WHEN LIONS RULE THE WORLD.
⭒ Boredom pushes a lioness to wander the Red Keep while politics plague Tywin’s life. For everyone’s sake, night brings them back together.
content warning : a little political intrigue, porn with a bit of plot (shocking, i know), explicit sexual content, hand jobs, porn with feelings, kissing, YOU talk HIM through it sort of, period-typical sexism probably if you squint idk, you’re a manipulative busybody deal with it, no use of Y/N for reader-insert. M4F, MDNI, 18+. book-canon.
YEAR 265 AFTER THE CONQUEST.
The gardens of the Red Keep happened to be at their liveliest in the late afternoon. By then, the sun was past reaching its peak and had started to go down languidly while its light gilded the battlements and warmed everything. It was the only time the air was not so suffocating. Small bees drifted dutifully between bright summer flowers and the fountains whispered like rivers.
But the city’s true nature lingered beyond the red walls; you could smell salt and smoke and man. Still, surrounded by perfumed blossoms, you were sure anyone could pretend that King’s Landing was something beyond a damned cesspit.
Well… you had the decency to not pretend. Or the freedom to ? you wondered absently, feeling half too scholarly, which would’ve made your old septa proud. Much the same, isn’t it ? You had learnt young that freedom was its own sort of dignity, and dignity was the privilege of those who ruled the world.
Beneath climbing violets, you reclined upon a bench of pale stone, your skirts spilling in a pool of crimson silk. The lions of your house crouched at your cuffs and hem, picked out in thread so fine the beasts seemed to run at the slightest movement. A light breeze teased loose strands of hair about your face, but you did not trouble yourself with taming them.
The court might one day whisper that Tywin Lannister’s wife could afford to look windswept. Truth be told you rather liked that thought.
Across from you, the queen sat beneath the great shade of an orange tree heavy with fruit. Her gown was lilac, small white dragons leaping along her sleeves. A piece of purple silk had been twisted into the long braid that hung down her back like a tail.
Beside her was Princess Mara Martell, lounging with one sandalled foot kicking absently in the air. Her hair spilled dark upon her shoulders. She had stopped attending Rhaella two years ago, but she had returned a sennight ago under the pretext of a visit to her dearest friends. At her throat was a sunburst of hammered gold.
“My lady Lannister, you look quite vexed,” Mara observed, weaving a leaf between her long fingers. “Is it the bees ? Or, mayhaps, the absence of your lion ?”
You made a show of sighing. “So long as the bees don’t sting me, we should be fine. As for my lion…” You titled your head towards the Tower of the Hand, where a banner snapped high above. “He’s busy with the realm.”
At first light, you had watched your lord husband stride across your chambers, fussing over cufflinks and strapping a crimson cloak threaded with lions caught in a wild gilded hunt to his shoulders. You had broken your fast together, and he had kissed your gloved fingers before he went to mount the steps to the Small Council chamber.
“Do not let the court grow dull without me,” he had said, and his mouth had curled faintly at the corners. A smile, if anyone could call it that, that had only ever been meant for your eyes.
“As if that were possible,” you had replied, and he had left you to dragons and other boring things.
Well, now the lioness wants to pace, you thought, unnecessarily arranging a fold of your gown. Each hour the Seven have made ever since, they’ve kept him closeted amongst fools. How cruel could the gods truly grow to be ? Would they keep your man from you all day ? Maybe even all night for all you knew, and the idea displeased you very much.
“They must be deciding something dreadful. Aerys was in quite the foul mood soon as he woke up,” Rhaella said thoughtfully, her voice soft as a whisper as though the roses might become sentient and carry her words to the wrong ears. “He barely had the patience to tie his boots up proper.”
Mara huffed an amused little sound, and you brushed off the words with a lazy wave of your hand. Anything could put the king in a despicable mood anyways. You liked to imagine that a bird chirping twice instead of once outside Aerys’ window was all that it took. Perhaps I’m not so far from the truth.
