Jade

I only write dark fanfics (+ NSFW)

Swf and nswf

Robert Baratheon (young) , Rhaegar Targaryen, Ser Arthur Dayne (the holy trinity)

Robert Baratheon

SFW

• Robert’s love is violent, loud, and suffocating. He doesn’t whisper sweet nothings; he roars them while drunk, slamming his fist on the table so everyone in the Red Keep knows you belong to him.

• Calls you “my little doe,” “my war prize,” or “my only victory that matters.” Refuses to let you out of his sight for more than an hour. If you try to leave the room, he’ll just pick you up and carry you back to his side like you weigh nothing.

• Extremely jealous. Even looking at Ned or Jon Arryn too long earns them a black eye. He once broke a knight’s jaw for offering you his cloak during a rainstorm.

• Gifts are extravagant and aggressive: entire wardrobes of Myrish lace torn to shreds the moment he thinks another man looked at you in them, replaced the next day with new ones in Baratheon black and gold.

• Sleeps with his warhammer beside the bed “in case someone tries to steal you while I dream.”

NSFW

• Robert fucks like he fights: brutal, overwhelming, and with zero concept of restraint. The moment the door closes he’s ripping your gown off (literally ripping, he has no patience for laces).

• Loves pinning you down with his full weight, growling “You’re mine, mine, mine” with every thrust. Your wrists will be bruised black and blue from his grip.

• Obsessed with breeding you. He finishes deep inside every single time, pressing his hips flush so nothing leaks out, muttering about putting a dozen black-haired stag babies in your belly so no one can ever take you from him.

• If he’s drunk (which is often), he gets even rougher. He’ll flip you onto your stomach, yank your hips up, and take you from behind while roaring your name loud enough for the entire keep to hear who you belong to.

• Possessive bite marks everywhere: neck, breasts, inner thighs. He’ll make you walk around court the next day with them barely hidden so every lord knows Robert Baratheon claimed you.

• Aftercare is surprisingly tender for him; he’ll pull you into his sweaty chest, kiss your forehead, and pass out snoring while muttering that he’d burn the world for you.

Rating: 9,5/10

Rhaegar Targaryen

SFW

• Quiet, melancholic obsession. He writes hauntingly beautiful songs about you on his harp and sings them only when he thinks you’re asleep, silver hair falling over eyes that never leave you.

• Believes you are the other half of the prophecy with him. “The dragon must have three heads, and you are mine.” Will kidnap you “for your own protection” if you ever try to leave.

• Gentle on the surface: brushes your hair for hours, bathes you himself, dresses you in white and crimson silks. But if you mention another man’s name he goes perfectly still, smile freezing, and the next day that man disappears.

• Keeps you in the Tower of Joy 2.0 if he has to. Calls it “our sanctuary.” There are no locks on the doors… because there are twenty Kingsguard outside who would die before letting you leave.

• Leaves dragon-egg sized rubies on your pillow as “tokens of eternal devotion.”

NSFW

• Slow, worshipful, and devastatingly intense. Rhaegar treats sex like a religious rite. Candles everywhere, incense, rose petals, harp music he composed for this exact moment.

• Undresses you like he’s unwrapping something sacred, kissing every inch of skin he exposes, murmuring High Valyrian prayers against your thighs.

• Obsessed with eye contact. He’ll cup your face and force you to look at him while he’s inside you, whispering “Say you are mine, say you love me, say you’ll never leave” over and over until you’re sobbing it.

• Loves when you ride him so he can watch you take your pleasure on his cock while he strokes your stomach and talks about the silver-haired children you’ll give him.

• Edging king. Will bring you to the brink again and again with his mouth and fingers, denying you release until you’re begging and promising you’ll never even think of another man. Only then does he slide into you, slow and deep, dragging it out until you’re shaking.

• Bites your neck hard enough to draw blood, then licks it clean, marking you his.

• After you’re both spent he wraps you in his black and red cloak and holds you like you’re the most fragile glass in the world, humming the song he wrote for you until you fall asleep.

Rating: 10/10

Ser Arthur Dayne

SFW

• The perfect knight gone horribly wrong. He swore an oath to protect you the moment he saw you, and in his mind that oath is eternal, above kings, above gods, above your own wishes.

• Silent shadow. You’ll turn around and he’s just there, violet eyes watching, Dawn sheathed at his hip like a constant threat to anyone who comes near you.

• Speaks softly, calls you “my lady,” “my sun,” “my heart,” but the grip on your wrist when he pulls you close is iron.

• Kills for you without hesitation and without remorse. Comes back with blood still on his white cloak, kneels, and kisses your hand like he didn’t just behead three men for smiling at you.

• Will lock you in your chambers “for your safety” and stand guard outside the door himself. No one enters. No one leaves. Ever.

NSFW

• Arthur’s yandere sex is disciplined, precise, and completely overwhelming. The same way he wields Dawn: every movement perfect, every thrust designed to ruin you for anyone else.

• Strips his white armor off slowly while you watch, letting you see every scar he took “keeping you safe.” Loves when you kiss them.

• Pins your wrists above your head with one hand (he’s stupidly strong) and fucks you slow and deep, watching your face like he’s memorizing the holiest sight he’s ever seen.

• Obsessed with making you come first. Will spend literally hours between your thighs with that swordsman’s precision, tongue and fingers merciless until you’re sobbing his name and promising you’ll never leave. Only then does he let himself sink into you.

• Loves taking you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, his white cloak still half-on so it billows around you both like you’re in some tragic love story he refuses to let end.

• Whispered filth in that calm, refined voice: “You feel how perfectly you were made for me? No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else could ever survive it.”

• Leaves sword calloused fingerprints bruised into your hips for days. Secretly hopes someone notices and realizes the greatest knight alive claimed you body and soul.

• Aftercare is him cleaning you with a damp cloth, kissing every mark he left, then wrapping you in his cloak and holding you against his chest while murmuring that the dawn only rises for you.

Sfw and nsfw

Bran Stark (raven), Jaime Lannister, Khal Drogo, Viserys Targaryen

Authors note: GOT was the most voted in the poll so enjoy;)

Bran Stark (Three-Eyed Raven)

SFW:

Bran doesn’t watch you the way men usually do. His gaze is distant, yet unshakably fixed, as though he sees every secret you’ve ever carried. He knows where you’ll walk before your feet touch the path, knows the tremor in your heart before you’ve felt it. It’s not a boy’s affection, it’s the omniscient obsession of a god wearing a boy’s skin. He would wait forever if needed, weaving fate until every road you take leads back to him. And if someone dares to stand in the way, he already knows how they’ll fall. He wouldn’t raise a sword. He would move time itself so you end up his.

