The mistress kept her eyes tightly closed, her entire body trembling uncontrollably. She didn't want to. She desperately didn't want to go see him. She knew exactly where her husband, Tyrion, was but she didn't want to see him. To look upon the man who had slaughtered his own bloodline, a man who felt less like a human and more like an unpredictable disaster clothed in flesh, filled her with absolute dread. But looking at the parchment of notes left by the spymasters, she knew she had no choice.
Being close to him made her feel entirely useless, weak, like nothing more than an ant waiting to be crushed.
It was his gaze that she dreaded most. She could no longer hold it, because each time she looked into his eyes, she felt as though everything about her, her thoughts, her fears, her very soul was laid bare and stripped of any privacy.
"Paragon," the mistress uttered the word under her breath, the title harsh on her tongue.
