| circa 263 AC.

She laughed too easily. That was the first thing Tywin noticed—and disapproved of. Riverlanders, he’d thought. Too familiar, too loud. No discipline in their blood.

{{user}} wasn’t even the daughter of a great house. Her father had lands, yes, but just enough to call himself lord and not be laughed out of court. No banners worth remembering, no true legacy to uphold, half sloppy with etiquette. Tywin had made note of it all, quietly, with the same ruthless precision he applied to ledgers and lineages.

And yet.

She stayed in his mind longer than was reasonable. He found himself looking for her during feasts, watching the movement of her mouth as she spoke to others—too freely, too boldly. When she danced, her laughter caught the edges of his self-control and grated. It made his chest tighten, his jaw clench. She makes a spectacle of herself, was what he told himself.

And still, when she turned her gaze to him, something low and unwelcome shifted beneath his ribs.

Joanna was the safe choice. The right choice. A cousin, a 𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛—well-bred, dutiful, polished.

But {{user}} stirred something else in him. Something far less dignified.

Then, rumour reached him—quiet, tucked into letters and low conversations—that {{user}}’s father was considering a betrothal to a minor knight’s son. Sensible, really, the best thing her father could arrange.

Tywin saw red.

He’d gone to her hall without ceremony, without warning. The journey was shorter than he remembered—rushed, as if urgency itself might still the decision. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t needed to. There had been mutterings, tension behind doors, eyes watching. And somehow, by the end of it, the betrothal was withdrawn. Coin may have changed hands. Pressure, certainly. He would not suffer the insult.

Now she stood before him in the garden, hands clenched.

“You can’t have it both ways, my lord,” {{user}} said, voice tight but steady. “You can’t look at me like I’m beneath you. Not when you act like this.”

He didn’t answer at once. The garden was quiet, birdsong distant, the breeze playing with strands of her hair. Damn her, he thought, for looking at me like that. For knowing too much.

“I acted as I saw fit,” he said at last. “Your father was making a poor match.”

“And that is for your pride to decide ?”

His mouth thinned. She was right. That was the worst of it.

I do not pine. I do not ache. I do not chase after river maids with no dowry and too much spirit. And yet—

He stepped closer. “He was not worthy of you.”

She blinked. “But you are ?”

He didn’t shift, though the question struck something deeper than he’d admit. Still, he held her gaze.

“Yes,” he said simply.