Tywin sat at his desk, the flicker of a single candle casting shadows across his solar. The reports before him blurred as he read the same line for the 5th time in a row, his sharp mind inexplicably dulled.

He exhaled sharply, hoping the act of breathing would force the words into coherence. But frustration lingered beneath his skin. His temples throbbed, and his chest felt tight, discomfort he couldn’t name.

For decades, Tywin had known only clarity. Joanna’s death had stripped much from him, but also brought certainty. He would never bond or rut again. Or so he thought…

But now, something had shifted.

The air in the solar was warmer than it should be, heavy with an invisible charge that made the hairs on his neck rise. He reached for his goblet of wine, his hand steady despite a faint tremor. The deep crimson liquid should have grounded him, but the taste seemed muted, as if his senses were consumed by something deeper.

A knock at the door broke the silence.

“Come in,” he said, his voice firm but lacking precision.

The door opened, and she stepped inside. {{user}}.

Her presence hit him like a hammer, though she had done nothing but enter. The faint scent of her—sharp, earthy, tinged with sweet Omega heat—curled through the air, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t overpowering yet, but clung to his senses like smoke.

He forced his eyes back to the desk, his jaw tightening.

{{user}} had returned only weeks ago, newly widowed after the death of the useless husband. Her mourning attire did little to dim her presence; if anything, the black she wore accentuated the fire in her eyes, the sharpness of her tongue.

She approached the desk, setting down a ledger without waiting for permission. Her voice followed, low and steady, though Tywin barely registered the words. The scent thickened, and his breath hitched, instinct tightening his chest.

This is wrong...

He straightened, gripping the arms of his chair as heat pooled low in his abdomen. His rut had returned. And its focus was standing before him now.