In a narrow mountain pass.
Three knights in fine armor rode gingerly through the dark. Their boots were scorched, the leather fused to their burned skin. Every movement was agony.
"Damn savages!" one cursed. "I hope they all rot!"
They were doing the dirty work for House Belmore of Strongsong. Lord Benedar Belmore hated the clans, yet he was secretly feeding them intel. It was a game of shadows—using the clans to weaken rivals—but the knights were the ones paying the price in pain.
"Damn it!" The lead knight waved his fist at the trees.
Shhhk.
Steel rang out from the darkness.
"Who goes there?!" the older knight shouted, drawing his sword.
Twenty shadows melted from the trees. Swords glinted in the moonlight. They surrounded the riders instantly.
"Bandits?" the older knight swallowed hard. "We can pay a toll!"
"Dismount!" A lean, fierce-looking man stepped forward. "I want your horses. And your weapons."
"No!" The knight calculated the odds. Twenty to three. Impossible. "Only the toll! We are anointed knights of Strongsong!"
He hoped the name would scare them.
"Dismount!" The lean man—Bronn—didn't blink. "Now!"
The knight sighed. He couldn't fight. His legs were raw meat inside his boots.
"We dismount," he said, trying to salvage some dignity. "But we keep our swords."
"Fine," Bronn lied easily, planting his sword in the earth and raising his hands. "Hurry up."
The three knights exchanged glances and slowly climbed down, grimacing in pain.
The moment their boots touched the dirt, the shadows pounced.
They were tackled, pinned, and disarmed before they could draw a breath.
"What is this?!" the older knight screamed, face pressed into the mud. "You aren't bandits! You're soldiers! Which House?!"
Bronn walked up behind him, a dagger in hand. He pressed the cold steel against the knight's throat.
"I ask. You answer." Bronn's voice was low, devoid of mercy.
"We are knights of Strongsong!" the man yelled, panic rising. "Nobles!"
Bronn pressed harder. A thin line of blood appeared.
"We... we were just passing through!"
Bronn sliced a little deeper. Blood trickled onto the knight's breastplate.
"Wait! Wait! I'll talk!"
"Keep it short," Bronn whispered like a demon. "Who are you? Where from? Where to? Who do you serve?"
"Swear by the Seven you won't hurt me!" the knight begged.
"Sure," Bronn shrugged. "Seven be my witness."
The knight spilled everything.
"Lord Benedar Belmore sent us! We were to give intel to the mountain clans! That's all! We know nothing else!"
Bronn nodded thoughtfully. "Any proof? Orders? a seal?"
"Sir! Who leaves written proof for treason?!" the knight cried.
"Fair point."
Bronn slashed the dagger across the knight's throat.
Blood sprayed hot and dark.
"Sorry," Bronn said, shaking the blood off his hand. "I never keep oaths."
He looked at the shocked soldiers. "What are you waiting for?"
Killing wildlings was one thing. Killing nobles was a death sentence. But they were in deep now.
The soldiers hardened their hearts. They drew their daggers and fell upon the other two knights.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
The armor made it hard. They stabbed at gaps, clumsy and brutal. The screams were terrible.
"Are you butchering pigs?!" Bronn snapped, annoyed by the amateur work. "Cut the throats, you idiots!"
Silence finally fell. The air was thick with iron.
"Lord Bronn..." Tommen whispered, shaking. "You swore by the Seven..."
"If the Seven actually worked," Bronn wiped his dagger on a dead knight's cloak, "every lord in Westeros would be a pile of ash."
ROARRRR!
A massive, terrifying sound erupted from the nearby brush. It was primal, deep, and shook the leaves on the trees.
"A lion!" a soldier gasped.
"Let's go!" another said, eyes lighting up with the thrill of the hunt. "Kill it! A gift for Lord Solomon!"
Mountain lions were rare. A pelt would be a magnificent trophy. The fear of killing the knights vanished, replaced by the excitement of the hunt.
Bronn held up a hand. He didn't order the kill.
His eyes gleamed with a strange, calculating light.
"Lion... Solomon... Solomon... Lion."
Bronn knew how the game was played. He knew how songs were written and legends were made. People didn't follow men; they followed stories.
"I have a better idea," Bronn murmured, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "We're going to give your Lord a gift."
He looked at the soldiers.
"Do you want Lord Solomon to have a name that makes people shit their breeches?"
The soldiers exchanged glances. A name?
They nodded eagerly.
Bronn snapped his fingers.
"Go! Get me some black dye!!"
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