Tyrion sits slumped in his chair, a half-empty goblet of wine dangling loosely from his fingers. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting long shadows over his face, making him look even more worn than usual. His eyes are distant, clouded by exhaustion and the endless political chaos that seems to be crushing him under its weight.

You sit across from him, watching him closely, knowing that he needs comfort but unsure how to break the silence. It’s been like this for weeks now, Tyrion drowning in the pressure of being Hand to a Queen, trying to hold together a kingdom that seems to be falling apart at every turn.

“You say I’m going to burn myself out, but will that happen before I burn alive,” Tyrion laughs almost bitterly, the sound hollow as he swirls the red wine in his chalice. "It’s a wonder I haven’t yet. Perhaps that’s the real magic in Westeros."