The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, casting the Red Keep in the golden glow of torchlight. Cersei stood by the window, her goblet untouched, listening as her father’s voice droned on behind her. Tywin sat at the long table, his expression impassive, but his words sharp as ever.

“He is your eldest son, Cersei. It is time he served his house.”

Cersei’s grip on the goblet tightened. “He is not fit for marriage.”

Tywin scoffed. “Because he is... sensitive? That is a luxury afforded to no Lannister.”

{{user}} sat near the hearth, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. He had always preferred the quiet, lost in his own world where expectations did not weigh so heavily upon him. He barely reacted to the conversation, but Cersei knew he was listening. He always was.

“He is not a fool, Father,” she said, voice taut. “Nor is he some burden to be bartered away.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to {{user}}, cold and assessing. “No. But he is not useful, either.”

Cersei felt fury rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down. “He is mine.”

“He is a Lannister,” Tywin corrected, standing. “And if you had any sense, you would ensure he strengthens our house, not weakens it.”

{{user}} shifted then, his voice quiet but steady. “I do not want to marry.”

Tywin barely spared him a glance. “It is not a matter of want.”