#charles dance

Tywin Lannister had never been a man to waste time with pleasantries or courtship. When the letter arrived at your father’s hall, stamped with the crimson lion and written in an elegant, decisive hand, it was more declaration than proposal. Your house had risen to prominence quickly, too quickly for some, and there were whispers that your father had purchased his new titles with gold and silence rather than blood and loyalty. But Tywin didn’t care for rumors. He cared for power. And your name, your lineage, your youth… all of it had value to him.

The age gap was never spoken aloud. Twenty years, perhaps twenty-five. Perhaps more. You didn’t ask. Neither did he.

You knew what was expected of you. You were to become Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock. Your body would carry his bloodline, your presence would seal the alliance, and your voice—soft, polite, agreeable—would be heard only when asked for. You were not marrying a man; you were marrying a legacy.

And you were not foolish enough to mistake this for love.

Still, the days before the wedding passed in a haze. Dresses were fitted, jewels selected. Servants whispered when you entered a room. You were not yet lioness, but already the scent of the Rock clung to your skin—gold and stone and blood, all wrapped in silk.

The ceremony was held in the great hall of Casterly Rock, where the walls glittered with veins of gold and the heavy scent of incense clung to every breath. The lion banners hung like judgment from the rafters, proud and eternal.

You stood in a gown of red and gold brocade, the bodice laced so tightly you could scarcely draw a full breath. Your hair was braided with strands of fine gold thread, a Lannister maiden before the gods, though you bore no lion’s blood in your veins.

Tywin stood beside you, tall and unmoving, dressed in black with a crimson mantle trimmed in lion fur. His expression was unreadable. You had never seen him smile, not truly. There was the faintest curve to his lips when he nodded to the septon, when he took your hand with fingers colder than they had any right to be. But warmth was not something he offered. Not to you. Not to anyone.

“I, Tywin of House Lannister, take you…” he began, his voice low and iron-bound, each word a vow carved in stone. “...to be my wife, to join our houses, and to serve the realm.”

There were no flowery declarations. No promises of love. Only duty. Legacy. Alliance.

When it was your turn to speak, your voice did not tremble.

“I take you, Lord Tywin, as my husband,” you said, eyes lifted to meet his. “To honor our union, and serve your house as my own.”

He did not smile. But his gaze lingered.

The rings were gold, simple and ancient. The kiss was brief. His lips against yours, firm and impersonal, like sealing a contract with a wax stamp. There was no press of affection, only finality. You were his now. Legally. Publicly. Entirely.

The hall erupted in applause, but Tywin did not look away from you.

“You carry yourself well,” he murmured, just low enough for you to hear as the crowd began to disperse. “Your composure will serve you. So will your silence.”

It was not unkind. It was a warning.

And a compliment.

The feast that followed was a display of Lannister grandeur, gilded and overwhelming.

You were seated at Tywin’s right hand at the high table, elevated above the rest of the hall. Dozens of bannermen, vassals, and opportunists lined the tables below, their laughter and chatter rising like smoke. Servants moved like shadows, refilling goblets and presenting course after elaborate course. Roast boar stuffed with apples, venison glazed in honey, trout baked in a crust of herbs and salt. It was a feast meant to impress, to remind everyone in attendance who ruled the Westerlands.

Tywin barely touched his wine. You noticed.

He glanced over the hall with the sharpness of a man who didn’t trust celebration, who saw politics where others saw merriment. Even seated beside him, his presence was daunting, he carried silence like a weapon. He did not touch you, not once, but his nearness was a constant, measured pressure.

“Eat,” he said, glancing at your untouched plate.

You reached for your fork. “I’m not particularly hungry.”

“Then pretend to be.”

It wasn’t a command delivered with cruelty, but with precision. A quiet reminder that appearances mattered. You obeyed, taking a bite of something savory and unfamiliar, and swallowed it down as if it mattered.

You had thought you might feel watched. Instead, you felt… examined.

A few bold lords approached the high table with toasts. One compared your beauty to Casterly Rock itself—timeless, immovable. Tywin did not humor them. He responded with curt nods, words chosen so precisely they could be mistaken for civility. But you saw it, he measured each man’s intent, weighed every flattery against the interests it masked.

