Hey my lovelies, back with another headcanon! I saw the trailer last week and it inspired me to write this!
Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!
❀Duncan doesn’t know how to act around you, especially in the beginning. You make him nervous. Egg finds it humorous. How can Duncan suddenly bumble his words around you? Why does he keep fidgeting? Duncan denies these statements, yet it's clear that they’re true.
❀This is why Egg invites you to travel with them. Egg is curious about your travels; he’s also keen to witness how Duncan reacts to you. Duncan immediately attempts to find an excuse; you’ll probably go in the opposite direction. Perhaps you are in haste. However, you smile and accept Egg’s proposition, Duncan growls at the boy.
❀In the first few days, Duncan remains awkward around you. Meanwhile, Egg is asking questions. He wants to get to know you. Where you’ve been, what you’ve done, the experiences you’ve had. Duncan appears to be disinterested; however, he’s listening to every word. He’s as curious about you as Egg is.
❀Egg asking you questions about how the world works. He wants to know about where you were born, what it was like to grow up where you did. Duncan suggesting perhaps you don’t want to answer anymore questions, but you always allow it.
❀Duncan finds it’s easier to talk when Egg has fallen asleep. Hushed voices over a campfire, close enough to keep warm. He finds you fascinating; he’s taken with you, although if Egg attempts to force him into submission, he’ll deny it.
❀Your nightly conversations become Duncan’s favourite part of his day. He looks forward to settling down besides you and talking until you both fall asleep.
❀Whenever Duncan can’t sleep, he watches over you and Egg. You two grow more important to him by the day. He doesn’t understand how you’ve both wormed your way into his life, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
❀Duncan becoming protective of you. Stepping in the way of any danger you face. He’ll cut down any man who posses a threat to you.
My first Sandor Headcanon. I absolutely love this man, so you'll probably be seeing him a lot here! Requests are open, you can find my request guidelines here! ♊
@mallardrallam mentioned this while requesting a fluff alphabet, naturally I wanted to expand on this idea.
♊Sandor knows he’s possessive. He proves repeatedly that if someone looks at you the wrong way, Sandor is threatening to slit their throat. You’re his, and no one’s going to change it. However, whenever you’re jealous, Sandor’s always taken a back.
♊It doesn’t occur often. Usually, an overprotective outburst from Sandor lets everyone know who you belong to. However, when an overly friendly bar wench gets too handsy with Sandor, it’s your turn to show anyone within hearing distance.
♊It’s not immediate; it usually looks deadlier than any poison. Sandor smirks and takes a sip of his wine. Sandor doesn’t play into the Wench’s behaviour. He’s enjoying observing you, plotting against her; however, he’s not keen to be on the receiving end.
♊The wench runs a finger tip down Sandor’s arm, your eyes are wild, it’s no longer a mistake. No longer a bar wench attempting to get a bigger tip. You feel invisible as you sit across from Sandor. Sandor watches to see what your next move would be.
♊It doesn’t take long before you interrupt the wench and explain you’re having a conversation. Still polite, always reserved, but Sandor knows boiling the surface. When the wench shrugs you off, you get up and move to sit beside Sandor. Now looking at her head-on, you lean in to Sandor, hand resting on his thigh.
♊Sandor smirks; he’s enjoying this too much. Waiting, observing for your next move. The wench raises her eyebrow. You're unsure what else she needs to see. It’s when she suggests to Sandor she has a room upstairs, if he fancies the company, you lose it. No longer, you’re no longer your usual self. You rise from your chair, lean over the table and growl that he’s yours. You make direct eye contact, jealousy, and possessiveness all muddled together. You don’t care; you’ve suddenly caught the attention of everyone around you.
♊Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you turn, grab Sandor’s face and kiss him passionately. Sandor reacts instantly, taking control of the kiss. His hand finds your waist as he drags you to his lap. He’s not usually one for PDA, yet he’s not denying himself this moment. He’s used to being the possessive one.
♊The wench is long gone before you pull away. Sandor keeps his hand wrapped tightly around your waist as you come to your senses. Burying your head into his neck, you explain you don’t know what came over you. Sandor laughs; he likes whatever came over you. It’s reassuring, you are just as possessive as he is.
♊He’s never going to seek out the attention of other women; however, it will be welcomed. It’s another side of you that Sandor has fallen in love with.
Description: Jon Snow visits house L/n to ask them to join the fight against house Bolton. It goes smoothly, until he and the Lady of the house try catching up.
Notes: So, I'm not super happy with my characterization of Jon here and his speech patterns. This was more of an exploration of how Jon in Ygritte's relationship might effect a relationship between Jon and reader. Please note where I am in GoT Jon and Sansa have only just set off to recruit houses against Ramsay, so sorry for any inacuracies.
Word count: 2 183
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Sansa stares at him. Judgmental, maybe a little inquisitive, like she knows something he doesn’t and thinks him a fool for it.
“Why?”
And in truth he doesn’t know why. It’s not really about saving time, nothing much will change if he and Sansa visit her together before moving on to the next house, but he can’t picture this reunion with such a grand entourage.
When he speaks with her for the first time since that day in Winterfell, where she bit back tears and he pretended not to notice because there was nothing he could give her that would make staying worthwhile, he wants to do it as Jon Snow. Not whatever he is to the Night’s Watch– his watch is over but he can feel that things won’t be as easy as leaving Winterfell– and not as whatever Sansa and Stannis think he means to the Stark legacy.
Just Jon. Just the boy she’d watch train with Robb and Theon. Just the boy who’s drifting through life searching for a purpose. Just the boy she watched the stars with before everything drowned in blood.
“She’s my friend, I don’t think I’ll need to use the Stark name to convince her to help us. You said it yourself, her bannermen followed Robb against the Lannisters.”
Sansa’s expression doesn’t shift.
“You’re a fool,” she sighs. “Alright. We’ll meet in two days then?”
They’re losing light, so Jon doesn’t push her initial comment and instead nods.
“Two days.”
—
The Boltons are a hot topic across the North, and nowhere quite as much as the houses still pledged to house Stark.
She’s one of them, head of her house after her father’s death at the Red Wedding. She stares at the slip of paper the raven carried in. A request of allegiance to the new warden of the North. A notice of the death of Roose Bolton.
Ramsay Bolton doesn’t make requests. It’s a thinly veiled threat.
Her eyes glaze over the words, focusing only on the worn parchment center view and letting the words blur together. House Karstark, the traitors, have joined them along with the larger Northern houses.
Going to war for Winterfell would be futile, and yet she may just be able to save Sansa. That thought is the only reason she’s yet to turn the paper to ash and continues to turn it over in her fingers and mind.
A knock pulls her from her vengeful haze.
“Enter.”
She sets the paper down and folds her hands on her desk– once her father’s.
“My Lady, Jon Snow is here to speak with you.” She blinks slowly as she processes the information. Words that should not be laid together strung like some kind of noose for her heart. “He says it’s urgent but won’t say why.”
She sighs.
“Send him up, and have the kitchen send dinner and ale up. We’ll eat here.”
The guard nods and closes the door behind him.
She rises from her seat and glides, with all the grace Lady catelyn had instilled in her, towards the window. Jon stands with two guards by the gate, dismounted from his horse as though he knew she wouldn’t turn him away and she scowls at her own predictability. A patch of snow next to Jon moves as Ghost reveals himself, then the guards part and Jon and Ghost head through towards the keep.
She continues to watch the snow fall in the courtyard until there’s another knock at her door. Firmer. Familiar in a way that feels like a distant dream.
“Enter.”
The door seems to creak louder than ever, echoing through the room and disturbed only by heavy footsteps and her own pounding heart. It closes with a resounding thud.
“My Lady,” Jon greets.
“Lord Commander,” she greets in return, a smile creeping across her face and into her voice despite her lingering anger over his departure.
She turns and the air is knocked from her lungs because from this close she can see the scars. New and harsh against his once soft and unblemished face. Then there's his hair, tied back instead of loose and soft. It makes him look so much like Robb, and she feels her eyes burn. His cloak looks like Eddard’s too, and it feels like everything she’d thought she’d lost was returned all at once.
“Not anymore,” he shakes his head, the somberness he’s always seemed to carry holding strong. “You look well.”
“You look like you’ve seen death.”
Jon’s face twists slightly, and she feels her heart drop. She can see this wall between them, the one she hoped would disperse a little once Jon found his place. But it hasn’t. It still looms tall and icy like the wall he set off to defend.
She clears her throat and moves to her desk. “So,” she sits down, “I’ve been told you’re being secretive. That explains the in-person visit. What can I do for you, Jon?”
That seems to lighten his mood a bit.
“Sansa wants to retake Winterfell.” He’s not sure what he expects, but her boisterous laughter isn’t quite it. Head thrown back until it hits her chair, she laughs and laughs until Jon finds himself chuckling along. “She’s serious, Y/n.”
Y/n lets out a long sigh as her laughter tapers off. “My bannermen will follow you.”
“What?”
“They’ll follow you, Jon. House L/n is loyal to house Stark until the end, as they followed Robb against the Lannisters they’ll follow you and Sansa against house Bolton.”
His brows furrow, face pinching in concern and Y/n’s expression sombers slightly.
“You think I kept those traitors around? If they knew what was good for them they ran, those that did not will not have a chance to turn sides again.” There’s another knock at the door and Y/n’s grin returns. “Enter.” She turns back to Jon. “Now, join me for dinner.”
She waves at the seat across her desk and Jon smiles, small but real, as he pulls out the chair and sits while the servant sets out their food.
They barely start eating before Jon asks the question that’s been burning in his mind for a while now. Since he learned she was the head of her house, really.
“So, still Lady L/n?”
