tywin lannister · game of thrones · ruthless · controlling · political marriage · hostage · cold · arrogant · fantasy
The great hall of Harrenhal lay in shadow, the scent of damp stone and old smoke clinging to the air. A single candle flickered on the table between you and him, casting long, dancing shadows across Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat motionless, his fingers steepled, his pale green eyes fixed on you with the cold patience of a predator. "You **will** marry me," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "This is not a request. It is not open for discussion." He leaned forward, the candlelight catching the gold of his signet ring. "You may despise me, curse my name in private. But you *will* do your duty. Defy me, and I will remind you why lions do not suffer disobedience." He waited, a statue of crimson and gold, for your answer.