#tyrell reader

The wedding feast was suffocating. The air thick with roses, gold, and polite falsities. You sat beside Daemon Targaryen—your new husband—while the King raised a goblet and smiled through his teeth. Everyone knew what this was, another political match meant to tame Daemon’s reputation and bind your allied family tighter to the Crown.

Daemon hadn’t looked at you once. Not when you exchanged vows. Not when Viserys gave a speech about you two. Not even when you boldly reached for his cup, having already drained your own.

When he finally did, it was with that same infuriating sneer you were already learning to hate.

“So this is my reward for everything I’ve done,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only you to hear. “A fragile Tyrell rose.”

You smiled without warmth, your tone as sharp as Darksister that was resting at Daemon’s hip. “And I’m to believe I should be grateful to be shackled to a dragon of my own?”

His eyes flicked toward you and narrowed, his tone as cold as yours despite the faint trace of amusement threading through his disdain. “I’m not your dragon, wife,” he drawled, voice soft but edged with warning for you not to get your expectations up. Not that you had any. You knew exactly where you stood with your new husband—unwanted. “You may find you’ve married something you cannot handle.”

You hummed, entirely unbothered. “Only time will tell,” you said evenly, meeting his violet gaze without flinching. “Which one of us can’t handle the other.”

Daemon made no effort to hide his dislike in the weeks that followed. He avoided dinners, ignored the courtiers who dared offer their congratulations, and left your marriage bed untouched and cold. He refused even to consummate the union—much to your quiet relief.

You, in turn, perfected the art of pretending not to care.

You did not rise to his baiting remarks or sharp-edged insults. You ignored the whispers that slithered through the halls, the rumours that spread like wildfire about the cold marriage between the Rogue Prince and his southern bride. 

Instead, you smiled sweetly, your wit sharp enough to charm but never offend the members of court around you. Where Daemon made enemies, you made allies. You had learned quickly how to survive the venom of court: with polite smiles, measured words, and alliances that grew quietly in the shadows. People underestimated you because you were young, southern, and soft-spoken. That suited you perfectly.

Daemon, however, did not take kindly to being ignored despite his own actions—especially by his wife.

He found you one afternoon in the gardens, sunlight filtering through the lemon trees, deep in conversation with a few of the court’s lords. His sharp stare cut across the courtyard like a blade, but you met it with nothing more than a polite nod before returning to your discussion, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Only that dismissal didn’t suit him and decided to interrupt and remind that fat lord just who you belonged too.

“Lord Redwyne,” he drawled as he approached, hands clasped loosely behind his back, tone deceptively casual. “I wasn’t aware my wife required your company quite so often.”

The poor lord paled instantly, words tumbling from his lips as he stammered a hurried apology before bowing and making a hasty retreat. You waited until the echo of his boots faded before finally turning to Daemon.

“Was that truly necessary?” you asked, annoyance lacing your voice as you regarded your husband with open disdain.

Daemon’s mouth curved into a smirk, his violet eyes glinting with something between mockery and challenge. “I find men at court need reminding of their boundaries.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear. “And yet here you are,” you said evenly, “forgetting yours.”

You turned to leave, skirts whispering against the stone, but his hand shot out—fingers curling tightly around your wrist. His grip was firm and possessive, eyes dark with anger at your audacity.

“I am your husband,” he hissed, his grip tightening around your wrist. “There are no boundaries placed upon me. I could choose to take you here and now, and no one would dare stop me. Do well to remember who exactly you belong to.”

You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing, lips curling into a sharp, cold sneer. “And you’d do well to remember,” you said, voice low and venomous as you wrenched your wrist free of his hold, “that dragons aren’t the only danger in this world. Poison can be equally as effective as fire.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. The echo of your steps trailed behind you as you stormed down the hall, leaving Daemon standing there,  the tension in his jaw slowly easing before a faint grin tugged at his mouth.

You were still his unwanted wife, but the longer he watched, the more Daemon realized your indifference fascinated him. There was something intoxicating about the way you carried yourself. He had thought you soft, too weak to stand by his side as his wife, yet beneath that deceptively innocent exterior laid an unyielding spine and a quiet, hidden fire he found himself wanting to provoke—to see how brightly it might burn.

You had adapted to court life far faster than he’d anticipated, and the fact that you offered him nothing—no submission, no craving for his approval—only deepened his fascination. He had expected you to run back to Highgarden, to crumble beneath the weight of court politics, or perhaps to come crawling to him for protection once the vipers began to circle. Instead, you had stood your ground. You may not have carried the blood of the dragon, but your thorns proved sharp enough to rival one’s bite.

And as the days passed, he watched you closer, beginning to notice a shift in court—the way certain lords now looked at you with measured respect, the way your words began to carry more weight when you spoke. You were earning favour, allies, influence—without his name, without his help.

Daemon would never say it aloud, but the truth lingered all the same: the woman he had dismissed was quickly becoming the only person in the Red Keep he could not ignore.

It was deep into the night when he found you.

He hadn’t meant to—restless and half-drunk, he’d been wandering the castle’s corridors in search of quiet when a sound stopped him. A scuffle. A muffled cry.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword before his mind even caught up with his body. He turned the corner—steel half-drawn—and what he saw turned his blood to fire.

A knight, one of the Reach’s lesser sons, had you pinned against the cold stone wall. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other tearing at the thin fabric of your nightgown. You shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble, but he caught you again, slamming your shoulder into the wall with a brutal thud. You fought like a cornered animal—kicking, clawing, the sound of your muffled scream cutting through the stillness of the Keep.

Daemon didn’t think. He moved.

In two long strides, he was on the knight, seizing him by the collar and hurling him against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the stone. The clang of metal filled the hall as the knight’s sword hit the floor, followed by a strangled gasp of pain.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Daemon snarled, every word vibrating with barely contained fury.

The knight barely had time to register who stood before him before Daemon’s fist collided with his face, the impact sending him sprawling across the stone floor. The sickening crack of bone echoed down the corridor, followed by a sharp cry of pain.

“Please—” the knight gasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to crawl away.

Daemon said nothing. His expression was carved from ice, his fury so cold it burned. He drove his boot into the man’s ribs once—hard—then again, each strike landing with the force of restrained rage. But restraint only lasted so long.

“Tell me,” Daemon hissed, his voice low and venomous, “why I should stop—when you saw fit to ignore my lady wife as she begged you to let her go?”

He seized the knight by the collar, yanking him upright with a violent jerk. The man’s head lolled, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth as he blubbered incoherently—pleas for mercy, apologies, excuses.

Daemon’s lip curled. “Pathetic.”

The words were little more than a growl before his fist crashed into the man’s face again. The wet, sickening sound of impact echoed down the corridor, followed by another and another, until the knight’s desperate cries dissolved into gurgled whimpers. Bone crunched beneath Daemon’s knuckles; blood splattered his sleeve.

The knight’s feeble attempts to shield himself only stoked Daemon’s fury further. He struck until the man finally collapsed—crumpled and half-conscious, his face a ruined mess of blood, swelling, and shattered bone.

Daemon’s breathing came harsh and ragged. He straightened slowly, wiping a streak of the man’s blood from his knuckles with a calm that contrasted his earlier fury. He should have called for the guards—those useless bastards who had clearly been asleep at their posts—but he had no intention of delegating this.

No, this was personal.

He would make a spectacle of this wretch. He would ensure that every knight, lord, and servant in the Red Keep knew what became of any man foolish enough to lay a hand on what belonged to him.

Because as unwanted as you had been, you were still his wife. And compared to his late bronze bitch, you were far more tolerable—infuriatingly so.

He was already moving, intent on dragging the vermin to the dungeons, when a flicker of movement stopped him.

You stepped forward.

Your nightgown was torn, the fabric clutched tightly to your chest to preserve what little modesty you had left. Blood stained your lip, your hair hung loose and tangled, and your eyes—seven hells, your eyes—burned with a cold, unflinching fire.

Before Daemon could speak, your hand darted for the dagger at his belt. His fingers twitched in surprise, but you were faster—ripping it free in one fluid motion. He opened his mouth, perhaps to stop you, perhaps to warn you, but the words never left his tongue.

You dropped to your knees beside the fallen knight.

Daemon watched, frozen, as the trembling in your hand steadied with terrifying purpose. And in that heartbeat, he realized he had gravely underestimated you. The danger you carried wasn’t in your silver tongue or your deceptively soft appearance. It was in the fire he so often enjoyed provoking—the one that now burned, fierce and unrestrained, revealing a brutality that mirrored his own.

The blade came down. Once. Twice. The sound was wet and final.

The scream that followed ripped through the Keep, sharp and ragged, echoing off the stone. Blood spattered across your cheek, soaking into your torn nightgown as the severed hand hit the flagstones with a dull, wet thud.

You didn’t look away, your eyes burning with something perilously close to satisfaction. You only took a single deep breath, your grip on the slick dagger tightening for a brief moment before you finally straightened up.

“He won’t be touching anyone again,” you said, your voice calm—eerily so. Then, as if the act had been no more than pruning a hedge in the garden, you turned the dagger in your hand and offered it back to Daemon, blood still dripping from the blade. “You can do the rest.”

Daemon stared at you—really stared—as if seeing you for the first time. The sharp edge of his anger faltered, giving way to something dangerously close to admiration. Then, slowly, a low laugh rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t mocking or cruel, but low and genuine—born of disbelief more than mirth.

“Seven hells,” he murmured, a crooked grin curving his lips. “Perhaps the gods aren’t so cruel after all. You’re full of surprises, little flower.”

You met his gaze without flinching, the flickering torchlight catching on the blood still splattered across your cheek. 

“You married a Tyrell,” you said evenly, “not a delicate flower.”

His grin widened, sharp and feral. “No,” he said, almost admiringly. “It seems I married a thorn.”

He reached out, his thumb brushing a streak of blood from your cheek. The touch lingered—longer than it should have, longer than either of you cared to admit. His eyes, glinting in the dim torchlight, softened into something dark and dangerous. “Perhaps,” he murmured, voice low, “I should’ve agreed to this marriage sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by the sudden warmth in his tone. “Save your charm for someone who cares, husband,” you said coolly, stepping past him.

The hem of your ruined nightgown dragged across the stones, leaving thin streaks of crimson in your wake. You didn’t look back—not even when another low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Daemon watched you go, the sound of your fading footsteps echoing through the corridor. You didn’t rush away, nor offer him a single glance.

For a man like him, so accustomed to obedience, fear, or devotion, that quiet defiance was nothing short of intoxicating.

By the time you disappeared around the corner, Daemon’s grin had widened, but it was darker and less amused. He glanced down at the severed hand still lying in a growing pool of blood, then toward the path you’d taken.

“Definitely a thorn,” he muttered to himself, before raising his dagger to do as you ordered and finish what you started.

By the time the task was done and the wretch was dragged to the dungeons, you were long gone. When Daemon finally reached your shared martial chambers, he found the door barred from within. There was a faint flicker of candlelight beneath the door, telling him there was a high chance you were still awake.

He stood there for a moment, silent, debating whether to knock. His hand hovered near the handle, but he didn’t move. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he let his hand fall away.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured under his breath, turning on his heel.

As he walked down the dim corridor, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone, Daemon found something unfamiliar curling in his chest as he once again thought of you.

For the first time in years, he was smiling at the thought of someone daring to tell him no.

The story spread quickly—faster than wildfire and twice as hot.

By morning, the entire court knew that a knight had been maimed and stripped of his title, Daemon Targaryen had been involved, and the new Lady Targaryen was not to be trifled with. Servants whispered in corridors, eyes wide with both fear and fascination. Lords traded embellished versions over their morning wine, each claiming to know the true tale. And by the time the sun reached its peak, it had reached the ears of the Small Council.

Viserys wasted no time. Before the morning was out, the two of you were summoned before the Iron Throne.

Daemon stood tall at your side, hands clasped behind his back, his smirk unmistakably smug as though the entire affair amused him. You, however, remained composed, despite the split lip and the faint bruise still shadowing your jaw.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. His patience, always thin when it came to his brother, was clearly stretched to its limits. “Seven hells, Daemon,” he muttered, his tone sharp with exasperation. “Can you not go a single month without bloodshed in the Keep?”

Daemon’s smirk only deepened. “It wasn’t entirely my doing this time,” he drawled lazily, almost playful. “My wife saw to most of it.”

The council chamber fell into utter silence. as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to thinly veiled horror, as though they’d just realized the soft-spoken lady from the Reach was no lady at all.

You did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. When you spoke, your tone was calm yet cold. “The knight was drunk and violent, Your Grace,” you said evenly. “My husband stopped him before he could do worse. I merely… ensured it would never happen again.”

Otto Hightower regarded you as though you’d sprouted fangs. “You ensured it?” he repeated, his voice slow and dripping with disdain. “By cutting off his hands? The man was brutalized.”

“Hand,” you corrected smoothly. “I took only one. My husband saw to the other in his own form of retribution.” You tilted your head slightly, meeting Otto’s stare without wavering. “Would you prefer I’d waited for the court to deliberate while he still had the use of it? It is the law, is it not—to lose them for such crimes?”

For a moment, silence hung over the council chamber. Then Daemon broke it as he chuckled under his breath, low and amused.

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his irritation bleeding into every measured word. “The law, Lady Tyrell—”

“Targaryen,” Daemon interrupted, his tone deceptively mild. 

The single word landed like a slap. Otto blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his expression smoothed back into something resembling civility. He inclined his head slightly, though the muscle in his jaw twitched. “The law, Lady Targaryen,” he corrected, voice clipped and cold, “is not yours to carry out. You have overstepped your station. The King’s justice does not come from the hands of women—or from vigilantes acting on impulse.”

Your expression didn’t falter, though the tension in the room thickened. “Then perhaps,” you said evenly, “the King’s justice should arrive before a woman needs to defend herself.”

A few councillors shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. Otto’s expression darkened, his composure fraying at the edges. “You forget yourself, my lady,” he snapped. “Such defiance is unbecoming of—”

“Careful, Otto,” Daemon drawled, his voice cutting cleanly through the chamber. “You seem to be forgetting yourself.”

The Hand froze mid-sentence. The smirk that usually curved Daemon’s lips had vanished, replaced by something colder and dark. His words simmered with threat. He took a slow step forward, the click of his boots echoing against the stone floor.

“My wife,” Daemon declared, looking to the members of the council, “was attacked in her own hall. And the man who dared touch her breathes still. I’d say we’ve already shown the court more mercy than it deserves.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “Mercy?” he repeated with a scoff. “You call mutilation mercy?”

Daemon’s gaze turned sharp as a blade. “That, Otto,” he said evenly, “is leniency. Were it my full measure of justice, you’d be discussing a corpse, not a cripple.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing at his temple as though warding off an oncoming headache. “Daemon—”

But Daemon wasn’t finished. He moved closer to Otto, enough that the old man’s hand twitched to grab the edge of the table. 

“You should choose your next words carefully, my lord Hand,” Daemon said softly, the quiet in his tone somehow more dangerous than a shout. “Because the only reason this matter reached your ears at all is that I allowed it to. Had I wished otherwise, that knight would’ve vanished before sunrise — and not a soul would be the wiser.”

Otto’s mouth tightened, his knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. “You threaten the Hand of the King in open council?”

