Winter’s coming, but not fast enough. These books will tide you over until Game of Thrones season 6 premieres.

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Maybe you like your kick-ass ladies to come with a great destiny?

What about fierce battles and daring deeds?

Need a touch of magic?

One word: DRAGONS.

Happy reading!

Make Her A Stark~Part 1 - Robb Stark x Reader

Hey so I started watching Game Of Thrones instead of revising and, although I am only on season two (I know almost everyone dies and my heart will break), I have written a 2 part Robb stark imagine and I have begun a Jon Snow imagine. Let me know what you guys think. Sorry if things aren’t accurate I am new to the fandom. This doesn't follow the events of the show. Let me know what you think, please!!!


Originally posted by winterfellskingdom

You shivered profoundly as you clutched at your coat. You had been in Winterfell for only a few weeks on you fathers orders, to be Lady Catelyn’s ward as your father and brothers were too busy to be dealing with your ‘woman’s antics’.

You were not used to the cold and each breath seemed to burn your lungs a little as your skin was constantly covered in goose pimples. You missed the heat and you could never seem to find warmth, even with your new clothes and furs. Winter was coming and you had no idea how you would manage then.

You could feel your own body slowly becoming tired and ill but you had to remain well, you could not embarrass yourself in front of your hosts. You father had been trying to make connections with the Starks for years and, although nothing had been said officially, you had a feeling your father sent you here for another reason other than to get you away. Not wanting to give him any other reason to hate you other than you being his only, unwanted daughter and youngest child.

You were attempting to cross the courtyard to the main hall to see Lady Stark when you could feel yourself swaying a little and almost stumble before a layer of large furs being draped over your shoulders and a strong arm gripping yours firmly.

“Are you okay, milady?” You looked up into Robbs blue eyes wearily,

“Of course my lord,” you lied, “I am needed by your mother so I must take my leave…” You tried to shrug away from his furs and pardon yourself but he wouldn’t let you escape him,

“Lady (y/n), You are becoming ill you need rest,” he pulled his coats further over you,

“And you need your furs, you will freeze”

“I am used to the temperatures,” He smiled kindly at you. That smile could truly thaw you. Despite his eyes being the colour of ice, they were warm and his touch would linger on your body leaving a different kind of warmth like a lasting tingle. You would not be able to deny your attraction to the oldest Stark boy who was just one year older than you. “(y/n),” he addressed you without your title for once, making you listen, “If you do not return to your room and allow me to get a nurse I shall carry you myself. My mother can wait I am sure.” His words of kindness and caring made your heart pang, with a little hope that maybe your silly little crush was reciprocated.

“I shall return after seeing your mother, I promise.” You returned his smile but he frowned.

“No, milady, you shall return now and that is an order.” His still firm grip on your arm moved you around and almost dragged you to your chambers that were considerably large compared to the closest you father had stuffed you in. You sighed at the warmth given off by the fire as Robb guided you to sit by it carefully. As you reached the chair you almost collapsed again from exhaustion only to have Robbs strong arms wrap around you - that in its self, made your head spin even more than it was.

Catching you as delicately as he could he picked you up effortlessly, calling for a guard to fetch a nurse as he carried you to your bed, laying you down on the sheets and raising your head to cradle it. You few weeks here had left him in a daze around you. You were the fairest lady he had ever seen and you care for his younger sisters and your need to help his mother and family so much meant he couldn’t help but admire you.

He and yourself had often taken little walks around Winterfell, more often when you first arrived rather than now but you had only ever really spoken formally, all 'milady’ this and 'milady’ that and that is what annoyed him a little about you, you were so focused on doing well for and proving yourself to your horrible, male-heir-obsessed father that you wouldn’t allow yourself to enjoy anything. He had thoroughly enjoyed being with you and he wanted you to see that but he could never seem to get through to you.

Little did he know that really, you wanted to let him in too. You were just afraid Lady Stark would, at some point, send you back to you family and back to your sheltered life as a disgrace to your brothers. You adored Robb and that was the truth, but formally, you were here for his mother. Informally, your heart would always be here for Robb.

He had been hoping to speak to his mother himself earlier when he had seen you stumbling in a sick state, not thinking twice about throwing his own source of warmth around your shivering body. He knew you were not coping being in the cold as opposed to the heat you were used to. He had watched you for days as you continued along with your life, trying to ignore it and simply stay out of the way.

