#he is cersei’s sword he is tywin’s perfect son

[ilynpilled]

i love how the moment jaime expresses real autonomy and conflicting desire both of them immediately reject him in some form

#the thing is that they do not love him enough as a person #like as a real independent individual #and he knows this like he dreams this he is aware of this #deep inside of his subconscious #and it impacts his behavior drastically #bc he does revolve his worth and identity around his use to them #this is also part of y losing his hand is so brutal for him at an emotional level #bc that is what defines his use to them in his eyes #he is cersei’s sword he is tywin’s perfect son #he is also tyrions powerful big brother #he does not think there is hope for him as his own individual #not anymore #like the protective figure meta he needs to be needed bc then they have to love him #the things we do for love etc etc #bc no one else can love him atp and he himself especially cannot #and he really does cut the final source of love with the tysha confession #and then tyrion ‘waddles away’ #and almost trips #the wording and the kinesthetic imagery #nonetheless i cannot help but again note his absence in the weirwood dream #overdosing on hopium

[goodqueenaly]

Do you think Tywin was being honest when he said to Tyrion that he was going to send him to the Wall? Or do you think he intended to sentence him to death?

I do, specifically because of what Kevan told Tyrion while the latter was imprisoned:

“Perhaps the time has come for you to confess.” Even through the thick stone walls of the Red Keep, Tyrion could hear the steady wash of rain. “Say that again, Uncle? I could swear you urged me to confess.” “If you were to admit your guilt before the throne and repent of your crime, your father would withhold the sword. You would be permitted to take the black.” Tyrion laughed in his face. “Those were the same terms Cersei offered Eddard Stark. We all know how that ended.” “Your father had no part in that.” That much was true, at least. “Castle Black teems with murderers, thieves and rapists,” Tyrion said, “but I don’t recall meeting many regicides while I was there. You expect me to believe that if I admit to being a kinslayer and kingslayer, my father will simply nod, forgive me, and pack me off to the Wall with some warm woolen smallclothes.” He hooted rudely. “Naught was said of forgiveness,” Ser Kevan said sternly. “A confession would put this matter to rest. It is for that reason your father sends me with this offer.”

And then:

“Tyrion, if you are guilty of this enormity, the Wall is a kinder fate than you deserve. And if you are blameless ... [sic] there is fighting in the north, I know, but even so it will be a safer place for you than King’s Landing, whatever the outcome of this trial. The mob is convinced of your guilt. Were you so foolish as to venture out into the streets, they would tear you limb from limb.” “I can see how much that prospect upsets you.” “You are my brother’s son.” “You might remind him of that.” “Do you think he would allow you to take the black if you were not his own blood, and Joanna’s?["]

I don't think there was any reason for Tywin to specifically send Kevan, the family member he perhaps (at least at that point) most trusted and treated as his loyal lieutenant, with the offer of taking the black if Tywin was always planning to tell Tyrion "Ha ha, just kidding, I'm going to execute you anyway". Tyrion might have been the very lowest and least of the Lannisters in Tywin's eyes, and Tywin might have deeply personally hated him (for what I think Tywin saw as Tyrion's cruelty in being born a "monster" who also killed his wife), but Tywin I think still recognized that Tyrion was a Lannister, which made him worth more than any other, non-Lannister person; the same grim acceptance of that fact that had caused Tywin to raise Tyrion as his son and a Lannister of the Rock now, I believe, also motivated Tywin to allow Tyrion the mercy of spending his remaining years on the Wall. Indeed, Kevan reiterated the lack of love coming from Tywin in this decision: he specifically dispelled the notion that a judicial pardon from Tywin would have been equivalent to personal forgiveness, and couched the decision in purely familial-dynasty terms - Tywin was allowing such an offer because Tyrion was "his [i.e. Tywin's] own blood, and Joanna's", and Kevan wanted to see Tyrion accept the offer because Tyrion was "my brother's son". Tyrion confessing and heading to the Night's Watch would, I think, have been seen by Tywin as the best case scenario in the circumstances: Tyrion would have publicly accepted the guilt which his farcical trial had been specifically designed to produce, he would have been permanently exiled such that his presence could no longer remind Tywin (or anyone else) of what Tywin saw as an aberration of Lannister perfection, and either he would have himself of use (that is, to the Lannister cause) at the Wall or would have died a quick and meaningless death there (and paradoxically, Tywin may even have been satisfied that Tyrion's acceptance of a black cloak would end any pretensions the latter had to the inheritance Tywin always believed belonged to Jaime).

Likewise, look at how Tywin reacted when Tyrion demanded a trial by combat:

“No, I’ve found them. I demand trial by battle!” His sweet sister could not have been more pleased. “He has that right, my lords,” she reminded the judges. “Let the gods judge. Ser Gregor Clegane will stand for Joffrey. He returned to the city the night before last, to put his sword at my service.” Lord Tywin’s face was so dark that for half a heartbeat Tyrion wondered if he’d drunk some poisoned wine as well. He slammed his fist down on the table, too angry to speak.”

Tywin, the man always who prided himself on cool, reserved, absolute rule, was so publicly and visibly furious at Tyrion's demand for a trial by combat that he could not even manage to answer him. That incredibly emotional reaction I think underlines how much Tywin wanted the exact opposite to happen - that is, for Tyrion to accept what Tywin might have seen as a merciful Lannister-to-Lannister offer without condition or rebuttal, acknowledging both his own guilt (so Tywin saw it) and Tywin's power over House Lannister, the realm, and Tyrion himself.

#asoiaf meta #tywin lannister #tyrion lannister #asos

[atopvisenyashill]

What if Cersei was born a boy like she wishes?

Caveat that I am well aware I am not the Cersei Understander and also I haven't read her chapters in literal years (but i'm getting there!!! like halfway through a storm of swords!) but-

She would have gotten the training she wanted wrt ruling and would be just as (in)effective as Tywin because she'd be 100% willing to be as brutal, to the detriment of the wellbeing of her family.

I imagine Tyrion has it much worse going up - Cersei can only disrespect him so much as first born daughter, but as the actual first born son? Some of her more sadistic tendencies are likely to be encouraged. Same goes for Jaime - would they get involved if they're both men? Certainly they can't have kids (bc we're going off of a cis swap here) but given the weird psychsexual stuff with Jaime's trauma re: knighthood and Lannisters being "worth more" it's entirely possible that a male Cersei would play into this idea of them being born perfect mirrors of each other, that they're meant to be side by side always, that Jaime is meant to follow and serve as Cersei's right hand his whole life, in a similar way that Daemon acts towards Viserys or how people theorize Aemon and Baelon may have acted around each other. Might not get overtly sexual but as a bisexual Jaime truther it might get very charged.

But...there's just sooo much plot that changes because Cersei being confined to a certain role because of her gender and deciding to deal with it by taking down her entire house and half the continent is pivotal to the story plot. So Tywin has no girl to marry to Rhaegar which means he isn't going to get in his feelings about Aerys rejecting Cersei. He's definitely going to still reject Elia for Cersei though, and Loreza Martell probably still decides to go for Rhaegar anyway. I know the initial marriage proposal between Lysa and Jaime was rejected specifically because of Cersei. If male Cersei marries Lysa that's...certainly a pairing that's going to cause a lot of damage, not to mention affect the war. With Tywin being a Targ loyalist until the end and Hoster very early on joining the rebels, does Hoster hedge his bets a bit more or keep Cersei as a hostage to get Tywin to cooperate with the rebels? Does Cersei herself decide to take charge (given she'd be around Robb's age, so it's not impossible they'd let her lead) and join her wife's side of the war? Does Jaime decide to sabatoge the marriage because "if we can't marry you can't marry anyone then" ?

However, the biggest change is actually Jaime - does he still join the Kingsguard if its his BROTHER he's obsessed with and not his sister? Does KL just go kaboom in this timeline because Jaime isn't there to kill Aerys, because Aerys didn't bother to attempt to steal Tywin's heir through the Kingsguard? Does CERSEI play Jaime's role instead? Because Cersei being the one in the kingsguard would be interesting but I'm just not sure HOW she would get there - it's not going to bring her closer to Jaime, there's no female Targ or Targ descendent for her to marry (because Rhaelle has a son and it's likely Daelle and Rhae both only had sons as well).

One things for sure - Cersei and Tywin would be happier about it but everyone else is gonna suffer big time, haha.

#asks #anons #valyrianscrolls #in case anyone wants to add their two cents #cersei lannister

[swordmaid]

crack au where instead of jaime lannister flirting with every single person under the sun and always getting rejected and roasted its the other way round, everyone is in love with jaime and doing their best to seduce him while jaime is the one doing the roasting. like robert's rebellion? it never happened because rhaegar thirsted after jaime instead of lyanna. rhaegar composes songs that call jaime beautiful in a thousand flowery phrases and then sings them outside his window. jaime rolls his eyes and throws down garbage or cold water upon rhaegar. the kingsguard dumbasses like arthur dayne try to woo jaime using terrible pickup lines and jaime has a snarky comeback to all of them. every time jaime rejects them the kingsguard go to ser barristan and sulk to him about how even this plan to seduce jaime failed and beg for his help to come up with an even more outlandish plan. barristan shooes them away because he can't be bothered with farce like this. none of the plans work though. the kingsguard often sabotage each other's attempts to woo jaime and sometimes team up to sabotage rhaegar's attempts. the kingsguard + rhaegar arrange duelling competitions where the one who wins can flirt with jaime without getting sabotaged for the rest of the week. rhaegar or arthur usually end up winning. though robert's rebellion never happened, lyanna still didn't marry robert because she loved jaime too. robert was cool with it, he wanted to marry cersei so he could be closer to jaime. ned and cat's idea of a perfect date is thirsting over jaime together. oberyn and elia aggressively compete with each other to see who makes jaime smile or blush first. even aerys targaryen is not exempt. jaime's pretty face made him madder than before. aerys sends jaime extravagant gifts on a daily basis and jaime smashes them to pieces before sending it back to aerys. jaime stuck a sword through aerys because he was sick of this mad old creep ogling him hungrily and getting handsy with him all the time. throughout all this, the people of westeros have a secret betting pool on who'll eventually manage to win jaime's heart, and tywin is thrilled at the amount of rich powerful people thirsting after his son and is confused about which of them he's supposed to betroth jaime to. jaime is outwardly like wtf guys stop chasing me you're so desperate I'll never marry any of you but secretly he totally loves the amount of attention he's getting.

........and brienne is the only one immune to him, AND SCENE!

#actually i love this LMFAO i need someone to pick this up STAT !

[hello-nichya-here]

Do you think Ned Stark was sexist? I know you've said that all the men of Westeros are at least a little sexist, but I wonder if it's really fair to said that about Ned since he quite clearly respected Lyanna and Catelyn, seemed to be closest to Arya of all of his kids, was disappointed in Robbert for hitting Cersei, etc

Ned Stark was raised in Westeros. He was taught to uphold the vallues of his society. The society of Westeros is deeply mysogynistic, so, naturally, Ned was sexist. Plain and simple.

"But he respected Lyanna and Catelyn"

Catelyn is a Tully. Their motto is literally “Family. Duty. Honor” and she follows that idea blindly. She stayed a virgin until her wedding night - wedding that was supposed to be with Ned’s older brother, but the plan changed at the last second because of Brandon’s death, and Catelyn was ready to accept either Stark man because her father said that’s what she should do. She was always loyal to her husband, and even after having five children she was still hoping for a sixth because even as Lady of Winterfell her role is still to be a wife and mother, and she expects her daughters to follow in her footsteps.

She expected Ned to provide for his bastard son, but she was apalled by the fact that Ned wanted the boy to be raised among his legitimate children. She still put up with it for 14 years because it was an order from Ned, and while he was often willing to listen to her, HE was the authority in their home. Catelyn was shocked when she met Brienne. Cat was the perfect woman according to Westeros.

And about Lyanna, while Ned absolutely loved her and grieved for her until his death despite her challenging the norms of their society, he did still try to convince her to marry Robert despite her quite clearly not wanting to because their father said that’s what she should do, and he thinks about how “Wolf’s blood” led to her, and their brother, dying before their time. He loved her, but he didn’t truly approve of her “willful nature”, at least not entirely.

"But he was closest to Arya"

Yes. And he still agreed that she needed to go to the South so she could learn to be a proper lady, neither he nor Catelyn seemed to have much of a problem with Sansa mocking her sister, and when Arya asked him if she could ever be a lord, a councilor, an architect, an explorer, or High Septon, Ned answered that she would marry a king, and her sons would be in those roles.

Ned didn’t say that out of cruelty, or to put his daughter “in her place”, and he was surely no Tywin hearing his daughter say “I’m not a broodmare” and then looking her straight in the face to reply with “You’ll marry and you’ll breed.” But the fact still is that Arya asked about HER future, about what SHE could do, and Ned replies with what her SONS, that don’t even exist, could be. 

These theoretical kids have more options for their futures than Arya did because they’re male and Ned didn’t see a problem with that, because that’s how the world around him has always worked and the idea that maybe this isn’t ideal for everyone didn’t cross his mind, not even with Arya very directly asking him if she could do something other than be a wife and mother.

It also ties into Ned’s reaction to finding her sword, Needle. He calls it a toy, like Arya’s interest in sword-play is just a childish thing, a phase, something she’ll let go of when she’s older - yet we see boys around Arya’s age beign expected to be interested (GENUINELY interested) in that kind of thing. It’s the old idea that girls and women cannot truly like anything that doesn’t fit society’s idea of femininity.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: But Ned is the reason Arya got to train with Syrio! 

And you’re correct. Ned did do that, and that shows that, even though he has a bit of a sexist mentality, he is flexible enough to at least allow his daughter a bit more freedom to experiment. Unfortunatelly we will never know how Ned would have reacted if an older Arya tried, for exemple, to do something like what Brienne did and become a knight that protects her king and fights in battles. Maybe he would have disapproved of it all his life, maybe he’d just be against it at first then come around to the idea, or maybe he would have already gotten used to that thought long before Arya was old enough to do that. I personally see the second option as being the most likely one.

"But he didn't approve of Robert abusing Cersei"

Stannis Baratheon is mysogynistic and racist. He still didn't tolerate it if any of his men raped women of the free-folk. You can genuinely believe that some acts are ALWAYS wrong, no matter who the victim is, and Ned Stark is very much that kind of guy. He would have never been okay with either of his daughter’s being abused by their husbands and he would have chosen good men for them, but he DID expect them to marry someone and have children because that’s a “woman’s role” and, like I said, HE would find their husbands for them.

So no, Ned not being okay with domestic violence, even towards a woman he dislikes, cheated on her husband, and commited treason and incest, and not wanting more kids to die and thus warning their mother they’re in danger doesn’t magically mean he believes men and women are equal.

Speaking of that moment, we cannot forget that Ned heard Cersei straight up ask him if he didn't fear her wrath, and give him the infamous warning of "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground" and STILL believed she would just pack her things and run away with her kids, even though anyone with half a brain could understand that this was a clear threat and she was likely planning something to cause his downfall so he wouldn't stand in her way - which was exactly what happened.

Once again, all of that fuckery happened because Ned believed the world worked the way he was raised to see it. Said world consists of honorable men who care about right and wrong, and women who put their children before anything, and don't do things like planing a coup to put her bastard son on the throne and holding little girls as hostages so their father will "admit" to being a traitor - again, even she clearly threatened said man and had the nerve to have her bastard children raised as legitimate heirs of the king for literal years.

So yeah, Ned Stark was sexist - he was just a "benevolent" one instead of a raging mysogynist and/or an abusive piece of shit.

#asks #ned stark #eddard stark #book eddard #book ned #sexism #asoiaf meta

[gcldencrownofsorrow]

HE DOESN’T EVEN HEAR HER. HE BLATANTLY IGNORE HER INFRONT OF HER BROTHER AND UNCLE 

"By marriage. Yours, to begin with." It came so suddenly that Cersei could only stare for a moment. Then her cheeks reddened as if she had been slapped. "No. Not again. I will not." "Your Grace," said Ser Kevan, courteously, "you are a young woman, still fair and fertile. Surely you cannot wish to spend the rest of your days alone? And a new marriage would put to rest this talk of incest for good and all."   "So long as you remain unwed, you allow Stannis to spread his disgusting slander," Lord Tywin told his daughter. "You must have a new husband in your bed, to father children on you." "Three children is quite sufficient. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not a brood mare! The Queen Regent!"   "You are my daughter, and will do as I command."   She stood. "I will not sit here and listen to this—"

"You will if you wish to have any voice in the choice of your next husband," Lord Tywin said calmly. When she hesitated, then sat, Tyrion knew she was lost, despite her loud declaration of, "I will not marry again!"

"You will marry and you will breed. Every child you birth makes Stannis more a liar." Their father's eyes seemed to pin her to her chair. "Mace Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne, and Doran Martell are wed to younger women likely to outlive them. Balon Greyjoy's wife is elderly and failing, but such a match would commit us to an alliance with the Iron Islands, and I am still uncertain whether that would be our wisest course."   "No," Cersei said from between white lips. "No, no, no." Tyrion could not quite suppress the grin that came to his lips at the thought of packing his sister off to Pyke. Just when I was about to give up praying, some sweet god gives me this. Lord Tywin went on. "Oberyn Martell might suit, but the Tyrells would take that very ill. So we must look to the sons. I assume you do not object to wedding a man younger than yourself?" "I object to wedding any—" "I have considered the Redwyne twins, Theon Greyjoy, Quentyn Martell, and a number of others. But our alliance with Highgarden was the sword that broke Stannis. It should be tempered and made stronger. Ser Loras has taken the white and Ser Garlan is wed to one of the Fossoways, but there remains the eldest son, the boy they scheme to wed to Sansa Stark."   Willas Tyrell. Tyrion was taking a wicked pleasure in Cersei's helpless fury. "That would be the cripple," he said. Their father chilled him with a look. "Willas is heir to Highgarden, and by all reports a mild and courtly young man, fond of reading books and looking at the stars. He has a passion for breeding animals as well, and owns the finest hounds, hawks, and horses in the Seven Kingdoms."   A perfect match, mused Tyrion. Cersei also has a passion for breeding. He pitied poor Willas Tyrell, and did not know whether he wanted to laugh at his sister or weep for her. "The Tyrell heir would be my choice," Lord Tywin concluded, "but if you would prefer another, I will hear your reasons."

"That is so very kind of you, Father," Cersei said with icy courtesy. "It is such a difficult choice you give me. Who would I sooner take to bed, the old squid or the crippled dog boy? I shall need a few days to consider. Do I have your leave to go?" You are the queen, Tyrion wanted to tell her. He ought to be begging leave of you. "Go," their father said. "We shall talk again after you have composed yourself. Remember your duty." Cersei swept stiffly from the room, her rage plain to see. Yet in the end she will do as Father bid. She had proved that with Robert

#long post #this scene #wow

[a-song-of-quill-and-feather]

can you tell us more about the children of jaime and alys ?? and what happens when jaime is captured by robb ?

Of course I will tell you more about them! I talked about them a bit here as well, but I will talk about them again under the cut for length:

So starting in order the first child of Jaime and Alys (other than Jon who is technically first but also not biologically theirs) is Joanna Lannister. She was the first born between her and Rickard as they are twins. She is pretty much the perfect picture of House Lannister, golden hair, green eyes, so and so forth. She also is much more inclined towards the Lannister way of thinking, she's ambitious, cunning, and shrewd. She understands her place in things and works with and around those limitations rather than trying too hard to fight against them. At the start of GoT-era she is in Highgarden with the Tyrells, and when they rally in support of Renly she accompanies as one of Margaerys ladies. She continues to follow Margaery to Kings Landing and it is there that she gets to know Cersei better. At some point, after the whole purple wedding happens, Joanna does leave Westeros for Essos and ends up in the company of Daenerys. Basically when I was thinking about Joanna and what I want to do with her I wanted to explore her having a relationship with three of the women characters who are queens and have power of their own. It very much is her learning from each of these women and growing into her own alongside them.

Then, after Joanna, we have her younger twin Rickard Lannister. He is really, of all of Alys and Jaime's children, the one who is the biggest mix of the two. He favors Alys in terms of his appearance, being much closer to the Stark look than the Lannister, as well as in his tendency to be very warm-hearted and compassionate. He favors Jaime though in his skills with a sword and his pride and spirit. He's really a very jovial light-hearted person, preferring to look at the fun of life rather than the darker parts of it. When Jon joins the Nights Watch and the role of heir passes down to Rickard he's a bit mournful of the future he may have had as the second son. Rickard also is probably the closest to Alys and the one most likely to listen to her and follow her judgement first. It's this that leads him to Essos, as she asks him to accompany Elia when she leaves to find Aegon. He then spends a large part of GoT-Era in Essos alongside Aegon, he joins the Golden Company and is even knighted by Jon Connington. He and Aegon do also grow very close during this time and their relationship is one I am excited to explore.

After the twins its a long while before Alys and Jaime have another child, mostly due to two reasons: one is that Alys suffers a few early miscarriages over the years, and the second being that at one point she does have a pregnancy that goes fairly far only to have a difficult labor and stillborn child. The latter incident making Jaime very very wary about intentionally trying for any other children, as he's terrified of her dying. It causes a slight strain on their relationship, as Alys does want another child and is willing to risk it while Jaime is not so willing, but eventually they make it through and Alys does end up pregnant and successfully has their youngest child Tybalt Lannister.

