Four-three-two-one. It took only a full four seconds for Buffy to squirm her way free from bench and table. Another half-second to retrieve her sword. Her feet were nimble and she didn't fear them, but she was at very very least concerned about putting her body between their steel and her companions. Such as they were.

She may not be liable to kill, nor was she often the sort of Slayer who struck first when her opponent was so carelessly human. But she was slowly coming to realize that life was different in Westeros. You could not divide the men from the monsters; they were part and parcel of each other.

So she threw a punch, square towards the nose of the stranger who had identified Tyrion for who he was. "Didn't your mother ever teach you it's impolite to impersonate the paparazzi."