Daemon’s grin returned — thin, wolfish, and entirely without warmth. “No,” he said. “I’m reminding you where your authority ends.” His gaze flicked toward you, lingering for a heartbeat before returning to Otto. “Whether you like it or not, she is a princess. Her word carries the same weight as mine — as any Targaryen’s. You’d do well to remember that the next time you choose to address her so brazenly. Next time,” his voice dropped, dangerous and deliberate, “I may not be so… lenient.”

“Enough,” Viserys interjected sharply, his patience at last fraying. He sank back against the Iron Throne with a weary exhale. “Gods save me, the two of you are well-matched. The knight’s punishment will stand as delivered. Now — let us not waste more of the realm’s time on this nonsense.”

Otto looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at Daemon’s expression silenced him. The prince’s violet eyes burned with quiet warning, and the faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned back toward you, brushing his fingers briefly against yours

You didn’t return the gesture, though your lips curved just slightly as you met his gaze.

For the first time since your marriage, Daemon’s smirk wasn’t cruel. It was proud. And worse still, it was genuine.

After the council incident, something between you and Daemon shifted. It wasn’t a sudden change, nor one you could easily define. It was noticeable enough that conversations faltered when you entered a room together. Even Otto Hightower, ever the picture of composure, could not disguise the way his mouth tightened and his expression soured the moment his gaze landed on either of you.

You had become something of a spectacle: the Rogue Prince and the Southern Rose, a union that should have burned under the weight of its own volatility—but hadn’t.

Daemon, of course, took delight in every ounce of scandal your union was inspiring.

At council meetings, he no longer sat opposite you but beside you, close enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against your sleeve when he leaned in. He had made it his personal amusement to whisper comments low enough for only you to hear — wicked little asides designed to test your composure.

“I think,” he murmured one morning, as Otto began another of his long, tedious speeches, “if the old vulture glares any harder, his eyes might fall out.”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips, forcing your expression into something neutral. “Try not to provoke him,” you whispered back. “He’s still the Hand.”

Daemon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous humour. “He’s a hand I’d gladly cut off,” he murmured. “Care to help me, wife? You did quite well the last time.”

You sighed, though the faint curl of your lips betrayed you. In truth, you disliked Otto Hightower just as deeply as Daemon did. The man was a vulture — always circling the throne, always overreaching, always pretending his ambition was piety.

“You enjoy making enemies far too much,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Daemon’s smirk only deepened, that infuriating glint in his eyes suggesting he found your disapproval endlessly entertaining.

He began to appear everywhere.

At dinners, his chair was suddenly beside yours, his presence commanding attention no matter how much you tried to ignore it. In the gardens, you’d feel his gaze long before you turned to find him watching, his expression unreadable. Even during court sessions, he lingered near you, standing just close enough to make it impossible for anyone to forget whose wife you were.

He hovered close enough to unsettle you, close enough that the courtiers began to whisper behind gloved hands. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Daemon Targaryen had made no secret of his disdain for this marriage, for you. Yet now, wherever you went, he followed — a shadow that refused to fade, a dragon circling what he had once dismissed as unworthy prey.

And in all his watching, Daemon came to a realization.

The lords who had once made their disdain for him plain were now markedly more tolerant—some even deferential. Conversations that used to die the moment he entered no longer did. The same mouths that had once whispered against him now spoke with murmurs of cautious respect.

It hadn’t been his doing. It had been yours.

For all your ice, for all the cruelty he’d shown you, you had never once turned against him. In your own quiet way, you had stood beside him. Those endless interactions he had dismissed as meaningless pleasantries, the soft smiles and chatters he’d mistaken for you wasting your time on simpering lords in what he had thought had been in indulgence, hadn’t been acts of vanity or spite.

You had been securing him power. Turning enemies into allies. Shifting the court’s favour not through fear, but through quiet influence — a kind of power he’d never learned to wield.

And you had done it all without asking for credit, without expecting his gratitude.

It unsettled him—how easily you’d done what he, with all his fire and fury, never could. For perhaps the first time in his life, Daemon Targaryen found himself forced to admit that he had gravely underestimated the woman the gods had chained him to.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” Daemon drawled one evening as he joined you on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The setting sun bled across the sky, painting the water in molten gold and fire, while the wind carried the faint scent of salt and smoke through the air.

“Half the court is terrified of you now,” he continued, his tone lazy, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Are they now?” you mused, lifting your goblet and taking a slow sip of wine. “Perhaps it’s you they fear, husband.”

Daemon snorted, resting one shoulder against the carved stone rail. “Of course they fear me,” he said easily, almost amused. “But you, my lady wife—” his gaze swept over you, lingering in that way that felt like admiration, “— you’ve built a reputation entirely your own. And a powerful one at that.”

You arched a brow, setting your goblet down with a soft clink. “You almost sound impressed.”

A low hum rumbled in his throat, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, crooked smile that had begun to lose some of its cruelty. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted, leaning in as his tongue swept briefly across his lips.

You turned to face him fully, the sea breeze catching a loose strand of your hair and brushing it against your cheek. “Then you should be careful,” you said lightly, though the warning in your voice was unmistakable. “It seems I’ve earned a reputation for maiming men who touch without asking.”

His answering grin was wicked, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement. “Don’t worry, wife,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and far too sure of itself. “When I touch you, it’ll be because you begged me to.”

You didn’t blush at his implication. You simply rolled your eyes, “Need I remind you that you hate me?”

“I’m reconsidering that fact,” he said without hesitation, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Don’t bother,” you replied coolly, your tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re not forgiven.”

“Forgiveness,” he said, leaning just close enough for your breath to catch, “was never what I wanted.”

You didn’t move away. The space between you felt taut, charged, alive. His nearness carried heat — the faint scent of smoke and steel that always clung to him — but you refused to yield an inch.

“Then what is it you do want, my prince?” you asked, your voice measured, daring him to answer truthfully.

“Husband,” he corrected softly, taking another slow step forward. “I’m your husband, and you are my wife.” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. “And what I want…” He paused, the ghost of a smile curling his mouth. “…is you.”

You studied him for a long moment, the torchlight flickering across the sharp planes of his face — the proud line of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his violet eyes. He wasn’t jesting. There was something different in him now, something that unsettled you far more than his cruelty ever had.

Finally, you exhaled and shook your head, turning away. “Goodnight, Daemon.”

He didn’t try to stop you. He only watched as you passed him, his gaze following the graceful sweep of your figure as the faint scent of roses lingered in the air, as you made your way down the corridor.

“Sleep well, wife,” he called after you, his voice carrying that maddening blend of amusement and promise. “You’ll dream of me before long.”

You didn’t look back, though your lips curved faintly as you rounded the corner. “Not likely,” you murmured under your breath — but even as you said it, you knew it for a lie.

If the gods had cursed you with Daemon Targaryen, they had done so knowingly. For all his temper, his wickedness, and his arrogance, the man was beautiful. And worse still — he knew it.

Despite the growing ease between you and Daemon, there were still some in the court who looked upon the change with thinly veiled displeasure. Power unsettled men like Otto Hightower — especially when it didn’t belong to them.

Daemon had been gone for days, called to Dragonstone on some errand for Viserys, and though you would never admit it aloud, the castle felt quieter in his absence. You told yourself it was a welcome reprieve — fewer stares, fewer annoying grins, fewer games — but there were moments when you caught yourself missing the sound of his voice, the heat of his presence. You buried the thought quickly.

When the summons came, you were told it was a matter of court business — routine, nothing more. But the moment you stepped into the council chamber, you knew better.

Viserys sat slumped at the head of the table, his crown slightly askew, weariness written in every line of his face. Beside him stood Otto Hightower, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression smooth as polished marble. Around them sat a small cluster of lords and septons — enough to make the meeting official.

“My lady,” Otto said as you approached, inclining his head with mock civility. “We thank you for attending on such short notice. Please, be seated.”

You didn’t move. “What is this?”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering between you and his Hand. “There have been… concerns raised,” he began, his tone hesitant. “You understand how closely the court watches the stability of the royal line. It has been several months since your wedding to my brother and…” His words trailed off as he rubbed at his temple. “Questions have been asked.”

You stared at him, suspicion already twisting in your gut. “Questions,” you repeated slowly. “About what?”

“About heirs,” Otto said smoothly, seizing the opening. “Or rather—” he paused, letting the silence linger for a moment, “—the lack thereof.”

For a heartbeat, you could only stare at him, the meaning of his words sinking in like ice water down your spine. Then disbelief hardened into fury.

“You summon me before the council,” you began coldly, taking a step closer to the table, “to discuss my womb?”

Otto smiled faintly, the perfect picture of reason. “Not to discuss, my lady — merely to clarify,” he said smoothly. “You see, the matter has caused… some unrest. There are whispers that perhaps the marriage has not been—” he paused delicately, “—fruitful.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails biting into the polished wood. “Fruitful,” you repeated, the word falling from your tongue like venom. “Tell me, Lord Hand — are you in the habit of inquiring into the private matters of every marriage in the realm, or only those that inconvenience you?”

Otto’s expression didn’t flicker. His tone remained calm, reasonable — the voice of a man who hid malice behind measured words. “I inquire only when the stability of the realm may be affected,” he replied smoothly. “The King’s council must consider every possibility. You and Prince Daemon have been wed for—” he glanced down at a parchment, the motion purely performative, “—five months. No announcement has been made. No signs of an heir. Naturally, the court wonders if perhaps the gods have seen fit to close the womb of the Princess.”

The air in the chamber seemed to still at the thinly veiled implication.

Your jaw tightened, but your voice, when it came, was soft and cutting. “Careful, my lord. The gods are fickle creatures. They might decide to close your mouth next.”

A few of the lords shifted, uncertain whether to look at you or the Hand.  Otto, of course, merely smiled — that thin, patronizing curve of his lips that made you want to drive a goblet straight through his throat. “I assure you, Princess,” he said mildly, “no offence was meant. But when the succession of the realm may hang in the balance, His Grace is right to seek certainty.”

You stared at him, the realization sliding into place like a dagger between ribs. This wasn’t about heirs. It wasn’t about the stability of the realm. Otto Hightower, ever the vulture, had scented blood — your rising influence, your ability to temper Daemon’s fury—and meant to get rid of you down before you became unassailable.

Turning toward the King, you met Viserys’s weary gaze, disbelief and anger threading through your voice. “Surely, you don’t mean to entertain this insult.”

Viserys shifted again, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not an insult, child,” he said, his voice carrying that weary gentleness he used when trying to placate. “Merely… a concern. You know how these things spread. If the marriage is troubled, it would be better to resolve it quietly before others make assumptions.”

Resolve it quietly. The words settled like ice in your chest. He meant annulment.

Otto’s eyes gleamed — the satisfaction barely hidden behind his veneer of civility. “The Faith could be called to confirm the matter, of course,” he added smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “A physician or septa might—”

The doors slammed open.

The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder.

Daemon strode in. His cloak billowed behind him, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, and though his expression was deceptively calm, the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. Every man in the room went still. Even Otto Hightower’s composure faltered.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Daemon drawled lazily. “I’d hate to interrupt such an important meeting.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Viserys exhaled heavily, already bracing himself. “Daemon…” he began, but it was useless.

The prince was already in motion, his steps measured — a predator circling prey. His gaze swept over the gathered lords, past the nervous septons, before locking on Otto like a dragon sizing up a meal.

“I heard,” Daemon said, his voice low but carrying easily through the room, “that my wife was summoned before the council.” He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Imagine my curiosity when I discovered the topic of discussion was of our martial bed.”

He reached your side in three long strides, his arm winding around your waist and pulling you close without hesitation. The sudden gesture was possessive, protective and it startled you more than you cared to admit. You had expected to stand alone in your defence; part of you had even braced for Daemon to use this as an opportunity to accept an annulment and cast you aside.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood beside you, unyielding, his hand firm against your hip as though daring anyone in the chamber to try and take you from him. Whatever else he was to you—your unwanted husband, your tormentor, your frustration—right now, he was your shield, and the weight of his presence filled the room like a drawn sword.

“So tell me, my lords,” Daemon drawled, his tone deceptively casual, “which of you volunteered to climb into my bed in my stead?”

An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the room, the councillors shifting uncomfortably at the implication. No one dared to meet his eye.

Otto’s composure faltered only for a breath before he recovered. “Your Grace, no one meant offence,” he said quickly, though his voice carried an edge. “Concerns were raised for the good of the realm—”

“Concerns,” Daemon echoed, turning his head toward the Hand with slow, deliberate menace. “About what, exactly? My performance? My wife’s virtue?” His smile thinned, the faintest hint of a snarl curling beneath the words. “Or is this your latest attempt to worm your way deeper into my brother’s ear?”

Otto straightened, his restraint beginning to fray. “I advise the King as duty requires,” he replied tightly. “The realm must have heirs.”

Daemon’s expression sharpened, all trace of humour gone. “And you presume to dictate when they come?” His tone dropped lower. “Or from whose womb?”

“Of course not,” Otto began smoothly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his intent. “However, if your wife cannot fulfill her duties, it would be prudent to consider other options. My daughter, Alicent—”

“Alicent Hightower?” Daemon scoffed, his laughter low and mocking. “The only thing she could breed is boredom.”

The insult hit its mark. A few of the councillors coughed into their hands, poorly hiding their amusement. Otto’s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of fury breaking through his polished restraint.

“I have no interest in your spawn,” Daemon continued sharply, each word laced with venom. He leaned forward, his head angling just over your shoulder, his voice dropping to a low growl that slithered through the chamber like smoke. “And the next time you dare to question my wife’s worth—or her body—you’ll be counting your teeth instead of heirs.”

You fought the urge to smirk, but gave in to the temptation of leaning into him, placing your hand to rest over his. It was a simple gesture, but it showed your solidarity. Daemon Targaryen had once claimed he was not your dragon, yet here he stood, defending you as fiercely as one. And though he infuriated you more than any man alive, you had no intention of letting him go either.

“This is unseemly,” Otto hissed, his composure splintering. “The Prince misinterprets the council’s intent.”

Viserys rose from his seat, attempting calm though his tone frayed with irritation. “Daemon, enough,” he said, voice heavy with exasperation. “The matter was only raised to ensure stability—”

“Then let me assure you, brother,” Daemon said, his tone dropping to something low and dangerous, “my marriage is quite stable. And as for heirs—”

He turned toward you, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile that made heat creep up your neck. “They will be provided when I decide the time is right. In the meantime, how my wife and I fuck in our marital bed should not be of concern to anyone in this hall.”

Ignoring the gasps rippled that through the chamber. He turned on his heel, using the hand on your waist to guide you to follow him out of the chamber. The doors slammed behind you, the echo reverberating through the marble corridor, leaving a stunned silence in your wake.

Only when the noise of the council faded did you finally exhale, tension bleeding from your shoulders. “You didn’t need to do that,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

Daemon’s tone was calm as he took you in. “If you think I’d let them humiliate you while I breathe, wife,” he said softly, “then you truly don’t know me yet.”

You turned to look at him—and for the first time since your marriage, there was no mockery in his eyes. No smirk. No cruel amusement.

“Why?” you asked, your voice low. “You made it quite clear you never wanted this marriage. That was your chance to be rid of me.”

Daemon stopped walking. The torchlight from the corridor flickered across his face, throwing sharp shadows over the hard lines of his jaw. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He only studied you, eyes dark and searching, as though weighing truths he’d rather keep buried.

