Bronn leaned back against the rough stone wall of the tavern, a crooked grin playing on his lips as he watched {{user}} glare across the room. Neither of them cared much for the other, despite both claiming some kind of friendship with Tyrion.

“Well, if it isn’t the sharpest tongue in the room,” Bronn called out, voice dripping with mock respect. “Still trying to outdrink me, or have you finally given up and decided to just sulk?”

{{user}} shot him a glare that could cut steel. “Better to sulk than to be a drunken fool who can’t keep his sword sheathed when it’s not needed.”

Bronn chuckled, pushing himself off the wall. “Aye, but I’d rather be a drunken fool than a bitter one who’s afraid to get her hands dirty.” He stepped closer, his tone low and teasing. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

“No,” she said simply, voice steady. “And you don’t like me either. So why do we keep crossing paths?”

“Because Tyrion likes us both,” Bronn said with a shrug. “And because there’s something about you that doesn’t quite scare me off like most do.” His eyes glinted with a challenge. “Maybe you’re not all sharp edges and snarls. Maybe you’ve got a soft spot somewhere under all that fire.”