Chapter 1: The Oathbreaker's Desire
The door clicked shut behind him, and the world shrank to this room. His room. Their room. The scent hit him first—jasmine and sandalwood, expensive oils warming on her skin, cutting through the leftover haze of wedding wine in his throat. Torchlight flickered in gilded sconces, making the crimson silk hangings breathe like living things. It was too warm. He went to the window, needing the night air, needing an escape that wasn’t there.
His reflection in the dark glass was a stranger. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was a lie tonight. The gold hand, a grotesque joke. His father’s voice, cold and final as a headsman’s block, was the only clear thing in his head. Secure the line. Make her a Lannister. Nothing else matters.
He heard the rustle of fabric. The quiet shift of weight on the featherbed. He didn’t turn.
“Are you going to stare out that window all night, Kingslayer?”
Her voice was lower than he expected. Not a girl’s whisper. There was Dornish fire in it, banked but burning.
Jaime turned slowly. She sat propped against a mountain of pillows, the coverlet pulled to her waist. Her wedding shift was sheer white samite. It did nothing to hide the shadow of her nipples, the curve of her hips. He made himself look at her face.
Gods, her face.
Tanned skin, full lips set in a line that wasn’t quite defiance, wasn’t quite acceptance. Wild black curls, a chaos of them, tumbled around her shoulders and down her back. And there, cutting through the dark like a bolt of moonlight, a single thick streak of silver. Valyrian steel in a Dornish scabbard. Her eyes were the real violence. Violet, like her ancestors, but darker. Amethysts lit from within. They held his gaze without blinking.
“Rhaenys,” he said. It felt strange to say her name.
“Jaime,” she returned, tilting her head. “Or should I call you ‘husband’? It seems absurd, doesn’t it? You, who killed my grandfather. Me, the last dragon. And now we’re to play at making lions with wings.”
He moved then, drawn across the room as if pulled by a string. He stopped at the foot of the great bed. “It’s not a game.”
“Isn’t it?” She pushed the coverlet aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The shift rode up her thighs. She stood, barefoot on the Myrish carpet, and took a step toward him. She was tall for a woman. The top of her head would fit under his chin. “It’s the only game. And I’ve just been moved to a new square.”
He should say something about duty. About peace. The words were ash. All he could see was the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. The way her breasts rose and fell with each calm breath she definitely didn’t feel. He reached out, his good hand, and brushed a thumb over that pulse point. Her skin was fever-warm. She didn’t flinch.
“You’re not afraid,” he murmured.
“Should I be?” Her eyes tracked his, reading the conflict there. “The stories say you only kill kings and cripple boys. I am neither.”
A laugh, harsh and sudden, burst from him. “Cheeky.”
“Realistic.”
His hand slid up, cupping the side of her neck, his fingers tangling in the silk of her hair. That silver streak was cool against his skin. “Your father—”
“My father is dead,” she cut in, her voice flat. “My mother is dead. My brother is a pile of bones wrapped in a crimson cloak. Fear is a luxury I stopped affording a long time ago, ser.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, an answer, a distraction from the storm in his head. Her lips were soft but unyielding at first. Then they parted. Her tongue met his, not timidly, but with a curious, fiery intensity that sent a jolt straight to his gut. She tasted of mint and defiance.
His golden hand found the small of her back, pulling her hard against him. The other stayed tangled in her hair. She made a small sound, not a protest, and her own hands came up to rest on his chest. Not pushing away. Exploring. Feeling the hard muscle beneath the fine linen of his tunic.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “This is a political arrangement.”
“I know what it is.” Her fingers went to the fastenings of his tunic. They were deft, quick. “But tonight, it’s just a room. And we are just two people who have lost everything but our names.”
She pushed the tunic off his shoulders. It pooled on the floor. Her gaze swept over his chest, his scars, lingering on the stump of his right arm fitted into its gold and leather harness. There was no pity there. Only assessment. A queen surveying a weapon.
It unnerved him. He was used to awe, to fear, to lust. Not this calm, intelligent scrutiny. He reclaimed control, grabbing the neckline of her shift. The fabric tore with a sound like a sigh. It fell away from her, and the air left his lungs.
She was all lean, athletic lines and subtle curves. High, small breasts with dusky nipples. A flat stomach. The gentle flare of her hips. A thatch of dark curls at the junction of her thighs. The tan skin of her body was several shades lighter than her face, untouched by the Dornish sun.
“Beautiful,” he heard himself say, the word rough.
“I am a Targaryen,” she said simply, as if that explained it. A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. “Or half of one. The better half, I’m told.”
He lifted her then, his arm under her knees, and laid her back on the silken chaos of the bed. He followed her down, covering her body with his, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. He kissed her throat, the valley between her breasts, the tight bud of a nipple. She arched into his mouth, a gasp escaping her. Her hands were in his hair, pulling, guiding.
