"She Wolf" - Tywin Lannister x Stark!Reader
a/n: first time writing for tywin. this is a request from @mrstargayen09, i hope y'all enjoy! 🩷
Summary: You are willing to do whatever it takes to save what is left of your family. Even if that means giving yourself to a man you despise.
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, age gap, power imbalance, idk slightly dubcon, manipulation, spanking, pussy slapping, finger sucking, p in v sex, choking, breeding kink, creampie, jaime lol
Word Count: 2,550 words
Rating: 18+, MDNI
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.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷
You know the raven in your hands was not meant for you the moment you begin to read it. But, it was stamped with the Frey sigil. You know of your twin’s betrothal to the Frey girl, and so you wonder… Why would Robb’s ally be in correspondence with Tywin Lannister? Your eyes go wide as you read the contents of the letter.
The Boltons… The Freys… Conspiring against your beloved twin. You cover your mouth in horror, realizing that there’s no way for you to warn Robb or your mother. You remain the Lannisters’ hostage, kept in your gilded cage. It could be worse, you suppose. You could have still been forced to marry Joffrey. But, luckily, with Sansa having escaped King’s Landing with the Hound during the siege and your brother’s declaration of an independent North, the betrothal to him was broken. He is now Lady Margaery’s problem, and a rather big one at that.
Your mind runs wild with ideas, wondering how in the world you’re going to save what is left of your family. Arya, Jon, and Sansa are scattered to the four winds, Bran and Rickon are gone, and Robb leads an army though he is far too young to do so. It falls on you to save Robb and your mother. And you will do whatever you must.
The audacity you demonstrate when you demand an audience with the Hand of the King amuses him. He’s always known that you were a fiery creature from his limited interactions with you. The blood of the wolf most certainly runs through your veins, for when you enter the Tower of the Hand, you do so with your head held high, hands folded at your waist, eyes narrowed. You’re quite beautiful, he muses, though he hasn’t paid much mind to such things ever since his beloved Joanna died. Though when he looks at you, he feels a strange stirring in his belly, a fire being stoked that he thought was put out years ago. His gaze wanders to your cleavage as you step closer and greet him, dipping in a curtsy.
“Lord Tywin. I wish to discuss something with you.”
He gestures to the chair in front of him, nodding, “Take a seat, Lady Stark.”
“I would prefer to stand.”
He arches a brow, studying you. The way you carry yourself is intriguing. Any lesser man would cower under the glare you’re giving him. You do not act as a hostage, but rather, you act as a lady of your noble house. He nods nearly imperceptibly, meeting your gaze.
“As you wish, Lady Stark. Now, why is it that you so forcibly demanded to see me?”
“I know, my lord.” Tywin’s expression does not change and so, you continue, “I know of your plot. What is to happen at the Twins in a fortnight’s time. I know that there is precious little I can do to stop it in my current position, so I have come to make you an offer.”
Tywin narrows his eyes slightly, taken aback by the fact that you know of his plan. The plan to massacre what little is left of your family. It would seem that, even with the credit he gives you, he has underestimated you. To a certain degree, it’s a bit amusing.
“What is it you offer me then, Lady Stark? Why should I spare your usurper brother?”
“I am the only card you have left to play when it comes to the North,” you declare boldly, “My sisters have fled. My younger brothers have been killed. If you wish to secure any form of alliance with the North, you will need to betroth me to one of your kin. And if you do not swear that this plan will be called off, I will ensure that I take my own life and make it seem that it was your family who did it.” Tywin’s expression darkens slightly as you continue, “Make no mistake, I am a daughter of the North. I am prepared to die for my family. For what I believe in. And if my kin hold you responsible, you and your children will be the last of the lions.”
