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#game of thrones fanfic
ichorai · 10 months
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i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.
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track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.  
pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)
synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.
words ; 47.8k
themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn
warnings / includes ; war/violence/murder/injury/blood, attempted sexual assault, this story covers the events from game of thrones s1-4, politicking, incest, talks of sex, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, reader is known as the bitter wolf and is ned’s youngest sibling, bittersweet ending
main masterlist. read on ao3!
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You first met Jaime Lannister during the Year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney of Harrenhal—you had only been ten years of age, still starry-eyed and gentle-of-tongue. Knights, lords, and ladies hailing from all over Westeros were buzzing about the opening feast. Chalices of golden ale, platters of fruit and cheese, and sizzling trays of freshly-roasted meats were splayed out over several long tables.
To your right was your eldest brother, Brandon, biting into a large turkey leg and gingerly offering you a piece when he caught you ogling him. To your left was your sister Lyanna, popping voluminous grapes into her mouth and chattering to your two other brothers, Benjen and Ned, across the table. Her grey eyes were alight with glee, and she tipped her head back to laugh when Benjen made a snarky comment about Ned’s overgrown hair.
You were well into your second serving of glazed lemon cakes when the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood up front. A hush descended upon the crowd when the handsome, silver-haired man brandished a large, golden harp.
He sang a song of sorrow, one of tragedy and death. His voice was soft and beautiful, saturated with honey and rich soil. It was a strange choice for such a joyous event, but the crowd seemed to be enjoying it. Your sister, most of all, as she had tears warbling over her stormy irises upon his serenade.
When Rhaegar finally finished, Benjen noticed Lyanna’s tearful eyes and began cackling loudly with no restrain. Your sister scowled deeply and poured her entire glass of wine over Benjen’s head, Dornish red dripping down his shocked face. The younger man moaned with grief at his soiled tunic, but was still giggling nonetheless. You had watched the entire ordeal with a wide, toothy grin.
As the feast progressed, more and more people left to go dance. You and Brandon were exchanging knowing glances when the great beauty, Ashara Dayne, a woman of lengthy midnight locks and dark mauve eyes, began dancing with Ned Stark upon Brandon’s request. The two of you cheered him on from the sides, embarrassing your quietest and shyest brother beyond relief, his cheeks stained with a permanent dusting of rouge.
“Come, little sister,” said Brandon, only seven-and-ten at the time, holding out his hand with a kind smile. The soft grey of his eyes gleamed with earnest. “You shall be my last dance of the feast.”
You glanced around, apprehensive. “Would you rather not dance with any of the other ladies present?”
“I’ve had enough dances with girls I hardly know, much less any I’d ever see again. Come, let me have a dance with my youngest sister. It may be a long while until I see you again after this.”
Acquiescing to his wishes, you slid away from the table and took his hand, beaming up at your oldest brother. The two of you were no good at dancing—you trod on his feet more times than you could count, and he wasn’t quite used to having a dance partner less than half his height, resulting in a clumsy waltz of flailing limbs and awkward shuffling. Nonetheless, the both of you were laughing and smiling regardless of your quickly-numbing feet.
The joy was abruptly leeched away when the hall grew eerily quiet, orchestral music halting mid-note. You stopped in your dance with Brandon, letting go of his hand to turn and see what was going on.
King Aerys shuffled in, back slightly hunched, his glossed-over eyes surveying the crowd. His white hair was long and tangled beyond salvaging, the ends split and the strands near his scalp bunching together in matted clumps. There was a sickly, pallid color to his skin. His hands were twitching wildly by his sides, long, ochre-hued claws scratching the bare flesh of his irritated wrists. 
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. You felt yourself step back closer to your brother, suddenly feeling a wave of fear dance through you. This was the first time you’d seen the King in the flesh—and from what you’ve heard, he was far from a good one. 
The rumors did not fall upon deaf ears—you knew he was going mad. Now that you were looking at him, it seemed so obvious. He went from yelling at his squire at the top of his lungs, threatening to burn him alive, to laughing hysterically about a trivial matter that was lost to you, until he began wheezing and coughing and spluttering spittle every which way.
All of a sudden, the King’s wild gaze fell upon Jaime Lannister, a young blonde sitting on the table across the hall from you, beckoning the young man closer to kneel before him. You craned your neck to get a proper look at him. He was a sharply handsome young man, with soft tendrils of spun-gold, and gleaming viridescent eyes. There were many tall tales about him—of his unending skill in battle, of his excellent swordsmanship, of his bold fearlessness. 
The young knight was called to swear the oath of the Kingsguard in front of the entire hall. You watched with muted curiosity—he was barely older than Brandon, and yet he was already swearing away his entire life to the Mad King.
What a waste.
What you hadn’t picked up on, however, was that Jaime was none too happy about this ordeal, either. His expression was not set in stone, subtle flashes of anger bubbling through his stoic facade.
The crowd burst into raucous cheers when he got back onto his feet.
You did not clap.
The King had sent Jaime away later that night to guard the Queen and her children, and you did not see him for the rest of the tourney. 
Perhaps that was a good thing—the Tourney at Harrenhal led to many, many things shortly in the aftermath. The abduction of your older sister, Lyanna, by the crown prince. The death of your eldest brother, Brandon, along with your father, Rickard Stark, by the hands of the Mad King. An entire war broke out. Your brother, Eddard, marrying Catelyn Tully in Brandon’s stead, and siring a newborn son, Robb. Off he went to battle not too soon after—leaving only you and Benjen and tiny Robb as the remaining Starks in Winterfell.
Rhaegar Targaryen dying from a blow by Robert Baratheon, who’d been madly infatuated with your sister. Or, at least, he’d deluded himself into thinking he was. 
Jaime Lannister slitting the throat of the Mad King.
Everything had spun by so quickly—it all happened in a mere few moons. You were infamously named the Bitter Wolf, for not once have you smiled since the deaths of your dear family. It did not help that Benjen soon left to the Night’s Watch, leaving your only kin left to be Eddard and his young son.
“The Bitter Wolf,” the people of Winterfell always whispered as you passed by, foolishly thinking that you couldn’t hear them. “Take care not to get in her way… lest she ties you naked to a stake outside the castle walls to freeze overnight.”
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Thwack.
Little Bran stomped a small foot in frustration when his arrow flew wildly off course, splintering into the damp wood of a barrel beside his intended target.
Jon patted his half-brother on the shoulder comfortingly. “Go on,” he said, “father’s watching. Your mother, too.”
The second arrow whizzed straight over the target entirely, disappearing somewhere into the trees behind. Bran’s older brothers began to chuckle under their breath, an even younger Rickon joining in on their laughter.
“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” asked Ned from the platforms above the courtyard. You briefly thought back to when you were ten—right when the war started. When you’d lost Lyanna, Brandon, and your father…
The other two boys chimed in with their advice.
“Don’t think too much about it,” said Jon.
“Relax your bow arm,” piped Robb.
Having a certain soft spot for your young nephew, you decided to voice your own thoughts. “Keep practicing, Bran. It’s alright not to be perfect at first, despite what your foolish brothers may tell you. For years, I kept missing my targets just because I always gripped the bow wrong. There is a certain art to it,” you told the young boy with a steely tone whilst nocking your own longbow, lining your gaze up with the target. In the blink of an eye, you sent it arcing forward, impaling the center of the coal-lined circle perfectly. Robb whistled with an impressed expression coloring over his features. “Archery is something you build up to—you won’t magically learn to perfect it in half a day.”
From somewhere behind the lot of you, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing the target right beside the tip of your bolt. You rounded your gaze behind you to see your young niece, Arya, holding her own bow, and grinning widely, immensely proud of herself.
It was no secret that Arya admired you greatly, aspiring to be like you when she grew older. Ned would often lightheartedly blame you for his second daughter’s callous, wild, and unladylike nature, but you would always reply with a straight tone, “Arya is every bit Lyanna. I am not Lyanna.”
With a frustrated huff, Bran darted after his sister, angry that she had bested him in something she wasn’t even supposed to be good at. Arya scurried away with a cackle, mud and gravel flying up beneath her boots with her remarkable speed. Robb and Jon burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. 
The smiles fell away when you shoved a bow into each of their arms. “Alright, boys. You think you’re so much better than your brother? Show me. I want ten perfect hits—only grazing the circle does not count.” 
The two young men incredulously glanced up at their father, as if expecting Ned to save them from your stern wrath. Your older brother merely shrugged, half of a grin tilting his lips lopsided.
With a groan, the boys turned to do as they were bid, until Theon Greyjoy came bounding up to Ned with a message. A deserter from the Night’s Watch was captured not too far from Winterfell. An execution by Ned’s hand was in order for breaking a sworn oath.
Saved by the raven, you thought grimly, though you made a mental note to get them to practice again afterwards, even if it meant you had to drag them out by the ears. 
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The biting winds nipped at the small amounts of exposed bare skin that wasn’t covered by layers of thick furs, turning your face frigid. Outside the castle walls, the cold was more daunting and the gales were far stronger. You were well-acquainted with this sort of weather, however, and showed no sign of discomfort when Bran quietly asked you if you were as cold as he was.
They set the deserter upon a log, his neck resting upon the wood for Ned to chop it off. The poor fool was mumbling incoherently, too quiet for you to catch, but you could see the panic crystal clear in his far-away eyes. 
“Don’t look away,” said Jon to his younger brother. “Father will know if you do.”
Bran blinked, looking up at you for a brief moment. You dipped your head in agreement. It was something he needed to face eventually—death was inevitable.
“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said Ned. “I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”
With that, your brother raised his longsword and swung it down cleanly onto the back of the deserter’s neck. His severed head fell to the frozen ground with a squelching thud.
“You did well,” you quietly told little Bran, who had a slightly disturbed expression upon his quickly-paling features, but did not flinch all the same. He didn’t look at you, feeling a certain sickness coiling in his stomach.
Both Jon and Robb gritted their teeth. The older of the two turned and led Bran away to the horses.
“Bran is an imaginative boy,” you told Ned once he lumbered over to you, sheathing his sword. “He dreams of fights and knighthood—the glory and praise of it all. He knows not of the blood and death that consequently comes with it. Prepare him for that, Ned. Or he will be left traumatized and shrouded with fear.”
No one had prepared me, you wanted to say, but bit down on your tongue.
Your older brother took a pause at your words, considering them seriously. With a grim nod, he strode off to speak to his second-youngest son.
The ride back to Winterfell was rocky and far colder than when you had left. On the way, the group came across a mauled carcass of a stag, its bloodied guts pooling out of its abdomen, flesh nearly clawed apart.
“What killed it?” asked Jon.
“Mountain lion?” offered Theon, eyes darting to the trees in search of such a beast.
You shook your head. “Mountain lions don’t venture up this far. Must be a Northern animal. Claw marks are too small to be a bear.”
With slow strides Ned walked around the dead animal and down a muddy hill, where a bubbling creek rushed by. You followed along, brows quirking upwards upon seeing the large body of a direwolf, fresh blood coating the entire front of its pelt. There was an antler sticking out of its throat—no doubt the poor wolf died in agony.
Your attention was brought down lower to small, yipping pups, suckling at the teats of their dead mother. 
“It’s a freak!” Theon said. 
You shot him an icy glare, making him whither beneath your eyes. “Show some respect. The direwolf died protecting her pups.”
“Tough old beast,” Ned gruffed, before pulling out the bloodied antler. 
“There are no direwolves south of the Wall,” Robb postulated, befuddled as to how this had happened.
“Now there are five,” said Jon, before picking one of the pups up by the scruff and moving it out to Bran. “You want to hold it?”
The pup whimpered as he was placed into Bran’s awaiting arms, wanting to go back to its mother. “Where will they go?” asked the boy. “Their mother’s dead.”
“They don’t belong down here—better a quick death,” said Ned, pulling out his sword once more. “They won’t last without their mother.”
Eager to please, Theon leapt forward, brandishing a knife and pulling the direwolf pup away from Bran. “Right, give it here.”
“No!” cried your nephew.
“Put away your blade,” you barked out, stepping closer to the ward. 
Theon gulped nervously, but was stubborn to a fault. “I take orders from your brother, not you.”
“Please, father!” begged Bran, ever the sweet boy. He had already witnessed one death today, and was not yet ready to see five more.
“Put it away,” you repeated menacingly at Theon, before looking to your brother. “Ned, there are five direwolf pups… one for each of your children. The direwolf is the sigil of our house—it would do us no good killing off our own symbols. ‘Tis a rare thing to find direwolves around these parts. This is a blessing, brother. Take it as one.”
With a sigh, Ned hung his head, before staring directly at Bran. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves. If they die, you will bury them yourselves.”
Theon sheathed his knife at Ned’s words, thrusting the pup back into Bran’s grasp.
The group began to walk away, and you hauled up one of the pups into your arms, wondering whether it will go to Sansa, Arya, or Rickon, as Robb and Bran seemed to already have their pick.
“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.
The dark-haired man stiffly replied, “I’m not a Stark.”
The sound of another whimpering pup roped your attention away from the one in your arms. Jon knelt down by the stump of a tree, brandishing a pure-white direwolf, its eyes a hazy shade of crimson.
“Ah, the runt of the litter,” chuckled Theon. “That one’s yours, Snow.”
Jon still seemed disheartened, staring at the scrawny little thing with narrowed eyes as the rest of the group were already hitching their horses.
“Come on,” you nudged the younger man along with your elbow. “The runts always turn out to be the strongest. Perhaps not physically, but their wills are unmatched.”
It was not often that you were remotely affectionate to him, but when Jon turned to glance at you, your expression had hardened back to its usual state. “Now get on your horse, before I convince your father to abandon you out here.”
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The month passed by in a blur. The direwolves were growing at a rapid speed, reaching taller than the height of your knee when they sat up, ears perked. News of Jon Arryn’s death had come not too long ago, and King Robert Baratheon was due to arrive at Winterfell any minute by now, along with his family, and a plethora of other royal subjects.
“I want to see the Imp,” Arya babbled to you, scurrying along by your side as you swiftly crossed the courtyard to the stairs that led to your chambers, eager to change into something more appropriate for the arrival of the King. 
“Why? Because you want to meet someone shorter than you, for once?” you asked her dismissively, allowing her to slip through the door behind you as you changed out of your muddied garments into much cleaner ones. “Take no offense to this, Arya, but Tyrion Lannister prefers the company of much older women.”
Arya hopped onto your bed, eyebrows furrowing. She reminded you much of your late older sister, and it pained you to look at her for too long. Your comment about Tyrion’s tastes flew right over her head. “I’m not that short! Bran and Rickon are much shorter than me!”
A derisive snort fell from your lips as you did up your tunic, leaning close to the warped mirror to make sure you were decent enough for the public’s eye. “Not for long, girl. Not for long.”
Before Arya could reply, you were already making your way out of your chambers, just in time to see Bran clamber down the tall castle walls, yelling out, “The King is here! I saw him, he’s here!”
Not ten minutes later, nearly a hundred horses clopped through the gates, carrying fluttering Baratheon and Lannister flags. 
You stood beside Catelyn, head held up high. To her other side was Ned, then Robb, then Sansa, then Bran, and finally, little Rickon. Arya pushed forth between Sansa and Bran, shoving her younger brother aside. “Move!” she gruffed, earning her an angry glare from both parties. 
Behind you was Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy, the former looking like he’d really rather be doing anything else, and the latter looking excited to see Southern folk—the girls there are much prettier, he’d always thought.
The King certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He’d grown twice as wide since last you saw him, rounded belly straining the buttons of his stretched coat. His dark beard was thick and long, wild locks of black hair hastily combed back. A servant had to place down steps for him to clamber off his horse.
Ned knelt down before his old friend, and you followed suit. The King strode up to him, beckoning your older brother to rise, along with the rest of the people of Winterfell. You stood back up on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Your eyes wandered further behind the King, wondering where the rest of the royal family were.
“Your Grace,” said Ned, bowing his head. 
Robert scanned his eyes over the Warden of the North, thick brows quirking down with disapproval. “You’ve got fat,” he quipped. Pot, meet kettle.
Your older brother tilted his head, using his chin to gesture to Robert’s own protruding stomach. The King then let out a loud, wheezing laugh, spreading out his arms to wrap Ned in a tight embrace.
He gave Catelyn a hug next, exclaiming her name warmly. 
His dark eyes then landed on you. “Ah, the infamous Bitter Wolf,” he boldly said. He dared not hug you, wondering if you’d bite off his hand, uncaring that he was the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms. There was a pregnant pause—his gaze rested a second longer than it should have, for he couldn’t help but notice how you’d grown well into your features, sharing a few traits with Lyanna—though she looked much like your father whilst your appearance favored your late mother. “Time has done you wonders. Last I saw, you were only but a wee thing.”
“If only I could say the same to you,” you replied, voice sharp and level. Robert only gave a grand chuckle at your words, before moving his gaze back to Ned.
“Nine years—why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?” 
A ghost of a smile graced Ned’s lips. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.”
“From what? Naked tree branches and piles of snow?” he said, amused at his own jests.
A little ways behind Robert, you could see Queen Cersei Lannister step out of a carriage, lifting her golden skirts just slightly so they wouldn’t drag along the mud. 
“Where’s the Imp?” you heard Arya ask her sister.
“Will you shut up?” Sansa shot back, rolling her deep blue eyes to the side. 
The King walked on to see the Stark children, a proud glint to his expression. “And who do we have here? Ah… you must be Robb,” he said, shaking the eldest boy’s hand firmly. Robert looked at Sansa, brows raised. “My, you’re a pretty one.”
He then leaned down closer to Arya, who looked much too preoccupied looking for the Imp, asking for her name. Arya absentmindedly responded, still searching for Tyrion, not even bothering to look the King in the eye. Robert seemed not to mind, only barking out a gruff chuckle.
“Ooh, show us your muscles!” Robert told Bran, who immediately raised a scrawny arm with a small grin. The King wheezed a chesty laugh. “You’ll be a soldier!”
The last of the horses rode into Winterfell, and you keenly noticed a golden-armored knight climbing off his steed, tugging his helmet off his head.
Jaime Lannister. 
The man who killed the King. The very same King that murdered your father and brother.
Nearly unchanged from all those years ago, he was. His golden hair stood out starkly against the grey walls of the castle, green eyes bright and cunning. 
You hadn’t even noticed that you were staring at him until your attention was ripped away by Cersei Lannister, her hand held out in front of Ned. 
“My Queen,” he said, lightly kissing her knuckles. Catelyn bowed, a polite smile to her lips. You watched her with narrowed eyes, and for a brief second, Cersei met your cold gaze, as if challenging you to back down.
Before she could say anything, Robert strode back in front of Ned. “Take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”
To Lyanna. He wanted to see Lyanna.
Cersei scowled. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”
The King ignored his wife. “Ned. Let’s go.”
Your brother glanced apologetically at the Queen, before leading Robert away, down to the crypts.
“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asked a third time, bouncing on her feet. 
Nobody spared her a response, but Cersei swiftly rotated around to Jaime, taking hold of his arm. “Where is our wretched brother? Go and find the little beast.”
You watched Jaime huff in amusement, before striding off in search of Tyrion. 
When Cersei turned back to the Stark family, you were nowhere to be seen.
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The feast was held at sundown. 
Your creamed potatoes were growing cold, but you hadn’t the stomach to eat anymore—not when Robert Baratheon was sticking his tongue down a servant’s throat only two tables away from you. So you opted to sipping on your drink instead, half-listening to whatever tall tale Robb was exaggerating to the lords around him.
It was only when half of the food was already scarfed down, did your brother Benjen arrive. He came clopping on horseback, striding through the crowded entrance and ducking between cheering men with overflowing chalices of ale. 
“Little sister,” he greeted, clapping a hand on your shoulder and drawing you into a tight hug. Surprised at the sudden embrace, it took you a moment to reciprocate his affection. Your nose buried into the thick furs of his coat. You did not smile, but there was a faint trace of fondness to your eyes. “You are looking as sour as ever. Not a wonder why people only ever call you the Bitter Wolf these days. ‘Tis a rare thing to see you at a social calling, much less one this crowded.”
“Aren’t you a charmer? I’m only here because the King ordered me to be. Why, I cannot possibly say,” you dryly replied, before shoving him away and handing him a goblet of wine. “Here. Must be better than what you’ve got up on the Wall.”
Benjen said something in reply, but it was muffled into the rim of the cup as he slurped it down with a greedy groan. “Ah, I missed this terribly. You can’t imagine how awful alcohol tastes up there. Where is our dear brother? Ned!”
The taller man strode away to the eldest Stark by the main table, cuffing his shoulder with a wide grin. Ned, however, was solemn-faced, pondering about the mad boy he had beheaded all those weeks ago.
You chanced a glance towards the King—he was far too occupied with two other ladies fawning over him to notice you slipping out of the Hall. With that, you began weaving through the packed throng, eager to take your leave.
To your dismay, you were stopped in your tracks by a taller figure, the dark lapels of his tunic brushing against your face with your sudden halt. You reared back a step, your narrowed eyes meeting his curious green ones.
Jaime Lannister.
“Excuse me,” you said, none too pleased about being stopped in your tracks. 
“Lady Stark,” he murmured, voice silken smooth. “Or, should I say, the Bitter Wolf?”
Annoyance growing, you only scowled at him. “Pardon me, Ser Jaime. Or, should I say, Kingslayer?”
Jaime frowned. The action twisted his sharp features in a manner that did not suit him at all, as if such an expression did not belong on such a face. The words stung like he’d just been slapped. Nonetheless, he pressed forth, determined to keep your conversation ongoing. 
“I hear your brother is to be Hand of the King.”
What was this? Amicable chatter? With the Queen’s brother, no less? You were bewildered as to how you got to such a predicament—you only wanted nothing more than to retire to your chambers.
“Yes, lovely to hear that I am the last of my siblings to remain at Winterfell,” you snarkily replied, deftly stepping around him and ushering out of the Hall. It was to no avail, for Jaime simply strode with you, ambling after you out into the cold snow. “Why are you following me?”
“Walking you to your chambers,” the blonde knight simply replied, as if it were common sense. “You were there, were you not? At the Tourney of Harrenhal? I saw you. Small thing, you were.”
A beat of silence. In the distance, a raven cawed. You could feel the tension in your shoulders only barely dissipate. 
“Yes,” you carefully replied. “I remember little of it… I was so young. Times were simpler then.”
Jaime huffed out a dry laugh and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for me, they weren’t.” It was clear to you that he was implying his time with the Mad King. You were given no chance to reply when he continued speaking. “You weren’t so bitter then. I saw you dancing with your brother… Brandon, was it?”
A lump formed in your throat. “Yes,” you quietly responded, voice suddenly hoarse.
“I’m sure a tournament will be held in honor of Lord Eddard’s new title, should he accept,” Jaime said, hands clasping behind his back. “I would hope to see you there, Lady Stark. Perhaps you can watch me best your brother in combat.”
Much to Jaime’s amazement, you scoffed, bordering on a near laugh. 
He had made the infamous Bitter Wolf nearly laugh! A strange sense of pride curled within the confines of his chest.
“Your arrogance will be your downfall, Ser Jaime. Besides—Ned doesn’t fight in tourneys. I wouldn’t, either.” You turned the corner to climb up the steps to your chambers, halting in your tracks to look down upon Jaime. “‘Tis a foolish thing, fighting for naught but gold and praise. When the enemies come striking, there is no gold waiting on the other side. Just the bittersweet relief of survival.”
Jaime tilted his head, considering your words. “It’s not always a relief.”
“Pardon?”
“Relief… not all are relieved to be alive,” he mused, hand resting upon the stone wall beside him. 
You observed the man before you. Perhaps you had severely misjudged him.
“Yes,” you murmured, casting your gaze up to the starry night sky. “I know what that’s like.”
The two of you stood in silence for a while longer. It was neither comfortable nor was it unbearable. It was simply just there.
“I’ll be retiring for the night, Ser Jaime. You’ve followed me this far—I could only hope you won’t follow me into my chambers,” you said in a warning tone, eyes locked intensely with his.
With a playful tone, Jaime pushed at the elasticity of your limits. There was a roguish grin to his mouth. “I would never. Not unless you invited me, of course.” 
And there it was again—your gruff scoff-laugh. Jaime stood up straighter, wishing to hear you laugh properly.
“Good night, Ser,” you curtly said.
“Good night, Lady Stark. Sleep well. Perhaps we’ll reconvene on the morrow,” he replied with a small bow of his head. With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back into the mess hall. You hummed in thought, thinking back to his earlier words as you slid into your dark chambers.
Not all are relieved to be alive.
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You were up early the next morning, sharpening one of your many throwing daggers by the foot of the staircase. 
It all happened in a blur. One moment, you heard a faint thud from the edges of the castle walls. You thought nothing of it at first—brushing it off as one of the saddle boys accidentally knocking a barrel over. But the morning was still young, and you doubted any of them would even be up at such an hour. It would do you no harm to go check. And so, you sheathed your dagger and strode across the yard and rounded the bend.
The next moment, you were happening upon Bran’s small, broken body, laid across the grass and gravel, clearly having just fallen from a great height. You had yelled for the maesters so loudly that the entirety of Winterfell seemed to awaken at the commotion. With frantic motions, you gathered Bran up in your arms and sprinted towards the infirmary, murmuring panicked prayers to the Old Gods beneath your breath.
The startled Maester Luwin swooped to take Bran from you, setting him down on a bed to check on him. The small boy was unresponsive, but still breathing.
Catelyn and Ned came running in soon after. You took to comforting an anguished Cat while answering Ned’s solemn questions as to what happened. 
For the days to come, you rarely ever left your nephew’s side, curled up in a chair by the head of his bed, only ever leaving to occasionally clean yourself up and grab food for yourself and Catelyn. The boy’s poor mother was in shambles, often crying into his blankets and pleading for him to wake up. She prayed to her Seven Gods, begging them to bestow mercy for her sweet boy. When she wasn’t sobbing, she would read to him in a low, croaking voice, or occupy her shaking hands with needlework.
Cersei Lannister had appeared by the doorway the morning after Bran’s fall, clutching her thick coat close to her form. 
“Oh, I would’ve dressed, had I known you were coming, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, standing up to bow slightly. You glanced up from your own book, dipping your head in acknowledgement to the Queen.
The woman hummed. “Please, this is your home. I’m your guest.” She looked upon Bran, green eyes dark and thoughtful. “Handsome one, he is. I lost my first boy—a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter, too… tried to beat the fever that took him.”
Her words made you set your book down, brows furrowing.
She seemed to sense both you and Catelyn’s agitation, clasping her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. That must be the last thing you need to hear right now.”
“I never knew, Your Grace,” said Catelyn, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her palm. She was exhausted, having forgone sleep for the entire night.
“It was a long time ago,” Cersei replied wistfully. “Robert was furious… beat his hands bloody on the wall. All the things men do to show you how much they care.”
“Without actually caring,” you murmured, thinking back to his crazed infatuation with your older sister. Cersei’s stare turned to you, and she nodded once. 
There was a long, pregnant silence. The Queen cleared her throat and continued on. A thin film of tears warbled over her viridescent irises. “The boy looked just like him. Such a small thing. A bird without feathers. When they came to take him away—Robert held me. I screamed and battled, but he held me. I never saw him again. Never visited the crypts.” She drew in a shaky breath and fixed her stare back on the motionless Bran. “I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she will return your child to you, Lady Catelyn.”
“I am grateful,” Cat sniffled.
“Perhaps this time she’ll listen,” said Cersei. She turned to take her leave, but not before glancing at you. “You were the one who found him, were you not?”
You set your jaw at the question. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Hm. It is a miracle you were there… he would have been dead if not for you,” she murmured, a strange edge to her tone. The skirts of her dress swished noisily as she strode out of the room. 
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The fresh air was doing you good. Your head felt much clearer as you made your way around the castle, the cold winds settling nicely over your skin, pleasantly tousling your hair. You made your way to the smithy, where you spotted Jon hovering over the wooden table where a blade was being carefully cleaned.
It seemed the young man was quite taken with the prospect of going up to the Wall with your brother, Benjen, and swearing the vows of the Night’s Watch. You weren’t too happy to hear of his plans on leaving Winterfell, but you supposed he’d feel much more at home further up North with people cut from the same cloth as him. Not only was Jon leaving to the Wall, but Ned, Sansa, and Arya were also going to the capital with the King quite soon.
“Jon,” you greeted, dipping your head at your nephew. “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”
The grey-eyed man shook his head, curls flying. There was a small, wary smile touching the corner of his lips. “I was going to come visit you and Bran before you left. I have something to give to Arya first.”
You peered over his shoulder to take a closer look at the thin sword. “A sword for your sister? Be sure your father doesn’t see you giving her that.”
Surprised flashed across Jon’s face. You were never one to pass up the chance to nag him until his ears fell away. “Are you not going to tell me off?”
“No,” you grimly replied. “King’s Landing is a dangerous place. The girl’s going to need it someday.”
Jon nodded once, pleased that you weren’t going to stop him. 
It was then that you heard a familiar voice susurrate from behind you, making both you and Jon turn around at the same time.
“Lady Stark, my deepest condolences for your young nephew. Let us hope he makes a speedy recovery,” he said. He was grinning strangely, in a manner that you rather misliked.
“Yes,” you responded stoically. “I suppose this is a farewell for us, then.”
The blonde knight tossed his head back in a confident manner. “Only time will tell, Bitter Wolf. You never know—our paths may yet cross again.” 
You couldn’t quite tell if that was a promise or a threat. Perhaps both.
You spared him a distant hum, turning back to look upon the sword Jon was having specially crafted for Arya.
“A sword for the wall?” the Kingslayer asked, head tilting. 
“No. I already have one,” said Jon.
The older man’s brows lifted. “Good man. Have you swung it yet?”
The bastard scoffed. “Of course I have.”
“At someone, I mean,” the knight clarified. Jon remained silent. “It’s a strange thing… cutting a man open for the first time. You realize we’re nothing but sacks of meat and blood and bone to keep it all standing. Let me thank you ahead of time, Jon Snow, for guarding us all from the perils beyond the Wall. Wildlings and white walkers and whatnot.”
Jaime tightly clasped Jon’s hand, clearly mocking the man with a condescending lilt to his words. It took no genius to discern that Jaime was no fan of the Night’s Watch—to him, they were nothing but a group of lowly thieves, rapists, and murderers.
The younger boy tried to pull his hand away from Jaime’s grip, but the blonde man merely grasped harder. “We’re grateful to have such good, strong men like you protecting us.”
“I’d appreciate it if you let go of my nephew, Ser Jaime,” you cut in, voice icy and eyes ablaze. You were rather indifferent to the blonde knight, but he was starting to get on your nerves. 
Jaime took one glimpse at your hardened scowl, before relinquishing his hold on Jon and stepping back. You couldn’t quite read the expression on his handsome features. “Give my regards to the brothers at the Wall. I’m sure it will be thrilling to serve in such an… elite force. And if not, well… it’s just for your entire life, right? Small price.”
The Kingslayer left the both of you glaring at his back, making his way back into the castle to find his brother. You looked to Jon.
“His arrogance will be his downfall,” you whispered, parroting what you’d told him the night of the feast.
Jon only grunted in response, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.
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It was easy to say goodbye to Jon. You knew he was going to be safe with your brother watching over him, and he was going to be much happier at the Wall without feeling out of place, like he did in Winterfell. You gave him a one-armed hug, pulling away to pat his cheek twice. 
“Write to me, will you? I want to know how you’re faring,” you said, tone uncharacteristically soft. It’d been nearly a month since Bran fell out of the window, and you weren’t keen on losing another one of your nephews. 
Jon nodded, lips pursed grimly. “Of course. Will you let me know if Bran wakes up?” he asked.
“When he wakes up,” you corrected.
“Right. When he wakes up. You Starks are hard to kill.”
Though you didn’t smile, there was a clear glimmer of fondness to your irises, one that Jon only rarely caught when you were speaking to Ned or little Rickon. The fact that it was directed to him for the first time made his stomach roil—he was going to miss you. 
“You’re a Stark to me, Jon. You’re my nephew, my blood… never forget that. Now, get on—Robb’s waiting to speak to you.” 
You ushered the younger man off to say his farewells to his half-brother, but Jon paused in his steps and lowly asked, “Before I go, I wanted to ask you… do you know anything about my mother?”
There was a beat of silence. You certainly hadn’t expected Jon to ask you that. “Your father never spoke to me about her. All I know is that she must’ve been a good person if Ned took a liking to her. I’m sorry… I wish I could tell you more, but I know little of the matter myself.”
You didn't miss the glimmer of disappointment to the young lad's grey eyes. “Don’t be. Farewell, Aunt Y/N.”
You watched Jon turn on his heel and walk off to speak with Robb.
“You don’t look too happy to see me off,” said Benjen, magically appearing by your side and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. He ruffled your hair with a mild grin. “Then again… you never really look happy, do you?”
With a scowl, you ducked away from his hands. “Oh, stop it. I’ll be seeing you again sooner or later, no doubt.”
“I’m being serious, dear sister. I cannot remember the last time I’ve seen you genuinely smiling,” he said, evident concern flooding his winter-hewn features. “Give me a smile—just one before I leave. You used to smile all the time when we were little.”
Before the war. Before father and Brandon were murdered.
You shook your head, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. “That was a long while ago, Benjen. I am not the same person I was before.”
Barking out a laugh, Benjen crossed his arms over his chest. “Indeed you are not. I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll be keeping Bran in my prayers.”
“You don’t pray,” you dryly said.
“I would for him,” your older brother replied solemnly before mounting his horse. “Goodbye, Y/N.”
Your own goodbye was too quiet for him to hear, as he was already clopping away. 
The next farewells in order were for Ned, Sansa, and Arya. Your brother tugged you into a loose hug, face grim. 
“Winter is coming,” he had whispered into your hairline. “Take care, Y/N.”
As for the two girls, Sansa was rather intimidated by you, and squeaked out a stiff goodbye, whilst Arya hugged you tightly, her face buried into the fabric of your tunic. You had frozen at first, but loosened with time and gently patted her head. 
There was too much of Lyanna in her, you thought with a frown as she pulled away from you and scurried off to get into the carriage behind her older sister.
Hours later, you found yourself sitting by Bran’s bed once again, Catelyn on the other side weaving together a prayer wheel for her son. You were flicking through a voluminous tome on the history of dragons, muffling a yawn behind your fist. It was only when Maester Luwin strode into the room did you pull your attention away from the book.
“It’s time we reviewed the accounts, my Lady,” he hesitantly said to Catelyn, hands clasped together. The woman’s eyes watered, and she glared at the maester for even thinking that she was up for speaking of money when her son was still hurt. “You’ll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us.”
She hummed dismissively. “Talk to Poole about it.”
Sympathetic, Luwin lowered his voice. “Poole went south with Lord Stark, my Lady. We need a new steward, and there are several appointments that require our immediate attention—”
“I don’t care!” Catelyn bit out. “I don’t care about appointments! My son needs me.”
Another figure stepped through the doorway. “I’ll make the appointments,” said Robb. “We’ll talk about it first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll be happy to help, if need be,” you offered, nodding to Robb.
“Very well, my Lord—my Lady,” said Maester Luwin to the both of you, before dipping his head and excusing himself out of the room.
You casted a worried glance to Catelyn, who’d taken to intensely staring at her prayer wheel once more.
“When was the last time you’ve left this room?” Robb asked his mother. Crossing the room in three long strides, he reached out to open up the windows. The noise of the howling direwolves flooded into the chambers.
There was a tremble in her voice when she said, “I have to take care of him.”
“He’s not going to die, mother. The maester says the most dangerous time has passed,” Robb tried to reason fruitlessly. 
“What if he’s wrong?” she retaliated, eyes wild. “Bran needs me!”
Her eldest son shook his head. “Rickon needs you. He’s six. He doesn’t know what’s happening—he follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying out for you, for Bran, for father—”
The direwolves howled some more.
“Close the windows!” Catelyn cried, abandoning her prayer wheel to curl her hands into fists and knock them against her knees in frustration. “I can’t stand it! Make them stop!”
The howling only grew louder. 
With furrowed brows, you stood up on your feet to stand beside Robb and glance out the window. 
Your heart leapt into your throat. 
Fire.
Red, greedy flames. Licking at the air, spitting embers at the gravel. 
With urgent movements, you dashed out of the door to help put the growing blaze out, catching Robb ordering his mother to stay in the room.
When you returned to the chambers not fifteen minutes later, you found Catelyn curled up on the cold floor, murmuring prayers beneath her breath, her hands soaked in dark ichor. An equally bloodied Summer was laying protectively over Bran’s unconscious form.
On the other side of the room was a man, throat nearly turned inside out, crimson so dark it nearly looked black, gushing out of his neck.
And on the ground between them was a dagger.
A dagger to change the fate of the entirety of Westeros.
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“This is where he must have fallen,” you whispered to Catelyn, gazing out from the opening in the tall tower. 
Your sister-in-law gritted her teeth. “Or where he was pushed.”
Anger bubbled within your throat. It made sense—Bran had never fallen before while climbing, and someone was sent to murder him not too long after the first failed attempt. 
“Who would do such a thing?” you asked in an icy voice, gaze scouring around the rest of the tower.
Catelyn knelt down on the ground, eyes widening. From the ground she picked up a long strand of blonde hair.
Fury turned your vision red.
Cersei Lannister.
Nearly an hour later, Catelyn had convened a small group she was sure to be loyal to her. Ned’s ward, the master-at-arms, the maester, you, and her eldest son.
“What I am about to tell you must remain between us,” she said, an urgent edge to her words. “I don’t think Bran fell from that tower. I think he was thrown.”
Maester Luwin bowed his head in thought. “The boy was always sure-footed before.”
“Someone tried to kill him twice. Why? Why murder an innocent child?” Catelyn whispered, blue eyes hardened. “Unless he saw something he shouldn’t have seen.”
Theon tilted his head. “Saw what, my Lady?”
“I don’t know… but I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reason to suspect their loyalty to the crown.”
“Did you notice the dagger that the killer used? It’s too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade is Valyrian steel, and the handle is dragonbone. Someone gave it to him… someone with a lot of money,” said Rodrik, presenting the sharp dagger for everyone to see.
Enraged, Robb snarled, “They come into my home and try to murder my brother? If it’s war they want—”
“If it comes to that, you know that I’ll stand behind you,” Theon interrupted, ever desperate to please.
“Perhaps it is best you think first with your head before your fists,” you told the two bristling boys in a placating tone. “War is the last thing we need. We have to keep our emotions in tact… find out who did this. Justice will be served, but it mustn’t be rushed.”
Robb blew out a frustrated breath, but nodded. It was not wise to rush headfirst into war. Everybody had to be smart about this.
“Lord Stark must be informed,” said Maester Luwin. 
Shaking her head, Catelyn responded, “I don’t trust a raven to carry these words.” 
“I’ll ride to King’s Landing,” Robb offered. 
Immediately, Catelyn refused his proposal, not wanting to put another one of her sons in danger. “No. You are Winterfell’s heir—you should remain here. I will go myself.” 
“Mother, you can’t—” Robb began to protest.
“I must,” said Catelyn, heavy with finality. 
Rodrik pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll send Hal with a squad of guards to escort you, my Lady.”
Again, Catelyn denied the offer. “I don’t want the Lannisters to know I’m coming. Too large a party will attract attention.”
“Then let me accompany you,” said Rodrik. “The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone.”
Crestfallen at having to see his mother off, Robb whispered, “What about Bran?”
Catelyn’s lips trembled. “I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month. Bran’s life is in their hands now.”
By nightfall, Catelyn had packed a small rucksack to take with her, and Rodrik was awaiting her by Winterfell’s gates. 
“Watch my boys for me,” she murmured, taking your hands within hers and squeezing. Tears lined her eyes, threatening to fall, but none did. “There isn’t much you can do for Bran but Robb… Rickon… they need you.”
“I’ll be here, sister,” you said solemnly, squeezing her palms in a reassuring manner.
With that, you helped her mount her small horse, and watched as she rode off with Rodrik in tow. Robb came by your side, his jaw set.
“All my life, I’ve watched people go,” you said to him, wistful. “My father, my brothers, my sister, and now your mother. The waiting is the worst part.”
The younger man casted you a curious look—this was the first time he’s heard you speak of your past. He pulled a hand over his weary face. “I’m not good at waiting.”
“You’ll have no choice,” you told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me, Robb. We have an entire castle to uphold. We must work together, you and I. You are a young man, with a heavy responsibility weighing over your head… but I will shoulder it with you. You hear me, boy?”
Conflict warred within the blue of his eyes. He looked so much like Catelyn, nothing like you or Ned. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
To his surprise, you pulled him into an embrace, and he couldn’t help but swallow down the lump in his throat, forcing away the sharp sting to the corner of his eyes. Never before had you openly shown him such affection, but these were changing times. You loved your nephew dearly, even if you weren’t one to show it.
“Come,” you said once you pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “Let us go have supper.”
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A week had gone by when Bran awoke.
He was tired and groggy, and felt nothing from the waist down. He’d never be able to walk again, the maester had said. Bran was angry at the news, spending his days looking glum and solemn.
When Robb had asked him if he remembered anything, Bran merely bit his bottom lip and shook his head. You wrote to both Jon and Ned of the bittersweet news, sending the raven off first thing in the morning.
Nearly a moon later, Lord Tyrion returned back to Winterfell after his little adventure to the Wall, with a brother of the Night’s Watch, Yoren, accompanying him.
“I must say I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit,” the Imp mused, standing before you and Robb and Maester Luwin.
A scowl flitted over your features. “Winter is coming, Lord Tyrion. Not much warmth going around the North these days.”
Robb tilted his head. “Any man of the Night’s Watch is always welcome in Winterfell.”
“Any man of the Night’s Watch but not I, eh, boy?” Tyrion asked. 
With a steely tone, your nephew gritted out, “I’m not your boy, Lannister. I’m the Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.”
“Then you might learn a Lord’s courtesy!”
It was then that the door to the hall swung open, and Hodor lumbered in, carrying Bran in his arms.
“So it’s true,” said Tyrion, eyes widening ever so slightly. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?”
Maester Luwin responded on the boy’s behalf. “He has no memory of that day.”
Frustrated, Robb asked, “Why are you here?”
Ignoring the question, the Lannister looked back to Bran. “Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt.”
With a straight face, Bran quietly said, “Kneel, Hodor.”
The large man did as Bran asked. 
“Do you like to ride, Bran?” queried Tyrion.
“Yes. Well… I used to.”
Luwin’s brows furrowed. “The boy has lost the use of his legs.”
Brandishing a paper scroll, Tyrion easily replied, “With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.”
The small boy frowned at the wording. “I’m not a cripple,” he said, clearly upset.
“Then I’m not a dwarf!” Tyrion exclaimed before handing Bran the scroll. “My father would be rejoiced to hear it. Here—this is for you. Give it to your saddler, and he’ll provide the rest.”
He unraveled it eagerly, a smile touching his lips upon seeing intricate designs for a special-made saddle to accommodate for his legs. 
“Will I really be able to ride?” asked Bran.
“You will,” said Tyrion. “On horseback, you’ll be as tall as any other man.”
Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “What game are you playing at, Lord Lannister? Why are you helping my nephew, if you even are?”
“No game,” the Imp replied. “I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”
Bran smiled at the blonde, and Robb seemed to soften a bit at this.
“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” he said.
Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Spare me your courtesies, Lord Stark. There is a brothel outside your walls. There, I’ll find a bed and both of us can sleep easier.”
With that, Tyrion turned to leave. 
“I’ll be right back,” you told Robb, who watched you go with curious eyes. You said nothing more, getting up from your seat and hurrying out after the surprisingly quick man. “Lord Tyrion.”
“Ah, the Bitter Wolf—I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of speaking to each other alone before,” he hummed. “My brother seems to think you’re amusing… though you don’t quite look the kind to jape.”
You waved away his words, getting straight to the point. “Do you know where Cersei Lannister was the morning Bran fell?”
The Imp’s brows raised. “I can’t say I do… I was sunken into my whore and my cups… and Cersei avoids me like the plague. I scarcely know where she is even when I’m sober. Why? Do you believe my wretched sister played a hand in his crippling?”
“Indeed, I do,” you shot back, a sharp edge to your words. “These are dangerous times, Lord Tyrion. Sleep well.”
With no more to say to him, you turned on your heel and marched back into the hall, with the Imp’s gaze burning holes into the back of your head.
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The small scroll the raven brought to Winterfell bore nothing but bad news. Catelyn had taken Tyrion as hostage in belief that he was the one responsible for Bran’s fall, as the dagger apparently belonged to him. She planned on bringing him up to the Vale to contest his crimes with her sister, Lysa. 
It is not Tyrion, you wanted to scream at your law-sister, even though she was thousands of miles away. It is Cersei Lannister. I am sure of it.
Not too long after the news of the Imp’s imprisonment reached you, another raven came flying into Winterfell. This time, its contents were far graver.
Jory was dead. Ned was seriously maimed on behalf of Catelyn—a spear pierced cleanly into his thigh—and he was tossed into a jail cell by order of Jaime Lannister.
Fury had consumed you whole when you read the little parchment, nearly ripping the paper apart from your tight grip. You had half a mind to ride to King’s Landing and demand your brother be freed at once, but you steeled yourself with reason. There was little you could do—the Red Keep was swarming with golden lions and hungry cats of the same ilk. It was no place for a wolf of winter.
When you had told Robb of the news, he was surprisingly calm about it, drawing away from you to mull it over silently. He did not want to jump headfirst into violence—but what choice did he have now?
“My mother shouldn’t have done that,” murmured Robb, voice lowered so nobody would be able to overhear. “The Lannisters will go to war with us for this.”
You hummed, pensive. “No, she shouldn’t have. It is not Lord Tyrion that pushed Bran—he may be a drunkard, but he is not a fool. He wouldn’t equip an assassin with his own personal dagger. Only an arrogant idiot would do such a thing.”
“Then who do you think did it?” asked your nephew, blue eyes cold.
“Cersei Lannister. Your mother and I found a long strand of blonde hair in the tower Bran fell from. Who other than Cersei has long blonde hair? I don’t know why she would do such a thing—but I’d bet an arm and a leg that it was her. She loves nobody but her own children… and she is none too fond of your father, or the King, or any of you. Perhaps Bran saw her with someone. Someone she wasn’t supposed to be with,” you said, tone slow as you spelled it out for him.
Brows raised, Robb reared back at the realization. His breath seemed to crystallize within his throat. “If word were to get out about Cersei’s couplings, the King would have her head on a spike. It would make sense for her to eliminate any… threats.”
“Yes, boy. We must keep this to ourselves for now—we could lose our tongues at the very least if we have no proof.”
The younger man blew out a sigh. The heavy burden laying over his shoulders seemed to only grow weightier by the minute. “Should we not tell Bran? About any of this?”
Both of you looked at the sweet summer child, hollering out excitedly as he rode about on Dancer, strapped into the new horse saddle Tyrion had designed. 
“He seems happy. Perhaps it is best we let him remain in such a state for a little while longer.”
It was then that Theon made his way to the two of you, having heard the news of Jory and Ned from a grave Maester Luwin. 
“Are you not going to make the Lannisters pay?” he asked Robb, grey eyes ablaze. 
Setting his jaw, Robb firmly shook his head. “I will not go to war.”
“It’s not war—” Theon firmly replied, “it’s justice.”
A scoff lodged itself in your throat. “Queer definition of justice, ey, Greyjoy? Is revenge the only way you settle fights back on the Iron Islands? ‘Tis a wonder the lot of you haven’t already murdered each other, then.” 
The ward bristled at your nonchalant comments, but decided to ignore you, addressing Robb once more. “Jaime Lannister put a spear through your father’s leg. The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock, where no one can touch him—”
“It was not him,” you sharply corrected Theon, scowling. 
“What?”
“It was not Ser Jaime who speared Ned,” you repeated yourself, slightly quieter. 
Mirroring your frown, Theon shook his head with frustration. “What does it matter? He was there. He fought Lord Stark in front of a whorehouse!”
“What would you have me do?” demanded Robb, lifting his head in a challenging manner. “March on Casterly Rock and order the Kingslayer to come out of hiding? Then you are more a fool than I thought, Theon.”
Raising his voice ever so slightly, Theon retaliated, “You’re not a boy anymore! They attacked your father. The war has already begun, whether you like it or not. It’s your duty to represent House Stark when your father can’t.”
“And what do you know of duty?” you spat, glaring angrily at Theon. “It is not your house—I’m afraid you’re confusing captivity with duty.”
With an angry yell, Theon pushed himself up to his feet, towering over you, but you merely rolled your eyes to the side. The both of you knew that if Theon were to lay one hand on you, he would be hanging from a noose by the end of the day. Uncaring of the bridling man, you glanced around to look for Bran.
Where the devil was he?
“Where’s Bran?” asked Robb, wildly looking around for his younger brother.
Still upset, Theon hissed out, “Don’t know. Not my house.” With that, he stalked away, shoulders slumped.
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You and Robb hurriedly scoured the forest in search of little Bran. A nocked bow was gripped in your hands, and a dagger was safely tucked beneath your cloak in case you ever needed it.
Finally, the two of you heard whispers and mutters coming from behind a bush, and you raised your bow with narrowed eyes. It was Bran on his horse, appearing frightened—and around him were four Wildlings, their furs muddied and their faces covered with soot. One of them had a blade against Bran’s paralyzed leg.
“Drop the knife,” Robb commanded, voice booming. He unsheathed his sword, the cold metal gleaming with the sparse rays of sun through the dark grey clouds. “Let him go, and I’ll let you live.”
The wildlings glanced at each other, snickering. One of them dove forward with a yell, arcing an axe down upon Robb. Your nephew was quick to parry and duck away, his sword slicing cleanly along the flesh of his throat.
You let your arrow loose straight through the eye of the wildling closest to Bran, and he fell back with an ear-splitting scream. With nimble movements, you ran to the horse, beginning to unbuckle the straps to the saddle keeping him in place. To your right, another wildling came charging at you, her dull axe swinging down to your arm. You jerked away before it could make a clean chop, but the blade carved a large gash into your forearm nonetheless, blood splattering all over your tunic. Pain blossomed over your hand and you rolled away before she could hit you once more. Robb came forward, slanting his longsword against the wildling woman’s jugular.
The last straggler grabbed your injured arm, making you cry out at the sudden pressure, the tip of his own dirty knife pressing into your jaw. A crimson bead leaked out from your skin, rolling down your neck.
Robb’s eyes widened. From his horse, Bran worriedly yelled your name.
“Drop the sword!” the wildling yelled, glaring at Robb holding his friend. “Do it!”
With slow, cautious movements, Robb reluctantly lowered his sword, but didn’t relinquish his grip on the woman. 
All of a sudden, an arrow flew through the air, piercing straight through the wildling that was holding you with a sickening squelch. More blood splattered over your face and you grimaced, shoving him away with a gasp. You rounded your gaze behind to see Theon Greyjoy, his face grim yet smug.
Robb was quick to rush to Bran, asking if he was alright. His blue eyes glanced at you with concern, noting how your entire arm was drenched with your dark blood. 
“I’ll be fine,” you whispered to him, wincing as you put pressure upon your gash. “Maester Luwin will stitch me up.”
“Do I not get a thank you?” Theon asked you, nocking another arrow to point at the wildling woman’s forehead. “In the Iron Islands, you’re not a man until you’ve killed your first enemy. Well done, Robb.”
A scowl crossed your features, but Robb replied in your stead. “Have you gone mad?” he growled out. “What if you’d missed? You could’ve gotten her killed!”
Indignant, Theon gruffed, “That wildling would’ve killed the three of you anyway, had I not been there.”
“You don’t have the right—!”
“To what? To save Lady Stark? It was the only thing to do so I did it! Would you rather her be dead?” 
You raised a hand to placate the two, tone calm and soft. “Alright, alright. Thank you, Theon. Happy? Can we get on with actual important matters now?” Your eyes darted to the last wildling alive.