Finally, he said quietly, “I didn’t want a marriage forced on me.” His voice had lost its usual bite—no swagger, no arrogance—just the faint rasp of honesty. “But I’ll be damned before I let Otto Hightower, or anyone else, decide what’s mine to keep or discard.”

You stared at him, uncertain whether to scoff or believe him. “So this is about pride, then?” you asked, your tone measured. “Possession?”

He gave a faint, humourless huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching but never quite forming a smile. “At first,” he admitted. “Perhaps. But pride doesn’t make a man ride through the night when he hears his wife’s being paraded before the council and being accused that she is some barren broodmare.”

Your breath caught — just a fraction. You searched his face, expecting him to be mocking you, but what you found instead was something dangerously close to sincerity.

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him seeped through the thin layers of your gown. 

“You’ve done what no one else at court has managed,” he said, voice low, roughened by truth. “You’ve made them listen. You’ve made them respect me—support me—without ever drawing a single blade. You stood before them with nothing but your tongue and your will, and you bent the court to heel. You’re a threat to Otto, and that’s why he went after you today.”

Your pulse quickened, steady composure slipping beneath the weight of his words. “And that’s why you defended me?”

“No,” he said simply. “I defended you because I wanted to.”

The air between you grew heavier. You could feel it — the shift that had been building for weeks now was impossible to ignore.

You tried to look away, but he reached out—gloved fingers brushing beneath your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You are my wife, from now until my death, you are mine to protect.”

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. The fierce promise in his eyes rooted you in place, stealing the air from your lungs. You searched his face for the lie—for that familiar smirk that always followed his provocations—but it never came. Daemon Targaryen—your infuriating, impossible husband—was entirely, terrifyingly sincere.

“So let them whisper about heirs all they like,” he murmured. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about soon enough.”

You swallowed hard, forcing composure back into your voice. “You think one grand gesture and a few flowery words erase months of your cruelty?”

His thumb grazed the line of your jaw. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s a start.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I hope this doesn’t mean you expect me to let you into my bed.”

A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, a glimmer of the man you knew too well. “I’ve told you, wife,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “When I touch you, it will be because you begged me to—not because some fat lords on a council demand it.”

“I may not have wanted this marriage,” Daemon said. “But the thought of losing you… that, I find I want even less.” His gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “They thought forcing this marriage would tame me,” he murmured, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “But all they’ve done is tie me to the one person as untameable as myself. You and I—we were never meant to be gentle. A dragon needs fire to burn…” His thumb brushed once more against your skin, the gesture feeling less like flirtation and more like a vow. “And I’ve found mine.”

For once, you didn’t have a sharp retort. The words lingered between you, fragile and unguarded, like something that might shatter if either of you dared to break it. Your gaze danced between his, taking in the depth of his lilac eyes, and slowly—almost against your better judgment—you stepped forward, your hand resting lightly against his chest.

He stilled beneath your touch, watching you closely as you leaned up, your lips brushing his softly. Daemon’s breath hitched, and then he returned the kiss instantly—hungry, wanting, alive. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it burned like wildfire. You were the one to pull away first.

“Thank you, Daemon,” you murmured, your voice softer now, though not without its steel. “For coming to my defence—and for your honesty. Perhaps… there’s hope for us yet.”

He released your wrist, stepping back just enough to let you go. His gaze lingered on your face, unreadable. “Rest, wife,” he murmured, his tone softer than you had ever heard it. “The realm can damn itself for all I care. They’ll not touch you again.”

You hesitated only a moment before offering the faintest of smiles. “Goodnight, husband.”

Daemon’s lips curved, the ghost of a grin playing there. “Goodnight, wife.”

And as you walked away, your steps echoing down the quiet corridor, neither of you could quite ignore the truth that had finally taken root—whatever bound you together was no longer duty, nor politics, nor the will of others.

It was something far more dangerous.

Immersing yourself in the talk of ladies was like entering the lion’s den.

The year was 208 AC, and the place? Maidenpool.

Proud banners bearing the red salmon on white snapped along the castle walls. Hosted by House Mooton, the tourney grounds sprawled beyond the stony barriers of the keep, its pale towers rising over the waters of Blackwater Bay.

Knights had come from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms—hedge knights with rust upon their mail and hope in their hearts, heirs to great titles clad in enameled plate, and veterans of past rebellions bearing scars like badges of honor. The lists stood ready. The melee grounds were churned to mud. Smallfolk crowded the outer rails, wagering coppers and cheering any man who unhorsed another.

House Mooton’s persistent loyalty to House Targaryen all but guaranteed the presence of the Dragon House at the tourney. To most, it was a simple gesture of fealty rewarded with royal favor. To keener eyes, it suggested something more intricate. The dragons were long dead, and the dynasty’s claim now seemed to hang by little more than two fraying threads of yarn. Appearances mattered more than ever.

Yesterday’s welcoming feast had made that plain.

The hall had blazed with candlelight and color—salmon banners draped between tall windows, trestle tables groaning beneath roasted meats and sweet Arbor wine. Music drifted through the chamber, laughter rising and falling like waves against the bay.

You had taken your place among the ladies, entertaining those seated on either side with idle talk and harmless rumors. It was not truly diverting, nor were these matters of consequence, but it proved far saner than enduring the pathetic attempts at courtship you had suffered earlier that evening.

Word of your beauty had traveled far—whispered from the ports of Dorne to the frozen reaches of the Wall. You were the daughter of a great house, after all; that of Leo Longthorn was no small distinction. Men approached with rehearsed compliments and wine-flushed confidence, each imagining himself subtle.

You understood your role well enough. A lady was meant to be a prize, a strategically placed bridge between two families, and in time, a mother to heirs. The functions of society held no mystery for you. Yet you had learned to sharpen your own thorns, to guide matters, in your own way, to get what you so desired.

The inability of your very stern father to tell you no, might've been proof enough.

...Still, grace was expected. Composure was required. And you maintained both, even when the audacity of certain men made your skin crawl.

Yet there had been one presence that unsettled you for an altogether different reason.

High above the feast, in the gallery overlooking the hall, sat the royal party. Among them was the Young Prince—Valarr Targaryen—seated beside his formidable father, Baelor Targaryen, known to many as the Hammer.

Valarr did not sit stiffly as some did. He lounged into his chair. Legs spread in careless confidence. One arm draped along the carved armrest, the other resting upon his knee. He spoke with the lords and highborn knights who came to pay homage before the morrow’s lists.

And yet.

At odd moments, just as the hairs along your neck rose with the distinct sensation of being watched, you would begin to turn—only to find his gaze sliding elsewhere. A fraction too late. A shade too deliberate.

Once might have been coincidence.

Twice, perhaps imagination.

But thrice?

No.

Talk in the realm claimed he was soon to be betrothed to some noblewoman of Tyrosh—an alliance meant to tighten the Crown’s hold upon the Stepstones, you'd wager. A prudent match. A political one.

But. Even with that in mind. To say you did not notice the prince’s charm, would be an outright lie.

The faint silver strand that slipped loose near his temple when he inclined his head. The breadth of his shoulders beneath dark silk. The way his hands rested—steady, assured—upon his knee and the arm of his chair. The posture itself, careless and commanding all at once.

You'd place those details together, from the three times alone you've turned to glance at him.

The space between his knees. That lap, spread...

Well.

That was quite enough of... that.

The music changed as the last of the trenchers were cleared away.

It was time to dance.

You had scarcely risen before the first petitioner arrived.

A young knight of House Vance—red-faced but earnest—bowed low and begged the honor. You granted it with a pleasant smile. He was light enough on his feet, though... he trod dangerously close to your hem in his eagerness.

No sooner had you returned to the edge of the floor, when another approached—Ser Denys of House Marbrand, broad-shouldered and confident. His compliments were polished, his laugh a touch too loud.

Then a Frey— A Piper followed. A Darry. Even a Mallister cousin who looked as though he would rather be in armor than silk.

You danced with each as was expected—graceful, measured, untouchable. Switching between them with swiftness.

And all the while, you felt it.

That gaze.

When at last the music softened—lutes replacing fiddles, the tempo gentling into something slower and more deliberate—you turned around from your most recent partner with an incline of your head.

And found him there.

Valarr Targaryen stood before you, brown hair complemented by silver, touched by the torchlight. He had shed the languid posture he’d worn in the gallery; now he stood straight, composed, every inch a prince.

A sly thought unfurled in your mind.

An opening.

It was wrong, your brain tried to reason with you. Were there not talks of him marrying another? It would be most imprudent on your part, to suggest anything at all.

You sank into a curtsy, slow and precise. “My prince.”

He inclined his head in return, eyes of violet-and-brown intent. “My lady.”

As you rose, your fingers shifted.

The brooch at your sleeve, a delicate piece of worked gold, shaped like a rose in bloom, suddenly slipped from your grasp.

To any watching, it would seem a small clumsiness. A poor lady distracted by nerves. A trifle of gold tumbling harmlessly to the rush-strewn floor.

But he saw.

You knew he saw.

The deliberate unfurling of your fingers. The measured release.

His gaze dropped to follow the brooch’s descent. Then lifted—slowly—back to you.

And he smiled.

Not politely.

Not idly.

He smiled, knowingly. With intrigue.

Without hesitation, Prince Valarr—heir to the heir of House Targaryen—went down upon one knee.

The music faltered—not in sound, but in spirit. The air itself seemed to draw tight.

A prince. Kneeling.

For you.

He retrieved the brooch with careful fingers and rose smoothly, stepping so close that you could catch the faint, sweet scent of him.

“My lady,” He said softly. His voice pitched for you alone, though all were listening, "Allow me."

The hall was watching. You felt it—the weight of a hundred stares, the quickening pulse of speculation. Lords pausing mid-sip. Ladies leaning toward one another. Whispers forming before breath even left their lips.

All too familiar. Yet, to be on the receiving end of it all...

He took your hand.

Gently.

His fingers were warm—firm without presumption. He placed the brooch into your palm, but did not release you at once.

Your gaze held his.

“Thank you, my prince,” you replied, the emphasis subtle but unmistakable.

Carefully, unhurried, you pinned the brooch back into place at your sleeve.

You curtsied once more.

And to the quiet astonishment of half the hall, he bowed again—deeper this time. Not mockery. Not mere courtesy.

Acknowledgment.

His eyes never left yours.

He was neither smug nor shy. In a way, he found a way to be a balance of both; he would initiate, wait for you to confirm, and make an attempt at reading you.

You stepped past him then. Allowing your shoulder to brush lightly against his as you went. A fleeting touch. Barely there.

It was enough.

You did not look back.

But he did.

Valarr turned as you crossed the floor toward your lord father, his gaze following the sway of your steps. Conversation resumed behind you in a rush, low and fervent.

As for you?

You kept your composure, your chin high, your expression serene.

Yet beneath the silk and courtesy, beneath the practiced grace and sharpened thorns—

For the first time—

You were genuinely fascinated by someone. And not by titles, or the means of prosperity. Something magnetic, and you swore by the Seven, the Young Prince's face reminded you that of a sweet puppy.

The day of the tourney,

You sat among the highborn in the raised stands, silk skirts arranged just so, posture immaculate. The scent of crushed grass and horseflesh drifted upward with the cheers of the crowd. Below, knights and lords rode forth one by one to present themselves—armor flashing, plumes tossing, destriers stamping.

Your gaze found your father easily.

Leo Tyrell—Leo Longthorn—sat proud in green and gold, the golden rose emblazoned boldly across his surcoat. When his eyes lifted to you, he smiled, confident and certain. He would ride today bearing your favor.

You had woven it yourself in the gardens of Highgarden—braids of soft green silk twined with fresh-cut blossoms: golden roses, of course, their petals full and sun-warm; sprays of pale blue forget-me-nots; tiny white starflowers tucked between for delicacy.

It had been meant for your father. You accompanied him on this tourney with this silent agreement. Though the possibility of a daring jouster asking for it, was never low.

Then the murmuring began.

A shift in the crowd. A stirring that rolled outward like wind through wheat.

He rode onto the field.

Valarr Targaryen emerged beneath the Targaryen banners, his armor dark but chased with red-gold flame. Upon his horse, he sat with effortless command, reins loose in his hands.

He was pretty, you decided, in day's light.

The sharp line of his jaw, the unguarded strength of his shoulders. And when he turned his head, you glimpsed it clearly—the mismatched eyes you had half convinced yourself you imagined the night before. One darker, one lighter. Valarr looked around.

He urged his horse into a brief canter, then drew the reins tight.

The beast halted hard beneath him, powerful haunches bunching; his hips thrust forward with the sudden stop, armor shifting with the motion. The crowd roared—cheers rising not merely for a contender, but for their prince. If he was not the favorite to win the day, he was undeniably the favorite of their hearts.

He circled once.

Then, instead of joining the other riders awaiting their tilts—

He turned toward the stands.

Toward you.

Leo Tyrell had not yet risen. Good, the Young Prince thought.

Valarr guided his horse to the railing below your place, dismounting it in one fluid motion. A squire hurried forward to take his long forgotten helm, but the prince did not look away from you as he passed it off.

Conversations faltered. Valarr stepped closer to the edge of the stands and bowed—not shallow, not careless, but measured. Deliberate.

“My lady,” he called up, voice clear enough to carry yet pitched as though meant only for you. “I find myself at a disadvantage.”

A ripple of amusement moved through the onlookers.

"Your Grace," You now stood above him on the platforms, placing your arms delicately at the railing, musing, "And that is?"

He rested one gloved hand upon the wooden rail, tilting his head slightly. Those eyes of his held yours fast.

“I have ridden this morning without a token to remind me what I ride for.” A faint curve touched his mouth. “Would you grant me the honor of your favor?”

Every eye in the stands burned upon you. Upon the garland resting in your hands, as if you had expected all of it. Upon the prince waiting below.

You instead toyed with the cluster of flowers beneath your fingers. "I find that hard to believe. Surely, your skill is token enough to carry you."

Valarr bit the inside of his cheek, then smiled, "Well, maybe I'm just talking my way around it."

Tilting your head to the side, you smiled reciprocally at the Prince, and you threw the braid of flowers down. They would not collect dirt; he caught them with one hand, however, you could tell he put effort into the snag.

You could only watch as he raised it up like a medal he had earned, turning away with the sway of his cape following like a shadow.

You'd deal with the sourness of your father later.

In the lists of Maidenpool, beneath a sky the color of burnished steel, Ser Humfrey Hardyng stood triumphant amid a chaos of splintered shields and trampled crests. The great melee had ended in a storm of ringing blows and staggered men; Hardyng had overthrown them one by one—Ser Donnel of Duskendale hurled into the mud as proof of it.

The joust had proven no gentler.

Prince Valarr rode beneath sigils of black-and-red, banners of his dynasty snapping in the wind. An irritation would surface in his eyes, but he’d cover it up with something more pleasant. Across him, stood a Dornish knight of House Dayne. They dismounted their horses to exchange congratulations.

They broke twelve lances in all.

Each pass thundered through the bones. Each impact sent a shudder through horse and rider alike. Valarr fought valiantly—seat steady, aim true, refusing to be unhorsed by anything less than perfection. The crowd’s cries swelled and broke like waves against stone, and somewhere amid the valor—amid the crack of ashwood and the gasp of thousands—your chest warmed.

He did not win.

On the thirteenth tilt, the Dayne’s lance struck square and merciless. Valarr reeled, clung, and finally yielded the pass. He kept his saddle, but the decision was clear. The star of Dayne had taken the field.

But you did not care for him.

