When Bronn decided he'd become a sellsword, he did not think he'd ever give up on that lifestyle for a better one—he never thought he'd find a better one. And yet, as he and the Brotherhood settle just outside the secret wildling village in the Gift, he is absolutely sure he's made the right choice months ago.

Great Houses don't usually hire sellswords; Bronn has learned this from the start. Those high lords usually have enough bannermen to not need them, and they prefer hedge knights, on the assumption that they are more honorable and dutiful—bullshit, of course; at least in Bronn's case, if one pays him well enough he can be as diligent as a Kingsguard.

However, it seemed that Renly Baratheon was not willing to sacrifice his bannermen for House Whent, since Beric Dondarrion came to him offering a good amount of coin to rescue the two ladies imprisoned in Harrenhal. Why send such a small party was beyond him—personally, he'd make greater efforts to save damsels in distress—but he wouldn't complain; the money he was getting out of this may let him take a three-moon break, in which they'd be well spent on expensive inn rooms and numerous riverlander whores.

He should have asked why pay him so much, though; perhaps he'd have been more prepared to face Gregor Clegane and his men, although nobody in the party seemed ready for the brutal violence that welcomed them. After half of the group was killed, they managed to escape—not all of them, unfortunately.

They hid in the forest for days, trying to cover their tracks so Clegane's men would not hunt them down again. One day, though, Thoros of Myr—the drunkard red priest who, in Bronn's opinion, had no business in the rescue mission—showed up with an alive Beric Dondarrion by his side.

"Ya were supposed to be dead," Bronn said.

"The Lord of the Light saw fit to revive him," Thoros replied. "His sword lit aflame alongside his body. He has a role to play, as we all do."

Bronn frowned at that. Hyle Hunt—a hedge knight from the Reach—asked what he was speaking of. Thoros described visions of the Avatar reborn and battles north of the Wall.

As he cleans his dagger, he laughs to himself. At the time, Thoros' visions sounded insane; most did not believe them at first. Bronn was among them, staying with the newly founded Brotherhood Without Banners simply because he had nowhere else to go.

Still, the red priest was persuasive, and many others believed him as time went by and they traveled around the riverlands. Despite their lack of clear goal, it was enough for most of them to wait for a sign from the Avatar reborn.

At first, Bronn was skeptical. He had only heard the faintest of stories about this Avatar, all told as children's tales to help them sleep. Then rumours of the 'Kingslayer Avatar' began to spread around the region, along with some others claiming it was a Stark. Of course, the former story was a lot more popular, and songs were heard at every inn they stopped by.

Then they actually met the Avatar—a Stark bastard indeed.

The vision was surprising in many ways. First of all, one of the men recognized the black-haired girl as Jonquil Whent, one of the women they had tried to rescue. Second, a tall and large blondie was carrying a clearly injured man on her back—even more surprising, Lord Beric instantly recognized the two of them as the Kingslayer and Lady Brienne of Tarth (Bronn had never heard of her before, of course). Then a curly black-haired boy and a redhead followed them.

The boy revealed himself to be the Avatar, proving the least exciting rumours were the truthful ones, and told them all about what was going on in the Wall and the lands north of it. Marching there was a collective decision, as well as Bronn's individual one. A temporary stay at the Wall would mean food and shelter for as long as he was needed, without worrying about survival. That Jonquil Whent would join them was merely a bonus: the lady was quite a beauty, more so than the two women following the Avatar and the Kingslayer.

Naturally, Bronn tried to get into Lady Jonquil's bed as soon as they began their journey north. He quickly dropped his flirty demeanor, though, when it became clear that she was frightened by the mere suggestion of sex.

"Beg your pardon, m'lady," he said in his most polite tone, "but may I ask why do my advances frighten you?" Rejection is not new to him, of course; not all women share the same taste in men, and not all women he flirted with in his life were whores, willing to lay with any man as long as they were paid for the act. However, none of them ever showed fear of him—disgust, sometimes, but never fear.

The young lady looked down. She was riding a small mare at his left side. "The Mountain rode me almost every night," she said quietly, "especially after Mother died. Every time he broke into my chambers, I thought I'd meet my end."

