#game of thrones reader insert

The weather was nice, not too unbearably hot, thanks to the breeze coming in from the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks underneath the balcony, and you stared out at the horizon as the people around you made sure you had packed away all you would need for a long journey. You didn’t want to go. You didn’t like going to King's Landing. The journey there wasn’t particularly long, but the smell was horrid, almost as horrid as Cersei and her eldest son. The company was much worse, the nobles and their obnoxious ass-kissing. Everyone walking on eggshells around you, doing and saying everything they can to appease you in some way. There were no actual conversations to be had, nor was there a company that was worth much. You often would watch them as a masochist form of entertainment, or you’d go explore the catacombs, spending too much time admiring the dragon skulls. That was probably the worst part of it all, being back in the Red Keep reminded you of long-lost parts of your childhood that you tried to forget. If you dwelled too much on it, it would make you angry, and you did not wish to dwell on things you could not change, a history that could not be avenged.

“Are you even listening, m’lady?” The voice of your handmaiden, whom you affectionately called ‘El,’ pulled you from your thoughts.

“I will admit I am not, but that is simply because I put my full trust in you.” You smile at her as you turn to watch her. It was true, El was your closest companion and friend, and you would trust her with all you had.

“I know you do not wish to return, m’lady. I must say that I, too, find the place rather dreadful.”

You scoff and shake your head, “You do not. You look forward to our visits so you can flirt with the guards.”

She laughs, blushing just slightly and shaking her head a bit. “I did, yes. But under a different king who was not as….” her face scrunched as she tried to think of the right words.

“Much of a cunt,” you finished for her. “Or an asshole, prick. Horrible, evil little vermin of a man. The new king is indeed all of those things. He is also arrogant but not as stupid as people would have you believe.” You approach her and take her hands in yours, “Laying a hand on you would be like laying a hand on me, I will make that known to all. You are under my protection.”

She nods, swallowing thickly. “But I doubt Lord Lannister would treat it as such.”

“You doubt that he would not make an example of anyone disrespecting his wife?” You tilt your head with a small smile. She opens her mouth to speak, but she straightens suddenly and bows her head. You can tell from that alone that the man in question had entered.

“Has someone disrespected my wife?” His voice booms behind you; you knew if you were looking at him, he’d have the same stoic look on his face, but a glint in his eye. Your lord husband was not without a sense of humor, despite what many would believe.

You give El a nod, signaling she was free to go, before you turn to look at Tywin.

“She is worried that Joffery will have her killed.”

“And King Robert would have taken her to bed.” You scoff at his response.

“I know you do not like this, but I have come to expect more from you than this childlike behavior.”

“Then you should also know how much I despise that place. I do not wish to go. The noblemen are arrogant and annoying, and the noble women are gossipy and catty. The safest place for me and the girls is here, in our home. I do not agree with your reasoning on this.”

Tywin was silent for a moment, pouring himself a drink from the basin at the table and sitting down in one of the plush seats on the balcony. “Sit.” He commands, and you obey.​

He takes a sip of the water before setting it down. “It is more vital than ever that you and the girls are seen as part of House Lannister. Not part of House Tyrell. Nor House Targaryen. Nor even House Rhyse. You are a Lannister, as are our children. Our house must appear united.”

You sighed, looking back over the waves. You knew he was right. Any weakness, even if falsely perceived, would be exploited. Family ties and old oaths no longer mattered. You knew your father deliberated hard on where his loyalty lay, ultimately allying with the Lannisters for your sake.

“It would do you good to leave here.” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, attention pulled back to him. “It has been 6 months since he died.”

Your whole body tensed, lips pressed into a straight line.

“Yet you do not allow the maids to change his sheets. His toys are in a pile by the hearth. You have yet to visit his grave. You cry…-”

“He was my son, Tywin.”

“He was mine too.”

His voice is quiet, but it held a heaviness to it. You realize now how hard these past few months have been for him, even if he might not show it. First, his youngest son dies of a sickness; he was just old enough that you’d stopped worrying about such things. It was only two months after his second name day. Then, Tyrion gets kidnapped by Catelyn Stark. Tywin and Tyrion had never been close, but it was still a black mark on the family name. And now, Jamie had been kidnapped by the Starks as well.

You stared at him for a moment, tears pickling the corners of your eyes, “Sometimes I think I hear his laugh, but I don't even remember what his laugh sounds like anymore.”

“I do. I do not think I will ever forget. Jason was a happy boy. A strong boy. He was smart, too. You could see it in his eyes, in the way he spoke beyond his years,” Tywin seemed proud of his late son. You watched him for a moment; times like these showed his more human side. You would never think him a good man; you knew him to be cruel, but with your children, he was not. Your first pregnancy ended too soon with a babe who lived but two days, then came Nataria, then Jason, a miscarriage, followed by the birth of your youngest, Trysta, and then Jason got sick. Each birth, he smiled; each loss, he became quieter than usual.

And he'd be softer with you. Sharing your bed, though not holding you. He'd eat all meals with you, sometimes doing his work in the garden where he could hear the children playing. After Jason passed, he even allowed you to cry on his shoulder. It wasn’t much, but it was more than you'd ever imagined. It was enough that you, and everyone else, knew that Tywin may not love you, but he did respect you. He did notice your likes, your dislikes. He knew how to keep you comfortable; he did not waste any expense.

And perhaps for him, that was as close to love as he could muster.

“Nataria will be upset that you will miss her 4th name day.” You wiped your eyes.

“I'm sure she will forget.”

“Will she? I'm not even sure it is wise to bring her. She tells everyone that you will behead them if they upset her.” He took a sip of his drink, and you saw the twinkle in his eyes.

“I don't think that will sit too well with the boy king,” you reminded him with a pointed look.

“I would do much more than behead any man who touched my daughter,” he said, setting his glass down. “But I also know my wife well enough to know that you would meet any harm that came to our children with a barbarity that would shame the Boltons.”

You nodded in agreement, knowing that to be the case. You searched for more excuses not to go, “Trysta is just more than a year. She will not fare well on that journey.”

“She will fare better there than she would here.”

“And what if one of the Baratheons intercepts?”

“Stannis is wise enough to know the value of keeping you alive. And Renley is not cruel, nor is he daft enough to cross Olenna Tyrell by murdering her grandchild.”

“The Starks?’

“Robb Stark's past affection for you aside, his house is far too honorable to kill a woman and her children.” He stands, signaling that the conversation was coming to an end.

“And what of me?” You quickly stand as well, looking up at him. “I do not particularly look forward to the journey, nor do I wish to give birth in King's Landing.”

His eyes flit down to your stomach, already rounding with the baby inside. “I'm sending the finest maesters and midwives, the same that have delivered all our children. You will argue no more,” he grabbed your face in one hand, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him. “You are my wife, I am your husband. You will go to King's Landing. There will be no more protests.”

“Yes, Lord Husband.” You nod, looking into his eyes. He stares back for a moment. Neither of you breaking the contact.

He lets go of your face but does not move away. “Tyrion will accompany you. He will serve as Hand; I doubt he will allow any harm to befall you either. You know the soft spot he has for his sisters.”

Your brows furrow. The position of Hand being given to Tyrion was not what you expected from Tywin, but it was smart. Tyrion was an intelligent man. Of course, Tywin had to see that. You and Tyrion did not talk much, but you would exchange books. He understood, much like his father did, that you were much smarter than you let on. Your children all adored him, and you felt the feelings returned. Quick to make them laugh, they were always excited to see him. He would bring them trinkets from wherever he ventured. It was a shame that Tywin thought so little of him.