Amidst the strained pleasantries, the both of them caught sight of you, slipping from the stands with steps directed to the entourage of your father.

The Dayne knight recovered first, urgency sharpening his tone as he turned toward you. “Lady Tyrell! I hope you enjoyed the joust. The farewell banquet—your lord father said he’d attend, are y—”

You inclined your head politely, skirts whispering over the trampled grass.

And passed him by.

The movement was seamless, almost gentle in its dismissal, as though he were no more than a breeze at your shoulder. You did not slow. You did not falter.

Instead, you stopped before the prince.

Your curtsey to Valarr was deeper—measured, attentive, deliberate in its grace. Sunlight caught in your hair as you straightened, a soft smile curving your lips.

“You fought well, my prince,” you said warmly. “Keep the favor. You deserved it.”

Valarr blinked.

For a fleeting heartbeat he seemed still caught in the tilt—still braced for impact. Then reality returned all at once: the loss, the broken lances, the weight of ribbon on him. Color touched his cheeks, subtle but undeniable. His arms were crossed behind his back.

He nodded—wordless, almost startled—and offered what might generously be called a bow in return. It was stiff, uncertain, more instinct than courtly polish. A prince of the realm reduced to something almost boyish.

Carrying less than the certain pride he wore earlier. You understood; a Prince of the realm should be no less than perfect. To lose would slightly crack both his ego and the expectations around him. With the latter, you could sympathize. He still took the loss gallantly. That— you could respect.

As you began to slide forward toward the banners of House Tyrell, Dornish knight still in disbelief, you felt an armoured arm grasp as gently as it could at your wrist. Quite taken aback, you turn.

“I hope to see you at tonight’s banquet,” Valarr knew quickly to regain his composure— his eyes searched yours, and much quieter, he said, “Jonquil’s Tower overlooks a pond on its northern side.”

You wanted to snap back with a sly remark, perhaps one that was two-edged— sweet on the ears, but hidden in meaning. However, the warmth of his hand on your wrist made it hard to think of such a comment. It was your turn to nod now, slow and understanding.

“All with good honor.” You responded, voice smaller than before, and the two of you parted. Resuming your positions— his of conversing with the rest of lords and knights alike, and yours of trailing into the direction that lead to your father.

Were you wooed by a man, expecting another?

Perhaps.

You would find your answer soon enough.

And Gods, what was that imbecilic prodding of your heart against your chest? Were you truly this easy?

A calculated smile found its way to your face. Composure is all that mattered with so many eyes following.

But a pond, huh?

That farewell banquet was short of underwhelming. No sight of Valarr. But that was not the main reason; it was the same as any other function, you would be again swarmed by suitors and insufferable nobility who had never grown tired of useless condemning and gossip of people at court.

You entertained the Dornish knight from today's tourney, gave him an elegant and adequate dance he could remember, then swiftly slid off to a place you prayed would be far less boring. You followed where the bannerpoles of House Mooton would be etched into the castlewalls north-way, unchaperoned, searching for a sign of a certain water source.

The pond lay still beneath the moon, its surface silvered like beaten steel. Tall grasses—foxtail and sweet vernal—bowed softly in the night breeze, brushing your skirts as you sat upon the oak plank that rested atop the sand.

You had nearly convinced yourself you were alone.

A twig snapped somewhere beyond the reeds.

“You actually came."

His voice was low, warm, threaded with quiet amusement.

You turned.

He stood just beyond the reach of the moonlight at first, but as he stepped forward, the silver glow caught him. His complexion, fair even in daylight, seemed almost luminous beneath the stars—pale skin washed in blue light. A strand of silver stood out from the rest of the brown curls.

You rose, your hand twirling circles in the pond's water. “I did.”

He glanced at the pond and your fingers. “I doubted it."

"Disappoint a prince?” you asked lightly. “I would never be so cruel.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You were rather cruel at the welcoming feast.”

“Was I?”

“You slipped away,” he said, stepping closer. “Before I could so much as ask your name properly. But I figured by the golden rose sigil.”

“You seemed content enough in the gallery,” you replied. “I thought it best to leave you at that.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Sure, I was content, alright."

The air between you shifted—less performance now, more something unguarded.

He moved to stand beside you at the water’s edge rather than opposite you. It felt deliberate. Not confrontation, but company. Your shoulders, only inches apart.

“You are a little unusual,” he said, after a moment.

“How so?” you asked.

“…Different to the ones who look at me and see only what I am meant to represent.” His mismatched gaze flicked toward you. “A title."

“And what is it you see when you look at me?” you countered.

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he crouched, idly tracing a finger through the pond’s surface, sending ripples outward.

“I saw you the day House Tyrell arrived in Maidenpool,” he said quietly. “Before the feast. Before the brooch.”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Ah. So we arrive at the brooch.”

He smiled openly now. “You dropped it with such precision I nearly applauded.”

“It was an accident,” you said, though your smile said otherwise.

“Ah. Of course it was.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Most men are charmed by girls who are fragile. Or innocent.” Your voice softened slightly. “I am neither, I think. I am not suited for battle, or swords. But I am not made of glass, either."

“No,” He agreed easily. “You are not.”

A small silence settled, but it was not uncomfortable.

“You bent to pick it up regardless,” You added, phrasing it more like a question.

“I would have,” He said. “Even if it had truly been an accident.”

“I thought it funny,” he continued. “Intriguing. Our realm could use more wit."

You smiled at him then—genuine, unarmored.

The moment felt too soft. Too real.

So you sighed dramatically and nudged your slipper into the pond, flicking a splash of water onto his boot.

“They say you are ‘trothed to a woman from the Free Cities, I hear.”

He arched a brow, droplets darkening the leather at his toe. “So you listen to stories of me?” His lips twitched. “Quite obsessed.”

You gave him a flat look.

He laughed, the sound unrestrained now. “I am not betrothed. Not yet. The arrangement is… progressing. Quietly. Toward a conclusion in which I marry a lady I have never met.”

“And how romantic,” You murmured. Something about it made your heart drop slightly.

“Mm.” He tipped his head. “It is not the worst fate. She comes to a foreign land. Marries a foreign man. It will be harder for her than it ever will be for me.”

You studied his profile in the moonlight. For all the princely pride, there was something thoughtful there. Something aware.

“Do you resent it?” You asked.

"...What exactly?"

"All of this."

“No.” He paused. “But I resent that it is assumed I should not feel anything about anything, ever."

Your breath caught faintly.

“That I should be iron,” He continued. “Unbending. Unquestioning. A dragon does not complain about the direction of the wind.” His gaze shifted to you. “And you? Do they assume you are content with whichever banner you are handed?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “They assume I will smile. And that will be enough.”

“And is it?”

“No,” You admitted.

The word hung between you, fragile in its own way.

He shifted closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the warmth of him against the chill of the night air.

“You are not fragile,” he said again, quieter this time. “You are… deliberate. You see the board. You know the rules. But you still choose to move your own pieces.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of your heartbeat.

“And you?” You asked softly. “Do you move your own pieces, Your Grace?”

The look in his eyes faltered. He pondered it, then replied, "I try."

The pond lapped gently at the shore. A night bird called somewhere beyond the trees.

He studied you then—not boldly, not hungrily. Simply… carefully.

“…I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen,” he said at last, voice steady. You blinked, and despite having heard it before, the flutters it sent when he said it were admittedly different, “But no matter that.” His gaze softened, something almost vulnerable flickering there. “You are probably one of the most interesting people I’ve met as well.”

The words did not feel rehearsed.

They felt chosen. Chosen only for you. Not a lady of the Reach, a potential wife or connection.

Surprised despite yourself, you managed to respond, "Probably?"

Valarr laughed, and you found it to be a sweet sound. "Most certainly." Wind hushed between you quietly, forcing the sway of your hair with it. The prince's own cape flowed along with the breeze.

He leaned over, and his hand hovered over your face for a moment, before he moved the loose strands out of your view.

A few strands, he would tuck behind your ear.

A few seconds passed, and the two of you looked at each other. Really looked at each other.

His eyes searched yours, perhaps for permission. You did not give it with words. Only a closing of the distance between you as you leaned into him.

The first touch of his mouth against yours was careful. Almost as if... testing. Questioning.

Tension that had stretched between you. Glances, witty remarks, idle flirtation, unspooled at once. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, drawing you closer. Not forceful. Just certain.

Your fingers curled into the fabric at his chest as you answered the kiss, no longer tentative. The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the warmth of him against the cool night air, the faint taste of wine and something unmistakably him.

It was not frantic.

It was not innocent either.

It was slow, deliberate. Like the two of you. A kiss that saw you, felt you, if only for just moments.

When he deepened it—barely—you felt the quiet hum of it through your bones. Duty, honor, strategy. And yet here you were, abandoning strategy for something achingly human.

When at last you parted, it was only by inches. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His breath mingled with yours in soft, uneven rhythm.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

The pond lapped gently at the shore, as if nothing monumental had occurred.

But everything had shifted.

His thumb brushed, almost unconsciously, against your waist. “I think,” he murmured, voice softer, “I have wanted to do that since the feast."

A breathless laugh escaped you, though your heart was still racing. “Then you have remarkable restraint, my prince."

“Just Valarr is alright,” He replied, with a grin overtaking his features, "...If you don't mind."

You nodded after a bit, testing his name out, watching his eyes sparkle slightly.

What a mess you've made of things.

Did you mention you were good at getting the things you wanted?

Aerion's hand held your head in place, his fingers intertwined with your hair. “Who do you belong to?” He breathed out through ragged breaths.

“You.” You said. Your words muffled against the plush pillow Aerion had shoved your face into.

Your fingers gripped the silk sheets as he pounded into you with unforgiving strokes. His other hand is firm on the small of your back, keeping you in place.

You could tell he was close by the way he leaned down, and his pace faltered. “Again.” He said.

He yanked your head back by your hair; his mouth was on your neck. “Say it again.” He said, his grip tightened in your hair when you did not answer fast enough.

“You—Aerion, I belong to you.”

His hand moved to your hip, his nails dug into your skin. “Fuck—“ With a groan, he bottomed out. You felf the twitch of his fingers.

Then his grip on your hair loosened, and he placed his arm on the mattress beside your head. Holding himself up. He rested his forehead against the back of your hair. He took a few uneven breaths before pulling himself from your cunt.

He stood, which allowed you to roll over. You felt the warmth of him between your legs. A bath would be nice, you think. He moved across the room, not bothering to cover himself.

He stood before the hearth, the firelight caught in his silver hair and along the sharp curve of his jaw. He pours two goblets of the bitter wine he liked. He was beautiful. You think.

“What are you staring at?” He muttered and looked over to where you still sat. You realized you were staring longer than intended. He brought the rim of his goblet to his lips.

You did not respond. You stood, gathering the discarded gown at your feet. “What are you doing?” he asked.

You smoothed out the sleeves and adjusted your neckline. “I am required early in the morning.” You answered.

He scoffed, and settled onto the chaise with one arm thrown over the back. He did not look at you again. “If you’re going, then go.” He took another drink and set the goblet down, he closed his eyes as he leaned back into the pillows.

You looked at him for a moment. You fought the urge to walk over there and throw yourself against him. To press your ear against his bare chest and listen to his heart beat against it.

Gods, you hated him.

You turned and left without another word. The doors of his chambers closed behind you. You pressed your back to it and scanned the empty corridors for anybody other than the sleeping guard in the corner.

How did you end up here, again? You think.

Aerion had ignored you three days prior. Not even a lingering gaze. You thought about what you must have done to upset him, but nothing came to mind. Then, as you were retiring for the evening, he found you. Leaned against your door with crossed arms.

“I missed your presence.” He said, pushing from the door and pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I have not gone anywhere.” You said.

He hummed, his eyes moving from yours to your lips. Then he nudged his head with a raised brow. You stared at him for a moment and then followed him.

You suppose this was his way of making it up to you.

You arrived in Kings Landing nearly one year ago. Your father had sent you to serve as a companion for the Queen Myriah Martell. He believed it would be an advantageous opportunity for you. To serve the crown and find a husband along the way.

You have not found a husband, only a temperamental prince.

You should have stayed, you think. But you were still upset with him for ignoring you. However, you should be familiar with it by now. You walked this path a hundred times from his chambers to yours. A right turn, then straight, down a staircase, then right again.

You turned left instead. You found yourself in the gardens, where the air is cooler. The scent of flowers and damp earth reminded you of home. The flowers were still open despite the late hour; the pale blooms stood out in the dark. You could hear the quiet flow of water from the fountain down the path.

You stopped in front of a rose bush. For a moment, you just looked. Then your hand brushed the petals lightly. A deep red bloom that reminded you of Aerion.

His red silk doublets, the blood on his lip when you bit him too hard, the red bitter wine he liked. He let you leave without protest; you had not expected him to ask you to stay, and he never did. But you wish he would.

Heat stung behind your eyes. You blinked hard; you weren’t going to cry. Your fingers curled slightly and crushed the petal without realizing it. You pulled your hand back and kicked the bush. A thorn caught on your slipper before snapping free, making you stumble slightly.

It didn’t help. You kicked it again, harder. Petals fell to the ground around you. You wanted to yell, but it would create a spectacle.

“Have the roses offended you, my lady?”

The voice came from behind. You froze for a moment then turned. Prince Valarr stood a few feet away. He was not dressed for court this evening. He wore fitted leathers beneath a heavier cloak, fastened simply at his shoulder. One hand rested loosely at his side, the other near the fold of his cloak.

You became painfully aware of how you must look in this moment. Hair undone and disheveled, your eyes still stung, likely red despite your efforts not to cry. Petals were scattered at your feet, and the bush was now uneven from where your foot had struck it.

Heat crept up your neck. You must have looked utterly mad. Your mouth opened, “I—“ You caught yourself and stepped back to dip into a curtsy far too clumsy for your station. “My prince.” You said, straightening again.

Your hands came together in front of you, more for something to do than anything else. You looked at him, his brow slightly raised. “They were in the way.” You said, only realizing after how foolish that sounded.

Valarr's eyes looked over you. Then his lips curled into a smile. “Of course, I will have it removed at once.”

You stepped forward, “No, my prince, I did not mean—“

He let out a breathy chuckle. “I jest.” He said.

You bit your lip, trying to prevent yourself from embarrassing yourself further. “Goodnight.” You said, moving to rush past him, but his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist.

You turned, brows furrowed. You looked down to where his hand was clasped around you. His touch was soft; he must not have meant to because he quickly let go. Swallowing hard. “Are you well, my lady?” He asked.

You nodded, possibly too quickly to be convincing. “Yes, my prince. I am quite well, I just—“ Your words fell short and you failed to think of an explanation. “I will go.” You said and took a step back.

“You should have an escort, I could—“ He stepped closer.

You stopped him, “No!” You bit your lip again. You stepped back. “I am fine.” You said, softer than before.

He looked at you with a mix of confusion and concern. Before he could speak again, you lowered your head quickly and lifted your skirts, leaving the gardens.

Gods, that was utterly humiliating.

-

“Your tea will grow cold if you continue to gawk at the prince, dear.”

Your eyes snapped to the Queen. “What?” You asked, and your cheeks turned red.

She laughed softly when she brought her cup to her lips. Queen Myriah Martell was kind. She sat across from you. Her dark hair was braided down her shoulder and threaded with a few grey streaks. When you first came to court, it was all very overwhelming. But the queen made it easier. She had been far from home, too—Dorne for her, the Reach for you. It wasn’t the same, but it was enough. You liked her.

