PLOT! the five times Egg realizes his father was in love with his aunt and the one time he realized how truly doomed they were.
pairing: maekar targaryen x reader
word count: around 5.4k
a/n: NO TARGCEST. this is the first time i wrote in a while, so might not be my best (i also wrote the first part and the ending first and then got lazy writing the middle)
SOME LOVES ARE LOUD ENOUGH TO SHAKE KINGDOMS. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.
The first time Egg realized his father was in love with his aunt, it came to him as most truths did in his childhood: carelessly and from the mouth of someone who should have known better.
The afternoon was hot, with the sun beating down hard on Egg's back, slicking it with hot droplets of sweat. It felt unbearable. Dust was also clinging to the air, to his skin and to the back of his throat.
He thought that squiring would be something finer than this. Something worthy of the stories and songs. Instead it was just weight. It was sweat. It was the sour, lingering scent of wine that followed Daeron everywhere he went.
"Seven save me," Daeron muttered, swaying as Egg struggled with the fastening at his shoulder. "Did they give me a squire or a stableboy?"
"I can do it," Egg said eagerly.
"You always can," Daeron replied, listing his cup. "And yet..."
He did not finish his thought. Egg bit down on his tongue and tried again. His fingers slipped. Until by chance or pure stubbornness, the buckle caught.
Egg stepped back and looked up at his perfect work, waiting for some well deserved praise. But recieved nothing. Egg groaned and looked up ready to complain to Daeron but the older boy was no longer looking at him.
His gaze had gone elsewhere, beyond the yard, beyond the garden hedges, fixed on something Egg could not yet see.
"What is it?" Egg asked, rising onto his toes, as though the height might grant him some assistance with the high hedge. It did not.
Daeron did not answer at once. He drank what remained in his cup, slow and unhurried.
"Have you ever noticed the way Father behaves around her?"
Egg frowned. "Around who?" (the boy was now jumping up and down to try and gain some view beyond the hedges).
"Our aunt. (Y/N)"
Egg blinked. "No?"
Daeron hummed softly. "It's nothing. Less than nothing."
Egg wracked his brain trying to come up with some possible answer to what Daeron was insinuating. "Does Father have some problem with her?"
Egg was worried then because you as well as your family were meant to come to Summerhall before coming with them to Ashford for a tourney.
"Quite the opposite." Daeron turned to Egg and wiggled his brows. Egg frowned, knowing what that meant. "That doesn't mean anything."
"No, it doesn't."
"She's married. To Prince Baelor."
Daeron hummed.
"Father wouldn't-" Egg stopped, the rest of the thought refusing to settle into something. "He loved Mother."
At that, something in Daeron's experession shifted.
"He did."
The words hung there, unfinished. Egg waited for more but none came. "She's our aunt."
"And he's our father."
Egg shook his head. "You're wrong."
"Perhaps." Daeron set his empty cup aside and crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to Egg's height. "Just watch him. You'll see it, or maybe you won't. These sort of things aren't meant to be seen at all."
He straightened, clapping a hand against Egg's shoulder. "Come on. I'll need another drink before I pretened to be a knight again."
Egg followed, though more slowly. He told himself there was nothing. Daeron was just drunk and imagining things.
The second time Egg noticed, no one said a word at all.
It happened in the Great Hall, in the lull between courses, when the noise softened just enough to hear the quieter things. The scrapes of a cup against the table, the half whispers of conversations and all that. The portion of the night where everyone was relaxed.
Egg had not meant to watch. He told himself he wasn't. But Daeron's voice had settled somewhere in the back of his mind and it was impossible to ignore it. So he took Daeron's words to heart. Watch him.
So he did. Egg watched his father from his place at the dinner table next to Aemon (who had his head buried in some large textbook. Egg was slightly concered over his brother's potential future neck problems).
His father sat at the end of the high table by his brother and Egg's uncle. His posture was straight and his expression was carved hard. He spoke when spoken to, nodded whe required and drank very little. There was little to nothing strange about it.
Until, his Aunt (Y/N) laughed.
It was not loud, nothing that would turn heads or draw attention to it. (Y/N)'s laugh was a lovely one and a familiar one to Egg. (The laugh came from a joke that Matarys told her but Egg did not hear what it was. From what he knew of his cousin, Egg didn't think it was a funny joke and his aunt was just being polite).
But Egg saw it. The way his father had stilled. Not entirely or in a dramatic way. But it was as if the statue had been shooken. A breath that was being held onto for a second too long.
Egg frowned. His father did not turn, did not look, his gaze remained fix on Baelor as the two were in a conversation. Maekar did not speak right away. Baelor carried on, asking a question that was answered by some lesser lord sitting next to Maekar. His paused moment slipped past, unoticed by all except for Egg.
It meant nothing, Egg told himself. Less than nothing.
People paused all the time. People lost their places. It was not uncommon. Afterall some people just get lost in their thoughts. It was not-
His father's hand tightened slightly around his cup. So slight it might have been imagined. Egg watched however, as he took a measured drink and set it back down with too much attention than it required.
Still, he did not look. Not at you. Egg found his gaze looking upon you instead. Looking radiant in the red silks that were probably made in Dorne. You had now reached your hand over to your husbands to get his attention, and leaned in to speak with a soft smile.
Prince Baelor and Princess (Y/N). Future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They looked right. They looked happy. The very pitcture of what Egg thought a loving marriage would look lile. As though the world had placed them exactly where they were meant to be. Egg was content knowing they loved each other.
So Egg went back to his food and started to shift his peas from his plate to Aemon's instead. Content to pretend that he was overanalyzing his father's behaviour.
The third time Egg noticed, it was close enough to touch.
It happened in the gardens, where the air was softer and world felt far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Egg had not meant to follow. At the time it had felt like nothing at all. He was just wandering paths he knew well, doing his best to avoid the maesters and his lessons.
That was until he saw them. He stopped before he could be seen and hid behind a tree.
They stood beneath the shade of an overgrown arbor, where the light filtered through in fragments painting them in gold. It was rather close. Not close enough to be indecent or improper. Just, closer than what was necessary.
(Y/N) was speaking, though it was too soft that the words could not reach Egg. Instead he had to settle on watching the shape of them. As (Y/N) was speaking his father did not interrupt, did not look away. Just gazed at your face.
From the looks of it, you had finished speaking and there was a moment of silence between the two of you. Then, your hand had lifted.
It wasn't anything dramatic. Just brushing your hand against his sleeve. It should have been nothing because it was nothing. But again, his father had stilled. The way his breath seemed to catch, the way his hand at his side tightened just slightly.
He did not pull away, did not reach back, did not move at all. The two of you stood there, closer than what one would expect, with your hand on his arm. To Egg, it looked like a different sort of painting. One he had not seen at the dinner the other night.
Then you stepped back and distance returned. Whatever had just been there, slipped neatly back into place.
His father inclined his said, said something Egg could not hear but it was probably something drab (his father was a rather blunt speaker). Whatever it was, it resulted in a smiling (Y/N). Your smile was smaller and softer and gone quicker than normal.
And then it was all over again.
Egg did not move from where he stood, though he knew he should. He felt as if he was intruding on something. His thoughts felt tangled. Nothing had occured.
With that, he took a step back and starting walking back into the castle.
The fourth time Egg noticed, it nearly did not remain theirs alone.
It was not meant to be a moment at all. That was what made it dangerous.
The corridors were quieter at that hour, the castle settling into itself as the evening wore on. Voices dulled behind closed doors. Footsteps softened. Even the torches seemed to burn lower, their light unsteady against the stone. Everyone was preparing for bed.
Egg had been sent on some errand he no longer remembered.
It did not matter. He would forget it entirely, later.
What he would remember, what would stay, was this:
The turn of a corner. The sound of a voice, too low to make out. And the way he stopped before he understood why.
This time, from behind a corridor, Egg saw them at the far end of the passage, half-shadowed, as though the castle itself meant to keep their secret.
They were close. Too close. Much closer than before in the garden.
Once again you were speaking. Or not. Even in the dimmed hallway, Egg could see you were loosing your composure. The normal picture perfect you seemed frazzle in the dark corridor. Words were spilling out quick but quietly. As if it was something that had been held back for too long.
Egg could not hear them, only feel the shape of them in the air, sharp and unsteady. (He was thinking to himself that he should really work on his sneaking abilities so he could somehow find himself closer so he could properly eavesdrop).
His father said nothing. He only watched you. Not as a prince might. Not as a brother should. As though the rest of the world had fallen away.
Egg’s breath caught, though he did not know why. He should not have been there. He knew that. And yet he did not move.
You stopped speaking. The silence that followed was not empty. It pressed in, taut, waiting.
His father took a step forward. It was small, measured and hesitant. Enough to close what little distance remained between you.
Egg felt it then, that strange, tightening awareness, like a thread pulled too thin. Something was about to happen. Something that could not be undone.
Your hand lifted, hesitant, uncertain, as though you had not meant to do it at all. His father’s followed. Not touching. Never touching.
But close enough that the space between them felt like something real. Something fragile. Something one breath away from breaking.
And for a moment, the two of you didn't move.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. And the spell shattered. Your hand dropped at once. His father stepped back just as quickly, the distance snapping into place as though it had never been crossed at all.
By the time the servants turned the corner, there was nothing to see.
It was just a prince standing where he ought to stand. A lady composed, untouched. Silence, neat and proper, where something else had been moments before.
Egg pressed himself back against the wall, heart beating too fast for something he did not understand.
No one noticed. No one said a word. And yet, Egg knew.
That it had almost—
He swallowed, the thought slipping from him before it could take shape.
It had been nothing.
A step taken. A hand lifted. A moment that came too close to becoming something more.
The fifth time Egg noticed, nothing threatened to happen at all.
There was no interruption waiting in the wings. No footsteps. No tension poised to break. Only certainty.
It happened in a corridor (the same one as before) and he was not meant to linger in, though he had long since stopped believing that mattered. The castle had begun to feel less like a place one moved through, and more like something that simply contained him.
He heard your voice first. And then his father’s.
Egg stopped before he saw you.
You stood facing one another, not hidden, not secret, simply… there. As though there had never been anything to conceal.
Your hands were folded neatly before you, composed and contorlled. The opposite of what you looked like the previous night he had seen the pair of you.
“I leave with Baelor at first light,” you said. Your voice did not tremble. It did not need to.
His father nodded once. “I know.”
No hesitation. No question. Only acknowledgment.
Egg watched the way you held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. Not lingering. Not resisting. Just, steady.
“As it should be,” you added quietly.
It was not said like a comfort. It was said like a truth that had already been lived. His father’s expression did not change. But something in him did.
Not outward. Not visible in any way that would matter to anyone else. Only Egg saw it.
The smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth. The faintest pause in his breathing. As though something had been set down carefully, something heavy, something once held too close.
“You will be well,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a fact he had chosen to believe.
You gave a small nod. “As will you.”
And that was all.
No step forward. No reach. No fracture in the space between you. Only distance, held deliberately in place. As if it had always belonged there.
You turned first.
Not away from him in avoidance, but toward what was waiting for you beyond the corridor. Beyond the castle. Beyond this moment entirely.
Duty, already ahead of you.
His father did not watch you leave. Not when it mattered. Not when it might have changed anything.
He simply stood there until your footsteps faded completely, until even the echo had gone soft enough to disappear.
Then he turned away as well.
Egg remained where he was. Not because he was unseen. But because there was nothing left to witness.
Only something he finally understood in full:
Not all loves ended in ruin. Some ended in choice. And in that choice, quiet, certain, unspoken they had already lost each other long before either of them ever reached for anything at all.
The one and probably last time Egg understood how truly doomed they were, it was at Ashford Meadow.
Some loves are loud enough to shake kingdoms.
Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.
The tourney had turned the world bright again.
Colour returned in banners and gowns, in the gleam of armor beneath the sun, in laughter that carried too far across the fields as though nothing in the world had ever been wrong.
For a moment, Egg believed in that brightness.
He had never seen so much life. Never felt so far from the boy he was meant to be. He had lost Daeron somewhere in a tavern’s chaos and shaved his head in reckless relief, as though shedding identity might make him freer. He had even met a hedge knight, Ser Duncan, before the crowd swallowed him whole.
Then the royal family arrived. And everything began, quietly, to fall into place.
Egg hid among skirts and passing legs as he watched them take their places. His aunt stood near the pavilion.
The wind caught at her dress, lifting it in soft, unsteady motion, and for a moment she looked less like a princess and more like something imagined, something almost too gentle for the weight of her name.
She smiled more easily now. Baelor lived. And so she could, too.
He stood beside her with easy warmth, speaking to those who approached them, his hand resting at the small of her back as though it had always belonged there.
She laughed at something he said, turning toward him, bright and unburdened.
It should have been enough. It was enough.
And still... Egg knew, somewhere deep and unspoken, that in another life, in another shape of the world, it might have been his father standing there instead.
Behind them, Maekar stood at a careful distance, speaking with a lord he was not truly listening to. His attention kept returning, again and again, to where it should not.
There was no grief in it. No rupture. No visible wound.
Only something quieter. Something held too tightly to be named.
Their eyes met once. His father’s. Hers.
It lasted no more than a heartbeat. And yet Egg felt it as something entire. A silence stretched between them, thin, precise, almost reverent.
Until Baelor spoke her name.
She turned. And the moment was gone. The world continued exactly as it should have. But Egg did not move. He watched.
Later, Baelor was called away. And Maekar stepped into his place beside her. It looked like nothing. It was nothing.
A conversation between in-laws. A passing exchange. A courtesy sustained by courtly habit.
But Egg saw too closely now. The ease that should not have been ease. The closeness that should not have existed at all. A handmaiden passed. Words were spoken too quietly to catch.
And then, Maekar offered his arm. She took it with no hesitation. It was a simple thing.
And yet the way her fingers settled there, the way his arm did not move away, the way neither of them corrected the distance. It felt like recognition. Like something remembered instead of chosen.
Too familiar to be coincidence. Too natural to be allowed. A blush rose faintly at his father’s neck. Gone as quickly as it came.
And for a moment, it felt almost right.
Until Valarr came running, bright and alive, breaking everything open again. The spell did not shatter. It simply… dispersed. Like smoke.
The world ended at Ashford Meadow.
It did not, of course.
The sun still rose over Ashford, pale and indifferent. The wind still moved through the fields, stirring banners that now hung heavy and dark. People still spoke, still walked, still breathed.
But something had ended all the same.
Baelor died.
The bells had tolled for what felt like hours, their sound low and unrelenting, echoing through the castle and out across the tourney grounds. Even now, standing among his family, Egg swore he could still hear them, like something lodged deep inside his chest.
They had chosen to burn him at Ashford. Egg wasn’t sure why that made it worse, but it did.
This place had been bright, only days ago. Full of laughter and colour and life. He could still remember it, the banners snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd, the way everything had seemed so large and full of promise.