Mara stretched one long leg. “I’d wake vexed as well if I had to sit through Maester Pycelle’s ramblings…”
“For hours on end as well,” you added. “His frail little body might even bend under his chains in the midst of it.”
The Princess of Dorne’s eyes brightened with amusement. “Beware, he might even start coughing dust at you !”
“Ah !” You hid the wicked smile splitting your face behind your fingers. “Could you imagine ?”
You both cackled because making fun of Grand Maester Pycelle was terribly easy, and any jabs you might take at him were nothing but the honest-to-the-gods truth. Queen Rhaella joined only after keeping her lips pressed together for a few seconds to maintain some sort of noble restraint, and her giggle was sweet as music plucked from the harp.
“Perhaps my brother means to argue until sunset again.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Mara said.
As the princess spoke on, your attention drifted to a small pale hand reaching for the tall cup of sweetened iced milk sweating near your wine and the half-full flagon of Arbor gold, all balanced atop a small table.
Little Prince Rhaegar sat cross-legged, his more-gold-than-silver hair falling like a curtain as he bent over one of the thick leather-bound tomes you had smuggled from your husband’s solar. The boy had turned six this year, yet he was already too solemn and patient for your liking. More patient than I was at his age, you mused. He sat beside you out of his own will, which could really mean anything.
He brought the gold cup to his mouth, drank, and put it back down. A little white line lingered above his lips before he licked it away.
Like a cat caught stealing cream. The thought made you scoff softly. “What dreadful thing are you reading now ?”
Rhaegar did not look up. “It’s not dreadful.” He had such a small voice for something so solemn. “It’s The Nine Voyages.”
Right. Horribly dreadful, as you had predicted. You’d been the one to bring this book, and many more besides, but you’d never been very interested by them beyond their titles. Tywin grew cross whenever he noticed one of them had been whisked away, but it was nothing that a few carefully chosen words could not fix, in the end. The things I do for a child’s curiosity.
Though this one had been placed in his hands scarcely a sennight past, the pages looked more worn than you remembered. He ought to be chasing something, not reading, you thought. Queerest little thing I’ve seen.
You placed a hand squarely in the middle of the page.
Rhaegar’s brows twitched.
“My Lady,” he said patiently, looking down at your fingers as though he might read through them. “You… you are upon Qarth.”
“Well, you are obscuring it.”
You did not move. “I thought to spare you,” you said. “You’ve travelled to the ends of the world and back already. Surely a man grows weary.”
The little dragon sighed and stubbornly nudged your fingers aside. You let him have the page long enough to read a sentence about elephants yourself, then shifted the book to the right.
You scoffed. “I would never.” You heard Rhaella’s soft chuckle as you reached out to straighten the book in the boy’s lap. “There. I fixed it.”
Rhaegar looked at you with dark eyes, as though expecting you to move again. You only waited for him to look down to cover the page once more.
“But, oh, you know, all this talk of pirates in there…” you whispered, feigning worry. “I must admit, pirates are my greatest fear.”
“There are no pirates,” he said very seriously. You could see a smile though, small and shy, and hidden behind a swoop of hair. “Only merchants. Maybe warlocks.”
“Warlocks are wicked creatures, my prince. Worse than pirates. They could even hurt us all the way from Asshai-by-the-Shadow if they so wished.”
“They wouldn’t.” He didn’t sound so sure.
You titled your head. “But if they did, would you be my knight in shining armour ?”
He lifted his eyes and, unexpectedly, let a small little laugh escape him. It was a rare sound, bright as a struck bell, but gentler. His narrow little shoulders were shaking, and you felt absurdly pleased with yourself.
You lifted a hand at last and brushed one unruly strand back into the fair fall of his hair. The boy leaned just enough into your side, shifting here and there to fit better against you.
Mara split a biscuit absently. “The poor thing might turn into a proper scroll himself if he keeps reading so.”
Rhaella looked at her son. “He says he must read. He tolerates the sword alright, but…” She pressed her lips together.
