Death Comes To Casterly Rock
The newly-made Lady Lannister sighed and crouched down in front of her wolf. She undid the chains around her paws and allowed Fang to run around the kennel for a bit. Lyarra giggled at the sight of her wolf running in circles and woofing happily.
"Come now, Fang. I want to show you your new room," Lyarra cooed, opening the kennel door and allowing Fang to run out before her.
Given that Fang had been stuck in a confined space for the last week and unable to stretch her legs for much longer than thirty minutes, Lyarra let her run free around the courtyard, only restraining her when there were people approaching. Many people eyed her wolf with barely concealed disdain. Lyarra had to remind herself that their opinion did not matter. She was a Stark of Winterfell – and now a Lannister, wed to their liege lord's heir – she shouldn't have to dance around them to keep them happy. But yet, some insecurity still remained.
Fang had to run up and down each corridor twice before moving along to the next, which meant that reaching her room took longer than she expected. Even after their lengthy walk, Fang was still full of energy. Lyarra wished that she could bring her for a much longer walk, but she had to attend the feast being held in honour of her marriage.
"We'll go for a longer walk tomorrow, I promise," Lyarra swore to her wolf, who tilted her head in response. "I might even ride on horseback and race you. How would you like that?" Her wolf woofed excitedly. Lyarra laughed. "There are times I could swear that you understand what I'm saying."
Rhea arrived in her chambers soon after Lyarra, rushing to get Lyarra into her bright blue dress and tidy her hair. When Rhea attempted to style her hair in a southern style, Lyarra stopped her and decided to do her own hair. She braided two strands of hair and tied them together at the back, allowing her dark brown hair to fall down her back. A northern hairstyle made her feel more comfortable. A southern up-do would only serve to make her feel like a fraud. She was no southern lady, her direwolf proved that, so why should she pretend to be?
Her husband arrived at her doorstep later that night, dressed in a finely embroidered red and gold doublet. Lyarra allowed herself only a moment to admire him before taking the arm he offered her and walking with him towards the hall.
"You look well tonight," Jaime remarked, eyeing her up and down. "Much better than you did at the kennels, covered in hay and dog shit and whatnot."
The little wolf could not help but roll her eyes at Jaime's vulgarity. She must have looked a right state when Jaime found her in the kennels, but there was no dog stool on her dress. "I was not covered in dog shit."
"She swears!" Jaime commented dryly in a loud voice that boomed down the corridor. He made her cursing out to be some great achievement. Lyarra resisted the urge to roll her eyes again lest they fall out of her sockets. "And here I thought you were the perfect little lady."
"What else am I to call it?" Lyarra asked him, a part of her chastising herself for playing along. "Dog stool doesn't sound quite right. Nor does dog waste..." She stopped herself, the image of her mother's face upon hearing their conversation suddenly popped into her head. "I'm going to stop now."
The Kingslayer barked a laugh. "Sometimes speaking more to defend oneself only results in worsening the situation. It's often best to say less. That will be hard for you, of course. I best put that mouth of yours to other, better uses."
Lyarra's jaw fell and her eyes darted towards him, scandalised. He often did this to her, even in the short time she knew him. He loved to make her feel awkward. Stubbornly, Lyarra fixed her expression to one of indifference and stared ahead, but she was unable to keep the red from colouring her face.
They arrived at the feast just before the king and queen. Jaime took his seat beside Tywin and Lyarra sat to his right. Her father sat beside her, with her lady mother at his right-hand side. She was glad of his company and her mother's and brother's. She remembered her wedding the night before and all the idle conversations and, worst of all, the queen's glares. She didn't think she could handle Cersei's glares alone again.
Her younger siblings were absent. Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon would dine alone tonight, accompanied by Septa Mordane. Lord Tyrion, Jaime's brother, sat on Tywin's left while the king and queen sat at the ends of the table, separated by half a dozen others.
The conversation was light and friendly. Lyarra was glad of it, though she still felt the queen's glare upon the side of her head. She had heard that the queen's tongue was sharper than her brother's and much crueller. Lyarra hoped she never got caught in an argument with the queen, having always been a sensitive soul. She didn't like confrontation, nor was she good at it. She could engage in witty batter and verbal sparring matches, but when words became harsh and angry, Lyarra cowered.
