GOT: Rasputin of Westeros 1 - The Mother’s Healing & The Maiden’s Seeding

Synopsis - 

An evil wizard's soul invaded his young body, and yet he came out victorious. Bronn—Just Bronn was his name. 

Orphaned at a young age, a different path lay before him. His tongue as sharp as his sword, now with a magical blessing in tow and a holy sermon on his lips. He'll walk the realm and make it his own. He needs no crown, no armies, just his gifts. 

A mystical ability to heal disease, wounds, injuries, even those that can't be seen through the naked eye. Ailments of the mind, ailments of the skin, ailments of the heart, and... ailments of the wombs.

A man sought by every sick. A man sought by every woman with a fertile womb. Height, gender, skin, hair, eyes, brain—He could alter it all, a seed tailored just for them.

I'd fuck her.

With a mindset like that, there was no woman hidden from his blessing gaze. No woman he wouldn't bring beneath himself… to bless.

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TL;DR - Bronn gains a magical power to create customized sperm, letting him impregnate women with babies tailored to their desires—hair color, strength, wit, and more. He also inherits deep knowledge of medicine and poisons from an evil wizard’s soul that once invaded him. Using all that, he'll become the Rasputin of Westeros, influencing the courts of the Lords and the King.

[Story Tags: Bronn being Bronn, Bronn having fun, Bronn being a godman, Bronn scheming around, Bronn being a scammer, Bronn making a cult.]

[Smut Tags: A shit ton of breeding, breastfeeding, milfs, rough sex, eyes roll, big dick, blowjobs, threesomes, foursomes, manysomes, anal, face fucking, deepthroating, and much more.]

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Doc Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/16RWPlESnK9MMTV5U_xTbccDfdO5nlU0oQfqM2EvepOE/edit?usp=sharing

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GOT: Rasputin of Westeros 1 - The Mother’s Healing & The Maiden’s Seeding

"Time's up, Karkaroff!"

"One last chance, I can serve—"

"You'll serve best when dead, Karkaroff—Avada Kedavra!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Three green flashes shot at Karkaroff as he stood against the wall in that isolated shack. His hair unkempt, his beard the same, his face wrinkled, his body malnourished. Being on the run for a year didn't help. 

Death came with a snap. He fell down, and in those fleeting moments, he saw the Death Eaters cast the Dark Mark in the sky. That was the last thing he saw in death, the hideous mark in the sky, yet it wasn't the last thing he saw. 

Like a snap of a finger, the night turned into day, and instead of looking at the sky, he found himself falling from the sky. It was cloudy at first, throwing him into a state of panic. He tried to use spells, or any magic he could muster, but he couldn't. He looked at his own hand, and it appeared translucent. 

"A-Haaaaaa!"

He screamed, realizing how fast he was falling. Then the clouds disappeared, and he saw the land in the distance. A massive, sprawling city sat at the shore of a sea with a river to its south. It was spread wide with a wall running its boundary, and a massive, red castle sitting at the eastern edge. 

"Aaaaaaaa~" 

As he neared the ground, he smelled the filthy scent. The city, or whatever it was, looked rather primitive to his eyes. It didn't resemble any magical or Muggle dwelling to him. 

But right then, he realized something. Despite falling down so fast, he felt no air against his skin. There was no resistance, no trouble breathing. 

Woosh!

And then he fell on a bird, only for the bird to pass through his body like he was a ghost. 

"I-I'm a ghost?!" 

However, before he could make any sense out of it, he heard the noises below. Not inside the walled city, he found himself falling somewhere in its southern reaches, where the scent of fish was intense. Seconds left before fall, he looked around and noticed a massive banner on the distant city wall. A black banner with red markings of a three-headed dragon. 

It made no sense to him. So, he looked down, into the dark alley he was falling into, filthy, wet, like a sewer. And there was a young boy sprawled in the filth, surrounded by more boys who kicked him. 

Karkaroff, without realizing, having no control, fell into that unconscious boy. 

####

All his life, Bronn had heard that he was blessed to have what he had. He never understood what that meant. All he knew since the day he could walk was hunger, poverty, and filth. 

All his life, Bronn was told that he was lucky to be born outside those city walls. That he was lucky to be living in the fish market area by the Blackwater Rush.

He never understood why. He saw horses, coaches, and knights pass through the city gates. He only ever saw wealth enter that city, never leave. Where was his blessing? What was there to feel lucky about? Having to beg and work from the day he learned how to talk. 

Having to look out for the guards, smugglers, and the child gangs of the area. There wasn't much he could do to work either. But he had to do it, now more than ever, after his wastrel father drowned in the river after a night of drinking. All he had left was his mother, ill with a disease that couldn't be healed. 

His naivety, at the age of seven, made him hope for the best. His innocence at the age of seven drove him to do whatever he could to save his mother. Fond memories of her from his younger days were still fresh. He wanted to see her get up from the bed again. 

So he joined the local gang of kids, managed by much older kids who were likely young adults. He became a peddler, using his scrawny body to sneak into King's Landing and sell things that couldn't be sold in daytime. 

What he smuggled were goods that were controlled by the Faith or the maesters. Or capitalized by the nobility. Milk of the Poppy was one, used by addicts, brothel owners, and some corrupt healers. There was also poison from time to time, but he asked no questions. Sometimes, he also smuggled weapons out of the city's fine blacksmiths, usually stolen goods. The list was long, but the money he received was always low. 

Mere two half-pennies for each trip he made. Just to make it a silver Stag, he'd need a hundred and twelve of those half-pennies. He'd need to work for almost sixty days nonstop to earn that. 

But the innocence of childhood, to care for his suffering mother, led him to join a second gang inside the city, in Flea Bottom. Soon, he ended up not just smuggling things in, but also helping the thieves of the city to sell their goods outside. He often got caught and beaten by some guards, but he was gifted with a smooth tongue and a quick hand. 

He was always let go. Bruised, sure, but with some extra money made. The goal was to gather two silver Stags, the fee to take his mother to a real maester, not just some neighborhood healer. 

