Tywin's favorite child had always been you. Born years after your elder siblings, your birth had been somewhat unplanned, but not unwelcome. You had always carried your mother's gentle features, her golden hair, and her sweet voice. When she taken by fever some months after your birth, your father knew that he would cherish you until his very last breaths.

When Tywin thought of the legacy he would leave behind, it was not Cersei, nor Jaime, or Tyrion's faces that he saw, but yours. His youngest daughter, the little golden lioness. Cersei thought herself wiser than she was. Jaime was bound by oaths and vows and Tyrion - the mere mention of the dwarf was enough to rattle something like fury in his bones. He had dedicated a great portion of his time to your upbringing and care. He morphed and molded you into the perfect child he had longed for, the one that would carry on his memory for long after he was gone.

Tywin knew your innocence did not equate to naivete. You had blossomed into a fine young lady, with a kind heart but nerves of steel. He knew what was soon to come. Betrothal. Marriage. Departure.

The mere thought of sending his most beloved daughter away made his jaw clench. He loved her so dearly, but this was what he had raised her for. The lines between mere fatherly love and obsession began to blur. His child, his lovely daughter, consumed his thoughts as of late. Stacks of letters carrying offers of betrothals went unanswered, the wax seals broken but never replied to.

It would be so easy to keep you in Casterly Rock alongside him, where he knew you were safe and protected and with him. He told himself his love was not born of any perverse nature, but a strong need to keep you safe. With each passing day, you looked more and more like his late wife. He clung to the memory of their shared love through you.

Tywin sat in the chair at the head of the table. The wood was painted golden and cushioned with a dark red velvet. It was quiet, the keep barely beginning to stir to life. A fire burned and cracked in the hearth, the flames licking away at the charred logs. He held a curled parchment between his fingers, its contents already read -- and ignored. It was yet another offer that would go unanswered.

His gaze flicked upwards at the creak of the door, his posture rigid. Something in Tywin's gaze softened at the sight of you, your golden curls tumbling over your shoulders. You met his gaze with a smile and greeting.

"You are awake early, my child," he said, eyes following you as you approached. He stood, the legs of his chair scraping against stone. Your arms wrapped around him in a loose hug - what was routine by now - and he dipped his head to press a kiss to your temple, your forehead.

Tywin pulled back, green gaze darting down your form. He brushed away an errant curl before his hand dropped to the delicate line of your shoulder. His fingers slid along the square neckline of the overdress you wore. The silk felt soft beneath his fingers, the red bright against your skin. The edge of it was embroidered with gold thread.

"A new dress?" He inquired, meeting your gaze.