Seeing you so sick, unable to hold yourself made a part of him hurt. He had so badly wanted to hold you and comfort you and take care of you, he never imagined he would have to see the girl he had fallen for so quickly and hard in such discomfort with such a fever. His feelings had grown quickly like wild fire. The way you were selfless yet could look out for yourself, the way you tied your hair back while focusing, the way you held yourself at formal events and then seeing you afterwards so relaxed.

Your sweats had begun to set in and your (e/c) eyes had fluttered shut just as two nurses rushed in before stopping before him,

“Lord Stark,” they bowed their heads a little,

“Help her, treat her as a Stark.” He ensured, his worry had set in and now he wanted nothing more than you to be awake and well so he could hold you again in a better circumstance. He still cradles your head in his lap when a nurse began to usher him away,

“A lord should never see such a lady indisposed,” she almost spat at him rather rudely but in a mad worry to make her well, he left squeezing her hand one final time before grabbing his sword and heading outside.

He had forgotten to take his furs but you had needed them more than him so they remained around you fragile body as he hacked away at a target with his blade. The way the healer woman had referred to you as 'such a woman’ troubled him. He had demanded she be treated like a stark yet she referred to you as an outsider. Yes, you belonged to another family but if he had just been able to speak with his mother earlier he could have gotten her to discuss a courtship. He would happily make her a Stark over any other woman in the land.


— “It’s just a sword,” she said, aloud this time… but it wasn’t. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile. He used to mess my hair and call me “little sister,” she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

(…) The Many-Faced God can have the rest, she thought, he can’t have this.

Love Alters Not (Tywin Lannister)

Fandom: Game of Thrones

Pairings: Tywin Lannister x Joanna Lannister

Warnings: Some usual GoT angst

Originally posted by sansaregina

“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom”

– Shakespeare – Sonnet 116

Joanna had always liked the sky.

When she was a girl, her father often carried her on his shoulders so she might pretend to touch the clouds above. They were heavy and white, made of the finest silk and richest cream and painted by giants – or dragons, she had not made up her mind about their origin yet. The sky, she learned later, was full of superstition and myth; it was a vault under which humans and other creatures had wandered in fearful admiration since the dawn of time. As a girl, when she knew nothing of this, she merely liked its shapes and the way it seemed to last forever and still fit in the palm of her hand.

“Who lives in the clouds?” Joanna asked with her fingers curled around a shadow that took a form in her imagination, turned into a lion or a stag or a bunny depending on her mood.

Her father didn’t know but her mother did.

“Our dreams live there,” she answered every time Joanna had asked. “Our dreams and our hopes, waiting for us to be ready for them.”

Her clouds were never thick with rain, not that she could remember. The sun never sets on the lions, her mother said many times during the long summer of Joanna’s childhood.


She was a disobedient child. A summer child, steeped in that summer-beauty from the fairy-tales and songs. From the moment she could walk and speak, Joanna was a climbing, lying, sneaking, wilful girl who was scooped up in comforting arms and sternly admonished by turns, drawing out deep frowns and exasperated laughs all at once. It was not fair, her brother Stafford protested when she got away with her adventures. He was a coward, afraid of wild animals and heights and water. Joanna was not afraid of anything.

“When I am a woman grown, I am going to be a conqueror,” she told him when they were flat on their stomachs on the floor of the library, painstakingly making their way through the thick tomes of history. “Like Aaegon.”

“Don’t be silly.” Stafford was two years older; he always thought he knew best. “When you’re a woman grown you will be somebody’s lady wife.”

Will not.” She turned a page in the book, eyebrows arched at the painting. A pack of mountain lions feasting on a direwolf and her stomach lurched with excitement, a jolt of happiness under her skin. When she was going to be older, her father has promised to take her hunting in the forests. The real forests. She decided that Stafford couldn’t come.

He sighed. “Yes, you will. Ask father.”

It was not fair, she thought to herself as the let the pad of her thumb trace the outlines of the largest lion in the group who had his paws around the wolf’s neck. If she leaned closer to the painting, so close her face almost touched it, she imagined she could taste the blood in the lion’s mouth.


