The evening had settled quietly over Casterly Rock, the last of the servants having retreated to their quarters, leaving the halls dim and still. You had taken to wandering the corridors with a cup of water, the chill of the stone walls a relief against the warmth rising from your body. Your gown, once carefully fitted, now draped loosely around your waist, a concession to the subtle swell of your second pregnancy. Ambrose, nestled in his crib, had long since fallen into an even, dreaming slumber, the soft rise and fall of his chest a reassurance you carried with you.

Tywin Lannister had been observing you for two months. Two months of quiet assessments, noting the subtle ways your habits had changed since you first suspected you were with child again. The hoarded snacks hidden behind a tapestry in the corner of your chambers, the earlier retreats to bed, the way your hand unconsciously rested over the swell of your belly even when Ambrose wasn’t looking—he had cataloged it all with meticulous care. There was no anger in his eyes, only that familiar, unyielding appraisal that had once unnerved you in the early days of your courtship, now tempered by an intimacy that had grown from shared nights and soft mornings.

He found you in the library, a place you frequented even in late hours, though now you barely read, more often sitting with a cup of water in hand, staring absentmindedly at the shelves. The flicker of candlelight cast gold across your hair, and for a moment, he allowed himself to linger on the familiar curve of your jaw, the way your lips pressed together in concentration—or perhaps in avoidance.

“You’ve been… restless,” he said finally, his voice calm, deliberate. The words were simple, but you felt the weight behind them, the certainty that left no room for pretense.

You start, turning toward him, the cup raising slightly in reflex. “Restless?” Your voice is light, perhaps too light, a brittle attempt at humor. “I am merely… hydrating.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened, and a single brow lifted, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hydrating,” he echoed. “At midnight. Alone in the library. With half the leftover pastries from the servants’ hall hidden in your chambers.”

Heat rose to your cheeks. You tried to look offended, but the confession, unbidden, slipped past your lips. “I… I cannot help it. Hunger… and thirst. Old habits die hard.”

He stepped closer, slow, measured, the echoes of his boots against the stone floor filling the silence between words. “Old habits,” he murmured, eyes flicking over you with the precision of a man who had studied you, truly studied you, for every moment of the past two years. “Ambrose has inherited much from you, I see. The discipline of observation. The persistence of indulgence when alone.”

You faltered, caught in the admiring, wary scrutiny he offered. Your fingers twisted the edge of your gown, an unconscious gesture that betrayed more than you intended. “And you,” you said softly, heart quickening, “seem to find… my… habits… entertaining.” Your voice trailed into a nervous laugh, the flustered edge betraying your usual composure.

Tywin’s smirk deepened, but his gaze remained steady, unflinching. He tilted his head just so, and for a heartbeat, you feared he might never speak again, content merely to watch. Then, with a dry drawl that left a shiver crawling down your spine, he said, “And you seemed so composed earlier. Pregnancy agrees with you about as much as my company, it seems.”

The words, layered with both observation and teasing, left you momentarily speechless. A flush crept across your neck and chest, and you lowered your eyes, caught between indignation and the rush of warmth his presence always brought. The corners of your lips twitched, betraying the amusement that bubbled beneath your surface, even as your heart hammered at being so openly seen.

“You are insufferable,” you managed, voice low, breath caught somewhere between laughter and exasperation.

“And yet,” he replied, tilting his head, “you cannot help but love it.”