Hope and innocence kept him going. Days passed, and his pockets started to fill up. The finish line towards his goal started to appear closer. Just a little more and he'd have enough. 

"Hold him!" 

Bronn got caught. Not by the guards but by the first gang he was a part of. His secret was out. It wasn't against their rules to do extra work in the city. But it was against their rules to keep all the money made. He was supposed to hand over two-fourths of the money each time. He never did that. 

They dragged him into a filthy alley in the fish market area. It reeked of shit there; the filth on the muddy ground was vile. 

Splash!

Bronn was thrown down, merely seven years old. They were all older than him, some by two years and others by four. They each put one foot on his arms or legs, pinning him there. The last two began kicking him all over. 

"Ow! I was going to! I was gonna give it! I swear, don’t hit me—I’ll give you the coin!"

"It ain't about the coin!"

Bam!

"It's about the lesson!"

Bam!

It hurt, and Bronn couldn't even hide his face. Pinned like that, they hit him in the face, on his chest, on his sides. It hurt so bad, yet he didn't cry; it was a luxury he'd long forgotten. He groaned, he begged them for mercy. 

Eventually, he couldn't even beg, too much in pain.

Some time later, he didn't even groan, barely awake, staring at the sky with anger while kicks still landed on his face. He cursed them all, and the rich bastards living in the city. He wanted that life too. He wanted the coin as well. But there was simply no way to rise. All roads were blocked for a nobody. No way to learn to read and write. No way to learn how to wield a blade. 

Bam!

Prints of boots marred his young face. No tears rolled down, only blood. 

Hm?

The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was that strange, ghost-like, ugly man falling from the sky. 

####

"Hm…"

Bronn groaned in pain. 

He opened his eyes with much struggle and found only darkness around. The sky had turned dark while he was still lying in the filth. 

"What a weird dream."

Other than pain, he mostly remembered some flashing images in his head. That ugly old man appeared a lot in the dream. The bastard tried to kill him, using weird flashing magic. He fought back, conjured a dagger out of nowhere, his instincts already in fight or flight mode, and he chose fight.

Somehow, he stabbed the old man to death. But then, there were strange memories, tiny flickers of so many faces, voices, especially that ugly-looking bald man with a demonic face—words that were new—Episkey, Brachio Emendum, so many others. 

And then there were more vivid memories. Things that made no sense to him. Poisons? Remedies? Also, healing? He couldn't understand why, but he felt like he could heal people—diseases, wounds, and injuries. And there was something more he couldn't pinpoint. 

If I can heal… I should try it on Mum. 

Innocent hope in his heart, he quickly got up despite all the bruises and ran towards his tiny home. In the filthiest part of the fish market, a tiny room underneath a shop. The place reeked, and in rain and snow, it would flood. 

On his little, wobbly feet, he rushed with excitement and pushed the door open. But it was pitch black inside, a confusing thing as he always left a lantern, flint, and steel beside her bed. 

"Mum? I'm back."

In the darkness, he tried to walk towards the bed based on his memory. There wasn't much space there anyway. It was just a single room with a cooking station and bedding. 

Smack!

"Hm?" 

Suddenly, right as he crossed the middle of the room, he felt something touch his face. He recoiled as it felt so cold, and used his hands to feel the thing. He didn't remember there being anything in the middle of the room, let alone hanging from the ceiling. 

"Feet?" Bronn frowned as he used his hands to feel the hanging thing. He quickly noticed the toes, and then felt up, realizing it was his mother. "Mum, what are you doing?"

Receiving no response, he quickly crawled towards the bed and patted around until he found the lantern. Using the flint and steel, he made some sparks until the lantern lit up. As usual, the lantern lit slowly, glowing more and more with each passing moment, covering the small room in light. 

"Mum, I think I ca—"

He turned around to look at his mother. 

Thud!

He fell back down, mistakenly toppling the lantern, returning the room to darkness. He no longer tried to light it up again, his breath harsh from what he had just seen. The noose around her neck, her pale face, her eyes still wide open, popping out almost. 

"M-Mum?"

He called for her, expecting a miracle. 

Although tears were a luxury, he earned that luxury that night in the darkness, where nobody would see him. The last person he shared his blood with, gone. The woman who birthed him, gone. 

When that lantern lost its flicker as he fell, another thing was lost for good. 

The childish innocence of a seven-year-old boy. 

The world was not kind to his sort. To be born a smallfolk was a sin from birth. Bronn, at seven, learned that lesson firsthand. Nobody cared for him. Nobody had time for him. He was invisible to those around him, as was his mother. 

Clink!

He rekindled that lantern. But he didn't move. 

He just sat there, eyes red, tears dried, brows creased in anger towards all that existed outside that room. He stared at his mother, etching this memory into his mind. Her helpless face in her last moments now frozen in his mind as it was frozen in death. 

Bronn didn't think much. He just sat in silence, hour upon hour. Yet, he somehow knew exactly where he needed to go next. 

What he should do next. 

How he'll take his due from those who had too much. 

The road, albeit blurry, started to form in his young head. 

When morning came, Bronn got up and tried to get her body down. But being so young and scrawny, it was impossible for him. He went out and asked for help, but nobody came to his aid. Only when he gave a penny did someone come over. 

He didn't know what to do; he just had an idea. He gave another penny and rented a small cart from the nearby shop. Then, he dragged his mother's body on it and took her away. He didn't know if there were people who did what he was doing. 

He just did what he knew. Grinding his teeth, using whatever strength his bruised body had, he pulled the cart through the muddy streets. His face was half swollen from yesterday's beating, one eye bruised even, blood dried around his nose and lips. 

Eventually, he reached the nearby Sept and told the old Septon there about his mother. Finally, it was then that someone helped him. His mother's body was taken inside. He was asked to go back and bring a new, clean set of clothes for her. He did that and watched the rest. 

