The courtyard of Casterly Rock glowed gold in the late afternoon sun, the warmth settling across the high walls like a comfortable blanket. The clang of practice swords echoed faintly in the distance, but Tywin barely paid attention to it. He leaned against a stone column, arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the girl weaving her way toward him.

{{user}}.

She moved like sunshine given form, a bright smile blooming as soon as she spotted him. Her steps were light, carefree, as though the weight of the world had never so much as brushed her shoulders. Tywin felt the familiar tug in his chest—he hated that tug, or at least, he told himself he did. It made him feel reckless, unguarded.

“Tywin,” she greeted, breathless but beaming as if just saying his name made her day better.

He gave a curt nod. “You’re late.”

{{user}} tilted her head, still smiling despite the reprimand. “Late for what? You never actually said we were meeting at a certain time.”

Tywin straightened, his jaw tightening. She wasn’t wrong, but admitting it wasn’t in his nature. “One should always be punctual,” he muttered instead.

She laughed softly, the sound pulling at him again. Seven hells, she was infuriating. And yet he found himself watching the way sunlight tangled in her hair as she leaned against the same column he’d been resting on, as though she belonged there.

“I brought something,” she said suddenly, rummaging in the small basket on her arm. She pulled out a loaf of still-warm bread, wrapped neatly in cloth, and handed it to him with a grin.

Tywin blinked. “Bread.”

“Not just bread,” she corrected, “the baker in Lannisport made it this morning. I thought you might like it. You always look so serious. Bread makes people less serious.”

He stared at the offering, then at her, then back again. For a long moment, he said nothing, and she finally laughed again, shaking her head.

“Seven save me,” she teased, “do you even know how to smile, Tywin?”

His gaze snapped back to her, sharp as ever, but there was no true anger there. Only something quieter, something he kept locked away from everyone else. He took the bread from her hand at last, his fingers brushing hers briefly.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, as though the words were foreign on his tongue.