BRONN
He had to admit that he was more than surprised and downright honored that Lady Sansa had requested his presence at the war council; he was less than pleased when after an hour into the ordeal nothing had been achieved except to point out the shortcomings of everyone in the room with accusations being thrown every which way by all parties. There was more than enough tension in the room after the war council had had to hold off for an additional day because Cersei complained of stomach pains that kept her from attending (and privately, Bronn longed to admit that incestuous bastards tended to give the mothers pain in the womb, but as always, he kept his opinions to himself).
Now two days behind schedule, they had finally convened and the first order of business had been to put a leash on Euron Greyjoy who had made provocative marks to his niece and nephew. It came to a head that after Jon Snow, the Dragon Queen, and half the council had told Euron on no uncertain terms to shut his hole, Cersei finally added her voice and promised Euron he would sit out the remainder of the meeting and all future meetings if he couldn't stuff it.
And so when they had at last begun to map out their defenses, Bronn was both on edge and exhausted. Standing between Ser Jaime and Tyrion, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, felt himself swaying slightly in place as the lull of Qyburn's voice made him long for a soft feather bed. Only when he made a none-too-quiet snort did Tyrion elbow him hard in the thigh as Jon Snow took over at the table, moving wooden pieces representing each army across a detailed map of the castle layout and surrounding moor.
"Our first line of defense is the most important, as it will ensure we aren't setting ourselves up for a mass slaughter before the battle even begins. The trenches will be filled with stakes and grease to be lit on fire as our first barrier, but only when the dead are nearly across it. We want to take out as many as we can before they realize we've set a trap because once they see the flames, they'll steer clear, wait it out, and find a way around."
He set the Lannisters and Euron Greyjoy's army on the left flank, the Northerners, wildlings, and Yara Greyjoy's army on the right, and the Unsullied taking up the bulk of the center. The Dothraki were positioned around the rear of the castle. Ballistas would be operated between each flank.
"Atop the walls we will have archers with runners at the ready to bring more supplies or relieve the archers, should we have to retreat to the castle itself. In the event that we lose ground, the archers will take secondary position in the courtyard and fire over the walls while the fighters take up arms at the ramparts. Should this strategy also fail, the final fallback position will be the godswood."
"And what of the women and children?" asked the Dragon Queen's handmaiden whose name Bronn hadn't cared to learn.
"Those incapable of fighting will be in the crypts. There is only one entrance to the crypts but that means there is also only one exit so if the crypts are overrun, those inside may not have a way out," said Snow.
"Won't have to worry about that at all because there'll be no one alive down there if you lock 'em up with a bunch of dead people," said Tormund. When all eyes turned to him he appeared a bit put out that no one understood him on the first go-around. "You Southerners bury your dead in crypts: decaying and decayed bodies, piles of bones, but still intact. The Night King can raise the dead to add to his armies. He raised over half of my people at Hardhome. Every man and woman who falls in battle becomes his soldier. Anything that dies belongs to him. That goes for the long-dead. If you have bodies down in your crypts, you'd best burn them before sending anyone down there to hide, or you're just giving him more soldiers."
"My father is buried down there," said Snow, looking to his siblings. "Our father. Our little brother, our grandfather, our ancestors. Their bones are lain to rest down there."
"Burn them," said Lady Stark. "It's just bones; the dead can't hear us talking to their carved likeness. They won't care if their remains are committed to the flame. Burn them, but have it done respectfully. And when it is done, then the crypts will be properly prepared to accept those incapable of fighting. And to that matter, I know that it is where I will be going. I have taken up archery in the hopes of providing some use and I would defend my people however I can with so little time to train. Myself and my brother Bran—"
"I will be in the godswood," said the crippled boy. "The man who bore the title of the Three-Eyed Raven before me died underground, hidden from the world. If I die, it will be where I can see the stars. But I am the Night King's ultimate goal. He comes for me because I alone can see him and his army at all times. I am the one who has thwarted him in the past and I am the last great barrier that stands in his way. He will come for me and I will be in the godswood."
Bronn was happy to see that he was not the only one to be gazing upon the boy as if he had gone mad. The matter-o-fact tone he had used when describing his abnormality was far more disturbing than anything he had actually said, as if he thoroughly believed himself to be capable of powers the rest of them could only imagine. Once more Bronn was reminded of the image of the frozen king and how it had come to him as if in a vision, how it seemed to have been deliberately placed there as a warning to him from the crippled being in front of him.
"Dragons exist in the world, a woman cannot be burned, a man was brought back from the dead after being stabbed in the heart, and an army of dead soldiers marches on Winterfell; is it really so hard to believe that a boy has visions of what is, will be, and has been?" asked the youngest of the Starks.