He remains silent for a long moment, pondering over your words before lifting his eyes to meet you, “You are a formidable young woman, Lady Stark. You have the spirit of your Aunt Lyanna within you.” Tywin’s gaze lingers upon your breast once again before he nods firmly, “Very well then. I will see to it that Lords Bolton and Frey do not act against your brother. After your uncle marries Lady Frey at the Twins, proof will be provided to you of your brother and mother’s well-being and then, you will marry a Lannister.” He stands to his full height, towering above you as he stares down at you with those piercing eyes, “You will marry me. One of my sons is a drunken fool, the other has pledged himself to the Kingsguard. You are young. You will bear me as many sons as I desire.”
Your blood feels like ice in your veins. This man… He cannot be serious, can he? But judging by the look on his face, he is. And deathly so. Taking a tremulous breath, you nod.
“We have a deal, my lord.”
The Lannister watches as you curtsy and leave, his gaze trained on you like that of a lion, ready to devour his prey.
Lord Tywin sends a gown for you along with a note a few days later, declaring he wishes to get to know you better in the days leading up to your wedding. He requests you to come to the Tower of the Hand, wearing the gown he has procured for you, and dine with him every evening henceforth. You let Shae help you into the dress and her brows knit together as she realizes just how much the deep red gown emphasizes your bust and hips, your breasts practically spilling from the bodice. Before she can say anything, curse the old man for being a lecher, you embrace her tightly.
“I’ll be alright, Shae. I know what I’m doing.”
She watches you go, escorted by none other than Ser Jaime, wondering why the old man couldn’t have promised you to him.
You and Jaime walk in silence, footsteps echoing through the halls. It is he who finally speaks as you reach the Tower.
“I am truly sorry, Lady Stark.”
You turn to him, giving him a curt nod, “As am I, Ser Jaime.”
He leaves you at the door, bowing his head before walking away, the sound of his armor clinking fading into the distance. You steel yourself before pushing the door open, greeting the old lion, your face a mask of impassivity.
“My lord.”
You can feel his sharp gaze on you, the way it lingers on your chest, your hips. You can’t help but feel a thrill go up your spine at his hungry gaze. You ought to hate this man for all he has done to harm your family.
“Lady Stark,” he greets, rising from his chair and walking over to you, taking your hand. He lays a kiss upon it, ever the picture of gentility, “You look stunning. It seems I chose your dress well.”
“I look like a Silk Street whore.”
Tywin smirks slightly at your candor, enjoying your boldness and wit, “Your opinion on the matter means little, my lady. What matters is what I think of you, and I think you look absolutely divine.”
“I’m sure you do,” you mutter under your breath as you sit down.
“Are you so stubborn that you will not admit how beautiful you look in the gown I chose for you?”
“I know I look beautiful,” you reply dryly, taking a sip of your wine, gazing at him over the rim of the glass, “I also look like a painted whore. The two are not mutually exclusive, my lord.”
He chuckles quietly, “You speak too freely, Lady Stark. You ought to know that there are some things that should remain unsaid.”
“I thought a woman is meant to speak freely to her husband.”
“That is only when one has something intelligent to say.”
“I apologize then, for my lack of intellect,” you reply icily as you grab a piece of bread, “I am just a Northern savage after all, my lord. We Starks are not known for mincing our words, my lord. If there is something on my mind, I would rather state it plainly.”
He should be annoyed at your defiance, your bold-faced disrespect intriguing him. It will be quite satisfying to finally put you in your place, snarling little she-wolf that you are.
“I can see that, but you may want to consider the fact that you are not in Winterfell anymore, my lady. Words carry consequences here in the South.”
“Trust me, my lord, I’m well aware of the fact,” you reply icily, your father’s head on the executioner’s block flashing like a lightning bolt in your mind.
Tywin takes a sip from his own glass, “Sometimes, the hard truth must be concealed to ensure there is peace. You may not agree with it, but the North has no idea how to rule. Your father is a perfect example of that.”