His mother was dressed in somewhat cleaner clothes. Stones were placed on her open eyes, and then a prayer to the Stranger was made. Finally, he followed the Septon with some men to the communal graveyard with a grave already dug. 

Dirty, bloody, bruised, he stood there and watched the last living blood relative of his buried. And in the end, the grave was left unmarked as well, him or his mother being too poor and nobodies to bother with it. And it also required money. 

"Do you have anywhere to go?" asked the old Septon.

"No."

"What will you do then?"

In response, Bronn dug into his pockets and took out a handful of pennies and half pennies. He extended them to the Septon, his eyes piercing and focused. He knew exactly what he needed to do. 

"Teach me—readin' and writin'. I wanna be like you—a Septon, all wise and knowing."

####

Bronn wasn't the only one there aiming to become a Septon. He had to start like everyone else. Wiping the floor of the Sept, dusting the walls, bringing the water, or digging graves for the dead. 

But when becoming a Septon is just a stepping stone for you, you become far more focused than others. 

By the age of twelve, Bronn finished reading and writing training and swiftly moved on to the core training of a Septon. Religious books, historical books, and old tomes, he started studying them. He also became an assistant to the old Septon to learn all the rituals and tasks. 

Yet, that didn't mean he stopped honing his body. The one thing he'd noticed about Septons was that most were fat and weak. He didn't want that, and regularly used digging graves as an excuse to tire himself out. 

As time went by, and he became somewhat proficient in a Septon's duties, he began working around on the Septon's behalf. He was regularly called to pray for the dead and the sick in the fish market area.

In time, his name grew, and so did his reach. He gained friends among the guards, the market shops, and the port workers. He began learning other trades wherever he could; lockpicking was one of them, and the second was wielding a sword. He had to do it in secret with a Westerosi sellsword who'd just returned from Essos. He had an injured knee, and Bronn used that to barter for the sword lessons. 

It was confusing how Bronn remembered that dream from years ago so vividly. He still possessed that knowledge about making poisons and medicines. He even tried to make them and succeeded rather easily. Moreover, he found out that he was truly blessed with the magic of healing. But he masked it under the guise of prayers. 

That time he fell from a tree and broke his ankle. He was almost discarded by the Sept as a useless cripple. But that night, after he fell, he trusted his instincts and placed his hand on his broken ankle. 

He did nothing other than believe in his instincts, which told him to trust the process. He didn't know how it worked, but some words flashed into his mind. 

“Episkey…” He murmured them under his breath, and just like that, his ankle started healing. It took him two days to fully heal it.

He didn’t scream either, as one of the medicines he made helped suppress pain. It wasn't milk of the poppy, and yet a thousand times better. Revolutionary even. 

That time, he really understood how magical his gifts were. He chose not to blindly blabber about those gifts like a fool. He chose to hold on to them and use them to pave his path forward. 

By the time he turned seventeen, he was ready to take the vows to become a Septon. His fame had reached a point where the entire fish market and the nearby towns outside King's Landing knew him. He'd crafted his image well, concocting medicine for the common cold and some utterly basic diseases. 

He showed his talents when it mattered the most. He gained the approval of the old Septon, having finished all his religious studies. He sold the common medicines he made and gave half of the profits to the Sept, helping with maintaining its building. On the other hand, he sometimes used to treat the utterly helpless, usually orphaned children. 

But he never publicly revealed his magical healing ability. It wasn't yet the time for it. The only man he used it on was the sellsword who taught him how to wield a sword. And Bronn was proud to say that he was half-decent with it now. 

There is no honor in a battle. All that matters is who survives in the end. 

Those words, Bronn believed in just as told by his teacher. He learned to fight fast, move like a cat, and use any means necessary to win. Use his surroundings to win. And as he grew to his full height of six feet one, a body athletically lean yet hard, he was confident of winning against half the knights of the realm if it were one against one. 

Yet, there was one last thing that he hadn't tested yet. 

That last part of those instincts boiling within him. 

And he knew it was time to test it out.

####

283 AC.

Clank!

"You two-faced bastard!" 

Clink!

"You're no Septon!" 

Clank!

Bronn dodged backward away from the knife. The six men had surrounded him in that dark, musky, filthy, rotting alley, right where they once had him.

“Still can’t hold a blade properly, Malk? Can only beat a kid?” Bronn grinned and taunted him, pivoting left as the man lunged. A knife scraped along the leather at Bronn's ribs. Close, but not enough. 

Bronn's blade came up with a hiss and sliced a neat line across the man's wrist.

"Aaaargh!" Malk screamed, clutching his hand.

Clack!

Another came from the right—tall one with a broken nose and a stick. Bronn ducked low and swept a leg. The tall man toppled face-first into a pile of rotten filth. The difference in experience was starkly visible. While Bronn moved efficiently, the six men looked like drunkards. 

"Hah!" Bronn laughed. "You lads had your sport, sure as the Crone’s got wrinkles, eh? Beat me senseless that time—how pious of you. But the Stranger walks with me now, and when I send you to Him, no soul'll ask where you went. This rebellion's a bloody blessing."

They were the same six boys who'd beat him that day. The memory of which he held on to. His mother's hanging body, her cold face, he remembered every detail. 

"Haaaa! Die, you—"

Bronn turned just in time to catch a clumsy downward stab from a third. The man's arms trembled as Bronn locked blades with him. He stepped in, real close, eyes cold, and drove the hilt of his sword into the man’s mouth.

Crack!

Teeth flew. The man crumpled to his knees, gagging on blood.

"W-We… We had nothing to do with your mum!" Malk cried from the ground.

Bronn spun fast again. The fourth man, smaller, tried to dart behind him, clutching a kitchen knife. Bronn slashed backward without looking—Shunk!—and the man yelped, staggering away with a slice from hip to thigh.

"Aye, I know. Still blame you, though. Could’ve saved her, maybe cured her too, Seven strike me. But no, you lot got in the bloody way—Now I’ll open your bellies and let the Stranger sort what’s left.” Bronn coldly growled back at them. 

Woosh!

