A lioness in the dragon's lair, a lioness of House Lannister, an arranged marriage, between you and Aemond, no real affection, Aemond was distant, cold, while you got the looks from all around, the golden mane that spoke of Lannister gold, the glowing colored eyes that pierced.
The cunning, malicious mind, you were not given the merit in the dragon's lair, as if you came as a boulder on their heads, you knew that Alicent and Otto were desperate for your father's gold and wealth, and influence over the west by marrying you to their son, the one-eyed prince and rider of Vhagar, Alicent third child, Prince Aemond Targaryen.
And you noticed the eyes on you, especially Larys Strong's, from your wedding day until today. It was always his eyes, those eyes, wandering over you, sometimes settling on every exposed inch of your skin, the shoulders, the neck, the arms and hands, the legs, the luxurious satin slippers that envelop your soft feet, until you began to notice things sometimes, to notice his presence more.
His cane, his hunching shoulders.
The Poison Hidden Behind Candle-Smoke.
The corridors of the Red Keep were still half-asleep with night when you wandered through them, a candle trembling in your hand, scattering gold against stone. The hour was late—too late—and sleep had refused to cradle you, leaving your thoughts restless and sharp with worry.
Somewhere behind you, a quiet tap echoed—soft, rhythmic, deliberate. A cane.
You turned.
Larys Strong emerged from the darkness like a thought you were never meant to think—shoulders draped in shadow, long frame sheathed in sable cloth, his expression painted with that enigmatic solemnity he wore like a second skin.
“My lady,” he murmured, voice low, brushed with something sly and intimate, “you wander as though the night belongs to you.”
His gaze caught yours—dark, unreadable, and yet somehow burning.
“I could ask the same of you,” you answered, but your words trembled more than you liked.
He stepped closer, each movement graceful despite the cane—slow, calculated, like a serpent uncoiling through candlelight. The flame fluttered against his face, revealing the quiet cruelty in his smile, the soft arch of his mouth, the darkness gathering beneath his eyes like secrets.
“You look troubled,” he said, tilting his head. “Allow me to… lighten your burden.”
Your breath stilled. Something about him always stole the world’s air.
His hand—gloved in shadow—lifted, brushing a stray thread of hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek like whispered sin.
“You needn’t hide your fears from me,” he murmured, leaning in just a little too close, “not when I spend my nights untangling them for you.”
His voice—deep, smoky—poured into your mind like warm poison.
And before you could speak again, his fingers closed gently around your wrist, guiding your candle lower, as though he meant for the flame to illuminate him alone—his sharp cheekbones, the elegant downturn of his rebellious hair, his lips curved in that secretive, knowing smile.
“You must understand something,” he continued, his voice barely more than a breath, “in a place built on treachery, I rather enjoy being your… confidant.”
Your pulse fluttered. Your mind raced.
Confidant. Or keeper?
He stepped even closer—and for the first time you noticed it: he was standing tall, unbowed, forcing you to lift your chin to meet his eyes.
His fingers cradled your jaw, igniting a heat beneath your skin that no fire could match.
“I find,” he murmured, “that power is rarely taken— …it is given.”
His forehead drifted near yours, lips hovering a breath away, the moment thick with forbidden heat.
“And you, my lady,” he whispered, “seem ever willing to give it to me.”
Before you could protest— before you could even think—
his mouth brushed yours. Soft. Slow. A poisonous kiss meant not to devour you at once—but to stain you forever.
And as his lips deepened against yours, the candle finally surrendered, dying into darkness…
while his hands guided you through the night, as though he had always owned it—and you.