She nods, taking a sip of ale. “Nothing politically worthy, been too busy to really look into anything not war related.” She looks down into her ale and chuckles. “Robb and I did almost get married but figured it was a redundant move. Nothing could take me away from him.”
Jon chalks the burn in his chest up to the ale and chuckles at her finishing statement.
“Still a maiden then?” He teases, only realizing what he’d said when Y/n stares at him agape.
Clearly only being surrounded by the men of the Night’s Watch and the Wildlings had worn down some of his noble upbringing.
He coughs and quickly takes a gulp of ale.
“Oh because that’s such an embarrassment for me. How’d your brothers take it when they found it you’ve never bed a woman?” She snickers.
Jon’s gaze drifts to the window and once again, his expression falls and it kills Y/n how much she feels like an outsider. She doesn’t know the bounds of his humor anymore, the things he’s been through.
“They were vicious… but I’m not- I mean I have- I…” he splutters, unsure how to word it because he’s keenly aware now that she’s a Lady.
Y/n’s face drops. “I’m sorry to hear-”
“No!” Jon’s eyes widen as he realizes what it likely sounded like to Y/n. “No, no, it’s not like that.”
“Oh…” Y/n’s face twists slightly, but not in confusion.
“Is something wrong?”
“I thought the Night’s Watch took a vow of celibacy,” her voice is oddly cool and bitter, no longer laced with the familiar warmth that kept him company in Winterfell. A part of her wants to bite her tongue, but the part that sees all of Winterfell staring back at her keeps pushing. “How is it that the one who took a vow of celibacy has had sex and the one who didn’t is still a maiden?”
“Well technically the vow doesn’t say anything about-”
Y/n’s face scrunches further.
“Jon.” She cuts him off. “I seem to be more worn than I thought. Unless you have other business please take your dinner and leave.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I said I’m tired.”
“Why does me having sex bother you? I told you, it’s not like I broke my vows.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s none of my business what you do. It’s been none of my business since you left. You asked for my bannermen and you have them, now take your dinner and leave.”
“Well I want it to be your business,” Jon snaps. His mouth hangs open and Y/n can see a war in his eyes before he spits. “I died. I was betrayed by my brothers. My watch is over and once this business with the Boltons is over I don’t know what I’ll do but I know I- I have no one left but you.”
Y/n’s anger softens slightly, but her edges remain sharp.
“You left me. I thought we had something, that there was meaning in our friendship that-that- I don’t know.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Do you want to know, what Robb said to me when I asked if we should get married? He said there was no point, and then he said he would rather not hear your name every time he bed me.”
Jon chokes on his spit.
“Jon Snow, I have been in love with you from the day we met and you just told me that you went off because you felt there was nothing worth staying for, found some woman who meant more to you than me,” she gestures wildly as she rants, voice raising and cracking as emotions boil over, “and now you’ve come back like it’s nothing! If you’d asked, I would have done anything for you! If Winterfell truly had nothing left for you I would have gone anywhere with you, fought my father to marry you even.”
Her chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath before a choked sob escapes.
“I thought… before you left for the- wall, that night under th-the stars. I thought y-you might love me too.”
Jon’s ears turn red as his brain struggles to process her words.
“Leave.”
“Y/-”
“Leave!” Jon stands, but instead of walking towards the door he rounds the desk. “J-Jon, I s-said leave. G-Get out! D-Don-”
His body’s warm, arms wrapped around her as she sobs into his chest. The furs of his cloak soak up her tears. Her fingers dig into the chest of his armor.
“Don’t do this,” she whispers, hiccuping. “When you went to the w-wall I thought I’ll never get a chance but I found solace in knowing that I hadn’t lost you to anyone else.”
“I-”
“Don’t say anything, please. It doesn’t matter if you loved me then or love me now just,” she takes a deep breath, “I need time.”
She feels Jon nod above her.
“Can I speak?”
“Not now.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t know.”
He smooths his hand down the back of her head and presses his nose into the top in a semblance of a kiss he knows it isn’t the time to leave.
They don’t move for a long moment, until their food turns cold and the sun dips below the horizon. At some point they move, Jon sits in her desk chair and she sits with her legs across his lap, head resting on his chest. Jon turns to look out the dark window.
“Y/n?”
“Mhm.”
“I loved you but… you could have such a better life with anyone else. A husband with a name, a husband with land or a title.” His grip tightens on her as she shifts, urging her to let him continue. He can feel her gaze on him from below. “I didn’t have to prove anything to her or anyone else.”
“And that’s why I need time,” she whispers, voice rough from disuse and crying. “I need time to come to terms with the fact that,” her voice breaks a bit, “I couldn’t help you. That I made it worse.”
“Whatever you decide… know that I still love you. That I spent my last moments, laying in the snow in a pool of my own blood thinking of you and all those days we spent together in Winterfell. I wondered if you had a family of your own now.” He looks down at her. “I just thought you might appreciate honesty in return for honesty.”
“Answer me one last thing?”
“Anything.”
“Do you still love her?”
Jon’s gaze drifts back to the window, and Y/n’s gaze follows to watch the snow drift by in the dark.
First of all, I’m sorry but you cannot tell me anything when it comes to Tom hiddleston being the perfect young Tywin Lannister. Second, I love writing morally grey female characters and I wrote grant maester pycelle and mushroom in cause I wanted to show how a lot of male historians portray women in one way cause it’s just easier.
The lover of the seven Kingdoms” grant maester Pycelle had used as a description of (y/n) Martell, the second wife of Tywin Lannister, the symbol of femininity for a plethora of men in kings Landing, the mother of lord Ezra Lannister and lady Asena, the scandalous twins and one of the few bastards that later became legitimate and inherited Lannisport, then they had three more, lady Nymeria, Lady Zara and Lord Sorin, (y/n) was the secret passion of Tywin since she stepped foot at court, she was to be Joanna’s lady in waiting.
Her appearance was one carved by the Gods, long dark raven hair that curled down to her waist, olive skin, and almost black eyes, her lips thick, and a body as juicy as the fruits of her land, her twin brother Dorian had sent her to Kings landing as a way to show respect and also expand her horizons.
“Princess (Y/n) had relations with one of the bastards of house Dayne when she denied him the man gutted himself in front of her, Doran sends her away to avoid more scandals caused by her lustful appetite”
Mushroom note, Joanna liked her, she was smart and endearing, and she knew how to play her part, however, what Joanna had not taken in mind is that (y/n) stopped at nothing to get what she wants, in this case, it was the young Tywin Lannister, the tall man with muscles everywhere, blue eyes and blonde hair was the subject of desire for a plethora of ladies, none of them had the guts to go after him, (y/n) was not like them, she had her eyes set and the game had begun.
“My lord”
(Y/n) called for Tywin, the hour was quite late but Tywin was the hand of the king, the hour did not matter when they were things he needed to pay attention to, papers to be signed and payments to be settled.
(Y/n) had studied his schedule, Joanna was already in bed and Tywin was free, most of the servants were dismissed so they were no prowling eyes to catch her.
Tywin halted and turned to look at the girl that called for him, she wore a rather sheer dress which was unlikely of hers, Dornish people were always costumed to very light choices in clothing, still, this was a step further, if the candles burned a bit brighter Tywin would have been able to see… well everything.
“Princess (y/n), is there something wrong?”
“No, not exactly, I was hoping to talk to you, in private”
Tywin hesitated, (y/n) was just outside her chamber, she was holding the door open which meant that her choice of privacy was her room, still, curiosity about what it could be that needed to be discussed in such a secretive way was enough for his feet to go one and then the other inside.
(Y/n) closed the door before she spun to rest her back on the wood, a smirk playing on her lips as her plan was going smoother than she expected, the room was decorated in cherry red and gold colors, some orange as well and the intense smell of vanilla and musk took over Tywins senses.
“So, I would prefer it if you started talking”
“Do you like being the hand of the king?”
“You summoned me to ask me if you like my occupation?”
“No, I summoned you because I have a pair of eyes, eyes clear enough to see that something has been bothering you”
“Well I am flattered that the princess cares to ask for my well-being, however, I must go”
“You can’t lie to me Tywin, if it’s not your duty then it has something to do with me, you have been avoiding me, you can’t even look me in the eye”
Tywin once again chose to not speak he only made a b line for the door to which (y/n) was resting, she had managed to think of everything down to reaching for the handle when he did, making their hands touch, Tywin did not pull his away, he let it rest on top of hers as he towered over her and she looked up at him with doe eyes.
“Is it me, my lord? It is my presence that is bothering you?”
“No”
“No? You are breathing quite heavily, your eyes travel below my lips, and… dare I say you could have moved me if you truly wanted to, no one is here, my lord, you can confess to me”
“(Y/n)-“
“Go on, confess”
Her voice was barely above a whisper as she gawked at Tywin with lustful eyes with a hint of innocence, she had done this before, Tywin was a mere puppet, a bug that got caught in the spiders' web and was now waiting to experience her poisonous bite.
Her kiss could be described as venom, it made his entire body feel like it was burning and her touch was the only remedy, his addiction started and ended with her, he had been fantasizing about her every night, haunting him like a succubus and stealing the life out of him, at an instant he forgot everything, his wife, his status, his entire life would crumble if someone were to find them, none of it mattered, all that he cared about was to see her, take her.
He took her right on her window, some servants had even reported that they could see the young princess bareback as her moans grew some attention, alas none of them thought something of it, most of the castle had seen a generous amount of men go in and out of (y/n)s chamber at all hours of the night.
Tywin was in utter awe with (y/n), he almost felt like he would faint as he reached his high, it was the only time Tywin considered that (y/n) was a practitioner of dark magic. No other woman had held such power over him in this act.