Tybalt is only about 2-3 at the start of GoT-era (so same age as Rickon) he's a sweet kid who enjoys listening to stories and chasing bugs through the grass cause he's a toddler and they do that. He doesn't have a huge role in the story, he's with Alys through the course of Kings Landing and she does her best to shelter him from the war and all that. Tywin does eventually attempt to separate Tybalt from Alys, around the time of the purple wedding, as he disapproves of how Alys has mothered her children previously and with Jon in the Nights Watch and Rickard off in Essos Tywin very much views Tybalt as a new chance at raising the heir he wants from Alys and Jaime's children.

Jaime and Alys will end up having one more child by the end of GoT-era but I haven't given much more thought than it will probably be a girl and her name might be Ella.

#ask #the other stark girl #oc: joanna lannister #oc: rickard lannister #oc: tybalt lannister

[theshireisburning-so-mordoritis]

Banquets and Blood Feuds

A Love Of Venom And Claws - Chapter 2

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.3K

Warnings: 18+. Sexual Tension. Light violence and injury.

A/N: Everyone ready for the reader to finally meet Oberyn? Because it's happening.

King's Landing is even more hellish than you remember. The city is loud, overcrowded and dirty and there's a stench to the air that almost makes you believe your nose will become permanently stuck in it's wrinkled state. You're no dainty, weak stomached maiden but gods it's difficult to ignore.

The city has only become more crowded as lords and ladies from all over Westeros pile in to celebrate the King's wedding. You have watched people come and go from the large window in your rooms for the past few days, the crown sparing no expense for a royal wedding and you're only slightly fascinated by the goods you see being delivered.

The wedding isn't for another two weeks but of course there has to be multiple celebrations leading up to it, starting with a banquet tonight and you can quite honestly say you'd rather stick your daggers in your eyes.

You're sick of it here already, hate the fact that you're cooped up in this gods forsaken keep like a fragile little bird in a golden cage.

Upon your frosty welcome to the city your Uncle Tywin had informed you that under no circumstances were you to leave the safety of the keep, he told you the streets weren't safe for a lady but from the discontent you had seen in people's eyes you were more inclined to believe the streets weren't safe for a Lannister.

You had tried to protest, to tell him that you were more than capable of defending yourself but he had dismissed you like a bothersome child.

The only family member who had seemed remotely pleased to see you was Tyrion, you had always got on well, your quick wit and sharp tongue mean't the two of you would often be found debating furiously over random topics of interest and you enjoyed his company far more than that of his siblings.

Jamie was nice enough, smiling at you politely was the extent of his greeting. He was quieter than you remembered, less arrogant no doubt thanks to being humbled from his capture and the rest of his ordeal.

You're curious as to how his skills were with a sword now he only had one hand, remembering the way he would teach you to spar when you were children and a part of you wonders if he'd be willing to spar with you again to help him get used to his other hand or would he find the idea insulting?

Then there had been Cersei, you had never been close. Cersei had been the perfect lady, with her heart set on being Queen, everything your mother had hoped you would be and staring into her eyes you see what could of been your future reflected back at you.

Her eyes speak of a hidden cruelty that puts you instantly on edge and the smile on her lips is anything but kind, in fact she's practically sneering down at you. Being confined to a life of royalty, her importance defined only by the men she is connected to, has twisted her and made her bitter and everytime over the next few days her voice is ignored you see the anger in her fester.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to her eldest son, the King. Joffrey is every bit the arrogant proud Lion, though he is no more than a cub crying for his mother when he doesn't get his way. The same cruelty shines unrestrained in his eyes and you'd be lying if you didn't admit you felt some fear for the sweet girl who has to marry him.

The two younger children are a delight and when you're not locked away in your room or having drunken debates with Tyrion, you're often found helping them with their studies or entertaining them with wild stories from your travels.

You almost wish you could see more of them but you don't belong here, the Red Keep is cold and unforgiving, like it's King and Council, and you yearn to roam far from it's overbearing atmosphere to somewhere where the sun kisses your skin as you explore.

Your less than cheery musing is interupted by a flash of colour below and you stretch as far as you are sure is safe to attempt a better look at who is arriving now. They draw closer in swirls of oranges, yellows and reds, a vivid explosion of colour that momentarily lifts your spirits before you remind yourself not to get your hopes up for more pleasent company. It's probably yet another puffed up, self important Lord here to kiss the boots of your ill tempered brat of a cousin.

You pass the time before you have to get ready for the night's festivities drawing in your journals, you hope to craft braces for your daggers to allow them to be hidden but quickly accessible.

At the moment you strap them to your thigh when you wear a dress, which is great for concealment but a nightmare to get out in a hurry, and hide them in your boots if you're in a tunic and trousers which again, is a nightmare to snatch in a hurry. They need to be invisible yet capable of being in your hands in a moment, it's just working out how.

You groan when you're interrupted by a handmaiden to help you get ready. The process is ridiculous, you're poked and prodded at for far too long, growing more irate by the minute as you're forced into a heavy gown with an insane amount of skirts and sleeves that are far too long to be considered of any use but to be a nuisance.

It's the hair that almost sends you over the edge, it's obnoxiously detailed and makes your head feel strange and you have to quell the itching of your hands to tear at it, instead murmuring your thanks to the handmaiden before you depart for the feast.

**

It is not quite as awful as you imagined but it's hardly a comfortable affair either.

You entertain yourself by chatting with Tryion and his wife, a shy girl who your heart aches for. You see the fear ever present in her eyes and how she never relaxes even once and a fierce need to grab this girl and run bubbles up your chest and you briefly consider stealing her away from here when you leave and returning her to her family. If any of them even remain that is.

An unceremonious snort leaves your lips when Tryion points out a particular lord and gleefully declares some outrageous rumour that even earns a small chuckle from Sansa.

Your amusment withers however when you become all too aware of your uncle's beady eyes on you and his lip curls in distaste as you turn and raise your goblet in a daring display before draining it at a pace that would put Cersei to shame.

There is no doubt in your mind that your mother has sent word to him of your less than proper behaviour fitting a Lannister lady and so he watches your every move incase you decide to further disgrace your family's precious reputation. Honestly if you didn't know any better you'd assume that woman was the Lannister, not your Father, with the way she held so much importance in things like reputation.

Suddenly a shiver consumes your body and your back subconsciously straightens as you realise someone else is watching you, their gaze is intense but not cold like your uncle's, this one licks at your skin like a gentle flame and is so palpable you could almost believe a physical presence is carressing your body.

You scan the hall warily, trying to make it seem careless and unintentional as faces merge and blend together and you almost believe there's no way you'll be able to pick a single face out of this crowd, but wait.

Oh seven hells.

You feel like your heart screeches to a stop in your chest as you drink in the one who watches you with such unashamed intent, he is beautiful.

Tanned skin swathed in vibrant yellow, thick dark locks and a neatly trimmed beard frame his handsome face and beneath his strong nose a teasing smirk tugs at his lips as your eyes lock on his.

His eyes punch the air from your lungs, even from here you see the way they swirl with mischief, desire and a glint of danger. Delicious pools of melted chocolate, begging you to throw caution to the wind and dive into him. Everything about this man screams warmth and you want nothing more than to sink into him and soak up everything he has to offer.

You nearly jump out of your skin when someone leans in to refill your goblet, heat prickling at your neck as you realise you've been staring for an insanely inappropriate amount of time and you cast a quick glance around to make sure no one caught you.

Once you're in the clear you take a sip of wine to calm your nerves and against your better judgement, seek out the thrill of his gaze once more. He's whispering into the ear of the woman beside him and you feel a small pang of disappointment, she's stunning and they're clearly close, and you mentally chastise yourself for getting so worked up over a simple look.

As if there was anything simple about that, the darker part of your mind taunts.

You urge yourself to just forget about it but any possibility of that is shattered when you're not quick enough to look away and his eyes instantly lock on yours as he draws back from his companion. A small grin teases his lips when he catches you and he winks slowly as the woman places a berry into his mouth.

Not one to be flustered by anyone you arch an eyebrow at him daringly, though what you are daring you're not quite sure yet and as he licks his lips a small part of you warns this isn't wise. Deep down you know this is a man who's attention cannot be recognised lightly and maybe, you think as you finally tear your eyes from his, you should be concerned by just how much you wouldn't mind if he utterly devoured you.

Wandering through the hall, you regret getting up to stretch your legs the moment you're ambushed by a gaggle of ladies who bombard you with the same old questions you've heard for years. Why aren't you married yet? Why are you trailing through the Kingdoms when you should be settling down and producing an heir?

You won't be young and pretty forever one woman warns you, muttering to the other ladies like gossiping hens when you roll your eyes and walk away but a vicious whisper has your spine stiffening and your hands tightening in barely restrained fury.

"She's a disgrace to her house, they should just marry her off and be done with it."

Cursing, you feel frustrated tears prick at your eyes and you throw the rest of your wine back in one go.

"You know." A smooth voice floats from behind you. "If you're hoping to escape these festivities, you might want to try a different method than drowning yourself in wine. You will only feel worse tomorrow and I would hate to see such a beautiful woman suffer."

Goosebumps prickle your skin at the low, rumbling tone and you shakily lower your cup to turn ever so slowly as you come face to face with your handsome admirer.

There's a teasing smirk playing on his lips and you don't miss the way his eyes slowly trail up and down your body as he drinks you in up close. He quirks an eyebrow the longer you stare at him and you jolt as you shake yourself from your dazed state.

"I will gladly accept my hellish fate tomorrow if it grants me a reprieve from all of this." You say and to your annoyance you don't actually sound the least bit angry like you had felt moments before, infact you sound almost breathless.

"Well until you are granted such a reprieve you're stuck here with me." He grins and you take a moment to admire him right infront of you whilst his dark eyes sweep over the crowd. Searching for threats, your mind whispers, but you bat the ridiculous notion away as his eyes slip back to you. "I confess that I myself did not wish to be here but that was until I encountered the most exquisite beauty in the Seven Kingdoms. I would gladly sit through this banquet for an eternity if it means gazing upon your face."

You snort loudly and you almost expect him to look offended but instead there's mischief dancing in his eyes that only encourages you to grin back as you tease him.

"An eternity in this hell just to look at me? Doesn't really seem like a fair trade and besides you don't even know my name." You quip and he shrugs whilst his throaty laugh wraps around you like a warm blanket.

It's the first genuine sound you've heard in days and you're drunk off it more than the wine. The skin around his eyes crinkle as he laughs and his smile is playful as he draws closer, his fingers reaching to lightly skim down your arm before he daringly takes your hand in his and skims his mouth over your skin.

"Then perhaps you should gift me the name of the one who has gripped my heart so fiercely." He suggests, heat curling lazily in his voice and you shudder as your name is torn from your lips before you can even think twice.

He repeats it, rolling it off his tongue like the most indulgent dessert, savouring every letter as dark eyes pierce through you.

"My name is Oberyn." He offers simply, smirking as you test it on your tongue and you don't miss the way he shivers as he hears it. "And what, sweet one, would you deem a fair trade for my ever lasting misery? The rest of this evening?"

He presses a hot,lingering kiss to one of your knuckles and your breath vanishes from your lungs as he steps closer and the teasing melts into the beginnings of desire that builds with every breath between you.

"This night?" Another kiss. "Each night until we must tragically part ways?"

His gaze burns through you as he watches you respond to his mouth on your skin with an almost inaudible sigh. You imagine how it would feel on yours, his hands stroking across your more tender flesh and that deep, husky voice in your ear.

Your body sways slightly leaning in closer to his warmth and his other arm begins to snake around your waist as you open your mouth to answer but neither of you get to hear the words that you were ready to let slip as your name is called sharply.

"There you are sweetling!" Cersei croons as she strides towards you and your eyebrows raise in confusion at the sickeningly sweet tone of her voice. Her eyes narrow upon seeing your hand firmly gripped in Oberyn's and his arm that is almost holding you and a wicked glint shines in them as she smiles.

"I've hardly seen you since you arrived and tonight it seems like you've conversed with everyone but your own dear family! We have so much to catch up on, come back and sit with me dear cousin."

The word is spat with a malicious intent that has you baffled until the hand that holds yours rips itself away and your body stumbles and mourns the loss of Oberyn's warmth as he stiffens and steps back from you.

Gone is the passionate warmth that had filled his eyes, replaced by a deadly hatred that only intensifies as they snap back an forth between you and Cercei. It is turned full force on you when she retreats back to her seat, a confident smirk on her face as a result of her meddling.

"You're a Lannister."

His tone is accusing and ice cold and your hands twitch against the skirt at your thigh, desperate for the feel of your daggers as danger and violence radiate from the man before you.

"Yes?" You answer warily. "I don't see why that's such a-" Your voice dies in your throat as you allow yourself to look past his beauty and charm and truly examine him. Eyes flitting over his clothes and you wonder why you had never realised before, there's embroidered suns with a small spear decorating the warm material.

House Martell of Dorne.

The man you had allowed to sweet talk you and had been willing to fall into bed with is Oberyn Martell, the infamous Red Viper.

You would be in awe, the man's skills are practically legend and he's probably counted among the most dangerous fighters in Westeros. All that would intrigue you beyond reason if he wasn't also famed for an unquenchable hatred of your family.

He sees the moment the realisation crashes into you, your eyes widening in fear for a brief moment before they settle in grim determination and he once again catches the way your hand darts to pat your thigh.

Against his will his interest piques and he wonders what you may be hiding before he shakes it away and steps forward to make his excuses to leave. He needs to get away from you, his body doesn't seem to have caught up with his mind and he still has the urge to pull you close and feel your skin pressed against his much to his disgust.

But as he steps closer you hastily step back and for some reason he finds he doesn't like that, it's almost like he doesn't want you to be afraid of him and frustration bleeds into his anger as he struggles to make any sense of how he feels.

He's confused and angry at himself for not realising who you are, angry at Dornan for him being here in the first place and furious at you for making him feel something he shouldn't, no matter how short lived. For this will be a very short lived attraction he promises himself, he'll fuck someone tonight and forget all about you and when he sees you again there'll be no temptation now he knows who you are.

You cough lightly to get his attention and your spine stiffens as cold eyes snap to yours.

"Prince Oberyn it's been…interesting. But if you'll forgive me I think I've had quite enough of tonight."

Your voice is formal and detached and you eye him once more as if to make sure he won't attack you on the spot before you turn on your heel and flee the hall, leaving him alone and increasingly troubled by the niggling pressure he feels in chest as you rush away from him.

**

That night your dreams are plagued by dark eyes and a voice like warm honey that lingers in your ears. You scrub your skin harshly whilst you bathe the next morning as if you could rid yourself of the phantom touches that swept across your skin and you let out a frustrated scream as you sink beneath the water.

One meeting with the Dornish prince and you're slipping into the grip of insanity?

Absolutely out of the question.

You allow your anger to build as you dress in a simple tunic and trousers and pin your hair back away from your face. His reaction upon realising your lineage irks you, how dare he judge your family and act like he is above you, you have done nothing to deserve his contempt. If he wants to ignite the feud between your families with you then so be it, he can add your name to his list of enemies with the rest of your bloodline.

Pacing around your room leaves you restless, your meeting with Oberyn has sparked a fire in your blood and the walls of the keep are not enough to contain you today. You snatch up your daggers, tucking one into your boot and the other into your waistband and slip quietly from your chambers.

You're sneaking through the hallways when you hear Tyrion's voice and you begin to turn, hoping to avoid being caught trying to leave when he utters a name that has you freezing in place.

"Prince Oberyn hasn't turned up to the meeting with my Father, someone has to find him."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, surely he wouldn't be so bold as to offend your uncle in such a manner but then you recall the way he blatantly glared at you and Cersie so scathingly, apparently he would be so bold.

You creep closer and listen intently, picking up the rough voice of Bronn and you have to hide your laugh as he so rightly questions.

"And they're sending us why?"

He has a point, from what you've seen you truly cannot imagine Oberyn simply conceding to come back with them if he doesn't wish to do so.

"I happen to be an accomplished diplomat and considering the Prince's intense dislike of my family it would be best if I am there to make sure things smoothly."

"Well where in seven hells are we supposed to look?"

"He's famous for fucking half of Westeros, where do you think he is." Tyrion responds dryly.

You nearly choke and take a moment to think quickly, annoying as it is you can't deny the rogue Prince has peaked your curiosity, even if it's only to figure out what makes him tick should he prove to be a threat in the future you tell yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you nod to yourself before peeling away from the wall and revealing yourself to your cousin and his friend.

"No." Tyrion states the second he sees you and you roll your eyes at him.

"I'm coming with you." You argue.

"Father would have a heart attack if you disobeyed his orders."

"He has a heart?"

Bronn cackles at your insult as Tyrion fixes you with an exasperated look.

"Look I don't need either of you to defend me, I'm more than capable of doing it myself. I just need to get the hell out of this place, I feel like I can't breathe."

Your cousin sighs and mutters beneath his breathe about how he thought Cersei was the stubborn one of the family.

"If my father finds out-" He begins but you cut him off excitedly.

"Yes, yes, you can tell him you found me there earning my keep for all I care." You wave your hand dismissively and begin walking away. "Are we going or not?"

A grin sweeps across your face as Bronn laughs and points at you.

"I like this one." He declares, clapping you on the shoulder as he passes you and Tyrion glares at the both of you mumbling gods help him as he follows.

**

You still harbour a solidified dislike for the city of King's Landing but you cannot lie and say you're not thrilled to be out of the keep. You feel giddy enough to skip through the streets with renewed energy, only the awareness off discontent in it's citizens towards your family keeps you from outwardly radiating your joy and your eyes are constantly scanning your surroundings for a sign of threat.

When you enter the brothel the air is thick with scented smoke and the smell of alcohol, perfume and sweat. Tyrion constantly looks at you as if to check you're okay and you almost laugh at his concern, sure he thinks you'll faint from shock at any moment.

You're about to say something when faint singing catches your attention and you frown as your ears strain to hear more clearly.

A coat of gold a coat of red a lion still has claws

And mine are long and sharp my lord

As long and sharp as yours

You glance at Tyrion and roll your eyes when suddenly a flash of yellow enters the edges of your vision and you whip your head around to see where it went. Following quickly you skid to a halt as you nearly collide with someone, coming face to face with the woman who had been sat beside Prince Oberyn last night.

Her eyes are wide with concern and she looks past you to see your cousin and Bronn at your back and beckons you to come with her.

You hear the smooth drawl of that deep voice before you see him and a chill grips your spine from the danger that seeps through his words.

His companion runs from your side to his and takes his hand as she speaks soothingly for him to come with her. He doesn't move, doesn't get the chance to respond before one of the men in the room calls out disgustingly.

"Why are you wasting a whore like that on a Dornishman? They're all filthy fuckers just get him a goat!" He cackles and your stomach rolls, you step forward intending to put him in place but Tyrion quickly grasps your arm and shakes his head.

Oberyn's chuckle is a low, menacing sound that causes the hair to raise on your arms to raise.

"Do you know why the Lannister's are the most hated of all the families?" He questions, stalking slowly towards the men and your breath catches in your chest as they both stand with their hands hovering close to their swords.

Subconsciously your hand slips beneath your tunic and you jolt as your fingers brush the hilt of your own dagger, your body was poised to jump in and defend, but just who you'd be defending you weren't entirely sure you were ready to acknowledge.

"You think you are golden lions, better than all those around you. But I'll let you in on a secret, you're not a lion. You're just a pathetic little man who's too slow on the draw."

The air grows still around you and the silence is suffocatingly heavy, tension coiling tightly before your eyes until it suddenly snaps. The soldiers move for their weapons far too slow and in the blink of an eye Oberyn has whipped a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the wrist of the man who mocked him.

A faint part of you is aware that you should probably be outraged by a rival house attacking your family's men but you're far too focused on the way the prince moves. He had been wickedly quick, his movements graceful and effortless as he struck and you realise breathlessly that it's not the charming prince before you but the viper.

He murmurs low to the other soldier, his voice dripping with mock concern as he twists the blade in other man's wrist and something flutters in your stomach as you watch his viscous smirk fade only to be replaced by a threatening glare.

Your hand falls away from your dagger as the other soldier sheathes his sword and the movement draws Oberyn gaze to you, his eyes burning into yours and darkening a fraction as he drinks in your wide stare and parted lips. Lightening crackles between you, beckoning you closer and your left almost gasping for breath when Tyrion breaks the spell by stepping forward.

"Prince Oberyn-" He begins, interrupted by a wounded howl as the Prince yanks his blade from the soldier's wrist. You all watch mutely as the blood spurts from the injury and both men hurry past to go seek help.

Oberyn's companion rushes to him once more and you hear him apologise charmingly before you laugh as she hits him lightly on the back of his head. You like her, you decide.

He raises her hand to his lips and places a sweet kiss there as she rolls her eyes and he grins at you all.

"Ellaria Sand, my dearest friend and confidant." He announces and both men beside you nod in respect as you smile warmly at her, she returns your smile which admittedly surprises you but the way she seems to observe you before looking back at Oberyn makes you feel uncomfortable. It's like she knows something you don't.

"Prince Oberyn, my father was expecting you this morning and grew concerned that you did not arrive. I'd appreciate if you would accompany us back so he can see that you're quite alright and the two of you can conduct your business."

Oberyn shocks you by merely inclining his head in agreement and gesturing for you both to lead the way. You breathe a little easier once your away from the stifling atmosphere inside the brothel, the sun shines weakly down on your face and you do your best to enjoy it's rays before you're once again locked away in the keep.