When the music began, a group of ladies-in-waiting approached, offering congratulations. One asked, sweetly, whether you would be moving into the Lord’s chambers tonight, or if tradition allowed the lady to wait until morning.

Tywin turned to her, eyes steady. “My wife will do as custom demands.”

And just like that, the air changed.

The girl curtsied and backed away with a forced smile. You didn’t look at her, you couldn’t. Your face was warm, but you kept your spine straight. Pride would be your armor now. No one would see your nerves.

Eventually, as the candles burned low and the wine soured on the tongues of the careless, Tywin rose to his feet.

The room silenced itself at once.

He extended a hand to you. Not with softness, but with certainty.

You placed your palm in his, letting him draw you up. Your legs ached beneath the weight of your dress, your corset still too tight, but you did not stumble. He led you down the steps of the dais, through the scattering crowd of nobles and well-wishers, toward the corridor beyond the banquet hall.

No words were exchanged.

None were needed.

The halls of Casterly Rock were quiet, lit by flickering torches in golden sconces. The servants had all vanished, sent away, no doubt, to preserve the illusion of privacy.

Your footsteps echoed beside his. The silence between you grew heavier with each step, pressing down like a second veil. You glanced at him once, searching for something in his face, a sign of nerves, of discomfort, of want. But Tywin Lannister remained unreadable. You wondered if he’d perfected that expression in youth or if it had been carved into him by time.

His pace was steady. Measured.

When you reached the chamber doors, two guards stepped aside without a word. Tywin pushed the door open himself.

The room beyond was not what you expected.

It was large, of course. Arched ceilings, carved columns, a hearth burning low. But it was also stark. Masculine. No soft colors, no decorative touches. Only stone and shadow and the heavy weight of history. The bed was carved from dark oak, its posts shaped into curling lions, its sheets crimson.

Tywin did not gesture. He did not explain. He walked inside, then turned to face you fully.

He regarded you as if assessing a piece of armour. Well-made, valuable, not yet proven in battle.

“You will not be harmed,” he said. “Not tonight, not ever. That is not how I conduct myself.”

His tone was level, matter-of-fact. But there was something buried just beneath it, an edge of… restraint?

You nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

He frowned faintly. “I would prefer you call me Tywin. When we are alone.”

That surprised you. A small thing, but it registered.

You took a breath, then stepped inside the chamber fully. The doors closed behind you with a heavy thud, and the silence that followed was absolute.

You could feel your pulse in your throat.

Tywin moved toward the hearth, shedding his mantle and laying it carefully over a chair. He did not turn back to you immediately. Instead, he said:

“This marriage is not built on affection. That should be clear. But you are now Lady Lannister. Your role is not decorative. You will carry my name. My children.”

The air between you bristled with formality, but also… with something else. Something unspoken.

You spoke before you lost your nerve. “And what of pleasure, my lord? Is that also not required?”

He turned to you then, and for the first time, something flickered across his face. Not quite a smirk. Not approval. But interest.

“Pleasure,” he repeated. “Is earned.”

Then he stepped toward you.

He stopped in front of you, looking down, one hand lifting to your throat—not to squeeze, not even to grasp, but to rest. The pad of his thumb traced the underside of your jaw, tilting your face up.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, more like confirmation than surprise.

“I know what you are.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something in his breath did.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed.

His hands found the laces of your gown. He loosened them with slow, perfect control, knuckle by knuckle brushing your spine. The weight of the dress eased, then slipped down your body, catching at your hips before pooling at your feet.

You felt the chill of the stone air on your bare shoulders. Felt him looking.

He drew the shift up over your head—carefully, as if unwrapping something rare. When it joined the gown on the floor, you were left standing naked before him, firelight casting bronze shadows over your skin.

There was a long pause.

Then his palm settled against your lower back, guiding you toward the bed.

“Lie down,” he said. “Arms above your head.”

