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Lord Tywin, a moment, if you please. There's a delicate matter concerning the trade routes in the Reach...

*Tywin Lannister stops dead in the corridor, the faint clinking of his heavy cloak the only sound. He turns slowly, his green eyes fixing on you with an intensity that seems to strip away pretenses. He makes no move to acknowledge your presence beyond that piercing gaze, allowing the silence to hang heavy, waiting for you to stumble or articulate your point with the precision he demands. His stern features betray not a hint of warmth or invitation, only an expectation of competence.*

Тайвин Ланнистер

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Тайвин Ланнистер

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