Whimpering, she cowered beneath the tip of Theon’s arrow. “Please, m’lord, gimme mah life and ah’m yours,” she simpered, crawling closer to Robb.
Ever the tender boy, Robb bowed his head. “Keep her alive.”
She blew out a sigh of relief, kneeling down to press her head into the cold, damp soil with gratitude. You turned away, marching back to the castle, leaving a trail of blood dripping from the deep gash in your wake.
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Benjen had disappeared. The small raven’s scroll was read over and over nearly ten times altogether… desperate for some sort of misreading or that the words would magically change. But they did nothing of the sort—your older brother had vanished into thin air beyond the Wall.
Before you could even begin to process your grief, another message came to Winterfell, written by Sansa.
Ned had been arrested.
“Treason?” Robb whispered after he read the message. “Sansa wrote this?”
“Sansa’s hand… but a Lannister’s words were stuffed down her throat. No mention of Arya either,” you growled out, pacing back and forth in front of your nephew, Maester Luwin, and Theon.
The old man clasped his hands in front of him, appearing grim. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new King.”
Brows furrowed, Robb spat, “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?”
“This is a royal command, my Lord,” said Luwin. “If you should refuse to obey—”
“I won’t refuse. I’ll go to King’s Landing… but not alone. Call the banners,” Robb told the Maester, grave and solemn.
Lowering his voice, Luwin asked, “All of them, my Lord?”
“They’ve all sworn to defend my father, have they not? Now we see what their words are worth.” 
There was a glint of pride in Luwin’s eyes. He’d been the one to pull Robb out of his mother’s womb, and now he was practically a man grown. With a bow of his head, he turned to amble away, off to send the ravens to the bannermen.
Robb’s hands were shaking violently. It didn’t go beyond your notice when he clasped them over one another in an effort to stave his nerves away. 
“I’m going with you,” you told him firmly, surprising both Robb and Theon.
A protest formed on the tip of your nephew’s tongue. “No, you should stay here with B—”
“Ned is my brother. The only one left, if Benjen is truly gone. I need to go, Robb. I need to.” Your voice cracked with desperation and you reached out to tightly clutch at his shoulder, eyes cold with muted fury. “When the King summoned my father and my brother, Brandon, to King’s Landing… they never returned to Winterfell. And now Joffrey is calling for you… I can’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you—end of story.”
There was a lengthy beat of silence.
Eventually, Theon was the one that caved, barking out a laugh. “There’s no stopping her, Robb.”
“For once, Greyjoy seems to be finding sense,” you snidely remarked. 
A small sigh fell from Robb’s lips. “Alright. Perhaps this is the best thing to do—I don’t know if I could lead a war all on my own.”
“You’re not alone, my boy,” you told him, patting his cheek twice. “You’d have to pry my cold, dead body away from you if it meant I was to be leaving you.”
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A grand feast was held for the bannermen’s arrival at Winterfell. Everybody drank and ate and chattered joyfully, exchanging tall tales of war and battle. Everybody save for Robb, who was still ridden with anxiety, prodding around pieces of chicken with the prongs of his fork, having no appetite to eat. You sat beside him, taking small bites of a berry cake. 
From across the table, Lord Umber was barking out, “For thirty years I’ve been leaving corpses in my wake! I’m the one you want leading the vanguard!” 
His efforts to convince Robb were fruitless. “Galbart Glover will lead the van,” he repeated himself, quite exhausted of the matter already.
“The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover!” the old man yelled. “I will lead the van… or I will take my men and march them home!”
You paused mid-bite, placing the half-eaten cake down on your plate as you glared at the northman. Icy were your words as you threatened, “Do so, Lord Umber, and you would be hanging from the gallows in under a fortnight. Your house would be branded with the name of an oathbreaker.”
The man’s dark eyes hardened and he stood up from the table, slamming his fists against the top. Plates of food and cutlery clattered with the sudden motion. “Oathbreaker, is it, Bitter Wolf?” You stood up as well, which prompted Robb to get up onto his feet, along with the rest of the table—save for Bran, who glanced worriedly between you and his brother. “I’ll not sit here and swallow insults from a woman who doesn’t even know the first thing about war!”
“How dare you speak to Lady Stark in such a way?” Robb bellowed, making the older man’s heated gaze fall on him.
“And you! How could I be taking orders from a boy so green he pisses grass?”
With that, he drew his blade, the sound of steel singing across the table. In a blink of an eye, Grey Wind leapt onto the table and knocked Greatjon onto his back with a great thud. The direwolf’s sharp teeth sank into the Umber’s hand, tearing off two fingers completely. Blood splattered all over the floor, accompanied by his agonized shrieking.
With a frustrated growl, he pushed himself back up onto his feet, clutching his maimed palm close to his chest.
“My Lord father taught me it was death to bare steel against your liege Lord,” said Robb. After a considerable pause, he continued, much softer. “But doubtless… you only meant to cut my meat for me, no?”
Oh, Robb. Sweet summer boy… too kind for his own good, you thought with a mild scowl. It will be the death of him.
It appeared as if the Umber wanted to curse Robb out some more. He glanced down at the direwolf, its muzzle covered in his blood. A bolt of fear jolted down his spine.
“Well,” he reluctantly said, clearing his throat, “your meat is bloody tough!”
The rest of the hall slowly fell into laughter, chortling at the dissipation of what could’ve been a bloodbath. Robb laughed amicably, finally sitting back down to actually start eating his food. You didn’t laugh, nor did you touch the rest of your cake.
By the time the feast had waned away, you escorted Bran and Hodor out of the hall, following behind the large, gentle giant into Bran’s chambers. 
You sat by his bed once Hodor laid him down. With nimble, fleeting touches, you tugged the blanket up to Bran’s chin and brushed his hair away from his face. You were not the nurturing, motherly kind… you were not Catelyn, nor were you what Sansa wanted to be. You didn’t know how to care for Bran in the way he needed to be—Rickon even less so. But they were your family, and you needed to try for them… now more than ever before. 
“Have any of your memories come back?” you asked, tone soft. When he shook his head, you blew out a sigh. “That’s alright. You just rest for now. How have you been sleeping?”
Bran bit into his lip, as if contemplating whether he should lie or not. 
“I dream a lot,” he said, deciding to tell you the truth. “Every night. The same one.”
Cocking your head, you silently beckoned for him to go on.
“I see a raven… with three eyes,” he whispered. “Every time I get closer, it flies away.”
“Your mind knows no bounds, even in sleep,” you said, a hint of fondness to your gaze.
There was a long pause before Bran hesitantly queried, “Can I ask you a question, Aunt?”
“Go on, boy.”
“Does it ever… bother you? When people call you the Bitter Wolf?”
You leaned away from your nephew, humming in thought. “It did. It still does. It’s a constant reminder of my past.”
“Well, why don’t you order them to stop? You’re of higher rank than any of them!” squeaked Bran.
“The creatures of winter will always whisper, dear boy,” you murmured. “Only once the frost has taken them and iced their bodies into hard stone—only then would they fall silent.”
The young boy looked as if he wanted to ask you more, but the door creaked open, pulling both of your attentions to Robb, making his way into Bran’s chambers.
“What is it? Has something happened?” asked Bran, his deep blue eyes widening at Robb’s solemn features.
“It’s alright, nothing’s happened,” he replied, quiet. He met your gaze, and you nodded once in understanding. It was time to go.
It was then that Bran noticed Robb had donned his traveling furs. “Where are you going?”
“South,” Robb said. “For father.”
“But it’s the middle of the night!” he protested.
“The dark gives us cover for a few hours,” you spoke, voice only barely louder than a whisper. “The Lannisters have spies everywhere, no doubt.”
Bran reared back to face you. “Us? You’re leaving, as well?”
“Yes, Bran,” you told him simply, grim-faced.
“Can’t I come with you?” pleaded Bran. “I can ride now, you’ve seen me! And I won’t get in the way, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, Robb was already shaking his head firmly. “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Until I return, that will be you. You are not to leave the castle walls while we’re gone. Do you understand?”
Crestfallen, Bran reluctantly nodded. 
“Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after your little brother,” you gently told him. “Be brave for us, Bran. Winterfell needs you.”
“Okay,” he mumbled. 
“Until we return,” Robb added, stepping forward to ruffle Bran’s hair affectionately. “We’ll ride together once I come back.”
A ghost of a watery smile traced the corner of Bran’s lips. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
With that, you pushed yourself onto your feet and both you and Robb made your way outside. Snowflakes danced with the cold wind. 
“Do you really think this is smart? Going to war with the Lannisters?” asked Robb. You glanced at your oldest nephew, lips pursed. He was so young… and already carried himself as if he were two decades older than he actually was. 
“No,” you quietly admitted. “War is never smart. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”
Robb hummed. “No. I suppose we don’t.”
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A fortnight breezed by in the blink of an eye.
The war was steadily waging on—with Jaime Lannister at the crux of the oppositional side. To think that you had once thought him a decent man… it made your stomach roil just thinking about it. With Tywin Lannister’s armies approaching as well, Robb seemed to be vastly outnumbered in battles.
Your good-sister, Lady Catelyn, joined you in the Neck, the marshy region of House Reed. She had embraced you tightly, before pulling away to query about her two youngest sons with tearful eyes. You assured her that they were safe in Winterfell, pointedly avoiding the encounter with the Wildlings, not wanting to worry her any further.
Many strategy meetings were held on whether to move ahead on Jaime Lannister’s army, or Tywin’s. You butted heads with Greatjon Umber far too often, as you bore no liking for him and he would rather think with his fists than his head. Either way, the group would have to cross the Twins, which meant you had to garner the support of the Freys. The Lord of the Freys, Walder, was no man easily swayed. He had a penchant for gold and young girls, often of his own kin, and thought very little of his sworn oaths.
It was all one big headache. 
You spent many sleepless nights practicing your archery, which was hard to do with your injured hand. It was steadily healing, but still throbbed when overworked. On days the pain would grow too overbearing, you would write letters for the ravens to take. To Maester Luwin, enquiring about the boys. To the Wall, wondering how Jon was doing after taking the black… and if Benjen had returned. You dared not write to Sansa or Arya, knowing full and well it would only be intercepted by the cunt of a Queen, Cersei Lannister.
By the next three days, Robb had reluctantly agreed to have his mother go into the Freys’ castle in hopes of bartering an agreement with the prickly old man, since she’d known him when she was a young girl. 
When she came back, her face was solemn.
“Well?” Robb asked. “What did he say?”
“Lord Walder has granted your crossing,” she replied. “His men are yours, as well—less the four hundred he will keep here to hold the Crossing against any who would pursue you.”
The damn Lannisters, you thought grimly.
There was a steely glint to Robb’s eyes. “What does he want in return?” 
“You will be taking on his son, Olyvar, as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time.”
Nodding, Robb stroked the shadow of a stubble growing along his jaw. “Fine, fine. And?”
Catelyn blew out a shallow sigh. “And Arya… will marry his son, Waldron, when they both come of age.”
You gritted your teeth. “She’ll be none too happy about that.”
When Catelyn nodded at your words, she pursed her lips, as if she had more to say.
“There’s more?” said Robb. 
“And… When the fighting is done, you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer—he has a number he thinks will be suitable.” Reluctance weighed heavily in Catelyn’s tone.
If Robb was upset at the news, he did well to hide it. 
“I see,” he said. “Did you get to see them? His daughters?”
“I did. One was… nearer to your age,” she replied, slow and cautious. “Do you consent?”
The poor boy, you thought. Having to give up his choice in exchange for duty. 
“Can I refuse?” he asked. For a moment, he looked as if he were his age again, eyes wide and fists clenched.
“Not if you want to cross,” replied his mother.
There was a long beat of silence. In the distance, his direwolf barked at a stray mutt passing by. 
“Then I consent,” Robb said. With that, he quickly stepped out and away from the tent, in need of some time to digest his new betrothal.
As you watched him go, you heard Theon come up to stand beside you.
“A small price to pay,” he crooned, a slight smirk to his lips. “A marriage to win the war.”
“You only say that because you’re not the one paying,” you lightly responded, though there was a sharp edge to your tone, as if warning him not to toe your boundaries. “Robb carries a heavy burden. Do well not to add yourself to that, Theon.”
With a nod, you excused yourself, heading back to your tent, itching to write to Jon of the news.
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Two thousand men sacrificed to distract Tywin Lannister… whilst the other eighteen thousand took over Jaime’s armies.
And now Robb had the Kingslayer in his grasp. 
He was bound and kneeling before you and Cat, blonde hair caked with dried blood and face filthy with dirt and soot.
“By the time they knew what was happening, it had already happened,” said Robb, staring down at the Lannister with pure hatred roiling within the blue of his eyes. 
“You did well, Robb,” you said, keeping your narrowed gaze trained on Jaime. 
The knight looked to you, a lazy smirk curled at the corner of his bleeding lips. “Bitter Wolf. It is a pleasure to see you again. Terrible circumstances, but a pleasure indeed.”
You frowned. All you could see when you looked at him was his sister, who you suspected played a hand in Bran’s fall. His nephew, the cruel boy that had your brother imprisoned. He was a Lannister first and foremost… no amount of lives he took or saved would ever change that.
“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Ser Jaime,” you replied in a stiff tone.
Jaime merely hummed, before turning his head to face your good-sister. “Lady Stark. I would offer you my sword, but I seem to have lost it.”
With stinging words, Catelyn sharply said, “It is not your sword I want. Give me my daughters back. Give me my husband!”
Jaime swallowed, his throat itchy and dry. “I’ve lost them as well, I’m afraid.”
“Kill him, Robb!” said Theon, eyes wild. “Send his head to his father! He cut down ten of our men—you saw him!”
Brows furrowing, you shook your head firmly. “What use would that be, you foolish boy? Killing him would bring us nothing but Tywin Lannister’s wrath. We keep him alive for leverage.”
“Is that all I am to you, Bitter Wolf? A bargaining chip? You wound me,” Jaime sardonically gruffed, though there was a twinge of gratitude to his voice.
“You are nothing to me, Kingslayer,” you spat, effectively wiping away the smug look on Jaime’s face. 
Robb bowed his head at your words. “Aunt Y/N is right. He is more useful to us alive than dead.”
Catelyn nodded in agreement. “Take him away and put him in chains.”
Just as two of the guards were ready to haul him away, Jaime barked out, “We could end this war right now, boy. Save thousands of lives. You fight for the Starks, I fight for the Lannisters. Just you and me—swords, lances, teeth, nails… you take your pick. Let’s end this here and now.” 
Save thousands of lives, he had said. A tempting offer. But would that be worth the life of your nephew?
Robb squared his jaw. “If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you’d win. We’re not doing it your way.”
The guards laughed as they began tugging Jaime along, off to shackle him down. “Come on, pretty man,” one of them cackled, kicking at Jaime’s feet.
Turmoil danced clear as day over Robb’s features. “I sent two thousand men to their graves today.”
“The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice,” said Theon. 
Robb momentarily shut his eyes. It was all so incredibly loud. “Aye. But the dead won’t hear them.” With that, he stepped forward to address the rest of the army. “One victory does not make us conquerors! Did we free my father? Did we rescue my sisters from the Queen? Did we free the North from those who want us on our knees? This war is far from over.”
Stone-faced, Robb turned on his heel and marched off. 
You blew out a long, tired sigh. From the trees above you, you noticed a rotund pigeon staring straight at you from a high branch. It chirped lightly, before flying off, making its way North. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, before stalking away, retreating back to your tent.
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The sun had not yet risen when a ground-shaking scream tore through the camp. Guttural, visceral, rageful… 
Broken.
You had fallen to your hands and knees upon reading the raven’s message, wailing your sorrows to the ground. 
Ned Stark was dead. You were the only one of your siblings left. 
Dead. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. Killed by Joffrey’s command. Bitter wolf. Bitter, bitter, bitter wolf. Your brother is dead. Winter is coming. 
Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and your eyes stung as if hot pokers were pressing against them. Thunder rumbled within your chest and you curled your hands into fists. Someone tugged you up and held you close. Your cheek was smushed into their neck and you cried even harder, sobbing hysterically.
Gods, give him back to me, you pleaded silently. Give him back. He was the only brother I had left. Give him back, give him back, give him back—
“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” Catelyn’s hoarse voice whispered into your hair. It took you a moment to realize that it was her cradling you.
Immeasurable guilt filled your lungs. She was the one who lost her husband. She had lost just the same as you, if not more so… and yet she was the one holding you, comforting you, mothering you. 
“I’m sorry,” you wailed against her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Cat, I’m sorry, I—” You dissolved into another fit of heart-wrenching cries, fruitlessly trying to pull away and wipe your tears. 
“It’s not you that should be sorry,” she patiently told you, cupping your damp cheek to gently stroke the hair away from your face. The blue of her eyes warbled with her own unshed tears. “Let it out, good-sister. Let it out.”
And so you did. For hours, you did nothing but cry until your voice mellowed into buzzing silence and your eyes could bear it no longer.
By the time the sun was beginning to sink down the horizon, you finally left your tent. 
Robb. You had to speak to him.
Your nephew was in the thick of the woods, far enough from the camp where nobody could hear him cry. Dried tear tracks on his cheeks reflected the waning light of the disappearing sun as he swung his sword against the tree over and over and over again.
He stopped when he heard you coming, hands slackening around the hilt.
When he turned to take you in, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that you were just as much a mess as he was.
“Robb,” you whispered.
“Aunt,” he whispered back.
“You poor boy,” you croaked, vision blurring over once more. In no less than three long strides, you made your way to him, tugging him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Robb. I’m sorry.”
The young man only loosely reciprocated your hug at first, choking back his own tears. He had so much he wanted to say… but his thoughts came too quickly and too many at once, all lodged into the back of his throat. And so he fell quiet, soaking in your rarely-offered comfort. He had already cried out his promises of revenge with his mother, cursed his enemies with Theon, angrily strategized with his grieving bannermen.
All he needed now was some quiet support—a steady shoulder to lean on. And if that was all you had to offer him, he would gladly take it.
“You were right,” you whispered into his ear, expression hardening. “The war is far from over. Winter is coming, Robb. And lions do poorly in the frost.”
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The hall was dimly lit with blazing torches hanging on the walls, casting ominous shadows across the room. You were seated beside Robb, with Catelyn on his other side. The bitter, the young, and the stone-heart.
“The proper course is clear! We join our forces with his!” yelled one of the bannermen.
He was speaking of Renly Baratheon, the late King Robert’s youngest brother. 
Frowning, Robb firmly replied, “Renly is not the King.”
“You cannot mean to pledge allegiance to Joffrey, my Lord!” the older man responded, affronted by the notion. “He put your father to death!”
Evenly, Robb said, “That doesn’t make Renly King. He’s Robert’s youngest brother—if Bran can’t be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can’t be King before Stannis.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, Lords leaning their heads together to whisper and heckle. 
“You mean to declare us for Stannis?” asked one of the Lords.
“Renly is not right, either!” exclaimed another.
“If we put ourselves behind Stannis, he would surely send us all to our deaths!” yelled a voice from the back.
Pounding his now-empty chalice down onto the table, Greatjon Umber stood up to address the riled-up mass. “My Lords—here is what I say to the two Kings!” He bent at the knees and spat a mouthful of wine onto the ground. “Renly Baratheon is nothing to me! Nor Stannis, either! Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery fuckin’ seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall, or the Wolfswood? Even their Gods are wrong! Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to… and now the dragons are dead.” 
The sharp sound of steel rang loud and true as Lord Umber unsheathed his sword to point at Robb.
“There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to. They can keep their red castle, and their iron chair, as well. The King in the North!” he proclaimed. “My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. From this day, until my last day!”
A beat of silence.
One after the other, the rest of the Lords pulled their swords out of their respective scabbards to pledge fealty to Robb, and bend the knee.
Robb stood up, casting his gaze over the kneeling crowd.
“The King in the North!” they all cheered. “The King in the North! The King in the North!”
You glanced at Catelyn, noticing the conflict warring across her weathered features. Briefly, Robb caught your eye, and you bowed your head in an encouraging manner.
“The King in the North!” you yelled along with the rest of the Lords. 
No longer would a lion be able to hold their paw over a wolf’s throat. 
Robb was King now.
The King in the North.
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It was colder tonight than it had been for the past decade. Your sigh misted into an opaque fog once you stepped out of your tent, small pinpricks of frost kissing your skin. Most of the knights and lords had retired to their own cotts, deep in slumber. Some of them were on the outskirts of camp, patrolling the perimeter in case Tywin was to come surging forth with his army to retrieve his prized son. 
And that was just who you were leaving to see. You needed to ask him the same thing you had asked Tyrion—if Jaime knew where his sister was when Bran fell.
The guards raised their eyebrows at you, as if asking what you were doing here at such a late hour, but you simply stared at them until they uncomfortably shifted to the side to allow you to pass by.
It was certainly quite a sight—seeing Jaime Lannister shackled. He was cold, you could see, the tip of his sharp nose was crimson and his fingers were quivering ever so slightly.
You had made no noise whilst stepping in front of him, silent as a wraith. Jaime only noticed you were there because of your shadow looming over him in a near menacing fashion.
“Lady Stark,” he greeted, strangely pleasant despite being bound, freezing, and starving. “You look lovely tonight. Had I known you were coming, I would’ve cleaned myself up a bit.”
“Ser Jaime,” you replied in a curt, level tone. 
The man before you tilted his head curiously. “To what do I owe such a pleasure? Is your bed lonely? Is that why you came? I’m not at my best, as you can see… but I think I could be of service for you. Slip out of those furs—let’s see if I’m up for it.”
His words were crude and unbecoming, but held no weight to them. Your expression remained unchanging.
“Celibacy is a part of the Kingsguard’s oaths,” you lightly said.
Jaime barked out a rogue laugh, leaning his head back against the stone wall. “Surely you know what everybody calls me. Oathbreaker.”
“For killing the King,” came your whisper. For a moment, Jaime could swear he caught a glimpse of gratitude within your stormy eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it came. “I can’t say I fault you for doing it. Aerys wasn’t fit to be King.”
The knight hummed, a ghost of a grin to the corner of his lips. “See… your brother seemed to disagree. He thought it wasn’t honorable. And look where his own honor got him—beheaded in front of his daughter, and placed on a spike by the walls of the Keep. Terrible shame, what happened to him. I wanted to have a clean duel with him before he kicked the can.”
Your fists clenched by your sides at the callous way Jaime spoke of Ned. 
The green of his irises gleamed when he looked up at you. “How does it feel? To watch your family die off slowly, one by one?”
“Your tongue likes to run, doesn’t it?” you murmured with a scowl. “You’ll understand what it’s like soon. The war is sure to leave a trail of lion’s blood in its wake.”
Jaime sucked in a humored breath. “Bitter Wolf, indeed. Tell me, how long have you had that long stick shoved up your arse?”
There was a long moment of tense silence. Your hand was hidden within your cloak, resting upon the hilt of a dagger. When you began to speak again, you ripped your eyes away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, training your stare upon an uninteresting stone on the ground.
“When I heard Aerys burned my father alive, I wept until I nearly blinded myself with my own tears. My father was a good, honorable man. My brother, too. I loved them dearly. The Mad King took them away from me and I hated him for it. I hated you, as well… the youngest of his Kingsguard just stood by and did nothing. But then, not too long after, I heard that you were the one who slit his throat. I still hated you—but I couldn't be more grateful. You were right to kill him.” 
Another beat of silence, this time longer. The atmosphere between the two of you seemed to shift. Jaime looked nearly stunned at your admission. “Do you still hate me?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. It was as if he was eighteen all over again, having to ‘go away inside’ when he didn’t want to deal with what was going on anymore. Your gaze left the stone on the ground to meet his. “No, Ser Jaime. To hate is to care. I do not care—not for you, at least.”
Strange, Jaime thought. His chest seemed to ache uncomfortably at your cold words. 
Before he could say anything, your good-sister strode up by your side, her features stony and grim. For a moment, she met your gaze. If she was wondering what you were doing here, speaking to the Kingslayer, she didn’t ask. 
“Lady Catelyn!” said Jaime, grateful for the distraction from the uncomfort within his ribs. “Join the party—we were just exchanging war stories. Except… neither of you have been to war before, I’m afraid. Oh, well—I suppose I can just entertain you with—”
Before you could react, Cat bent down to grab the exact same rock you had been staring at, jerking forward to strike Jaime across the face with its sharp end. Pain rattled throughout his face, blood streaking down where she had struck him. He grunted at the impact, working his jaw gingerly once Catelyn pulled back.
“I would kill you tonight, Ser… pack your head in a box and send it to your sister!” growled Cat.
“Then do it,” Jaime replied, infuriatingly glib for someone who nearly had his skull bashed in. “Hit me again, over the ear. Again, and again, and again. You’re stronger than you look—it shouldn’t take too long.”
Frowning, Cat asked, “That is what you want the world to believe, isn’t it? That you don’t fear death.”
“But I don’t, my Lady,” said Jaime. “The dark is coming for all of us. Why cry about it?”
Lips curling with contempt, Catelyn spat out, “Because you are going to the deepest of the Seven Hells if the Gods are just!”
“What Gods? The trees the Bitter Wolf here prays to? Where were the trees when your husband’s head was getting chopped off?” he murmured. Fury coiled within your stomach, as black as tar. “If your Gods are real, and if they are just… why is the world so full of injustice?”
Cat’s fingers curled tighter around the rock. “Because of men like you.”
There it was again—his hoarse bark of laughter. “There are no men like me. Only me.”
More silence stretched thin between the three of you. You thought about your original purpose for coming here, pursing your lips. 
“Do you know where your sister was the morning Bran fell?” you asked him, voice hardened with steel. 
His eyes met yours—bright green to a frigid storm. 
“No,” he curtly responded, nose twitching as he sniffed lightly. A tell. 
A lie. 
“How did he come to fall from the tower?” Catelyn’s question was quiet, as if she were afraid of the answer.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaime said, “I pushed him out of the window.”
Shocked, you flinched back at his blunt confession, eyes widening. It was him. Him that put Bran in his coma, him that crippled your nephew. Was it him that sent the assassin, as well?
But… you’d found long blonde hair at the tower, undoubtedly Cersei’s. You had thought that Cersei was coupling with some nameless squire or stableboy, not her own brother. By the old Gods, that could only mean—
“Why?” whispered Catelyn, appearing like her heart had been trampled on and torn to shreds.
“I hoped the fall would kill him,” Jaime simply said.
“Why?” she pressed.
You were stunned and at a loss for words, lips parted and chest heaving. 
Jaime leaned his head back against the stone wall, inhaling sharply. “You should get some sleep, Lady Catelyn. It’s going to be a long war.”
The red-headed woman glared at him with the might of a thousand suns. She relinquished her hold on the rock, which had cut into her own palm, and stormed away.
Jaime and Cersei coupling… and her children were golden-haired with no trace of Robert Baratheon within any of their Lannister-esque features… 
The realization slammed against you like a tidal wave—Gods, the boy on the Iron Throne was a bastard. 
You would’ve laughed at the thought if not for the dire situation at hand.
It was no wonder Ned was imprisoned and later executed. He knew, just as you now. Only, he was foolish enough to get his honor in the way of his head. You had to be smart about this. A running tongue was a dangerous one—and you weren’t too keen on losing yours.
Jaime regarded you with a guarded look. He wasn’t aware that you knew of his vile doings with his sister. “Let me ask you again. Do you still hate me now?” 
Perhaps his father was right. Maybe he did care what others thought of him. 
Disgust ran thick through your veins at the sight of him. The man you had once begrudgingly respected, now a boy-killer. A sister-fucker.
With quick motions, you stepped forward, curling your hand around the front of his tunic, yanking him closer just as you drove your fist into the side of his face. Over and over again you struck him, rage shadowing over your wild expression, until your knuckles split and bled and ached with each punch. Jaime put up no fight. He groaned once you finally pulled away, shoving him back against the stone wall. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his lips.
Cold steel kissed his throat when you unsheathed your dagger, slanting it just below his Adam's apple. “One cut, Kingslayer. That’s all it’d take.”
“Do it,” he challenged, baring his teeth. “Do it.” 
If only you could. You still needed him… Cersei had Sansa in her wicked clutch.
“Never before have I changed my mind about a man so quickly. To hate is to care, Ser Jaime,” you bit out, words dripping with venom. “And I hate you, more than I’d ever care to.”
With that, you slipped your dagger back into its scabbard and turned on your heel to stride away, fury splayed clear as day over your features. You were going to tell Robb of your newfound knowledge as soon as morning broke.
Jaime watched you go with a soft exhale.
He found no sleep that night, but went away inside nonetheless.
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Battle after battle, Robb found himself victorious. 
Camp after camp, Jaime found himself stinking of his own piss and shit. 
When you had told Robb of Joffrey’s true parentage, he huffed out a hesitant laugh, unsure if you were jesting or not. Then again, you were never one to jest.
And now he stood before his captive with you by his side, gazing down at the Lannister were pure contempt. This was the first time you’d seen the Kingslayer since he told you he pushed Bran out the window. And time had done nothing to mellow your anger.
“I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safe-keeping,” surmised Jaime, tongue darting out to lick at his dry lips. “But you drag me along from camp to camp… have you taken a liking to me, Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.”
Unfazed by his insults, Robb said, “If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within the fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with the message: Release my son. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.”
Jaime shook his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you to battle?”
“I trust them with my life. Just not with yours,” Robb quietly replied. 
“Smart boy,” snorted Jaime. At the crinkle in Robb’s expression, Jaime piped up with a mocking frown, “Oh, what’s wrong? Don’t like being called a boy? Insulted?”
From behind you, Grey Wind stalked up to his master, a growl rumbling low within his chest. For the first time, you could see genuine fear dance across Jaime’s green irises.
“You insult yourself, Kingslayer,” said Robb. “You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy. Perhaps you’ll be killed by a boy.”
Grey Wind lithely moved closer and closer to Jaime, snarling and pawing at the dirt. 
“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros,” you said, jaw squared. “Ravens detailing that the boy King, Joffrey Baratheon, is neither a true king, nor is he a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.”
Jaime scratched at the shackles over his wrists, growing restless. “If that’s true, then Stannis would be the rightful King. How convenient for him!”
“My father learned the truth,” Robb hissed out. “That’s why you had him executed.”
Frowning, Jaime pointed out, “I was your prisoner when your father lost his head.”
“Your son killed him so that the world wouldn’t know who fathered him. And you… you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen,” accused your nephew.
Swallowing, Jaime coughed out, “Where’s your proof? Or are we just trading gossip like a couple of fish wives?”
“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.”
Jaime scoffed at that. “You think my father’s going to negotiate with the likes of you? You don’t know him very well.”
Bowing his head, Robb hummed in acknowledgement. “No, I don’t. But he’s starting to know me.”
“Three victories don’t make you a conqueror,” said Jaime.
“Better than three defeats,” your nephew countered. With that, Robb rotated on his heel and marched away, trailing his fingers along Grey Wind’s pelt.
The direwolf snapped his jaw only a hair’s breadth away from Jaime’s face. His eyelids squeezed shut, bracing himself for the agonizing pain. When none came, he cracked one eye open. The wolf was gone, leaving only you standing before him.
“When you were in King’s Landing, did you see my niece?” you asked.
“Sansa?” he replied. “Yes… in court here and there with her betrothed.”
Her betrothed. The bastard boy. Jaime’s son.
“No, not Sansa,” you snippily replied. You worried for Sansa, yes, but at the very least you knew she was alive in the Keep. There hadn’t been a single word about your younger niece in any of the ravens you’d received. “Arya.”
The Kingslayer pursed his lips. “Which one was she again?” Whether he was genuinely miffed as to who Arya was, or he was just pushing your boundaries to purposely annoy you, you couldn’t tell.
“I have no taste for your games,” you gruffed, your patience wearing thin. “I’ll see to the guards forgoing your meals for the next two days. Good night, Ser Jaime.”
Not waiting to see his reaction, you promptly turned and followed after Robb.
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Theon had left for the Iron Islands in hope of garnering his father’s support, along with his large fleet of ships. Catelyn, on the other hand, was off to try and obtain Renly Baratheon’s allegiance.
You and Robb planned the next battles together. The cut on your arm from the wildling, Osha, was now fully healed, leaving only a dark mark in its wake. Whilst Robb and the Northern bannermen fought, you would watch from a distance, taking down Lannister-allied soldiers with your bow and arrow.
And once the battle was done, you made your way onto the field, side-stepping half-dead men and corpses alike, plenty with your arrows sticking out of their chests. Most of the casualties were part of the Lannister’s troup, and so you bore no sympathy for their pain.
You met up with Robb just as he was parting with a pretty girl—a medic, by the looks of it. She was leaving on a cart, hands bloodied and dark hair drenched with sweat. 
When you glanced at Robb, you could see the unmistakable glint of youthful curiosity and lust behind his blue eyes. With a sharp cuff to the back of his head, you growled out, “You are betrothed, boy. Do well to remember it.”
Robb scowled at you. “What are you on about? I was only talking to her.”
“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “And my name is the Smiling Wolf.” 
“I’m a King now, Aunt. You shouldn’t be disrespecting me in such a way,” warned Robb, though his words lacked any true bite. 
With a huff, you patted his cheek softly. “You’ve been King for only a few moons by now. But you’ve been my nephew for your entire life. One takes precedence over the other, I’m afraid.”
Robb smiled at that, but it disappeared as he glanced around at all the dead bodies littering the hills, decorated with your arrow shafts. “You took down nearly four dozen of these men…” he said, brows raised. “And all from far away, as well. Color me impressed and a little intimidated.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you replied, walking along with him back to the tents to clean up. “I do what I can to help.”
“I’m grateful you’re here with me. With Theon and mother gone… it made me think about how you’ve always shouldered the burden of ruling with me, without complaint. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Aunt.”
Not one to be very good with sentimentalities, you tugged him into a brief embrace and let him go the next second, gently shoving him off into the tent.
“Alright, alright, boy,” you said, tone rife with affection. “Go take a bath—you stink of war.”
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A week later, Catelyn returned to the camps. Accompanying her was a blonde soldier, a woman taller than any man amongst Robb’s army. 
“It’s good to see you, Cat,” you told her. “No battles have been lost just yet.”
The woman smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “King Renly… he’s—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Roose Bolton came running up to the two of you.
“Apologies, my Ladies,” he panted out, holding up a small raven’s scroll. “News from Winterfell.”
Initially, you were quite excited, because it’d been a while since you heard from Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin.
When you filed into the tent to listen to Robb read it aloud, however, your heart plummeted to your stomach upon hearing the news. Theon had taken Winterfell, holding Bran and Rickon hostage.
“I TOLD YOU, NEVER TRUST A GREYJOY!” yelled Catelyn to her son, face scarlet with fury and twisted with anguish. 
Teeth gritted, Robb announced, “I must go North at once.”
“There’s still a war to win, Your Grace,” Roose Bolton protested.
“How can I win a war, call myself King if I can’t even hold my own castle?” spat Robb. “How can I ask my men to follow me if I can’t—?”
With firm hands, you placed them on your nephew’s shoulders. “Robb. Stop—think about this. You have thousands of men at your disposal. You needn’t do this yourself. If you loosen your grip on the Lannisters now, they’ll go scurrying back home and rally more of their allies.”
The young man appeared conflicted. In his haze of rage, he hadn’t thought about the lives of all the rest in the war, only focused on his little brothers.
“Let me go talk to Theon,” Catelyn offered, worried to death for her two youngest boys.
“There will be no talk. He will die for this,” snarled Robb.
Stepping forward, Roose offered, “Let me send word to my bastard at the Dreadfort. He can raise a few hundred men and retake Winterfell before the new moon. My boy would be honored to bring you Prince Theon’s head.”
Bowing his head, Robb blew out a sigh. He glanced at you for a moment, before returning his gaze to Roose. “Tell your son Bran and Rickon’s safety is paramount. And Theon—I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask why… and then I’ll take his head myself.”
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It was the dead of night when Jaime Lannister escaped. 
In the process, he’d become a kinslayer, as well. Just another name to add to the extensive list.
The golden lion. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. Now a kinslayer. 
He had bashed his cousin’s brains in with a stone, alerting the young guard on duty. Jaime then strangled the boy, a Karstark, and fled the camp. 
The taste of freedom had never been so sweet.
And, inevitably, the taste of defeat had never been so sour.
By the break of day, he was recaptured. You had emerged from your tent at the loud commotion, fingers wrapped around the wood of your longbow. Men were jeering, yelling, and throwing rotten food and small stones. They were pushing and shoving, some unsheathing their blades with manic, greedy expressions. In the middle of the crowd was Jaime, rebound and so bloody you could barely see a clean patch of exposed skin. Strangely, he was smiling and laughing, seeming to enjoy how riled up the Northmen were. 
“Die, Kingslayer!” they yelled.
“You’ll pay for your crimes!” they shouted.
“Gut him! Put his head on a spike!” they screamed.
You forcefully wove your way through the crowd, brows knitted and your bow and arrow knocked at the ready. The men had parted instantaneously upon seeing you, all of them expecting you to order Jaime’s execution on behalf of Robb, who had temporarily left to accept the Crag’s surrender. To their enraged shock, you stood between them and Jaime, the tip of your arrow pointed not at the Kingslayer himself, but at the men calling for his head.
“Back the fuck away from him,” you barked out, voice loud and commanding. “Have you all gone mad?”
“Get out of the way, Bitter Wolf!” Lord Karstark yelled, hell-bent on getting his revenge for his murdered son. “I deserve justice!”
“Or what, Lord Karstark?” you shouted back with an equivalent ferocity, teeth bared in a near snarl. “You’ll cut through me to get to him? Need I remind you that if you were to lay a hand on me, you’d be laying a hand on the King’s blood.” 
Reluctant, a few of the lords lowered their weapons, stepping back slightly. Some held guilty expressions, looking like children being scolded by their mother. Most stayed their ground, angry that you were stopping them. 
Your countenance hardened. “If Jaime Lannister is dead, we lose any leverage we have over Tywin’s army—over Cersei, who has hold of my nieces! What good do you think would come of this? We put his pretty head on a spike, hoo-fucking-ray! Has it not occurred to you that we keep prisoners for a reason? That they’re not toys to toss about as we see fit?”
“You’re right, Bitter Wolf,” growled Karstark. “He’s not a toy. This monster killed my son. He deserves worse than a slap on a wrist and a few measly chains. He deserves death. Slow and painful, just as he did to my boy!”
It was then that Catelyn came rushing through the crowd, her pale features gaunt and eyes widened with fear.
“I understand your pain, Lord Karstark,” she assured, exhaust lacing heavy with each of her words. “He crippled my boy. He will answer for his crimes, in due time, I promise. Just not here.”
“If you try and stop me—!”
“I am the mother of your King!” Catelyn yelled.
Rearing back with frustration, Karstark bit out, “And where is our King now? Gone to the Crag, sure, but not to negotiate. He brought that foreign bitch with him!”
Your brows raised in surprise. The medic girl. 
Steel sang out as Brienne unsheathed her sword. “Threatening my Lady is an act of treason!”
“Treason?” barked the Karstark. “How can it be an act of treason to kill Lannisters?”
“In the name of my nephew, the King in the North,” you lowly spoke, bringing his attention back to you. The tip of your arrow was pointed right at his chest. “Stand down.”
With a squared jaw, Lord Karstark bowed his head. “When the young wolf returns, I will demand for the murderer’s head.”
“Wise men do not make demands of Kings!” protested Cat.
“Fathers who love their sons do.” With that, Karstark turned to stomp away, back into his tent.
The crowd slowly began to disperse. Only then did you put down your weapon, relaxing the drawstring. 
“Thank you for fighting for me, Bitter Wolf,” snarked Jaime, an infuriating smile plastered over his filthy face. “I’m surprised you would have put down one of your own men just for me. Growing rather fond of me, eh? Tell me, you haven’t lost your maidenhood yet, have you? It would be an honor to be your f—”
Gnashing your teeth, you swiftly knelt down in front of the Kingslayer, grabbing his grimy cheeks with one hand, squeezing uncomfortably tight, nails digging into his skin.
“I said we’d have you alive, Kingslayer… not whole. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t carve your eyes out with a hot spoon,” you hissed, eyes cold as winter.
To your fury, Jaime merely laughed, a roguish grin dancing across his bloody lips.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take them. Take every part of me, until nothing is left. Let’s see what my father would think about having another crippled son.”
You released your hold on him, shoving his face back. 
“Gag him tight,” you told one of the guards. “Mix in shit with his food. Piss in his water. Make noise every time he falls asleep. It might very well be his last night amongst us—see that it’s spent in agony.”
With that, you stepped back, nodding at Catelyn, before retiring into your tent.
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The later the night grew, the more drunk the men became, and the angrier they got. 
“He won’t last the night,” commented Brienne, her hand resting comfortably and cautiously over the hilt of her sword. “Won’t be long until the Karstarks draw their swords. And when they do… who wants to die defending a Lannister?”
With pursed lips, Catelyn bowed her head. “If he dies, my girls die with him.”
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable. 
“We need to release him,” your good-sister whispered. Her words made your eyes snap to her, lips parting. “We need to exchange him for Sansa and Arya.”
“Cat…” you began, about to protest, but the words lodged in your throat. She was right. The men were going to kill him if he wasn’t released—and Jaime Lannister was of no use to you dead.
A glassy film of tears layered over Catelyn’s blue irises. “I need my girls back, Y/N. I need them back, I need—” She covered her quivering mouth with a shaky hand. “If we give Jaime back to Cersei, we’ll make him swear to return the girls to us.”
You shook your head, frowning. “Jaime is a man with no honor—an oathbreaker. We cannot rely on his word. I’ll take him to King’s Landing to barter with Cersei. Threaten to put an arrow in Jaime’s head if Sansa and Arya aren’t handed over to me. I do not trust anyone else with the job but myself.”
A shiver danced down Catelyn’s spine and she tugged her furs closer to her. “You’ll need protection. At least bring Brienne with you. I trust her with my life. She can escort both you and the Kingslayer to the capital.”
Wistful, you blew out a long breath. “Robb won’t be happy about this, Cat. He’ll hate you for letting Jaime go. He’ll hate me for abandoning him. He’ll send a hundred men after us. We won’t be able to outrun them.”
“Not on foot, no,” said Brienne, stepping forward. “We take a boat down the river. We’ll put more distance between us and them that way—but only if we leave now.” 
Conflict warred within you. Was this really the smartest decision? Letting go of the Kingslayer?
And if you were to leave now… you wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to Robb. The dark thought of never seeing your nephew again crossed your mind, but you shoved it away. You’d see him again. He was a strong lad. 
“Alright… but Tywin will then have reason to march his army and slay Robb’s if they no longer hold his son,” you said, tentative.
Catelyn clutched your hands within her colder, quivering ones. “We are so close to winning this war already. This is a risk we must take for Sansa. For Arya. Please, Y/N. Please.”
With a determined nod of your head, you whispered, “I won’t let you down.”
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The Kingslayer smiled lazily when he saw you approaching, Catelyn and Brienne in tow. To his muted interest, the red-headed woman ordered the guards to leave with a sharp tongue and a hardened glint to her eyes.
“Come to say goodbye?” he crooned. “I believe it’s my last night in this world. I could think of no one better to spend it with. You sure are the life of the party.” His tone dripped with sardonic mockery, to which you supplied no reaction. If Jaime wanted to provoke you, he would find himself sorely disappointed.
You had a mission tonight—and there was no time for jesting.
“They want your head, Ser Jaime. Do not make me hand you over to them,” you quietly said, just loud enough for him to hear. It was an empty threat, one that you couldn’t follow through, but Jaime didn’t know that. You were completely serious, for all he knew.
With a huff, Jaime said, “No, no, Bitter Wolf. You like me too much to give me away. Lord Karstark, however… he doesn’t seem very fond of me, does he?”
Scowling, Catelyn hissed out, “You strangled his son with your chains!”
“Oh,” Jaime simply said. There was no remorse in his tone. None at all. “Was he the one on guard duty? He was in my way—any other knight would’ve done the same.”
“You are no knight!” spat Catelyn. “You have forsaken every vow you ever took.”
Rolling his bright green eyes to the side, Jaime snorted in contempt. “So many vows. They make you swear and swear! Defend the King, obey the King, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the King? What if the King massacres the innocent? Like Rickard Stark, eh, Bitter Wolf?” A part of you seized up at the mention of your father. Jaime lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s just too many rules. They make sense alone, sure… but together? It’s a load of shit. No matter what you do, you’re forsaking a vow for another.”
There was a long pause. Jaime grinned sharply, feeling as if he had won the argument—if it even was one to begin with.
“Is that a woman?” he asked, changing the topic, eyes drawn to Brienne. “Where in the seven kingdoms did you find such a beast?”
“She is a truer knight than you will ever be, Kingslayer,” Catelyn replied, tone as hot as ever. 
At the offensive name, Jaime narrowed his gaze. “Kingslayer. And what a King he was! Here’s to Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm… and to the sword I shoved into his back. What did you say about me before, Wolf? That you were grateful that I did it?” 
You could feel Catelyn’s eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t grace either of them with a response.
“You are a man without honor,” said Catelyn.
“Hm.” Jaime tilted his head. “You know… I’ve never been with any woman but Cersei. So in my own way, I have more honor than poor old dead Ned. What was the name of that bastard he fathered?”
Jon.
“Snow—a bastard from the North.” Jaime smirked in a rogue manner. “Now when good old Ned came home with some whore’s baby… did you pretend to love it? No, I don’t think you’re very good at pretending, Lady Catelyn. You’re an honest woman. You hated that boy, didn’t you? How could you not? The walking, talking reminder that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark fucked another woman.”
You were no stranger to Catelyn’s grievances with Jon, but it sounded all the worse coming from the Kingslayer’s tongue.
“That’s enough,” you said, heavy with finality. “Your sword, Brienne.”
This is it, thought Jaime. This is how I’m going to die. Covered in filth and looking up at a snarling she-wolf. It isn’t so bad. At least she’s pretty—even if she never smiles.
Instead of the steel striking his head, it struck at his chains. They gave way after the third lumbering hit. His green eyes snapped up to you when you reached out to grab his arms, hauling him onto his feet.
“Come, Kingslayer. We have a long way to go.”
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It was quite an amusing sight, Jaime Lannister falling off the horse with a sack on his head. He grunted through the fabric and you tore it off, shoving it into the pack slung over your shoulder. Brienne urged the horse to ride away, back to camp.
Jaime blinked up at you, vision still adjusting to the sudden brightness. “Ah, Lady Stark. You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.” He glanced at Brienne. “Oh, the big lady-knight came with us, as well? She is much uglier in daylight! Damn—and here I was hoping we’d spend more time alone together, Bitter Wolf.”
“Shut up,” you told him, stepping back to allow Brienne to haul him up to his feet and shove him towards the small boat. 
“Ooh, cranky today, are we? You want to turn around and go back home? I’m sure your little King nephew will welcome you back with open arms—or maybe not. Maybe he hates your guts now. Care to find out?” he goaded, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He sat down in the boat, Brienne following suit. 
You eased yourself in last, taking a seat behind her. 
He’s right, a voice snarked inside your head. Robb is probably furious with you. He’d never forgive you.
“And what might be your name?” Jaime asked the large blonde woman, tilting his head.
With a stony countenance, Brienne replied, “Brienne of Tarth.”
“Mmh, crescent moons and starbursts. Lord Selwyn Tarth is your father, no? You have any brothers and sisters?” 
Silence. Brienne began to row the small boat, taking the three of you downstream.
“Come on, it’s a long way to King’s Landing—we might as well get to know one another. Have you known many men? I suppose not—perhaps women? Horses?”
At the last question, Brienne purposefully struck the blunt end of the oar against Jaime’s knee, which made him grunt out in pain. 
“I didn’t mean to offend, my Lady,” he said, looking none too sorry. “How unlikely it is! It seems you’re not the only virgin amongst us.”
He fixed his stare on you, though your eyes were trained on the river banks, cautiously watching in case anyone had followed your trail yet. So far on your journey, you haven't come across a single soul. The Gods were on your side, for now. At his words, however, you curled your hands into fists.
“Tell me, Bitter Wolf, did any man in Winterfell ever dare to court you? Were they all intimidated by you? Or did you just bite off their heads as soon as one tried?” Jaime seemed genuinely curious, having known little of your childhood.
With a squared jaw, you replied in a steely tone, “They tried. The nice ones were politely declined. The more… pushy ones were stripped naked and thrown into cells of ice. The winter took their souls whilst their bodies froze.”
Jaime blinked, smiling in a fox-like manner. “Now that is a fine tale! Why did you turn away the nice ones? Are Northerners too ugly for you? They’re too solemn for my taste, I’d say… no offense.” 
You didn’t grace him with a response. 
For the next half an hour, Jaime chattered on and on about the most trivial topics. He’d ask the both of you questions, to which he was often met with dead silence.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re as boring as you are ugly?” Jaime asked Brienne.
With a roll of her eyes, Brienne rowed the boat harder. “You will not provoke me to anger.”
“I already have!” countered Jaime, excited that she was finally retaliating. “You look ready to slice my head off my shoulders. Do you think you could? Could you beat me in a fair fight?”
“I’ve never seen you fight,” Brienne replied in a leveled tone.
As if it were obvious, Jaime said, “The correct answer is no. There are only three men in the entire Seven Kingdoms that might have a chance against me—you’re not one of them.”
“All my life men like you have sneered at me,” the blonde woman stated. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”
“Unlock my chains, then,” said Jaime. “Let’s see who beats who.”
To his disappointment, Brienne spared him no more words.
His gaze landed on you once more, and to his surprise, you had dozed off to sleep, having gotten none the entire night while helping him escape. By the side of the boat, your hand was curled tightly around the longbow you had taken along with you.
Funny, he thought with a slight, huffy laugh. Even in slumber you were scowling.
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Brienne had pulled ashore for a short break, and you were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs. She helped you out of the boat and over the large, slippery rocks it was slanted against. 
“Five minutes,” she told you kindly. Then, she looked over her shoulder at Jaime. “Five minutes!” she parroted, much colder this time.
You were really beginning to like Brienne.
Rolling his eyes, Jaime hobbled out of the boat as well. “Childhood must’ve been awful to you,” he commented to Brienne. “Were you a foot taller than all the boys? They probably laughed at you, called you names. Some boys like a challenge—one or two must have tried to get inside big Brienne!”
Brienne frowned. 
“Ah, did you fight them off? You probably did. But maybe you wished one of them would overpower you… fling you down and tear off your clothes. None of them were strong enough, were they? I’d be strong enough.”
“Stop it,” you calmly told Jaime. “Or would you prefer I gag you?”
With a smile, Jaime cocked his head to the side. “Oh, are you jealous? Don’t worry—there’s enough of me to go around.”
But you weren’t paying attention to Jaime anymore. Instead, your eyes were trained up to the creaking branches, where three women were hanging. They were discolored and slightly bloated—the bodies must’ve been up for around a day by now. A sick feeling twisted within your gut.
Around the neck of the woman in the center was a sign that said—
“They lay with lions,” read Jaime. “Tavern girls, most likely. Probably served my father’s soldiers. Maybe one of them gave up a kiss and feel—that’s how they earned this.”
“They earned nothing,” you coldly replied, stepping back slightly. “These are victims of war.”
Jaime barked out a laugh. “How hypocritical of you. This was done by your men, Bitter Wolf. The glorious work of Northern freedom fighters. Must make the both of you proud to serve them.”
Before you could spare him a response, Brienne gruffed out, “I don’t serve the Starks. I serve Lady Catelyn.”
“Hm. You tell yourself that,” said Jaime, allowing himself to be pushed around when Brienne shoved him towards a tree, ordering him to stay put. You moved to stand beside him, making sure he wouldn’t flee as Brienne made towards the thick rope tied around the tree trunk keeping the women hung up. 
Confused, Jaime asked, “What are you doing?”
“Burying them,” she replied.
“We shouldn’t stay here, we should get back on the river!” said Jaime. 
