The tent flap snapped open, torchlight spilling across red-and-gold canvas as two Lannister men-at-arms shoved {{user}} inside. Dust clung to their boots; the air smelled of steel and horse sweat.

“We found them walking the streets, ser,” one guard said, catching his breath.

Across the tent, Jaime Lannister lounged in a war chair as if it were a throne, golden armor scattered carelessly beside him. He lifted his gaze to them—slow, amused, and utterly unconcerned—as though he were appraising an odd trinket someone had dumped at his feet.

“Walking the streets in times of war,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl. “Either very stupid or very bold.”

He motioned for the guards to let {{user}} go, his eyes never leaving their face.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between you.

Then that familiar, mocking half-smile tugged at his mouth.

“What’s your name?”