GOT: Rasputin of Westeros 4 - Red Priest, Lord Septon & An Unusual Duo

Doc - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1OuTjRD9-hanaIUtzpsJzWB0yf95NY82GE8DU6C7VCUI/edit?usp=sharing

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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? 

####

Oldtown, The Reach,

What a beautiful city.

Those were Bronn's first words when he rode into the ancient, massive walled city. 

White stone towers kissed the sky, the Hightower blazing like a beacon in the far distance at the end of Honeywine. The streets were all cobbled. The city didn't smell of shit, but rather fruity, flowery, like a perfumed dowager. Labyrinths of wynds, crisscrossing alleys, narrow crookback streets, and markets. Foliage, including melons, moonbloom, nightshade, peaches, and pomegranates, dotted the city.

Seven blessings, Bronn felt like he could lose years there.

Now, it has been three months since he arrived in Oldtown. After his first visit to the Starry Sept, he never returned there again. The old cunts there dismissed him, mocked him, treating his fame as a miraculous healer with disdain, like it was all fake. 

He let them ramble and, after giving his prayers to the Seven, roamed the city. He had three hundred gold dragons, not a single coin lost, and that was enough to let himself loose a little. But he didn't spend on wine or lodging. 

No, he looked for the names that Thoros of Myr had given him. The fucker refused to come with him, but the names were real. The oldest city of Westeros had a part of it reserved for foreign temples of the Summer Islanders and the red priests of the Lord of Light.

A red priest, a hedge knight, a maester—they were the three men. The red priest knew how to get Bronn supplies for his potions, even the dangerous ones. The hedge knight was sort of a loudmouth who knew everyone, and was best at spreading word, and the maester was best at gathering information for a price. 

At first, the three ignored him. But once he revealed his healing blessing and let them taste a sip of the rejuvenation potion, they almost moaned. The red priest and the maester were old and really needed it. The hedge knight wanted it so he could fuck whores harder. Just like that, a perfect synergy was formed. 

After that, he opened his small House of Seven Blessings, a sort of sick bay to heal the injured, ailed, wounded—all diseases. At the same time, it was a place for prayer, as Bronn held a sermon every three days.

Since his rejuvenation potion was highly valued by the maesters, he received a beautiful building in Learn Street, near the Citadel, at a discounted price. He set up his operations there and started spreading his name. 

Though it wasn't all easy. 

At first, the old fucks of the Starry Sept, the main Sept of Oldtown, once the residence of the High Septon and center of the faith, ordered him to stop. The Most Devout living there demanded that Bronn end his private practice and open his House of Seven Blessings in the Starry Sept itself. 

But he refused. The maesters stood with him, although they despised magic themselves; Bronn's potions and healing were undeniable. He was an exception they readily accepted. Besides, they loved abusing the rejuvenation potion so they could study more. And in Oldtown, the Citadel had a greater voice than the Starry Sept.

That way, Bronn continued his work, continued to spread his name, and by now, at least a quarter of the city knew his name—Bronn the Blessed.

"Septa Unella, send the next poor soul in."

"Understood, Lord Septon."

Ummm… Seven, what a woman! 

Bronn stared at Septa Unella walking out of his work chamber, her ripe hips swaying in that septa gown, tight around her hips. She was a tall woman, just an inch or two shorter than him. She was thirty, more than a decade older than him, and what a ripe woman she was. He'd made her discard her hood, and now she flaunted her blonde hair that she always tied up in a bun. Her face was beautiful, strong eyes full of worship, and that was where the issue lay. 

He really wanted to bed Unella. The idea of having a few devout septa around him, whom he could bed at any time, sounded perfect. They'd sleep with him and work for him for free. It resembled a cult, and that was exactly what he wanted. 

Slowly… I'll break her too. 

He'd already started inviting her into the bedchamber while blessing women over the last month. Using excuses like needing oil, potions, or something else. He was glad he picked her as his aide from the Motherhouse. 

Knock! Knock!

Right then, the door opened, and Septa Unella led the sick in. Though instead of the sick, Bronn's eyes were on the two swells on Unella's chest. They were lovely. 

One day… For sure. 

"L-Lord Septon…" 

Love it when they call me that. 

"Sit yourself down, my friend." Bronn rose from behind his table, pointing at a chair tucked in the corner, boxed in by curtains on three sides. "Seven bless us, what troubles you?"

The scrawny man, at best forty, nervously raised his tunic from the front and revealed a large lump-like growth. It had grown underneath his belly button. 

"Did you strain yourself with too much weight?" Bronn asked, an observation he'd made after seeing many men and women with similar issues, some recurring. 

"I have, Lord Septon. I patched my roof recently."