"Not hard to believe, Lord Stark, just a bit jarring to hear stated so plainly," said the onion knight, Ser Davos.
"I'm not Lord Stark. That would have been my brother, Jon, but he was chosen to be the King in the North and forfeited that right and so there is only Lady Stark. I'm not even entirely Brandon Stark, but I am the Three-Eyed Raven, and I will be in the godswood."
"Then that's where I'll be, too," said the younger Stark girl. "Bran can't defend himself, and I trust no one else to. I'll stay with him there."
"You'll need more than just yourself," argued Theon Greyjoy.
"No, my sister will be sufficient," said the boy. "Every man and woman who can be spared must be in the masses or on the wall."
"But—" the Greyjoy boy protested.
"Trust me, she is more than capable of protecting him," said Brienne of Tarth with a knowing smile. "I've heard you're a skilled archer and if that's the case, your services are needed elsewhere, perhaps as head archer atop one stretch of the wall."
"Precisely," agreed Jon Snow. "There will be commanders of each flank and each position. Grey Worm has full control of the Unsullied. On the eastern and northeastern curtain wall in charge of primary archer positions will be Ser Jaime, Lord Commander Tollett, Ser Davos, and Theon Greyjoy. The Dothraki will be led by Ser Jorah. On the left flank: Lady Brienne has the Stark soldiers and Tormund the wildlings. Lady Greyjoy will have full command of her people. Lord Beric—"
"Just Beric," corrected the one-eyed man.
"Beric and Sandor Clegane will divide the Knights of the Vale and the remaining Northern armies. In the courtyard—"
"I will hold the courtyard," said the strong-chinned and glaring-eyed young lady Bronn had seen earlier the day before. Her cloak bore a bear crest.
"Lady Mormont—" began Snow.
"I know you are not about to suggest that I take up residence in the crypts, Lord Snow, not when I took up a sword at age five as the last heir of House Mormont to defend my house and my people. Five years is more than enough time to be adequate enough for your armies."
"Quite a spitfire she is, eh?" said Bronn appreciatively, but when no one found this amusing, it was Lady Stark who came to his rescue.
"Lady Mormont is living proof of how a great leader can keep a dwindling house alive. Lords Karstark and Umber had men aplenty and lost the Battle of the Bastards, yet House Mormont offered only sixty-two men and won the battle. Lady Mormont is wise beyond her years and hardened by them in the same breath. I know you all doubt her, not for her wisdom or her fierceness, but for her size and her age, and because she is a woman. And I tell you to look upon my sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, and my sister, Arya Stark, and tell me a woman is incapable of fighting. Lady Mormont will be where she can command her people and that is not in the crypts. Now, which of you would like to challenge that?"
"Not any of us who value our balls," muttered Bronn, though his comment did not go unheard by Lord Varys to whom Bronn added, "No offense meant, m'lord."
Clearing his throat to finish his strategic placements, Jon Snow restarted, "Lady Mormont has the courtyard. Gendry, Samwell Tarly, and others not as experienced in battle will also hold here. As for the left flank…"
"I have the left," said Euron Greyjoy smugly. "The entire left. All the Lannister and loyal Greyjoy soldiers have need of only one commander."
"And every one of them will trample you to save their own skin when the time comes," assured Yara Greyjoy.
"Can your voice be heard by the two thousand men who will be looking to you for leadership?" asked Littlefinger before Euron could summon a retort. "Lord Snow has divided the armies into manageable sections so that they may follow a leader they will be able to see. How do you expect two thousand men to all hear and see you at once?"
"I'm the only man Queen Cersei trusts to lead her armies."
"And what of Ser Gregor and the rest of the Queensguard?" suggested Lord Varys. "I would think that each member of the Queensguard was chosen for his aptitude in battle, his prowess in the face of fear, and his leadership qualities, or has the selection process for electing Queensguard changed since I was last in King's Landing?"
"Ser Gregor will be with me in the crypts," said Cersei dismissively. "My Queensguard will man the entrance to the crypts to ensure nothing gets in."
Or out, thought Bronn darkly.
"Your man is nearly indestructible from what I've heard," said Snow. "I would assume the only way to put him down for good would be to take his head off."
"Even that might not work, tried it already," said the Hound from the back of the room.
"Oh, by all means, please contribute to this council you have already done so much for," Cersei snapped.
"Does being ripped limb from limb sound appealing to you, because that's what's gonna happen if you keep your head as far up your arse as it's been for the past hour," returned the Hound, coming forth to lean upon the table across from Cersei. His knuckles cracked as he rested on them, glowering in Cersei's direction. "Your maester there made Gregor into whatever the hells he is now which is much the same as a wight. He won't go down at the touch of dragonglass and it'll take a fucking long time for him to burn, but he's the only wight we have working for us. D'you want him to sit on his arse watching you all shit yourselves in the crypts or d'you want him out fighting and doing what you bred him to do? He almost can't die and we could use that but you want him at your side because you're too stubborn to think about what better purpose he could serve."