“My lion”
She had whispered in his ear before she kissed him,(Y/n) was the perfect lover, every night he would slip from his chamber and knock on her door, she would be waiting for him, take him up to the sky, and wrap him with her fire that burned as bright as dragon fire.
Tywin was entirely himself around her, she allowed him to be in control and gave him the euphoric theatrics of prowling on her, which made (y/n) giggle a little, it was refreshing and borderline hilarious to move the strings in the background while Tywin thought he was moving them only because she let him touch them.
“I have exciting news”
“Which is?”
“Princess (y/n) is pregnant, how lovely would it be if we get to marry our children? We could secure Dorne and bind my friendship with her”
“We will do no such thing”
“Tywin, think about it if we-“
“You are forgetting an important thing Joanna, the princess is not married, who knows who the father of that bastard is, my child will not marry anyone of such low status”
What else could he have said? We can’t marry them cause they are siblings? Joanna would be crushed, Tywin had run to her chamber that night, not even bothering to knock as he burst into the room startling her, still once she laid her eyes on him she smiled, she dared to smile as if nothing has happened.
“How dare you announce your pregnancy without even telling me first”
“I thought you had noticed”
“No, I hadn’t and Joanna wants to marry your child with one of our children”
“I am sure we will find a way around it”
“Find a way around it? How are you so calm when the world is crumbling on your feet? You are not married nor betrothed, this child will be declared a bastard”
“This child will be my firstborn, a child created by you and me if you remember, that is all that matters to me”
“Not to the rest of the realm”
“I do not care about the rest of the realm Tywin, that is your problem, it will be royalty in Dorne, I do not care what they call my child here”
“Some said she bathed in goats blood every full moon, she would burn candles and speak in foreign languages to make Tywin stay by her side”
Mushroom claimed, it could be true or just whispers since no one understood the powerful hold that she had on the young lord, Tywin was a fearsome man, calculated and ambitious, yet (y/n) could sway him in any direction she wished with a bat of an eyelash.
It was such a peculiar moment, (y/n) gave birth to twins four moons after her lady Joanna, Ezra and Asena, both of them had their fathers' eyes, sapphires that shined in the light of the sun as (y/n) fed them from her breasts, Tywin had held Asena first, she looked nothing like Cersei still something in him knew that the two girls were born to be each others nemesis, fate had played him like a fiddle.
“I was thinking of going back to Dorne”
“Why?”
“My brother said it is not safe for us, people will talk and I do not want my children to grow up in a venomous environment”
“No, no you will stay, Ezra and Asena Hill has a nice ring to it”
“They are Martells, my love, they shall be called that”
(Y/n) was not ashamed of her children, on the contrary, she adored them and kept them by her side at all times, she taught them how to walk, talk, sing, and dance, a endearing mother with a backbone made of Valyrian steel, a combination made straight out of the seven rings of hell.
“Push, my lady”
“I can’t, (y/n) please make it stop”
“Maester, what is taking so long?”
“The babe has breached, it will not let me pull it out”
“It hurts (y/n)”
“I know, my lady, just one more push”
Joanna fought tooth and nail to survive, unfortunately, her labor did not harvest any fruit for her, the son survived but Lady Joanna did not even get to hold him, grant Maester pycelle held Tyrion and presented him to lord Tywin who was utterly disgusted by the ugly creature.
“That is no son of mine, throw him in the river”
“You will do no such thing”
“This matter does not concern you, princess”
“It does, you may be excused maester”
Pycelle only nodded and left them alone, a strange aura surrounded both of them, Joanna was gone, a deformed babe had taken her life, and (y/n)s belly was ready to pop any minute, what was to be done now?
“Does cruelty excite you?”
“Cersei and Jaime are both healthy and Lannister featured, that… thing could not have been created by me”
“It was not the babes' fault, so I have to remind you that you are also guilty of the thing you are accusing a dead woman of?”
Tywin was a man but that meant little to nothing, if Tyrion was a bastard then there was no difference between him and (y/n)s children, Tywin was in no place to frown upon such an act since he was having another child on the way, a bastard.
“Listen to me, my love, I know you loved Joanna and I loved her too, but the babe survived, it’s the last thing we have from her, grief is a strong emotion, but we have each other to lean on, don’t you want this for us Tywin? for me?”
There it was, her secret weapon, that sweet voice that dripped of honey and the big doe eyes, she knew how to play the damsel in distress down to every detail, Tywin put his lips in before he shook his head in defeat, his wife had departed but his mistress stood before him, demanding a place at his table and life, which he was willing to give her.
-
Cersei was frantic, the announcement of her father's betrothal to the princess (y/n) and the reaffirmation of her bastard children had brought her to an utmost stage of rage that she was going around her room like a hurricane, she was throwing things and cursing as loud as her lungs allowed it.
How could he do this to her? To her family? That woman had slithered her way into their life like a snake and was now feasting over her mother's dead body, this was just plain disrespectful to her mother.
Tywin found Cerseis handmaidens outside her chamber as the sounds that came from it could put to shame any wild animal, the ladies looked frightened and not one of them dared to go in, however, all of them tried to warn him in leaving the lady be, suggesting that this has probably happened before.
“What do you think you are doing?”
“Get out”
“Young lady I advise you-“
“Shut up! I don’t want to listen to you! How could you marry her?! How could you do this to my mother?”
That was the last thing she said before a harsh slap landed on Cerseis's cheek, the girl was taken back by the act since her father had never hit her, he would discipline her but mostly by raising his voice or finding peculiar tricks of punishment, for Tywin to get physical with his daughter meant that she had gone too far.
“You do not get to judge my decisions, you will welcome your brother and sisters and you will be nice to my wife whether you like it or not, did I make myself clear?”
Silence only looks that could kill were exchanged
“Did I make myself clear?”
“Yes Father”
“My love?”
(Y/n) walked into the room, she had heard everything although she chose to reside in the act of being clueless, Tywin had turned away from his daughter and walked to his soon-to-be wife’s side, his hand found hers and brought it up to his lips, (y/n) smiled fondly before she scanned the room with her eyes, a puzzled look on her face as the room was upside down.
“What has happened? Is the young lady alright? The handmaidens were stuttering when I asked about the noises”
“Yes, no need to worry, my dear, Cersei was just redecorating”
“Oh, well if she wishes I can help with that”
“No, no, Cersei is quite specific, she prefers doing things her way, hence this scenery, we should live her”
“As the young lioness wishes, but before we leave”
(Y/n) took a few steps so she can stand ahead of Cersei, Cersei truly felt like a lioness, one that was trapped in a cage to be exact, as much as Cersei wanted to believe she could outsmart anyone (y/n) had years up on the horse, so naturally she was now trotting past Cersei with her caring smile and eyes that lit up, Cersei was left to looking like a kid that threw a tantrum whilst (y/n) looked like a mother that did her best to keep the peace.
“I know you are angry at me, I would be too, I will not try to be your mother, I do however hope that one day you will view me as your ally or your friend even”
(Y/n) went to caress Cerseis cheek which Cersei flinched away from that earned her a cold hard stare from her father, (y/n) only bit her lip in defeat, then it was replaced by a smile of hope, (y/n) genuinely wanted things to go as smooth as possible, to keep all of Joanna's children close to her, it was the least she could do she wasn’t a complete monster, as much as Cersei liked to think of her as one.
“Perhaps it’s too soon, I am asking way too much of you, I hope you have a great day, sweetling”
“Put everything back in its place, now”
Tywin instructed in a stern voice before they exited the chamber that Hurricane Cersei was occupying, Tywin was sure that she would throw something at the door once it was closed and he stood correct when a loud bang was heard.
“She is a young girl that lost her mother, having an attitude with me is inevitable”
“Cersei is not a normal young girl, she has a superiority complex over everyone, our children will not interact with her yet”
“That won’t be a problem, Asena is not… fond of Cersei either”
“I wonder why, let us not think of Cersei right now, it is time for Nymeria to be fed”
“See how beautiful it sounds when it rolls off the tongue? And you wanted to name her Lydia”
Since this babe was the first legitimate child of Tywin and (y/n) he had the suggestion of picking the name of the beloved girl, on the contrary (y/n) was not budging, she was adamant on naming her daughter after the biggest warrior queen Dorne has ever known, her precious Nymeria.
“The princess never wanted to marry lord Tywin, she was far more interested in keeping their relationship private, howbeit Lord Tywin was too consumed by his emotions for her to consider the fact that the princess could have been wed, she simply chose not to”
Grant maester Pycelle added when asked about their wedding. (Y/n) did not care about her children being legitimate or owning land, Dorne was her home, her brother had congratulated her on the birth of her twins and even offered to have them in Dorne, and her family was delighted by (y/n) bringing forth new heirs for the Martells, it was only Tywin that wanted to make it official, to let everyone know that the princess was now cloaked by the lion, her life as the lady of the rock had begun and Dorne had entered a land that they never really thought of earning.
“In a day you will be my wife, therefore, my children’s good mother, I expect them to treat you as such”
“I do not, Tywin they are in mourning, you cannot expect them to make it easy for me”
“I am not dimly witted my dearest, I know they will have some thoughts over our marriage, albeit I will make sure they keep it to themselves”
Description: house of the dragon fanfic, arranged marriage with Aemond Targaryan during war times; two souls who find in each other an equal, learning that the most powerful alliance is one forged not just by duty, but by fire-tested loyalty and a love that could burn a dynasty to the ground—or build a new one from its ashes.
Notes: hi! honestly im very excited about this one!
The Small Council chamber felt like a tomb, the air thick with the dust of old ambitions and the cloying scent of beeswax. Prince Cyrus of Dorne sat with the relaxed posture of a man who had already secured a favorable treaty, his two eldest sons standing as silent, formidable pillars behind him. Across the table, Queen Alicent’s smile was a carefully stitched mask of piety, while the Hand, Otto Hightower, wore the serene expression of a man watching his intricate plans fall perfectly into place.