NSFW:

When he finally touches you, it feels like surrendering to inevitability. Bran likes positions where he can see everything your face, your surrender, your reactions as though recording them in the tapestry of time. He prefers you straddling him, his hands gripping your hips while his pale eyes bore into yours, every gasp and shiver already foreseen. Yet, there’s a haunting reverence: he makes love like he’s both worshiping you and claiming what was always his. He whispers what you’ll do before you do it, until you no longer know where fate ends and desire begins.

Yandere rating: 8/10

Jaime Lannister

SFW:

Jaime’s obsession doesn’t look unhinged at first but it looks like protection, like golden smiles and sharp words when anyone dares glance your way. He burns with the kind of possessiveness that makes him reckless, willing to ruin his honor further just to keep you close. He would kill without hesitation if anyone so much as threatened you, though he’d deny it until his hands were stained red. To him, you are the one clean thing in his filthy, tarnished life, and he will keep you even if it means binding you in gold chains.

NSFW:

Jaime is fiery in bed, his obsession pouring out in rough, desperate passion. He likes to take you from behind, gripping your hair or waist, as if proving to himself that you are his and his alone. But when the fire cools, he craves intimacy, missionary, kissing every inch of your skin, whispering promises only you will ever hear. His jealousy makes him rougher when he thinks you’ve looked at someone else, fucking you until you can’t say anyone’s name but his. To him, sex is both punishment and worship, a golden knight kneeling at the altar of your body.

Yandere rating: 6/10

Khal Drogo

SFW:

Drogo does not ask for you. He takes. His yandere nature is primal, rooted in absolute certainty that once his eyes fall upon you, you are his to claim. He would kill entire villages without blinking if it meant keeping you safe or punishing those who tried to steal you away. His obsession is wordless but suffocating: he lingers like a shadow, watching, guarding, waiting to take you back into his arms at night. Once chosen, there is no escaping him. You are moon and stars, and he will burn worlds for you.

NSFW:

Drogo takes you like a storm hard, unyielding, primal. He favors positions of dominance: you bent over before him, or lifted onto his lap so he can thrust up into you with brute strength. Yet there is a surprising tenderness in the aftermath his hand on your stomach, murmuring “moon of my life” against your ear, as though your body is the only temple he worships. He is tireless, insatiable, and your moans are his war songs. His obsession bleeds into the way he takes you savage, consuming, until you are marked inside and out as his possession.

Yandere rating 8,5/10

Viserys Targaryen

SFW:

Viserys’s obsession is madness wrapped in silk. He convinces himself you are his queen, his destiny, his crown. Delusional and volatile, he would threaten, manipulate, and bargain with your life as though it were a jewel in his palm. Yet beneath the arrogance lies a desperate boy, clawing for affection he was never given. He would kill anyone who laughed at him in your presence, if only to prove he is strong enough to keep you. You are his dragon, his gold crown, his validation. Without you, he is nothing and he knows it.

NSFW:

Viserys is needy, frantic, more a supplicant than a king in bed. He favors positions where he feels in control, pinning you beneath him, gripping your wrists, claiming your body as though it’s his throne. Yet his desperation leaks through: he begs for your voice, your eyes, your pleas, moaning your name like a prayer. Sometimes he tries to humiliate you, to remind you he is dragonborn but often, it’s he who ends up begging for your touch. Sex with him is feverish, messy, a frantic attempt to make you love him as fiercely as he loves you.

Coriolanus Snow x Female Reader (Lucy Gray’s younger sister)

Warnings: NSFW ,dark themes, murder, obsession, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, non-graphic death of a main character, forced cohabitation/trophy wife dynamic, age gap

Word count: ~5k

Your sister, Lucy Gray, was the wildflower of District 12. She was bold, bright, born to sing.

You were softer. Didn’t sing. Always in her shadow. Always the “little sister.” The one she tried to protect.

Until the boy she thought she loved, the Capitol boy with the pale hair and cold ambition saw you instead.

And everything unraveled.

You never meant to fall into this mess.

After the Games, Coriolanus ran with Lucy Gray and she helped him. You followed because she told you to. You trusted her. Trusted him, because she did. For a while, it almost felt like a dream, running barefoot through woods, stealing bread from kitchens, sleeping under stars. But it wasn’t freedom. Not really. Not with the way Coriolanus looked at you.

And then came the moment that split your world in half. It happened too fast to stop.

Lucy Gray turned her back for just a second. You were gathering firewood. The gunshot rang out like thunder.

You dropped the twigs in your arms. “Lucy Gray?”

She was facedown. A smear of red blooming beneath her.

You ran to her, screaming, sobbing, cradling her limp body, your hands shaking violently as they pressed against her blood slicked back. “No, no, please, no”

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. Your heart beat like a drum in your ears, trying to keep pace with the weight of it all. Your sister was dead. Your sister was gone.

And Coriolanus, the boy she loved, the boy who once looked at her like she hung the stars now looked only at you.

“You… you killed her” you sobbed.

He nodded.

“For you.”

Coriolanus stood behind you.

“I had no choice,” he said softly, like he was offering comfort. “She was going to leave me. Turn me in.” He started to manipulate.

You turned, face wet with tears. “You killed her!”

He looked at you , almost… devoted. “But I didn’t kill you.”

You ran.

You didn’t think. You just ran. The trees were a blur, branches slashing your arms, feet stumbling over roots and leaves. Your sobs tore through the quiet like sirens. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop seeing Lucy’s face ,her last breath, her blood. Her.

His voice echoed behind you. You didn’t stop. But he was faster.

You broke into a small clearing and collapsed, knees buckling beneath you. You clawed at the ground, screaming, crying, shaking. And then his hands grabbed you.

“Let me go”

“Shhh,” he murmured, burying his face into your hair. “It’s over now. You’re safe. You’re mine.” You thrashed. You sobbed. You screamed in anger.

“You killed her!”

He turned you in his arms, gripping your face, forcing you to look at him.

“She was never going to let you go. She was going to drag you back to that hole in the dirt. But I saved you”

Your chest heaved. “You’re a monster.” He kissed you. You froze.

His mouth was warm, hungry. His fingers pressed into your jaw, holding you still as he devoured the sob from your lips. You trembled under him.

When he pulled back, you were shaking.

“I did it for you,” he whispered. “I’ve always loved you.” He didn’t leave you behind.

The journey back to the Capitol wasn’t pleasant. You wanted to be free. Not live in the Capitol with the murderer of your sister.

Coriolanus made the fire. Caught a rabbit. Kept you wrapped in his coat at night while your whole body trembled with grief. You wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t speak. He held you anyway.

On the second night, when your sobs turned to silence, he kissed you again. You didn’t kiss him.

His hands were gentle that night.

He touched you like you were something delicate, something he’d bled for. Something he’d won.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, sliding your dress down your shoulders. “I’ll make you forget all of it.”