"You'll not speak to Her Grace is such a manner," said Qyburn.
"Back off, you half-a-twat. I may not be as large as my brother, but I could snap you in half across my leg just as easily."
"Indeed, and though I'm sure that is something that would benefit us greatly, it does not solve the immediate problem, so I must ask that you refrain from doing so for the time being, my friend," said Lord Varys, patting the Hound's arm to divert his anger.
The Hound moved his arm away in confused distaste from being touched against his will but Lord Varys's hand was replaced by Lady Stark's who never spoke a word and never looked at the man she was attempting to calm. Without even matching gazes, the two of them understood one another and the Hound's balled fist untightened. The gesture might have gone unnoticed by the majority of the room but Bronn certainly noticed, and he would wager that Lord Varys and Littlefinger had as well.
"Ser Gregor cannot lead, but he can follow, and if you would have him follow Lord Greyjoy, we can position him with the Lannister flank," offered the Targaryen girl to cover the silence following the Hound's outburst.
"To ensure order amongst your men, you should assign a member of your Queensguard to each segment," proposed Tyrion. "Though a capable leader Lord Greyjoy undoubtedly is, the battlefield is too large for one man to command an entire army."
"Are you proposing that you should be one of those capable leaders?" asked Cersei with a scathing look she could reserve only for the little brother she despised.
"I am not tall enough to see over the ramparts," said Tyrion as if explaining something incredibly simple to a simpleton, "let alone stand alongside better and braver men and women on a battlefield, but I have killed men before, as you may recall. I have killed several and if the crypts are breached, I may be all that stands between you and certain death, sweet sister, so perhaps you should worry less about where I will be and more about how your armies are going to manage when their commander is swallowed by the dead within the first five seconds of the battle."
Cersei deliberated with herself, weighing her options on which of her Queensguard was least valuable, which ones she would feel most comfortable sending away. After a moment, she decided, "I will offer up Ser Oakheart, Ser Swann, and Ser Blount. The rest shall remain outside the crypts, including Ser Gregor. If the dead breach the castle, Ser Gregor will not allow any of them to pass through the doorway, nor will he allow cowards to flee and hide amongst the skirts of women."
"And what if the person going below has a better intention than to hide amongst the skirts of women?" asked Littlefinger. "What if the crypts are to be evacuated?"
"Then I will leave the decision whether or not to allow someone to pass up to Ser Gregor's good judgment," said Cersei with a leer.
"You still do not have enough men to command your full army," said Snow, now with a touch of impatience at Cersei's obvious enjoyment in causing distress rather than plotting out their survival. "Four men is not enough. Ten would be ideal, but we can make do with six or seven. Unless you are suggesting putting your brother on the front lines. I have no doubt he has learned to battle as well as he can in the short time he has had to relearn everything he knows, but he is not the man he was, and I mean no disrespect, ser."
"None taken," said Ser Jaime. "I've survived the battles I've participated in since losing my hand by luck more than skill and you are right to say that I would do little good by way of leading a division of the army if I cannot fight with them."
"What of Ser Bronn?" proposed Lady Stark, looking admiringly to Bronn. "He has commanded many battles for you since coming into your employment, has he not?"
Lady Stark had just done him a great disservice in speaking for him. His orders from Cersei had not changed and having Sansa Stark speak so warmly about him, it would only anger the bitch queen further.
"M'lady honors me, but I'm more've a foot soldier than a leader," said Bronn modestly.
"My observance of your station during the battle that occurred on the Goldroad would say otherwise," said Tyrion. "You were riding alongside my brother, Ser Jaime for most of that battle. And you were given a position of leadership during the Battle of the Blackwater. I would say that you are a very capable leader."
"Or are you claiming that your knighthood was misplaced when Joffrey gave it to you?" asked Lady Stark, though it was a wry remark, for she knew full well that Bronn had earned his knighthood and was only being humble—for his own sake.
Deliberately ignoring Lady Stark's comment about her son, Cersei instead focused on Bronn in a pointed manner that told him that he would face repercussions for this later.
"The Goldroad," said the Targaryen woman suddenly. Her unsettling lavender eyes were locked on him, calling upon a memory in which she could mark his face. There was madness in that gaze, but it had a sturdy leash keeping it at bay and just now, Bronn was all too thankful for that leash as the foreign queen pointed out what he feared she might.
