GOT: Rasputin of Westeros 3 - Last Blessing, Reward & Out of Luck

Doc - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1t6dxLgGh7DhulfhVfT1GrXr9c5RXlIqgsXDbRm9T61c/edit?usp=sharing

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It wasn't even a good dungeon. 

But at least it wasn't deep underground. 

No, the dungeon was more like a tower. He was pushed with spears on his back, up the spiraling staircase, a very tiring height even for Bronn's trained body. Eventually, he was brought to the very tip of the high tower. By that point, the tower had become so narrow that there was space for just one single room. And that was Bronn's prison. 

"Stay put and behave."

He was shoved into the small room. The thick, metal door was slammed shut right behind him. The door didn't even have a hole in it to look in or out. 

"By the Father’s beard, at least I'm alive," Bronn muttered and measured the room. 

It was round, large enough that he could spread his arms wide twice over while standing in the middle. It was warm and empty; a privy was against the wall nearby for piss and shit. The presence of that privy made it clear that it was certainly no ordinary prison cell. Then there was a haystack on the floor near the laughable window, the size of his face, bars protecting it.

He peeked out of the window and took a deep breath. "Seven bless it, fine view. Warm wind off the Summer Sea, too."

He stared in silence, observing how large the world was. Remembering how blessed and lucky he was to have all those magical abilities. And yet, there he was, stuck in a cell because some numbskull lord decided to. He couldn't help but feel loathing towards the so-called ruling class. Sure, he once wanted to be one of them, but by now, he had no delusions that it was an open group, and he was never going to be invited. Prestige and bloodline were all they cared for. He had none.

"Young septon, reckon I’m worth about as much to them as a fart in the Sept," he muttered and sat down on the haystack, not damp thankfully. "Elia Martell… time'll tell if the Gods gave her wits or just a pretty face."

In time, Bronn lay down on the haystack and fell asleep. He was tired after the long journey and no decent welcome. 

Creak!

"Wake up! Septon, get your ass up!"

"Hm?" Bronn's eyes shot open, and he jumped to his feet. The two guards had returned and grabbed him from both sides. "What do you want?"

"Gently now. Our tender Septon is not made for such treatment. Leave us alone."

Bronn was wide awake by then, and stared at the light brown skinned man. Tall, slender, fit, with sharp eyes and dark hair. In his one hand was a long spear. 

"Made up your mind yet, Prince Oberyn?" Bronn addressed the man. He'd seen him when Elia was taken away from him. "If you’re killing me, I’ll take trial by combat. The Seven haven’t failed me yet."

"Oh?" Prince Oberyn smirked and started waving his spear without getting closer to Bronn. "That's new. A holy man with a taste for swords?"

"Not the sort you're into… if my ears haven’t played me false."

Oberyn smiled even broader, and suddenly moved his spear, smacking it between Bronn's legs on his balls. "Don't tempt me."

"..."

"You may leave," Oberyn said, drawing his spear back with a lazy flourish. "You have my thanks for saving my sister. The realm believes her to be dead, and in part, they are correct… though my niece and nephew were the ones who truly died. I remember every crime against me. I remember every kindness, too."

Bronn nodded. There wasn't much else he could say to him. 

"But you cannot leave yet." Oberyn twirled his spear toward the window. "The sun still clings to the sky. Elia tells me Oldtown is your destination. You'll be taken to a ship, unseen by any. My brother and I prefer to keep Elia hidden for now. Surely, you can guess why."

"I gain nothing by saying I lent her a hand, Prince Oberyn," Bronn said. "Seven help me, it was a mercy for a grieving woman. The rest of your highborn feuds are for the Gods to sort, not me."

Oberyn nodded and stepped back towards the door. "You’re welcome in Sunspear any time, Septon. We value our friends greatly."

"By locking them up?" Bronn quipped.

"Merely precautions, Septon. You will have wine worthy of the Seven and food to make you sin before sunset. Rest for a few hours." 

With that, Oberyn turned around and left through the iron door. Sure enough, the sound of locks turning came from outside. 

Seven help me, that changes sweet nothing. Still a prisoner. Bronn sighed and returned to sit on the hay. Well, at least they’re not sending me to the Stranger just yet."

Knock! Knock!

"Hm?" He jumped to his feet again. Only a few moments had passed since Oberyn had left. "Yes?"

Creak!