You did. The sheets were impossibly soft, crimson silk, cool against your skin. Your pulse thudded against the pillow. You heard the soft sound of his tunic being unfastened, the belt dropped to the floor, boots thudding one after the other. When you dared glance toward him, he was bare to the waist, lean and broad, his chest lightly scarred, his stomach hard with age-earned muscle.

Not young. Not soft. But formidable.

He joined you on the bed, crawling between your parted thighs like a lion closing in on his prey—slow, silent, sure. You could feel the warmth of his breath before he even touched you.

And then he did.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee first, an unexpected kiss. Not gentle, but firm. He worked slowly upward, lips grazing skin, pausing at your thigh where he bit lightly. Not to hurt, but to mark.

You gasped.

He didn’t look up. Just parted your legs further and lowered his head, burying his mouth between your thighs.

It wasn’t what you’d expected. You thought a man like Tywin—stoic, cold, controlled—would take. But this was something else. Not soft, but focused. His tongue moved in deliberate strokes, exploring your folds with slow, rhythmic precision.

He wasn’t chasing your pleasure.

He was studying it.

Your hips lifted. His arm came up across your stomach to hold you down, his fingers splaying wide as if to say: Be still. I decide how far this goes.

He circled your clit with his tongue, slow and insistent, lips sealing around it before sucking gently. You cried out, honest, helpless. His grip tightened. Your thighs trembled.

He slid a finger inside you.

Then two.

And still he didn’t look up.

You twisted your fingers in the sheets, fighting the climb, but his fingers curled just right, stroking that spot inside you with merciless finesse. Your body bucked. You whimpered. His tongue didn’t stop, not until you broke apart with a shuddering moan, your climax hitting hard and fast, pleasure wracking your spine like fire.

Even then, he didn’t release you. He let you ride the aftershocks, only lifting his head once your body went slack beneath him.

When he looked up at last, his mouth was wet, but his expression was composed. He crawled up your body and kissed you, deep and full, so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“You are responsive,” he murmured against your lips. “Good.”

You reached for him. For once, he allowed it. Your hands mapped his chest, the coarse hair, the old scars, the ridged muscle of a man who’d worn armor more than silk.

When he pushed inside you, it was one slow thrust. No warning, no question. Just inevitability.

You gasped at the stretch. He was thick, hard, impossibly deep, and he filled you like a man who owned every inch of you.

Tywin paused only a moment, watching your face.

Then he moved.

He set a rhythm that was firm, deliberate, each thrust powerful and precise. There was no frantic pace, no impatience. He fucked you the way a commander leads an army: without doubt. Without weakness. He braced a hand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to tilt your hips just so.

Your second orgasm built faster, overwhelming. You whimpered his name. First as a whisper, then louder, helpless as it crashed through you again.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He let you fall apart beneath him again.

Only when your body was shaking, your voice raw, did his rhythm break. His hips snapped harder, a grunt escaping his throat—low, primal. He groaned your name as he spilled inside you, his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on yours.

When he finally stilled, he stayed above you for a moment, breath heavy.

Then, slowly, he withdrew and lay beside you. Still not touching, but close.

You stared at the ceiling, heart hammering, slick between your thighs, limbs aching and sated.

He didn’t ask how you felt.

He didn’t need to.

You turned to face him. “So,” you said softly. “Have I earned it?”

His brow rose slightly. “You’ve earned more than you know.”

Then he reached out, not to embrace you, but to rest his hand between your thighs once more, possessive and calm.

While your role within Casterly Rock was not accurately defined by any official parameter, it was common knowledge among both the servants and the nobles who sniffed around the great Lannister name that you were somehow more than just a simple handmaiden at the great Tywin Lannister's beck and call. The second daughter of a minor noble from the Westerlands, your work at Casterly Rock had evolved from maintaining the personal fashions of Lord Tywin himself into something much more complicated as one heated night of discussion had led to you awaking in bed with the old lion himself by your side.

Since then, things had settled into something steady. You conducted your assigned role with typical grace and spent your free time split between the library, gardens, and Lord Tywin’s presence when called for. More companion than whore, you often found yourself engaging in conversation with him as he sought a perspective different to his own. Not that the physicality between you was scarce, but it certainly was not his focus as you typically shared his space.