Now everything felt hollow.
Egg stood stiffly beside his father, his hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.
His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back. If only he hadn’t left Daeron. If only he had stayed. If only—The pyre crackled. Egg forced himself to look.
Flames climbed steadily, consuming what remained of Baelor’s body. The heat pressed against his face, sharp and unbearable, and still he couldn’t look away.
His gaze shifted. His aunt stood closest to the fire. She did not weep. She did not speak.
She stood as though carved from stone, her face pale, her expression empty in a way that frightened him more than tears ever could.
Valarr stood before her, shaking. Egg could see it even from where he stood. The way his cousin’s shoulders trembled, the way his head bowed forward as though the weight of it all might crush him.
Her hand rested gently in his hair. Not moving. Just there.
Behind them, Kiera stood still and silent, her presence quiet, almost ghostlike.
Egg swallowed hard. He had heard what happened. Everyone had.
Whispers had spread quickly, slipping through corridors and between servants like smoke.
They said she had been the first to reach him. That she hadn’t believed it. That she had demanded a maester, again and again, as though saying it enough times might undo what had already been done.
They said she had knelt beside his body, hands pressed to him, begging the Seven to give him back.
That she hadn’t seemed to notice the blood. That it had soaked into her sleeves, her hands, her skin.
Egg squeezed his eyes shut briefly.
They said Ser Duncan had tried to pull her away. That she had fought him. That she had screamed. Not words, just sound. Raw and broken.
And then his father came.
Maekar had been the one to pull her back. They said she had struck him. That her fists had hit his chest, over and over, as though he were something she could break. That she had cried into him like the world was ending.
Egg opened his eyes. He looked up at his father now.
Maekar stood beside him, unmoving. Rigid. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key.
Egg wanted to say something. Go to her.
He didn’t know if he would have said the words aloud or not. He only knew the thought pressed against his throat, desperate and insistent.
Go to her. She shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Not like this.
But Maekar did not move.
He stood where he was meant to stand. He did what was expected of him. Nothing more.
Egg felt something twist inside him.
But he had learned, by now, where to look.
So he looked closer.
He saw the way his father’s hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin. He saw the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the stillness that was not calm but restraint stretched too thin.
And then it happened. Briefly.
So brief Egg might have missed it, if he hadn’t been watching.
His aunt lifted her head, just slightly. As though something had pulled her attention away from the flames. Her gaze crossed the distance between them. And found his father.
Maekar looked at her. Not as a prince. Not as a brother. Just as a man.
Everything was there. Egg felt it, even from where he stood.
Grief, sharp and consuming.
Longing, familiar, aching, unrelenting.
Regret, heavy, suffocating, endless.
All of it, laid bare in a single look that lasted no more than a heartbeat. It was too much. Too intimate.
Her gaze dropped. Maekar’s jaw tightened. And just like that… It was gone.
The fire crackled. The wind shifted. The world went on.
And whatever might have been… didn’t.
Egg shouldn’t have followed her. He knew that.
Even so, he slipped from the hall, keeping to the edges where torchlight thinned and attention softened. He was careful, quiet and was left unseen.
He told himself he would stop at the doorway. He didn’t.
The hall was dim when she entered, curtains drawn heavy against the day. It felt smaller than it had before. Quieter in a way that pressed at the ribs.
She moved slowly, like each step had to be chosen in advance. Egg lingered just beyond the threshold, half-hidden in the corridor’s shadow.
She crossed to the high table to Baelor’s seat and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing at all. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands. Baelor’s rings caught what little light remained.
Egg’s throat tightened before he could name why. She turned one of them between her fingers. Over and over. Not fidgeting, holding on.
As though stillness might undo something. The door opened again. Egg went rigid. His father stepped inside.
There was a pause in him that Egg did not recognize. Not fear, exactly. Not hesitation either. Something closer to awareness. As though the room had become uncertain ground.
As though he was not sure he was allowed to cross it.
She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him. Did not move. For a moment, he only stood there. Then he crossed the room and sat beside her. Not close. Never close.
Silence gathered between them, dense and unyielding.
“I do not know where to begin,” Maekar said at last.
His voice was quieter than Egg had ever heard it.
She let out a breath that almost broke on its way out. “I do not know either.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words felt too small the moment they left him.
They stayed anyway. Unanswered.
“You know,” she said after a while, still looking at the ring, “my mother once told me not to love anyone more than my children.”
Maekar did not speak.
“I loved my children,” she continued. “And I loved my husband.”
Something in him shifted at that, barely visible, but real.
“And I loved you.”
The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt held.
Carefully. Like something fragile that neither of them trusted to fall.
“(Y/N),” Maekar said at last, roughened, “there are no words—”
“You know,” she cut in, not unkindly, but with something steadier beneath it, “in a way, I wish you had meant to kill him.”
The air changed.
Maekar’s head turned slightly, as if the words had weight enough to move him. “How could you say that?”
“It would make things simpler,” she said. “For me. As selfish as that sounds.”
He did not answer. There was nothing to answer. A long pause. Then—
“Do you remember,” she asked, quieter now, “when Baelor and I were betrothed?”
A breath left Maekar that might once have been laughter. It wasn’t now. “Of course I do.”
A faint sound from her. Almost agreement. Almost nothing.
“You said you would burn your entire house down before you let it happen.”
His mouth tightened at the memory, something old and unguarded passing through him and gone again before it could settle.
“I was young,” he said.
“We were all young,” she replied.
Silence returned, softer this time. Less sharp. No less heavy.
Then she moved.
Slowly, she took one of the rings from her hand. Turned it once between her fingers. Twice.
And placed it in his palm.
“Here.”
Maekar looked down at it.
“I cannot take this,” he said. “He was your husband.”
“And he was your brother.”
That landed cleanly. Without argument. Maekar closed his fingers around the ring anyway. Not tightly.
Egg stepped back before either of them could notice him there, retreating into the corridor as quietly as he had come. He did not run. He did not linger.
Some things, he understood, were not meant to be seen all at once. Or spoken.
He understood then that some things were never meant to be spoken. Just simply known and lived with.
{Jon Snow x F!Reader}
Request {Anon}: Jon Snow eating his girl out for the first time and overstimulating her… bonus if she’s worried about suffocating him by sitting on his face + praise kink. Also hair pulling, but it’s her pulling Jon’s hair.
♡♡ JON DOES KNOW SOME THINGS ♡♡
3k words - Kinks: all kneel for the king of munching, first time, overstim, oral sexxxx, hair pulling, facesitting, praise, no piv...
It was one of those rare warm days at Winterfell where you could sit outside and actually not shiver. So naturally you were doing just that, taking a walk through a nearby field, enjoying the sun on your skin. It was a nice little change of pace from the castle that never seemed to warm up, even on the hottest days of summer.
You had stopped under a particularly large tree, and were just about to sit down when you heard a familiar voice call your name.
Jon.
You smiled as he approached you, happy to see him, even if his presence meant the end of your momentary solitude.
"I thought I might find you here," he said.
"Oh?"
"Arya told me she saw you heading this way," he clarified.
"Well I'm glad you found me," you said, "it's a beautiful day."
"That it is," Jon agreed, but he was looking at you when he said it. You tried to suppress a blush.
"Come, sit," you gestured towards the ground and sat yourself, patting the spot beside you.
The ground was a little damp from a recent thaw, but neither of you minded. Jon sat, closer than necessary. He put his hand on top of yours, lacing your fingers together. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.
"I spoke to my father... about… us," he said.
You sat up and turned to look at him, unsure how to react.
"What did he say?" You asked, searching his eyes for any hint of how the conversation went. But Jon's expression remained serious.
Your face fell, fearing the worst. "He said no," you sighed, turning away.
Jon gently guided your face back towards him with his free hand, a smile breaking out across his face.
"I told him there was no one else I'd rather be with," he said, and the tenderness in his eyes made your heart beat faster. "And that I would sooner cut off my own sword hand than not have you by my side."
"And what did he say to that?"
"He said he likes both of my hands attached," he said, making you laugh.
"So what does this mean?"
"It means we have his blessing," Jon said, his face suddenly serious. "I know I have nothing to offer you right now. No lands, no wealth..."
You cut him off with a kiss, pressing your lips to his. He was frozen for a second, surprised, before kissing you back. His arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, deepening the kiss.
When you broke apart, both of you were out of breath, cheeks flushed and hearts racing.
"And I have no family," you said, cupping his cheek. "The orphan and the bastard, two of a kind."
Jon gave you a small smile, and pressed his forehead to yours.
"So we're both poor, and both unwanted," he said, his smile growing. "Perfect for each other, I'd say."
"Aye, so it would seem," you laughed.
You kissed him again, softer this time. His hand caressed your back, the other tangling itself in your hair. A small shiver went through you, the air suddenly feeling colder than it had a moment ago.
"Should we go back to the castle?" Jon asked, noticing the goosebumps on your arms.
"I like it here," you said, leaning against him once more. "But maybe a fire would be nice."
"Maybe a few more layers would help too," he laughed, gesturing towards the lack of sleeves on your dress. "You do know we are in the north, don't you?"
"Don't tell me I'm not a true northerner," you teased.
"Of course you are, love," he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll just have to warm you up myself."
"Is that so?"
"Aye," he nodded.
He helped you up, keeping an arm around you. You started walking back towards the castle, stopping a few times to steal another kiss or two along the way.
By the time you reached the door to your room, you were a giggling mess. The castle was mostly empty, people still out enjoying the last few hours of sunshine. Your room was behind the kitchens, tucked in a corner of the castle where the servants slept. The smell of fresh bread wafted towards you, but that was the last thing on your mind.
Jon had never been into your room before, his honor keeping him from such things. But now that you were to be married, the rules felt different.
He let you go ahead of him, standing in the threshold. You lit a few candles, giving the room a soft, romantic glow.
"It's not much," you said, looking at Jon nervously.
"It's lovely," he said, his eyes trained on you.
"You can come in, you know," you laughed, sitting on the edge of your bed.
Jon looked down the hall, nervous that someone might come and see him entering your room. "I... I should be getting back," he said.
You got up, moving to stand in front of him.
"Don't go," you said, giving him a soft, pleading look, your hands resting on his chest. "Stay with me. Please."
You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. He kissed you back, wrapping his arms around your waist.
"You'll be the death of me," he murmured, the words low and soft.
"Let's hope not," you smiled, pulling him into your room and closing the door, locking it for good measure.
You stood there for a moment, the room suddenly seeming small. The air was thick with the promise of something, and you felt a little nervous, not knowing where to go from there.
Jon reached out a hand, offering to lead the way. You took it, letting him guide you over to your bed. He sat on the edge, pulling you into his lap, your legs straddling his.
"I love you," he said, and his gaze was intense.
"And I love you," you replied, resting your forehead against his.
His hands slid down your back and settled on your hips. "We shouldn't be alone like this…. Not until we are wed... we can't..."
"Let's just kiss for a while then," you whispered, your fingers playing with the laces on his shirt.
Your lips met in a soft kiss, gentle and loving, both of you trying your best not to take it further. Jon's hands roamed your body, exploring you as best he could through your clothes. Your fingers found their way into his dark hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
His lips left yours and found the curve of your neck, kissing and nipping gently at your sensitive skin.
"Jon," you moaned, the sensation sending a wave of pleasure through your body.
You could feel him grow hard beneath you, his hands gripping your hips. You instinctively rolled them forward, rubbing against him.
Jon let out a soft groan, halting your hips in their tracks.
"We can't," he breathed.
"I know," you replied, though you were desperate for him. "But..."
"But?" He raised his eyebrows.
"We can do... other things."
He considered it for a moment, and the silence made you nervous.
"It's alright if you don't want to," you said, suddenly feeling very foolish.
He suddenly pushed you backwards onto the bed, his body covering yours, a smile spreading across his face.
"Tell me what to do, love," he murmured, kissing you.
You pulled his shirt over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up. Your hands roamed his back and sides, admiring the firm muscles there. The scars of battle were scattered across his skin, a map of his adventures, his victories.
"I... I like your hands," you admitted shyly.
Jon grinned and began slowly unlacing your dress, exposing your chest. He paused, his eyes widening.
"Seven hells," he said, staring.
"What?" You asked, suddenly very self conscious.
"I knew you were beautiful, but gods," he said, shaking his head, dipping down to kiss one breast, and then the other.
You laughed, feeling the nerves wash away. "You've never seen a woman's breasts before?"
"Only in the paintings," he admitted, and his ears turned red.
You giggled, running your hands through his hair. "Of course," you teased.
"Are they always this pretty?" He asked, taking one of your nipples between his lips.
You inhaled sharply, not expecting his sudden boldness. He licked and sucked, switching between your breasts, his beard tickling you and driving you wild.
He moved lower, pushing your dress up past your hips, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses on your stomach.
"Jon... Where are you going?" You asked, not quite sure what he was planning.
He glanced up at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips pink and swollen.
"May I?" He asked, his fingers grazing the fabric of your smallclothes.
"Oh," you said, a wave of heat flooding through your core.
"I want to see you," he said, and the hunger in his eyes made you throb. "All of you."
"Yes," you whispered, barely able to speak.
He slowly peeled the undergarment away, tossing it aside, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs. You felt a sudden surge of embarrassment, no one had ever looked at you there before. You tried to close your legs, to cover yourself.
"No no, don't hide," Jon said, his hand stopping your knees from touching. "You're beautiful. Everything about you is perfect."
He kissed your knee, and then your inner thigh, moving up closer and closer to where you needed him.
"I... I'm not sure what to do," he admitted. "But I'd like to try."
"Whatever you do is bound to feel better than my own hand," you laughed, trying to ease the nerves.
"Show me," he said, his voice low and rough.
You reached down and ran a finger over the spot that drove you mad when you touched yourself. Jon watched, eyes full of lust and curiosity.
You guided his hand, showing him what to do, his fingers stroking the same spot, but with a level of roughness you weren’t used to, but certainly enjoyed.
"That's it," you encouraged, your hand leaving his and going to his hair.
He continued, a little too slow and a little too clumsy, but it still felt wonderful.
"More," you whispered, rolling your hips against his hand.
He pulled his hand away, replacing it with his tongue. He licked, the pressure just right, and you let out a moan, the pleasure coursing through you. This was nothing like your hand.
His tongue circled and flicked, his beard rough and coarse, but his touch was gentle. He alternated between slow, languid strokes, and fast, quick circles, the rhythm unpredictable, keeping you on the edge. Solving the puzzle that was your body.
He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure down your spine. You tightened your grip on his hair, tugging a little, and the noise he made sent a fresh flood of arousal through you.
"Just like that," you panted, unable to form a coherent thought.
He continued, licking and sucking, his hands holding your hips steady. The coil inside of you wound tighter and tighter. The feeling was new, never had you felt this way, not even when you did this alone.