A stick whistled toward his head right then. Bronn raised his sword, caught it, and shoved forward with his boot. The man staggered. Bronn darted in, sword low, and jammed it right up beneath his ribs.

"Gaaaah!" The man groaned, his life fading from his eyes. 

Thud!

“Four down,” Bronn spat. His voice was calm.

The alley was narrow, wet, and lined with fish guts and filth. The last two of the six men hesitated now—Malk nursing his bleeding hand, and the one with the broken nose, Hobb, stumbling upright and wide-eyed.

"We should've killed you!" Hobbs growled.

"Aye, you should've," Bronn replied and stepped forward slowly. 

Malk tried to run away, cut from one wrist. But it was a mistake. 

Bronn lunged, caught the back of Malk’s tunic, yanked him hard, and drove his knee into his spine. Malk dropped, screaming.

"Aaaaaaaagh! N-No… No…"

Swoosh!

Bronn drove his sword through Melk's nape and sliced right through, without severing the head. When he pulled out, Melk was left sitting on his knees, now dead, with a puddle of blood around him. 

He then turned to Hobb.

The tall man backed away, whimpering. “I didn’t want to! It was Tuck's idea, not mine—!”

Bronn rolled his shoulders, walking forward with a casual swing of his sword.

“Tuck’s dead. You’re next.”

“Wait—wait—!”

Bronn feinted a left. Hobb flinched.

Slick!

The blade punched clean through Hobb’s belly, leaving him kneeling, groaning as he bled.

Bronn pulled the blade back and stepped aside, letting the man fall into the muck.

As silence returned, he wiped his blade on Malk’s shirt as the man was still seated, kneeling.

"By the Mother’s saggy tits, I’m done with this cursed place!"

He spat, turned, and left the alley into the night. He hated King's Landing and the place he lived in. He had no desire to stay there after taking his septon vows. His talents and blessings were meant for something else. Something greater. 

Sure, he did plan to return to King's Landing one day. But when that would happen, he'd be riding in a lavish stagecoach and taken straight to the Red Keep. Right at the center of all power in Westeros. Right where he'll have the most sway and use of his talents. 

Fucking blue-blooded cunts!

Clang—Clang—Clang!

"Hm?"

He raised his head and looked in the direction of the city walls. The bell was ringing from inside it. That late in the night, it made no sense. 

"Unless…"

Knowing that a rebellion was going on, the ringing of the bells that late could signal one thing only. The city had been breached by Robert Baratheon's forces. 

To Bronn, it didn't matter at all. Who won the rebellion, who won the throne, who lost it… It was all meaningless because, in the end, nothing ever changes for the small man. The peasants remain peasants. He, a mere septon, would remain a septon. So, he loathed all the nobles equally. 

As the main city was the target, Bronn saw no activity outside at the fish market. He strolled all the way back to the sizable Sept. It was bigger now than when he started, and most of the upgrades were thanks to him. 

Having turned eighteen just two months ago, he was all set to become an official septon soon. But he reckoned it might get delayed slightly now since the city was being sacked. 

Hah! Sacking the city you’re meant to rule—Gods, what madness! That’s nobility for you—mad as piss!

It had become his habit now to curse and invoke the gods in the same breath. Sure, he received a lot of punishment from the Septon for it, but his work compensated for his tongue. 

He walked into the Sept. 

"Old man, where's the—by the gods, what madness is this?!"

Instead of finding the usual serene, calm, marble-clad hall inside the Sept, he instead found chaos. There were men and women sprawling on the floor everywhere, groaning in pain, all of them cut or bruised in places. Some looked like nobles, and others like knights in their armor. The Septon and his assisting septas were running around aiding the healers. 

"Bronn! Quick, aid the wounded! The Lannisters have taken the city!" 

At the Septon's orders, Bronn moved instinctively. 

Lannisters? Ha! Weren’t they licking the Mad King’s boots not a moon’s turn ago?

With a scoff, Bronn did his duty that was expected of him. Dressed in simple brown robes, he grabbed a bucket of water, some cloth, and started cleaning the wounded men and women. Some had their entire limbs severed. Some he recognized from the city as he often visited the Great Sept of Baelor for his studies. 

The hell are the Lannisters after, eh? Burning homes? Killing smallfolk?

But then again, he reminded himself that the nobles simply didn't think that far. In their eyes, folks like him and those there in the Sept didn't exist. Smallfolks were bodies to be trampled on. To be abused. To be made use of. 

Wait, I can use this too. 

He paused and looked around at that massive hall. There were countless people, the Septon, the Septas, some nobles, and even a few knights. There were so many eyes, a perfect stage for him to show how blessed he was. 

Bronn gulped, a little excited and a little scared. He quickly thought of a beautiful prayer in his head, recited it under his breath once, and then walked over to the man who looked best dressed there, lying on the floor with a long sword slash going across his chest and abdomen. It was deep. 

"Gaaaaaah—It burns!" The nobleman gritted his teeth, groaning in agony. 

Bronn took a deep breath and placed both his hands on the man's chest, over the deep wounds. They hadn't stopped bleeding, and he was sure that he couldn't fully make the wound vanish. But even a little bit of healing could help.

"Stay still," Bronn ordered and pressed his palms harder on the wounds. 

"Argh! What the… are you doing?!"

Bronn ignored the nobleman and closed his eyes while kneeling there. Then he started speaking the prayer, loud enough that the nearby injured and Septas would hear him.

"O Mother above, with mercy deep,
Guard this soul in pain and sleep."

"You lunatic! Bring me—" The nobleman tried to push Bronn away. But midway, he stopped cursing. "W-Warm… It's warm!"

"Bend your gaze on flesh torn wide,
Let your love in blood abide."

Bronn focused on the wound while speaking those lines, at the same time thinking of those unknown spell-like words from his old memory—Vulnera Sanentur.

"It's working! The… Oh! The blessed boy! It's working!" The nobleman shouted in excitement, no longer feeling that burn. "I can feel it—Keep going, boy!" 