Both men make small talk as you walk quietly, attempting to ignore dark eyes that watch your every move when he thinks you're unaware and he wonders if he's realised you're doing the same to him.

"My nephew is very greatful you travelled all this way for his wedding." You hear Tyrion say and you almost laugh, you doubt that little shit has ever been greatful for anything.

"Let us speak truths here." Oberyn chuckles. "He's insulted that only the second son has come."

"Well speaking as a second son I know all about being the family insult." Your cousin quips and at that a peal of laughter slips from your throat as you murmur your own agreement.

Tyrion grins up at you and you return it, missing the way Oberyn studies you curiously, how could you possibly be an insult or disappointment his mind wonders but he shakes his head to quickly in an attempt to stop you from burrowing further into his thoughts than you already have.

"Why have you come to King's Landing?"

The sudden serious tone of Tyrion's voice almost makes you stop in your tracks and for the first time since that moment in the brothel you look the Prince dead in the eye to gauge his reaction.

"I was invited." He shrugs and you instantly bristle at the over exaggerated lighteness of his reply. You have always had quite the talent for spotting lies. Before your cousin can respond you're stepping closer, your body rigid and your words sharp as your daggers.

"I thought you wanted to speak truths."

Oberyn's eyes snap to yours and he smirks tauntingly as you glare at him.

"Do you know of my sister Elia?" He speaks slowly, deceptively light though you sense the underlying threat in his words. "She married the last dragon in this very city. She loved him, bore his children and loved them more fiercely than words can describe. Yet he left her for another woman and started a war, a war that ended when Tywin Lannister took the city."

Tyrion looks at you nervously and you frown as your mind scrambles to piece together a story you'd heard long ago.

"My nephew and niece and niece were butchered like animals and wrapped in red Lannister cloaks to hide the blood and the horror of the crimes your men commited. And my sister, you know what they did to her?"

Your eyes close with grief and despair, tears pricking beneath fluttering lids before your eyes fly open when Oberyn's seething tone echoes around you.

"I asked a question." He taunts with his finger lifting Tyrion's chin and a low, warning growl rattles in your throat as you step forward. Oberyn takes the hint, lifting his hand away as your cousin places a reasuring hand on your arm.

"I've heard rumours." Tyrion mumbles.

You cringe as Oberyn chuckles humourlessly and eyes you both with disgust, voice dripping with a venomous rage.

"I've heard that your Mountain raped and brutally murdered Elia. If he killed my sister, your father gave the order."

"Tell your father I have no interest in any business with him." He smiles darkly before smouldering eyes flicker to yours.

"And tell him the Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."

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#oberyn martell x you #oberyn martell x reader #a love of venom and claws #lannister reader

[malereader-inserts]

To Serve Our King and Queen

Fandom: Game of Thrones Pairing: Daenerys Targeryen x Baratheon!Reader, Sansa Stark x Baratheon!Reader Summary: A story of heart break, love and heart break again. Word Count:  2,407 Request:  Hey can u do a Daenerys x Baratheon reader where he is the son of cersei and Robert the true son. He used to be In love with Sansa but she wanted Joffrey so she break his heart. Reader leaves king’s landing with tyrion and meet Daenerys where both fall In love with each other. Later Sansa sees the reader with dany and Jon when they arrive to the north. Sansa is being disrespectful towards dany and reader put Sansa in her place and tells her to not talk to his WIFE like that ever again please. A/n: I changed it a bit, I wish it was a little bitter but oh well. 

Cersei and Robert were married before he even became king, Tywin had faith that the Baratheon would overrule the Mad King. It was the start of the downfall of their marriage, the sex was lousy, but it got the lioness pregnant. You were a beautiful babe that Cersei had fallen in love with your looks.

You were a year old when your father overthrows the throne and becomes king of the seven kingdoms. You had a somewhat happy childhood, you were spoilt by your father more than your younger brother - Joffery. Whilst your mother somewhat loved you, you knew that she loved her golden crown children more than you, you had a suspicion about your siblings, they look too much of your uncle Jaime than your father, which was known that Baratheon seed was strong.

So, you were more of a father’s boy than your mother’s. At a young age, you were trained hard, went through advisers and teachers - teaching your expanding knowledge, your father demanded that you were to start off young in training to be king, making sure you know how to fight and be a respected knight just like your father. When you were growing up, you were told tales from your uncle Tyrion, who adored you because he could hold an intellectual conversation with you.

As you grew up, often at times you went with your father to go on hunting, even met with your dad’s best friend and his children. You often had playtime with them, being good friends with Robb and Jon, but you were always wanting to be with Sansa, your father laughs that you would marry Sansa when you two were older - Ned would laugh too.

As years gone past, you tried to ignore your father’s debauchery and your mother’s ever growing hatred towards you. You grew up to be a fine young man, despite being the son of two fucked up people, you were a loved prince - charming, caring and a fighter. You were too familiar with your mother’s manipulation that you were just as smart as her in playing games.

Tywin saw your potential to rule. The people will love you, they already do, because you weren’t fake but you knew when to stand your ground. You weren’t going to be pushed around, you knew your worth to that throne and you will be king whether your mother likes it or not. 

You knew what you wanted but sometimes that’s not how it works out.

You wanted Sansa as a bride, when you arrived at Winterfell after so many years later, you saw how beautiful Sansa was. But, you could see how she was ogling on your brother Joffery, you scoffed - he’s not that big of a deal. 

“Sansa be wise, pick (Y/n),” Robb says in their little family circle after being dismissed in greeting the king, “Jon and I know him better than you, and he’s a delight.”

“But, he’s not Joffery.”

Arya snorted, “Of course, you would want a little prat than an actual prince.”

“Joffery is a prince,” Sansa argued, “He’s handsome and I love him.”

“You barely know the boy,” Robb says with concern on his voice, “How do you even know if you love him?”

You tried winning Sansa’s heart, but before you left Winterfell, Sansa had pulled you aside, you had a little bit of hope but you had seen how she was all over your brother and was by his side every opportunity she could get.

You got your heartbroken by her, she was honest and you were thankful for that, but it hurt your heart. Sure, the two of you were still young, feelings can change like the wind and nothing is certain in the future. 

When you arrived home, you talked to your dad about it and for once, he got serious - talking about that even if you were rejected you should always try to pursue her. He then laughed it off saying Baratheon men don’t have much luck with Stark ladies, but you could see in the pain in his father’s eyes as he remembers Lyanna Stark. 

When your father died there were talks about who will inherit the throne, Cersei was quick on her game to get Joffery on the throne, you were livid. There was a screaming match between you and your mother in front of the small council before venomously bidding her hell. It was Varys, who started to tell you to leave because there were talks of your mother that she was going to hire people to kill you. 

You couldn’t risk that, so you took a route down to the deepest part of Kings landing, keeping yourself out of sight, picking up a stray sword that caught your eye.

That’s your story really.

Anyone back home would believe that you were killed or dead, and suffered in the rule of Joffery Baratheon. People called your the lost prince of hope, their last strand of hope.

Tyrion did not expect to see you alive and by Daenarys side when he entered Esso, running away with the potential of execution on his head. When he saw you, it had been a few years that had past, you were a lot different. 

Your hair was longer, you had grown more muscle mass, must of because you trained with Greyworm. You stood up straighter as if you had a purpose, but you looked happier. What your uncle did not expect was to look at the silver haired woman with such love.

It was a familiar look that he had seen, it was the same look you used to stare at Sansa with. But, to Tyrion’s surprised the look with returned. When you weren’t paying attention or was looking away, Daenerys would give you the same look of love. Tyrion asked Barristan, who laughs and nods.

“Those two? In love like any other teenagers!” He laughs, shaking his head, “They’re betrothed to each other, looking for the perfect time to marry. Daenerys has explicitly said that she wanted no one by her side when she becomes Queen, but learning Ser (Y/n) story, she realised that the two of them have the biggest claim to the throne, rightfully, and on the way, she fell in love with him as did he.”

“Of course,” Tyrion nodded, “I would have liked to see my nephew rule the seven kingdoms, at least he has the birthright unlike Joffery and his siblings.”

“Bastards?” Ser Barristan asked as Tyrion nodded, “Well, that explains the blond hair.”

“I know for the fact that (Y/n) would rule with a good heart, he was trained and he has compassion, he fought any manipulation and lies that were fed to him.”

“Yes,” the knight nods, “I wonder what the people of Westeros would think when they find out a Baratheon could ride a dragon.”

As months past, years past on, Tyrion watched his nephew enjoy his life fighting for what is rightfully his alongside his wife, who loves him as much as he did. There was no one better to rule the Realms other than two great leaders. Tyrion watched how Daenerys freed slaves and took control, Tyrion remembers how you were as a prince. 

“Was there someone you loved before me?” Daenerys asked once, it was on the sail back to Westeros, she could see how excited you were to return home.

You looked at her, “I did, once,” You say, remembering how Dany had disclosed her lovers to you before, “She was fiery, but unlikely you who is made of fire and blood, it was her striking red hair - her name was Sansa Stark.”

“Is she-?”

“My uncle has told me before he had fled that she was alive, but I have no idea where she is now or if she is alive. I’m sure she turned to be a fine young lady.”

Dany raised an eyebrow, “Do tell more.”

“Well, as you know I am of Lannister blood.”

“I am aware,” Dany says distastefully, cringing that you were of blood of the man who murdered her father and you were the son of the man who killed her brother.

“She was more in love with my brother, Joffery. Half-brother because I had my suspicion that he wasn’t of Baratheon blood. You could say he’s pure, like you.”

Dany nods, knowing what you mean, after all, she is in a long line of keeping her blood pure as her relatives were all related one way or another. She hates to think the fact if she were to marry her narcissistic brother, Viserys, whilst both of you acknowledge that you two were distantly related - it was a fact that she was willing to ignore. 

“He was a cunt,” You laughed whilst your wife giggles next to you in bed, “Spoilt and full of himself, I don’t want to imagine what his rule was like, but stories from my uncle it seems to appear as hell.”

“And she picked him over you?” Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow, “Well, her loss, I think I have a great man before me. A true king.” 

You chuckle, smiling at her lovingly, kissing her forehead, “Shall we sleep, my love?”

“No,” She pouts as you can’t help but find it adorable, “I think you should tell me tales of Westeros, after all, it’s more of your home than it is of mine.”

You weren’t expecting to return to Winterfell, but, it demanded it’s independence, which you thought was outrageous - really. You were reunited with Jon, who greets you with a smile, a joke and good hug - it has been a while since you’ve seen your best friend, glad to see him alive.

You thought that you were going to take over Kings landing, but having to take a detour route to Winterfell to battle in a war of the undead. Although, you get to see your mother before going to the North.

You relish the sight to see her and your uncle Jaime astonished that you were alive and knowing you were going back to claim for the throne. Cersei did not miss how your eyes darken and the glimmer of your sword.

“Mother.”

“Son.”

It was the only interaction you had with her, she refused to come to talk to you, you weren’t surprised - you lacked a mother’s love as you grew up. But, Jaime tried his best to get you to talk to him. You shook off his advances before turning to Jon and Daenerys.

You were surprised to see Sansa, as she was with you. Arya had noticed how she was staring.

“You’re staring, do you have regrets?”

Sansa cleared her throat and stood up straight, “No, he’s just grown.”

“So, have you, perhaps you have a chance at wooing him,” Arya hums looking over to you, talking to Jon with Daenerys by your side, “I can’t deny that he is very handsome.”

You barely got to talk to Sansa when everyone was preparing to war, luckily that your group of people survived the war. But, Missandei was down in the tombs with Sansa and Tyrion where she had heard that Sansa was disrespecting your wife.

Missandei was going to tell her Queen, but rather think other when she sees you walking towards her with a smile - she knew that you were better to handle it. She saw how your jaw locked, no one was going to disrespect your wife.

“Thank you, Missandei, please be with Dany, I’ll sort her out.”

You went to Jon first, who was confused at his cousin after you and Dany told him that he was actually the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Jon had his whole heart to support you and Dany’s plan to rule the seven kingdoms, agreeing that despite Winterfell wanting independence, they would struggle.

Sansa was trying to find the right ways to talk to you, perhaps try and mend the relationship. But, when you were looking at her as you stride towards her - she thinks differently. 

Tyrion was in the room, trailing behind you as well as Varys. Jon followed closely behind whilst Arya looked confused, looking at her sister. 

“How dare you disrespect your Queen!” 

No greetings, no smile upon your face, fury on your expression and for once in her life, Sansa no longer recognise the sweet boy from many years ago.

“You should owe her your life after she came to rescue your home! She brought dragons and not once has she spoken about the clear disrespect that you and your people wore. She is not mad like her father at all.”

Tyrion, Varys, Jon and many other people could agree to that, Daenerys was nothing like her father and it was mostly because of you. You were her constant grounding, bringing her to reality and knowing that you will always be by her side. 

“She’s not my Queen!” Sansa snaps back, gritting her teeth, “I don’t think she should be if anything if someone was to take the throne it should be you! It’s been rightfully yours since your father died.”

“It is my throne,” You sneered as Sansa stops upon hearing your words, “You’re not only disrespecting your queen, you are disrespecting my wife.”

Wife.

Her hearts shatter, she wonders is that how you felt when she had rejected you. Your eyes were cold, your stance was stiff and the lost Valyrian sword matches it’s current owner - you. It reflected who you were, shiny and attractive, but can cut so deeply - it was hard to recover from it’s inflicted wounds.

“You shall never bad mouth the throne, you hear me?” You pressed on, your tone turning stern that she reluctantly nods, “Don’t test me, Stark.” 

With that, you turn on your heel and leave the room, leaving the occupants confused and somewhat terrified. 

“Well...” Arya breaks the silence, “Sansa?”

Her heart was broken, she thought this time she could find love. She was never Joffery’s, she refuses to be claimed by Ramsey and she lost Theon. But, she could not let a man ruin her thoughts, putting up a wall as she looks away from where you last were.

“I believe we all have a meeting on how we will accompany our King and Queen to the throne.”

She dreads to see you because she knows when she arrives - you will look at Daenerys with love and it’ll be returned. 

#daenerys targeryan #daenerys targeryan imagine #daenerys targeryan x male reader #sansa stark imagine #sansa stark x male reader #Sansa Stark #x male reader #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of throne x male reader

[vivacissimx]

The thing about Cersei's gender dysphoria is that it has less to do with Cersei not being comfortable with her own body and more with priviledge. That is the only reason as to why she wants to be a man and takes so much comfort in the idea that she would have been Jaime if so. Not only because pre hand-loss Jaime is outwardly perfect but also because he is the epitome of priviledge (this is something George himself highlighted in interviews). If you read her chapters the only other thing that she envies in the male gender is the physical strength and those two things are interconected. That's why i don't really buy into the headcanon of her being trans.

oh sure, and I'm not equating Cersei's gender dysphoria with her being trans, because experiencing gender dysphoria ≠ being trans necessarily. Plenty of cis ppl experience alienation from/by gender, particularly cis women because under patriarchal conditions womanhood is designed to be rigid and uncomfortable. I'm not saying anything new either, this is Gender Studies 101. That said genderfuckery is yknow a reading that is there and in particular I like these lines

When Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. 'What do I get?' I remember asking.

-ACOK, Sansa VI

"Perhaps I should marry Queen Cersei after all, on the condition that she support her daughter over her son. Do you think she would?"

Never, Tyrion wanted to say, but the word caught in his throat. Cersei always resented being excluded from power on account of her sex. If Dornish law applied in the west, she would be the heir to Casterly Rock in her own right. She and Jaime were twins, but Cersei had come first into the world, and that was all it took. By championing Myrcella's cause she would be championing her own. "I do not know how my sister would choose, between Tommen and Myrcella," he admitted.

-ASOS, Tyrion IX

She laughed. "A pity Lord Tywin Lannister never had a son. I could have been the heir he wanted, but I lacked the cock.

-ASOS, Jaime IX

And she is greedy. Greedy for power, for honor, for love.

-ADWD, Tyrion VI

because she's not asking to be given a sword alongside Jaime, but she did expect to receive something elsewise, something neither Jaime's swords nor her own feminine accoutrements. Tyrion knows Cersei resents denial based on sex, but he doesn't know that she wants Casterly Rock or would fight for it. She occupies a space in between. Tyrion is hustling in the last quote but it's included because while I don't know that Cersei desires the traditional trappings of privileged men, I do know that she wouldn't be satisfied just being Jaime. Her conceptions of her own "manhood" might start with Jaime but they don't end there

#asks

[a-libra-writes]

I read your post about Tyrion's trial and Tywin's second wife's reaction towards it. I really enjoyed reading the part about Tyrion's feelings towards Tywin's second wife and her children and I was wondering if you could do a separate post including Cersei and Jaime and their thoughts and feelings on the second wife and the children she has with Tywin? If you wanted you could also include Tyrion again if you have anything you want to expand on about his feelings.

me whenever yall ask me for my long-winded opinions

so!! no surprise I have many thoughts on this dynamic and I rlly wanted to explore it in that fic, or some other one, but agh I was having hard time putting it together. So Im glad I can just dump my thoughts here. Let’s do Jaime first because Cersei’s opinions are exactly what you’d expect lol.

Initially, Jaime just goes with what people want of him. Doing it for love, and all that. He gave up being the heir to Casterly Rock because his sister - his love - asked it of him. He believed that was worth it. And by the time he’s an adult, when he’s well into the Kingsguard, after his roadtrip from hell and opening his eyes to what his sister truly is ... He still doesn’t want it. 

Jaime was raised to be the Perfect Heir. The Lannister Son, Tywin Lannister’s oldest. Handsome, excellent with the sword, amiable, a powerful family. Still... it wasn’t what he truly wanted. Jaime said it himself; he’s only truly alive when he’s “holding a sword or making love”. And let’s be real, he’s pretty aloof to things that aren’t immediately important to him. By the time the second wife comes on the scene, he’s the Kingslayer, he’s a Kingsguard, and he’s sleeping with his sister. As far as he’s concerned, she’s not his business.

However, he’s very curious about his father remarrying in the first place. The news is everywhere in the Red Keep. Tywin Lannister remarrying - presumably for an heir, because why else - and that means ... Jaime immediately thinks of Tyrion when he hears the news. He thinks of how hurt his brother must feel, how angry. Jaime spends several days in a dark mood, wondering what things would have been like if... maybe if Tyrion had been born differently. Maybe if their mother lived. But he realizes that’s pointless thinking.

He doesn’t attend the wedding, because Cersei refuses to. It’s a mild scandal, the Queen not attending her father’s second marriage, but Robert doesn’t go either and the drama is blown over through Tywin’s sheer force of intimidation + I HC that "second wives" and any wife after that aren't treated the best, especially after the husband has already had grown children. Jaime doesn’t see her for a long while. It’s when she comes to the Red Keep, when he and Cersei are forced to meet her. And...

He’s not sure what he expected. Jaime is underwhelmed. She’s pretty, naturally. That was expected. She’s dressed in Lannister colors, she’s amiable and charms most people she meets. She’s clearly intelligent. She’s so ... so good. And she isn't afraid of his father. It’s strange, Jaime thinks. What a strange choice his father made, but he doesn’t want to think of it. He doesn’t want to care, but Cersei does, and he anticipates she’ll only become more irate.

I feel like Jaime purposefully makes distance between himself and his stepmother for many reasons - His own tendency to keep others away because he assumes they’re assuming the worst of him, Cersei’s hatred of the woman, guilt toward Tyrion, apprehension to his father’s intentions, and so on. There’s something almost disturbing about the way his father listens to her, especially later in their relationship - the way he takes her counsel, sits close to her, touches her hand in front of everyone, and so on. Jaime doesn’t remember much of his mother; he knew his father loved her, but... seeing his cold, ruthless father being so careful and considerate is just unsettling. He doesn’t want to linger for too long. 

The second wife would no doubt try to speak to him, try to be friendly. It’s difficult. Jaime feels like something is off with her.

When she shows what she’s capable of, when he sees that iron hand under the silk glove, it clicks into place. That’s why his father chose her. 

I think she and Jaime wouldn’t truly connect until well after he’s lost his hand, when he’s still somewhat doing Cersei’s bidding, when he and his sister against his stepmother, Ser Kevan and his half-brother. Jaime can’t even call the boy that, or any other children the second wife might have. When he looks into them, he sees his father, but also his step-mother. 

He thinks the boy will make a good Lord of Casterly Rock. Like Tyrion, he hopes the boy will have more of his mother than this father, but he doesn’t get his hopes up.

Time for Cersei. Oh, Cersei.

It’s easy to write that she’s jealous and angry, because, yes. Duh. But it’s a lot deeper than that. Like her brothers, she’s suffered under Tywin’s “parenting”. And unlike her brothers, she remembers her mother. She’s been through trauma guys, especially in the books where you can clearly read her thoughts, memories and delusions. Joffrey got that cruelty from somewhere. Cersei got it from somewhere.

When she hears the news, she nearly cuts the tongue of the messenger. Her father, remarrying? To who? What woman could possibly measure up to her mother, who they said was just as capable as her father, if not moreso? She’s disgusted by it. She blames Jaime, even though she’s the one who convinced him to take the white cloak. She curses Tyrion, as if he could have stopped it by being “better”. And most of all, she curses her father, for not considering her as the rightful heir. Because this is the only reason this marriage is taking place - Casterly Rock needs a “proper” heir.