"Jon...I... Oh-!"
Your release crashed through you, a tidal wave of pure pleasure. It was unlike anything you'd ever felt, your legs shaking, tugging so hard on his hair you feared tearing it out.
He didn't stop, not even as the sensation became too much. His fingers pressed into your thighs, his mouth relentless, and a second orgasm took you by surprise, stronger than the first.
"Jon, I can't-" you cried, the intensity making tears spill from your eyes.
Jon immediately pulled away, a look of panic on his face.
"Gods, are you alright?" He asked, wiping his mouth and beard on the back of his hand.
"Yes," you sighed, blissed out and a little breathless.
He laid next to you, pulling you close.
"I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes full of concern. "Did I hurt you... I got carried away."
"Jon," you said, cupping his face. "That was wonderful. You were wonderful."
"I... Really?"
"Really."
"You were so... loud," he blushed, and you realized the sound must have carried. "And your legs... Nearly squeezed my head clean off."
"Sorry," you giggled, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
"Don't apologize," he said, his thumb brushing your cheek. "I quite liked it."
"So did I," you admitted, pressing a kiss to his nose.
His blush deepened, his ears turning a dark shade of red. "I think the whole castle knows I was in here."
"That's one way to announce our betrothal," you teased.
He leaned in and kissed you, soft and tender. You could taste yourself on his lips, and the thought sent a rush of heat through your core.
"Perhaps... I could try again?" He asked, looking at you with those dark, pleading eyes.
You blushed, and nodded. "If you'd like."
"Oh I'd like," he grinned.
Instead of moving back down, he shifted on the bed, laying on his back, pulling you to straddle him. His hands ran up and down your thighs, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"You may not ever have a throne, my lady, but you will always have a place to sit," he teased, and you couldn't help but laugh.
"Here," he said, guiding your hips forward, "let me see you again."
You hovered over his face, a little uncertain, your skirts still pooled around your waist. Jon smiled and pushed the fabric up, his lips kissing the skin of your inner thighs.
"Come on, love, sit."
You lowered yourself, the coarse hairs of his beard brushing against your soft skin. Jon held you there, his breath ghosting over the most sensitive parts of you.
"I would gladly die with this view."
"Jon!" You admonished, blushing furiously.
He chuckled and gave a playful nip to your thigh, before finally, blessedly, diving back in.
Description: Jamie Lannister is forced to marry a Tully, he didn’t expect to fall in love with Catelyn’s sister.
-anon- requested!
Warnings: Twincest (Jamie x Cersei cannon event), Smut p in v, oral F received, smut in public places, violence, mentions of death. Time skips (like a lot), it’s pretty lengthy.
Up Next:
Sandor Clegane x Reyne!Reader - requested
Daemon Targaryen x Greyjoy!Reader -requested
Tywin Lannister x Dorne!Reader
Petyr Baelish x Reader
Cregan Stark x Celtigar!Reader - requested
Young!Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader - requested
Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader - requested
Credit to the owners of the pictures! I got them from Pinterest!
Tywin Lannister, Lion of the West, stood with one hand resting lightly on the carved lion-head arm of his chair, a satisfied glint in his pale eyes as he watched King Robert pace the length of the chamber. The king’s brow was furrowed, thick fingers raking through his beard as he weighed the proposition laid before him. Beside Tywin, Ser Jaime stood silent, his jaw locked and hand clenched into a fist at his side—whether from anticipation or fury, none could tell. The torchlight danced against the golden plates of his armor, the Kingsguard’s white cloak draped still across his shoulders, though it hung now like a relic from another life.
“He serves no purpose, not as he is,” Tywin said, voice calm and unyielding as steel. “His post was earned by convenience, not merit. But he can still be of use—your sworn sword, aye, but also a husband. Heirs, Robert. Sons bearing the lion’s name. That’s what he was born for.”
Robert halted mid-step, turning with a grunt. “You’ve a match in mind then? Or is this another ploy of yours, Tywin?”
“I do,” Tywin replied smoothly. “Lady Tully. The youngest daughter of Hoster Tully—sister to Edmure and Lady Stark. A proper girl, bred of good stock. Lord Edmure has already sent word of his approval. The girl is en route to the capital as we speak. They’ll wed here, before the royal party rides north. A festival, a celebration to set the tone, maybe she’ll even visit her sister. Gods knows you adore the Starks. It’ll do her good to see her sister again.”
Robert scratched at his chin, then shrugged. “A wedding might cheer the people. Put something warm in their bellies before the cold of the North sets in. Two weeks, you said?”
“Within the fortnight,” Tywin confirmed. “The preparations have already begun. Two week celebration.”
Robert nodded slowly. “Alright… alright then. Let it be done.”
Tywin inclined his head, already satisfied, his fingers brushing the fabric of his crimson sleeve as though dusting off the matter entirely. Jaime, however, remained frozen, his golden brows drawn tight, his shoulders rigid.
“You’ll take your new oath after the wedding,” Robert added with a smirk, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips. “And keep the armor, boy. Suits you. Might even distract the girl from your sour temper.”
“When does she arrive?” Robert asked, glancing over at Tywin once more.
“She’ll be here soon,” Tywin replied coolly. “And she’ll be yours to present at court.”
Cersei stormed down the corridor, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent with every furious step. Servants scattered at the sight of her, heads bowed low, skirts gathered quickly out of her path. When she reached Jaime’s chamber door, she didn’t knock. She shoved it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
“I found out through Tyrion—Tyrion, of all people!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. Her golden hair was unbound, wild about her shoulders, and her eyes burned with fury.
Jaime turned from where he stood near the hearth, already tense, his jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that, Cersei,” he said quickly, raising his hands in something like surrender. “Please—it wasn’t my choice.”
“Then why didn’t you fight harder?” she snapped, advancing on him like a lioness with blood in her mouth. “You’re Tywin’s heir, his golden son. You could’ve refused—should’ve refused!”
He shook his head, stepping back just enough to keep distance between them. “You know how he is. It was already done before I was even told. The match was signed, sealed, and ridden for Riverrun before I could speak a word.”
“You’re marrying her,” Cersei snarled. “A Tully. One of Catelyn’s sisters. Do you know what they’ll say? What they’ll think?”
“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of that a thousand times?”
She turned away from him then, as if disgusted by the sight of him, hands curling at her sides. “You’re mine,” she said, voice trembling—not with weakness, but with rage. “You’ve always been mine. And now you’re just—giving yourself away?”
“I didn’t give anything,” he bit back. “He took it from me.”
Cersei rounded on him once more, eyes glassy with unshed fury. “Then take it back.”
Cersei’s breath caught as the silence thickened between them, heavy as smoke. Her fists trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move away. Not when Jaime stepped closer. Not when his voice lowered.
“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, gaze pinned to hers, the firelight flickering gold across his face. “I swear it, Cersei. I tried—I tried to make him see, but he wouldn’t bend. He never bends.”
Her lip curled, but the anger faltered just slightly. “You’re stronger than him,” she whispered. “You’re better.”
“I’m yours,” he said, voice raw.
His hands came to her waist—hesitant, almost reverent. She let him. Her body was taut with tension, but she didn’t resist when he drew her in. Her hands found his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic. He ducked his head, their foreheads brushing. His voice was a breath against her lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to face you.”
And then she kissed him.
Her kiss wasn’t tender—it was a punishment. Her mouth crashed into his with the heat of a wildfire, angry and possessive, like she meant to devour the apology right out of his throat. Jaime grunted against her, stumbling backward as she pushed him, lips bruising, hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic like she wanted to tear it apart.
He didn’t stop her.
His hands gripped her waist, hard, dragging her against him as if he needed to feel her anger to believe she still wanted him. Her teeth caught his lip, and he hissed. She smiled into the kiss, wicked and breathless.
“You let him chain you,” she snarled, lips brushing his jaw as she bit at the skin there. “You said you were mine, Jaime—mine.”
“I am,” he gasped, kissing her again, sloppier this time—off-center, raw, all tongue and desperation. “I didn’t ask for her—I didn’t ask for any of it.”
Her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back so she could look at him—lips red, eyes shining, chest heaving like she’d just fought a war.
“Then prove it,” she whispered.
He kissed her again before the words finished falling, hands moving rough under her skirts, pressing her back toward the table, knocking over a goblet and not caring for a single heartbeat. Her thighs hit wood. His mouth never left hers.
“Say you still love me,” she said, half a breath, half a challenge.
“I do,” he said, panting, forehead against hers. “Gods, Cersei—always. Only you.”
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
You arrived without fanfare, just as you preferred—no banners, no trumpets, no company beyond a modest escort of Tully men who said little and kept their heads down. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was cloaked in shadow. A few lanterns flickered near the gates, their flames swaying in the wind. You dismounted with practiced ease, your cloak fluttering behind you in the night breeze, your blue silks catching only the faintest kiss of firelight.
Tywin Lannister was waiting at the top of the steps. Regal as ever, stone-faced and imposing even in silence. But when you smiled—softly, without pretense—it startled him. You were younger than he remembered. More beautiful than he’d expected. And far, far softer. There was no hard edge to you, no sharp tongue. Just river-steady grace and that keen, unbothered composure that made men underestimate you far too easily.
“Lord Tywin,” you said lightly, lifting a hand in greeting, fingers curled in a gentle wave. “It’s been far too long.”
“It has,” he replied with a nod, his voice unreadable. But his eyes did not leave your face.
You stepped forward, skirts whispering against the stone. “My brother didn’t come. He trusts me in your care,” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “For the wedding, I mean. I’ve not told my sisters yet either—though I suppose I’ll have to now, won’t I?”
Your smile widened, sweet as spring rain. “I trust everything is in order—your hands are known for order, after all. Robert, in his drunken ramblings, speaks of you often. Not all bad, mind you. He said the feasts would come after the ceremony. Then we ride north.” You paused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “All very well planned. Very… Lannister.”
Tywin studied you for a long moment. And though he said nothing, there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—something between respect and concern.
Because you were not what he expected. You were worse. You were gentle. And that made you dangerous.
“Come,” Tywin said, turning with the authority of a man who expected obedience. “You shall meet Jaime.”
You froze. Hands clutched together before you, the lace at your wrists trembling faintly in the night breeze.
“Oh, gods—no, I can’t!” you said quickly, cheeks flushing as you shook your head. “It’s… against Riverrun tradition. I’m not to see him until the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”
Your voice was light, teasing, but your eyes flicked nervously toward the great doors of the Keep, as if the Kingslayer himself might come strolling out to catch you mid-sentence.
“Hopefully,” you went on with a breathless laugh, “he’ll find me beautiful. And not just another old, sour-faced Tully.” You scrunched your nose slightly. “You Lannisters have such strong features. I always worried the Riverlands bred girls a little too plain.”
Tywin paused at that, glancing back at you. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. But not quite.
“He’ll find you pleasing enough,” he said. “You are young. You are lovely. And, more importantly, you are useful. That is more than most women can claim.”
You smiled, but the weight of his words pressed behind your ribs.
“I’ll have my steward take you to your chambers,” he added. “You’ll be presented properly before the court at the feast.”
You dipped into a polite, practiced curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”
He watched you one last time before turning, the click of his boots fading into stone. And as you followed the steward through the quiet halls of the Red Keep, you touched your cheeks and whispered to yourself—
“Please let him have kind eyes.”
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
Jaime paced the length of his chamber like a caged lion, his golden armor half-undone, the clasps at his shoulders hanging loose where he’d started to tear it off in frustration. His breath came short, sharp, like every step might somehow undo what had already been set in stone.
“She’s here,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s actually here. Gods, why—why did Father have to find her so soon?”
Tyrion lounged in a carved chair by the hearth, a goblet in one hand and a smirk on his lips, watching the dramatics unfold with barely veiled amusement.
“You knew this day was coming,” Tyrion said mildly. “Father made it quite clear you’d be married off the moment Robert gave permission. You should be thanking him—he could’ve saddled you with a Frey.”
Jaime spun around, eyes wild. “Lysa Arryn was a Tully. She was supposed to be beautiful too.”
“She was, once,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Many say this one favors her—delicate, they claim. Polite. She has the hair. The eyes. That Riverlands charm.”
“If she looks anything like that sickly hag of the Eyrie I swear to the gods, I’ll—” he choked on the thought. “Her eyes! They were like a fish pulled too long from water. That awful limp hair. Pale as bone, and her voice—”
He shuddered dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d been stabbed.
“I’ll surely die.”
“You won’t,” Tyrion said with a sigh, setting down his cup. “She’s young. That much I know. And she’s no fool. She knows what this marriage means. You’ll get through tomorrow, and then you can return to pretending to hate politics.”
“I was fine,” Jaime snapped. “Content with life. My white cloak, my sword. Her. I didn’t ask for this.”
Tyrion raised a brow. “You mean Cersei?”
Jaime didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists at his sides.
“She’ll be at the feast tomorrow,” Tyrion added quietly. “And by the look of things, she’s not what Father expected.”
Jaime’s eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”
Tyrion’s smile was slow, knowing. “You’ll see.”
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
Morning came too quickly.
The halls of the Red Keep were transformed, the stone corridors draped in sweeping banners of Tully blue and burgundy, braided together with Lannister red and gold. The colors twisted in perfect harmony—rivers and lions bound in silk—a symbol of alliance, though few would dare call it love. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was enough to sour Cersei’s mood. She watched from her place near the dais, her jaw clenched behind a forced smile, envy roiling beneath the surface. You were all anyone spoke of. No one had seen the youngest Tully since girlhood, and now here you were—grown, radiant, untouched by time or scandal. Some whispered that your beauty rivaled hers. Others said it surpassed it.
Your hair was a striking Tully red—brighter than Catelyn’s, longer than Lysa’s—and it shimmered like copper fire in the sunlight spilling through the stained glass. Your eyes, soft sea-blue with a ring of storm grey, carried the hush of deep water. You looked like a memory come to life. And gods, you were perfect.
Jaime stood at the end of the hall, stiff and irritable beneath layers of polished gold. He looked like a knight carved from sunlight—handsome, proud, and visibly annoyed by the fanfare. But when the horns sounded and the guests rose, when the great oak doors creaked open, and you stepped into the light of the throne room—
Even he went still.
You walked slowly, unbothered by the weight of every eye in the hall. Your gown was a vibrant blue, soft but rich in color, stitched with fine silver thread. It hugged your form, dipping low across your chest where a silver trout gleamed at the center of your bodice. You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were beautiful, but carried it like a secret rather than a weapon.
You paused when you saw him—your betrothed.
Your eyes met his across the distance. He was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Golden. He looked nothing like the boy you once glimpsed from afar.
“His eyes are… sorta kind,” you murmured to the maiden at your side.
“He’s the Kingslayer,” she whispered with a smirk. “And more handsome than I imagined.”