Scoffing, you retorted, “Eager to get home? I’m sure your sister would be delighted to have her fuck-toy handed back to her.”
“In exchange for you darling niece, is it?” Jaime immediately snarked back. “Oh, turns out I’m of great value after all, Bitter Wolf. Admit it. I’m important to you—”
Just then, a few men’s voices echoed through the woods. You pressed yourself closer against the tree, pulling the hood of your cloak up over your head so your face would be obscured by shadows. 
“Untie me!” said Jaime. 
“Shut up,” you replied. “Keep your head down, and pray they won’t recognize you.”
The voices were growing louder.
“Woah!” one of them said, having spotted Brienne. “What’s your business here?” 
“Traveling prisoners,” she hastily responded. 
The three men burst out into raucous, incredulous laughter.
“You? But you’re a woman!” exclaimed another one with a pig-nose and blackened teeth. “Well, fuck me! They’ve really gotten desperate for soldiers, haven’t they?”
Clearing her throat, Brienne started to say, “If you’ve quite finished—”
They began cackling at her again. You frowned, fingers curling around your longbow, which you had stealthily covered within your cloak. If you were to play the part of a prisoner, you had to look like it, as well.
“We’ll be going,” Brienne curtly said, in no mood to deal with the oafish men.
The men immediately halted in their laughter. “Now, hold on there. Who do you fight for?”
“The Starks,” said the blonde woman. She briefly glanced at you, nearly hidden behind Jaime. Good.
One of the last men, a red-head, pointed at the two of you. “What did they do?”
After a momentary pause, Jaime spat out, “Apparently eating is now a crime. My friend and I were merely trying to get some food.”
Hm. A good actor.
“By stealing it—which, indeed, is a crime,” Brienne added on. 
“It’s not a crime to starve, that’s justice for you,” Jaime murmured. You dared not speak, worried they would recognize you by your voice alone.
The pig-nosed man stepped forward, narrowing his beady eyes at you. “Where are you taking them?”
“Riverrun,” said Brienne. 
“Why?”
“Steal from the Tullys, it's their dungeons you’d rot in,” she quickly responded.
“No. I mean why not just kill him?”
A thrill of adrenaline and a twinge of fear shot through you, nestling within your feet, as if preparing yourself to act.
“For stealing a pig?” scoffed Jaime.
One of the men lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve killed for much less. Alright—have it your way… m’lady.”
The red-head squinted at Jaime. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
You were grateful that Jaime’s usually lighter hair was dirtied with mud and soot and appeared far darker than it actually was. “Have you been to Ashemark?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then you don’t know me.”
Just as the three of you were about to stride off, pig-nose queried in a disgustingly prideful manner, “What do you think of these beauties?”
“I hope you gave them quick deaths,” Brienne reluctantly told him.
He smirked maliciously. “Two of them we did, yeah.”
White-hot anger coiled within your abdomen. 
“Wait!” exclaimed the red-head. “I do know you! That’s Jaime Lannister!” 
With a hoarse chuckle, Jaime said, “Well, I wish you’d have told me, I wouldn’t have had to steal that pig!”
“If this is the Kingslayer, I think I’d know about it,” said Brienne, urging you forward.
Noticing this, the red-head barked out, “And who’s the one in the cloak? Another Lannister?”
Couldn’t be more wrong.
“I was at Whispering Wood,” he vehemently said. “I saw him! They dragged him out of the woods and threw him down before the King!”
The King. Your boy, Robb.
“I have a question for both of you. And I want you to answer at the same time,” pig-nose snarled, hand on his sword’s hilt. “I count to three, you both answer. What’s his name?” He pointed accusingly right at Jaime’s chest.
“One.”
You discreetly lined an arrow up to your bow.
“Two.”
You pulled against the string.
“Three.”
You brandished the bow from out of your cloak and sent the arrow whistling through the air, straight into one of the men’s heads.
Unsheathing her sword, Brienne quickly slashed the throat of the red-head.
“Two quick deaths,” she hissed, before knocking pig-nose down onto the ground. Slow and painful, she drove the blade into his stomach and twisted, gutting him like a pig.
Jaime’s brows were raised, impressed at the both of you.
“Those were Stark men,” he said, surprised that you had willingly killed a man of your nephew’s army.
“There are always a few rotten apples in an orchard,” you easily replied, lowering your bow and knocking back the cowl of your cloak. “And rotten, they were.”
Brienne nodded, before heading off to bury the tavern girls.
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“Do you know how long it’s going to take us to get to King’s Landing by walking through fields and forests?” Jaime just about whined, growing tired of the journey.
Without sparing him a glance, you asked, “And what do you propose we do instead?”
“We could take horses.”
“Too noticeable.”
“Take a ship, then.”
“And how will you pay the ship-keepers? Will you pay them with your own gold? The gold you currently do not have?”
Jaime frowned. “Walking, it is. How ever will we pass the time?”
Both you and Brienne glanced at each other, exasperated. 
“By putting one foot in front of the other,” the large woman told him, shoving him along.
Stumbling from the impact, Jaime blew out a sigh. “It’ll be such a dull walk.”
“I’m here to escort Lady Stark to King’s Landing and exchange you for her nieces. Dull is fine,” Brienne snapped.
Lolling his head over to you, Jaime spoke, “Is dull fine for you, Bitter Wolf? I’m sure you have so many interesting stories hidden behind that scowling exterior of yours. Tell me one!”
Deciding to indulge him for only just a little bit, you said, “What would you want to know?”
Jaime smiled triumphantly. “Tell me about Winterfell. I overheard one of the guards speaking about it—that Greyjoy pup claimed it as his now, has he?”
Stiffening, you shot Jaime a glare. “I will not be discussing such matters with you.”
His shackles clacked against each other as he raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. We’ll talk about something else.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “Tell me about your sister.”
Anger flooded across your features. “Shut up.”
“Why? Have I struck a nerve—?”
“Shut up!” you barked again, which made Jaime fall silent, though there was still a slight smile to his grimy face.
Sensing that he wasn’t going to get anything of value from you, Jaime looked back to Brienne. “What about you? How did you come into Lady Catelyn’s service? That’s something we can talk about, no?”
The blonde remained as sour-faced as ever. “Not your concern, Kingslayer.”
“It had to be recently. You weren’t with her at Winterfell… I would’ve noticed your dour head smacking into the archways.”
The memory of Jaime’s visit to your home flashed across your mind. Things had been so much simpler then. Until he pushed your nephew out of a window with the intent to kill the boy, of course.
“If you don’t serve the Starks… did you pledge yourself to Stannis?” the knight asked.
“Gods, no,” Brienne quickly responded.
Brows raising, Jaime exclaimed, “Ah, Renly, then! Wasn’t expecting that from you. He wasn’t fit to rule over anything more important than a twelve-course meal.”
“Shut your mouth,” Brienne hissed. It seemed Jaime had a particular talent for irritating the life out of both of you.
“Why? I lived with him at court since he was a boy, don’t forget. Could hardly escape the little tulip… skipping down the corridors with his embroidered silks. I knew him far better than you,” Jaime bragged, taking pleasure in getting beneath her skin.
Frowning, Brienne spat, “I knew him just as much as anyone else. As a member of his Kingsguard, he trusted me with everything. He would’ve been a wonderful King.”
Would he? From what you could recall, he never really cared much for the wellbeing of the realm. Nonetheless, you remained silent.
Jaime, however, cackled gleefully. “Sounds like you quite fancied him.”
“I did not fancy him,” she gritted out, a tad too fast.
“Gods, you did! I can see it all over your brutish face! Did you ever tell him? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being a part of his Kingsguard and whatnot… well, I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t quite Renly’s type. He preferred curly-haired little girls like Loras Tyrell. You’re far too much man for him.” 
How ironic, you dryly thought. “I didn’t take you one to gossip,” you said, sensing Brienne’s uncomfort. “Neither of us have quite the appetite for your foul rumors.”
“Oh, but it’s not gossip, Wolf,” said Jaime. “It’s very much true. His proclivities were the worst-kept secret at court!”
“Who gives a shit about what he used to do with his free time? It’s not like he was hurting anybody,” you retaliated. Truthfully, you bore no love for Robert Baratheon’s youngest brother, but since Jaime made it his mission to antagonize him, you couldn’t help but want to defend the late Prince.
Jaime dryly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you fancied him, too. He wouldn’t quite like you much, I’m afraid. He liked his affairs brainless and sweet-faced—two traits you sorely lack, Bitter Wolf. Hm… it’s a shame the throne isn’t made of cocks. They’d have never gotten him off of it.”
Snapping, Brienne grabbed at Jaime’s hair and yanked him back, her sword against his throat in a blink of an eye. You calmly watched, not moving to stop her just yet. She was a loyal, honorable woman, and you were confident Brienne wouldn’t actually kill him if it came down to it.
“Shut your mouth!” she just about shouted, baring her teeth in a snarl.
Jaime winced at the pain of her hand yanking his hair. “I don’t blame him,” he said, tone considerably much softer. “And I don’t blame you, either. We don’t get to choose who we love.”
The insinuation behind his words was as clear as day.
You bitterly scoffed. “But we do get to choose who we have sex with, don’t we, sister-fucker?” Rolling your eyes to the side, you gestured for Brienne to unhand him. “The journey is still long—let’s save our energy by spending it in silence.”
Brienne reluctantly relinquished her hold on him, but before either of them could say anything, the clopping of hooves pulled your attention away.
It was a simple tradesman, tugging along his packhorse, who had bundles of wheat and hay strapped to its back. He waved at the three of you, a smile to his innocent face.
“Hullo. Where are you lot headed?”
“South,” said Jaime. “You?”
“Riverrun,” the man said. “Stayin’ off the Kingsroad, are you?”
The three of you nodded.
“They get you no matter where you go,” he advised. “You can’t run.”
Ominous were his words, but he could simply be speaking of the road tax they were imposing amongst the common folk. Nothing more than that. 
Right?
“Looks like you two are safe enough. Meaning no offense, of course… I wouldn’t want to tangle with you lot,” he said with a chesty chuckle. “Seven blessings to you.”
Off the tradesman went, his horse in tow. You briefly wondered if he had recognized you or Jaime. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn’t.
“He knows who I am,” Jaime muttered under his breath.
“He doesn’t,” said Brienne.
“Maybe you’re right. But what if you’re not? What if he tells someone? We have to kill him,” Jaime pressed.
Blowing out a breath, you turned to him. “We’re not killing him. Unlike you, Kingslayer, I wouldn’t take innocent lives for no reason.”
Your words seemed to strike him in the face and he reared back with a sneer.
“And you wouldn’t risk his innocent life for your innocent nieces?” Jaime countered. 
A beat of silence. You could feel a lump growing in your throat.
Wordless, you beckoned Brienne to push Jaime along your path. There would be no more bloodshed than necessary.
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The three of you had stopped for a break by the river. Brienne had told you to get some sleep, that she’d keep watch for a few hours. 
Body aching and weary with the long journey, you gratefully nodded, leaning against a tree trunk and pulling your cloak up over your head, slipping into a dreamless slumber.
It seemed that luck was not on your side, for you were startled awake by the clashing of steel not even two hours later. You scrambled onto your feet, blinking away your grogginess, and grabbed the bow you had kept by your side.
Jaime and Brienne were by the river, yelling at each other so quickly that you couldn’t make out anything they were saying. When you rushed closer, your eyes widened upon seeing one of Brienne’s longswords clutched between his grimy hands. 
Quiet as a shadow, you nocked an arrow to the drawstring, silently creeping up to the dueling two. Jaime was breathing in a haggard fashion, clearly exhausted by the fight. Brienne, on the other hand, had yet to break a sweat, but her movements were rough and lacked calculated grace.
“That’s enough,” you commanded, tone steely, raising your bow so the tip of the arrow pointed straight at Jaime. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, Kingslayer, we are doing you a favor by taking you back home.”
Before he could reply, a dozen clopping horses resounded from over the bridge, and you swiveled your gaze over to the group with baited breath as they drew closer.
They were carrying Bolton banners of flayed men. And riding on one of the horses was the tradesman you had let go. You squared your jaw. Mercy was to be your downfall.
“Looks like the Bitter Wolf has gotten the better of you, Kingslayer,” said Locke, the man leading the group crooned, thick brows raised. 
You exchanged a quick glance with Brienne, who still had her sword raised. 
“Let us go,” you said, raising your chin. “As your liege lord’s blood, I order you to let us go—!”
Locke barked out a laugh. “Let you go? If the King in the North hears I had the Kingslayer and his precious aunt and let you go, he’d be taking my head right off. I’d rather he takes his.” The man jutted his head towards Jaime, who began to slowly step back, your arrow grazing against the base of his neck.
There was no way you and Brienne could fight off all these soldiers.
With a scowl, you loosened your hold on your bow as Brienne simultaneously sheathed her longsword in surrender. 
One of the men grabbed your bow and arrows, breaking them over his knee with a cackle before he bound your wrists together with rope and roughly tossing you onto a horse. He moved to do the same with Jaime, who had tried to fight off with his sword, but easily batted to the ground in his already-fatigued state, shoved behind you. Brienne was forced onto another horse.
“Never thought I’d see you as a prisoner… for your own nephew, no less,” Jaime leaned forward to murmur into your ear. “It’s not so bad. You get used to it after a while.”
“It looked like Brienne had the upper hand on you,” you coolly said.
Jaime frowned. “She did not. I was in chains. Had I not been shackled, I would’ve easily beaten her.”
You gave him no reply, staring straight ahead with a cold, distant stare. The group began moving, and you swallowed down the urge to puke over the side of the horse.
“When we make camp tonight, there is a great chance those men will take you and Brienne and have their way with you.”
A moment of silence passed before you firmly replied, “They won’t. I am their King’s—”
“Their King believes you to be a traitor for helping me escape,” countered Jaime. “They’ll rape you, and they’ll call it justice. None of these men have ever been with a noblewoman, much less the Bitter Wolf herself.”
There was a thickness to your throat, as if you’d swallowed a mouthful of cold honey. 
“It’d be wise if you didn’t resist,” Jaime said, voice lowering. “They’ll hurt you more if you do.”
“You want me to just let them rape me?” you asked incredulously, loathing the way your voice tremored ever so slightly. You were afraid.
Jaime blew out a sigh. “I stood guard outside the Queen Rhaella’s chambers as the King raped her. Night after night, I could hear her screaming. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I asked Jonothor Darry once, ‘Are we not sworn to defend the Queen, as well?’ He didn’t even look at me when he replied, ‘We are… but not from him.’ And so I had no choice but to stand and listen. Listen to her pleading, crying, trying to fight him off—which only made the Mad King angrier. The maids said she looked as if she was mauled by a wild animal by the time he was done with her. Scratches, bruises, and bites littered her body.” There was a long stretch of silence before Jaime bowed his head. “It is better you let them get it over with. Let them have what they want, and they’d have no reason to hurt you anymore.”
“You said you had no choice,” you hoarsely said, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “You always have a choice, Jaime. Always.”
Though you couldn’t see his expression, you could imagine the way he would grimly chuckle. “I realized that right before I put my sword through his back.”
Your nose stung as you sucked in a chestful of air. “They’ll kill Brienne if she fights them. They can’t kill me, but they can and would kill her if she fights back—which she will.”
This time, Jaime was the one who didn’t grace you with a response, brows furrowed and his thoughts far, far away.
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The chains around your wrists were cold. There was an itch on your back, but with your hands tightly bound together, there was little you could do about it. And so you slumped against the tree, stomach cinched with hunger, and back itchy as you watched the Bolton men eat their roasted meats over the fire, drinking fresh river water that your throat ached for.
Jaime and Brienne were bound to other trees across the camp. From this far, you couldn’t quite see Brienne, but you could see Jaime as clear as day—and he was staring out into the distance, not a single thought behind those green eyes of his.
Once the men had had their suppers and were mildly drunk on the wine they brought along with them, they stumbled onto their feet.
“I’ll take the big bitch first,” you overheard one of them proclaim. “You lot… can tame the Bitter Wolf. We can switch after.”
They burst into raucous cheers. Fear coiled within the bottom of your chest.
Let them have what they want, you could hear Jaime’s voice say.
His green eyes were on you now, watching you with furrowed brows.
“My Lord, I am Brienne of Tarth. Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to King’s Landing—!” Brienne began to protest when four men began dragging her up onto her feet, but was quickly cut off.
Grinning maliciously, Locke interrupted, “Catelyn Stark is a treasonous cunt. Orders were to take the Kingslayer and the Bitter Wolf alive. Nobody said shit about you.”
You didn’t see it when it happened. Sickening thuds, cracking bones, and a resounding slap. Brienne’s screams as they began beating her. From what you could hear, she put up quite a fight. Tears filled your eyes, and you yanked on your chains, knowing it would do absolutely nothing.
“Take her over there where it’s dark. I’d like a little privacy,” said Locke. “The Wolf can go over there—behind the bushes.”
Two men seized you on each side. Though you didn’t fight as wildly Brienne did, you were more calculated in your retaliation, allowing them to think you weren’t going to resist. But after the first few steps, you jerked away, shoving one of the men down onto the ground and using the cold metal of your shackles to wind around the other’s throat. Gurgling chokes erupted from his purpling lips.
You pressed, and pressed, and pressed—
Until another man came and hauled you off, striking you twice across the face, both of your cheeks stinging with the impact. You were bleeding—you could feel it dripping down your jaw, but you didn’t quite feel the pain just yet. 
In the distance, you could hear Brienne’s yells echo through the trees.
You bared your teeth in a snarl when the man yanked your head back by your hair, eliciting a tear to fall from one of your eyes. “I’m going to have fun with you, Bitter Wolf. You’re a pretty little thing when you cry—maybe I’ll ask your nephew if I can keep you.”
“You think my nephew would want me to be raped?” you growled as he began dragging you away. 
“He doesn’t give a shit what happens to you… fucking traitor,” he snarled, brandishing a dull knife gleaming with the reflection of the fire. The blade tore through your tunic and smallclothes, and you struggled to keep yourself covered with the few remaining scraps clinging onto your skin.
Your breath caught in your throat when he began undoing his own pants, a scream tearing from your chest when he held you down with his free arm. 
“No!” you shouted, so loud it felt like the ground beneath you rumbled. “ROBB WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”
The man’s hand wrapped around your throat, his thumb digging into your airway. You were beginning to grow lightheaded
Without thinking, you garbled out a cry, “BRIENNE! JAIME! JAIME, PLEASE!”
Please what, you fool? you thought. Brienne can’t help you. Jaime can’t do anything. Nobody can save you.
You kicked out against the captor, landing a solid punch to his face as you tried to crawl away.
From the camp, Jaime’s jaw twitched upon hearing you cry out his name, heavy and broken with desperation. The Lannister glanced up at Locke.
“You know who she is, right?”
Locke smiled. “Some big, dumb bitch from who knows where? Hm… never been with a woman that big.”
“Brienne of Tarth. Her father is Lord Selwyn Tarth. Ever heard of Tarth? They call it the Sapphire Isle… every sapphire in Westeros was mined in Tarth. I’d bargain that Lord Selwyn would pay his daughter’s weight in sapphires if she’s returned to him,” said Jaime, trying to appear nonchalant. “Only if she’s alive, though. Don’t think he’d pay you much if you brought him his dead, defiled daughter.”
After a long moment of consideration, Locke turned and called out, “Bring the big one back here!”
From the distant dark, Jaime heard you scream out again. You were still fighting.
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to handle the Bitter Wolf in such a way. It’s better to leave her honor unbesmirched. See, if you’re going to sell her off to Robb Stark… he loves his aunt very much. I saw it myself, during the year I was their captive. He wouldn’t take kindly to his kin being tossed around and raped in such a fashion,” he said.
Narrowing his dark eyes, Locke stepped closer to Jaime. “Unbesmirched?”
“Not defiled,” Jaime clarified. 
Much more reluctant, Locke huffed out a sigh, before calling out to his men. “Bring the Bitter Wolf back here!” He fixed his gaze back on Jaime. “Fancy word for a fancy man.”
“I hated to read as a child. My father forced me to study the books every morning before I could practice with my sword or horse. Two hours, every day, holed up in the maester’s chambers,” replied the knight. He caught sight of you being dragged back to the camp, your face bloody, leaves and foliage clinging to your hair, and your tunic torn off of you. “For God's sake, get some clothes on her! She’ll catch a cold and freeze to death in such weather! Little Robb Stark wants her alive, doesn’t he?” Jaime urged, cocking one of his brows upward. 
With a haggard sigh, Locke undid his cloak and shoved it onto your shivering, horrified form, your arms crossed over your chest in an effort to salvage what little dignity you had left. Jaime’s loose, running tongue had saved you from being raped. You grabbed at the cloak and wrapped it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around you.
Brienne, on the other hand, was brought back fully clothed, still struggling. Blood dripped from her nose, but she seemed otherwise physically fine.
“Your father…” said Locke, “he’d pay your weight in gold to get you back?”
“You’ll be a rich man till the end of your days,” he responded. “And your sons will be rich men and their sons after them. Lands, titles… you’ll have them all. The North can’t win this war. You’re a smart man, you understand that, don’t you? We have the numbers, and we have the gold. Fighting bravely for a losing cause is admirable—but fighting for a winning cause is far more rewarding.”
Locke nodded once. “Hard to argue with that.”
Jaime momentarily glanced over at you, staring at him with wide eyes. 
He looked back at Locke. “Now that we’re speaking man to man… I wonder if you really need to keep me chained to this tree. I’m not asking to be freed from my constraints, but if I could sleep lying down, my back would thank you for it. I’m not as young and spritely as I once was.”
The man in front of him smiled. “None of us are. Unchain Ser Jaime from the tree. I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat.”
“Hm, I’m famished, actually,” said Jaime, his stomach giving a loud rumble at the enticing thought of hot food.
“Famished—another fancy word,” mused Locke. “We’ve got a spare partridge on the fire.”
“Splendid. I do like partridge.”
Now free to stand, Locke led the Lannister closer to the fire—closer to you. You watched with narrowed eyes, unsure of what was happening, still reeling from the fact that you were nearly raped.
“Bring the bird here, and a carving knife.” There was a dark glint to Locke’s eyes that you misliked. “Any other fancy words you want to tell me, Ser Jaime?”
Before the blonde could reply, Locke had kicked out at Jaime’s leg, shoving him against a wooden log, his cheek painfully pressing against the dry bark. Two other men came forward to hold him down, and a third brought the knife.
Locke took it from him, pressing the blade just below Jaime’s one of eyes, squeezed shut. “You think you’re the smartest man there is… that everyone alive has to bow and scrape and lick your boots.”
“My father—”
“And if you get in any trouble, all you have to do is say ‘my father!’ and that’s it. All your troubles are gone. Hm? You got something to say? Want to tell me more about your rich, fancy childhood of books and horses? Careful, Kingslayer. You don’t want to say the wrong thing. You’re nothing without your daddy. But your daddy ain’t here! Never forget that.”
The blade Locke was holding came away from Jaime’s eye.
You blew out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
And it came down onto his right hand, cleaving it right off his arm.
Jaime screamed so loud you flinched back against the tree in shock, eyes wider than saucers. Dark blood spurted from the amputated limb. You yelled out his name, chest rising and falling unevenly with rapid, panicked breaths. 
Locke turned his greedy eyes to you, slanting the crimson-slickened blade against your cheek, smearing Jaime’s blood all over your face.
“You keep silent, Wolf,” he snarled, grabbing at your face so you would be forced to stare at Jaime writhing in raw, undulated pain. “Listen to him… listen to his screaming. Music to my fucking ears.”
And so you did. 
For the rest of the night, you could do nothing but listen to Jaime’s agonized yells. 
In the next hour, he had passed out from the pain, clutching his severed hand to his chest.
“Jaime,” you whispered, trying to nudge his unmoving body with your foot, worried he was dead. “Jaime.”
He never replied.
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The hand thumped against his sternum with each step the horse took. It smelled rancid: of rotting flesh and dried blood, accompanied by the stench of shame.
Shame.
That was all Jaime could feel for himself.
He was ashamed.
He could feel your eyes on him. Those pretty eyes of winter, usually cold and hardened… now gaunt with trauma and exhaust. If he looked closely, he’d be able to see the concern behind your irises, as well.
But he didn’t look closely, because he was too ashamed to. His own gaze was rooted to the moving ground, watching the foliage pass by. He felt like he needed to puke, but his stomach bore nothing for him to retch. The woodsy dirt seemed to grow closer and closer with every blink…
“How many of those fingers do you think we could shove up his ass?” one of the Bolton men jeered.
Locke coughed out a laugh. “Depends on if he’s had any practice. Is that the kind of thing you and your sister go for, Kingslayer? Did she loosen you up for us?”
The knight teetered on his horse. Your gaze flickered from him to your captors, brows furrowing.
“He’s going to fall,” Brienne called out, her voice rattling through the trees. The men paid her no mind, going on with their sneers and their crude japes. Again, she exclaimed, “He’s going to fall off the horse, someone help him!”
They all watched as Jaime slid off the poor creature’s back, falling face first into a schlop of cold mud. He groaned at the impact, weakly squirming in a fruitless attempt to try to push himself back up.
“Water. Please, water,” he croaked just as the group came to a grueling halt. Locke swung himself off his horse to stand in front of Jaime.
In a cruel manner, he unstoppered his leather water pouch, only to pour its contents over the top of Jaime’s head. 
“Just give the bloody man some water,” you snarled. “It’s been days. He’ll keel over without it.”
Locke rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough.” With a smirk, he shoved another waterskin into Jaime’s single quivering hand.
Greedily, Jaime ripped it open with his teeth and tipped the pouch bag to chug down what was inside.
“Hm. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a man drink horse piss that fast,” Locke observed.
Jaime doubled over, gagging, puking out everything he had just gulped down into the filthy mud. Two cackling men seized him on each side, but Jaime was quick to react, elbowing one in the stomach and grabbing his sword.
It was one against a dozen… Jaime when he had two hands would’ve beat the lot of them in a blink of an eye. But he was no longer Jaime with two hands. Just the one. 
A man kicked out at the back of Jaime’s knee, sending him sprawling forward. 
“Stop!” Brienne yelled, jumping off her horse. More men surrounded her, beating her down to the ground, as she was tied and weaponless. They placed the tips of their blades to her throat, telling her she had gone far enough.
You wisely stayed up on your horse, watching as Locke landed several kicks into Jaime’s stomach and chest. A sickening crack sounded out through the woods. You weren’t really sure what broke, but it didn’t sound good.
“Stop! Stop hurting him,” you gruffed. “You’ve already taken his hand. He poses no more of a threat to you than I.”
“And what are you proposing, Bitter Wolf?” Locke asked, spreading his arms out. “That I beat you, instead?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, you spat out in a steely manner, “Yes. Go ahead. Beat me until my skin turns purple and blue. It won’t change the fact that you’d simply be wasting your time.”
Locke’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Fucking traitor.” He glared down at Jaime. “Be grateful the Bitter Wolf has decided to abandon her family for the side of the enemy. If I had it my way, I’d cut off your other hand and stuff it down your throat.”
A breath of relief slipped from your lips when Locke stepped away, leaving Jaime to lie in the mud for a few more seconds. The men eventually tossed him back onto his horse as if he were a sack of potatoes.
He wheezed every time he inhaled, still refusing to meet your gaze.
“Thank—” wheeze, “—you.”
“You did the same for me,” you quietly replied. 
Neither of you spoke after that, continuing the journey on in a mutual, respectable silence.
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Harrenhal was much larger than you’d remembered. Then again, you were only a small child last time you came, hyper-focused on all the food and fighting.
The Boltons hauled you off your horse, shoving you onto the ground, followed by Brienne and Jaime.
From in front of you stepped Roose Bolton. 
Locke kicked Jaime to the muddy ground. “I give you the Kingslayer, Lord Bolton.”
“Pick him up,” he said with a dour expression. “He’s lost a hand.”
Cackling, Locke shook his head. “No, my Lord. He has it here!” He pointed at the severed limb tied loosely around his neck.
Roose scowled, stepping forward to rip the hand off of Jaime. “Take this away.”
“What? And send it to his father?” asked Locke, slightly miffed.
A muscle jumped in Roose’s jaw. “You’ll hold your tongue unless you want to lose it. This is the King’s uncle.”
The realization of the Bolton’s betrayal to Robb dawned upon you like a sharp strike to your cheek. “You… you fucking traitor!” you snarled, chest heaving with anger. “Fucking traitor!”
Roose arched a sharp brow. “Look who’s talking, Bitter Wolf. We’re on the same side now, you and I.”
You wanted to snap back, tell him that you’d never be on the side of the Lannisters. But you held your tongue—perhaps if you could play the part of a traitor to the North, they would treat you less harshly. Maybe even allow you to integrate into their group after long enough. You’d be a spy of sorts. You’d have to be patient… and play the long game.
“Cut them free. Apologies, my Ladies. You’re both under my protection now,” Bolton ordered. Someone sliced through your ropes, and you struggled to push yourself onto your legs, weak with exhaustion. “Find suitable rooms for our guests. We’ll speak later.” 
Just as Roose was about to stride away, Jaime croaked out, “Lord Bolton. Has there been word from the capital?”
“You haven’t heard?” he said. “Stannis Baratheon laid siege to King’s Landing… sailed into Blackwater Bay. Stormed the gates with thousands of men. And your sister, how can I put this…?”
Fear danced clear as day across Jaime’s features.
“Your sister is alive and well. Your father’s forces prevailed,” Roose hummed. Overcome with a sudden barrage of overwhelming sensations, Jaime jerked forward, falling to his knees with a pained groan. “Ser Jaime isn’t well. Take him to Qyburn.”
You watched as they led Jaime away, somewhere inside the castle. Another man nudged you and Brienne forward, taking the both of you to the baths, where you were to clean yourself up.
When the hot, steaming water kissed your skin, you couldn’t help but moan out in relief. It’d been months since you bathed in anything but cold, frigid river water. Brienne sank into the waters across from you, blowing out a sigh and respectfully avoiding her gaze to give you a bit of privacy.
“I never had the chance to thank you for taking me so far. Or trying to, at least,” you quietly said as you began scrubbing the dirt away from your skin. “Thank you. You’re a good woman.”
An indiscernible look flickered over her expression. “I failed you. I failed Lady Catelyn. You shouldn’t be thankful for that.”
“You kept me alive. You saved my life several times. You helped me during a long, rough journey. If that doesn’t warrant my gratitude, I don’t know what does.”
The two of you were silent for a while longer. You leaned back to wash all the accumulated dirt and oil away from your hair, lathering your body with fresh soap by the stony bathtub’s edge.
“May I ask you a question, Lady Stark?”
“You may.”
“Why does everyone call you the Bitter Wolf?”
You let the question soak in for a few seconds as you rinsed away the soap. “I haven’t smiled since the Mad King killed my father and my brother. Not much to smile about, anyway. I suppose they also call me that because I’m none too friendly around people.”
There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”
“Sorry for what? Sorry for asking or sorry that it happened?” 
“Both.” 
“It’s alright.” Another long moment of quiet. Then, you asked, “Do you ever miss home, Brienne?”
The blonde tilted her head. “Sometimes. My father is a good man, and Tarth is beautiful. I often wonder what my life would be like if I never left. If I stayed and married a nobleman, like my father wanted.”
“But it’s not what you want,” you quietly said. 
“No, my Lady. It’s not.” Brienne scrubbed away the dried blood on her bare shoulders with a brush. How it had even managed to get there, she wasn't sure. “Do you miss home?”
The thought of home made your chest ache. The fluffy snow, the direwolves, your comfortable bed. “Yes. More than anything, I miss my family. I miss my brothers, all of whom are gone now. I miss my sister, dead long ago. I miss my nephews, two of them may very well be long gone by now. I miss Robb and Catelyn, and I can only hope he’s not giving her too hard of a time. I can only hope he doesn’t hate me, that he can find it within him to forgive me. And I miss my nieces. It seems our little quest to save them has come to an abrupt end.”
Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The idea of failure still hung heavy over her broad shoulders. 
After another ten minutes, Brienne had found that her fingers were beginning to prune, and so she slipped out of the tub, wrapping a thin linen towel about her tall, dripping figure. 
She bid you adieu, but not without first saying, “I’ll protect you, my Lady. I may have failed in bringing you to King’s Landing and escorting your nieces out, but I will protect you with my life.”
Though you didn’t smile, Brienne could catch the faint look of fondness behind your usually frigid irises. “Thank you, Brienne. Truly.”
The big blonde exited the bathroom, having a guard lead her to her chambers. 
You sank further into the tub, wishing to just stay there for a little while longer and forget. Besides, you didn’t know when the next time you’d be offered a bath would be, and you wanted to savor it for as long as you possibly could.
You grabbed a scrubbing brush, lathering it with soap before running it up and down your body, still feeling immensely dirty despite washing it all away. The bristles scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t stop, memories of men touching and shoving you flashing across your thoughts.
“Not so hard,” said a familiar voice. Your head snapped up, thinking Brienne had come back for a moment, before your eyes met Jaime. He was tired and weak, tugging his dirty clothes off. “You’ll scrub all your skin off.”
Brows furrowing, you sank lower beneath the water to make sure he wouldn’t see anything. You remained silent, simply watching as he made his way to the bath, nude as the day he was born.
It seemed Qyburn had done quite a number to his stump, which was cleanly bandaged and no longer bore the coloring of rotten flesh.
When he lowered himself into the tub, he let out a long groan of relief. The feeling of hot water kissing his body was a simple pleasure he missed dearly. Jaime noticed you shifting farther away, until you were pressed up against the opposite edge.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice gravelly. “I told you before, haven’t I? I would never… not unless you invited me, of course.”
Those were his very same words from all those moons ago, when he was standing in front of your chambers in Winterfell. You looked at him, expression softening. 
“Your hand. What did Qyburn do?” you quietly asked.
Jaime waved the bandaged stump just above the water’s surface. “Want to see?”
Apprehensive, you slowly crossed the tub until you were only half an arm’s length away from him. With gentle hands, you reached out to take his arm, inspecting the wrappings and the visible outline of the stitches beneath it. 
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes. More than when it was lopped off, actually,” Jaime admitted, surprised at himself for being so honest with you. 
“And does it hurt now?”
“I was given milk of the poppy,” said the knight. “Numbs the pain.”
A shadow of disappointment danced across the green of his irises when your hands fell away from him.
You were entirely aware that the both of you were naked, and he was so close you could feel his leg brushing yours. You’d never been this close to a man in the nude before. Clearing your throat, you stepped back just a bit. 
“If I faint, pull me out,” said Jaime. “I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub.”
“I should let you drown,” you murmured.
The blonde man tilted his head to the side. “But you wouldn’t.”
“No, Ser Jaime. I wouldn’t.”
“And why is that? You’ve grown fond of me?”
The quiet that stretched between you felt heavy and tense, thick enough to cut through with a knife. 
“I don’t know,” was all you said. 
“I can see it in your eyes,” Jaime said, a mild grin to his cracked lips. “You’re fond of me. When we spoke at Winterfell, you had the same look. Then it was gone when I was your nephew’s prisoner. And now it’s back… not many look at me in such a way.”
You paused in your scrubbing for a moment to look at him. “What are you talking about? You’re the Golden Lion. Everyone loves you.”
“No. They all want me to think they love me, because they’re scared. I know how they really feel. I’ve seen their hatred for seventeen years, face after face. They all despise me. Judge me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. Your law-sister, Lady Catelyn, had that face. Brienne of Tarth, too. Hell, even Roose Bolton, who betrayed his King in the North… he still looks down upon me. Everyone but you.”
You blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. What were you supposed to say to that? 
Before you could think up a response, Jaime continued on, “Have you ever heard of wildfire? The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. Each time he burned a victim, he’d drag his Queen to the chambers and rape her until she passed out, then do it again and again, until he’s had his fill. He burned lords he didn’t like… Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys Targaryen saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city… beneath the Sept of Baelor, and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, and taverns. Even beneath the Red Keep itself. He burned your father during a trial by combat, claiming fire to be his house’s champion. Your brother was put in a Tyroshi strangling device… forced to watch as your father cooked in his armor, and choked himself to death trying to save him.”
The corners of your eyes stung with a warbling film of tears. You knew Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed by the Mad King, but not like this. Not in such a miserable, painful way. You ducked your head as you furiously swiped the stray water away from your cheeks. 
“Finally, the day of reckoning came—Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory on the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels. I knew my father better than that… he’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully. But the King didn’t listen to me, nor did he listen to Varys, who tried to warn him. Hm, but he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle… that grey sunken cunt.”
A long pause. You took a step closer when you noticed Jaime slumping back with a haggard sigh, the rims of his eyes red as he recounted the story. He was tearing up, just as you were. This was equally as traumatizing for him as it was for you. You had reached out, but didn’t touch him, stopping yourself before you did.
“‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the King, begging him to surrender. The blood everywhere, the dead bodies… it was a massacre, Lady Y/N. In response, Aerys told me to… he told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said.” A tear fell down Jaime’s grimy cheek. “‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ If you were commanded to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”
Your lips parted. “No,” you hoarsely whispered.
Jaime blinked away the tears, inhaling sharply. “First, I killed the pyromancer. And then when the King turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. So I slit his throat. I don’t think he expected to die. He… he meant to burn with the rest of us, and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies into ash. That’s where your brother, Ned Stark, found me.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” you whispered. “Ned would’ve listened—”
“You think the honorable Eddard Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.” Jaime’s chest started to stagger with heavy, uneven breaths. “By what right does the wolf judge the lion?”
“No, Ned would have heard you out if you explained—”
Jaime’s face twisted into one of frustration. “Your love for your family blinds you, just as mine does for me. You were the only one, Lady Y/N… the only one…”
A wheeze and a puff. Jaime teetered forward, eyes slipping shut. 
Quickly, you darted forward just before he could fall into the water, holding him slightly upright within your arms. His face pressed against your shoulder and he groaned out something incoherent. 
“Guards!” you called. “Help!”
“The only one who called me Ser Jaime before calling me a Kingslayer,” he muttered against your skin, just before the guards rushed in to help him out. 
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The dress they had given you to wear was an ugly shade of yellow. It was not at all akin to the type of dresses you would wear up in the North, which were thick and voluminous with high collars. No, this one had a tight bodice with a flowing skirt, its neckline square and plunging. It was a dress Southern ladies would be quite comfortable with, you were sure, but you were no Southerner.
Jaime’s green eyes had shimmered with slight mirth upon seeing you uncomfortably amble into Harrenhal’s mess hall, two guards forcing you out of your chambers so you would speak with Roose Bolton. In front of the knight was a generous plate full of roasted meat, along with a heaping of creamed potatoes and glazed carrots. It was a most appetizing meal, especially to a man who hadn’t had proper, hot food in longer than a year, but it proved to be hard to cut into the meat with just one hand. 
“Lannister gold,” said the knight, glancing at your dress as you took a seat next to him, before fixing his stare on your sour expression. He then went back to trying to cut his meat with his one hand. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not as bad as hers, anyway.”
To his other side sat Brienne, who was forced into a frumpy pink dress, the collar rimmed with brown fur. Somehow, she looked even more out of place than you did.
“I see my men have found you both appropriate attire,” said Lord Bolton, smirking at your clear uncomfort.
“Yes, most kind of them,” Brienne replied, though it lacked any true sincerity. “You’re a Stark bannerman, Lord Bolton. I am acting on Lady Stark’s orders to accompany Lady Y/N and Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing.”
With a scoff, Roose rolled his eyes. “If Catelyn Stark wasn’t the Wolf-King’s mother, he would have hanged her for treason.”
Growing frustrated at Jaime’s obvious struggles, Brienne reached over for a fork and stabbed it through the meat, allowing for him to cut through it easily.
“I should send you back to Robb Stark, Kingslayer,” said Roose.
You narrowed your eyes. “And here I assumed you already betrayed my nephew?”
“Gold is a tempting wealth, one that the Lannisters have in abundance,” Roose said, words sharp. “But it is easier to offer it than to dole it out.”
With raised brows, Jaime popped a piece of tender meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “And here you sit, watching me fail at dinner rather than tossing me into the back of a carriage and dumping me in front of Robb Stark. I wonder why that is.”
“Wars cost money. Many people would pay a great deal for you,”  Roose told Jaime. Then, he looked at you. 
“And we both know who would pay the most. Or who would make you pay the most if he found out you captured me and sent me back up North for a summary execution.”
A set of cutlery was placed out in front of you, and you trained your stare onto a dull butter knife. Not as sharp as you would’ve liked, but it’d do.
“Perhaps the safest thing to do is to kill all three of you and burn your bodies,” said Lord Bolton. 
You wrapped your fingers around the butter knife, but, to your surprise, Jaime’s hand let go of his fork to gently rest over yours, as if to stop you from doing anything rash. This didn’t go past Roose’s notice, and he narrowed his cold, pale grey eyes. 
“It would be, yes… if you truly believed my father would never find out about it.” 
His hand slipped off of yours.
“King Robb is keeping him quite busy. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”
Humming Jaime, bobbed his head. “He’d make time for you.”
It seemed that Roose Bolton was convinced. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I will allow you to go to King’s Landing… as restitution for the mistakes my soldiers made. And you will swear to tell your father the truth—that I played no part in your maiming.”
“Very well,” said Jaime, seeming satisfied. It dawned on you that he thought both you and Brienne were to go with him. “My Ladies, may our journey continue without further hindrance.”
You bit down on your tongue when the Bolton simply smiled cruelly. “Oh, they won’t be going with you. They’re charged with abetting treason.”
Incredulous, Jaime said, “I’m afraid I must insist.”
“You’re in no place to insist on anything,” Roose scathingly replied. “I would have hoped you’d learned your lesson about overplaying your position.”
“Then let me insist. Send me back to my nephew,” you barked, brows knitting. “He can deal with me as he sees fit. I’m not going to be your prisoner.” 
With a wide smile, Roose Bolton pushed away from the table to stand. “Oh, but your nephew doesn’t know you’re here, Bitter Wolf. And I intend to keep it that way. It seems like you don’t have a choice.”
Before you could ask him anything else, Lord Bolton was already striding away. You exchanged a worried glance with both Jaime and Brienne, fear clutching around your heart.
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They’d put you in chains, and tossed you into a dark room, Brienne in another far, far away from you to prevent an elaborate escape scheme from forming between the two of you. The one they put you in had little to light the space other than a single lonely torch hanging by the doorway, and a small, rectangular window that filtered pale moonlight through the glass. You sat on one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs, arms wrapped around yourself as you shivered. The dress they’d given you wasn’t one fit for the cold. You supposed they were probably aware of that. 
The door on the other end of the chambers creaked open. In strode Jaime, his arm in a sling, a guard following close behind.
You rose to your feet, face solemn.
“I thought you’d left already.”
“Tomorrow,” replied Jaime. He stepped closer. “I tried to bargain with Roose. He’s adamant on keeping you here. I’m sorry. I’ll convince my father to buy you out. No man can deny the gold when it’s presented right in front of him.”
You wrenched your gaze away, fixing them upon the torch’s warbling flames. “Why?”
The blonde knight tilted his head. “What do you mean, why? I’m going to get you out.”
“Yes, I got that,” you softly said. This time, your eyes met his inquisitive green ones. “But why would you want me to get out?” 
“Because I… I owe you a debt. You released me from my imprisonment,” he replied. 
Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you strode forward the rest of the way, until you stood only inches from Jaime. You lowered your voice as you said, “I did it for a reason, Ser Jaime. Please… when you get to King’s Landing, swear you’ll send my nieces back to Robb. Send the girls to him, and consider the debt repaid.”
Jaime nodded. “I swear it.”
You studied him for a moment longer, eyes watering and nose stinging. “I wish there’s more you could do than simply swear. But I trust you, Ser Jaime. I trust you.”
Something within his expression changed, as if crumbling apart, piece by piece. He could see the anguish written across your complexion, clear as day. “Lord Bolton is traveling tomorrow. He’s going to the Twins for Edmure Tully’s wedding.”
Your eyes widened. “Edmure Tully? So… Robb isn’t the one marrying the Frey girl? It’s Edmure?” 
“Your nephew married a foreign girl,” said Jaime with a hint of a smile. “Stirred up quite a scandal amongst your people.”
“Oh, Robb. Foolish, foolish boy. The Freys couldn’t have taken that kindly,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, remembering the medic he was making heart-shaped eyes at. “But if Roose isn’t loyal to Robb anymore… he must be scheming something. What it is, I’m not sure.”
After a second, Jaime cleared his throat. Guilt splayed over his striking features. “You know what this means, don’t you? You’ll be left alone in this castle with Locke and his men. Without Roose, and without me.”
“Not another rape speech, Jaime,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Suddenly, Jaime’s hand darted out to grasp one of yours. Your eyes snapped up to his again, lips parting at the unexpected touch.
“Offer them money. As much as they might want. Even if you don’t have it, offer it. These men are greedy, sniveling creatures. Offer it to them, and they might just leave you alone,” said Jaime, deadly serious. 
You looked away again, squaring your jaw and nodding. A second passed before Jaime let your hand go. 
“Jaime,” you whispered, fear suddenly shadowing over your chest. “If your father buys me out, I’ll simply be moving from captive to captive. I won’t be returning home, will I?”
The blonde man’s features softened ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t be your captor,” he said. “I could never find it within me to stand back and watch you suffer just the same as I did.”
“I wouldn’t be your captive. I’d be your father’s. All my options seem to be dead ends for me,” you responded. Utter hopelessness flooded your features. “Thank you for trying, nonetheless. Goodbye, Ser Jaime.”
It might have just been a trick of the quivering fire’s light, but you could’ve sworn there was a whisper of tears in the corner of Jaime’s eyes. “Goodbye, Lady Stark.”
He held his hand out for a handshake, and you took it firm and steady. With a dip of his head, he turned and left your chambers.
And then, you were alone.
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“Qyburn hopes your father will force the Citadel to give him back his chain,” said Roose, striding up behind Jaime as the knight mounted a horse, struggling with only his one hand to aid him.
Snorting, Jaime retorted, “My father will make him Grand Maester if he grows me a new hand.”
Roose hummed with thought. “You’ll give my regards to Lord Tywin, then, I trust?”
A nod, and a slight smile. “Tell Robb Stark I’m sorry I couldn’t make his uncle’s wedding. And that his aunt dearly misses him. The Lannisters send their regards.”
There was a malicious sort of glimmer to Roose’s pale eyes. He bowed his head.
And off Jaime went, his horse walking slowly out the gate, a few Bolton loyalists accompanying him. There were eyes on him from every point of the castle, burning into him. Locke awaited by the gate a sneer to his lips. “Safe journey, Kingslayer. Ooh, nothing to say? I liked you better before… I don’t remember chopping your balls off, too!”
Jaime remained wisely silent, jaw clenching. 
“Don’t you worry about your companions. We’ll take good care of them. I’ve never had Wolf before, you know?”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. It settled heavy within Jaime’s stomach.
He rode out of the castle without looking back.
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They took a pause on their journey around half a day later. His legs were weary and numb, but his stub throbbed. Qyburn took care of that, placing a strange sort of white ointment over the stitches before rebandaging them. In no time, the pain seemed to ebb away. 
After a bit of smalltalk on Qyburn’s rather disturbing confession to performing experiments on diseased men, Jaime swallowed uneasily and said, “You were in charge of the ravens at Harrenhal, no? Did you get a bird off to Brienne’s father in Tarth?”
Even if there was nowhere for you to go, Jaime surmised that at least Brienne would be able to return home with a proper ransom, right? 
“A bird flew off and a bird flew back,” said Qyburn. “Lord Selwyn Tarth offered three hundred gold dragons for his daughter’s safe return.”
“A fair offer,” hummed Jaime as he stood up to his feet to head back to his horse.
“Yes. An offer Locke won’t take.” 
Jaime faltered in his steps. “Why not?”
Qyburn frowned in thought. “He’s convinced Lord Tarth owns all the sapphire mines in Westeros. He feels he’s been cheated.”
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
Jaime blew out a long breath. “They’d be fools to kill her.”
“Hm. These men have been at war for a long time. Most of them will be dead by winter, and they’re well aware of this. Both she and the Bitter Wolf will be their entertainment for tonight. Beyond tonight, I don't think they'd care very much what happens to her. They’ll have to keep the Stark alive for Lord Bolton, however. Use her as they see fit until he returns.”
Brows knitting together, Jaime shook his head. There was no chance he’d be able to live with himself knowing he condemned Brienne to her death, knowing you’d be raped and tortured and beaten when he could’ve put a stop to it. 
He turned to one of the men accompanying him. “We have to return to Harrenhal,” he said.
“Why?” asked the soldier, upper lip curling with contempt.
“I’ve… left something behind.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve got orders from Lord Bolton to take you to your father in King’s Landing, and that’s what I intend to do.”
Cocking his face, Jaime narrowed his keen green eyes. “You think you’ll get a reward?” 
“I serve Lord Bolton. Any appreciation from your father—”
Cutting him off, Jaime hissed out, “Let me explain something to you. When my father sees me, the first thing he’s going to ask is what happened to my hand. And I’ll be telling him that you were the one that chopped it off.”
“I had nothing to do with—!” “Or,” Jaime interrupted once again, lifting a finger, “I could tell him this man saved my life, and he’ll reward you greatly. We’re returning to Harrenhal. Now.”
The man in front of Jaime considered his words for a moment, before reluctantly nodding, ordering the rest of the men to get ready to turn back.
He was going back to get you, one way or another.
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Jaime hurriedly leapt off his horse once he was within the dreary confines castle. From afar, he could hear drunken singing and chanting. With quick feet, he rushed up several creaking stairs, up and up and up he went, before he came up onto an elevated platform more than twice his height, where hundreds and hundreds of men were gathered. He could barely hear anything over their loud song about a bear and a maiden.
To his horror, as Jaime pushed through the crowd, he caught sight of a large arena. And within it… was a large brown bear. 
Brienne was down there as well, in her tattered pink dress, her hands wrapped around a rather useless wooden training sword. And behind her, she was shielding you. Your expression was wild with terror, eyes darting every which way in an effort to search for a way out. The golden dress you were wearing was soaked with mud, torn in several places, and hanging haggardly off of one shoulder. Brienne was no better, with deep claw marks running along her neck down to her clavicle, blood dribbling down from the wound and staining her dress’ neckline crimson.
“Don’t spare her!” one of the onlookers yelled.
“Let the Wolf fight! Fucking coward!”
“Get on with it already!”
The bear roared angrily. Jaime could hear Brienne yelling, “Stay behind me, my Lady! I’ll protect you!”
“Well, this is one shameful fucking performance. Stop running and fight!” exclaimed Locke. Jaime’s eyes snapped up to him. 
“You gave her a wooden sword?” he asked, nose wrinkling with disgust. 
Locke glanced at the Kingslayer, thick brows raising in surprise. “Thought you’d gone.”
“You gave her a wooden sword!” he gritted out.
“We’ve only got one bear,” scoffed Locke.
Shoving people out of the way, Jaime stormed closer to the rotten man. “I’ll pay their bloody ransom. Gold, sapphires, whatever you want. Just get her out of there!”
With a smirk, Locke shook his head. “All you Lords and Ladies still think that the only thing that matters is gold.” He grabbed Jaime’s bandaged stub. “Well, this makes me happier than all your gold ever could! And that makes me happier than any of her sapphires! I’m sure taking the Bitter Wolf’s cunt for myself is going to be more pleasurable than winning the fucking war myself. So go buy a golden hand and fuck yourself with it!”
Furious, Jaime shoved Locke away, turning back to watch the fighting pits. The bear had swiped out at Brienne, causing her to fall back with a yell as one of its claws snagged against her jaw. You had yanked her to the side, effectively saving her from a deathly blow from the bear.
And without another thought, Jaime clambered over the railings, and jumped down. He had no idea what he was doing. His heart was racing within his chest, thumping an irregularly quick pace. All he could think was to stand in front of you and Brienne.