The year when she was fourteen and bled for the first time, she often dined with her lord uncle Tytos and his children. Her cousins. Wedged in between Genna who never stopped talking and Kevan who teased her incessantly, Joanna directed her attention towards Tywin across the table. Their eyes met briefly. He seemed misplaced among them, she thought - too stern for a youth and not old enough to pass for a grown man despite all the tales of his prowess as a strategist and a swordsman. The heir to Casterly Rock was a strange child, they said. Nothing like her meek, ever-smiling uncle, he bore more resemblance to ancestors long gone, as though he himself was an echo from a different time. A joyless bastard, Stafford called him once, but not to his face.

Joanna thought him handsome, with strong, clean features and pale green eyes that could take the shape of the coolest ice. There was something hard in him, something austere and unflinching that you could rely on. It was a soothing thought.

She knew even before her parents suggest it, that she was meant to marry him.


During the year that followed, Joanna’s father brought her with him to Casterly Rock for a fortnight and she spent the better part of the journey there wondering what she will talk to her cousin about. Her education has been vast and unconventional in parts - due to her father’s love for both the family library and the old maps of wars won and lost – and full of suitable topics but Joanna was fairly certain a lady wasn’t meant to discuss the art of war with a suitor. She was equally certain that she will, at some point, but she had learned enough manners to at least pretend otherwise.

“You can see right into the sky up here,” was what escaped her as they arrive and it was not what she was expecting herself to say at all, but Genna giggled benevolently and took her arm in a firm grip, dragging her off to the Hall of Heroes.

Later that evening, she bested Tywin at chess – twice – and thought momentarily perhaps this was not going so well before she met his gaze and noticed something appreciative behind the layers of irritation at having lost.

“You are a clever girl,” he said with a curt nod. It made him sound old and pompous and she felt a burst of laughter tickle the back of her throat but she knew better than to let it out. He has been laughed at enough for a lifetime.

“Yes, I am,” Joanna said instead, mirroring his nod.

Tywin observed her for a moment, without saying anything else. Then - so very quickly and briefly that it might not even had happened - he smiled. He smiled and Joanna laughed, relieved.

There was no haste to marry young in times of peace, her lord uncle declared – if any of his vague statements could be interpreted as declarations - by the end of that year and Joanna realised she was disappointed.


War came between them, another year when the autumn stretched as endless as the sea, its clouds grey and low, soaring right above their heads. Joanna grew restless in the lingering heat and the thundering storms; she wanted out, longed for open roads and the crowded marketplaces of Lannisport. And her prayers this year – pleas to gods and clouds alike – rose like winding roads to the sky. She was a woman now, had outgrown her father’s house and as the moon rotated her mother began to question the promised betrothal, began to speak of Sebaston Farman because at least that match would take place in a near future. Joanna refused to speak of the matter entirely, nursing her pride and hope like a mother nurses her children.

Tywin Lannister waged an uneven, unequal war for most of that year. No one in her family expected him to lose.

“A risk all the same,” her father told her over his goblet of wine that she brought every night to his study. He sat there, pored over maps and old books. If she asked, he showed her the world in them. “But Tywin is determined, I give him that.”

“A lord must be able to trust his vassals.” Joanna walked up to the window, folding her arms across her chest as she stared at the landscape out there, dissolved by rain and darkness. “My uncle should to have seen to that a long time ago. The blood is entirely on his hands.”

Her father looked up at her and for the first time she noticed how old he was, how the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth marked his face. Everybody said her father was a mirror image of his older brother and in this room she found, much to her disappointment, that it was truly so.

“You speak like a general, child,” he said and she could almost taste the wistfulness in his voice.

“I speak like a Lannister,” she retorted, turning her back on him. You ought to do the same.

With the falling leaves that year, reports of the young lion’s success at mercilessly crushing the uproar travelled between the towns and taverns. Those he did not defeat on the battlefield he hung, spelling out their family motto in blood for everyone to see. Joanna listened to the stories with a lurching feeling of hope in her chest. We are rising, she told the stars that were crisp and clear in the night skies. Finally rising after our long slumber.

With the first snow, Tywin himself – taking the place of his lord father in this matter, too - came to ask for Joanna’s hand in marriage.


It rained on their wedding, poured from black clouds above their heads all day, covering the guests and the feast in a veil of grey wetness. And rain meant good luck, someone told her as though she would need it. It rained even as they were carried away to their bedchamber. Water darkened the stones around her, Joanna thought, catching glimpses of it through the windows.