"From your breast, give breath anew,
Make the broken strong and true."

Bronn frowned then, feeling like he was at his limit. Healing that wound more was getting harder and harder. The bleeding had already stopped, and any chance of an infection was gone. Only a simple flesh wound was left now. 

But more than him, the nobleman was excited, feeling the warm, healing magic coursing through him. His hazy eyes grew wide now, his mind back to sanity, delirious even. "Gods—I'm blessed! Thank you, the Mother above! Thank you!" 

"Through my hand, your grace be sown,
Not for glory—your son heals alone."

At last, Bronn stopped, opened his eyes, and removed his hands from the chest. He eyed it and found the wound had healed three-fourths, leaving behind just the red, bloody scar. 

Then, he looked around. Other than some men groaning, there was total silence, all eyes focused on him like he were the embodiment of the Seven. Reverent eyes, excited smiles. The Septas had already broken down in prayers beside him, and the old Septon, his teacher, eyed him with pride. 

There was no explanation of what he did. 

It was a miracle. That's it.

"H-Heal my babe! Please!" 

And so, it begins. 

With a solemn smile, Bronn got up and walked over to the woman. He looked at the little boy in her arms, perhaps two years old, unconscious. The poor boy had likely been trampled on by a horse, noticeable by the marks. 

With a nod, Bronn placed his hands on the child's forehead where the injury was most visible. Then, he began to sing yet another prayer.

"O Mother above, whose arms enfold,
Shield this child from pain and cold.
Lay your peace on skin so small,
Let no shadow on him fall."

He was just freestyling it, but gods, he loved doing it while feeling the healing happen. He was shocked by it himself. It was so magical, and yet had no explanation. He was no blessed child. He was no boy of good deeds. He was as sinful as they come. So, it made no sense that it was an actual blessing. 

Something told him it had something to do with that ugly old man from the sky, that strange dream, and the unknown memories. But at eighteen years old, he couldn't care less. 

"Waaaah!"

"Oh, Mother above!"

"Seven!"

The men and women who could walk crowded around Bronn to look at the miracle happen in real time. And that was exactly what they saw. The little boy slowly opened his eyes. At first, the boy looked witless, cross-eyed, as if the head injury had knocked his brain out.

But then, as Bronn kept praying, the eyes slowly aligned themselves. That unintelligent gaze started to gain life again.

"From your breast, let life be poured,
By your mercy, soul restored.
Through my hand, your blessing flow,
Tiny heart made whole and grow."

At last, Bronn opened his eyes and removed his hand from the child's head. 

"M-Mum… M—Waaaa!"

Intelligent, healed, and crying out loud. The young boy was cured, leaving behind mere scars. 

Bronn, although he naturally had a wolfish smile, no one saw it that way in that hall. To all, it was the smile of a blessed man. A man who made miracles. 

Let's not overdo this. 

Although he didn't feel tired. He didn't want to make the miracle so big that even the King would take notice. He had nothing against the maesters either, but healing was their line of work. And it was best not to annoy them. 

"Septa Mendy!" Bronn eyed the nearby woman. "Go to my chamber and bring the bag under the table. It has the pain medicine I've made." 

His pain medicine was already known throughout the fish market and the nearby towns. Now it was time to hand over the recipe as well. It was barely one percent of the poison and medicine knowledge he had. But that night, even his basic medicine would appear miraculous. 

The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor kept ringing that night. 

Hours went by, and Bronn healed many, gave his potions to others, and directed the Septas on making more pain medicine. 

"You’re well to go, Ser." Bronn finished healing the knight.

"You're a godly man, Bronn." 

The knight, with a sigil of a red sun pierced by a golden spear on the chest, rose up as soon as he was healed. He put on his armor again, grabbed his sword, and ran out. And he wasn't alone. There were a few more men with the same sigil there, and whenever he healed them, they thanked him and ran away, back towards the city.

While interested, Bronn had better things to do that night. He went on to heal two dozen men and women who were the most wounded. Then, healed the rest conventionally as per his training in the Great Sept of Baelor. 

Time went by, and the bells eventually stopped ringing. The number of wounded was reduced, and yet there was no rest for Bronn. Come morning, the true state of King's Landing became known. It was carnage on the streets. Any man or woman found outside was killed by the Lannisters. Many houses were set on fire. 

Countless women were violated, some right before their husbands or children. Even young girls weren't spared. 

Finally, when the Baratheon and Stark armies arrived, the sacking stopped. Yet, there was no peace. Bronn, aided by two septas, had to go around King's Landing, praying for the dead, or those too wounded to live, as they were put to rest by Stark and Baratheon swords. 

Countless families were uprooted. Fathers dead, mothers dead, sons dead, daughters dead. Some men were roaming around, shouting the names of their mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives. Death and misery were everywhere. 

And Bronn… he saw the face of his mother in each dead woman. What was their fault other than being smallfolks? What was their fault other than being in the way of a game of nobles? What was their fault that they deserved such a fate? Worse than death to many. 

With teeth clenched tight, Bronn loaded the dead into carts throughout the day and buried them in the communal plots. The rebellion was over, and the Mad King was murdered by his own Kingsguard. The new King, Robert Baratheon, had arrived, roaring, laughing, and galloping in his victory parade through the streets as he rode to the Red Keep. 

Not a single glance or prayer was given to the innocent killed for no reason. 

Bronn loathed them. He loathed himself for being an ant in a world ruled by giants. An insignificant, nameless creature worth less than a noble's dog. 

He just did his job. His journey was yet to begin. 

His stepping stone, becoming a septon, was within arm's reach. 

"Bronn, there are dead gathered near the Sept. Go to them. Let the Seven hear their names."

At the Septon's orders, he moved. It had been nearly two days since he last slept. Yet, he felt no sleep near his eyes.

####

When the second night came, the burials finally ended. Robert Baratheon was officially announced as the new King of the Seven Kingdoms. The Targaryen banners were removed, and Baratheon banners were hung. 