When the third course was finished (and Lyarra's stomach felt like it was going to explode, whether from too much soon or the excess amount of wine she was drinking), a young man ran into the Great Hall and handed the king a letter before scurrying off again. All talk died as the king opened the letter with fumbling fingers. As always, the king was drunk. Somehow, he managed to open the letter and read it. When he was finished, he tossed the letter to Lord Tywin and allowed him to read it. The king buried his face in his hands.
"What is it?" Lyarra's father asked worriedly. Usually her father stayed out of other people's business, but there was something about the king's demeanour that had worried him.
"Jon..." the king muttered, lost for words. Lyarra's curiosity was piqued, wondering what could have brought the loud, obnoxious king to silence.
"Jon Arryn is dead," Tywin announced when it was clear the king could not say it. He placed the letter on the table in front of him and looked at her father with steely eyes. "He died in his sleep last night, tended upon by his wife and his maester from the Eyrie."
"I should have been with him," Robert said mournfully, his eyes becoming watery and red. Lyarra looked to her father, whose eyes held tears as well. "He devoted the last twenty years of his life to be my Hand, even though he never wanted to, and I couldn't even be there for him in his last moments! Damn it!" The king knocked his goblet onto the floor, spilling wine onto the ground.
Though the rest of the table was shocked into silence, her father stood and placed his hands on Robert's shoulders. "You couldn't of known! Jon was well and his death was sudden. Don't hate yourself for not being able to predict the future."
The king stared at Ned, both of their faces worn with melancholy at the loss of their shared father-figure. Lyarra had heard many stories of the great Jon Arryn from her father. Ned grew up in the Eyrie with Jon as his foster father. Whenever he spoke of the Lord Hand, it was with a fondness that Lyarra only heard in his voice whenever he spoke of his family.
Fury returned to the king's face. Lyarra heard that people grieved in different ways, it wasn't all sadness and tears. Some people became angry. It seemed as though the king was one of those people as his face twisted with anger and became coloured with red.
"We leave in two days for King's Landing," the king declared, clenching his fists by his side. "Everything – every tourney, feast, everything – that was planned for the next few days is now cancelled. You will come with me."
Her father's eyes flicked towards Lyarra for a split second. Though she wished for her father to stay with her in Casterly Rock a little longer, she forced herself to give a subtle nod and a tiny smile. Her father turned back to the king and answered his command, "I will."
The king grunted his thanks and gave Ned a short nod before storming out of the Great Hall. Those attending the feast rose to their feet as the king left, sharing looks with each other. Everyone who wasn't sat at the head table – or, everyone who wasn't named Stark or Lannister – cleared out of the Hall, the joyous mood of the evening having soured into one of mourning. It was all a mummer's show, of course, a sign of respect for the king. Most of these people never met Jon Arryn. How could they possibly grieve for him?
No words were spoken, a sombre silence coming over the head table. Lyarra caught Jaime and Cersei sharing a worried look.
Though she had never met Jon Arryn, Lyarra grieved for her father. For the brave, honourable man he had spoke so fondly of. She reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. He offered her a small smile in response.
"Did he give any sign at all that he was unwell?" Ned asked the queen and Ser Jaime, the two people at the table who would have seen him last. "Any at all?"
"None," the queen replied, her voice gentler than usual. "He was as robust as ever when we left the capital."
"Jon Arryn was an old man," Jaime remarked. Even he seemed tempered by the news. "Sickness often strikes the old quick and suddenly. It is a shock, yes, but not unnatural."
Lyarra downed another glass of wine. She had finished her third and her mother was now watching her warily, but Lyarra felt no different, only... lighter. She struggled to seem engaged with the conversation. Her mind was drifting to more interesting topics. She fought the urge to speak insensitive words, knowing that she would regret them come tomorrow. Alright. Maybe I am a little drunk.
Her father narrowed his eyes at Jaime and sighed. "If you wouldn't mind, my lords, I think I will retire." Her mother rose from her seat when her father did, with Robb following their example mere seconds after.
"Very well," Lord Tywin said. "I will arrange for your departure to King's Landing in four days."