“He looks… bright,” you said softly, as if the word surprised you.
“Well, he’s your husband now,” she teased.
Jaime stepped forward as you neared, every movement rehearsed, mechanical. He reached for your hand, but before his fingers could graze yours, you laughed—low and warm, barely above a whisper, and yet it echoed in his ears.
“No need to be so formal, Ser Jaime,” you said, your voice sweet as summer wine. “You don’t need to kiss my hand.”
He faltered, blinking at you like you’d struck him. Something in your softness stunned him. You weren’t cold. You weren’t haughty. You weren’t what he feared.
You smiled at him—genuine and quiet.
And for the first time that morning, he didn’t know what to say.
“You grew,” Jaime said, eyes trailing over you with quiet disbelief, like he still expected the child from long ago to emerge beneath the silk and ceremony.
You tilted your head, grinning. “Well, I’m not the sniveling girl you saw clinging to Edmure’s leg at your sister’s wedding.”
You giggled then, the sound light and sweet. “Cersei looked beautiful that day.”
He smiled at the memory, despite himself. He remembered you now—the way you’d peeked out from behind your brother’s cloak, wide-eyed and wary, flinching every time the crowd roared too loud. A little thing in pale blue, red hair in tangled ribbons, constantly twisting your fingers. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences.
“And what were you so afraid of?” Jaime asked, amusement tugging at his lips.
You leaned closer, your breath brushing his shoulder, smiling too brightly—too kindly—for a girl about to marry a man the realm called Kingslayer.
“In truth?” you whispered. “Your steed. That damned horse of yours.”
He blinked. “My horse?”
A bark of laughter escaped him, far louder than he meant. Heads turned. The hall fell quiet. Cersei’s eyes narrowed from the dais. But you only beamed up at him, utterly unbothered.
“Gods, yes,” you said with a playful grimace. “A creature that large, able to kill me simply by twitching wrong? That is no friend of mine. I’ve never learned to ride. I don’t wish to. I’m quite sure they hate me as much as I hate them.”
“You hate horses,” Jaime said, still grinning, voice lowered now. “You’re marrying a knight and you hate horses.”
You laughed again, musical and unbothered. “I adore fish. Small, harmless, until they’re not. I grew up beside the river, not in a stable. A trout is a far nobler beast, in my opinion.”
He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted.
Because this wasn’t the marriage he expected.
You weren’t trembling. You weren’t bitter. You were soft and bright and quietly strange in a way that unsettled him and gods help him, he was starting to like it.
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Jaime said with a short nod, offering his arm.
You placed your hand there softly, your fingers light against the hard muscle beneath his crimson sleeve. He began walking, slow and measured, the two of you moving through the corridor toward the sept, steps echoing beneath vaulted stone.
“The wedding,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter than before, “as you so adamantly requested, has now become a documented contract—signed, sealed, and quite literally paraded before the realm.”
You turned your face slightly toward him, your smile warm, but edged with mischief. “Well yes, I assumed your disdain at being plucked from the Kingsguard would sour any desire to celebrate being tethered to the trout girl.”
You said it lightly, teasing, but your voice never lost its softness. “Edmure told me—very firmly—not to mention cloaks, kings, or guards. I fear if I so much as say the word ‘oath,’ he’ll emerge from the stone itself to strangle me.”
That pulled the smallest laugh from Jaime, short and genuine.
“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I don’t need you to temper my mood.”
You smiled gently, eyes forward now. “I know. But still… it’s alright to grieve. To mourn what you’ve lost. I don’t fault you for that. I wouldn’t even blame you if you chose to walk away—if you rejected all of this. I wouldn’t be angry.”
The words hung between you for a moment, too tender, too real.
Jaime’s jaw shifted. He looked down at you, not with pity or coldness, but something quieter. Something harder to name.
“I would never dishonor you,” he said simply.
And in that vow, however soft, was the first crack in the armor he wore far beneath his gold.
“Ahhh! My little trout girl!” Robert’s voice boomed across the hall, slurred and far too loud for the closeness of the space. He barreled forward, flushed from drink and grinning like a man half his age, and before Jaime could so much as blink, the king had snatched you from his side.
You squealed with laughter, caught off guard by the sheer force of the man’s affection. “Robbie!” you gasped, eyes bright, arms barely catching around his barrel chest.
He hugged you tight, swaying slightly, then leaned back to grin at you as if you were some long-lost treasure he’d only just remembered. “Beautiful trout! Gods, look at you. Go on—go! Jon’s been begging to see you. Poor lad’s near chewed my ear off. You know how he gets.”
You looked past the king’s shoulder and saw Jon Arryn seated in the corner of the hall, watching you with a warm, expectant gaze. You nodded quickly, touched by the thought. As you moved to pull away, your eyes found Jaime’s again across the crowd—his smile small, real, and caught half behind his hand.
Robert clapped Jaime hard on the back—twice. The kind of blow that rattled armor.
“You married a good one,” Robert said, voice thick with wine and sentiment. “I thought for certain she’d be a Stark, you know. Madly in love with Benjen. Gods, he loved her too. Quiet boy, but fierce where it counted. I remember her first kiss to him—”
“I rather don’t care,” Jaime cut in, tone cool but even. “She’s my wife now. Whatever came before me is her own. Just as I had a life before her.”
Robert blinked, then let out a loud, wheezing chuckle. “Aye. Fair enough, fair enough.” He smacked Jaime’s back again, even harder this time, before staggering off toward another cask.
Jaime stood still for a moment, watching you slip through the crowd toward Jon Arryn. Your laughter trailed behind you, soft and clear.
And yet… Robert’s words lingered like smoke in Jaime’s chest. “The North has a way of bringing up old feelings.”
Now you both stood in the center of the hall, the contract signed, the rites spoken, the knots tied. A simple union, formalized before the realm with only the faintest brush of ceremony—no silken bedding speeches, no wild fanfare, no drunken debauchery. Just you and Jaime, side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Red Keep, the air heavy with roses and smoke, the murmurs of lords and ladies still echoing along the stone.
You were now Lady Lannister.
A soft tune played from the minstrels’ corner, delicate and low, and he led you into the first dance with hesitant fingers resting at your waist. You moved like water—effortless, light. You smelled of wildflowers and river reeds warmed by sunlight, of quiet summer mornings along the banks of the Trident. You didn’t cling to him or press too close. Your hand at the nape of his neck was soft, steady—nothing like Cersei’s sharpened claws and possessive touch. It unsettled him, that gentleness. How it made him ache.
“You’d make a fine Lord Tully,” you said, eyes sparkling. “A golden-haired fisherman. A beard would suit you, I think. And longer hair to shield you from the summer sun.”
He snorted—an inelegant, surprised sound. “A Tully?” he repeated with a smirk.
You grinned up at him, spinning just slightly beneath his arm. “A quiet life. Far from court. Far from lions and crowns and whispered plots. It’s what most girls dream of when they marry, you know. Not power. Peace.”
Your words were sweet, light—but they landed heavy.
He looked down at you, your face tilted toward his, your smile still resting there like it belonged. You weren’t scheming. You weren’t pretending. You meant it.
And for one strange moment, Jaime found himself picturing it. A river keep. A slower life. Your hand still in his.
“And what do you dream of?” he asked, his voice low.
Your smile turned wistful, eyes drifting past his shoulder. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”
The music lingered soft around you, the low hum of harp strings wrapping gently through the air as you turned beneath Jaime’s hand, laughing quietly at something only the two of you could hear. He was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time that night, the corners of his mouth soft and unguarded, as if, for once, he had stopped bracing for the weight of expectation.
Then she came.
Cersei moved through the hall like a storm cloaked in silk—green velvet clinging to every curve, golden hair piled high, eyes glittering with something colder than envy. She stopped just beside you, her hand gliding over Jaime’s arm with practiced familiarity.
“May I steal my brother for a moment?” she asked sweetly, her smile anything but.
You didn’t flinch. You turned to her, your face open and kind, too kind for someone so clearly being challenged.
“Of course, my Queen,” you said gently, bowing your head with grace honed from years at Riverrun. Before stepping back, you gave Jaime’s hand the smallest squeeze—a silent farewell, and perhaps, a warning.
You disappeared into the crowd, and the space between them collapsed like a trap sprung shut.
“Only one day,” Cersei hissed, stepping in close, her breath hot against his cheek, “and you’ve already forgotten you were in my cunt.”
Jaime stiffened, color rising to his face. “Stop,” he said low. “No one’s forgotten.”
Her hand slid across his chest, possessive, venomous. “Your hand was on her back, lower and lower. Her fingers at your neck like she already knows what makes you weak. And tonight, you’ll bed her, won’t you?”
Her voice cracked with restrained fury.
“Will you think of me?” she asked, voice quieter now. “When she breathes your name? When her legs wrap around you? When she gasps and you have to pretend she feels like home?”
Jaime closed his eyes for just a moment. And in the smallest, most broken whisper, he said “Of course. Of course I will.”
But even as he spoke it, he turned to look back through the crowd, trying to find the river girl in blue.
And he hated himself for how much he already missed your hand.
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
The fire burned low in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows across the stone walls of the wedding chamber. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose oil, and the silence that stretched between you both was fragile—heavy with unspoken thoughts, sharpened by expectation.
Jaime moved first.
His lips found yours with no warning, mouth hot and desperate, hands framing your face as if he feared you might vanish. It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t elegant. It was hungry, wild with need. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he needed your mouth to breathe.
“Jaime—Jaime,” you gasped between kisses, your palms pressing gently against his chest, breath caught somewhere between surprise and laughter.
He stilled, forehead brushing yours, panting.
“Wait,” you said softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go slow. We have all our lives to be quick and hungry.”
Your fingers moved with care, tugging at the laces of his shirt, easing the fabric back from his shoulders until his skin was bare beneath the firelight. “Unless,” you said with a crooked smile, “you’re ready to get this over with?”
“No,” he said at once, voice rough. “No—gods, no.” He looked away, jaw flexing like he didn’t trust himself to say more.
You stepped back, wordless, and let your gown fall from your shoulders.
The silk pooled at your feet with a whisper, and the chill of the chamber kissed your skin. You stood bare before him, chest rising slowly, heart thudding, but you did not hide. There was something reverent in your stillness. Something brave.
“I am a maiden,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “And I wish my first time to be slow. Gentle. And full of love.” You paused, meeting his eyes. “Even if it is only for one night, Ser Jaime.”
Your smile was the kind that wrecked men—gentle, sure, and aching. Jaime stared at you like he’d never seen something so painfully real. And then, with trembling hands, he reached for you—not as a conqueror, but as a man humbled.
“Then slow,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And gentle. And like love.”
He kissed you slow, the back of your legs meet the bed. Teasingly, you crawled back, your eyes low full of want. He grabbed your ankle, yanking towards him. “Let me taste you, River girl.” You bit your lip, nodding too eagerly.
His mouth was hot, reverent, and far too patient.
He kissed the inside of your thigh first—once, then again, slower the second time, his stubble scraping softly against your skin. His hands kept you open, gentle but firm, and he watched you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like awe. Like hunger smothered beneath restraint. When he lowered himself fully, breath ghosting over your most delicate place, you barely had time to brace before his mouth found you.
He kissed your clit like it was his, like he’d done it before in dreams and now meant to do it right—slowly. His tongue dragged across you, lazy and deliberate, not searching for the peak but drawing it out, warming you with long, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble around his head.
You gasped, spine arching off the mattress.
“Gods—” the word spilled from your lips in a breathless cry, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting tight in those golden strands. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”
That made him groan—deeply—the sound sending a pulse through your whole body. He pressed his mouth harder against you, tongue flattening, circling, teasing the sensitive pearl with slow, worshipful flicks that had your hips lifting, grinding softly, needing more.
He didn’t give you more. Not yet.
He licked you through every twitch and gasp, lips dragging over the slick heat of you, soft and wet and sloppy, so soaked from his tongue alone that he had to drag his hand down and part you again, groaning when he felt how much you gave him.
“You taste like summer,” he murmured against you, voice thick, drunk on you. “Sweet river girl.”
Then he went back to it—louder now, messier. His mouth moved with open hunger, tongue pressing, sucking, flicking faster, then easing back just enough to hear you whine. You were soaked down your thighs, clenching at nothing, thighs quivering, head tossing back on the pillow.
You felt wild beneath him—shaking, panting, begging—but he just held you still, thumbs stroking circles into your hips like he had all night to ruin you slowly.
“Jaime—Jaime, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking, your hand reaching for anything, for him, dragging his name from your throat like a prayer.
And still—he didn’t stop.
His mouth was soaked with you—chin glistening, lips slick, breath ragged as he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His tongue moved in filthy, wet strokes now, no longer gentle, no longer teasing. He was feasting on you, devouring every whimper, every twitch, every cry of his name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
When he sucked hard—right on the clit—you cried out, body jerking like he’d struck some hidden nerve. Your thighs tried to close, to squirm away, but his arms locked you in place. His grip was tight now, possessive, dragging your hips closer to his mouth, forcing you to stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene lick he gave you. He was messy with it—his tongue flicking fast and eager, his nose pressed against the soft heat of you, and gods, he was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked.
“This your first time coming?” he groaned, voice muffled, lips dragging over your swollen pearl. “On my tongue?”
You nodded frantically, hands pulling at his hair, back arched off the bed, desperate and close and wild.
“Yes! Gods—yes,” you whimpered, your voice barely human.
That did something to him—broke something. He growled low in his throat and sucked again, harder this time, his tongue working you over like he wanted to brand the feeling of him into your body forever. Sloppy, filthy, perfect—his mouth sliding against your soaked folds, his tongue curling up to catch every drop of you like he was starving.
Your body locked up—legs trembling, belly tightening, breath catching in your chest—and when your release hit, it hit like a wave crashing over stone.
You screamed.
Your thighs clamped around his head, hands fisting tight in his hair as your hips bucked, and he didn’t stop. Not for a second. He moaned as you came, mouth still moving, still kissing you through it, drinking you down with feverish, worshipful hunger. He let you ride it, every spasm, every broken cry, until you were limp beneath him—shaking, gasping, soaked and ruined.
He pulled back slowly, face wet, chest heaving.
“Sweet gods,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I could die with that taste on my tongue.”
You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, your body still trembling from the force of it.
Jaime hovered over you, his body taut with restraint, golden hair tousled, lips still wet with your release. His tunic was discarded long ago, leaving him bare to the waist, muscles flexed as he braced himself on either side of you. But it was your movement—slow and sinfully deliberate—that shattered what control he had left.
Your legs curled around his hips, and your body arched, grinding up against the hot, heavy length of him—bare now, pressed against your soaked entrance but not yet inside. The heat of you dragged along him with every slow roll of your hips, and the friction made his breath stutter, made his arms shake.