The darkness consumed Casterly Rock but in their room, candles were lit and fires were burning and she was released and placed in the middle of it, at its very core. Outside, she could hear the dancing and the singing continue with renewed force. A proper Lannister wedding much rarer these days than it used to be. They had good cause for celebration.

“Would you care for more wine?” Tywin asked suddenly and with strange politeness, looking over her shoulder at the generous feast that has been brought up from downstairs and put on a table near the fireplace. It had been the first thing she noticed when the cheering crowd put her down - the large plates full of sugared oranges and baked apples, of salted meat and roasted onions.

She shook her head. “Not unless you wish to carry me to bed.”

He observed her, the flecks of gold in his eyes glittering. “I was under the impression that was my duty.”

She laughed softly. Somehow the air seemed to grow warmer between them.

“I’m not a woman to be carried anywhere,” she said, sounding a little more prudish than intended and he gave an amused grunt that resounded in her, thudding against the sturdy walls of her heart. She blinked, startled at the realisation: everything past this, past the two of them, was out of focus, an unimportant blur of colours and lights.

“That remains to be seen.” He took a step towards her and the space between their bodies was narrowed further when she did the same. It felt like one long movement – without doubts, without interruption, merely two bodies recognising each other.

After all these years, she would never have thought Tywin Lannister capable of gentleness, but he was. He was careful and solemn in a way that made her chest tighten as he stood before her and she squared her shoulders, smiling to hide her fluttering nerves, wondering what he saw when he looked at her. Men looked at her, she was aware of that. For years, men had turned to her with a special glint in their eyes, their gazes travelling up and down her body when they thought it will pass unnoticed and she has found uses for it, the way a Lannister did.

And yet, Tywin’s gaze was the only one she truly valued, she could feel it now like a low hum in her bones. She has been his long before tonight; he has been hers in thoughts and plans, as well. And it was his open appreciation she would remember; it was his silent way of taking her and that would resound at the back of her memory all those long nights when he was not with her; it was the way his hand cradled the nape of her neck; it was the touch of his lips on hers; it was the way his body felt when pressed against her own.

Before, when he had draped his crimson-red cloak over her shoulders and sworn to protect her, he had given her one of his rare smiles and somehow it had made the whole feast easier to bear, made her resist a fourth cup of wine when offered, made her resist it again just now. This was long overdue; she did not want to misremember it in the morning.

“I am truly glad to be rid of all those people,” she said breathlessly when he began to remove her dress in all its intricate glory and shortly thereafter, she found, the art of forming words somewhat escaped her.

Much later, as the rain and thunder have subsided and they rested side by side in their bed, Joanna traced a small pattern of light across Tywin’s chest when the moonlight pierced through the curtains, thinking ‘I will be good to you, I swear it.’


Everyone advised her to endure the first year of marriage. After that, they said, it would become easier.

Joanna found her first year of marriage joyous - eventful and tiring, but joyous all the same.

Their first summer as husband and wife Tywin took her hunting in the forests surrounding Crakehall; they rode with a small entourage and the long roads ahead felt like they belong to the two of them. And this summer that was theirs, the land was quick to burn, like it was eager to soak up the light and the heat, to churn it out in long, warm evenings where the sun’s presence lingered in the air long after it has set.

They walked together on those evenings, keeping the others at a safe distance. She enjoyed walking by her husband’s side, enjoyed being near him and sharing her days with him; he seemed to take pleasure in having her there, in being listened to or even questioned. They were fortunate, she concluded on a particularly warm evening when they found solitude in a glade full of blackberry bushes, very fortunate indeed.

“My father has all but ruined the family,” Tywin told her one night. It came as no surprise so she merely nodded, listening to his thoughts on the matter.

“We ought to be relentless in our efforts to raise funds in the future.” She turned slightly so that they were facing each other. It was not until Tywin nodded his agreement that she realised she said 'we’ without even thinking about it.


Around them, things changed both subtly and abruptly.

Lord Tytos Lannister was craven, they said - if they spoke of him at all. Lecherous and craven, a stain on the Lannister banners, more pitied than loved. With his children’s futures secured and the burdens of his duties released from his shoulders, he took to unabashed drinking and whoring and did it so thoroughly that he was rarely showing his face unless forcibly dragged down to slumber through a formal occasion.

