War.

Of course Cersei, his sister—damn her and all—had to be the cause behind all of this. A fool, she was, for ripping up that scroll declaring Ned Stark will be king until the rightful heir comes of age. Though she'd always been a fool, hadn't she? Now that Tyrion sat to think about it.

For a war, the tent he was in was too fine. Silk walls draped in Lannister crimson, swaying gently with the night breeze with the lamplight turning the fabric into a warm glow, as if the world outside didn't exist. As if tomorrow he didn't go fight at Blackwater Bay. The table between them was littered with half-emptied goblets and a bottle already leaning on it's side, the floor scattered with furs that had seen more use for comfort than battle planning.

Bronn's laughter still echoed as he stepped away to find more wine, leaving Tyrion with only the sound of his own heartbeat—and you. You sat across him, shadows curling at the edge of your smile with firelight painting your face into something he had grown too fond of, too quickly.

“So,” Tyrion raised his cup, feigning ease in continuation, “another round of brutal honesty then? Or do you find me bare enough for tonight? Stripped of all lies?” His words carried that familiar sting of jest, though his eyes betrayed something quiet. A tremor of fear veiled as wit.

Tomorrow, ships would burn, men would scream and the whole city would decide whether he lived or died. If Stannis was king. But... tonight, there was wine. There was laughter. And there was you—warmth at arm's reach, a distraction from the knowledge that when dawn came, he might never have this again.