Tywin sees the way you gnash your teeth, gripping the knife at your side as if you want nothing more than to drive it through his cold, black heart. Instead, you stare down at your plate, stabbing at the venison in front of you, taking a bite. A sly smile curls on his lips as he watches you, his gaze moving between your lips and your chest. He clears his throat and beckons you to him with a curved finger. You stare at him incredulously for a moment, wondering if he’s actually serious, when he speaks up.
“Come here, girl.”
The commanding tone to his voice makes your stomach flutter as you stand to your feet and walk toward him. He nods at his servants and they leave, locking the door behind them. You swallow thickly, standing before him, feeling his cold gaze on you, as if seeing through to your very soul. He stands as well, his form dwarfing yours as he moves to trace your lips with his fingertips.
“Such a pretty mouth. Too pretty for such a sharp tongue. Bend over the table.” Your jaw drops as you stare up at him, wondering if you heard him correctly, a gasp leaving your lips when he squeezes your jaw, squishing your cheeks together, “Did you hear me? Bend over the table.”
The worst part of it all is that you want to listen to him. As if driven by some unseen force, you do as he asks, bending over the desk, anticipation building in your belly as you hear him walk toward you. You bite down hard on your lower lip as you feel him lift your dress and the slip you wear beneath it, knowing that he’s gazing at the flesh of your ass, his rough, calloused hand moving to caress it before landing a hard smack against your skin. It stings, but before you can even let out a noise of surprise, his hand flies against, landing a slap on the other side. Tywin watches as you tremble, your thighs shaking as he spanks you, a dirty smile on his face. He gives you two, three, four more before landing one on your wet cunny, making you cry out.
“My lord, please!”
He begins slapping at your wet little cunt mercilessly, not enough to hurt badly but enough to sting and stimulate your swollen pearl, moving faster and faster, watching as you squeeze around nothing.
“For such a highborn girl, you certainly act like a Silk Street whore,” he hisses in your ear, one of his hands wrapping around your throat as he bites down on your neck, making you whimper. He pushes three long fingers inside of you, filling you up in a way you’ve never felt before, moving them mercilessly, the wet squelching noises that come from you driving his desire to new heights. You’re so soft and pliant beneath him as you squeal and mewl his name, gasping as he squeezes your neck, restricting your airflow. Tywin groans, his cock twitching against his breeches, his entire body feeling like it has been lit on fire for the first time in years as you spill yourself on his fingertips. He stares at the digits for a moment before turning you around to face him, hand still on your throat as he shoves his fingers into your mouth.
“Lick them clean, little wife. My little she-wolf.”
You do as he asks, tasting yourself, eyes fluttering shut as he pushes his fingers far into your mouth, imagining your plush lips wrapped around his cock instead. You watch as he undoes his breeches just enough to free his cock, your eyes going wide as you realize he plans to take you, claim you as his own before the wedding night. Your eyes flutter shut, as he sheathes himself inside you, still squeezing at your throat, rutting against you at a breakneck pace. Tywin watches as your breasts bounce against the bodice of your dress, tugging it down enough to free them, palming at them with his free hand, so hard that it has him letting out a lewd moan.
Your cunt spasms around him as he speaks, “I’m going to fill you with my seed every night leading up to our wedding and then every night thereafter. Tonight, you’ll walk back to your chambers with my spend dripping from your cunt. And filthy little thing that you are, I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Yes, my lord,” you gasp, your walls clenching around him like a vice, crying out when the head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot repeatedly.
You can feel your climax approaching his lips wrapped around one of your breasts as he squeezes your neck, your entire body going lax in his grip as a wave of pleasure washes over you, every nerve ending in your body feeling as if it has been set alight. He spills himself inside you shortly thereafter, his hot seed filling you, coating your insides, remaining inside you until his cock begins to grow soft, only to replace it with his fingers, pushing his spend back inside you.
“Waste not.”
