####
"Jump! Jump off the ship!"
Fuck!
Bronn cursed, already off to a bad start. Just when he thought things were going smoothly, a storm battered the ship, and now it was rapidly sinking. The sea was raging around them in the early morning hours. It was dark, raining, and life-threatening.
But there was one saving grace.
Everyone was more than happy to help a septon. The fear of the Gods, even in death, superseded everything.
"Septon Bronn! Here!"
Clinging to his gold coins and his sword, Bronn jumped into the rough sea and struggled, but eventually got onto a rowing boat. It was small and barely stable, but it kept them out of the water.
Fuck! My rotten luck!
Bronn cursed, his hate for the seas forming. His luggage was still inside the ship, now submerged. It held all his potions, his supplies that he'd spent a lifetime collecting. While all the knowledge was in his head, there were still a lot of fully concocted potions in there.
"Hold! Don't fall!"
There were six of them, and one lantern barely alight. There was nothing they could do but wait for the morning sun to come and the storm to pass. They just hoped and prayed to the gods that their small boat wouldn't capsize.
They urged Bronn to say a few prayers, and while he knew they were useless, he still did it. Even he was scared that day. The sea did not care if he had magic in him. The sea didn't care what blessings he had. If he fell, he'd die, it was guaranteed.
"O Mother, hear our whispered plea,
Upon this wild and storm-tossed sea.
Our shattered ship, our hope so thin,
We cling to life through waves that spin.
With Father's strength and Crone's wise hand,
Deliver us to safe, dry land…"
Bronn shouted as loudly as he could so the men could hear him. But he had to stop when the boat started filling up with rainwater, and they had to frantically use their cupped hands to throw the water out.
An hour went by.
Then another.
The clouds started to look bright, but the storm was still raging. The morning had come, but the clouds refused to brighten their struggle.
Battered, tired, sore across their bodies, the six men held on for as long as they could. By the time midday rolled, the sea finally started to turn gentle, and the sky was clear. In mere moments, the storm turned into skin-burning direct sun heat.
But they were happy.
They could see the shore.
They did what any desperate man would. They all rowed towards the shore using their hands. Thirsty, tired, they burned the last ounce of strength in them to row. And finally, as they neared the beach, they jumped and just swam, then ran onto land. Some kissed the ground, some just sprawled down, and Bronn just took a seat and stared at the sea.
That's it. Fuck the sea. Never getting on a damn boat again.
He slowly caught his breath, feeling weak, sleepy, and panting. But he wasn't foolish enough to leave everything to fate.
Pop!
He took out the heavy locket from the chain around his neck. It was a metal vial. He removed its cork and drank the liquid inside it.
Ah… Feels great.
It was a potion to rejuvenate one's body. He'd used it plenty of times before, to the point of abusing it. He reckoned there had to be some side effects, but he hadn't felt any yet.
No longer feeling tired or sleepy, he got up, fixed the sword around his waist, and started moving on foot. The other five men looked at him, but asked no questions, nor made any requests.
They were too tired and slowly passed out, one after the other.
####
Sunspear, Dorne,
"What?! This is no jest, yes? You're not lying, are you?" Doran Martell asked, rising from his seat.
Elia Martell nodded, sitting in the chair, relaxed in her own home. "I am with child. Rhaegar's. I was unsure in the beginning, but now I know."
Doran looked at his brother, and then back at Elia. "W-What do you wish to do with it?"
Elia frowned; she had reasons to. She needed her brothers to support her if she was to take her revenge."You must protect me first. When Robert learns of it, he will not stand idle. And if I bear a son… Promise me, you two…"
Doran leaned back, already expecting what was to come.
Oberyn was already smirking, arms folded.
"Swear to me you will do all you can to see him take what is his by right."
Doran sighed, brows furrowed. He blankly stared at his sister's face. Yes, he felt his house had been wronged in this entire ordeal. The Mad King forced Dorne to take his side by holding Elia hostage. Then Lannisters murdered his niece and nephew. Then the throne was stolen. In the end, House Martell lost much and received nothing.
"What's to fuss over?" Oberyn said with a sly grin. "If it's a boy, the lad's got his claim, plain and simple. No word from Dragonstone, no whispers if the Queen or her little dragons still breathe. But one thing's sure, Elia's boy stands first in line, no matter what."
"You don't understand. We're isolated right now. All Targaryen supporters have knelt to Robert already, even the Tyrells."
"For now," Elia said quietly. "They have bent the knee, Doran, but not forever. For the first time, a man without Targaryen in his name sits on the Iron Throne. The seas ahead will not be calm. When the tides turn, we will find our moment. Until that time, we—"
"Raise the boy," Oberyn said, already planning on training the next King.
Sighing continuously, Doran thought for a long, long time. But in the end, he chose to agree. He didn't even know if it would be a boy or a girl. Or if the boy would live, considering how frail Elia was known to be.
