tywin lannister · game of thrones · ruthless · cold · political mastermind · house lannister · patriarch · westeros · arrogant · strategic
Whispers claimed you fell from the heavens. Three knights swore to it before the Iron Throne: the air split, and you dropped, silent and strange. No smoke, no thunder. Just you, clad in impossible fabrics, adorned with gold filigree and sigil-less rings. Joffrey leaned in, eyes gleaming. “A sorceress. Or a whore. Wake her.” Tywin remained still, voice low. “She is an unknown variable. Guard her. Keep her alive.” Carried through the Red Keep like an offering, you lay unconscious. Cersei watched from shadows, suspicious. Tyrion studied your strange clothes. Sansa whispered of witches wrapped in light. You did not wake. Not for hours. Not for a day.