It was nearing evening, so there weren't many ill left to see. There was no rush, so he relaxed in his chair and sipped some water and a small vial of rejuvenation potion. He usually worked late into the night, making potions or experimenting with new ones, as he didn't have the ingredients that his memory told him.
"Lord Septon."
Finally, Septa Unella and Lady Helen came downstairs.
Seven—They look beautiful.
One tall, and one short. Two beauties he'd toyed with together. As sick as it was, he had no regrets. He was finally living the life that only the rich and powerful could. But his was more meaningful.
"Seven bless you, Lady Helen, go home and keep your husband warm tonight." He advised her and put three vials of real potions on the table. He always gave them to the women he bred so they'd be healthy when giving birth. After all, his name would be tarnished if they died.
But his name hadn't yet spread among women. For it to happen, a baby had to be born first, and it took nine months. Once it'd be proven that he did have the Maiden's blessing to tailor his seed for them, Bronn was sure women would line up for him with their legs spread.
The real issue was keeping it a secret from the men. While most men hid their impotence, he wasn't sure if they'd be happy getting their wives fucked by a septon.
Helen smiled, beaming with a blush. She could still feel that warm, thick, silky spill inside her. "I will, Lord Septon. Thank you for everything."
Being thanked for taking her maidenhead, hah!
Clank! Clank!
Gold dragons! Wonderful!
He heard her donation in the box. By mere sound, he could tell what coin it was.
"Septa Unella, send the next ill in."
And just like that, the rest of the sick were healed that evening. Bronn didn't heal everyone on the same day, however. He sometimes gave potions, fake or real, to make it seem like a multi-day healing endeavor. He didn't want to appear too magical.
Later, after he ate supper with Septa Unella, he retired to the potions lab. Unella went to her private bedchamber. It was their daily ritual. It was almost fixed. And perhaps, that was why Unella felt so bold that night.
"Ummmh… Mmmmm~"
Bronn stood outside Septa Unella's door and heard the muffled sounds. The wet squelches, the moans. He could already imagine the interior, the scent. He got hard.
But he didn't dare enter.
Not yet.
Septa Unella was extremely pious. Taking things too fast with her could destroy his reputation. It was extremely risky.
Soon… Slow, but soon I'll have you too.
At that point, he really wanted a group of devout septas for himself. Willing to fulfill all his needs and orders.
After hearing Septa Unella climax rather loudly, he smirked and returned to his potions lab and started concocting. A very specific potion for a very specific person.
Lord Hightower's daughter… that's my best bet.
####
Ugh, I overdid it with Helen.
Feeling a little sore, Bronn dressed up for the day and sat down in his regular chair. Septa Unella came down soon after, her expression solemn as if nothing had happened yesterday.
It was still very early in the morning, so there was nobody outside yet. He really had no plans on doing anything but building a reputation slowly. It was Oldtown, after all. Eventually, his name would get passed around outside the city. And soon enough, he'd get a summon from Highgarden.
Unella opened the door to the House of Seven Healings and looked outside. It was her job to count the number of sickly and manage them.
Knock! Knock!
"Lord Septon." Septa Unella opened the door. "There is only one."
Scratching his stubble, he waved at Unella to let the sufferer in. He was rather relaxed, leaning forward over the table, one hand supporting his chin.
Seven! That's a beautiful man!
He did choose his words wisely, and the man indeed looked beautiful even in those simple clothes. It was a tall, dark-haired man, perhaps thirty, a face as if carved, brows thick and fierce, eyes sharp, nose symmetrical to the lips.
But clearly, he wasn't sick. No, it was the hunched older man, the father with the matching looks. The old man was also quite tall, his hair almost grey, but a few brown strands were left. The face still held much vigor and light.
"Seven bless, friends. Please let the afflicted take that chair. The attendant can sit by my table." Bronn respectfully spoke and got up. He even helped the old man sit down. "How may this faith's servant be of service to you today?"
Who are they?
Within a few moments, he knew by instinct that they weren't really ailing, nor seeking healing. They looked far too interested in gazing around at the interior of his sickbay. On another look, he saw the old man's hands, his entire palm calloused in a way that wielding a sword for a lifetime would.
