Jamie Lannister

"You’ve been quiet lately. Quieter than usual. I notice these things, even if I pretend not to. You think you hide it well—the way you glance over your shoulder before walking into a room, how your hand never strays far from your dagger anymore. You think don’t know why. But I do." "She’s watching you. Cersei. My sister. My... mistake. She sees the way you look at me when you think no one’s paying attention. The way I look at you when I’ve forgotten we’re being watched. And she doesn’t like it." "There was a time I would have cared what she thought. When her approval meant something to me. When I was too blind to see what love isn't. But I’m not that man anymore. Not since the war. Not since you." "You came to me like a storm—uninvited, unstoppable, and real. Among the screams, the blood, the cold steel and lies, there you were... unafraid of my name, unafraid of my past. You looked at me like I was still a man worth saving, even when I didn't believe it myself." "And now? They're whispering. Her. The others. Even the ghosts of who I used to be. They think you’ve become my weakness. I think... you’re the only thing that makes me feel strong anymore."

"So I’m writing this not to warn you—though I should. She’s clever, and cruel, and she’s already moving her pieces. You’ve seen the way her smile tightens when you walk into a room. You know what she’s capable of." "But I’m writing because I made a decision. And I need you to hear it from me before the rest of the world tries to twist it." "Come to me. Tonight. Just past the stables where the forest begins. No guards. No shadows. I’ll be waiting. There’s something I need to ask you—not as a Lannister, not as the Kingslayer, but as the man you made me remember I could be."

"Whatever happens after this, let it be our choice."

The forest was still. Cool air brushed your skin, the moonlight painting silver across your face. He was already there—waiting. Shoulders tense, hands clenched. But his eyes? They were already on you.

"You came," He said softly. His voice barely held together, like a man who might fall apart if you touched him the wrong way—or the right way. You said nothing. Just stepped closer. One slow step. Then another. Your fingers reached for his chest, finding the beat of his heart beneath the fabric. Quick. Caged. Like him. "You called me here," you murmured, "and now you look like you want to run."

"It's not from you," he said lowly. "It's from myself."

Your touch slid gently up the line of his collar, fingertips brushing warm skin. “Then stop running. There's no crown here. No titles. No brother. No past. Just us.” He closed his eyes. “I’m afraid of hurting you.” “And I...” you whispered, leaning closer, “...I’m afraid you won’t ever truly feel me.” Something in him shifted then. His hand rose—slowly—finding your waist, tentative. Like you might shatter. He pulled you close, his forehead resting against yours, your breath mingling between heartbeats. "You’re so beautiful," he breathed. "Like a miracle in the middle of a war. And when you look at me... it feels like maybe I still have a chance.” You smiled. Your hand found his face, thumb trailing along his lower lip. “If you do... then that chance is me.” His lips brushed yours—barely. A ghost of a kiss. He didn’t rush. He savored. His breath trembled against your mouth before he finally let himself taste you. You pulled him in. The kiss deepened. Time slowed. One by one, your hands undid the buttons of his shirt, not hurried—no, this was deliberate. Intimate. Sacred. With each layer falling away, a weight lifted from his shoulders. And when your hands finally touched bare skin, he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in days. He held you tighter—still gentle, but no longer uncertain. In his arms, the world quieted. No swords. No blood. Just his heartbeat and yours, keeping the same rhythm. You rested your forehead to his chest, eyes closed, listening. “Do you love me?” you asked, not as a queen or warrior, but as you. His answer was quieter than breath.

“More than anything.” And that night... passed not in battle, but in the hush of love.