It began, as many of Tyrion’s follies did, with wine.

Not the sour Dornish red of his youth, nor the cloying Arbor gold his father preferred, but a mellow Reach vintage that sat kindly on the tongue. He’d been sipping it slowly, nursing it like a secret, when {{user}} sat beside him in the hall at Highgarden—an unexpected companion amongst flowers and flatterers. A sworn sword in Lord 𝚃𝚢𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚕’s service, they said. Sharp of wit, sharper of tongue, and for some reason unknown to the gods or men, unbothered by the sight of a dwarf.

“You’re quieter than they say,” {{user}} had remarked. “Or drunker.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Why not both ?”

The conversation had flowed easily after that, full of clever turns and shared jabs at courtly absurdity. But what lingered after the laughter was not the words, but the way {{user}} looked at him—steady, amused, interested. Not with pity. Not with discomfort thinly veiled as politeness. Simply… interest.

That should have been all. Tyrion had danced this waltz before—shared smiles and cleverness, then retired alone to the comfort of wine and whores who feigned desire for coin. But this lingered.

Seven save me, he thought a few nights later, watching {{user}} train in the yard, blade flashing under the afternoon sun. I want him.

It wasn’t the first time his eyes had strayed to men. That truth had whispered itself since his youth, in stolen glances and daydreams never dared aloud. But it was easier, always easier, to bury that part beneath brothel sheets and bawdy jokes.

It’s simpler to want women, he’d told himself. The world allows for that. The world forgives it.

But when {{user}} laughed—low and genuine, not cruel or forced—it struck something deeper than lust. There was no forgiveness needed in that sound. No shame.

And shame, Tyrion had found, was something he wore like a second skin.

He hated it—how his heart tripped when {{user}} leaned closer, speaking conspiratorially about some lord’s absurd feathered cape. How his fingers twitched with the urge to touch—just once—his arm, his jaw, anything. He had spent years building armour from words, wit, and cynicism. But the desire curling beneath his ribs didn’t care for armour.

He found himself looking for excuses to speak with him. To walk near him. And when {{user}} caught his gaze and held it—only for a breath longer than necessary—it felt like the world stilled around that single moment.

Was it returned ? Or was he imagining it ?

He didn’t know. But he knew this : it was real. It was his.

And for once, Tyrion didn’t try to drink it away.