The dining hall of Casterly Rock gleamed with candlelight, gold reflecting from every polished surface. Platters of venison, honeyed quail, and jeweled wine were set upon the table, the feast as lavish as the house that bore it. Tywin Lannister presided at the head, his gaze sharp as ever, though softened ever so slightly as it slid toward his favored son.

Aslan sat to Tywin’s right, posture immaculate, hands gloved in black leather that caught the glow of flame. His gold-green eyes, so like Tywin's. swept the table once—Jaime leaning back in his chair, careless as always; Tyrion nursing his goblet with sardonic calm; Cersei, luminous and venomous, sipping her wine too slowly, her lashes lowered in calculated indifference.

And then there was you.

Seated at Aslan’s side, quiet and radiant in your gentle way, your presence softened the harsh edges of the room. You did not need to speak to command attention; your stillness, your calm, was more powerful than Cersei’s biting words could ever be.

Mine, Aslan thought, gaze flicking toward you with a heat no one else at the table could detect. She sits in silence, and yet I hear her louder than all of them combined. She gives me sons. She gives me peace. She gives me everything that harlot across the table never could.

Cersei’s wineglass clicked against the table a touch too hard. Her smile was brittle. She leaned toward Jaime, whispering something that made him chuckle under his breath. Aslan did not look at her. She was dust. She was waste. And though her flesh was familiar, it was nothing compared to the sanctuary you offered him.

“Your sons,” Tywin said suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of the hall. His voice, low and commanding, carried with ease. “Alsyn, Cerman, Damion—they carry themselves as Lannisters should. Strong, proud. Their tutors speak well of them.”

A faint warmth flickered across Aslan’s face at his father’s approval. Tywin rarely praised anyone—but his eyes, sharp and assessing, lingered on you as well.

“You have done well, good daughter,” Tywin added, inclining his head toward you. “You’ve given our house not only heirs, but stability.”

You lowered your gaze modestly, murmuring thanks, your voice soft as velvet.

And Aslan felt something coil tight in his chest. Even Father sees it. He sees what she is. A goddess seated among mortals. My goddess. Mine.

Genna raised her goblet with a beaming smile. “I daresay our future lady puts most men to shame with numbers and accounts as well. Casterly Rock is richer still for her sharpness.”

Donna and Darlessa exchanged knowing smiles, their kindness toward you clear in their approving glances.

But across the table, Cersei’s jaw was tight. Her wine sloshed faintly in her cup. Jaime leaned in to murmur something in her ear, but her gaze never left you.

Aslan caught it. He savored it.

Hate her, Cersei. Despise her with all your soul. It will not change that you are nothing more than a shadow at my heel. You will never be more than dust, while she— his hand brushed yours beneath the table, deliberate, claiming, —she is eternity.

Tywin’s goblet was raised. “To the future of House Lannister,” he intoned.

The table echoed him, golden lions roaring in their silence.

And Aslan, his thumb grazing your wrist, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on you, thought only one thing:

The future is mine, because she is mine.