She’s right about that, of course. That was Tywin’s reason for remarrying. The first time she meets her “stepmother” (oh gods does she refuse to use that word) it’s months after the wedding. Maybe almost a year. Honestly, Tywin doesn’t care about her absence; it makes things easier. By then the second wife might even be pregnant, though not visibly so, and that’s a minefield in and of itself.

Cersei hates the second wife immediately. There’s no way that wouldn’t happen. Everything about her is a fault, no matter what she does. It wouldn’t matter if she was the only daughter of the wealthiest or oldest house in Westeros, it wouldn’t matter if she was a Targaryen with a dragon. When speaking to Jaime and Tyrion, Cersei uses “that whore” to refer to the second wife.

Listen, Cersei has a lot of internal misogyny. I mean, Westerosi culture just does that. What makes it worse is the genuine hurt of her father “moving on”. The fact her brothers don’t seem to remember as much of Joanna as she does. Then there’s the jealousy - she should be the one her father is consulting with. Is she not just as cunning as a man, just as ruthless, as capable of getting done what needs to be done? Is her husband not a useless oaf who couldn’t politic his way out of anything, besides maybe a brothel?

 Cersei is convinced her father looks down on her because she’s a woman. Tywin doesn’t take her seriously because she’s rash, temperamental, prideful, cruel... ... ... I wonder how she ended up that way 🙄

Her anger, jealousy and hurt only worsens when the stepmother gives birth to a son. Oh, it would have been so good for the bitch to die in childbed, to give birth to a daughter - better, an ugly, deformed daughter that would kill her on the way out. No, it just had to be a healthy son. It’s a son she watches her father hold - even if it’s briefly - when he still refused to hold Joffrey. A son her father looks at approvingly, a son who will soon learn swords and politics so he can take what’s her’s.

It makes her physically sick.

It’s no secret to Jaime and Tyrion that she wants the boy dead. The second wife doesn’t trust her worth a damn, but she doesn’t voice her concerns to Tywin. He doesn’t think Cersei is stupid or rash enough to do such a thing. And in a way, he’s almost right - one evening when she’s visiting Casterly Rock, she angrily storms into his office, telling him he’s ruining the family. The boy is too young, he’s probably not even a Lannister, he must be a bastard - even Tyrion would be better -

Tywin gives her such a fearsome response, she feels herself turning small and powerless in an instant. She leaves his office, fighting her tears, feeling like a helpless girl again. She hates it. It takes all of her willpower not to go to the boy’s room and smother him right there. If her stepmother crossed her path then, Cersei truly believes she’d do something drastic.

It’s difficult for Cersei to think of the second wife with any objective thought. Doubly so for the son, who she can’t even call brother without acid coming up in her throat. In her greatest delusions, she dreams of killing the boy and taking the Rock from him. It isn't his birthright, it's her's, she's the oldest... Westerosi inheritance laws be damned.

I’ve discussed Tyrion’s feelings in that previous ask and in this fic. Gods, it would be such a whirlwind of emotions for the poor guy - his self-destruction and bitterness might be accelerated, but there might be something freeing in his father just outright finally disowning him and moving on. ... ....  Yeah, nevermind. It just turns to more hatred. He and his stepmother have a really ... complex relationship where they both know what makes it difficult and unfair, they both know Tywin is the cause of this hurt, yet they continue to be good to each other. Sometimes it hurts Tyrion to be that way, so he has to distance himself from her for a while.

It’s the same way when he deals with his half-brother. Tyrion isn’t sure if his younger brother’s affection and admiration makes him want to smile or cry.

I imagine the son as intelligent, capable, a good swordsman in spite of his young age and well on his way to becoming a knight. I feel he’s more observant of adults than people think, he’s more on the quiet side, he has those eyes that are so eerily similar to Tywin’s, and that same nose. I think by a certain age, he’s very, very aware of what his half-siblings think of him. And as he gets older, he becomes increasingly aware of what sort of man his father is. 

I think he really, really misses Tyrion. Missing his father, after how Tywin died, well ... it’s complicated. At least he has his mother and Uncle Kevan, and maybe Jaime. 

#libra headcanons #libra says #hope this all kinda makes sense and flows aight haha #god damn these lannisters dude #the only family with worse family dynamics is the greyjoys and thats debatable #sidenote i HC any other kids Tywin+SecondWife might have arent as emotionally strong as the oldest son so he protects them a lot #both from tywin and cersei and anyone else #tywin lannister x reader

[ilynpilled]

A Feast for Crows - Cersei II

A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion I

“Conditional positive regard is where positive regard, praise, and approval, depend upon the child, for example, behaving in ways that the parents think correct. Hence the child is not loved for the person he or she is, but on condition that he or she behaves only in ways approved by the parent(s).” - Carl Rogers’ Humanistic Theory of Personality Development

The concept of love inside of the minds of the Lannister siblings becomes skewed as a result of Tywin’s conditioning. This dictates their behavior as individuals, and informs how they function in their interpersonal relationships outside of Tywin.

To Cersei, love is a disease and weakness, something she dreads herself craving. The passionate daughter that is viewed as inherently weak as a result of her gender.

To Jaime, love is frail and conditional, something that he has to constantly sustain. The “perfect son” that has the weight of having to embody an impossible ideal on his shoulders.

To Tyrion, love is unachievable, a right that he is not granted. The unlovable son that is viewed as broken from birth.

#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #tyrion lannister #tywin lannister #yeah that bald man is in hell

[wolfsneedles]

My Re-read of a storm of swords and i just cant get over how interesting it as book with iconic lines and carefully crafted dialogues and some miserable important deaths of some of my fav characters. Like this book, is really the iphone of asoiaf lol. A fine wine. Arbor gold. It starts from same events left incomplete in clash of kings but only that now every person meets their consequences and disastrous results of wrong moves & mistakes end so perfectly and painfuly in conclusive way. A feast for crows obviously focuses more on king's landing events and some of the riverlands with brienne and jaime. Might say it isn't my fav book yet since im reading it too apart from some breathtaking prophecies and aemon declaring how prince that was promised could be --> dany

However, ASOS is best best book ever. So much mess and bittersweet endings.

You see catelyn, robb and riverlands arc ending in the most tragic way as result of all small excusable mistakes to the reader that piled up and finally execution of red wedding with bangs and drums, not to mention this event was so catatonic and an irreversible tragedy that almost all characters had visions and dreams of it (patchface, Ghost of high heart, theon, daenerys, jon perhaps later) knowing half of these characters never met the victims of the red wedding.

This event also meant - northern power of houses and faith of independence and somewhat retribution they deserved or wish they had is thwarted now and almost all of them die there esp strength of dustin, manderlys along with boltons betraying them and roose coming out as an iconic cold hearted brute and villain somewhat.

This book also shows how stark sisters had their paths turned after the tiring chasing and running away like arya through war torn lands and sansa finally fleeing KL to Vale with littlefinger - in a way a complete revival again of her and arya embarking on to braavos with an entirely different name now and somewhat purpose we dont know yet also ends her arc of sadness and despair she felt when chasing and running towards her lady mother and robb at the twins. kind of tragic tbh more for her how she saw or heard almost every death of a stark. near to her or family, she saw horror unfolding in front of her eyes.

You have lannisters coming off as victorious ( not really then...) since tywin and tyrion's last scene is iconic. Its like how the might of house lannister which in case tywin refers to himself is broken on a freaking privy - somewhat bittersweet ending since we know cersei and jaime are already not so in a good mental state to make up for heir of casterly rock - and then we have tyrion fleeing too again, once more, finally, to essos as we know. This ending of his arc in KL is also imp since he entered this city like tywin as hand of the king and is leaving like a prisoner. Idk seems perfect to me how he runs and tywin who came as hand of king replacing his son, now goes back in ehh coffin...glory indeed.

You have bran and rickon already parting in ACOK, BUT now the most importent part of brans journey also begins somehow. and therefore him abandoning winterfell and that side of north for further journey is too sad for me too in a lot of ways. His connection to his own home as the last stark who was residing there has ended too (prob bloodraven has more action for my boy i hope).

You have Lysa Tully in the Vale before sansa arrived there with baelish, and she also ultimately gets too much of frightening end in same castles and doors she never opened for anyone - even refusing to help her sister during war because now i wonder had the vale signed for stark side, how different circumstances would be but then tywin wanted to play rains of castamere so bad (i hate him sorry)

Jaime and Brienne still were busy in their road ventures and romantic comedy but him arriving as cripple and maimed to KL, is again of uttermost importance since he in his thoughts lose a lot of confidence in himself now not really making him a perfect candidate for so many things,,, again he has to sort out some issues with his big of bully sister and not-so-accommodating power hungry deluded father but he chose to argue and decline offer for heir of rock and also confessed his utter disregard for poor kids he have, joffrey especially. Idk im so confused what this golden lion & a trained chivalrous warrior is onto since jaime's chapter is like a realistic slap on your face & we see his POV in ASOS only and then he just goes thru huuuge turmoil lol. (not good day or year for him tbh)

Lastly we have daenerys who then vows to settle in mereen making it evident in way how she isn't obsessed with utter power and throne of her ancestors as some ppl speculate, ofc she appears in ADWD again but her freeing slaves and singing dracarys is my another fav momet of ASOS, since dany is really not a frightened confused child she was, she is getting hold of things in realistic way too, and meets barristan, gets to know abt their betrayals, basically gets Unsullied, idk a major iconic moment if u see in contrast to how everyone is losing war now in westeros and wo5k is coming to kind of an end, with balon dying, robb and joff dead, and stannis...(well he is another spiritual case) going to the wall, we see how horrifying brutal war did come to an end in ASOS in the end eventually with tywin also dying. So dany getting an army of unsullied opposed to all other armies kind of dissolving in westeros is quite a distinction. ( bonus points she is young and woman and alone and has 3 dragon )

On the Wall - jon plays and practiced swords with emmett and then struck by memory of him and robb playing & above all how he wants to be lord of winterfell. In the end Jon Snow wins the vote in a landslide victory and is named the 998th Lord Commander. His entire journey from start of ASOS was with ygritte and Wildlings and then finally giving up on mance and returning to Wall with no expectations of him being commander after having spent moments alone and with wildlings and others with him just a ranger.

Realising in the end now, how storm of swords puts people in power like jon and dany and others like boltons and freys in north & riverlands, at the same time starks and lannisters are in way battered and struck by at a time tragedies. Half of people who were away from their families unite or return back like jaime while other half return somewhere more far (arya sansa at vale and braavos with bran more far from winterfell, rickon too), most of the 5 kings are dead too. Also aftermath of war at end of ASOS and AFFC also describes perfectly the attitude and responses of smallfolk towards whoever results in being the king of no concern to them. Most of the small roads and inns were damaged and plundered with woman and children killed or raped and men usually dead too. When we see arya or jaime and brienne usually, we read their POVs, we also see the wrenching elements of war too and how main message could also be that lords play their game of thrones but peasants suffer dreadfully more, we also see how smallfolks have no trust or loyalties towards any house or liege lord. They usually refer to starks and lannister conflict as 'wolves came...or lions did this'. Major point i noticed.

not to mention again, in essos and on the wall 2 different realities and places that mid westeros, we see dany and jon and their ingrown different experiences and attitudes towards smallfolks. freeing of slaves and getting some loyalties tied to you, while living with wildlings and seeing how they rule and eat and sleep like a commoner is so important. The Wall also gives meaning to how real breathing humans are segregated from westeros and other houses as result of prejudice and inborn enmities. The slaves in chains indicate how their little lives in Yunkai is not of importance when they are...utterly children. some of them.

ASOS has major shifting thoughts and stories tbh. Its like gospel of asoiaf for me.

#asoiaf #asoiaf/got #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf meta #daenerys targaryen #daenerys meta #jon snow #cersei lannister #jaime lannister #tywin lannister #tyrion lannister #house lannister #bran stark #authors #house stark #robb stark #catelyn tully #drogon #dany meta #brienne of tarth #jamie x brienne #roose bolton #arya stark #sansa stark #stark sisters #house of wolves #fantasy books #grrm #valyrianscrolls

[atopvisenyashill]

What if Brandon killed little finger during their duel?

Well i mean, littlefucker is fairly low born, he is the one that made the challenge, he is out here bragging that he deflowered cat, and Brandon is Cat’s fiancé and heir to Winterfell. I think it’s likely that Brandon earns himself a less than stellar reputation (the way Oberyn has, for example, after the tourney mishap with Willas) but I don’t think he faces any particular consequences for it. I imagine Hoster feels really weird about it because of his relationship with LF’s dad, but like,,,,,,, pls understand i’m not saying lower class people ~ask for abuse~ but Cat makes it abundantly clear she doesn’t return his feelings, and LF decides to pick a fight anyway. If a man I thought was my bestie did that bc he wanted to fuck me, and got himself shot for it, I’d tell him he’s a fucking idiot. If he died, I’m sure I - and Cat, maybe Brandon - would feel some level of guilt and anger over it but like, Cat said no and swords are not for playing they are for killing!

Lysa’s life, however, is probably a bit better? No LF at this time means she doesn’t get pregnant, she isn’t giving an abortifacient that may have contributed to her infertility (Jon Arryn is old and contrary to popular belief, cis men actually can’t keep having kids until they die so while I don't think the fertility issues were all Lysa's, her forced abortion probably contributed). Also means that mayhaps Jon Arryn resents her a little less and is kinder to her. I think Lysa still takes her marriage really hard though - who wouldn’t omg it’s so hard to travel in and out of the Vale and Jon is OLD AS BALLS - so even if she has more children, or children without disabilities, I think she has some attachment issues that are hard to set aside.

Of course, the main issue here is the main plot. Stannis leaves because Jon dies and he thinks the Lannisters are onto him. If Jon stays alive, he and Stannis can take the capital from the Lannisters much more easily, and therefore prove that Cersei's kids aren't biologically Robert's much more easily. Unlike Ned, however, neither of those two have any qualms about murdering innocent children and their mothers so I think it's unfortunately likely that that Jon and Stannis tell Robert, and Robert at the very least is executing Cersei and Jaime, then daring Tywin and Tyrion to say something about it - and Tywin is definitely going to have some shit to say because he's been deprived of his "perfect" heir in Jaime. I worry for the fates of the three children - Joffrey, I think, is old enough he may be executed as well. I would like to think that someone would have a large enough issue with Myrcella and Tommen being executed that they get spirited away, either by some combo of Tyrion and Varys or Jon Arryn sneaking them out himself but we know how Robert is and I think it looks bleak. I can very much see, if Tyrion is in the capital at this time and Tywin is not, Robert kind of spitefully naming Tyrion as heir to Casterly Rock as a further way of rubbing it in Tywin's nose that he killed the perfect heir and perfect queen. They're probably throwing Margaery into Robert's bed after this, and that's going to be another huge ass problem. I think it's more than likely that the moment Margaery has a son, whoever offed Joffrey is doing the same to Robert, and the Tyrells are in for a long regency alongside Stannis and Jon Arryn.

#asks #anons

[queenaryastark]

I don’t see why there’s still any debate over whether Dany burning King’s Landing is going to be canon or not. With show!Dany being triggered by bells and massacring a city, it’s obvious that Jon Connington is the character who will do that. Unlike Dany, the man literally has a backstory where he is traumatized by the sounds of bells after losing a key battle that could have been prevented had he massacred the entire town. I mean, seriously:

Last night he'd dreamt of Stoney Sept again. Alone, with sword in hand, he ran from house to house, smashing down doors, racing up stairs, leaping from roof to roof, as his ears rang to the sound of distant bells. Deep bronze booms and silver chiming pounded through his skull, a maddening cacophony of noise that grew ever louder until it seemed as if his head would explode.

Seventeen years had come and gone since the Battle of the Bells, yet the sound of bells ringing still tied a knot in his guts. Others might claim that the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell to Robert's warhammer on the Trident, but the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought if the griffin had only slain the stag there in Stoney Sept. The bells tolled for all of us that day. For Aerys and his queen, for Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, for every true man and honest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And for my silver prince. -- ADWD

The road ahead was full of perils, he knew, but what of it? All men must die. All he asked was time. He had waited so long, surely the gods would grant him a few more years, enough time to see the boy he'd called a son seated on the Iron Throne. To reclaim his lands, his name, his honor. To still the bells that rang so loudly in his dreams whenever he closed his eyes to sleep. -- ADWD

And so he swept down on Stoney Sept, closed off the town, and began a search. His knights went house to house, smashed in every door, peered into every cellar. He had even sent men crawling through the sewers, yet somehow Robert still eluded him. The townsfolk were hiding him. They moved him from one secret bolt-hole to the next, always one step ahead of the king's men. The whole town was a nest of traitors. At the end they had the usurper hidden in a brothel. What sort of king was that, who would hide behind the skirts of women? Yet whilst the search dragged on, Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully came down upon the town with a rebel army. Bells and battle followed, and Robert emerged from his brothel with a blade in hand, and almost slew Jon on the steps of the old sept that gave the town its name.

For years afterward, Jon Connington told himself that he was not to blame, that he had done all that any man could do. His soldiers searched every hole and hovel, he offered pardons and rewards, he took hostages and hung them in crow cages and swore that they would have neither food nor drink until Robert was delivered to him. All to no avail. "Tywin Lannister himself could have done no more," he had insisted one night to Blackheart, during his first year of exile.

"There is where you're wrong," Myles Toyne had replied. "Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it. Men and boys, babes at the breast, noble knights and holy septons, pigs and whores, rats and rebels, he would have burned them all. When the fires guttered out and only ash and cinders remained, he would have sent his men in to find the bones of Robert Baratheon. Later, when Stark and Tully turned up with their host, he would have offered pardons to the both of them, and they would have accepted and turned for home with their tails between their legs."-- ADWD

What will happen in the books is all right here to be seen. We have a man who is traumatized by the sound of bells to the point where he hears them in his head. That man knows that his biggest failure was the result of not murdering and burning every person in the town he had been searching. It stands to reason that this is set up for JonCon to crack under the trauma and pressure, resulting in him trying to “correct” his mistake by participating in burning King’s Landing to ash.

Honestly, I could even see George having Aegon execute JonCon since not punishing him for such an act would reflect badly on his cause. At that point, we would have a different issue to critique: burying your gays.

I would also argue that Cersei has a huge amount of foreshadowing for taking part in destroying King’s Landing with wildfire. It’s her idea to use it during the Battle of the Blackwater (which Tyrion approves and perfects using their own people as unknowing suicide bombers), it was her who used it to destroy the Tower of the Hand since previous Hands angered her, and she is the character with massive parallels to Aerys including his lust for wildfire, a comparison Jaime makes. There’s no point to all that foreshadowing if she’s not going to go the way of Aerys.

#text post #asoiaf

[justfandomwritings]

United in Fear (Part Five - Soulmate!Robb)

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader; Soulmates AU

Word count: 18.4k ... Yes you read that right.

Warnings: Some people die cause its game of thrones, but nothing’s that graphic. Sibling bonding moments, lots of plot, but no actual warnings.

Summary: The names were the greatest mystery in Westeros. Each kingdom had their own telling of the story. None of the kingdoms could agree on where they were from or how they came to be. Each thought a different god, their own interpretation of religion, was responsible, but all seemed to agree on one thing: they were a gift.

Notes: Thank you to everyone who followed and reblogged from this story. Today marks 10k followers, and while I wasn’t waiting for that to happen, it’s great that it happened the day I finished this story.

Start From the Beginning… Part One

Previously On… Part Four

Revenge paid best when done in the service of Lannisters, and it paid even better when wrought against the King.

Tyrek, the firstborn son of Tywin’s deceased younger brother Tygett, was actually quite closely related to the central family of House Lannister, not that anyone remembered that. The Great Lion was in fact his uncle; and the Pride of the Rock, as (Y/n) had long been called, was to call Tyrek her first cousin. 

With his father a third-born son and himself proving lacking in mental abilities and physical prowess, many passed over Tyrek and regarded him as insignificant. To be sure, his family set a near impossible measure to live up to. Standing out amongst the Lannisters was only achievable for those truly great and notorious of history. 

His uncles, Tywin and Kevan, were considered masters of war and strategy and rule. His cousins were without equal: Cersei, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; Jaime, the greatest swordsman to ever live; (Y/n), Lady of the Rock; and Lancel, squire to the King. 

There were others, to be fair, who fell short. Cleos Frey, eldest son of his aunt Gemma, was only noteworthy in how utterly unexceptional he became, and his baby brother Walder was possibly the ugliest thing to toddle the halls of Casterly Rock. Willem, Kevan’s son, may have only been a child, but he showed none of the promise and skill his twin brother. Not wanting to suffer further from association, Tyrek avoided the three at all cost. 

Even in his mediocrity, Tyrek could say he kept good, well-born company, but it wasn’t the matter that he was passed over that bothered him. It was that, as his father’s only child, he felt as though he’d failed him. 

Tywin had three perfect children and a fourth who, even as he disappointed his father, fascinated countless throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Kevan’s brood were an imperfect bunch. Lancel was strong but gullible; Willem was an unpromising one; and Janei, while kind and beautiful, was still only a babe. But where the others failed, Kevan could always look on Martyn for a dazzling performance. 