“The terms are most agreeable,” Otto’s voice was smooth as aged brandy. “The union of Prince Aemond and your youngest daughter, the Princess Loreza, will bind Dorne to the Crown, securing the southern flank for generations. She is described as the very picture of Dornish grace. A gentle, biddable soul. Precisely the sort of influence the Prince… requires.”
Prince Cyrus inclined his head. “Loreza is all of that and more. She embodies the softer strengths of Dorne. She will be a devoted wife and a beloved princess.” It was a perfect, political match. Loreza’s docile nature would be no threat, her beauty a credit, her obedience a given.
Aemond Targaryen, who had been observing the exchange from his place by the window like a statue carved from ice and silver, finally stirred. He turned, the firelight catching the sapphire in his socket, making it glow with a cold, malevolent fire.
“No.”
The single word shattered the careful atmosphere. Alicent’s smile vanished. “Aemond,” she said, her voice a sharp, maternal warning. “This is not a matter for debate. The alliance has been settled.”
“It is settled on the wrong foundation,” Aemond replied, his tone devoid of heat but full of an unshakeable finality. He took two deliberate steps toward the table, his single eye pinning Prince Cyrus in place. “You offer me a summer rose, my lord Prince. Fragile, beautiful, and fleeting. But winter is coming. A rose will not survive it.”
Otto leaned forward, his patience thinning. “My Prince, we have been over this. The Princess Loreza is the agreed-upon—”
“I am aware of what you agreed upon,” Aemond cut him off, his gaze never leaving the Dornish Prince. “But you did not ask me. You seek to give me a companion for my leisure hours. I require a partner for the throne.”
He let the word hang in the air. Throne. It was a bold, dangerous statement with Aegon still king, but no one challenged it.
“I have heard the whispers from your sands,” Aemond continued, a predatory interest lighting his blue eye. “Whispers of your eldest. The one they call the Sun’s Fury. The one who translated Valyrian scrolls at twelve, who outmaneuvered your seasoned generals at fifteen, who they say can brew a poison that leaves no trace and a smile that disarms a battalion. The one who is not just a princess, but a weapon. That is the woman I will marry.”
Prince Cyrus’s composure finally cracked. He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Elara? No. That is impossible. She is… she is the mind of my court. My chief advisor in all but name. She is vital to the governance of Dorne itself. She is not a bargaining chip!”
“Everything is a bargaining chip,” Aemond countered, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You offer me a decorative piece. I am telling you I require the cornerstone. The alliance stands, Prince Cyrus. But it stands with Princess Elara as my bride, or it does not stand at all. The choice is yours.”
Aemond’s mind raced. A gentle wife would be a chain, a distraction. He needed someone who understood the language of power, who would not flinch at the blood that would need to be spilled. This Elara, from the stories, was not just strong; she was cunning. She was the missing piece in his design.
Prince Cyrus looked from Aemond’s unyielding face to the stunned expressions of the Hightowers. He saw the raw ambition in the one-eyed prince, an ambition that saw a marriage not as an end, but as a beginning. He was not just taking a wife; he was recruiting a general. With a heavy heart, knowing he was sacrificing his kingdom’s greatest asset, the Prince of Dorne slowly sank back into his chair.
“Then,” he said, the words tasting like ash, “it will be Elara.”
• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧
The journey north had felt like a slow, ceremonial death. With every league, the air grew cooler, the colors of the landscape duller, leaching the warmth from Elora’s soul. Now, the Dornish procession, a defiant river of vibrant orange, gold, and scarlet, snaked through the grim, grey streets of King’s Landing. The stench of the city hit her first—a thick, oppressive mélange of fish, waste, and unwashed humanity that made her yearn for the clean, dry scents of the desert.
From within her enclosed litter, Elora watched the sea of pale, staring faces through the silk curtains. Their mouths were open in cheers, but to her, it sounded like the roaring of beasts. They see a prize, she thought, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her nails left half-moon indents in her palms. A exotic creature from the south, brought to heel by their dragons. Her entire life—the years of study, the grueling combat training, the hard-won respect on her father's council—had been neatly packaged and sold. She was not a person; she was a transaction.
Her younger sister, Loreza, seated beside her, tried to offer comfort, her voice a timid whisper. “They are so excited to see you, sister. Look at them all!”
“They are excited to see a spectacle,” Elora corrected, her voice flat and cold, devoid of its usual musical lilt. “Do not mistake their curiosity for affection. We are the afternoon’s entertainment.” The bitterness was a familiar poison, one she had swallowed the day her father told her she was to be Aemond Targaryen’s wife.
But as the Red Keep loomed larger, a monstrous fist of black stone gripping the sky, her training overrode her resentment. She was a diplomat before she was a warrior, and a princess before she was a woman. As her litter neared the great gate, she signaled for a halt. Ignoring her sister’s confused look, she drew back the curtain and stepped out into the evening air.
A hush fell over the crowd. She was a vision, a desert flower blooming in a field of mud. Her gown was deep sun-yellow, a color that seemed to hold the last of the day’s light, and her dark hair fell in loose waves around a face of such striking beauty it seemed carved from olive wood and polished by the sun. But it was her eyes—proud, intelligent, and utterly fearless—that held them.
She raised her voice, clear and carrying, a bell tolling in the squalor. “People of King’s Landing!” she began, her gaze sweeping over them. “I am Princess Elora of Dorne. I thank you for this warm welcome. In these dark days of war, your joy is a beacon of hope. It reminds us all what we fight for: peace, and the prosperity of all our people, from the deserts of Dorne to the shores of the Blackwater!”
It was a perfect, diplomatic lie, delivered with a grace that belied the storm in her heart. The crowd erupted in genuine, thunderous applause this time. She offered a final, regal nod before turning her back on them and re-entering the litter, the smile vanishing from her face the moment the curtain fell.
King Aegon II stood at a high window in the Red Keep, looking down at the scene. He’d been dragged from his cups for this, annoyed at the disruption. But the sight of the Dornish princess stepping from her litter, so utterly unafraid, had sobered him slightly.
“Well, well,” he muttered to himself, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “She’s got a spine, this one.” He watched her command the rabble with a few pretty words. It was a performance, but a masterful one. A flicker of something—interest, perhaps—stirred in his chest. He thought of his brother, Aemond, the relentless, disciplined warrior who was to be gifted this fiery, clever creature. The familiar, bitter tang of jealousy coated his tongue. Aemond got the discipline, the loyalty of the armies, and now, it seemed, he would get a queen who looked like a goddess and spoke like a Hand. What did Aegon get? A crown that felt like a millstone and a brother who despised him.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavern of intimidating power. Torches flickered, their light dancing over the skulls of long-dead dragons, their grins a permanent reminder of Targaryen supremacy. At the far end, on the Iron Throne itself, sat King Aegon, trying and failing to look regal. To his right stood his mother, Queen Alicent, her posture rigid in her green gown, her hands clasped tightly. To his left stood the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, his face an unreadable mask of political calculation. Elora’s father, Prince Cyrus, stepped forward.
“Your Grace,” he announced, his voice echoing. “May I present my daughter, Princess Elora of Dorne.”
Elora moved forward, her head high, the yellow silk of her gown whispering against the stone floor. She curtseyed with perfect, practiced grace. “Your Grace. Queen Alicent. Lord Hand. The Sun of Dorne is honored to stand before the Dragon.”
Aegon leaned forward on the throne, the jagged blades of steel seeming to cage him. “The Dragon is pleased to have you, Princess. We apologize that the hour denies you a proper feast. The rigors of travel, and of war, dictate a… subdued welcome.” His eyes, however, were anything but subdued. They roamed over her with a frank appreciation that was just shy of an insult.
Elora met his gaze evenly, seeing the lazy entitlement, the attempt at a sly flirtation hidden beneath a king’s courtesy. She offered a cool, diplomatic smile. “Your consideration for our comfort is thanks enough, Your Grace. A quiet evening is most welcome after the long road.”
She was dismissing his flirtation without even acknowledging it, and Aegon felt a spark of both irritation and greater interest. She was not easily flattered.
It was Alicent who spoke next, her voice as crisp and sharp as the throne itself. “We are glad you are here, Princess Elora. You will find that life in the Red Keep has a certain… structure. There are duties and decorum to be observed. We shall ensure you are instructed in all that is required of a lady of the court.”
The condescension was a finely honed blade. Elora turned her gaze to the Queen. “You are most kind, Queen Alicent. Though I am well-versed in the history, laws, and customs of the Seven Kingdoms, I am certain there is much to learn about the day-to-day rhythms of your specific court.” She let the implication hang—that she was already an educated woman, not a blank slate to be molded. “As for a lady’s duties, I have found that the ability to defend one’s home and counsel one’s leaders are among the most vital. I look forward to offering my perspectives where they may be of use.”
Alicent’s smile was brittle. The girl had just refused to be patronized and had positioned herself as a potential advisor in the same breath. This was no simpering maiden. This was a political player. A threat. “A… unique perspective, to be sure,” Alicent replied, her tone frosting over. “We shall see what use the Crown has for a lady’s… martial opinions.”
The tension in the hall was palpable. Elora’s father looked deeply uncomfortable. Otto Hightower watched with the keen, analytical eyes of a spider feeling a new, unpredictable thread vibrate in its web.
Finally, the agonizing audience was over. Elora and Loreza were shown to their chambers—a lavish set of rooms that felt more like a gilded prison. The moment the heavy oak door closed behind them, Elora’s shoulders slumped, the mask of composure finally cracking.
Loreza rushed to a window, looking out at the alien cityscape. “Gods, it’s so big. And so grey.” She turned, her eyes wide with worry. “Elora, the Queen… she hated you on sight.”