“And I am no longer asking you to hold your tongue around Cersei. She needs to fall in line. She thinks herself intelligent and cunning, but she is neither. She needs to be reminded of that.”

You stood in silence, almost feeling shocked. He'd asked you to be respectful to her, so you were, but you've never cared for her. You found her to be cruel for no reason. She was cocky like her father, but that attitude had not yet been earned by her. She would look down on you, make snide comments about your age or your house. Smirked as she retold stories of how House Targaryen had been butchered during the rebellion. You held your tongue for five years now, but it was with much restraint, and sometimes words would slip.

​“She must be reminded that she is no longer the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, nor is she the most powerful,” he lowers his voice ever so slightly, “Those titles have been taken by you, my dear. And I will be back here tonight to remind you of that.”

-

You weren’t born lucky. You figured that out early enough.

You saw it every time your mother and father came home from the fields, with their clothes dusty and their hands sore from holding the sickle for hours on end. When all they could do was to eat and sleep, too tired for anything else. You felt it when you went with them to town, helping sell their grain, and watched girls your age hurry past in clean shoes and pretty dresses.

It made things painfully clear.

A low-born girl could only go so far, no matter how hard she worked or how much she dreamed of something better. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, after all. Knowing that this was likely as far as you would ever rise left a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Ale! More ale, girl!”

The shout came suddenly, too loud and too close, and you flinched. In an instant, you were violently dragged out of your self-pitying thoughts and thrown back into the noise of the celebrating crowd. You turned your head and saw an older man already with his brows drawn tight, and his leg bouncing impatiently beneath the bench he was sitting on. The way his jaw clenched told you his temper was already wearing thin.

It took only a moment to remember where you were; what you were meant to be doing. Your gaze dropped to the jug in your hands, the sharp, yeasty scent of ale rising from its neck.

You were back at Lord Lyonel Baratheon's feast.

There was no room for daydreams now. No room for silly what-ifs. Not unless you wanted to be thrown out of the tent and shamed before half the lords and ladies in the realm. 

You quickly smoothed your expression into a polite smile and nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the irritation from showing.

“At once, ser.”

The scruffy man clicked his tongue as you hurried to his side, the jug still clutched carefully in both of your hands. He didn’t even look at you as you poured, cup already raised and waiting. From the way he carried himself and the arrogance in his voice, you guessed he was one of the knights riding in the tourney. It was easy to spot them as they were usually all the same: overly loud, prouder than any lord could ever be, and blind to anyone who didn’t have the necessary coin to make them seem worthy.

So much for chivalry.

You’d learned quickly that knights made some of the worst customers. The tales of noble knights in shining armor were just that: mere fantasies.

Going from a farmer’s daughter to working with a traveling kitchen crew hadn’t felt like much of an improvement at all. The work was still hard, your body still sore by the end of the day. If anything, it was even more exhausting now than before. Who would’ve thought that dealing with drunk men all day could be worse than working under the sun from dawn to dusk?

If not for your mother’s friend, you wouldn’t have taken this position at all. She’d promised it was a good opportunity, said you’d earn proper coin and maybe even see a bit of the realm.

(“She’s still young,” she had said. “Let her go now, and she might work her way up. Who knows? She could even wed into a decent family one day. Opportunities like this do not come twice. You’ll regret it if you keep her here.”

Your mother’s lips had pressed into a thin line, worry evident on her face. She had always been careful, always thinking two winters ahead, especially when it came to you. But when you turned to her, your eyes bright with so much excitement she had not seen in you before, her expression softened.

How could she refuse her only daughter what might be her one chance at something more?)

But you supposed it could have been worse.

If your parents had been crueler, they might have kept you working their fields forever. Or worse still, sold you off when times grew hard. You’d seen it happen before. The girl who lived next door had vanished one morning after her father ran from his debts, leaving her to pay the price.

And still, your gaze drifted across the tent, pausing on the laughing faces of strangers as they danced and sang along. A few women moved among them — wives of knights draped in expensive fabrics, and others who must have been of lesser noble houses. Not great ladies, probably, but wealthy enough to spend a carefree evening in laughter.

Wealthy enough to truly enjoy themselves.

Unlike you.

Yes, it could have been worse. You knew that. But knowing it didn’t stop that small, bitter ache in your chest.

An angry shout cut through the noise, snapping you out of your thoughts once again. Your head turned just as the man beside you swayed backward.

“Are you blind, girl? Watch what you’re about!”

You jerked the jug back, but it was too late.

Ale sloshed over the rim of his cup, spilling down onto his breeches. The foul smell of it rose immediately, and you couldn’t help wrinkling your nose.

“I—I beg your pardon, ser! Forgive me. It was clumsy of me,” you rushed out, the apologies tumbling over one another as you stepped back, lowering your gaze.

You didn’t need to see his face to know what it looked like. You could imagine it well enough: the red creeping from his neck to his cheeks, the slow twist of his mouth into a deep frown. Men like him were nothing new. You had dealt with dozens, maybe hundreds, just like him, more than you could ever count. But still, when he shoved back from the bench and stood, his shadow falling over you, that familiar shudder crawled up your spine.

In your head, the possibilities grew darker by the second. If you were lucky, it might end with a slap. But if the ale had already muddled his already short temper, you feared much worse could be coming. All the while around you, the fiddle played on, and the singing of the crowd drowned out whatever the knight was mumbling under his breath, as if nothing of it were happening. People danced and cheered, oblivious to the nameless serving girl frozen in the middle of it all.

Then, just as you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the first harsh word or the swing of a hand, another voice pierced clearly through the heavy silence between you.

“I apologize, ser. The fault is mine. The girl is still learning.”

You would have known that voice anywhere. Rough with age, but still steady and firm.

It was Wylla.

The kitchen matron stepped forward without hesitation, placing herself between you and the knight.

You let out a quiet sigh of relief and slipped a step back, positioning yourself just behind the older woman as she continued to speak. The man muttered a few insults, but you tried not to listen. The loud pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears drowned most of it out anyway. When you dared to look up again, catching Wylla’s gaze as she turned toward you, you gave her a small, apologetic smile.

From the corner of your eye, you were able to spot the knight settling back into his seat. He was still visibly irritated, but his anger evidently settled for the moment. It almost felt like magic, the way Wylla could handle men like him so effortlessly. Her quick wit and her sharp sense for the ways of the kitchen had already saved you more than once in the past.

“Your head’s in the clouds again,” she finally said. “I told you, this is no place for such things.”

Her eyebrows creased, the corners of her mouth pulling downward as she stared at you. It was a familiar look; one that made you lower your gaze almost on instinct. Wylla was kind in her own way, but when it came to work, she was as strict as any master you could imagine. There had been more than one evening that ended with you crying into your hands while the other apprentices tried to comfort you after she’d scolded you for some minor mistake. Last time it was a misplaced jar, if you remembered correctly. Something so minuscule that it barely registered.

She had her own vices, but no one could ever accuse Wylla of lacking passion for her work.

It was only when she let out a long sigh that you faced her again. “Sorry,” you mumbled quickly, giving her a small bow of your head.

The deep lines in her face softened as her frown slowly disappeared. She was never angry for long. Not with you, at least. Maybe after all these months traveling side by side, she had grown a little fond of you. It likely helped that you had a natural talent for baking and cooking, as she liked to call it. Not that you particularly liked doing it; not really. It was merely something you learned back home as a necessity when all you had was a little flour and yeast. 