“Our little flower has quite lost her heart,” Lady Laerra Jordayne said.

“The young prince is much admired. One can hardly blame her,” Lady Edeline Arryn replied.

You gripped your cup a little tighter when their soft laughter followed. They were not being cruel, you knew that. It was the teasing older women used, like they already knew the answers to everything you did not, which made it worse.

“The prince?” You asked. You glanced back toward the training yard, only a short distance from where you sat. It was easy enough to see them from here—Prince Valarr among the others, his younger brother Matarys beside him. Prince Aerion stood not far off, with his brother Aegon nearby, surrounded by squires and knights in the yard. You quickly understood that they thought you were watching Valarr. You had not been.

“My grandson looks parched,” The queen said thoughtfully. “We should have him brought over.”

A quiet laugh passed between the other ladies. Lady Laerra hid it behind her cup, while Lady Edeline only smiled and nodded.

Then the queen turned to you. “Would you fetch him for me, dear?”

A servant could have done it. Any one of them, easily. There was no reason it needed to be you. Except there was. You could feel it by how the other ladies had gone quiet and the way they watched you with amusement. You knew exactly what she was doing, and you did not want to.

Still, you set your cup down. “Of course, Your Grace.”When you stood, you could still hear their soft laughter, barely concealed behind cups and polite murmurs. It followed you a few steps, and it irritated you more than it should have.

You kept your expression composed, your back straight as you walked away, though your jaw had tightened slightly.

The closer you got to the training yard, the louder it became—the clash of practice blades, the low shouts, the dull thud of movement against packed earth. The ground was uneven near the edge, worn down from use and damp in some places.

You lifted your skirts carefully as you approached. You kept the fabric bunched in your hands to keep the hem from dragging through the mud. You stopped just at the edge.

Aerion had broken away from the others without hesitation and moved in your direction. He was flushed from exertion, skin damp with sweat, his silver hair pushed back.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you felt the heat coming off him. His gaze flicked over you once. “What do you want?”

He was too easy to look at. Too easy to forget yourself around. You forced your attention back where it needed to be. “The queen has requested Prince Valarr.” You said.

For a second, he didn’t move and just looked at you. Then his tongue dragged briefly along his bottom lip before he turned his head away from you. “Valarr,” he called, voice carried easily across the yard.

Valarr approached, his attention settled on you first. Up close, he looked much the same, damp with sweat, breath still not fully even, his tunic clung at his chest where it had darkened. His hair pushed back roughly. He rested his arm lightly against the pommel of his sword.

“You need something, my lady?” Valarr asked with a soft smile.

“Your grandmother—the uh, queen—she has asked for you,” you said. “She thought you might… want refreshment. Lemonade.” It sounded worse aloud.

Behind you, Aerion gave a quiet scoff. Valarr did not look at him. “She sent you to escort me, I presume?” he asked.

You nodded once.

He glanced briefly at his sleeve, at the state of himself, then back to you, “I would offer you my arm,” he said apologetically, “but I fear I would ruin your gown. Perhaps you’ll lead the way.”

Aerion shook his head slightly and stepped away to rejoin the others. You hesitated only a second before turning, Valarr falling beside you. You glanced back for a moment and saw Aerion watching you through narrowed eyes, then you looked away.

When the two of you reached the edge of the gardens, Queen Myriah looked up. “Valarr,” she said warmly.

He inclined his head as he stepped forward. “Grandmother.”

“Come, sit,” she urged and gestured to the open chair beside her.

You moved back to your place and smoothed your skirts as you sat. Valarr took the seat beside you. A servant stepped forward and poured him a glass of lemonade “Thank you,” he said, taking it with a small nod before he brought it to his lips.

Queen Myriah's gaze flickered between the two of you for only a moment before speaking again, her tone light, “Have you met Lady Tyrell?”

Valarr glanced at you. “In passing,” he said.

You felt a bit of relief that he did not mention the gardens. You nodded in agreement and looked down. Then he turned slightly toward you and smiled. “You’ve been at court some time now, haven’t you?” He asked.

You turned to look at him. “A few moons,” You answered.

“And has it been terribly disappointing?” he asked.

Your mouth curled slightly. “No, my prince.” You answered, your finger toyed with the handle of your cup. “It is certainly different, however.”

“I imagine it is,” he said. “I suspect the Reach has better gardens.”

“It does.” You said.

“Then we’ve already failed you.”

“Only slightly.”

“Only slightly?” he repeated, his expression amused.

A soft laugh came from beside you. “She corrects you already,” Lady Laerra said.

“As she should,” Lady Edeline added. “It keeps men from growing too certain.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you did not look at them. Valarr did not seem bothered. If anything, his expression softened, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly when he glanced at you. Up close, it was easier to notice his details. There was a faint streak of silver that ran through his otherwise dark hair from the top of his ear to the nape of his neck. You liked that. You thought.

“Do you spend much time in the yard?” you asked. What a stupid question, you think. Of course he does.

“Most of the time. Until someone is sent to fetch me.” He said.

Your eyes widened slightly. “I am terribly sorry—“

“No,” he cut in gently, “I am glad you did.”

Queen Myriah set her cup down and glanced between you. “Valarr dear,” she said lightly, “tell us something. We’ve had nothing but tea. Surely you have a bit of gossip for us old ladies and Lady Tyrell.”

Valarr laughed and shook his head, amused. “Grandmother, I don’t think I know any gossip.”

—

The hall had grown louder as the night went on. Voices blurred together, laughter rose and fell in waves, the clatter of cups and music filled the space until it all felt the same. You sat where you were meant to, but your attention had long since drifted. Your gaze rested somewhere unfocused across the room, your fingers traced the rim of your cup.

“You look miserable.”

The voice came from beside you. You turned your head slightly. Aerion stood there with one shoulder angled towards you.

“I’m fine,” you said.

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Right.”

“I am,” you added.

“Mm,” he said, like he didn’t believe you in the slightest. He only tilted his head slightly. “Come on,”

You turned away from him. “I should not.”

“You’re going to sit here all night?” he asked and glanced briefly around the hall. “That sounds unbearable.”

“I am fine here.” You said.

He huffed a soft breath, unconvinced. “Get up.”

Gods, you hated him.

You set your cup down, then stood smoothing your skirts out of habit, trying to make it look like nothing. Aerion had already moved and you followed. No one stopped you. The hall was loud enough, crowded enough that you went unnoticed. You slipped between tables and servants and kept close behind him. He pushed open a side door without slowing, and you stepped through after him.

You had only taken a few steps when his hand caught yours, and he pulled you sharply to the side, into a narrow alcove set into the stone. Your back hit the wall next to the single window, where the pale light filtered through.

“Aerion—” You began to speak, but his mouth was already on your neck and he pressed warm kisses down to your collarbone. Your breath caught, and your hands lifted instinctively before you could stop yourself, they hovered for a second before settling against him.

His hands found your waist and he pressed his fingers against the fabric of your gown and pulled you closer. You could feel his arousal through his pants pressed against you. His hand slithered up your back until it intertwined with your hair. He gripped it slightly and pulled your head back to look at him.

“I did not know you’d taken such an interest.” He said, his eyes scanned your face.

Your brows pulled slightly. “In what?”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose, like you were missing something obvious. “My cousin,” he said.

“It was not like that.” You said.

His eyes narrowed, then his mouth curved, just slightly. “It wasn’t like that,” he repeated, mimicking you—soft, and careless, but just off enough to make it sting.

You frowned. “I was sent to fetch him.” Why were you defending yourself to him so desperately? You thought.

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly and watched your expression. “That's all?”

“Yes.”

“You blush like it was more.” He said. You felt your stomach twist. His hand released your hair, moving so his thumb caressed your cheek before he drug it softly against your bottom lip.

“He suits you better anyway.” He said. Your heart sank, sharp and sudden, something tight pulled low in your chest before you could stop it. You did not move. did not speak, and for a second, neither did he. Then he leaned in, his mouth found yours.

The first time Maeker saw you, he fell. He didn’t understand why but as he watched you twirl on the dance floor, head tipped back in abandon, he felt something he had not felt in ages. Desire, love and possession all warred within him as he caught sight of you, the oldest Tyrell girl as you twirled on the dance floor like nothing could ever hold you back. 

            All he wanted to do was go to you and take you, press you up against the wall and have his way with you, your laughing voice breaking into pleas of desire, calling his name in breathy tones. All he wanted was you and every time another lord looked at you, he wanted to carve their eyes from their head, toss them on the ground and stomp on them until there was no trace of their sight. Every time you danced with someone, he wanted to cut their hands off and toss them in the fire so no remnant of their touch remained. 

            But he didn’t. 

            He couldn’t. 

            Not yet. 

            The first time Maeker saw you, he was undone. He was undone by you, this joyful bit of sunshine in the halls of the Red Keep, summoned with the rest of your flower garden family, dancing as if that was all there was. As if the galas and dinners weren’t games of political chicken, just waiting to see who would flinch, if anyone. 

            He could see in you an innocence, something he hadn’t seen in years, something so perfect and precious that he wanted it. 

            But at the same moment, he didn’t. He was old, too old for you, too aged and jaded, yet the second you turned from a dance, your shimmering eyes locking onto him, lips curving into a smile, he was truly done. 

            He wanted your innocence, he wanted you. He wanted that laughter, he wanted that smile, those shimmering eyes. He wanted your focus. 

            He wanted you. Only you, only ever you. 

            He wanted your love and your body and everything else that came with you. Every piece of you was what he wanted, all he wanted. And he would destroy anyone who came into his way. Who tried to stop him. 

            Because he wanted you and he would have you. He was the Anvil—no one would prevent him from having you. Not ever. 

            The first time, Maeker saw you was when he decided he would have you. 

            Any way that made it forever.

***

            “Father,” you call, hands holding your skirts up as you run down the halls of Highgarden, skidding along the marble floors in your silk slippers. “Father!”

            “What is it, my precious?” he calls out, stepping out of his solar, hands on his hips and one eyebrow raised. He’s weak with you, too quick to bend to your whims as his only daughter, his precious gem of a rose. The one bloom in his garden that is his but not forever. 

            The one bloom that does not last forever. 

            “The Targaryens are here! We’ve done something to warrant Prince Baelor and Prince Maeker visiting us!” you answer and you watch, surprise flickering through you, as your father’s face tenses, going dark and bitter for a moment before he rebounds and smiles at you, the smile of your father, the one who is about to give you—his sunshine rose—whatever you want. 

            “And you want to throw a dance, I’m assuming?” he asks you and you nod, sliding the rest of the way towards him, miscalculating and falling into his arms, laughing with delight as he holds you tighter than normal, a sigh leaving his body and when you step away, balance entirely regained, you notice tears lining his eyes. 

            “Are you alright, Father?” you ask him, tone light and cheerful, but a thread of concern running deeper, carrying through it. He shakes his head once before smiling, a tired and sad smile at you. 

            “I will be,” he tells you and you nod once, a smile blooming on your face, satisfied with his answer. “Now, go prepare a dance for tonight if that’s what you wish!” And you do what he bid, skidding along the marble floors of the hallway, back towards your solar, your laughter echoing through all of Highgarden, the most pleasant sound in the Seven Kingdoms. 

            And your father turned to his solar, the missive of betrothal arrangements sitting there, the request of Prince Maeker sitting at the very top of the pile, hand-delivered at the end of the gala last month, a timeline of one month on response. 

            And he did not know how to prevent this arrangement, but he was running out of time. 

            And he must be quick. Because he would not let you wither in the garden made of fire. 

***

            Maeker sneers as he dismounts his horse, the elegance of the white marble walls of Highgarden glimmering in sunlight, roses twining around the walkways, growing wild and groomed. He can see you in the flowers, in the sunshine and he remembers the sound of your laughter, the way you looked completely relaxed and at ease, unaware of the whispers and the distaste running through the court. 

            Unaware of the depths of his desire. The desire that has only grown in the month since he has last seen you, since he has seen you twirling and dancing and heard you laughing. He needs you, he has found himself languishing in your absence, the halls of the Keep even darker than normal. 

            He needs you in a way that he has never needed anyone and he is prepared to do what he must to have you. Whether that involves shoving a dagger into your father or fucking in the hallway where anyone could see, where people will see, it does not matter. He will have you. 

            There is nothing he needs and yet, somehow, he needs you. 

            And that is when he sees you, running, skirts flying, hair unbound, streaming behind you as you duck around to the back of the gardens. And he feels that pull in his gut, the one that says follow, the one that says protect.

            Because who knows what could happen to you when you look like that? Who knows what might happen, what people might do?

            What he might do. 

            “Brother,” he calls out, Baelor already halfway to the hall, turning back to look at Maeker, one brow arched. 

            “Yes?” he asks, tone level and yet something lurks underneath it, something darker than normal, something that says he knows about Maeker’s obsession and isn’t pleased. But that he also will not interfere. 

            “I would like to take a turn around the gardens, do you think you could give Lord Tyrell my regards?” Maeker dresses the question up in innocence, yet he can feel his body stirring at the thought of you and him alone, surrounded by nothing but roses, flowers almost as beautiful as you. 

            “That shall be fine,” Baelor says, mind already on what he will have to do to placate the poor lord whose daughter has the misfortune of catching a Targaryen heart. “Just don’t…ruin anything.” And then he is gone, but his parting words signal that he saw what Maeker did, that he knows what Maeker feels. But Maeker does not care. 

            He swore after his Dyanna died that he would love no other and he believed he could hold true to that vow but the moment he saw you…it was like he came alive again. Like suddenly the world had colour and everything was right and proper and perfect. Because of you. 

            Only you. 

            He needs you because without you, he has no life, no world. Instead, he exists, pure and simple, he exists, a shell of a man. He needs you in a way he has never needed anything and certainly anyone. 

            He feels for you things he never thought could be felt. Things he never felt for his Dyanna. Things like protection and possession and obsession. His every thought focuses on you, on what you sound like, what you smell like, look like.

            He thinks of how you would feel underneath him, cunt dripping for him and only him. He thinks of how you would sound in the throes of passion, whether your voice would still ring through like sunshine or whether it would be more like moonlight, darker but no less bright. He thinks of the way your breasts would look, nipples raised and pebbled, the flesh moving with the force of his thrusts, his love. 

            He thinks how you would look dressed in Targaryen red. How you would look swelling with his child, your soft and calm Tyrell blood tempering the insanity of the dragon that ran within him. He could see you as a mother, tender and calm and always laughing. Always happy. 

            He thinks of nothing but you, relentlessly, obsessively. He needs you. 

            And that is when he hears your laughter, the sound like a beacon as he wanders, cutting through acres of yellow roses to see you, twirling, arms outstretched to embrace the sunshine, green dress spinning around you, skirt flaring as you stand amidst the garden of deepest red roses. 

            As if you know who you shall be at the end of day. 

            “My Lady,” he calls out, his tone gruff and darker than he would like, yet he fails to do anything but else. Raising sons has not made him soft. “Do you twirl for the sun often?” He watches as you turn to him, a grin stretched wide across your face. 

            “Every day, Your Grace,” you reply, pausing in the motion, your skirt swishing once, twice before falling still around you. “It’s good for the soul.”

            “Ah,” he says, stepping closer to you, unable to prevent himself from getting close to you. “And do you often do it so…relaxed.” His tone is pointed, eyes focusing first on your loose hair and then your simple gown. And in response, all you do is laugh. 

