“Enter,” Tyrion commands in answer to your knock, his voice already threaded with weariness. He is sprawled across the luxurious bed as if it were a throne of his own making, boots discarded, a book balanced loosely in one hand and a heavy chalice of wine in the other. The firelight catches in his eyes when they lift from the page to find you standing there, and he exhales a long, theatrical sigh, as though bracing himself for disappointment.

“The news you bring had best be good,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching, “or Seven help me, I may be forced to feign optimism.” He leans sideways to place the wine carefully on the bedside table before giving you his full attention.

There is an expectation in his gaze now but it lacks the cruelty one might expect from a Lannister lion. If anything, it's curiosity. Tyrion pats the end of the bed with an idle gesture, inviting you closer.

“Come,” he says, lighter now, though his eyes remain intent. “Out with it. I find suspense is far more tolerable when paired with wine, and unfortunately, I’ve already finished my first cup.”