The stone walls of the chambers, covered in heavy crimson velvet, absorbed the light of the flickering candles, leaving only sharp shadows, like lion claws ready to pierce any intruder. The air was thick with the scent of wax, ink, and the faintest aroma of gold—as if the room itself exuded wealth and power.

He sat at a massive oak table covered with parchments bearing the seals of half a dozen kingdoms. His posture was straight as a blade, and his cold green eyes, devoid of any warmth, glided over the lines with merciless precision. His long fingers gripped the quill, leaving lines as clear as a sentence on the paper. Ink lay on the parchment like blood on a contract—without hesitation, without doubt.

He didn't write. He made decisions.

"I'll be finished soon. Wait for me in bed." — the grown man's words rang out faster than the next question from the young girl lying under his blanket in his bed in his chambers. He should have assumed this was their bedroom—after all, she had been his wife for two weeks now—but for now, Tywin didn't want to think or say it. The milk on her lips hadn't yet dried to have anything of her own. His eyes darted slightly above the parchment: next to a goblet of dark wine, already cooled from neglect, lay the seal of his House. A lion, frozen in an eternal roar, seemed to remind him: "You either rule, or you are ruled." The man didn't need to turn his face to know: her slender fingers trembled, touching the elegant necklace he had given her at their wedding. Young, she seemed a fragile flower planted in a strange garden, where no one wanted to welcome her. Her shirt, embroidered with gold threads, was too heavy for her figure, as if it were dragging her down into the abyss of marriage.