"The king said we would be leaving in two days," her father stated.
"An unrealistic amount of time to ready more than one hundred people and their horses and carriages," Tywin dismissed, giving her father an icy stare that made Lyarra feel uneasy. Her father had never spoken well of Tywin Lannister, and he'd always been described as an intelligent but ruthless man by both songs and men alike. Lyarra found herself frightened by her good-father and wondered how her own father was not. "Four days is a stretch as it is. The king will not remember his own orders come tomorrow morning."
The lion and the wolf stared at each other for quite some time. Lyarra would have expected them to begin shouting if it wasn't for the fact that her father looked so defeated and tired. Her father gave Lord Tywin a nod before bidding them all good-night.
On her fourth goblet, Lyarra reached for the pitcher and poured herself more wine. Just as her fingers curled around the goblet and she was about to lift it from the table, she felt a hand grab her wrist. She looked up at her husband. Jaime shook his head slightly and gently removed her hand from the goblet. Lyarra only stared at him, bewildered by his apparent concern, and placed her hands on her lap.
"I think its time we retire as well. Goodnight," Jaime announced. He offered Lyarra his arm to help her stand, though her legs still shook. She bid them all goodnight before leaving the Great Hall.
Jaime watched his little wife with amusement dancing in his eyes as she stumbled out of the Great Hall. Even though she was leaning most of her body weight against him, she still couldn't quite manage to walk in a straight line. He felt a little bad for finding her drunkenness amusing. She was young, and had probably never had so much wine available to her, he should be a little more understanding... but a man could not control what he found humourous.
"I never knew you were so fond of wine," Jaime remarked.
"M'not," she slurred, her voice betraying her. Jaime raised an eyebrow. She coughed and repeated herself, "I am not."
He barked a laugh. They were nearing her room now. His wife's room was adjoined to his, for easy access he supposed. He was tempted to leave her – he would not bed her tonight, not when she was too drunk to consent properly, bedding her when she was drunk would make him feel like an old letch – but decided against it. His wife was too drunk to unlace her own boots. He would not leave her alone to sneak out of her rooms and roam the castle in such a state.
"Have dinners with my family driven you to drink, little wife?" Jaime quipped as he opened the door to her bedroom.
"Does someone die at every Lannister dinner?" Lyarra responded, seeming proud of herself for sounding much less drunk this time.
"Not usually, no. But technically he didn't die at the feast. He died three days ago, at King's Landing. We only received word at the feast."
"Details, details," his wife waved her hand dismissively. Jaime laughed again. Lyarra was quite the character while drunk.
He urged her to sit down on the chair by the fire. His wife obeyed and looked up at him through her dark lashes. She didn't even realise the effect she was having on him, the way she made his cock twitch. Cersei had denied him ever since she learned of his betrothal to the Stark girl. He was only a man after all; a man with urges. Lyarra was young and pretty, and Jaime had never seen her look so seductive, even if she didn't mean to be.
"What was he like?" Lyarra asked suddenly.
"Who?" Jaime was on his knees in front of her now. He pushed up her dress so he could see the boot underneath. He gulped. It's the wine, he promised himself, I've had quite a bit as well. He had only ever felt his cock stirring like it was now at the sight of Cersei. But here he was, on his knees in front of a girl half his age – his wife – and becoming hard at the sight of a slender, white leg.
"Jon Arryn." He didn't want to talk about Jon Arryn while being seduced by his lady wife's leg, but he humoured her nonetheless.
"He was... dutiful. Whatever Robert asked of him, he did his duty without complaint, even when the king's requests were absolutely ridiculous," Jaime told her. "He was the only person who could talk the king out of doing something stupid. Now he's dead, the king is free to be led by his many vices."
"You don't like the king," Lyarra surmised, watching him carefully as he unlaced her boot.
Jaime looked up at her, a small grin on his lips. Even in the state she was in, Lyarra didn't miss a thing. "You're a sharp girl, aren't you?" She only smiled at him in response. "No, I don't like him. I never have. He shames my sister and spends his days hunting whores and fucking boars. Or is it the other way around?"
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?" Jaime had removed both of her boots now, but stayed on his knees in front of her.