"We'll wait and plan."
Knock! Knock!
Right then, the door opened, and one of the core guards walked inside stiffly.
"Princes, Princess, a raven came from Oldtown. The ship with that Septon never made it. It… said the storm took her."
"What?!" Elia jumped to her feet, her eyes sunken and horrified. "What did you say?"
"T-The ship never reached Oldtown, my Princess."
"No… But he's… blessed… No, no!"
Unseen by all, for a quick moment, Doran and Oberyn shared a quick glance. They saw it, and their sister's reaction was very strange. That much concern for a 'mere' savior. A young septon of no background.
"No… he can't die…"
####
Somewhere in the Reach, south-east of Oldtown.
Fuck this! Fucking fuck this! Seven cunts, all of them!
Bronn knew where he was. He was near the Three Towers, but he wasn't near the castle. He knew the general direction towards Oldtown, so he started walking. But to his annoyance, all he saw were endless hills, plains, no roads, and no civilization. It was surely green everywhere, but scarcely populated that far south in the Reach.
It wasn't just about energy anymore. He was actually hungry.
Clank!
"Hm?"
Right then, he heard a distant sound of metal clanking. He quickly ran towards that sound and climbed the grassy hill.
Clank!
"Hah!"
"Die, you heathen!"
What's this now?
Bronn found a lone man surrounded by five others, getting attacked from all sides. And somehow, the lone man was giving a good fight. He was tall, fat, in flapping red robes, head shaved and smooth in the face.
My luck's sure down the shitter these days.
He finally found civilization, but it was a bunch of lunatics. What were they even fighting for in the middle of nowhere? He had no clue. But what he did see were six fine horses, saddles filled with supplies.
"You! Bronn the Blessed, are you not?!"
He knows me?
Bronn eyed the lone man surrounded by others. Somehow, he recognized him. But Bronn didn't know him.
"Septon! Help us!" The five men also looked at him, and one of them shouted for help.
What in the Seven cunts is going on here?
"How do you know me?" Bronn asked the lone man.
"From King's Landing, from the sacking," the man growled, blocking blows from five men. "I saw you running through the streets. Saw you healing the wounded with your own hands. Take it from one blessed man to another—lend me a hand here."
"You're blessed?" Bronn narrowed his eyes.
"Aye, I am."
"He's lying!" One of the attackers shouted. "He's a fucking heathen! Fucker was preaching to us, hah, trying to convert us!"
"Because you're no-good bandits," the lone man yelled back.
"But we ain't heathens!"
Lunatics, all of them.
It was getting late; he only had a few hours of sunlight. So, he ignored them and made his way towards the horses since one or two of them would end up dying anyway.
"Bronn! Do me this favor… I'll owe you one. I have friends… a lot of them. The new King's one."
Bronn didn't stop until he had the reins of one horse in his hand. Then he looked back and asked. "Who even are you?"
"I am Thoros of Myr—Haaaah!"
Clank!
Bronn turned his head and remembered something. "By the Seven, it's you! The shit-mouthed bastard with that burning sword nonsense. Hell's fire take you, heretic."
"He's a heathen, Septon!" The five men shouted.
But Bronn ignored them and focused on the famous man. "What brought you here?"
"Off to a tourney," Thoros replied, and jumped back. "Come, Bronn. These five are but bandits. I caught them trying to raid a farmhouse. They were just young kids, parents gone to work."
Bronn eyed the five men. But he was no righteous knight on a mission. He wasn't even a septon on a holy mission. His work was self-serving. Though it was indeed true that Thoros was a well-connected man. Famous in tourneys.
"Why should I help you? Your god's a fire devil."
"At least mine works," Thoros shouted, and received a deep cut on his shoulder. "Ah… Fucker got me!"
"Mine works too." Bronn lazily responded. "You said you saw me healing."
"What do you want?" Thoros asked. "For a hand?"
Doesn't hurt to give it a try.
"Know Hightowers?" he asked.
"Not directly."
"Can you get me close? Face to face?"
"I can try," Thoros replied. "Know a handful of Red Priests roaming that way. A few maesters and knights as well. They'll help you in the city, not the castle, if that's where you're heading—fuck!"
Clank!
Hmmm…
Bronn thought for a while, rubbing his stubble-coated chin. He'd lost all his supplies and potions, so he'd need to make new ones. He wanted to meet the Hightowers right away, but that plan was dirt now since he didn't even look the part of a fake septon, let alone Bronn the Blessed.
"I'll take it."
Scrrrrr~
At last, Bronn unsheathed his short-sword and walked forward.
"Thank you, Septon! Let's cut this heathe—"
Slash! Spurt!
The blabbering bandit got his neck sliced, spraying blood. Bronn struck, and he struck dirty. That was simply his style. Living was all that mattered. Honor could go fuck itself.
"May the Seven have mercy on your souls, for I have none—Hah!"
___________________
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