You whimpered when his mouth closed around your nipple, hot breath ghosting over your skin. He laid you down on the mossy earth, worshipping every inch of your trembling form with kisses, with fingers, with soft whispers.

“You were always meant to be mine.”

His tongue found you soaked whether from grief or need, you didn’t know. But your body ached for something real, something warm, even if it came from the same hands that killed your sister.

He made you come on his mouth, groaning into your folds like he was starving. You cried through it, gasping and when he slid into you, slow and deep, your body clenched around him like it knew.

His thrusts were slow, deliberate, possessive.

“I love you,” he said, panting in your ear. “I’ve always loved you. You were the one.”

You broke beneath him.

And he kissed your tears like they were sacred. He carried you back to the Capitol like you were some rare flower he’d stolen from the wild.

And in a way, you were.

Three months later in the Capitol.

You were beautiful in white.

The veil fell down your back like snow. Your hands trembled as you held the white bouquet. Coriolanus stood beside you, tall and proud, in a uniform of pure white. He kissed your hand in front of the crowd, in front of the cameras.

“Mrs. Snow.”

You were nineteen.

The Capitol called it a love story.

No one asked about the missing girl from District 12. No one saw the way your smile faltered when he touched your waist. No one noticed the way his hand never left your waist. You were his now. Trophy wife.

Now the wife of Coriolanus Snow.

He studied in university. You stayed in Snow Manor, attended luncheons, wore pearls.

At night, he came home and tasted you.

The bed was silk and red. You wore white nightgowns, delicate and sheer. He liked to see the outline of your breasts, your thighs.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured every time. “Perfect and mine.”

He made love to you like he was claiming territory. Deep strokes, slow rhythm, hands gripping your wrists above your head. He whispered promises into your ear.

“You’ll bear my children. Be my First Lady when I become president. Stand beside me when I rule.”

He kissed your throat, marked your collarbones, fucked you until your legs shook. He moved deeply, grinding against your sensitive spot with every thrust. The stretch stung, but the rhythm numbed it, pleasure blooming like poison in your veins.

Your hands clutched his back without thinking. Your body betrayed you. You cried his name when you came, shaking under him, and he kissed you hard through it.

He spilled inside you seconds later, groaning your name like a vow. And then you cried afterward.

Soon he became the president and you knew the chances of escaping was low. You still tried and planned everything perfectly for an escape.

But you should’ve known that Coriolanus was always two steps ahead.

“I should’ve known you’d try this.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

You turned, breath catching, staring at the man who had stolen everything from you. He stood in your bedroom doorway, holding the small satchel of supplies you hide weeks ago. Food, a knife. One chance to disappear.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you whispered. “You killed her.”

His eyes flickered. “Lucy Gray made a choice. Besides everything changed when she introduced me to you”

“You shot her.”

“She turned her back on me,” he said, stepping inside. “And she tried to take you with her. I couldn’t let that happen.”

You backed away.

“She was my sister.”

“She didn’t deserve you.” His tone shifted, sharp, wounded, full of something so heavy it stuck in your throat. “She never did. Not the way I saw you. Not the moment she said your name and you looked up at me and smiled like you had no idea who I was.”

Sfw and Nsfw

Tywin Lannister, Ramsay Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Jorah Mormont

Authors note: was busy with my exams but I’m back:)

Tywin Lannister

Yandere Rating: 8/10

“You’re mine because I made it so. The world bends before me and so will you.”

SFW:

Tywin is controlling in a cold, calculated way. You’re not a lover to him but an asset. He isolates you using logic, political manipulation, and veiled threats, making you completely dependent on him. While he shows no affection in public, in private he’s quietly possessive ,brushing your hair, watching over you. Anyone who gets close to you is swiftly and cleanly eliminated, without drama.

NSFW:

Sex with Tywin is a performance of power. He undresses you slowly, methodically, like you’re being unwrapped ,not for passion, but because you’re his. He prefers control above all: you’re bound at the wrists with silk, blindfolded, instructed not to speak unless spoken to. Every touch is deliberate, like he’s branding his authority into your skin.He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, inspecting your body like a conquered land, his fingers trailing over your chest, thighs, neck. When he finally enters you, it’s slow and firm, his hand wrapped around your throat or pinned beneath your jaw to keep you still. He whispers things like, “Do you understand now? You were always mine.”

Ramsay Bolton

Yandere Rating: 10/10

“I’ll cut off every hand that touches you. And if you leave, I’II hunt your family down”

SFW:

Ramsay is violently obsessive. He believes hurting you proves his love. He’ll keep trophies like locks of hair, bloodstained clothes and torture anyone who interacts with you. He gaslights you constantly and makes sure you’re too scared or broken to ever leave. His affection is twisted: he praises your beauty while holding a knife to your throat.

NSFW:

Ramsay takes you like a predator. There’s no build-up, no gentle foreplay unless he wants to toy with you and even then, it’s laced with cruelty. He rips your clothes off, bites hard enough to draw blood, grips your hips until they bruise. He’ll restrain you, hands above your head and fuck you while whispering the worst, filthiest things you’ve ever heard. “No one else could take you like this. No one else would ruin you for fun and then beg you to thank them.” He enjoys seeing tears mix with sweat, your body shaking as he overstimulates you beyond what you can bear. Even after you’ve come, he doesn’t stop. He wants you exhausted, ruined, whimpering his name.

Oberyn Martell

Yandere Rating: 6.5/10

“You are free but you will never want to leave. And if you do, I will bleed the world for you.”

SFW:

Oberyn is passionate, seductive, and intensely possessive. He doesn’t lock you away, but he ensures you never want to leave. He’ll make you emotionally dependent through pleasure and deep conversations. If someone flirts with you, he’ll smile and deliver poetic threats about poisoning them. His obsession burns hot, but rarely violent.

NSFW:

Oberyn makes sex into a worship ritual. He lights candles, pours wine on your tongue, and tastes you slowly with his fingers and mouth. He takes his time, two fingers sliding into you as his lips suck at your neck, your thighs shaking from how long he holds you at the edge.He speaks the entire time: praising your body, describing what he’ll do next. “You’ll scream my name when I finally let you come. And you’ll thank me for every second.”He makes love with rhythm and fire, hips rolling against yours as he kisses you deeply, possessively. If you look at someone else, he’ll punish you by edging you for hours, holding you down with a silk rope at your wrists, smiling as you beg for release. Your orgasms are gifts he gives and takes away. And he loves watching your body surrender to him, over and over.

Jorah Mormont

Yandere Rating: 7.5/10

“I’d die for you but I’d rather kill for you. Or keep you, even if you hate me for it.”

SFW:

Jorah is a silent, brooding yandere. He follows you like a shadow, watching everyone who gets too close. He sees himself as your protector, your knight, and will quietly eliminate anyone he thinks threatens you. If you pull away emotionally, he becomes desperate, telling you no one will ever love you like he does. He’ll offer his life for your love, over and over.