“Get behind me!” he yelled.
“I will not!” Brienne spat out a wad of blood as she struggled back onto her feet.
Just as the bear was about to strike again, an arrow shot out from the stands. You looked up to see one of the men Jaime had left with, clutching a crossbow. 
“What the fuck are you doing to my bear!?” Locke yelled, incredulous.
“Lord Bolton charged me with bringing him back to King’s Landing alive, and that’s what I intend to do!” he gruffed in response, loading another arrow.
The next one missed its target, landing into the large bear’s shoulder. Jaime took its distraction to his advantage, grabbing your hand and shoving you towards one of the tall walls. 
“Pull her up!” he ordered the people above. “Climb on my back!”
You did as he told with little complaint, hurriedly taking one of the offered hands and rolling onto the platform, breathless. Wasting no time, you got onto your feet and stormed to Locke, shoving him aside. You blew out a breath of relief as Brienne was also hauled up, leaving just Jaime in the pit. 
Terror clawed within your ribcage. Another bolt went flying to the bear, but it missed completely, skirting off to the side. Frustrated, you grabbed the crossbow from the man, loading another arrow and aiming with narrowed eyes.
Before the bear could maul Jaime in one strike, you let the bolt flying loose, and the sharp arrowhead pierced the bear clean through the skull. It fell down with one large thud, mud flying every which way at its collapse. 
“Help him up!” you told Brienne, placing another arrow into the crossbow and aiming it straight at Locke. “Put your hands on me, and I’ll have your eyes shot through the back of your head.”
To your relief, Brienne had helped Jaime back up onto the platform.
The men all around you booed, upset their entertainment was ripped away from them.
“You’re staying here. The big bitch, too,” said Locke, infuriated.
“If I stay, you’ll be dead. If Brienne stays, you’ll be dead. Is that a deal, or are you going to let me go?” When Locke found himself at a standstill, you growled out, “I’ll put a bolt through Jaime Lannister’s fucking head right now if you don’t let Brienne and I go. Do you think Tywin Lannister is going to be happy with his son dying by a Bolton arrow?”
There was a tense moment of silence. Locke stepped back, defeated. 
Jaime and Brienne both made their way to you, escorting you out of the castle.
“Sorry about the sapphires,” remarked Jaime just before he went down the steps, his smile sharp.
He caught up to you, still gripping the crossbow tightly. 
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Fucking peachy,” you spat. You casted a worried look to Brienne, quietly asking if she was too hurt to travel. When she expressed that she was fine, you finally turned your eyes back on Jaime. Your expression softened as you studied him. “You came back.”
“I came back,” he echoed, tone equally gentle. “Though, did you just threaten to have me killed up there, or—?”
“You know I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“Hm.” Jaime smiled. “I guess I do.”
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The journey to King’s Landing was going by quicker than you expected. Perhaps it was because Jaime had become less of a thorn in your side, and more of a respectable companion. Most of the time, anyway. He was still quite an annoyance, pestering you for stories of your past and never failing to jest about your infamously stoic disposition.
The Kingslayer was not your friend, no… but he certainly seemed to be treating you as one. Were you treating him as a friend, as well? 
You were resting against a tree, arms crossed over your chest as you tried to find sleep. The crossbow you had taken with you was propped up against your leg. Brienne was on watch, sharpening her sword a few meters away from you. 
To none of your surprise, Jaime had come ambling past, dropping beside you with a mild grunt. You didn’t spare him a glance, simply humming in acknowledgement.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, lolling his head against his shoulder so he could look at you. The green of his eyes glinted with the pearly moonlight, sharp and curious. “You’re free to go if you’d like. I told you I wouldn’t be your captor.”
Freedom. Something you hadn’t tasted in a long while.
Slow, you turned your head to face him, startled to see how close he was. Nonetheless, you didn’t pull away.
“I need to find my nieces and bring them back to Cat. To Robb. This… all of this… it can’t have been for nothing,” you murmured. “I can’t give up now.”
The man nodded. “I’ll help you, then. I swore I would.”
“I know,” you whispered in return. Jaime studied your features. Tired and weathered, broken and determined. Your eyes, however, read nothing but gratitude. “I still can’t believe you jumped into a pit with a bear in it. It was a foolish thing to do.”
“Yes, well, it saved you from a gruesome death. Some would say it was brave rather than foolish.”
“Bravery and foolishness go hand in hand,” you mused, with a slight scoff. After a lengthier silence, you croaked, “Thank you, Jaime.”
The blonde smiled. You didn’t see, for you had already turned your head away from him to gaze upwards, to the hazy stars in the night’s sky. 
Not ten minutes of amicable silence later, Jaime felt a weight drop upon his shoulder. You had slipped into a peaceful rest, accidentally resting your head against the knight. For a moment, he considered moving, giving you more space to sleep for longer. Your hair tickled his cheek, and your chest rose and fell with unencumbered breaths. You looked so much younger when you were asleep, free of the waking world’s burdens and tribulations.
And so Jaime stayed still. Jaime couldn’t quite understand why he began grinning. He didn’t even notice that he was smiling like a damn fool, even after the sun had long risen and you had jerked awake when light rays danced across your irritated eyes, murmuring flustered apologies and stumbling onto your feet to hurry away with a lame excuse of checking on Brienne. No, the smile stayed for a long, long time. 
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King’s Landing was smaller than Jaime remembered. Much smaller.
When Jaime stepped foot into the Red Keep, the first thing he did was go to see his sister. His beloved sister. Her door creaked open. Her back was to him. Golden hair shimmered beneath the sun’s waning light.
“Cersei,” he said. 
She turned, startled at the sound of her twin brother’s voice. Those sharp eyes of hers caught sight of his filthy state. Of his handless arm. 
Disgust flickered over her expression.
Hot shame washed over him. You didn’t look at his stump with that kind of disgust. No, you had looked at it with a certain kind of soft curiosity. Cersei looked angry, almost. Affronted that he would show up in such a broken, weak state.
Why wasn’t Cersei happy to see him? After all this time?
A few hours later, you were tossed down in front of King Joffrey, still in that disgusting, ripped golden dress the Boltons had given you. In contrast, Jaime had already been bathed, donned in golden armor and a white cloak. He hadn’t been able to speak with you since the three of you had arrived at the Keep.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
“And what are we to do with you?” his nephew, his son, crooned, smiling wide as if he’d caught himself a prize. “Sister to a traitor. Aunt to a traitor. Bitter Wolf, indeed.”
You refused to meet Joffrey’s burning gaze. Instead, you were looking at Sansa, off to the side of the courtroom, her blue eyes wide and tearful. Youthful hope was plastered clear as day across her pale, beautiful features. Relief. 
“Maybe I should put your head on a spike,” Joffrey mused.
At his words, Jaime stepped forward. “Your Grace, Lady Stark saved my life several times. She was the one who helped me escape. She is the entire reason I’m here now.”
It looked as if Joffrey wanted to spit at his uncle for ruining his fun. Before he could say anything, however, Tywin Lannister interrupted, “As the Hand, Your Grace, I’d advise to exercise compassion for the Bitter Wolf. We should be grateful to her for returning one of your Kingsguard back to you.” He thought it wise to make allies with you—after all, you were now technically the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, with all the Starks dead except your nieces. The rest of the North would be keen on following after you, rather than Roose Bolton.
“What good is a Kingsguard with just one hand?” snarked Joffrey. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. “She helped you escape, then, Uncle? Did she play a part in the Red Wedding? She must have, if she was so willing to betray her nephew!”
Wedding…?
You finally tore your eyes away from Sansa, looking up at Joffrey. Confusion clouded your expression.
The blonde King raised his brows. He grinned so wide it was a wonder his face didn’t split into two. “Oh, Gods, she doesn’t know!” He began laughing. It was a cruel and calloused sound. “Robb Stark is dead. The traitor wolf died at his uncle’s own wedding! His pregnant whore of a wife and his bitch mother, as well.”
At the news, your lips parted, and your hands came up to cover them. Tears were quick to sting the corner of your eyes, and burn the bridge of your nose. Roose fucking Bolton did this. You didn’t want to cry in front of the monster of a boy, you really didn’t. But you couldn’t help it—your nephew was dead. Your good-sister was dead. And you weren’t there for them. 
Did Robb die hating you?
A silent sob wracked your entire body and your knees buckled. Sansa took a step forward, but stopped when one of the Kingsguard snarled at her. 
The rest of the court had fallen into a hushed silence. It was only broken when Joffrey stepped down from the Iron Throne, smirking maliciously.
“Welcome to court, Lady Stark. We are… forever indebted to you,” he chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he was the one to break the tragic news. Then, he walked straight past you, humming as he left the throne room. The rest of the whispering Lords and Ladies trickled out after him. 
Jaime watched, brows furrowed in concern, as Sansa finally was able to run forward and envelop you into a tight hug. You gripped your niece and cried harder against her. It shattered your heart in a million pieces when she began to quietly cry into your neck, as well.
Lips pursed in a tight line, Jaime spared you one last glance before he turned to head after the King. 
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They’d put you in a large chamber, with large, arched windows giving you a perfect view of the ocean. Warm air billowed through, the breeze tousling your just-washed hair and cascading a heated flush down your face. You weren’t fond of hot weather—you were a Stark through and through, made of ice and snow.
The handmaids laid out a dark grey Southern dress for you to wear. It was loose and lightweight, with a neckline that plunged far too low for your liking, wide enough to only barely hang off your shoulders. The sleeves were long and drooped far past your hands. You narrowed your eyes, shifting the fabric around your waist, frowning at how it cinched uncomfortably. Damn Southerners.
There was a knock on your door just as you had finished readjusting the dress to the best of your abilities, and you turned to see Sansa quietly slide in, her handmaiden following after her. 
“My dear girl,” you whispered, reaching out to her. When Sansa stepped closer, you gently cupped her heart-shaped face with one hand. Her red curls were twisted into an updo, blue eyes scared and wide. 
She looked so much like her mother… her mother who was now gone…
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you roped her into an embrace. She was crying again, pulling away to hastily wipe her tears away, sniffling.
“I missed you,” she whispered. 
Though you’d never been too close to Sansa back when you were in Winterfell, as she wasn’t a fan of your cold nature, you still loved her, nonetheless. Sansa had lost her entire family in such a short span of time, she was immensely grateful to see you alive and well. A naive part of her hoped that you would whisk her away. Away from Cersei, away from Joffrey, and away from King’s Landing.
“Where’s Arya?” you asked.
“I don’t know. She disappeared when… when father…”
You nodded. Disappointment danced over your irises. Hopelessness. “She must’ve run out of King’s Landing. No doubt tried to make her way back home on her own. She could be anywhere from here to Winterfell by now.” Biting your lip, you encompassed her hands within yours. “Sansa, tell me. What’s happened here? Have they been treating you well?”
She shifted uncomfortably at the question. She hesitated for a moment, but quietly spoke upon remembering that you were her aunt, and that she could trust you. You were family. “No. Joffrey’s a monster. He’s cruel, and he likes hurting people. He’s pursuing Lady Margaery Tyrell now… and I’m married to Tyrion.”
“What?” Horror flickered over your expression.
Quickly, she added, “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to me, though… he’s not like Joffrey.”
From the corner of your eye, you could see Sansa’s handmaiden shift from foot to foot.
“That’s a relief. Are you sure you’re alright?”
Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes once more. “Better, now that you’re here.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that all on your own,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You poor girl.”
“What happened to you? Why did you leave Robb?”
“I wanted to save you and your sister. I thought that if I traded Jaime for you and Arya, I could… I could bring you back. It’s a long story, but… it didn’t work out. Your sister is gone, and Robb is gone, as well. Winterfell is not ours anymore. There is nowhere safe for us to go.” 
Fear made her lips warble. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying… we must stay here for a while. It’s safest here. For now. But when we find an opportunity, we must take it.”
She looked like she wanted to protest for a minute, but she blew out a shaking breath. “Alright. I trust you.”
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The weeks passed by in a breeze. A warm breeze. Jaime had grown rather accustomed to the cold of the North during his year of imprisonment. The heat down here was sticky and uncomfortable—especially beneath his golden armor. 
He never would have thought that he’d miss the sight of snow.
He was rarely given the chance to speak to you or Brienne, busy with his duties as part of the Kingsguard. But he would see you in the distance, hovering protectively over your sweet-faced niece, walking the gardens, staring out at the oceans, as if planning out an escape. It was a strange thing seeing the two of you together. The little dove and the bitter wolf. 
Exactly four weeks after Jaime had returned to King’s Landing his father called for a meeting with him. Apparently, Tywin had something to give him.
“It’s magnificent,” Jaime said in awe, slowly swinging the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, testing its balance. “Fresh-forged?”
“Yes,” said Tywin, stoic-faced. 
Jaime turned to look at his father. “No one’s made a Valyrian steel sword since the Doom of Valyria,” the knight commented, brows raising.
With a nod, Tywin sank into his seat with seamless grace. “There are only three living smiths who know how to rework Valyrian steel. The finest of them was in Volantis. He came here to King’s Landing at my invitation.”
Jaime hummed. “You’ve wanted one of these in the family for a long, long time.”
“And now we have two.”
“Two?”
“The original weapon was absurdly large. Eddard Stark’s. It provided more than enough for two swords.”
There was a long pause before Jaime stepped forward. “Well, thank you. It’s glorious.” As Tywin nodded, whatever small glimmer of pride in his eyes waned away when Jaime struggled to sheath the sword, with his only one hand to aid him.
“You’ll have to train your left hand,” his father gruffed.
Frowning, Jaime replied, “Any decent swordsman knows how to use both hands.”
“You’ll never be as good.”
A pause. Even with both his hands, Jaime was never good enough for his father.
“As long as I’m better than everyone else, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Narrowing his keen eyes, Tywin sternly said, “You can’t serve in the Kingsguard with just one hand.”
“Where’s that written?” Jaime snapped back. “I can and I will. The Kingsguard oath is for life.”
“The war is over. The King is safe,” said Tywin.
Jaime scoffed. “The King is never safe! How many people in this city alone would love to see his head on a pike?”
You, for one. Jaime knew you would snap Joffrey’s neck if you were ever given the chance to. 
Damn it. There he went, thinking of you again. It was as if you were some sort of disease festering in his mind.
“The King was protected by other knights while you were a prisoner. They will continue to do so when you go home.”
Ah. So that’s what this was about. 
“Home?” Jaime echoed.
“You’ll return to Casterly Rock… and rule in my stead.”
Tywin wanted him to go back and abandon all his duties. Find a wife from a noble house, bear children—preferably sons, and secure heirs for the Lannister household. But that was not who Jaime was. No, Jaime wanted… he wanted…
“You are the Lord of Casterly Rock,” reminded Jaime, studying his father as if he’d gone daft. 
Face ever so stony, Tywin replied calmly, “I am the King’s Hand. My place is here. I don’t expect to see the Rock again before I die.”
“You know what they call me? Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. And now you want me to break another sacred vow,” sighed Jaime, blowing out a long, exasperated breath.
Tywin’s green eyes, paler than Jaime’s were, bore holes into his head. “You won’t be breaking anything. There is a precedent to relieving the Kingsguard of his duties. The King will exercise that prerogative.”
How could Jaime leave his brother and sister here for a life he didn’t even want? How could he leave you with his monster of a nephew? How could he leave Sansa when he swore to you that he would get her to safety?
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” parroted Jaime.
Tywin’s upper lip curled into a slight snarl. “I don’t believe I asked you a question.”
“But I’m giving you an answer,” said Jaime. 
“If you think your bloody honor comes before—”
“My bloody honor is beyond repair, but my answer is still no!” Jaime interrupted, his voice raising in volume. “I don’t want Casterly Rock. I don’t want to marry some woman I barely know. I don’t want to bear her children.”
“Then what do you want?”
For a moment, Jaime struggled for words. Cersei, he thought. But Cersei doesn’t seem to want me anymore. Not with my hand missing.
“Supper would be nice,” said Jaime.
The older of the two scowled heavily. “For forty years I’ve tried to teach you. If you haven’t learned now, you never will. Go. If serving as a glorified bodyguard is the sum of your ambition, then go serve.”
“I suppose you want the sword back.”
“Keep it. A one-handed man with no family needs all the help he can get,” spat Tywin.
No family. That stung Jaime much more than he’d care to admit.
With no more words to spare his father, Jaime strode away, sword in hand, his white cloak fluttering with his departure.
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A golden hand. Qyburn had brought him a golden hand.
“A work of art,” he declared.
Jaime wasn’t so impressed. The gold just brought more attention to the fact that he didn’t have a hand in the first place. Not to mention that it was heavy and clunky. He would’ve been much more satisfied with something dull and lightweight.
“If you like it so much, chop off your own hand and take it,” he dryly remarked.
Pouring herself a chalice of wine, Cersei rolled her eyes. “You’re such an ingrate. I spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right.”
“Days?” Jaime asked, skeptical.
She shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon.”
Once it was properly fixed onto his stub, Qyburn asked how it felt.
“A hook would’ve been more practical,” said Jaime.
It was then that his sister dismissed the older man, thanking him for his services present and past. Jaime waved around the new hand, testing its lopsided weight. 
Finally, Cersei turned to him.
“Odd little man,” he quipped.
“I’ve grown rather fond of him. He’s quite talented, you know.”
Tilting his head, Jaime asked, “What past services? You were hurt?”
“None of your concern,” she calmly replied. 
Frustration licked its way up Jaime’s chest. It was as if Cersei was purposefully dangling her secrets in front of him, but kept him at a safe distance by not disclosing anything. He wanted to yell, throttle her, asking her to be plain and truthful with him. It was wishful thinking, of course.
“You let him touch you?” was all he could think of saying. 
There was a laugh to her tone. “Jealous?”
No. Bitter, more like—he’s spent too much time with you, perhaps. “Surprised. You never let Pycelle touch you,” he said.
“You think I’d let that old lecher put his hands on me?” She sipped on the wine. Then took another, and another, and another. “He smells like a dead cat.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a dead cat.” Narrowing his eyes, Jaime observed his sister finish what was in her chalice, reaching over to pour more. “You drink more than you used to.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The way her lip curled in disdain was eerily reminiscent of his father. Jaime felt the beginnings of a headache pound at the front of his temple. 
“Hm, let’s see. You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the capital. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident.”
An accident you made sure to cause, Jaime thought. She is just as much of a Kingslayer as I am.
“Must have been traumatic,” Jaime sneered, dripping with irony.
“My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne.”
Our daughter.
“We suffered through a siege.”
Blowing out a sigh, Jaime barked out a humorless laugh. “A rather short siege.”
“One that I didn’t expect to survive,” she quickly snapped back. Wisely, she decided not to tell Jaime she was a hair’s breadth away from poisoning Tommen. “And now I’m marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden, while I’m supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow-biter.”
Without her noticing, Jaime had stood up and came to sit beside her. “Father disowned me today,” he said. 
“He can’t disown you. You’re all he’s got,” she said.
“You’re forgetting Tyrion.”
At the mention of her other brother, Cersei’s face twisted with repulsion.
“You don’t really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?”
Jaime leaned forward, placing his golden hand behind her and his remaining one atop her knee. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing. Trying to kindle whatever there was between them again, perhaps. Desperately seeking what he used to have before he left King’s Landing. “Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here, in the Red Keep with you.”
Just as he dipped his head forward, his nose brushing against her cheek, Cersei yanked herself away, standing up to stride back to the table and pour herself some more wine.
“Not now,” she said.
Frustrated, Jaime gritted out, “Not now? Then when? I’ve been back for weeks! What’s changed?”
“Everything!” she practically yelled. There was fire behind her irises. “Everything’s changed! You come back after all this time with no apologies and one hand and that bitch wolf and expect everything to be the same?”
Baffled, Jaime asked, “What do you want me to apologize for?”
“For leaving me,” she spat.
“You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?”
“I don’t know what you wanted. You weren’t here. You left me alone.”
It seemed that Cersei was so blinded by her rage, she refused to see anything from his perspective. They’d always considered each other to be their missing half. Now, Cersei felt more like a thorn in his side rather than something that’d make him whole.
“Every day, I was a prisoner. I plotted my escape, every day.”
Cersei shook her head. “But you didn’t, did you? Not until the Bitter Wolf set you free.”
“I murdered people so I could be here with you!”
“You took too long.”
“I… what? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you took too long,” she echoed.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away!” yelled Jaime.
“Come in,” said Cersei.
The door swung open. Beyond his limit, Jaime stood up and shouldered past the handmaiden to storm out of the chambers.
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Brienne fidgeted beside you as you watched Sansa pray down by the stony shores. What she was praying for, you weren’t quite sure. It seemed that Brienne was restless, seeing that Sansa was right there, but she couldn’t quite do anything about it. There was nowhere to take the both of you. She felt like she’d failed you—again.
Jaime came to stand by the two of you, commenting on how strange it was to see a Wolf in Southern drab, but quickly shut his mouth when you spared him an unimpressed look. 
“You made a promise,” said Brienne.
“Mmh, yes, to return the Stark girls to their mother, who is now dead,” Jaime replied. 
It was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack beneath all your jaw-gritting.
“To keep them safe,” Brienne emphasized.
“Well, Arya Stark hasn’t been seen since her father was killed. Where do you think she is? My money’s on dead. There’s a certain safety in death, no?”
Your stomach lurched. With a scowl, you spat out, “She’s not dead. Arya’s a smart, nifty little thing. She’s probably off posing as a stableboy somewhere. People always mistook her as one back in Winterfell, anyway.”
With a huff, Jaime continued, “Alright, well, regardless, she’s not here for me to protect. And Sansa Stark… well, she’s Sansa Lannister now, yes? Bit of a complication.”
Brienne drew herself to her full height, staring Jaime down. “A complication does not release you from a vow!”
“And what would you have me do? Kidnap my sister-in-law? And take her where? Where would she be safer than here?”
“Look me in the eye and tell me she’ll be safe in King’s Landing,” hissed Brienne.
Jaime wasn’t able to do so. Instead, he crossed his arms and narrowed his green eyes. “Are you sure we’re not related? Ever since I’ve returned, every Lannister I’ve seen has been a miserable pain in my ass. Maybe you’re a Lannister, too. Got the hair for it.”
Trouble in paradise? you thought in mild amusement.
Though you were reluctant to admit it, you said, “She’s not safe here. But this is the safest place she can be for now. I was thinking of the Vale, but Lysa Arryn is not sound of mind… I doubt she’d welcome Sansa into her home with open arms. There’s the Night’s Watch, where Jon is. But there is no way we could pass through the North without a Bolton hound sniffing us out.”
The blonde knight hung his head. “It’s better if you just stay here. Things will be less messy that way.”
Before either of you could fit in a reply, Jaime was already striding away. Brienne glanced at you apologetically, before heading away, murmuring something about having to speak with Margaery Tyrell.
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Tyrion Lannister invited you to breakfast. You’d stared at the parchment with raised brows, chewing on your bottom lip in thought. From what you could recall, Tyrion was a sharp-tongued man, but Sansa was clear that he was kind. And so, you accepted the invitation.
Needless to say, you weren’t expecting to see Jaime there.
But of course he was there—they were brothers, after all.
The knight bowed his head in a silent greeting, looking overall weary but tried to offer you a small smile nonetheless. You nodded in return, taking a seat beside him. Tyrion watched the exchange keenly, sat down across from the two of you.
“How is the capital treating you, my Lady?” asked Tyrion, voice pleasant.
“Fine,” you replied hastily. “Hot. Dry. The air tastes like salt.”
With a chuckle, Tyrion began digging into his breakfast. “Yes, that would either be the piss on the streets or the ocean itself. You can never tell here.” 
You glanced down at the plate full of eggs and sausages and fried potatoes the cupbearer put down in front of you. Suddenly, you had no stomach to eat. It seemed Jaime was thinking along the same lines, because he had yet to touch his food.
Glancing down, you noticed his new golden hand. Following your gaze, Tyrion quipped, “That new hand is better than the old one.” He looked up at his cupbearer. “Wouldn’t you agree, Pod?”
With a quiet hum, you shook your head. “Heavy, immobile metal over real, living flesh? Your definition of better must align with expenses, then.”
Tyrion smiled a genuine smile. “It looks better.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “Neither of you are eating. Why is no one eating? My wife wastes away, her aunt sulks around, and my brother starves himself.”
“I’m not hungry,” Jaime was quick to say.
“You lost a hand, not a stomach.”
Drawing in a breath, you gritted out, “You’d sulk if your entire family was killed, wouldn’t you?”
The comment made Tyrion wince slightly. “Apologies, my Lady. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just wanted to have a meal with my family. The tolerable ones, at least. I invited Sansa, but she politely declined. So please, try the boar. Cersei hasn’t gotten enough of it since one killed Robert for her.”
After a beat of intense silence, you sat up straight and began cutting through the food, eating slowly. It didn’t go past your notice when Jaime pushed his plate further away from him.
“A toast to us,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “The dwarf, the cripple, and the Bitter Wolf.”
Both you and Jaime grimaced at the names. Jaime reached forward to grab his wine chalice, but clumsily forgot that his golden hand couldn’t bend to take it, effectively knocking it over. Purple-crimson spilled all over the table, dribbling down onto you and staining the dress you were wearing a darker shade of mauve. 
“I’ll clean it,” started Pod.
Jaime waved him away. “No. I’ll do it. Leave us.” He turned to you, frowning and handing you a dishtowel. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s alright,” you quickly reassured him, taking the rag and wiping away the excess. “It’s not my dress. Not my wine. It feels refreshing on my skin, actually.”
Jaime watched you for a moment, his eyes soft. 
Tyrion tilted his head. “Seems the wolf isn’t so bitter, after all. The journey softened you, I take it?”
At his words, your expression hardened, and Jaime sent him a sidelong glare. 
The younger of the two quickly backtracked. Gods, you were just not a very good conversationalist, were you? “My brother told me you shot down a bear to save him.”
“I did,” you curtly said.
“You and I are going to be good friends, I think,” Tyrion mused. He grinned wide, before taking another sip from his cup.
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Joffrey’s wedding ceremony was a grand event. It was all decorations and Lannister heraldry, candles and flowers and bells every which way you looked. You didn’t care at all for it, really. As long as the monster wasn’t marrying your niece. It was a shame—Margaery Tyrell seemed a nice enough woman. At least, you knew Sansa took a liking to her.
You hadn’t even realized that the ceremony was over until people began clapping, Joffrey pulling away from his kiss with Margaery. If she was upset about the ordeal at all, she didn’t show it. Either she was as deranged as her new husband, or she was a very good actor. Jolting out of your reverie, you lightly clapped thrice before letting your hands fall back to your sides. Gods, this dress itched. A pale shade of pink, laced with golden thread. How the Southerners wore this kind of garb every day, you never knew.
Before you knew it, the wedding feast was commencing. Somehow, it was even more of a large-scale event than the ceremony had been. Performers in every corner, some swallowing swords, others juggling flaming torches, and a few with seductive eyes, twisting themselves into knots and rotating their bones in ways you never knew the body could bend. There were a million and one dishes lining the gilded tables, platters upon platters of rich foods, sweet pastries, fruits with cheese, and savory meats. Chalices of golden ales and honeyed wines were passed around, filled to the brim. Frankly, you would’ve enjoyed the event, had it not been in honor of the most rancid boy you’ve had the displeasure of knowing. 
The lords and ladies attending avoided you like the plague—either spooked by the deep glower etched over your features, or by the fact that you were the infamous Bitter Wolf herself… It didn't make much of a difference. Two people who didn’t treat you as if you carried a disease were Oberyn Martell and his paramour, Ellaria Sand. Both of them regarded you with poorly-hidden lust, offering for you to join them in their chambers after the feast, to which you had no idea how to respond. You were flattered, truly, and there was no doubt that they were both very attractive people, but you were in no mood to fool around in the capital. After you bid them a hasty farewell, Tyrion came to say hello as well, and you dipped your head in greeting. He was quick to walk away, claiming he was in dire need of alcohol in his system.
After the short interactions, you made a beeline for the royal table, wishing to be by your niece’s side—no doubt she was feeling anxious at Joffrey’s wedding, even if she wasn’t the one to wed him. 
Just as you grazed a hand against Sansa’s shoulder, clad by a soft purple dress, Olenna Tyrell made her way to the two of you. 
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you before, Bitter Wolf,” said the old woman, smiling kindly at you. 
“We haven’t,” you curtly replied. “Congratulations on the wedding.”
She waved away your words. “Congratulations to you for making your way to King’s Landing alive, despite everybody’s expectations. You were surely a surprise for everyone at court.” Then, she darted her eyes to Sansa. She reached out to brush her hand along her braids and the necklace resting against her clavicle. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother, and your nephew. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding… it’s horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage!”
Roose Bolton. The name seared hot fury through your chest. According to Jaime, Tywin had given the North over to the Boltons to take over—but he would be met with all the stubbornness of the Northern houses, and they wouldn’t bend the knee to anyone but a Stark. It was a relief to also hear that Tywin wouldn’t be helping the Boltons any further. 
Olenna’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit! Now that peace has come and all's right with the world… it would do you good to see some of it,” she told Sansa, smiling kindly. Then she glanced over at you again. “You look wonderful, Lady Y/N. You’re much prettier than I thought you’d be… your name carries a certain weight to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.”
She ambled away, and you rubbed your hand along Sansa’s back. From afar, you caught a glimpse of Jaime speaking with Loras Tyrell. The green of his eyes caught yours. “I’ll be back,” you whispered to your niece, before making your way to Jaime. You didn’t quite know what you were going to Jaime for. Perhaps it was because he was the only other person in the wedding than Brienne and Sansa you felt comfortable conversing with. What a long way the two of you had come.
“Y/N,” he greeted, straightening himself when you grew close. His heavy golden armor shone beneath the hot sun. “You look beautiful.”
There was a warm sincerity to his words, but you shook your head anyway. “In comparison to your months with me covered in mud and filth, of course.” After a pause, you asked, “What’s it like? Watching your nephew get married? I… I wasn’t there to see Robb marry the medic girl he seemed so smitten with.”
“It’s strange,” Jaime truthfully admitted. “Especially when I hardly know the Tyrell girl. My sister detests her, though. Calls her a whore more often than she drinks, and we both know how much she drinks.”
Though you didn’t smile, there was a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Be honest with me. I know he’s your nephew… your… your blood… but you can’t truly love him, do you?”
The knight bit the inside of his cheek. No, of course he didn’t. Jaime was well aware that he was a monster, beyond saving. “Family is family,” he eventually replied. 
The disappointment in your expression didn’t go beyond his notice. 
“I wanted to ask, Jaime,” you carefully began. “What would happen if I were to leave the capital with Sansa? Would you be ordered to bring me back? Or would we be able to walk away free?”
“Not this again. I told you, it’s safest for you to be here—”
“It’s a hypothetical. Would you turn me in if you were ordered to?” you quietly asked. “I need to know if… if I can trust you, Jaime.”
Jaime’s eyes searched yours. He stepped closer, hand lifting to grasp your forearm and tugged you to the side, where it was a bit less crowded. “No. Is that what you want to hear? That I’d betray my oaths for you? That I’d help you cross the world if you asked, honor be damned?”
Stricken by his words, you found yourself speechless. 
You cleared your throat after a long moment. “Well… even if that was true, it’s not like we’d have anywhere safe to go. My bannermen are scattered, and between them are the Boltons and the Freys. The seas are occupied by the Greyjoys and pirates alike.”
Jaime nodded. “Stay here. I can keep you safe from here.”
“Can you?” you challenged, eyes narrowed.
A bark of a laugh. Jaime spared you a roguish grin. “Don’t make me swear it. You know my habit of breaking my vows well by now.”
You blew out a breath. “Thank you, Jaime. Truly.”
“Yes, you chose a perfect time during my nephew’s wedding to discuss such matters.”
And then came a sound foreign to his ears—you laughed. You just laughed! It was awkward and barely counted as genuine, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Jaime’s mouth parted, gaping at you with amazement. 
“Did you just laugh?”
“What? Am I not allowed to?”
“No, no, it just… took me by surprise. It was nice.”
He smiled, wide and genuine. From the corner of his eye, he caught his sister glaring at the two of you with an intense, angry gaze. The smile fell away from his lips, and his entire body stiffened. You followed his gaze, raising your brows upon seeing Cersei. With a nudge and a grunt of a goodbye, you stepped away from Jaime, not wanting to antagonize the Lannister woman any further.
You moved to the tables to pluck at the sweet, fat grapes, popping them into your mouth with a pleased hum. Not too soon after, Brienne joined you, chattering about the food and how it reminded her of her own home. Just as you were about to ask her what her favorite dish was, glad to have someone you could call a friend, a certain blonde woman came forth to the two of you.
“Lady Brienne,” greeted Cersei. You turned to look at her. “Bitter Wolf. I owe you both my gratitude. You returned my brother safely to King’s Landing.”
The taller woman gave you a glance, unsure of what to say. You nodded. “Jaime did his fair share of saving. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him, either.”
The green of her eyes flashed dangerously. It didn’t go past her notice that you called him by his first name without his formal title of Ser. “Did he, now? Strange… I haven’t heard a thing about it from him.”
“Not such a fascinating story, I’m afraid,” said Brienne, grimly thinking back to the men trying to rape her.
“I’m sure you have many fascinating stories, Lady Brienne,” Cersei crooned in a condescending manner. “Sworn to Renly Baratheon. Sworn to Catelyn Stark. And now my brother. Must be exciting to flit from one camp to the next, serving whichever lord or lady you fancy.”
Brows knitting together, Brienne protested, “I don’t serve your brother, Your Grace.”
“Hm.” Cersei lifted her chin pridefully. “I just find it funny how… a few moons ago, the Bitter Wolf was our sworn enemy, behind the mighty King in the North. And now here you are, safe in our capital, making seductive eyes at my brother. You betrayed your nephew, who’s to say you won’t betray my brother, as well?”
Seductive eyes?
Anger began clawing up your throat, smoldering hot. You swallowed painfully slow. “Is that all, Your Grace?” you asked in a level tone. She wanted a reaction out of you… to warn you to stay away from her brother. Her lover. You weren’t going to give her the satisfaction of being upset. “Brienne and I want to go watch the performers, if you would excuse us.”
She looked infuriated at your dismissal, watching as you linked arms with Brienne and gently led her to the stage. 
“Are you alright, my Lady?” asked the large woman.
“I’m fine. She’ll have to do far worse than that if she truly wants to provoke me,” you replied. 
The two of you enjoyed each other’s company for a little longer, striding through the crowds and plucking food off of the mountain-high platters. Though she was younger than you, she carried herself with the weight of someone with several decades�� worth of experience. You appreciated that about Brienne.
Your conversations were cut short when Joffrey stood up from the royal table, screeching for silence. He was presenting a show—one depicting the so-called ‘history’ of the war. It was a crude rendition, riddled with falsities. 
You felt your heart drop to your stomach when several dwarves ran out in offensive costumes, depicting Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Joffrey himself, Balon Greyjoy, and Robb Stark. One by one, they battled one another. Stannis killing off Renly, Robb taking out Balon, Joffrey eliminating Stannis with wildfire. 
Tears filled your eyes when Robb was the only one left standing, with only Joffrey left. You glanced at Sansa, who watched the show with a stony expression. Her time in King’s Landing taught her never to give anything away. Keep her emotions within herself, for her own safety.
And finally, you couldn’t take it anymore once they knocked his direwolf’s head off. The actor playing Joffrey grabbed the head and began to motion humping it, moaning as the crowd cheered. The real Joffrey—the one lounging at the royal table, only a few feet from your sweet niece—spat his wine all over as he laughed and snorted and chuckled. 
A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away. For him to disrespect your family in such a way… it was sickening.
Once the disgusting performance was over, Joffrey clapped and hollered. He turned to his uncle Tyrion, offering him to go and prove his worth by fighting the actors. 
In response, Tyrion said, “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I think you should fight them, instead. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the high table and show everyone how a true King wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust.” He gestured towards the imitator of Joffrey who had pretended to fuck Grey Wind. “It would be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”
A hesitant ripple of laughter echoed across the crowd. Joffrey was so furious it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. With no further words, Joffrey grabbed his chalice of wine, stomping over to Tyrion and tipping the cup over so the sticky liquid spilled out to drip down his uncle’s head.
“A fine vintage,” said Tyrion. “A shame that it spilled.”
Acknowledge me! Joffrey wanted to scream. Fight me! Show me how angry you are!
“It did not spill,” he gritted out. 
“My love, come back to me,” said Margaery, reaching out for her husband, wishing to quell the tense atmosphere. “It’s time for my father’s toast!”
The young boy made a grand show of being void of wine, and demanded Tyrion be his cupbearer, seeing as he was too cowardly to fight. He dropped the empty chalice for him to pick up, cruelly kicking it away just as it was within Tyrion’s reach. 
“Bring me my goblet,” he said.
He relished watching his uncle get to his hands and knees, crawling beneath the tables in search of the goblet. Your niece, your sweet, darling niece, stood from her chair to bend down and pick it up, as it was closest to her. She handed the cup to her husband, pursing her lips. 
The next few moments passed by in a tense haze.
Tyrion filled the cup. Held it out for his nephew to take.
Joffrey ordered him to kneel.
Tyrion refused to do so, staring straight at him with defiant eyes.
The pigeon pie came out, large enough to feed the entire wedding three times over. 
You watched as Tyrion and Sansa were about to leave the wedding, and you had half the mind to follow them, wanting nothing more than to be alone in your chambers for the night. However, before they could leave, Joffrey called out for his uncle once more.
“Where are you going? You’re my cupbearer, remember?” 
“I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, Your Grace.”
“No, no, no. You’re perfect the way you are. Serve me my wine.” 
Tyrion glanced back at Sansa. With a huff, he made his way back to the table, handing the goblet back to Joffrey, and turned to walk back to his awaiting wife. 
The King gulped down the contents of the cup greedily. Droplets of Dornish leaked from the corners of his mouth.
“If it please Your Grace, Sansa is very tired—”
“No!” yelled the boy-king. “No. You’ll wait here and—”
He dissolved into a fit of coughs. Drank more of that wine of his.
Both you and Brienne glanced at each other. 
Joffrey wheezed. Cersei sat forward in her chair. Margaery’s eyes widened.
“He’s choking!” she screamed once Joffrey began clutching at his chest.
“Someone help the poor boy!” yelled Olenna Tyrell.
Joffrey staggered forward, falling as he continued coughing, spluttering, and choking. Bits of pigeon pie fell from his mouth, flecked with wine and a far darker liquid: his blood. This was no mere obstruction of his windpipe—this was the work of poison.
Your lips parted open as you watched Jaime hurriedly push through the crowd to get to him, kneeling beside him, calling his name, unsure of what to do. Cersei screamed even louder, shoving Jaime to the side, cradling her oldest son to her chest as she weeped.
His face turned purple. His eyes bulged out of his skull. Foam frothed about his lips. 
He twitched, and twitched, and twitched again. One of his hands lifted to jerkily point at Tyrion, who was watching on in confused horror. 
Blood dribbled out of Joffrey’s nostrils. 
A second later, the twitching stopped. 
Joffrey Baratheon was dead.
And you were too busy relishing in the fact, you hadn’t even realized that Sansa was gone.
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It wasn’t often that Jaime visited the Sept. 
Now that Joffrey was dead… well, that was plenty of reason for him to go. Especially now that Cersei seemed to spend all her time there, hovering over her dead son like a vulture. When he came through the grand doors, he passed by his father and little Tommen, the former in the middle of telling the young boy about the duties of marriage, seeing as he was now King.
Tywin didn’t seem too upset that Joffrey was dead. To be fair, neither did Jaime.
“How are you?” Jaime asked, stopping in front of his youngest nephew. It wasn’t an easy thing—watching your older brother die in front of you at his own wedding.
“I’m alright,” he murmured.
Jaime nodded, patting his shoulder. “Good.”
Then, he made his way down the rest of the steps, Tywin leading Tommen out. Jaime dismissed the rest of the priests, wanting to be alone with Cersei.
Once only the two of them were left in the Sept—along with Joffrey’s corpse, of course—Cersei finally spoke. Her voice was croaky and hoarse with disuse. “It was Tyrion,” she said. “He killed him. He told me he would. ‘A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’ That’s what he said to me. You saw it… you saw Joff point at him before he—”
Lowering his tone, Jaime whispered, “I don’t know what I saw.”
Cersei shut her eyes. “Avenge him,” she said, words warbling with emotion. “Avenge our son. Kill Tyrion.”
What she said seemed to strike Jaime across the face. He reared back, affronted. “Tyrion’s my brother. He’s our brother. There’ll be a trial. We’ll get to the truth of what happened.”
“I don’t want a trial!” she hissed. “He’ll squirm his way to freedom, given the chance. I want him dead.”
Tears slipped down both of her eyes. It was as if the dam inside her had finally broken under all the weight of her grief.
“Please, Jaime,” she sobbed. “You have to! He was our son! Our baby boy!”
He drew closer to her, tugging her into an embrace. Her fingers curled into the leather of his tunic. When she raised her tearful face to yank him into a desperate kiss, Jaime didn’t resist.
Then, as quickly as she had advanced upon him, she shoved him away yet again. Jaime was beginning to grow tired of her pushing him in such a way. It wasn’t fair. 
“Tyrion’s wretched wife, Sansa, has disappeared. No doubt she played a hand in Joff’s murder. I want you to find her. Kill her, too. And I want the Bitter Wolf locked up in her niece’s place.”
Jaime’s eyes widened as he regarded his sister with an incredulous stare. “What? But Y/N hasn’t done anything. She has nothing to do with this!”
“Oh, because you were watching her the entire time, when you should’ve been guarding my son? It’s not a wonder he was murdered right beneath our noses, then!” Cersei screeched, voice raising several octaves. “Tell me, do you love her? Do you love that fucking wolf traitor more than you love me, your own sister? More than you love your son?”
Jaime was at a loss for words. Did he love you?
When he didn’t reply, Cersei angrily turned away from him, drying her face with the fabric of her sleeves. “You’re a disgrace to us. To our family.”
She sounded exactly like father. Anger coiled within his stomach. Jaime narrowed his sharp eyes. 
“You are a hateful woman,” he seethed. “Y/N is anything but. Bitter Wolf, people call her, but she is not bitter. She is hurt. She is grieving. Just as you are. She saved my life, and I owe her nothing but my gratitude.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, Jaime strode away, off to go pay you a long overdue visit.
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A knock on your door. It was the dead of night, and you were only minutes away from falling asleep, having exhausted yourself with tears and stress. You weren’t at all dressed properly for visitors. Nonetheless, you dragged yourself out of your bed, your shift hanging wrinkled and lopsided over your body. 
Your door creaked open, and you were tiredly blinked upon seeing Jaime on the other side. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shifted away from the entrance, silently opening the door wider to make space for him to come in. Without hesitation, the knight slid in, dipping his head as greeting. You’d been crying—he could still see the dried tear tracks on your cheeks, only faintly illuminated by the sparse candles in the chambers.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” croaked Jaime, looking every bit as defeated as you. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are you alright?”
You gingerly shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a weary sigh. “My entire family is gone. Lost or dead.”
“Right. Stupid question.” Jaime cleared his throat. “We’ve both lost our nephews now.”
“It’s not the same, Jaime,” you whispered, shaking your head. “You know it’s not. Joffrey was a monster, and the world is better off without him. And I… I loved Robb as if he was my own son. The younglings, Bran and Rickon, as well.”
For a second, Jaime looked like he wanted to say something. Wisely, he held his tongue. He took a small step forward, closer to you. He was keenly aware that he was alone in your room, not at all appropriate for an unmarried lord or lady, but he really couldn’t care. The two of you were above that. Besides, he’d seen you naked before, for heaven’s sake! 
So why was he suddenly so flustered now?
“Cersei wants me to find Sansa,” he began, carefully. “And she wants me to kill her.”
Noticeably, you stiffened. Your eyes were wide, he could see the panic begin to set within your wintry irises. 
In a placating tone, he quickly reassured, “I would never do such a thing. Frankly, I’m offended that you’d think I would. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep it, even if Catelyn Stark is dead.”
After a second, your muscles loosened. You avoided his eyes, but murmured, “I believe you, Jaime.” There was a soft silence hanging between the two of you. Finally, it was shattered when you asked, “What of your brother, Tyrion? What is to happen to him?”
Jaime nodded, glad that you were on the same wavelength as him. “I was hoping… you’d come with me to speak with him.”
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The dungeons were much colder than above. You were well acquainted with the drops in temperature, but it seemed that Tyrion had yet to adjust. He was shivering, bundled up in a musty blanket that Podrick had brought him.
“To tell you the truth, this isn’t so bad,” said Jaime, glancing around the spacious cell. “Four walls. A pot to piss in… I wasn’t given such a luxury during my time as a prisoner. I was chained to a wooden post or a stone wall, covered in my own shit for months on end.”
The younger brother sent him a half-hearted glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe a bit,” replied the knight. He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“Complicated, yes,” said Tyrion. “And you brought the Bitter Wolf with you. Hello, Lady Stark.”
His eyes, sunken and empty, darted over to you, shrouded in the shadows behind Jaime. 
“Hello, Tyrion.”
“Hm. How is our sister?” he asked Jaime. 
Defeat danced over his handsome features. “How do you think? Her son died in her arms.”
“Her son?”
Something foul coiled within Jaime’s stomach. “Don’t,” he warned.
Tyrion let the matter drop.
“Do you know what’s to come?” you spoke for the first time since you came.
“My trial for regicide. Yes, I know,” said Tyrion. “I know the whole bloody country thinks I’m guilty. I know one of the three judges has wished me dead more times than I can count—that judge being my father. As for Cersei… well, she’s probably working on a way to avoid the trial altogether by having me killed.”
Jaime kicked at a small pebble on the ground. “Now that you mention it, she did ask.”
“So should I turn around and close my eyes?”
“Depends,” said Jaime. “Did you do it?”
A small smile traced Tyrion’s lips. “The Kingslayer brothers. Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?” After a short pause, he spoke again. “Are you really asking if I killed your son?”
Jaime narrowed his eyes. “And are you really asking if I’d kill my brother? How can I help you?”
“Well, you can set me free, for starters.”
“You know I can’t,” Jaime reluctantly said. “What do you want me to do? Kill the guards? Sneak you out of the city in the back of a cart? Have you forgotten that I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”
Frowning, Tyrion gruffed out, “Sorry, I’d forgotten, which is a miracle, considering how loud your golden armor is! I’d hate for you to do something inappropriate while I rot away in jail.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, Jaime snapped back, “You’re accused of killing the King. Freeing you would be treason.”
“And was it not treason to put a sword through the Mad King’s back?” you quietly asked. Both men went silent at your words. “Even if the trial goes in Tyrion’s favor, which I highly doubt, your sister would stop at nothing to have him dead. He needs to get away from King’s Landing.”
Tyrion nodded at your words. “If the killer threw himself down before the Iron Throne, confessed to his crimes, and gave irrefutable evidence of his guilt, it wouldn’t matter to Cersei. She won’t rest until my head’s on a spike.”
“Not just yours,” said Jaime. “She’s offering a knighthood to whomever finds Sansa, dead or alive.”
Brows furrowing, Tyrion protested, “Sansa didn’t do this.”
“She had more reason than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Do you think it’s a coincidence she disappeared the same night Joffrey died?”
“It’s not a coincidence,” you said. “Someone must have snuck her out, knowing the blame would be placed on her. Sansa’s not a killer. She spent an entire year around Joffrey—if she wanted to murder him, he would’ve been dead long before his marriage.”
Jaime pinched the space between his brows in frustration. “Regardless of who did it, Cersei won’t rest until all of you are dead. I won’t let that happen.”
“Then we have to do something,” you said, words coated with a layer of urgency. “We have to find Sansa. With Cersei practically keeping me as hostage here in Sansa’s stead… we need to send someone we trust after her.”
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Brienne drummed her fingers against the table. 
A sword of Valyrian steel was laid out in front of her. Both you and Jaime glanced at each other. 
“It’s yours,” said Jaime. 
“I can’t accept this—” she began to protest.
“It was reforged from my brother’s sword,” you said, voice soft. “And you’ll use it to defend my brother’s daughter.”
Brienne’s eyes widened. “No, my Lady, this should belong to you, not me.”
“I’m no good with a sword,” you admitted. “They’re clunky things, far too large and hard to maneuver if not trained properly. I’m much more comfortable with a bow and arrow. You swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother. Now, Arya may be far, far away from us by now, perhaps even long gone… but there is still a great chance of finding Sansa and getting her somewhere safe. Wherever that may be.”
Nodding emphatically, the large woman solemnly said, “I won’t let you down.”
“I had something else made for you.” Jaime pulled at a tarp over a mannequin, holding fine platelets of armor, hewn from the strongest of metals. “I hope I got your measurements right. It’s hard to judge by the eye.”
“I’ll find her,” promised Brienne. “For Lady Catelyn. And for the both of you.”
“I almost forgot,” Jaime added. “One last gift.”
Turns out Brienne wasn’t too keen on her last gift, Podrick.
You couldn’t quite understand why—he was a very sweet, innocent boy, ever the loyal squire to Tyrion. No doubt he’d faithfully serve Brienne, as well.
“I don’t need a squire. He’ll slow me down!” she exclaimed.
“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here,” Jaime argued.
The woman looked like she wanted to protest again, but you intervened, “You’ll be doing him a favor. Cersei wouldn’t hesitate to be rid of him.”
“I won’t slow you down, Ser!” chimed Pod. He winced upon realizing his mistake. “Uhm… m’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.”
“See? He’s a good lad!” said Jaime. 
As Pod went away to ready Brienne’s horse, you were left standing in front of her, contemplating how to say goodbye. They were never your strong suit. Every time you’ve said goodbye to someone close to you, it’d never ended well before. They usually never returned. 
Oathkeeper, Brienne named her sword once Jaime claimed that all the best swords have their own respective titles. 
“Find her for me,” you said, voice warbling. You stepped closer, placing a hand on Brienne’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry our time was cut short.”
“I will,” Brienne replied. “Thank you for everything, my Lady.”
“I owe you my entire life,” you said, rife with rare fondness. “Safe journeys, Brienne.”
She held her gaze with you for a moment longer, before nodding and heading off to Pod and their horses. 
Both you and Jaime watched as they rode away from the Red Keep, their figures growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared into the heart of King’s Landing.
“My entire family is gone,” you murmured. “And I just sent away the closest thing I had to a friend.”
Jaime was tempted to thread his single hand through yours. It looked like it’d fit perfectly. Instead, he merely observed your pained features, laced with regret.
“Look on the bright side,” he said, nudging you in an affectionate manner. “At least now I’m the closest thing you’d have to a friend.”
To his delight, you didn’t refute his statement. All you did was spare him a sidelong stare, and a quirk of your lips—was that a smile?—before turning and making your way back into the castle.
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It was time for Tyrion’s trial. It was quite the dreary event—witness after witness called upon to spit accusations and twisted observations of Tyrion’s so-called monstrosity to the three judges. What piqued your interest, however, was when Grand Maester Pycelle claimed that the King’s fool was the last one to be seen with Sansa, spiriting her away after the feast. Residue of poison was found in her necklace. That was not a good look for neither Tyrion nor his wife, your niece. Though you didn’t believe she killed Joffrey, you would’ve been proud if she was the one who managed to do it and get away. 
Nearly five hours into the trial, Tywin finally called to adjourn for a break.
You were grateful for the pause in the trial, feeling the beginnings of a headache nursing at the front of your temple. As you left to go get yourself some water, Jaime quickly followed after his father into a separate room. 
Tywin poured himself a goblet of wine, swirling the rich liquid around before sipping. His green eyes fell upon his oldest son, stiff in his golden uniform.
“You’d condemn your own son to death?” Jaime hissed, disgust running rampant across his features. 
Unfazed, Tywin merely reached over to a platter of food to load fruits and cheese upon the prongs of his fork. “I’ve condemned nobody. The trial isn’t over.”
