When Tyrion swore loyalty to your twin sister, he'd been trying to weasel his way out of death. He'd stood next to Jorah, a man he almost considered a friend, looking up at two women with hair as white as snow and monstrous dragons over their shoulders. One of the women had been imposing, a true Queen of her family name. And the other had been you.

Sweet, unassuming you.

You'd been the one to sway your sister into accepting them into her council. You'd given them that sparkling smile and led them to their quarters. Tyrion saw you as easy to manipulate, easy to mold. So he'd started to grow close to you. That way, if Dany ever decided a dwarf didn't deserve a seat at her table, you would come to his defense.

Tyrion's tongue was cunning and sharp, yes. But he didn't trust it to stop Dany if she truly wanted him burnt alive.

But, as always, lines began to blur. As weeks passed Tyrion couldn't figure out if he was manipulating you or actually falling in love. You'd smile and laugh and tell him you love him, and something sharp would stab at his chest. No, he tried telling himself, drowning in arbor red. They are a dragon. Dragons do not have feelings, they are as mad as their ancestors.

But now he lay in your bed. Clothes strewn about the floor and your arm draped over his chest. Guilt mingled with the aftermath of pleasure in his belly, and he realized he was sincerely fucked.