“Must ?” Mara echoed. “By the Seven, keep old fools away from him. My Doran was a pensive boy himself but even he did not waste his days staring at ink.”
But Doran’s a man-grown already, you thought. Maybe the little boy resting against you would grow into a fine swordsman, and maybe you’d never see him carry a book again. I hope not. Aerys clearly prefers his steel to ink, and look at him. He’s a vain, changeable man, no matter how charming he can be. Is a bookish king truly worse than a hot-blooded one ? Maybe your husband would be there to steer Rhaegar, when time came for him to sit high on that throne of swords.
Your fingers drummed pensively against the prince’s arm.
Your eyes returned to your tower, and you decided you had grown bored of gardens.
“My friends,” you began, rising in one fluid motion. “I believe I shall take a stroll around the keep.”
“A stroll,” Rhaella parroted, a thin brow rising knowingly.
“I must stretch my legs.”
“You have done little else since I arrived,” Mara quipped.
You only smiled sweetly. “If the realm does not come to me, I shall go to it.”
I can’t storm the council chamber, you thought. You weren’t stupid, thank the Seven. But a proper lady does not need to storm any room. She only needs to go near the ones who go near those chambers. The difference was very crucial when faced with Tywin’s judgment.
“Now…” You turned to the little prince looking up at you curiously. “Your Grace must come. As I’m feeling generous, I will show you that wisdom is not only found in books.”
The boy looked at your extended hand first, then at his mother.
Rhaella considered you both, and inclined her head. “The choice is yours, sweetling. Stay in the gardens or travel the world.”
After closing the thick tome with a grim sound, he hopped off the bench. With one last wave at his mother, he tucked his small hand trustingly into yours. Together, you set off down the path, past bright rose-beds and grand marble statues, into shade and sunlight alike. The few guards stationed here murmured greetings as you walked by.
After a moment, Rhaegar began to lag behind.
“Are you weary already ?” you teased.
“Seems to me your boots are filled with lead.”
He glanced quickly down, as if to check. You chuckled and, with no warning, swept him up into your arms. He was light as a feather, and you marched towards the red hallway in a hurry.
“I can walk,” he protested weakly. He’d already wrapped his arms around your neck, cheek pressed to your hairline as he looked forward.
“But I am bored, and we shall fly.”
He let out a little giggle. “So we’re flying now ?”
“Of course !” A tapestry stirred faintly as you passed, Balerion wheeling in a pink sky. The beast spat black-and-red flames. “We must be faster than the wind !”
The winding corridors of the Red Keep were cool, keeping the unwanted heat out and inviting the breeze coming off the Blackwater through open windows. It was here that gossip lived, breathing in kitchens and guardrooms, seeping into cellars and creeping into towers. A word whispered in the Small Council at dawn might reach a squire an hour or two later, and you cared that it ended up being repeated right into your ear.
Your footsteps echoed rhythmically along your path, passing scurrying servants holding baskets around the stairs, a yard where two squires trained underneath their master’s eye.
Held aloft like stolen treasure, Rhaegar watched it all. “Where are we going ?”
“To the kitchens first,” you said. “You must always go to the kitchens if you dislike being blinded by court. All roads, no matter where they start, lead there.”
The little prince frowned thoughtfully. “Why ?”
“Because men who argue require wine. And wine requires cups, and cups require little hands to carry them.”
“So the hands might know what the mouths have spoken,” he finished then.
He learns so quickly. You felt almost proud. “Precisely.”
After spiralling down a staircase, you entered the kitchens in a sweep of gold and silver. It felt almost like a world of itself, warm and loud and full of people running around like ants. Spits turned over open fires, dripping fat that made the coals hiss like snakes. Cooks barked orders, though their voices overlapped, while a young girl carried a big wooden bowl to a table covered in flour and lingering bits of sticky dough. The air was thick with the smell of fresh bread, roasting meat, and baked sweets.
“Well met, good people,” you called cheerfully.
A scullion nearly dropped a stack of trenchers at the sight of you. “Oh my, my lady !” Her grip turned white when she noticed Rhaegar, voice trembling. “Your Grace.”