"You two may leave," a feminine voice echoed, and then the door opened. "I'll be praying with Septon for a while."

Sure enough, Elia Martell entered, now dressed in complete Dornish attire, a long, full-sleeved golden gown with a deep neckline, gold jewelry covering her neck and wrists, a jeweled belt on her waist, ornaments on her head, earrings as well.

She held a large tray in her hands and walked into the room. Her big black eyes showed a hint of guilt. But overall, she looked far healthier than the first time she and Bronn had met. Bronn's potions had healed her frail, delicate health. While she was still slender, her arms, her face, and her body overall appeared healthy and vigorous.

"Forgive me, Septon Bronn. I swore to my brothers again and again that you acted only from the kindness of your heart. But they refused to believe me. They expected hidden motives." Elia said, and she truly believed that Bronn put a babe in her out of kindness. 

“It's all in the past, Princess," Bronn replied, keeping the forgiving, magnanimous persona. And he already knew why she was there. After all, he'd spent a lot of time with her, enough to completely reform her mind into believing the miracle being that he was. "I suppose the food is for me? I am famished."

"Of course!" Elia quickly brought over the tray. 

Bronn sat down on the hay, giving some space for Elia to sit right beside him. He placed the plate in front of him and began wolfing down food. His shoulders brushed against her, and she didn't move. She had no reason to after their physical rituals. He'd fucked her so much over the past few weeks that even if he were to push her down on that haystack and take her, she would only thank him for blessing her more. 

He glanced at her and already felt his cock hardening. In all that gold jewelry, her bright golden gown, she looked rather appetizing. And seeing her caress her belly, he felt like filling her up one last time before leaving. 

Sure, it was sinful, unbecoming of a septon, but it wasn't like he became a septon to serve the Seven. His goal from the very beginning was to gain influence over noble houses and corrupt them slowly. Make himself the highest voice in their halls. And often, the best way to gain that influence was through cunts and wombs. 

"Do not be worried, Princess." He said, smiling towards her. "The child’s well enough. I’ve drowned you in blessings since we left shore. Even the Mother must be sick of hearing your name and moans by now."

Elia's face flushed a little. On the ship, with nothing to do, they'd spent most of their time nude in their cabin, snuggling, kissing, fucking non-stop. They'd repeated that seven-day ritual countless times. And as she truly felt her body changing, her complexion improving, her fragile health healing, she became a believer—a blind believer. 

"T-Thank you…"

Bronn hid the chuckle. It always made him chuckle, being thanked by a highborn like Elia. For fucking her like an animal and putting a babe in her. It was a sin against the ruling class. But there he was, nodding at her compliment. 

“A woman wished to be a mother. I only shared what the Mother and the Maiden saw fit to give me,” he replied and finished eating his food, rinsing his mouth with a mouthful of wine. “Keep taking the draughts I mixed for you. By the Seven, the babe will be sound, and you will live to shout at him later.”

Elia smiled brightly, her eyes narrowed, glassy wet. She then bowed her head in submission, as she'd done plenty before. "Please don't forget me, Septon Bronn."

He confidently raised his right hand and caressed her smooth, dusky face. "As I vowed on the ship, I shall not, Princess."

"C-Can…" She murmured then, looking down. "Can you bless me… one last time, Septon?"

Hah! I knew it! 

That was why she'd come to him. He saw Elia as the first member of his personality cult. The woman was his in everything, mind, body, cunt, womb. She truly believed that him fucking her and creaming inside her cunt made her blessed. That was what weeks of constant rutting, praying, and preaching did to her. He gave Elia hope, and she latched onto it. 

"Bless you how? I told you to be direct, Princess. There are too many ways to bless someone." Bronn asked back, toying with her. He wanted to hear it. That filthy thing, that filthy request from her noble lips. 

Elia smiled, like it was all normal, and looked at his face. "Septon, please bless my womb with your seed."

Ah… As satisfying to hear as the first time. Too bad she refuses to get more vulgar. 

"Very well, I'll bless you one last time before leaving."

"You have my gratitude, Septon. Truly." Elia chirped and began pushing the shoulder of her gown. 

"Don't," Bronn said, calm as a prayer. "The door's bare as the Stranger’s mercy, Princess. Anyone could walk in. Leave the garb. Strip only the smallclothes."

