Prologue
Inn at the Crossroads
6 years after Roberts Rebellion
The inn was packed. Filled with soldiers from everywhere, returning to their families. You saw Lannister colours, Tully colours, Golden roses, stags and even a few direwolves. At the centre of it, all was King Robert Baratheon, telling stories and jokes, all while drinking and groping the barmaid. Bronn leaned against a post, sipping quietly at his beer. He hated soldiers, men who thought they were higher than mightier than the gods themselves. Not him. He knew who he was. Nothing more than an honourless killer. At least he had the fucking decency. He gave up trying to be a wartime hero the day he was born. That just wasn't the lifestyle for him. Also, he'd rather be protecting some lord, instead of wiping their ass.
"And then, I turn to the fucker." Robert boomed to the group of men who were listening. "I turn to him and ask, "Who do you think you are, huh? Some fucking halfwit with a death wish? And he turns back around and raising that eyebrow we've all seen, and says, "Your grace, have you seen my hand?" and he shows me the stump." The men around the groaned in disgust, as the cripple the king spoke of chuckled, the drink influencing his attitude. "God, that was a fierce war. If there's one good thing that war brought us, it was blood pumping through our veins." The king raised his cup. "To those snivelling Ironborn!"
The inn cheered and laughed and the king continued to drink, and drink. "How about you, your grace?" Ser Barristan asked. "You got any battle scars we should know about?" Robert downed his entire cup before burping and laughing. "Plenty, Ser Barristan. Some from the rebellion and some from the queen." Robert chuckled, to a collection of both gasps and laughter.
"I remember my first real scar. I was about 12. You remember this story, Jon?" Robert turned to the hand.
"How could I ever forget it?" Jon smiled.
"Right. So I was a big boy growing up, not as big as I am now, but bigger than most of the other boys I trained with. Now he was a small lad, Kyle Royce. Skinny and quiet. He mostly kept to himself. One day I decided to practice with him, see if the boy had some secret talent under that bubble of his. So I take a couple of swings and he dodges out of the way before they hit him. The boy was quick. He tired me out, and right when he had me, he struck me real hard, right across the kneecap. Gods it hurt. I thought he'd broken a bone. I collapsed to the floor and start cursing the gods. There's a lot of blood, a lot. The Royce lad, he's calling for a maester to come look at my knee, all the while I'm trying not to pass out, which I eventually do. When I wake up, finally after almost 2 days, Ned's standing over me, shaking his head. "You poor bastard." he says."
"Whatever happened to the Royce boy?" Selmy asked. "Did he go on to other ventures?"
Robert shook his head. "He died protecting Brandon Stark." This sentence was followed by a moment of silence from the members of the small group.
Bronn rested his hand against the wall as he emptied his bladder. The wine had gone through him like he was a sheet. He had at least hoped to gain some employment here, what with all these lords and knights hanging about, he would have someone approach him in the request of protection. And yet the only person here who truly needed protection was him, from saying the wrong thing to someone as high and mighty as the king of the bouncing gut back there. Indeed it had not been the night Bronn had expected, but it was fine. When he had finished his business, he pulled up his pants and drunkenly staggered forward towards the inn, only to find himself faceplant into the dirt. He was far too drunk to be given the privilege of bloody walking. Digging his fingernails into his palm, he formed a fist and pushed himself back up, using the strength in his shoulder to hold himself, then the strength of his throat to not let the tiny bit of vomit he had forming in his throat spill out. Kneeling on one knee, Bronn stumbled forward taking heavy breaths. The ever-so faint sound of footsteps echoing and growing louder in his mind. Before he knew it, a blonde knight was standing before him, looking down at him, what appeared to be a smirk on his face. "Having fun?" the knight asked, patting a drunk Bronn on the shoulder.
"Yeah, I-" Bronn began before puking on the floor, around the knight's boots.
"Oh, disgusting." The knight mumbled before wiping his feet on the ground. Giving Bronn a disapproving look, he headed inside.
