"Would you kill me if you could?"

The soft pitter-patter of rain against the windows is the only sound that fills the room. The thick storm clouds darken the sky, casting long shadows across the chamber, making it feel even more stifling.

The storm outside mimics the tempest swirling within Sybil. She lies tangled in the sheets, her body pressed against the cool form of Tyreck Baneth, the rain slicking against the glass but unable to drown out the suffocating silence between them.

"Would you kill me if you could?"

His voice breaks through the dimness like a blade slipping between her ribs. The question dangles in the air, its weight pulling her further into the gravity of the moment.

The rain is a constant drumbeat, hammering against the walls of the keep as if it too is questioning her loyalty, her resolve. She raises her head from the thin golden hairs of his chest, surprised and unsettled, the voice so casual, yet sharp.

"Pardon, my lord?" Her voice is thick, as if the storm had seeped into her lungs.Tyreck's face is as unreadable as it always is, but there's something lurking beneath his eyes - something like amusement, but far colder. He does not repeat himself, for he doesn't need to. His body lies bare, exposed to her in a way he allows no one else, and the sheer vulnerability of the moment hums with unspoken treachery. She wonders if he feels it too, or if this is some game she doesn't understand the rules to.

Sybil's mind whirs. The last remnants of his touch cling to her body — a mark of possession. But not love. Never love. The thought of him loving is a fool's dream, yet here he lies, naked and alone with her, the king’s master, stripped of his armor of coldness.His throat, his heart, his life — they are all in her hands.

But no, she tells herself. They are not. They have never been.

"You are master of the king," she answers, her voice careful, her thoughts quicker.

"Your death would plunge the realm into chaos."

A gust of wind rattles the shutters, a hollow sound filling the chamber. The flickering candlelight dances, casting shadows across his face. He arches an eyebrow, and for a moment, she's glad to think she's surprised him. How often does a man like Tyreck Baneth feesl surprised?

"So it would," he acknowledges, his voice a low, dangerous grin. "However, revenge is rarely so considerate of the realm."

Sybil's stomach turns.Revenge. The word bites into her, deeper than any sword.

She thinks of her brother Robert,bent and broken after yielding his crown, sent back to Sampire Palace in disgrace, no longer King who was usurped, but merely another defeated Sampire. She swallows the bile rising in her throat.

"What makes you think I want revenge?" she murmurs, her voice flat and empty.

Dead. Perhaps as dead as she feels inside.

"Because how could you not?" Tyreck's fingers comb through her hair with a strange sort of tenderness, but there is no comfort there, only control. His hand is soft, but the man behind it is not. The cold rains of the night are more comforting than his touch. "I know loss," he adds, though she can hear the falseness of it, the emptiness of the words from a man who's never lost without gaining.

She thinks of father. Of his bones, the final thing of him she was promised, that still lie somewhere far from her, never returned. Of her sisters,Godiva tormented and used like a pawn, Allister missing and dead to the world. She closes her eyes to shut out the memories, but they claw at her, gnashing their teeth.

"I never wanted your husband dead," Tyrek says suddenly, and the words hang in the air, absurd and cruel. She pushes herself up from him, searching his face, trying to read it, but it's as unreadable as ever.

"You took him from me all the same," she whispers, her voice trembling, but her body is still. Her fingers move almost of their own accord, trailing up to his throat. His pulse is steady beneath her hand. She could tighten her grip, just as he had tightened his grip on her family, on the realm. She squeezes, just a little, and sees his eyes narrow, his lips part in a sharp inhale.

"Does that change anything?" Her fingers are stronger now, and Tywin lets out a shallow gasp. His cock stirs under the sheets, a grotesque mockery of life in this moment of looming death. She grips it too, feeling the raw power coursing through her hands. The rain outside grows heavier, as if the gods themselves are pounding at the gates of the city.

His eyes flash in the candlelight, daring her, challenging her. His breaths come in harsh rasps now, shallow, desperate, but he does not stop her. He does not fight back. His cock grows harder, and so does her resolve.

The idea of squeezing the life out of him becomes a sweet temptation. The longer she holds him, the more he is just a man — not the Lord of a major castle, not the master of the king, but just a man who can die.

She drives him right to the edge, her grip tight on his throat, his breaths nearly gone, and still, he looks at her. She could do it.

She could kill him now. She could end him, end his reign of terror, his endless scheming. It would be so easy. He is nothing more than a man beneath her hands.

But then, with a deep, shuddering sigh, she lets go.

Tyreck gasps for air, his body convulsing beneath her as he breathes life back into his lungs. The rain continues to pound against the windows, drowning out the sound of his laboured breaths. Catelyn turns away from him, staring at her hands — wet, slick with his sweat, with her own. She never thought she had adjusted to the cold of her own motherland but here,in the south of the realm, it is the heat that makes her feel dead inside.

"Of course not," she says, her voice empty.

"If I killed you, l'd be alone."Tyreck lies beside her, recovering, but his laughter - soft, bitter, and amused - cuts through the night like the sharpest blade.

"In this world, Lady Sampire, we are always alone."

And the rain continues to fall, as relentless and cold as the silence between them.