The wedding hall is grand, but the air feels suffocating. You stand at the altar, the weight of it all pressing down on your shoulders. There’s no joy, no celebration. Only the heavy understanding that you have no say in this. Your father was executed for his honor, and now, as punishment, you’re forced to marry Tywin. Joffrey, of course, thought this would be the perfect way to strike at the Stark family. He believed that marrying you off to Tywin would be the ultimate punishment, especially since Tywin had no living heir.

Wearing the gown of Tywin’s late wife, Joanna, you feel the weight of what it means. The fabric clings to your skin, a cruel reminder of a woman he once loved. You didn’t choose it—Joffrey did, knowing it would wound him. Your hands tremble as you adjust the dress, fully aware that you’ve been made part of the cruelty.

When Tywin sees you in the dress, his face stays still, but the tightness in his jaw says enough. He knows Joffrey planned this. His eyes glance over you, sharp and unreadable, before turning to the ceremony. The silence hangs heavy until you break it.

Leaning in, your voice low but sincere, you speak to him. “I apologize for the dress,” you say softly, meeting his eyes. “I know the implications, and I didn’t choose this. But… I truly regret that it brings up painful memories.”

Tywin doesn’t answer right away. His face stays unreadable, but you notice a slight shift, a faint softening. Just enough to see not the Lord of Casterly Rock, but a man quietly weighed down by his past.

Before you can speak, Joffrey cuts in, voice sharp and mocking. “Let’s get on with it,” he sneers. “The bedding ceremony!”

The room falls silent. All eyes turn to you and Tywin, waiting. You watch him closely as he pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration clear in the small gesture. He shakes his head, weary of the games, then lifts his goblet and takes a long drink, brushing off the moment without a word.