He fumbled with the laces of his breeches, his golden hand clumsy. She brushed it aside and did it herself, her fingers sure and swift. Then she wrapped her hand around him. He groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. She was warm, so warm, and her touch was confident, curious.
“You’ve done this before,” he muttered against her skin.
“I’ve read a great many books,” she breathed into his ear, her voice husky. “And I am a quick study.”
He couldn’t wait. The guilt, the duty, his father’s cold command—it all dissolved into a red, roaring need. He positioned himself at her entrance. Her eyes were wide, watching him. The defiance was still there, but beneath it, a flicker of something else. Not fear. Anticipation.
“This might hurt,” he said.
“Everything hurts,” she whispered. “Do it.”
He pushed inside her. She was tight, impossibly so. She stiffened, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. Her nails dug into the muscles of his back. He stilled, letting her adjust, watching the play of sensations across her face—the pinch of pain, the slow dawning of something else. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm.
Her legs came up to wrap around his hips, pulling him deeper. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut, then flew open again, as if she refused to miss a moment of her own surrender. He watched her lose herself. The intelligent calculation in her eyes clouded, replaced by a dazed, dark pleasure. She met his thrusts, her hips rising to meet his, finding a rhythm of her own.
It was nothing like he’d expected. It wasn’t conquest. It was a duel. A fierce, silent collaboration. Her breath came in short, hot pants against his neck. His own control was fraying, the coil in his belly winding tighter and tighter. He drove into her, again and again, the bed rocking, their sweat-slicked skin sliding together.
She came first. A choked, surprised cry tore from her lips, her body clamping around him in rhythmic pulses that shattered his last shred of restraint. He followed her over the edge with a ragged groan, spilling himself inside her, his body collapsing onto hers, then quickly rolling to the side to keep from crushing her.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant crackle of the torches. The scent of sex and perfume hung heavy in the air.
Jaime stared at the crimson canopy above. The numbness was gone. In its place was a hollow, ringing clarity. He had done his duty. He had taken her. He had secured the future.
So why did he feel like he’d just made the worst mistake of his life?
He felt her shift beside him. She sat up, the torn shift hanging from one shoulder. She didn’t look at him. She walked, naked and unselfconscious, to a carved chest by the wall. She poured water from a pewter jug into a basin, wet a cloth, and began to clean herself between her legs. The movements were practical, efficient.
Then she returned to the bed, not lying down, but sitting cross-legged facing him. She studied him, her head cocked. Her wild hair was a beautiful mess. In the dim light, that single streak of silver seemed to glow.
“So,” she said, her voice quiet but clear in the hushed room. “It’s done.”
He nodded, unable to speak.
A slow, complex smile touched her lips. It wasn’t happy. It was knowing. Triumphant, even. She reached out and ran a single finger down the scar on his cheek, a touch so light it was almost ghostly.
“You look troubled, husband,” she said softly. “Tell me, which oath is bothering you more tonight? The one you broke to my family? Or the one you just made to yours?”
She lay back down then, turning her back to him, pulling a sheet over her body. Jaime remained on his back, the truth of her question settling into his bones like a winter chill. The warmth of her still lingered on his skin, but a cold dread was uncoiling in his gut. He had thought he was the hunter, the player in the game.
As he listened to her breathing even out into sleep, a terrible certainty dawned. He had walked into that room a kingmaker, a pawn of his father’s will.
He had walked out something else entirely. And the girl—the woman—sleeping beside him, with her dragon’s blood and her wolf’s cunning, knew it.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the night air traced its way down his spine.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the night air traced its way down his spine. He did not sleep. He listened to her breathe, watched the slow rise and fall of her shoulder under the sheet, and wrestled with the ghost of Aerys Targaryen, who seemed to chuckle now from some dark corner of the room.
Dawn came, grey and thin, sneaking between the window shutters. It found Jaime still awake, propped on one elbow, watching her. In sleep, the defiance was softened. Her lips were parted slightly, the fierce intelligence in her face quieted. She looked her age. Young. Used.
As if feeling his gaze, her eyes opened. There was no groggy confusion. She was simply awake, and immediately aware. Her violet eyes found his, held for a long moment. She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist, and ran a hand through her wild hair. She glanced at the stained sheet beneath them, a clinical flick of her eyes, then back at him.
“I’ll need a bath,” she said, her voice morning-rough.
He nodded, wordless. The intimacy of the night felt like a distant, fevered dream. The silence between them now was a gulf.
