Tyrion sipped his wine slowly, the goblet tilting just enough to catch the candlelight, casting a red hue across his amused face. Across the solar, Joffrey sat stiffly in an ornate chair too big for him, hands clenched, lips pursed in a permanent sneer.

"You summoned me," Tyrion said dryly, swirling his wine. "What royal command requires my presence today, Your Grace? Another bard beheaded for rhyming too well?"

Joffrey glared at him. "Don’t mock me, Imp."

"Mock you?" Tyrion feigned offense. "Never. I cherish our family bonding time. So rare and... volatile."

Joffrey shifted uncomfortably, gaze flickering to the door before settling back on his uncle. "I wanted your opinion."

That made Tyrion pause, wine halfway to his lips. "My opinion? Seven Hells. Either I’ve died and been reborn in a gentler world, or you’re about to ask me something truly horrifying."

Joffrey rolled his eyes. "It’s about ruling. You’ve sat on the council. Father listened to you—sometimes."

Tyrion studied him for a beat, setting the goblet aside. "And what is it you wish to know? How to keep power, or how not to burn it to the ground?"

The boy-king frowned. "I want them to respect me."

"Respect?" Tyrion leaned back, fingers tapping together. "That’s earned, Joffrey. Not screamed, not bought with gold cloaks or sharpened steel. Respect is built with patience, with decisions people remember fondly, not fearfully."

Joffrey bristled. "They should fear their king."

Tyrion's tone softened slightly, though his wit remained sharp. "Fear makes men obey. It does not make them loyal. Your father knew both. You should try to do the same."