Genna similarly looked to her middle sons. Her eldest and youngest, Cleos and Walder, were Freys to their core; ugly, bruttish, and dim. They slunk around the shadows of the Rock, scared to even speak to anyone with blonde hair, including their brothers. Lyonel and Tion were Genna’s pride and joy. They looked, acted, and sounded as every Lannister should. They were by no means to par with Jaime or Cersei or (Y/n), but both showed skill and promise enough to rectify the disappoints that were their siblings.

But Tygett, dead though he may be, only had Tyrek. 

Tyrek didn’t know or remember his father, and none in the keep spoke of the man. He knew Tywin did not like him, and for that Tyrek kept his questions to a minimum. He wanted to know though; he wanted to give his long gone father a reason to praise him. And knowing that even if he earned it, he would never hear his father cheer, he sought at least Tywin and Kevan’s, for they were the closest things he had.

Tyrek felt nothing when his hand tipped and poured the contents of the small vial into the King’s wine before a hunt. He felt nothing when healers and the maester came rushing through the Red Keep demanding people make way for the King. He felt nothing when Cersei cackled at the news her husband had fallen ill. He felt nothing when the first scream of pain echoed through the walls of the tower, and he felt nothing when they finally, three days later, heard the last. He felt nothing when Jaime came to tell the Lannisters that the King was dead. 

And, waiting at the gates of King’s Landing for Robert’s funeral procession to begin, he wasn’t sure he felt anything now. 

“You did well, Tyrek,” (Y/n) whispered, resting on his shoulder what would appear to any outsider to be a comforting hand. 

Tyrek looked up at (Y/n), not physically but emotionally. His hopeful eyes screamed for guidance. “You’re pleased? Lord Tywin will be pleased?”

“Yes,” (Y/n) rubbed his shoulder before letting her hand drop to her side. “We owe you a debt, and I promise it will be paid in full.” 

Tyrek smiled as (Y/n) walked away.

Maybe he was a worthy Lannister, because the prospect of being paid by some means filled him with more happiness than the murder had guilt.

(Y/n) left her cousin alone in the streets, trekking back up to the Red Keep with her head hung in a sign of mourning. 

The funeral had brought to mind something (Y/n) had long wondered. 

Robert Baratheon was dead, and in all the crowds it seemed only Tommen shed a tear. Cersei celebrated behind closed doors; Joffrey relished his new found power; Myrcella had always been fearful of her father for the way he treated Cersei; Renly was finally out of his brother’s shadow; and Stannis hadn’t even bothered to come to King’s Landing.

(Y/n) wondered, when she was gone, who would mourn her. Would Tyrion cry for her or rejoice at finally being treated as an heir? Would Jaime even notice her absence when his vision was so clouded with his twin? Would Tywin care that his daughter passed, or would he only care that he’d lost his right hand?

She knew better than to ask after Cersei. Loyal perhaps, but the sisters had no love lost. 

Robb. 

Robb would cry for her, would notice her absence, would care that she had passed. She had that over the King; she had Robb. 

Even Ned Stark, loyal, faithful Ned Stark, Robert’s oldest and only friend, didn’t mourn the man. He stayed locked in his tower, supposedly preparing the coronation of the new King.

Of course, (Y/n) knew better than to believe that. Ned Stark was, after all, a terrible liar.

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“Enter,” a voice called from inside the study.

(Y/n) walked past the Northern guard opening the door with a nod and a smile. 

Ned sat at a wide oak desk in the bay of an otherwise empty room. The Hand of the King had an official study for business, a grand bedecked thing nearer the quarters of the King. 

This, however, was a personal one. Two studies were not a luxury any Northman, even the Warden of the North, was used to. It seemed Ned did not know how to fill the space and had opted instead to not even try.

(Y/n) motioned for the guard to shut the door as she analyzed the contents, or lack thereof, in the room. “It is rather different than my father kept it.”

Ned leapt from his desk, hand reaching for the sword balanced against his chair back. He had been expecting his meal at this time, but the voice that spoke had caught him entirely unaware in a city where even the slightest lapse in attention meant death.

“Forgive my interruption,” (Y/n) halfheartedly placated. 

Ned took a moment, assessing there was no physical threat in the room, only a moment though as the lack of furniture made it clear (Y/n) was the only other occupant of the room. He replied slowly, cautiously removing his hand from the hilt of his blade. “I don’t believe you were born long enough ago to remember your father’s time as Hand.”

(Y/n) ambled around the perimeter of the room, trailing a hand over the walls. “I was not, but as you recall my father might as well have been king for most of Aerys’ reign. Painters loved to depict my father. There are countless portraits of him stored in the vaults of the Rock. A couple of him on the Iron Throne, a few in front of the Keep, plenty in the library or the Hand’s study, but my favorite portrait of him was in this room.”

“There were Lannister banners on the walls then.” She reached the desk and flattened a palm against the wood. “But he put his desk here as well. The light from the window, I presume.”

“It is why I chose the spot.” Ned stepped back towards the door, putting a few paces of distance between himself and (Y/n) Lannister.

Lannister. She was, despite her wedding, still a Lannister. Ned wished it weren’t so, or at least he wished to forget it were. 

Catelyn had given him his children who were his absolute joy. She stood by him and helped him with every decision he made. She cared for his people and his home. She vowed herself, gave herself, to him knowing she was not his mate. Ned loved his wife. He would not trade her for anything in the Seven Kingdoms, but Ashara was no longer in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Her daughter caused Ned great confusion and pain. A beauty that rivaled her mother, a mind which rivaled her father. He looked on her and saw his lost love; he listened to her speak and heard his mortal enemy.

She spoke from her core, and her core was Lannister. No matter the face which hid it. 

Without even a cursory glance in his direction, (Y/n) slipped into the chair Ned had vacated. The post weighed heavily on Ned’s mind at all hours of the day and night, but the seat seemed to mold around (Y/n) Lannister as if it were her own. As though the space had always been hers to occupy. As though the room was hers and he was the one merely a guest. 

“Lord Stark,” She crossed her arms over her chest with a weary smile, the sort of smile that would be comforting in any city but King’s Landing. “I’ve come to speak to you today about a whisper I heard.” 

Ned went instantly on guard. “I don’t employ spies. If you want to speak of rumors, I would be happy to escort you to Lord Varys’.” 

“I share your aversion to those who pay others to listen in on their fellow man, Lord Stark,” (Y/n) dismissed handily, “I assure you; what I’ve heard was not bought by myself or any other. It was offered and taken freely. I don’t deal in spies, nor do I deal in rumors.” (Y/n) picked at her fingernails as though the matter were as casual as her morning meal. “Rumors are usually lies, and no one is fool enough to lie to me. Whispers are another matter. Whispers are the truths no one wishes to speak.”

“And what whispers have you heard that concern me?” Ned pried warily.

“Whispers of visits to the less desirable end of King’s Landing, whispers of trips to one of Lord Baelish’s establishments, whispers of inquiries at a number of bastard’s homes in Flea Bottom.” 

Ned’s blood ran cold, and (Y/n) seemed to sense it even though his face remained as emotionless as ever. 

(Y/n) lifted her eyes to Lord Stark but did not divert any meaningful attention to him. “You see, the rumors say you’re looking for another of your bastards, or visiting Jon Snow’s mother, or looking to take a new mistress. I have no time for such slander.” 

“Then what do you have time for, Lady Lannister?” 

(Y/n) turned her head to Ned’s desk top, directing his eyes to the large book weighing down his papers: The History of House Baratheon. “I have time for a warning, Lord Stark.”

“A warning?” 

(Y/n) wasn’t a fool. She knew that by giving him a warning Ned Stark would connect her, or more likely her family, to his inquiries. That is, if he hadn’t already. Starks had a way of blaming Lannisters for every crime committed in the Seven Kingdoms and most of the crimes committed outside of them. That they were right to place the blame there was irrelevant. That they couldn’t fathom Lannister’s may have a purpose for such perceived injustices was of far greater concern to (Y/n) now.  

“Stop.”

Ned paused. “That is all?” He was rather expecting more than one word. 

“Stop this?” (Y/n) shrugged nonchalantly. “I admit. I don’t know how else to say it.” 

“You want me to stop prying into the death of my ally and mentor, Jon Arryn, and you expect me to do so without cause, simply because you asked?” 

“Ah!” (Y/n) exclaimed. “This is our misunderstanding.” (Y/n) leaned forward, elbows to her knees and looked up at Ned. Her face, for a moment, lost any and all resemblance it held with Ashara. It was as though Tywin Lannister had entered the room. His essence pooled in her eyes and and seeped through her skin as if by some magic the old man had possessed her though only for an instant. “I am not asking.”

Ned braced. His hand itched for his sword, not that he would ever dare use it on this woman of all people, for any number of reasons. He sought merely the comfort of having his weapon; he felt as though he were in a battle entirely unarmed. 

“Your sister had the Hand of the King murdered in cold blood. You don’t deny this, and you expect me to look the other way.” Ned accused.

(Y/n) leaned back in her chair exasperated. “I deny it entirely!” 

How daft was this man. To call her family out so blatantly without all the facts before him. He was no master of the game; she knew that. She hadn’t expected him to be on par with Baelish or Varys, but it seemed he wasn’t even on par with the lessers, such as her siblings or Pycelle. Even Tommen knew better than to confront anyone in King’s Landing, especially her, in such a way.

“You deny your family is capable of such treachery? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I denied no such thing. Your family and mine are different out of the necessity of our survival. Your family is capable of a great many things mine is not, as the reverse is also true.” (Y/n) bit back. “I did not deny my family was capable of such a thing. I denied, specifically, that my sister, your Queen whom you should refer to her with more respect, murdered Jon Arryn.”

Ned contemplated, for a moment, the poor woman before him. A woman who genuinely believed her words, who believed death a necessity for survival. “If not your family, then who? He was my oldest friend. I will not let this pass.”

“There was a time you would have called King Robert your oldest friend, yet you do not seek justice for him now.” (Y/n) pointed out, much to Ned’s discomfort. “You know your king to have been poisoned, and you let every suspect of the crime walk free from this city. Why?”

“Robert,” Ned hesistated. He looked out the opening above his desk, for no other reason than to avoid (Y/n)’s knowing gaze. “I know the reason for his death; we both do. I imagine I also know who did the deed and how it was done. Nothing there need be questioned, and I find the reason to be one which my heart simply cannot see fit to judge. Robert was not the man I once knew.” 

“And you know Jon Arryn to be the same man how?” (Y/n) asked. “You say he was your oldest friend, a title you remove from Robert in recent days. A title you would not have dreamed remove from Robert before you saw what he’d become. How then, having not seen Jon Arryn for just as long as the late King, can you lay the honor at his feet?” 

Ned marched forward to Jon Arryn’s defense, grabbing up the straining spine of the book and forcing its pages into (Y/n)’s face. “Because I know why he was killed, and no man deserves to die for doing his duty to his people. Your sister should not go unpunished for his death.”

“Again,” (Y/n) sighed, “my sister did not kill Jon Arryn.”

“And how do you know?” Ned turned the questioning on her.

“Because that deed I did myself.”

For that, Ned had no response. 

The tone of the conversation took a turn. Argument and resistance died in the air. Objection froze on the tongue. 

Ned Stark found he was well and truly struck dumb. 

Ned Stark had fallen at the first hurdle, a lesson (Y/n) had known even as a child: Never ask a question unless you already know its answer. 

With her revelation, it seemed as if (Y/n) did, in fact, own the room.

“I imagine you have already correctly deduced why I felt it need be done. Regardless of your actions, I won’t kill you as I did him, Lord Stark. I promise you that. Though, I cannot and will not promise your safety if you continue with this line of inquiry. You walk a dangerous path down which another has already died, and it is a path you walk very much alone. You have no allies in this city, only the liability of your daughters.”

“If you touch my children,” Ned began.

“I have no intention to draw the siblings of my mate into any frey,” (Y/n) waved off his growl. “Your daughters are no concern of mine, but I cannot say the same of my counterparts. Baelish is seen to be quite regularly in Sansa’s presence, and Varys has eyes on Arya almost constantly. I mention your daughters to remind you that they are here. Because judging by your actions, you seem to have forgotten. Whatever you do,” (Y/n) slammed her hand down on the book Ned had set aside on the table, “will affect them directly. 

“If you see through your quest for vengeance, your life and theirs will be at the mercy of my sister. If you are arrested for the treason you are plotting to commit, it will be my heartless nephew who decides their fate.” (Y/n) rose to her feet, forcing Ned back a step as they stood toe-to-toe. “Lord Stark, if you continue, the best ending that could possibly come from this would be for you to be branded a traitor and thrown in prison. The best ending for your daughters is to be given to my care at the Rock as honored guests unable to see their family ever again. And we both know what the worst outcome would entail.” 

Ned had much to think on that seemed to prevent him speaking. He did not want to reply with an ill-thought response to such a direct accusation of danger, but (Y/n) had clearly come prepared for whatever he might think to say. 

“Lord Stark,” (Y/n) sighed, resigned to maintaining the conversation alone, “I admire your sense of justice for your friends, but there comes a time to think of oneself, or at least one’s children. You will, I have no doubt, take this as intimidation, think I am attempting to block the honorable way. You believe you are doing the right thing, and I am here to tell you that you are. You’re doing the right thing for Jon Arryn and for your conscience, but make no mistake that the pair of you are the only two who will be served well by this course. It is the right thing for your guilt and for a deadman, not for the rest of Westeros.

“I mean, Stannis? As King? Make no mistake. Despite their personalities, Stannis is every bit Robert’s brother. The only thing Robert had in his favor was charm, and Stannis even lacks that.” (Y/n) scoffed at the idea of the morose, elder Baratheon sitting atop the Iron Throne. 

“So,” Ned’s voice was as low as his eyes, looking at the floor. “You admit Joffrey is not the true King.” 

(Y/n) paused, hesitating for only a moment, but it was enough for Ned to realize his words were to some degree correct. “Joffrey may not be the rightful King, but I believe he is the right one. Joffrey, as you’ve seen, would be no one’s first choice, but his undisputed reign, however brief, guarantees peace. What you propose leads to war and death and destruction from which no one benefits. Peace is what the Seven Kingdoms need.”

Ned wasn’t sure he intended to follow it, but he found he did want the young woman’s advice. “What, then, would you have me do?”

“Wait.” (Y/n) plainly stated. “A few months at the most. Joffrey will find some small slight, some matter of policy or gold which you’ve done in a way which he disapproves. He will ask you to return your pin as Hand. Do it without question. My sister will not attempt to enforce any contract for Sansa’s hand without Robert alive, and you will be free to journey with your children home. Take your daughters, and return to Winterfell where you belong.” 

“And who would take my place?” Ned already knew the answer.

“My father, of course.” 

Ned sat back on the edge of his desk with a heavy sigh, thinking that they had finally reached the true purpose of this conversation. “That is why you come to me then, to make way for your father. To ensure you do live to see him at this desk, in this room.” Ned motioned toward the window, the damned light at which their conversation had began. “It would give you control of the Rock sooner.”

(Y/n) smiled, a genuine, amused thing. “You are, I daresay, the first and only man in the Seven who has ever questioned my loyalty to my father. Knowing, as you do, what I’ve given up for him, I imagined you wiser than to do so. Even if it were as you say, and I assure you it is not, I am none so foolish as to go behind my father’s back to take control of the Westerlands.”

“Then what do you gain from this?” Ned asked, “I have been in King’s Landing long enough to know that even the most trustworthy people gain something from their loyalty.” 

(Y/n) shrugged. This was, by no means, the revelation to her that it clearly was to Ned Stark “Perhaps that is true, perhaps I am gaining something from all of this. Or perhaps, for once, it might be possible for you to believe that someone without the last name Stark is capable of doing the right thing.” 

There was a long quiet between the two in which (Y/n) leaned back and wrapped her hands over her stomach, looking thoughtfully out the window. 

When Ned spoke again, it was a whisper. “Lady (Y/n), are you with child?”

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(Y/n) was heavy with child, too heavy for only a few months. The Maester had whispered words with her father in the hall after looking in on her. 

“More than one.”

“Worried.”

“Large.”

“Like Joanna.” 

The last should have scared her, but (Y/n) had no time for such worries. 

There were greater moves being made than those of her body.

Namely, those of Catelyn Stark.

(Y/n) stormed down the hall, as much as she could at her size. 

Her eyes were red, with tears or rage, one could not be sure, but she looked every bit a woman ready to kill. She was every bit a woman ready to kill.

The Mountain, ever stationed outside her father’s study, stepped aside as she approached. 

(Y/n) shoved open the door, not bothering to allow it to close behind.

Let the Mountain hear. Let the Rock hear. Let the whole of the Westerlands and Westeros hear what she had to say.

Her husband, Harwyn, was stationed inside the open door. 

The most useless guard in existence. The most useless man in existence. He thought himself worthy because he got her with child in their single torrid night together. He thought he had earned the Lannister’s respect. He was wrong, not that he’d realized that yet. He was nothing more than a hulking mass of flesh, and he had foolishly served his entire purpose to a family who did not consider him one of their own.

As the lesser brother of House Lannister looked up, Kevan jumped to his feet to free the chair in front of his brother’s desk for (Y/n).

“Have you seen this?” (Y/n) growled, ignoring the gesture. Her voice was dark, cold as she brandished a scroll in her left fist. 

Tywin lifted an eyebrow. His daughter was not prone to exaggerations, of any kind. Even in her pregnancy, emotions did not vex her. She was far too disciplined for such outbursts of rage. “I presume not, as I’ve had no cause for anger today.” 

(Y/n) tossed the crumbled paper onto her father’s desk, but her hand remained clenched in its fists as if it was looking for something, anything to squeeze the life out of, “Word from Jaime.”

Tywin smoothed out the paper, and Kevan forgot his attempts to get (Y/n) to sit. He circled the wood to look over the older lord’s shoulder at the message. 

It was minutes, several long agonizing minutes, before her father finally looked up from the single sentence scratched into the paper. His head rose at a pace that was agonizing in its slowness, but when his gaze finally met his daughter’s it was that of a lion rearing back its’ head to strike. 

“Can we confirm this?” His tone mirrored his daughter’s low voice.

(Y/n) gave a single nod. “It was accompanied by word from the Riverlands.”

Gracefully, like a predator stalking its prey, Tywin pushed to his feet, sending Kevan back a step in his wake. “Brother,” Tywin’s eyes didn’t leave his daughter’s. “Call the banners.”

Harwyn stepped from his shadowy corner, “For what purpose, my Lord?” 

Tywin turned his deadly gaze on his new son, and even the proud knight seemed to shrink back inside of the barrell that made up his chest. “Catelyn Stark has accused Tyrion of the murder of Bran Stark and kidnapped him on his return to us.”

(Y/n) took the chance to sum up her father’s thoughts in three words. “This is war.”

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“Open,” The order came from somewhere near the back of the procession, and the guards at the top of the stairs each took a handle and pulled the doors wide.

The creaking brought a hush to the crowded room beyond who had not been expecting interruption. The chatter that had been present slowly died away as the newcomer joined their ranks.

“My deepest apologies for being late,” (Y/n) called out, slipping seamlessly to fill the quiet as if she did not know or care that her presence was a shockingly unwelcome surprise. With a grand flourish of her hands, (Y/n) waved to all of the room in greeting. “I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Silence. A long, empty silence.

Then, from the center a hearty chuckle. 

(Y/n) stepped under the middle archway and greeted Tyrion’s relieved smile with her usual smirk. 

“Brother,” she gave only a curt nod in acknowledgment before turning to meet the more distinguished guests on their platform.

Lady Arryn rose from her seat to stand beside her sister with a wide-eyed expression that could only be managed by someone subject to her particular kind of lunacy. “Who gave you the right to enter my home?”

“I gave myself the right,” (Y/n) meandered along, circling the edge of the room, a show of her indifference to Lysa’s power as much as it was a show of her own confidence. 

The Eyrie truly was a dreadful place. The mountains helped; they were beautiful, like a painting out of every window. But the keep was something more reminiscent of Harrenhal. Dim, cold, giving the appearance that it was haunted by its former patriarch. 

(Y/n) rather hoped the hall wasn’t haunted by Jon Arryn. She doubted he would take kindly to her presence. Not that she believed in spirits of any kind.

“You have no business here!” Lysa roared, taking a step dangerously close to the ledge over which she sat.

“On the contrary,” (Y/n) wandered over to the nearest bench and, with a glowering look, sent the lesser ladies occupying the seat scurrying away, “He,” she pointed to Tyrion as she settled in, “is my business.” 

“You cannot pay your way out of this. Your brother has already called for his trial by combat,” Lady Catelyn’s voice was steadier than her sister’s but by no means more inviting.

“Excellent,” (Y/n) clapped her hands, “Then he saves me the step of demanding one.” 

“What cause have you for wanting such a thing?” Lysa’s nose turned up at the prospect, an unpleasant look for an unpleasant woman. It made her already large nose look even more like a beak. 

“I have brought my brother’s champion.” (Y/n) snapped twice, a definitive sound that echoed off the chamber walls. “I’m sure you recall my husband, Lord Harwyn.”

The doors creaked open once more.

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(Y/n) would be wrong if she tried to claim that she wasn’t proud of the bloody shoe prints that trailed her as Harwyn escorted her up the small flight of stairs. 

There was something terribly Lannister about leaving the blood of her enemies in her wake, feeling their life draining out under her feet. 

“I believe,” (Y/n) let go of Harwyn’s steadying grasp as she reached the top of the overlook, “that my husband has won the day, and the trial, in my brother’s name.” 

