Okay... so this is right up my alley.
More weird whimsy and quirk in the romance genre... and more jaded suffer-no-fools women, instead of the creepy age-gaps, please and thank you
Would you write a Tyrion x reader where they're betrothed and he can tell she's unhappy about it which upsets him because he really likes her and he confronts her about it thinking it's about his dwarfism but she tells him it's because she's heard he drinks a lot and sleeps with whores
Fearing his Reputation
The news arrived like a raven with wings of lead, dropping its heavy message directly into my lap. I remember the parchment, thick and creamy, embossed with the snarling lion of House Lannister. My father, Lord L/n, had read it aloud in the austere quiet of our solar, his voice devoid of all inflection save for a faint, unreadable triumph.
“His Grace, King Joffrey, in his infinite wisdom and benevolence,” Father had intoned, "has seen fit to grant a union between our houses. My daughter, Y/n, will be wed to Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, son of the Hand of the King.”
The world, for a moment, had tilted on its axis. My hand, resting casually on the armrest of my chair, tightened into a white-knuckled fist. The Imp. The whispers echoed in my mind, hushed and malicious, painting a picture of a man I knew only through tavern songs and the cruel jests of court. Drunkeness, whoremongering, the debauched life of a dwarf shunned by his own family. It was a common tale in Westeros, a man of his stature often finding solace in the bottom of a goblet and the arms of women who asked no questions. My future, it seemed, was to be shackled to this repute.
I had managed a brittle smile, a murmured acceptance, but inside, a cold dread had begun to seep into my bones. It wasn't his dwarfism that gave me pause. I had seen men of all shapes and sizes, and a man’s stature rarely dictated the content of his heart. No, it was the other things they said. The constant, unending revelry. The parade of women. I was a lady, raised on duty and decorum. The thought of bearing children with a man whose essence was steeped in wine and women of the street, whose affections were paid for, whose nights were spent in a stupor… it chilled me to the marrow.
We were summoned to King’s Landing not a fortnight later, our small retinue swallowed by the grandeur and grime of the capital. The Red Keep loomed, a monstrous presence against the sky, promising a gilded cage. My first meeting with Lord Tyrion was, by all accounts, cordial. He was seated at a council meeting when I was presented, his sharp mind evident even from across the room. Later, he sought me out in the castle gardens.
He was smaller than I had imagined, but his presence was anything but diminished. His eyes, one green, one black, sparkled with an unnerving intelligence, and his tongue was quick, weaving witty remarks that startled laughter from those around him. He spoke to me with a surprising deference, asking about my journey, my home, my interests. He was charming, yes, and disarmingly direct, but every pleasantry felt like a delicate dance, and I, a reluctant partner.
I found myself politeness itself, answering his questions with appropriate grace, never too effusive, never too cold. My replies were measured, my smiles small and fleeting, my gaze often drifting beyond him, to the crimson walls or the distant shimmering Blackwater. I watched him, wary and distant, searching for the tell-tale signs of the man I had heard so much about. Did his eyes linger too long on my serving girls? Did his hand stray towards the wine goblet with undue haste? The very suspicion seemed to taint every interaction.
Days bled into a fortnight, then a month. The wedding date was set. Tyrion made a concerted effort to court me, as much as one could within the confines of the Red Keep. He sent me books from his vast library, stories of history and adventure, knowing I enjoyed reading. He would seek me out for walks in the godswood, or invite me to accompany him to observe the Small Council meetings – a rare privilege for a woman. He even tried to teach me Cyvasse, a game I found frustratingly complex but which he played with a mischievous delight.
Through it all, my mask remained firmly in place. I was civil, appreciative even, but my heart remained a stone in my chest. Each time he spoke of our future, of our shared home, a knot tightened in my stomach. The thought of his touch, his breath against my skin, was not one of anticipation, but of quiet dread. I could not shake the image of him stumbling home drunk, reeking of cheap perfume, his mind hazy with wine. It was a visceral revulsion, and it was becoming harder to conceal.