NSFW:

Robb Stark x Targaryen!Reader

Part two

(Reader as Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen’s surviving daughter.)

Warnings: war, HOTD 2.0, Targaryens against each other

You had no last name. No siblings. Your legacy inked in secrets. You never imagined you would marry a wolf. Robb Stark was not what you expected from the stories. The Young Wolf. Warden of the North. He was supposed to be hard and grim. But he wasn’t. Not with you.

He loved fiercely and without fear. His gaze never wandered. His hand always reached for yours. And when you walked into a war council, his eyes followed you like you were the only light left in the world. It scared you sometimes, how much he trusted you. It scared you more that you wanted to deserve it.

“I never thought I’d see peace in my lifetime,” Robb said one night, lying beside you.

You turned your head on the pillow, brushing back a strand of auburn hair from his brow. His beard had grown thicker, so had the weight in his eyes.

“We don’t have peace,” you replied. “We have a pause. A long breath before something worse.”

He sighed, arm draped over your waist. “You sound like my mother.”

“I’ve never been flattered and insulted in the same breath before.”

He laughed softly and leaned in to kiss your forehead. “I meant that as a compliment.”

“And what if the realm won’t let me?” I glance at Robb, turning serious. “You know how the world works. Do you think they will accept a Targaryen ruling again?”

He pulled you closer, forehead to yours.

“Then we show them who you are,” Robb said, pulling you closer. “Not a tyrant. Not a conqueror. Elia’s daughter. The one the realm forgot until you made them remember.

The Lannisters fell first. The Tyrells shortly after. Baratheon blood pooled like oil in the mud. The map of Westeros was bloodless now, for the first time in years. The pieces of war had stopped moving. No Lannisters. No Baratheons. No Boltons. All quiet.

Too quiet.

You stood at the table, a dozen lords around you, Robb seated to your left.

Dragonstone,” you said. “She’s taken it.”

She’s not attacking,” Robb said softly. His voice was gravel, worn by too many nights without sleep. “Not yet.”

You didn’t look up. “But she knows.”

A raven reached the Stormlands this morning,” added Lord Glover. “She knows you live, your grace. That you are Rhaegar’s daughter. That you married the King in the North.”

“She has three dragons,” Glover reminded again.

You shot him a glance.

The silence that followed was thicker than before.

Robb broke it. “If Daenerys Targaryen attacks, we will respond. But she hasn’t. She may still seek peace.”

You shook your head slowly. “She will see me as a threat. The daughter of the brother she revered, raised in silence, hidden from her. I am proof that her claim is not unquestionable. I carry both Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen in my name. And more importantly, I carry Dorne.”

the fur lined cloak spilling from your shoulders as you stepped closer to the map. Your finger traced the borders of Dorne, your homeland.

“Do you know Dorne’s words?” you asked, eyes sweeping the gathered lords. “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.”

You met their eyes, voice steady and firm.

“They bowed to no gods. To no conquerors. But they bowed to me. To their own kin. They accepted me as their queen and only me.”

“They bled for me,” you continued. “They shattered castles and buried lions for me. While Daenerys was across the sea freeing slaves, I was reclaiming my birthright. While she rode across deserts with her Unsullied, I fought the tyrants”.

Your hand clenched around the carved edge of the table. “I will not raise a hand against her. But if she raises one to me, if she flies for King’s Landing or tries to claim what is not hers then I will remove her”.

A charged silence fell over the room

You looked to Robb, seeking his eyes, seeking what you always found in them, an unwavering faith.

He rose, stepping beside you.

“She’s right. If Daenerys comes for us, we do not cower. We do not beg. But we do not attack first. We hold. We prepare. And if she forces our hand…” He looked down at the table, then back to you.

His words echoed in the room, but your gaze drifted beyond the maps and lords, lost in thought. You pictured the dragons. I never had the chance to see one. The last living flames of an ancient line.

I do not want to be the one to bring fire against fire, you thought quietly, the weight of your heritage pressing down on you.

~A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing but a Targaryen without a dragon is even worse.

Petyr Baelish x Stark!Reader

Warnings: Dark romance, manipulation, forced marriage, possessive behavior, NSFW (18+), obsession, mind games. Afab reader

You were a Stark, born of Northern honor and winters. And yet, you were no wolf in this court, not in the eyes of King Joffrey.

He married you off like a joke, a cruel smirk curling his lips as he handed you over to Lord Petyr Baelish.

A man with no army, no bloodline, and yet too many eyes and power.

But Joffrey found it funny. Giving a northern lady, noble and proud, to a man he viewed as a rat in silk.

You hadn’t cried. Not at the wedding, not after. But you were angry.

The gardens were quiet that afternoon, the sky overcast like a blade hidden in wool. You stood beneath a dying rose arch, speaking with the Hound, Sandor Clegane. He said little, as usual, but his presence was honest. Comforting, in a way your husband never was.

“You shouldn’t linger here,” Sandor muttered, his scar catching the gray light. “Littlefinger watches everything.”

You chuckled, falsely brave. “Let him watch, I can talk with whoever I please”.

But the words didn’t sit right with you. They never did.

A chill ran down your spine. You turned to see Petyr across the path, standing too still, a little too calm, hands folded behind his back. A smile on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Enjoying the company of dogs now, my sweet?” he asked softly.

The Hound bristled but said nothing. You stepped forward, lifting your chin. “I enjoy honesty, my lord.”

Petyr didn’t answer. He simply took your hand and dragged you along with him.

The door slammed shut behind you. Petyr’s touch was no longer soft. It a was command. Fingers like steel wrapped around your wrist as he dragged you through the chamber.

“Is that how little you think of me?” you snapped, struggling. “Let go of me, you’re being ridiculous

He shoved you against the bedpost, not enough to hurt. His breath was warm at your ear, hands tightening on your waist.

“You think you can smile at that brute like you’re still unclaimed?”

“Petyr”

“I own you,” he whispered. “By law. By crown. And soon…”

His voice dropped lower, darker.

“…by realm.”

You froze.

His lips pressed to your neck but the kiss wasn’t tender. It was branding. You pushed him weakly, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Don’t ever think I don’t see through your little rebellions. I built this game. I am the game.”

You trembled but stood your ground.

His smile returned, mask re-fastened.

“You’re clever, sweetling,” he murmured, brushing hair from your face. “But clever girls are often silenced”.

Then he kissed you hungrily as if trying to devour your defiance.

You moaned into his mouth, startled by your own body’s betrayal. He tore the laces of your gown, muttering how the North had never deserved beauty like yours.

He guided you onto the bed, mouth trailing down your collarbone like a man worshipping a goddess.

He didn’t ask. Petyr never asked, he simply took, with deliberate thrusts and slow grinding, whispering in your ear as he fucked you.