“Why don’t you finish those fritters and set them out?” Wylla said, hands planted on her thick hips as she nodded toward the buffet table at the other side of the tent. “Make yourself useful. Go on, girl.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but the look she gave you made it clear there was no point. You had already caused enough trouble for one evening and pushing your luck any further would be foolish, to say the least. So you closed it again, gave a short nod, and slipped away without another word.

You squeezed through the loud crowd and finally pushed your way out of the tent. The moment you stepped into the open air, you took a long breath and exhaled deeply. The worst part of these feasts was always the heat; with so many bodies crammed into one space, it made the air turn too thick and hard to breathe. And the smell didn’t help, either. The mix of sweat and cheap ale was probably the worst combination to exist. (And that was saying something. You had grown up working in the fields alongside donkeys, after all.)

It wasn’t much better outside, really. But at least out here, you had room to move without being crushed between bodies.

Night had already fallen, and it was so dark you could barely see anything in front of you. You were grateful the makeshift kitchen tent was only a few steps away from where you stood. Drunken men still wandered around everywhere you looked, slurring their words and stumbling over their own feet. During tourneys like this, men forgot what little sense they had. (Though, if you were honest, many of them hardly needed a tourney for that.) A young girl lingering alone in the dark wasn’t something anyone would risk.

Inside the smaller tent, you set the jug down and went straight to the tray you had prepared earlier that afternoon. The fritters were ordinary — fried wheat dough, topped with sugared raspberries. Nothing you would expect to see served to a lord like Lyonel Baratheon. Just something plain and simple.

You weren’t sure why Wylla had insisted on them; most of the people here, you were sure, were used to richer dishes and barely noticed simple food like this.

Still, you lifted the tray carefully and headed back toward the chaos in the main tent. Dodging numerous dancers on the way, you managed to reach the buffet table without another mishap this time. You set the tray down, shifting other dishes to make room, when a large shadow suddenly fell over you. The few torches around the tent that barely lit the space before were completely useless now.

“May I…?” a low voice asked. If it hadn’t been so close, you probably wouldn’t have heard it over the noise from all around.

“Of course—” you began, but as soon as you looked up, the words stuck in your throat. Your eyes met the deepest baby blue, and you had to tilt your head back until your neck ached from the strain. “—ser?”

You blinked.

Standing before you was a man who seemed part giant, part human; so tall you couldn’t believe you hadn’t noticed him before.

Even with his poor posture, he still towered above everyone else. He slouched almost as if he were trying to hide his size, but it did nothing to conceal the sheer scale of him. For a moment, the same rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins that had hit when the older knight had yelled at you before. Anyone standing in front of a man easily two heads taller than themselves would feel it, surely.

And yet, for all that height, his face was soft and rounded. His large, downturned eyes and the messy mop of dirty-blond hair gave him an almost boyish look. A strange contrast to the first impression his size had made.

“Thank you,” the stranger said, taking one of the fritters, and all you could manage was a small nod. You still felt a strange fascination, as if it were impossible that a man this tall actually existed.

What had his parents fed him to grow like that? Not anything ordinary, you were sure of it.

But you knew staring was rude. A proper young woman didn’t gawk at a man she had just met a few seconds ago. So you turned your gaze to the tent’s ceiling, trying to distract yourself — but your curiosity forced you to steal glances at him now and then as he bit into the fritter.

His clothes were plain and of cheap quality. You could tell by the worn-out edges. The sleeves of his thin tunic were already starting to fray, and his hose were in simple, natural colors. No dyed breeches and no fancy doublets like the lords and knights around the tent. Let alone that rope around his waist that served as a belt of sorts. There was no way he was house-born. Maybe a traveling merchant at most, passing through the tourney to sell his wares. Or a stablehand, tending the horses of the knights competing in the joust.

“Did you make these?” he asked, his words muffled as he chewed.

Your eyes shot up, and when they met his blue gaze again, heat rushed to your cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care, that you’d been staring. Still feeling caught, you tried to cover it with a forced smile and a quick nod, probably looking like a fool.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever had,” he said, taking another bite and swallowing the rest of the fritter in one go.

One of your eyebrows arched up, a frown forming as you accidentally let out a scoff.

“Then you must not have had much good food,” you said, amusement slipping into your voice. “These are nothing special.”

He must be even lower than a stablehand, you figured. Who else would call something you’d usually find for a copper on the market the best thing they’d ever eaten? Maybe he had grown up in worse conditions than you did to say such delirious things. Or maybe he was mocking you. It was hard to tell.

“Some things don’t need to be grand to be good,” he said, his hand hovering over the tray again. He paused before taking another, looking down at you as if asking permission. You gave a small, unsure nod.

“You’re the first one to say that,” you added.

The man took another fritter. It looked absurdly small in his large hand before he bit into it again. You watched him chew and swallow before he answered.

“Perhaps I’m the first one with sense, then.”

A quiet laugh slipped from you, but you quickly smoothed out your expression, replacing the smile with a pout.

“Are you trying to mock me,” your eyes swept over him once more before returning to his face, “good sir…?”

“Ser Dunk,” he corrected.

For a second, that felt much longer than it was, the two of you simply stared at one another. You blinked. He blinked.

Then he cleared his throat, his eyes dropping to the floor as he took another bite. “I am a knight, you see.”

Your frown returned at once, and you gave him another slow once-over.

Him?

A knight?

You had seen many knights before. Though they did vary in looks; most of them were draped in colorful silks and wore polished plates, while others you met only had worn mail and patched cloaks. But never had you met one so… unkempt. It was hard to picture this stranger among them when every knight you’d known had been properly paid by his lord. Certainly better paid than you ever were for your work, and even you could afford intact clothes.

True, his height alone might have convinced you. He was almost the very image of a storybook knight: shoulders so broad they could block out the light behind him, hands large enough to wrap easily around the hilt of a longsword. When he stood to his full height, you could imagine how terrifying he would look in full armor.

But he did not carry himself like them.

The knights you knew made sure every space they entered knew exactly what they were. It was a true honor, after all, to be knighted. This one, however, seemed almost self-conscious, hunching slightly as if he wanted to disappear into thin air.

Another louder clearing of his throat drew your gaze back up to his. He awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if awaiting your judgment.

“Well,” you said slowly, folding your arms, “you do not look much like one.”

A pause.

“Ser.”

For a moment, you saw something shift in his expression, though it was hard to tell what passed behind those blue eyes.

“I am a hedge knight,” he said simply, as if that would make you understand. But when the confusion on your face didn’t fade, he added, “I travel the realms and serve where I can. I have seen much. Eaten well, too.” He hesitated, but continued after a moment of silence. “I would not mock you.”

Dunk nodded, as if confirming his own words. It was almost like he needed you to understand that he meant them.

You only continued to stare at him, turning over what he had said. Instead of laughing or deflecting as you usually would, the corners of your lips slowly curved into a smile.

It was hard not to assume the worst of people. You had seen enough in your travels to expect it. But he seemed proper enough, you supposed. There was a sincerity about him that was difficult to put into words. (It was probably the round, puppy-like eyes of his.)

You were still too young to be so bitter at the world, weren’t you?

“Alright, Ser Dunk,” you said, unfolding your arms and gesturing to the tray of fritters before you. “They are all yours. I doubt anyone else here is interested anyway.”

You glanced toward the crowd. Everyone was still busy dancing, talking, celebrating the coming bloodbath that was the joust tomorrow. There was nothing worth being excited about, in your opinion. But with enough ale, anything could seem bright and grand these days.

