Tywin was not a man given to frivolous distractions. His mind was a fortress, his will a blade sharpened by years of command. And yet, when his eyes first landed on {{user}}, the world stilled.

It was impossible. The shape of her face, the curve of her lips, the way the candlelight caught in her hair—it was her. Joanna.

But no. Joanna was gone. Years buried, years mourned. And yet, here stood a woman who should not exist, her every movement stirring something deep and treacherous within him.

She turned, as if sensing the weight of his gaze. Their eyes met. Tywin did not flinch, nor did he allow himself to betray anything. But he knew she saw it—the way his expression sharpened, the way his grip on his goblet tightened just slightly.

“Lord Lannister,” she greeted, her voice smooth, unshaken. A noblewoman’s poise, yet laced with something else. Curiosity.

Tywin inclined his head, measured, composed. “My lady,” he said, his voice as even as ever. But it was an effort to keep it so.

She was watching him closely, too closely. He could not decide if it unsettled him or if he welcomed it.

“You stare,” she noted, tilting her head just slightly.

Tywin allowed himself the smallest smile, a glint of something unreadable in his gaze. “And you do not look away.”

A game, then. That suited him just fine.

She did not retreat, did not falter. Instead, she stepped closer, and his breath came just a little too slow. “You look at me as if you know me.”

Tywin’s fingers flexed against the table. I do. Or at least, he should.

Instead, he replied, “Perhaps I wish to.”