“You want freedom?” he growled. “I’ll give you a throne instead.”

Your back arched, and he smiled as you writhed, one hand circling your throat lightly.

“I’ll burn every lion, every dragon, every wolf… until they kneel. Until they call you queen.”

You gasped. “Why… why would you-

When it was done, he lay beside you, fingers tracing your spine as if etching a map across your skin.

You dared to speak.

“You want the Iron Throne.”

He chuckled. “Oh, my love. I want everything.”

And just before you drifted into uneasy sleep, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

Ramsay Bolton x Stark!WifeReader

Warnings: Ramsay, Torture (not to reader), fainting, obsession, possessive love, NSFW (consensual but dark), crying during intimacy, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, dub-con overtones.

The screams echo off the stone walls like hymns. You try not to look. You try not to listen. But Ramsay wants you to see. Wants you to understand. You hated it here, forced to wed to your enemy.

“This is loyalty,” he says, voice smooth as silk, splashed red by the blood flying across his face. “Pain teaches more than books ever could, my love.”

You want to scream. You want to run. But your feet are frozen to the floor, and your breath comes too fast. The man on the rack sobs, blood gushing from his missing fingers. His eye dangles loose. A dog whines in the shadows. You turn your face away. Ramsay doesn’t let you.

He grips your chin with fingers still slick from flesh. “You must see. This is the price of betrayal.

Something inside you crumples. The air twists. You don’t scream but the room fades away. Darkness rushes in you and you fall unconscious.

You’re in bed. Ramsay’s bed. Your lashes flutter open. He’s beside you, kneeling at the edge of the mattress. No blood on his face now.

“You fainted,” he says, voice hushed. “My poor little wolf.” He mocks

Your throat is dry. “I didn’t want to see that.”

“I know.” He leans in, brushing hair from your face with a tenderness that makes your stomach twist. “But you needed to. To what happens to those who betray me.

His thumb strokes your cheek. His gaze is cold. You cry before he touches you.

Not loud, not sobbing. Just a slow leak of pain from your eyes as your body lies still beneath the covers.

“Don’t cry, sweet thing,” he whispers.

You don’t respond. You can’t.

He climbs into the bed beside you, shirtless, blood washed away, skin warm and bare against your cold arms. His mouth finds your cheeks, kissing each tear in turn like blessings.

One hand glides down to your hip, pulling you close, his breath brushing your ear. “I hate it when you cry,” he says softly. “But I love it when I’m the one who gets to kiss it away.”

You tremble.

Ramsay kisses your neck first, inhaling your scent like you’re something sacred. His fingers trail over your body, coaxing sensation where your heart feels numb.

His lips move to your chest, tongue swirling around your nipple as he murmurs praise against your skin. “So soft. So sweet. All mine.”

Your breath hitches. He slides down, kissing the path to your navel, then lower. His hands press your thighs apart, reverent and greedy all at once.

He licks you like he’s starving, slow strokes of his tongue, hands gripping your legs when they try to close.

“You taste like snow,” he groans. “Like the first winter’s bite.”

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow. Too slow. Stretching you open as if you’ll break if he moves too fast.

You do cry again, silent. But he notices.

“Don’t be sad,” he whispers, his cock deep inside you. “This is love, little wolf. My kind of love. And it’s forever.”

He moves then, grinding into you with possessive, desperate need. His hand tangles in your hair, mouth devouring your jawline as he thrusts. He doesn’t fuck you like a husband. He fucks you like you’re air. Like you’re the only thing that holds his soul in place.

Your body gives in before your heart does. Clenching around him, hips jerking, pleasure crashing over you like a winter storm. You hate how good it feels.

Sfw and Nsfw (I promise I tried to be explicit with the smut this time.)

Petyr Baelish (daddy), Jaqen H’ghar (a man is handsome), Robb Stark (🥵)

Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger) – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

Littlefinger is the slowest burning obsession you’ll ever experience. You may not even notice him at first, but he’s already ten steps ahead, pulling strings behind the scenes. Every success you enjoy, every enemy who disappears, every secret opportunity that comes your way? It’s him. He believes in ownership disguised as elevation. You’re his because he made you everything you are or so he believes. If you stray, you’ll suddenly find yourself isolated, your name ruined, your world collapsing in whispers.

NSFW

Petyr is indulgent and strategic even in bed. He doesn’t take. he seduces. He’ll watch you first, learn your weaknesses, your desires, your needs. When he finally touches you, it’s with practiced precision. He wants you addicted. But it turns dark when he starts marking you with jewelry, contracts, blackmail, he binds you to him in every way but chains. He might whisper about keeping you in a locked room beneath the Eyrie, far above the clouds, where no one else can touch you. He’d never rape but he’ll twist your life until saying yes feels like your only choice.

Overall Rating: 9/10

Jaqen H’ghar – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

Jaqen doesn’t love like normal people do. he becomes obsessed with your essence. Your face, your voice, your spirit. He treats you like a holy relic, silent and reverent. He appears at impossible times, offers cryptic warnings, kills those who threaten you without emotion. You never asked for this protection but he has decided. A man sees. A man claims. And you are his unseen vow. Try to leave him, and the world will start thinning, people vanish, doors lock behind you, even your name becomes uncertain. You are his identity now.

NSFW

Jaqen makes sex feel like a ritual. His hands move like they’re casting spells, and his eyes never lose their eerie focus on your face. His obsession lies in control not just physically, but spiritually. He’ll tie you down and whisper prayers in the Valyrian tongue as he takes you, murmuring that you are no one now, only his. He’ll use masks, shifting between faces as he fucks you, until you don’t even know who he is anymore. You may scream but not in fear. He wants to break reality for you. He wants to become your god.

Overall Rating: 8.5/10

Robb Stark – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

Robb is a classic protective lover. At first, it’s romantic, he holds your hand in public, defends your name, and swears loyalty with eyes full of warmth. But when jealousy sparks, so does his Stark blood. He becomes territorial, cold toward anyone who gets too close. He justifies everything with love and duty: he’ll station guards at your door, forbid you from traveling, even threaten those who ask too many questions. “It’s for your safety,” he’ll say. “You belong with me. You belong to me.”

NSFW

In bed, Robb is wild, possessive, and hungry. He growls your name when he takes you from behind, his hands gripping your hips like you might slip away. He leaves bruises and bite marks, not out of cruelty but to mark you. He doesn’t ask when he’s in that mood, he grabs you, bends you over, and fills you like he’s proving something. If he thinks you’ve looked at someone else, expect to be fucked hard enough to limp the next day. He whispers his vows while he fucks you: that you’re his queen, his forever, and if you leave, he’ll bring your head home, crown and all.

Sfw and nfsw

Tyrion Lannister, The hound, Jaime Lannister, Jon Snow.