Disguised? Why?
"My back hurts, young Septon."
That confidence in the voice. Either rich or a highborn.
"I take it you're over fifty, by the look of it?" Bronn asked, and received a nod. "The Seven knows it brings its aches and pains, especially if you've had a hard life. But fret not, I have some remedies that ease the worst of it."
Quickly, Bronn walked over to a nearby cupboard, opened it, and brought a single glass vial. He gave it to the old man. "Here, drink this. You'll feel that ache slip away."
For a quick moment, the old man glanced at the young man.
Knight and his squire? Father and son?
The old man took the vial and downed it in one go, as if expecting nothing to happen. In his defence, the vial's contents did look transparent, like common water.
"Oh?!"
But soon enough, the old man rose to his feet, his lazy eyes now beaming bright and big. He started stretching his arms and twisting his upper body, as if testing his back.
"It works!" The old man said and stared at Bronn. "What else can you do?"
Aye, they're no smallfolk. But who are they?
"I can mend most wounds—deep cuts, lumps, broken bones, cracked backs, rotten guts, even the troubles of the mind. But regrowing a limb? Not yet, no. The Seven'll have to decide if that blessing's meant for me someday."
"Son," the old man said, staring at his son.
Right away, the man Bronn called beautiful recently dropped his breeches and laid his right thigh bare. It was thick, muscled, clearly not of a smallfolk. The man was likely a knight, Bronn had no doubt.
But on the right thigh, there was also a cloth strip tied, a bandage.
Quickly, the beautiful man unwrapped the bandage and revealed a deep flesh wound, clearly from a blade.
"Can you heal this?" the old man asked.
Who the fuck are these two lunatics?
Bronn leaned over and took a closer look at the wound. "By the grace of the Seven, I figure they'll let me heal it."
"Do it."
Not a request, it sounded like a command. That annoyed Bronn the most, being treated like an insect. But he was careful. In his time, he'd learned that often the nobles had the most fragile ego.
"Take a seat, my friend." Bronn made the man sit on a chair. Then, he used an ointment and poured it on the wound first. It stung; the man flinched visibly. Then he placed his palm on the wound and chanted that same old prayer.
"Grace of Mother, soothe this pain,
Bind the flesh and heal again.
In your arms, let strength arise,
Mend the wound where honor lies."
Just like the older one, the younger one also felt it. His eyes went wide and then… he saw it. When Bronn removed the hand, only a faint scar was left there. The deep, nasty, painful wound was gone.
"Seven—Mother! It works!" The young man jumped up and started kicking, no care that his lower half was mostly nude. "I feel no pain, Father! Look, the wound's gone."
The father and son assessed the vanished wound. Then they both stared at each other's faces. Then, both of them turned their heads towards Bronn.
I… have a bad feeling about this.
"Baelor," the old man said, a firm command. "Bring him along."
"..."
"To where?!" Bronn questioned, ready to jump back and grab his sword.
The old man stopped hunching entirely and stood tall, proud, like he owned the world. "The Hightower."
"What? Wh–"
Bronn frowned and glanced at the young man again. Baelor… That was the name of the heir to House Hightower.
Then…
Has my streak of bad luck finally ended?
He looked back at the old man and plainly asked. "Are you… Lord Leyton Hightower?"
Fweeep!
Baelor Hightower suddenly made a loud whistle.
Clank!
Six tall men dressed in Hightower colors and armed to the teeth walked in. Baelor Hightower gestured to them, and two of the soldiers grabbed Bronn's arms on each side.
What the… No… luck's still shit.
"Am… I being jailed?"
"It depends," said Lord Leyton Hightower and walked out.
"..."
What does that even mean?
The Hightower soldiers pushed Bronn, albeit gently. He was made to walk out of the building, and right there, a grand, regal wheelhouse was waiting, its large door open, Lord Hightower already inside.
"Get in," the soldiers pushed him.
No… this ain't an arrest. It's an abduction.
Bam!
The soldiers searched him, took his emergency dagger, and shoved him into the wheelhouse. Ser Baelon Hightower also joined them and slammed the door shut.
___________________
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