Bronn walked out of the city and headed to his humble single room lodging, the same one that held his most cherished yet cursed memories. He looked at the new banners and sighed. 

Seven damn blessings—three hundred years of sister-fucking dragon-kings, snuffed out in a year, all gone like piss in the rain. Hah, shouldn't have killed the dragons. 

As a learned man, he had read the Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling by Grand Maester Munkun. That only made him despise the nobility more. Having read how absurdly idiotic the dragon-wielding Targaryens were, what could one expect from those without dragons? And now a Baratheon on the throne?

The realm was fucked before. Now it's fucked but by a different cock. 

Tired, a little sleepy, he walked up to his basement dwelling's door, holding the key in his hand. 

"Hm?"

But the door was already unlocked and left slightly open. 

Frowning, Bronn took out a hidden dagger from his robe and pushed the door open. It was dark inside, so he was careful, holding the dagger in front. 

"Who is it? If it’s coin you’re after, try the Stranger—he’s richer than me."

"Mmh…" 

A woman?

It was impossible to see, but he heard it alright. 

"Bronn?" 

Definitely a woman… in pain? 

The breathy voice was noticeable.

"Bronn the Blessed?"

The Blessed? What? 

"H-Help… me…"

Noticing how weak she sounded, Bronn sighed and lowered his dagger. Worried he'd be seen with a woman, he locked the door first and then walked over to the nearby table. It was dark, but he needed no light to walk around the place etched in his memory. 

He grabbed the flint and steel and lit up the lantern right away. Holding it, he turned around and raised his arm towards the source of the voice, his humble bed. 

"Hm?" 

While he didn't have any image in mind, seeing this woman did make him feel confused. After all, those features weren't so common there. In that flickering light, he first noticed the heavy jewelry on her body, a big necklace around her neck, a head ornament, and even large gold earrings. She was dusky, beautiful actually, slender in every aspect, her big eyes dark, albeit looking weak. Her clothing was a beautiful, red and gold gown, wide around her shoulders, no sleeves, soaked in blood around her chest and legs. 

A noble woman at every glance. There was no doubt about it. And seeing her complexion, Dornish, she was likely a handmaiden to the Princess. And her being there meant one thing: she was on the run. Understandably so, since Robert had won. 

Her face was bruised, like someone had slapped the life out of her with a massive hand. One side of her face was slightly swollen, while her nose and lips were bleeding, as well as the ear on that side. 

Bronn sighed, wondering what to do. 

Best pass her off. Got my own mess to clean before I start preaching to others.

"I'll be back in a moment." 

"Wait!" Her voice cracked, barely more than a breath. Eyes rimmed with tears, her face pale, even with her complexion. "Ser Ryne said you're a godly man—Please, help me. I have no one else. I beg you."

Helplessness. 

That was an emotion Bronn was far too intimate with. He'd only known that emotion for the first ten years of his life. And seeing others going through the same was somewhat of a weak spot for him. Still, he was no fool to meddle in noble business. Nothing good ever came from it. 

“Look, my Lady—if that’s what you are—I’m just a humble septon-in-training, ain’t I? Got a bit o’ the Mother’s blessing, maybe a wink from the Maiden, but I’m no bloody god. Sounds like your troubles need more than a half-baked septon with a sharp tongue and rusty blade. Whatever storm you’re dragging behind you? It’s far above my rank." Bronn plainly laid it out, the truth. "And Seven help me, I don’t even know your name.”

The woman gulped a choking breath, panic rising in her eyes, her body becoming restless on the bed where she sat. "P-Please…"

Her voice broke as tears slid freely down her cheeks—Big visible tears. 

“They… My children… They’re gone…"

Honestly, Bronn had never seen a noblewoman cry. Heck, he hadn't seen a smallfolk cry that hard. And after having seen the bloody madness left by the Lannisters, he could imagine one or two things that must have happened to her. Especially if children were involved. 

But other than solace and a prayer, he had nothing to give. 

Softly, he tried to calm her down. He knew he was no knight in shining armor type, nor was he considered particularly handsome; all he had to show was a decent face, a smile, and some miracles. 

"Look around, my Lady. This is where I live, a single room, no window, barely any light even during the day." He pointed at the ceiling, sounding nonchalant despite how fucked up it was. "My mother hung herself from that beam when I was seven. That's how lowborn I am."

"Just, help me… Help me get to Dorne. I-I'm… I'm Nymeria… I'm from House Martell. They’ll reward you, they will. Gold, a title, whatever you want. Just—just get me to my family."

The usual dungheap. Bronn's eyes became cold for a moment. They think they can buy us with some gold. Own us like fucking cows and pigs for slaughter.

Her offer didn't even tempt Bronn. The plan, the road he had planned for himself, was his absolute dream. And it wasn't born from a desire for status or gold. No, it was born of pure hatred towards people like the woman before him. In her eyes, he was a nobody, a tool she could use and then discard. 

"Nymeria? The Princess of the Rhoynar? Gods above, at least have the grace to lie better." Bronn sneered at her. "Don't insult me, my Lady. I’m no noble, but I’m bloody well learned enough to see through your nonsense.”

The Dornish woman shrank her neck in fright. 

Seeing that, Bronn sighed. He didn't know what she had seen or faced. There was no point in taking out his anger on her. 

"By the Father's beard, I’ll see you mended first. You’ve got till morning to tell me a tale worth hearing, or I’ll start making up my own." Bronn set the lantern down, looming closer. "Stay put and don't move your face."

"What—Take your hands—"

"Seven hells, woman! Ser Rhyne didn’t tell you why they call me godly? I can heal folks with the Mother's blessing. Now hold still—or I’ll toss you out and let the Stranger finish the job."

She didn't move an inch after that.

Bronn placed his spread palm on the wounded side of her face. A little shamelessly, he let his thumb press on her bloodied lips, thin and warm. He was just playing, holding back from letting his hatred towards nobles take over. 

Then, he did the usual thing. He closed his eyes and started praying for her. 