"Whenever you start speaking seriously without any smart quips or insults, you have to add one in there to make yourself feel comfortable," Lyarra explained. Jaime didn't like the way she was looking at him. How could she, a girl who had known him for barely two weeks, pretend to understand him?
"You're very drunk," Jaime stated, as if that could erase what she'd said to him. He had no desire to have a heart to heart with Ned Stark's daughter.
She gave him a small, sad smile. "I don't think I'm as drunk as you think I am."
His wife rose to her feet and offered him her hand, helping him to his feet. She tried to walk towards her vanity, but after taking only two steps stumbled and almost fell to the ground. Jaime was behind her, his hands on her waist, catching her before her body could hit the ground.
"Are you so sure about that, little wolf?" Jaime teased, a smirk on his lips.
He steadied her again, though his hands did not leave her waist. Lyarra bit her lower lip and slid her hands along his back, her eyes not leaving his. Jaime swallowed, his resolve shattering. He had sworn to not lie with her tonight, not like this. Yet he found himself glancing at her lips and becoming harder.
Before he could do so himself, Lyarra had pressed her lips against his. Whenever she'd kissed him before, at the wedding when they'd sealed their vows and during the bedding, her lips had responded to his softly, uncertainly, reluctantly. This kiss was anything but, full of passion and heat. Jaime was beginning to think that there was more of her aunt in her than what met the eye.
Ignoring the desire bubbling in his stomach, Jaime pulled away from her and shook his head, "No. I can't. You're drunk."
Lyarra blinked at him. "Why does that matter?"
"Because I'm not some old letch who has to force wine down a woman's throat before she'll fuck him," Jaime stated. His hands still hadn't left her waist, and her hands hadn't left his back.
"You didn't force wine down my throat," Lyarra pointed out.
Frustrated, Jaime let out a sigh before it turned into a small laugh. "No. I did not. You had no problem with downing half of the pitcher all by yourself."
"Exactly." She gave him a wide grin. Jaime felt his resolve crumbling again. "So what's the problem? I want..." She trailed off, distracted and confused, as her eyes shyly darted to the floor.
"What do you want, Lyarra?" Jaime asked, his voice low and husky as he looked down at his wife and licked his lips somewhat nervously. His wife inhaled a short, sharp breath before her eyes flicked up to meet his. Her face was still, but her eyes spoke volumes.
"I want you to..." she stumbled for words before deciding on the most vulgar ones, the ones that would make Jaime lose control. He always did love vulgarity. "I want you to fuck me."
Just like that, his cock controlled his thoughts and the movement of his body. He pressed his lips against his wife, ravishing her with his mouth. Honour be damned, he thought. For tonight, at least. His hands undid the laces of her dress expertly and he tugged her dress and slip down her body. They fell to the floor in a pool of silk. Lyarra stepped out of the puddle of cloth and began to undress Jaime. She pulled his shirt over his head and began to fumble at his breeches. When she succeeded in freeing him of his breeches, his little wife took a few moments to eye his cock. She probably hadn't gotten a chance to truly see him last night. He allowed her the few seconds to take him in, knowing that she would never allow herself to act like this while sober.
Once she was finished staring at his cock, Jaime kissed her again and led her to the bed, his arms wrapped around her. They were both naked now, flesh against flesh. He nipped and licked and kissed her neck tenderly, making the little wolf moan and tighten her legs around his hips. Jaime lowered his lips, taking his time to kiss and lick the area between her breasts, her stomach and then her upper thighs, the area just before her cunt.
His eyes flickered up to see Lyarra's face. Though a moaning mess, she was watching him with wary eyes. Jaime merely smirked at her before giving her cunt one short lick. The noise she made – half-way between a moan and a shriek of surprise – almost made him laugh, and he would have, had he not been so focused on the task at hand. He flicked his tongue against her clit and pushed it inside her folds, slowly at first, and then quickened his movements when he thought Lyarra was getting used to the sensation, if only to keep his wife a moaning mess.
With a cry of pleasure, his wife reached her peak and clenched her legs together. Jaime took his mouth away from her cunt and replaced it with his fingers, rubbing at her most sensitive spot. He kissed her, the feeling of her wetness making him very hard.