Elora walked to the hearth, where a fire struggled to push back the damp chill of the keep. She stared into the flames, seeing not logs, but the life she had left behind—the training yards, the council chambers, the lemon groves, a pair of kind, sun-lit eyes.
“She doesn’t hate me, little sister,” Elora said, her voice quiet and tired. “She fears me. And a fearful enemy is far more dangerous than a hateful one.” She wrapped her arms around herself, the silks of her gown feeling like a shroud. “Welcome to our new home.”
• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧
The lavish chambers allotted to them were a cage of silk and stone. The last of the evening’s light had fled, leaving only the faint, smoky glow of King’s Landing’s countless fires visible through the tall windows. The moment the heavy oak door had closed, sealing them in, the impeccable composure Princess Elora had worn like armor all day shattered.
She stood at the window, her back to the room, her hands braced on the cold stone sill. The vibrant yellow of her gown seemed to mock her in the dimness.
“I cannot do it, Loreza,” she stated, her voice low and raw, stripped of all its diplomatic grace. She wasn’t speaking to a subject or a rival, but to her sister. “I will not be led to the altar like a lamb to the slaughter for a man I have never even laid eyes upon.”
Behind her, Loreza, who had been nervously arranging a brush set on a vanity, froze. Her delicate features, so perfectly suited to the role of the placid, beautiful lady, crumpled with alarm. “Elara, you must!” she whispered, her voice hushed and frantic. “The agreements are signed, the seals are set. Father would never forgive—the honor of all Dorne rests on this!”
“The honor of Dorne is the very chain around my neck!” Elora whirled around, her eyes blazing in the twilight. The fire in her was a Dornish sun, trapped and seeking to burn its way out. “But my own honor—the honor of the woman I am—demands I look my jailer in the eye before he turns the key.”
She moved with a sudden, decisive energy, striding to the large, intricately carved trunk that held her personal effects. She threw back the lid, bypassing silks and jewels, and pulled out a garment of plain, dark, unadorned wool—a practical, hooded cloak, the kind she wore when riding through the dunes or walking the battlements of Sunspear unseen.
Loreza watched, her hand flying to her mouth. “What are you doing?”
“I am going to find him,” Elora said, her voice steady now, the plan crystallizing. “I need to see the man they have sold me to. Not the Prince on a dais, but the man in his own halls.”
“You’ll be caught! The guards, the courtiers…”
“Then you will make sure I am not.” Elora turned, clutching the cloak to her chest. Her gaze pinned her younger sister, not with command, but with a desperate, sisterly plea. “You will tell the guards at our door that I am unwell, overcome by the journey. That you are sitting with me to ensure I rest and that we are not to be disturbed under any circumstances. You must do this for me, Loreza.”
The four Martell siblings had always been a sun and its orbiting planets. Doran, the eldest, the future Prince of Dorne, was the steady, burning center. Elora, only a year his junior, had been his shadow and his sharpest counsel, their minds two blades sharpened on the same whetstone. Then came Oberyn, two years younger, all fiery passion and prodigious skill with a spear, her partner in mischief and martial training. And Loreza, the youngest by another two years, was their collective treasure, the embodiment of everything soft and graceful, the sister they had all instinctively protected.
Elora and Loreza loved each other fiercely, but theirs was not the easy, conspiratorial bond Elora shared with Oberyn, or the deep, intellectual partnership she had with Doran. Elora was the storm; Loreza was the garden that needed sheltering from it. But in this moment, in this foreign, hostile castle, the hierarchy of their childhood fell away. They were just two sisters, and one was begging the other for her help.
Loreza saw the desperate fire in Elora’s eyes—the same fire that had led her to sneak into war councils and onto a battlefield. She saw not a rebellious princess, but her sister, drowning in a fate not of her making. The fear in her own heart was a cold knot, but the love was warmer and stronger.
With a terrified, yet resolute nod, Loreza reached out and squeezed Elora’s hand. “Go,” she whispered, her voice trembling but clear. “I will hold the door.”
A look of profound gratitude passed between them. In that moment, they were not the political pawn and the perfect lady. They were simply Elora and Loreza, and the bond of sisterhood was the only shield they had.
• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧
Elara moved through the torch-lit corridors like a ghost. She found the door to the Prince’s chambers, guarded by two Targaryen men-at-arms. She did not plead or hesitate. She threw back her hood.
“I am Princess Elara,” she announced, her voice cutting the silence. “I am here to see Prince Aemond.”
Stunned by her audacity, the guards faltered. A moment later, she was inside.
The room was a reflection of the man she had heard of: severe, ordered, and powerful. A large table was strewn with maps, a stand held his armor, and a fire roared in the hearth. He stood before it, having just been informed of her presence. He turned, and she finally saw him. Tall, lean, his face a sharp, handsome mask of control, dominated by that single, piercing blue eye.
“Princess,” he said, his voice a low, measured baritone. It was not a greeting, but an assessment. His eye traveled over her, from the loose, dark curls cascading over her shoulders to the simple, elegant nightgown visible beneath her cloak. “This is a breach of every protocol.”
“I find protocols are often designed to keep people in the dark,” she replied, holding his gaze without flinching. “I prefer the light.”
Aemond was intrigued. She was even more striking than the rumors suggested, but it was the fire in her eyes that captivated him. This was no frightened girl.
He began a slow circle around her. “And now that you are here, in the light? What do you see?”
“I see a man who does not ask. He takes,” she said, her heart a frantic drum. “Even when a kingdom and a queen mother tell him no.”
He stopped directly in front of her, invading her space, using his height and presence as a weapon. He leaned in, his face close to hers. “And you?” he murmured, his breath a warm ghost on her skin. “Are you the formidable mind I bargained for? Or are you just a beautiful piece of property, resentful of your new owner?”
Elara’s blood boiled. Owner? The word confirmed her worst fears. But anger made her sharp, not reckless.
Still invading her space, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And whose side does Dorne play on? My drunken brother’s? The one who would rather toast his own ruin than secure his dynasty?” He searched her face for any flicker of hesitation, any loyalty to the crown as it stood. This was his test. “Or do they serve a stronger, more… dedicated cause?”
Elara did not flinch. The question was not an insult; it was an invitation. And the fire of ambition in his gaze was a mirror to the one she had long banked in her own heart. He was not the spoiled second son she had feared, but a man of formidable will. The realization was a key turning in a lock.
“Dorne serves its own interests,” she stated, her voice steady and clear. “And its interest is in strength. In a ruler who does not see our deserts as the edge of the world, but as the foundation of a new empire.” She tilted her head, a subtle, challenging gesture. “You did not demand my sister, the placid lady. You demanded me. The one who fights. So, do not question my loyalty to a cause I have not yet been offered. Show me the cause, my prince. Prove it is worthy of my dagger.”
Aemond’s breath caught. She had not just passed his test; she had redefined it. She was not a subject to be commanded, but a potential architect to be convinced. The respect that washed over him was so profound it felt like a physical blow.
“You wanted a weapon,” she whispered, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. “Allow me to demonstrate my edge.”
It happened in a blur. She used his proximity, stepping into him, her foot hooking behind his ankle as her body became a lever. With a sharp, efficient motion, she broke his balance, driving him back until his shoulders hit the stone wall with a solid thud. Before the shock could even register on his face, the cold, deadly point of her dagger was pressed against the pulse point of his throat.
Aemond was frozen. Not by fear, but by sheer, unadulterated shock. And then, a wave of pure, hot admiration washed over him. She had not just challenged him; she had beaten him. In his own chambers. This was no simpering lady. This was a queen.
Her face was inches from his, her beautiful features transformed by a look of fierce triumph. “In Dorne,” she whispered, her voice dangerously soft, “we learn that the smallest scorpion can bring down the largest foe. It is not about size. It is about precision, and the will to strike. My will is iron. The question is, is yours?”
He stared at her, utterly captivated. The shock gave way to a wave of pure, incandescent triumph. She was perfect. Not just a partner in bed, but a partner in conquest. He saw the same ruthless ambition in her eyes that fueled his own, and he knew, with unshakable certainty, that he could trust her with his most dangerous secret because it would become hers, too.
He made no move to shove her away. He simply looked at her, his single eye wide, a slow, genuine smile of profound respect spreading across his face. “By the gods,” he breathed. “You are perfect.”
A slow, genuine smile, the first true one she had seen, spread across his face. “My will is fire and blood,” he breathed, his voice thick with promise. “And with you, it will be enough to forge a new throne.”
She held his gaze for a long, charged moment before sheathing her dagger with a fluid motion and stepping back into a posture of serene grace. The pact sealed in the language of violence and ambition, before hidikg her dagger.
“I will see you on the morrow, my prince.”
“I will be counting the moments, my wife.”
• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧
The Great Hall was a symphony of power and pretense. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, glinting off silver goblets and the elaborate jewels of the court. Elora was the central note in this symphony, a vision of controlled elegance in a gown of deep emerald silk that made her olive skin glow. She was the picture of Dornish grace, but beneath the surface, every sense was alert, cataloging faces, weighing loyalties.
When she was presented to Prince Aemond, the air around them seemed to still. He was exactly as she remembered from her clandestine glimpse—tall, severe, a sculpture of pale marble and contained violence. He took her offered hand, his grip cool and firm, and bowed over it with a chilling, perfect courtesy.
“Princess Elora,” he said, his voice carrying, ensuring the entire court witnessed his acknowledgment. “Welcome to King’s Landing. The honor is mine.” His words were for the crowd, but his single eye, a shard of sapphire, held a private, smoldering message that seared into her. I remember. And I am pleased with what I have claimed.
