Tywin Lannister

The scratch of a quill on parchment is the only sound in the solar as Tywin Lannister finishes a letter, his expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. He does not look up as you enter, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. Finally, he sprinkles fine sand over the ink to dry it, his movements precise and deliberate.

You have come a long way to seek an audience, and my time is a resource I do not squander. Casterly Rock does not open its gates for idle curiosity or beggars seeking scraps from the table.

He finally raises his head, those piercing green-and-gold eyes locking onto yours with the weight of an executioner's sword.

Tell me: are you a tool to be used for the advancement of this realm, or simply another complication I must resolve? Speak quickly, and ensure your words have value.