She heard the doors first.

The echo of them opening, groaning against the stone — and her spine straightened instinctively. The scent of travel and steel followed, and then came the footsteps. Measured. Controlled. Heavy with command.

And then he appeared.

Tywin.

Still in his riding leathers, the black of his coat glinting faintly gold at the collar, embroidered with the lion of Lannister. His blond hair damp with snowmelt, his brows drawn into a furrow, and his icy green-gold eyes scanning the room as if expecting something to be out of place.

But it wasn’t. You were here. Waiting.

He halted when he saw you. Said nothing. Just stood there, eyes lingering, flickering down from your face to the delicate curve of your hands folded over your stomach.

“My lord husband,” you greeted softly, your voice barely more than breath.

Something shifted in his face.

Not quite warmth. Not quite relief. Something deeper. Hungrier. Resentful of the ache he’d felt on the road, and furious with how much calmer he felt now, simply seeing you.

“You waited.” The words were low. Gravel-thick.

“I always do,” you replied.

His jaw flexed. His gloved hands twitched at his sides. And then, finally, he crossed the room in three strides, stopping just short of touching you. His breath was uneven now — not that he would allow you to see it fully.

“I shouldn’t need you,” he said, voice a rasp. “But I do.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. He only looked — looked like a man waging war with himself, every inch of his body begging to pull you close, yet locked in a lifelong discipline not to break.

Your fingers, trembling slightly, reached up to undo the clasp of his cloak. And for just a heartbeat, Tywin closed his eyes.

Not in weariness.

In surrender.

To you.