"You are the man who fired the scorpion bolts at my dragon on the Goldroad," said the Dragon Queen, and it was not a question. She must have incredible eyesight to commit the details of his face to memory and be able to pick him out now as the match.
A wittier rebuttal might have been the better option in response to her accusation, but all Bronn could think to answer was, "Aye."
"Your Grace," prompted the knight Ser Jorah.
"Ser Bronn does not recognize Daenerys Targaryen as his queen," cut in Cersei smugly.
"Titles do not matter here, not now when we are all equals preparing to die if it means at least one of us will live to carry on our race," said Jon Snow heavily. It was not an order, but a warning to not let something as trivial as proper address come between what was—at the moment—a solid alliance.
Taking heed of his words, the Targaryen continued, "With the fire burning around you and my Dothraki riding past you, you were able to pick me out in the sky and strike my dragon. And what's more, you had the instinct as well as the ability to evade my rebuttal. How did you come to be such a skilled marksman with a weapon never tested, ser?"
Not entirely certain if he was being exploited for weaknesses or commended for his accuracy, Bronn gave a shrug. "Desperation, I suppose, like as not. I'd been given an order an' had the second-best weapon on that battlefield. T'wasn't personal, but it had t'be me or the dragon an' I wasn't prepared t'die."
"And do you always so fearlessly commit to your duties?"
"Almost never," answered Jaime Lannister.
"Reluctantly," piped up Tyrion.
"With the proper amount of coin," added Lord Varys. "Though, I must admit shock on my behalf that facing off against a dragon was worth the coin Ser Jaime paid you, Ser Bronn."
"So you are a sellsword," concluded the Targaryen.
"I was a sellsword when I met Lord Tyrion, then Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks for a while, then—well, a bit more an' a bit less than that, serving Lord Tyrion as an anointed knight until he was accused've murdering his father. Then Queen Cersei hired me to continue trainin' Ser Jaime."
"And it was payment that kept you in her service?"
"Mostly. I'd have been stupid t'give up on a life other sellswords could only dream of."
"Did you receive an order against your life to come to the North to take part in this battle?"
"No, but—"
"Then why do you find yourself here when you had the option as a free man to flee with your life? How does a man who sells his services, earns the title of knight, and continues to be paid in the aftermath come to be here when it is in your best interest to be elsewhere? Why would a man who loves naught but gold abandon it all to serve his fellow man?"
"I'm not rightly sure. Maybe it was the promise of a challenge against an enemy I haven't fought yet, maybe I'd rather face the dead than wait for them t'reach King's Landing."
Once more the Dragon Queen examined him and though he tried not to seem too fidgety in her presence, that stare was unsettling.
"Do you have friends, Ser Bronn?" she asked abruptly.
"Do I have what now, Your Gr—I mean, m'lady, er, fuck it all, if I'm t'be executed for the titles I give everyone here, I'd just as soon get it over with."
It was a plea for pity more than anything. He served Queen Cersei and would face fierce punishment if he acknowledged her as anything less or if he addressed the Dragon Queen as a queen. But he feared the sort of ending the Dragon Queen had for him since he had already shot at her and her dragon and not calling her by her proper title (or what she deemed to be her proper title) would not be doing him any favors in earning her forgiveness.
The tiniest of smiles played upon her lips as she extended her mercy to him. "You may call me Mother of Dragons, Ser Bronn, to avoid confusion and unpleasantries."
"Thank you, Your G—Mother've Dragons," said Bronn immediately, though the words felt odd on his tongue.
"Now, if we could return to my question: do you have anyone whom you could friend?"
"I don't think so."
"How do you come to that conclusion?"
"Because I used t'be friends with Lord Tyrion but I stayed in his sister's service while he went t'yours and even if we fight as allies here, we all know nobody's fooling anyone and we're still divided, or is that too bold've a thing to say?"
The room shifted uncomfortably, all too aware of this charade they were playing and how fragile their alliance was.
"Not too bold of a thing to say at all, but perhaps not in the least bit helpful," said Lord Varys at last.
"We all know where our loyalties lie and we can continue to hold true to our beliefs but it does none of us any good to think about such things right now," added Littlefinger.
"In which case it might be best if we return to matters of war and not the terribly short list of Ser Bronn's friends," said Qyburn.
"And gettin' shorter," growled Bronn.
"Ser Bronn will take up command along with Euron, Ser Oakheart, Ser Swann, and Ser Blount," said Ser Jaime. "These are men that our armies trust, unless Sandor Clegane would like to resume his role of—"
"I fucking would not," said the Hound. "I've got my charge."
"Lannister soldiers don't follow traitors," said Cersei.
Why the fuck would they follow me, then? Bronn wondered.