“Cersei has manipulated everything and you know it!” 
An uninterested hum. “I know nothing of the sort.”
Irritation bubbled within Jaime’s chest. “You’ve always hated Tyrion.”
“He killed his King!”
“As did I!” Jaime snapped. “You know the last order the Mad King gave me? He wanted me to bring him your head. And what was it for? I saved your life just so you could murder my brother? Your son?”
The worn features of Tywin Lannister hardened with his words. “It won’t be murder. It would be justice. I’m performing my sworn duty as the Hand of the King. If Tyrion is found guilty, he will be punished accordingly.”
“He’ll be executed!”
“No,” Tywin rebutted, voice raising loud enough to echo back against the stone walls. “He’ll be punished accordingly!”
Jaime drew in a sharp breath. “Once, you said family is what lives on. It’s all that lives on. You told me about a dynasty that would last a thousand years. What happens to your precious dynasty when Tyrion dies? I’m a Kingsguard… forbidden by oath to carry on the family line.”
The father shoveled the forkful of fig and brie into his mouth. “I’m well aware,” he said after deliberately taking his sweet time to chew and swallow. 
“And what happens to your name? Who would carry the lion banner in future battles? Your nephews? Lancel Lannister? Others whose names I don’t remember?”
Sitting forward in his seat, Tywin shot back, “And what happens to my dynasty if I spare the life of my grandson’s killer?”
Finally, Jaime spat out, “It’ll survive… through me.”
A pause. Tywin reared back slightly, surprise flickering over his stony features.
“I’ll leave the Kingsguard,” said the reluctant knight. The words felt bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’ll take my place as your son and heir… only if you let Tyrion live.”
Without hesitation, Tywin immediately said, “Done.”
Jaime certainly hadn’t been expecting that. His white cloak fluttered slightly.
“When the testimony is concluded and the guilty verdict is rendered, Tyrion will be given the chance to speak. He’ll plead for mercy. I’ll allow him to join the Night’s Watch. In three days’ time, he’ll depart for Castle Black and live out his days at the wall.”
Relief flooded Jaime’s veins. His features softened. 
Tywin kept speaking, “You’ll remove your White Cloak immediately. You’ll leave King’s Landing to assume your rightful place at Casterly Rock. You’ll marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And you’ll never turn your back on your family ever again.”
“I have one more condition.”
Tywin narrowed his gaze. “What is it?”
“I’ll return to Casterly Rock and sire heirs for you… but only if the woman I marry is Y/N Stark.”
There was a lump in his throat. Letting go of his decades of servitude to the Kingsguard was much harder than he expected. If he married you, he’d be living up to his name, after all. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. 
This time, the surprise in his father’s expression was poorly concealed, clear as day. 
“Do you love her?” he asked, quick to return back to a neutral visage.
Did he? Did Jaime love you?
His lips pursed, and he trained his gaze on the ground. 
Tywin hummed whilst nodding. “Alright. The North may yet be given back to the Starks, should Roose Bolton and his bastard fail to take it for his own. You have my word that Tyrion will be spared.”
Jaime felt like he should’ve given his father his thanks. He didn’t. Instead, he stoutly nodded, speaking not another word, before turning and heading back to the trial room.
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The bells tolled, signifying that the trial was to resume. You strode in just as the last bell rang out, catching sight of Jaime speaking to his brother by his stand. The knight was explaining to Tyrion what he was supposed to do: plead guilty, and beg for mercy to be sent to the Night’s Watch. With one final reassuring goodbye, Jaime stepped away, his eyes meeting your curious ones.
To your interest, instead of taking his place by the edge of the court, he wove through the crowd to get to you. 
“Jaime,” you greeted, still miffed as to what he was doing, standing beside you. 
“Y/N,” he said. “I have to speak to you. After all this.”
Another second passed. You studied his features, pallid and clearly anxious. Before you could interrogate him some more, Tywin called for a start. Across court, Jaime could feel his sister’s angry stare burning through the both of you. His hand brushed against you. Swallowing his nerves, Jaime curled his fingers around yours. You didn’t pull away.
He was to marry you. It was still hard for him to wrap his head around the idea. How would you feel about that? 
Angry, probably, Jaime thought.
The trial droned on. It was only when the last witness was called up—Shae, the whore that Tyrion had fallen in love with—did Jaime’s throat begin to close up. Panic clawed at his chest when he noticed Tyrion’s resolve began to crumble away.
He was anguished. The longer Shae spoke, the more questions she answered, the more miserable Tyrion’s expression grew.
Tears filled the brother’s eyes when he growled out his speech—on how he was guilty, yes. Not of killing the King, but of being a dwarf. How watching Joffrey die in front of him had given him more pleasure than a thousand lying whores. How he wished he had enough poison to kill everyone in the courtroom.
The lords and ladies in the crowd burst into scandalous gasps and affronted murmurs. 
Finally, Tyrion demanded a trial by combat.
You shared a worried glance with Jaime, who looked practically shattered at the turn of events. Sympathetic, you shifted so your entire hand slotted into his.
The crowd began to thin away when the trial drew to a close. The combat was to be in a few day’s time.
Before you turned to take your own leave, you looked at Jaime one last time. “What did you want to tell me, Jaime?”
His heart fell to his stomach. Now that his father couldn’t uphold his end of the promise, Jaime couldn’t guarantee that he’d have to leave his post as Kingsguard for Casterly Rock. He wouldn’t have to marry you.
The green of his eyes shone with pain when he finally met your gaze. Hopelessly, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.
With that, he let go of your hand, shouldering through the crowd to make his way out of the throne room.
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Oberyn was named Tyrion’s champion. The Mountain was named Cersei’s.
To none of your surprise, the Mountain won. He’d crushed Oberyn’s head like a bloody watermelon with his bare hands. The memory was none too pleasant to relive, that was for sure.
The next day’s afternoon, Jaime heard the footsteps of his sister as she slipped into his chambers, uninvited.
She uttered his name, soft and sultry. Jaime only frowned.
“You won. You now have one fewer brother. Must be proud of yourself. There really is nothing you wouldn’t do, is there?” 
A cruel smile graced her lips. “For my family, no. Nothing. I would do things for my family you couldn’t imagine.”
“Tyrion is your family.”
“He’s not,” she denied.
“You don’t get to choose!”
Cersei snarled, “I do. And so do you. We choose each other.”
Do we?
On she continued, “You can choose the creature that chose to kill our mother whilst coming into this world—”
Brows furrowing, Jaime incredulously asked, “Are you really mad enough to blame him for that? He didn’t decide to kill her, he was an infant.”
“A disease doesn’t decide to kill you,” the blonde woman snapped back, “but you cut it out before it does, all the same. What do you decide? Who do you choose?”
She stepped closer. 
“The things I did to get back to you, to endure all that, only to find you actively trying to have our brother ki—!”
Before Jaime could finish his sentence, Cersei had propelled herself forward, yanking at his face with no abandon, pulling him close until his lips touched hers. 
“I choose you,” she whispered against him. Jaime felt sick.
“Those are just words,” he replied. With jerky movements, he gripped at her arm in a fruitless effort to keep her at bay, the golden hand she had forged for him hanging uselessly by his side. 
Cersei hummed an affirmative. “Yes. Just like the ones I said to father. I told him.”
“Told him what?”
“I told him about us.”
Dread filled his chest. “You told him?”
“I told him I wouldn’t marry Loras Tyrell. I told him I’m staying right here with Tommen, and with you.”
A foolish woman, Cersei was. She thought she was smarter than everyone, but this might’ve been the most idiotic thing Jaime could even fathom doing. Telling his father that he used to fuck his sister and fathered her bastards was a one-way ticket to being disowned. “You think he’ll just accept that?”
Cersei studied the dubiety in Jaime’s expression. “Go and ask him.” She kissed him again, and again, and again. Jaime was far too shocked to push her away. 
“What did you say?” he queried once he’d finally gathered his wits. 
“I don’t want to talk about Tywin Lannister,” she hissed, dragging her lips down to his jaw. 
Jaime didn’t want this anymore. He felt nothing when she touched him. He thought about how light his chest felt when you held his hand during the trial. No longer did he harbor such feelings for Cersei. Years ago, perhaps. Not anymore. Not now. 
“I don’t choose Tywin Lannister. I don’t love Tywin Lannister. I love my brother… my lover. People will whisper and make their jests. Let them. They’re all so small, I can’t even see them. I only see what matters.” She took his handless arm, lifting it so she could kiss the gold. To her, it was an act of love. To him, it was an act of pride.
 Having enough, Jaime pushed her away. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stagger back a few steps. 
“I can’t do this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why?” demanded Cersei. She scrutinized him with a sharp glare. After a moment, she withdrew herself, upper lip curling in disgust. “You’re in love with her. With the Bitter Wolf. You love her.”
Horror sank its dark nails into Jaime’s shoulders.
“I’ll have her killed,” said Cersei, venomous hatred coloring her tone an ugly shade of green. “Have you watch as she gasps and chokes around the noose I’ll tie around her throat. She’s a traitor to the realm, don’t you know that, you imbecile? Aunt to a false King, and to the wife of the murderer of my son.”
Desperate, Jaime shuffled closer again, raising his hand as if he were taming a wild mare. “I don’t love the Bitter Wolf. I don’t. I swear it.”
I do, he thought. I love her.
And so, Jaime knew he had to keep Cersei away from you, at any cost necessary. Keep her occupied, for as long as he could. He pressed forth and kissed her. Her mouth was hard against his, but softened with each of his advances. 
“I love you,” he lied. “I love you.”
He repeated the sentiment over and over again, praying to any God that would listen that his sister would believe it. The hours passed by in a blur as Jaime kissed and licked and sucked every inch of her. She climaxed maybe once, or twice, or half a dozen times. Jaime didn’t know, and neither did he care. Most of the time he had disassociated back within his own mind, wanting nothing more than to just get it over and done with.
Eventually, Cersei blissfully passed out from exhaustion, fast asleep beneath his silken sheets. After making sure she was completely unconscious, Jaime slipped his clothes back on and snuck out of his chambers. 
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The torches lining the halls of the dungeons did very little to illuminate the space. Jaime could barely see half a foot in front of him. Nonetheless, he hurriedly made his way to Tyrion’s cell. 
“Oh, go away, you son of a whore!” Tyrion yelled once the grill to his cell rattled opened, thinking it was one of the guards coming in to torment him. 
Jaime strode in, tilting his head. “Is that any way to speak of our mother?”
Shocked, Tyrion immediately sat up at the sight of his brother. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Jaime retorted, ushering his brother out and through the narrow halls. “A galley is waiting in the bay bound for the Free Cities.”
“Who’s helping you?” Tyrion asked, bewildered.
“Varys. You have more friends than you thought, Tyrion.”
Deftly, the two of them hurried through one of the many secret passageways of the Red Keep. The ceilings hung so low that Jaime had to duck his head so as to not smack his skull against the uneven stone. 
“There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” said Jaime once they reached the end. “Knock on it twice, then twice again. Varys will open.”
Tyrion looked up at his brother. “I suppose this is goodbye, then.”
Breath hitching in his throat, Jaime could feel the beginnings of tears sting the corners of his eyes as he knelt down and drew his brother into a tight hug. He pressed a lingering kiss onto Tyrion’s cheek.
This was the last they were going to see of each other. 
Anguish wrote itself heavy into his tone when he whispered, “Farewell, little brother.”
It ached to pull away.
Just as Jaime was about to go, Tyrion called out his name.
“Thank you,” his brother said. “For my life.”
Jaime nodded. He blinked away the tears as he gestured for him to go. “Quickly, now. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”
With that, Jaime rushed to abscond, taking twisting turns, straight to where he knew your chambers were. Ensuring there was nobody around, Jaime stepped out into the hall, knocking twice on the door and slipping in.
You startled at the intruder, sitting up on the bed, the book you were reading snapping shut, but relaxed slightly upon seeing Jaime. 
“Jaime? What’s going on?”
“You have to leave. Come with me,” he said, urgently striding forward and taking your hand in his, pulling you off the mattress and to the door. It was a relief that you were already fully clothed, and had no personal belongings to take with you, because there was simply no time for anything at the moment.
Brows pulling together, you demanded, “Jaime, tell me what’s happening. Where are you taking me?”
“Out!” he impatiently replied, slipping down the secret passageways once more. “Away. Away from King’s Landing—from my sister. She wants you dead. I can’t have that happen. There’s a boat waiting for you. Varys is helping.”
Finally Jaime yanked you into a dingy little room, lined with dust and rusted-over weapons. Shrouded in the shadows of the corner, Varys stepped out, pushing the cowl back from his head.
“Bitter Wolf,” he said.
“Lord Varys,” you carefully replied. “Why are you helping me?”
“I was fond of your brother, Eddard, however foolish he was with his honor. And, though we haven’t spoken before, your death at the hands of the Queen Regent would reign nothing but war from the Northerners.” He glanced at Jaime suspiciously before lowering his voice and saying, “My little birds tell me Sansa Stark is in the Eyrie, posing as Petyr Baelish’s bastard daughter.”
All the air in your chest seemed to slip away. Sansa was alive. She was alright.
For now, at least.
“I can help you get to the Vale to be with your niece,” said Varys, gesturing down another staircase, which led to the waters. “There’s a boat ready for you, with everything you need inside—a map, a cloak, rations. A bow and a quiver of arrows, included. The crew will be silent, I can assure you.”
“How can you be sure?” you queried, cautious. Varys offered you a thin smile. “I cut their tongues out when they were young children. Little birds don’t stay little for so long, but they’re loyal to me.”
Horror painted your insides black. You had no idea what to think of Varys. You glanced at Jaime, who looked none too pleased at the notion, but gave you an encouraging nod.
Besides, what other choice did you have?
After a hesitant, quiet murmur of your gratitude to the eunuch, you slipped down the stairs, Jaime hot on your heels. He wasn’t supposed to follow you out of the Keep, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to see you leave for himself, ensure that you left the capital safely.
The boat was a small, rickety thing, but it’d do. You spotted half a dozen young men and women onboard, deathly silent. Their eyes seemed to glow unnaturally against the dark seas. Unease settled within the pits of your stomach. 
You turned to Jaime, lips parting as you struggled for words. What could you say to him, after everything the two of you had been through together?
He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, grappling for a proper farewell. The words were lodged in his throat.
“You’re a good man, Ser Jaime,” you finally told him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Beneath all of your sister… and all of your father… there is good in you. There’s so much of it.”
Taking a step closer, Jaime gently cupped your face with his remaining hand, the golden one on his left arm feeling heavier by the second. You leaned into his touch, allowing yourself to be vulnerable for just a moment. For decades and decades, you refused to let your guard down. With Jaime, you finally felt safe enough to do so. 
But you were leaving. 
It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized. He was glad you were going to leave: you’d be safer out there, looking for your niece in the Vale than in the capital with his wretched sister. But then again, he wanted you here. He wanted to be by your side, more than anything. To think, he had thought he was going to marry you only yesterday.
He leaned in closer, slow and tentative. There was ample time for you to pull away, but you didn’t. When his lips finally grazed yours, you finally pressed forward, fisting the lapels of his tunic, and tugging him closer. 
The kiss was soft at first, one of uncertainty and turmoil. It was quick to grow more desperate, pouring all the unsaid words and months of pent-up yearning into the embrace. You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against the side of his. He chased after your lips, but you forced yourself to turn your head away. 
Jaime’s entire chest ached. It ached and longed and screamed for you.
You had to go. The longer Jaime stayed out here with you, the riskier it was.
“I owe you everything,” you whispered, nose pressed against his cheekbone. There was an uneven warble to your voice. “Everything, Jaime.”
“No, you don’t,” he responded, kissing the patch of skin beside your pained eyes. “You did the same for me. We’re even now.”
A part of him wanted to tell you that he had asked his father if he could marry you. But he held the words back, knowing it would bring nothing but either of you pain. To love each other, only to never be able to be together. Jaime didn’t want you to feel that pain. You deserved to be free, to love a kind and soft-hearted Lord… someone that wasn’t him. That wasn’t a Lannister. That wasn’t the enemy.
After all, wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.
A burning tear fell down his cheek. You offered him a watery smile. 
You smiled for him, after decades of never doing so.
Jaime loved you. He loved you more than anything. And he had to let you go.
Your hands slipped away from each other, and you turned to board the ship. The silent crew fluttered around you like ghosts, readying  to sail away in effortless coordination.
As the boat rocked into motion, edging away from King’s Landing, you heard alarm bells tolling in the distance, signifying Tyrion’s escape from prison. Jaime made his way back into the Red Keep, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the hazy fog.
The Bitter Wolf and the Golden Lion, Jaime thought. 
Now that was a tale certainly worth telling. 
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Text
Safe Keeping | 1
Part 2
"What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."
Sandor Clegane x Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, forced marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut (wedding night, loss of virginity, mild dub con, PIV, biting, praise kink), emotional unavailability, The Hound being abrasive, baby fever, typos, etc.
A/N: what do we say to big scary murderers? all together now: i can fix him. the smut is at the end so just keep scrolling to the bottom if you wanna pass (: originally posted on ao3 but felt like posting it on here
Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx
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A collective gasp resonates in the hall upon the utterance of the proclamation. The blonde boy basks in the reaction. I release a breath, hand on my churning belly, as I stand there in front of the Iron Throne. The agitation that filled me threatened to spill from my lips when I curtsied to the king. But by the gods, I manage to mutter, "you have honored me with such a decision, your grace."
King Joffrey smirks, "yes," he shifts in his seat, "I have." He stands from the throne and raises a beckoning hand, "dog!"
All eyes turn to one corner.
The rustle of fabric and the clink of steel fill the hall. I watch as he walks towards me. I watch the large man, clad in darkness from head to toe, hand on his hilt, face adorned with a large burn, come to my side but pay me no mind. He turns to his king, "your grace."
"My king," queen Cersei mutters to her son, "he is a member of the Kingsguard, he cannot--"
"My word is law, is it not?" the boy says.
His mother looks at him then us, and says no word.
Joffrey grins, "I present your new ward," he raises his arms, "orphaned at war, parents and brothers dead, house left with no heirs. She turned to me for counsel," he points to his chest, "for she would die on her own. And now I give her you," he clasps his hands, "to have and to hold in holy matrimony."
The room is dead silent.
"Consider it a gift for your loyal service," he turns to me, "a rather generous one, given your infliction," he turns back to him.
The man on my side nods once.
"What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes."
I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine father."
A loud and shrill laugh echoes in the chamber, demanding everyone's attention. Joffrey wheezes until he's red and tumbles back into his metal chair. He catches his breath and nods, "he- mmm, he would," he chuckles.
The king settles himself and waves us off, "go forth and make arrangements then, my lady. Your protector awaits."
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I flinch at the way the wooden door is opened. Sandor stands before me, in a dress shirt and a scowl, leaning against the opening of his chamber door. I look away and curtsy, "good morrow, Lord Sandor," I steal a quick glance at Lucy by my left, "I've had my handmaiden prepare f-"
"Hound." 
I lift my eyes to his face. The sour expression he held is amplified by the scar on his side. His eyes burn into me. "They call me the Hound," he grunts, "y'know that?"
I clasp my hands in front of me and open my mouth before muttering, "yes. Yes, I do."
"Then save me of this lord business," he straightens up and walks off inside his chambers. I watch him as much as I can from where I stood outside his room. I pipe up when he is no longer in eye's view, "may I come in?"
"Door's open, isn't it?"
I look at Lucy hesitantly, motioning she stay outside. I push the door wider and walk in, seeing Sandor was now getting dressed.
I stare at him for a moment, pressing my hands closer together, "would you like for me to he-"
"I'm not the king who has a bitch for every task."
I clench my jaw at his icy words.
Sandor begins to do his clasps, "why are you here, girl?"
He does not look at me after asking. I purse my lips before replying, "I am heading to the tailor to pick fabrics and-"
"Why isn't the tailor coming here?" he asks, still focused on dressing himself.
Sandor finally turns to me after fixing his top. I look up at him, feeling a dread build in my belly, "I wanted to go outside."
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head. He takes steps closer.
My lips part. I blurt, "the palace is too stuffy."
"Stuffy?" he retorts, "I wonder how large your house is if you find it stuffy here."
I shake my head, "I did not mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?" Sandor says, tilting down to look upon me once he is close enough. I am unable to withhold myself from stepping back. I mutter, "there are many... looming presences. It's overwhelming."
"Looming, she says," he grumbles. "Well, little lady, you're going to be shackled to me, and I'm shackled here. You'll have to get used to these looming presences."
I turn away from him and take a breath. Must he speak to me like I'm a child?  "I understand that."
"No, I don't think you do," he says.
I look back at him. His gaze is as hard as ever.
"The moment a thing like you is outside the castle walls, thieves and rapists will fight to getcha," he walks off, "get your footman to escort you right in front of the shop and back."
I furrow my brows as he heads to the door, "wait, what about you?"
He stops right in front of Lucy and turns back, "what about me?"
"I'm going to the tailor to be fitted a dress for our wedding," I explain, "I came here to bring you along with me," I point to the woman at his side, "Lucy has made food for you to-"
"Why would I go with you to a tailor?"
Will he ever let me finish speaking? I hold back my annoyed expression, "you need to be fitted for your wedding at-"
"I'm not your dress up dolly," he grumbles, face pinched in disgust, "I'll be wearing my armor and that's that."
We stare at each other for a moment. I watch as Lucy glares at Sandor from behind. I clench my jaw tightly before curtsying, "as you wish, my lord-"
"Hound," he barks.
I look at him in shock, "you wish me to call you hound?"
He narrows his eyes and scoffs, "it's what I am-- what you're marrying, isn't it?"
I debate his words, unsure if he meant it or if it was a trick, a reason for him to be angry at me, "may I call you by name?"
He feels disdain burn up from his belly to his throat, "what? Too good to admit that-"
"That is not what I said!" I quip hotly.
The hulking man is rendered silent. He did not expect that. Still, he decides not to respond and walks away.
I scoff when he does so.
Lucy makes a face at him before coming up to me, offering a remorseful look, "he's a brute, milady! Rugged and ugly and mean!"
"Lucy," I warn as she takes my arm and escorts me out. She closes the door on our way and makes a face, "he's a thickheaded oaf!" she glares behind her to no one, "he's lucky-- blessed by all gods to be promised to a lady like you, and he treats you as though you were the degene-"
"Lucy!" I quip, yanking her by the arm.
She is finally silenced because of this. We both halt in our spot.
I hiss, "if someone were to hear you, if he were to hear you..." I shake my head, "he is my lord now. He is your lord."
Lucy grumbles.
"If it could be, I would not marry anyone," I tell her under a hushed voice, "but you know that cannot be."
We begin to walk down the hall. I continue, "I had thought I'd end with an old lord, eager to inherit my estate and esteem," I shake my head, "shocking as it was to be thrown like a bone to him..." I look out the open windows, "at least... the Hound... can protect me," I look back to Lucy, "protect us."
Lucy's face falls solemn. We hold each other's gaze for a moment. She then offers, "you're right. Them forest monsters will cower in fear at the mere sight of the 'ound."
We head to the castle gates, "do you think the guards will let us-"
"We'll walk, Lucy," I reply.
"What?! But the Hound said-"
"He expected me to have footmen and you know well that I don't. I do not think it would be appropriate to instruct the servants here to go out of their way for us. Besides, the shop is not far, you know this."
"But, Lady, I- I can drive the carriage again!"
I shake my head, "don't be ridiculous, Lucy. Do you know how silly we'd look galloping in a carriage for just a few streets down the city?"
Lucy is unable to talk me into any of her ideas. We ask the guards let us through the gate then walk to the tailor.
Once there, I am greeted by the tailor and immediately attended to.
Lucy and I go through the fabrics together. I laugh at her sentiment that all the fabrics would look good on me.
"Here," the tailor says, placing a strip of fabric on my shoulder, "I think this would suit you well, lady."
I look at myself in the mirror just as Lucy says, "that's it! That's the one!"
"Lucy," I chuckle, "you've said that about all the fabrics thus far."
"And I meant it every time!" she retorts, "but this one, this one is truly better than all the rest."
I look at myself in the mirror, "this one is actually quite pretty," I agree, "it's a very pale shade of red, but I quite enjoy it."
"It is all the rage with the ladies at court," the tailor says.
I smile, "very well. I should like to have this for my wedding dress."
Lucy squeals and applauds.
"A fine choice, my lady," the tailor nods and finishes measuring me.
The moment Lucy and I exit the tailor shop, we are scared by a loud holler. We turn to our side and see the mighty Hound, leaned against the wall. He straightens up and marches towards me.
"My Lord Sand-"
"What did I tell you about going outside the castle?" he barks, glaring down at me. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches. My stomach rolls.
I give him a look and push Lucy behind me, "there was no dange-
"That's what you think. But tell me, what do little girls know but to play dress up?"
I whimper when he grabs my arm and drags me like an unruly child all the way back to the palace. I do not try to fight him. I know I will only hurt and tire myself if I do.
"Maybe I should let the peasants have at you," he mutters, side-eyeing me hotly, "teach you a lesson."
"Let her go!" Lucy shrieks.
He threatens to strike her when she tires to pull me away. I shout in protest. Sandor huffs and decides to simply continue dragging me.
The moment we are past the gates, he releases me roughly, making me yelp. Lucy grabs my arm and checks if I am injured.
Sandor eyes every one of the men present, "I'll make a jump rope out of the entrails of whoever fucking lets her out again."
The Hound storms off, leaving me and my handmaiden reeling and everyone else uneasy.
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Sandor walks down the halls across the keep. He notices a guard looking down from the window. He wonders if he should push him for no other reason than the fact that he can.
He doesn't. He goes downstairs. He furrows his brows at the sight of men huddled together, looking at something in the gardens. He realizes it's most likely the same thing the man upstairs was looking at.
He walks their way, because he has to anyway, but is, frankly, uninterested in whatever the fuck has these men gawking.
On his way to his insufferable master, he passes Baelish, who is seemingly chipper to see him. The man smiles, "greetings, Hound."
The Hound ignores him.
"Pretty little thing in the garden. A darling flower, ready to be plucked," Baelish smirks as he watches the large man pass, "our king truly blessed you with such a match."
His expression does not change but his ears do ring at that as he walks down the hall.
He wills himself not to think of it, Littlefinger is a leech, but by the end of the day, his words are still ringing in mind. How irritating it was, suddenly, that he did not look at whatever the fuck it was those men were gawking at.
He's fuming at the sight of more men flocked by the garden when he reaches that hall again.
"OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!" he growls, thrashing past anyone who was slow and stupid enough not to get out of his path in time.
Sandor's eye twitches as when he sees what the commotion is all about.
"So, the princess said to him, 'away with you. I would rather never feel your kiss than yearn for something I will never feel again.' " I read the last section of the page. I flip to the next part and offer a smile to the children leaned on my lap listening to my story.
"Why would she tell him to go away?" Benji asked me from my right.
Lucy, beside him, chuckles and brushes his hair back,
I offer, "well, the prince had to go away. I suppose the princess just wanted it to be done with."
To my left, Ophelia, the boy's younger sister, pushes the book in my hand down so that she can see the picture. I show it to her just as Benji says, "she should have kissed him."
I chuckle, "well, maybe she will. There are a few more pages le-"
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
I gasp and look up. A protective form of ire burns through me at the sound of Sandor's words. The two siblings in my arm squeal at the sight of him and cower into my breast. I glare at him, "there are children here!"
"I can bloody see that," he looks down with contempt, "what? Are they your bastards?"
Lucy takes hold of the children.
"They are not bastards!" I rebut, "they are my childhood friend, Lady Deena's children, who, mind you, travelled far to King's Landing for our wedding!"
"I don't give a fuck about Lady Deenas or Lady Danas. Couldn't you have read to the rats in your damn chambers, girl?"
I give my handmaiden one look and, immediately, Lucy takes Benji and Ophelia along with their fairytale book. They scurry away to their chambers as the children clamor.
I stand from the stone fence we had been sat on, "we wanted fresh air."
"You wanted attention," the Hound quips.
I am wholly offended by his accusation. Now that I was standing alone in front of him, my confidence from having something to protect dwindles. I don't get to ask from whom he thought I wanted attention because he's soon berating me all over again. He quips, "does it please you to know all the guards in King's Landing want to fuck a baby into you?"
I am appalled by his venom.
He grabs me by the arm and begins hauling me off. A squeak spills from my lips at his brute force. Part of me wishes to fight back this time; I do not want him to humiliate me by dragging me around again. And yet I find myself unable to do anything more than latch my fingers into his iron grip, trying to at least loosen it.
Sandor, of course, does not budge.
"Is it a crime to read to children?!" I whine out in frustration, finding it immensely difficult to keep up to with his wide strides.
He does not make a sound, save the sound of his boots on the stone floors. I pant as we hike up the steps, yet still, I find myself explaining, "I would have done the same to our children!"
I do not see that Sandor reacts to this because I am too busy trying to match his pace.
I thank the gods when he finally releases me. When I catch my breath, I realize I am in front of the door to my chambers.
"Do not stroll around as if you actually live here," Sandor quips, raising a finger at me.
"But I do-"
"Last time I checked, you're not marrying into royalty," he cuts me off.
I watch the large man walk off right after speaking this. I rub my arm as I feel my eyes water. More than his heavy grip, I was once again hurt by his jagged treatment. My voice breaks as I shout out, "wou-ld you at least tell me what exactly I've done to have angered you so?!"
He does not slow, nor does he look over his shoulder when he barks back, "I don't want to see you fucking reading to those children again."
Needless to say, I crumble into a fit of tears the moment I get into my chambers.
When Lucy comes to my side on my bed, he curses the Hound and does her best to console me. She rubs my back as I weep my woes out into my pillow, "oh, Lucy, he doesn't just despise me, he despises children!"
Lucy scoffs, "why am I not surprised."
She regrets saying this when I turn to her with wet cheeks and bloodshot eyes. She gives a guilty expression, "milady, I-"
"That's all I ever wanted," I sniffle, "all I ever dreamed of-" my lips quiver, "being a mother. Having children. You know this."
Lucy bites her lips tightly as I continue to sob. She mutters, "pardon my foolish words, lady."
"Oh, what does it matter-" I rub my philtrum, "you're right. This is not a surprising development."
"You can still get him to give you his babes! Men like making babies, not really taking care of them. And of course, I would never leave your side. I would help you raise your darlings, protect them from him," she speaks sincerely. I knew her words meant to comfort me but in truth, I don't think they do.
It seems she can tell that, which is why she's apologizing all over again.
I shake my head and place my hand on her cheek, "it's alright, Lucy... you needn't worry... it's all... going to be alright.
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Sandor and I look starkly contrasting at the altar. He is dark and brooding, clad in hard armor and a perpetual frown. I am bright and jittery, wrapped in pale reds and nervous smiles.
The septon binds our hands together in fabric. We turn to each other as we speak our vows.
My heart races when we are told to kiss. I suck in a breath and get on my tiptoes to reach his lips. I crane my neck up; he makes no effort to lean down in return. Still, our lips meet and in that moment, I am his.
The audience applauds us, the sound of King Joffrey's laugh is apparent even through it. Our wedding was not a grand event; the king wanted it to happen in haste, and I could not afford to make it a grand anyway. There were also not so many people in attendance, and yet it felt like the whole world was watching me in this moment.
The celebration feast that came after was terribly tedious and severely unenjoyable for me, and for Sandor. Everyone else seemed to enjoy the merrymaking though, namely the king, and I suppose that was enough.
I did nothing but smile and thank my guest from my seat next to Sandor. He did not speak to me, let alone anyone who came up to us with congratulations on their lips. All he did was eat. I suppose it could be worse. At least one of us could stomach eating at this moment.
The only life I felt was when I was introduced to a babe of one of the ladies. The sweetling had only seen 4 moons and she was as sweet as can be. She was so precious. I just had to hold her. I was inspired to even stand and frolic a bit with her in my arms.
Her mother and I conversed much about babies and child rearing. My stomach rolled in a mix of excitement, dread, anticipation, and worry all at once, knowing this was to be the next part of my life now.
I enjoyed all the stories she told me. I was flattered when she said I would be a great mother, for her child in my arms did not fuss one bit and she was known to be quite fussy. I giggled at all the wonderful memories she had with her other children who, she said, were even fussier than her daughter. I nodded solemnly at her advice in child birth and breastfeeding, making sure not to let a single word go unheard.
Unbeknownst to anyone, Sandor was watching this all from his spot with the cup of wine before him. He did not avert his eyes once; he watched each and every move.
Well, it was unbeknownst to everyone excluding Lord Baelish, who was rather amused by it all, which was why he decided to act.
"Lady Clegane," Lord Baelish comes up to me and raises a hand, "might you spare me a dance?"
I turn form the babe in my arms to him. I smile a small one, "I'm afraid my darling friend here makes me unwilling to do anything but coddle her."
The child's mother on my left laughs, as does Baelish. He links his hands together, "well, judging from your darling friend's temperament, I'd say you would be a fine mother."
"I agree," the lady says.
I grin from ear to ear, heart soaring at the sentiment, "I would like to be nothing more."
Baelish presses his lips into a smirk, "may the gods bless you with many children then," he raises his hands "and may they all take after your sweetness, grace, and beauty."
The way Baelish speaks those words were intentional, as was everything was with him. The comment leaves an air of tension between us. The man basks in it and decides his work is done here.
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"I-It is kind of the king to assign a larger room," I muster up as I walk into my new chambers-- our new chambers.
Sandor follows after me, locking the door behind him. He hums, "I doubt it was the king that thought of it. It was probably the queen."
I stand by the end of the bed. I brush the sheets with my hand. I mutter a correction, "kind of her to think of us."
When I turn, my breath hitches at the sight of Sandor standing right behind me. I suck in a sharp breath as I take in his expression. His face is barely visible in the dark. I can only see as much as the moon allowed. Still, I can tell he is stoic, hard, and predatory. This was it.
My hands tremble. I fiddle with my fingers, "shall I-" I bring my palms to his chest plate, "help you out of your armor?"
Sandor does not respond to me.
"H-husband?"
He takes my hand, taking a shaky breath from my lips along with him. He leads me to his claps and shows me how to undo them before releasing my hand to do it myself. I continue to undo all the claps until his armor is off him. When he is left in his shirt and trousers, he snatches my wrists before I can undress him any further. I freeze in my spot.
My belly churns at his touch. It is reminiscent of the times he has dragged me by the arm, and yet the firm grip is a notch gentler. The way is brows furrow is barely visible because of his burns, but I see it. He leans down and his dark hair spills over his scar, "do you know what's going to happen now, little girl?"
My breath hitches. I take a moment to even my breathing before responding, "yes."
He hums and lifts his nose, "what's going to happen?"
"You're going to fuck me."
Sandor laughs lowly. I am shocked when he swipes his thumb on my lips, "filthy mouth."
I look up at him with wide eyes as his own rake me up and down. I feel incredibly self-conscious under his scrutiny. I want to push him away and hide under the sheets. Yet still, I am rendered frozen in my spot.
"Tell me honest, have you ever done this before?" he speaks rather softly.
I feel my body burn. I shake my head, unable to speak.
Sandor allows me a second. He believes it yet finds it hard to believe. "I would not judge you if you did," he adds.
I shake my head faster.
He draws out a deep breath, "no, of course you haven't--" he grabs my ribs and spins me around. The action makes my heart hammer. He pushes my hair to the side, over my shoulder. I squeak softly when he begins to undo the back of my dress. He completes his thought, "-- you're a good girl."
Though he was loosening my ties, I was finding it harder to breathe. He very soon slips my dress off my shoulders, leaving me in my shift. After doing so, he begins to remove the pins in my hair. It takes a while for him to accomplish it. I count the clinks that come from him dropping the clips onto the floor.
When he is done, he gently combs through my locks and lets my hair run loose. It was then he nudges me, "on the bed. On your back."
I shudder and crawl on the bed. I watch him take his shirt off the moment I lie on my back. I immediately turn away and close my eyes when I notice his bulge. His hands undo the string of his trousers.
I press my thighs together. I feel my heart pound. It pounds intensely between my legs.
"Aren't you curious to see what it looks like?"
I curl my legs up at his words.
I gasp and flinch when he grabs my ankles, my eyes ripping open to see what he was doing. He straightens my legs out and pulls me down; I gasp once more when he does so.
I catch sight of his opened trousers. I see the way the hair on his wide, battle-scarred chest trails down to the thick, dark hair beneath his navel. I see the imprint on his pants clearer. I shut my eyes again.
I hear him pull his trousers down. I feel the bed dip as he crawls over.
My hands dig into the sheets as he knocks my legs apart. I am passive and obedient; I make room for him. I can hear my pulse from my screwed eyes.
Goosebumps form on my skin when Sandor's hot, calloused fingers brush up my thighs. He lightly kneads my flesh. The action almost makes me moan. He stops and pushes my skirt up when he feels something by my hips, "where did you get this?"
I feel him ghost over the deep scar on my left hip. I cover my face in the crook of my elbows, "I was attacked."
He does not respond.
"That was the day my family died."
Sandor feels bad for asking. He feels a bit more when the thought does not prevent his cock from hardening. He adjusts his grip, hiking my shift up higher. His hands claw on my hips but only one remains. His mouth waters.
I gasp and slap my thighs close, or at least try to, when I feel him brush something firm and damp against my pulsing core. He uses the sheer size of him to prevent me from actually pressing my thighs together.
"Shh, shh, shh, shh-" he tuts, "this is for your own good. Believe me."
My toes curl and my hands dig into my pillow as he fondles with me. The sensation makes my body twitch and the wet squelching sound that pierces my ears fill me up with an unnamable sensation. Soon enough though, I feel myself become undeniably aroused.
My hips begin to roll and my back begins to arch.
Sandor grunts and licks his lips, loving every moment of his private show, "good girl."
His words strike up my belly like lightning.
Lewd sounds begin to dribble past my lips. I feel my body begin to tingle. The sopping sounds intensify.
"Feel good?" he asks, "you like it?"
I find no room to deny it. I instantly respond, "yes."
"Good," he trails off.
My grip on the pillows loosen when he begins to slow. I bring my hands to the side when he falls to a stop. Just as I am about to look down to see what was wrong, my heart races all over again when he hooks his fingers behind my knees and nestles between my thighs. He positions against me. I feel him guide his hardened length into my folds.
I let out a loud groan when he slips into my wetness. He grunts and cusses as he sinks down, balls deep. My nails claw at his shoulders. He pushes my knees back to the mattress. Surprisingly, the weight of him is not suffocating, in fact, it was welcomed... it was delicious.
I whine viscerally when he begins to buck his hips slowly.
"Mmm, fuck," he pants, "so fucking tight. So pretty and wet and warm, my sweet virgin."
My jaw drops at his words.
"My sweet lady wife," he growls, "all," he drags out, "mine."
My breath strains and escapes my throat hotly. My sounds match each of his thrusts; they are deep and lewd. Sandor's male ego is through the roof because it if. He slowly picks up the pace.
I am a mess of whines at the feel his manhood stretching and prodding into me. My body shivers every time he collides with the tender spot in me. It feels so good; it's nothing I've felt before.
Sandor grunts and shifts on his knees. He adjusts me beneath him like I weighed nothing, and maybe I didn't to him. I slip out a scream when he batters into me with such delicious force.
"Shhhhh," he hushes shakily, hands forcing my hips down in place so I didn't shoot off as he snapped his hips into me. With every hit of flesh, his stones knocking into me, his wet skin, slapping into my dripping folds, I feel my body burn and tighten more.
"Don't be too loud," he scolds emptily, for in truth, he would love it if he got something even louder. He leans lower, "wouldn't want you to wake all of King's Landing." But please do.
His words momentarily push sense into my mind. It doesn't last. I can barely mask my loud cries and he fucks into me. My nails dig into his scalp. He lets out a sound because of it.
Sandor shifts again. This time, his buries his face next to mine. He presses against me, chest to chest, grabs the bed frame with one hand, my knee with the other, and rams into me so hard, the bed creaks and knocks into the wall.
My eyes roll back and my open mouth latches onto his shoulder. I naturally then sink my teeth in is taut flesh. It does wonders to muffle my sounds but it pulls out some from Sandor.
"Gods, girl. Yeah," he heaves, "sink your," he gives two particularly rough thrusts, "fucking teeth into me."
My breathing grows erratic after this. An intense pressure begins to build in my belly.
"S-Sandor- Sandor-"
He hums and maintains his intense pace, "come girl. Just a bit more. Come around my cock like a good, dirty girl."
His words push me on the edge. I crumble and convulse beneath him exactly like it, a good, dirty girl. My voice is just as shaky as my thighs are. My body bursts into an intense, burning pleasure. 
My body drips in sweat and slick and spit and tears, all purely out of bliss. All the air is pulled out of my lungs as I fall into this feeling.
Sandor curses. His thrusts grow erratic. I would scream if I wasn't so winded and exhausted. He stabs so roughly into me, I flinch because it feels like he's hitting the very depths of my mind. Then, he breaks into a growl and I feel him throb so strongly until his movements come to a halt.
Once he is still, I am obliterated. I cannot move. I can only feel heat and pulsing. I feel terribly sticky and so full. I love every inch of it.
I sigh and lean into him. I can imagine now why many paid for this pleasure, why people had so many children. My fingers scratch into his nape. I rub my face against his cheek; I feel the texture of his burn. Sandor stiffens.
The next moment, he pulls away, and it was then I realized doing that, nuzzling into him, was obviously a mistake. I gasp at the sudden lost of contact, the emptiness. I watch him jump out of the bed, as if I was fire and I had burned him. I press my thighs together and push my skirt down, feeling shame wash over me as I watched him tuck himself into his trousers like he was eager to leave me.
And he looked exactly like he meant to leave me at this moment.
"Where are you going?" I ask him, but my voice is so small and unsure that he doesn't hear it.
He grabs his shirt and puts it on. He heads to the door, unlocks it quickly, and insults me by saying, "good night."
998 notes · View notes
valeskafics · 9 months
Text
"Your Lion" - Jaime Lannister x Rhaegar's Wife!Reader
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a/n: so in this, jaime is about 19, reader is 18, rhaegar is 22, so this is young kingsguard jaime 🤭 tagging @ruby-dragon @julessworldd and @angelwonie bc i know you hoes were hyped for this ❤️
Summary: You don't find happiness in King's Landing or your marriage, but you do find it in your sworn protector.
Word Count: 2,900
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, infidelity committed by reader, negligent husband rhaegar, fingering, p in v sex, semi public sex
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire characters nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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Being the lady wife of the Prince of Dragonstone is an honor.
Bear him heirs and do your duty.
You’ll be queen one day, there’s nothing to complain about.
Your parents’ words ring in your ears as you stand beside Prince Rhaegar in the Great Sept of Baelor, tying your life to his. You say the words, thinking to yourself at least your husband is close to you in age, only four years older at two and twenty while you are eight and ten. He’s tall and handsome, you have to admit with his platinum locks and lavender eyes. He kisses you chastely on the lips when the septon instructs him to do so. There’s no passion in his kiss, but you think, and hope, that will come with time. You only met two days past, after all, you can’t expect him to already be in love with you.
When Rhaegar beds you that night for the first time, he is gentle, checking on you to make sure he isn’t causing you too much pain, slowing any time you wince, but you find little enjoyment in it, rather you simply lie there as you do your duty and allow him to do his. He doesn’t remain in your marriage bed after the deed is done, instead returning to his own quarters, stating he wishes to allow you to rest and recuperate from the day’s events. 
You want to scream at him that you don’t want to rest. You want to be held by your husband. You spend your first night as a married woman alone in your bed, clutching your pillow, thankful for the small mercy that though your husband may not have been passionate or loving, he was at least gentle and not a brute like you’ve heard of so many men.
Every so often, he comes to your chambers and the two of you lay together, but beyond that, you take to amusing yourself, roaming the Red Keep with your ladies in waiting, finding comfort in their company. You play with Rhaegar’s little brother, Viserys, finding the little boy to be an utter delight, always with a smile and a joke. Queen Rhaella is with child again, early in her pregnancy, and Viserys proudly declares to you that he’ll likely be betrothed to his unborn sister, Daenerys, as she is to be named.
You ask why he is so certain she is to be a sister, perhaps she will be a brother, but Viserys shakes his head emphatically and tells you “not to wake the dragon”, making the most adorable roaring sound you’ve ever heard in your life before running off.
Your married life goes on like this for a few months. Rhaegar keeps to his books, remaining distant but polite with you, while you occupy yourself with your friends and your good family. It isn’t an exciting life by any means, but it is tolerable, you think. Perhaps, one day, you might even feel content in your situation.
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All of that gets turned on its head when none other than the dashing Ser Jaime Lannister is assigned as your sworn protector. After an assassination attempt on King Aerys II gone awry (at least, according to the Mad King himself), security is doubled and a protector is assigned to each member of the royal family, two to the queen to account for her delicate condition. The first time you meet Jaime, you’re taken aback by just how very handsome he is. He gets down on bended knee, holding his sword up to you, gazing at you with those piercing emerald eyes.
“My sword is yours, my princess, my life is yours,” he declares boldly, though you can see the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he eyes you up and down.
His gaze is nothing like Rhaegar’s. On rare occasions, your husband will tell you that you look “lovely” and ask if that is a new dress you’re wearing. Though, despite your best efforts at inciting some form of passion in the man, he remains ever the gentle recluse.
The complete opposite to your sworn protector.
Those green eyes follow you everywhere you go in the Keep, as they are supposed to. Jaime is your constant companion, your ladies in waiting tittering and swooning every time he comes to escort you somewhere or the other. And soon, with your similar personalities, you form a strange sort of friendship with the man.
Perhaps friendship is an understatement.
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“Good morrow, Ser Jaime,” you call out to him, the playful lilt ever present in your tone, enchanting him as you always do.
Jaime is leaning against a wall, his golden hair hanging loose around his face as he returns your smile, arms folded across his broad chest, “Good morrow, Princess.”
You step closer to him, gazing up into his eyes, “Will you be escorting me into town today?”
Jaime nods, “I am at your beck and call, sweet princess. What need have you of me today?”
“I wanted to buy some silks,” you declare, pushing your hair behind your shoulders, “I truly cannot stand the clothes these Crownlanders wear. I wish to allow my skin to breathe.”
Jaime smirks, leaning in slightly as his eyes narrow, “I agree entirely, sweet princess. Those silks you wear really do cling to your figure so very nicely,” he winks.
“Oh, do they?” you feign innocence, gesturing to the lovely yellow silk dress you wear today, that bears your arms and part of your chest, giving the knight a generous view of your cleavage, one that he drinks in almost greedily, “My good father says that they’re utterly indecent.”
Jaime chuckles at your comment, “He might be right, Princess. In the right light, one could almost see through it… That is, if you wear anything underneath,” he trails off suggestively, a mirthful look in his eyes.
You smile coyly at him, “What need do I have of wearing anything underneath?” you saunter past him, calling back over your shoulder, “I need to speak to the queen, but I trust you’ll have the horses saddled and ready to go upon my return, Ser Jaime?”
Jaime grins as you sashay past him, watching the elegant sway of your hips as you move, “As you wish, my princess. I am but your humble servant.”
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Jaime waits by the stables with your mare and his stallion, leaning against one of the walls. He runs a hand through his hair, grinning to himself at the idea of spending the day in town with you. He originally swore himself to Aerys’s kingsguard to revolt against his father, but in his rebellion, he found something so much better. He found you. You’re beautiful, in a way so very different from his sister. Where she is cunning and scheming, you’re quick-witted and playful. Where she is acrid and harsh, you’re sweet and your voice sounds like honey in his ears. He hears your familiar footsteps, but frowns when he also hears your husband’s voice along with them. He listens on as you and Rhaegar speak to each other, jealousy sitting like a pit in his stomach.
“You shouldn’t be going into town alone-”
Your voice is sharp when you cut your husband off, Jaime notes, sharper than usual, and he wonders the reason for it, “I’m not alone, husband. Ser Jaime will be riding with me. Now, why don’t you go back to whatever book you were reading since you find so much more joy in that than you do in even trying to entertain your wife in the most basic of conversations?”
Jaime sighs to himself, shaking his head. He knows you do not fault Rhaegar for being bookish, that was a comment said in the heat of the moment out of frustration. Rather, you fault Rhaegar for being neglectful, for not making any real effort in getting to know you. Not like Jaime has. Jaime doesn’t give a damn if Rhaegar is a prince - he is a fool, and a woman as beautiful and perfect as you deserves more than a husband who can’t appreciate her. You deserve a man like Jaime, who will treat you like the queen that you are.
You approach Jaime, smiling, “Are the horses ready? I wish to take my leave.”
Jaime nods, helping you onto your horse, his hands lingering on your hips a moment longer than necessary, a fact that doesn’t escape your notice. You feel him squeeze slightly and you smile to yourself, reveling in his touch.
“All is ready, my princess,” he states, “I will stay close at your side. The streets of King’s Landing can be dangerous for an unaccompanied lady,” he grins at you as he mounts his own horse, “Especially such a beautiful and charming woman as yourself.”
As the two of you begin riding, you roll your eyes at him playfully, “You underestimate me, my dear knight,” the term of endearment sends a thrill of excitement through him as you meet his gaze, “I’m quite capable of defending myself should the need arise.”
Jaime smirks slightly, adjusting his sword almost as if to show off and impress you, “Oh, I’m sure you are, my sweet princess. But it wouldn’t do to put that to the test, would it? Better that I come along in case anything happens so that I may protect my future queen and defend her honor.”
“Perhaps it is I who will defend your honor from the hordes of ladies in the streets who flock to you,” you tease, goading your horse on, feeling freer and freer the farther you get from the Red Keep.
Jaime snickers at your remark, “Perhaps. Although I suspect I will be more than capable of fending off any ladies who might be overcome with lust at the sight of me,” he winks, admiring your figure as you ride, the way you look in your silk gown cutting quite the pretty picture as it clings to you like a second skin.
“You underestimate the strength of a woman who wants a man, my dear knight,” you counter.
Jaime throws his head back and laughs, the sight of which makes you feel as though there are butterflies in your stomach. His beautiful green eyes, his golden hair shining in the sun, his smile…
“Well, I suppose there is only one way to find out,” he grins, “You are more than welcome to try and claim me if you wish.”
You giggle at the open invitation, “I’m not sure my husband would like that very much.”
“Who cares what that bookworm thinks?” Jaime scoffs, and you barely manage to hold back your laughter, though the topic turns serious after a moment, “Your husband clearly doesn’t appreciate you. You deserve someone who will treat you like the queen you truly are. Someone who will spoil and pamper you,” his voice lowers slightly as he adds, “Someone like me.”
You smile at him wryly, “You Lannisters are quite cocky, aren’t you?”
Jaime laughs at your comment, “Yes, but don’t pretend you don’t like it. I can see that little smile that plays on those sweet lips when I’m like this. You like my boldness. It excites you.”
The two of you come to a stop in front of the shops, Jaime dismounting first and then moving to help you, holding you by the waist once again, the two of you standing far too close for it to be considered proper as you respond, “Perhaps I like meek bookworms like my husband.”
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After some time, you return with your shopping, a servant from the Keep stating that they will take the silks to the royal tailor to have them made into dresses as per your specifications. You open your coin purse and hand the servant one golden dragon, which they try to refuse, but you insist, walking over to Jaime.
“I’d like to go to the beach by Blackwater Bay. It’s a lovely day and I don’t feel like returning quite yet.”
Jaime nods, “Shall we take the horses?”
“No,” you shake your head, “I should like to walk.”
“Very well, sweet princess.”
You take Jaime’s arm and he leads you toward the beach, the two of you discussing all manner of things as you go, whether it be the most recent tourney that took place, your favorite sort of dances at balls, and so many other things. Jaime asks you about your family, your childhood, and you ask him about his, and by the time you reach the Bay, it feels as though you know him and he knows you better than your husband ever will.
