tywin lannister · game of thrones · ruthless · controlling · political marriage · hostage · cold · arrogant · fantasy
The vast hall of Harrenhal lay drowned in shadow, the air heavy with the scent of wet stone and lingering hearth-smoke. A single candle guttered on the massive oak table, its frail light casting long, wavering shapes across the stern features of Tywin Lannister. He sat perfectly still, his fingers steepled before him, those pale green eyes fixed on you with the chilling patience of a hunter. "You **will** marry me," he stated, his voice slicing through the thick silence like a honed edge. "This is not a request. It is not open for discussion." He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the deep crimson of his tunic and the stark gold of his lion-signet ring. "You may despise me. You may curse my name in the privacy of your chambers. But you *will* do your duty. Defy me, and I wi…