“At ease, at ease.” You put your prince down, allowing him to roam free in this little heaven. He took loose hold of your girdle instead, though he eyed the room curiously. “I only seek some news. And perhaps a little treat, if there are any left for me and my companion.”
A stout woman with flour on her cheek bustled forward and dropped into a hurried curtesy. That reminded the others to do the same. “We’ve got lemon cakes coolin’ by the window, m’lady. The raspberry tarts are still in the oven.”
“Oh, wonderful. That’ll do just fine.”
With a quick thanks, you plucked the promised cake from the plate a young girl quickly brought over. It was spongy with syrup but it broke neatly in two, and you offered a portion to Rhaegar. He accepted that as well as the slice of candied lemon you picked from your half. His fingers already looked sticky from all the sugar.
“I will admit, I am dying of curiosity,” you announced, licking a crumb from your thumb. “Has anyone, I don’t know… let’s say, fainted in the council chambers yet ?”
“I… we beg your pardon, m’lady ?”
“You know what I mean.” You waved a dismissive hand, finishing your sweet treat.
From the table where bread was being kneaded, a girl piped up, “No one fainted. But, Tom here said there was shoutin’ around noon.”
Your brows rose, and turned your attention to the lanky boy the girl was looking at. “Is that true, Tom ?”
“Aye, m’lady. A squire from the Reach heard it from a conversation his master had with a gold cloak.”
And Aerys thinks loyalty keeps mouths shut, you mused idly. If only he realised what men would eagerly confess to a Lannister with bright eyes and a patient ear.
“Fascinating. What about ?”
You were met with silence for a second. Oh, come on, you thought, holding back a sigh. I have too good a reputation for all this hesitating.
“Don’t get shy on me, now. No harm will befall any of you, I swear on my honour.”
The young boy swallowed before speaking again. “Something about ships, and coin. Harbour taxes, most likely, as it was the Master of coin doin’ the talkin’. Lord Chelsted, I mean.”
You considered that. Whether it’s ships or taxes, coin always follows. And when coin follows, Tywin will not sleep until he’s wrestled the matter into submission. Your chest felt fuller at the thought, pride swelling there. Whatever else the realm might whisper about your husband, none could deny that he was capable. A look from your man and people tried to gather their mess and look presentable.
You felt a little tug at your girdle, and realised Rhaegar had edged forward with interest, chewing absently on his slice of lemon. Far more interesting than a dead man’s ramblings, isn’t it ? You might even make a busybody out of him, by the end of the day.
Though already quite pleased with what you’d heard, you smiled brightly. “Have they called for more wine or anything of the sort ?”
The stout cook adjusted her collar. “Lord Symond Staunton sent twice for Arbor red, m’lady.”
“Twice ?” the little prince echoed.
“They’re keeping those heads very clear,” you joked, brushing a crumb from his pink cheek with two fingers.
“And once for cakes. The cream ones.”
Rhaegar looked back at you. “They’re Father’s favourites.”
You hummed. Wine and sweets. Are we celebrating or bribing ? You wandered deeper into the kitchens, questions ready on your tongue. Rhaegar, at times, came along with his own enquiries. You heard that three more jugs of Arbor red had been carried up right this hour, and that Maester Pycelle had been muttering incessantly to himself when he’d gotten out quickly to visit the privy.
Next, you and your little assistant visited the stables, where you did not learn much except that horses were being readied so the master of ships might ride to the harbour and sail back to Driftmark within the sennight. In the inner yard, one of Maester Pycelle’s little apprentices told you that he had to prepare a raven to be sent to the Reach, though he did not know what for yet.
Nothing, you lamented. What do I care for Driftmark ? Velaryon probably wishes to bed his wife, nothing more. Maybe the raven is meant for the Tyrells. If not, it’s probably for the Citadel, damn it. Maybe I could pull it all out of Pycelle himself, threaten to choke him with his stupid chains, and…
“My lady,” Rhaegar’s voice cut through your thoughts. One hand tugged at your sleeve until you looked down at him, while the other pointed to his right. “There’s a cat.”