The keep, however, was not blind and the unspoken rule was clear. You were a handmaid, yes, and you were not to be disturbed in your duties, but it was known that Lord Tywin held some regard for your presence and that offered you a security which could not be bought. Time had shown that Lord Tywin’s unspoken rules were, at times, more solid than the swathes of gold he ruled over.

However, that common knowledge did not extend to new visitors to the stronghold and it was only those unfortunate moments which lead to situations in which that wicked temper which roiled deep within your gut had opportunity to truly assert itself.

To be fair to yourself, it was temper which only flared when men took liberties they were not entitled to.

The hand on your shoulder, you could forgive.

The insult to your honour, you would not.

Balding and stout, the fool who had dared to not only pull you close to his stew-stained frame but also to loudly snarl that you were an ungrateful whore as you recoiled away from the stench of wine on his breath widens his eyes comically as you hold the short, slightly-curved knife which lives within your skirts to his thick neck.

"Say it again." You hiss, delighting at the small bead of blood which swells at the very tip of your knife where it presses into his skin. "You will not finish the word before your blood coats this pretty dress which seems to fascinate you so."

"You mad bitch." The fool splutters, his voice somewhere between fear and rage as he remains as still as he can to prevent any further damage to his throat. "You pull a knife on me? Here at Casterly Rock? Lord Tywin will surely have you-"

A throat clears loudly behind you but you do not flinch as a familiar, deep voice rings out from its unseen owner.

"Is there a good reason why my handmaiden has a blade to the throat of one of my guests?"

As though delivered by the gods themselves, Lord Tywin Lannister makes his presence known with the calm security of a man who knows he holds the power in any situation.

Standing in a vivid burgundy tunic, the dark clasps which sit across the chest are perfectly secured as they lead down to dark pants which are a comfortable and familiar staple as he conducts business across the privacy of his own stronghold. His expression is void of anything but its typically stoic firmness, an expectation that an answer to his question will be provided both immediately and with sufficient detail.

"I apologise for the disruption, my lord." You grit out from between your teeth as you pull the knife free and turn to offer him a soft, appropriate curtsey before returning the blade to its hidden sheathe. "Your guest here gravely insulted my honour and my father would burn with his shame of me if I did not at least attempt to defend it."

"A grave insult, you say?"

Somehow sensing that this interaction was not one which would work out in his favour as you were not immediately and severely punished for threatening such violence, the mildly intoxicated fool is quick to backpedal on the situation as he glances at Lord Tywin with open fear.

"No insult meant, Lord Tywin. I misunderstood the purpose of this," he pauses for only a beat, "maid. I assumed she wa-"

"You dare to assume any of my servants are for any aspect of your personal use?" Tywin's expression locks in without hesitation, his brow furrowing slightly as his eyes narrow. "You would dare to assume control of anyone in this castle outside of the tasks which I have personally assigned them?"

Allowing the silence to hang heavily between the three of you, the only sound to exist is the uneven breathing of the drunken fool as his panic steadily grows in the quiet. You stand passively, content to allow Tywin to exert the control which he so easily commands as you smooth the front of your skirt and watch stern eyes flick between yourself and the drunkard whose name you did not even know.

“Leave us.” Tywin commands after a moment, dismissing the fool with a short, sharp nod. “Do not touch another of my servants or I will deal with the matter more personally.”

Bowing and spluttering out apologies as he makes a hasty retreat back to the main halls of Casterly Rock, you watch the idiot leave with a vague sense of disappointment as you regret not having given him a slightly longer cut to remember you by. Tywin also watches him leave and the sound of his retreating footsteps echoes in the stony hallway until they are nothing but a faint memory.

You turn back to Tywin with a slightly raised brow as you repeat his own threat back to him, “And how would you deal with the matter more personally?”

“My rooms. Now.” Barely sparing you a glance as his voice remains perfectly even, Tywin turns on himself as he makes long strides towards his own personal quarters and you follow him quickly, knowing that whatever conversation he wishes to hold is one which would be much better suited to a private setting.