He noticed. Of course, he did. Tyrion Lannister was nothing if not perceptive. I saw the shadows deepen in his mismatched eyes when my forced smile didn't quite reach them, or when I subtly shifted away from his gaze. I caught him watching me from across the Great Hall, a pensive, almost wounded expression on his face. He’d offer a jest, and my polite chuckle would fall flat, leaving a strained silence in its wake. There was a vulnerability in his eyes I hadn't expected, a genuine hurt that chipped away at my resolve, but couldn’t quite break through the fear.
One crisp afternoon, as the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and violet, he found me in the castle’s less-frequented garden, by a fountain whose waters had long since ceased to flow. I was sketching a lone, gnarled tree, lost in the quiet solitude.
"A pensive mood, Lady Y/n?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, devoid of its customary sharp wit. He approached slowly, not intruding on my space but making his presence known.
I startled, closing my sketchpad. "Lord Tyrion. Forgive me, I did not hear you approach."
He settled onto a stone bench near me, his gaze fixed not on me, but on the silent fountain. His face was uncharacteristically serious, the usual humor lines around his eyes smoothed out by a deeper concern. "You avoid me."
It wasn't a question, but an observation, blunt and direct. My breath hitched. "I do not, my lord. I merely… value my solitude."
"Your solitude," he echoed, turning his head to look at me, his eyes piercing. "Or your escape from our company?"
I stiffened. "I assure you, I find your company quite… stimulating." It was a lie, of course. Stimulating, yes, but also filled with a constant, simmering anxiety.
He let out a sigh, a sound heavy with weariness. "Y/n," he began, and the use of my given name, unadorned by title, made me flinch inwardly. "We are to be wed. Our lives are to be entwined, for better or worse, for all time. And yet, you look at me as if I were a particularly unpleasant duty. Do you think I haven't noticed your aversion? Your polite distance? Your carefully constructed smiles that never quite reach your eyes?"
My cheeks flushed, hot with a mixture of indignation and shame. I couldn't deny it.
He finally met my gaze, and I saw a raw pain there, a deep-seated hurt that resonated with the many times he must have felt judged. "I understand, Lady Y/n," he continued, his voice low, a tremor of emotion barely controlled. "I am not blind to myself. I know what I am. A dwarf, a monstrous aberration in the eyes of many. An object of ridicule and scorn. I am well accustomed to the disdain, to the way people recoil, to the whispers that follow me like a shadow."
He paused, taking a slow, shaky breath. "Tell me truly, Y/n. Is it… is it my height that offends you so profoundly? Is it the sight of me that makes you dread this union?" His voice was barely a whisper, laced with a vulnerability that surprised me. "If it is, then say it. Say it plainly. Do not let me delude myself into believing there is hope for us, when all you feel is disgust for the man who will be your husband."
His words struck me like a physical blow. The shame I felt earlier intensified, but it was now mixed with a sudden, unexpected pity. He thought… he thought I hated him for his dwarfism. He thought I was like all the others. And in that moment, seeing the true depth of his pain, something within me snapped. The carefully constructed wall I had built around myself began to crumble.
"No," I said, the word coming out sharp and strangled. My voice shook, but the truth, once unleashed, gained strength. "No, Lord Tyrion, it is not your height. It never was."
He blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes, quickly replaced by confusion. "Then what is it?"
I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. This was it. The moment of truth. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "It is… the whispers, my lord. The things they say. The tales that precede you."
His brow furrowed. "What tales?" The look on his face was genuine bewilderment.
"They say," I continued, finding my voice, my gaze now unwavering, "that you drink excessively. That you spend your nights in taverns and brothels. That you live a dissolute life, mired in wine and… and women of ill repute." My voice grew stronger with each word, the hurt and fear I had bottled up for weeks now pouring out. "They say you are never sober, that you spend your coin and your nights on whores, that you are a man entirely without restraint or temperance."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant cawing of a raven. His expression transformed, first into a mask of stunned disbelief, then a flicker of annoyance, and finally, a profound sadness I had not thought him capable of. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his lips.
"Ah," he finally said, the single syllable thick with a sarcasm that was entirely new to me, yet achingly familiar in its pain. "So that's it. The 'Imp' is not so bad, but the 'Whoremonger' is beyond the pale." He turned back to me, his gaze now intense, assessing. "And you believe these tales?"
