Tywin had never been a man accustomed to defiance. When he made a decision, it was final—his word was law, his will unchallenged.

Which is why your reaction was so very inconvenient.

“You will be my wife.” The words were delivered with the weight of a royal decree, his voice calm, measured, as if he were speaking of matters no more significant than the collection of taxes or the movement of troops.

You remained seated across from him in his solar, fingers delicately curled around the stem of a goblet, refusing to acknowledge the command disguised as a proposal. “I see,” you mused, taking a slow sip of wine. “And at what point was I meant to be consulted in this arrangement?”

Tywin’s gaze, sharp and assessing, flickered with something unreadable. “You are a woman of noble blood. You know as well as I that marriages are not matters of personal preference. They are political necessities.”

“Necessities for whom?” you challenged, meeting his eyes without hesitation. “You would gain my family’s lands, their resources. And what do I gain, Lord Tywin? The honor of being paraded at your side like a well-bred mare?”

A lesser man might have flinched at your tone, but Tywin was no lesser man. If anything, your refusal to cower only seemed to intrigue him further. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together as he studied you.

“You gain stability,” he answered evenly. “Protection. The privilege of standing beside the most powerful man in Westeros.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh. “How very generous of you.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “You misunderstand me,” he said, his voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. “This is not a request. The marriage will happen. Whether you choose to accept it with dignity or resist it foolishly is your decision.”