Tywin L-nnister did not believe in monsters. But if he did, he would call her one.

Dangerous. Not with the brutality of a warrior nor the cunning of a counselor, but with that clumsy intelligence she wasted on the art of chaos. She was a fire that did not seek to consume kingdoms—only to burn, for the sheer pleasure of it. From her golden balcony, she delighted in the spectacle of men tearing each other apart, smiling with the serenity of one watching a puppet theater.

But the war was over. And he, Tywin L-nnister, stood over its ashes as the true ruler of Westeros. The world bent beneath his shadow—not out of loyalty, but out of fear. He had won. No one stood above him. No one except her.

Oh, but she was no dragon. No. Her blood might carry that legacy, but her spirit was something else entirely. A lion in her arrogance, a snake in her subtlety. Clever, venomous when it suited her, yet always wrapped in silk and sweet words.

Cersei had claimed her after the war. A safeguard, a guarantee that Lannister power would never wane. She had been raised as a lion, fed with its pride, adorned with its glory. But no matter how much they tried, Tywin saw the cracks in her façade, those fleeting glimpses of something that did not belong to his house. Something untamed.

Now, Tywin had to endure her. In the Red Keep, under his roof, breathing his air. Always lurking in the corridors, slipping through the golden shadows of the court like an omen of trouble.

And now, he had to tolerate her presence once again.

She was always near, haunting the halls of the Red Keep like a ghost of fire and gold. And tonight was no different. The soft creak of the door interrupted his focus. He did not need to look up to know it was her. But he did anyway.

The candlelight cast shadows across his face as he spoke, his voice dry and sharp as a honed blade. "You should not be here at this hour. It is not proper for a lady."