Dunk followed your gaze, turning as he finished the last bite of his fritter. Then he faced you again. He shifted his weight, a quiet attempt to draw your attention, and you looked back at him.

“Do you like to dance?” he asked.

“Are you asking me to dance with you?” you shot back, tilting your head.

That same uncertain, flustered look crossed his face again. You would be lying if you said you weren’t starting to enjoy it.

“Of course not,” he said quickly. Then winced, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could take the words back. “I mean, not that I would not dance with you. I mean…” He exhaled. “Forgive me. You must think me a fool.”

He gestured awkwardly toward the crowd of dancers.

“It’s only that you looked at them as though you wished to join,” Dunk explained. “Why don’t you?”

“I am a serving girl if you haven’t noticed, ser.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, looking at you as though you had said something utterly stupid. Dunk glanced back at the dancers. Most were aging lordlings with women half their age, or drunken knights spinning hired girls across the floor. Far from princes or great lords of powerful houses, definitely.

And still, you were nowhere near them. You were just some girl paid to carry trays and clean after them while they celebrated. It went without saying that someone like you, from nowhere, with nothing, stood beneath them all.

“A serving girl is no less than someone with a title,” he muttered.

You let out a short scoff, though it lacked the amusement from before.

“Clearly that’s not true. That’s why I’m here, and they’re there.” You pressed your lips into a thin line. “I’ve no place among lords and ladies.”

Dunk’s face hardened, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Who says that?” he asked.

You hesitated only a second. “Me.”

The word left your mouth before you could stop it.

Then, silence followed. Thick and uncomfortable.

Your answer seemed to linger in the air, much heavier than you had anticipated. Dunk’s expression was that of confusion, you think. He was trying to make sense of what you’d said, and it was obvious he didn’t know how to respond.

Of course, he didn’t.

You suddenly wished you had laughed it off instead, made a joke, said something else.

What were you doing, confessing something like that to a stranger, anyway? To a knight you had known for all of ten minutes?

You should leave, you’d decided. That was the only sensible thing. Excuse yourself. Pretend you had duties to attend to. Do something before this situation grows even tighter, and his gaze would turn into that of pity you’d seen so many times before.

But before you could slip away, something shifted in his demeanor, just slightly, and it was enough to make you stay. The deep frown, the clench of his jaw that sharpened the soft outlines of his face. There was determination there now, somehow. With less uncertainty, the look of a kicked stray from before disappeared completely.

He looked down at his hand, then quickly wiped it against his tunic before extending it toward you, palm open.

You stared at it. Then you looked up at him again, your expression plainly asking, What?

“I might not be a lord,” he said, his voice so low you almost missed it. He paused, then straightened his back until he stood at his full height and tried again, louder this time. “But I am a knight.”

His hand remained outstretched between you.

“And if I ask you to dance,” he went on, and you could hear a hint of awkwardness creeping back in, “then it is not as someone looking down on a serving girl.” He swallowed, and you saw his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It is as one person asking another.”

There was a short pause.

“So… will you?”

You just stood there, eyes wide, mouth agape.

Insanity.

That was the only word that came to your mind.

Blasphemy. Absolute lunacy.

The two of you were hardly anything in the grand order of things. You had heard of hedge knights before, even if you had never cared much for such things. They were arms for hire, wandering the realms in search of work wherever they could find it. The name came from how they often slept beneath hedges by the roadside instead of in inns, because they were too poor for better. Knights in name, maybe, but barely one in the eyes of anyone else.

A hedge knight and a serving girl. Was that the start of some bad joke?

And still, as Dunk stood there waiting for your answer, you couldn’t help feeling something swell in your chest. You couldn’t help biting down on your tongue, trying to keep that warm, stinging pressure behind your eyes from spilling over. And you couldn’t help feeling ashamed for thinking so little of someone who clearly did not think little of you. There had not been a single person, not one, since you had left home, who had looked at you the way he was looking at you now.

So when you clenched and unclenched your fists at your sides, you tried to imagine what it would feel like to lift your arm and place your hand in his much larger one. To feel the roughness of his palm against yours. To let him pull you into the crowd and forget the watching eyes around you. Wylla. The old knight. The others who always seemed to be judging.

To pretend you were not beneath anyone at all.

Your fingers twitched, wanting so badly to reach for him.

And just as you almost did, as you almost gave yourself away, you heard your name being called.

“I need some help here!” The familiar rough voice shouted. “Come here, girl!”

The spell shattered in that instant.

That brief feeling inside your chest vanished as quickly as it had come. The music you had managed to drown out rushed back in all at once, even louder than before. The sound of people’s laughter, the fiddle, the sound of boots thudding on the ground. Everything came back, and you found yourself standing in the middle of it again.

You called something back, not even registering the words that left your mouth. Wylla needed you outside, and you knew better than to keep her waiting much longer.

You looked at Dunk one last time. You offered him a small, courteous nod, your eyes holding his for a moment longer than they should have.

Then you turned away and left him standing there, his hand still outstretched.

Littlefinger felt the hangman's noose around his neck.

If word were to get out and betray him, Robert Baratheon could easily request his head. The king's retribution wasn't all Petyr feared. Ser Jaime Lannister, your uncle, was always on your guard. Keeping his well trained eyes roving for any threats that may come toward his nieces way. And it was known Ser Jaime didn't allow anyone to take a step toward you without his permission. Your mother, Cersei, was equally protective of her first born. To her, there wasn't a man who was good enough for you.

While he was a valuable asset, that gave him no liberties when it came to the princess. You were first born and the only one of your siblings who really received the king's attention. Maybe it was because you were the only one who came out with dark hair like the king. It could be a number of reasons why Robert simply found you endearing. It was an easy thing to fall in love with you.

Which is why Petyr did little to discourage your behavior.

He certainly didn't mind how your greeting toward him had changed from a casual hello to you kiss his cheek. Catching when you'd softly inhale his scent. You'd bring up the memory of his scent when you were alone in bed. Coming upon one another in corridors, you'd brush up against him. Fingers sneakily graze against his arm as you pass without looking at him. Purposefully putting a pop in your hips as you retreated.

Caution in games like this were required in order for him to keep his head. Petyr kept you at arm's length yet within his sight.

That was not enough for you.

You knew of the secret tunnels all through out King's Landing. The schedule of your guards was etched into your memory. And you also happened to have previously stalked Petyr on a few occasions to get a feel of his daily routine. One day you left your chambers, the knights outside your door none the wiser and went out in search of Littlefinger.

You caught him as he left the Small Council meeting room. The second he walks past your hiding spot, your hand shoots out and grabs his arm; yanking him into the dark chasm.

Completely taking him by surprise, he's about to struggle against you until he hears your voice whisper his name. When he inhales to reprimand you instead you capture his lips hastily before he could escape from your grip.

This may be your only chance to do so. You'd caught his stares many times and thought he reciprocated the attraction.

When you pulled away, you wait for his reaction and try to tame your wildly beating heart. Your eyes are somewhat adjusted to the inky black of the secret passage but making out the features of his face were difficult.

Slowly his hands descend on your hips and finally draws you close to his body. One hand lifts to your face, tilting your jaw upwards so he could be the one to initiate another scorching kiss. He near smothers you against him, aching for you to be closer to him. You managed to do what very little people could ever hope to accomplish: having Littlefinger surrender to their whim.

With that, the game was truly on and the dye cast.