And just like that, your purpose was forgotten.
The servants had swapped the candles once already, and these ones had begun to burn low as well. The fourteen flames seemed to hiss whenever a breath of air strikes the council chamber. Trembling shadows danced across the pale red stone walls, making the carved golden dragons seem to writhe and twist with enough restlessness they might tear free and devour the fools seated beneath them. Perhaps Qarlton Chelsted first, Tywin had wished when his gaze had strayed towards the false beasts.
Smoke from the incense curled upward in lazy ribbons, thick and cloying, its woody sweetness dancing with the scent of melting wax, old parchment, and oiled steel from the White Bull’s armour.
The table stretched the length of the chamber, black oak polished to a dull sheen every day.
Tywin Lannister sat a this king’s right hand there, his back straight, fingers steepled over his lap. He had stopped listening at some point. He had also stopped trying to school his expression into one that suggested even the faintest interest. The time for both these things had passed.
The master of coin was speaking again. He always seemed to be speaking.
“Your Grace, I must insist.” Words fell from Lord Chelsted’s mouth like honey from a wand. Tywin took it for rot. “We increased the harbour taxes merely a fortnight ago. If we were to raise them once more, I fear the—”
“Oh, yes, the merchants will howl,” muttered Lord Staunton from Tywin’s left, drumming thin fingers along the edge of the table. The tapping carried a nervous rhythm. “They always do. You’d think we were crucifying their firstborn on the docks instead of asking a few more coppers to pay for all their privileges.”
He flicked one of Chelsted’s many scrolls with a dismissive hand. “Gods, you give them a hand and they’ll want the whole arm.”
“They still pay. This time, insulting them will only make matters worse,” Lord Chelsted said with a tight smile.
Tywin’s jaw tightened. We’ve got a council of gnats, he thought and the notion soured his mood even further. What a disgrace.
At the head of the table, King Aerys Targaryen slouched in his high-backed chair, pale and bored with almost theatrical intensity. His fingers traced idle shapes upon the dark wood. Once, then twice, his nails scratched across the surface, and each time, it seemed to sharped his smile into something lean and narrow as a knife’s edge.
The dim light was enamoured with his hair, every pale wave glimmering with a silvery sheen. His red-gold crown leaned heavily to one side, and when his gaze strayed, seven pairs of gemstone eyes kept watch on his behalf.
“Well, let them howl,” the king declared at last. “The city will drown out the noise by the second day.” A private sort of mirth danced behind his violet eyes. “Or the third. What does it matter ?”
Maester Pycelle released a wheezing breath that might have been a chuckle. “A jest most apt, Your Grace. Yes, yes.”
The Grand Maester was not so old as he liked to pretend, yet already his beard had turned thick with and grey, his chain sinking into his chest. Each link of gold, iron, lead, and rarer metals, glimmered in the firelight. Tywin remembered when you’d claimed that, one day, Pycelle’s ribs would surely cave beneath the weight of all those little trophies. You’d seemed wickedly pleased with the idea, and he’d only smiled so he wouldn’t laugh with you.
He laughs at every misplaced joke, Tywin thought ruefully, turning his gaze away. So long as it drips from royal lips.
The council had started earlier than ever, and had started dragging on and on since midday. It was now two hours past dusk, and Tywin’s patience had worn thin to the point of almost snapping. They still quibbled over tariffs and harbour dues (which they’d spoken of at least five times since this morning), over the petitions of petty lords and the squabbles of merchant guilds. Such matters could be settled in half an hour with a clear head and a firm written word, yet the men surrounding him had taken to circling like flies with their wine and their cakes.
In the midst of it, he found his thought drifting to you. Indulgent as ever, he pictured in your chambers, candlelight resting on your hair, how the gold would gather there as if the flames themselves longed to touch it. He imagined the warmth of your skin, the gentle slope of your shoulder where his hand so often came to rest. She will be waiting. You never complained when he returned late, never allowed a disappointed sigh to betray you. You kept the hearth going as long as you could, and the wine cool by the window.