When Joanna’s father died unexpectedly from a persistent fever, his brother held a much too costly feast to accompany the ceremony and had to be carried back to his bedchamber right in the middle of it. There was a tremble of subdued laughter behind his back as he stumbled through the halls and Tywin stiffened in his seat, his eyes hard as flint. Joanna placed her hand on his arm under the table; he relaxed under her touch, but only for a second.

“You will have to excuse my lord father, I’m afraid,” Tywin said to her later, in their room. He sounded both tired and furious behind his composure, fragments of his true feelings slipping through small cracks of that steely armour. Sometimes she was amazed that she was the only one who could see it for what it is - a shield. “He is not much of a host these days. Or much of a man, for that matter.”

“Whatever his faults, he has raised a remarkable son.” Joanna said, suddenly more grateful towards him than she could say. “Nobody laughs at you, my love. I, least of all.”

A shadow crossed Tywin’s face at her words, as something in his features shifted slightly.

He was constantly changing this year, as well, growing darker and harsher in his role as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West in all but name. He worked untiringly, Joanna knew, demanding near-impossible things from the men around him – and from himself. There was no man in the Seven Kingdoms he expected more from, no man he compelled as mercilessly. At times, when she grazed her fingertips over the taut lines of his body, she imagined she could feel the whole extent of his ambition, pulsating under his skin, threatening to overthrow them all.

This was why she loved him: for being the cure for all the empty promises of their gilded halls and fabled ancestry, for being someone to be proud of and someone who was strong enough to endure it. For his pride. For his faults. For being bold and brave and burning.

When she told him this, his hands came around her waist, his gaze clouded with ferocious need and she kissed him so fiercely she drew blood from his lips.


The moon turned in the sky and the world switched colours around them. The summer burned out into a long autumn and everybody spoke of the winter while the roads turned yellow and red.

Whenever it was convenient and she wasn’t required elsewhere, she accompanied her husband as he worked and quickly learned that he held her opinion in the greatest esteem. On the rare occasion that she did not volunteer her thoughts on something, he asked her. Within months of their marriage, he had made her his advisor in most things and she was startled the afternoon she discovered that he has picked up her suggestion how to improve the trading routes to Lannisport and put his most trusted men on the task.

“You need not look so surprised,” he muttered over his trade maps and calculations when she mentioned it. “I would not have married you if I thought you a feeble-minded fool.”

“I was under the impression that it was my stunning beauty,” Joanna retorted, in good humour, because even if no living soul would believe her if she told them, her husband happened to smile on occasion.

“It worked in your favour, I must admit,” he said if he was in particular high spirits. If he was not, her japes and remarks were met with cool silence.


And when they didn’t see eye to eye, they fought. Like lions, if allowed.

Her husband was cold and cruel, she was furious and scornful. He managed to stay silent for days, nursing his grudges for all eternity; she made rash decisions and stormed off like a petulant child, raging violently but briefly. When she returned to the room, her anger washed away and forgotten, Tywin would still wallow in his own irritation and so they started over again.

“Ice and wildfire,” Genna said, rolling her eyes. “Seven save us all, dear cousin.”

“You have a way with him, though,” she added, eyes twinkling like they share something secret, just the two of them. They sat by the large windows facing Lannisport, taking their afternoon meal together. Genna Lannister was an infrequent guest but Joanna has come to look forward to her visits, however sporadic; she has a brazen edge to her that matched Joanna’s own and knew how to converse about something beyond domestic matters.

“You make him sound like an untamed horse,” Joanna half-smiled.

“Oh, aren’t they all?” Genna reached for another plum and swallowed it in a large bite.


Joanna miscarried three times the year after her husband was named Hand of the King.

Twice, she stood in the Hall of Heroes and listened to the waves, feeling the seed of life inside her amount to nothing, slipping away with every step she took, every heartbeat.

The third time, they were in King’s Landing and she wasn’t strong enough to hold back her tears as Tywin returned to their bedchamber. It seemed the air in the room was tinted with blood and her own failures; her hands shook uselessly as she turned away from his gaze. He was not a man who tolerated tears and she was not a woman who wept but this, she thought with her hands curled into fists, this was not right. There were some sorrows for which there was no compensation; there were some hollow hungers that could not be sated.