Lysa looked on the red at (Y/n)’s heels and snarled out with a venom, “Take your brother and go.” 

(Y/n) bowed her head. In her advanced state, she could bow little else without toppling over. “Thank you, Lady Arryn.” 

(Y/n) sidestepped a guard to stand at Catelyn’s side and leaned in as if she were embracing the older woman.

Catelyn stiffened as (Y/n)’s arms came up to rest upon her shoulders, and every body in the room tensed for action, listening intently for provocation by either side.

(Y/n) pressed her lips against Catelyn’s ear and spoke in a voice so low that even with no other noise and an echoey, stone chamber not a word carried to any others present. 

“You think your son’s name on my arm will protect you from my wrath, and yet my name on his arm is not good enough to protect my brother.” (Y/n)’s hands gripped tighter to Catelyn’s dress. Her nails cut through the fabric and stung Catelyn’s skin. “Make no mistake. This will be your only warning. I care for my family just as deeply as you do for yours, and I will not tolerate such insolence again. The next time you touch one of my brothers, no Stark will leave alive.” 

Catelyn’s eyes stared straight ahead when (Y/n) turned and retreated back over the deadman’s blood. The steps up and down smeared into one another and became indistinguishable trail. 

Like the train of her crimson wedding cloak, the blood red stain followed her out the door and into the snow. 

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“Where are we going?” Tyrion occupied the seat across from her in the carriage. 

Normally, he would have ridden on horseback, but that was dominantly for the sake of expectation. 

His ‘brother’ Harwyn was outside, riding with the guard. Usually, the only recusal from joining the rest of the men would have been for all of the highborn lords and ladies to take refuge in the carriage. As it were, Tyrion was showing a great deal of disrespect to their traveling companions.

Though, he imagined Harwyn would say nothing and most of the low-born swords would not take it as the slight it was. They would assume that Tyrion’s height had made him in some way lesser to them and that this was merely him showing his weakness.

Neither, of course, was true. Tyrion could ride well enough with his saddle to keep up, and despite his imprisonment he felt more than fine to ride. 

There were, however, more important things than keeping up appearances to nameless, faceless, meaningless soldiers. 

“You won’t make it back to the Rock in this state,” Tyrion gestured to hulking mass that had become of his sister’s belly. 

“No, I won’t.” (Y/n) shifted her hands beneath the protrusion to lift some of the weight off of her aching back. “We’re heading to the Twins. Aunt Genna is waiting for us there.”

“And from there?” Tyrion asked.  

Trying desperately to find a comfortable seat, (Y/n) huffed and shifted her waist yet again. “Genna has business to attend with House Frey. She will accompany me home when I am well, and her deed is done.”

“And me?” 

“I believe Father has asked after you.”

Tyrion let his head thunk back against the wall behind him. “Joy,” he grumbled.

(Y/n) smiled, “No need to fear, brother. I believe it is a posting.” 

Tyrion let the words hang for a moment before switching the conversation. There was no elegant way to put it, but it needed to be said. “Thank you, (Y/n). I know Father sent you, no doubt. But thank you.” 

(Y/n) let her head lull to one side so as to look on her brother at eye level. 

Their family was not one for emotion. Cersei was too cruel to feel any, save those of a mother for her child. Jaime kept his locked deep inside, only sharing them on the rare occasion he was truly at someone’s mercy. Tyrion was rarely sober enough to remember what he was feeling, not that he felt safe enough to divulge them when there wasn’t a drink in his hand. (Y/n) hid her own under the cold, calculating mask of Tywin Lannister. 

It was a truly unique and rare occasion for any of the siblings, particularly (Y/n), to show what they were feeling. But on those rare occasions (Y/n) set her mask aside, it was only for her brothers. 

“Tyrion, Father did not order me after you. I was the one to tell him I was coming.”

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“The Pride of the Rock,” Tyrion tossed the Maester’s letter on the table in front of his sister. “How much of that is embellishment to win your favor?” 

(Y/n) glanced up at her brother through her lashes. Even when it was out from under her watchful eye, her hand did not cease its elegant arcs over the paper before her, crafting what Tyrion was sure was an equally elegant response. 

Tyrion could recall (Y/n)’s birth the same way Jaime often recalled his own. 

‘You came into this world shouting, and you haven’t shut up since.’ Jaime used to say to his younger brother.

Tyrion, only a boy himself at the time, had been in the hall when his younger sister entered the world. He’d sat on the floor worrying his bottom lip as he waited for the Maester to come out with the final news. 

When Ashara’s cries had finally quieted down, Tyrion had expected a baby’s wail. All experience and knowledge he had on the subject had led him to believe his sibling would cry with their first breath of air. He fretted that something had gone horribly wrong when no sound came from the room, save the Maester’s shuffling feet. 

Maester Orland waddled out of the bedchamber with a bundle of cloth in his arms, outstretched from his body with a disagreeable face. 

‘A girl, I’m afraid,’ the Maester shoved the child at the young Tyrion. ‘Normal and healthy, at least. I must see to Ashara. Take her to your father. He will no doubt be displeased.’ 

The baby was rather large for Tyrion to hold, but he cradled her to his chest with all the care in the world. 

Tyrion had been the first person in the world to hold little (Y/n). Even before their father, even before her mother, even before Jaime, and long before Cersei. It was, therefore, with some certainty that Tyrion could say (Y/n) was not molded into Tywin’s ideal. (Y/n) was born perfect. 

For sure, Genna had to teach her to write in the beautiful script that now lettered the paper in front of her, but everything which made her (Y/n) was ingrained in her from her beginning. 

The entire walk from Ashara’s chambers to Tywin’s library she had stared up at Tyrion with the same silent, judgmental look that colored her face even to the present.

(Y/n) was thoroughly unamused, but after so many years in her company Tyrion was used to her cold mask. He knew that, while identical to his father’s, her hardened expressions were at least occasionally capable of hiding amusement or cracking into a smile. Tyrion had made an art of telling exactly when and how her lips would finally pull up at the corners. 

“Dear brother,” (Y/n)’s eyebrow rose nearly as high as her incredulous tone, “you think anyone would dare deceive me, even for the sake of flattery.”

“No,” Tyrion broke from his reminiscing. “I certainly don’t.” 

“Then let us presume it is as the maester says.” (Y/n) set aside her work and leaned back in the chair, resting her hands over her ever larger stomach. “What will this mean?”

“Why it means…” Tyrion wasn’t sure he wanted to say, but under (Y/n)’s watchful, waiting gaze he knew he had to speak. She was looking at him expectantly; she knew what was to come. “Sister, you cannot mean to do this. If we lose you…”

“If you lose me, you mean,” (Y/n) corrected with a tilt to her lip that was as close as she ever came to a smile away from the Rock. “Brother,” (Y/n) reached out a hand, and Tyrion found himself meeting her halfway. “I did not leave you with Catelyn Stark. I won’t leave you with our family either. You are one of us, and Father raised me to protect my own, even if we have different understandings of what is ours.”

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Given (Y/n)’s condition, the Lannister trio of Tyrion, (Y/n), and Genna were held months at the Twins. As (Y/n)’s belly swelled, so did the tension of the Kingdoms. Until finally, at once, both burst. 

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(Y/n) panted for breath, gasping in lung full after lung full. She felt like a sailor drowning in the Sunset Sea. Every gulp eased her pain, but only for the moment it came in.

“Where” Gasp. “Is” Gasp. “My” Gasp. “Brother”.

The Maester pressed a cold, wet cloth to her forehead, trying to stem the sweat that was pouring out of her as the hours drug on. “No men are allowed in the birthing chamber. Only your mother and the midwives.”

With the next roar of pain, (Y/n) grabbed the old man by the neck of his robe and wrenched his face down over hers. “Bring. Me. Tyrion.” 

Despite the maester’s feeble protests, a midwife ran from the room and came back with the shorter Lannister on her heels.

Tyrion held (Y/n)’s hand through hours of screams. His fingers went numb from her clutches while her voice went hoarse with cries. His ears stung at the volume of the noise, and his head ached from the pain of listening so closely. His mouth was dry; his stomach was empty. He smelled of sweat and blood, like the room around them. 

But not once did Tyrion move. Not once did he complain. 

This was how his mother died. This was how (Y/n)’s mother died. This was how he caused his mother’s death. This was how (Y/n) caused her mother’s death.

He hadn’t been there for his mother, nor (Y/n) for hers. 

Joanna and Ashara had died screaming and alone. They had died in the arms of a strange old man they did not know. They had died lying in the same birthing bed. They had died bringing their last children into the world. They had died… 

They had died. 

Tyrion refused to let that happen to her. 

But from her screams, from her pain, from her tears, it was plain that (Y/n) was dying now. 

The first child came easy. A bald, beautiful baby boy. He was small in size though not sharing Tyrion’s condition. The babe was placed in Genna’s arms and ushered quickly from the room. 

The second, not as much. The girl boasted a near full head of Lannister blonde hair, and her screams nearly matched her mother’s in furiocity as she entered the world. 

It was then, as a nursing maid bundled the child away to join Genna and the other outside, that the Maester looked up from under his sister’s skirts. Tyrion could see the color drain from the old man’s face as he held up three fingers. “There’s another.”

No one ever survived a third. The only time Tyrion had ever heard of such a thing happening to nobility had been the Goodbrothers in the Iron Islands, tales of three boys born the size of sailors who practically tore their mother apart to enter the world. They said the woman died bloodied. They said she would’ve died screaming if she’d had lungs left to breath. No one in House Goodbrother had ever bothered to refute the tale, the monstrous sons she’d birthed even bragged of their feat. 

Tyrion held (Y/n)’s hand, and with the next pains, he cried with her. 

Tyrion could not lose his sister this same way, could not let another child into this family without a mother’s love. He could not bare a nephew as rejected and broken as himself, could not bare a niece as masked and guarded as (Y/n). 

Tywin hated Tyrion for killing the only woman he loved, and he would hate this child for killing the daughter that finally replaced her. 

“(Y/n),” Tyrion brushed away the hair plastered to his sister’s face. It was the first time, the only time, he had seen her looking anything less than perfect, and he’d never loved her more. “Sister, mine, your children need you now. Bring their sibling into this world, so they can meet you.”

Her voice had long turned from cries to rasping groans, but with her brother’s words, (Y/n) managed one last shout, pushing the baby from her as she collapsed onto the bed. 

The Maester handed the bloody mound of crying flesh to Tyrion and shoved him from the room. 

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The scream that ripped through the air around the Twins was a blood-curdling one. It filtered out through the windows of the upper chambers and fell down upon the ears of the men surrounding the keep.

“It sounds as if there is a woman being tortured in there.”

“It’s the Twins. I would not be surprised to hear anything of Walder Frey.” 

Just as the rest of the men were humming their agreement, their liege lord’s voice called out, “Ah, men too young to know the call. That’s no torture, boys. That’s the screams of a woman in birth.”

Robb Stark glanced over his shoulder on hearing the booming voice of his closest advisor, Lord Umber. “One of his wives or one of his daughters?” Robb joked back, wandering over to join the fray. 

Greatjon slapped a hand on the Stark’s shoulder. “Perhaps a woman who’s both.”

The group of soldiers guffawed. 

Robb’s eyes trailed over the keep. He knew there was no way to tell which window the sound came from, but when the next scream pierced the air, he felt an urge coming over him to go and find its source.

Shaking his head, Robb turned and backed away from the group of men, returning to talk with his mother over her mission with Lord Walder.

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Later, a bard writing of the day would call it a miracle. The Triplets at the Twins. 

And later still, when the name on (Y/n)’s arm and the name on Robb’s had passed into legend, they would say it was the gods themselves who came down and touched (Y/n)’s life that day. They would say the gods could not bare the injustice of her dying so close, but so far, from her mate. 

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On orders, an army of Northerners had been allowed to pass into the Riverlands. War had finally begun. 

The fighting was vicious and bloody. At the incredibly slow pace she would have to set given her condition, there was no sure way for (Y/n) to find passage to the Rock. (Y/n) spent a whole month alone at the Twins with only the company of ugly Frey girls and dimwitted Frey boys on hand to entertain her. They didn’t even have a library, the Freys. 

It was dull, dreadfully dull.  

Tywin had called for Tyrion the moment word had reached him that his daughter had survived her ordeal. Sympathy was in short supply in wartime, and Tywin was saving what little he had for souls weaker than his daughter. He knew (Y/n) would be fine.

Aunt Genna, her task done, was similarly ordered back to the Rock. (Y/n) had sent her children along with her. 

The Twins had never fallen, but (Y/n) was not willing to take that chance. The Rock was the only place she knew they would be safe, the only place where all eyes watching were on their side. It was only with the greatest care, and a few dead spies, that (Y/n) herself had not been found in Walder Frey’s home. She was not about to risk her family, her children, in that way for nothing more than company.

For once in her life, (Y/n) admitted that she needed time to heal, that she was in a state that was of no use to her father or her family. 

It spoke to how low she was, how near death she had been, that when she could finally walk again the first place she had asked to go was the house of a landed knight serving under Walder Frey, several leagues down the road. There, in his garden, was a small, rather puny weirwood tree, the only one for a day’s ride in any direction.

(Y/n) hobbled out alone and, away from the Frey’s prying eyes, threw herself at the base of the tree.

“I never believed in the new gods. I am not certain I believe in the old ones either. Still, a lack of faith in you is far better than a disbelief of them.” With slow, shuddering breath, (Y/n) removed herself from where she was wrapped around the tree and knelt before it. “Because right now, I desperately need someone to pray to.”

And so she sat there, for hours, talking to a tree.

And when she rose, she felt better for it. Not that it was something she would ever admit.

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Whatever peace (Y/n) found lasted as long as it took to ride back to the Twins. 

On her return, it took only the news presented her to decide: if this was what she got for praying to the old gods, then they could go in the trash heap where she’d shoved the new.

“A message from your father, delivered by hand,” Lord Walder held out the paper, seal facing her. “If it says anything like his letter to me, I imagine you will be leaving us soon.”

“Jaime captured. Harwyn dead. Return with the Mountain.” 

As if she needed the last sentence. 

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There were few moments in Robb Stark’s life that he could look back on with some certainty and know that his father would be ashamed of him, but that moment Lord Umber pulled him into the trees was certainly one.

“Is this the man?” Lord Umber asked, gesturing to the knight pinned to his knees by three of the Greatjon’s sons. 

Robb studied the figure carefully; though, he did not need to. He would know it anywhere. It was the man that haunted his dreams, cursed his nightmares. It was the body he imagined when he hacked training poles to bits, when he sent soldiers hurtling to the ground in sparring matches, when racked an arrow and aimed for the target. 

It was his enemy. More than Joffrey would ever be. 

“None of us have met him, but we gather you were at the wedding and would be able to pick out the man. He could prove a valuable prisoner, not so much as the Kingslayer but enough to be worth keeping.” The Greatjon explained, without realizing that Robb was not listening.

“So?” one of the sons holding him down asked Robb. “Is it Harwyn Plumm?”

Robb crouched on the balls of his feet, slowly lowering himself to the level of the man’s face. 

The Umber holding Harwyn’s left arm clutched at his hair and wrenched his head up to look Robb dead in the eye. 

“Hello Harwyn,” Robb sneered. 

Harwyn snarled between his teeth but did not dare to look away from the Northman. 

“You look different from the last time I saw you.” A cruel observation that Robb made with a slight thrill. 

A fresh, bloody gash had sliced across the man’s left eye sometime during the battle. The dirt and grime of war camps mingled with the fresh blood in a sticky sludge that covered the lower half of his face.

His brutish features looked even more severe, even more dangerous, even more menacing. Harwyn Plumm, truly a force, or at least he used to be.

Robb pushed himself to his feet and placed a hand to the hilt of his sword.

“I won’t be making it to your prison,” Harwyn croaked out a response to Lord Umber though he did not, for a moment, abandon his staring match with Robb.

“No,” Robb agreed. “You won’t.” 

Robb unsheathed his sword. “I do hope your wife will forgive me.” 

To the rest of the group, to those unaware, it sounded like a cruel joke made at the expense of an enemy during his final breaths. Robb and Harwyn were alone in their knowledge that the plea was sincere.

With a whistle as it cut the air, Robb’s blade came down on Harwyn’s neck.

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No one shed tears for Harwyn Plumm. No one mourned his loss. No one worried over what the gods had in store for him. No one pleaded for the chance to lay his body to rest. No one demanded vengeance for his life.

Harwyn Plumm’s death was lost in the much bolder news permeating the letter. 

Every pound of her horse’s hooves felt like it was drumming out the words to a beat as (Y/n) rode.

Jaime captured. Jaime captured. Jaime captured.

Harwyn was an afterthought. 

“Perhaps I should thank him. At least Robb cleaned up one mess for us,” (Y/n) grumbled to the Mountain as he helped her mount her horse. 

And that was the only time any word of Harwyn’s death left his wife’s lips before her mind was back to the more important matter at hand.

Jaime captured. Jaime captured. Jaime captured.

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“Your mate,” Tywin threw the letter onto the pile of papers between him and his daughter, “is demanding Northern independence.”

“My mate is a fool.” (Y/n) dismissed. “He’s a soldier, not a King.”

“They’ve named him their King,” Kevan pointed out.

“Just because he says it doesn’t make it so.” 

“He didn’t say it,” Kevan argued, leaning into the confrontation, “his men did. That is a true King.” 

Tywin gave a humm of passive agreement. For a moment (Y/n) thought she saw a hint of respect, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

(Y/n) shrugged as she slouched back in her chair. For once, she thought that her two companions were rather missing the point. “Robb’s men declared him King, but so did Robert’s men. Robert held the title, but it does not mean he did the deed. Jon Arryn ran Westeros for decades. Ran it into the ground,” she quickly stipulated, “but ran it nonetheless. Robb will be the same as his namesake, only he won’t even have the meager might of Jon Arryn to guide the way. He knows the North. He knows Winterfell, but he was raised to fight and to lead, not to rule. Put the man in front of a trade agreement, and he will be as lost as we would be north of the Wall. Give the man a crown, and he will forget where he put it down by the next moon.”

(Y/n), Uncle Kevan, and Tywin were the only three in the war tent. The Mountain and one of Harwyn’s elder brother guarded the door, but neither of them was close enough to hear the conversation inside over the bustling of preparations. 

Probably for the best. 

“His title doesn’t matter.” Tywin waved the matter away. “If he believes himself King, then we will fight him like a King.”

“And what of Jaime then?” (Y/n) uncrossed her legs and pressed forward in her chair. 

“We will find a way.” Tywin paused for a moment before carefully changing his words, “you will find a way.” 

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Jaime Lannister lay in the mud covering the floor of his cell, trying unsuccessfully to find a quiet enough moment to get some rest. 

His body was weak, growing weaker by the day. With his arms tied to a pole behind his back, they had gone completely unused since he arrived in the Stark camp. He could feel the strength in his sword hand beginning to go, and while the skill would never leave him he knew he would need more than his memory when he managed to find his way back to the battlefield. 

Reconstructing his cell at this new encampment, Stark put Jaime near the center of tents. Every noise from the slop of meals to the passing of midnight guards went right by his enclosure, and every man made it a point to kick a toe full of dirt at him, just in case he was asleep.

Late afternoon, just after the sun had set, was the only time he could find some peace. Robb Stark’s men were all taking evening meals, and his lords and advisors were in his tent planning their next attack on Tywin Lannister.

They acted like Jaime didn’t know this. One of them, the great buffoon that was Lord Umber, even taunted Jaime with their plans, daring him to guess where they were going, teasing what he would do when they finally caught the Great Lion.

As if Jaime didn’t know where they were. He was no Tyrion, but Jaime wasn’t entirely stupid. The height of the hills had been rising by the day. The depths of the valleys in which they slept had become rockier every night. 

Jaime had spent his entire childhood running around the Rock. As he grew, he traveled with the guard putting down rebellions and imprisoning thieves. He squired for Lord Crakehall and befriended House Marbrand. Jaime was the son of Tywin Lannister. He was born to be lord of the Westerlands, and he would recognize his homelands anywhere. 

By his best estimates, they were two days north of the Golden Tooth. The rolling hills were slowly growing higher, but it would not be until the other side of Ashemark that they would become the mountains of the Rock.

The hills were certainly slowing down the party, but Jaime imagined the mountains would draw them to a standstill. The Northmen were used to flat plains of ice. They could handle cold better than anyone. The occasional snow falls left them entirely unphased, but the rise and fall of the land was causing many of them difficulties that Jaime couldn’t help but find amusing. 

The night prior, two young soldiers who’d been stationed as his guard had gotten sick from the changing heights. Jaime knew many a remedy for such illness, but he let the men be. The stench of their sickness invaded his cell, but he was happy to endure it. Given the placement of his cell and guards which Lord Stark had so kindly given him, the rest of the camp was forced to suffer with him. 

Even now, with no rain to wash away the debris, the contents of the men’s stomach were left to bake in the sun then freeze in the night. 

Jaime buried his face in his hair to hide from the stench. His hair wasn’t much better. It had been far too long since he bathed; he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be clean.

Nothing though, not his hair, not his post, not the mud, could sufficiently hide from the noise. The squelch of boots hitting sludge and the smack as their owner pulled them from where they stuck. The swish of a cloak was muffled as it dragged along the ground, the weight of the debris it picked up burdening its movement. Then, unexpectedly, the clank of a chain being removed.

Jaime looked up to see his cell being unlocked by the dim light of a torch. 