            “There’s no need to be fancy in my garden, Your Grace,” you tell him, laughter in your tone, the words hitting his heart, each and every laughter-tinged word sending his heart beating harder, his need growing stronger. “There’s only me and my family and the servants. Who is to judge me?”

            “Do you not worry what the court might say?” he asks you, steps stilling now that he stands just before you, his hands twitching, wanting to reach out and grab you, pull you against him and never let you go. Just run with you and have you and never let anyone take you from him. 

            “Why should I? They won’t change me,” you tell him, your smile faltering for just a moment and the sight alone nearly steals the breath from him because he needs you and he knows you need your smile. 

            “Would you spare me a dance? When you’re finished with the sun?” he asks you, the gruffness fading because for you, and only you, he can find the gentleness. You are everything to him and you deserve the world. 

            And he shall give it to you. 

            “Of course!” And there is your smile and then you’re reaching for his hands, pulling him towards you, placing his one hand on your waist, his other in yours, while yours comes to rest on his shoulder and then you’re guiding him through the motions of a waltz, your laughter growing louder every time he makes a mistake and he wants nothing more than to live in this moment forever. 

            But life does not work like that. 

            Although, when the bubble does pop, the dance at an end, it is you who holds onto him longer than you should and he can feel his body responding, fingers tightening around your waist, the feeling of your body in his hands too much and not enough. 

            “Are you looking for a wife, Your Grace?” you ask, tone soft and eyes even softer, glowing with something, interest perhaps. 

            “I find I am, yes,” he answers, his throat tightening as you press closer to him, unaware of the effect your closeness is having on him and he knows that if you take one step closer, he will take you here and now, make you his in the only way he truly knows how. 

            “Will you consider me? I find I should like to see your smile always,” you whisper and the words sound like a confession but to Maeker they are everything. They are the permission he needs to do whatever means necessary to have you. They are the sign that this is a love formed of the gods, not one formed of his mind. 

            Because you see it, feel it, too. 

            “You are why I am here, my darling,” he whispers and watches as your smile grows again, brighter than before, and he removes his hand from yours, placing it on your cheek, delighting in the way you lean into his hand, eyes fluttering closed, at peace in his embrace. “I want to see you shine for me.”

            “That is not hard,” you whisper, opening your perfect, beautiful eyes, the pupils expanding and spreading as you look at him. “I shine no matter what.”

            “No,” he whispers, swallowing hard, his gaze dropping to your lips, his own tongue darting out to lick his, wetting them, stalling his pauses and debates. “I want to see you shine only for me.”

            “Become my husband and I will.”

***

            “You cannot marry my daughter,” Lord Tyrell says, lips pressing into a thin line as Maeker pauses, his every muscle going rigid, frozen for just a moment before he’s rising and stalking towards him, his right hand removing his dagger from its sheath. 

            He drives the blade up and sideways, pressing it against Lord Tyrell’s carotid artery, a glance over his shoulder to ensure the door is closed, that you cannot enter, cannot see the lengths he is willing to go to to have you shine for him alone. 

            “I cannot?” he asks the lord, his tone dark and menacing, the lord’s eyes fluttering shut in fear, not wanting to see his end. “You will find my lord, that you hold none of the power here. I hold it as I hold your life in my hands. Now, will you sign the agreement?” His words are harsh and his tone is harsher, voice so loud he never heard the door open, never heard you step in. 

            “Father,” you call out, your voice cutting through the tenseness, the danger and the darkness like a beam of sunlight cutting through storm clouds. “I want to marry him.” And Maeker can feel the fight leave your father’s body, the danger evaporating. 

            “You want to?” Lord Tyrell asks and you nod, Maeker’s eyes now focused on you, the dagger now just loosely held to your father’s throat. “Even though he holds a knife to my throat?”

            “Even now,” you answer, your lips curving in a soft smile, one that speaks of sadness and weight but at the same time joy. “Who am I to ignore what the Seven want?”

            Maeker does not hear resignation in your words, he hears what no one else can. He hears the knowledge of the Seven, he knows you have wanted him, but he also knows that this sight must not be pleasing to you so he sheathes his dagger and steps away from your father. 

            In response, you smile brighter, focusing it on him. 

            And that is all he needed. 

***

            The moment Maeker married you, he felt complete. He felt like every broken piece inside of him had been set right and put back together by you, by your sunshine, the way you treated everyone as if they were worthy of kindness, the way you treated his children as your own. 

            But in your kindness and sunshine, he saw a naivete. He saw a misunderstanding of the world: he saw that you believed the best in people, believed they would never hurt you. And in that, he knew he had to protect you. 

            It was why your chambers were his. It was why your days were scheduled so he knew where you were at every minute. It was why he had guards on you every time you went anywhere. Guards that would protect you with their lives, who would die to protect you because that was their job. 

            It was why, when you were with his children, he had to be there. To remind them that you were his wife, not their friend or mother, but his wife. He knew they would undermine it, the marriage and the love if he were not there. He knew that his children would poison you against him, making you believe he chose you for your youth, your body, for pleasure when in fact he had chosen you because he could not live without you. 

            It was why; he had to be wherever you were. He had to protect you, remind people that you were a princess and not just any princess, but his. The Anvil’s. 

            You were to be with him always, by his side, forever. 

            Because in you, the world was made whole, made complete. 

            Worthwhile.

***

            “Just—a little more,” he pants, hips rutting up into yours, your voice cracking in a high-pitched cry, hands scrabbling at the surface of the desk, nails scratching the wood as Maeker presses his body into you, thrusting in and out with a rapid pace. 

            “Can’t…hold on,” you cry, words dissolving into nothing more than sound as his fingers find your bud, circling it and then pressing on it hard, silencing your protests and making the coil inside grow tighter. 

            “Almost there, my sun. Just—ah! —a little longer,” he tells you, slamming up and into you, cock hitting that gummy spot inside of you. He didn’t think he would bend you over his desk but he saw you talking with his son, laughing at something Daeron said and he needed to remind you exactly who you shone for. 

            Who you belonged to. 

            “Maeker!” you cry and at your words, he thrusts one more time, releasing at the clench of your walls around him, the way they felt like they were milking his release, drawing it forth. He spills into you, thick, hot ropes that have you gasping as he pulls out, fingers shoving the drops back into you, teasing your sensitive folds.

            “I cannot let it go to waste, my rose,” he tells you at the gasp you let out, the gasp of pleasure and sensations. “You do want a child, don’t you?”

            “That’s what…” you pause, turning as he rights your skirts, fixing his breeches when you face him, “I was coming to tell you.”

            “What, my rose?” he asks you, hands finding your waist, lips finding your neck, leaving more marks upon your skin, more marks along your neck, your collarbone, wherever it is visible to anyone. 

            So they can see you are his. 

            “I already am with child,” you tell him and he can feel his heart stop, just freezing in his chest before he’s lifting you, twirling you in the air and holding you amidst your laughter, the sound that he has wanted to have forever.

            “Now everyone shall know you are mine!”

            “Did they not before?”

***

            In you, Maeker found his broken pieces, the missing parts of himself. He found the reason for being, as if you were made for him and he for you. In you, he found himself. 

            And in you, forever he would remain whole. With you, he was complete. 

            Without you…

            Pray that never happens. 

***

            It is later, months passing, your stomach swelling that you rest, back pressed to Maeker’s chest, his hands resting on the swell of your stomach, not for the child, but for the mark he has left on you. This mark that you are his—a mark, a claim, that no one can argue with. 

            “I love you,” you whisper, voice quiet in the warm chambers, heart at ease in your husband’s arms, in the arms of the man who loves so completely, so wholly that he shall never leave your side. 

            “And I love you,” he whispers, lips finding your neck, sucking at the skin just beneath your ear, another mark welling on your skin. 

            “Do I shine the way you wished me to?” you ask him now, reflecting on the dance in the garden when you told him you wanted to see his smile, the smile that he only gives you. Because to him, you are the only one worth being around, being with. 

            “Yes,” he whispers as sleep begins to lay claim to the two of you. “You shine only for me as I love only you.”

            And he means those words, his love only shaped for you. He will destroy anyone who tries to take you from him. 

            Burn the world down to keep you safe. 

The lists had always been your favorite part of any tourney.

Not the feasting, though Highgarden’s tables groaned enough beneath sugared lemons and swan pies. Not the dancing, though the minstrels did play sweetly in your father’s halls. No, it was the thunder of the hooves, the splinter of wood, the breathless hush before the impact, and to see which knight would win out in the end. That was where your heart thrived for.

And this tourney was yours. Your father’s reasoning for having such a tourney was for how bountiful this year’s harvest was as if it wasn’t bountiful every year for the Reach. You thought perhaps it was just another reason for your father to hold another party.

But Highgarden never looked so fair. The banners of House Tyrell; green and gold roses on fields of spring fluttered from every tower. The scent of roses drifted on the breeze from the gardens below the lists, mingled in with the hints of trampled grass and horses. The knights glittered like a field of fallen stars.

You sat with your cousins beneath a silk canopy embroidered with the golden roses. Your father’s voice carried somewhere over your shoulder as he spoke with another liege lord of the Reach, but you weren’t listening. Your eyes were fixed upon the field before you.

“That one,” you said suddenly, leaning forward.

“Which one?” your cousin Ellyn asked, fanning herself lazily.

“There,” you insisted, pointing rather unladylike with your fan towards a knight in a bright checkered surcoat of yellow and black that rode into position. His helm was the shape like the head of a bee, with black strips and delicate gilded wings flaring back from the temples.

Your cousin Theo barked a laugh. “Seven saves us, is he going to sting someone?”

“He already has,” you said under your breath.

For the knight was not merely a spectacle. He sat his horse well. His back straight and his movements assured. When he lowered his lance, there was no hesitation. His opponent a man from House Caswell thundered toward him.

The crack rang like a clap of thunder. His lance struck true. The other knight fell against him, tumbling from the saddle in a scatter of splinters and dust.

The stands erupted.

You found yourself on your feet before you realized it. Cheering for him rather loudly.

“That is Ser Humfrey Beesbury,” Ellyn said, peering up at you. “From Honeyholt.” She grabbed your silk sleeve pulling you back down to your seat.

“Of course he is,” you murmured.

He removed his helm then, and you felt something quite unladylike twist inside you.

His hair was dark gold, sun touched. But it was his mustache that undid you, thick and proud, curled faintly over this top lip. It was the exact shade of clover honey. It caught the sun like amber.

Theo leaned closer. “You stare like a cat at cream.”

“I am admiring his form,” you said primly.

“You are admiring his face.” Ellyn corrected.

“And what a face indeed.” You replied, unable to stop yourself. “Look at him. He looks as though he’s stepped out of some storybook. And that mustache…”

“What of it?” Theo grinned wickedly.

You lowered your voice. “I wonder if its smells of honey.”

Ellyn choked on her wine.

“And if it tastes of it?” you went on, softer still. “I would not mind finding that out.”

“You are a wicked rose.” Ellyn whispered, half scandalized, but half delighted.

“Bees and roses do belong together.” You said matter-of-factly.

Ser Humfrey rode back to his pavilion amid cheers, and you felt the day change in that instant. The lists were no longer simply your beloved sport. They were him.

For three days he rode. For three days he did not fall.

His bee helm became a terror of the lists. Knights twice his size had cracked before him. Once, an opponent from House Hightower struck him squarely upon his chest, and you gasped, your heart leaping into your throat, but he held fast, steady as an oak.

“He rides like a man who has something he needs to prove,” Theo noticed.

“Or of something to win,” you whispered.

On the third evening, when the sun was sinking behind the towers of Highgarden, you made a decision.

“You cannot,” Ellyn insisted.

“But alas, I can.” You said back.

“But you are a daughter of House Tyrell!”

“Yes.” You smiled. “Did you forget? Roses are not shy flowers.”

Before courage could deserted you, you descended from the stands. The knights dismounting, squires bustling about like ants. You could feel eyes upon you as you crossed the trampled grass in your green silk gown.

He stood near his pavilion, helm tucked under his arm, speaking to his squire. Up close, he was broader than you’d realized. His shoulders were strong and his skin was sun kissed.

His mustache was even finer up close.

He noticed you at once. His words faltered.

“My lady,” he said, bowing low. His voice was rich, like a warm summer’s mead. “You honor me.”

“Do I?” you asked lightly. “I had thought it was you who has honored us all these last few days.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Thank you, my lady. But I only ride.”

“You do more than that.” You admitted.

He studied you then, carefully and respectfully. “You are of Highgarden.”

“I am.”

He hesitated. “A Tyrell.”

“I am that also. Daughter of Lord Tyrell.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Unsure if it was surprise or calculation. You could not blame him. A daughter of Highgarden did not usually wander into a knight’s pavilion unescorted.

“I have watched you ride, Ser Humfrey,” you said plainly.

“And I have felt your gaze also, my lady.” His tone soft. “It has steadied my lance.”

 A heat crept up your neck.

You drew the silken ribbon from your wrist, a length of greens embroidered with golden roses. “Then allow me to steady it once more,”

He stared at the favor you were offering as though it was a relic of the Seven themselves.

“My lady,” he breathed, “I am not worthy of such a favor. Especially not of one of a daughter of Highgarden.”

“Win,” you said. “And then we shall really see.”

His hand brushed yours as he accepted your favor. His fingers were calloused and warm. The faintest scent reached you, a mix of clean steel, leather, and something sweet.

Not quite honey, but something very close.

He tied the ribbon to his wrist with precise care, as though if he pulled too hard it might break. “For you, my lady. I will unhorse the realm.”

“See that you do.” You said sweetly. “But I must return to Highgarden before my father knows that I am gone. I will see you on the morrow Ser Humfrey.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As you exited his pavilion you paused before finding your cousins. You looked back at his black and gold tent and noticed when the breeze moved the opening he stayed rooted to where you left him, staring at the green ribbons adorning his wrist.

You felt your heart flutter beneath your chest. You let out a deep breath, hitched up your green silk skirts and made your way back to Highgarden and your cousins who probably will never let you hear the end of this.

The final day dawned bright and merciless.

The lists were packed beyond reason. Word had spread that Beesbury was to go up against House Fossoway, the last tilt. Gold against red.

He rode out with your ribbon proudly displayed against his sleeve. Brightly it sat upon his wrist for all the tourney to see.

You could not sit. You could not breathe. And then they charged.

The impact cracked like the breaking of the world. Both lances shattered against shields, but both men stayed horse. Tilt upon tilt had passed. Each time a lance splintered, a shield went soaring, but each time the riders stayed seated. This time before they were off on the last tilt Ser Humfrey quickly looked to you in the stands and you gave him the slightest of nods, before he charged again.

This time Ser Humfrey’s lance had struck true, he hit square upon the shield, and the red apple of Fossoway spun through the air as its wearer fell from his horse.

Silence, then thunder.

Highgarden roared.

He did not remove his helm at once. He sat still, as though he did not believe that it had happened. Then he turned his horse toward the stands. Towards you.

When he lifted his bee helm this time, his hair was damp with sweat, his mustache slightly disordered, and you had never seen a finer sight.

He was declared victor of the joust of Highgarden.

And when the time came for him to name the Queen of Love and Beauty, he did not hesitate. He rode straight to where you stood.

“My lady,” he called, his voice carrying across the hush. “You granted me your favor. Will you grant me the honor of crowning you?”