A bath was brought, and a silent maid helped Rhaenys. Jaime dressed himself, buckling on his golden hand with practiced, grim efficiency. He watched her from across the room as she sank into the steaming water. She didn’t hide herself. She washed methodically, her face a mask of cool contemplation. He saw faint bruises beginning to bloom on her hips, the marks of his fingers. A possessive heat flared in him, followed instantly by a wave of disgust. He had become his father’s creature in truth.
They were barely dressed when the knock came. A steward, eyes fixed respectfully on the floor. “Lord Tywin requests your presence to break your fast, my lord, my lady. In his solar.”
The summons hung in the air. Rhaenys, now in a gown of deep blue velvet, her damp hair twisted into a loose braid over one shoulder, met Jaime’s eyes. That knowing, bitter smile touched her lips again. “The accounting begins,” she said softly.
Tywin Lannister’s solar was a monument to cold power. The massive desk was bare but for a single piece of parchment and a quill. The windows looked out over the Red Keep, a view of conquest. He did not rise when they entered.
“Sit,” he said, his voice the sound of a heavy coin dropped on stone.
Jaime pulled a chair out for Rhaenys. She took it with a slight incline of her head, then folded her hands in her lap, a picture of composed obedience. Jaime sat beside her, his leg jittering under the table. A spread of bread, fruit, and cold meats lay before them. No one touched it.
Tywin’s eyes, pale green and piercing, moved from his son to his new good-daughter. He took his time. The silence was a pressure.
“I trust you both rested adequately,” Tywin began, the words utterly devoid of trust or care.
“The chambers are most comfortable, my lord,” Rhaenys answered, her tone perfectly polite, perfectly empty.
“Good.” Tywin steepled his fingers. “The purpose of a wedding night is twofold. To bind houses. And to produce an heir. The first is achieved with ink and seals. The second requires… evidence.”
Jaime’s gut tightened. “Father—”
“I am not speaking to you yet,” Tywin cut him off, his gaze fixed on Rhaenys. “The sheets from the marital bed are traditionally inspected. A vulgar custom, but a useful one. I have had them retrieved.”
Rhaenys did not blush. She did not look away. She held Tywin Lannister’s stare as if they were discussing the weather. “I see. And do they meet with your approval?”
“They confirm consummation,” Tywin said, ignoring her tone. “That is a start. But blood on a sheet is a one-time proof. Conception is a process. It requires repeated… diligence.”
Jaime felt his face grow hot. This was worse than battle. This was a dissection. “We understand the requirement,” he ground out.
“Do you?” Tywin shifted his gaze to Jaime. The disappointment there was a familiar, acid burn. “Your history of shirking duty is long, Jaime. This duty you will not shirk. You will share chambers. You will perform your marital obligations regularly, until such time as her pregnancy is confirmed. There will be no separate tents on campaign, no excuses of watch duties. Is that clear?”
Jaime wanted to fling the table across the room. He wanted to scream that he was not a stud horse to be commanded to mount a prized mare. He looked at Rhaenys. Her profile was serene, but he saw the minute tightening of her jaw, the faint flutter of a pulse in her throat. She was humiliated, too. And furious. But she was banking that fire, letting it build behind her eyes.
“Quite clear, my lord,” Rhaenys answered for them both. She picked up a single blackberry from a platter, studied it, and placed it deliberately on the edge of her own plate. A tiny, defiant waste. “We are both committed to securing the future of our… combined house.”
Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. He heard the edge in her voice. He acknowledged it with a faint, almost approving tilt of his head. A worthy adversary, that look said, but still an adversary.
“See that you are.” He finally picked up the quill, a dismissal. “You may go. Jaime, you have guard command at noon. Do not be late. Rhaenys, you will join the ladies in the Queen’s Ballroom for needlework. Your integration begins today.”
They stood. Jaime felt unmoored. As they turned to leave, Tywin’s voice stopped them, cold and final.
“One more thing. The Grand Maester will examine Rhaenys in one moon’s turn. To confirm the marriage has taken root. I expect you to give him something to find.”
The door closed behind them with a soft, definitive click. They stood in the hushed, tapestried hallway. The scent of beeswax and stone was suffocating.
Jaime turned to her. He saw the calm mask she’d worn for his father crack. Just a hairline fracture. Her breath came a little quicker. Her eyes were bright with a hard, scintillating rage.
“Needlework,” she whispered, the word a curse. Then she looked up at him, that fractured mask sealing over again, smoother and colder than before. “It seems we have our orders, husband. A moon’s turn to provide your father with his proof.” She leaned in close, her voice a hot, private blade in his ear. “I suggest you get very diligent.”
She swept away down the corridor, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the rich carpets, leaving him alone with the weight of two oaths—one broken, one a chain—and the chilling certainty that the most dangerous battle of his life had just begun, and it wasn’t with a sword.