“O gentle Mother, soft of grace,
Lay your mercy on this face.
From shattered cheek and bloodied skin,
Let the healing light flow out, not in."

Bronn prayed and felt the effect of his magic work. He stopped feeling that throbbing sensation on the side of her face. He was sure she felt it too. But then he remembered something and decided to cheekily add himself to the prayer.

"By teat and touch, by cradle’s might,
Spare her beauty, grant her light.
Bronn the Blessed calls your name—
Let life return and leave no shame!"

Done with it, Bronn slowly opened his eyes and then removed his hand from her face. He was mesmerized by her beauty, truly a sight to behold, as the swelling had vanished; it seemed like there were no scars to begin with. 

She touched her face like a madwoman, her eyes wide in disbelief. She rubbed her cheek, touched her lips, and then caressed her ear. She couldn't hear from it until a moment ago. Now, it was as good as ever. 

A loud gulp echoed in the small basement room. She eyed the man with a different view. While his speech was unrefined, he truly was a godly man, blessed. She'd heard of magic, but this was her first time seeing it, feeling it, a blessed gift to have. 

"H-How… did you?"

"Just one o’ the few blessings from the Mother and Maiden, if you can believe it. I’m just passin’ it on before they change their minds," Bronn replied and turned towards his workstation, where he made medicines and poisons. 

The Dornish woman felt overwhelmed, still feeling her face. But then, tears welled up in her eyes again. "C-Can you…"

"No, I can't bring back the dead."

She started to weep harder. “They… they butchered my children. My R–daughter… they stabbed her again and again—my little girl. My son… my sweet boy… they smashed his head—gods, he was only a babe… My babies… They killed my children…”

Without looking, Bronn's single brow rose. He knew she was oversharing it now if her aim was to keep her identity hidden. She was broken beyond words; any woman would be if that happened to their child. 

A little in sympathy and a little wary, he took a finger-sized glass vial and walked back to the woman. "Who did it?"

"He… that tall man—that beast, monster!"

Seeing her emotions becoming unstable, he raised the glass vial to her. "Here, drink. Gods willing, it’ll mend the wounds in you and lull you off to dreamless sleep."

She eyed the vial with suspicion and looked up at his face. 

“Woman, if I meant to kill you, I’d have thrown you out for the Stranger and saved myself the sermon. Now hush and sleep. I've been burying more corpses than prayers since yesterday—rebellion my ass. If there’s justice, it’s the smallfolk who ought to be sticking knives in you lot.”

Whatever came over the woman, she grabbed the vial and drank its contents in one gulp. Then, she watched the blessed man for a while, and before she knew it, she fell sideways on the bed. 

"Ugh… my bed." 

Noticing her bloodstains ruining his bedding, he groaned in a silent protest. But not acting like a complete fiend, he let her be instead of trying to change her clothes. 

He returned to making the poisons and the medicine from his memories.

####

The next morning,

“Up you go, Princess,” Bronn muttered, perched on the chair like a crow on a grave. "That's what you're called down there, aren't you?"

"Aaaah… No!" 

"Shhh~" Bronn quickly smashed his palm on her mouth. "I knew you’d squeal like a stuck pig. You're with Bronn the Blessed now, woman! Wake up, the night's over!"

"D-Dorne… I must get to Sunspear!"

Bronn shrugged and got up. He stepped aside and gestured towards the door. "Go ahead, I'm not stopping you."

As expected, she hesitated and looked at his face with a silent plea for help. 

"Figured. I’ve been summoned to the Great Sept of Baelor. Won’t be back quick. I’ll lock the door from the outside. If someone comes knocking, don’t go playing the fool. Say nothing. If they grab you, I don’t know you, never did. As for Dorne? That’s after I’m properly a septon." Bronn sternly advised her. "But if you’re still chasing madness, now’s the time to run for it."

She didn't move. 

"Good, I’ll be off. But if you want me sticking my neck out, best you tell me who you are. Even the Seven can’t save a fool who backs a ghost."

Finally, Bronn put on his crystal around his neck, grabbed his book, and left the small room. He locked it from the outside, checked it a few times before leaving. 

Right away, a dozen faces greeted him. Another dozen sought his blessing as the word of his miracle spread. 

####

By the Father’s wrinkled bollocks—it’s bloody well happening.

Bronn was left with a beautiful surprise. He was being promoted to a full septon, and not just any septon, but one of those well-to-do septons who got to wear white robes and woven seven-colored belts, signifying his distinguished service. He was the first in history to earn that right from the start. 

And the one to oversee his vows was none other than the High Septon. The old man who looked kind, but Bronn knew he was a renowned kiddie diddler back in the day.

Down on both his knees, Bronn was dressed in fresh, new white robes, the seven colored belt was tied on his waist, and a new crystal locket was placed around his neck. Then, he was handed his official censor and incense that he'd use for the service. Then he was given a seven-sided crystal to depict rainbows. 

Not just the High Septon, but the members of the Most Devout Order, who elected the High Septon, were also there. 

"Kneel, Brother Bronn the Blessed, before the faces of the Seven. You, who have touched flesh and spirit with miracles not seen since the days of Baelor the Blessed, are called now not only by men, but by the Gods themselves."

It was the High Septon himself, singing praise for Bronn. It was a magical moment not just for Bronn but also the Septon who taught him. 

"The Father saw your judgment, the Mother wept at your kindness, and the Crone whispered wisdom into your ear. The Stranger turned aside from those you saved. These are no small signs."

Bronn stood kneeling like a solemn servant. His stepping stone, at last, he had reached it. And if the High Septon was praising his name, it was only a matter of time before his name spread.

"Today, I anoint you Septon of the Faith, to bear the light of the Seven into the world’s darkest corners. May your hands stay steady, your heart stay humble, and your voice ever speak truth. From this day forth, you are not merely a man of healing, but a servant of the divine. Let the bells ring."

Not the real bells, but the smaller ones in the Sept proper rang. That was it, he was officially a registered septon now. 