Your father looked between you and Ser Humfrey. Unsure of what was transpiring in front of him.

Your heart beat so fiercely you feared you might burst.

“You may.” You said. You stood making your way down the steps of the stands to the dusty list below. He dismounted from his horse in one swift motion. You met each other halfway, the wreath he held lightly in his hands.

You looked up to him smiling. He placed the wreath of blue roses upon your crown. Your eyes met once more, but this time close enough you could see the flecks of amber in his.

“And now?” he asked softly, for only you to hear.

“Now,” you replied, leaning just enough to feel the warmth of him, “I believe you must discover whether victory sweetens a man.”

His mustache twitched.

“My lady,” he murmured, voice low as dusk, “you are a dangerous rose.”

“And you,” you said, brushing your fingers ever so lightly against his wrist that held your favor, “are a very tempting bee.”

The crowd cheered, but you scarcely heard them.

Later, that night the castle hummed like a hive at dusk.

Servants hurried through the corridors of Highgarden with trays of spiced wine and roasted fish. Minstrels tuned their harps in the great hall. The victorious knights were to be presented and toasted before all of the Reach.

And one of the victors was a bee.

You did want to look your best tonight, so that a bee might pick this rose to pollen. Your maid laced your gown of Tyrell green that was threaded with gold so pale it caught the candlelight like nectar. Also hugging every curve of your body in all the right places. A small circlet of golden roses rested in your hair. Proper. Untouchable. Ever the beautiful rose.

You dismissed your maid stating you just needed a few moments to yourself and then you would be down. You waited till you were sure you no longer could hear her footsteps. Once you were sure you slipped out of your chambers near the garden stairs.

The air outside was sweet with night blooming jasmines. Lanterns flickered along the path towards the pavilions and tents, but most of the knights had already gone inside to dress for the feast. Laughter drifting through the tents.

Your heart beat as it had just like it had before that final tilt earlier today.

His tent stood near the edge; black silks marked with yellow bees. The guards at a distance paid you no mind, even though they probably should have. Why would a daughter of House Tyrell venture into the shadows alone?

You lifted the flap before your courage escaped you.

He stood within, half armored still. His breastplate laid discarded on a near by chair, but he wore his yellow and black checkered gambeson unlaced at his throat. His hair was damp from washing; his mustache freshly combed, the ends curling handsomely.

He froze when he saw you.

“My lady.”

“Ser Humfrey,” you said softly.

For a moment you both simply stared at one another, the quiet thick between you. A single lantern burned inside.

“You should not be here. You should be at the feast,” he said at last, though he did not move to usher you away.

“Yes, I should be. You are right.” You agreed. “And you will be the most toasted man in the hall.”

His gaze warned. “That is all because of you.”

You stepped closer.

“No,” you said. “Because you rode like a storm sent by the Seven themselves. I have watched jousts since I was but a little girl, Ser Humfrey. I have seen champions and fools, brave men and reckless ones too.” Your voice faltered. “But I have never seen a knight who made my breath catch in my throat.”

He swallowed. Briefly looking between you and your lips.

“You made me feel as though the world narrowed to a single lance,” you continued. “As though the lists were not earth and dust, but something almost sacred.”

He took a step toward you, slowly and reverent. “You steadied my hand. When I rode, I thought of you in the stands. Yours eyes upon me like sunlight on a field.”

You smiled faintly. “Then promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Do not lose my favor.” You touched the green ribbon still tied around his wrist. “When you ride in other tourneys, when you find yourself facing some monstrous knights twice your size. Please remember that a rose of Highgarden watches you still.”

His hand clasped gently over yours where it rested at his wrist.

“I will never ride without thinking of you.” He spoke. “Not if I live to be an old man with grey in my mustache.”

You tilted your head. “Your mustache would not suit grey.” Saying that wrinkling your nose at the thought.

He laughed at that. “Would it not?”

“No. It is meant to be honey.”

The word lingered between you two. He then went very still.

“And my lady, have you come,” he said quietly, “to test that theory at last? I have been made aware of your thoughts that you had said in the stands.”

Your pulse fluttered like wings.

“So, I have.”

The boldness of it shocked even yourself but you had never been one to let sweetness sit untouched.

You rose onto your toes and laid a hand against his cheek. His skin was warm, faintly rough. His mustache brushed your fingertips, soft surprisingly so.

“May I?” you whispered.

“My lady,” he murmured, his voice had gone husky. “You may command me.”

You leaned in. The first touch was tentative, a brush of lips against the curl of his mustache. It tickled slightly, and you nearly laughed. But when you pressed closer, and he bent towards you, his hand hovered at your waist before settling with care.

He kissed you properly then. His lips were warm, firm but also gentle. He tasted of wine and something sweet. Not honey exactly. But close enough.

When you drew back, your cheeks burned.

“Well,” he asked softly.

You pretended to consider his question. “Not honey.”

His brow furrowed in mock offense.

“But sweeter.” You finished.

His answering smile could have lit the pavilion brighter than any torch.

“My rose.” He murmured against your skin.

“My bee,” you returned.

Outside, a horn sounded meant to summon the guests to the feast.

He exhaled slowly. “If I do not attend, they will assume I have been carried off by brigands.”

“Then we must not give them cause to search the rose gardens,” you said.

Reluctantly you stepped away knowing you had to get to the feast before your disappearance had been noted.

But before you slipped out, you turned back one more. “Humfrey?”

“Yes?” he answered back.

“When you ride again, and the lance lower, and the world goes silent. Please remember tonight.”

“Oh, my rose. I will always remember. I would never forget,” he said. “And I will ride as though you are waiting for me in the stands.”

The great hall of Highgarden blazed with candle and torchlight. Gold and green draperies hung from the rafters; roses floated in silver bowls upon the tables. The scent of roasted meat and spiced apples mingled with roses filled the air.

You sat upon the high table beside your father, every inch the composed daughter of House Tyrell.

Ser Humfrey sat below at the victor’s table, garland in praise and surrounded by the other victors of the tourney games. Which they were also surrounded by lesser lords eager for the victors’ favors.

And yet. He looked at you. Constantly.

You felt it even when you did not meet his gaze—the weight of it, warm and intent. When you dared glance down, you found him already watching.

Ellyn leaned toward you. “If you stare any harder, cousin, you will set him aflame.”

“I am merely ensuring our champion does not choke on his wine,” you replied sweetly.

Theo snorted. “Right. You do not do so for the rest of the victors I noticed. You look as though you are planning to devour him.”

“A rose does not devour,” you retorted. “She entangles.”

Across the dais, Humfrey’s mustache twitched with a smile, as if he heard.

The minstrels struck up a lively tune. Lords and ladies began to rise for the dance.

To your surprise and the visible shock of half the hall, Ser Humfrey Beesbury stood from the victor’s table and made his way towards your table.

He bowed before your father first, properly. Words were exchanged, courteous and measured.

Then he turned to you and offered his hand.

“My lady,” he said, voice clear. “May I have this dance?’

Every eye in the hall seemed to sharpen in your direction.

You placed your hand in his.

“You may.

His palm was warm as he led you to the floor. The dance was stately at first, measured steps and turns beneath the watching eyes of the court. But when the figures shifted and you found yourselves closer, his voice lowered.

“Honeyholt is beautiful this time of year,” he said. “The fields are heavy with bloom. The air smells of clovers and wildflowers.”

“Does it?” you asked lightly.

“It does.” His thumb brushed faintly against your fingers. “The bees are busiest at summer’s height. The roses grow well there too.”

“Do they?” you asked again.

“If tended properly.” His gaze held yours. “I would see one bloom there always.”

Your breath caught.

“You are very bold, Ser.”

“I have learned that sometimes sweetness must be pursued,” he said. “Else another bee would set to claim it.”

You smiled slowly. “And what if the rose prefers the bee who won her favor?”

His answering looked fierce and soft all at once.

“Then,” he murmured, drawing you close through the final turn of the dance, “I will spend my life proving worthy of her sunlight.”

Never had anyone spoken so freely about you to you, but it felt right when he said it.

When the dance ended, you did not step apart at once. Around you, Highgarden glittered and whispered.

But all you could think was this. A rose of Highgarden had found her bee.

And you did not mean to let him fly far from you again. As you said, ‘A rose entangles.’

8 years ago

It was late into the year, and the young queen was pregnant once again. She had turned sixteen early into the year and had managed to avoid Maegor and his wives for a while. But now as Autumn came about just as Summer was waning she was noticed to be pregnant once again. Her stomach was just protruding outwards at 4 months. Alys Harroway was more pregnant than the girl. Her stomach large and heavy at 9 months made the court anxious for the other heirs that will be born. The older woman presented herself proudly with her large stomach, a stark contrast to the young girl who curled into herself and her pregnant stomach. The Tyrell girl’s babies were about to turn one in a few months and now were able to hold their heads up on their own. And their growth and health made the Harroway woman seethe with jealousy. She couldn’t raise a hand against the babes and the old queen protected the young girl against her words and touch so she could do nothing but seethe. 

Yet when Alys finally became pregnant she boasted that the pregnancy was easy to go through rather than what a young body could handle. A snide remark at the pain the young queen went through during her pregnancy. She presented like a boastful bird that fluffs its feathers. But her pride was short-lived when she and others found out the young girl was pregnant once again and how it was an easy conception once again since she was so fertile. Alys wanted to scream at the Tyrell girl for daring to get pregnant whilst she was pregnant herself. But she could not touch her, for Maegor would punish her and Visenya would beat her black and blue. 

So the young queen avoided the hateful glare of Alys and the prying eyes of the court. Spending most of her time in the gardens, surrounded by her lilies and spending time with her babies. It was early morning on this day and the young queen awoke to the sounds of a desire to be picked up from her babies. Maegor had allowed the children to be housed in the girl’s room until they were old enough to have their own room. The young girl was happy to have her babies close to her and away from his other wives. The girl sat up from her bed and rubbed a hand over her small protruding stomach. Her mother said the baby would “swim” in her stomach when she was 6 months along. Her stomach seemed larger than her sisters was at 4 months, making the girl worry it would be another multiple pregnancy. 

She swung her legs to the side of her bed and shivered at the cold floor. Smiling at the sounds her babies were making. Wrapping a robe around her figure, she made her way to the three cribs in her room. Aegon ii was the most desperate for his mother’s attention as he waved his arms out for his mother to pick him up. YN smiled at her boy and picked him up, kissing his sweet little face and blowing raspberries on his stomach. Aegon ii giggled and grabbed his mother’s hair. The girl smiled and pulled him away from her face to put him down again. Maegor ii was attempting to sit up on his own and Visenya ii was on her stomach crawling to the edge of her crib. YN placed Aegon ii back down in his crib and waited for her maid to enter. When the woman finally showed up YN asked her to set out some play clothes for her babies before she dressed her. 

YN sat still as her maid dressed her in her usual Tyrell fashion. Maegor had ordered the servants who dressed and decorated his wife to learn her family fashions. He wanted his wife to be happy and look the way she wanted but still wearing Targaryen jewelry and red+black dresses. Whereas Alys Harroway was happy to look Targaryen, YN wanted to dress like a Tyrell even if her colors were now Targaryen. 

When she was dressed and her hair was assorted, she asked the servant to bring her babies to the gardens. Grabbing her book and walking to the gardens. She spent most of her time there, even taking her meals there. The babies were old enough to wean off her and eat their own food. Today was another morning where the young queen would eat in the garden. She enjoyed the solitude having only the nurse maid and some of her own personal maids with her as they ate. As she had no ladies in waiting to gossip with. Not wanting to subject another woman to Maegor’s court. So she sat alone with the maids and her babies. As they ate and spoke the girl could almost forget where she was and imagine herself back in Highgarden. And it was nice. A nice morning for the girl and a happy conversation between the girl and her maids. 

But their conversation was cut off mid sentence when the Queen mother approached the group. The maids were not protected by the queen mother and were just as nervous around her as YN was. Visenya ordered a chair be vacated for her and the youngest maid, a girl of 17 immediately jumped up from her seat across from YN. Visenya sat down and gave a stare to the others. She leaned toward the maid holding Maegor ii and gestured for her to hand him over. Maegor ii looked like Visenya. The baby babbled and waved its arms as Visenya held him. 

“Such a lively boy. So unlike his father. Maegor was always so serious, even as a baby.” Visenya lamented. She then looked up at the maids and pointed to the cots. “Put them down and leave us for a bit.” 

The maids nodded and did as told. Placing Aegon ii and Visenya ii down. YN nervously looked down at her plate and waited for the maids to leave. She was still as always nervous around Visenya. The woman was still an intimidating force to be reckoned with even in her kindest moments. This was a conqueror, the woman who took the whole Vale through intimidation and burned armies from other lands. 

“How are you feeling, girl?” Visenya asked. 

“I’m… tired. I can’t keep much food down.” YN said quietly, rubbing her stomach tentatively. 

“Hm… When I was pregnant with Maegor I couldn’t stand the scent of roses. Nor the taste of tomatoes. And he was such a large baby.” Visenya smirked at the memory. “He nearly split me in two when he came out. Aegon was sure I was having multiples.” 

“...I don’t like the taste of brown bread, but now I crave it with oil and spices.” YN tried to make herself continue the conversation no matter her nervousness. 

Visenya nodded and bounced Maegor ii. She reached forward and grabbed a tart off the girl’s plate. “It’s smart to take your meals out here. Fresh air is good for the babes.”

YN nodded and went to grab her daughter out of the cot. Visenya ii smiled in her mother’s lap and grabbed her mother’s necklace. Aegon ii made no noise. Visenya the elder looked in their cots and stared at the cracked dragon eggs that Maegor had placed in their cribs and cots since they were a few days old. The eggs rocked slightly and made scritching sounds of dragons inside them. YN suspected they would crack open when her babies would reach a year old. 

“I think Vizzy wants my breakfast.” YN teased her daughter as the baby reached for her mother’s plate. 

Visenya was about to respond when another maid came up to the two of them. 

“Excuse me, your majesty.” She said. 

“Someone had better be broken, bruised, or dying.” Visenya warned. 

“It’s Queen Alys.”

“What does she want?” 

“She’s having her baby.” 

Visenya made no effort to look excited or amused at the news. She merely narrowed her eyes and leant back in her chair. “That doesn’t concern me. Tell her to get her sisters or a midwife to bother with it.”

“But…She’s requesting you to be there…” 

“And I said no. I don’t concern myself with her and she’s proven to be a cunt to the younger wife. So no, she doesn’t get to have me there.” Visenya stated. 

The maid nodded and rushed off. Visenya sighed and rubbed her forehead. YN swallowed, looking back at the retreating figure and rubbing her stomach. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to be there for the birth of your grandchild?” YN asked.

“No. I’m already spending time with the grandchildren I met, I don’t know her baby.” Visenya replied. 

“But-”

“I don’t care about that Harroway woman. She’s a fickle creature.” Visenya defended her choice. 

“Alright…” YN whispered. 

The morning continued on as Alys’ labours went on for a long time. Visenya didn’t pay much attention to that and tried to keep her daughter in law’s mind off the idea as well. YN felt guilty she was keeping Visenya away from the birth of her grandchild. Throughout the day maids would come by with news of the labor. By late afternoon there was more and more news coming out of the room. YN trusted the midwife that was with Alys and she heard Maegor’s witch wife was there as well. Everything was going fine until Visenya heard her son stomping through the castle. 