"I… I have heard them from many sources," I admitted, my eyes dropping to my hands clasped tightly in my lap. "From court ladies, from servants, from the merchants who travel from King's Landing to our lands. They speak of your… proclivities… as if they were common knowledge."
He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of years of misjudgment. "Lady Y/n," he began, his voice softer now, devoid of mockery, tinged with a weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. "Let me assure you, the tales are often exaggerated. But," he added, his honesty stark, "they are not entirely untrue."
My head snapped up, my eyes wide. I hadn’t expected him to admit it.
He met my gaze directly. "Yes, I drink. More than is perhaps advisable. And yes, I have sought… companionship… in places not fit for ladies of your station." He paused, a wry, self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "But tell me, Lady Y/n, what else was I to do? All my life, I have been judged, scorned, and hated for the simple misfortune of my birth. My own family, my own father, despises me. I am a Lannister in name, but never truly in their hearts. They look at me and see only a grotesque mockery. What solace was there to be found in the halls of the Red Keep, where every glance was a judgment, every whisper a condemnation?"
His voice dropped, becoming almost a confession. "The wine, it dulls the edges of the disdain. And the women… the women in those establishments, they see a man who pays, yes, but they also see a man who listens, who speaks, who can laugh without judgment. They don't look at my height and then dismiss my words. They don’t sneer at my very existence. For a few hours, I am simply Tyrion, capable of wit, capable of kindness, capable of… being heard."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, his gaze fixed on mine, earnest and raw. "It has been my way of coping, Lady Y/n. A poor one, perhaps, but a coping nonetheless. I sought escape from a world that had no place for me. I never intended to bring that world to your doorstep. I never intended to inflict it upon a woman I… a woman who deserves better."
His honesty was disarming, devastating in its simplicity. I had expected defiance, excuses, perhaps even anger. Not this raw, unvarnished truth. The image of the debauched whoremonger began to recede, replaced by a picture of a man wounded, lonely, seeking solace where he could find it. The weight on my chest lessened, replaced by a strange ache in my heart. Pity, yes, but also a dawning understanding.
"I… I didn't know," I whispered, feeling the guilt of my assumptions wash over me. "I only heard the rumors. I didn't consider… the reasons."
He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Few do. It is easier to believe the worst, is it not? Especially of a Lannister dwarf." He paused, searching my face. "Does this change anything, Lady Y/n? Or does it merely confirm your worst fears?"
I looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time without the veil of prejudice I had unknowingly worn. I saw a man scarred not by his body, but by the world's cruelty. A man intelligent, witty, yes, but also deeply vulnerable. And, in that vulnerable state, surprisingly candid.
"It changes things, Lord Tyrion," I admitted, my voice a little stronger now, imbued with a newfound clarity. "It… it paints a different picture. A more… human one." I reached out, hesitantly, and placed my hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort I hadn't thought myself capable of moments before. His skin felt warm beneath my palm, a stark contrast to the chill in the air.
He looked down at my hand on his arm, then back up at me, a flicker of hope, fragile and tentative, in his mismatched eyes. "So," he murmured, his voice soft, "the Whoremonger might not be entirely irredeemable?"
I managed a small, genuine smile this time, a real one that reached my eyes. "Perhaps," I said, a lightness entering my tone. "Perhaps the Imp has been misunderstood. Perhaps… we could try. We could try to know each other, Lord Tyrion. Not the rumors, not the titles, but the people we truly are."
He held my gaze, and a slow, reciprocal smile spread across his face, far more genuine than any I had seen him wear before. "Lady Y/n," he said, his voice regaining a touch of its familiar wit, yet infused with an unexpected tenderness, "I believe that is the most hopeful thing anyone has said to me in a very long time. And I would very much like to try."
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a final, fiery flourish. The air grew colder, but a new, tentative warmth had begun to bloom between us, chasing away the shadows of prejudice and whispered lies. Our betrothal was still a political maneuver, our future still uncertain in this cruel game of thrones. But for the first time, I felt a flicker of something akin to curiosity, even anticipation. Perhaps this forced union would not be merely a gilded cage, but a pathway to a different kind of life, built on honesty and understanding, rather than the poisoned whispers of the court.