Besides, Bronn wanted to do her in that noble, expensive gown. Sully it with his cock, a prize for him in itself. A small, personal way of payback for the treatment her brothers gave him.

But Elia didn't move at all. 

He looked at her. 

She awkwardly replied. "I… am not wearing anything underneath, Septon."

Hah! Why did I even ask?

He smiled and got up, then extended his hand to Elia. "Stand against the wall, Princess."

Elia warmly took his hand and stood up. A head shorter than him, she moved her slender body to the wall beside the door, on the side that would remain hidden if the door were to suddenly open. 

Bronn followed her, and once she had her back against the wall, he leaned forward, pushed her shoulders backwards. With his feet, he kicked her legs apart, spread them under the gown. Then, with one hand behind her waist, he pulled her hips forward, making her almost fall back, saved by the wall. 

"Princess…" He caressed her beautiful face, the kind that made you feel sorry, the charming sort that reflected emotions, kindness, and there he was, sullying it. "I'll visit after the babe's born."

"Mmm…" She melted against his touch, her dreamy eyes staring at his face. She pursed her lips and almost moaned. "P-Please… do…"

Bronn smiled and leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, an act usually reserved for lovers, but between them, it was a part of the ritual. He stared into her deep, dark eyes and felt pride swell in his chest. The silver-haired babe in her womb may become a grand player in the larger game. But by the time he grows up, he may have half the realm in his grasp. Then, he would decide who sits on the throne, without even uttering a single word or raising a blade. 

"Relax the lips." 

She obeyed instantly.

Bronn kissed her, and Elia shuddered like she’d been struck by divine lightning. Her mouth opened like it had been waiting for that blessing. Her lips clung to his, reverent, needy, and worshipful.

“Ummmh… Oh… Septon…” she gasped into his mouth, like moaning a prayer. Then she kissed back harder, tongue sliding into his mouth with helpless devotion. 

She tasted the food he’d just eaten and moaned like it was the nectar of the gods. She drowned in it, every drop of his spit making her feel warm, full, baptized in something holy. “Mmmmm…”

Bronn listened to her melt. She was a toy now. The woman was too far gone, utterly persuaded. Her cunt, her womb, her very thoughts were his to move. And gods, she tasted rich. Wine, no doubt. Something expensive and sweet still lingered on her tongue. Her noble palate made her mouth taste like luxury.

He let her do the work for once. Just stood there and felt the fervor of it. Her tongue moved like a seeker, rolling over his, trying to find something sacred. Every time she brushed it, she moaned harder, ground her hips forward unconsciously. Both her hands were in his hair now, caressing his scalp, tracing his jawline, stroking his cheeks like she was desperate to commit every texture to memory. She was addicted.

When he finally pulled back, a thick line of spit connected their mouths, trembling like silk before it broke. Bronn just looked at her. Looked at her flushed face, glistening lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and he drank it in like it was the finest prize he’d ever claimed. The power in his hands… it made his cock throb.

“Stay like this,” he muttered.

Then he slowly got down to his knees.

His rough hands ran up both sides of her legs, slowly pushing her gown up. First, he dragged his palms over her ankles, then over her shins, his fingers calloused from nothing holy. Her breath quickened with each inch he traveled.

“Hold the gown up, Princess.”

“Hm…” Elia hummed, barely able to form words. She gathered the hem with both hands, lifting the loose golden fabric past her waist and bunching it under her arms. 

The movement revealed everything. Her naked slender legs, her loins, the flushed lips of her soaked cunt. She kept her eyes lowered and stared at him with breathless reverence, watching as her septon laid hands on her like she was his altar.

He kissed her knees first, soft, almost mockingly gentle. Then her thighs. Her soft dusky skin pebbled with goosebumps as he blessed his way up.

Fuck! Bronn nearly said it aloud.

She was hairless now, unlike before. Smooth as polished silk. And her cunt was drenched. That delicate light brown slit glistened, the folds swollen and slick, tight and needy for him. Bronn had made her wet just by existing.

He breathed her in. That sweet, messy scent of her devotion hit him like a drug. Then he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue up the length of her pussy, intentionally slow and deep.

Oh! The taste… freshly bathed in… something expensive. 