“Gods,” he hissed through clenched teeth, dropping his head against your shoulder. “What are you doing to me…already ruining me with those sweet whines”
Your hands threaded into his hair, your lips brushing his ear as you rocked again, the tip of him dragging through the slick mess between your thighs. Not quite entering—teasing. Coating him. Driving him mad.
“I want it to feel real,” you whispered, voice trembling. “All of you. All of this.”
He grunted—deep, guttural—the sound scraping from somewhere low in his chest. You rolled again, slower this time, your clit catching just beneath the ridge of him, and his hips jerked like he couldn’t help it.
“Seven hells,” he groaned, breath shuddering against your neck. “I’ve never—”
He cut himself off, teeth gritting.
“Never had someone like this. Needy for me. Wanting me like this.”
Your mouth kissed along his jaw, soft and slow. “I need you, Jaime,” you whispered. “Please.”
He pulled back to look at you then, eyes burning, his hands moving to grip your hips like he was anchoring himself. The tip of him nudged against you, almost there, his breath ragged.
“Say it again,” he said hoarsely. “Say you need me.”
“I need you.”
“Then gods forgive me,” he whispered, and he pushed in—slow, every inch of him pressing through slick heat, stretching you open until he was fully seated inside, thick and deep and shaking above you.
Your gasp tore into his mouth as he kissed you—desperate, messy, teeth catching on lips, both of you groaning as your hips adjusted to each other.
He started to move—long, slow thrusts that dragged against every inch of your trembling walls. His forehead rested against yours, his hands everywhere—cupping your cheek, gripping your waist, brushing your breast, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.
“You feel like godsdamned heaven,” he groaned. “You were made for me.” He lost himself the moment he sank into you.
There was no grace left in him—not with how warm and soaked you were, how your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for him all along. His first thrust was deep, sloppy, too rough for the tenderness he’d promised, and your gasp shattered between his lips as his hips slammed flush to yours, the sound of it loud and filthy in the quiet of the chamber.
He moaned—loudly—his head dropping to your shoulder, golden hair clinging to his brow as he fought to breathe.
“Fuck—gods, you feel—you feel like sin,” he groaned, grinding deep into your soaked cunt, hips jerking as your walls fluttered around him, wet and eager.
You cried out beneath him, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked high around his waist as you pulled him back in.
He fucked you hard—messy and fast, every thrust sloppy with wet sounds, your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your skin slapped together again and again as he pounded into you like he couldn’t stand the thought of ever leaving your body. Sweat slicked between you. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, your breast—kissing, biting, claiming.
“You’ll only have me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face as he fucked you through another wave of pleasure.
His hand slammed against the headboard, gripping it like a man trying to hold on to reason, while the other arm wrapped tight beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip, spreading you wider, deeper. His strokes were brutal now—filthy and fast, wet and relentless, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the bed beneath you both. The sound of him inside you—flesh slapping flesh, the obscene squelch of every thrust—filled the chamber louder than the fire crackling at your side.
He groaned—loudly—his head dropping low as he watched himself disappear into you again and again, jaw clenched so tight it looked like pain.
He groaned like you’d struck him in the gut, his head snapping up, gold hair sticking to his sweat-drenched brow.
“It’s just you,” he growled. “Only you—gods, my wife—my sweet river girl.”
He bent low, lips finding yours, kissing you hard as he fucked you harder. One hand still braced on the headboard, the other still locked tight around your thigh, holding you in place as he drilled into you with fevered, soaking thrusts. You could hear how wet you were for him—hear it every time his cock slammed back in, thick and heavy, stretching you until your toes curled.
He was trembling now, breath stuttering, voice broken with need.
“So close—so fucking close—gods, tell me you want it—tell me you want me to fill you.”
You nodded fast, clutching at him, gasping against his lips. “I want it—I want you. Give it to me, Jaime—please—please.”
Jaime was shaking above you now—truly shaking, his muscles flexed and locked as he thrust into you with desperate, brutal rhythm, like every inch inside you dragged him closer to the edge of sanity. His hand stayed clenched around the headboard, the wood creaking with each slam of his hips, while the other hand gripped your thigh so tightly your skin ached. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even as sweat dripped from his temples, even as his jaw tensed like he was in pain from holding back.
“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” he groaned, his voice breaking into something feral.
“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, back arching, your hands clawing at his waist, at his arms, at anything. “Jaime—please—please give it to me.”
That ruined him.
“Gods,” he gasped, voice raw, wrecked. “You want it? My wife—my sweet, wet little thing—beg me.”
“I’m begging,” you sobbed, your thighs trembling, your body soaked and aching from how deep he was buried. “I want you—I want all of it—please, inside—inside me, Jaime—please—please—”
He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.
And then he broke.
His whole body locked above you, his abs tightening, his teeth bared as the first hot, violent spurt of his release spilled into you. He growled—the sound harsh and stunned—like it hurt to finally let go. His cock jerked inside you, pulse after pulse, pumping you full, soaking you from the inside out as your walls clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of him.
“Fuck—oh fuck—” he choked, trembling through it, voice high, nearly frantic. “So good—so good—I’ve never—never—gods, I can feel it.”
You moaned beneath him, body curling into his, your cunt so sensitive, so wet from everything he gave you that you could feel his seed leak out before he’d even stopped moving.
But he wasn’t done.
He kept thrusting—slow, now—shallow and filthy, pushing his cum deeper inside you, hips still twitching as his body rode the last waves of his climax.
“You wanted this,” he panted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You took it so well—so greedy for it—gods, I don’t want to pull out.”
“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft and ruined. “Stay in me. Fill me again.”
He kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, desperate—and nodded.
“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered against your lips. “Everything.”
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
The night crept in slow and heavy, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of glowing coals. Shadows danced faintly across the walls of the wedding chamber, long and soft, curling like tendrils across the stone. The air smelled of sweat and sex and sweet rose oil—the scent of a marriage not only sealed, but consumed.
You lay sprawled atop him, your cheek against his chest, his arm draped around your waist with the lazy weight of a man too exhausted to pretend anymore. His hand rested just above the curve of your hip, fingers twitching now and then, as if even in sleep he refused to let go of you. His other hand was tangled in your hair, thumb stroking absently over your scalp. Jaime’s breath was slow. Deep. Peaceful.
Neither of you stirred when the chamber door cracked open.
Cersei moved like a ghost. Silent. Cloaked in black. She had waited for hours. Waited until the moon was high, until the maester had finished his whispers and returned to the Keep, until the guards had yawned and shifted, their attention dulled by late hour and too much wine. She’d spoken to the maidens, all of them. Each said the same thing.
He never left.
She had demanded truth from the steward. From the servants who passed the chamber door. One claimed she’d heard laughter—low and warm—and then quiet murmurs, like lovers breathing each other in.
Now, here she stood. At the edge of the bed.
Watching.
Your red hair spilled like wine across Jaime’s bare chest, one of your legs curled possessively over his. The covers had fallen to his hips, revealing the flush of his skin, the shine of dried sweat still lingering across his abdomen. The mark of you.
Cersei didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched.
You looked soft in sleep. Disarmed. Not like the clever, smiling thing that had teased him in the hall or bowed so sweetly when she asked to cut in. No. Now you looked his. And worse still—he looked yours.
His arm was wrapped around you like instinct. Not habit. Not performance.
“You fool,” she whispered, so quiet it barely left her lips. “You gave yourself away.”
She didn’t cry. Not yet. She only stared.
Because for all the things she’d feared… nothing had prepared her for this. For the way Jaime held you in his sleep. Like you were peace. Like you were home.
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
You quickened faster than anyone expected.
The court had only just settled into the comfort of your union when whispers began to spread like ivy between pillars. At first, it was idle talk—sidelong glances at your fuller face, murmurs about how often Ser Jaime’s hand rested at the small of your back, the way his eyes trailed you when you left the room. But by the end of the second moon, the whispers grew teeth. By the third, your gowns—once effortlessly elegant—had begun to shift, your corsets laced looser, your silhouette softening in ways no feast could explain. By the fourth moon, it was undeniable: Lady Lannister was with child.
And Cersei Lannister hated you for it.
She hated you with a venom that festered behind her smile, behind every forced curtsy and every cordial greeting. She watched you across the great hall with wine in her hand and acid in her throat. Watched the way Jaime drifted toward you like gravity itself bent for your comfort. Watched how your hands found his without needing to search. How you smiled up at him, and he smiled down. Always down—softly, privately, like no one else was in the room.
She saw the way his hand slipped around your waist as you walked, how his thumb sometimes brushed over the small swell of your belly like he was trying to remember it, trying to feel the child even before it moved. She watched the way he kissed your temple, your cheek, your hair, in moments no one else seemed to notice—but she did. She always noticed.
It wasn’t just the touch. It wasn’t just the tenderness.
It was the quiet. She could live with passion. She knew how to match fire with fire. But what you and Jaime shared was worse—it was peaceful. It was domestic. It was real.
And then came the moment that undid her.
You were seated together, not even touching—just speaking in low voices, Jaime’s golden head bowed slightly toward yours. You laughed gently, tilting your head with that same unbearable grace you carried everywhere.
“Fisherman Tully,” you teased, a whisper she heard clear as bells. “Still no beard. Still no boat. I suppose I’ll have to keep you.”
Jaime’s smile bloomed slow and warm. He reached for you, fingers cupping your face like it was made of something delicate and rare. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and he leaned forward until your brows nearly touched.
“Gods help me,” he said, “but I would fish for you.” You flushed, glowing like hearthlight.
Cersei flinched. Physically. She felt it—sharp and hot in her chest, like a brand pressed beneath her ribs.
She turned away quickly, biting down on her wine cup so hard her lip bled. The worst part? You weren’t trying. You weren’t flaunting anything. You were simply… loved. Gently, openly, and without need for performance. She had been everything to him once. And now she was nothing more than his sister.
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
It was eight moons into your marriage, and you were round with child—visibly, proudly, undeniably his. Your walk had slowed, your steps heavy with life, but none of that stopped him. Not when you looked at him the way you did. Not when your voice dipped low and teasing, when your fingers brushed his wrist at supper, when you whispered something sweet behind your cup and he smiled like a man undone.
That night, you didn’t make it to the wedding chambers. You barely made it past the corridor.
Cersei had turned a corner in time to see it all—the two of you tangled against the stone wall, just past the curve of the gallery arch, torchlight flickering against golden armor and sapphire silk. Jaime’s hands were on you already—everywhere—gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you as if your swollen belly weighed nothing at all. Your skirts were bunched up around your hips, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, his mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hungry it bordered on violence.
She froze.
You moaned into his mouth, breathless and soft, and his groan followed—low, guttural, wrecked.
“I couldn’t wait—fuck, I couldn’t wait,” he gasped, pinning you harder against the wall, grinding into you, still fully clothed but undone just enough to thrust deep inside you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the stone.
“Jaime—gods, Jaime,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back as he buried himself again. “You shouldn’t—someone could see—”
“Let them,” he grunted. “Let them see you like this. Round with my child, moaning for me, taking me like you were made for it.”
Cersei couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stood in the shadows—watching.
You gasped when he shifted, lifting you higher, your hands flying to his hair as he thrust up into you, messy and deep, the wet sounds between your bodies so lewd, so filthy, it felt like a spell had been cast in the corridor.
“When you have this one,” he groaned against your neck, “my firstborn—you’ll give me another. Gods, I don’t care what it is. Boy, girl—doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s ours.”
You sobbed softly, legs trembling around his hips.
“You’ll give me three,” he growled. “Four. Fill this keep with little lions that look like you.”
His hand slid to your belly as he fucked you against the stone, reverent and obsessed, his moans growing louder with every thrust, every squeeze of your soaked walls around him. And Cersei—Cersei—stood there hearing it all.
Her fingers shook at her sides. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Because he already had three children—her children. A son with her jaw. Another with her smile. A daughter named for a dead woman he never even loved.
And he had never said those words to her. Not once.
Not when Joffrey was born. Not when Myrcella wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Not even when Tommen cried in his arms.
“My wife,” he moaned into your mouth. “My sweet river girl.”
Cersei turned away, tears burning, rage swallowing her whole. She needs control, she needed him back.
The next morning came slow and gray, with a hush over the Keep as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.
Cersei waited in the covered walk outside the training yard, where the sun barely touched the stone. She wore no crown, no paint on her lips—only fur draped over her shoulders and her golden hair braided back from her face the way she wore it when she wanted to be disarming. A picture of softness. The illusion of warmth. But there was cold behind her eyes.
She had sent for him before breakfast, a single note with no seal. Jaime had hesitated, standing at the window with the parchment still open in his hand, your body asleep in the bed behind him, belly round beneath furs and sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. But old habits—old loyalties—dragged him from the room.
He found her as she always was when she meant to twist him—silent, poised, patient.
“You look tired,” Cersei said quietly as he approached. Her voice was gentle, too much so. “Is the little trout keeping you up?”
He said nothing at first, just clenched his jaw and stepped into the shadowed arch with her.
“She stirs often,” he said at last. “The child moves a great deal.”
“Hmm,” Cersei hummed, her eyes trailing to his chest, where the collar of his tunic was still crooked from your hands. “That happens in the late moons. They grow restless. Kicking. Turning. Demanding.”
She stepped closer. He didn’t move.
“Has she ever tended a newborn?” she asked, voice light. “Has she seen one gasp for breath with blood still wet between its legs? Or does she think it will arrive sweet and silent, cooing like the doves in her window?”
He glanced at her, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Why are you saying this?”
Cersei smiled, slow and tired. “Because I remember what it cost to be a mother. You forget. You weren’t there.”
“I wanted to be,” he said.
“And yet you weren’t.”
That silence stretched between them like a blade. She circled him slowly, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder—touches she used to command him with. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in.
“You were never made for this, Jaime,” she murmured. “Not for quiet. Not for softness. You are steel. You were born with a sword in your hand and a war in your name.”
He looked away.
“She’ll find out what you are,” Cersei continued, voice like honey and ash. “Not a father. Not a husband. Just a lion with his claws clipped, trying to play house with a girl who dreams of rivers and names her belly love.”
Jaime said nothing. He stared past her. Until her voice lowered, sharper now, closer.
“Will she still smile when she sees what you’ve done? Will she call you Fisherman Tully when the blood runs dry in her sheets and the babe’s cries don’t stop for nights on end? Will she laugh when your patience fails?”
He turned then, something shifting in his face, but before he could speak— A voice echoed down the corridor.
“Oh! My fish!”
Jaime froze. His body turned instinctively toward the sound, and Cersei’s hand slipped from his arm like it had never belonged there at all.
You stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a simple cloak, your hair half-braided, loose strands curling around your cheeks. You moved slowly, carefully, but your smile—your smile was bright enough to chase away the fog of her voice.
“I thought you were at Robert’s door,” you said, breathless from the walk. “I missed you, I hate waking up without you.”
