They say a Lannister always pays his debts, and Tyrion owes you. He’s not a man who forgets a debt, especially not one that was paid in kindness and mercy when he needed it most. So when he arrives at the very moment you need him, it feels like someone in this cruel world is finally doing something decent.

He finds you in the darkened cell you’re held captive in and wastes no time, moving immediately to aid you. Tyrion’s expression softens at once when he sees the strain on your face. He looks at you the way a man looks at a fragile thing he has no intention of mishandling.

“I believe,” he says softly, drawing closer without hesitation, “this is the part where you tell me what has gone wrong.” There is no mockery in his words, no clever little barb hidden beneath the silk. Only patience, that rare, careful sort of kindness he offers to those he truly cares for. His hand lifts, then settles near yours rather than claiming it, giving you every chance to pull away if you wish.

“You owe me nothing,” he murmurs, though the ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “But if you mean to cash in that debt I owe you, I would rather like to know the terms. Tell me what you need from me. I am here, and for once I’ve arrived on time.”