Finer and more boresome details followed as the entirety of the council tried to get Cersei to give up one more of her Queensguard and after another half hour, nothing further had been accomplished. Ever the peacemaker, Tyrion suggested that they all take some time to clear the air and find a meal before convening once again an hour hence. Silently hoping that Ser Jaime would fuck some sense into Cersei between now and then to put her in a better mood, Bronn snatched a leg of lamb that had been brought in for the council by serving girls and hurried out to the courtyard to relieve himself.
He had had quite a bit of wine that morning to provide some sustenance for his brain when he anticipated how grating the war council was to be and so he spent a solid minute or two pissing before he had completely emptied himself. When he had, he saw that Lady Stark and Littlefinger were wasting no time in returning to their archery lessons across the way. He had to feel some pride in a lady who was using every spare moment to better herself in a skill she was mediocre at, at best, solely to prove her worth to her people.
"I've heard you're quite an archer yourself," said a voice at his elbow and he jumped slightly to see the younger Stark girl there, having seemingly appeared out of thin air and snow. "Sansa tells me she's seen your skill and that you've helped direct her in her lessons. Your honest opinion: do you think she's good enough to man the walls, or should she be in the crypts with the rest of the women?"
"It's not my place t'say, m'lady—"
"I'm asking you because I want to know. And I'll know if you're lying."
"If y'know if I'm lyin', why don't you tell me if you think she's good enough?" countered Bronn.
"Because I'm not an experienced archer, nor do I know what qualifies one as being good or bad. I know the difference between someone who never hits the target and someone who hits the target every time. I have practiced with a bow when possible, but I'm not qualified to say who shows promise and who would be better off not wielding a weapon."
"I'll say this for her: she could be shite, but she's determined not t'be. Littlefinger there is better than she ever will be, but in just two days she's averaged four out've ten shots when she started with one. She's got blisters all over her fingers, but she doesn't complain. She misses over half her shots, but she doesn't say a word. She just keeps at it an' I think if every man an' woman here was as stout as your sister, we might stand a better chance. But her targets don't move: the ones she'll be facin' will, and I don't think she's ready for that. Even if she made every shot she took, she wouldn't be half as good as every other archer here, in which case she'd do more harm than good."
"So she should be sent to the crypts."
"Is that her call, or yours t'make?"
"I can't command anything of her, but she might listen to someone who can tell her how detrimental she would be to the cause," the Stark girl suggested.
"I don't think she'll be wantin' t'be locked up anywhere that Cersei is that's guarded by a thing that can't die. Might be that she chooses t'stay in the courtyard with the other one—Lady Mormont—or she might want t'be with you an' your brother."
"If the battle reaches her, wherever she is, I have no doubt that she will fight and not run, but I want you to make me a promise, Ser Bronn. From now until the last possible moment, if you still hold to that belief that my sister should not be in battle, I want you to tell her what you told me. She respects your experience and she'll heed you, I know she will."
Bronn shrugged, wishing these Starks would stop giving him credit he didn't ask for, as it was doing him no favors. "She doesn't know me, m'lady."
"She did once. And you want her safe as much as I do."
"What makes y'say that?" asked Bronn quickly. Did she know? He had heard rumors that this girl had become something of a silent killer, a mystery, a shadow, and deadly, and if she knew what Cersei had charged him with…
"I know because I was there that night you arrived in Winterfell. I saw you follow her out here and offer her your weapon, suggest that she carry something on her at all times that was 'not for the dead', as I recall. You know who wants my sister dead, but you can't openly do anything about it, so this was your way of warning her. You may serve the Lannisters, but you chose to tell my sister. I heard it in your voice then and I see it in your face now: you're afraid for her. So promise me that you'll tell her true when the time comes."
Bronn could make that promise. He could tell Lady Stark that she was a liability, send her to the crypts, and have Ser Gregor kill her when the time came. Or, he could refuse to make such a promise, let Lady Stark go wherever the hells she wanted and have the dead finish her off. She was going to die either way and Bronn didn't care in which manner, so long as Cersei didn't blame him. If he was going to die as well, he preferred for it to be for something worthwhile instead of something stupid.
"Your sister's a proud woman. She'll do as she pleases, no matter what I tell her. But I know how t'put her somewhere other than on top of the wall, if that's what you're so afraid of. Tell her Littlefinger is gonna be there, and she'll steer far clear."
The Stark girl looked disappointed in Bronn's response, but he had his hands full trying not to get his skull crushed in on Cersei's behalf; he didn't need the added worry of having his throat slit by this girl in his sleep.
"Littlefinger will be in the crypts, which will only keep Sansa out," said the girl.
"He bloody well will not. He's a man, he's able-bodied, an' he has experience with a weapon. He'll be wherever Jon Snow tells 'im t'be an' it won't be in the godsdamned crypts."
