The corridor outside the Hand’s chambers felt colder than it had any right to be, stone swallowing sound as though it had learned to keep secrets on command.

You walked unhurriedly, Stewie’s carrier swinging lightly at your side. The cat had resumed his expression of profound disappointment in all systems of governance, eyes half-lidded like a philosopher who had seen too much and approved of none of it.

Behind you, the door did not creak.

Tywin Lannister’s rooms never wasted sound.

Inside, he remained standing for a moment longer than necessary.

Not because the conversation had unsettled him.

That would be inaccurate.

Tywin Lannister was not unsettled.

He was, however, categorizing.

Re-evaluating.

A rare and private process.

Your voice lingered in the air longer than most people’s ever did in his presence—not because it was loud, but because it refused to collapse under weight. It simply… remained. Like something that did not understand it was supposed to leave when dismissed.

He looked down at the parchment again.

The ink had dried mid-line.

He had stopped writing at some point during your list of requirements for the wedding feast.

Peaches. Cinnamon. Cream.

Apple cider.

Honey cakes.

A dress designed for movement rather than display.

It was not what he had expected.

Not in content.

In assumption.

Most people treated weddings as contracts or performances. You had treated it as an event that would happen to your life, yes—but also something you intended to stand inside of comfortably.

As if discomfort was optional.

A knock came.

“Enter,” he said.

A servant hesitated at the threshold. “My lord… Lady Olenna Tyrell requests a word.”

That, at least, was predictable.

“Send her in.”

The door opened with the confidence of someone who believed they owned the concept of interruption.

Olenna Tyrell entered like she had been personally offended by the hallway.

Her eyes flicked around the room once, sharp and assessing, before landing on him.

“I hear,” she said, “you’ve been speaking to my granddaughter.”

Tywin did not move.

“That is correct.”

“Mm.” She stepped further in, uninvited in the way only she could manage without consequence. “And how is she?”

A pause.

Tywin considered the question as though it were a strategic map.

“Direct,” he said.

Olenna smiled faintly. “That’s one word for it.”

“She makes requests,” Tywin continued.

“Does she,” Olenna said, amused.

“She does not disguise them as deference.”

That earned a quiet, satisfied hum.

“Good,” Olenna said. “I would have been disappointed if she started pretending for you.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened slightly.

Olenna continued before he could respond.

“You should know something about her,” she said, tone shifting—not softer, but more precise. “She was not raised to chase power.”

“I am aware.”

“No,” Olenna corrected lightly. “You are aware of what she is now. I am telling you what she has always been.”

A beat.

“She used to hide my slippers,” Olenna said.

Tywin blinked once.

Olenna waved a hand. “Curiosity. Control experiments. Childhood crimes of intellect. Once bit me as well—don’t look so surprised, it was a long time ago and I survived it.”

Tywin said nothing.

“She does not bite out of malice,” Olenna added. “Only when something fails to make sense fast enough.”

A faint pause.

“And you,” she continued, “are currently something that does not make sense to her yet.”

Tywin’s expression did not change.

But something behind it recalculated.

Olenna tilted her head slightly.

“I imagine she asked you questions,” she said.

“She made statements,” Tywin corrected.

“Even better,” Olenna replied immediately. “Questions are polite. Statements are honest.”

A beat.

Then, almost conversationally:

“Did she tell you she doesn’t drink wine?”

“Yes.”

“And did she tell you she intends to dance at her own wedding?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened a fraction.

“Yes.”

Olenna smiled like she had been given confirmation of a hypothesis.

“Good,” she said again. “Then she likes you more than she respects you.”

That landed.