When you get to a deserted stretch of beach, Jaime is taken aback when you immediately begin stripping off your clothes, moving toward the water. His jaw drops as inch by inch of your beautiful, bare body is revealed to him.
“What?” you shrug, glancing back over your shoulder as you wade into the water, “I want to swim.”
Jaime immediately begins stripping off his own clothes, all too eager to follow you into the water. You take him by the hand, wading until you’re chest deep. Jaime’s eyes sparkle in the afternoon glow and they look even greener somehow as he leans in closer and closer to you. Your hands move up to thread in his golden locks and your lips meet for a soft, sensual kiss, so different from anything you’ve ever shared with Rhaegar. Jaime’s mouth moves against yours like it’s what he was meant to do, and it absolutely thrills you when he moves his hands to your ass, squeezing your supple flesh in his hands, causing you to gasp against his lips. He eases his tongue inside your mouth, allowing it to dance against yours.
The two of you stay like that in the water for some time, just kissing, holding each other, before you splash him playfully. Jaime’s jaw drops at the sudden assault and he begins splashing you as well. The two of you are giggly, soaking wet messes by the time you return to the shore, laying yourselves out on the sand to dry under the sun’s light. Jaime leans over you, resting a hand on your cheek as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“I was wrong,” he murmurs, gazing down at you, moving to kiss your neck, nibbling softly at your skin, reveling in the soft moan you let out, “You’re more than a queen. You are a goddess. And I intend to worship you the way you deserve.”
You let out a mewl as you feel his fingers teasing your wet core, never fully pushing inside, just stroking your sensitive folds. His mouth moves to one of your nipples, suckling at it, grinning as it pebbles beneath his tongue before moving onto the other. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging at it slightly as he pushes two long, thick fingers inside you, curving them in a come hither motion as he begins pumping them in and out of you. You let out a particularly loud moan of his name as he brushes against a spot deep inside of you that sends you reeling, moving your hand to cover your mouth with surprise.
Jaime’s free hand comes up to clasp that hand in his own, “Don’t hide yourself from me,” he pleads, his voice a soft murmur, “Let me hear you. Let me hear what I do to you, my goddess.”
Jaime brings you to your peak not once, but twice against his fingers, a pleasure like you’ve never known before overtaking you, making you feel as if every nerve ending in your body is on fire, white hot heat licking at your belly. You watch as he tugs at his cock, admiring it, drawing your lower lip in between your teeth as you marvel at the knight’s lithe, bare form.
He’s larger than Rhaegar and for a moment, you wonder if that means it will pain you as it did on your wedding night. But it doesn’t. When Jaime sheathes himself inside you, all you feel is pleasure, an overwhelming sense of fullness as he begins bucking his hips against yours, your legs moving to wrap around him as well as your arms. His emerald eyes gaze into yours, his breath leaving his mouth in small pants as he mumbles how beautiful you look, how you deserve to be treated like a queen.
You feel your peak approaching again, throwing your head back against the sand beneath you when Jaime moves to circle your pearl with his dexterous fingers, sending you careening over the edge, squeezing around him so tightly that it triggers his own release. The two of you lay like that for some time, wrapped up in each other’s arms.
“Do you love me, Jaime?” you whisper, resting a hand against his chest.
He nods earnestly, bringing your hand to his lips, kissing each one of your fingertips and murmuring, “I do, my sweet princess. More than I’ve ever loved another in all my life.”
As the two of you dress once again, you smile to yourself, thinking that perhaps now, life in the capital may be somewhat more bearable. Now that you have a man whom you truly love in your life.
Your protector, your lion.
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psychedelic-ink · 3 months
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ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒
ㅤㅤmodern!oberyn martell x f!reader
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genre: smut, minors dni, modern au
word count: 2k
summary: when you accidentally blurt out one of the fantasies that you kept locked up in your head, oberyn is more than eager to oblige to your request.
warnings: piv, anal sex, first time anal, rimming, fingering, lots of lube and praise
a/n: we did a secret santa for our server space sisters and my giftee was @iamasaddie! Happy holidays love! I hope you enjoy this little smutty fic, I definitely enjoyed writing it 🎄🎄🎄
can you guys believe i couldn't find one decent image of a peach being fingered???? a shame really
**stunning divider by the amazing @saradika <333
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Everything about Oberyn drives you crazy. 
The way he dresses, the way he smells, the melodic lilt of his voice—every part of him you adore and cherish. You’re undeniably lucky to have this man in your life and not only that but to have him as a partner is something you’re in awe of every single day. He satisfies you like no man ever could. He gives you every bit of himself. His tongue, his fingers. . . it’s almost as if the man was solely created to bring pleasure to you. 
But, despite all of that, you’re still not as open as you wish to be. You can never be as blunt with him as he is with you. He needs to drag your desires out of you. Tease you until you snap and practically shout at him to make you come. Oberyn doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’d said on multiple occasions how much he enjoyed it. 
“Look at you so wet around my cock,” he purrs, the back of his tongue hitting the roof of his mouth roughly on the word cock. Oberyn’s right. You are wet. Soaked even. Every time he rocks you forward you feel the wet fabric of the bedding scraping your outer knee. You moan loudly into the pillows, fluttering around him as he fucks, fucks, and fucks himself deeper into you. 
You’re not sure where you end and he begins. Sex with him is always like this. Mind numbingly beautiful. Satisfying. You feel the warmth of the Christmas lights framing your window kissing your sweaty skin. Your clit throbs. You don’t think you can hold on much longer. 
But just as you’re nearing the edge, Oberyn’s thumb traces the tight rim of your other hole. He slowly pushes in, only a bit, the stretch adds enough pressure for another moan to come tumbling out your lips, your upper body fully falling. Oberyn hums, his hips slowing into a sensual grind. “Does my sweet girl want me to fuck this hole next?” This is something that he teases you about more often than not. He’s never acted on it though. “So fucking tight.” 
He pushes his thumb till the first knuckle and it’s like electricity shooting down your spine. Your entire body jolts, the words leaving your throat before you even realize what you’re saying. 
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes yes yes—please fuck me there—” 
Oberyn stops. 
So does your heart. 
Fuck fuck fuck. That was meant to be a secret. 
“What did you just say?” 
“Nothing!” you answer quickly and high-pitched. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it.” 
Oberyn dips until his lean chest is firmly pressed against the curve of your spine. His lips touch your ear, his breath warm and inviting. The hand that was teasing your hole slips to the side to cup your ass. He kneads the muscle tenderly. 
“Are you sure?” he hums. “Why would you hide this from me?”  
“I. . . wasn’t. . .” 
“Ah, so you admit it is something that you want.” 
You let out an airy chuckle, “I hate when you do that.” 
“Do what?” 
“Just trick me into admitting things.” 
“I just asked a question,” he says innocently. It’s a bit hard to focus on his words when he’s cock deep inside of you. “Now, tell me why this is the first time I’m hearing about this.” 
Oberyn drags his lips down to the base of your neck and kisses you, your body melting into the sheets instantly. You’re glad he can’t see your face right now. You don’t think you can admit this while those observant eyes are looking down at you. 
“I’ve never tried it before. And. . . I was nervous to ask about it,” you take a sharp inhale. “I did want to tell you. I just—You’re already so much better at this than I am, I didn’t want to look even more inexperienced.” 
Before you know it Obeyn has you by the shoulders, twisting your body enough so that you’re facing him instead of keeping your head buried in the pillows. You chew on the inside of your cheek. He looks serious. Did you say something wrong? 
“Better at what?” he asks even though he knows the answer. 
“At sex.” 
“Sex is not a competition, and for what it’s worth you are good at it. And I love being your first when it comes to intimacy. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he starts moving again, the heavy drag of his cock between your legs making your eyes roll. “But, if you are still feeling anxious let me prove to you how much I love being your first—and last.” 
Your lips curl into a small smile, “Last?” 
His smile is sinister. Teeth showing as he dips to your neck, taking a slow, yet sharp, bite. A whimper rattles your throat. “Is it wrong for me to want to humor the idea that I’ll be fucking you somewhere no one has before and that no one else will ever touch you beside me?” Oberyn pulls out, your body immediately aching to be filled again. “Get on all fours.” 
You oblige eagerly. Your arms are shaking as you prop yourself up, the inside of your thighs slick. Oberyn reaches for the nightstand and pulls out the bottle of lube. When he disappears behind you again you expect the cool feel of jel, but instead, you receive his mouth—and tongue. 
“Oh fuck—” 
“Be still,” he growls, gripping your hips. “Let me feast.” 
He swirls his tongue around your asshole, hot saliva dripping right against it. You shudder as he pushes it through, teeth grazing the flesh gingerly. Oberyn parts your cheeks with both hands and pushes the wet muscle deeper. Pleasure rakes your body, your core throbbing with need. You’re close. Just a couple swipes of his tongue and you’re already there, ready to burst. 
He mouths against you and when he deems you wet enough, he slips a finger inside. Your body tenses around him, the sensation foreign but not unwanted. Oberyn’s one hand cups your sex, fingers starting to draw patterns around your throbbing clit while he thrusts the fingers in and out. Moan after moan rips from your throat. The stimulation against your clit loosens you further. He slips another finger. Both knuckle deep as he fucks you with them. 
“That’s it. You’re stunning like this. Beautiful.” 
You fist the sheets, hips sloppily grinding back to meet the fast movement of his fingers. “O–Oberyn please. . .” 
“Oh you think you’re ready?” he chuckles and for some reason, the sound urges a fresh gush of wetness to roll out of you. “Tell me how badly you want me to fuck this sweet ass and maybe. . .” he groans. “Maybe I’ll give you what you want.” 
Your breath catches in your throat, “Please fuck me with your big cock Oberyn—I need it—Need you—” 
He hums and something about the way he moves makes you think he’s not satisfied with your begging. And here you thought you’ve been doing a good job. He pulls away both hands and drags them up your back, cupping your shoulders. You’re in near tears when his cock spreads your folds and grazes against your clit. “You want me to fuck you here?” 
Oberyn’s a cruel, cruel man. 
“N—No,” you whimper, shaking your head. “Not. . . not there.” 
“Where then?” 
“My. . .” Damn it, your voice is trembling. “My ass.” 
You say it silently, barely above a whisper. He hisses through clenched teeth, pulls back his hips, and snaps forward, fucking your thighs instead of where you really need him. “Louder,” he commands. 
“Fuck me in the ass—” you practically shout. “Please please please fuck me in the ass—I want to feel you—Been wanting it for so long.” 
You sigh happily at the feeling of a generous amount of lube being poured down from the bottle and directly onto your hole. Oberyn pours some into his palm, jerking himself until he’s fully coated in lube. The bulbous head of his cock teases your hole, your back arches for him, urging him to go on. 
He fills you inch by glorious inch. The sounds he’s making behind you are downright sinful—your body reacts to his sweet moans, your name falling from his lips. You feel so full. Once again your upper body falls to the sheets, your poor arms too weak to support yourself any longer. Oberyn keeps your ass up in the air, still pushing his cock deeper. 
“So big,” you slur, your body feeling aflame. 
“Just a little more. You’re taking me so well, such a good girl.” 
Your body jerks as he buries himself a bit deeper, has he always been this thick? “Say that again. Tell me how good I am, please.” 
Oberyn blankets your shuddering body, holding himself still, he begins to whisper in your ear, “So good. You’re always my good girl, even when you do keep secrets from me. You’re the perfect glove for my cock. I am going to fuck you so good that your inside will be the shape of me.” 
Just as you get wetter and wetter at his words, Oberyn fills you to the brim. You choke around nothing, every nerve thrumming with pleasure. Your body squeezes him tight and when you finally loosen a bit, Oberyn groans. 
“Can I move?” 
“Please.” 
He squeezes your hips as he pulls out, the heavy press of his cock making you see stars. Then before you can gather yourself he’s pounding into you, stretching you to your limits. There’s a hum in your ears and vaguely you can hear him moaning your name. Your mouth floods with saliva, his teeth sinking into where your neck connects with your shoulder.  
Desperately you reach back and take a hold of his wrist. Your touch only spurs him on, hips deliciously moving in and out. The sound of skin slapping against skin becomes louder and louder. 
“Oh god,” you moan, your fingers tightening around his wrist. “I’m gonna come.”
“Can you come like this?” He asks genuinely. “With my cock in your ass?” 
You don’t think you can actually. Your close. So very close that you can taste your orgasm on your tongue, but you just need a bit more, just a little touch—
“Do not—“ Your hand stills, you weren’t even aware that you’d begun to move your arm to stroke your clit. “Tell me. Tell me why you want and I’ll give you fucking everything.”
“I—I need you to touch me.” 
Oberyn doesn’t make you say it twice. He’s stroking your clit with fast strokes, his hips in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Hear licks you from the inside out and the pressure between your legs builds, builds and builds until you can’t take it anymore. 
It happens all at once, your body shatters into a million pieces as you shudder around him, his cock splitting you open over and over. Between your moans you can hear him groaning your name, telling you how good you are, how perfect. 
You feel the rush of wetness running down your thighs and Oberyn’s fingers that were so deftly circling your clit moves to your hip, squeezing the flesh. 
“That’s my sweet girl, coming so pretty with my cock in her ass—I’m going to come, fill you until you’re dripping—“ 
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Your entire body clenches, hugging his cock tight. Oberyn comes with a shattered breath and shallow thrusts, he pushes forward, balls deep. Another orgasm washes over you, your body thrumming with pleasure.
“Fuck—“ he rasps, slowly easing himself out. A shiver crawls up your spine as come slips down between your cheeks and down your thighs. He kisses the skin between your shoulders. “You look so good like this. So full of come.” 
“Wish I could see,” you hum. 
“Next time I will bring a camera.” He collects himself on his fingers and slips them inside of you, a moan deserts your lips. ���Or perhaps I should fuck you again.” 
There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again. 
“Do not ever hide anything from me again. Promise me.” 
“I promise.” 
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dragons-and-handcuffs · 6 months
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After marrying Tywin, to Stark!Readers utter humiliation, she’s near constantly pregnant. Continuously pushing out blonde haired, green eyed babies that look nothing like Starks. Within a few months of giving birth to one child, Tywin already has her legs over his shoulders and breeding another one into her warm cunt. She’s not safe when she’s pregnant either, with Tywin still commanding she mount and ride his cock even while in her third trimester.
You are always pregnant. That's how Tywin likes you. You are ashamed that not one child resembles any of the stark traits and only look like a Lannister but it brings Tywin great pleasure.
You have soon realized that Tywin likes to fuck you even more while you are pregnant. He makes you get on your knees and serve him, his cock in your mouth while you are pregnant and naked or after you gave birth. He just casually pulls you sensitive nipples while talking to you, making you feel like you are there for only one purpose. He makes you ride him while pregnant, telling you how you have disgraced house stark and is now his property. He will lovingly caress your swollen belly and feel his son while roughly pulling your hair.
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sansaorgana · 1 year
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— HAVING CHILDREN WITH PRINCE AEMOND TARGARYEN (HEADCANONS)
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PAIRING — Prince Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader
AUTHOR’S NOTE — I was discussing with my friend what kind of father Aemond would be and then I thought “hey, actually, I have to write headcanons like that”, so here we are. Recently I can’t stop writing for this man, I swear to Gods. 🙈🙉
WORD COUNT — 1,890
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
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• Aemond was still very young, so he was a bit scared at first. He knew that marrying you for political reasons had been his duty and that having children with you was a part of that. In fact, he didn’t intend to complain about having to fulfill his duties because he was willing to serve his family and his country this way – just like his mother always had. To be honest, he was kind of excited about the idea of having children. It was just that fear that he might be too young and too unprepared that was sometimes taking the joy out of him.
• He didn’t want to be like his father in any way and he had always been treating you with nothing but respect and gentleness that seemed to be so unlike him. However, the moment he found out you would be his betrothed, he became very protective and soft around you and you were grateful for that.
• When you got pregnant, he smiled at you and nodded his head before putting one of his hands on your abdomen. “That is good news, my lady,” he only said but that was enough for you. To be honest, you were prepared for a man not even half as good as Prince Aemond was to you.
• Most of your pregnancy you spent with Queen Alicent and Princess Helaena but Aemond was often checking on you to make sure you were alright and if you needed anything, he would be the first one to get it for you.
• One time his heart froze in his chest when he saw you hurrying to him while he was at the training grounds. He was sure that something bad had to happen and he watched with terror as you were approaching him. Only while you were finally standing face-to-face, he noticed a big grin on your face. “Feel it, my Prince,” you put his hand on your bump. “The baby’s kicking,” you announced and he sighed with relief before giving you a smile so wide and sincere like you had never seen him smiling before. And in that moment you knew that he would be the best father for your child that you could wish for.
• The thing you feared the most was giving birth. You were young as well and you didn’t want to die yet. At the end of your pregnancy, you were spending most of the time in bed and Aemond was visiting you twice a day. Most of the time you were sitting there in silence since he had never been a man of many words. But sometimes you would vent to him about your fears and anxieties. “Maybe it is greedy of me, I know that my duty is to give you a child. A son. And nothing else matters, not really. Because even my duty to teach him can be easily taken over by the maesters and septas. However, I wish I was granted some time with my child. I wish I was granted to hold him, kiss him, show him the world, hold his hand, hear him laugh. If I die giving birth, I will never experience that,” you confessed the other day and Aemond froze for a second. “That is not greedy, my Lady,” he assured you as he squeezed your hand. “And I want to assure you that I will do whatever it takes for you to come out of it alive.”
• Thankfully, the labor went quite smoothly with only a few minor complications that were easily dealt with. And you were soon holding your newborn baby in your arms. A daughter.
• Her hair was very light on her tiny head and it was silver. You pressed her closer to your chest and took a deep breath in. You were proud of yourself and you loved your baby girl but you were also quite anxious about Aemond’s reaction. You knew that most men wanted boys.
• Aemond was already blaming himself that he hadn’t been brave enough to be with you during childbirth. That he had left you alone just like his father had always been leaving his mother, just like Aegon had left Helaena. So when he opened the door to your chambers and saw you on the bed, all sweaty and exhausted, with a little baby in your arms, he froze at first to stare at you in awe. And then he hurried to your side.
• “It’s a girl, Aemond,” you handed her to him when he sat on the edge of the bed. He looked like he was too scared to touch her but he held the child anyway and rocked her carefully in his arms. “She’s got your hair,” you pointed out.
• “The Targaryen blood is strong,” Aemond smiled very subtly.
• “Don’t you wish she was a boy?” you swallowed thickly while asking the question.
• “No,” was all he said, staring at the baby girl with the most loving expression you had ever witnessed on his face. You held his hand and smiled to yourself. You didn’t need him to say anything more.
• “How do you want to name her?” you asked because you knew that he would want to give her some Valyrian name and you weren’t familiar with them. However, you wanted to propose something yourself to show him how much of a Targaryen you now were as well. “How about Visenya? To honor Vhagar’s most famous dragonrider?”
• “No,” Aemond shook his head, his eye still focused on the baby girl. “Visenya was a warrior. I don’t want to name my daughter after her. Let’s name her something new. Daenerys?” he proposed and you looked at the girl with a smile.
• “Sounds perfect,” you caressed his hand.
• At first, Aemond mostly watched you and the baby. He watched you laying in bed with her for the first few weeks. He watched Daenerys sleeping on your chest peacefully. He watched you feeding her and he admired the fact that you decided to do it yourself instead of hiring someone like most ladies did. You were coming from a mother who had always kept her children close and you wanted to be like her. You wanted to spend all the time with your daughter and to build a strong relationship between you two. While her father watched and only occasionally carried her around the chamber while staring at her in awe.
• When Daenerys was becoming bigger, it was hard to only watch when she was extending her hands towards him or crawling on the carpet to tug on his clothes. Aemond would sit his daughter on his lap and watch her with fascination as she was giggling at him and catching the strands of his silver hair in her little fist. After a few moments like that she would often fall asleep on his lap with her cheek pressed to his chest and he was placing a hand on her back to keep her secure. It became his favorite activity in the evening to sit in front of the fireplace with his little girl napping on him like that.
• Aemond didn’t know much about showing affection so when Daenerys started to give him hugs and kisses on the cheek, he was quite petrified at first. After watching you for some time and seeing you interacting with the girl, he began to copy you – he started to tickle his daughter a little and kiss her forehead like you would always do.
• He also began to teach her how to talk – especially High Valyrian – and he was telling her stories about history and geography while showing her the maps. Daenerys was fascinated by those classes and she was treating them like fairy tales that were feeding her imagination.
• When you became pregnant again, Aemond wasn’t scared that much this time and he already knew what you would need and when. He was also more often spending time with you than when you had been pregnant with Daenerys. However, your fear of the labor came back and you could see that he was stressed, too. After all, he would become a single dad if anything happened to you.
• The second birth didn’t go as smoothly but in the end everyone was healthy and that mattered the most. You gave birth to a boy and his father named him Aerys. To everyone’s surprise, the boy inherited your hair color.
• Aemond didn’t even mention that at first, too happy and proud of his son. When you asked him about it, he only told you that “it is a blessing when boys are as beautiful as their mothers.”
• This time around he knew much better how to take care of a newborn baby and then a toddler. He was trying to help you more with the baby and Daenerys was following him around like a puppy since you had been spending most days in bed for some time after birth. It was quite a funny sight – Aemond was as stoic and observing as always, brooding even, meanwhile she was a ray of sunshine skipping alongside him and talking to him about girly nonsense. He would rarely engage in those conversations but he was smiling from time to time at her.
• And that would be the essence of Aemond as a father. He isn’t absent – in fact, his children are clinging to him and he is surrounded by them almost everywhere. He also often teaches them himself instead of maesters or septas. He trains Aerys with a sword and reads history books to Daenerys who sits next to him and tries to embroider. At the same time, he isn’t as affectionate as some parents because he simply doesn’t know how to be. He holds his children’s hands and when they need a hug, he is the first one to give it to them but he is not the one for piggyback rides, silly jokes or ruffling hair. Aemond isn’t very talkative either and most of the time he only listens and observes but your children don’t mind that at all. After all, this is all they have been knowing with him anyway. They adore their dad just the way he is and look up to him in many ways.
• Just like his quiet and a bit odd nature is nothing unusual for your children, the same you could say about his scar. Aerys and Daenerys are used to seeing their father without an eye patch and they weren’t even asking many questions about it once they finally realized it was not normal for most men to lack an eye. Aemond is grateful for having his little family he can be comfortable with, so he doesn’t have to wear the eye patch all the time and no one around is looking at him the wrong way.
• He doesn’t talk often about his emotions but his children are the blessing he had never been expecting to happen to him. Without him having to say anything, you can see that Aemond’s relationship with your children is a healing process for him as they are helping him to accept his painful past and move forward.
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ransprang · 4 months
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Jaime Lannister x Fem!Reader Hcs
Fueling my Nikolaj and GOT brainrot~ enjoy
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NSFW and SFW -
1. Man protects you like a dawg. He will not have anyone touch you or get too close without drawing his sword the second they take a step closer (Not even your parents).
2. Jaime loves having sex the second you both are alone, he just can’t help it. A quickie in the meeting room, in his chamber, after shower. He loves it when he stands tall and you’re on your knees sucking him off as a to thank him for protecting you.
3. Jaime loves carrying you over his shoulder. He’s strong, and you’re his. In the palace he will subtly tease you by carrying you over his shoulder to your room.
4. Jaime loves restraining you, he will tackle you down, pinning your hands above your head. He likes to be in charge, and fuck you to relieve his stress from the long day of managing Cersei.
5. Jaime would like to have children with you, and possibly favour them over Joffrey. As they are his to claim to the public, and he can love them freely also protect and raise them.
6. Jaime likes being just a boy around you. No pressures to fight or decisions. He likes teasing, making jokes and possibly be obsessed with building blocks which makes you look at him sometimes think, how at the core hes just. a. guy.
7. When you watch him fight or be an exceptional swordsman you want him to fight you similarly but in the bedroom, without his clothes on and definitely with a different sword of his. You could testify Jaime was skilled with his other not so miniature sword as well.
8. Cersei would love bullying you, in order to push you away from her beloved brother. Jaime wouldnt never rage at her, but would protect you from all her evil schemes and will never let anyone or anything harm you. They will have to face him before you.
9. Jaime takes off his metal hand and stares at where his wrist used to be sometimes, but he will only show such level of sadness and vulnerability in front of you.
10. Jaime loves pounding you with your legs over his shoulders, he loves to watch your breasts bounce bringing him closer to the edge faster.
Your twin,
Admin Sav
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axelsagewrites · 7 months
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Main Masterlist Here
House of the Dragon Masterlist Here
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Warnings/Guides
【P】Platonic【P】 🆇Smut 18+🆇
Request Line Up and Request Rules
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♡ Jon Snow ♡
🆇What he's like in bed🆇
Blind date
🆇Milady🆇
🆇Home Alone🆇
🆇Price of My Secrecy 🆇
Relationship Moodboard
🆇Couldn't Resist🆇
♡ Robb Stark ♡
Best Friend
Marriage night
🆇Dream🆇 🆇part two🆇
Frey Girl 🆇part two🆇
🆇I miss you🆇
Cloak
Honey Cakes (cloak part two or standalone)
Comfort
Sweet Girl
🆇NSFW Alphabet🆇
🆇Good girl🆇
Yearbook
Don't Die For Me
🆇Little Secret🆇
🆇Can't Catch a Break🆇
Goodnight Dear Husband
♡ Sandor Clegane ♡
Most People Say Goodbye Part One - Part Two
🆇Brat🆇
♡ Beric Dondarrian ♡
Home
♡ Thoros of Myr ♡
Favourite Friend
♡ Brienne of Tarth ♡
【P】Queen in the North and South【P】
♡Ned Stark♡
🆇MiLord🆇
🆇Wife🆇
♡Ramsay Bolton♡
🆇My Father Would Kill Me🆇
🆇Catch You🆇
🆇How Far Would You Go🆇
🆇Appreciate You🆇
🆇Bath🆇
🆇Little Mouse🆇
♡Roose Bolton♡
Perhaps
Not Yet
♡Edmure Tully♡
【P】Who We Call Family【P】
My Queen My Love
♡Theon Greyjoy♡
Dream of Sweet Memories
🆇Give it back🆇
♡Sansa Stark♡
Roommates
🆇NSFW Alphabet🆇
🆇What's This?🆇
Surprise Visit
♡Podrick Payne♡
🆇Praise🆇
♡Daenereys Targaryen♡
🆇My Queen🆇
♡Jamie Lannister♡
🆇Extra Credit🆇
♡Oberyn Martell♡
🆇Duty🆇
♡Margaery Tyrell♡
🆇Ropes🆇
♡Cersei♡
🆇Morning🆇
♡Tormund♡
🆇Real Man🆇
🆇Use your words🆇
♡ Yara Greyjoy ♡
Flirting
Preferences/Multicharacter
🆇Company🆇 - Yara and Ellaria threesome
🆇What they're like in bed🆇 – Robb, Jon, Sandor, Podrick
How they react to teasing – all
🆇What They're Like in Bed🆇 – Margaery, Sansa, Danny, Yara
Share pt1 🆇Competition pt2🆇 🆇Wait p3🆇 - Robb and Jon
🆇Hook ups🆇 - Theon and Jon
Love Languages - Jon, Robb, Bran, Tormund, Podrick, Oberyn
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Thanks for any support I appreciate it all xoxo Sage
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Dividers from here and here from @saradika
Post topper made on Canva
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aemondsbabe · 2 months
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A Kindness
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summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?
pairing: ramsay bolton x reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 6.2k
a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
🖤 my masterlist
🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!
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“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?” 
Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.” 
A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.
 Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home. 
Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well. 
Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it. 
Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement. 
Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.
The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was. 
Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk. 
It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it. 
“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.
You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face. 
He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you. 
“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”
Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings. 
His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.
“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly. 
“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does. 
“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.
“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin. 
“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks. 
Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.
Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.
“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor. 
“A… A great victory, master!” 
“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”
Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare. 
“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”
The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?” 
He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you. 
His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”
Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”
“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.
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Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall. 
“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.
Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded. 
“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”
Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.
“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.
“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –” 
Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately. 
I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always! 
“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”
Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything. 
“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts. 
“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.” 
He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow. 
You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours. 
Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad. 
Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. 
Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer. 
Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet. 
A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone. 
A kindness, even now. 
Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly. 
“Thank y – Ah!”
“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.” 
The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head. 
“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers. 
A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”
The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!
You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center. 
“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”
Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot. 
He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter. 
A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace. 
All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow. 
“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.
“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.
“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.” 
He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.” 
You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them. 
Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way. 
Not that he’d tell you that.
He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill. 
“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”
“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again. 
“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?” 
Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip. 
“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”
“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his. 
“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”
You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same. 
Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you. 
“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”
“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”
“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”
Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.
Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers. 
Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself. 
“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 
“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.
He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. 
You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm. 
“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.
You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no…” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold. 
He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine. 
“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”
“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.
“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”
His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. 
“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.
He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives. 
“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”
He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason. 
Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his. 
He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.
His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. 
“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.
Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.
“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend. 
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The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine. 
Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her. 
“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion. 
After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore. 
“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now. 
He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again. 
“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you. 
“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say. 
Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly. 
Kind, even still.
A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close. 
He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew. 
A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips. 
“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”
“Thank you.” 
The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you. 
Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else. 
His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet. 
He loves you, in his way.
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tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @iamawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstaarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino @targaryenbarbie @fan-goddess
(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)
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aemond loves to watch you. aemond watches you dress, undress, bathe, masturbate, and even do mundane chores. Do you know about this? He hopes not...
(18+) minors dni, you will be blocked.
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warnings: smut, rough sex, squirting, fingering, aemond whimpering a lil, the reader is helaenas twin sister, perv!aemond, the reader a seductress lowkey. biting, public teasing, snarling YES he snarls. heavy breeding kink.
first time I've written on Tumblr in like 4 years, enjoy babes x (this sucks but the fandom is dying)
Aemond was a man of honor, duty, and sacrifice. He never strayed far from his morals.
But when he found the passages that led throughout the red keeps walls, he couldn't resist.
He had shuffled throughout the walls, begging to hear something, anything valuable. He had no clue as to what room he had stopped at to take a breath. But he found out shortly after his queries when he heard soft whimpers, his imagination trailed far, but he reigned it in, conforming to his expectations.
He pushed off the wall, his dragon-riding boots making null noise as he steadily walked towards the sound. The whimpers transformed into moans as he urged himself closer, there he spotted you, from a hole big enough for his remaining eye to see you; rolling your hips into your dainty fingers. Aemond almost felt bad, how unsatisfactory your small fingers must be for you.
It wasn't until your head fell back that Aemond grew.. hard.
Your eyes rolled back as you rode your fingers to completion, crying out as you squirted everywhere. Aemond couldn't believe what he was seeing, Who knew Helaena's twin was everything she wasn't.
And so, his obsession began. His visits had no pattern, but every time he'd visit; you would be ready and halfway to orgasming, or you'd be getting dressed/undressed, or bathing. It wasn't until a whole two moons after his first visit that he realized the synchrony of it all, as if you knew he was there...
His worries were pushed away as you opened your milky thighs, glancing in his direction. He blinked, then blinked again. You couldn't know he was there, Right?
Then as if you answered him, you pushed yourself onto your knees sliding two of your fingers into your wet cunt. Aemond's breathing hitched as his hands fell to his belt buckle, as his hands undid the belt, your hands moved faster; your whimpers of ecstasy turned into full moans.
It wasn't until he was pumping his cock he realized that you were moaning his name like a whore. He let out a quiet whimper as your fingers moved faster, his hand wrapped around his cock as he gently stroked. A pang of fear struck him as he looked back up, your eyes on his as your fingers moved in and upwards; searching for that spot.
Aemond wasn't exactly quiet with his advances on you, and after the first time he had seen you bare, you searched the walls; tapping like a madman until you found a small crack shaped almost perfectly for him to peek through. So you let him. And as your eyes met you bent your neck to the side with a final call of his name, "Aemond!" You wantonly moaned, your thighs shook as they clenched around your wrist.
Aemond couldn't last after that display, his hand tightened at the base of his cock. His cum, literally, painting the walls.
His heavy breathing rendered him unable to look up, for if he had he would have seen you staring directly at him. Your eyes were half-lidded as your chest moved hastily.
Dinner that evening was.. awkward to say the least. "So, sister... Mother told me she's planning your betrothal.." Aegon teased, Helaena sat beside him; head down fiddling with her fingers. You sat on the other side of Hel, and Aemond sat beside you, at the head of the table.
Your doe-eyes flittered between your mother, Alicent, and your eldest brother. "Oh?" Alicent looked peeved at Aegon's incessant teasing. "How do you feel about marrying-" Aegon was cut off by your mother's sharp tone. "Aegon! That is enough out of you... May we have a prayer, dear husband?" Viserys nodded, exasperated. Alicent nodded, placing her enveloped hands against her face.
the murmurs of your mother blessing your food didn't distract you and Aemond from glancing at each other, you picked up your goblet of wine; holding eyecontact.
Your ring finger danced along the ring of the cup, Aemond shuddered as he glanced in his mothers direction; only to see her scolding Aegon.
It wasn't until he felt your hand slide up his thigh, towards his inner thigh that he turned back to you. Your face bore no smirk, no grin, yet he knew you where up to something. He picked up his fork and played around with his potatos.
His breath hitched as he felt you grip the base of his cock, something Alicent noticed. "Aemond, Are you okay?" You turned to your mother, "I think he's unwell, mother, ill lead him to bed as it seems he's having struggles seeing.." Alicent looked scared for a moment, before nodding. "Of course, dear. I'll see you on the morrow." Alicent dismissed you.
You got up and walked to your fathers side, placing a kiss against his cheek. "Goodnight, father." You turned and pretended to help a sickly Aemond.
It was when you got halfway you your chambers Aemond pinned you against the wall, his rough palm placed softly on you throat. "What was this act set for, sister?" His gruff voice spoke out, his one violet eye glimmered in the moons light.
Your breathe quickened and your chest rose, causing your Aemond's attention to travel. "I promised myself we wouldnt end up like Helaena and Aegon." You whispered.
Aemond didnt know where this side of you had come from, Long had left the virtuous maiden that begged for flowers and jewels, now came the sultry nympho. Your fingers trailed his scar as his hand let god of your throat, his finger trailed you collarbone, the crevice of your breasts, up to the side of you neck. His faint touch made you shiver as you cupped his cheek, Aemond smashed his lips against you.
It was as if time had stopped, and you two were somewhere else. You moaned into the kiss, Aemond groaned at the noise, he pulled back; pecking you lips, your cheek the all the way down to your neck, where he had previously explored with his finger. His canine tooth teased the area between your neck and collar bone, then he bit down.
Not hard enough for it to draw blood, but enough to give you pleasurable pain. You moaned into the silent hallway, too loud. Aemond ripped his head back, shushing you.
"Come, my room is this way." Obviously Aemond knew where your room was, but as you gripped his hand all that mattered was you and him, his eyes trailed your hips as they swayed beneath the heavy dress
You shut your chamber door behind him, immediately reaching for the dagger on dresser. You put it behind your back and cut your corsets laces, your dress fell at your feet. Aemond untied his pant laces, as your nimble hands undid his tunic. Your shared heavy breathing and flushed faces made your stomach do twirls, could this really be it?
Aemonds soft palm landed on your cheek as he brushed your silver locks away, pushing his lips to yours as you moaned in surprise. You gently took a steps to the bed, disconnecting from the kiss; leaving a line of saliva connecting you two. The backs of your knees hit the beds boards, making Aemond grunt as your fell onto your back, looking up at him.
Aemond gripped one of your clenched thighs, pulling it apart as he leant in. "Are you sure?" He asked his voice thick of lust, you moaned as his hand travelled further up your thigh. "Yes," You whispered, leaning up to his ear. "Take me"
Aemond snarled, his fingers plunging in your heat, his thumb rubbing your clit; It took you by surprise, though your back arched and your thighs shook as it took you only a few curls of his gloriously long fingers to cum; His name fell off your tongue.
He smirked as he positioned himself, aligning himself before gently thrusting his hips slowly. You had seen his cock multiple times, but to feel it was a complete different heaven. "Aemond! Oh my gods-" Your arms swung around his neck as he sped up, his cockhead directly hitting your g-spot. His silver hair almost hid his face, if it weren't for a little wooden clip Helaena had placed earlier.
He growled as he hid into your neck, nipping every few thrusts. "I'm gonna cum, sister." Your heavy breathing was music to his ears, just another sign you were close to cumming. "Cum- cum inside me, Aemond," Your eyes grew teary as you clenched your thighs around his waist, "You want me to breed you, to fill you entirely, to make you mine forever?" Aemond asked rhetorically, but you still near-screamed your answer. "Yes!" You yelled, jerking as you squirted, hitting his pubic bone and abdomen. That seemed to be the final thing to blow Aemonds fuse, "Im gonna come deep inside you, fill your womb with my seed." He hissed as your back arched, scratching his back.
When Alicent found you two together in the morning, she was accompanied by none other than Aegon himself. She sighed in utter disappointment; before leaving the room as Aegon howled in a fit of laughter...
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lis-likes-fics · 2 months
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In the Night Air
Pairings: Oberyn Martell x Reader Word Count: 2.9k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, swearing, outdoor sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie... A/N: Finished this last night. This was originally supposed to be part of my Kinktober event, but I never got to it. So now I'm giving it to you now and I'm excited for you to read it because I've needed this man biblically for like...two years. Thank you!
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The night sky twinkles with a billion, billion stars. It's warm and still. The air is sweet with fruit and salty with the sand and sea.
Below you, the land is peaceful. Dorne is both silent with slumber and filled with the sounds of distant music in the air. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath as a gentle breeze brushes against your skin, blowing your nightgown in its journey.
A pair of hands find their rightful place on your waist. A smile tugs on your lips as they begin to wrap around you until you're surrounded by a set of strong arms holding you tight against a body just as strong. A smiling face nuzzles into the crook of your neck, the nose digging into the flesh and inhaling your scent, followed by a deep sigh. You smell sweet, like Dornish fruits and Dornish wine, like the soft petals of Dornish flowers which bloom in the Dornish sun. You smell like home.
“Does something trouble you, my love?” a sweet voice asks as Oberyn places a kiss underneath your throat and holds you tighter.
You breathe in, shaking your head and moving one hand from the railing of the balcony to cover his large one. “Nothing at all, husband,” you whisper softly, leaning your head closer to him and closing your eyes to enjoy his embrace.
He hums deep in his chest, “Then why do you stare out at the world like it has hurt you?” He kisses the junction of your neck and your shoulder.
“The world doesn't hurt me. Our part of it is at peace,” you say, beginning a gentle rock back and forth to relish in the night air with your deepest love. “The only reason I frown is when my husband is not at my side.”
A large grin spreads over his lips, and he kisses your flesh once more. “Well,” he mumbles, “guess who is now here?”
You smile, “Mm, I wonder.”
A chuckle arises from the both of you, and you turn in his arms to lay your eyes upon the face of your lover. You hold his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks before pulling him in to kiss.
You sigh against his lips, like water to a parched mouth. His hands massage your body, moving along your side, along your back, your front. He leans forward against you, encouraging you against the railing as he aches to deepen your embrace.
His hands reach down to hold the flesh of your ass, gripping it and pulling a moan from your lips. Breaking the kiss, he immediately presses his lips against the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, down the expanse of your throat. It's as though he'd die if he ever had to stop kissing you for more than half of a moment.
Your arms wrap around his neck, keeping him close and relishing the touch of him. His hand nudges the strap of your dress off your shoulder, letting it fall to give him more skin to kiss. And once the other has fallen, his mouth presses slackly against the exposed skin of your chest.
He hikes your legs up his side, wrapping it around him as he grinds his quickly hardening erection against you.
Between loving sighs, you speak gently. “You realize we are still out in the open?” you question, adoring the feeling of his hard length rubbing against your eager core. “Where everyone can see?”
He smiles, his teeth nipping the skin of your neck. “Let them see,” he says, wrapping his fingers around your dress and pulling it down the length of your body so you stand perfectly bare before him. You chuckle to yourself as the night air kisses your flesh, watching him kneel before you and encourage your leg over his shoulder. “Let them all know who my true paramour is.”
You smile helplessly, pulling him in just a tad bit closer with the heel of your foot against his back. “As you wish, my prince.”
Oberyn’s lips press against your folds, a gentle kiss pressing against your clit. He sticks his tongue out flat and you moan as he drags it up the seam of your pussy, a long hum falling from his lips at the taste of you. Your hips move against him, so eager to feel his tongue licking inside, drunk on the taste of you.
Your lips part as a gentle moan drops from them. He grips your thigh, rubbing his palm up and down the length of it as he suckles gently around your pussy and beckons you toward a sweet release. His nose brushes your clit, filling your need and building it up higher and higher.
“My love,” you sigh, your hips moving against him. He only beckons you closer.
He hums against you as you continue to leak on his tongue. Tilting his head, his lips suck around your clit and aim to lick deeper.
You hold onto the railing tight with one hand, the other tangles in his hair. You shudder as his beard scratches against your skin, smiling at the ripples of pleasure devouring you.
His mouth wraps around your clit as two thick fingers prod at the folds of your pussy. With a steady thrust, he plants them inside of you. Your head leans back, a warm breeze blowing against your skin, soft against the pillow flesh damp with sweat and arousal.
Oberyn looks up at you as you hum softly, his fingers curling deep inside your warmth. “How beautiful you are in the night, my paramour.”
Your teeth graze against your bottom lip, and you look down to see him again. A smile sneaks across your face as you nearly challenge him, “And in the day?”
He takes your challenge with grace, planting a kiss against your clit and smiling deeply. “As radiant as the Dornish sun.”
You would kiss him, but his mouth is otherwise preoccupied, and you wouldn't dare interrupt him while he's eating.
His lips suckle around your clit, and a tinkling warmth begins to sprout from where his mouth touches you. The pleasure seeps into your thighs, spreads within your stomach as you begin to shudder.
Your hips seek him out, your breath is thin in your lungs as you feel the pleasure sparking with the quickening of his tongue. “Oberyn,” you whisper. “Gods, I'm close.”
Deeper, his finger push. The suction of his lips encourages the tightening coil in your belly. He grips the meat of your thigh in his large palm and beckons your release with his lips.
You grip the railing and the dark locks of his hair as the pleasure comes crashing down. His tongue laps against the pulsing of your folds, licking the arousal seeping out of you as you moan, the sensation rumbling from deep in your throat. Praises fall from your lips like the honey from a sap tree.
He kisses the inside of your thighs generously, letting his hands smooth along your legs as your moans die down to a hum. And when your shudders as far and few, he makes his patient way back up to your lips, pulling you into a devouring kiss that turns your heavy breath to quick gasps between lips.
You quickly become drunk on the taste of yourself on his tongue. Letting him bend you back over the railing, you have little to no fear of falling over it. He's got you tight, and he isn't letting you go.
His lips break from yours only to graze the lobe of your ear as he mutters in his deep, smooth voice. “Shall we take this to the bed so that I may fuck you properly, my love?”
Your fingers twirl in the hairs at the back of his neck. “Why do that when you can fuck me properly right here where the gods can witness and the whole of Dorne can know who is yours and who is mine?”
His smile only grows with the words you whisper back to him, a kiss taking his mouth once more and letting it go soon after. “I love you, wife.” His voice is nearly a grumble when he says this.
“Yes?” you smile. “Prove it to me.”
He chuckles darkly, his lips grazing yours as he speaks. “As you wish, my princess.”
He slides his burnt orange robes down his arms, the only thing keeping his body covered until it is a pool of cloth on the floor next to your discarded gown.
In the next moment, he turns you around and bends you over the side of the balcony. You grip it tight as his hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh like a greedy, greedy man. You stifle your moan when his palm collides with the meat of your ass, a sharp smack filling the air and pulling a smile from your kiss-swollen lips.
Oberyn’s hand slides down the length of your thigh, stopping just at the back of your knee as he pulls your leg up to rest on the edge. Again, his finger prods the seam of your cunt, and you hum when he pushes them inside of you. He massages them in and out, curling and stroking his fingers. You're nice and slicked up for him, he'd slide right in.
He removes his fingers, gripping your waist tight in his hold before he's guiding himself at the entrance of your warmth. You feel the smooth, hot head of his cock at your pussy and the anticipation trembles in your thighs. When he pushes inside, you exhale the whole way through as he slowly fills you, bit by bit, to the absolute brim of you.
Seated fully inside, you let out the last of your breath on a whimpering sigh. Your hands are so tight around the balcony’s edge that the skin is stretched taut over your knuckles. Oberyn lets out his own long sigh, pressing his chest against your back and kissing your shoulder with lips and teeth.
“You feel remarkable around my cock,” he breathed, his voice rough with his lust for you. You moan your reply. He begins to pull out, moving at a torturously slow pace before thrusting back in with a shuddered grunt. The delicious stretch of his cock always has you weak at the touch of him.
Your head hangs low as you look among the land you love so dear as the man you love slowly fucks you from behind, his hands holding you close, his lips at your back. His slow, steady pace picks up as you clench around him.
You can feel his grasp wavering, tightening and loosening in an attempt not to hold you too tight and risk hurting you. He thrusts into you a little rougher, wrapping his arm a little further around you to keep you secure as his hips snap into you a little quicker. You let your lips part, your thin breaths coming a little easier as the smallest whimpers escape your mouth.
You reach a hand back, tangling your fingers in his hair and gripping lightly. “Fuck, just like that.”
Encouraged by you, he begins to quicken his pace a bit more. He knows how you like it. Right now, he's teasing. But as his desperation for, not only the friction of your precious pussy, but for the sounds of your wanton pleasure becomes irresistible, he's holding you tight as he begins to properly fuck you, as he'd said before.
He doesn't quite go hard and rough. Oberyn is far more nuanced than that. His thrusts are deep, long strokes that fill and unfill you as to make you moan like a divine melody in the wind. Though his hips are rather quick, he doesn't waste energy in rutting into you like a wild beast. He wants to take his time with you.
His hands caresses the curve of your thigh and the crook of your neck. As he thrusts inside of you, deep, quick strokes that have you clenching around him, have your clit begging to be touched, the pleasure seeps into your mind and makes you dizzy.
“Oberyn,” you whimper. “Gods, that's good.”
He mutters under his breath about how nice and tight you are, about how he could stay here forever, wrapped up in the hot, wet feeling of your cunt. The pleasure builds in your belly like a fire burning in a pit. It spreads through your thighs, your chest, down to the tips of your toes and the tips of your fingers and whispering sweet nothings to the beating heart in your chest.
The breathlessness really begins to catch up with you as you're left moaning, begging for more of him as he continues to thrust. “Please don't stop. You feel so good inside of me, so perfect.”
He's lost in his joined pleasure with you, the heat rising within him as well as he resolves to finally paying your clit the attention it deserves. The pad of his finger presses against your clit, and you're breathless at the feeling of his steady circling. He massages the little bundle, making you moan a little faster and clench a little tighter. The change in desperation encourages his own, his thrusts becoming a little faster and a little shorter.
You curse again, your heavy breaths mingling in the warm air of the seemingly eternal summer of Dorne. Sweat sticks to your skin, makes flesh stick to flesh as it meets in each desperate thrust. You moan his name again, as your own join the gentle grunting and groaning of his own pleasure.
His nuance is waning and his desire is growing under the full moon of the late night. “You see what you do to me, my darling?” he questions, his arms pulling tighter around you. He kisses the crook of your neck again, addicted to the taste of your skin on his tongue. “I am a helpless man in your arms.”
His words have you smiling through the haze of your ecstasy, because he isn't even in your arms and he's still helpless for you. You love him. He is the love of your life, the owner of your heart, your paramour.
You'll be done for any moment. You can feel the rising of your impending release in your belly, nipping at your nerves like a crackling fire. “I'm going to cum,” you hum. “Oberyn, I'm so close.”
He presses his chest against your back and holds you there so that you may never part as he fucks into you—short, quick thrusts filling you up and pressing against that deep spot within you that spasms with every push, causing a shudder to travel the expanse of your being. His breath is shallow, fast in your ear as it mixes with the sounds of your own, accompanied more than occasionally by his deep groans.
“Cum for me, precious girl,” he huffs.
And, as though your body is conditioned to his commands, you did. A gasp pulls at your lungs as the blinding pleasure of your release, mixed with the continuous—and ever-quickening—pumps of his cock, has your thighs trembling and threatening to fail in supporting your weight.
And you're sure you've made certain that the whole of Dorne knows the name of your lover as your moans and your gasps fill the night air. “Oberyn! Fuck, yes!”
And as your praise falls from your lips, Oberyn’s thrusts fall completely out of rhythm as he joins you in your ecstasy. Thrusting his cock inside of you, pressing in as far as he'll go, he shudders as he cums. The warmth of him fills your womb as the girth of him keeps it in. Your name tumbles off the tip of his tongue, worshiping you as a goddess and a queen.
The warm breeze is like an icy chill on your burning skin as the pleasure settles in your veins for as long as you can keep it. Oberyn rests his face in the crook of your neck, kissing your damp skin and rocking gently against you. Taking your leg in his hand, he eases it back down and wraps both his arms tightly around your body to hold against him.
His breath slows as he listens to your own do the same. You lean back against him, seeking more of his warmth. And for a while, you both stay like that until he's turning you around in his arms and pulling you in, chest to chest.
His large hands take your face in his palms, pulling you into a slow, loving embrace. His kiss fills your breast with air and cools your burning skin. He strokes your sides, dipping down low to the bend of your knees and picking you up with nothing but his own strength.
You hold onto him, smiling as you bring your hands to his face and stare into his brown eyes. And when you fall, your body bounces off the bed, and he follows after.
Oberyn’s body presses flat against yours, and you welcome the weight. He kisses you, surrounded in blankets and pillows, and traces the line of your jaw with his fingers. “I love you, my dear paramour,” he whispers against your lips. And you smile, a smile as bright as the Dornish sun he so loves.
“And I love you,” you kiss him. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him. “And that's why I'm not quite sure Dorne heard it clearly enough.”
He grins, a large thing carved into his face as he chuckles deeply. “I believe you are right.”
You take his bottom lip between your teeth, letting it go with a gentle smack against his bottom whites and meeting his lips again with your own. Oh, you would never know the end of his love for you.
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ichorai · 2 years
Text
nobody ; jon snow.
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track five of WASTELAND, BABY!
pairing ; jon snow x martell!gn!reader
synopsis ; a child of sand and a child of snow—destined never to last, but somehow, you made it work.
words ; 9.0k
themes ; angst, action, fluff, healer au
warnings / includes ; heavy violence/gore/injury, wars/fighting, trauma, ramsay bolton, implications of sex, multiple mentions of death, reader is a bastard to oberyn martell, reader loathes the cold, a couple game of thrones spoilers, mentions of other characters in the show, and finally, fuck season eight !!
main masterlist.
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You were fifteen when you first met Jon Snow.
The air was saturated with the ambrosial scents of spiced mulled wine and the rumbling thunder of tipsy cackling. Alcohol dripped from full golden chalices, heaping baskets of steaming bread rolls were passed around the mess hall, and plates were piled high with peppered mutton chops and creamed potatoes. You were seated near the end of the long table, quietly sipping on your honeyed apple cider as you politely smiled and nodded at the young nobleman who sat across from you, detailing a rather elaborate story of how he had hunted down a bear with nothing but a single hatchet and a lick of courage. 
You didn’t buy a single word of it, but the exaggerated story was mildly entertaining nonetheless. You’d rather listen to his tipsy rambling than watch King Baratheon stick his tongue down a random maiden’s throat. 
Once the man finished, he smiled charmingly, before grabbing your chalice and downing the rest of your drink. His loud belch was drowned out by the rest of the crowded hall of Winterfell, busy feasting and celebrating. Your lips twisted into a frown out of instinct, but you quickly fell back into a stoic expression, gently excusing yourself from the table. 