"Lord Varys is an able-bodied man—"
"He's not a man, an' he's never so much as held a fork t'defend 'imself. Littlefinger's made it known that he wants t'fight, an' he will an' all archers will be on the wall, so your sister won't be. That's the best you can hope for, m'lady."
He left her before she could get in another word or guilt him into reconsidering. Striding forward to toy with Littlefinger as a way to improve his mood, Bronn watched the man approach his craft with a newfound fervor. Littlefinger was firing the arrows as if each one had personally taken a blow against him. There was no openly flirtatious banter with Lady Stark today. The two of them practiced with resolve in silence.
Loudly, and with no anticipation as to what could happen next, Bronn called out to Littlefinger, "Now, no hard feelin's, eh, m'lord? Just a healthy dose've mud an' shit t'make you a real man." When he found himself face-to-face with the tip of Littlefinger's arrow, he chided himself for gravely miscalculating just how much humiliation the lord could take. Bronn had been far rougher with him than Ser Jorah Mormont had, but Littlefinger never once showed anger during the display, not like the fury that Bronn found on his face now.
"Lord Baelish, lower your bow," commanded Lady Stark.
"He can give that order himself," said Littlefinger venomously.
"Struck a nerve, have I?" taunted Bronn against his better judgment.
"My last," Littlefinger affirmed.
"Steady," said a new voice as an arm descended upon Littlefinger's forward hand to lower the bow. Mormont stood there, calm and almost bored in expression as he halted the argument before it could begin. Nothing more needed to be said.
Then, to the surprise of all, Littlefinger shouldered his bow and held out his right hand to Bronn in an open demonstration of both forgiveness and respect that Bronn absolutely did not share. He had just had this man's arrow centimeters from his eyeball and saw the capability of murder in the man's eyes and was expected to shake his hand as if nothing had happened? Not fucking likely, not when Bronn had every intention of breaking the little bastard's nose—
Lady Stark cleared her throat pointedly, but she was not looking at Littlefinger. She would never have dared to look at Bronn like that years ago, but she knew what she could command in her home and her command quite clearly told Bronn to make nice and now was not the time to test her, not after the conversation he had just had with her sister.
He stuck out his hand but couldn't bring himself to cover the last bit of distance between his hand and Littlefinger's, so the lord had to initiate the grasp on Bronn's fingers. Bronn allowed the handshake to last three seconds and then found himself being forcibly escorted through the curtain wall entryway by Mormont. They were out of sight of the archery post, but Mormont kept walking until they were halfway across the battlefield and just past the trenches, well out of ear and eyeshot to any busybodies.
"What gave you the impression that it would be a good idea to mock him?" asked Mormont.
"Maybe it was seein' 'im be mocked by anyone an' everyone he's ever met?" said Bronn waspishly.
"Every man has a breaking point and now is not the time to be testing anyone's."
"Good t'see he has one, see that somethin' can make 'im angry."
"Yes, you angered him, but he would not have fired. He's not so quick to make mistakes. He knows full well what would have happened if he had murdered you for no reason other than to save face. He wanted you to see that he was capable of murder, which I believe he is—firsthand, as I know he's participated in plenty of schemes without being the one to draw blood. That man is dangerous and whatever you think you're doing with him, you'd best rethink it. You have no quarrel with him."
"Do now, don't I?"
"Did you before?"
"Aye."
"For what reason?"
"I don't like 'im."
Mormont ran his hands over his face like a frustrated parent gaining no ground in calming a sibling quarrel. "I know this is a monumental task to ask of you before I ask it, but I would implore you to be the better man, walk away, and stay away. You can't hurt one another if you steer clear of each other."
"After that little demonstration, I think I'd best sleep with me eyes open." Bronn had not considered until now that Littlefinger might take this one or several steps too far in having Bronn murdered in his sleep. He had not considered the man to be his enemy until now, either, but one arrow had drastically changed that sentiment.
"There were witnesses," Mormont assured him. "If anything happens to you, he'll be the first to blame. He will leave you be, if you give him the same courtesy."
"I don't think so. People still lookit me like I'm the sellsword with no morals. But I'm a knight with no morals now an' they still spit an' shit on me an' no one's gonna bat an eye if I turn up dead one've these nights, mark me words."
"Who else do you believe is out for your blood?" questioned Mormont with genuine curiosity.
"Your queen, or did you miss that whole exchange when she singled me out for shootin' her dragons?"
"She was merely pointing out a fact and questioning you because she's not quite sure what to make of you. If you have such fear of what she might do to you, prove yourself to be her ally. Show her that you regret having nearly killed her and that you are bound to a greater cause."
