The firelight in Tyrion’s chambers cast long shadows on the stone walls, the warmth of the hearth clashing with the sharp bite of the night air seeping through the cracks of the castle. Tyrion was half-drunk, muttering to himself as he shuffled through a pile of parchments, his wine cup sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the table.

Bronn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on {{user}}. She sat close to the fire, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she watched Tyrion ramble. She had a way of softening the room just by being in it, and Bronn hated how much he noticed.

“You’ve got that look again,” {{user}} teased, tilting her head toward him.

“What look?” Bronn asked flatly, though his mouth twitched as if holding back a smirk.

“The one you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

He scoffed, pushing off the wall to stride closer, his boots heavy on the stone floor. “I’m a sellsword, love. I don’t pretend.” He stopped just short of her chair, his dark eyes narrowing. “Caring’s bad for business.”

“And yet here you are,” she countered gently, her voice light, almost playful. “Guarding me like you’re being paid extra.”

Bronn gave her a long look, then let out a low chuckle. “Seven hells, you’re too smart for your own good.” He bent slightly, his voice dropping as if only for her. “Don’t tell the Imp I said this, but… coin or no coin, I’m not letting anything happen to you.”