Tyrion Lannister – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

Tyrion’s obsession is quiet but suffocating. He watches you from the shadows of his library, sipping wine as he memorizes every detail of your movements. He gives you books, rare gifts, even gold. Things you didn’t ask for. If you refuse him, he laughs, wounded but masking it with wit. But you’ll soon find that potential suitors lose their jobs, their reputations, even their lives. “Accidents”, of course. Tyrion would rather ruin the world than lose the one person who ever looked past his stature.

NSFW

Tyrion’s love is decadent and possessive. He uses his silver tongue in more ways than one, binding you to him with pleasure and guilt. He talks during intimacy, constant whispers of how no one will ever love you like this, how you belong to him. He marks you with wine-stained kisses and bruises that mirror devotion more than violence. Should you ever try to leave, he’ll remind you of the secrets he knows, yours and others and how easily he can destroy everything you care about.

Overall Rating: 8/10

His emotional neediness, intelligence, and manipulative streak all support a believable, disturbing Yandere version of Tyrion. You’re not running, you’re trapped darling. and you don’t even realize it.

Sandor Clegane (The Hound) – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

The Hound is a silent guardian, a brutal protector. He follows you, not out of romance, but because you “don’t know how to survive.” His obsession is raw and primal and he glares at anyone who looks at you wrong, growls when you speak too fondly of others. You might never know he loves you until someone hurts you and Sandor makes them disappear. He’s not gentle, but his care is undeniable. You’re the only softness in his scarred world.

NSFW

Sandor’s love is possessive, animalistic. He doesn’t say “I love you”, he shows it by staking claim. His touches are rough, needy, fueled by the fear that you’ll leave him like everyone else. Afterward, he holds you too tightly, muttering that he’s not good but you’re his anyway. If anyone tries to seduce you, he’ll leave bloodied bodies in their wake, burned beyond recognition, with only a dog sigil carved into their chest.

Overall Rating: 8.5/10

A perfect fit. His canon arc already revolves around suppressed emotion, violence, and obsessive protection. With the right trigger (especially his trauma) , he’s a terrifyingly natural Yandere.

Jaime Lannister – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

Jaime is all charm and golden smiles, until you try to pull away. He starts subtly: gifts, chivalry, reminders that he’s not the monster people say. But if you betray him or choose another? The Kingslayer resurfaces. He’ll kill for you, without regret, and justify it as honor. You’re not just his love, you’re his redemption. Without you, he’s just the man who pushed a child out of a window. He won’t lose his second chance.

NSFW

In bed, Jaime whispers of destiny. That he was made for you. His golden hand tightens around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind. He has fantasies of chaining you in a tower, where no one else can have you. His jealousy is a fire that consumes logic. If you reject him, he’ll pretend to be heartbroken but your lover will drown in a river by morning. He’ll still bring you flowers the next day.

Overall Rating: 9/10

Jaime’s canon already revolves around twisted love, shame, and control. Transfer those feelings onto someone else, and you get a deeply possessive, obsessive Yandere with a knight’s smile and a killer’s resolve.

Jon Snow – Yandere Headcanon

SFW

Jon is honorable. Kind. Loyal. But even the noblest man has limits. When he falls for you, it’s with a depth that borders on obsession. He watches over you constantly. He wants to protect you from everything, even your freedom. He insists it’s for your safety. If someone flirts with you, he doesn’t confront them but he just ensures they’re transferred to another post, exiled, or sent on a doomed ranging mission.

NSFW

Jon’s passion runs like wildfire beneath ice. He makes love like he’s worshipping you at first. But the more he fears losing you, the rougher he gets. He bites, leaves marks, grips you like you might disappear. He starts whispering oaths: how he’d kill for you, die for you, burn the world if you left him. If you ever cheated, well…

Overall Rating: 7/10

Bran Stark (Three-eyed raven) x Targaryen!reader

Warnings: One world order, obsessive love, dark romance, fate manipulation, emotionally detached love interest, possessive, psychological control, godlike obsession, gaslighting

They call it the wheel. The endless turn of power. Rise and fall. King and usurper. Flame and ash. But that’s just the story they tell the sheep.

Beneath it, beneath the throne and banners, beneath the stones of Old Valyria and the bones of fallen kings. There is something older. A pattern. A cage. A design. They call it the One World Order. The true architects. The keepers of the balance. The ones who whisper into time and kill queens before they wear crowns.

And I was never meant to live.

He told me that much, the night King’s Landing fell. Not in words. In truths.

Bran Stark, the boy who died and came back as something else, watched me from the far end of the broken throne room as ash fell like snow.

“You were supposed to die here,” he said, voice low, as if speaking would wake the gods. “Jon was meant to drive the blade through your back. The world would mourn him. The wheel would turn again.”

I turned slowly, trembling, breathing in the smoke of what I had burned.

“And you stopped it”?

“I did..”

Later, I would come to understand. Not all at once. Not with a single tale. But in scattered glimpses, like fragments of a dream I’d once had and tried to forget. Bran had moved pieces no man should touch. Not just lives. But threads. He’d whispered into the minds of maesters before they wrote. Nudged bloodlines with visions passed through ravens. He’d made men vanish, redirected armies, infected dreams with false prophecy. He wove me into the pattern like silk soaked in poison.

“The Order feared what you were,” he told me once, under the godswood.

“Why?” I asked. “Because I had dragons?”

“No,” he said. “Because you had will.”

“They say Targaryens are mad.”

He looked at me for a long time. “Madness is just freedom in a world that demands obedience.”

I turned to face him then, and asked what had haunted me since the war’s end.

“Why me? Why not let them kill me, if that was the balance?”

His voice was quiet, but his words fell like knives.

“Because I loved you before you were born. Because I saw every life you were denied. Every version where they silenced you. Every world where your fire was put out.” He looked at me.

“You were always mine. The Order just didn’t know it yet.”

I began to see it, after that.

The pattern that should’ve undone me. The false histories. The quiet deaths of every dragon queen before me. The rumors that had no names. The children erased from memory. He showed me, piece by piece. Not to frighten me.

But to make me understand: he had rewritten fate for me. He is the raven in the dead tree. The ghost in the forge. The thing that outlived gods. He is not man. He is not boy. He is not Bran Stark. He is the will that refused to let me die. Not because I was right.

Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader

(During and after the rebellion)

I watched the flames rise over King’s Landing, the smoke curling into the sky like the breath of dying dragons. My family’s world was burning. Rhaegar was dead. Father was gone and I had no idea where my niece and nephew were. I was alone.

When they dragged me from the hidden chamber below the Red Keep, I thought they would kill me too. But then he stepped into the light.

Robert Baratheon.

Tall as a mountain, broad-shouldered and blood spattered. His warhammer still wet with my brother’s death. His eyes locked on mine but not with hatred.