"I shouldn't have to. I'm here to fight, aren't I?"
"So are thousands of other men because they were ordered to. If you want to prove to her that you are more than a man following orders, approach the dragon you shot at and feel regret with every part of your being for shooting at him. He can sense your remorse, if you have any."
Bronn shook his head with a dry laugh and a waggle of his finger. "That's a bit've a transparent way t'try an' off me, my friend."
"If I wanted you dead, you would be," the knight assured him. "And if she wanted you dead, you would be, but the fact that you aren't should tell you that she is willing to give you a chance to prove that you are a man of his word. Repent."
"I've seen this hogwash before, Mormont, an' I don't need some septon wavin' scented oils at me chantin' 'repent, repent'."
The knight did well in holding back a grin at these words. "Yes, but see, unlike those septons who offer you hope that your sins will be forgiven, a dragon can prove it right then and there. You will have visual confirmation—or you will be dead."
"I'd just as soon keep my sullied soul an' continue t'live for a few weeks more."
"Then you will receive no immunity on the battlefield. A dragon knows where its allies are and knows when to hold back on breathing fire but if it should come to it that you are in dire need and a dragon is all that stands between you and death, no help will come for you."
"I've heard of some fabulous shit in my days, Mormont, but never anything quite so shining as that."
The ground trembled and Bronn nearly toppled into the stake-invested trench as the largest of the dragons landed beside him. Mormont caught Bronn by the wrist to prevent him from impaling himself but then let go and slowly backed away as the fiery red and ink-black dragon snaked its head around to observe Bronn.
Mentally, Bronn took back every word he had just said, for the dragon's point was well proven in its perfect timing in response to Bronn's doubts.
The dragon veered, arched its neck back and Bronn prepared to duck and cover his head as a blast of flames washed over him, but instead the beast opened its jaws wide and screamed in his face. Bronn clapped his hands over his ears but dared not break eye contact. The sound wave threatened to knock him over but he stayed on his feet as he watched the dragon's throat ripple with the effort of roaring at him. When it had finished, the jaws shut as the head came closer.
The nostrils inhaled and he almost had to take an unsteady step inward at the sheer pull and power of its breath. A hot, steamy exhale knocked him flat onto his back where he dared not move as the dragon lowered its maw to him and tasted the front of his tunic with its coarse, scaly tongue. He knew that if it had wanted to roast him alive, it would have done so with its breath. If it had wanted to eat him, it would not have tasted him.
But as those bulbous reptilian eyes stared him down and searched his soul for repentance, he saw that terrible lone figure on the battlefield once more, advancing toward its target: him. Defenseless, alone, Bronn felt the cold seeping into his soul, devouring him from the inside out. And as he called out for help, knowing full well that none would come, he saw a shadow block out the moonlight. A dragon descended upon the king of the dead, barring the wight's path from reaching Bronn.
The dragon backed off and Bronn waited a full minute before he felt that it was safe to rise. When he did, he could have sworn that he saw something akin to satisfaction on the dragon's face as if it knew what he had seen in his mind's eye, as if it knew that he felt courage and strength in its presence. The skin around its maw pulled back once again in a rippling snarl that sounded not entirely hostile, more in agreement to an unspoken deed.
One step back, then two, and another until he had backed up a full ten paces, and then Bronn allowed himself to breathe. He did not scare easily. He had seen much during his life and come face to face with his own mortality on several occasions but he had never come so close to shitting himself as he had just now.
"Your apology has been accepted, Ser Bronn," said the Dragon Queen from behind him. "By both of us." She had nothing else to say on the matter, setting off at a leisurely pace back to the castle.
Bronn turned to follow her but no sooner had he done so that he felt a rush of heat on his buttocks and twixt his legs: a parting gift of the dragon sending him on his way. Swatting at his back end to put out what he felt was surely a fire there, he retreated before the dragon could bestow some other gifts upon him. As he considered whether or not he might need to drag himself through the snow to put out the smoke that seemed to be coming from his cloak, he saw the Hound and the bear knight standing aside, the former with his arms folded and the latter with a most peculiar expression on his face.
"Watched the whole thing, did you?" asked Bronn irritably.
"Aye, a bit disappointed I won't find you in the beast's shit later on this evening," answered the Hound.
"A luckier man there never was," Bronn boasted.
"And that luck is about to run out. All lucky men are going to see just how far luck can take them."
"You're a downright shit-poor excuse for a friend, y'know that? Could you be any more depressing?"
"I could."
"Well don't be an' fuck off. An' you," Bronn rounded on the knight, "fuck off twice."