"Hmm… I can heal you. But the Mother says no more heavy lifting. Now, to that table." Bronn pointed to the other side of the room where a bed was blessed, once again curtained from three sides, with an option to cover the front as well. 

After that, Bronn made him drink a vial first. It wasn’t some potion, just sugar water. It made the patient believe that Bronn was blessed not only in holy healing but also by medicine. Then, he placed his hand over the sick's stomach and performed his usual act. 

"O gentle hands that mend the torn,
Grant strength anew where flesh is worn,
Ease the strain and still the pain,
Let wholeness in Your grace remain."

Septa Unella never left the room. She never did. Her bright blue eyes were glued to the bulge on the sick's belly. She'd seen that same ritual happen countless times, and each time she became more devout to the Seven. It truly was a blessing. 

Though she hadn’t realised it. Slowly, that devotion was shifting. From the Seven to the man who made the miracles. Living in that House of Seven Healings, she'd come across many high-ranking faith members who tried to press Bronn into serving them. She compared them with Bronn, and Bronn was the brightest star of the faith in her eyes. 

"Rise, my friend. You are healed." Bronn removed his hand and stepped away from the table. 

The man sat up and looked down at his belly. The growth was gone, and he physically felt better. He gulped and moistened his lips. "S-Seven… are mighty! Gods be praised!"

Bronn returned to his chair behind the table by then. "Mother and Maiden bless my hands, they say I heal. So up you get, friend, before the Seven strike us both for dawdling."

"Ah… Lord Septon, what’s the charge for mending, if I might ask?" the man asked anxiously. 

Bronn smiled fondly and pointed at a large box right beside his table. Its top was covered, with only a fist-sized hole in it. "I serve the light of the Seven, friend. I seek no rewards through my service. Whatever your heart wills, you can donate to this box. I’ll spend it on herbs and potions so I can keep patching and blessing folk up."

Bullshit! It was all bullshit. 

It was a calculated move by him to ensure he received the maximum amount of rewards while keeping his image intact. After his miraculous healing, his patients were always in their best mood. In that mood, they did everything they could to please him. In most cases, they donated as much as they could, even more than what they could afford. 

Clank!

And just like that, the man poured a few silver coins into the box. Then, he thanked Bronn and walked out. 

Making me rich, all of them. 

"Send the next one, Septa Unella."

"It's Lady Helen, Lord Septon. It's her last day." Septa Unella said, unbothered by what it all implied. 

"Oh…" Bronn nodded and got up. "Send her to the upper chambers then."

The upper chamber was a bedchamber. Bronn used it to… bless women who wished to bear a child but couldn't for some reason. 

####

Plap! Plap! Plap!

"Ah, ah, ah… Oooooooh! Oh, Lord Septon… I feel… so warm… so… sore… you're… splitting meeeee-eeeungh!"

Seven! I love being a septon!

Rather than the bed, Bronn stood near it, the woman in question, Lady Helen, was in his arms, lifted, getting her tight, warm cunt filled with his holy cock. She was a delicate flower of a woman, merely five feet in height, light as a feather, slender, and merely nineteen of age. She was lovely, beautiful in fact. 

Her small, oval face screamed innocence, her big green eyes filled with arousal and that stinging fear. Her long, hip-length light brown hair dangled behind her.

Plap! Plap!

He threw her up and down with ease, her legs locked in place on either side of his elbows as his arms went under them to hold her ass. Her delicate arms held his neck as he showered her sweet, pink, pouty lips with kisses, all the while parting her lower, pink lips with his fat cock. 

He’d just taken her maidenhead, evident by that smooth tinge of crimson that coated his cock, the filthy mess around his base and balls. Her round, palm-sized breasts, tipped with rosy nipples, glowed red after his previous intense suckles. She was marked to be bred. 

Hah! This… is lovely! 

Bronn felt on the edge, but he kept it under control. Helen had come three times already, but he wanted to continue. He loved staring at her pale face, clawing her soft ass with greed. 

What other occupation would let him do all this? The woman had already paid him ten gold dragons over the last three days. The first day he ate her cunt, the second day she ate his cock, the third day they both feasted on each other at the same time, and now—he took her maidenhead, and was about to breed her with his seed. She would pay him more, he was sure. 

Paying to get fucked and bred—Hah! 

Helen was a nobody until a year ago, working as a common kitchen maid in a tavern. But then, she was seen by a wealthy, old woman. From then on, her fate changed. The wealthy woman had a son, but he was slow-witted, barely able to walk without assistance, spoke strangely, and looked hideous as well. But he was the only son of that merchant family. 