You'd left him stumped after the kiss as you proceeded to push him back out with a giggle and slam the hidden door shut. Petyr's heart was thumping so hard it rattled him to the core. For so many years he thought the only person who'd be able to get such a reaction from him was Catelyn. His heart had always been her's though she made it very clear that she would not have him. Now he finds that you have leashed up his attention like a loyal dog tethered to you.

He was titillated.

From then on you upped your mischief around him. Became emboldened from that kiss for it gave you the answer of Petyr desiring you as much as you desired him.

More than that, you wedged your way into his personal life; his true life of secrets and planning. The wonderful mechanisms of his conniving brain. That only made him more attractive to you. It wasn't brute power Petyr wield, not like the knights who primp and preen around you or the pathetic young lords your father hoped to marry you off to.

No one knew that the most dangerous man in King's Landing sat beside them, sharing a simple meal with a brilliant mind they would never be able to comprehend. They were all fools.

Your antics didn't always please Petyr. Sometimes they irritated every last nerve when he was trying to save face in front of others. In the privacy of his chambers though, he'd only halfheartedly reprimand you once you start planting kisses all over his face.

"Forgive me." You'd mewl into his ear, hands digging into the expensive fabric of his clothes.

He could never stay mad at you.

Petyr would concede the moment your plush lips land on the corner of his mouth. Even worse was when you'd envelope him in your arms, hold him close to you as you cherish a moment alone together in a simple cuddle. Who would have thought that syrupy sweet embraces were the branding irons that scorched your name in his heart.

You hardly ask anything of him and when you do, Petyr leaps for the opportunity to please his beloved princess. No task was too small or too big to Littlefinger. Whatever you wanted, he'd make sure you got it. Another prominent lady of the realm slighted you? Petyr would make sure that her house crumbled to the ground so that she and her family were reduced to beggars. Some pathetic lord being a creep around you? You needn't even say anything for Lord Baelish is already planning on the man's demise.

You were his. Whether he was allowed to put a claim on you or not didn't matter to Petyr. Petyr was a greedy man and didn't like any other man giving you special attention.

Being Master of Coin, he was even able to deter Robert from marrying you off as you were considered of marrying age and eligible lords were already hounding the king for your hand. That may have been the most difficult task to achieve since the flow of suitors was nonstop. All wanted close to the Iron Throne. They didn't care about you. Not like Petyr did. You were his goddess, his muse, his everything. Since being enthralled by you Petyr hadn't given Catelyn a second thought. May she rot in the North with her surly lord.

"What's this?" You inquire, delight shining in your eyes when you examine the beautifully carved box Petyr hands to you when the two of you next meet up in his apartments. You're sitting so pretty on his lap, the complete picture of comfort.

You didn't have to do anything to make Petyr's heart squeeze with adoration. How was he so lucky to have a pretty girl like you on his lap?

He taps on the top of the box. "Open and find out for yourself."

Puffing out your cheeks in faux annoyance, you do so. Smile broadening across your face. "Oh Petyr, its beautiful." You lift the choker styled necklace out of the small box to better admire it. pearls composed most of the necklace with the center piece taking shape of a small bird with a long beak among pink, yellow and green gems.

"Do you like it?" He's smiling to himself as he watches you.

"I love it!" You're practically singing and push the necklace into his hands. "Put it on for me, will you?"

"Whatever my princess desires." Petyr chuckles and easily clasps the necklace around your pretty neck. Placing a small kiss at the nape of your hair.

You hop off of his lap and rush over to the closest mirror to admire yourself. Catching his warm gaze from the mirror, you smile softly. "Why a hummingbird, Petyr? Why not a mockingbird?"

"Too obvious, my love. That and I don't see you as a mockingbird."

"Oh?"

Petyr stands and though his stature is not very tall, he still commands confidence. "No. You arise joy in everyone who comes across you." His hands find their spot upon your hips. "Many pray for the opportunity to catch you standing still."

You lean against him, using your own hands to guide one of his across the plane of your stomach. "And I have such lovely plumage too."

That makes him genuinely laugh. You're the only person who could summon such a hearty laugh from Littlefinger. A badge of honor.

"Yes my darling. The most beautiful plumage in the seven kingdoms." Kissing a trail up your neck, you can't contain a giggle from bubbling forth from you. His facial hair made you so ticklish.

“Princess.” The Master of Whispers was always lurking around corners and concealing himself within the shadows spoke. His hand was cold and plush against her shoulder as he delicately reached out to guide the princess away. “You should be in the Holdfast where it is safest.”

“There is no threat.” Her tone was resolute and her shoulders squared as she shook loose from his light hold. The Grand Maester was also nearby, listening as the two conversed. “Lord Tywin is here for our protection.” Her defense was as strong as the impenetrable stones holding the earth down. Beliefs cemented in centuries of faith grounded her as she, for the first time in years, felt a wave of calm wash over her body.

“A precious assumption from a naive heart.” He, Varys, paced the small space of the stone tower. “Have you considered-”

His words meant nothing to her for he spoke in an ill favor of her beloved lord. She would have none of his lies. Fleeing his presence, she joined the Grand Maester at the window’s ledge. Her fingers were warm against the cold stone that separated her from the open air. “It is anything but an assumption, my Lord.”

“Lord Tywin has not taken a stance during the Rebellion.” Varys tucked his chin to his chest as he eyed the silken fabrics that hung from his wrists. “Greeting the city with thousands of armed men often is not a welcoming sight. Should Lord Tywin decide that his faith with the crown has run thin, it will not end well for the Targaryen dynasty.”

“It will turn in our favor.” Pycelle insisted, pressing his shaking fingers to the heavy chains that hunched his back. “Lord Tywin has served the Targaryen dynasty valiantly and faithfully since the day he became Lord of Casterly Rock upon his father’s death. His heir serves in the King’s Guard and his daughter was set to wed Rhaegar.”

“The crowned-prince was slain on the Trident and Prince Rhaegar was wed to Elia Martell.” Varys reminded the room, though his words were not warm.

The mention of his name made her suddenly uncomfortable. “Rhaegar is dead, but that does not mean that Cercei’s love for him has ceased. She would have married him if not for my father’s decisions.” She pressed her hand firmly down on her stomach to quell the fluttering butterflies that bounced from its walls as she looked into the blinding glint of his crimson armor. “Let him in.”

“My princess,” Varys tone had become concerningly low, “do not allow your love for him to shroud your rational thought. There is a reason that Lord Tywin had not chosen a side in this war. At the death of your brother, he joins the battle. Does that not leave a bitter taste upon your tongue?”

“He will not allow us to crumble.” She defended, a sweat breaking out on her forehead. “He was my intended for many years. This is a way for him to finally have my father accept the betrothal. The Lannister army will assist us in quelling this rebellion once and for all.”

A hush fell over the room as the uneven footsteps of the king echoed up the stairwell. His were followed closely by another, a younger man covered in heavy armor. All eyes were focused directly on the painted wooden door that separated the overlook from the rest of the Keep.

Hobbling into the room, thin and frail, Aerys used any railing he could to maintain his balance. A wild look clouded his lilac eyes, fluctuating from pinpricks to full dilation. Nobody present was truly sure if he was aware of his surroundings. Behind him stood Jaime Lannister, a dashing young knight with hearts to spare. Though popular among the crowds of maidens, she wondered who he was truly interested in.