"Nice to meet you. Let's do this again sometime." Bronn spluttered.
Robert poured himself another drink, as the inn continued to get rowdier. The king was now the furthest thing from sober and the slurring of his words became more frequent. Why the people thought this was okay, Jamie had no idea. He didn't see the man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident all those years ago, all he saw was a fat drunk with no honour whatsoever.
"Kingslayer!" Robert belched. "What brings you to this hellhole?" Jamie tried to smile, while underneath he was irritated and tired. "My father just wanted to know what time we planned to leave tomorrow, your grace. Everything has been prepared for the tourney."
"Wonderful!" Robert shouted. "Sit down, have a drink Kingslayer." Jamie grinded his teeth together. "Your Grace, the offer is generous, but-"
"Have a drink, or I'll force it down your throat," Robert growled, hands around the barmaid's breasts. Reluctantly, Jamie took a cup of wine. "Much better." Robert nodded, before shortly returning to fondling the woman on his lap.
Bronn dunked his head into the pail of water, clearing his head. He hoped he'd gotten most of the alcohol out of his system. Things were still blurred, but he could tell that he was around the camp the royal party set up. Perhaps he could find some business here. At the very least make some connections. Plenty of Lannisters here and Lannisters were richer than the king, iron bank and every citizen of King's Landing combined. They say Tywin Lannister shits gold, so they won't be running out anytime soon. The camp had thousands of all with men bustling back and forth, drunk. It was indeed a wild night. He spent hours talking to people, but he had no takers. Not a single person requested the help of a sellsword. No one needed protection. Sulking, Bronn walked out to the woods. It usually only took one job to keep him fed and entertained, but jobs were harder to find nowadays. He missed it back when all it took was to say you could protect a farmer from poachers for half of his pay, and the farmer would take the protection no questions asked. Bronn thought back to his first kill. Some whore that tried to kill him. After that, he got a taste for killing and realised he could put a price on someone's life. Then he met the man who trained him, he never got his name but taught him most of the skills he knew today. His thoughts were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. Bronn jumped at the scream and drew his sword, sprinting towards the source of the scream. When he got there, he saw the person who screamed was a girl, about 6 or so. The expression on her face was one of pure terror. What had she seen?
"Stay here," Bronn told the girl. Keeping his sword up, the sellsword took careful steps as he walked. As he approached the Trident, he realised just where he was.; the ruby ford. The place where Robert Baratheon bashed in the dragon's chest. What the hell was the girl doing up here? As he began to lower his sword and head back to the girl to take her to camp, he saw it. A man floating in the stream. Bloody and beaten, stuck on a rock. Someone had been killed. Without thinking, Bronn dropped his sword and began to swim towards the corpse, that was face down in the water. He fought the current and grabbed onto the rock, catching his breath. He saw the man was wearing armour and grabbed the space between the armour and the man's neck. Pulling him along the river, he felt his legs start to freeze in the cold water. The man became increasingly heavy, but he was almost there. Almost at the bank, where he could see if he had the power to bring the man back to life. With one last heave, the two made it to the bank. Coughing up some saltwater, Bronn crawled over to the man, full intent of saving his life. That's when he got a good look at the man. Long silver-gold hair. Deep, misty, purple eyes. The black armour with rubies in it. He hadn't found a dead man. He'd found the most famous dead man in the history of Westeros; he'd found the last dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen. Bronn lay back down. Rhaegar Targaryen's body was cremated. Turned to ash. Yet here his body was. Fine. Sure his chest plate was caved in, but there was no blood. Just a pale man.
Gasping for breath, the dragon prince sat up, grabbing Bronn by the scruff.
His face turning from anger to confusion to fear, he released his hold on Bronn.
"What-Where-" Rhaegar whimpered, on the verge of tears. Sitting on his knees, the scared Rhaegar looked at the equally scared Bronn.
"Who are you?"