You mourned your half-eaten food left on your plate, but you didn’t think you could stomach another bite of Northern food—you longed for the sticky sweetness of Dorne’s dates. 
Hurriedly, you wove through the hall, quickly ducking when a silver wine chalice sailed across the large room. You made for the exit, squeezing past a couple children playing by the entrance.
Once you were outside, Winterfell’s frosty wind instantly nipped at your exposed skin, whispering snowflakes into your ear and tousling your hair in a haphazard fashion. A shiver spidered down your spine as you pressed yourself against the castle’s walls, pulling your fur coat closer to you. 
How you missed the kiss of Dorne’s sun on your cheeks. 
Damn the North.
You wrinkled your nose in frustration. 
A repetitive, faint thudding drew your attention away from the howling breeze, resonating from just around the castle’s corner. Curiosity piqued, you sleuthed across the icy grass, looking around the bend with wide eyes.
It was dark—far darker than it was inside. The only source of light came from the lit torches lining the walls and the dewy luminescence of the moon. 
The thudding came from a man—no, a boy—hacking furiously at a hay-sewn dummy with a dull wooden practice sword. You blinked, watching with mild awe as he relentlessly struck the unmoving figure, moving with an exact precision that was uncommon to see in such youth.
You didn’t realize just how long you’d been staring when he suddenly stopped, muscles visibly tensing beneath his thick leather tunic. The wooden sword drooped downwards when he lowered his arm, but his grip never faltered.
“What are you looking at?” he grumbled at last, turning around to face you entirely. 
At first, you found yourself at a loss for words. He was quite a beauty—a large mass of dark curls adorning his head, dancing with the snowy gale. His eyes, a tempestuous hue of stormy grey, narrowed and scrutinizing, were studying your every move, as if preparing himself for some sort of attack.
You shuffled backwards out of pure instinct, but steeled yourself before you had the nerve to turn tail and run. 
“Nothing,” you replied hoarsely, averting your gaze to a particularly interesting pile of rubble. “I just… needed to get out of the mess hall for a bit. It’s loud in there.”
It was silent for a moment, before he placed the sword down, regarding you with a somewhat intrigued stare whilst stepping closer. 
“I’m sorry if I’m being disrespectful,” he said, surprising you with his sudden change of demeanor, “but I don’t quite recognize you. How am I to address you?”
“My name would be just fine,” came your reply, eyebrows shifted upwards. “I’m Y/N. Y/N Martell. My father is Oberyn Martell, brother to the ruling prince of Dorne.”
It was the boy’s turn to be surprised, and an amused smile itched across your lips when he seemed to fumble for words, wondering if it was customary to bow or to shake hands with you. 
After his initial stupor, he shook his head, small bits of frost flying away from his hair. “Well, what are you doing out here? It’s cold out.”
“I told you, I came out to get some space. It was awfully crowded,” you hummed. Then, you leaned forward towards him, lowering your voice to a leveled whisper, “Plus, the sight of King Baratheon fondling a woman on top of his venison doesn’t exactly whet my appetite.”
A flit of a grin momentarily crossed his features, but it disappeared back into his regular brooding nature nearly as soon as it came.
“You know my name.” You tilted your head in a questioning manner. “It’d be rude of me not to ask for yours.”
“Jon,” the boy with curls of ebony replied in an off-handish manner.
“Jon…?”
His lips twitched downwards, twisting into a glower. Reluctantly, he mumbled, “Snow. Jon Snow.”
“Oh,” you whispered, stepping closer with widened eyes. Jon risked a glance towards you, surprised that he could see his own reflection in the dark of your pupils, frost clinging to your eyelashes and knitted brows. “Snow is a name for Northern bastards, is it not?” Your tone was not one of disdain like Jon had expected, but rather one of tender excitement.
There was a twitch to his jaw. He remained silent.
“I’m a bastard, too.”
Your words made him tear his gaze away from the snowy ground to your searching eyes. “You? A bastard?” he asked, plain with surprise.
You bowed your head once with a mild smile painting your lips with warmth. “I suppose my proper name would be Y/N Sand—the name given to bastards of Dorne. But we don’t care much for bastardy as the other kingdoms do. My father thought it proper to call myself a Martell during my stay in King’s Landing.”
Snow scuffed around Jon’s boots as he dug the heel into the grass. “What were you doing in King’s Landing?”
“I’ve been staying there to study medicine. Been about… seven months now? I left home when I was fourteen,” you said, teeth worrying into your bottom lip in thought. The hazy memory of saying goodbye to your father and sisters made your heart lurch with a sudden jolt of nostalgia. 
“Do you like it there?” Jon asked, intrigued. “In King’s Landing, I mean.”
You wrinkled your nose in response, shaking your head firmly. “I much prefer the golden sands of Dorne. The wispy shade of a palm tree. The wiry muscles of our horses—bred to run for fortnights on end. The cool sip of water on a hot day. The spitting bonfires at night—the stars seem to be so much brighter in Dorne, Jon Snow, you wouldn’t believe it.”
The both of you tilted your heads up to look at Winterfell’s dark sky. There wasn’t a single star in sight.
You sighed with stinging disappointment, tilting your chin back down to nuzzle your cold nose into your coat.  
Jon couldn’t help how his lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “Sounds like a wonderful place.”
Humming your agreement, you uttered, “Enough about me.” You stepped closer so that you were nearly side-by-side with him. “What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at the banquet?” 
The smile on his lips melted away nearly instantaneously. “Lady Stark thought it improper to seat a bastard amongst the royal guests.”
“That’s stupid,” you said in a rather blunt fashion, which made Jon’s eyebrows inch closer to his curls. “Not to bash on your kingdom’s customs or anything—but I find the exclusion of bastards rather redundant. You’re still their family regardless.”
“It’s what I am,” the boy responded with half a shrug. “It’s all I ever will be.”
“It’s all you’ll be if that’s all you choose to be, Jon Snow.” You inhaled a lungful of frigid air. 
The boy beside you seemed to mull over your words for a while, mouth twisted in thought. “I plan to join the Night’s Watch,” he said suddenly, looking almost surprised that he’d admitted that to you. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about the matter yet—it just happened to slip from his tongue without him giving it a second thought.
“That sounds fun,” you replied with a small smile, nudging your elbow into his shoulder. “At least, as much fun as you can have in this dreary place, anyway. No offense.”
For the first time, you heard the bastard of Ned Stark laugh. It was a quiet one, barely little more than an amused huff of his nostrils, but you heard it nonetheless. It made a queer sensation pool at the bottom of your stomach, one of warmth and selfish pride. You wanted him to laugh again. 
“You’d look handsome in black,” you commented with a roguish leer, to which Jon shifted in an awkward manner, turning his gaze to the frosty ground. If you looked closer, you’d be able to catch a dusting of rouge over his pale cheekbones.
The silence warped around you two in a hazy cocoon, time slowing down to a slow drip, drip, drip of the sand grains in an hourglass. 
Abruptly, you pivoted away from his side to face him, beckoning back to the mess hall with your head. “I’m sorry, in Dorne it’s rude to converse with someone who hasn’t had a meal when you’ve already eaten. You must be starving! Let me go fetch a plate for you.”
“Oh,” Jon started, already beginning to shake his head in panicked protest, “you really don’t have to—Lady Stark wouldn’t be very pleased—”
“Who said Lady Stark has to know? What if I just pretended I wanted a second helping?” You internally grimaced when you remembered that you hadn’t even finished your first helping. 
Raven-hued curls shook haphazardly as he stepped forward to catch your wrist with his in a futile attempt to persuade you to stay. After all, he wasn’t all that hungry.
He could feel his stomach cinch painfully at the thought of roasted mutton chops and candied almonds, or honey cakes and creamed potatoes, or steaming rabbit stew and flaking raspberry pie. Alright, Jon supposed he was a little bit hungry. 
“Sorry, can’t hear you!” you called out while waltzing away with a bright smile. “I’ll bring us two chalices of honeyed apple cider, too! Hope you like that!”
Despite all his efforts to stave away his mirrored excitement, Jon couldn’t help but watch you whisk away with a grin pulling at the side of his mouth.
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“This is Ghost,” Jon said after swallowing down his bite of peppery chicken. You had been generous enough to add a bit of nearly every single dish available in the hall, walking out none-too-discreetly with a wobbling mountain of food stacked on the porcelain. 
The white direwolf, still only a small pup, tittered towards Jon with a knowing glint in its eye, using its snout to nudge against his knee. Relenting, Jon ripped off a piece of mutton and tossed it onto the ground for the direwolf. 
You were practically vibrating on your wooden seat beside him, grinning ecstatically. “I can’t believe you’ve got a direwolf!” you exclaimed in a hushed whisper, biting into a slice of spiced honey cake. “He’s gorgeous.”
Chuckling, Jon reached over to ruffle the creature between the ears. “He’s alright. Was the runt of the litter.”
That made your grin stretch wider. 
The two of you conversed for what felt like hours—you found out that he was only a year older than you, that he hated blackberries, that he had nightmares about dragons sometimes. In turn, he learned that you had a pet snake at the ripe age of five, that you counted the stars outside your window when you couldn’t sleep, that you thought your father, Oberyn Martell, was going to kill the Mountain one day.
Jon found you fascinating—he couldn’t remember the last time he had listened so intently to someone.
Jon had wolfed down the food you brought, despite previously claiming he wasn’t all that hungry. Setting the empty dishes aside, you strolled alongside him, sipping on your cider and occasionally bumping into his side, which made both of you laugh as he kindly told you to mind your step. 
When the guests inside the hall started to quiet down, small groups of people trickling out of the castle to retire to bed, you knew your limited time with Jon was coming to an end.
“We’ve only just met, but I’m gonna miss you,” you said, gazing towards him with disappointment etched plain as day across your features. Your hand lifted to brush away a bit of snow that had landed on his shoulder. “I certainly won’t miss the cold, though. I have no idea how you Northern folk live like this.”
“Our blood must be thicker than yours,” he commented in a humorous tone, which made you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out playfully at him. The smile that spread across Jon’s lips made your stomach twist with a queer sort of warmth. A tentative silence warped about the two of you, and you felt him step closer to you, his hands clenched into fists by his side, as if he was staving off some sort of urge. 
You were young and foolish then—it was only expected that you acted on giddy impulsivity.
You leaned forward slowly, making sure he knew of your intent—and you kissed him. It was a dry, chaste kiss, awkward and hesitant in nature but endearing all the same. Jon was frozen for a long moment before his calloused hand was brought up to cradle your jaw, movements stiff with uncertainty, softly tilting your face so it slotted just right over his. His nose gently bumped into yours. His teeth caught against your lip. His dark curls tickled your forehead when they knocked together. The kiss tasted of apple cider and winter’s frost.
You pulled away with a flustered beam, pleased to see Jon had turned a furious shade of scarlet, his expression mirroring yours. 
“Goodbye, Snow,” you said to him quietly, just as the both of you spotted his family coming out of the mess hall. Subconsciously, you shuffled away from him. The last thing you wanted was for Ned Stark to catch the both of you in the act, even though it was merely a harmless kiss. “You stay safe at the Night’s Watch, alright? Who knows, maybe I’ll get you to come visit Dorne one day. Get that thick, chunky Northern blood of yours to loosen up.”
“It would be an honor to come,” he replied with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a glint of sadness hidden within his dark irises—perhaps he believed that this would be the last time he’d ever see you. “Goodbye, Sand.”
With that, you watched him trudge away with a tight chest, his fur-coated figure growing smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the castle walls. 
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You were twenty the next time you saw Jon Snow.
Five long, long years.
You shivered on the horse, Sansa’s cold fingers holding onto your waist tightly. She sat just behind you, breaths spilling out pale mist over your shoulder. Podrick and Brienne were only an arm’s length away on their own horses, faces stony and filthy with grime. You were sure your own face was no better.
“Open the gates!” someone screamed. 
The creak of metal. The whinny of a horse. The schlop of mud.
Your eye was heavy with exhaust.
Brienne led the way into Castle Black, dismounting her horse first. You followed suit, helping Sansa down and watched as Podrick ambled off of his. Castle Black was far colder than Winterfell had been. The cold didn’t seem to bother Sansa as much—after all, she was well accustomed to the weather since childhood. That, or she welcomed the numbing sensation of the frigid wind. 
Despite being stuck in cold conditions for years, you were still a child of sand. You were made for the heat. The thought made you pull your thin coat closer to you, lips warbling into a glower. 
And as you turned your head away from Sansa’s pale, sallow face, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes burning into you. Tilting your gaze upward, you nearly burst into tears of relief upon seeing a familiar face.
Jon Snow. 
He held the same features as he did five years ago—the heavy-set frown, the stormy, curious eyes, the ebony locks upon his head. He was taller, evidently so, and had a well-tamed beard blanketing the expanse of his jaw. He had grown into his features, face more chiseled and physique just a tad more defined. 
The bastard laid his eyes on his sister first, an amalgamation of shock and confusion morphing across his features before it crossed over to the two strangers he’d never seen before. One tall and blonde, one stocky and dark-haired. 
Then he looked to you. There was a slight shift to his expression. One of slight dubiety. Then, like a ray of sun on a stormy night, realization dawned upon him. 
You looked so different. You wore your hair differently than when he last saw you, dyed a significantly lighter shade than it used to be. There was a new, jagged scar carved down your left cheek, a dirty leather eyepatch fixed over one of your eyes, and you were much taller than you had been at the ripe age of fifteen. Nonetheless, Jon recognized the small quirk to your lips, your Dornish facial features, the brightness of your one eye (though far dimmer than it used to be).
He rushed down the creaky wooden steps. 
He embraced Sansa first. The red-head breathed out a sigh of exhaustion when he held her, tears rimming her eyes like snow on a wiry tree branch. Jon held her tightly—it’d been five long years since he’d seen his family. 
A lump formed in your throat when he gently pulled away from her, and cast his gaze to you. You felt small under his scrutiny, partially afraid that he’d forgotten you after all these years. 
Then, he whispered your name to the frost and you bit back a sob, launching yourself forward to wrap your arms around his midriff. There was so much you wanted to tell him—so much he needed to know. 
But you couldn’t force the words out. So you remained silent, burying your nose into the warmth of Jon’s neck. 
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Your hair was still damp from the icy bath they’d drawn for you. The cold made your heart jump up your throat—it took you around ten minutes of dipping your toe into the water only to retract it with a scalding hiss until you forced yourself in with a grumble. You were now wrapped in about three layers of thick, furry blankets, a bowl of warm chicken soup cradled in your palms.
The crackling of the fire in front of you filled the silence momentarily. The clementine flames licked into the air greedily, spitting out small orange embers for you to watch turn into grey ash. 
Jon was sitting close beside you, thigh pressed up against yours. You hadn’t the time to say anything to him before you were whisked away for a bath and food. Now that you had his full, undulated attention, you weren’t quite sure what to say.
“It’s good soup,” Sansa chimed from across the both of you. She was staring into the fire with a nostalgic grin fiddling with the corner of her raw-bitten lips. “Do you remember the kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”
Jon chuckled. “The ones with the peas and onions?”
The two hummed in thought, then fell back into silence. You shifted to slurp up more of your soup, offering your spoon to Jon with a tilt of your head. He shook his head softly, gesturing for you to have some more. 
You had offered out of courtesy—Dornish traditions never died—but you were ever so grateful that he declined. You hadn’t realized just how starving you’d been. 
Ramsay went out of his way to make sure you barely had a meal a week. He was cruel like that. Glancing to Jon, you caught him watching you unceremoniously gulp the soup down with a wide grin. 
“Sorry,” you coughed out in a small voice after wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Do you… do you have any more of this?”
“We have plenty,” Jon said, not unkindly. “I’ll have one of the lads fetch another bowl for you.”
As he left, Sansa looked to you with an amused expression. “He likes you.”
“I barely know him. He barely knows me,” you replied, eyebrows canted upwards at her statement.
“And yet he likes you,” she persisted, bobbing her head down to sip on her soup.
You didn’t grace her with a response, instead opting to stare down at your empty bowl.
Jon came back not too late after, handing you another serving of the warm chicken soup. “Thank you,” you said sheepishly, before tucking in once more.
“We should have never left Winterfell,” Sansa spoke up. Both you and Jon looked at her, grunting noises of agreement. “Don’t you wish you could go back to the day you left? Tell yourself, ‘don’t go, you idiot’.” 
A film of tears glossed over your eyes. “I wish I never left Dorne.”
Jon shook his head. “How could we have known? All the things that have happened to us… it wasn’t our fault.”
“I wish I could change everything,” Sansa admitted, shame threading heavily through her tone. “I was such an ass to you.”
“We were children,” he replied. “Though, you were occasionally awful.”
You snorted at that and Sansa rolled her eyes before turning to watch the fire. 
“I’m sure I can’t have been better,” Jon replied modestly. “Always sulkin’ in the corner while the lot of you played.”
The three of you chuckled mirthfully at the thought of young Jon muttering curses under his breath in the shadows. 
“Will you forgive me?” Sansa asked, quiet. 
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jon countered firmly.
“Forgive me,” bit out Sansa, narrowing her eyes.
They both smiled. 
“I forgive you.”
With a satisfied smile, Sansa drank the last of her soup and placed it on the table in front of her, rising with a certain kind of grace only she bore. She excused herself to go draw a long overdue bath.
Jon glanced at you once she left. “What have you been doing? After all this time?”
Hesitant, you fiddled with the spoon in your bowl. 
“Well, five years ago, I followed your father and sisters to go back to King’s Landing. Continued my studies. Watched Ned Stark die in front of my eyes. My father came to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding.” You paused for a moment, finding it hard to speak around your suddenly-thick throat. “I watched him die, as well, fighting for Tyrion Lannister. He was about to win. He was so close. But he wanted revenge for his sister—and his greed for revenge eventually became his demise. In a panic I… I ran away from King’s Landing. From everything.”
Tears of gold. Stolen bread from outdoor markets. Rats squeaking on cobblestone pathways at night.
“From then on, I bumped into Podric, Tyrion’s squire, and Brienne, a knight pledged to looking for the Stark girls. Pod recognized me from my time in King’s Landing—and knew all about my family, so that convinced Brienne enough to let me tag along. Besides, I knew more about medicine than half of King’s Landing combined, and that’s always useful when embarking on a journey.”
Bandaged wounds. Crackling fires. Clopping horseshoes.
“After a while, we ran into Arya and the Hound. I tried killing the Hound because his brother killed my father but I stopped upon realizing that he wanted his brother dead just as much as I did—if not more so. We lost sight of Arya. I’m sorry, Jon, I have no clue where she could be now.”
Blood. Sword. Blood. 
“Pod, Brienne, and I kept moving forward and we eventually caught sight of Sansa at an inn with Petyr Baelish. Sansa remembered me from all those years ago at Winterfell—so I asked if I could accompany her. No, I didn’t ask. I begged. Tears and everything. I was foolish to leave Brienne and Pod. Baelish agreed to let me come when they were chased out.”
Panicked rambling. Desperate eyes. Hands and knees—begging.
“At Winterfell… it was a living nightmare. Ramsay Bolton tortured Sansa and I—he would lock me in rooms for weeks on end and forced me to run through the forest naked whilst shooting bolts at me. He fed me dog food and tied me to the bars of the hounds’ cage so he could watch them struggle against their ropes to rip me to shreds. He made me watch as he cut pieces of Theon away. He gave me these.” You pointed at the deep scar on your cheek, then to the eyepatch, voice warbling. 
Hounds. Manic gaze. A scream of agony.
Jon’s hands found your face, slow and steady, his thumbs swiping at your cheeks. It took you a second to realize that he was brushing away tears, steadily falling from your eyes without you noticing. You nearly flinched away when his finger trailed down your steadily healing scar, but steeled yourself before you could retract away. 
You trusted Jon Snow.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sand, I can’t imagine what that must be like,” he said softly. You cried harder.
“My family is dead. Poisoned with hatred for each other—for everybody else,” you choked out. “And it feels like you and Sansa are the only ones who can understand.”
The man in front of you nodded solemnly. “Aye. It was a pain like no other—hearing about each of their deaths through raven letters. And knowing that there was nothing I could do about it.”
Far too caught up to care about your boldness, you placed your bowl on the table and sidled up to Jon, your head resting on his shoulder and arm curled around his back. He didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact—he shifted so that his arm laid over the back of your neck. He smelled of a hearth’s smoke and a fresh, tree-like fragrance.
“Enough about me,” you whispered. Jon smiled, remembering that those had been the exact words you uttered to him five years ago. “What’ve you been doing all this time?”
“I was murdered, for starters,” he said with a hint of amusement when you abruptly twisted in his arms staring at him with parted lips. 
“You were what?”
“A story for another time, I promise,” he mumbled, waving away your concern and gently nudging you back down against him, as your arm was digging into his stomach uncomfortably. “I’ve been fighting nonstop, come to think of it. I’ve killed people I hated, people I didn’t know… people I admired. I hung a boy younger than Bran. I’m tired of fighting, Sand. I’ve fought and I’ve lost. I’m done.”
You opened your mouth to say something comforting, reassuring, anything. But you had little to say, so you kept quiet, pressing your nose to the underside of his jaw in an effort to convey your sympathy. 
Jon’s chest rumbled beneath your palm as he said, “There’s also dead in the North.”
“There’s what?!”
The bastard hummed gravely. He hummed as if that was just a normal sentence to toss out. 
“And both of those things mean… we can’t stay here.”
You turned again, making sure your forearm wasn’t pressing against his abdomen, instead slanted off to the side. This made you lean even closer to Jon, nearly nose-to-nose with him.
Well, you certainly weren’t cold now.
“Where do we go?” you whispered in a low voice, brows furrowed. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Jon Snow. You’re the closest thing I have to a family now. I trust you.”
Jon studied you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, irises darting between your glistening eye and your front teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip. You spotted the way his gaze lingering on your mouth just a bit too long, but you pretended you hadn’t noticed. “Sansa wants to go back to Winterfell,” he replied slowly, bracing himself for your reaction.
The way you physically tensed against him didn’t go unnoticed. 
Blood. Screaming. Trees. A bolt grazing your thigh. Blood. Barking hounds. Sansa’s wedding. Theon’s screams. Blood. Trees. Blood. Manic gaze. Ramsay’s sweat. Hounds. Blood. Blood. Blood.
“Why would we ever go back?” you spat out, withdrawing yourself with a snarl.
Jon sighed. It was a long, winded one, laced with exhaustion and uncertainty. “Because it belongs to us. To her, to Arya, to Bran, to Rickon.”
Your face softened. “To you, too.”
After a tentative pause, Jon rested his cheek onto your head, beard tickling the skin of your temple. “Aye. To me, too.”
“Will this be your last fight, Snow?” 
Jon snorted at the thought. “I wish it was, Sand.” Already, it seemed you had forgotten about the dead in the North he had mentioned—which was all the better. He didn’t think you needed to worry at the moment. You deserved even just a brief moment of rest. 
“I hope you kill that bastard. I hope I kill that bastard. I may be trained in the art of medicine, but I know how to fight. I grew up with the Sand Snakes, after all.”
Jon wisely chose to remain silent at that. He had no doubt that you were capable to take care of yourself.
“We should go to Dorne,” you murmured, words growing quieter as your eyelids drooped. Now that your belly was full and you were warm from the blankets and fire, it was growing harder and harder to resist the urge to doze for twelve hours straight. 
“Alright,” Jon replied with a smile. Then, he asked in a joking manner, “How’s the weather been up here? I personally think it’s quite warm, actually. Must be my thick, chunky blood.”
“You’re a real pain, you know that?” you barked out while pinching his arm, your words lacking any real bite. “And don’t even get me started on the damn snow! Why the devil is it always snowing here? It’s ridiculous, actually!” 
Jon was smiling down at you so wide that his cheeks ached as you drowsily gesticulated at how horrible Northern weather was. 
When Sansa came back nearly an hour later, she wasn’t at all surprised to see you passed out in Jon’s arms, her older brother frantically motioning her to be quiet with his free arm. Much to his horror and her humor, all the jostling had made you rouse awake, blearily looking around with evident confusion etched plainly across your features. Jon gently coaxed you back down, telling you to go back to sleep with a soft tone—one that she’d never heard him use before. 
Yes, she thought with a slightly amused shake of her head, he definitely likes you.
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“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Jon said quietly, just loud enough for you and Sansa to hear. You shifted on your horse’s saddle uncomfortably. Of course you didn’t need to be here. But you weren’t kidding when you said you’d follow Jon Snow wherever he went. 
Without sparing him a glance, Sansa replied with an even voice, “You know I do.”
Jon sighed. He looked towards you. If the situation wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh at how the fur coats you donned were nearly thrice your size. He briefly wondered if you were still cold under all that.
Ramsay Bolton certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He had a throng of men on horses riding behind him, the banner of a flayed man dancing with the wind, almost mocking in nature. His eyes were cold as ever, countenance serious yet still so very arrogant. 
You could feel your muscles tensing so hard you were nearly stiff as a statue on your horse. 
Blood. Trees. Theon’s screams. Barking hounds. Blood. Ramsay’s sweat. A knife flat against your cheek. Blood. 
“My beloved wife. I’ve missed you terribly!” Ramsay preened with a sinister smile, scornfully bowing his head to Sansa. Then, he turned his horrid gaze to Jon, barely making note of you. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely.”
Your blood boiled, an anger churning thunder within your stomach. You bit down on your tongue and steeled your emotions. Now was not the time for impulsivity.
“Dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house. Come, bastard. You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you certainly don’t have Winterfell. Why lead all these poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel.” Ramsay sat up straighter on his horse, gesturing to the cold, muddy grass in expectation. “I’m a man of mercy. I promise.”
Liar.
Fury clawed at your throat until you could feel the metallic taste of iron sting your tongue.
Of course, Jon Snow did no such thing.
“You’re right,” Jon admitted with a level tone. “There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”
The slight change of your expression was minute, but it was there. Ramsay noticed the way your brows pulled together and a frown carved over your lips. 
The devil of a man chuckled. You’ve heard that laugh a million times before—it plagued your nightmares every night. It was one of utter contempt, laughing at the sheer ludicrousy of the offer. 
“I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you… you’re apparently the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good—maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I do know my army would beat yours. I have over six thousand men. And you have, what? Half that? Not even?”
Jon nodded his agreement. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they know you wouldn’t fight for them?”
A cold fury washed over Ramsay’s features. His nostrils flared as he stared Jon down. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?” 
For the first time since she left Winterfell, Sansa spoke to her husband. “How do we know you have him?”
A horrific leer flickered over his face. Those manic eyes came into play once more. He was enjoying this. Slowly, he gestured to one of his men. He was drawing this out. 
Like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it whole. 
The man behind him pulled out a fluffy, black mass. It took you a moment to realize what it was. Horror settled itself, black as tar, in the pits of your gut.
It was the head of a direwolf. 
You wanted to look away—but you couldn’t.
Ramsay studied your expression with glee. Whilst Sansa betrayed no hints of her inner turmoil, he could read you like an open book. 
“Now, if you want to save your—”
Sansa interrupted him with a tone so sharp it would’ve cut straight through iron. “You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”
With that, she turned and rode away. You had half the mind to follow her. 
Ramsay watched with shock clearly splayed over his countenance. He was quick to regain his composure, turning his head back to Jon. “She’s a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed.”
Your breath caught in your throat, clenching your jaw so hard that it was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack under the pressure.
“My dogs are desperate to have their favorite playtoy back,” Ramsay simpered. Your head snapped up, finding his eyes trained upon you. There was a sickly grin to his features, twisting his pale face in an abhorrent way. “I haven’t fed them for seven days—they’re absolutely ravished. I wonder which parts they’d go for first. Those bright eyes of yours? Oh, I’m sorry. Eye—forgot I did that to you. Well, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard.”
He sent one last smirk to you, bowed his head to Jon with a sneer on his face, before clicking his tongue and turning his horse around. The men followed closely behind. 
The mutilated eye beneath your patch throbbed. 
Bile rose in your throat. 
You could feel Jon’s worried gaze on you, but you avoided his searching scan, mirroring both Sansa and Ramsay’s movements by pressing your heel into the horse’s side, and galloping away.
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The amber glow of the candlelight did little to hide the morose expression folded over Jon’s features. His lashes cast long shadows down his cheeks, lowered with thought. You had come into the room just in time to hear his row with Sansa, their shouts echoing along the stone walls.
You waited for Sansa to leave, then a couple minutes more to allow Jon a second to mull over his thoughts.
Then, you stepped out of the darkness. 
“Y/N,” Jon hoarsely said, immediately sitting up from his chair upon seeing you. “You weren’t at the war council.”
One of your shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Didn’t think I’d be needed—I may be able to fight, but war strategy isn’t my forte.”
Jon regarded you for a second, before gesturing to the chair next to him. 
“Still,” he murmured once you took a seat, drawing your knees up to your chest, “it would’ve been nice to have you there.”
“You want my advice?” you asked, mildly surprised.
Jon’s hand slowly reached out to sit heavy on your shoulder. “You know him better than anybody here—other than Sansa, of course.”
Chewing on your lip in thought, you shifted so that you were facing him. “He likes to play games. He wants to draw things out—prolong the inevitable as long as he can so he could squeeze every last drop of sick enjoyment out of it.” Your eye darted to the warbling candle’s flame, clearing your throat uncomfortably. “That’s what he did with me, at least. I’m sure that on the battlefield, he’ll play to his strengths first—dangle it in front of your face. Leading you on like you would a donkey with a carrot.”
“I’m sorry if this is… a hard question, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Jon started hesitantly. “But why you? What did he gain from hurting you?” There was a bitter sort of anger to his voice—but not the active kind. It was passive, almost wistfully so, and frustrated that he could do nothing about it because it was in the past.
“I’m a bastard, remember? I am what he hates in himself the most.” You sniffed disdainfully. “And I suspect he’s somewhat jealous. I’m a bastard just like him, yet I’m considered royalty back in Dorne. How come I get to have what he’s always wanted? He reminded me of Joffrey in a lot of ways. But far worse.”
Jon’s eyebrows raised at that. “You knew Joffrey?”
A smile flickered over your lips that didn’t quite reach your eye. “Not really. But the stories Sansa’s told me—they seem nearly one and the same.” After a brief pause, you turned your head back to Jon. “I’m coming with you tomorrow. Just so we’re clear. I want to see him dead.”
Grimly, Jon bowed his head. “There’s no shame in staying here, Y/N. Especially not after what you’ve been through.”
“I know,” you said. “But I can fight. Or who knows? Maybe—just maybe—my medical skills will come into play on a battlefield. Slim chance, though—men rarely ever get wounded in a war.” 
The last sentence dripped with sarcasm, and it made Jon gruff out a short laugh. 
There was a beat of amiable silence before Jon nudged you with his elbow. “Just don’t die on me, alright?” 
“I think you’ve got more experience than me in that department,” you joked. “Which, by the way, you still haven’t told me about.”
Jon wrinkled his nose humorously. “Tell you what—if we both make it out alive, I’ll tell you about it.”
“Deal,” you agreed, swiftly sliding off the chair. He stood up with you, just inches away. “You should get some rest, Snow. Big day tomorrow.”
“Aye,” he whispered, bending forward to ring you into an embrace. He softly patted the back of your head just as you pressed your cold nose into the bushy fur of his coat. “Sleep well, Sand.”
When you pulled away to look at him and say goodbye, you found your throat running dry. You couldn’t find it in yourself to say the words. 
Jon seemed to understand.
“This isn’t goodbye,” he whispered in a low, reassuring tone, rubbing his palms up and down your forearms. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, he tenderly kissed over your eyelid, then moved to kiss the eyepatch with an equal amount of affection. The raw compassion behind the action made tears sting the corner of your vision, but you blinked it away just as quickly as it came. 
Determined not to start bawling in front of him, you nodded once, then stepped away, retracting from his warmth. 
Damn Northerners and their thick, chunky blood.
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A raised blade.
Rickon running.
Flying arrows.
Jon on a galloping horse.
Terror.
Ever so close.
A sick squelch.
Rickon Stark was dead.
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Mud, everywhere.
Was that the barking of hounds you heard? 
No, those were the dying whinnies of horses.
A rally of arrows. 
The song of steel against steel.
A man screaming as you sliced his throat.
Gurgles.
You picked up a fallen shield.
Another rally of arrows.
Blood trickled out of your nose. 
Copper in your mouth.
Piles of dead men.
Parrying strikes. 
A grunt. 
Your sword sticking out of another man’s abdomen.
Jon Snow a whisker away from death. 
Your boot against his attacker’s jaw. 
Jon Snow’s frantic hand gripping your arm—pulling you. 
Where was he taking you?
Shields in a circle around you.
Trapped.
Trapped. 
Trapped.
Mud. 
Jon Snow yelling your name. 
Trampled. 
Clawing for air. 
You, screaming for Jon.
Inhaling dirty water.
Coughing.
Choking.
Air.
Jon Snow’s wheezing, exhausted gasp as you hauled him up.
Sansa Stark, in the distance. 
More men. Horses.
Ramsay Bolton riding away.
You spat out blood.
Coward.
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There were three arrows embedded into the wooden flesh of the shield. Three.
Jon Snow managed to block Ramsay’s arrows thrice. 
Before a fourth could be nocked, Jon drove the edge of the shield straight into Ramsay’s face, a bilious crack of his nose echoing across Winterfell. 
Ramsay was on the ground, mud flying up between the two as Jon straddled him. His fist rained no mercy. With every brutal punch, a ferocious grunt rumbled from Jon’s chest. Each time he pulled away, his skin grew more and more damp with the Bolton’s blood—sticky scarlet mingling with the dark soot.
 It sounded less and less as if Jon were striking something solid, and more like he was hitting a pool of liquid. 
A snarl appeared on Snow’s face. Your Snow. There was a manic glint to his eyes.
You shuffled forwards, then back, uncertain of whether to stop him or to let him keep going. Fear reared its familiar, ugly head within you.
Ramsay smiled through the blood.
Jon paused for a second—a mere second—to glance up. He caught your eye. It looked like he was about to punch Ramsay again, kill him, even, but he hesitated.
You were afraid. Of Jon? Neither of you were quite sure.
Slowly, painfully slow, he slid off of Ramsay’s bloody figure, panting with both exertion and pent-up frustration. 
It nearly shattered him when he approached you, and you took another step back, merely out of pure instinct. 
“Jon,” you whispered, snapping out of your dazed reverie and reaching out to him. It was only Jon—you trusted him.
Jon Snow was nothing like Ramsay Bolton. 
You wrapped your arms around him, uncaring of the dirt and blood on his clothes. Three seconds ticked by. Before the fourth could strike, Jon gingerly lifted his arms to tug you closer to him. He mumbled out a couple breathy words into your hairline, but you couldn’t quite hear what he said. 
You supposed it didn’t matter—not when he remained silent for the rest of the time he held you. Barely, you registered the way his entire body trembled. He tucked his nose against the column of your throat. 
And he cried. 
That only had you holding him tighter. 
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You watched in the shadows of the hounds’ kennel.
Watched as Sansa set the hounds on a tied-up Ramsay. 
Watched as they slobbered drool over his face. 
Watched as he screamed agony when they tore into his limbs.
Sansa’s hand brushed your shoulder on her way out.
You stayed.
You stayed until the screams turned into gurgling.
You stayed until the gurgling died away—a flame using the last of its wick. 
You stayed until you knew Ramsay Bolton was dead.
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It happened in the dead of night. When the winds quietened to but a feathery whisper, when the moon shone silver and gold, when the fires in the hearths had waned to a soft orange glow. 
Jon’s face, now freshly void of any grime, was cradled in your palms. 
“We match, Snow,” you whispered, thumb trailing down the faded scar over his eye. 
A smile flittered over his lips. 
His own hands raised to faintly trace your new white patch on your eye, careful not to press too hard. “Yours is a lot worse than mine, Sand.” In a much less humorous tone, he said, “Thank you. You saved my life out there, while we were fighting. I owe you.”
You regarded him with a strange look, one so very tender and affectionate that it made Jon’s stomach squirm. “You owe me nothing, Jon Snow. You would’ve done the same for me.”
“You’re a good fighter,” he quipped, a dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “I was watching you more than I should have. You distract me.”
Instead of responding, you boldly leaned forward and enveloped his mouth with yours, nose slotted against his. It took no less than a second for Jon to reciprocate—as if he’d been waiting for this for a long time. 
All the frustration of the fighting, of the battles, of the wars, came pouring out of the both of you. It was raw, needy, brutal with want. 
Boots thudded to the ground. Fur coats were hastily shed. The back of your knees hit the bed, and you both fell onto the mattress with quiet oomfs. Your fingers tangled into his dark curls, tugging, yanking. 
Jon made a guttural noise against you, eyes half-lidded.
Stars of Dorne colored behind your eyelid as Jon moved against you. Sweat beaded your body. Your chest pressed against his, rising and falling with each staggered breath. His skin was burning, near scalding to the touch. But you were a child of sand. You were made for the heat. 
Caught up in the intense fervor of the moment, your blunt nails scratched down his abdomen, leaving raw red marks in its wake. You were about to apologize, but Jon seemed not to mind, kissing you even harder, all teeth and tongue. He smelled of cedar and honey cakes. 
At one point during the heated session, you switched positions so that you sat on top. “Didn’t you say you’d tell me about how you died if we both made it out alive?” you questioned, stroking his stubbled jaw.
A brief frown crossed his expression. “You’re really bringing this up now, of all times?” he grumbled. 
“Fine, fine.” You rolled your eyes and smoothly moved against him, like the push and pull of an ocean’s wave. A soft, desperate noise scratched at the back of Jon’s throat. “You’re telling me after, though.”
Abruptly, Jon hooked his leg over the crook of your knee and flipped you onto your back, hovering over you. An unattractive squawk of surprise wrangled out of your lungs. His long ink-hued locks tickled your forehead and you wrinkled your nose at him, flushed with desire. 
“I’m hoping you’ll forget that by the time I’m done,” Jon gritted out, sounding unfairly confident in his abilities, kissing along your jaw, your clavicle, your chest—and further down he went. Waves of heat danced across your body and you bit down on your tongue in near torment. 
He took his time with you, savoring every last second he had before facing the outside world once more. The grip on your hips grew impossibly tighter. Jon could smell the snow on your skin, paired with the faint aroma of smoke, most probably because you’d been hovering by the fire, complaining about the cold just before this. He smiled into your flushed skin. He just couldn’t get enough of you.
You were about to retort something scathing in response when his teeth sank into the flesh of your inner thigh. Immediately, your lips snapped back shut. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without dissolving into a fluster-fucked mess. 
It was safe to say, the thought of Jon’s past-death was the absolute last thing on your mind for the rest of the night.
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You were fourteen when you left Dorne.
You were twenty-two when you returned home. 
“So…” you just about purred into Jon’s ear, draping an arm over his shoulder. “That thick, chunky Northern blood of yours loosen up, yet?”
He side-eyed you with faux-annoyance, before returning his gaze to the large expanse of Dorne’s gardens. His elbows were resting against the balcony’s marble railings, the sun’s rays kissing his skin with golden warmth. 
“It’s beautiful,” he observed, bowing his head. “I still can’t believe all of this is yours now.”
“Well,” you shrugged your shoulders, kissing his cheek fondly, “I suppose that’s what happens when I’m the last Martell standing.”
Jon turned to face you, expression turning grave. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t—”
“Oh, hush.” You pressed a finger to his lips, other hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. You made the mental note to ask if he wanted to get his hair trimmed—though, you rather liked the long hair on him. “It’s okay. What happened, happened. It’s over now. The battles have been fought—we defeated the Night King. Ramsay Bolton is dead. Cersei Lannister is dead. Daenerys Targaryen is dead. The war is won. We can rest.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he nodded once solemnly, then cast his gaze back to the sunny view. Palm trees arched to the cloudless sky, lush greenery neatly arranged in the gardens. In the center was a large fountain, with four red scorpions as its centerpiece. Just past the gardens were the beginnings of a yellow desert, where the camels roamed and snakes thrived. 
A servant came up to the both of you, offering two chalices of honeyed apple cider and a bowl of sticky date cakes.
“Thank you,” Jon told them graciously, nearly groaning with delight when he sipped the sweet drink. “I’ve missed this.”
You hummed your agreement, taking a generous bite of the cake. “I have something to ask you, Snow.”
An eyebrow arched in question, silently boding you to keep going. 
You fiddled with the loose, ochre fabric of your shirt. “Will you stay with me? Here, in Dorne?” Uncertainty splayed over your features, and you were quick to backtrack. “I mean—I understand if you wouldn’t—you’ve got family in the North, and it’s where you’re from but… I wouldn’t want to rule without you by my side.”
The question was one Jon expected—one he already had an answer prepared for.
“I don’t know.” Jon scratched at his recently-shaven stubble. “It’s a bit… hot.”
After getting over your initial shock at his nonchalant response, your fist collided with his forearm, which made him burst out into peals of laughter. Much to your dismay, you felt a smile cracking through your annoyed glower. 
“You’re a bastard, Snow.”
The raven-haired man turned to you fully, placing the chalice onto the flat of the railing and gathering you into his arms. His forehead leaned against yours as he stared into your single bright eye, glimmering with hope. How could he ever say no to you?
“Aye. That I am,” he said wistfully, before pecking you chastely. You tasted the apple on his lips. “And so are you, Sand.”
You nodded. “You’re right about that,” you whispered, sighing out a breath of relief. 
“Of course I’ll stay, love. You said it yourself—we can rest now. I can think of no better place than with you.” Jon slotted two fingers beneath your chin so that you’d meet his sincere gaze. 
There were tears pricking the corner of your eye, and you quickly blinked them away before yanking him closer by the collar of his tunic, and kissing him under the scorching sun of Dorne.
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Safe Keeping | 4
Part 1 2 3 4 5
"What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."
Sandor Clegane x Reader | 8k+ | cw: fem!reader, DEATH of characters/animals/monsters, POV shifts, mentions/depictions of violence, forced marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional constipation, miscommunication, The Hound being abrasive, canon typical casual misogyny/violence, themes/mentions of menstruation/pregnancy/miscarriage, baby fever, angst, typos, etc.
A/N: ❗❗please proceed this chapter with caution. i killed a bunch of characters/animals (well and monsters but i think deserve lmao)!!! ALSO POV SHIFTSS!!!! originally posted on ao3 but felt like posting it on here. also fyi i post this story on ao3 first
Tagging: @otteropera @poisonsage808 @glitterandgoldfinds @the-queen-of-sorrows @j3nn-1
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The Hound found himself wrong about the thieving, wrong about the missing livestock. He was so wrong it nearly cost him lives, including his own.
He was so sure about himself when he went into the woods, so sure that he was going to find at least two men, at most five, luring sheep there. It was the men he was prepared for. Fuck the livestock, the farmers can get them back after he killed the fucks stealing them.
Ah, the farmers, barging into his wife's estate... into their house, into house Clegane. 
Fuck 'em, fuck the lot of them, complaining again, complaining about their sheep and their cows. He had enough of their yapping, now was the time to act.
Fuck 'em twice for being shocked when he said he'd go into the forest to kill the fucker causing all of them trouble.
The superstitious peasants warned him. The Hound heard; he even humored them by letting a few spring chickens, boy-soldiers in the making, 'aid' him as he went to the forest.
Between the young farmer's lad, Andrew, and the man-boy, Carter, who he had been training be a soldier, it was actually the Hound who was the one most frightened by that thing that stared back at them.
It looked as though it was twice his damn size. It was darker than tar, and stinkier than shit. It made an unholy sound before attacking them.
He doesn't remember what happened after that in all honesty. His instincts kicked in and he can't recall what he had done. All he knew was, in the end, the two boys were cheering and dragging a black corpse all the way back out of the woods.
The villagers looked at him. They walked towards him and shouted. It was not an unfamiliar greeting-- being pursued by villagers, and yet, it shakes him; it takes him off-guard. They come upon him and begin to weep at his feet. They thank him. They thank them as they hug each other. The thank him as they wave at him. They thank him as they touch his armor like a devout would touch an idol.
The Hound is perturbed.
"Thank you, milord! You killed the beast!"
"You saved our sheep!"
"You saved our families!"
"You saved our lives!"
The Hound was never one to back down, but Sandor found himself taking steps back when a group of children ran up to him and began to ask him how he killed it. Their little hands and big eyes demanded answers from him. His insides rise up to his mouth.
The children begin to talk about how they can go to the woods now.
"Oi!" Carter calls to the ones in front the Sandor, "you do know there's more than one woodland monsters, aye?!"
"But now milord Cligay killed one! He'll teach us how to kill the o'vers."
"It's Clegane. Lord Clegane! And even then, you buggers can't just play in the forest. The brown bears still live here."
"I haven't seen a brown bear!" a little girl cries out. She looks to the Hound, walking up to him, grabbing his hand, "there aren't any brown bears in the woods, right, milord?"
Sandor looks at the small thing. His hand burns at her touch. Her hand was not even hot, not even big enough to grasp half his palm and yet he feels lightheaded. He feels like he's going to pass out.
The Hound finds their sentiment to be all too much at one point. He grumbles he's going home; he's got much work to do. The villagers thank him as he leaves.
When he gets home, just as he gets near the gate, he beholds Lady Clegane, the people's champion, his poor bride. She is outside, speaking to some peasants; it was all she did as of late.
A breeze blows and her dress dances with the wind. Her hair follows as well, and along goes the air from his lungs.
She is the sun. He is a mountain trying to reach her.
Sandor, who hadn't realized that he stopped in his place to gawk, is shaken out of his trance when the stable boy opened the gates for him. The small child named Polly, about as old as his wife when she fled this place, nods at him and motions, "pardon, milord," he says nervously, "I didn't know you were waiting for me to open the gates."
The Hound looks at the boy as he walks in, "I wasn't," he gruffs, eyeing him as he passed, "don't worry about it, laddie."
Lord Clegane looks away from the stable boy when he hears the shrill cry of a babe. He spots the maester walking over to his wife with a wailing child in his arms.
He thinks about the letter he had to write to the Citadel, requesting a maester come to Brown Wood.
Lady Clegane thinks her husband's initiative for it stems from his sense of duty as a Lord, but she'll never know he did it for her, for her to know if she really did have a late blood cycle, or if she lost a baby. Maester Yannick told him it was, regretfully, the latter.
The Hound waited for his lady wife to tell him about it, to ask him to hold a mourning ceremony for the unborn child. She never did.
Sandor watches Lady Clegane willingly embraces the woman who thanked her up and down, over and under, for saving her baby. She tells the weeping woman that it was not her work but maester Yannick that saved the babe. Maester Yannick says it was not his work but the gods.
Sandor tastes something putrid in his mouth when his wife coos at the child, who immediately calmed when the maester reunited the small thing to mama. His insides tingle at the sound of his lady's laugh.
He curses under his breath when she turns to him. He realizes then he had stopped in his tracks again.
The Hound begins his march.
Lady Clegane greets him, but he is not strong enough to reply with a greeting himself. He doesn't know why he stops to tell her that he killed a woodland monsters though. She looked very shocked after hearing that.
He wonders if she was disappointed. He wonders if she wanted him dead.
She touches him and questions if he was injured. Sandor flinches and steps back. She recoils her hand quickly and wipes it on her skirt-- disgusted.
The Hound says she shouldn't worry her pretty squirrel head, then walks away.
His footsteps are heavy as he heads to his office. He didn't want to go through the fucking endless piles of paperwork, but the apprentice he had couldn't grasp basic mathematics quite yet, so, there he went, to go through paperwork in a musty office.
He wonders if doing this shit made a difference to her, or if she'd always see him for what he was: a groom, forced upon her as a joke from a stupid blonde boy; a beast with ill features and temper; a Hound.
He is almost tempted to look over his shoulder at the loud sound of baby's laughter. He doesn't, cause he wouldn't see anything but a wall of he did anyway.
He wonders when she'd ask him again, when she'd ask for a child from him.
He promises he'd be gentler this time, gentler.
He doesn't mean to be so rabid with her.
She just had such an ablaze spirit, she was so fierce, and so vivid that he found himself wanting to devour her whole-- a true predator.
He wishes he could be more than that. He could be more than that to her, but it's so hard to fill in to be someone you're not. The Hound was not a proper lord, he was not that pretty boy Alistair. He can only do so much.
Sandor would do much and more for her than that scrawny, faerie pretty-boy ever could.
She might not like it, but he'll do his best to give her what she wants, to give her a family in stead of the one she lost. She will never love him, but he knows she'll love all the children he could give her, and that was more than enough, more than he could ever hope for or deserve. 
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I carefully walk up to the office, clutching my hands together as I prepare myself to knock on the door.
I clear my throat and retell myself what I mean to tell my husband. My palms begin to gush like geyser. I dread the fight I know will be had because of this topic.
I let out a soft gasp when someone calls me from behind.
It was the stable boy, Polly. He had run up to bow and greet me good morning. I smile at him and reach out to him. I brush his hair back, "good morrow, Polly, dear."
The boy grins and bows again, "I'll be learning how to ride a horse soon, milady!"
I link my hands together as I chuckle, "my! Will you now? How awfully courageous of you."
The boy pushes his shoulders back, "it's no'ffin, milady. Just what a man ought to do. I would go to war for you, milady, I would!"
"My boy," shake my head, "I pray you never need to do such a thing. I hope you enjoy riding though. I find that I do not."
"Do you find riding scary? I wouldn't! I'll let you ride with me once I know how, promise," the boy nods as he places a hand on his chest.
"You are very kind," I smile, "I thank you for it, Polly."
The boy puffs his chest out and bows, "I'll be goin' then, milady!"
I chuckle as I watch Polly run off as quick as a rabbit.
My soul nearly leaves me when I turn around and see the Hound looming over me.
I gasp and step back. He reaches out to me and grabs my arm. He keeps me upright and leans down, "you better stop calling the boy dear." He releases me and begins to walk off, "he's already in love with you as is."
I blink rapidly at his words. I turn to him and watch him march away before scurrying after, "he's a child."
"Aye," says Sandor, "all the children adore you."
My stomach curdles at his words; I am unsure why. I rub my hands together, not sure what to make of myself, or what to reply.
"What were you doing outside my office?" he asks.
I run up in front of him and grab his arm, "there is something I needed to discuss with you."
Sandor stops. He looks at my hand on his arm, "can't it wait?"
I pull my hand away and shake my head, "I understand that you are very busy, my lord, but I-"
"Fine," he mutters, "I'll lay with you tonight."
My eyes widen and I topple back at his words, "what?"
The Hound steps forward, keeping me upright again, "that's why you're here, aren't you?" He releases me, "your bloods have waned."
I feel my face burn. I gulp and force a smile, "I-" I chuckle nervously and straighten up, "y-yes. My bloods have waned."
Sandor watches me closely.
I rub my neck and blink rapidly, "I thank you for your thoughtfulness," I dig my thumb nail into my pointer finger. I turn from my feet then to Sandor, "but that is not what I wished to speak about."
His face falls. It's not anything noticeable but I have become quite good at it, reading his face. He purses his lips then says, "be done with it then, I've got work to do, pretty squirrel."
I feel my face burn even more at his horrible nickname.
A group of women had been complimenting my dress when the Hound passed. I knew they did not know he would react that way, but it did not help the embarrassment I felt when the women asked my husband if he thought my dress suited me and he replied 'pretty for a squirrel'.
"I wanted to tell you that I... I still very much wish to be the one to speak to the people about their concerns," I am unable to look at him when I say this, "it is not because I think you are unfit for the task, my lord, but I have seen the way you act around them."
"Like a dog?"
I knit my brows deeply and look to him, "Daisy is a dog. And I love her very much."
"That makes one of us."
We stare at each other for a long, blistering moment. My throat constricts at his words, "... Sandor."
His face contorts. He scoffs and averts his gaze, "don't say my name like that."
My heart begins to race, it twists and clenches. I step forward and reach out to him, "I see how you try to listen, how you try to help, but it scares you-"
I gasp when he rips his arm away before I can even touch him. He grabs me instead though, ripping me close as he leans down, "I'm not scared of peasants."