Bronn grunted low in his throat. Her cunt was soaked in something that wasn’t just her juices. He could taste the expensive oils from her bath, mixed with whatever sweet-scented spice was popular among Dornish royalty. Something floral… something rich. She’d cleaned herself just for him, no doubt, soaked her royal cunt like it was a chalice to be offered. It tasted like Dorne.

He started gently. Long, teasing licks up her slit, feeling her twitch and jolt under his tongue. She gripped the back of his head like it was instinct. No pushing, just holding. Steady. Like anchoring herself to him as her mind started to unravel.

"Ooooooh… Oh… Septon…"

Bronn didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. There was no point in muttering the fake blessings anymore. His mouth was the sacrament. His tongue was the ritual.

He dove in harder. His lips sealed around her clit, sucking hard. His tongue pressed deep inside her, wet, thick, and unrelenting. He fucked her with his mouth, tongue plunging into that tight slit, curling inside her like a finger. 

She gasped and moaned, thighs trembling on either side of his face. Her hips bucked forward helplessly, grinding against his mouth. But Bronn just held her in place. Both hands gripping her hips, wide palms cupping her asscheeks, kneading the soft flesh roughly like he was molding her body inch by inch.

Her taste coated his mouth, her nectar smeared over his chin, wet and messy, but absolutely divine.

Gods, I'll miss this cunt and this… gorgeous woman. 

Elia Martell, a royal. Dusky, deep brown eyes with lashes like a painting, lips made to whisper poetry or suck cock, depending on who asked. Slender, high-born, draped in silks even now, even in hiding. And here she was, legs spread for a bastard with dirt under his nails. No other noble would let him this close, let alone worship him like she did. He couldn't see himself doing any other woman of this high status anytime soon. But at this moment, she was his.

“Ummmh…” She moaned again, louder this time, hands fisting the fabric of her gown bunched at her waist. 

Her hips jerked forward again. She was close, right on the edge of shattering. Her back arched. Her cunt fluttered around his tongue like it was begging for release.

And Bronn stopped. Just like that.

He pulled away, licking his lips, wiping his wet chin on the back of his hand with a grin.

“Lie down on the hay, Princess,” he said, rough and amused.

Elia blinked, frowning, panting, and clearly unsatisfied. But she obeyed. Gods, she obeyed. 

She rushed to the pile of hay at the center of the room, lying down flat like a virgin offering. Her arms stretched above her head, and her legs fell open like she was waiting for heaven to descend between them. To her, maybe that was Bronn now. A blessed being, a holy one.

A god disguised as a man.

Bronn stood over her and tugged down his breeches. His cock sprang free, rock hard, thick, flushed dark with need, veins pulsing along the shaft.

But instead of kneeling between her legs, he shifted around her and knelt near her head. He let his cock hover over her mouth.

“Coat it, Princess,” he commanded.

Elia’s lips parted instantly. Her eyes fluttered as if the sight alone brought her peace. She reached up, slender fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. Then she guided it into her mouth, tongue swirling at the tip. She licked all around his cockhead, then slid her mouth down, lapping and coating every inch of him in warm, wet devotion.

She did it like she was feeding, as if she needed it inside her to live. She slathered him in spit, her tongue dancing up and down his length, coating him fully from tip to base, sucking gently and moaning through her nose like she was tasting divinity.

Bronn just knelt and watched.

He smiled. At this point, he figured, even if he pissed on her, she’d smile and thank him. Not that he would. That was too vile, even for him. But gods… the thought said enough. She belonged to him.

“Let us hurry now, Princess.”

At last, he moved down between her legs. Her creamy thighs spread eagerly, her pussy glistening. Her lower lips wet from her arousal, from his spit, from the mess they were making of her noble body.

He stared.

Fuck, she looked perfect. That dusky tight pussy, so ready, so eager, lips flushed and puffy and practically drooling. And when he looked up at her face, her eyes were wide, glowing with feverish excitement. Her mouth was still wet, lips parted, breath shallow.

She looked like she was offering herself to a god.

I own you now… Martells. 

Whether they liked it or not. Whether they believed it or not. That didn’t matter. The truth was already pulsing hard in his hand, aimed at the pussy of their most precious sister.

“I’ll enter and—”

“Yes!” Elia cried, too fast, too eager. She didn’t care what came next. Her whole body begged for it.

He guided the swollen tip of his cock to her drenched slit and rubbed along her tight entrance, letting her feel every inch. He wasn’t long, but fuck, he was thick. The gods had blessed him with girth, and her sweet royal pussy would feel every damn bit of it.