My lioness, waiting, he thought, a rare softness threading through the iron of his mind. She shouldn’t have to.
The thought of you steadied him, at the very least.
Tywin turned back to the king. “Your Grace,” he said evenly. “May we return to the matter of the taxes still imposed on the lords of the Reach ? The measures from King Aegon’s reign—”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Aerys waved a dismissive hand, eyes narrowing. “You would undo my grandsire’s work, my friend. I have heard your little song each time. First the westerlands, then the Reach, and soon, all the great lords will have their claws back into the flesh of the realm. Bah ! They’re all so eager to rule as kings in all but name.”
“Those lords are the pillars upon which the kingdom stands,” Tywin replied. “If the crown itself breaks them, the rest will crack with it.”
“Right. And we’ll need to mend it, oh yes.” The king smiled that mocking smile again. “But then, who holds the hammer for that, my Hand ? You ?”
Tywin held the dragon’s gaze for a moment longer. “That hammer is the law, Your Grace. And the law is yours to wield as you see fit.”
Aerys titled his head, considering his words as a boy would study an insect he’d trapped in a glass cage. Then he threw back his head and laughed high and sharp. The room seemed to echo it back to him.
“Yes ! Well said, well said !” He turned to the rest of the council, teeth flashing. “One of you does possess some sense, at the end of the day.”
Nervous chuckles rippled around the table. Tywin inclined his head, tongue pressed lightly to his cheek. Deep inside, something cold stirred. Aerys will laugh now, he mused. Never forever. Nothing but legacy later forever.
The torches hissed softly when Ser Gerald Hightower rose at the far end of the table. “Your Grace, my lords,” he said in his deep voice, “the hour surely grows late for us all. Shall we adjourn until the morrow ?”
Aerys sighed. “You are all so dull, so eager for rest…” His eyes drifted over them all. Qarlton Chelsted fidgeted with a scroll, Symond Staunton squared his shoulders, Pycelle blinked like an owl, and Lucerys Velaryon was lost in thought. “Very well. Go. Leave me with my Hand. I would speak with him alone.”
Words could not quite express how deeply that displeased Tywin.
The small council sprang up, bowed low, and filed out in a shuffle of silks and muttered parting courtesies that seemed directed towards the tall Valyrian sphinxes guarding the exit rather than the king himself. Although Tywin wanted to leave, descend the stairs to his quarters, he remained seated until they had all gone. The doors closed with a hollow boom.
Aerys leaned back in his black chair. He looked down where his hands joined on his middle. “They bore you, do they not ?”
Tywin raised a brow. “They waste your time, Your Grace.”
“My time ? Yours, you mean.”
“Both.” It seemed obvious.
The dragon’s laugh came again, low this time. He’d always enjoyed Tywin’s way with honesty. “Do not be so earnest, now. I made you Hand, Tywin. Take more pleasure in it, will you ?”
“I take pleasure where I find it.”
“Ah, right.” Aerys’ lips twisted. “Your… oh, your lioness. The westerlands breed such fine women. She is not with child yet, is she ?”
“She will,” he echoed again, drawing it out. “A son, perhaps. With your golden hair. Your temper. Or hers, should the gods be kind to the realm.” He taped a finger over his own knuckle. “Well. Knowing her, maybe not. Right ? The court would see stars trying to keep up.”
The king seemed deceivingly thoughtful whenever he spoke of you, and Tywin had never once liked it.
He rose to his feet. “If that is all, Your Grace. My lady waits.”
Aerys waved him away with a languid hand. His laugh chased Tywin into the corridor like a murderous shadow.
From Beloved Baelor’s Sept, a bell tolled three times to mark the hour of ghosts. Each note drifted upwards like a sweet prayer as Tywin climbed down the stairs to the floor reserved for you and your household. Inside though, everything was quiet, save for the sound of his boots and the metallic shifting of the guards standing at every corner.