Noticing her son was on a rampage, Visenya ordered the Maids to bring the babies back to the young queen’s room. She then turned to the young girl and placed her hand on the side of her face. “Go back to your room. Do not leave it until I come to get you. I won’t let him barge in.” 

YN nodded and hurriedly went back to her room. She told the maids to hide where they could and not get in the path of Maegor. Then she took each of her babies and placed them on her bed. She tried to ignore the sounds coming from Alys’ room. Screams and crying. Several screams from several people. Cries from a woman. YN did her best to put on a brave face for her babies. Hours went by and eventually while her babies were sleeping, Visenya entered. 

The queen sighed and looked at the girl. YN held her doll close to her chest as Visenya made her way over. 

“I would avoid the Harroway woman for a bit. Something went wrong with her birth.” Visemnya explained. 

“Is the baby alright?” YN whispered. 

“No. It was a still born monstrosity. Maegor is furious.” Visenya noticed the nervous demeanor of the girl. “I’ll keep him at bay. But it’s best not to leave your room for a few days.”

YN nodded and then thought about the midwife and the others attending the pregnancy. As she opened her mouth, Visenya seemed to read her mind and shook her head. Letting YN know Maegor had done the worst. The girl held the doll closer to her and nodded her head in understanding. 

“Take some rest. Maegor would hate for something to happen to your babe because of this.” With that warning Visenya left. 

The young queen took down her hair and took off her jewelry. She felt bad for Alys, truly, but there was nothing to be done. It was a happy morning but a dreadful end. And Maegor would tighten his grip on his Tyrell wife because of it.

@gulnarsultan

The days passed slowly, each one bleeding into the next with nothing to distinguish it. I tried to fill the hours with walks in the gardens, but even they paled in comparison to the ones at home. I would spend afternoons in the library, but the tomes held little interest when my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of home. I dined with the court, attended the various events Margaery was obligated to attend, but all the while I felt like an outsider. The courtiers were insipid, the knights pompous, and the noble ladies shallow. I was bored out of my mind.

Then, one evening, I found my distraction.

We were dining with the Lannisters, Margaery’s soon-to-be family. The atmosphere was tense, as it often was when the Tyrells and Lannisters gathered. My grandmother, Olenna, was sharp-tongued and unrelenting, and I loved her for it. She took every opportunity to poke at the lions, her remarks as barbed as any sword. Margaery, as usual, played the innocent, delicate flower, but I knew better. She was a Tyrell through and through.

And then there was Tywin Lannister.

The Lord of Casterly Rock was an imposing figure, his presence commanding the room. His icy gaze swept over everyone as though they were mere pawns on his chessboard. He was the most formidable man I had ever met, and I disliked him immediately.

I also found myself strangely fascinated by him.

As the dinner progressed, I found myself watching him, studying the way he interacted with his family and ours. He was as cold and calculating as I had expected, but there was something else there, something beneath the surface. He was a man who had built his house into the most powerful in the realm, who had orchestrated the rise of his children to positions of unimaginable power. And yet, I sensed a weariness in him, a tiredness that came from shouldering the weight of the world for far too long.

I decided to entertain myself by irritating him. It wasn’t difficult—he was so rigid, so controlled, that any small breach in protocol seemed to annoy him. I began with little things: interrupting him while he was speaking, contradicting his opinions with the sweetest smile, deliberately misunderstanding his intentions. To my delight, I noticed his jaw tightening, the only outward sign of his irritation.

After dinner, as the men gathered for their usual discussions and the women for their gossip, I found myself seeking him out. He was standing by one of the windows, looking out over the city, no doubt lost in thought about whatever grand scheme he was concocting. I approached quietly, standing beside him and mimicking his stance.

"A fine view," I remarked, though in truth, I found the city ugly compared to the sprawling beauty of Highgarden.

"Indeed," Tywin replied, his voice clipped. "One can see much from here."

"Including the dangers?" I asked, turning my head to look at him. He glanced at me, his expression unreadable.

"Especially the dangers," he said.

"How exhausting," I sighed dramatically. "To always be on the lookout for treachery and deceit. How do you manage it, Lord Tywin?"

"It is a necessary burden," he said, turning his gaze back to the city. "One that I bear gladly for the sake of my family and the realm."

"A noble sentiment," I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. "Though I wonder if it leaves any room for joy."

He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or maybe curiosity. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Joy is a luxury," he said. "One that few can afford."

"And what about you, my lord? Can you afford it?"

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and I knew I had hit a nerve. He didn’t answer, and I didn’t press him. Instead, I gave him a sweet smile and curtsied slightly.

"Well, if ever you find yourself in need of a distraction, you know where to find me," I said, before turning and walking away, leaving him to his thoughts.

Over the next few weeks, I made it my mission to annoy Tywin Lannister at every opportunity. Whether it was at dinners, during court sessions, or in passing conversations, I would always find some way to needle him. A careless remark here, a sly comment there, all designed to get under his skin. To his credit, he rarely showed his irritation in public, but I could see it in the way his eyes would narrow slightly, or how he would clench his jaw.

It became the highlight of my days, this little game of ours. It made King’s Landing bearable. And, truth be told, I started to look forward to our encounters. He was the only one in the capital who challenged me, who didn’t treat me like a delicate flower to be admired from afar. He was formidable, and I enjoyed matching wits with him, even if he didn’t realize that was what we were doing.

My family, of course, noticed.

"My dear, you seem to spend quite a lot of time in Lord Tywin’s company," Margaery said one afternoon as we walked in the gardens.

"Oh, I just find him... fascinating," I replied, feigning innocence. "Don’t you?"

Margaery laughed, a light, melodic sound that masked her sharpness. "I find him intimidating. But then, I’m not as brave as you."

"Brave? Hardly," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "I just like to poke at him. It’s like trying to ruffle the feathers of a stone statue."

"You do more than poke, dear," my grandmother Olenna chimed in as she joined us. "I think the old lion has taken quite a shine to you."

I rolled my eyes. "Nonsense. He barely tolerates me."

"Men like Tywin Lannister don’t tolerate anything they don’t want," Olenna said with a knowing look. "And I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching."

I felt a blush creep up my neck. "He’s an old man, and I’m merely a distraction."

"Sometimes, distractions can become more," Margaery said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Perhaps he sees something in you that you don’t see in yourself."

I didn’t dignify that with a response, though I couldn’t help but wonder if they were right. Was there something more to this game I had been playing with Tywin? Did he see me as more than just an annoyance?

The next time I encountered Tywin was at another of the many dinners we attended. This time, I decided to push him a little further.

"Lord Tywin," I said sweetly as I sat beside him, "do you ever tire of these endless dinners and formalities? I imagine they must be dreadfully boring for a man of your... stature."

He looked at me, his gaze cool. "Boredom is a luxury I cannot afford."

"Ah, yes. Always the dutiful servant of the realm," I said with a mock sigh. "It must be so exhausting, always being the one in control, the one who must bear the weight of the world."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you pity me, Lady Tyrell?"

"Pity? No, my lord. I admire you," I said, and for once, I wasn’t being entirely sarcastic. "You’re a man who knows what he wants and takes it. There’s something... refreshing about that."

He studied me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether I was mocking him or not. Then, to my surprise, he smiled. It was a small smile, barely more than a quirk of his lips, but it was there.

"And what is it that you want, Lady Tyrell?" he asked, his tone curious.

I blinked, taken aback by the question. What did I want? Freedom, certainly. The open fields of Highgarden, the sweet scent of roses, the feel of the sun on my skin. But beyond that?

"I want to be seen," I said, surprising myself with the admission. "Not as just another pretty face or a pawn in someone else’s game, but as a person in my own right."

Tywin’s gaze softened, just a fraction. "You are seen," he said quietly. "By those who matter."

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, the world around us faded. There was no King’s Landing, no political machinations, no family expectations. Just us, two people who had found something unexpected in each other.

I quickly looked away, my heart pounding. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to tease him, annoy him, make my time in the capital more bearable. I wasn’t supposed to… feel anything for him.

But the more I tried to deny it, the more I realized that I was drawn to him. Tywin Lannister, the cold, calculating, fearsome lion, had somehow managed to slip past my defenses. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

As the days turned into weeks, our encounters became more frequent. Tywin would seek me out at dinners, in the gardens, even during court sessions. Our conversations grew deeper, more personal, and I found myself looking forward to them more than I cared to admit.

My family, of course, noticed the change.

“You seem to be in a better mood these days,” Margaery remarked one evening as we prepared for bed. “I take it Lord Tywin is proving to be more than just a distraction?”

I huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s an old man, and I’m just… amusing myself.”

Olenna cackled from her chair by the fire. “Amusing yourself, is it? My dear, you’re playing with fire. And I think you’re starting to enjoy the burn.”

I glared at her. “I’m not falling for him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Of course not,” Margaery said, though the smirk on her face said otherwise. “But just remember, sister, that the most dangerous games are the ones where we don’t realize we’re the ones being played.”

I didn’t respond, though her words lingered in my mind long after she left the room. Was I being played? Or was I the one playing Tywin? And did it even matter anymore?

The turning point came during a feast celebrating Margaery’s upcoming wedding. The hall was filled with nobles, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and rich wine. The music was lively, the laughter louder, but all I could think about was the man sitting across the room.

Tywin had been watching me all night, his gaze a constant weight on me. I tried to ignore it, to focus on the festivities, but I found myself glancing at him more than I should. Eventually, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I excused myself from the table and slipped out into the gardens, hoping the cool night air would clear my head.

I hadn’t been outside for more than a few minutes when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to find Tywin standing there, his expression unreadable.

“Lord Tywin,” I said, my voice more breathless than I intended. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same,” he replied, stepping closer. “But I think I already know.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. “And what is it that you think, my lord?”

He took another step, closing the distance between us. “I think you’re tired of the games, as am I.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the tension between us crackling in the air. And then, before I could think better of it, I reached up and kissed him.

It was a bold move, one that surprised both of us. But after a brief hesitation, he responded, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me close. The kiss was fierce, passionate, and I felt as though I was being consumed by it, by him.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. I looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of regret, but all I saw was desire.

“This… this doesn’t change anything,” I said, though even I wasn’t sure what I meant by that.

“No, it doesn’t,” Tywin agreed, his voice rough. “But it also changes everything.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He was right. This did change everything. But what that meant, I wasn’t sure.

In the days that followed, I found myself thinking more and more about Tywin. Our stolen kiss haunted me, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next. Would he pursue me? Would I pursue him? Or would we both pretend it never happened and continue our little game?

My family, of course, noticed my distraction.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Olenna remarked as we broke our fast one morning. “Thinking about a certain lion, are we?”

I rolled my eyes. “Grandmother, please. I’m just… trying to figure out what to do with myself. King’s Landing is so dreadfully boring.”

“Boring? Or is it that you’re too afraid to admit you’ve fallen for him?” Margaery asked, her tone light but her eyes serious.

“I haven’t fallen for him,” I said, though the words felt hollow. “I just… enjoy his company, that’s all.”

“Enjoy his company?” Olenna cackled. “My dear, I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. There’s more than just ‘company’ there.”

I sighed, knowing they wouldn’t let it go. “Fine. Maybe there is something more. But it’s complicated. He’s Tywin Lannister, for gods’ sake. And I’m… well, I’m me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Margaery asked, tilting her head. “You’re a Tyrell. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and you’ve managed to capture the attention of the most powerful man in the realm. That’s no small feat.”

“But what if it’s just a game to him?” I asked, voicing my deepest fear. “What if I’m just another pawn in his grand scheme?”

Olenna reached across the table and patted my hand. “You may be a pawn, my dear, but you’re a clever one. And I have a feeling that Tywin Lannister doesn’t see you as a mere piece to be moved. He sees you as an equal, a partner. And that, my dear, is something to be reckoned with.”

That night, I found myself wandering the halls of the Red Keep, unable to sleep. My thoughts were a whirlwind, and I needed to clear my head. I didn’t have a destination in mind, but my feet seemed to know where they were going.

I ended up outside Tywin’s chambers, my heart pounding in my chest. I hesitated, unsure of what I was doing, but then the door opened, and there he was, as if he had been expecting me.

“Lady Tyrell,” he said, his voice low and even. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“I… I’m not sure,” I admitted, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I just… needed to see you.”

He stepped aside, allowing me to enter his chambers. I looked around, noting the sparse, almost austere furnishings. It was a room that reflected the man who inhabited it—practical, efficient, and devoid of any unnecessary comforts.

Tywin closed the door behind me and turned to face me, his expression unreadable. “Why are you really here?”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “Because I’m tired of playing games,” I said, echoing his words from the garden. “I’m tired of pretending that there’s nothing between us when there clearly is.”

He regarded me for a long moment, his gaze intense. “And what do you want from me, Lady Tyrell?”

“I want you to be honest with me,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “I want to know where we stand. Is this… whatever this is… is it real? Or am I just another piece on your board?”

Tywin’s expression softened, and for the first time, I saw a glimpse of the man behind the mask. “You are not a piece on my board,” he said quietly. “You are… more than that. Far more.”

I felt a surge of emotion at his words, but I didn’t want to let myself believe it so easily. “Then what am I to you?”

“You are a challenge,” he said, taking a step closer. “A distraction. A temptation. But more than that, you are someone who sees me as I am, not as the world expects me to be. And that is something I did not expect to find.”

“And what about you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see a woman who is brave, intelligent, and not afraid to speak her mind,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “I see someone who challenges me in ways I haven’t been challenged in years. And I see someone who I am… drawn to, despite my better judgment.”

My breath caught in my throat at his admission. “And what do we do now?”

Tywin reached out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. “Now, we stop pretending,” he said before lowering his lips to mine.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, and filled with all the unspoken words between us. When we finally pulled apart, I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

“Whatever happens,” Tywin said, his forehead resting against mine, “know that this is real. You are not just a distraction, not just a game. You are something I never expected to find in King’s Landing.”

“And you,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion, “are something I never expected to want.”

We stood there for a long moment, just holding each other, both of us realizing that we had crossed a line we could never uncross. But as I looked into his eyes, I knew that I didn’t want to go back.

This was real. This was something more than either of us had anticipated. And whatever happened next, we would face it together.

As the days passed, our relationship deepened. We were careful to keep it hidden from the court—Tywin, after all, had a reputation to maintain, and I had no desire to become the subject of court gossip. But in the quiet moments we stole away together, I found myself growing closer to him than I ever thought possible.

My family, of course, was not fooled.

“You seem… different,” Margaery remarked one morning as we broke our fast. “Happier, perhaps?”

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I suppose I’ve just… found something to occupy my time.”

Olenna smirked. “And does this ‘something’ have a name?”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Grandmother, please.”

“Oh, don’t be coy, dear,” Olenna said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you’ve finally found something—or someone—to make your time in King’s Landing more bearable.”

“And if I have?” I asked, meeting her gaze. “Is that so wrong?”

Olenna’s expression softened. “Not at all, my dear. Just be careful. Tywin Lannister is a powerful man, but he’s also a dangerous one. Don’t lose yourself in him.”

“I won’t,” I promised, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I believed it myself. Tywin was a force of nature, and being with him was like being caught in a storm. But it was a storm I had no desire to escape.

Margaery, for her part, was more supportive. “I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy,” she said as we walked in the gardens later that day. “Just… be careful. The court can be a treacherous place, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her, though her concern touched me. “I’m not some naive girl who can’t handle herself. And Tywin… he’s different with me. I think I can trust him.”