Passing through the winding halls of the keep, you cross very few others and those who do walk your path show the appropriate amount of respect to their Lord before offering you a much more familiar nod of recognition as you smile back at them and attempt to keep up with Tywin’s long steps. Before too long, you arrive at the thick, armoured door which acts as a final line of defence against any intruders who wished to enter Tywin’s private chambers and you pause to catch your breath as Tywin pushes at the heavy wood.

Tywin holds the door open to allow you to pass by and you do so with a small muttering of thanks. Walking ahead of him into the spacious bedroom, you head straight towards the large bed which sits on the furthest side of the room as you listen to Tywin lock the doors behind you to ensure a moment of privacy.

The room is bathed in red and gold, Lannister colours seeping into every possible aspect of the design while lions glare at you from all directions. The familiar room is busy but not cluttered; books and various pots of ink and parchment decorating many of the side tables with those which Tywin revisited most often being kept closer to the bed than others. You glance at them as you take a soft position at the very end of the bed – perching on the edge as you cross your ankles.

Tywin comes to a stand before you after ensuring the door is locked, deliberately leaving a small distance which forces you to tilt your head up at him in order to hold his eye. His expression, as ever, is difficult to determine but you can’t sense any anger hiding within the handsome, lined face.

"Why did you pull your dagger on him?” Tywin asks, the words holding the faintest disappointment. “You realise that I may now have to answer questions on why I allow my personal maid to carry a blade."

"I like the fear in his eyes. I'll remember it every time he looks at me but, more importantly, so will he." You answer honestly, instinctively smoothing the plush blankets on the bed before sitting on the edge of them. "Besides, who is going to question you? Who would be brave enough to look the fierce Tywin Lannister in the eye and question how he runs his personal homestead?" The appeal to his pride never fails to net approval and you slip it within your reply like a small boon.

Tywin made a soft noise in his throat somewhere between approval and irritation as he stands by the end of his bed, gazing down at the unrepentant look which you are offering him.

"What would you have me do with him?"

"Nothing. I want him to live with the knowledge that he's earned your ire and that his debt will come due one day."

Sighing slightly, the amusement which sits subtly in Tywin’s expression refuses to shift, "You are a wicked, petty thing."

"I dare to think that you like that about me. Would you kill him if I asked?

"That depends. What insult did he hurl to inspire such ire?"

"He called me a mad and a whore."

Tywin coughs at that, hiding a soft laugh behind the much rougher sound as he replies to the confession with a considerate hum.

"You are a pretty young thing who is clearly well-kept and takes great pride in herself. The assumption on his behalf is a fair one."

"Then I’m surprised that the great Tywin Lannister would allow the common man to assume that he fucks whores. I thought he had a reputation to uphold?"

"Hm, you are mouthy tonight.” Tywin chastises with a soft growl, his hand dropping to grip at your chin firmly and force your head higher to meet his own tilted neck. “Careful, little one, or I'll take real offense to those smart tones."

"You like it when I'm mouthy.” You fire back gently. “Everyone else is too afraid of you to have any real fun."

"Good. They should be."

Tilting your head slightly, you allow a decidedly more wicked expression to touch at your features as your eyes widen and your mouth curls into an inviting smirk. You bring your hand up to wrap it around his own, feeling the calloused skin as you stroke your softer digits across the roughened patches.

"Would the old lion like to see how mouthy I can be?” You offer with a purr, bringing your other hand up to play softly with your hair as you glance pointedly between him and his groin. “He did intervene and save an innocent maiden from an untoward bastard. That's got to be worthy of a reward."

"Innocent." Tywin repeats with a scoff, his lined face disbelieving, "But have it your way. I know when a battle is not worth fighting."

Standing by the edge of the bed, Tywin makes no effort to move as you run your hands up his covered thighs and make short work of the clothing in your way to remove his cock from its confines. He’s already mostly hard, the limitations of age not quite having sunk their claws into him yet, and you tuck the burgundy material of his tunic flush to his stomach as you shift it out of the way of your prize.