With hunger.

“You,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low and rough. “You’re real.”

“You’re more beautiful than Rhaegar ever deserved,” he muttered. “More than any Targaryen painting. The gods made you silver and silk and fire.”

“You’re more beautiful than Rhaegar ever deserved,” he muttered. “More than any Targaryen painting. The gods made you silver and silk and fire.” His hand reached for my face, rough thumb brushing my cheek. I flinched. He smirked.

I was taken to his chambers, not the dungeons. Bathed, dressed, guarded. Not as a prisoner. As a prize.

“I want you as my queen,” he said that night. “Not Lyanna. Not anyone else. You.”

I blinked at him. “But you loved her.”

“I thought I did,” he said, voice low. “But then I saw you. And something inside me broke. Or maybe it woke up.”

He paced like a beast in a cage. “You’re the last dragon. I should hate you. I killed your brother. But I don’t. I can’t. I dream of you. I burn for you.”

He stopped in front of me. “Say you’ll marry me. Or I’ll burn the rest of what’s left of your name.”

I didn’t answer right away. My lips trembled. “And if I do?”

“I’ll protect you. Your nieces, Your blood will be safe. And you’ll never have to run again.”

I said yes. For them. For the scraps of my house that still flickered like dying coals. But Robert didn’t love gently. His love was sharp, hot, too much. He’d watch me like a hawk, as if I might vanish if he looked away. He kissed me hard enough to bruise, held me like he wanted to sink his teeth into my skin.

“You were made for me,” he would whisper against my throat, pressing me into our marriage bed. “Not Rhaegar. Not any man but me.”

Sometimes he would just look at me, breathing heavy, hands twitching at his sides. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he’d say. “You haunt me.”

He built me a throne beside his. Ordered tapestries with dragons and stags twined together. He made me wear his colors over my silks. He didn’t want me as I was, he wanted to own me. Tame me.

But dragons don’t tame easily.

Jaime Lannister x bastard Lannister!Reader

Warnings: incest (half-siblings), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, forceful kiss, dark Jaime, obsession

They never let me forget what I was.

A bastard. A mistake. The shadow of a lion, born of mud and hunger and a single night of Tywin Lannister’s weakness. I had his name in secret and none of its power. My hair was dark, like my mother’s. My eyes were brown, not the bright, cold green of my older half-siblings. I was proof that even the mighty hand of Tywin could slip.

Father never looked at me. Not really. But he allowed me to stay, perhaps out of guilt, perhaps as a quiet punishment to himself. Or maybe he wanted me near to remind him of shame.

So I grew in the Red Keep, in shadows and corners, slipping between noble bloodlines like a thread out of place. The servants called me by my name out of fear. Even if I was a bastard, I was still a Lannister bastard. The courtiers never called me anything at all.

Except Jaime.

He called me by name. And when he said it, it was soft, almost fond. Almost dangerous.

“You know, you don’t look like us,” he said once, leaning lazily against a marble pillar, golden armor catching firelight. “But you carry yourself like a Lannister”.

I remember staring at him too long. He was beautiful in the way a sword is beautiful. Gleaming, finely crafted, made to wound. He smiled like he knew I’d been watching.

He always watched me, too.

At first I thought it was kindness. Then curiosity. But kindness doesn’t linger too long in the halls of power, and curiosity doesn’t tighten like that in the chest. The way his gaze dipped. The way his words curved. He’d brush too close, always under the eyes of others, but just shy of shame. Or worse, just shy of permission.

And I told myself it was nothing. I told myself he couldn’t mean it. Until one night, I caught him watching me from the shadows of the halls.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said, arms wrapped tight around myself.

He stepped closer. “Neither are you.”

There was a pause then. A terrible silence. The kind that lives in old tombs and bad dreams.

“You’re my brother,” I said. I meant it to sound strong. It didn’t.

“That didn’t stop Cersei.”

His words dropped like a blade between us.

I stared at him, heart hammering. I searched his face for mockery, for a joke or anything to make it not real. But Jaime wasn’t smiling.

He stepped forward again, slow, deliberate.

“You have our eyes when you’re angry,” he said. “But your naivety, That’s all your mother, isn’t it?”

My breath caught. I stepped back. He caught my wrist.

It wasn’t rough, not yet. But his grip was steel beneath silk.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered. “You’re not like this.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “But you belong to me. And I’m tired of pretending you aren’t. You’re still a Lannister, even if you don’t look like one”.

Then he kissed me.

It was wrong. It was heat and hunger and fury all tangled into one. His mouth was demanding, his hand threading through my hair. I pushed at him, once, but he didn’t move.

He pulled back, and I wiped my mouth, glaring. “You don’t get to choose my fate, Jaime. Not like Tywin did.”

His jaw tensed. “You think you’re free? In this place?”

“I’d rather be a forgotten mistake than your secret.”

His eyes flickered. That Lannister rage beneath the gold. But then, a slow, crooked smile touched his lips.

“Maybe you are a lioness after all.”

Robb Stark x Targaryen!Reader

(Reader as Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen’s surviving daughter.)

The Dornish sun never felt warm to me, only heavy. I grew up under it, surrounded by heat, sand, and silence. My name was not spoken in the open. To most, I was a shadow in Sunspear, a noble girl raised under a false name. But in whispers, behind thick stone walls, I was a dragon. The lost child of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen. The one who should have died when the Mountain climbed the stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast.

But I lived.

Oberyn Martell saw to that. He pulled me from the cradle before the sack of King’s Landing, hiding me deep in the Red Mountains with loyal . Taught me how to wield a blade, how to speak carefully, how to hate with patience.

Then came Robb Stark.

He rode into Dorne not with an army, but with a raven and a question. His crown was heavy with grief. His father’s head on a spike, his sisters missing, his war waged in fire and blood. And yet, he carried himself with a quiet sort of strength. The kind that didn’t need to roar. We met in the Water Gardens. I was cloaked, veiled, pretending again to be someone I was not. But those pale Northern eyes, looked at me as if he already knew. Knew I was not just a girl. Not just another Martell cousin. Knew I was the dragon that had slumbered too long.

“You are her daughter,” he said simply, without pretense.

I didn’t answer him. Not with words.

Instead, I turned my head towards him and said, “My mother screamed when they killed her. Did you know that?”

He was silent.

“My brother’s head was dashed against a wall. They say Rhaenys tried to hide under the bed. Do you know what it is to live with that? To be what they tried to erase?”

“I do,” he said, and I looked back at him. “My father died for honor. My sisters were taken. My home is broken. I know vengeance. But I also know it’s not enough.”

“What would you offer me then, King of the North?” I asked him, stepping closer, watching the sunlight catch on the red thread of his doublet. “What does a Stark want with a Targaryen?”

“A future,” he said. “You want your birthright. I want a realm worth ruling. We can build it together.”

