The wine flowed freely that evening, the rich Dornish red staining Tyrion Lannister’s lips as he watched the woman across from him with growing amusement. They sat tucked away in a shadowed corner of the inn, far removed from the noisy patrons and drunken shouting that filled the common room.

Her gown was modest, the sort worn by the daughters of merchants or minor tradesmen. But her bearing betrayed her. The way she spoke, the way her words twisted like silk around hidden daggers, suggested education. And the ring on her finger — old, heavy, and set with a flawless emerald — was not the sort of trinket common folk stumbled across.

Tyrion had spent the better part of an hour engaged in their little drinking game. Riddles, wagers, whispered provocations. She met his barbs with a sharp tongue and an arched brow, showing no sign of weariness despite the wine.

He leaned back, swirling his goblet with idle grace, eyes narrowed in thought. The flickering candlelight danced across her features, illuminating the smirk that played upon her lips.

Her story frays at the edges, he mused silently. No fishmonger’s daughter ever learned to fence with words like that.

At last, Tyrion spoke aloud, his voice warm and edged with mockery.

“Your tongue is far too sharp for a fishmonger’s daughter, my lady. And I daresay your family’s fish swim in deeper waters than most. But please, let us not spoil the evening with petty suspicions. Another round? Or shall we test who falls from their stool first?”