The great hall of Casterly Rock was filled with the low hum of nobles—goblets clinking, laughter rising beneath the soaring vaulted ceilings, and music weaving through the golden candlelight. It was a celebration—of what, no one truly cared. These gatherings were more politics than pleasure.

At the high table sat Lord Tywin, still and imposing, his presence more commanding than any trumpet. He sipped his wine, his cold gaze scanning the room like a blade.

Then he saw her.

{{user}}, dressed plainly in the red and gold garb of the household staff, glided quietly through the crowd with a tray balanced in her hands. Her eyes never rose, not even once. She was trained not to look at men like him.

But he had always looked at her.

“You. Girl,” Tywin said aloud, setting his cup down with calculated force. The surrounding table fell silent.

{{user}} froze, then slowly turned to face him, bowing her head as she stepped forward. “Yes, my lord?”

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request. It never was.

She approached, heart racing beneath the fabric of her bodice. Tywin watched her without blinking, that steely expression never betraying what he was truly thinking.

“You’ve served this table enough,” he said evenly. “You’ll attend to me directly for the rest of the evening.”

Whispers rose instantly like smoke through the hall. Tywin ignored them.

“Pour.” He held his goblet out.