With a groan, he pushed in.

“Unnngh!” Elia’s back arched violently. Her fingers clawed at the hay, raking through it, eyes wide and wet.

Bronn grinned as he watched her take him, inch after stretching inch. The hay poked at her bare back, dust clinging to her skin. Fucking her like that, sprawled on hay like a half-penny whore, made it all the better. She wasn’t a whore, she was a princess. And yet here she was, used like one.

“Let… us… rush…”

“Oh!” she squealed as he rammed in mercilessly. His cock drove in to the thick, pulsing hilt, bottoming out in her heat. Her body gave a tremble, her mouth fell open, and Bronn stayed buried, savoring the tight, rippling clutch of her insides.

He didn’t move. Just stared down at her like she was his feast, his reward.

“I’ll move.”

“Don’t… stop… please…” Elia moaned, already desperate.

It wasn’t a ritual anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This wasn’t some holy blessing; it was raw, carnal fucking.

Still, Bronn grunted, “Patience, Princess. Blessing takes time.”

He grabbed her legs, put them up onto his shoulders, and found that perfect angle. Her hips raised, her ass tilted just enough. Then he started pumping into her with deeper slams, pressing down into her, making the hay rustle under every thrust.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

Her slender frame bounced with every plunge, soft flesh rippling under the force of it. Elia covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes watering, not from pain, but from how good it felt.

Bronn leaned over her, drilling down into her royal cunt, driving harder, again and again. He fucked her like she wasn’t just a princess, but a stand-in for every smug Dornish noble he’d wanted to throttle. Her brothers, their arrogance, the whole sour taste of Dorne that had clung to him since, he took it out now. With every thrust. Ruthless, deep, almost punishing.

“Mmmmmmgh—!”

Her stomach tensed, her legs trembled on his shoulders, and she came. Her cunt spasmed around him, fluttering wildly, juices gushing in wet, hot spurts. It wasn’t quiet or graceful; it was messy, filthy. Her slick sprayed, her body jerked, and her legs clenched helplessly as her climax ripped through her.

Bronn groaned at the tight, desperate clench around his cock. She was milking him, gripping like her cunt wanted to drain him. He was close, so close. Her pussy was perfect, still gripping him like it was the first time.

He dropped her legs to the sides and laid his full weight onto her, chests pressed, his hips grinding deep, balls brushing her ass.

He kissed her like lovers. Like he was sealing the deal.

“Mmmmh…” he hummed into her mouth, then broke the kiss. He stared into her dazed eyes, her flushed, glowing face. “Accept… the… Maiden’s blessing… Oh, Princess of the Martells… let your womb… warmly embrace this holy… spillage.”

“I do…” she moaned breathlessly, hips rolling against him, arms wrapping around his neck. “I do, I do… accept…”

Her legs wrapped around him too, holding him in as he started to thrust again, short and deep, all the way to the hilt.

He rammed in one last time, hard enough to make her gasp. He stayed there, deep, grinding his cock in with a grunt like he was planting a curse inside her.

“Aaaaagh—” Bronn groaned deep as he erupted inside her. A thick, molten flood surged from him, spurting in heavy, wet pulses straight into her womb. Each gush pumped deep, coating her insides with heat. His seed poured out like hot cream, clinging to her walls, slathering that royal cunt in filth she’d carry for days.

He fucking loved it. The mess. The feeling. The power. Pumping his load into a woman born leagues above him. A noble, a Martell, a fucking royal princess. 

He held himself there, grinding, making sure every drop stayed inside. He kept thrusting small, grinding strokes, pumping out the last of his batter as her cunt twitched and welcomed it.

Elia’s eyes went wide and dreamy. She felt his cockhead flare inside her, brushing her cervix, heat blooming deep. Her womb felt full. Gifted. 

She whimpered softly, eyes rolling back slightly. “Ummmmh…”

Even after he finished spilling into her, Bronn didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, her arms hugging him close. He kissed her again, but this time, rougher. His tongue pushed past her lips, dominating her mouth as she whimpered and melted under him. His tongue rolled over hers, greedily.

It felt like forever when they finally stopped. Bronn got off of her and watched the immense mess leak out of her beautiful cunt, gaping, ruining her gown from inside, and the hay, inviting him for more. He was tempted, but seeing the sky was almost dark outside, he didn't. 

