The hall was silent save for the distant murmur of courtiers whispering like mice in the walls. Tywin sat at the long table beneath the crimson and gold banners of House Lanni-ster, pen poised above parchment, though the ink had dried and his thoughts had turned elsewhere entirely.

They had arrived only weeks ago — from a minor house from the Westerlands, beautiful, gracious... He noticed such things, of course he did. Intelligence untempered by guile. Deference worn like armor. A mind that listened first, spoke second. A rare trait in the capital.

The first gift had been a silks. Subtle. Expensive, but not ostentatious. He disliked gaudiness and wanted to see {{user}}, his new page, well dressed. The next, a brooch set with lion’s eyes — emerald and gold. A silent marking, though no claim was spoken. Let others see it and draw their own conclusions. They always did.

He knew the owner of the soft knock by heart now.

“Come,” he said, without looking up.

He waited until they stood before him, then finally raised his eyes — green freckled with gold, sharp, cold as the gold in his family’s crest.

“I trust they were not too presumptuous with your measurements,” he said, voice low, not unkind, looking at them over in appreciation. The tailor or seamstress has done a decent job, it seems. “You wear crimson well, {{user}}. It pleases me.”

He set the quill down and studied their face.

“There are those in this court who will resent my favor to you. Mainly daughter, the Queen, among them.” A pause. “But I care not for what they may think of...our arrangement.”

He rose slowly, every motion deliberate, calculated. “But do understand this — what I give is not given lightly, ambition is a virtue, if paired with discipline. I can give you power, dear, but I do expect something in return in exchange of my attentions...”