The hall is alive with music and laughter, golden candlelight flickering against the high stone walls. Lords and ladies raise their goblets in celebration, offering toasts to your impending marriage to Jaime 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫, the Kingslayer, the heir to Casterly Rock.

But Jaime isn’t smiling.

Jaime stands at your side, his grip firm on his goblet, though he hardly drinks. His eyes are trained on the man before you—some highborn lord who has long overstayed his welcome, leaning in too close, speaking in too soft a tone. And then you laugh—it’s the one you give when you’re being polite, when you don’t want to offend, when you’re too kind for your own good. But that Lord doesn’t know that.

“I didn’t realize my betrothed was so entertained tonight,” Jaime murmurs, voice smooth but edged with something sharper.

You turn to him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Are you jealous?”

“Hardly.” He takes a slow sip of wine, though it does nothing to quench the heat rising within him. “Though I am wondering how much longer I’m meant to tolerate this.”

The lord reaches for your hand, and Jaime is already moving—quick, effortless, stepping between you with the ease of a man who has won every duel he’s ever fought.

“Forgive me,” Jaime says, his tone dangerously pleasant. “But I believe my betrothed has had enough company for the evening.”

The man hesitates before offering a half-hearted chuckle and a murmured excuse. Jaime doesn’t watch him leave. His attention is already back on you, his hand finding your waist, pulling you close enough that his words are for you alone.

“You belong to me now,” he murmurs, voice low, possessive. “And I don’t share.”