“It seems I will not give you any sons.”

“You will,” Tywin replied, a little too quickly.

“And if I don’t?” Her breath caught around the question. If I can’t?

“You will.” He sat down by edge of their bed, loosening the buckles of his formal wear and starting to undress. Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and mightier than the seven, she thought with a stitch of anger colouring her thoughts dark as night. She wondered if he truly believed he could issue a command for this, too.

Joanna took a deep breath, bracing herself for the words with sharp edges that ripped her thoughts to shreds. There were no childless Lannisters, a voice said in her head. There were no childless Lannisters and there were always ways.

But Tywin would not hear of it.

“You are my wife and you will be the mother of my children.” He said it with such force, such uncompromising determination, that Joanna never brought up the matter again, even as the days passed by and her monthly bleeding returned, over and over.


The sky was pale blue and framed by the lightest of clouds the day she felt, for the first time, the beat of another heart within her body. A soft thud, a flicker, and she closed her eyes, commanding the child inside her to stay where it was, to grow strong.

You are every bit a Lannister, she told it, pressing her fingers to the bulging stomach. There is lion blood in your veins and the sun, my beautiful child, does not set on the lions.

She was not surprised when Maester Pycelle told them he could feel the movement of more than one child.

Everything had a price and they had paid for this thrice already.


She gave birth at Casterly Rock in the middle of winter. Afterwards, she could not remember it; she knew it must have happened and she heard the stories of how it happened, but her own memories – or what would have been memories – were nothing but a long string of moments of darkness.
In the dark, she could see the clouds of her childhood again, dissolving like melting snow when she reached out. She aimed for them, her motions made slow and lethargic by the strange haze that filled her body, and they slipped away.

She was brought back to life and light by hands tugging at her, voices whispering over her head, liquids slipping between her lips and trickling down her throat until she had to cough and then her eyes opened, by their own making. The room seemed strangely bright, as though Casterly Rock was on fire. Joanna frowned at the sight of Maester Pycelle. Have I been so gravely ill?
As if he could read her mind, the old man nodded. “We feared we were going to lose you, my Lady.”

And then, softer: “You must not bear any more children, my Lady. It would be too great a risk. I shall personally brew you the finest moon tea henceforth.”

I have never cared for this man, she thought irritably, smoothing out a wrinkle on the blanket she was partly covered by. But Tywin claimed he was a stalwart.

“How are they?” Her words were weak, but she felt her body awaken with every breath; she was returning. “How are my children?”

“Both children are healthy and strong,” Tywin answered and the sound of his voice nearly brought tears to her eyes. I returned to you. “One boy and one girl.”

When she turned her head to look at him and saw him struggle for momentum, she knew the darkness has been real, knew that it did swallow her, that it was not merely her pained delirium. She was gone. For a little while, she had disappeared. There’s a streak of exhaustion in Tywin’s eyes, as though he has been through ten and forty days of war. She wanted to reach out and brush over his cheek with her hand, knowing how little he slept before battle. You always win, husband.

“Leave,” he commanded those who were surrounding her bed and within the blink of an eye they had hurried out of her bedchamber.

"It takes more than childbirth to slay a lioness,” she said to him when they were alone and she has seen the twins sleep, as intertwined as babies as they must have been before they entered this world. Hand against chest, foot pressed into the bend of a knee; they were the most beautiful things Joanna had ever laid eyes upon and she loved them already, feeling faint at the mere thought of their little bodies pressed together.

She gave her husband a grin, a sense of triumph engraved into her very body tonight. She was victorious, invincible.

Tywin didn’t smile back; he walked to the window to pull the curtains close, before sitting down by her bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her forehead and she closed her eyes as her hands find his broad shoulders and strong arms, stroking them through his tunic, thinking yes, this is where I belong and I will always return to you.


One year later, Tywin formally assumed the lordship of Casterly Rock.

He wasn’t present when his father died ignobly and Joanna and the twins were visiting her mother when the news reached them. At the funeral they held for him, Tywin betrayed nothing of his contempt and scorn for his late lord father and Joanna stood beside him, their children in her arms and felt nothing but pride.

It belonged to them now. The future was theirs.

Tags: @fandomiteen (More, more, I’m so sorry! But this is the last one for tonight, I think! Love you, darling. <3)