Pycelle and Varys plead their cases to the lone judge who seemed to go in and out of listening. His fingers shook as they gripped at the golden crown of tangled wings placed heavily atop his brittle hair. For a moment he pressed his thinning lips together and contemplated deeply in a way that she had not seen him do in decades. Deep in the cavernous depths of his mental prison, he listened to the voices that instructed him in his daily life. “Lord Tywin cannot be trusted, my king.” One voice, foreign and shrill, urged while the other, mature and shaken, suggested differently. “Lord Tywin will protect this city. He will end the rebellion.”

Aerys did not ponder on his options for an extended period of time. His decision was made in the filling of a lung as he muttered the few words aside from garbled madness he had in the past few months.

“Let him in.”

Those words seemed to mean nothing to Aerys as his eyes glazed back over from his position in the room. He did not look to his daughter nor his council who all dispersed throughout the throne room. Pycelle began his short jaunt to the front gates where he instructed a footsoldier to deliver word from the King that the gates should be opened to Lord Tywin.

“Come, princess.” Varys began to pull the princess’s arm, but found a stone wall beneath his fingertips. “We must get you somewhere safe.”

She was unmoving and uncaring of what the Master of Whispers had to say. Any words that came from his mouth were null in her mind.

“Princess, you must go now.” Varys pulled forcefully at the princess’s arm, so much so that the sleeve of her gown tore in his fingertips. Any other instance as such would leave a man without his head but an urgentness in his chest compelled him to act with ferocity. “Lord Tywin and his men are not here to ensure your safety.”

She couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it.

All the years Tywin spent as Hand of the King he had vied for her hand. He had, on multiple occasions, taken her to spend the summer months in Casterly Rock where she could live freely and happily. He had planted seeds of safety in her core that had only cemented her trust in him, and hindered Varys’s attempts to guide the girl away.

None of it mattered, though. Tywin would get what he wanted in the end even if his desires had to adjust to the circumstances.

~~*~~

“What of the girl?” The path to King’s Landing had been an easy one, one that Lord Tywin had made many in the past.

Red velvet cloth draped thickly over the encampment that laid near the forking of Blackwater Rush. The room was occupied by a select few. The men within were to carry out the most heinous of crimes. Though reports conflict, it is generally accepted that the sinister deeds were ordered by the Lannister lord. In the distance laid their destiny, one that would alter timelines that had been set in stone for centuries.

Lord Tywin adjusted his jaw from where it had been clenched harshly to the right of center, keeping his lips pressed into a thin scornful line. “Leave her to me.”

~~*~~

Her feet could not carry her fast enough away from Varys. Echos of his pitchy voice rang through the walls and into her eardrums, beating away like sticks upon clashing cymbals. Heavy material glided across the floor, sweeping every bit of dirt and debris into its train as she ran desperately for the throne room. At the very least, she knew that Ser Jaime and her father would be there, waiting for their fates.

It was an odd moment of willful ignorance on the princess’s part. Deep in her heart she knew that she was running to her death. She was painfully aware of the chaos that ensued in and outside of the walls that had protected her for her entire life. The screaming in the streets were not joyous. No bells rang for celebration. Scarlet embers flecked with honeyed gold were not that of the evening sunset.

The screams were pained, filled and overflowing with an extinguishment of life. Sounds of bells were morphed from crumbling walls and pounding doors as foot soldiers stormed through the cobblestone streets. The evening sunset was not due for hours. Fires were set across the city, illuminating the rising smoke and ash that clouded the sky in a display of power.

She should have left.

Within the throne room, she was met with a sight that brought bile rising to the top of her throat. Churning upset her stomach and she heaved on a dry tongue. Though his skin had paled throughout the years, he looked particularly gaunt lying on the floor with ichor trickling from his neck. His fingers were curled into fists that bruised purple down to his wrists. Thin and stringy hair that once glittered in the vibrancy of the midday sun was now filled and bland, painted a shade of garnet similar to that of Lord Tywin’s armor.

If it weren’t for the circumstance, she could have said that Jaime looked particularly regal upon the Iron Throne. Downcast eyes focused on the glint of steel in his lap, concentrated rivet directed at the dense pressure that moved his shoulders downward.

“Ser Jaime?”

She could see the turmoil in his eyes as he looked up from his seat. The princess should have fled for Dragonstone, Jaime thought as she took heavy steps in his direction. He refused to listen to the nagging voice in his head telling him to do what was honorable. Her fate was already sealed.

“Ser Jaime?” She repeated, steps growing faster in speed and more uneven as she clutched at her chest and neared her father’s corpse.

“Ser Jaime? Please!” Anguished sorrow bled from her lips as she placed a hand gently over her father’s heart. It had not beat a single time in nearly ten minutes.

Footsteps fell in large groups from the Throne Room’s main entrance. The doors were left open from when she had come through them, allowing Tywin and his small garrison east entry.

Tywin Lannister stood there before her, his crimson armor dulled from bloodshed. Whose blood stained his chest, she did not know, but given his stature and ease of movement one could presume that he was relatively unharmed. A simple halting of his hand had the remaining infantrymen stalled in the doorway, the majority turning their backs to the room as they surveyed the hall outside. Tywin began his approach.

Faint screams bounced off the walls and into the rafters of the room, rising upward like plumes of heavy black smoke until they disappeared into the air. The princess was beside herself, her hands now red with her father’s ichor matching the front of her dress where he had bled as she groomed his hair out of his face. For all that he had put her through, he was still her father.

Tywin was upon her now, his face hardened as he watched her shoulders relaxing as the weight of her situation fully dawned on her. She turned to him then, eyes filled with tears that streamed down the contours of her face.

He had always thought of her to be particularly beautiful. In the warm summer months, he had spent many hours courting her in the privacy of his own home. There was a hope in him back then that they could wed and from their union would come heirs that he could marry off to solidify his power. Whether there was true love for her in there was questionable.

There was nothing about the princess he disliked. She was agreeable, fairly intelligent, and held onto his word like it had been written by the gods. Although, she did not worship him. A clear admiration for the man was displayed on her features, especially so when he was leading council meetings or sitting the throne in the place of her father. She had told him on many occasions that she wished to be able to hold the room the same way he did. In fact, there were many things he found he did like. Her company was comfortable, always melding into his presence as if she had always been there. No one would argue her beauty either. Similar in looks to that of her mother, the princess was soft and ethereal in appearance. She dressed in beautiful gowns and always smelled slightly of rose and mint. Even now in the chaos of the sacking, she held that same look.

“What does this mean for me?” The words fell like a feather from her lips, floating softly downward to the floor where her gaze was focused.

When no answer came from Tywin she turned and looked upward at him. “My lord?”

There were truthfully only two possibilities for her future and Tywin knew that.

He extended a hand down to her and stiffened when she accepted it and rose to meet his gaze. Trembling fingers wrapped around his. The entirety of her body was shaking. He took the opportunity to pull her into his chest despite the hardness of his armor. A gentle hand smoothed down the back of her hair and rested on the nape of her neck.

“What will come of me now?” She repeated, enjoying the way he embraced her. Calming to his touch, she deepened her hold on him.

“The war is over, princess.” Tywin hushed her tearful sobs, pressing a light kiss to the side of her head as her crying intensified. “The house of the dragon has fallen.”

The princess only looked into his emerald eyes when his gloved finger guided her vision upward. He knew he should not have allowed himself to indulge in the moment. Robert Baratheon would not let a Targaryen, especially the sister of Rhaegar, live peacefully. He personally saw to the death of the prince and Tywin did not intend to let him see to the princess’s end.