"Jaime," his wife moaned against his lips, her hand grabbing at his hair.
He couldn't resist anymore. Jaime pushed his cock inside of her slowly, allowing her to adjust to the size of him before he began thrusting into her, his pace slow at first. His body hovered over hers. He supported himself by placing his hands on the bed as his thrusts became faster.
Jaime felt his wife's hand on his back, her legs wrapped around his hips. He felt her tug his body to the side and looked at her in alarm, thinking that she wanted him to stop, but received a smirk in response. He allowed her to push him onto the bed, his back against the sheets, as she sat on top of him, his cock still inside of her. Jaime grinned at her and placed his hands on her arse. She mounted him, straight-backed and grinning. She rolled her hips against him, maintaining a slow pace at first. Jaime found he liked the tenderness of their couplings. With Cersei, sex was passionate, but it was rushed. They knew how to satisfy each other and never took the time to explore their bodies. He liked being tender and slow with Lyarra, and that surprised even him.
He noticed Lyarra becoming breathless and her movements became staggered as pleasure overcame her. Jaime used his hands on her arse to help her bounce on top of him, though he found it difficult to maintain rhythm as he came closer to his peak. Lyarra rested on hand on his chest and another on the bed as the pace became quicker. Jaime thrust himself further inside of her, meeting her rocking hips with his own.
His hands trailed up her body, resting on her breasts and circling her nipples with his fingers as his wife's moans became louder and louder. Jaime was ready to release himself inside of her, but he wanted Lyarra to reach her peak the same time as him so he was doing everything he could to bring her pleasure. He brought her body closer to his, her breasts pressing against his chest, and felt her teeth graze against his neck, nipping and biting. Jaime groaned. He was truly married to wolf.
"Fuck," Jaime grunted as he reached his climax, filling Lyarra with his seed.
Almost at the same time, Lyarra moaned his name into his neck – "oh, Jaime, oh!" – as she came atop of him. She rolled off of Jaime and fell into bed, breathing as heavily as he was and flushed red.
Jaime turned to look at her and, still gasping for breath, found the energy to chuckle. "It seems as though Ned Stark sent me a wolf instead of a wife." Lost for words, Lyarra merely narrowed her eyes at him, but grinned nonetheless. "Not that I'm complaining. I quite like this wild little wolf of mine. Did you like that, Lyarra?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.
Smirking, Jaime answered vulgarly, "Fucking me. Was it enjoyable?"
Lyarra sighed in frustration and stared up at the ceiling. "I'd say yes but I don't want to stroke your ego."
"That's alright," Jaime responded, wearing a smirk. "As long as your willing to stroke something else." His eyes flickered downwards towards his cock. When he looked at his wife again, she was staring back at him, scandalised.
"You're terrible," Lyarra observed.
He merely grinned. "I know." Out of nowhere, Jaime heard a wolf. He jumped up into a sitting position and looked around the room, feeling incredibly stupid when he saw his wife's pet direwolf. The beast still unnerved him. There was something about the wolf's eyes that made him feel guilty. Fang was looking at him – glaring, actually, Jaime thought – rather accusingly, as though the wolf was angry at him for bedding her mistress. "Was the wolf watching us the whole time?"
It was Lyarra's turn to be amused. She chuckled at him. "Are you afraid of scarring her?"
"No, of course not," Jaime answered, getting back into bed and pulling the sheets over him. Lyarra followed suit. "I just... never mind."
"No, what is it?" Lyarra urged, wearing a teasing smirk.
Jaime sighed. "Do you not think she looks a little... angry? It's unnerving."
"You're an unfamiliar face, that's all," Lyarra assured him. "She'll warm up to you soon enough."
He nodded, still watching the wolf carefully. The look the direwolf had given him made him feel nervous, and ashamed for some reason. His anxiousness was only soothed when the wolf lowered her head and shut her eyes, going to sleep.
Jaime was about to start speaking to Lyarra again when he heard her quiet snoring. Allowing a small smile to rest on his lips, Jaime blew out the candle and went to sleep.
Author's Note: I've decided that Jaime is a little too fond of dirty jokes. I sometimes worry that he's out of character, but I suppose it is fanfiction.