My eyes water. It's not even because his grip hurt, but because it was as painfully clear as it could get that this man did not like me at all, no matter what I did.
The Hound mutters softly, "do what you wish," he releases my arm, "you want to do my work so badly then? Fine. I didn't want ya to do anything you're not meant to, but have it your way."
I scratch my eyes before my tears could fall. I try to look at him as I speak, but the tears threaten to fall when I do. Instead, I fix my eyes on the floor, "I do not do this to upset you, Hound. I do this because I mean to help you. I swear it."
He is deeply disturbed by the softness in which these words are spoken. Hearing himself be called Hound was unreasonably heart piercing.
"I do not like it when you are angry," I whisper, "it would have been fine if it was only directed at me, but you spur everyone around you."
I flinch when he calls my name.
I shake my head, "if it pleases you, lord, I will do as you said the other day. I will no longer speak to you. I will not bother you. I will not stand in your way." I step back and pick at my fingernails.
Sandor holds back from stepping forward.
"Maester Yannick has been giving me herbs to help with conception, but he said that I should be in good spirits when... consummating... I do not think we should do anything tonight--" I look to him through my wet lashes, "unless you want to--"
"No, I do not," he says coldly.
I gulp. Tears begin to stream down my face. My lips quiver. I shudder. Of course he doesn't want me.
I curtsy and walk off. I break into a sprint after a few steps, as I am no longer able to hold in my sobs.
Sandor watches this. He furrows his brows, unnerved by the interaction, gutted by the fact it ended in tears yet again. He replays the conversation. Was his touch truly that hard? He looks at his hand. He curses loudly and storms off to fuck all.
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Sandor wakes before the sky does. He opens his heavy lids and sighs. He turns to his right on instinct; he watches his wife stretch out her arms in the expanse of nothingness between them. He likes to think that she is reaching out to him. He likes to think that if he reaches back, it'll make everything fine between them.
But then again, it had never been fine between them in the first place.
He makes sure not to touch or move her. Last time he did, she woke up. She truly was a light sleeper.
He slowly gets up. He quickly gets dressed. The moment he gets out of the room, he heads to his office.
He's finished his work by the time he hears a dog barking. He looks to the window, the sun looks back at him. He stands, stretches, and walks over to the sill, pushing the curtains open. He sees her, Lady Clegane, cuddling the mutt she named Daisy. Fucking Daisy. Polly, the stable boy was waving a stick, but the bitch could not care less about it, too preoccupied by her master.
He watches Daisy lick her neck. He watches how she scolds the dog for it but giggles anyway. Sandor sniffles. His mind wanders to the one time he had his face pressed on her neck like that. Fucking dog.
He watches the pair go inside. The Hound heads to the dining room promptly after.
He mutters to himself, trying to decide how to start, "I don't meant to make you cry-- I keep making you cry-- Fuck-- .... I know you don't like me," he stops in his tracks before he can get to his destination. He mutters to himself some more.
Fuck it.
He hears the telltale patter of Daisy's paws. It makes his fingers tingle.
When he gets to the dining room, he furrows his brows at the emptiness.
Lucy gasps at the sight of him. She topples back then regains her composure. She puts the plate of food she was holding down on the table with a bang. She looks at him and curtsies, "your food, milord."
"Where is she?"
Lucy's glare darkens, "she is dining with the servants."
He chuckles drily. He feels disappointment. He feels hurt. He immediately plays it off, "pretty squirrel's finally had enough of me."
"WILL YOU STOP CALLING 'ER THAT!" Lucy bursts, taking the Hound off-guard.
They both stare at each other, as if equally as shocked by the outburst.
Lucy fumes. Sandor freezes. The former decides she's already spoken, so she might as well continue, "she is a lady! You took her for this," she motions vaguely. "You need her," she speaks firmly, "just as much as she needs you."
The Hound scoffs. His insides burn and curdle at the idea of the little girl needing a beast to keep her safe. He snaps, "well, go ahead and tell her I will gladly be her hound and breed her little monsters as thanks for her nice, warm castle!"
Lucy makes no attempt to hide the revulsion she feels at the sound of the hound's words.
"You know what," he snarls, "why don't I breed her right now as a thank you?"
Lucy's face drops. She runs up to the Hound when he begins to storm off. She crumples like paper when he shoves her away. He doesn't do it hard enough that she shoots off to the table, but it's enough for her to get the message: he was deadly strong.
Lucy does her best to stop him. She cries and begs and screams. She digs her heels into floor and yanks him back but it doesn't do much, it doesn't do anything.
The Hound only stops when he finally sees her.
Lady Clegane is laughing with the servants as they watch Daisy roll on her belly for food. She feeds the dog just as Lucy runs up in front of him, severely distraught and tear stained. Lucy pushes her hands on his chest and begs him to punish her instead.
The Hound is sickened when Daisy runs up to him and whines. He recoils his hand when the bitch licks it.
"Lucy?"
Sandor flinches at the sound of his wife's voice and turns the other way.
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I was in the middle of playing fetch with Daisy when she caught wind of something and ran off to the gate. Usually, this meant Sandor was home. Lo and behold, this moment was not any different.
I turn away immediately when we lock gazes.
The Hound had a large cut of meat on his shoulder. He grunts as Daisy barks and runs up to him, "fuck off, bitch."
He does his best to avoid the dog, nudging her away firmly with his leg as he walks up to a wagon and plops the hind of a cow on there. He hisses at Daisy when she gets on her two back legs and rests one good leg and bad one on his hips.
"Daisy!" I call.
She ignores me.
Sandor looks over his shoulder, "your mam's calling you, dog. Go on!"
Daisy clearly doesn't understand, or doesn't care, and barks at Sandor when he shoves her away. 
"Daisy!" I call and jog up to her when she follows Sandor out of the estate. I run up to the gate and watch as she is chased by the Hound. She runs as fast as her three paws will allow, clearly enjoying what she thought to be a game.
"Come here, you stupid bitch!" the Hound screams.
I turn to one of the men near me. I call Arron over and tell him to tell the Hound not to chase after her. He does just that, "milord! She will stop running if you stop chasing!"
I make a face as Lord Clegane curses and does his final attempt at catching the dog.
"Shall I bait Daisy with some meat, milady?" Arron asks.
I am about to respond but then there is a loud shriek from afar. It makes my blood go still.
The Hound immediately stops, straightens up, and looks at the distance.
I turn to Arron in a panic and tell him to get bait for Daisy. He quickly does that and calls for the dog to come back.
A bunch of peasants run and scream towards the estate; they scream milord.
Sandor goes to them.
When he reaches the panicked townspeople, he tells them all to shut the fuck up and explain what's happening. The old one clamours out that her daughter's been taken, says she was herding the cows then she was suddenly screaming, and he tried to reach her but it was too late. He says his son went to the woods to try and save her sister.
The Hound nods. He easily decides to go into the woods. The man's other son to leads the way.
In truth, the boy didn't have to go with him, he could just head to where the animals were fleeing, but he allowed it because he recognized the boy to be one of the ones in training. He has no idea what his name was though.
He was glad to hear the screams when he did, at least the ones that sounded human.
The Hound sees a lad and a lass running up to him, "RUN WHILE IT'S DISTRACTED!"
The boy by his side screams back, "the Hound is here! He's going to kill it!"
Well, Sandor was only meant to save the girl, and now that the girl was about to run past him, he didn't have to do anything, really. For some reason, he felt compelled to press on. Maybe it was the lack of his sense of self-preservation as of late, or no, don't call it that; it was his need for a distraction, his need prove something.
He sees it, the monster and its fresh kill. It must have been one of the girl's cows, or at least what was left of it. Gods, the abomination was a messy eater. He was glad, at least, it seemed to be starved and solely focused on eating.
His boots stomp into a puddle of blood when he charges at the thing and cuts its head off. That's was quick... and simple...
He's shocked when he hears a hellish scream behind him and gets knocked into a tree.
The Hound is dazed. He hears the battle cry of two voices. He watches the brothers do their best to stab at the thing that towers and claws at them. He promptly gets on his feet and charges at the disgusting fuck, managing to chop off its arm before it chops off the boy's head.
Just as he thinks he's about to get the upper hand, another vile beast pops up from the shadows. He fixes his footing and slashes his sword for his life.
One of the boys get injured. The boy's scream attract the monsters towards him, allowing the Hound to stab through one of them when it's attention is averted.
By the time one of the two vile cretins drop to the ground, the two boys are running for their lives with one monster on their tail. The Hound is forced to chase after them and curses the boys for running. He's not as quick as he was before.
He screams and grabs a rock, chucking it at the slimy tar creature. He throws and shouts some more until the monster is turned back and running towards him.
He slashes the stupid fuck with his sword when its close enough. It still picks a fight though.
He's losing his breath.
The next thing he knows, there's another monster screaming from behind him. The Hound prepares for the one behind him, but it doesn't reach him because its busy ripping something off it with a growl. It chucks something to the side. There is a separate whine that hisses with the wind.
The Hound finally kills the first monster that attacked him. It doesn't take much for him to kill the other as its belly was already gushing with viscous blood.
Once he's the only thing alive and standing, catches his breath and curses. He looks upon the fallen black creatures before him and reckons he ought to get out there before more come out.
But then he hears a rustle to his side. He immediately goes on the defensive and readies for another fight.
He follows the sound of heavy breathing.
His face drops when he hears the way the dog whines when he's spotted.
The Hound sheathes his sword and drops to his knees. He looks at Daisy, her one front paw bent, the other one not. Her hind legs were twisted unnaturally, her side was clawed. She was soaking in red, both hers and otherwise. She was panting and quickly losing blood.
Sandor reaches out to her. Her eyes were wide and teary. She leans into Sandor's touch and licks her nose in a panic.
He begins to feel a rage burn in him. He begins to feel loathe. He whisper-yells, "you stupid dog. You should have stayed home."
Daisy's breath quickens. He realizes see that she is trying not to whine. Gods, the pain she must be in.
He is about to tell her she was stupid for doing that, he is about to tell her she didn't need her help, he is about to tell her she was so fearless for no reason, but then Daisy whines. It was the most horrible thing he's ever heard.
Sandor huffs like he had been stabbed. He grips his hilt tightly, "thank you for saving me, Daisy."
Sandor screws his eyes shut and decides on what he has to do.
He draws his sword. Daisy does not flinch when he presses the sword onto her neck. He thinks about the day they'd first met. 
Fearless.
He strokes her face with his hand once. He screws his eyes shut when he feels her shiver. 
So afraid.
"You're a good dog."
His next stroke pulls Daisy's final breath.
The Hound stands. He looks upon his dog.
He screams.
He screams.
He screams, hell-bent on summoning more monsters. He kills three more stupid fuck, particularly enjoying how he butchered killing a young one.
He takes Daisy's body after. She is rigid against his chest when he reaches the village. He barks out an order to the villagers: burn those fucking monsters he killed. They were more than happy to oblige.
He passes the family he had helped. They are about to come up to thank him but they don't when they see what was in his arms.
He is swarmed with dread with what he is faced with when he reaches the estate. It was very clearly as search party for Daisy.
"SANDOR!" I cry out when I spot him from the distance. "DID YOU SEE DAISY WHEN-" I stop myself when I realize he is covered in blood. Suddenly, I feel awful for not asking him if he was injured before anything else.
His form becomes clearer as I jog up to him and call, "ARE YOU AL-"
I stop in my tracks when I see him adjust something in his arms. I knit my brows and continue walking towards him. Was it a head of a monster? Why was it brownish and not black?
The Hound gives me a solemn look as he inches closer. I furrow my brows at his expression.
It takes a second then suddenly, it clicks.
I let out a horrified cry.
The Hound buries Daisy in the garden himself. Everyone in Brown Wood watches. I force a glance at my poor dog, even though I wanted to do nothing but turn away. Her injuries chill me to the bone. Lucy stands beside me, clutching my arm as she weeps, but does not look at Daisy once.
Maester Yannick speaks some words for her, as per my request, before Sandor covers the grave.
Once it was done, maester Yannick comes to me and says he will plant daisies at her grave come morrow. I cannot find solace, I cannot find myself to care.
"Did you have to slit her throat?!" I demand lowly, voice aching and angry. I eye the Hound with hot contempt and cynicism, "was there REALLY no saving her?!"
"My lady," the maester holds me back, "I saw her body. Lord Clegane showed her mercy."
"Did you enjoy executing your mercy?!" I wail, ripping my arms away from Lucy and Yannick. My gaze does not trail to them at all, as I am intent on getting answers from my dog's executioner.
The Hound's face is blank, it enrages me.
I snarl through tears, "gods, I hope you did! I hope you savored finally being free of your bitch!"
Lucy calls after me as when I storm away. She means to run after me but shoots a glare at the Hound before doing so. She is momentarily stunned when he sees how distraught he looks at the moment. 
Sandor marches out of the estate.
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I jolt awake when I hear the front door opening. I wipe my face and quickly stand from the chair in the middle of the living space. The fireplace near me had already burned out.
After the sound of locks disappear in the darkness, I take the unlit candle on the table beside me and walk up to the burning candelabra to light it.
I hear heavy footsteps draw closer.
Boots skid, "fuck."
I look up after lighting my candle. The Hound looks back at me.
"What are you doing?"
I purse my lips and turn to my feet. I clutch my candle, finding it hard to speak. 
"Lucy kick you out of her bed?" he mutters then begins to walk off.
I look up and follow after him. I finally muster out, "you arrive later and later."
He scoffs.
"It's been five days. I fear you'll not return by the tenth."
I pull my head back and stop in my tracks just as the Hound turns and chuckles, "don't worry, little girl. I like the wages of a Lord. Your hound isn't running."
"I know you're not running!" I snap, "I wonder why you think so poorly of yourself!"
"I think poorly of myself?" he hisses and points to his chest.
"Yes!" I bark and push myself up on my tiptoes to prove a point, "and since you are so keen to put words in my mouth, I hope you shove all the fucking pie the unwitting peasants gave you down your blasted throat!"
The Hound is shocked by my profanity. His face slips into confusion.
I heave and pull back, intent on walking away. And I do. I should have never waited for him.
"What fucking pie?"
I snap and turn back at him, "the one you could have eaten fresh had you spared a moment this morning before leaving for a monster hunt!"
Sandor is wholeheartedly confused.
I am aggravated by his expression. I wave my hands, unintentionally putting out the flame of my candle, "they love you, Hound! They're thankful and grateful!"
Though it was darker now, I see his face pinch in to a sort of disgusted disbelief. The sight infuriates me, it squeezes my heart, it pricks me frustration. I wipe my face and repeat the words that were spoken to me, "tell Lord Clegane that without him my children would be dead. Tell Lord Clegane that he has saved me family from hunger. Tell Lord Clegane that me, and my sons, and my sheep are happy to-"
"I didn't do it for them," Sandor cuts me off with a hand raise.
I purse my lips and slowly pull my head back at his words.
He lowers his hand and eyes me for a moment. I see how his gaze drinks my figure. He clenches his jaw and looks away, "you should be asleep."
My jaw slacks.
I wait for him to look at me. I wait for him to ask if I was going to sleep with Lucy again. I wait for him to apologize for keeping me up worrying. I wait for him to bring up Daisy. I wait him to do something, but he doesn't.
My eyes water, "my lo-"
"Good night," he dismisses and turns around to walk away.
"Aren't you-" my voice cracks, "-going to ask me to go to bed with you?"
He stops in his tracks. He does not look back, "do you want me to?"
I furrow my brows deeply. I feel like I was drowning. I let out a shaky breath and wrap my arms around myself. I shake my head and turn away. I chuckle dryly, "forgive me for even asking."
Sandor turns back, jaw hanging, hands clenched. He does nothing but watch.
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"Do you know what's going to happen now, little girl?"
"Yes."
"What's going to happen?"
"You're going to fuck me."
Sandor laughs lowly, placing his hands on my cheeks. He swipes his thumb on my lips, "filthy mouth."
He kisses me deeply.
"Tell me honest," he mutters through kisses, "have you ever done this before?" he speaks as his hands paw at my sides, "I would not judge you if you did."
I squeak when he touches me between my thighs.
He draws out a deep breath, "no, of course you haven't; you're a good girl."
I gasp at the sound of thunder. I jolt up from my bed-- I turn to my side, seeing a sleeping Lucy's form-- or I mean, Lucy's bed. I look for Daisy in the room as I slowly push the blankets off me. I still when I realize she wasn't here.
I huff and wipe my face. I try to push away the thoughts of Daisy out of my head. I try not to think of her so much because I end up melancholy and furious. I, instead, find myself drifting to the dream I just had-- been having.
The mind can be so treacherous. I nibble my lower lip and rub my belly.
I tried, you know. I went to the Hound the morning after we fought about his coming home late. I tried to make peace with him. I tried to persuade him. I tried to kiss him.
I gasp again when another crack of thunder echoes through the room.
He wasn't having it though. He pushed me away and told me it was wrong, that we shouldn't be doing that. He left the estate shortly after. He hasn't been home since.
I get out of bed and light a candle for myself. I walk to my bedroom and light any of the candles that went off on my way. I wrap my arms around myself and rub my skin. I open the door to room as softly as possible, though it didn't really matter in the end because it was pouring outside and the noise wouldn't be loud.
With a barely audible creak, the door opens.
And it was also empty.
I sigh at the made bed. I walk towards it and smoothen out the already smooth sheets. I decide to get dressed for the day.
I head to the office, which as empty as the bedroom. I light the candles there.
I sit down on the desk and go through the papers, the letters of requests, the list of complaints, the finances, the works. I rub my eyes, willing my sleep away. I look out my window, seeing barely any hint of sun through the dark clouds.
I don't know how exactly how much time passed between then and when Arron burst in, but it must have been a while, considering how nice it felt to stand after hearing him shout, "HE'S HOME, MILADY!"
I immediately blow out the candles as Arron tells me the Hound was in the living area. I thank him for telling me, gather my skirts, and jog out of the room.
I cannot hear the click of my heels over the sound of the persisting rain-- the persisting storm.
I stop in my tracks when I see a trail of water in the corridor that led to my bedroom.
A crack of lightning bolts through the sky when I walk in and ask "where have you been?!"
The Hound is dripping in rain water. He has his back turned to me. He is undoing his armor.
I clench my fists and storm up to him. I circle in front of him the same time he walks towards the closet. He stops there, still undoing his armor, back turned to me again.
I scowl, "Hound! I'm speaking to you!"
He looks over his shoulder, the one he was trying to undo, "what? I can't hear you over the rain."
I burn hot with anger and march up to him, "I asked where you've been!"
The Hound looks down at me. He releases the grip on his shoulder, "does it matter where I've been?"
"Yes!" I snap, "you haven't come home in 7 days."
He scoffs, "thrilling to know you've been counting," he points to the window, "well, as you can see, it's fucking storming."
"It wasn't storming the day you left," I hiss.
"Well, it was when I decided to come to my beautiful wife," he leans down and jeers.
I knit my brows at him and pull back when I smell the alcohol in his breath.
He takes my chin between his fingers, "come on give us a smile."
I pull away from him, heart racing, chin burning, even though his touch got my skin damp with rain water.
The Hound straightens up and undoes his armor again.
I step away from him, "Job said he saw you in the next town over."
"Who the fuck is Job?" he asks, not bothering to look at me.
"Polly's father."
"The stable boy?" he turns to me.
"Yes," I hiss and I feel anger build up in me.
He says nothing.
I nearly choke when I say the next words, "he said he saw you coming out of brothel."
The Hound stills. He drops his hands to the side.
Both of us just stand there for a moment. The rain seems to intensify, and so does the tension between us.
"Tell me the truth," I mutter, "do you-"
"It was the town with the fucking unavailable inn," he shifts in his spot to turn to me, "I went to the brothel instead and paid for lodging there."
I purse my lips at his words. That was not what I was going to ask him. I battle with myself, trying to find the words I want to say. I revise my words over and over again in my head. There were so many things I wanted to say, yet so little ways to make it easy to speak out.
I shake my head, "am I very hard to want?"
Sandor feels rain water drip from his fingers.
I don't know how I feel about the bewildered and perplexed expression that spreads across his face. I do know one thing at least, I feel too exhausted to cry.
I sigh and shrug, "I am no fool, Hound. I learned through the gossip of my maids and my aunts growing up that men are simply like... this. It is their nature to stray. Of course, I hoped different for myself, but we cannot have it all, can we?"
"But I didn't do anything," he snaps. He deflates, "I swear by the gods, old and new."
I press my lips into a tight smile. I slowly walk up to him. He watches me intently. I hear his breath hitch when I begin to undo his armor for him. I half expect him to make me stop. He doesn't.
Sandor steps forward. There's barely any space between us anymore. His heart is racing. His hands itch to touch. He releases a breath when his hand comes to my side.
My stomach swirls at the feel of his palm but I do nothing. Neither do I look at him when I mutter, "maybe you should."
Sandor watches me remove his armor. He furrow his brows and whispers, "what?"
I drop the steel plate to the ground with a clank. It is loud even with the sound of pouring rain.
He doesn't like it when he receives no reply. He takes my wrist. I stop my task. His hand is warm albeit the dampness, and so very gentle. 
I finally look up at him.
He leans closer and speaks louder. He shakes his head and furrows his brows, "what did you say, pretty squirrel?"
I raise my brows, "maybe you should."
"Should what?"
"Do something in the brothels."
His face falls. We stare at each other for a moment. He is clearly in disbelief.
I pull my hand out of his grip. He almost doesn't let me.
"It's not a trick, I swear it."
"What are you saying?" he shakes his head faster and finds himself playing on the offensive, "you want me to be with someone else?!"
"I want a baby," I mutter.
Sandor's face falls again, but then it twists. It is unbearable to look at.
"Find a woman you desire," I turn away from him, "and give her your seed. You may keep her here if you like, and I will let her take care of the babe, but the babe will be mine."
His lips part.
"You're right. I don't want the memory of my family to be tainted by monstrosity-"
He shakes his head once more.
"-and I am the last of my line. My line lives on with House Clegane. People remember names, not blood."
He takes my hand, "I desire you."
I cannot help it. I begin to cry because of that. I break into both tears and laughter, "you needn't shield my heart, Sandor."
Sandor's stomach drops, both at the fact his own words have been used against him and with how his name was spoken.
I place a hand on his cheek.
His knees go weak.
"We've both hurt enough," I smile, "I know you think otherwise, but I'm not a little girl. I know sometimes winning means admitting defeat when the loss is great."
He grabs both my wrists when I try to pull away. I gasp when he does so. He holds me for a second then releases my wrists to capture my cheeks instead. He wipes my tears with his thumbs. He swipes my lips, "I love you."
I screw my eyes shut and cling onto his forearm. I let out another laugh, "I don't think you hurt people that you love, my lord."
The Hound is pierced through his armor.
He doesn't put up a fight when I pull his hands off me.
I continue to undo his armor. He doesn't move an inch.
"Will you sleep with me tonight?" he whispers. The sound of the rain is too loud that only him and the gods heard it.
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Sandor had been out of it ever since his pretty squirrel ate his insides. He was thick faced, literally and figuratively; he's learned to take pride in it, to find solace in the fact all the years of flesh ripping torture-- figuratively and literally, had made him indifferent to what people think, made him apathetic, numb.
And yet her smile that day was worse than a sword through the spleen. Her disbelief in his words-- because she was right, you don't hurt people you love-- was heart wrenching, blood draining.
What do you say to that? How do you fix that?
You don't.
He knows you don't. You can't fix something like that.
And since this truth has dawned on him, since this truth has slit his throat, he's been a headless, mindless fucker. He was a dead man walking, and one more unwitting monster attack away from making it real.
"MILORD!" Carter cries, raising his sword to hack at the monster who managed to swipe his lately-been-aloof Lord Clegane.
The boy is fired up; his blood is pumping enough to enable him to cut the black demon's arm off and sequentially pierce it through its heart. Carter does it with a scream and regrets it a moment later; after all, they were in the middle of the woods.
They have to get out of here.
Sandor makes a pained noise. He feels heat surge down his arm and cold shiver up his spine.
"YOU'RE BLEEDING!" Carter gasps, mortified that his lord's armor was scraped off his back. The boy realizes suddenly that his Lord, the fearsome Hound, was not invincible. This newfound truth rips into his ribs the way, he thinks, the monsters would.
The boy immediately takes the Hound in his arms, though it wasn't like he could actually carry him if he wanted. Sandor steadies himself on the boy; Carter struggles even with that task. 
Still, the smaller manages to support his Lord out of the woods.
The next thing Sandor knows, he's screaming and thrashing. He vaguely hears the sound of footsteps skidding away from him.
"What's happening, Maester Yannick?!"
A deep sigh, "he probably feels the pain now."
Sandor realizes he's sat down on a stool, leaned against a table, or at least he was before he started flailing his arms around. He lets out a guttural cry as he pushes himself up. He realizes he's in the ward, being attended by the maester, and his wife was present and very troubled.
"My lord!" Yannick exclaims, raising his hands in both surrender and an attempt to soothe, "it's alright. I have stitched your wounds closed. Do not tear them open "
Sandor huffs through his nostrils. He turns to his side when he hears the soft way his name was spoken. Lady Clegane walks closer, hand wanting to reach out to him. He almost reaches back but then she digs her nails into her palms.
He sinks into the stool and watches her look at him. Her eyes are glassy. Why are they always glassy?
"My lord," Yannick walks towards him, "I'm going to wrap your wounds now."
Sandor huffs in agreement, or more accurately, acknowledgement. His eyes are still fixed on her though. He watches her hover around him, evidently unsure about approaching him.
He wants to reach out to her. He wants to touch her, to soothe her so, so badly.
He's shocked when she decides to take his hand and whispers, "shall I get you milk of the poppy?" 
Sandor looks up at her. Her voice was shaky and he hates how worried it sounded, how desperate. He hates how her eyes were constantly red. He knits his brows, "no."
She hisses, "are you certain? Your gashes are deep. No one in the world would fault you for wanting something to relieve the pain."
"I want to feel it," he mutters, "I want to feel."
She looks between the two of them in a panic, "but you've lost so much blood--"
"Perhaps," Yannick interrupts firmly. He starts binding his wounds, "he wants to feel precisely because he's light headed after losing blood."
Sandor straightens up slowly as he is instructed to. His attention is solely focused on the sensation on his hand though, on how the jittery squirrel was rubbing her soft fingers on his calloused skin.
She persists with this action until his chest and back is bound, she persists until Maester Yannick leaves the room, she persists until, next moment, she drops on her knees beside him. The Hound reacts in an instant.
He gets on the floor beside her, uncaring how it hurt his back, and clutches her face. He calls her name in horror.
"Are you punishing me?" she whispers as water in her eyes threaten to spill.
Sandor knits his brows deeply. He can't speak. He's too afraid to. Everything he's said up until that point has done nothing but rip them both apart. He was a hound after all.
"Are you trying to kill yourself to get back at me?" she mutters, distressed, pained, and defeated.
His face contorts even more. He hesitates but then shakes his head, "no."
"The boy said you've been acting differently as of late!" she grabs his wrists, "ever since I told you what I wanted from you."
His lips twitch. He looks away.
She tightens her grip, "please."
He is suddenly so acutely aware of his injuries. The pain throbs all the way through his heart.
"Please," she begs softly, "just tell me what you want from me-"
"Everything."
The way he responded was quick, as if it was practiced, as if it was reflex.
He avoids her gaze. He takes a deep breath. He waits for a response he somehow knows will never come.
When he turns to her, he notices how her face dropped. Gods, Sandor. Get it together.
"I want-" he starts but cannot continue because of how guilty he feels over the sight of her wobbling lip.
Sandor's hands loosen. They melt from her cheeks, down her shoulders. He grips the area, as if she was water about to slip through his fingers. He releases a breath, and with it, it seems, his thoughts escape. He mutters somethings that mean nothing. She doesn't understand anything.
She whimpers, "I have nothing left to give; you already have it all."
The Hound freezes when his cheek is touched, when his scar is touched. It's like it's being burned all over again.
"Is there something I can give you now?" she huffs uneasily.
He sighs. He feels the wounds throbbing; he feels his head pounding, "no."
"Then will you let me go now?" 
No. No, no, no, no-
"Or, please, at least loosen your grip."
Immediately, Sandor releases her shoulders. She sequentially lets out a breath and rubs the area. There is an imprint on the area of her exposed skin.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-
"Do you want me to stay?"
Yes. "Do you want to stay?"
"I had planned to finish some errands before going to bed."
Sandor averts his gaze then slowly crawls back to his stool, "then leave."
It almost hurts as much as his cuts how quickly she stands. She looks down at him, "I will leave you to your solidarity."
Please don't go.
"I will tell Maester Yannick to come back to attend to you, Hound."
Hound. It sounds like shattering glass.
Sandor listens to the click of her heels as she leaves him.
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valeskafics · 10 months
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"The Lady of Crab Isle" - Dark!Jon Snow x Baratheon!Reader
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Summary: Jon desperately wants what Lord Celtigar has - you.
Word Count: 1,960 Words
TW: afab reader, she/her pronouns, infidelity, dark/yandere jon, breeding k*nk, degradation k*nk, f*ngering, p in v s*x, choking, loss of v*rginity
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
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When Jon Snow first sees you, riding into Castle Black alongside your lord husband Alton Celitgar, he’s not quite sure what to make of you. You’re quite different to any woman he’s met in his young life. You carry yourself with all the dignity of a queen, and in your own right, you are royalty, being the eldest daughter of who many deem to be the rightful king, Stannis Baratheon. You’ve arrived alongside your father and husband, seeking the loyalty of the Night’s Watch for your father’s cause.
You command the attention of any room you walk into, and Jon knows it’s not just because you’re the only woman these men have seen, some of them, in years. You just have that presence about you that makes people want to sit up and listen to what you have to say. Even your father seems to heed your counsel above all others, often taking walks with you along the expanse of the Wall during your time there. Jon’s heard it said that the only time the dour Baratheon ever smiles is in your presence, his beloved daughter.
Your husband, too, seems entirely infatuated with you. Lord Celtigar with his platinum locks and blue eyes, evidence of his Valyrian heritage, is quite the handsome man. And he’s the lord of Crab Isle. Jon knows that being Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is nothing in comparison to the life your husband is able to give you, but he can’t help coveting what Lord Celtigar has. You. He watches you walk by every day in your furs, snow falling on your hair, your face, making you look almost like some sort of winter fairy.
Worst of all? You seem to adore your husband. You’re always smiling at the man, always intertwining your arm in his when the two of you are together, always pressing a kiss to his cheek. Jon hates the jealousy that burns in his gut every time he sees you with Lord Celtigar. Jon’s heard the rumors, of course. That you and Lord Celtigar have yet to consummate your union, you being too worried about bringing a babe into this world in the state of war your family finds itself in.
Jon’s quite sure if he’d been your lord husband, he’d have consummated the marriage the moment he got you alone. His dark eyes are always on you, tracing the shape of your hips, gazing at the bit of cleavage your dress affords, your elegant neck, your lips… He’s meant to take no wife and hold no lands. He’s the Lord Commander. But he can’t help but want you. No, not want you. Want is too weak of a word for it. He needs you in the most carnal of ways. His thoughts are consumed by you, the image of you beneath him as he takes you, your face twisted in pleasure, tears pouring from your eyes as you beg him for more. Jon knows you must look absolutely beautiful when you cry. Even more when you beg.
One morning, while on patrol, he passes by you, gazing out at the vast wintery expanse beyond the Wall, a pensive expression on your face. Jon decides to approach you, giving you a low bow.
“My lady.”
You turn and nod your head at him politely, the expression on your face betraying nothing of what you think of him, “Lord Commander.”
“We’ve not been formally introduced,” Jon says, “I’m Jon Snow.”
“Lady Baratheon,” you pause before correcting yourself, “Sorry. Celtigar. Not Baratheon anymore.”
“You’re Lord Celtigar’s lady wife then?” Jon asks, feigning ignorance as he smiles at you, “I did not know Lord Celtigar had been blessed with a wife so beautiful.”
Jon watches as you warm to him ever so slightly at the compliment, giving him a polite smile, “Thank you, but it is I who is blessed with a husband such as Alton.”
Alton. He hates the way you say the name with so much affection. Jon tries to shake off the feeling that threatens to overtake him, instead, taking a step closer to you, gazing into your eyes in an effort to convey his interest in you.
“Tell me, my lady, what are you doing here at the Wall?”
“My father, the rightful king, is here. My husband, one of his most trusted lords, is here. It’s my duty to be here as well,” you state.
Jon frowns slightly, attempting to hide his jealousy at the fondness you show your husband, “But why are you here, my lady? There’s nothing but snow and ice. I assume you were brought up on Dragonstone, being Lord Stannis’s daughter. Why not stay there or Crab Isle?”
“I follow my husband wherever he goes.”
You say it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And Jon hates it. He lets out a low chuckle before turning to you.
“I hope your husband is as devoted to you as you seem to be to him,” he moves even closer toward you, those dark eyes fixed on yours, a heated intensity behind them that sends a shiver up your spine as he questions, “My lady, are you happy? Do you see your husband often? Or is he too preoccupied with your father to spend any time with his lovely wife?”
You nod, looking away from him, “I see him often, yes, though less so than before. These are trying times, after all, and my father needs him.”
Jon closes the distance between you, moving a hand to rest against your cheek, his eyes nearly aflame with desire, “Your husband is a fool if he neglects a woman like you.”
You pull away after a moment of enjoying his touch, remembering yourself and speaking coolly, “He doesn’t neglect me, my lord. You needn’t worry about that.”
“My lady,” Jon’s eyes harden slightly at your rebuke, “Let me prove to you what your husband seems unable to show.”
Jon suddenly pulls you into his arms and kisses you. It’s not soft, or tender. His lips are hot and hungry against yours. You lose yourself in the kiss for a moment, hands moving to tangle in his dark curls. But when he bites down on your lower lip, you come back to your senses and push him away. You turn to leave, but Jon gives chase, taking hold of your hand, calling after you to wait.
“Leave me alone!” you demand, pulling your hand away from him, only to feel Jon wrap his arms around your waist.
His face is mere inches from yours. And the fact that he’s stronger than you, able to hold you in place like this, able to so easily dominate you, makes you feel that all too familiar ache between your thighs. But he’s not your husband. You shouldn’t want this. You turn your face from him, attempting to ignore the feeling of his hands on you.
“You might as well stop resisting, my lady,” he says, his voice a low whisper in your ear, “You know you want this as much as I do.”
You open your mouth, about to scream for your husband, but Jon captures your lips in another searing kiss. And this time, you don’t push him away. You let him kiss you, his hands moving under the fabric of your skirt, squeezing the flesh of your thighs. You let out a sharp gasp as he moves to rub at your core over the fabric of your underwear. You meet his gaze, so dark that its almost black, panting against him as he continues teasing you.
“Look at you,” Jon scoffs, “So desperate and I’ve hardly even touched you. Your husband is truly missing out on his sweet little wife. How desperate she is to have her cunny filled.”
You know he’s right. That’s the worst part of it. You’ve wanted nothing more for the past few months than for your lord husband to make you one flesh, but the two of you have come up with excuse after excuse for drawing it out. But here, on top of the Wall with Jon Snow, looking over your father’s encampment where your husband surely is, you find that this man of the Night’s Watch, Ned Stark’s bastard, is willing to give you the treatment you so desperately seek.
Jon moves your underwear aside, pushing two thick fingers inside you, groaning at how tight you feel around him, “That’s right, Princess,” he says, using your title from before your marriage, sending another thrill of excitement through you as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, curving them, hitting the spot deep inside of you that always pushes you over the edge, “I can feel how wet you are for me. Like a wanton little whore.”
His words awaken something inside of you. You enjoy the way he’s speaking to you, the way he degrades you, making you his little whore as he pushes his fingers inside you over and over. His thumb moves to rub at your pearl, causing you to let out a strangled gasp of his name as you reach your peak against his fingers. Jon pulls them out of you, pushing them into your mouth, a silent demand for you to lick them clean, which you very eagerly do.
“Your lips look so pretty wrapped around my fingers,” he says, his voice low and heady with want, “Next time we’ll see how they look wrapped around something else.”
He removes his fingers from your mouth, hiking your dress up to your waist and undoing his breeches. Jon turns you around so that he may press himself up against your backside, landing a hard slap to your rear. You let out a yelp, only to have him land another one, the sting feeling oddly pleasurable as he bullies the fat head of his length inside you, breaking your maidenhead. It hurts, but you’re so desperate to be filled at this point that all you can do is grip the wall before you and beg for more, beg for him to go faster.
“Do you want me to fuck you full of my seed?” Jon growls as he drags himself against your inner walls, pulling out before slamming himself back in, making you cry out, “Is that what you want? To feel my seed spilling out of your cunny down your legs as you walk back to your husband?”
“Yes, my lord,” you nearly sob as one of his hands moves around to squeeze your neck, slightly restricting your airflow, “Want you to fuck me full of your seed, want to be your desperate whore.”
“Every night while you’re here, I’ll fill you up,” he promises, or is it a threat? He growls in your ear, “I’m going to breed you, you pathetic, wanton little thing. I can feel you squeezing around me. Are you this close again already? Hm? Are you going to soak my cock, you pathetic little whore?”
“I am,” you manage to choke out as he squeezes your neck tighter, “Jon, please-”
“Come for me,” he murmurs, biting down on your shoulder, “Come for your lord.”
You spill yourself on him, Jon spilling himself deep inside you soon after, breeding you, true to his word. The two of you stand there, breathless, looking at each other, the realization of what has just happened hitting you.
“I should go,” you mumble awkwardly, “Good day, Lord Commander.”
Jon watches as you leave, smirking when you give a glance back at him over your shoulder before darting off, back to your husband. But Jon knows now that you’ve had a taste of the darkness that lurks within him, you’ll certainly be back for more.
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catsteeth · 21 days
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The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog
+:✿ Chapter - 1 ✿:+
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Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it. 
CW: slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of animal death, alcohol consumption, mention of infant death, mention of parent(s) death, loras being very lgbtq , mention of arranged marriage. 
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Leaving the Eyrie at first was exciting. You hated to admit it, you screamed at your father for even suggesting it, you cried like a child, but it was. The Eyrie was hardly a home, It was cold, isolated, and a constant reminder of what you’d lost. Kings Landing was warm, crowded, and offered a future outside of living in the past. 
Your father, Jon Arryn, was more than optimistic that you would find a suitor worthy of your name. Your aunt and now step mother, Lysa Arryn was elated at the opportunity of ridding her and Robin’s lives of you. 
After the death of your mother, Aemma of house Tully, your father married her sister, your aunt. You could have stomached it, you could have even forgiven it, if it weren’t for the fact your mother died during her labors of childbirth. 
As you and your father rode in the carriage, your mind couldn’t help but think of it. You’d spent your mothers entire pregnancy hoping she’d bear a son. You even prayed, prayed to the seven Gods whom you didn’t even believe in. You had hoped if the child was a boy, you wouldn’t have to be wed off to the best house name possible. 
What's worse, not only did the labors kill your mother, but it also killed your brother. You’d prayed for a brother and the Gods gave you a brother. But they took him away and your mother with him. 
You had spent days sulking, wallowing in grief. Unbeknownst to you, all the while your father was arranging his own marriage with Lysa. A son followed behind soon, Robin, the brat. You hated him, even if you were the same blood.
“We approach,” your father said under his breath. It was enough to bring you back to reality. 
“How long will I be here?” You asked, knowing the answer. Your father shot you a look with a furrowed brow, as if to say, “You already know.” You nodded as your concerned gaze turned to a glare as you looked out the carriage into the city. You lost your sweetness after your mother died, you were in no rush to get it back. 
“Who am I to wed?” You asked flatly, your stoic expression and eyes filled with venom shot outside of the carriage and away from your father. 
He sighed and looked upon you softly. “The Baratheon boys are eligible I suppose,” before he could finish you began. “Blondes, I have a distaste for blonde men.” You say as you rest your chin on your fist, still staring outside of the carriage. Your father let out a sigh about to lecture you on the importance of uniting families and the unimportance of such trivial things like personal happiness. But you cut him off, you look at him with eyes filled with venom, “I know you’ve a plan. You don’t go into anything blind.” he let out a small huff of a laugh as you arrived at the impressive castle. Your eyes did move from your fathers however. “You are just like your mother. Filled with angry eyes and hard questions.” Your eyes narrowed a bit, as the door to the carriage opened. 
“Welcome Lord Arryn, welcome Lady (Y/N)” 
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Later that evening, you met the Lannisters and Baratheons over dinner. 
You took note of the “Baratheon boys” your father mentioned. Sons of the King. From all those story books you'd read as a girl you would have thought that Princes’s would be handsome, kind, gentle, and brave. However you weren’t a naive child anymore. So the scrawny and boyish looking Joffrey didn’t surprise you, but did disappoint you. And Tommen was boyish too however Tommen was just that, a boy, a child. You found yourself praying again, praying you wouldn’t be subjected to an arranged marriage between either of them. 
The dinner was mostly spent with your father and Robbert yammering, and occasionally people needing to remind you that you were being spoken to. 
It was strange, on one hand you were excited to be out of the isolation of the Eyrie, on the other hand you couldn’t care less about the people around you. That was until the royal family's guard stepped into the room. The man was giant, standing at least 6 '6, his shoulders were so broad he had to step into a room at an angle. You felt your eyes linger on the figure just a second too long. Reverting it back to your hands in your lap. 
You felt her cheeks blush, you felt yourself get embarrassed by this. But the thing is you’ve never seen a man like that. You never saw a man that big, a man that broad, ever. The Eyrie was secluded and maybe men from the vale were just shorter. Maybe this was a southern thing. Before you could roll the thought around your brain for long, the hulking figure walked to the opposite side of the room, it was only then when you noticed his face lit by the candle lights.You saw the left side of his face first. His face was masculine, there was nothing about his appearance that was feminine. As you analyzed his face, he turned it towards you which is when you saw the opposite of his face. It was horribly scarred, all the hair on his face was burnt off and ribboned in scarred tissue. 
It was beautiful. You’d never seen anything like it. 
You didn’t break your gaze as it was intertwined with the giant in the room. His deep brown eyes seemed somewhat confused with something about you. You felt the blush returning to your cheeks and nose as you studied him. You only broke your improper gaze once you felt the dread you feel everytime your fathers gaze comes towards you. You were able to look away before he noticed. He grabbed ahold of your hand and shot you a half hearted smile hoping your sour mood would magically improve with this minimal affection. However the daggers in your eyes did not surrender. 
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You spent the following days walking around the castle, hoping for another glimpse at the man everyone feared so terribly. You asked your father about him, “He’s the royal family's dog, both the Cleganes are. They are not the kind of people I wish for you to be around.” You rolled your eyes, but the information you got from anyone else was no better. His monstrous and vile actions. His temper is so fierce he’d kill anyone without a second thought. But when you saw his eyes, those deep brown eyes, they weren’t mean or angry they were sad. They were scared.
Days in this shit city were long, and often just as boring as the days in the Eyrie. Only instead of a shivering cold there was a sticky warmth. Instead of Lysa and Robin there was Cersei and Joffrey. At least Robin didn’t kill little creatures and beat girls for fun. 
There were some advantages to living here however. There were more books, more food, more drinks, more dresses, more music. Living so high in the mountain such luxuries were sparse. Luxuries like friends, of which you felt you gained a few. The Tyrells for example were the only people you felt you could be truly honest with. Specifically Loras, there was a sense of vulnerability you two shared with each other. Both of you are unhappy with the prospect of marriage, arranged specifically. You remember the time he confessed to you that he was in love with a man. You walked through the garden together, those times became special. The only times when you and he could speak plainly. You always thought of how lovely it would be to have a friend, someone to trust solely. You always thought it would be a woman but you couldn’t complain. 
You held onto his hands as he confessed. He said he wished he could change, to not be what he was. 
“Never,” You held onto his hands tighter “Never wish for such things. Change even a single thing of you and you aren’t you. And you are my friend, my dearest friend.” You whispered, he embraced you tightly. You however had a slight growing distaste for Renly, a man who brought such tears to your friend. 
To anyone secretly observing, it was courting. To you and he, it was friendship. In its purest way. 
Maybe your father was true to his promise, he’d find you a man whom you’d love, a man who was brave and gentle. Only this love was different. As he was the only person you could trust.
The two of you thought of a plan for you and the wedding of one another. It was a good plan, the two of you would be bound by love and respect of which you both shared for the other. And the two of you would be free to find romantic, and sexual love freely. Loras teased you’d be able to fuck all the KingsGaurd if The Hound did not please you. It made you giggle but blush in embarrassment like a little girl.
Honestly you and he would have had the most healthy relationship of all the realm, and the only difference would be the two of you never consummated. But who would need to know? 
You almost went through with it after the death of your father. If it weren’t for the fact Cersei forced her company upon you so much, you could have ran to the nearest septon and made your marriage official. But Cersei never left you alone, you were either with her, or one of her ladies. And, and you hated to admit it, you’d miss those butterflies in your belly anytime you caught The Hounds gaze. It makes your cheek red and your belly burn. And you loved it, it might have been the only reason you could have lived during those days. You spent anytime you got alone with Loras talking about The Hound, a topic he grew bored of quickly. So you also spoke of your marriage. 
However these plans changed at the arrival of your cousin Sansa. Upon her arrival you saw a girl who would never handle the city she was stepping into with such naive big eyes and fairy tale fantasies of her future. You agreed with Olenna that Loras should attempt to court Sansa prior to her wedding with Joffrey, one last attempt at her freedom. You began to care less and less of your own.
Selfless yes, but stupid. 
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During the tournament you sat beside Sansa, and her father Nedd Stark who had such an affinity to your father apparently it was transferred to you now that he was dead and gone. She begged her father to stop the tournament. You wanted to roll your eyes at it, but you also wished someone would stop it as well. The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, scared you. He was different from his brother. The Hound was almost as big but he had a stoic and sad nature to him, even though everyone told you to beware. The brother you feared was Gregor, he was unstable, rabid, and frightened you to no end. You’d hoped your plan of him using your mare, who was in heat, would work. 
It was a trick, but a good one, if it worked. And it did, it upsets and confuses Gregor's mount. Gregor was thrown off his horse. You felt a wave of relief as Sansa stood and cheered. What you didn’t account for was Gregor's reaction. Gregor, absolutely furious, decapitated his own horse. You, still seated, grabbed ahold of Sansa’s arm as Gregor made his way to Loras. You sat and watched, you hoped someone, anyone would intervene. Renly, Nedd, the King, anyone. 
Just as you were sure that was the end, “Leave him be!” The giant man behind you roared. The Hound swung his sword blocking a fatal blow to Loras. You sat there, your eyes not wide but narrowed and brows furrowed. You studied the battle between these two brothers. You wondered why, why would this man risk his own life just to save one of Loras? If he was the merciless monster that everyone had claimed, why do this? As you watched these men fight you noticed, the noble men all fought as they were trained, this man fought as he knew would kill. He fought with experience. 
You couldn’t help but find it exciting. 
As The King called off this fight, The Hound dodged a fatal blow he simultaneously bowed to the King. This made your lips part slightly as you struggled to conceal a smile. 
As Loras named The Hound champion everyone stood and clapped, but not you. 
You sat and stared at the man, your cheeks with a renewed blush on them. You smiled softly at him, his gaze soon met your own. Once met, it was hard to break. 
You managed to weasel your way out of the sight of the Starks and Lannisters to check on Loras. As you made your way to the stables you didn’t find Loras but The Hound. You felt like you walked into a brick wall as you saw the Giant drinking from a wine skin sitting against the stable that held your own horse. He didn’t look at you as he said “Your pretty boy isn’t here, girl.” as he took another long swig of the wineskin in his fist. 
“I’m sure I don’t know who you refer to.” You lie as you slowly walk over to your horse. 
“Fuck you don’t.” He hissed  “Dirty trick you and that boy pulled.” 
“No honor in tricks.” You say feeding your horse some feed from your palm. 
“Honor,” He scuffs “only cunts believe in that shit.” your brows raised, you’d never heard a man curse so much. They rarely did in the company of a Lady. 
“There was honor in what you did, It was quite brave, Ser.” 
“I'm not a ser, I already told your pretty boy that.” 
“Loras is not my ‘pretty boy’” you said in a mocking tone making the hound crack a small smirk. 
“Fuck off,” He scuffed, “Round that boy you’re as in heat as that bitch mare in that stable.” 
“Is that why you came here? You sit in front of my mare's stable because you wanted to accuse me of having relations with a friend of mine?” You eyes shift from your mare to glare at him with disgust. His eyes locked with yours. He hardly needed to look up at you to see your eyes. 
“I don’t like the way you look at me.” He said flatly
“I don’t like the way you talk to me.” Your eyes went back to your mare. “Don’t talk to me like that and I won’t look at you like that.”
“Don’t matter how you look at me, just that you do.” He said as he took another swig. 
You looked down contemplating what that could have meant as you looked over to him. 
“Didn’t I just fuckin’ tell ya not to do that?” He growled however your gaze did not falter. 
“You did not, you said you don’t like it.” You asserted mockingly, not at all scared of this man beside you, even though you maybe should be.
He stood, showing just how small you were in comparison to him. As he loomed over you, his eyes raked over every part of you, avoiding your eyes. 
“It will serve you well to listen to a man. Save yourself some pain. Some men, like to hit stubborn girls like you. Men who like to beat them.” He said in a somewhat more gentle tone than before. 
Your eyes met him once more, as you looked up at him, you realized he’d never been so close to you. 
“And what of you? Are you one of those men?” You asked teasing him, testing his patience 
“Maybe,” he rasped “You don’t know the things I’ve done,” 
You turned your body towards him to face him completely. 
“You should be scared of me, of any man in this shit city.” 
“I should be, but I’m not. I tried to be, but I can’t make myself feel frightened by you.” You said fidgeting with your necklace. 
“I’m a killer,” He wrapped his fingers around your throat, but his grasp was hardly there at all, almost like he was hovering his hand there. “I could crush your pretty throat.” 
“Do it.” You said quickly, His brows furrowed, “You think I want to live here? Do it.” you held onto his wrist, needing both hands to grasp his thick wrist fully. “No, you won’t hurt me.” You say softly. 
His hand runs down your throat and lays flat engulfing your chest in his palm as his fingers laid on your collar bone. He felt your heartbeat for a moment, savoring it.  “No, no little bird, I won't hurt you.” He conceded painfully, the name he called you made your cheeks blush. With that he turned away from you and stomped out of the stables. 
You felt yourself release a breathe, fuck, you thought to yourself. 
Few questions remained in your mind, ‘Why was he so gentle?’  and ‘Why did he make you feel this way?’
NOTE: Hi, this is my first time writing any fanfiction- believe me it will get better. We will be fuckin I promise we will be laying it down girls!! This one is mainly just world building. Let me know if there's anything you’d like to see going forward! 
Xoxo 
Bambi <3
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dragons-and-handcuffs · 6 months
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Stepfather Maegor taking his stepdaughter by one of his wives as a new bride tho
He has a public bedding ceremony in front of the whole court (including her mother) and has them watch as he impregnates her 🐉
Imagine Maegor killed a lord who had a wife and a daughter. He first married the wife, everyday threatening her that if she doesn't obey he is going to claim her daughter. The wife always serves him and obeys him in fear and then he ends up marrying the daughter anyway. He tells the mother how he can't wait to marry his step daughter and have her under him while he fucks her.
In the wedding ceremony he gives a deep hungry lustful kiss to his young new wife/step daughter, the guards forces the mother to look. For the wedding ceremony he makes his new wife face her mother as he rip open her dress. The girl moaning and melting in his arms as he gropes her, his eyes taunting the mother. Everyone present in the room watching him claim his new wife. Maegor making her look at them as he takes her from behind. When he is done he spreads her legs so everyone can see that he has filled her up with his seeds. He then order the mother to clean her up and give her a rough lustful kiss
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