You stare at him, eyes wide, lips parted as he calls for his son to escort you back to your room. Ser Jaime’s eyes go wide, surprised and filled with lust at your disheveled state, watching as you scramble to fix your dress. His father fixes him with a sharp look before turning to you.
“My son thought he would be able to wed you. To satisfy you. I trust you’ll no longer entertain such a stupid notion, Jaime. Now, walk your future stepmother to her chambers. And bring her back to me first thing in the morning. We will be taking all our meals together in the privacy of this tower from now on.”
Your thighs clench at the idea as Jaime leads you away.
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asoiaf dash simulator again
🌼 night-of-flowerz-girl
the blatant misinformation on this waebsyte is crazyyyy. guys. loras tyrell is NOT DEAD that is literally lannister propaganda 😭 please check your sources omg how do you think his family feels???
🛡️ fieldmaiden
margaery tyrell can dry her tears on the finest cloth of gold for all i care have we not established that the tyrells are smallfolk panderers who only talk about serf issues to keep us placated and working their fields? stand UP. anyways tyrelloverparty forever hope the burns hurt 🙏
🍃 greenseeeerr
omfg stop lusting after the children of the forest they are literally minor coded 😭😭😭 what is wrong with you people!!!!!
💄 andalsandal
hey op what the fuck does this mean
🐻 moremont
me and my big hairy bear husband have three beautiful daughters and i couldn’t be happier
🐻 moremont
THE ANIMAL.
⚡️dondarriugh
omfg beric is DEAD??????
⚡️ dondarriugh
ok there are some conflicting reports in my inbox hold on
⚡️ dondarriugh
oh no he’s actually dead. fly high king!!!!!
⚡️ dondarriugh
wait what????
⚡️ dondarriugh
WHAT IS HAPPENING
⛳️ brotherhood-without-banners-official
Lord Dondarrion is hale and hearty, thanks be to the Lord of Light ❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
⚡️ dondarriugh
HELLO??????
🛖 small-folk-big-ass
save me bowl of brown…… bowl of brown…… bowl of brown save me…….
🛖 small-folk-big-ass
hopital
��� rhaeeenyraaa
the revisionist history on here is fucking insaneeeee. cersei lannister is NOT maegor come again guys let’s use our critical thinking skills ok?????
🚬 sourleef
cersei lannister is a nepo baby who dicks down her twin brother on the regular and squeezes out evil kids with weak jawlines like it’s a sport. let’s not act like she’s some kind of win for wench suffrage she’s a fucking dictatorial monarch
🍁 weirdwood
wait don’t you mean her twin brother is dicking her down?????
🚬 sourleef
i know what i said.
🐕 ramsay-bitch-imagines
IMAGINE…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You’re Ramsay’s favorite dog, and he wants to reward you after a successful hunt.
WARNING: DEAD DRAGON DO NOT EAT!!!!!DON’T LIKE, DON’T READ!!!!
Read More
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🐋 s4ltw1fe
who’s going to tell lady asha that she doesn’t have to date those foppish little boys as community service. don’t worry queen EYE see your caerybaenor……
👤 reynesofcastamere-deactivated-3738372920
lmao that blonde little cuck is NOT getting his gold back
👤 tarbeckhall-deactivated-4748392038383
we should hook up for rebellion lol. what’s he even gonna do about it?
🦁 hear-me-roar
hey guys.
🧼 barmaid
oh my god this is THE post
🍺 pintofale
holy shit i never thought i’d see this outside of illuminated vellum screenshots
🪡 tall-tailor
this post is a fucking graveyard
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A Bride in the Eyes of Some
Tywin Lannister X Reader Fic 🦁
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(nsfw!)
“The Lady (Y/N) Lannister”, a title that ran through your mind and rang in your ears as you heard it.