Bronn rose up to his feet and smiled proudly. 

The High Septon smiled back and stepped closer to him, patting his shoulder. "You are favored by the Seven, young Septon Bronn. Now tell me—where does your heart lead you? Shall you serve within these hallowed halls, or beyond, in some lord’s court? I will not lie—there are noble houses who have made quiet inquiries after you."

Must be the ones I saved that night. 

But Bronn had his goal set. 

"With all due reverence, Your Holiness, I ain't meant for this Great Sept or lords' courts, not yet. I want to join my brothers as a traveling septon and spread the blessing of the Mother to the realm."

"Quick of wit, my child." The High Septon laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "The Seven smile upon your purpose. Go now—with my blessing. Spread the Mother's mercy where it is most needed. Tell me, though—where shall your steps first fall?"

Without hesitation, he answered. "The Reach, Your Holiness. I want to read some holy tomes in the Citadel's possession."

High Septon sneered, but not at Bronn. "Blasphemers, the lot of them—hoarding what is sacred as if it were theirs to guard. Shelved high, hidden deep. Go now, Septon Bronn. I shall write, and with that letter, even the most stubborn will yield to the light of the Faith."

With that, the ceremony was over as the High Septon left. 

Bronn was led outside by the old Septon, who taught him everything. There, at the Sept near the fish market, he was gifted a small feast. Of course, the Sept couldn't afford it, so the smallfolks from the town pitched in. A lot of them were grateful for his service. 

"Don't forget where you came from."

"Don't forget us."

Many faces were crying. He didn't know most of them. But clearly, he meant a lot to them. 

Bronn accepted that he wasn't a kind man. But being a septon now, he needed to keep a smile on his face. 

From that morning till early afternoon, he stayed at the small feast, ate little, and spoke with the people. Finally, once the crowd thinned, he packed some food and headed back to his small dwelling. 

By now, he'd realized who the Dornish woman might be. The guards were talking about the deceased kids the entire day. 

Still, he wanted to hear it from her mouth if she wanted his help. 

Click!

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door. 

"Septon?"

"Hm?" He acted quickly and stopped the door from actually opening. He turned around with urgency and looked at the busty woman who held a small babe in her arms. "Ah, Lady Melissa."

The woman was beautiful with a full, curvy body, decently tall, light brown hair, and a fair face with a small hint of freckles. The little babe in her arms was big for a newborn and had golden blonde hair. 

"I’ve heard whispers that you ride soon," Lady Melissa said softly, a flush rising to her cheeks. "Here—take this coin. My lord husband lacks the grace to offer thanks, but I shall never forget what you did for us, your blessing, this… You gave me a beautiful son. May the Gods keep you safe, wherever your road may lead."

Bronn genuinely nodded and took the small pouch of money. "And you too, Lady Melissa."

Smiling, the woman turned around and left. 

With a sigh, Bronn turned back and entered his room as well. As expected, the Dornish woman was at the door, listening to him. He ignored her and locked the door first. 

"Who was she?" the woman asked. 

Bronn chuckled while replying. "Dockmaster’s wife. Eight years of prayers and not a squawk from her belly. Then they come to me—because I mix herbs better than most mix ale. Gave the man something... let’s say it stung his pride. But Seven bless it, they’ve a lad now, loud as a warhorn and likely twice the man his father ever was."

"You gave them a babe?" she asked curiously, though her expression barely changed. Flat as a plank. "How?"

"How babies are made."

She frowned deeply and moved, walking to stand in front of him. He was a septon and a blessed man. It made no sense that he was already breaking his vows. "You?... Made love to her? But the child had golden hair. Yours is dark as night."

"You saw that?" Bronn reacted fondly, rubbing his chin as if remembering that moment. He'd tested his Maiden's blessing on Melissa and had succeeded. What a month it was, testing out new things with her. Endless night-long sessions of intense mating, bending her, moving her, pumping her, positioning her in different ways, tailoring the seed she needed.

"As I said, I'm gifted by both. Mother grants the healing, Maiden grants the babes. Boy or girl, blonde, brown, red, black, even blue if you want, or silver like those Targaryens. All possible. Also beauty, brains, brawn—it’s all on how tight she holds her faith... and how loud, if you take my meaning."

"Nonsense!" She sneered at that absurd response. Sure, he had magical healing. But what he suggested was too much. 

Bronn shrugged, moving about in the room, taking out boxes to pack his luggage. He wanted to leave right away. As for the woman, he didn't care if she wanted to keep secrets. 

Good, leave me alone. 

Seeing her go and sit down on the bed, he busied himself. It wasn't easy packing all those potions. He had to be careful with them. And then there was his hidden chest with a whole five gold Dragons. It was his life's savings, and he was going to use it to gain access to the top courts. 

Hah—Highgarden, here I come. One cripple at a time, I'll be in every court in the bloody realm. 

"Bronn."

Annoyed, he looked back towards the bed. The dusky woman sat there with a conflicted expression, as if pondering deeply. Her brows creased tightly.

Finally ready to tell the truth? 

"What about… What must be done for…" She stuttered, her fingers visibly clenching on the bedding's edge. "For a silver-haired boy?"

“Ha?” Bronn’s brow crinkled like bad parchment. “Why in the Seven’s name do you care? You don’t even believe in the bloody thing.”

But just as he turned back to packing his bag, she got up from the bed and stood in front of him. Since he was crouching down, he looked up at her tall frame, at her face that suddenly looked more confident than ever. 

"Bronn…" Her voice no longer trembled. No, there was silent rage in it now. "Do you wish for our son to wear the crown?”

"..."

"What?!" Bronn had never been so dumbfounded in his life until now. "Our? Crown? What nonse—"

"I’m Princess Elia Nymeros Martell—Give me a silver-haired son, and I'll give you a King."

"..."

________________

[A/N: Hot smut of a week-long intense breeding of Elia Martell coming up in the next chapter. No holes shall go unexplored.

Please leave a like if you liked it. Any plot or smut suggestions if you have any.]