“A marriage?” I scoffed. “Do you think you and me can break the wheel?, against a whole system?”

“I’d wed a dragon if it meant the realm had a chance to heal,” he said, eyes fixed on mine. “You want justice. I want peace. Perhaps we can give each other both.” I should have said no. I had lived so long in the shadows that the thought of stepping into light felt like betrayal. But I remembered the way Dorne trembled when Oberyn died. The way the realm looked away when my mother’s name was spoken. No songs were sung for Elia.

No justice was ever served.

Maybe that could change.

So I gave him my hand.

We rode North together, fire and ice. Not for love, not yet. That came slowly, like thawing snow. It came when I watched him cradle a wounded soldier. When he called me my lady not with courtesy, but reverence. When he looked at me like I was not the last dragon, but the first.

And in the quiet, when winter winds whispered through the stone halls of Winterfell, I would trace the old map of Westeros with his hand in mine, and dream of a world reborn with fire and blood.

Jon Snow x Stark!Reader (half-siblings)

Summary: In the cold heart of Winterfell, eldest daughter of Ned Stark finds warmth in the one place she shouldn’t: her half-brother, Jon Snow. As he prepares to leave for the Wall, one night beneath the godswood may be their last or their beginning.

Warnings: smut, incest (kinda), forbidden love, afab reader, Implied sexual content / smut (not explicit)

The snow never quite melts in Winterfell, not even in spring.

I used to think that meant the gods were watching more closely here than anywhere else and that their gaze brought cold with it, a kind of sacred chill. That was before I knew how much warmth could burn beneath all this ice. Before I knew what it was to love someone I should never touch.

Jon Snow was a part of Winterfell, like the wind that whispered in the stone or the way the sky darkened earlier here than anywhere else. He was always just there, just close enough to make me ache.

He was my half-brother. That’s what they said, what we were told since childhood. Ned Stark’s blood, not Lady Catelyn’s. He bore the name Snow like it was a wound across his back, a name that marked him as less than. But he carried himself with quiet strength, and a softness no one else ever saw. No one but me.

It started with looks held too long. Silent conversations across the training yard. Brushed fingers when we passed in the halls. I always thought he’d pull away. But he didn’t.

One evening, the sun was setting in streaks of gold and blood over the castle, and I found him beneath the heart tree in the godswood. His sword lay across his knees, forgotten, his brow furrowed like he was trying to pray and couldn’t find the words.

I stepped onto the snow, and he looked up at me. That look. Gods, that look. Like I was the only warmth he’d ever known.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.

I knelt before him, gloved fingers trailing across the bark of the old weirwood. “Neither should you.”

A long silence stretched between us. The red leaves rustled above, like they too were holding their breath.

“I leave for the Wall in two days,” he finally said.

I knew. Of course I knew. I’d heard him speaking with Father, his voice low but firm. He wanted to be something more than a bastard, to find honor in a place where bloodlines didn’t matter.

“You’ll freeze there,” I whispered. “There’s no warmth past the Wall.”

“There’s no warmth here either,” he replied, looking at me like he regretted every word.

I reached for his hand. His fingers curled around mine without hesitation. And then he kissed me.

It was not soft or slow. It was desperate. Months, years of longing buried under duty and names we didn’t ask for, breaking free in a rush of breath and lips and tongue. I clung to him like the cold would take him from me if I let go, like I could stop time if I only held tight enough.

His cloak dropped to the snow, and mine followed. We laid beneath the red leaves, his hands reverent on my skin, my name on his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say. “Jon”, I whimper out, pleasure taking over me as I try to hold back my moans. I look up into his handsome face. I loved everything about him, especially those dark, long curls. His movements were harsh and desperate but loving at the same time.

And when we lay together afterward, wrapped in furs and breathless silence, I could feel his heartbeat against my back.

“I love you,” I whispered, not sure whether I wanted him to hear.

But he did.

“I’ve always loved you,” he said, and I could feel the weight of it in every syllable. “Even when I knew I shouldn’t.”

Forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, they say.

The godswood was silent. The snow began to fall again, soft flakes settling on our clothes, our hair, our joined hands. Soon, he would ride for the Wall.

Petyr Baelish x Stark!Reader (eldest daughter)

Slow burn, obsession, court intrigue, light smut

King’s Landing had a way of souring innocence.

You learned that swiftly. The first few weeks after your father’s appointment as Hand were filled with quiet dinners, polite smiles, and promises you knew were meant to be broken. You were not your sister, soft and obedient. You were always a rebel. But smart enough to hide it. You studied the way Queen Cersei’s eyes lingered too long. You caught how Varys’ words curled like smoke. And you noticed Lord Petyr Baelish.

He noticed you first.

Petyr had never cared for innocence. it bored him. What fascinated him was the quiet fire behind your eyes, the way you sat behind your father in council chambers, absorbing everything like it was part of some game only you and he were clever enough to play. You were polite to him, of course. A lady must be. But you were never warm. Not like Sansa. That only drew him in deeper.

“I wonder,” he said one evening, as he caught you alone in the Red Keep gardens, “how someone as sharp as you survives in a court like this.”

You turned to face him. “By pretending I’m not.”

He laughed low and amused. “Oh, I see through your mask, my lady.”

“And I see through yours.”

That’s when it began.

A whisper here. A letter slipped into your chamber, unsigned. Petyr began offering his carriage, his escort, his protection. Your father declined. Petyr only smiled and waited. He had always been patient.

But it was in the quiet hours after the court had retired that he became bolder. He would find you in the library.

“My lady,” he once said, voice barely a murmur, “does it not tire you? Playing the dutiful daughter?”

“It does.”

Then let me show you what it means to be more.”

That night, you followed him half out of curiosity, half out of something darker, more desperate. The corridors of the Red Keep were cold, but his private solar was not. You stood near the fire while he poured wine, his eyes tracing the shape of your mouth, the slope of your throat.

“I don’t trust you,” you whispered, accepting the cup.

“ I wouldn’t trust me either,” he said, stepping closer. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t want me.”

His hand brushed your cheek, fingers feather light. You didn’t stop him.

Later, in the hush of candlelight, he undid your laces slowly watching every reaction, every flicker of hesitation in your eyes. You let him. And when he laid you against the cushions, thinking that you were not some copy of Catelyn, not a Sansa he could mold but you, sharp-tongued and defiant girl. He touched you like you were a secret he meant to keep forever.

His hands were experienced, lips deliberate. You weren’t naive, but his mouth at your throat and his fingers between your thighs made you arch, breathless and heady with control you weren’t sure you wanted. And afterward, when your limbs tangled in silence and your mind spun with what it meant, he only said:

“They’ll never see you coming, you know.”

You looked at him, at the man who played the game better than most. And you realized he didn’t want a pawn.

He wanted a queen.