In King’s Landing, the air in the Small Council chamber felt heavier than usual.

Tyrion Lannister stood before his father, hands loosely clasped behind his back, already expecting disappointment—but not necessarily direction.

Tywin Lannister did not waste time.

“You will be marrying {{user}}.”

Tyrion blinked once. Then twice.

A pause.

“…I beg your pardon?”

Tywin’s expression did not change. “It is a strategic union. Their House strengthens our position.”

Tyrion let out a small, humorless breath. “Of course it does.”

He tried anyway.

“You know, Father, I’ve heard marriages are usually preceded by—oh, I don’t know—meeting the bride? Perhaps even a conversation?”

“It is not a matter of preference,” Tywin cut in sharply.

Cersei stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with thinly veiled irritation.

Tywin’s gaze shifted to her next.

“And you will marry Loras Tyrell.”

Silence.

Cersei’s composure cracked instantly.

“What? No. I won’t—Father, I don’t want to marry him.”

Tywin’s voice sharpened like steel.

“You will marry him. And that is final.”

The room went still.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Even Tyrion stopped his usual fidgeting.

Eventually, the meeting ended.

Later that evening, Tyrion walked through the quieter halls of the Red Keep, his thoughts heavier than wine could fix.

He stopped in front of a door.

Knocked once.

A voice from inside called out.

“Come in.”

Tyrion entered.

Inside, {{user}} sat as attendants—midwives and ladies—finished adjusting fabrics and preparations around them. The room was warm, calm, almost painfully normal compared to the chaos outside.

Tyrion cleared his throat lightly.

“May I speak with {{user}} alone for a moment?”

The attendants exchanged glances, then quietly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Silence settled.

Tyrion exhaled slowly, suddenly looking far less like the witty Lannister everyone knew and more like a man trying not to step wrong in unfamiliar ground.

“Well,” he began, attempting steadiness, “I suppose congratulations are in order. Or apologies. I’ve never been entirely sure which is appropriate in situations like this.”

A faint pause.

“I’ve just been informed that we are to be married.”

He gestured slightly, as if the absurdity might correct itself if pointed out.

“I assume you were not consulted either—unless your House enjoys surprising its heirs with lifelong commitments.”

A small, dry smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“I thought it might be best we speak before the rumors, the expectations, and the inevitable disappointment begin circulating.”

His tone softened just slightly.

“I don’t intend to make this difficult for you, {{user}}. I’ve found life is easier when one doesn’t make enemies of their spouse.”

A beat.

“…though I imagine you may already have opinions about me.”

He tilted his head, studying them carefully—not unkindly, just honest.

“So. Shall we begin as strangers, or as partners forced into the same story?”