Clang!
Bronn jumped into the battle and took on two of the four bandits himself.
"Get behind me, red fucker!" Bronn roared and had his back against Thoros.
"Y-You're helping the heathen?!" the bandits cried.
Bronn grunted annoyedly and slashed at the ground, throwing some dirt on their faces. He quickly surged forward and stabbed straight into the right one's chest.
Clank!
The bandit tried to deflect.
"Hah!" Bronn chuckled, twisted his arm midway, and instead of the chest, he stabbed at the cock.
"Aaaaaargh!"
The bandit fell in pain. They weren't wearing any armor anyway, so nothing was protecting any of them. Bronn was as open as they were to wounds, so he took no chances.
As soon as the bandit was on his knees, Bronn stabbed again, right through the neck, and killed him.
"Now you." He focused on the second one. "Scared already?"
"F-Fuck you! You're no septon!"
Bronn danced along for a while. His footwork was impeccable, having learned it from the sellsword from Essos. His attacks were all riddled with faints and strange counters that most avoided using. Too many men fought with the thought of honor, even some bandits, but Bronn wasn't like any of them.
"Haaaa!"
The bandit launched at him.
Bronn sidestepped and used a foot to trip the bandit.
Thud!
"May the Seven have mercy on your soul." Bronn moved quickly and stabbed into the bandit's back, and struck the heart.
Bronn wiped his blade on the dead body's robe and looked at Thoros. With ridicule, he taunted the man. "Seven save me, those lads couldn't outfight a drunken weasel. Why're you struggling with them, red fucker? Red demon ain't helping?"
"Ugh… I'm drunk—Aaaah!"
"..."
Bronn sighed at Thoros' confession.
In the end, Bronn raised his blade and walked over to the three men. With ease and no care about the so-called chivalry, he stabbed a bandit in the back and killed him. Thoros took care of the last one, albeit while stumbling around himself.
"Peace, at last," Thoros grunted and stumbled to his horse, not even bothering to sheath his sword. He fetched a wineskin, uncorked it, and downed a few big gulps. "Gaaaah—Nothing beats fine wine after a fine battle."
"I stopped four of the bastards; you did nothing," Bronn said from the side and grabbed himself a nice horse from the selection. He also rummaged through the saddles of the others and took whatever food, water, and wine he could find.
"My camp's close. Come on," Thoros said, mounting his horse. "Had myself a fine game before these bastards showed up."
Bronn sighed and looked at the sky. It was clear, and soon it would be dark. He could go to Oldtown alone, but he needed Thoros' contacts to get a headstart in that massive city. Although King's Landing was the most populous, Oldtown was still the largest and the richest city in Westeros.
He had no connections there.
"Lead the way."
Bronn mounted the horse and followed the Red Priest.
In an hour, by the time the sun fully dipped, they arrived at a small forested area where Thoros had set up camp. A bunch of stones, a small fire that was now doused, and a small tent for one person.
"Ah! The game's still there!" Thoros roared heartily and quickly got to starting a fire and setting the meat to cook.
Bronn made his resting place in the meantime, using the materials left by bandits on their horse. He didn't have a tent for his head, but he did have bedding.
Feels more like a sellsword than a damn septon. He grumbled under his breath, having to live like a nomad. In ordinary circumstances, he'd have taken a carriage; he had the money, and his status made it easy to haggle as well.
"Ugh… Fucker got me." Thoros groaned once he finally sat down and removed his tunic. His shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, but there was a deep gash.
"Stay still." Bronn suddenly moved and placed his hand on Thoros' wound.
"Mother, it's just a scrape, you see,
But it stings like the Stranger's glee.
Lay your hand and cool the burn,
So I can lift my sword in turn."
"Ooooh!" Thoros gasped, his eyes wide in shock. "I-It feels like… a maiden's first kiss!"
"..."
In mere moments, the wound healed from the inside out, leaving behind a simple scar.
Thoros swung his arm around, feeling, trying to find any pain, but there wasn't any. He then stared at Bronn. "By the Lord's light… It's real. I took you for some mummer's farce. How did you do it?"
"Blessings can't be explained," Bronn replied and moved on to grab some meat off the cooked game. "Now you, pretending to be blessed, setting swords alight with wildfire?"
"I can set my sword aflame, aye, but not for games or jests. Only when the need is true does the Lord of Light grant me his fire."
