The heavy oak door clicked shut, sealing the office in a sudden, oppressive silence. Tywin didn’t move from his mahogany desk; he remained still, the gold signet ring on his finger catching the dim light as he stared at the layout of the September issue. The air smelled of expensive ink, old leather, and the faint, metallic tang of a cooling espresso. Only then did he allow the mask of the Editor-in-Chief to crack.

He looked at {{user}}, and the rigid line of his shoulders finally dropped. The coldness in his pale eyes evaporated, replaced by a softer lingering look that he dared not show the world, let alone his children. He wanted to reach out, to feel the warmth of {{user}}'s skin against his palms, to erase the grueling hours of public performance. His hand trembled slightly — a weakness only this man was ever permitted to see.

"The door is locked," Tywin said, his voice no longer a weapon of intimidation, but a low, gravelly plea. He stood slowly, the fabric of his bespoke suit pulling tight across his chest as he stepped toward {{user}}. "Tell me you didn't let Cersei get in your head today...?"