She dipped into a curtsy, a fluid, graceful movement that was both submission and performance. “The honor is mine, Prince Aemond,” she replied, her voice a clear, carrying melody. “I look forward to our union, and the strength it will bring to both our houses.” Her smile was a masterpiece of political art, giving away nothing.
Before the first course could be served, Queen Alicent descended, a heavy ledger clutched in her hands like a shield. Her smile was a thin, tight line. “Now, we must begin the practical planning,” she announced, her tone brooking no argument. “The Sept of Baelor has been reserved. It is the only fitting venue. The High Septon himself will perform the rites. We shall have a choir of the Most Devout, and the feast will feature the traditional boar and swan, prepared in the classic Crownlands fashion.”
Elora’s smile remained sweet, but a new light entered her eyes—the keen focus of a strategist. She saw the rigid set of Alicent’s jaw, the unyielding devotion to the Faith. To attack this front directly would be to lose. So, she would flank it.
“Your Grace is too kind,” Elora began, her voice filled with apparent deference. “And you are, of course, absolutely right. The sanctity of the ceremony in the eyes of the Gods and the realm is paramount. The Sept of Baelor is the only suitable choice.”
Alicent blinked, momentarily disarmed by the easy capitulation. A flicker of triumph crossed her face.
King Aegon, picking at a plate of fruit, watched over the rim of his wine cup. He saw the clever retreat and leaned forward, knowing a counter-strike was coming. She’s not surrendering; she’s repositioning her forces.
“However,” Elora continued, her tone becoming gently persuasive, “while the ceremony is for the Gods, the celebration that follows is for the people. It is a symbol of unity. Would it not be a powerful message of solidarity if, after the holy rites, the entire city could share in our joy?” She let the question hang before offering her solution. “The reception could be held in the Dragonpit, so that thousands may witness the strength of this new alliance. And to truly honor the union of Sun and Dragon, the feast could feature the finest dishes of both our lands—spiced Dornish lamb and flatbreads alongside the traditional boar. Our pomegranate wine is celebrated across the continent, and our musicians… well, their melodies tell the story of my home. It would make the celebration uniquely ours.”
It was a masterstroke. She had given Alicent the solemnity of the Sept, the bedrock of tradition, and in return, asked for the soul of the party itself.
Alicent hesitated, the ledger feeling heavier in her hands. The girl had ceded the most important point. To deny her the rest would seem churlish, ungracious. “The Dragonpit… for the feast? And Dornish music?” she said, struggling to find a objection that didn’t make her sound petty. “Such… vigorous food and foreign sounds…”
Aemond watched, his initial surprise hardening into a complex brew of admiration and suspicion. She had just outmaneuvered his mother without raising her voice. She had identified what Alicent valued most, let her have it, and in exchange, taken everything else. It was a more brilliant tactic than flatly refusing the Sept. He saw the calculation in her eyes, and the part of him that valued cunning above all else was deeply impressed.
“The Princess’s compromise is more than reasonable,” Aemond declared, his voice cool and final. “The ceremony will be in the Sept. The celebration thereafter will be in the Dragonpit, with Dornish traditions fully embraced. The matter is settled.” He then stood, the movement abrupt and commanding. He offered his arm to Elora, a public, decisive gesture that sealed the bargain. “Come. Let us take the air.”
It was Aegon who spoke, his voice loud and jovial. “A splendid negotiation! You secured the piety my mother desired and the spirit your people require, Princess. A talent indeed.” He raised his cup to her. “Such a mind should not be confined to party planning. You should join us in a council meeting. Unofficially. To offer the Dornish perspective on weightier matters.”
The offer hung in the air. Alicent looked aghast. Aemond’s grip on Elora’s arm tightened, his suspicion flaring at his brother's blatant move.
Elora met Aegon’s gaze, then glanced at Alicent’s stunned face and Aemond’s tense profile. She had won a significant cultural victory and was now being offered a seat at the table of power. “The King is too generous,” she said, her voice steady. “I would be honored to observe and learn, Your Grace.” She accepted, having turned a discussion about swans and choirs into a major political advancement.
The gesture was so public, so deliberate. A murmur ran through the hall as the betrothed pair walked out, leaving a speechless Alicent at the head table; the victor of a battle she had already lost the war for. She had her Sept, but the wedding would now be indelibly marked as Dornish.
Alicent Hightower stood frozen at the high table, the heavy ledger in her hands feeling less like a tool of organization and more like a relic of a world that was slipping through her fingers. The murmur of the court was a hive of excitement, buzzing not about the holy sanctity of the Sept of Baelor, but about the exotic prospect of a Dornish feast in the Dragonpit. They were already speaking of spiced lamb and foreign music.
She had won. She had her Sept. The High Septon would preside. The rites would be performed with all the solemn tradition she held dear. And yet, the victory was ashen in her mouth.
Her eyes, hard and unblinking, followed the retreating forms of her son and the Dornish princess until they disappeared through the great doors. Aemond’s arm, linked with Elora’s, was not just a courtesy; it was an alliance. A public declaration that he had chosen his bride’s counsel over his mother’s.
She is not like the others, Alicent thought, the realization a cold knot in her stomach. This was not some malleable girl to be shaped and guided. This was not even a simple, proud warrior. Elora Martell was something far more dangerous: a politician.
Alicent saw it all with terrifying clarity. The initial deference, the seemingly gracious concession on the Sept—it had not been submission. It had been a feint. The girl had assessed the battlefield, identified the hill Alicent was willing to die on, and had simply ceded it, knowing the rest of the territory was now undefended. She had given Alicent the stone walls of the Sept while claiming the fertile fields, the trade routes, and the loyalty of the people for herself.
And Aegon. Her firstborn, her disappointment, had seen it too. He had not just seen it; he had applauded it. He had been… intrigued. The way he looked at Elora was not merely the lecherous gaze he usually reserved for pretty serving girls. It was the look of a king recognizing a new, unexpected piece on the cyvasse board—a piece with the power to change the entire game. His offer to bring her into the council chambers was a catastrophe in the making. It would give her access, influence, a platform from which to weave her Dornish ambitions into the very fabric of their rule.
Alicent’s knuckles were white where she gripped the ledger. She saw the future unfolding with the grim certainty of a seer. Elora would not be content to be Aemond’s consort. She would be his partner, his advisor, the sharp mind behind his ruthless ambition. Together, they would be unstoppable. And in that partnership, where would that leave Alicent? The Queen Dowager, pushed to the sidelines, her counsel rendered obsolete by a younger, cleverer, more captivating woman.
She saw Rhaenyra in Elora’s defiant grace. She saw Otto Hightower in her calculating eyes. This princess was a blend of everything Alicent had ever feared and fought against: the wanton disregard for tradition mixed with the cold, patient cunning of a master strategist.
I have welcomed a viper into the nest, she thought, a fresh wave of bitter resentment washing over her. And my own sons are fighting over who gets to hold it.
Slowly, deliberately, she placed the ledger down on the table. The sound was a dull thud, a final period at the end of her defeat. She had secured the blessing of the Gods, but Elora Martell had just stolen the heart of the court, the ear of the King, and the allegiance of her intended husband. The war for the Iron Throne was still raging, but Alicent Hightower knew, with a mother’s terrifying instinct, that a new, more subtle war had just begun within the walls of the Red Keep. And she was no longer sure she had the weapons to win it.
• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧• ｡ . ⋆ ˙ ˚ ✧
In the gardens, all eyes were on them. It was a strange, walking spectacle. Aemond felt the stares, the whispers. He saw lords and ladies watching the fearsome One-Eye play the courteous suitor to his beautiful, foreign bride. It should have felt false, a performance. But with her hand on his arm, it felt… right. A possessiveness, different from the cold need for control, warmed his blood. He wanted them all to see. He wanted them to know she was his.
“You handle my mother with impressive deftness,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer to her than strictly necessary.
“I have spent my life navigating councils of proud men,” she replied, her voice low. “A queen who believes her will is law is a familiar challenge.”
He stopped, turning to face her, blocking the view of the staring courtiers with his body. “Let them look,” he said, his voice for her alone. “Let them see the future.”
Later, as they returned to the hall, they crossed paths with King Aegon. He was already unsteady, a goblet in hand.
“Brother! And my radiant good-sister-to-be!” he slurred, his gaze dragging over Elara. “I see you’ve been inspecting the merchandise. Fine purchase. Though I wonder if you have the coin to keep her.” He let out a drunken laugh.
Elara’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes cooled. “I am a gift from Dorne to the Crown, Your Grace. Not a transaction. Though I am flattered you find me so valuable.”
Aegon’s laugh died. He liked her fire, the way she didn’t cower before Alicent or simper before him. It was a frustrating, alluring novelty. He was deeply, irritatingly jealous that his serious, one-eyed brother had landed this particular prize. “Valuable indeed,” he muttered, his eyes lingering on her. “See that you don’t lose your edge in this soft court.”
“I can assure you, Your Grace,” she said, her tone polite yet final, “my edge is unbreakable.” She gave a slight, dismissive nod and allowed Aemond to lead her away.
Aemond watched the exchange, a dark satisfaction settling in his chest. His brother’s jealousy was a petty, useless emotion, but it pleased him nonetheless. Everything about her pleased him.
That night, in the solitude of his chambers, Aemond stared at the map of Westeros on his wall. The political marriage was a strategic masterstroke. But the woman… the woman was a revelation. He thought of her in the gardens, the sun on her skin, the sharp wit in her eyes. The wedding was weeks away. It was too long.
A courtship, he decided. Not the stilted, chaperoned affairs of the court. His courtship. He would show her the power he wielded, the city he would one day give her. He would take her flying on Vhagar, let her feel the true meaning of his strength. He would walk with her through the Street of Silk, let her see the wealth of his capital. He would have private dinners, where they could speak of history and strategy without the poisonous ears of his family.