He quickly cleaned and wiped his cock and lifted his breeches, tying them. Finally, he fixed his septon robe, a hip-length robe that was worn over a tunic, white in color with his earned seven colored belt. 

Elia was sore, battered between her legs. 

"Princess." He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. She still stumbled a little. He was sure she felt that filthy nectar slide down her legs. "You should leave now."

Her eyes turned sad. "Septon… I…"

"Quiet now…" He found it amusing how she wanted him to act like her lover. He caressed her face and moved the sweaty locks of hair behind her ear. "Seven witnessed it, you're amongst the first women who believed in me, Bronn the Blessed. That’s worth more than gold, and I’ll not let it slip my mind."

Then Bronn kissed her forehead. He could have taken the lips, but he wanted to keep the holy dynamics going. 

Elia smiled and hugged him tightly, and stayed like that for a good, long moment. Then, she grabbed the empty food tray and walked over to the door. 

"Please visit Sunspear often, Septon."

"I will." He said and opened the door for her. To his surprise, there were no guards outside. 

No wonder she was loud. 

But again, he wondered what her brothers would have done if they had caught him fucking Elia. Considering how lax Dorne was about sex, he reckoned it wouldn't be much. 

But she's a noblewoman, royalty. 

Finally, he closed the door again and started chanting random prayers to at least seem like a septon. Besides, there was nothing else to do to waste time. 

####

"All aboard!" 

It was late at night, and the port of Sunspear was not as bustling as it was during the day. He stood on the deck, looking at the distant castle, so majestic. Finally, he was free from the confines of that room. 

Seven hells!

He couldn't believe how heavy he was feeling. The moment when Oberyn Martell came to him again was repeated in his head. The man asked him why the room smelled so strange. Then handed him a pouch of clanking coins. 

"That's three hundred gold dragons. From House Martell, with gratitude."

Bronn was slightly speechless at that time. How much was three hundred gold dragons? It could get him a dozen barrels of fine Dornish wine. Him, at eighteen, his entire life's savings was just five gold dragons. 

Thinking back again, he cursed himself for acting so shocked and dumbstruck, making a joke out of himself. He should have acted more stoically, as if money didn't sway him. But still… three hundred gold dragons was an amount he'd never seen in his life. And now, that amount hung under his septon robes, divided into multiple pouches. 

They have so much money, and yet they kill for more. Bronn thought right when the ship started moving, and Sunspear became distant. 

He remembered the sacking of King's Landing, the horror that House Lannister had unleashed. Lannisters were the wealthiest, yet they killed, raped, and pillaged. The cries, the pleas, were still fresh in his ears. The bodies he helped bury, mutilated, bruised, men, women, young girls, children. 

If they're willing to do anything for power and wealth, what stops me from doing the same? 

Morality was a lie wielded by the powerful to keep the smallfolk in line. 

Bronn had learned that lesson the hard way.

Oldtown… ancient, mighty… sickly. 

He looked towards the front of the ship, the direction they were headed. 

I'll heal you all. 

####

"Jump! Jump off the ship!"

Fuck!

Bronn cursed, already off to a bad start. Just when he thought things were going smoothly, a storm battered the ship, and now it was rapidly sinking. The sea was raging around them in the early morning hours. It was dark, raining, and life-threatening.

But there was one saving grace. 

Everyone was more than happy to help a septon. The fear of the Gods, even in death, superseded everything.

"Septon Bronn! Here!"

Clinging to his gold coins and his sword, Bronn jumped into the rough sea and struggled, but eventually got onto a rowing boat. It was small and barely stable, but it kept them out of the water. 

Fuck! My rotten luck!

Bronn cursed, his hate for the seas forming. His luggage was still inside the ship, now submerged. It held all his potions, his supplies that he'd spent a lifetime collecting. While all the knowledge was in his head, there were still a lot of fully concocted potions in there. 

"Hold! Don't fall!" 

There were six of them, and one lantern barely alight. There was nothing they could do but wait for the morning sun to come and the storm to pass. They just hoped and prayed to the gods that their small boat wouldn't capsize. 

They urged Bronn to say a few prayers, and while he knew they were useless, he still did it. Even he was scared that day. The sea did not care if he had magic in him. The sea didn't care what blessings he had. If he fell, he'd die, it was guaranteed. 

