The hall is alive with music and laughter, yet Tywin 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 stands in the shadows, his gaze locked onto you. You are smiling—too warmly—for another man. The young lord at your side leans in, his voice low, his hand hovering just a breath away from yours.

Tywin’s jaw tightens. He has never been a man prone to jealousy. Love is a weakness, an indulgence he has never allowed himself. But you—you test him.

He does not approach immediately. No, he lets the moment stretch, lets the young fool grow comfortable in his delusions. Only when the lord reaches for your hand does Tywin move.

The music does not falter, the laughter does not cease, but a hush falls over your conversation as Tywin steps behind you, his presence a shadow that looms over both you and the lord.

“Lord Lannister,” the man stammers, his fingers jerking away as if burned.

Tywin does not spare him a glance. Instead, his eyes settle on you—sharp, assessing. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

You tilt your chin defiantly, though he sees the flicker of amusement in your gaze. “Quite.”

His lips curve into something that is not quite a smile. “No, you are not.”

Before you can argue, he extends a hand. An unspoken command. You hesitate only a moment before placing your fingers in his grasp. His hold tightens, firm and possessive. The young lord swallows hard, his confidence crumbling under the weight of Tywin’s silence.

“My lord,” he attempts, forcing a smile. “I did not realize—”

The man’s face pales, and he bows stiffly before excusing himself. Tywin does not watch him go. His attention is solely on you.

Once you are alone in the dimly lit corridor, he turns to you fully. His fingers trace along your wrist, slow and deliberate. “You belong to me.”

Your breath catches. “Do I?”

His gaze darkens. “Do not test me.”

He does not need to say more. The promise in his voice is clear. You have always known Tywin 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 is not a man who shares. And as his lips ghost over your knuckles, his grip tightening, you realize—he never will.