The red cloaks in front of his chambers straightened when Tywin got closer. One moved without a word to swing the heavy door open.
The air was warmer and softer here, so different from the hell he’d spent hours in. It smelled of cedar-wood, of the sweet perfume from Lys you favoured, of Arbor gold, and the faint salt of skin. The silence there was gentle and peaceful.
Tywin unwanted his cloak and set it aside, the heavy lion-shaped brooch catching briefly on the fabric before coming loose. The golden necklace of linked hands followed, still cold against his fingers. On the desk, a candle had burned so low that it was almost snuffed out by its own wax. Its light flickered over the gold threads in the coverlet, over the curled beasts on the bed’s curtains and the faint curve of a form under the thin sheets.
For the first time that evening, his shoulders eased, the rigid mask he’d worn before the king and everyone else melting away. All that was left was the man that remembered how to want, and how to ache. He crossed the room silently, drawn towards the faint sound of your breathing as you woke and the whisper of linen against skin.
The glow of the hearth was dying, but what was left of the flames spat and snapped their last moments as though they could grow as restless as the young lioness who lay in his bed. Tywin sat on the edge of the featherbed, unfastening the last clasps of his tunic with fingers that moved swiftly, though he slowed when he caught you watching him already.
Your were half-buried beneath a spill of hair across the crimson-and-gold pillows, one bare shoulder warmed by the low light as you shifted. The sight of you had undone him more times than he cared to count in your short years of marriage. He never once had allowed the court, not even his king, to see it so clearly. Pride forbade it. A lion did not bare his throat to anyone, and certainly not to outsiders.
Expect, well… perhaps, here.
Your voice was drowsy with sleep, but your eyes were brighter by the second. “You’ll not pretend you’ve left your duties outside that door, will you ?”
His mouth tightened in what might’ve been mistaken for displeasure. You had learnt better. “You would have me speak of dismissals and reforms at a time when most wives would rather hear of love ?”
You smiled at that, that small secretive thing that made him feel as though you had trapped him in one of his own snares. “What better time than when you’ve no choice but to stay here with me ?”
Tywin shed his tunic, tossing it aside. It landed on the armchair. He bent to kiss you, pressing his mouth against yours with the sort of command he yielded to no one else. You met him eagerly, as always. When at last he pulled back, his breath was already heavier.
“We’re cursed with a council of gnats,” he whispered, sliding one hand along the curve of your waist. The thin fabric of your slip crumpled beneath his palm, warm from your body.
You laughed softly. “Ah, well.”
Your hand trailed down his chest once you reached out, nails scraping lightly over his stomach, then lower. When your knuckles slipped beneath the waist of his trousers and brushed lightly over his cock, already thickening at the mere feel of you, Tywin gritted his teeth.
“The realm has had its fair shares of powerful fools,” you murmured, and your fingers wrapped around him to stroke slowly to start, the way he liked it best. “But you can deal with such inconveniences. Right, my lord ?”
“Yes.” The word came out rougher than he intended. Your thumb circled the head of his cock. His hips twitched despite himself. “Yes. Of course I can.”
You shifted closer, so very feline in your grace as you pressed your body against his side. Your lips were warm when they found his cheek, down beneath his ear. “Tell me more.”
He bit down on the sigh that threatened to escape, grinning his teeth until his jaw started to ache. He found himself caught between answering your questions or the more urgent summons of your touch. Tywin was not a man used to division; he liked things ordered, neat, and set into their designated places. Yet, here, in this bed, the boundaries blurred. It was always your fault, somehow.
Your mouth traced his chin now. Your hand pumped him with growing confidence, squeezing just enough for him to confuse pleasure with torment. His cock throbbed hot and heavy in your grip.
“Tywin, tell me more,” you urged again.
Seven hells, woman, he thought. There was not heat in it, only a helplessness he would confess to no one but you. You made him speak of things he would otherwise keep sealed away, things even Kevan had a hard time prying from him. You managed to coax them out with nothing more than a whisper, a touch, a press of your thighs.