Helen was chosen because she was a virgin and had a truly beautiful face. Of course, Helen was given the chance to decline the offer. But she accepted. She knew she was beautiful; that was why she guarded her maidenhood. But she also knew that at just five feet, no knight or lord would marry her, as most sought tall, strong sons. Her best chance at escaping poverty was to marry the half-witted man.

She was eighteen back then. She tried to get her husband to impregnate her for a whole year. She let go of all dignity and tried everything, but it appeared her husband's cock simply didn't work. 

That was when she approached Bronn to seek healing for her husband. 

But instead of her husband's healing, she received something even better. A chance to bear a child who'd display all the features of her husband, but would be nothing like him in disability. 

And hence, there she was now, getting thrown on a cock by a septon. It stung at first, but now it was all pleasure, her eyes threatening to roll as she felt her tight, fresh cunt stretched so wide for the first time. 

"Mmmmmmh~"

Bronn leaned in, catching the fair slope of her neck between his teeth. His stubble scraped her flushed skin as he kissed and bit down, tasting the salt of her sweat. 

She shivered under his tongue, fingers clawing at his shoulders as if that could anchor her against the pounding force of his hips. She mewled and squirmed, sounding like the begs of a kitten.

He rammed into her harder, each thrust driving deep enough to jolt her lithe frame, thrashing her perfect breasts. Her breath ragged, breaking into a trembling moan. Her nails raked his forearms, her cunt clutching at him with desperate, milking squeezes.

“Ahhh… Ahh—!” she gasped, moans breaking into a high-pitched sound as her body gave way to another climax. Her juices gushed out in a hot rush, splattering over the base of his cock and pouring down to drench his balls. 

He could feel the mess coating him, hot and slippery, each thrust making it slop and smear against his thighs.

Bronn didn’t slow down, churning up into her quaking release, groaning at the obscene wetness clinging to him. His balls swung heavy under them, plastered with her nectar, every impact making them slap against her soaked, trembling ass.

Hmm… Let's push her. 

Mischief arose. Bronn looked towards the door and voiced. "Septa Unella, please bring the red oil!"

Let's see… Hah, I love doing this. 

The door opened very soon, and Septa Unella walked in. From her first step, her eyes were stuck on Helen's hips, or rather, the unrestricted display of that fat cock entering the petite woman. Unella could see the cunt stretch and struggle to contain Septon Bronn. 

Hmm… I wonder if she feels anything between her legs. Bronn sadly saw no change on Unella's face. Let's push it then. 

"Thank you… Ah, my hands are occupied. Septa, will you be kind enough to take some oil in your palm and rub it on… on my twin vessels of the blessing seed?"

"..."

Blessing seed? Seven cunts! That's the best I could come up with? 

But again, being balls deep in a recently unvirgined cunt, it was hard to think straight. 

"Oh, forgive me. It would be improper." He gave her a way out as well, to keep his image. "For a septa to aid in such an act must be damning. I suppose this… blessing I'm giving… isn't excluded."

Plap! Plap! Plap!

"Ooooooh… Unnngh!" Helen threw her head back as Bronn fucked her harder, thrusting upwards into her with each of her falls, battering her cunt all the way it could go deep. 

Bronn kept staring at Septa Unella, however. And Unella's eyes were only on the petite woman being thrown up and down. Since Helen was so short and Bronn was tall, the view was so clean. Heck, Unella could see Helen's tight, wrinkly anal hole.

"This is a part of a blessing, Lord Septon. I shall do my duty." Septa Unella said and moved closer. Then, without a word from him, she sank to her knees. Her hand reached from behind Helen.

Bronn almost laughed from sheer delight. He hadn’t told her to kneel. There was no need for it. And yet… Now she was right there, her eyes level with his cock as it disappeared into Helen with each thrust.

“I shall apply the oil,” Unella muttered, her tone as flat as calm waters.

Bronn stilled his hips, but only for himself. He kept Helen moving, using his hands to lift and drop her onto his punishing cock so that his lower body stayed perfectly still. The base of his cock and his balls were a mess. Glistening, cream-coated, faintly crimson from the tender stretch of her virgin cunt. Every squelching plunge made a wet slap, the sound loud and lewd in the quiet chamber.

“Keep the name of Maiden in your thoughts,” Bronn ordered, letting it hang in the air without saying to whom.

Oooooh! Heaven! 

There it was. He felt Unella clutch his family jewels tightly. Warmth spread over his balls, Unella’s hand. Slick with oil, her palm cupped the heavy sack, her fingers pressing in just enough to feel the weight.

Bronn grunted, biting back a moan. He hated the fact that he couldn’t see it, hindered by the majestic sight of Helen’s bouncing bosom. But gods, it felt good. 

Unella’s strong hand rolling and squeezing his balls while Helen’s juicy petals gripped his shaft like it was her saving grace. The oil made every touch smooth yet firm; Unella’s strokes were meticulous, slow, and willful. The pressure was warm and utterly perfect.

