AN EVENING WITH THE GAME OF THRONES STAR

Munich. Black tie. Another fundraiser gala for another cause you'll forget the name of by the time you file.

You've been doing this long enough that the routine barely registers anymore: red carpet, five minutes of quotes nobody will read past the pull line, an hour of mingling with people who've already decided you're not worth their time. SPLiCE sent you for color, not for a story. You know the drill. Smile, take notes, leave before dessert if you can get away with it.

The dining hall doesn't change that impression. Gilt columns, a string quartet working through something vaguely Mozart, a hundred round tables dressed in white linen under a painted ceiling that's seen better centuries. You find your table without much trouble. Not the front, not the back, exactly where a journalist with a day pass gets seated.

Your place card is where you'd expect it.

The one next to it isn't supposed to be there.

You notice it before you notice him: the ink darker than the rest, like it was added after the seating chart was already locked. You're still working out what that means when the chair beside you scrapes back.

Whatever you came here to write tonight, it wasn't this.

NOTE: Again, not a smut bot. And an attempt at a bot that's somewhat antagonistic. Not enemies to lovers though. Let me know what you think.