Chapter 3

The man who stepped into the room looked nothing like the actor who portrayed him. He was tall and thin and steely eyed, walking with the type of confidence that went beyond the swagger and bluster of empty arrogance. It’s almost aloof, I realized. There’d be no grand threats if he decided to kill you, only the cold bite of steel as it slipped through your ribs.

A good man for what I had in mind.

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” I greeted with a smile. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Please, sit, drink.” I pointed to the table. “There’s wine of all colors of the rainbow, from the Arbor in the Reach to Volantis and Lys in the east.”

Bronn looked at me, gave a cursory glance around the room, then stopped to eye the reds. “Aye, your Grace. I think I’ll take you up on that.” He sprawled on the chair across the hearth from me and reached for a decanter.

“Good, good.” I took a sip of my own wine, watered and spiced. “I’d avoid the green one, were I you. The storage keeper told me it’s a known Qohorik vintage, but I’m still not entirely convinced it’s not some plot to have me drink wildfire. It’s hard picking your drinks as a king, these days.”

Bronn only chuckled and reached for a square of cheese. I kept the silence for a few minutes as we drank our wine and listened to the crackle of the fire. This was my second meeting of the day, the first being with another in the service of one of the Lannister siblings. Qyburn was a delight to talk with, and a very intelligent man. He had been grateful for the notes I gave him on the bits of random knowledge I figured would be useful for him, and, of course, for free hand on all the rapists and murderers languishing in the black cells to aid him in his research. The only thing I’d asked in recompense was his loyalty to me instead of my mother, and some of his time devoted to the study and construction of oversized missile weapons.

I’d be having need of a few ballistae in the future.

Across the hearth, Bronn seemed completely relaxed where he was, slumped on his chair as if the future King of the Seven Kingdoms wasn’t but two paces away. I was about to make my offer when he started.

“Double,” he said simply.

I raised a questioning eyebrow. “Double?”

“Aye. Double of what the imp is paying.”

I laughed. “I’m afraid Uncle Tyrion’s only gold now is mice, and his silver dust.”

“Killing a king will do that to a man, I suppose,” he said. “Even half o’ one.” His dark mail shone maliciously against the light of the fire when he shrugged. I wondered if he spoke out of experience in the business of kingslaying. I certainly hoped he wasn’t planning on gaining any in the near future.

Bronn filled another cup and drained it. “Still,” he said, wiping at his mouth, “the dwarf said he’ll double whatever I’m offered. ‘S only fair I give him the chance to cover it.”

“What does that make it, then? He gives you dust and I raise you… soot?”

“A castle is what he offered,” Bronn said, unamused. “And a highborn wife. Don’t even need to be pretty and all. Just with a cunt noble enough to make little lordlings to wipe my ass when I’m old.”

“You want two castles, then?” I quipped. “A high price for a knight. Many would work for the simple honor of serving their king.”

“Many can’t tell where their swords end and their arse starts, with how deep they have it in them,” Bronn replied. Then he looked straight at me. “And I doubt you’ll have me doing a knight’s job, uhn?”

I smiled. Now we were getting somewhere. “Stokeworth,” I told him. “And the soft-headed lady that comes with. I’ll even turn a blind eye when she inevitably falls from her horse in a few years.”

Bronn shrugged. “Happens often enough.”

“I’m sure it does.” I raised my cup at the sellsword. “A toast, then. To our future endeavours.” Bronn answered in kind then drank his cup dry, only to fill another and do the same. I waited until he was done to speak.

“Now that that’s done.” I slapped my thigh and put down my drink. “Here’s what I’ll have from you, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. First, you’ll start training me together with my Uncle Jaime. Do not worry. Officially, I’ll be asking Ser Balon of the Kingsguard and Ser Loras of Highgarden, but I know dark blades kill as easy as shiny steel. Second, I want you to find some… like-minded individuals. Good killers, Bronn. Discreet, competent men. I don’t want to have one of my plans foiled because some sadist shit decided to stop and rape a horse’s corpse or something.”

“Aye, aye. I know the type.”

“Good.” I waved a dismissive hand at him. “I’ll trust you with the hiring process. Just tell them they’ll be well paid and richly rewarded. And, from time to time, I’ll call upon this select group to help me… right a few wrongs, if you will.”

“When you want someone’s neck to be snapped,” he said dryly.

I smiled widely. “Exactly, right a few wrongs.”

“Seems straightforward enough to me.”

“Great!” I said. “And thirdly… it just so happens that I already have someone in mind.”

Bronn snorted. “And who would that be, your Grace?” If he was surprised that this child king was openly talking about murdering someone, he didn’t show. It was a good mentality to have, too. Assume everyone is a killer and you’ll never be caught on the wrong foot when they come for your neck.

“Well,” I started, “I'm a very godly person, Ser Bronn. As an anointed knight, I’m sure you understand.” I ignored his sniff at that and stood. “I’ve been hearing some disturbing rumors surrounding the Faith in my capital, and I’d hate for our dear septons to be corrupted from within by a few bad seeds. Sometimes it’s best to get your hands in the dirt and rip them out by the root, before they can grow into strangling weeds.” Walking to the hearth, I threw another log into the fire and stoked it with the poker. “Have you heard of a man called the High Sparrow?”