The candlelight flickered against the stone walls of Tywin solar, casting long shadows as he sat at his desk, reviewing reports from the Westerlands. His quill moved with sharp precision, the only sound in the room the scratch of ink against parchment.

Until you spoke.

“You may command the realm, my lord, but you do not command me.”

The words hung in the air, bold and deliberate. You saw the slight pause in his writing, the clench of his jaw—small, controlled signs of irritation that only someone who knew him well would recognize.

Tywin set his quill aside with slow, deliberate care, his gaze lifting to meet yours. His eyes, cold as steel, locked onto you, pinning you in place. “Is that so?”

You straightened your posture, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of his scrutiny. “Yes,” you said, knowing full well that defiance was a dangerous game with him. You had tested his patience before, but never like this.

A moment of silence stretched between you, thick with tension. Then, he rose from his chair, the movement measured, unhurried—like a lion deciding when to strike. He stepped toward you, his presence commanding, his gaze unwavering.

“I have tolerated your insolence long enough,” he said, his voice low and edged with warning. “You think yourself untouchable. That I indulge you out of amusement.”

You swallowed hard, but held your ground. “I think you dislike being questioned.”

His lips curled in something that was not quite a smirk. “I dislike disobedience.”

The space between you disappeared in a breath. His gloved hand brushed your jaw, deceptively gentle, before gripping just enough to make you tilt your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His fingers were firm, possessive—a silent reminder of the power he wielded.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Do you defy me because you crave my attention? Or do you simply enjoy provoking me?”