“The master of coin…” Tywin shut his eyes, only to force them open again. He needed to look at you. “He worries about taxes and, and merchants… nobody thinks about the reforms. Which are the only things that should matter yet.”
Your fingers tightened. A bead of precum slicked your palm, easing the glide. Tywin’s free hand came up, tangling in the shorter hands at the nape of your neck, holding you close. Before he could think any more, he kissed you again, harder this time, with teeth gracing your lower lip before softening. Your tongues met, hot and wet, emboldened by habit and affection, as though you’d been made for each other for the start.
Tywin broke away only to peck at your jaw, your throat, feeling the familiar pulse beneath your skin. There, he tasted sweat, heat, life itself.
You nipped at his jaw then. “Go on, Tywin. I need to hear it all.”
The mattress creaked when he suited his weight. He did want to tell you more, to share this burden he’d never imagined sharing with his wife one day, but only a hoarse breath escaped him.
Tywin bit back a groan as your hand worked him steadily now, twisting on the way up, plan slick and warm. “They waste all their hours,” he whispered. “Like old men clinging to old quarrels. And Aerys… Aerys is growing more bored and restless each day the gods make.”
Your hand never faltered, stroking him from base to tip, firm and perfect. Tywin’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the sheets. This is too easy, he thought, annoyed for a second before the feeling slipped away when your thigh pressed warm against his leg.
“He spoke of rebuilding the Dragonpit, once.” His voice had roughened as pleasure coiled tighter in his belly. “One moment he makes sense, and the next he doesn’t.”
You hummed against his throat, licking the salt from his skin. Your grip tightened then, pumping faster as you whispered sweet nothings directly into his ear. His cock was painfully hard, every stroke sending sparks of heat racing up his spine.
“They keep forgetting that the realm needs order,” he continued, voice growing strained. “Strength. How hard can that be ? Not… gods.” Your fingers finally settled into that perfect rhythm, just right, and his jerked up into your fist. “Not this endless circling.”
“You must bear it all,” you said, teeth grazing his ear. “If not you, then no one will. You’ll have to suffer more than these fools for the realm’s sake.”
Tywin growled low in his chest. His hand tightened in your hair, enough to anchor himself in you.
“Tywin,” you whispered, urging him on. “Let me suffer through it with you.”
His breath caught. For half a heartbeat, he felt young and foolish. “You already do,” he rasped against your mouth. “You suffer me. You believe I would speak of council matters with anyone else ? In our bed, no less ? No. You want to hear of every plot ? Every folly, every quarrel in that cursed chamber ? You shall.”
He turned his head, eyes studying you in the dimness. Your cheeks and ears were flushed, your breath warm, and a small smile spread over his face.
“You’ll hear it from me, in this bed, while I take you, while you take me. Would that please you, my lady ?”
Your eyes shone like stars, wicked and pleased as your smile. “It would please me, my lord.”
And so it will be, he thought.
Tywin kissed you again as the knot in his stomach broke. A harsh groan escaped him right into your mouth as he spilt hot over your palm. His seed painted your fingers, then his own twitching cock while stroked him through it, slow and soothing, his forehead pressed hard to yours.
The release left him boneless for a moment. You, however, only withdrew your hand gently to wipe it on his trousers with a casual flicks of the wrist. Then, you rose to straddle him, knees bracketing him. Your hair fell forward, brushing his face as you kissed him again, brief and gentle.
Tywin’s hands settled on your waist, holding you there. The heat living between your thighs stirred fresh interest in him already.
But the night was still young, and he had more to tell you yet.
author’s note : if you think you’ve already read something similar… ding-ding-ding. after re-reading through the original myself, it felt so lacklustre that i thought that just improving the base wouldn’t kill me, so here we are. if u preferred that version, it’s still gonna be available. but see it as a wip instead, bc this is the final version 😗 ALSO, i gave a random name to the mother of doran-elia-oberyn bc i’m free. transition taken from louise bourgeois’ “10 am is when you come to me.”
