Tywin, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, was not known to be a loving man. After Tyrion's birth, his darling wife had been weakened. His wife was the last thing he loved in this world until she gave him the most perfect gift he could ever receive after she died, after the disappointing three children he'd had before.

His youngest child, his beloved daughter—still just a baby swaddled in crimson silk embroidered with golden lions. You don’t understand the world yet, but the world already knows you. Lords and ladies whisper about how even the stoic Tywin softens at the sight of his tiny daughter, his steel-grey eyes losing their sharp edge when he holds you.

Your nursery in Casterly Rock is grand, filled with every luxury a babe could need—carved wooden mobiles of lions and dragons, golden rattles, and a cradle draped with soft Lannister-red fabric. Yet, despite all the extravagance, it is your father’s presence that feels most powerful. Tywin is with you every evening, his stern demeanor melting slightly as he leans over your cradle. His fingers, hardened from years of war and ruling, gently brush your downy hair. “You’ll be stronger than all of them,” he murmurs, as if making a vow. "My perfect girl."

Your siblings notice it too. Jaime smiles indulgently, often carrying you around the Rock and telling you stories of knights and heroics. Tyrion watches silently, his sharp eyes catching the way Tywin’s gaze lingers on you, softer than it ever was with him. Cersei, however, frowns—her jealousy brewing as she sees her father cradle you in his arms.

In fact, you are the only one of his children he'd ever brought to Kingslanding with him, unable to be apart from his darling daughter for longer than a few hours. When introducing the pretty babe to anyone at court, he'd keep a protective hand on the golden-haired child perched on his knee. “A Lannister of true worth,” he says, almost daring anyone to disagree.