He would court his future queen not just as a prince, but as a man. And in doing so, he would bind her to him long before they ever spoke their vows. The game for the throne was everything, but the game for her heart had just become infinitely more compelling.
first of all, this man is one of the most loyal men in all of Westeros
like, if you are his blood this man would literally walk to the ends of the earth to protect and defend you
robb also believes that sometimes the phrase 'blood is thicker than water' doesn't necessarily always apply
like if you are loyal to him and have been there for him as a friend or confidant, you best believe this man is going to die trying to protect you, even if it's against a member of his family
but now let's talk about protective robb with someone he was in love with because... wow
if you thought he was protective over his family, friends and people of Winterfell....
.......just wait until this man is in love
it would probably first only manifest in small, subtle ways if you weren't together yet
only little things that his family members would pick up on
like when he would try to inquire about what you've been doing
or whenever you would go to walk home at night Robb would conveniently be right beside you to offer to walk you home
because who knows who or what is wondering around in the dark?
catelyn would raise her eyebrows at and jon would try and hide his amusement
that would send arya and sansa into little giggling fits
luckily you would be blissfully unaware, just grateful for Robb's kindness
overtime it would escalate
you'd keep spotting Greywind prowling around you wherever you went
it was getting to the point that you were wondering if he was following you intentionally
there was one incident when you were walking home at night and robb was away on a hunting expedition and a group of men approached you
and Greywind appeared out of no where to bite the hand off the leader before he could rip your dress
robb literally having to hold himself back from destroying his room when he found out
when you told robb what had happened and had identified the men involved, they were never seen again
you didn't ask questions
whenever there was a feast at Winterfell, Robb's eyes would always find your figure, making sure that you were safe and having fun
and if there was dancing? well you best believe that Robb would always happen to be near you to offer to be your partner, only to be polite (of course)
you always wondering why no one else would ever ask you to dance, until one day you turn around just in time to see Robb starring literal daggers at one of his men about to approach you
at first you're upset, thinking that Robb doesn't see you as good enough for any of his men
"is it my status? my looks? what have I done for you to deem me so unworthy that you will not even let your men touch me?"
"unworthy? my men are the fucking unworthy ones. they're lucky they are even allowed to look at you."
a look of pure confusion would cross your face - you were always a bit slow when it came to romance
Robb would just chuckle and shake his head, "honestly love is it not obvious? I've been in love with you since the moment I fucking met you."
once you're together, oh boy
because while he was protective before, you're his now. Not in a controlling or possessive way but in a 'this is my wife and I would die a thousand times over if it means she lives' kind of way
all of winterfell knowing that you're a protected species
a diamond to be handled with the utmost care
Greywind becoming like your second shadow
which you don't mind but sometimes all you want is some peace and quiet and to be left alone
Robb knowing you can handle yourself but struggling to give you space because he knows how fucked up Westeros can be
because he has seen horrors that he prays you will never have to witness in your lifetime
trusting you completely, but the issue is he trusts no one else (apart from his family)
him having to learn to back off - slightly
always making sure he's standing between you and a doorway just incase soldiers come barging in
a hand always touching you whenever you're within arms reach
whenever he has to go away to fight it's always an internal struggle if he should bring you with him or leave you at home
because he doesn't want to drag you towards a war, but what happens if he leaves you at winterfell and isn't there to protect you?
defending you when catelyn makes some sort of insulting remark or comment
jon becoming just as protective of you because you're his brother's soulmate and robb has always been so good to him
which is really sweet but now you have Greywind and Ghost following after you all the time
which is really unnerving for some people
"do not worry about them, they do not bite.... much"
his enemies trying to get to you to get to Robb
the closest they ever got was an assassin trying to take you out on your morning ride
robb was usually not a cruel man but the rumours of what he had done to that assassin spread like wildfire around westeros
it became legend, myth, shrouded in fear and awe
very soon not even the most infamous and fearless assassins would dare go near you, much to cersei and tywin's frustration
not even littlefinger wanted to touch you
"I am afraid even I am not game enough to conjure up a plan to ruin this one, your grace."
oh and you know tyrion would be dying to meet you - the woman that turned the naive and probably too trusting Stark boy into a protective, ruthless leader. the woman who's sparked the fear in the hearts of the most soulless cunts in westeros? yeah he was a big fan
you being the only one who can calm robb down when he gets upset or enraged when someone tries to hurt you
sometimes you don't because sex with robb in protective mode is next level
always holding hands
forehead kisses
like, so so so many forehead kisses
if you were pregnant he would literally never stop touching your belly
he can be a little overbearing sometimes, but it makes you love him more for it
because you know that this man literally worships you and just wants to keep you safe
he tries his hardest to give you independence because at the end of the day he knows you are the strongest person he has ever met and can hold your own
this man would literally die a thousand deaths to keep you out of harms way because god damn it the villains of westeros have already taken away his father and he will be damned if they take you too
After a long tiring day, Theon loves to settle in a bath behind you, consumed with the warmth of the bath and the various oils and armours waiting in the air.
As you rest against his chest, you make patterns in the water casually with your fingertips. Theon wraps his arms around your waist casually as he presses kisses in the curve of your neck.
Theon's kisses are slow and sensual as he explores the curve of your neck. Theon asks how your day went.
Slowly and surely, you explain the details of your day. You talk about anything that particularly interesting happened or something that happened that bothered you.
All the while, Theon's listening to you intently, occasionally making commentary about your day. However, his ears particularly perk up whenever something negative is mentioned, to which he'll gladly and deal with anyone who upset you.
Once you're finished, you ask about Theon's day. Theon begins to talk about everything that he's been up to throughout the day. Theon gets excited whenever he's done something new or been able to show any authority.
You admire how determined and passionate he becomes, while he speaks animatedly about different subjects. Slowly Theon runs his hands all over your shoulders gently removing the knots out of your tight shoulders.
It is usually at this time you and Theon talk about your plans for the future. The adventures you're going to take, the plans to have a home that you can call your own.
Cleaning yourselves is normally a deliberately slow activity. Theon begins to rub and clean the dirt off of your body. Theon spends time memorising every inch and crevice of your body. You deserve to be looked after. Especially with everything you do for him.
Theon's favourite part is washing your hair. It's the way you lean into his touch as he massages your scalp, while Theon adds in mixtures of oils and mixtures that provide you with your signature scent.
When it's Theon's turn he exchanges positions with you, suddenly he's resting against your chest relaxing into your touch. Slowly and precisely. You massage and clan his tense muscles while whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
Theon sinks deeper into the water, you wrap your arms around him as you wash the day out of his hair. Once you both are washed and bathed, the two of you relax into the water until he gets cold.
Requested by: Anonymous
Wordcount: 3117
Summary: You really don’t like the attention that your lover, Jon, has been getting from the Dragon Queen. You intend to make sure he knows that he’s yours.
TW: Pretty much all smut below honestly. NSFW.
You always loved the sea, and a part of that was because your father, Davos Seaworth, was very much a man of it. It was even in your surname! But this had to be the gloomiest voyage that you had ever been a part of. Many of the people on these ships were heading for death. Hope of survival was slim in these days in any war, but one against the incoming dead? You stood on the bow of the ship, looking out at all that was ahead, trying only to see the good side of things. You had your father here, and he was still a good fellow to have during a fight despite his disfigurement. And you had your lover, Jon. And circling above the ship in the grey skies were two dragons, which was some pretty good arsenal in your opinion.
Yes - you were sailing with Daenerys, and the weight of all of her other titles. She surprisingly liked you, admired your lack of servitude towards men, that you didn’t put up with any sexism, that you were even tougher than some of the men in your own army. That you refused to slink back and act like a helpless woman when things got tough. When she wasn’t demanding people bend the knee or going on her ten minute rant of all of the names that she had, she wasn’t all that bad. But she had done something tonight which had pinched a nerve in you, and made you think of her as an entitled brat - not for the last time either.
During dinner, which she had invited you two to have in her cabin, she had been giving Jon some looks. Now, she could definitely not say that she did not know about the two of you since you were always together. Just because there was no wedding doesn’t mean that you two weren’t practically married already. Everyone knew that - even your father, though he didn’t fully appreciate that you two hadn’t had the ceremony yet. And yet, she had rested her hand upon Jon’s arm, and probably more under the table that you could not see.
You kept your calm during dinner, keeping your eyes on the plate to avoid shooting dirty looks at the ‘Queen’. You didn’t trust anyone with that title these days. Cersei was bad enough. Now you had this to contend with up close and personal. After the meal, once you and Jon were back in your own shared cabin, you were really able to let loose with your thoughts.
“Yes, I’m grateful that she had brought her dragons to fight our cause, and yes, I think it’s great that she has a whole army of people who are obviously devoted to her but my god, do I have to lose you to her in order for us to have a chance to live another a couple of years?” You asked, pacing the floor with your arms crossed in front of you. Jon was sitting on the bed, undoing his boots, saying nothing. He’d learned the value of silence when it came to your anger since arguing back had disastrous consequences. “And you just let her!”
“What do you think I should have done then?” He asked when there was a lull between your words.
“Not look at her like you were going to pick up your fork and feed her!” You said, opening up the window just to have something to do with your hands. You were feeling hot, your blood boiling. “I know we are not wed and your life is still your own but I never want to see another woman put her hand on you like that.”
“Some might say that you’re jealous,” He said, attempting to hide a little smile but you had caught sight of it. It just made you feel all the more passionate about the situation.
“Jealous?” You asked, turning on him, your whole body standing over him now. “You think that I am jealous of that white-haired woman? I would not trade places with her for any ship in the sea. Jealous - as if.”