He flinched and clenched his jaw. Bronn did many objectively wrong things in his life as a sellsword—all part of the job, after all—but rape was where he drew the line. He didn't even like to fuck a whore when she didn't seem eager to do her job. He never understood how a man could find pleasure fucking a woman who did not want him back.

"Then I am sorry, m'lady," he replied. "I should have guessed you went through this nightmare. I won't bother you any further, but—", he arched his eyebrows. "Should you want to erase the memories of that cunt's touch, feel free to go to my tent."

She never did, not that he expected her to. He hoped, of course, but deep down he knew his offer would go to waste. He kept fucking the camp followers, but Lady Jonquil always remained in the back of his mind as the hard conquest.

Not that he's sorry, at least not anymore. The wildling village is inhabited by all sorts of women: tall and small, thin and muscular, ugly and beautiful, warriors, benders and mothers alike—not all those roles mutually exclusive. He quite likes the idea of staying there, even though Thoros insists they must at least reach the Wall to say their vows—temporary or permanent, depending on who you ask.

The women who followed them—whores, widows, orphans, Lady Jonquil—are all welcome by the so-called Free Folk, which is a relief. The party meant to go to the Wall decreases significantly after the female 'losses', and Lord Beric decides they should sleep near the village before finishing their journey.

That night, as he prepares for sleeping, he catches sight of a figure outside his tent. He opens it to find Lady Jonquil. "Is your offer still up?", she asks.

He blinks, surprised. "Aye, m'lady," he manages to reply.

She gives him a shy grin. "Then I'd like to take it."

"Not that I'm complaining, but what changed your mind?"

"The wildlings," she replies quietly. "They frighten me a bit with their talks of stealing women. If I'm to be stolen again, I'd like to know what it's like to lay willingly with a man for once."

He wants to tell her that the wildling men talked about women-stealing as a very willing tradition on their part, but refrains from doing so; he's not entirely sure about that part. Instead, he lets her in and makes sure she has the best night possible.

On the following day, he advises her to run to Winterfell in case she feels threatened by the men. "Maybe you should go there either way, m'lady."

"I'll think about it," she replies. "That redhead said the women would teach me to fight, so it may not be so bad."

He shrugs, and they bid their farewell.

Those who say temporary vows do not require training before saying them, although no one is excused from it. He takes to training with Sandor Clegane, otherwise known as the Hound, who, according to the local smith Donan Noye, used to serve Joffrey Stone when he was still a Baratheon prince, only resigning after the boy died in an Ironborn raid—he had vaguely heard about the incident, so it takes a while for his memory to catch up.

His ability to use both hands at once makes him a highly-sought after partner for members of the Night's Watch, as well as new recruits—the North seems to have been generally convinced of the threat of the Others, given the amount of men who live in the once disgraced Wall.

Coincidentally, the day Lord Commander Mormont receives news of King Robert's death is the day he is sent to his first ranging mission. "They crowned a baby girl," one of the black brothers, whose name he has yet to learn, comments. "How can people follow a queen who can't rule her own ass hole? She can't even hold her own shit, and she's expected to hold a realm together?"

"She's not the one who rules, dipshit," another, who took temporary vows like Bronn, replies. "The adults around her do it in her name until she can think for herself—or is supposed to, at least. History is full of kings who never really thought for themselves."

This one sounds highborn, but Bronn cares little. The most important part is that Dipshit is an icebender, and Noble Guy is an airbender, so their team is well made. There are other four with them, one of which a mudbender, but most are non benders who made their way around with other weapons, not unlike Bronn.

He wishes there was a firebender among them, though, for the weather grows even colder when they leave the Wall. Noble Guy, who calls himself Royce, tries to dispel the cold chill with his airbending, but he can't keep it up all times, especially when they're walking.

For the first couple days, they find nothing. They sleep in tiny igloos quickly built by Dipshit, which protects them from the night wind, and build fires every time they stop for more than peeing or shitting.