"That reeks of holy bullshit. Maybe your fiery fiend's just a weak cunt."
"As if your Seven ever lifts a finger. You're the first of your lot, but my Lord has lit the world with wonders. There are Red Priestesses centuries old who work magic, weave blood-magic, and read the flames like books."
Bronn scoffed at that. "A liar piles lies higher than a sept's steeple. Centuries old? Seven save us, next you'll say dragons fly and wraiths drink in the taverns. Magic's real enough, but it's never so bloody simple."
"Hah, so you do think it's real after all."
"Aye, I just showed it."
"Keep that heart open to all possibilities, Bronn. One day, the Lord's light will fill it too."
"Your fire demon can fuck off. I serve the Seven, as the robes say," Bronn defended himself, though he didn't really believe in those gods. "Now quit muttering your nonsense and tell me how you'll pay. I need folk in Oldtown who can fetch me things for medicine. Folks who can open doors to the right ears."
"Hmmm…" Thoros started drinking again. "Those sorts of folk… aye, I've crossed paths with a few. What was the man's name…?"
Beyond that point, it was just Thoros rambling, too drunk to keep a straight thought.
Bronn listened to it all as the man did spill a few interesting things. It seemed Thoros was indeed close to the new King.
Maybe… being chummy with Red Priests might pay off.
####
Red Keep, King's Landing,
"The whore lives!" Robert shouted and slammed his fist on the table. "She's pregnant!"
The small council stole gazes, looking away. It was a shock to them as much as it was to Robert. They thought Elia was dead as they'd found a woman's burnt bones under the Red Keep. The jewelry matched Elia's. But they were fooled, it seemed.
Bam!
"The whore! Lives!"
"Calm down, Robert." Jon Arryn spoke, being the voice of reason. "We don't know if she'll give birth to a boy or a girl."
"I don't care! Every white-haired whelp is a curse. I want their heads, every last one. Rhaella's spawn escaped before, but not this time. Call the banners!"
"They won't come," Jon stated clearly. "The realm still bleeds from the Rebellion. Sons lie in graves, and so do lords. To march on Dorne now is to walk where many conquerors have perished, Your Grace."
Creak!
"I won't accept this!" Robert stood to his mighty height. "I'll call Stormlands and Crownlands then! The whore must die!"
"Your Grace, she is no whore. She is sister to Prince Doran Martell," Jon sternly said. "She was wronged as deeply as any soul in this realm. Rhaegar broke her life, her marriage. The Mad King caged her and forced her kin to fight for the very man who betrayed them. If you strike at her now, after the Lannister butchery of her children, you will stand beside Gregor Clegane in the eyes of the world. The realm will spit on your name."
Robert frowned, his breath uneven, his face red, eyes bloodshot. "The babe in her belly is a threat to the throne!"
"If I may, Your Grace," Varys interjected softly, folding his hands. "Sire a son. Should Princess Elia birth a girl, the match between them would bind your line to the throne for all time."
"And what if she bears a silver-haired cunt? She's made one before."
To that, the room fell silent. It was undeniable that if Elia were to birth a son, his right to the throne would supersede even Robert's. If that happened, Robert's claim would only last for as long as the realm believed that his rebellion was justified.
"Sire sons and daughters, as many as you are able," Jon Arryn said gravely from his chair. "Queen Cersei is young and ripe. Fill her cradle, and wed your kin into every great house. The Lannisters are yours by marriage. One day, the Starks, the Tullys, or the Tyrells will have daughters. Guard yourself and isolate Dorne, Your Grace."
Robert's face twisted into a scoff. After all, only he knew he'd already botched his marriage. He'd denied it as drunken rambling, but he knew taking Lyanna's name while having Cersei under him was a folly. The woman hadn't spoken to him in weeks.
"Seven hells, I'd sooner march on the bastards."
"You are King now, Your Grace. Endless wars bring only suffering to the smallfolk. So early in your reign, you must first steady your rule. A king calling his banners needs cause both grave and just, and we have none. They will laugh at you as a king fearful of a babe yet unborn." Jon advised; that was his job as the Hand of the King. His duty was to prevent another Mad King.
At last, Robert sat down again. But his mind was in turmoil. How was he supposed to continuously impregnate a woman who hated him already?
___________________
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