Knowing that no guard dared to turn their heads in their direction, Tywin drew the princess near and placed a light kiss to her lips. Their personalities in that moment were completely opposite. She was ravenous, starved of his touch and seeking validation in his arms. Her hands found the dimples of his waist, barely detectable through the armor, and rested there. If it were not for the metal, she would have dug crescents into his skin.

On the other hand, he was calm. A storm brewed in the pit of his stomach, but he did not show it.

She let out a soft breath when the cold metal sunk itself into her chest. Tywin held her still, not allowing her legs to give out. One hand held the blade firmly by his side, soaked in her blood. The other was cradling her body, holding her to his chest. An uncomfortable warmth oozed from the bodice of her dress. It added depth to the blood that already stained his breastplate.

Her lips parted to speak but nothing could come from her lungs for no air remained. Pleading questioning eyes met ones that would display sorrow and remorse if they could. It would be a cold day in hell before Tywin would admit what he had done was wrong. Every fiber of his being scolded him, but his own selfishness was not enough to start a war with a man who had just won his own.

Tywin knew that the only end for her that he would accept was the embrace of death. If not for his blade, Robert Baratheon would either have the princess killed or marry her to claim the throne. Selfishly, Tywin could not bear to see her wed to another.

She was his.

Her love, her body, her heart, and her death was his.

You pushed through the door of Sandor's chambers, knowing he would be there this late at night, and you were pissed, and Sondor was the cause of it like always.

“You're a fucking asshole! I can't believe you took my kill! I had him!” You snarl, the door slamming behind you, and he chuckles darkly at you from where he sits with a bottle next to him. Sandor and you had gone back a long time, and he had become your best friend, and you were both in love with each other but neither of you ever acted on those feelings.

“Shoulda been faster,” he says gruffly, drinking from the bottle as you move closer to him and the table. Sandor was a good foot taller than you with sad brown eyes, but when they looked at you, they flashed with desire and lust.

“Damnit, Sandor, that's not nice, you jerk!” you yell, and he snorts at your words, taking a really good look at you as he does, and your heart starts to race.

“I have been called many things (y/n) nice isn't one of them,” he says, passing you the bottle, and you take it gladly before taking a drink out of it. You sigh happily at the burn from the alcohol as it goes down your throat.

“Aw, you're not so bad to me,” you grin, taking another drink and handing the bottle back to him. Sandor watches as you take a seat on the table and he gives you a glare.

“Off the bloody table,” he snaps with a glare and leans over and grabs the bottle, the few sips, giving you a slight buzz and you meet his dark eyes.

“Where should I sit? You only have one chair,” you say with a grin, knowing he hated it when you sat on the table like this. Sandor growls, and the next thing you know, you're straddling him, the bottle forgotten.

“You're playing a dangerous game, love,” he says, his voice growing lower and husky, making you fight a shiver from taking over you. You move slightly and place your hands lazily on his shoulders.

“We both know I love danger, please, Sandor,” you tell him as you rock your hips slightly when you whisper the last part in his ear, and he groans, his hands on your hips tightening, unsure if he should stop you or help you. Sandor runs a hand from your hip up your body and holds lightly around your throat making you look at him in his brown eyes.

“Once you're in my bed, you're mine,” he says, his eyes locking with yours. Your hips are still, and you cup the burnt side of his cheek, and he flinches.

“I have always been yours,” you tell him, and he growls and latches his mouth onto yours, making you moan. You latch onto him, touch every part of him you can, and he grunts when you pull his hair.

“Seven hells, kitten,” he groans when you grind down hard, feeling his hard length. Leaning back, you pull him with you, and he follows, and you take that moment to pull up his shirt.

“I have thought about this for a long time,” you tell him hotly as you run your nails down his chest, making him groan.

Sandor's hands roam your body after he helps you remove his shirt, and before long, he has you in his arms, carrying you to his bed. Moaning your body arches into his when you feel his hard cock grind into you. Laying under him naked you bring his mouth back to yours and kiss him deeply.

“Seven hells, you're soaked,” he groans; you moan at his rough fingers on your clit. Sandor watches you as he fucks you on his finger before he enters another one.

“Oh fuck yes!” You cry out, your hands tangled in his hair. Sandor groans at the pain of your pulling and the taste of your sweet cunt. You moan and squirm as he ate you out and fucked you on his fingers.

“Sweetest cunt I've tasted,” he groans against your cunt, making you moan and thrust your hips up, and he lays his large free hand flat on your stomach, holding you still for him as he feasts on you.

“I'm gonna-” you try to warn him, but your words are lost in a downright filthy moan, and your toes curl as you cum. Your back arches off the bed as your vision goes white and you feel boneless. Sandor growls when you gush over his face and his bed. Everything was soaked in you. You moan and finally open your eyes to see him sucking you off his fingers.

Slowly, you sit and reach for him, your hands soft on his rough, scared-up skin. Leaning up, you kiss him and moan at the taste of yourself on his lip, and he growls when you bite his lip as you pull away.

“Want something girl?” He chuckles as you rub his hard cock. You wanted him in you, to stretch you out, to make you scream his name so everyone knew who you belonged to.

“I want you to fuck me hard, please, Sandor. I need you,” you say against his lips, making him groan, and his lips snatch yours in a bruising kiss as he lays you on your back with him hovering over you. Kissing him back your hands roam his body all the way to his covered cock that you let free.

“Fuck your tight,” he groans as he slowly enters you; your body feels so full, like he would split you in two, and you loved every moment of it. Moaning your nails, dig into his back when he gives you a hard, rough thrust.

Sandor wasted no time fucking you into the bed. The room was filled with your crires of pleasure and skin slapping skin as he fucked you.

“Fuck Sandor! I wanna fill you cum” you moan your mind lost in a haze of lust and pleasure. Sandor snarls as he pounds into you the bed hitting the wall as he fucked you with everything he had.

“Gonna fill you full, you want that? You want my babe?” He growls. He was so close, and the thought of Sandra getting you pregnant sent you so close to the edge.

“Yes! Fill me up! I need it, Sandor, please,” you beg, and Sandor locks his eyes with your's before he kisses you hard and deep. The sounds he made as he closed were enough to send you over the edge.

“Fuck be a good girl and milk me dry,” he growls, biting your ear, and your body is wrecked by your second orgasm of the night, and he follows you, his hot seed panting your insides and filling you full of him. Not wanting to crush you Sandor lays on his back while catching his breath.

“I never done that before,” you say out loud as you finally catch your breath, making him look over at you.

“Do what? He asks, pulling you to lay on his chest, and you lean up with a grin. Sandor traces his fingers down your naked back making you shiver and heat start to pull between your legs again.

“Squirt, I have never squirted before.” You grin and throw your leg over him to where you are now straddling him. Sandor's hands go to your hips, and you sit up as his hands roam your body. You moan and rock your hips on his Harding cock, and without warning, Sandor sits up, molding you to his front, and you look into his brown eyes full of lust.

pre-got head canons of you and jaime relationship

Headcanons of you and Jaime throughout season 1

Headcanons of you and Jaime throughout season 2

-jaime is impressed by Brienne and knows you would adore her. Her dedication, honor and fighting skills remind him of you

-jaime knows you would scold him for having tried to fight Brienne to free himself and as always you would be right as is then that locke finds them

-jaime is disgusted by the bolton men intentions to abuse brienne and he can’t let them. He also knows that you would never forgive him if he did nothing to help her

-jaime saves Brienne which then is rewarded with locke’s men cutting his sword hand. he tries to free himself in the hope to find a quick death but locke men put him back on the horse. hIs fevirish mind due to the wound shows him you scolding him for thinking that you would care about his hand and then he dreams of coming home to you and his children. 