Then they approach a place called Craster's Keep. Bronn has already been gifted with the knowledge of who Craster is—he felt like spilling his breakfast when he heard what he does to his daughters—so he's well aware of the rangers' first task.

"The last party resorted to steal a few girls away in the night," Dipshit says. "Craster is an asshole—"

"That part is obvious," he whispers.

"—and refuses to leave or part with the women. Of course, they are desperate to go, so it may be better if we sneak in like our brothers did last time."

Your brothers, not mine, Bronn is tempted to say, but… Well. He may be here only temporarily, but he's still here. He supposes that must qualify him as a brother (or a crow, like the wildlings say).

"I can be quiet," he says. "I'll go there and see how many are there, maybe even get one of them to talk to me so I can tell why we're here."

"That would be great," Dipshit replies. "We'll make camp here, then."

Bronn delivers his horse to Mudbender and checks his weapons. As a two-handed fighter, he always aims to keep his weapons in pairs; right now, he carries two swords and two daggers. That will do, he thinks. Craster is my only enemy here, supposedly.

It's cloudy, but it's still daytime, so he doesn't mind that there are no lights visible from outside. Some curtains are up, others are not, but all windows are closed—as they should be, given this gods damned wind. He can hear no sounds as he comes closer, but it's easy to assume that those women are taught not to make much noise—pity, he prefers them screaming.

He only begins to wonder if something is wrong when he is close enough to touch the walls of the house and still hears no sound. It's eerily quiet, as if everyone is sleeping. Does this Craster asshole make the women sleep during the day so he can fuck them at night? It doesn't make sense, but neither does fucking one's own offspring. It's a line not even Targaryens crossed in their time.

He opens one of the windows, and nobody comes to stop him or even check who is trying to invade their home. He climbs his way inside, and no one shows up. It's dark inside, and he can barely make out where he puts his foot. Still, there are perfectly logical explanations for this.

However, there is no logical explanation for when he steps on something soft and looks down to see the lines of a human being lying down underneath him. He takes his foot off and crouches down to touch it. He feels a teat—it's a woman—but cannot find any pulse—she's dead.

He blinks to adjust his vision to the darkness and looks around. There are other bodies near this one and, from the lack of breathing sounds, they must all be dead. What in seven hells happened here?

I better go back and report this to the others, he thinks as he stands up to leave. However, his steps are interrupted when he hears a cracking sound. He turns around, and suddenly he can see blue points around the room. They're moving—fuck, they're the women.

He manages to jump out of the window before they reach him, but things are no better outside. He sees horses coming in his direction—his black brothers, shouting something he can't comprehend. He runs to them, but stops on his tracks at what he sees on the road.

A horde of walking dead things walk in the house's direction. Leading them, mounting on a blueish horse, rides a… Bronn cannot, in good conscience, call that a human being, but its form is very human-like: two arms, two legs, a round-shaped head, a thin torso. Its skin—or whatever that is—is pale like moonlight, and its eyes are even bluer than the ones he saw inside. It wears armor seemingly made of mirrors, as it reflects the cloudy sky, and wields what seems to be an ice sword.

Bronn has never been afraid of anything at first glance, but he guesses there is a first time for everything. That doesn't mean I won't do a damn thing, he tells himself as he draws his swords.

"Fire!", someone behind him exclaims. "They can be killed by fire!"

Only Bronn has no fire to throw, only his sword. He charges anyway, running right to the demon's horse and cutting its front legs.

The horse doesn't cry of pain—perhaps it doesn't feel any pain, being dead and all that—but falls, making the demon jump out of it. Bronn raises his swords to attack, but its ice sword blocks both of his blows and shatters both of his swords.

Fuck.

He immediately draws his daggers, just in time to deflect what would have been a killing blow on his chest. Much to his surprise, the daggers don't shatter under the ice sword; he tries to remember if there is any difference between them and his swords, but can't come up with anything as he fights for his life.

"GO DOWN!", he hears Royce shout, and so he does, rolling away from another potential killing blow. A torch falls on the demon's head, and it drops the ice sword. Bronn takes advantage of it to thrust a dagger into its abdomen.

It shatters.