His cock juts from his groin with a shameless pride, ringed by a healthy thick patch of mostly-greyed pubic hair which adds a certain dignity to things. He’s as clean as ever, his hygiene of those unspoken things which you greatly appreciated about his person, and you quickly wrap a hand around his shaft to pull gently at his foreskin and reveal the slightly darker skin which covers his cockhead.

“You will need to move closer if you want your reward, my lord.”

Tywin takes a solid step forward, his right hand coming to rest on the wooden post which sits at the corner of the bed as he steadies himself in position. You pump your hand along his cock for a moment, enjoying the velvety heat of it between your fingers as you maintain a gentle, teasing grip. He grows harder beneath your touch, reaching full arousal quickly as you bring the head of his cock closer to your lips and dampen it with your tongue.

He was not a vocal man and that had proven itself across the various pleasures which you had shared between you. Whether you pleased him by mouth or cunt, ridden or splayed, no variant of pleasure seemed enough to break the stoic control which he held over his reactions and it was a game you loved to indulge in as you learned what little things made him tick.

Dragging your tongue across the underside of his shaft nets you a familiar hiss of appreciation as his cock twitches within your grasp. Finally, you bring him within your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and taking the head of his cock between your lips as you use your tongue to pull him deeper.

“Vain temptress.” Tywin mutters, his eyes dark and predatory as he snaps his hips forward enough to force you to accept another two inches of his cock – the sudden fullness within your mouth taking a moment to acclimatise to as he continues. “I know the game you are playing and you will never win.”

“The gods reward those who try, my lord.” You hum into his cock, accepting him back into your mouth as you set to work on showing a proper appreciation for his intervention. Pleasing him just as he likes, you split your attention between your mouth and hand – using both to ensure that his length was never without a moments peace as you habitually glance up to meet his gaze.

As ever, his focus is relentless. Eyes sharp and filled with an intensity which makes you feel like a butterfly spread wide and pinned to a board for examination, the thrill of them sends a fresh wave of arousal through your neglected cunt as you feel the dampness pressing into your undergarments. As though sensing your distraction by your own need, Tywin drops his free hand to your hair as he uses it to sternly guide you along his cock.

Content to be used, you allow him to set your pace as you hollow your cheeks and steal small breaths where possible as he pulls free and has you service him with your tongue. Knowing his business for the evening is clearly complete, there is a high chance that he will be yours for the night and the thought of a decent fuck to come makes you extra willing to please.

Before too long, Tywin’s hand tightens against your scalp with his fingers firm and nails only just scraping your skin as he pulls your head close – burying his cock deep within your throat without hesitation as he chases his own release with a selfish delight. Practised and relaxed enough to accept him without the shameful need to retch being too strong, you feel the telltale pulse in his shaft just before a low, satisfied growl slips free of his lips and he spills his release deep within your throat. Having no other choice, you swallow down every drop as you dig your thumbs into the leathery fabric which encases his thighs and use your grip to focus on pleasuring him through his peak.

His gasping breaths are still surprisingly measured but you drink in the low groan of desire which escapes him as he slowly comes down from his release and pulls himself free of your mouth – your lips plump and buzzing with use. You gaze up at him with wicked eyes, delighted in how quickly he had spilled within your mouth and you watch him tuck his cock away with a small smile.

"Is the lord of Casterly Rock satisfied?” You ask, voice only a little hoarse from the firm use of your mouth. “Does he require any further services this evening?"

Remaining silent as he walks to one of the many tables which litter the side of his private chambers, Tywin picks up a soft, clean handkerchief and presents it to you with an unspoken invitation. Plucking it from his hand, you wipe at your mouth to clean off the little pockets of mess which have accumulated at the corners of your lips and just above your chin. Nodding to him in thanks, you keep the handkerchief in hand as you slip further up the bed to lie against one of the pillows which litter the upper half.

Tywin only answers your question as he finally slips around the other side of the bed and drops to the plush sheets, immediately reclining at a sitting position to allow him to gaze down at you with an expression which is vaguely amused and satiated in its wants as some of the firmer lines across his face seem less settled.

"He wishes nothing more than to enjoy some evening wine and perhaps the company of his handmaiden a little longer if she would be so kind?"