this quiet, almost hidden strength
And the most important part?
She’s naive.
Not foolish—but untouched by cruelty. She doesn’t expect manipulation, doesn’t see it coming. She assumes kindness before malice. In a place like King’s Landing, that’s dangerous.
It makes people react to her in very different ways:
(Sansa admires her)
(Arya is confused by her)
(Cersei does despise her)
(Tyrion would feel protective of her)
(And others, like little finger… would see her as easy to use)
She’s the kind of girl who still believes stories have happy endings.
Which, in that world, is exactly what puts her at risk.
"The point is BOTH sides are unworthy of the throne" ngl i feel like people just say that because they have an aversion to admitting the actual point was misogyny.
It happened because Rhaenyra is a woman, end of story. its the beginning, middle, ending and thematic tragedy of her story and the stories of every other Targaryen woman. I'm not sure how you could watch the show or read the book and still come to the shallow conclusion of "well we ALL suffered because both of them were bad people" of course we all suffered... as a result of mysoginistic actions. Its not fair to rule her out as unworthy or a bad person because we will never know what rhaenyras reign would have looked like on a clean slate.