You felt a certain disdain run down your spine that day, a rattle in your soul like no other. The announcement was a shocking one to you, remembering the day you were declared as the newest woman to Tywin Lannister. You remembered the wedding, how he didn’t share more than the hardest of pecks on your cheek as the Septon declared you man and wife. You remember the silence, the groaning and worn down creaking of the bed of your wedding night. You forced yourself to like it, you forced yourself to muster out pseudo-moans as Lannister-bred seed poured into you. You forced yourself to embrace your life as a vessel for blonde-haired children, with eyes as green as emeralds with a stiff lip. He’d never love you like he loved Joanna, you would never replace the whole in his heart she left behind. You would never be his love, you’d never be her. Or so, you thought.
Over time, you had learned to navigate the Red Keep, you learned to navigate the people that resided there. And you especially learned to navigate your lord husband, of Tywin. At times you didn’t have much to go off of, a grunt or a mumble underneath his breath damning something to the Seven Hells. His cunning mind and how it worked its’ way around the realms of politicking and pursuits of power. It intimidated you, it made you question yourself and your intelligence. Which you knew for sure, was a purposeful act. You needed to be on his time, you needed his mind, or he’d cast you away as useless. You learned to keep your distance at times, the Great Lion a man you didn’t dare to want to upset. You kept your interactions to a tee, never wanting to overbear him with what he viewed as “imperfections”. He only needed you when he called you, whether it be an execution of such schemes, or to warm his bed. He didn’t love to embrace your flesh, you imagine he thought of Joanna as he rocked you against the sheets. But you were wrong in that behalf, at least, as he grew used to you.
To most of Westeros, and even his own flesh and blood, Tywin was a lonely, bitter soul that threw back at the world what it gave to him; ten times as harsher. A cold, calculating man that cared for the benefit of him and him alone. But, he remained gentle with you, becoming more than a means of his lust. He was as delicate as he could be, being the Great Lion of The Rock. A softer stare in your direction rather than the cold, brutish one he darted to his enemies, or even the politest of terms when he speaks of you. You could listen to the words “lady-wife” roll off of his tongue all day and into the darkest of nights. He learned to tolerate your differentiating antics over time, finding them rather comical as he grew to know you more. How you interacted with servants among the Rock, to how passionate you grew about something you were determined for. You watched as a connection blossomed between you two, no longer the glacial silence that you both slept through, begging for one of you to find the courage to speak.
He would watch you as you read in bed with him, occasionally making a few notes and sneers about your posture. He would poke at the Old Valaryian books you insisted to put your nose in, laughing at your naïveté of the past. You were on guard at first, ready to bite back at whatever you felt was an insult until you realized it. He was talking to you, he was jeering with you. He was loving you. What stared off as the burden of your existence, the dread you wished to hide from as you laid next to him, become passionate. You were making love to Lord Tywin Lannister. No longer hid pathetic tears you held back, became moaning, a desperation for flesh you shared.
You daydreamed of how he rocked your hips atop of him, his grunting and slight-growling. He never said much during the act of fervoring your cunt onto him, but he didn’t need to. You would have his children, you would make his heirs, hopefully to turn out better than the three he was given. He was strong enough to place you how he saw fit, whether it be upon your knees, lying on your back and holding onto your ankles, or below him. He wanted you to worship him, every inch and fold of his skin he gave to you. At times, he’d whap you across the bottom, leaving warm spots from where his hands struck. At other times, he would have you on your knees, pulling you by the shoulder back to the gracious inches he gave to you. Tywin’s hands were some of the most dangerous pair within Westeros, hands you were not exempt from in the bed. And he would fuck you, until he grew tired, or had had you well-filled with enough loads of his seed to give him an entire line of Lannisters.
As his seed would pool out of you when you turned over to find a smidgen of rest, you would feel him. A singular hand wrapped around you, his head not too far from your shoulder. It was no longer the political prison you so desperately wanted to escape, it was love. Love of the highest points, love that stretched from The Rock to Dorne. A love that could never be taken away from you. A love that would be seen and heard among the Gods and men, new and old. And a love, you would never want out of.
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