Bronn of the Blackwater had served your father Tyrion — not for loyalty, but for gold. Still, he stayed longer than most, lingering in the background like a shadow with a sword and a sharp tongue. He never said much to you, but the way he looked at you lingered in your mind.

That evening, you found him alone in the small dining hall, wine resting in his hand, firelight flickering in his eyes.

“You look at me like I’m trouble,” you said, your voice low but steady.

He glanced up, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “That’s because you are.”

You moved closer, refusing to let his charm deflect the truth. “You act like there’s nothing between us… but I see it.”

He didn’t reply. He just stared, and in the quiet, you felt the weight of everything unspoken pressing in between you.