“The King in the North!” Jaime jeered in delight as Robb Stark entered his prison. “I keep expecting you to leave me at one castle or another for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp. Have you grown fond of me Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl.” 

Jaime leaned in, as much as his chains could bear and spoke in a conspiratorial tone, “Or perhaps it’s not me you’re fond of; perhaps it is a girl? Can’t have the girl you want, so you keep me around as the next best thing? I must admit (Y/n) and I both have stunningly good looks.” 

Robb’s jaw visibly clenched, and Jaime couldn’t bite back his smile at getting under the little lord’s skin. His sister would, no doubt, be unappreciative of being dragged into his little spats with her mate, but Jaime doubted there was much else he could say that would rattle the young Stark. Stark was, after all, dumb enough to think he was winning.

“If I left you with one of my bannermen,” Robb spoke in as cold and emotionless a voice as he could manage to use addressing a man like the Kingslayer, “your father would know within a fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with a message: ‘Release my son, and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem’.” 

Even as Robb spoke, Jaime was shaking his head. “You don’t trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle.” 

In truth, Jaime never trusted his men, but Jaime was a Lannister. Lannisters never trusted anyone. The Starks, the North, claimed to be made of more honorable, more loyal stuff than him. 

“I trust my men with my life. Just not with yours.”  

If Jaime had absolutely anything to do during his capture, he wouldn’t have been quite so bored out of his mind, and if he wasn’t quite so bored out of his mind, he wouldn’t have been paying attention so acutely to Robb Stark, the only interesting thing to happen to him in days. If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, he might have missed the way the corner of Robb’s mouth lifted only slightly.

“Sounds like something my sister would say.” The way Robb’s eyebrow rose told Jaime all he needed to know on the matter. “Smart woman, my sister. You’re a smart boy to learn from her.” 

The small smile on Robb’s face slowly leaked away.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime tilted to one side, curiously. “Don’t like being called boy?” Jaimed added a mocking pout, “Insulted?”

Robb Stark’s eyes trailed to something behind Jaime, and Jaime was, for a moment, confused until he heard a rustling from the trees. There was a stamp of something that sounded like a hoof followed by a low, deep growl. Jaime tried to look over his shoulder, but his restraints kept him in place. 

“You insult yourself Kingslayer,” Robb took on a smooth affect, somewhere between Jaime’s mocking words and his sister’s unshakeable superiority. 

Jaime could pretend he was listening to Robb, but it would have been a lie beyond his capabilities as a heavy panting drew closer to his back and began to circle the cage. 

“You’ve been defeated by a boy. You’re held captive by a boy.” 

The animal responsible for the rigidity in Jaime’s back finally came into view, in the light of a distant torch: a massive, monstrous wolf.

“Perhaps, you’ll be killed by a boy.” 

The beast, because it was no simple wolf, circled his cell like it was circling its next meal. Jaime subconsciously drew his legs into him as the thing entered the door, taking every inch left in the front of his cell to stand at its master’s side. 

“Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros.” 

Jaime couldn’t, wouldn’t, take his eyes off the creature before him, but Robb Stark certainly had his ear now. 

“That King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king, nor a true Baratheon. He’s your bastard son.” 

Jaime took a chance in removing his eyes from the direwolf to glare down Robb Stark. “Well if that’s true Stannis is the rightful king, how convenient for him,” Jaime felt like he was educating a child on politics, pointing out such obvious things. 

“My father learned the truth,” Robb ignored Jaime’s words to continue his tale, “that’s why you had him executed.”

The wolf huffed, drawing Jaime back to him. “I was your prisoner when Ned Stark lost his head.” 

“Your son,” the Stark’s growl matched his wolf’s, “killed him, so the world wouldn’t learn who fathered him, and you pushed my brother from a window because he saw you with the Queen.” Robb’s chin lifted into the air. 

It was a look Jaime knew well. It was a look he saw on his sisters’ faces, on Tyrion’s face every day. The look of confidence that came only with the absolute certainty one was right. He’d thought only Lannisters’ were capable of looking so smug, but it seemed what Starks lacked in pride they made up in self-righteousness.

“You have proof? Or do you want to trade gossip like a couple of fishwives?” 

“I’m sending one of your cousins down to King’s Landing with my peace terms.” 

Last Jaime had heard Cersei and Tyrion were the only Lannisters in King’s Landing, and neither of them had the power to accept or proffer peace with the claimed King in the North. There were only two Lannisters who could offer such a thing, and he was sure of where one of them was.

“King’s Landing you say?” Jaime’s lips lifted far more slowly than they were used to, but they eventually found their usual shape. He looked up at Robb Stark with a cocky smirk, impressively maintained in face of the threat of the wolf. “You should be sending them to the Rock.”

“And why would I do anything you suggest Kingslayer?” Robb asked, tensing his hand in the fur of his wolf to hold the creature back.

“Because, Lannister I may be, but you are breathing down the Rock while Baratheons threatens the Crownlands. My father might well want me alive, but our home and the Crown are as important as my head if not more.”

Robb gave a half-hearted laugh at the thought. “I’m supposed to believe your father would leave you to die in my hands because he’s too busy to be bothered?”

“Hardly,” Jaime waved the idea away with a jerk of his head. Even the uneasiness of the wolf at Robb’s side couldn’t shake the grin from his face. “He won’t let me die, but he won’t come for me himself by any means. Sending word to him is useless.

“Surely your mother warned you.” Jaime pulled at the irons holding him back and brought himself as close to Robb as he dared with a wild wolf baring down on him. He lowered his voice to a whisper so that any passing guards wouldn’t hear what he was saying to their king, “He’ll send my sister.” 

A shiver, quite visibly, ran down Robb Stark’s spine. 

“And something tells me you have far more to fear from her than my father could ever threaten you with.”

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Tywin sniffed the dart. He was fairly certain of the poison, but the smell was confirmation enough. “Wolfsbane, a rare substance. This is no common assassin.”

“We hanged twenty men last night.” The man by the door stated bluntly. Clegane, the Mountain, not that Tywin ever called him such. Tywin did not glorify his men, too often they took it as placement above himself.

“I don’t care if you hanged a hundred. A man tried to kill me. I want his name, and I want his head.” As if killing twenty indiscriminate prisoners would satisfy Tywin’s anger. Whoever had done this had gotten their hands on Wolfsbane, an expensive poison usually only found in the cellars of men like Tywin himself. The man was an expert, not likely to be found amongst the commonfolk, and not likely to be caught so easily.

Gregor had the nerve to speak again, “We think it was an infiltrator from the Brotherhood Without Banners.”

Tywin did not think it likely that such a mangey bunch would have the means to get their hands on Wolfsbane, but it was as likely as any other explanation. “A pretentious name for a band of outlaws. We can’t allow rebels behind our lines to harass us with impunity. We look like fools, and they look like heroes. That’s how kings fall. I want them dead.” Tywin crossed the room to confront his man as his cupbearer laid the table. “Every one,” he emphasized.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.” 

“You gone soft Clegane? I always thought you had a talent for violence.” He prodded. “Burn the villages. Burn the farms. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.” 

Clegane took his dismissal with a rumble of agreement.

Turning back to his table, Tywin thumbed over the dart. It did not take a genius, though Tywin thought himself one, to piece together that the hit had not been meant for him. 

No one in the Seven would ever mistake Tywin Lannister for a fool like Amory Lorch. By age, by banner, by name, and by appearance, the two men differed in every way. Even the most commonplace of assassination attempts would not have actively chosen the wrong target.

It left him to conclude that either the man had missed Tywin and struck Lorch by mistake or Lorch had been the target all along. Had the assassin not used wolfsbane, Tywin would have believed the former. As it were, only someone who had been paid very well could use that particular poison, and no one would pay someone so well unless they were a master. A master who would not miss.

The far greater question, for Tywin, was why someone would kill Amory Lorch with a far greater target so close by.

“Pity I’ll have to replace him on my war council,” Tywin mused to himself, stuffing the dart away in his pockets to consider later.

“Will it be another soldier, my lord?” His cupbearer had been gaining confidence in recent days, since he allowed her to ask after his father. She asked menial questions quite regularly at meals.

“No,” Tywin paced around the edge of the table. “I don’t believe it will be. I have just the person in mind.”

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As she rode into the yard, nearly all movement ceased. Men slowly edged their way back against the walls, and those few who were on matters to urgent to halt, immediately dropped their heads and quickened their pace.

“Take him to the stable,” (Y/n) tossed her horse’s reins to a guard who’d dared to continue his rounds in her presence.

“Yes, My Lady,” the man quickly dropped his task and ushered the stallion away.

“You,” (Y/n) grabbed the tunic of a passing smith, “Where has my father set his war room?”

The boy, because he was certainly not old enough to be a man despite his height, looked on (Y/n) apprehensively. “Up the third flight of stairs. Somewhere on the East side. I-I do not know the room exactly.”

(Y/n) dropped his clothes and let the boy scurry off, “Good enough.”

Striding away, (Y/n) found the hall in question with relative ease. It was, after all, hard to miss Gregor Clegane. “Mountain,” She called to the man standing guard, “Is my father in?”

 “Alone with the cupbearer.” 

(Y/n) waved away the Mountain’s attempts to announce her and opened the door as silently as possible. She slipped between the crack and leaned her back against the wood to ensure it didn’t make a sound.

The cupbearer was clearling plates on the side table, dumping scraps into a bucket that was no doubt to be made into slop. Consistent scratching of a knife grating food off metal surfaces was the only sound in the room.

Tywin was sat at the head of the table, papers and maps splayed out over the entire length. His hand was furiously scratching out a letter, and (Y/n) had a feeling she knew its intended recipient.

“No need to write to me so hastily,” (Y/n) called out, “I’ve already arrived.”

The cupbearer in the corner jumped at the sound but made no move to turn.

Tywin did no such thing. The elder Lannister slammed his hand down on the table with a force. “An assassin has made it into our camp.”

(Y/n) shrugged, slinking towards the chair on his right hand side. “Assassins find their way into every camp. If you didn’t mind their use, you could have the head cut off the Stag in a fortnight.” 

“The Stag is the least of my concerns,” Tywin motioned for (Y/n) to take the chair. “What with the Wolf breathing down our door.” 

(Y/n) opted not to take the seat, instead leaning against the tall back of the chair. Since the death of Amory Lorch, she had been riding day and night on the back of a horse. (Y/n) felt like she never wanted to sit again, or at least she didn’t want to sit till her body learned to stand straight once more. 

“Visenya Targaryen expressed her gratitude that Loren the Last rode out to meet the Targaryen forces on the Field of Fire.” Visenya was something of a hero of (Y/n)’s. 

Her father had never particularly cared for the stories. He studied the Targaryens for battle strategies, for a better understanding of the threat of dragons, and for an appreciation of legacy. The finer details of drama behind the scenes were of no consequence to him. (Y/n) picked them up entirely from Tyrion and his books.

“Visenya was certain that Casterly Rock was the only keep in Westeros which could withstand Targaryen forces, even dragons. So certain, in fact, that she told her brother not to unleash any flame, for fear that the fire would prove the Rock could not burn down.” (Y/n) always loved to tell a story. Stories were a far more entertaining way to earn attention than shouting, though she was certainly capable of both. “Robb Stark has proven himself a capable general, but I think even you would agree he’s not Aegon the Conqueror.”

“True enough,” Tywin waved her story off with a wayward comment, but (Y/n) could tell he’d put the tale away for safe keeping. “Still, we’ve underestimated him for too long.”

“That,” (Y/n) sighed, picking up an empty wine cup with a morose expression, “sadly, appears to be the case.”

“Girl!” Tywin absentmindedly snapped his fingers, “wine for my daughter.”

(Y/n) didn’t bother to look on the girl who was filling her cup, choosing instead to continue her address. “Then let us estimate him. Robb Stark hasn’t organized with Stannis Baratheon. The North tried to approach Renly first, and Stannis is far too narrow-minded a man to take his brother’s former allies. He’ll see them as traitors already. But, if Robb Stark is at all worth his salt, and he’s certainly proven he is, then he’ll know the best time to attack us is when Stannis makes his run on King’s Landing.”

“He needs time to organize that.” Tywin retorted. 

He didn’t disagree, not at all in fact. However, after years of trusting only his daughter and his siblings, Tywin and (Y/n) had developed a system of strategizing. Parrying thoughts back and forth, trying to find the weakness in each other’s words seemed to be their best recourse, a recourse the two could only pursue with each other. 

“Jaime thought the same about the ambush. He thought the Northman didn’t have enough time or men, and they proved him wrong on both counts.” 

“And sacrificed a swath of his army in the process.” 

“A swath of his army that won him Jaime Lannister.” (Y/n) downed her wine in one gulp. “It may have been a sizeable chunk of his forces, but it was more than worth it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” Tywin conceded, “Though how he has enough to attack the Rock after that would be anyone’s guess.”

(Y/n) gave a nonchalant huff, “He’s won every battle he’s ever fought, and he’s won them with fewer men every time. If I were Robb Stark, with no army between me and the greatest castle in Westeros, I would take a shot. For him, the worst case is that he’s repelled with minimal loss. The best case, he takes the seat of House Lannister.” 

Tywin paused the to-and-fro to think. “More wine,” He mumbled to the girl, leaning his elbows to the table to press the tips of his fingers to his lips. 

“The pitcher’s empty, my lord. I’ll go fetch more.”

That. Voice.

(Y/n)’s head jerked around with a fury, only catching sight of a head of short brown hair and a small, childish figure. Nothing more than a girl’s back, impossible to distinguish. And yet that voice.

“Think on what I said,” (Y/n) barely registered what she was doing as she moved, unthinkingly, towards the servants’ exit. “I’ll return.” 

She knew that voice.

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(Y/n) scoured the halls, scoured the keep, scoured the grounds, scoured the ruins. 

It had only been a sentence, but in that moment she’d been so sure. She knew that voice. 

“I don’t care what the rules are! It has to be her!” 

There it was, around the corner.

(Y/n) had been searching for an hour, maybe more, through the sprawling wreck of Harrenhal, and finally there it was again. Behind the rubble of what was once a guest chamber at the other end of the grounds. (Y/n) bent her head around the corner to find the girl again, back to her, angrily shouting at a Lannister soldier who was lounging lackadaisically against the waist high, overturned remains of a wall.  

“A girl knows not what she asks.” 

“I know full well what I ask! I name her!” 

(Y/n) didn’t know what this was, didn’t know who this was. But she was certain whatever it was wasn’t good and couldn’t wait for help. “Judging by your tone, I’m going to assume I am the ‘her’ in question.”

The girl whipped around in shock and confirmed (Y/n)’s suspicions.

“Hello, Arya.” A cool smile tugged at her lips as she watched the young girl’s face turn to horror. “It’s been too long. I must say this is the last place I expected to run into you.”

Arya turned on the man again, “Her! (Y/n) Lannister! I name her.”

“Name me?” (Y/n) strode across what remained of the room to join the pair. 

“A girl names a woman, but that is not a woman’s only name.” 

“Plumm then,” Arya was clearly panicking now. Her fists tugged on the man’s arm desperately. “Whatever her name. Her!” She pointed at (Y/n).

“A girl gives a man a name, but a name with a pair.” The soldier returned without any sense of care in the world. 

His accent was foreign. He certainly wasn’t from the Westerlands, or Westeros for that matter; Essos no doubt. As far as she knew, and she knew a great deal, her father had no supplement sellswords in the field, not yet anyway. Tywin Lannister only used sellswords as a last resort. Which meant there were only two ways for him to come by his armor: to be such a rich tradesmen that he could afford a life in the Westerlands which seemed unlikely given she did not know him or to have stolen the uniform from a dead man. And there was only one reason any man not forced into a war would willingly join its frontlines for a lord that was not his liege.

Assassins. 

Assassins from Essos, who spoke in tongues.

Lurching forward, (Y/n) grabbed Arya by the arm and yanked the young girl behind her back. “Faceless,” she snarled the word, stepped away from the stranger. 

The red haired man gave a small grin in return to the word. “A woman protects a girl, yet a girl wants a woman dead.” He reclined back against the half-melted stones as if the conversation was nothing more than his own amusement. 

“What?” 

“A girl,” the Faceless motioned to Arya, “owes a name, and a girl names a woman.” 

(Y/n)’s blood ran cold. “A name with a pair,” She whispered. 

It wasn’t often that she found herself afraid, but then it wasn’t often that (Y/n) faced a genuine threat of death. Most people wanted her and her father dead, but (Y/n) lived her life knowing, with absolute certainty, that she was among the few people in Westeros who were simply too valuable to kill. Yet here were a man, and a girl, who didn’t care. 

It was like being back in the birthing bed all over again, facing a death that didn’t care what her name was. 

But that wasn’t what worried her. 

(Y/n) had only read of the Faceless, never met one, never met one that she knew of anyway. 

Tyrion had given her a book of stories about them once. Of course, it was only legends; no Faceless had consulted its author on their origins. But she remembered one story in particular. 

(Y/n) whirled on Arya and sunk to her knees, clutching the girl’s arm in a vice grip. “Unname me.” She demanded.

“No!” Arya tried to slip her arm from (Y/n)’s grip, but it was far too tight. “Never!” 

“To name one is to name both! Unname me!” (Y/n) shouted. 

The legend was a tearful story of a man who found his mate, already married to another man, but the lesson was straight forward. The Many Faced God of Braavos was nothing more or less than Death. Mates came into the world to live and breath together as one, and worshipping Death the Faceless saw to it that mates, those who had joined hands and felt the mark, left the world as one. 

“A woman speaks the truth.” The Faceless said behind her. 

“One is both?” Arya looked exasperated as she twisted her arm back and forth, rubbing her wrist raw against (Y/n)’s palm.

“To kill me is to kill my mate.” (Y/n) elaborated, clenching hard to drive the point home. 

“Good! Let him die! Better than living with you!” Arya flipped her hand over and dug her nails into (Y/n)’s forearm, tearing at what she could reach.

(Y/n) let her go, but not from the pain. The attack barely reached her mind as (Y/n) wrenched up the sleeve of her dress, tearing it along the seam in her haste to reveal her mark. 

“This is my mate!” (Y/n) caught Arya by the hair and forced the girl to level her eyes with the name scarred into (Y/n)’s arm. 

There, as plain as the day it had appeared, was the name Stark, scratched eternally into (Y/n)’s skin. 

“No,” Arya stared at the word in utter disbelief. 

How could she not know? How could her mother and father have let that happen? Which of her siblings was cursed with a Lannister for a mate? Why had the old gods done this to them? 

“You want to help your brother?” (Y/n) spoke the words slowly, enunciating each for Arya’s ears. “If you kill me, you’ll be killing Robb.”

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The Faceless Man allowed (Y/n) to escort him through the halls of the keep. 

“A girl gave a man a new name,” The Faceless told her. 

It came out almost as reassurance, but (Y/n) knew the assassin wouldn’t bother with such a thing. “Am I allowed to ask?” 

“No,” The Faceless answered. “It is why a man must leave. A boy is far from here.”

Joffrey. He was the only boy Arya could want dead.

(Y/n) tried to find it in her to warn someone, anyone, but she couldn’t. Blood or not, he proved he was no worthy Lannister anyhow. Let the bastard die for all the trouble he caused.  

The pair moving through Harrenhal looked like nothing more than a soldier and his lady meandering towards the edge of the keep. With (Y/n) Lannister at his side, the Faceless was stopped by no one to perform the duties of his soldier’s armor. 

Men of all sorts gave the pair a wide berth as they made their way through the halls of the keep. No one had the bravery to question what their lady could be doing with a commonplace soldier.

“The men fear a woman,” the Faceless observed as another soldier stood attention against the wall until the pair had passed.

“They’re right to,” (Y/n) agreed with the observation. There was no amount of emotion to her voice. (Y/n) took a great deal of pride in her power, but there was very little power in striking fear in the hearts of lesser men. 

The Faceless watched her with attentive eyes. They were the eyes of a man built to kill. The eyes were the only thing the Faceless could never change. When their victims looked in them, they were looking in the eyes of a killer. “The men do not know a woman bares an enemy’s name.” He observed without question.

“No, they don’t.” 

“Why is a woman here?” The Faceless asked. “A woman usually joins a man when two share a name.” 

(Y/n) bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue. This was no man to insult. “A woman wishes she could.” 

“A woman could be with a man if she wanted.”

(Y/n) let loose a derisive snort. She and Robb had had the same conversation long ago. “We both want, but what we want and what could be are two different things.” 

“A woman could be with a man if she wanted.” The Faceless repeated.

“A man could be with a woman if he wanted,” (Y/n) countered in the Faceless’ own phrasing. 

The Faceless shook his head and looked over at her, staring until (Y/n) finally turned to meet his knowing look. “A woman is smart,” he complimented slyly. “If a woman wanted, she could find a way.”

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The Wolf’s pack is growing smaller. He will take a bitch to make his pups for men to bare his arms. See to it that, at the wedding, he gets the new blood he deserves.

“Leave us.”

(Y/n) sat at the opposite end of the long oak table, staring down her father with empty eyes that none in the room could read, even the Lord of House Lannister. Her nails picked absently at the edges of the letter. Even as the men sitting at the sides of the table began getting up and filing past her end, she did not divert her eyes from the sharp crease forming in her father’s forehead.

Tywin, similarly, did not watch the men, even as they eyed him anxiously. They were waiting for him to make some move to stop them from complying with his daughter’s demand, but none came.