"O Mother, hear our whispered plea,
Upon this wild and storm-tossed sea.
Our shattered ship, our hope so thin,
We cling to life through waves that spin.
With Father’s strength and Crone’s wise hand,
Deliver us to safe, dry land…"

Bronn shouted as loudly as he could so the men could hear him. But he had to stop when the boat started filling up with rainwater, and they had to frantically use their cupped hands to throw the water out. 

An hour went by. 

Then another. 

The clouds started to look bright, but the storm was still raging. The morning had come, but the clouds refused to brighten their struggle. 

Battered, tired, sore across their bodies, the six men held on for as long as they could. By the time midday rolled, the sea finally started to turn gentle, and the sky was clear. In mere moments, the storm turned into skin-burning direct sun heat. 

But they were happy. 

They could see the shore. 

They did what any desperate man would. They all rowed towards the shore using their hands. Thirsty, tired, they burned the last ounce of strength in them to row. And finally, as they neared the beach, they jumped and just swam, then ran onto land. Some kissed the ground, some just sprawled down, and Bronn just took a seat and stared at the sea. 

That's it. Fuck the sea. Never getting on a damn boat again. 

He slowly caught his breath, feeling weak, sleepy, and panting. But he wasn't foolish enough to leave everything to fate. 

Pop!

He took out the heavy locket from the chain around his neck. It was a metal vial. He removed its cork and drank the liquid inside it. 

Ah… Feels great. 

It was a potion to rejuvenate one's body. He'd used it plenty of times before, to the point of abusing it. He reckoned there had to be some side effects, but he hadn't felt any yet. 

No longer feeling tired or sleepy, he got up, fixed the sword around his waist, and started moving on foot. The other five men looked at him, but asked no questions, nor made any requests. 

They were too tired and slowly passed out, one after the other. 

####

Sunspear, Dorne,

"What?! This is no jest, yes? You're not lying, are you?" Doran Martell asked, rising from his seat.

Elia Martell nodded, sitting in the chair, relaxed in her own home. "I am with child. Rhaegar’s. I was unsure in the beginning, but now I know."

Doran looked at his brother, and then back at Elia. "W-What do you wish to do with it?"

Elia frowned; she had reasons to. She needed her brothers to support her if she was to take her revenge."You must protect me first. When Robert learns of it, he will not stand idle. And if I bear a son… Promise me, you two…"

Doran leaned back, already expecting what was to come. 

Oberyn was already smirking, arms folded. 

"Swear to me you will do all you can to see him take what is his by right."

Doran sighed, brows furrowed. He blankly stared at his sister's face. Yes, he felt his house had been wronged in this entire ordeal. The Mad King forced Dorne to take his side by holding Elia hostage. Then Lannisters murdered his niece and nephew. Then the throne was stolen. In the end, House Martell lost much and received nothing. 

"What’s to fuss over?" Oberyn said with a sly grin. "If it’s a boy, the lad’s got his claim, plain and simple. No word from Dragonstone, no whispers if the Queen or her little dragons still breathe. But one thing’s sure, Elia’s boy stands first in line, no matter what."

"You don't understand. We're isolated right now. All Targaryen supporters have knelt to Robert already, even the Tyrells."

"For now," Elia said quietly. "They have bent the knee, Doran, but not forever. For the first time, a man without Targaryen in his name sits on the Iron Throne. The seas ahead will not be calm. When the tides turn, we will find our moment. Until that time, we—"

"Raise the boy," Oberyn said, already planning on training the next King.

Sighing continuously, Doran thought for a long, long time. But in the end, he chose to agree. He didn't even know if it would be a boy or a girl. Or if the boy would live, considering how frail Elia was known to be. 

"We'll wait and plan."

Knock! Knock!

Right then, the door opened, and one of the core guards walked inside stiffly. 

"Princes, Princess, a raven came from Oldtown. The ship with that Septon never made it. It… said the storm took her."

"What?!" Elia jumped to her feet, her eyes sunken and horrified. "What did you say?"

"T-The ship never reached Oldtown, my Princess."

"No… But he's… blessed… No, no!"

Unseen by all, for a quick moment, Doran and Oberyn shared a quick glance. They saw it, and their sister's reaction was very strange. That much concern for a 'mere' savior. A young septon of no background. 