You waddled forward with one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching for him. Jaime met you halfway. Without thinking. Without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his lips brushed your temple, and his other hand instinctively covered the swell of your stomach like it belonged there.
Cersei watched it all, silent. Stone.
“What’s wrong?” you whispered up at him, your palm resting over his heart.
He exhaled slowly, then smiled—small and broken and true.
“Nothing, my river girl,” he murmured. “Just spoke with my sister. She always knows how to damper a mood.”
You tilted your head and chuckled gently. “That is what siblings are for. Edmure would purposely ruin my mood before my favorite meal.” You giggled.
You pressed your face against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head like he couldn’t bear to let go. Cersei turned then, the hem of her cloak snapping as she walked away—not fast, but hollow.
She had three children by him. She had given him a dynasty in secret. But you? You had his peace.
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
The moons passed faster than anyone could hold them.
Your daughter—Elia Lannister—was born just after dawn on a morning soaked in gold. The air had been warm that day, and the bells had rung not for death, but for life. A bright, shining life. The halls of the Red Keep had swelled with laughter, the scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, Jaime’s joy so radiant that even the oldest servants said they hadn’t seen him smile like that since he was a boy.
She was beautiful from the moment she was placed on your chest. Dark strawberry-blonde hair, soft as down, skin warm and flushed, her little eyes squinting up at the light as if even the world dared not blind her. She was loud, too—cried fiercely when she didn’t like the cold water or the way her father took too long to bundle her. But in your arms, she softened. And in Jaime’s arms, she shined.
He named her himself.
“Elia,” he whispered, holding her so carefully, his hand cradling her entire back. “Elia Lannister.”
You had blinked in surprise, but when you looked at his face—at the guilt and softness and something mournful buried beneath the pride—you said nothing. You only kissed his cheek and said,
“Then Elia she is.”
The first moon after her birth passed in warmth and quiet joy. You healed slowly, the maester pleased with your progress, your appetite returning, your sleep only interrupted by Elia’s whimpers in the night. Jaime was often there, even when he had duties. He’d return to find her in your arms, asleep against your breast, and he’d kneel beside the bed just to press his lips to her hair.
“You’ve made me into something else,” he whispered to you once, late at night, when the fire had burned low. “Something I never thought I could be.”
But peace in the Red Keep never lasted long.
In the second moon, the winds shifted.
Whispers crept through the corridors—nothing certain, nothing official. Then came the messenger ravens from the Vale, then the locked doors, the urgent meetings. Then came the silence.
Jaime was called away more frequently. He never told you much when he returned, only that the King was restless, that Cersei had taken to pacing the halls again at night, that something was coming. And still, you tried to keep your world small. Focused. Your child. Your husband. The sound of Elia’s breathing as she napped on your chest. The smell of pine oil and old wood in the nursery.
Then, near the end of the second moon—
The bells rang again.
But not for life this time.
Not for joy.
They rang for death.
Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, was dead.
The announcement echoed through the Keep with a force that made the tapestries tremble. You had just laid Elia down in her crib when the thunderous chime struck, and you felt it in your chest before you even heard the words.
Jaime came to you that night with his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.
He looked older than he had the day before.
“He’s dead,” he said simply.
You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your nightdress, your hair braided loosely down your back. Elia stirred in the cradle, but did not cry.
“So it begins,” you whispered. And it did.
Everything moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Faster than a new mother could bear. Faster than a husband could stand.
Robert demanded a feast. He demanded new banners be sewn. He demanded Ned Stark. The North was to send its wolf to court.
And Jaime? Jaime didn’t leave your side that night. Not once. “The world is spinning,” he said, lying beside you, his hand on your belly where Elia once rested.
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
The corridor outside your chambers had barely gone silent when Jaime threw the door open without knocking. He was seething, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides from the moment Robert left the council room. His words echoing,
“Congratulations on your babe,” Robert had said, voice booming with false warmth, “even though our congratulations are short-lived. I need you to travel north with me. We leave at the turn of the first moon.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And Jaime had no say in the matter.
By the time he reached your chambers, the wet nurse had taken Elia for her night feeding. You hated the arrangement, loathed the distance, but Jaime had begged you to rest. Promised it would only be for a few nights. Promised he’d be near.
Now, he was.
The door shut hard behind him. Jaime kicked off his boots like a man starved of gentleness and made his way to your bed, where you’d just begun to drift into the first real sleep you’d had in days.
“Jaime?” you stirred softly.
He didn’t answer—not with words. He climbed into bed and reached for you with a need that bordered on desperation, mouth already pressing against yours, hard and fast.
“My fish—” you tried to speak, but he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands were warm and trembling slightly as they cupped your face.
“I’ve been deprived,” he groaned against your mouth, every word drenched in want. “The maester said you’ve healed. Tell me. Tell me you want me. Tell me I have permission to enter you…to feel you.”
His forehead rested against yours, breaths tangled, golden hair brushing your cheek. There was something unsteady in his voice, like he was trying not to fall apart.
“Of course you do,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair.
But before the sentence could finish, he kissed you again—hungrier now. Mouth slanted over yours, swallowing every word, every breath. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.
“I need you,” he murmured, voice breaking as his lips traced along your jaw. “Before they take me from this. From you. From the only thing that’s ever felt like home.”
You felt the weight of it then—not just lust, not just need. It was grief for the time you wouldn’t have. Fury that Robert was stealing him away, that duty still dragged him by the throat. And love. Gods, so much love it hurt to breathe through it. “What’s going on Jamie?” You whispered
Your legs tangled beneath the sheets as you pulled him closer.
The breath he let out—gutted, raw—hitched in his throat like it hurt to hold it. Jaime buried his face in your neck, his weight sinking down over you, one hand braced above your head on the carved wood of the bed, the other sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it up around his hip.
He wasn’t patient tonight.
His movements were frantic, but reverent. The kind of aching that only came from nights spent watching, waiting, too afraid to touch you while you healed, while your body ached from the beauty you brought into the world. Now, he had you—cleared by the maester, no longer fragile in the ways that had terrified him.
“Mine,” he whispered into your skin, dragging his mouth down your neck like a man who’d been parched for moons. “You’re mine—gods, tell me—say it.”
Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling gently. “Yours. Always yours.”
That broke something in him.
He groaned so softly it sounded like prayer, hips rolling as he found you again for the first time in weeks. The stretch drew a gasp from your throat, your spine arching under him. He cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to yours as he held still, just for a moment, trembling.
“Gods, you’re still so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, only whimpered against your lips as your name fell from him like a sin.
You kissed him through it. Softly. Desperately. He tasted like longing, like a man running out of time.
He moved with aching tenderness at first—hips rocking, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing you. Then faster. Messier. His grip on your thigh tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushed deeper, overwhelmed by the sounds you made, the way your hand slid down to feel where your bodies joined.
“Don’t—don’t do that,” he breathed, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “I’ll—gods, I’ll lose it.”
You smiled, breathless. “Then lose it. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
He kissed you again, but this time he broke apart mid-kiss, the rhythm of his hips faltering.
“Say it again,” he gasped, panting into your mouth. “That I’m not going anywhere. That I can stay here. With you. That you love me.”
“I love you,” you said between the thrusts, each one deeper than the last. “I love you, Jaime. I love you—I’ll wait for you, but gods, I wish they didn’t have to take you.”
He moaned so loudly at that, shameless and desperate, his fingers curling into the headboard as he held himself above you. “I’ll give you another,” he gasped, mouth at your ear. “Another child, I swear it—Elia won’t be the only one—”
Fucking gods—” he groaned into your mouth, voice hoarse and broken. “Missed you—missed this—missed you, my sweet girl, my fish—”
You whimpered into him, nails dragging down his back as he pressed you into the mattress, pace already desperate. He couldn’t hold still. Couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your breast, your thigh slung high around his hip as he ground deep, chasing that ache that had haunted him every night he lay alone in his chambers.
“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you missed me. Say you’re mine.”
“I missed you,” you whispered between moans, lips swollen, eyes wet. “I’m yours, Jaime—I’ve always been yours.”
His groan cracked in his throat. He kissed you too hard, too fast, teeth knocking together before he dragged his mouth down to your jaw, your neck, sucking until you gasped and clung to him tighter. Every thrust was sloppy, hungry, his forehead pressed against yours as he rutted into you like a man starving.
“Come with me,” he begged, voice shaking. “To the North—fuck—I’ll take you with me, Elia too, we’ll ride behind Robert—I’ll get a carriage, I’ll—gods, please.”
“Jaime—” you tried, but he didn’t let you finish.
“You hate the wet nurse,” he groaned, dragging his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. “And I can’t sleep without you, I—need you.”
You were pulsing around him now, your walls fluttering tight. He felt it, nearly collapsed from it.
“Say yes,” he moaned, losing all rhythm. “Say yes, fuck, please—I’ll keep you warm, I’ll build you a bath from snow and rocks if I have to, just—just don’t stay behind.”
Your lips trembled. “I’m scared to travel with her so young.”
“Then let me carry her. I’ll do it all—fuck, I’ll wear her on my chest like a milkmaid if it means you’ll come. Just don’t—don’t leave me here like this.”
He was close, so close, fucking into you like he could drag the answer from your body. You clung to him, kissed him, moaned his name with every breath.
“Please come,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth crushed to your cheek. “I can’t leave without you.”
That was when you tightened, crying out his name as the pleasure crashed over you—hot and helpless, thighs trembling around his hips as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you with a moan that nearly broke you in two.
He didn’t move after. Just held you there, buried inside, shaking from the force of it.
“I’ll ask Robert,” he whispered, breathless. “I’ll beg him if I have to.”
Your hands brushed his hair back. Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed behind him as he drove into you with rough, trembling thrusts. He was everywhere—breath on your neck, hand fisting the headboard, the other holding your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The bed creaked loud, rhythm uneven, like he’d been denied for years not weeks.
“Say yes,” he groaned again, panting into your shoulder. “Say you’ll come north with me—say it—please gods say it—”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, dragging him closer as your hips tilted up to meet every thrust.
“I—Jaime—” you gasped, words caught on a moan as his cock hit deep, too deep, just the way you liked.
“Say it,” he begged again, voice cracking. “You—you’re mine, not Robert’s court, not this castle—me. Come with me. Let me keep you close—fuck—I can’t breathe without you.”
He was shaking. Desperate. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the room, your slick soaking his cock as he rutted harder, rougher, hips slapping into you with no grace left. Just need.
“I’ll build a tent,” he whispered wildly, biting your jaw. “A whole fucking tower of snow if I have to, just—say you’ll come. I’ll take Elia. I’ll guard you both with my fucking life, I swear it—”
“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I’ll go—Jaime—I’ll go with you—gods, don’t stop—” He groaned like a wounded animal. Everything in him buckled.
“Fuck, fuck, my girl,” he choked, kissing you like he was drowning, thrusts suddenly frantic, pace ruined. “You’ll come with me—you’ll stay with me—say it again—”
“Yes—yes—I said yes!” you sobbed against his lips, legs shaking as he drove you toward the edge.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck—my wife, my fucking wife—” You fell apart with a cry, pulsing so hard around him he nearly collapsed, fucking through your high with curses and whimpers. He didn’t last another second. “Mine—mine—mine,” he moaned, voice low and broken as he spilled into you with a sob, burying himself as deep as he could go. “You’re coming with me, sweet girl—you’re mine.”
When it was done, he didn’t move. Just lay there shaking, still inside you, whispering your name over and over.
“I’ll tell Robert tomorrow,” he said against your neck. “You’re coming with me. Our daughter too. We ride north… as a family.”
Your thighs still trembled as you curled against him, breath hot against his chest, one hand draped lazily over his heart. His seed still inside you, sticky and warm, a mess neither of you cared to clean yet. His body hadn’t moved far, still draped half over yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he gave you space.
“When do we leave?” you murmured, voice hoarse and soft, edged with the ache of being stretched for the first time in moons.
He sighed, almost guiltily, as he brushed sweat-slick hair from your cheek.
“A moon. Maybe two.” His voice was low, gentle now that the desperation had passed. “Preparing to ride north is no easy feat. Horses, wagons, guards—it’ll take five weeks just to reach Winterfell.”
You shifted under him, heart skipping, and he saw it in your eyes. The flicker of doubt, the ache of new motherhood, the fear of leaving the only home you’ve known—of dragging a baby through snow and dirt and gods-know-what. Your face faltered, just a little.
And he panicked.
“No—my girl,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he cupped your face again, kissed your lips like a promise. “Don’t take it back. Don’t let fear ruin what we just—don’t, please—”
You blinked, but he kept going, nose brushing yours, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.
“It’ll be comfortable. I swear it. I’ll make it so. You won’t lift a finger. I’ll get a nurse for Elia, extra cloaks, furs, a litter if I have to carry you both like queens.” He kissed you again. “You’ll have your own tent, with a fire. With blankets. With me. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you safe.”
“Jaime—”
“No more courts. No more hiding. I want to fall asleep with you every night and wake up to Elia’s cry. I want to sit by a fire and brush your hair. I want to be a father in front of the world and call you mine without shame.”
Your fingers curled against his jaw.
“You’ll hate the cold,” you whispered, smiling faintly.
“I’d eat snow if it meant I could have you beside me.” He kissed your forehead, a different kind of reverent now. “Just… don’t leave me there. Don’t let them take you from me.”
You leaned up, kissing him slow and certain.
“I already said yes, didn’t I?” His eyes shut like that yes was a prayer.
───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────
The morning air clung soft and cool against the stone corridors, the hush of a castle slowly waking. You stood in the sun-drenched gallery near the window alcove, swaying gently with your babe in your arms—little Elia curled against your chest, drowsy from her morning feed, her fingers clutching your gown with milky satisfaction. You hummed under your breath, a river song your father used to sing on storm-heavy nights.
Your other hand rested low on your belly, already heavy with your second child.
A moon ago, you’d begun to swell again. Three moons after birthing Elia, and the gods had quickened you once more—much to the shock of the midwives and the rage that roiled behind Cersei’s perfect smile. You’d hardly left the birthing bed before Jaime had put another child in you. And it showed.
Your cheeks glowed, your skin dewed with that soft fullness that came with being wanted, kept, loved. Every corner of you was bloomed and softened. Jaime hadn’t stopped touching you since.
Tyrion, leaning on the edge of a carved table, raised his goblet with a smirk. “You know, you’re becoming quite the legend in court. Some say you’re carrying the fourth lion already. Others say you’re a witch who’s bewitched my brother.”
You smiled over Elia’s curls. “Only a fool would believe it took witchcraft. I simply loved him. That was enough.”
Tyrion hummed and toasted your honesty. “And he worships you for it. That’s rarer than magic in this place.”
From the far end of the gallery, Jaime stood listening—half-shadowed, arms crossed, his eyes not on Tyrion but you. The way you leaned into the light. The way your smile bloomed just for his brother. He trusted you, but still, something curled hot and green in his gut.