“She was just trying to be friendly, and gain our trust.” Jon insisted, looking at you, completely undaunted.
“Well, she lost some of mine,” You scowled. “Are you trying to make me seem like the bad guy here? Because if that’s really what you want, I can become that.”
“I don’t know if you can,” He said. His words had flipped a switch in your mind. You were angry before, but now - now you were downright possessive. You had to make sure that he knew that it was you who would be there for him, you who would fight at his side, you who would love him until death. With the war coming, the two of you had not wasted much time. The relationship had developed quickly, and feeling that your time was coming near, you’d been making the most of it. There was not an inch in this cabin that had not been explored by the two of you during sex, nor were the kitchens or the deck truly clean. It would make your father disgusted to know that ships had been used this way by you. But you didn’t care if he knew - you were in love.
“You really think,” You asked, hopping yourself on his lap, wrapping your legs around his abdomen while he sat up straight. “-that you’re going to be able to distract me from that with sex?”
“I don’t have another choice,” He said, leaning forward to press a kiss on your chin. “I can’t have you killing her before we fight the war.”
“I guess that’s a fair point,” You sighed, tangling your fingers up in the curls of his hair. It was a sweet spot for him, causing his eyes to close and a mouth come out of his slightly parted lips. It was a beautiful sight. You wouldn’t trade him for any ship in the world either.
The playing with his hair went on for another moment before you yanked your hand away, causing him to groan rather than moan. His eyes shot open and he looked at you pleadingly to continue but you tutted and shook your head. “I’m the bad guy, Snow, you’re not always going to get exactly what you want.”
You hopped back to your feet and turned your back towards him, knowing that it would only tease him more. You lifted your tunic up from over your head and let it land on the floor near him. Your back was exposed to him, and you knew how much he loved it. Many a night he had fallen asleep while running his fingers up and down your spine. You turned your head over your shoulder and blew him a kiss, your hair falling over your shoulders to cover whatever might have been in view.
You abandoned wearing dresses whenever you were on a ship. Such a little thing as tripping on one’s long skirts could easily mean death when you could fall overboard and into the freezing water of the Narrow Sea. As well, you were rather proactive in the upkeep of the ship, even ascending the nets to get to the Crows Nest and take a turn looking out for land. That sort of climbing was not something that you could do in a dress. So now, in front of Jon, you were attired only in your trousers, your stockings to keep the cool air out, and your shoes.
A benefit of being a part of the ship was the muscle tone that you had, that you were proud of. You could arm-wrestle with the best of them, even beating Tormund once. The same arm that you used untied the laces of your shoes so you could kick them off - always the least sexy of the undressing processes. But then you were at your trousers, tied up with a corset-like front with a strong knot. Your fingers worked nimbly with it, undoing it slightly, pulling the thin piece of rope out so that Jon could tell what you were doing.
“You’re not being bad, you’re just being a tease,” Jon said, leaning backwards, balancing himself on his elbows. He was taking in the show, though. He would be crazy not to be enjoying it. He longed to kiss your shoulders, work his way down your back, down down down until he reached where your pants lingered -
But those soon disappeared, much like the top that you had thrown away. You had taken the stockings with you, stepping out of them with care. Now you were nude in front of him, but still with your back towards him. His eyes took in the most prevalent thing he could see - your ass, which was just the perfect size for him. He never cared much for looks - not caring about the whores the way that Theon did. But you - you were blessed with both looks and a personality that he had fallen for so quickly it nearly gave him whiplash.
You ran your fingers through your own hair now, cocking one hip up and then another in a dance that seemed very much like it was Dornish in origin. You hummed a song that you recalled from one of the ports you had stopped in many moons ago when you were helping your father with smuggling, and danced to it. “I don’t think you’re much of a good guy yourself, Jon. Letting her touch you like that in front of me. Putting me into this rage just to get a reaction out of me. I think you deserve to be teased.”
“Is that how it’s going to be?” He asked. You turned to the side, still rotating your hips, back to humming, and nodded. “The Queen is very beautiful, isn’t she?”
You avoided looking at him, knowing that he had a smug expression on his face. He enjoyed testing you, getting your mood up. Things always got rather heated that way. You slowed your dance down to a tantalizing pace, spinning around so that he could see your full front, a scene that always took his breath away. “Do you want to say that again?” You asked. He shook his head quickly, eyes transfixed on your chest.
“Didn’t think so,” You said. You leaned forward, moving in closer and closer to him, before tugging violently at his trousers. He lost his balance due to the force that you used and fell back upon the bed. Good - that was a good place to have him. You undid those trousers and pushed them down over his feet until they fell on the floor beside yours. This room was infamous for having discarded clothing all over the place.
His cock sprung out, freed from the fabric cage that they had been locked into all day. It was already as hard as a rock. You teased him further by licking the tip, making him grab onto your shoulders. His hastily trimmed nails dug into the skin, leaving little pink crescent marks. You would be sure to return the favor later. You kissed the tip, then licked up and down the sides in the same painfully slow pace you had taken with your dancing.
“Do you think that the Queen would do this?” You asked, sucking about half of his cock down your throat. Now, he wasn’t a giant in that department, but he was a nice size. Still, you were able to get all the way down if you wanted to, but right now he didn’t deserve that. He moaned at that, but didn’t give you an answer. Instead he just squeezed you once more, lightly attempting to push you down but you didn’t budge. Your tongue played against his split, then licked the underside of his cock before you released, the cold air bringing goosebumps to his pelvic region after being in your warm mouth.
“You’re thinking about her way more than I am,” Jon said, raising his head up to look at you. You shook your head, resenting the idea of that. Before you could make another move, Jon grabbed onto you and pulled you onto the bed. He was strong, and able to move you like you were a child’s doll made of fabric and sheep’s wool. His face was now buried in between your legs, and he started to lick at you as if your pussy was the fountain of youth.
“You’re so focused on thinking about her face that you can’t even remember her name?” You asked, biting down on your lower lip to keep from squealing. His beard always ended up tickling you, making you squirm. You didn’t grab at his shoulders like he did, but rather, grabbed onto the sheets for support. Your head was so close to knocking against the headboard but that was the least of your concerns at this moment. He was sucking on your clit, bringing you to a high far more quickly than you had anticipated. You struggled against him, then raised your feet under him to push him off. He looked up at you, lips moist and glistening, caught your eye then rolled his.
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” He said, looking exasperated. He tried to grab at you again so that he could return to his feast but you kicked him off of the bed, making him land on the floor. You smirked as he got up onto his feet, but that didn’t stay for very long. He picked you right up off of the bed before you could protest, slamming you down onto the desk, which was covered in maps and letters from ravens.
“I just think you liked the attention, Jon. Do you like her more than me? Do you think she’s better than me?” As you were asking these questions, you were trying to get off the desk. There were little figures on the map to help with strategy and they were digging into your bare back. As you flailed, Jon took the opportunity to step between your open legs and thrust his hard cock right into you. It was so quick that it hurt, causing an immediate discomfort but it slowly eased into pleasure. That didn’t mean, though, that you were done being irritated.
Jon held onto the back of your neck, forcing your head up to look at him as he thrust in and out, keeping eye contact the entire time. “Does it seem like I think she’s better than you?” He asked in disbelief.
“Can’t tell with you sometimes,” You muttered, pushing his hand away from you and leaned your head back against the wall. He instead grabbed onto your ankle and your thigh, keeping your legs spread as you struggled to find a way to keep yourself from being shaken too much. “Are you thinking of her right now?”
“I’m trying not to, but you keep bringing her up!” He growled. “Are you done with your jealous fit?”
You thought for a moment, which was hard because you could nearly feel yourself reaching a climax. You didn’t want to - that would mean that Jon won the argument. But you had a plan. Finally getting your arms underneath you, you pushed yourself up off of the desk, quite a few of the little figures sticking into your back but you didn’t care, and wrapped your arms around Jon’s shoulders. He was in a standing position while you were holding onto him like a reverse piggy back. Using your strength, you raised yourself up so only his tip was inside of you, then clenched your inner muscles to tease him all the more. Milk him.
“Almost,” You told him, resisting when he tried to drop you down little by little. “Who is your Queen?”
Jon froze entirely at that question. “What?”
“Not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not the Queen of Slave-Freeing, none of that. Your Queen. Whisper it if you are afraid of treason, but if you do not give me the answer that I want, I’m walking out that door.”
Jon didn’t hesitate after that. “You are,” He said softly, whispering it into your ear. “My Queen.”
You released your hold on him, sinking down onto him until he was fully inside you. He carried you back to the bed, where instead of throwing each other around, you made what you would call love. However, you still felt the need to be in control of him. To make sure that you were the only one that he was thinking about during these pleasurable moments.
You went on top, straddling him, bouncing yourself up and down in a quick pace. That didn’t however, mean that he could slack off. He thrust upward to meet with your bounces, and his hand went to your clit where he started to rub it slowly at first, then picking up speed. Since he only had experience with one other woman before you, you had to teach him some things. The value of pleasure in that little bundle of nerves was lesson number one and oh how he had learned. His other hand went to your breast, holding it in place rather than letting it go up and down with you, your nipple getting caught between his thumb and his index finger.
You looked down at him throughout, keeping up the eye contact. “I love you, Jon Snow. My true King.”
“I love you, y/n,” He said in return. The words seemed to have a physical effect because before he could even warn you, he cum up inside of you, thrusting hard against his own control.
You rode him out, only slightly disappointed that you weren’t able to finish at the same time. After his moment of pleasure had past, and the sensitivity began did you roll off of him and lay down on the bed, sweaty and tired. “I take that back,” You groaned. “A King would be a gentleman and let their Queen finish.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon breathed, rolling over on his side to kiss your shoulder. “I’ll just make you finish twice next time.”
