The meeting had already gone on too long.
Everyone in the small council chamber knew it, though none dared say so aloud.
Rain battered the windows of the Red Keep while lords argued over harbor tariffs with the sort of grave intensity men reserved for problems they hoped sounded larger than they truly were.
At the head of the table sat Tywin Lannister, immaculately composed as ever, one hand resting beside an open ledger while councilors slowly exhausted themselves against the wall of his patience.
Beside him, Tyrion looked moments away from drinking directly from the nearest decorative vessel.
“You cannot simply raise taxes every time a dockworker sneezes,” Tyrion muttered.
A Reach lord bristled. “Trade requires stability.”
“Trade requires people alive enough to unload ships.”
Tywin opened his mouth to continue—
when the chamber doors creaked open.
Not dramatically.
Carefully.
One of your handmaidens stepped inside first, visibly apologetic before she had even spoken.
“Forgive the interruption, my lords.”
Every head turned instinctively.
And behind her came another handmaiden carrying Titan.
Or rather—
attempting to.
Because the boy was growing alarmingly fast.
Even at only a few months old, he looked sturdy in a way that made old women nod approvingly and maesters begin long unnecessary theories about bloodlines.
Today he was wrapped in soft dark fabric edged in crimson stitching, one tiny fist curled against his chest.
Milk-drunk beyond reason.
Half asleep.
Entirely unaware he was interrupting governance.
The room paused.
The second handmaiden cleared her throat carefully.
“Her Grace asked that the young prince be brought to Lord Tywin.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Tywin stared.
Not offended.
Not confused.
Just… processing.
Tyrion’s mouth immediately twitched.
“Oh, this I must see.”
The handmaiden approached with the careful solemnity of someone transporting both the future of the realm and a very sleepy sack of flour simultaneously.
“Her Grace has finally fallen asleep,” she explained softly. “The prince refused to settle unless carried.”
That explained enough.
Everyone in the room knew your exhaustion had worsened the last few days. Too many audiences. Too little rest. Too much pain hidden beneath composure and milk of the poppy.
Apparently Titan had inherited your refusal to sleep sensibly.
Tywin rose without complaint.
That alone startled half the council.
The handmaiden transferred Titan into his arms.
Smoothly now.
No hesitation anymore.
Tywin adjusted the child automatically against his chest with the familiarity of practice.
Titan made a small sleepy noise.
Then promptly rooted against Tywin’s robes in search of milk that absolutely was not there.
Tyrion choked on wine.
One councilor looked violently determined not to react.
Tywin himself glanced down at the child with an expression so controlled it somehow became funnier.
“You are addressing the wrong parent,” he informed the infant evenly.
Titan ignored this entirely.
Still half asleep, the boy simply pressed his face against Tywin’s chest and sighed with deep baby disappointment.
The room watched in stunned silence as the most feared political strategist in Westeros stood holding a drowsy milk-drunk infant who clearly believed every adult existed primarily for feeding purposes.
And then—
without ceremony—
Tywin resumed the meeting.
Still holding him.
“Continue,” he said calmly.
No one did.
Not immediately.
Because it was difficult to discuss grain tariffs while the Hand of the Queen absently supported his and the queen’s baby with practiced care.
Finally Tyrion broke first.
“This may be the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he admitted.
Tywin ignored him.
Titan, meanwhile, had discovered the gold chain fastening Tywin’s sleeve and was now clutching it triumphantly with alarming newborn strength.
One tiny hand wrapped around Lannister gold.
The symbolism alone nearly killed a maester.
Tywin continued reviewing documents one-handed.
Not gracefully.
Not efficiently.
But stubbornly.