“Talking to our brother again?” Cersei’s voice cut like a blade. She’d come from the other hall, her steps soft as a snake. “You’ll see her old lover soon enough.”
Jaime didn’t look at her.
“She loved him to death,” Cersei continued, soft, serpentine. “Benjen Stark. The one who took the Black. She cried when he took the oath. I remember—gods, the way she wept.”
He finally turned. “Stop.”
She smiled, too wide. “What? You’ve knocked her up again—twice in one year, Jaime. Shouldn’t you know who you’re breeding with? Or would you rather be surprised if the next one’s born with Northern eyes?”
His jaw clenched. Across the room, your laugh floated up at something Tyrion had said, and Elia cooed.
“You’re vile,” Jaime said low.
“She’s a Tully,” Cersei hissed. “They drown in emotion. You think she’s forgotten him?”
But her words melted away when you looked over your shoulder, catching Jaime’s eye. Your smile was soft, tired, glowing. You mouthed something to him.
“Come”
He was already moving before Cersei even blinked.
He left her there, fuming behind her perfect hair, her hands clenched so tight the knuckles went white. She needed him back, she needed him to see that it was only her.
Hii, I'm on a Sandor drought rn so I'm once again requesting👉👈
This one is a bit more of a short idea but what about a Sandor who's easily aroused by small actions? Like Reader scratching his beard or touching the scarred side of his face at one point
maybe he's not aroused simply by the physicality of it but more about the intimacy
I just picture him as heavily touch starved!! You could make it smut with fluff, pleaseee
Tags: SMUT, pretty explicit overall, fantasizing, masturbation, dirty thoughts, very sweet, nameless reader, no use of y/n, reader is silly :P, comedy, courting, crass language, fluff, half drabble, not beta read, may contain mistakes (i was impatient to get it out oops), i dont feel like tagging it as puppy play bc they are honestly too unserious about it
Summary: Sandor has too dirty a mind for an unmarried man. Unfortunately he doesn't care as much as he should, and, again, can it really be his fault when his lady cannot keep her hands to herself?
Warnings: I MADE HIM A PERVERT, I am sorry.... it is my masculine mind acting up once again. ALSO i made it into a comedy porn piece, sadly i love funny smut and i cannot be kept away from it.
Sandor Clegane is not a lustful man. He is a man, he is hot blooded, he is of a certain size of course, in and outside the breeches, perhaps he needs a wank more than the average boy, but he is not stupid with lust like so many slobbering men. He doesn’t stir at the sight of the ladies’ breasts pushed up to their collars by their stays and shifts, he doesn’t follow with his eyes the sight of servants’ plump arses, he doesn't sniff around the nice legs of the noble women when they lift their gowns so that they do not trail in the mud. He cares not for these things, he scoffs at the sweaty lords who chase ruin the same way they chase women, foaming at the mouth to sink into heat and falling into degeneracy head first.
Sandor doesn’t chase and simper. Unless blood is calling. That is the only gushing he cares about, the breaking of bones, the cloying smell of fear. That is what he likes. He stands impassible and silent in the corners of the room, aroused by nothing, as all evil things, impossible to move.
Sandor’s cock is not volatile.
Yet, something must have changed. In the wine, or in the water, in the textile of his bed, in the air of his chambers, in the cloying heat of the south. He is not sure what, but something made him mad, made him warm, made him blaze aflame with a possessive sort of lust.
Maybe it is simply the anger of the engagement to Lady Cafferen. Or maybe she is some sort of witch. He often tells her as much and she starts whining and complaining about him being mean, so that he has to shut his mouth and let her drag him around her gardens on a promenade.
He hates promenades, they seem to make her stupid love magic work even better than usual. She often pauses to smell flowers, and in between her movements turns her head so, with her eyes looking at him so, and her mouth pressing to his bicep so that his dick hardens in instants.
She is unbearably mushy, his Lady Cafferen. Some romantic sap, with more books about poetry and love than anyone should ever own. Maybe that is why her hands are so soft, her palms so smooth.
Sandor is mean, old and grumpy, not fit for any of that romantic idiocy, but he has enough sense not to treat her badly, and in thanks she gives him the softest of touches with her ivory smooth hands, soft like velvet, cold like marble. It is unbearable.
She opens and closes her fan nervously now, they are in the gardens, the ones overlooking the godswoods, and she cannot keep still, as is usual of her. He notices as much in their time together, she always fidgets,and as an extension of that touches him more than he is used to be touched. Always pulling on his tunic, or rubbing his skin, or nudging his fingers. Always making his cock hard in his pants.
He grunts and leans over the halfwall to peer at the people praying below in the greenery. There are some people below, kneeling or sitting still as statues and praying to their deaf gods for deliverance. Mostly women, with gowns fanning the soil like the tails of colorful birds. Sandor scoffs in amusement. Nothing's stupider than religion.
That is when two hands grab onto his elbow and pull. She is just like some helpless puppy, it feels like, always needing him to react to this and that, nudging him here and there, demanding attention a man his size should probably refuse to give so freely. Gods damn whoever forgets to look at her for five minutes, or answer her queries, or compliment her shoes and her hair and her stupid golden earrings. If only she knew how his dick reacts to her maybe she would stop nagging him.
“I do not want to go rowing like the others” she bellyaches. She means the other couples, the other lovesick, limp dicked lordlings of the Keep always take their ladies rowing near the edge of the sea. Stupid shit for bored nobles.
“I’ll lose my stomach,” She says.
“Wasn’t planning on taking ye” He scoffs and she makes a thrilling little sound, then one of her hands slips higher and higher on his forearm until her fingers are pressed to his palm. She rests them there, he wishes he had worn his gloves for once, and rubs his palm in slow circles.
Some may call him a brute, a pervert, a gross degenerate with a face to match, but he cannot help but think of her doing the same to the red head of his cock, making it turn purple.
Despicable as he is he has been jerking off to memories of her touches for more than a week and a half.
Every night after his service he shuts himself in his rooms with his chamber-pot between his knees and fists his dick until it goes limp. He has been shooting load after load at the thought of putting his mouth on her, his lips on her, on her breasts, on her stomach, on her buttocks, in the hole between her legs, sucking whatever fluid off of her, eating off of her, drinking off of her.
She must all look great under the silks she wears, she must be cute down there too, her maidenhair, probably the same colour as her actual hair. He cannot help but think of it.
The handmaidens that empty his pot have started looking at him weird even. If only they knew what rolls about in his head, they would grow pale.
His mind rolls with ideas even now, out in the open, he will teach her, make her take it in her mouth, he would be sweet, granted, but he would have her suck it, look down at her, pat her hair, feel the softness–
“Are you listening?” She peeps from his side. He turns to her, his one good eyebrow raised in question. He hopes she cannot see his crotch with the way he is leaning, or else she would surely screech and rush off. He is of a scary size after all. Especially to a little lady.
“I said– If we are to go back to Fawnton I’ll surely feel sick during the travels” She explains and then goes on tittering and peeping. He barely listens, in favor of looking at her palm over his, her hand relaxed and soft into his. It is not everyday he gets such a pliant little fawn in his fangs.
He was surprised at first, when she barely flinched at his face, at his reputation and his size. He thought she was simple, but now he understands she is just a hard character to work with, maybe a bit too fiery and too fervent for a future wife. Maybe it will make him suffer during their marriage, as for now, it only makes his dick ache.
“I am hungry” She adds then, as if he ought to just pull a steak out of his pockets and serve it to her.
“Do I look like a kitchen wench, My Lady?” He grumbles, shifting so his cock can be less visible. Her hand is still interlaced with his. He cannot help it, he doesn’t get touched often, maybe something in his rotten brain went so bad that he cannot distinguish some sweet little thing holding his hand from plowing her into a feather bed.
He should feel bad, but he is not the type to feel bad. Tough luck, Lady Cafferen.
“Then I want to have an early supper,” She says.
I want, I want, I want, that’s what all the noble girls are about. If she only knew what he wanted. Gods help him.
He sighs and concedes, standing up, adjusting his codpiece when she is turned away, he follows her like the good dog he is towards the nearest servant. The hunger he feels, cannot be satiated with early fucking supper.
But whatever promises more of her hands on him he has to take his fill of.
—-----------
“You look like you haven’t bothered to fix yourself up” She complains.
“Because I did not” He bites out. He just came back from escorting the king and prince Joff on a hunting session. It is arguably the worst part of his job, especially when Joffrey gets annoyed at the mosquitoes, the sweat and the heat and starts taking it out on the servants. He had to talk him out of beating a wine bearer bloody just yesterday.
He himself is sweaty, his hair sticks to his scars, the collar of his armour chafes annoyingly to the cloth he tied to his neck, it absorbed so much sweat he is sure it must be soaked. And now his fiancè decided to come meet him at the door like he is some prince coming home from war. The romantic idiot she is.
He is irritated. He surely doesn’t need to get hard on top of the general discomfort of existing right now. But of course she is wearing a tight dress, one of those from the Stormlands, with the starched bodices and the puff sleeves. Fuck him, he should have let the stag impale him when he had the chance.
He walks forwards, craning his neck to fight the stiffness of it, she follows him on quick steps.
“Was the trip good? Did the king score a good game?” she asks behind him, he uncorks a wine skin with his teeth and drinks two long mouthfuls. He stops to let her catch up and grunts.
“No, it was pure shite, miserable fucking trip” He mutters, she immediately links her arm in his and one of her hands goes to smooth his comb over, dutifully tucking it behind his ear.
He gives her an unimpressed look and she seems to not care. God those hands, those hands will be the end of him. The feeling of them carding through his hair, the touch of her manicured nails, the softness of the pads of her fingers scratching where his hair is sparse. He groans like some dying animal.
“Careful with what you do, little dove” he grunts in her direction, his eyes mad and angry. She smiles, as if taken by some trepidation. She blushes and goes to tuck her own hair behind one ear, he groans at the loss of contact. One of his hands scoops her about her middle and brings her into himself.
“Didn’t they teach you not to pet bad dogs?” He scoffs, she shakes her head.
“You are my fiancè” is her rebuttal, he almost pushes her away. He gives a look around the hallways and, once he makes sure the coast is clear, he buries his face into her neck, sniffing a hot breath that stinks of wine into her cleavage, just under his lips.
“Gods.” He groans. She has the nerve to laugh, all heady and excited as if it was some fun game they were playing and not him about to double over because of blue balls.
“You tickle me” She mutters, that thing she does where she acts as if he was some cute blonde boy, he barely cares, glad she is not squirming away and rubs his limp lips down her neck until he can suck where her throat dips before her collarbones. He licks her there, her wicked hands go to the back of his neck, honest to the gods guiding his face. Sandor is unsure if he is very lucky or in deep shit with the wedding coming up.
Her hands have grown warm now, like tiny pokers, like heated sheep bladders pressed to the back of his neck. It is only fitting, since he does feel feverish and genuinely ill in some strange way. Her tits almost push into his neck when she stutters. He curses whoever invented stays and low cut bodices.
Steps echo in the distance and Sandor straightens up, leaving Lady Cafferen red in the face and giddy when he turns to survey the space around them. She slips her fingers into his beard and he almost bucks his hips.
Deciding he is not to wet himself like a green boy in the middle of a hallway he detangles her from his torso and settles her at a good foot of a distance from him. She attempts to hook her arms to him again and he has to keep her away with his whole arm.
“Do you really wish me to spoil your virtue in the middle of a corridor, daft lass” He barks and she gushes, the surprise almost softens his dick,
“We are to be married anyways” she says. He shakes his head.
“Are you simple? What if the maester is sent to check your virtue huh? Idiot.”
“He would not be sent! I am not a princess, but do not worry I kept myself pure”
Sandor is not sure if he should be elated or simply irritated. He grunts in annoyance and gives her another tiny shove when she pushes too much of her weight on his arm in the attempt to get close. If she touches him more, he will not be able to stop himself.
“Go back to your room girl” He groans “and I will take a bath”. She smiles, acting all timid now and nods.
“May I have a kiss?” she adds “I waited so long to greet you at the door”.
Sandor would want to tell her off but his cock seems to have taken the place of his brain. He pulls her back to himself and kisses her. roughly, wetly, with way too much spit and way too little grace. He gives a rub of his hips to her stomach and she almost yelps into his mouth.
He trails his lips to the mid of her neck and one of his hands sneaks to her arse. If she wants to play with the hound she will get what is coming for her. She smiles, all heady into their kisses and barely complains when he pats her bottom to get a feel for it.
Then, those damn hands go to comb between his dirty hair and he moans into her mouth before he dives in again. His hips stutter against her and his hand pinches her ass so that she jumps up a bit. It is enough to give him the clarity to rip her away again.
“Soon–” He pants “Not today, and stop– act more proper.” He grumbles. She barely seems to care, if she doesn’t answer to her father and all the rules of propriety why would she answer to him after all. He gets further confirmation when she stares openly when he adjusts his cock in his breeches.
He gestures for her to walk off.
“Will you visit me again?” she asks, gone is that lust, and what remains is some sort of tenderness typical of his little lady, one so unexpected to someone his size, someone ugly like him, that he almost pities her. He goes to rub her flank.
“Yes… now scram” he spits out and ignores her smile before she gathers her skirts and rushes off.
Fuck a bath, he needs to pump his cock.
It doesn't take long for him to rush to his apartments and put his fist to himself. In a few bucks of his hips, fucking into his hand and thinking of Lady Cafferen gushing about the size of him, he spends into his chamber pot.
After coming he rubs the underside of his cockhead to torture himself enough to forget the feeling of her hands on him, when his rod is tender enough that he knows he won’t get hard again for a bit he calls for a servant ot fill his bathtub. .
Sandor misses the days he was mean and scary and his dick had no thoughts to attend to.
—---------------
It is no wonder he pulls her hands to his face when he sinks into her.
After the wedding they didn’t consummate immediately, he had hoped so, but she had fallen asleep as soon as she hit the sheets, and he simply laid with her and did the same, even if his cock was crying sweet mercy.
He is ravenous now, each thrust of his hips gets a glad little hiccup out of her. She mewls when he pulls her arms from his shoulders, plucking them finger by finger, and guides them to his face. She pets him dutifully, making him her own nice dog.
His hips stutter and he bites hard on his tongue when her hands caress his cheeks, even the scarred one, without fear or disgust or sick fascination. She treats both sides equally, despite his obvious lack of sensibility on his right.
“Ah-AH ngggh- Sandor!” She lets out, his hips tremble under the force of his own muscle, his asscheeks clench and she, sweet little thing, so new at this, grabs onto his hair to keep a hold of herself. He is fucked. When he hands tug minimally to keep herself in check he moans.