-jaime still starves himself thinking that he is useless, that it would be better for you all if he died. when Brienne confront him about why he saved her and that he is melodramatic. He avoids the first question and says that he was that hand at that without it he is no use for his family and can’t protect them so is better to die. ‘ and what of your lady wife? Lady y/n. and I heard cathyln say you have children’ she tries ‘yes. Three of them. They are smart and kind like their mother, nothing like me’ he says fondly, still after years he is glad his children took after you and not from the lannisters. ‘what do you think they would think of you for letting them down by dying?’ ‘I’m no use to them anymore I was that hand’ ‘ bulshit’ Brienne spats ‘this wasn’t the first time we met kingslayer. I was at Robert baratheon’s coronation. I saw lady y/n and I saw you. The way she looked at you. And not you or anyone can convince me that she would care about your hand.’ he stays silent before starting to eat. he then makes an insult- compliment to Brienne saying her bravery reminds him or you although he calls her ‘ugly’ (sorry this in character but gwen for me you are the most beautiful). Brienne is shocked by it as she knows how much jaime cares about you. ‘I always wanted to be like her. a fair night and a fair maiden, I lack the latter’.

-during the trip the soldiers taunt him telling him how you would need a new man and that they offer themselves volunteer he can’t say anything to defend you as he knows he will loose the other hand if he speaks, and that you preferred to be insulted than to loose him. His blood boils at them insulting you, but he knows that if he get killed trying to defend your honor you would be even more angrier.

-as they arrive at bolton’s castle he asks about you and his children and news from the capital. Bolton taunts him telling about the attack and that you fought against it with tyrion. talking as if you all had perished, but then he informs you that you were victorius. Jaime is so relieved that he falls on his knees in the mud

-jaime enters the bath were brienne is. ‘don’t worry I have eyes only for my wife’ he reassures her. He sits in the bath and tells her the story of why he killed the mad king to save king’s landing and to save you. ‘tell me if a Baratheon had told you to bring him your father head stand aside while thousands of women, man and children burned including the one you loved, in your case Ranly, his own son, your bethrowed. Would have you done that? Would have you kept you oath?’. Brienne asks him why he told no one, he says that the only who believed him was you and the others thought you were defending him because he was you husband now. he then passes out whispering your name as brienne calls for help

-before leaving the bolton ‘shome jaime promises he will return the starks girls and sadly departs Brienne, someone who had become his friend. After knowing what they would do to her he goes back and saves her. when she asks him why he lies not wanting to admit that she is the first friend outside of you and tyrion that he ever had and says instead ‘my wife will adore you, I couldn’t let die the only other good woman swordfighter in the seven kingdom. She would have been mad at me. I did it for myself not for you’

Meanwhile in king’s landing:

-after the stark’s fall, twyin want to marry Joanna to Jeoffry you will be damn to let that happen.  Luckily as lannister gold runs out is instead is Margie tyrlle set to marry him

-you become friend with shae telling her that you know about her and tyrion as you and tyrion have no secrets as best friends. She is appointed as sansa’s maid as you want to protect them both. She likes you because you are nothing like the other ladies, you don’t treat her as an inferior as she was instead treated by other lords. You explain her that your mother’s acnetry is too not well defined (so anyone can see themselves as reader, which is only half Targaryen)

-you try to make sansa understand better what is going on, following your promise to her mother, which already half failed as you lost arya, but sent trustable men sandor Clegane, to find her and bring her to her half-brother jon snow. Sansa still is reluctant as she does not trust you but then remembers that her father described you as one of the few honorable people in westeros. You also tell her that tyrion will never harm her.

-when Brienne and jaime reach kings landing he is in terrible conditions, dirty, illed and almost unrecognizable. he goes running to the red keep and to your shared rooms. when he reaches your shared bedroom you cry at his sight and run to him hugging him and kissing him not caring that he is full of dirt. You tell a maid to call for the children but he stops you ‘please no. I don’t want them to see me like this’. You nod at him and then tell the maid to prepare a bath and call the master as you hug him ‘my hand…’ he whispers you look down momentarily horrified that they had mutilated him. ‘it doesn’t matter, you are here that is all that matters’ you hug him close until the master arrives. The master takes a look at jaime’s hand and after giving his advice he leaves you two.

-you bring jaime to the bath and help him wash himself. He takes the scissors trying to cut his hair but you say ‘let me’ and then cut his hair short . he is silent and visibly ashamed of himself for needing help. You face him holding his face in your hands lovingly  ‘you listen to me. Jaime Lannister I don’t care about your hand okay? I would love you even if you missed most of your body.’ ‘but I was that hand’ he says avoiding your eyes, you pleade him to look at you ‘no. what makes you you, and what I love you for is this’ you say placing your hand on his heart. You then kiss even if you feel he is not that convinced.

-when he is cleaned and well dressed he agrees to see the children. They run In crying of happiness and they group hug him, he kisses their heads repeatedly. Then daemon asks ‘father your hand…’. All your faces fall and jaime doesn’t know what to say so you speak. ‘your father bravely saved a woman knight honor and it costed him his hand’ the children stay silent before Joanna speaks ‘you are a hero father’ as the other agrees before hugging him again. jaime heart breaks when he is not able to pick Jace up due to his missing hand so you help him but you see that is heart is broken.

-you all not leave the  red keep for a week. You and jaime enjoying your time together and with the children. You reassure him that the important thing he is that he is alive ‘you almost died jaime. You came back to us that is all that matters’. ‘the things I did.. you would be ashamed of me’ he says eyes low ‘I don’t care what you did. You did it to come back to us, to me. When you are better and if you want you can tell me all about it. It will not change how I see you. Or the depth of my love for you’ You reassure him. he eventually tells you everything.

-when you finally exit the red keep after days you go meet Brienne. Brienne is shocked that you hug her tightly and with tears you thank her for having brought jaime back to you. She is quite moved and say that it was her honor and that he is an honorable man. You then ask her if she wants to be your friend and guard and if she would like to help you practice your sword fighting as you were harmed in the battle and need to regain your strength. She happily agrees.

-the news of Rob and cathlyn saddens you and you try to help sansa in her grief by telling her how you dealt with your entire family downfall, how your found yourself in the same situation. she is not much convinced but you try your best

pre-got head canons of you and jaime relationship

Headcanons of you and Jaime throughout season 1

Headcanons of you and Jaime throughout season 2

jaime’s masterlist (in other characters masterlist)

masterlist

The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.

“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.

Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.

“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.

The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.

The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.

The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”

“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.

“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.

“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.

“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”

Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.

Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be.  It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.

The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.

“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”

“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.

He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.

When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.

After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.

That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.

Sandor…

Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...

The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.

Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.

The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.

The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.

Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.

After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”

That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him. 

Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”

“Give me the bed?”

“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”

She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.

“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”

“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”

“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.

He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”

If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.

And seven hells did she hate admitting that.

“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.

“No.”

“And you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.

She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.

“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.

The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.” 

“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.

A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.

It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?

Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.

She was laughing again.

“Fuck you, woman.”

And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”

Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—

And…?

He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.

“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.

You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.

Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.

He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.

She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.

Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.

It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”

Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.

“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.

This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.

“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”

“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.

“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”

There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”

He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them. 

Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs. 

His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.

When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else. 

With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight. 

“I want to fuck you.” 

She did not hesitate. “Then do so.”