(Y/n) whispered as the door thudded shut behind her after Lord Roland Crakehall, the last man to trail out of the room. “You’re sending my mate to the slaughter.” 

“That was always where this ended, (Y/n).” Tywin spoke with a tone that bordered on an empathy (Y/n) knew her father was not capable of.

“Then let’s find a better way.” 

Tywin lifted an eyebrow, a skepticism he had never felt towards her slowly forming in the pit of his stomach. “There is no better ending.” He declared flatly, “This is how his story ends. This is how Robb Stark dies.” 

“If he dies,” She said each word carefully, emphasizing each syllable as it left her tongue, “it is because you chose it to be so.” 

Tywin snorted. “Is that concern in your voice? So what if I order the Wolf’s head at my feet?” Tywin set his palms flat on the table and pushed out of his chair. He leaned down over his daughter with an authority he usually reserved for defiant enemies. “He dies. This is no discussion.”

“Father, I understand, but…”

“Then that is enough of this,” Tywin cut her off. “You object, but you know it’s the right course.”

(Y/n) didn’t want to, but she knew it was the only way. “Father, this is my mate who’s murder we plot.” 

“What of it?” Tywin was growing suspicious now. This was not their usual discourse. This was not his daughter advising him. This was his daughter defying him. For the first time.

Through the two decades of her life, Tywin and (Y/n) had stood, not side by side but back to back. They faced threats the other could not see, protected one another from what was coming up behind, watched blind spots in each other’s vision. They were two voices with one mind, but now the cracks, or rather the one crack, began to show. They shared everything but a soul, and it was a soul which would divide them.

And so it began. The fight, their fight, the only fight neither of them wanted, yet the only fight neither of them could lose.

“He is my mate. Mine!” (Y/n) ground out between her teeth. “Whether you like his name or not.”

“His name?” Tywin spat. “This is nothing about his name. This is about our name. House Lannister, or had you forgotten what name you carved into his arm.”

“Had you forgotten what name he carved into mine!” (Y/n) wore the dress she’d chased down Arya in, and the rip along the lining of her sleeve made it easy to turn and display the mark to her father. “I am his, and he is mine. No matter who my vows were spoken to, nothing can change that.” 

“That,” Tywin pointed down at the mark, not baring to look at it, “is the name of our enemy.”

(Y/n)’s fist came down on the table as she shot to her feet with all the rage she’d ever managed to muster, “You would brand me, me, your enemy!” 

“I did not brand you!” Tywin rolled his eyes away from her outburst, “That was his doing.” 

“Neither of us chose this!” 

“Would you have?” Tywin took a step back towards her, crossing halfway to the table with his long stride. “Would you have chosen him?” 

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment. There were times she wished she could have chosen, desperately longed for someone she could love. Those times, however, were long past. “Yes,” she answered honestly.

“He’s a Stark! His mother kidnapped Tyrion!” Tywin bellowed.  “They declared war on our house. His father named your nephew a bastard. Their family defies your sister’s throne. Robb Stark took your husband’s head, and now he has Jaime!”

The words cut through (Y/n) and found her wincing and turning away.

“Tell me, daughter.” Tywin hissed, “What do you think your precious mate is doing to him right now? Do you think Jaime has the luxury of debating with Robb Stark whether his life will end?”

“Robb wouldn’t end Jaime’s life,” (Y/n) said it quietly but assuredly.

Tywin laughed, a harsh, cruel laugh that mocked her for saying such a thing. “And how would you know?”

(Y/n) glared up at her father with a burning passion he’d only seen once before. It was the face she made when she found out Catelyn had Tyrion, “Because he knows what I would do to him if he did.” 

“You don’t have the strength for that.”

“I have given my life for this family! I am willing to give everything for this family!” (Y/n) countered with a roar.

“Everything but Robb Stark.” 

The name broke her. The thought of what everything entailed broke her, but what hurt more was the knowledge that she was right, that Tywin Lannister was wrong. She was willing to give everything, everything including Robb Stark. She just didn’t want to.

(Y/n) slowly, hesitantly, sunk to her knees, hanging her head in shame as she uttered the one word she had been taught never to speak. “Please.” For the first time in her life, (Y/n) looked up to see her father glaring down on her, his face colored in a mixture of rage and shame. 

Tywin stepped back from his daughter in disgust. “How dare you.”

(Y/n) could feel the tears welling in her eyes and kept her head down to hide them from the judgment in Tywin’s face. “Father, I have never defied you. I will never defy you. If you tell me this is the only way, then I will fulfill your wish without question. I will deliver the order to the Boltons and the Freys myself. I will stand aside as every Stark dies. I will ride to the Twins and bring back his head and lay it at your feet, and I will say nothing of this outside of this room again for as long as I draw breath.” (Y/n) stopped only long enough to suck air back into her lungs, as if the mention of her last breath reminded her that it was coming. “But this is my mate, and I am begging you to find another way.”

“I did not raise you to be a beggar’s wife.”

“No, you did not raise me to be a beggar’s wife,” (Y/n) agreed. “You raised me to be you in all things, and this is my proof that you have finally succeeded.” Through a web of tears, (Y/n) spread her arms out wide, absolute deference, absolute submission. “I am you. Because I know the only thing you would ever beg for is Joanna back.”

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(Y/n) walked into the supposedly neutral camp under a banner of peace. Though several valleys north of the Stark camp, the tent was still thoroughly inside the boundaries of the Westerlands. The spot was, no doubt, purposefully chosen by the Northmen as a show of force. Their entire army was entrenched within Lannister territory, and (Y/n) was greeting an enemy council that was claiming her land as its own. 

There was no mistake that the men were her enemies. From the moment she entered the small circle of tents, eyes were on her and swords were drawn. 

For a banner of peace, the Northern Lords had brought a vast number of soldiers. (Y/n) brought only one. It was, granted, an impressive one.

The Mountain had become (Y/n)’s shadow. As they moved into the camp, his toes were constantly under threat of catching the backs of her heels. The hilt of his massive sword reached out so far as to occasionally brush (Y/n)’s hip with a particularly long stride. No man could surprise her from behind because there was no space between herself and Ser Gregor Clegane in which to reach her, and no man could attack her headlong for fear of the behemoth reaching around her front to draw his sword around her. With one man, she was as protected as any of the northern sons she passed with their personal guards.

The soldiers around the camp, some forty in number, whispered when she walked past. They watched from open flaps or around campfires as (Y/n) made her way to the large white tent in the center of their convoy. 

A scout beside the door saw her approach and ducked inside to announce the enemy presence. 

“Lady Plumm,” A lord to the right of opening greeted her with a snarl as she ducked through, but the aggression on his face quickly vanished when the Mountain pushed through behind her, head scraping the top of the canvas. 

“Her name is Lannister,” A thick Northern accent called from the front of the tent, “and she is our guest. We will treat her with respect.” 

(Y/n) let her eyes trail up the length of the tent, prepared for exactly what she’d find. 

Robb Stark sat at the far end of a large, rather plain table. His elbows propped on the edge of the dark wood, and his stare looked out over fingers clasped in front of his mouth. 

The room, if it could be called such a thing in a tent, was bare. Men, a great number of them, lined the walls. Some (Y/n) recognized were the heads of great houses in the Riverlands she had encountered over the years. A few she could recall from her time in Winterfell, but most were entirely unknown to her. 

Despite the size of their gathering and the scale of the table Robb Stark occupied, there were only four chairs in the room. One was directly in front of her at the far end while the other two flanked Robb at his left and right hand side. 

None of the chairs were occupied. None of those present made a move to occupy any of the seats. It seemed they were all too tense. It was like they were waiting for her to attack, even though they were the ones who brought the small army outside.

“Thank you, Lord Stark. Your courtesy is appreciated.” (Y/n) gave a shallow bow of her head in his direction.

A grumble went up from a few of the men, but only one of them spoke. An older man nearer the entryway let out a loud grunt. His head shook out thinning grey hair. Even though his beard hid his mouth, the twitch of it made it obvious the man sported a sneer. 

“That’s King Robb Stark to you.” 

(Y/n) inclined her head to look sideways at the man and, as spitefully as she could manage, said, “Are we in the North? Or do I look like common folk to you? No. This is the Westerlands, and I am a Lannister. I won’t bow to any pretender.” 

The man reached a hand for the hilt of his sword, but the Mountain beat him to it. Drawing his own nearly halfway out of its sheath before a shout went out. 

“Stop!” 

Robb Stark rose to his feet with a hand outstretched towards his enraged lord. “Put your arms down, Lord Karstark. Lady Lannister meets with us under a flag of peace, and I will not have my name marred by innocent bloodshed.” 

“Innocent?” Lord Karstark forgot his plight with the newcomer almost instantly. He stared at his King with a dumbfounded expression. “No Lannister is innocent! Her brother murdered my boy! I demand recompense.” 

(Y/n) puffed out a breath of air to avoid laughing at the irate man, “I dare say if you demand apologies from me for all my siblings have wrought, it will be a long time before I’m allowed to speak any words other than sorry.” 

A hefty man over Robb’s shoulder let out a snort, and it seemed many of the others took a cue to relieve some of their tension. Though, Lord Karstark was not among them. 

He turned on (Y/n) looking thoroughly unamused. “My son is dead at the hands of your brother.” 

If it were any other man, or rather if it weren’t a Northern Lord, (Y/n) might have tried. She could have wooed and swayed his mind and asked forgiveness and promised him his dues, but Northerners were fickle things. Their reasoning was beyond her understanding, and logic was above theirs. 

“Your son died in a war.” (Y/n) rolled her eyes, “How shocking, I’ve never heard a man to die of such a cause. Was he the first?” 

“You arrogant little,” Karstark lunged, but before he could reach her, the Mountain’s hand shot out and clasped around the elderly lord’s neck. 

His feet dangled several inches off the ground. They flailed about desperately trying to find purchase on the ground, on the Mountain, on anything within reach. It was like watching the feet of a drowning man, kicking to save his life. 

His eyes showed a terror (Y/n) was so familiar with it wasn’t even worthy of note. The panic sapped him of all conscious thought, and the logical solution of going for his sword seemed to slip his mind. His hands clutched the Mountain’s wrist, only just managing to cover its width. 

In the Mountain’s grip, Lord Karstark, Robb had called him, was much taller than (Y/n), but it didn’t feel that way for either of them. Lord Karstark felt very small. (Y/n) returned the sneer that disappeared so suddenly from Lord Karstark’s lips and spat, “Ironic that you think me arrogant when it is you who believes your son’s life was more valuable than any of your soldiers. Did you demand justice for your men your King sent to slaughter? Or only your son who died from his own negligence?” 

The room was still and silent. Every man’s hand rested on his sword, save the Mountain’s, whose dominant hand was slowly pressing in on Lord Karstark’s neck. It was as though the Northmen were expecting, waiting, possibly even hoping the Mountain would kill their friend. They longed for blood. They wanted to have reason to face down the giant, to capture the Lady of House Lannister. 

“Enough,” (Y/n)’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the hungry expression on the soldier’s faces. This was no place to die. “Drop him outside, Gregor. I believe the air will do Lord Karstark good.” 

Gregor didn’t bother to walk back. With a mighty heave, he flung Lord Karstark through the tent flap and out into the night. 

Robb’s head hung low, and his fists clenched against the top of the wood. Whether holding in rage at Lord Karstark or rage at the Mountain, (Y/n) couldn’t be sure, and despite popular belief she wasn’t arrogant enough to assume everything was about her. 

“Lord Stark, do forgive us our reaction. At the Rock, men have been beheaded for saying far lesser insults to far less important Lannisters than me. It is only our way.” 

Robb’s fists slowly unclenched as his eyes returned from the grain of the wood to the tent around him. “Lord Karstark’s actions were inexcusable. Please do not judge the rest of us on his lack of respect.” 

(Y/n) picked up her skirts and curtsied to the would-be King. “All is forgotten. Perhaps, we might move on to the matters at hand. There is much to discuss, and I would hate to be delayed.” 

“Then speak,” Robb slumped back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s you and your father who called this meeting.” 

“Actually, I believe you’ll find it’s a great deal more than House Lannister who called this meeting.” 

(Y/n) tapped the Mountain’s arm, dropped low but still extended to cover her side. The beast drew back and finally detached himself from her heels. With two sure steps, she took the empty chair at the far end of the table from Robb. Pulling it out, (Y/n) matched the King’s posture taking the place opposite him. 

“Yes,” Robb mused, “the bastard house Baratheon created by your siblings, I presume?” A round of laughs and cheers went round the tent. If it had had walls of any kind, she imagined the sound would have echoed for years.

There laughter went on for many minutes longer than it should have, and (Y/n)’s only reaction was to stare down their King while his men cackled. Robb matched her intense gaze without a hint of humor marring his face. 

As the men slowly subdued themselves, a harsh throat clearing from the beefy one behind Robb seeming to do the trick, (Y/n) finally took it as her turn to speak.

“Robb, I’ll give you this.” (Y/n) picked at imaginary dirt under her nails. “You know how to win a war, but no Stark has ever managed to play the game,”   

A few of the men laughed again, but again Robb was not among them. This time, though, it seemed the divide was for different cause. His men seemed to thoroughly lack respect for what she was implying while Robb caught on immediately to its importance.  The King in the North shuffled up in his chair and leaned forward in his seat. “Then teach us.”

(Y/n) hummed to herself, pretending to contemplate the proposal. She already knew he would say that. She already knew how she would respond, and how they would respond in kind, and how she would respond to that. This conversation had happened a thousand different ways already in her mind, and she was prepared for all of them. Because that was how a Lannister played the game, not by throwing gold at the problem, but by knowing what the problem was before it arrived. 

“Allow me to give you a lesson in history because your maesters must have failed you all.” (Y/n) smiled. It was a courtly smile, not that any of them could recognize that. (Y/n)’s smiles were such perfectly calculated lies that she had heard even the great Littlefinger couldn’t discern their meaning. They would all assume it was cocky. They would be wrong in that assumption, but it suited (Y/n) just fine. “Who is the heir to House Frey?” 

“Stevron Frey,” The answer came from one of the lords behind her back.

(Y/n) didn’t even have to open her mouth to correct him because Robb did it for her. “Stevron died of his battle wounds last moon.” 

“As did his youngest son Walton, and Walton’s two squired sons Steffon and Bryan. May they rest in peace, truly the only Freys worth their salt.” (Y/n) clasped her hands as though to pray for their souls, but no pleas to the Stranger left her lips. “I ask again, who is the heir to House Frey?”

“Stevron had an older boy, Ryan or something,” (Y/n) recognized Lord Manderly. He was a rich man who often traded with the Lannisters, the only house in the North that worshipped the Seven.

“His name was Ryman,” (Y/n) corrected politely, “and he is long dead, just after your party crossed the Twins in fact. He was a gluttonous man, so it was expected. Still, most think it might have been poison.” 

“How convenient,” Lord Manderly mumbled under his breath.

(Y/n) chuckled, “Again, who is the heir to House Frey?” 

“Surely Ryman had sons,” (Y/n) had never met the man who spoke, but unlike many of the others he wore his banner on his chest. 

“Lord Glover, you would be correct in that assumption if it weren’t for the Brotherhood Without Banners. Horrible people, those marauders. Killed two of Ryman’s sons, Edwyn and Petyr. He only had Black Walder left, and Black Walder was dispossessed of his life on suspicion that it was he who killed his father.” 

“And none of them had children?” It was Lord Glover again.

“Only girls, and I am afraid Lord Frey doesn’t value his daughters quite so highly as my father does.”

“Emmon,” The name came quietly, under his breath, but there was no mistaking Robb’s voice or the tone of realization in it. “It falls to Emmon Frey.” 

“And who,” (Y/n) turned on him, “pray tell, is his wife?”

“Your aunt,” Robb growled, “Genna Lannister.” He was angry, angry at himself in fact; angry at himself for not realizing his mistake.

(Y/n) almost smiled, almost felt proud watching him piece it together. “The heir to House Frey is the sister of Tywin Lannister, and you plan to entreat them into helping you what? Raid Casterly Rock?” 

“You and your father orchestrated this.” Robb snarled into the air. 

“Robb, we orchestrated everything.” Robb’s eyes flashed to (Y/n) as she continued speaking. “Do you really think Walder Frey would have let you cross his bridge without me, inside, saying it was acceptable? If you had gone around the Trident, your path would’ve put you at the doorstep of the Rock, and you think we would have allowed that?”

“How much gold did you pay Walder Frey for the damage you brought to his house?” 

(Y/n) knew the voice, and she found herself only momentarily stunned that Lord Bolton would have the nerve to speak at this gathering. “Lannisters always pay their debts, but there are ways to pay debts that don’t involve gold.” 

“Like what?” Roose Bolton pressed.

Her eyes searched out Lord Bolton’s, “Every man can be bought. It’s only a matter of price. For some it’s gold, but there are other forms of payment. It might be land, titles, power, a woman.” (Y/n) drew her eyes to Robb, flitting them back and forth between him and Roose Bolton as if she were watching a joust. “Maybe for one it’s Winterfell.” 

Resting against the top of the wood, Robb’s hands slowly clenched into fists as he caught on to the rather unsubtle hints (Y/n) was giving him. 

“Leave us,” Robb ordered. “All of you.” 

“But sir, she..,”

“My King, I don’t...”

“She’s a Lannister, My King, should we...”

“Are you quite certain you want…”

“Your Grace, the Mountain…”

“Gregor,” (Y/n) barked loud enough to silence the Lords who were rapidly converging on Robb Stark to question his intent, “Leave us.”

Without hesitation, the Mountain turned and marched from the tent to take a post outside.

The Northern Lords watched the display of obedience in shock, and looking amongst themselves, slowly filed out whispering to each other as they went.

“Are you implying what I think?” Robb asked the moment the flap fluttered to a stand still over (Y/n)’s shoulder.

“I’m implying nothing,” (Y/n) got to her feet and crossed the tent, taking the seat to his immediate right, so she might speak at a more normal volume. “I am telling you.”

“The Boltons,” Robb eyed the canvas from which Roose had just made his escape.

“Have been promised Winterfell if they help the Freys slaughter you upon your arrival at the Twins, or if they switch sides in your next battle with my father and defeat your men from within.” (Y/n) explained without any hint of regret.

Robb felt almost stunned into silence.

He wouldn’t lie. He thought of (Y/n) every day and night. It was hard not to when he spent so much time plotting her beloved father’s demise, staring at her house sigil, worrying over marrying another woman, pondering his murder of her husband. 

Never though, in all his thoughts, had he considered turning on his men and joining the Lannisters for her, and he knew far better than to ask her to do anything resembling such. 

“I wish to propose a trade,” (Y/n) abruptly changed the topic, though it didn’t seem like she was avoiding it. “The Mountain leaves me here now, as we speak, he rides for a trusted keep nearby where he will retrieve your sister, Arya, in exchange for my brother, Jaime.”

Robb immediately began shaking his head. “I want my sister back as much as you want your brother, but my men will turn on me if I trade a little girl for the best sword in Westeros.” 

“There is no deal you could offer that I wouldn’t take to see Jaime safe again, Robb. If you loved your sister and wanted her back as much as I wanted him, we wouldn’t be discussing this.” 

“My men..” Robb started.

(Y/n) cut him off. “Would turn on you. So you’ve said, but as I’ve said, some of them already have.” 

“Yes,” Robb quickly jumped back on the original conversation. “Why did you tell me?”

“Because that is your future as it stands,” (Y/n) reached under the neckline of her dress and drew, from under the hem, a letter. “But it does not have to be that way.”

“What is this?” Robb took the letter from her hand and broke the Lannister seal holding it closed.

(Y/n) returned to her feet and joined Robb at his side, looking at the words over his shoulder. She’d read them before, but something about them was so unreal it needed to be seen again. “Our terms.”

The letter filled nearly four pieces of paper. It began by detailing exactly how Tywin Lannsiter intended to draw this war to a close. He detailed how alone Robb truly was: with the Eyrie neutral, House Tyrell agreeing to vows between Margery and Joffrey, Dorne’s hatred for the Lannisters and the Starks, House Frey’s loyalty to Genna, Theon Greyjoy betraying him for the Iron Islands, and Lords of his own Kingdom plotting his demise from within. 

Tywin dedicated an entire page to all of the ways Robb could lose and all of the people who would happily deliver him Robb’s head by morning, his daughter chief among them. He noted everywhere Robb had gone wrong, and exactly how he’d lost the game. 

It was page after page of ways Robb would lose, ways he would get his family killed, ways he would die. 

Then he reached the last. 

“But I owe a debt, not to you, but to my daughter; and she has named her price. After a lifetime of unwavering fealty, of unending service, of unbearable burdens, the price she named was high. It is, however, a price I feel she’s owed. There are conditions to my payment, but I believe you will find those conditions pale in comparison to the rewards that accompany them.”

“W-What does this mean?” Robb looked up, but found (Y/n) was not there standing over him. 

She was sitting in the dirt, as she had been the first day they spoke, looking up at him with tears in her eyes, and Robb felt himself slipping from his chair, without much thought, to sit beside her.

“It means that…” She hesitated for a moment before finding the words, “I don’t suppose if I turn my back on my father and my dead husband, gave up becoming the most powerful woman in Westeros, named my son heir to the Rock, left my gold and all my other lavish Southern possessions and joined you in the cold, barren North for the boring life of an incredibly traditional lady, that you would take me as your wife?”

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