Sweet hands, like those of the Mother, he bets, but real, not made of light or clouds, real flesh, warm, tiny. He licks her neck and she giggles, as if he is tickling her skin.
His body continues pushing into her, settling in a trot-like pace.
Her hands rub his scalp and he almost weeps, it is good, so good, he almost forgets to get a hold of himself. How long since he felt hands so soft? They were not part of his life for so long, and now, somehow, they skim all over his skin, his hair, his back, without coercion, coin or any stupid sense of wifely duty between them. Between them there is only hot air, smiles, and her lips opening and closing in surprise every time his cock does something nice.
“You are so hairy!” She stutters, as if out of breath, he reminds himself not to crush her chest too much with his bulk and repositions. She smiles. She really is all over the place, no wonder they married her off to him.
“I am a man.” He points out. She moans when he aims his cock towards her stomach, her legs jump at his sides and fold up towards her chest, knees closing together. Sweet.
He continues plunging into her, her hands start slipping from his shoulders to his chest, over his heart, he blocks them there with one huge palm. His skin shivers like that of a stallion, and his heartbeat matches his monstrosity. She looks at his chest with a gaze full of sweet things he cannot put a name to.
She goes to kiss his chest, near his heart, with lips so soft. His cock whirrs. He thinks back at all the times he had wished for this very skin, soft and fresh and plump under his hands. He places her mouth to his nipple and he frowns down at her.
“Girl” He warns her and she gives a breath right over his heart, then lays back down. Her hands go to rub at it still. He almost laughs.
“Not all that works on you works on me” he groans. She blushes and moans when his cock changes pace.
Her hands go back to stroking his head, one thumb behind his ear draws tight little circles, and it may as well be his rod, for he comes immediately inside her. His dick shivers and then pumps forwards until he is spending it all into her. He groans, almost wheezing, unable to stop his hips form fucking the wetness back into her, as if they were a creature on their own. She takes it gladly.
His hips stutter one last time, until the heat becomes overwhelming over the raw head of his cock. When he pulls out his seed follows. He cares not for the sheets or for the seed, not when her hands have kept on rubbing, her fingers still into his hair. Her little finger resting on his burn, where the skin is so ruined it is almost a game trying to understand if it is really there or not.
When he dives back to kiss her she gives his hair a tiny tug that almost awakens his dick again.
“You witch” He groans into her neck and kisses her there. Her nose wrinkles into a smile that edges on annoyance.
“If you want me to pet you, I will.” She offers and he groans.
“Piss off” He tells her, which prompts her to pet him atop his head as if he was some silly lap dog. He snaps his teeth at her and she falls into a fit of giggles and flops on her stomach to crawl away.
It is easy to grab her around her stomach and pull her back into him, her tiny body pressed to the bulk of his front. She giggles again, so uncaring for her nudity she may just be some nymph from a fairytale. When he lets her flop again on the bed she reaches her hand back and rubs it over his beard.
“There, there, good doggie” She says, barely containing her laughter. He gives a bite to her ass cheek and she squirms.
“Bad! Bad! Down!” she complains, it is his turn to laugh and bury his face into her hair from behind, his hips go to rest on the perfect round of her ass. He sniffs her hair and his lips find her neck between the tresses.
“Your dog is horny girl.” He mumbles, his cock once again awakens. She makes a noise of disgust that he forgives because she slips her fingers into his once he ensnares her chest into his elbow.
“Okay- I want to do it again” She concedes. His laugh sends her hair puffing up and flying about.
“Of course you do, you really are some pixie.” He groans into her neck.
“Then you are a dog!” She complains, unhappy to be compared to an ugly little creature from the forests instead of some princess of belle from one of her damn stories.
He leaves it at that, he cares not what she calls him as long as there is a promise of her hands on his skin for the rest of her life.
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Tywin Lannister x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
General Synopsis: Tywin Lannister does not do pillow talk. Unfortunately for him, his wife is a yapper post-coitus.
Word Count: 2.2k
Content Warnings: insinuation of sex, nudity, Tywin is mean but reader knows he loves being doted on.
AN: I cannot stop thinking about Charles Dance, and thus, Tywin Lannister. This has been in my wips forever and is super soft—as soft as Tywin can be. He secretly loves that his wife just does not shut the fuck up. This is also, wildly enough, my first Game of Thrones fic.
The room has gone quiet in the way only the Tower of the Hand ever does at night—thick with silence, insulated from the noise of the city below, as though even King’s Landing itself knows better than to disturb Tywin Lannister when he has retired. The candles burn low, their light softened against gold-threaded drapery and dark wood, and still he has not moved to rise.
That, more than anything, tells you he is content.
You trace your fingers idly along his chest, following the sparse line of hair there with a focus that borders on indulgent distraction. It earns you a look without his head even turning, his eyes lowering just enough to mark the path of your hand.
“If you intend to map me,” he says, voice dry, “you will find the territory unchanged from the last time you inspected it.”
You hum, entirely unbothered, your thumb pressing lightly just beneath his collarbone before drifting lower again. “I like to be thorough.”
“I am aware,” he replies, and there is something in the cadence of it—something edged, but not sharp enough to cut—that makes your mouth curve faintly.
Your toes slide along his calf again, slow and absent-minded, and his hand comes down at once, catching your ankle with firm, unyielding precision. Not rough, never careless, but decisive all the same.
“Do that again,” he says, “with cold feet, and you will find yourself on the other side of that door before you can protest.”
“They’re warm this time,” you answer, testing the boundary by brushing your foot along him once more, lighter this time. “You haven’t thrown me out yet. I assume that means I’m safe.”
“For the moment.” You shift closer instead of retreating, your thigh pressing more deliberately over his hip, your knee grazing just enough to draw attention without being overt about it. His grip on your ankle tightens by a fraction, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he notices everything.
You tilt your head, watching him now. “You let the Small Council prattle on for nearly an hour today before you said a word.”
“They were wrong,” he answers simply.
“They’re always wrong.”
“Yes.”
The blunt certainty of it makes you laugh softly, your fingers pausing against his chest. “And yet you endure them.”
“I tolerate them,” he corrects, his eyes shifting to you fully now, sharp and assessing even in the low light. “There is a distinction.”
You study him for a moment, the severity of his expression, the rigid composure that never truly leaves him—not even here, not even like this. And yet his hand has not released your ankle. His thumb rests just at the curve of your heel, unmoving, but present.
“You enjoy it,” you say lightly.
His brow lowers a fraction. “Enjoy what.”
“Making them feel small. Watching them scramble to correct themselves when you so much as look at them.” Your lips twitch. “You take your time with it.”
“I correct incompetence where I find it.”
“That is not the same thing...”
“It is,” he says, though there is the faintest pause before it, the smallest delay that betrays consideration.
You shift again, your hand sliding up, flattening briefly over his sternum before drifting higher, resting just beneath his throat. “You could dismiss them outright.”
“And replace them with what?” he asks, voice quieter now, though no less controlled. “More of the same?”
“Perhaps,” you concede. “But then you would have less opportunity to loom over them so impressively.”
His eyes narrow slightly at that, not in anger, but in something closer to warning. “You find that amusing.”
“I find you amusing,” you correct, entirely unrepentant.
Tywin’s hand releases your ankle only to catch your wrist instead, lifting it away from his throat with a slow, deliberate motion before pressing it back down against the mattress beside him. He leans in just enough that the shift is unmistakable, his presence filling the space between you in a way that stills your teasing for half a breath.
“You mistake tolerance for indulgence,” he says.
Your pulse answers him before your voice does, though you do not pull your hand free. “Do I?”
“You do.”
“And yet,” you murmur, your free hand tracing along his shoulder now, unhurried, “you have not corrected me.”
His mouth presses into something that is not quite a frown, not quite anything so simple. “I am correcting you now.” You consider that, your eyes flicking over his face, the lines of it, the weight of his attention—always so exacting, so impossible to ignore. And still, there is something beneath it tonight that you recognize, something quieter, held close.
“Mm,” you hum softly. “Poorly.” His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make the point, and for a moment you think he might actually push you further, press you into the mattress, remind you in no uncertain terms of where the balance between you truly lies.
Instead, he releases you. It is almost more telling than if he hadn’t.
“You speak too much,” he says, settling back against the pillows, though his eyes remain on you.
“And you listen too well for a man who claims not to enjoy it.”
“I did not say I enjoyed it,” he replies.
“No,” you agree, shifting closer once more, your hand returning to his chest as though it belongs there. “You never say that you enjoy anything.”
A quiet settles between you then, not uncomfortable, not strained—just… present. You feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm, the warmth of him, the solid, unyielding reality of his body beside yours. After a moment, his hand comes to rest at your hip, not pulling, not directing—just there.
“You presume much,” he says at last.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him again, softer now. “I observe.”
“And what have you observed?”
You take your time answering, your fingers moving again, slower now, less teasing, more thoughtful. “That you do not dismiss me.” He says nothing to that. “That you allow me to speak when others would not dare.” Your thumb brushes lightly over his chest. “That you have not once sent me away.” His jaw tightens faintly, though whether in agreement or restraint, you cannot tell. “And,” you add, quieter still, “that you would not have let me stay this long if I were merely a distraction.”
The words linger there between you, heavier than your earlier teasing, edged with something you do not name.
For a moment, you think he will deflect, dismiss it as he does most things that come too close to the truth. Instead, his hand shifts at your hip, sliding just enough to pull you nearer, closing the space you had left between you without a word.
“You would be wise,” he says, voice low, measured as ever, “not to mistake position for permanence.”
You meet his eyes steadily. “I do not.”
“Good.” His hand does not move away.
You settle against him more fully, your leg draped over his again, your head finding its place just beneath his shoulder. Your fingers resume their quiet path along his chest, no longer testing, no longer teasing—just there, familiar.
After a long moment, you smile faintly against him. “You did enjoy it,” you murmur. His hand at your hip tightens once more, just briefly.
“Sleep,” he says, and though it is not an answer, it is not a denial either.
The room rests in a deep, insulated quiet, the kind that dulls the edges of the world beyond the Tower of the Hand. Candlelight flickers low against silk and shadow, and neither of you has made any move to disturb it.
You lie tucked against him, your leg draped over his, your hand spread across his chest where his heartbeat presses steady and unyielding beneath your palm. Your fingers move slowly, tracing idle patterns, more instinct than thought now.
Tywin watches the movement briefly before his gaze lifts to your face. “You persist,” he says, voice even.
You glance up, faintly amused. “You say that like it troubles you.”
“It is unnecessary.”
“And yet I remain,” you murmur, your thumb sliding upward before your lips follow, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his chest.
His hand closes around your ankle in a firm, grounding hold. “Do not mistake inaction for permission.”
You shift closer instead of retreating, your forehead brushing his jaw before you place a small, deliberate kiss there. “I would never.”
His grip tightens slightly in warning, though he does not move you away.
Silence settles again, softer this time, shaped by the slow rhythm of your touch.
It lasts all of three breaths.
“I saw Lord Redwyne trip over his own robes today,” you say suddenly, your voice light with poorly concealed amusement. “Not a subtle stumble either. A full, undignified collapse. I thought he might take the table with him.”
Tywin exhales slowly through his nose. “You find that noteworthy.”
“I find it entertaining,” you correct, your fingers resuming their idle path. “He tried to recover with dignity. It did not go well.”
“He lacks coordination and judgment. This is not new information.”
“No, but it is new that he attempted to bow while holding a goblet,” you continue, entirely undeterred. “The wine did not survive the experience. Nor did his pride.”
His hand presses briefly into your side—a measured pinch.
You laugh softly, leaning into him, your lips brushing his jaw in quiet acknowledgment. “You see? You do enjoy these stories.”
“I do not.”
“You listen,” you counter, your tone warm, your cheek brushing his before you settle beneath his jaw again. “Very attentively, I might add.”
“I am ensuring accuracy.”
“Mm. Of course.” A brief pause, then you continue anyway. “And Lady Tanda has decided her daughter is now a great beauty,” you add, your fingers tracing a slow line along his chest. “She announced it to three separate men within the span of an hour. None of them agreed.”
“That is their error,” he says flatly. “Agreement would have spared them inconvenience.”
You smile faintly. “You would have agreed.”
“I would have avoided the conversation entirely.”
“Cowardice,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to press a soft kiss beneath his jaw.
“Efficiency.” He repeated.
You hum, unconvinced, your fingers drifting higher, resting just beneath his throat. “And the king,” you continue, as though you have not already said enough, “has taken to repeating the same story at supper. Three nights in a row. Each telling worse than the last.”
“I am aware.”
“Oh, you noticed,” you say lightly, your lips brushing his skin again in a fleeting, absent affection. “I thought perhaps you had retreated entirely into your thoughts.”
“I am capable of observing more than one irritation at a time.”
You laugh quietly at that, your body shifting closer in unconscious response. “I do wonder how you endure it all.”
“I do not endure. I manage.”
“Mm,” you murmur, your thumb tracing a slow arc. “And I am part of that management, I assume.”
His hand tightens faintly at your side. “You are…persistent.”
You smile, pleased with that answer despite its restraint. “That is not a denial.”
“It is not praise.”
“I will take what I am given,” you reply softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a brief, chaste kiss. His hand stills at your back for a moment before settling again, firm and certain.
“And,” you continue after a breath, entirely unwilling to let silence reclaim the room, “I think Ser Addam has been avoiding you.”
“He should not.”
“He nearly walked into a column trying to escape your notice,” you say, amused. “I believe he considered climbing out a window at one point.”
“That would have been inefficient.”
“It would have been memorable,” you counter, your fingers smoothing absent-mindedly over his chest. “You do leave an impression.”
“As intended.”
“I know,” you murmur, softer now, your voice losing some of its teasing as your cheek rests against him again. “I like it.”
Tywin’s hand shifts slightly at your back—not a correction, not quite a reaction, but something that acknowledges the words without answering them. You fall quiet for a moment, your fingers slowing, your touch settling into something gentler.
Then, inevitably—“And the baker in the lower courtyard—” His hand presses into your side again, sharper this time.
You laugh into his chest, the sound warm and unrestrained as you press a quick kiss there in apology. “You would miss this,” you murmur.
“You test that assumption frequently.”
“And yet I am still here,” you reply, your voice softer now, your fingers stilling against him. “Which tells me everything I need to know.” His hand tightens at your back, firm, grounding, his thumb moving once along your spine before going still.
“You speak too much,” he says, though the edge has worn thin.
“And you listen,” you murmur, your voice low, your body settling more fully against his.
He does not answer.
You press one last, lingering kiss over his heart, your cheek resting there as your breathing begins to slow. The room quiets again, the space between words finally allowed to stretch. After a moment, his hand adjusts at your back, drawing you closer in a subtle, deliberate motion.
“Sleep,” he repeats once more.
You hum softly, your voice drowsy now, content. “As you command, my lord husband.”
Tywin does not reply, but he does not let you go either.
