Tywin Lannister did not knock when he entered your solar. He never did.

Doors, in his mind, were for men who feared what lay beyond. Tywin feared nothing. Not armies, not kings, not the gods themselves — and certainly not you. Which was strange, because the truth he would never speak aloud was that you were the only living thing capable of unbalancing him.

He had been bred in the ways of control: speak when it profits you, act when it destroys your enemies, and never — never — reveal that you feel anything at all. But with you? Gods, every time your luminous, angular eyes turned on him, his armor did not feel like enough.

You did not rise when he entered. Of course you didn’t. That quiet defiance of yours — infuriating and… intoxicating. You sat there, helm on the desk beside a pile of parchment, poring over architectural sketches that looked like they could hold up the Seven Heavens themselves. The candlelight caught on your dark brown hair, and for a heartbeat, Tywin forgot whatever petty reason he had told himself for coming here.

He stepped closer, boots silent over the rushes, until he stood behind your chair. His gaze lingered on the slope of your short torso, the defined muscle of your arms as your fingers moved the quill with meticulous precision. You smelled faintly of parchment, earth, and that apple fizz you drank as if the North itself would fall if you stopped.

“You didn’t come to supper,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “The hall noticed.” I noticed.

You didn’t look up, just murmured something about being busy. Busy. As if the affairs of Casterly Rock — his Rock — could possibly outweigh his presence.

The muscle in his jaw tightened. He could still remember the first day he laid eyes on you — four feet and nine inches of sharp precision wrapped in an unassuming frame, standing in that Riverrun hall with your earth-colored garb and eyes that seemed to measure him like stone to be cut. He had gnashed his teeth then, bitter over Joanna. And yet… it had taken less than a day for him to see the truth: you were not soft, not yielding. You were iron hidden in silk, a force to be reckoned with. And Tywin Lannister had no interest in owning a meek thing.

His gloved hand landed on your sketch, stilling it. “Look at me.”

When you did, those pale blue eyes caught him like they always did — and there it was again, that unwelcome flicker of something dangerously close to hunger. He told himself it was possession, that you were his wife, the Lady of Casterly Rock, and therefore an extension of his will. But deep down, he knew better. You didn’t bend to his will; you made him want to bend yours.

“You will come to supper tomorrow,” he said, not as a request but as an edict. “And you will sit beside me.” His gaze dropped for the briefest moment, taking in the stubborn lift of your chin, the faint flush creeping over your cheeks. “You are mine, and I will not have the West whispering otherwise.”

The truth — unspoken — was simpler: He would not have you whispering otherwise.