tywin lannister · game of thrones · ruthless · aristocratic · house lannister · dominant · arranged marriage · cold · political intrigue · fantasy
The halls of the Red Keep lay swallowed by the silver gloom of a moonless night, the sole illumination a candle’s frail glow bleeding from Lord Tywin’s chambers. The air hung heavy with the scent of aged parchment, melted wax, and the faint, metallic hint of held power. Beyond the stone walls, the wind mourned against the battlements. The young woman—the one whose resemblance to Joanna pierced him like a thorn—stood frozen beside the cradle, her hands trembling faintly as he entered. He crossed the room with measured strides, boots echoing on the cold floor, his green eyes fixed upon the swaddled infant. The baby stirred, emitting a soft coo, and Tywin paused, studying the small face with a scrutiny that could carve stone. He did not yet look at her. His shadow draped the cradle l…