Chapter 51: Bronn
Ian slept for a full fourteen hours, waking the next morning with his entire body aching and his head swimming.
He'd had another nightmare—a long one—but most of it evaporated within seconds of opening his eyes.
He only remembered the final image: standing before a mirror, staring at a trembling monster reflected back at him.
Shaking his head to clear away the disturbing visions, Ian closed his eyes and accessed the system to check the daily settlement report that had updated at midnight.
[Day 3 Settlement Report: Current Remaining Players: 96]
"Four players eliminated in three days, and three of them fell to me. You bastards really drew the short straw meeting me," Ian muttered, then scrolled through the other system menus.
After confirming that neither the main quest nor the bounty quests had updates, he finally got up and called Roll from the outer room. Keith had just returned as well, so Ian invited them both to breakfast.
After confirming with Jenny that no one in the hall was carrying ranged weapons, Ian entered.
This time, his breakfast was considerably more normal than before: a serving of bacon, two fried eggs, and a pork pie.
As for drinks, thank the gods—now that he controlled the inn, Ian no longer had to awkwardly choke down morning ale. He'd instructed Martha to prepare him a cup of honey water made with boiled water instead.
Just as he was about to eat, Ian suddenly heard the sound of pre-meal prayers from the merchant caravan at the next table.
Jenny had mentioned they'd arrived the previous night: fourteen people total—a leader, three guards, and ten workers.
Watching such a large group pray made Ian feel conspicuous eating alone, so he pretended to join in.
"May the Father judge us justly and forgive our human weakness."
"May the Mother show us mercy and protect us from harm."
"May the Warrior grant us strength and courage to defeat all enemies."
"May the Maiden spread her legs and ease the weariness of our journey." A crude voice suddenly broke through the sacred prayer.
Ian couldn't help but look toward the source.
The speaker was a sellsword who'd just entered. He wore a filthy uniform that looked like it had never seen soap, had dark eyes and hair, and sported a scraggly beard. He appeared rather lean.
His companion wore tattered chainmail—whether looted from a corpse or inherited from some unfortunate ancestor—riddled with holes. The two swaggered in looking road-worn and dropped themselves at a large table. One even grabbed a passing serving girl and started groping her.
"That one's dangerous," Roll whispered to Ian, his eyes fixed on the newcomer.
"How can you tell?"
"Experience and instinct. I can read his presence—cunning as a fox, vicious as a wolf." There was a hint of wariness in Roll's expression; in his estimation, this sellsword posed a genuine threat even to him.
"Were you an instructor at some point?" Ian suddenly remembered the 'Advanced Instructor' designation on Roll's character sheet.
"I trained raw recruits in Myr during the war between the three Free Cities over the Disputed Lands," Roll confirmed.
"Train me sometime," Ian said.
Theoretically, having already reached advanced level in swordsmanship, Ian should be a competent fighter, but judging from his actual combat performance, he couldn't reconcile that with the system's rating.
"When would you like to start?"
"Whenever you're available." Ian stopped mid-sentence, realizing that while his schedule was flexible, this location wasn't suitable for training.
The rooms were too cramped, and training in the courtyard would broadcast to everyone that 'Ser Lucien Lannister' was a complete amateur.
He was supposed to be a leader here, someone who commanded respect. Better not to advertise his lack of real skill.
As Ian mulled this over, he suddenly saw Martha, the innkeeper, emerge from the kitchen and march up to the sellsword to scold him: "Bronn! You worthless piece of shit! And you, Chiggen—when are you paying for your tab from last time?"
Bronn?! That was Bronn? Ian suddenly realized the man's appearance and behavior did match the book's description closely. However, because the TV version of Bronn had made such a strong impression, he hadn't immediately made the connection.
The next moment, Ian had a realization: recruit him.
The man was invaluable—escort work, dueling, training, assassination, reconnaissance—he could handle it all. In the show, he'd even had the balls to fire a scorpion bolt at Drogon in direct combat after being spotted.
In short, if you could afford him, he was the finest sellsword money could buy—not the kind mercenaries claimed to be, but genuinely the best.
Looking across the entire world of Westeros and Essos, few were as versatile, and none seemed quite as capable in so many areas.
However, before jumping up, Ian scanned the inn once more.
If there were any players present, they might have the same idea. If someone rushed to Bronn's aid and tried to hire him first, Ian could have them seized immediately.
But Ian looked around and spotted no one suspicious.
So he gave instructions to Roll and Keith before standing to approach Bronn. That way, even if some well-concealed player was lurking in the inn, Roll and Keith could intercept them if they made a move.
Just as Martha was mid-rant, Ian placed a silver stag on the table in front of Bronn and smiled at Martha. "I'll cover his tab."
"He's a worthless scoundrel!" Martha seemed puzzled why Ian would show interest in this particular man, and whispered a warning.
You won't find a bigger scoundrel than him anywhere, Ian thought.
"May the gods smile upon you, m'lord." Bronn ignored the innkeeper entirely. He raised his wine cup with one hand and pulled the prostitute beside him onto his lap with the other.
"Though you might've been overcharged. A silver stag's the going rate for a virgin." He grinned at Ian, his tone dripping with mockery. "Like this one here."
As he finished speaking, Bronn winked at the eight- or nine-year-old girl pouring drinks nearby, startling her backward. The entire common room erupted in laughter.
"But I'm happy to pay premium prices for quality," Ian casually produced a golden dragon, "For instance, if you'd care to enter my service, it's yours."
The laughter filling the tavern cut off abruptly.
End of Chapter
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