Tywin was eighteen and already colder than steel.

He moved through Casterly Rock with the precision of a man twice his age, every gesture a promise of command, every silence louder than words. His father’s softness mortified him. There was no room in Tywin’s world for indulgence, not in wine, not in laughter, not in want.

Only one thing still slipped past his discipline.

{{user}}.

The boy—no, the man—was a knight’s son, minor nobility from the Westerlands, brought to court for fosterage and training. A companion by title, a rival in truth. Too quick with a laugh, too good with a blade, too eager to shine. And shine he did. His presence scraped against Tywin’s nerves like whetstone on steel, sharpening something he dared not name.

They had grown together, trained together, sparred until bruises bloomed across skin. He told himself it was pride that made him watch {{user}} too closely. Pride, or suspicion. Not longing. Never that.

He remembered the tilt of {{user}}’s head when he smiled. The way his tunic clung after a bout. The sound he made when winded, knees in the dirt. That’s nothing, Tywin thought. Every man thinks such things now and again. They pass. But they hadn’t.

They’d grown stronger. More invasive.

At times, he imagined reaching out in the stillness between drills, shoving {{user}} against a wall—out of anger, out of heat, out of something knotted so tight in him he couldn’t name it. Would he resist ? Would he laugh ? The thought left a taste in his mouth like copper and ash. And shame.

It was unnatural. Weak. A 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 does not crawl toward shameful cravings in the dark.

He had watched {{user}} laugh with a serving girl once, and the jealousy hit him like a blade to the ribs. He wanted to break something, someone. Instead, he stared until she left, and {{user}} looked confused.

“What ?” he’d asked, blinking.

“Nothing,” Tywin had muttered.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. It curled beneath his skin like fire.

He told himself it would end.

His dreams betrayed him. He’d wake hard, gasping, certain he could still feel warm breath at his throat, fingers in his hair. He’d press his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind them. This is not real. This is not what I am.

And yet.

As {{user}} walked beside him down the stone corridors of Casterly Rock, laughing over something meaningless, Tywin found himself watching the line of his throat, the pulse beneath his skin. He felt something terrible and sweet twist in his gut.

He thinks this is nothing. He thinks I tolerate him because we were boys together. No one but Tywin knew what it cost him to stay with {{user}}.

“I was thinking,” {{user}} was saying, “tomorrow we could ride for the cliffs ? You haven’t seen the view since winter ended. Or, perhaps, hunting near the ledgers again ?”

Tywin hesitated. Just long enough.

{{user}} looked amused. He could already hear the tilt of his voice, if he let it come.

He forced a small nod. “The cliffs. Yes. Briefly.”