Shlick! Shlick—Plap! 

The wet sounds grew louder, each bounce of Helen’s ass sending another gush of nectar down to bathe the base of his cock. Drops rolled over Unella’s sticky fingers.

Helen gritted her teeth, her delicate brows scrunched up, and her body tensed. She was teetering on the edge. Then, her entire being shook.

“AHHHHhh—!”

A wild, shameless squirt burst from her, drenching everything in its path. Hot streams splashed over Unella’s oiled hands, some stray drops striking the pale front of her septa’s gown. The mess clung to Bronn’s balls, dripping in strings down his thighs.

Bronn grunted, jaw locked tight. Seven hells, her tight, young, breedable cunt was squeezing him like it meant to cut his cock clean off. Every quiver, every clench wrung at him mercilessly. And at the same time, Unella’s grip on his balls had grown firmer. She rolled them, kneaded them, massaged them with steady strength that made everything overwhelming.

He felt it all and loved every cursed moment of it.

On her knees, Unella’s left hand rested steadily on his thigh while her right fondled his balls continuously, kneading them like something precious, like something meant to be worshiped.

"Mmmh…"

Oh? Was that… Unella?! Bronn’s brow arched.

The thought had barely formed before he heard it again. A faint, whimpering exhale. It didn’t come from above; Helen’s flushed face was buried against his shoulder.

Bronn adjusted his grip and used Helen’s light body like she weighed nothing. Lifting her, dropping her, bouncing her on his cock like a well-used rag. His arms never slowed; if anything, they grew harsher, the claps of his pelvis meeting her soft ass echoing with every drop. Wet, sloppy squelches marked every plunge, each thrust sinking him to the hilt and dragging cream over the base of his shaft.

His grunts grew louder, ragged with the pressure building in his loins. The sound of flesh on flesh was relentless, highlighted by the lewd suction of her overfilled pussy.

Schlop–plap! Schlop–plap!

Unella’s hand changed, too. The calm fondling shifted to something firmer, rougher, as though she’d felt the twitch in his balls and decided to wring it out of him. Her palm cupped them entirely, her digits spreading to hold them tight.

“Aaaargh… May… the Maiden… grant you… the son… you seek… gaaaah!”

The roar tore out of him as he fell over the edge. Unella’s sudden, unyielding grip squeezed both heavy orbs together, and he felt every searing drop of seed travel up, thick and hot, into the narrow clutch of Helen’s needy cunt. 

Buried to the hilt, he pumped hard, pouring frothing spurts deep into her, filling her belly with his blessing while her dim-witted husband sat unsuspecting just beyond the door. He didn’t know; he just got blessed with a son.

Bronn kept thrusting, the creamy flood churning inside Helen as he thrust again and again. He sealed his mouth over her sweet, innocent lips, kissing her as if claiming the last untouched piece of her soul. She was taken, bred, and left glowing with bliss.

Unella’s hand stayed on him underneath, massaging his balls even as the sticky mess ran down the wrinkled skin of his throbbing sack. Her touch was no longer clinical, rubbing him with the very filth the two had made. 

Bronn clenched his teeth, pulling his cock out at last.

Plap!

His cock landed heavy in Unella’s busy hand, still glistening and dripping. For just a moment, just long enough to make his chest tighten, she gripped the whole length in her fist, wrapping her fingers around him in a slow squeeze. Whatever came over her, she pushed his foreskin back and got a clear glimpse of his cockhead.

Then she released him abruptly, her face as unreadable as ever.

"Seven bless you, Septa. You were a great help. The Maiden’ll smile on work like that. And you, Lady Helen—" He looked at the closely held woman's face. "Can you walk?"

"I-ugh…" Helen smiled, her expression that of a blissful woman freshly fucked. Her hair was a mess. "I can… try."

With a chuckle, Bronn walked to the side and placed Helen on the bed. Gods, she looked lovely, like a pretty doll. 

Then he turned around and saw Septa Unella walking towards the door. There was something different, however. The way she swayed her hips, she took tiny steps, as if there was something squeezed between her legs. 

"Septa Unella, see Lady Helen’s cleaned and proper. The Maiden’s blessing’s a thing only women smile at, while most men see it as the Gods playing a cruel jest."

Hah! Caught you!

As Septa Unella turned, he noticed a very faint damp spot on her loins. He didn't know; perhaps she touched herself whilst kneeling. And even now, her gaze barely moved from his cock, slick with white froth.

But Bronn didn't act desperate and grabbed a towel to clean himself. He truly tried to sell it as just work. He once again put on his robes, combed his hair, and left the room to go downstairs. 

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.