"No… he can't die…"

####

Somewhere in the Reach, south-east of Oldtown. 

Fuck this! Fucking fuck this! Seven cunts, all of them!

Bronn knew where he was. He was near the Three Towers, but he wasn't near the castle. He knew the general direction towards Oldtown, so he started walking. But to his annoyance, all he saw were endless hills, plains, no roads, and no civilization. It was surely green everywhere, but scarcely populated that far south in the Reach. 

It wasn't just about energy anymore. He was actually hungry. 

Clank!

"Hm?"

Right then, he heard a distant sound of metal clanking. He quickly ran towards that sound and climbed the grassy hill. 

Clank!

"Hah!"

"Die, you heathen!" 

What's this now? 

Bronn found a lone man surrounded by five others, getting attacked from all sides. And somehow, the lone man was giving a good fight. He was tall, fat, in flapping red robes, head shaved and smooth in the face. 

My luck's sure down the shitter these days. 

He finally found civilization, but it was a bunch of lunatics. What were they even fighting for in the middle of nowhere? He had no clue. But what he did see were six fine horses, saddles filled with supplies. 

"You! Bronn the Blessed, are you not?!"

He knows me? 

Bronn eyed the lone man surrounded by others. Somehow, he recognized him. But Bronn didn't know him.

"Septon! Help us!" The five men also looked at him, and one of them shouted for help. 

What in the Seven cunts is going on here?

"How do you know me?" Bronn asked the lone man. 

“From King’s Landing, from the sacking,” the man growled, blocking blows from five men. “I saw you running through the streets. Saw you healing the wounded with your own hands. Take it from one blessed man to another—lend me a hand here.”

"You're blessed?" Bronn narrowed his eyes. 

"Aye, I am."

"He's lying!" One of the attackers shouted. "He's a fucking heathen! Fucker was preaching to us, hah, trying to convert us!"

"Because you're no-good bandits," the lone man yelled back. 

"But we ain't heathens!"

Lunatics, all of them. 

It was getting late; he only had a few hours of sunlight. So, he ignored them and made his way towards the horses since one or two of them would end up dying anyway. 

"Bronn! Do me this favor… I'll owe you one. I have friends… a lot of them. The new King's one." 

Bronn didn't stop until he had the reins of one horse in his hand. Then he looked back and asked. "Who even are you?"

"I am Thoros of Myr—Haaaah!" 

Clank!

Bronn turned his head and remembered something. "By the Seven, it’s you! The shit-mouthed bastard with that burning sword nonsense. Hell’s fire take you, heretic."

"He's a heathen, Septon!" The five men shouted. 

But Bronn ignored them and focused on the famous man. "What brought you here?"

"Off to a tourney," Thoros replied, and jumped back. “Come, Bronn. These five are but bandits. I caught them trying to raid a farmhouse. They were just young kids, parents gone to work.”

Bronn eyed the five men. But he was no righteous knight on a mission. He wasn't even a septon on a holy mission. His work was self-serving. Though it was indeed true that Thoros was a well-connected man. Famous in tourneys. 

"Why should I help you? Your god's a fire devil."

"At least mine works," Thoros shouted, and received a deep cut on his shoulder. "Ah… Fucker got me!"

"Mine works too." Bronn lazily responded. "You said you saw me healing."

"What do you want?" Thoros asked. "For a hand?"

Doesn't hurt to give it a try. 

"Know Hightowers?" he asked. 

"Not directly."

"Can you get me close? Face to face?"

"I can try," Thoros replied. "Know a handful of Red Priests roaming that way. A few maesters and knights as well. They’ll help you in the city, not the castle, if that’s where you’re heading—fuck!"

Clank!

Hmmm… 

Bronn thought for a while, rubbing his stubble-coated chin. He'd lost all his supplies and potions, so he'd need to make new ones. He wanted to meet the Hightowers right away, but that plan was dirt now since he didn't even look the part of a fake septon, let alone Bronn the Blessed. 

"I'll take it."

Scrrrrr~

At last, Bronn unsheathed his short-sword and walked forward. 

"Thank you, Septon! Let's cut this heathe—"

Slash! Spurt!

The blabbering bandit got his neck sliced, spraying blood. Bronn struck, and he struck dirty. That was simply his style. Living was all that mattered. Honor could go fuck itself. 

"May the Seven have mercy on your souls, for I have none—Hah!"