"I told you Drogon would know if you were sincere in your apology. He knows you did as commanded, that you hold no ill will against him. He's an intelligent creature and you're one of perhaps three or four strangers who have approached a dragon and lived, so consider yourself to be something special."
"Fuckin' honored I am. I still think you were half hopin' that beast would off me."
"If anyone wants anyone dead, they only have to wait a few weeks more," said the Hound. "And death by wights is far worse than any death anyone could conjure up between now and then. Anyone who wants you dead doesn't value their own skins enough if they'd off one of the best men they've got. You're a damn good fighter, better than all of the shits Cersei brought with her, but so am I, and so are the others who went north of the Wall with me and we were about to die when the Targaryen woman brought her dragons. And even then, it wasn't enough. All of this," he gestured at the hundreds of tents around them, "isn't enough. We're outnumbered and we're gonna die. You're a smart man; figure out what you want to do with that information."
"Somethin's definitely wrong with you, mate, because you just called me a good fighter an' a smart man in the same breath."
"He would be a fool to deny any of it," said the knight. "You're a proven warrior and that is something you taught yourself, not something learned, not something commanded of you. And you don't scare easily. Your type is the type we need and are sadly in short supply of. And you are choosing to stay and fight when you know what's coming for us."
"Is that why you're stayin', then? Because you're a good fighter and you think it'll be enough?"
The knight shrugged and as experienced a man Bronn was, for as many adventures and misadventures he had had in his life, this knight had seen more. Ser Jorah Mormont had lived longer, suffered more, and was still a better man than Bronn could ever hope to be. And he was weary, world-weary and at the end of the road, creating a barrier between the dead and the rest of the world.
"I stay with my queen, but I fight because I am able. I am the last chance humanity has, the last chance our world has, as are you. There would be nothing to gain in fleeing when I feel like I can make a difference in this battle to come."
"And you?" Bronn asked the Hound.
"If leaving means living a few weeks, a few months more, what would I get out of it? Is a few more months of misery worth it?"
"If you live those months with a certain red-haired someone, I might think so," said Bronn with a wicked grin. He had hoped that his words would goad the Hound into some sort of action or reaction but what he received from the bigger man was—nothing. Not a scowl or a glare or even a twitch of the nose to sniff up the phlegm courtesy of the blistery day. Mormont had just as much expression on his face and Bronn shook his head with a disappointed huff. "You two are some've the most miserable, unlikable fuckin' shits I've ever had the displeasure t'meet."
He left them where they stood to find a private place to check that his trousers were not in need of scrubbing but as he went, a prickle on his nape gave him the sensation that he was being watched. There, across the courtyard at the kennel entrance was the Queen Bitch herself and with the most minute of nods, beckoned him to her. He passed Ser Gregor and Ser Blount as he followed Cersei into the far back kennel and bowed his head to her in a demonstration of respect she had not earned and he did not want to give.
"What do you think you are doing?" she asked him bitingly as if his wrongdoing was obvious.
"I'm afraid I don't follow, Your Grace," he said honestly.
"You were given a very simple task, a task which cannot be completed if you are doing the exact opposite in making friends with Sansa Stark. I know how you have spent the last two days, teaching her archery, answering her every call as she commands you to publicly beat Petyr Baelish. And now she feels strongly enough about you to recommend you to lead my army."
"Perhaps she overestimates me," said Bronn with an innocent shrug and feeling quite exasperated at this woman's stupidity. How was it his fault that Sansa Stark pointed out a strategic inaccuracy? Cersei was the one who planned to have one man lead her entire army but somehow Bronn was the one to blame for it?
"Explain to me how this newfound friendship with that little whore helps you to accomplish your goal?"
Thinking fast, Bronn invented his reasoning. "My goal is easier t'carry out if I can be close to her. She won't suspect nothin' if I make out t'be her friend, make her trust me."
"And does she?"
"If she doesn't, she's almost there."
"I would have thought you would be doing your level best to see this through quickly and quietly, not drawing it out for every possible obstacle to take place. See it done, Ser Bronn, or I will have no further use for you. Littlefinger is not the only one who will want you dead and rest assured that you need not worry about what he, a dragon, or an army of dead creatures can do to you with Ser Gregor at my disposal."
Bronn took a step back to bow and apologize but he collided with something very solid and unmovable and felt the weight of the world crushing down on his shoulder as the shape of a hand held him in place, squeezing his shoulder blade almost hard enough to shatter it.
Cersei approached him, now standing over him as his legs began to give out with the Mountain crushing him down into the mud. "I want to hear you say it, Ser Bronn," she whispered.
Black spots were starting to appear in front of Bronn's eyes and he could not entirely be sure that they weren't actually there. His body begged him to reply but the words wouldn't come.
"A bit less, Ser Gregor, I need him yet alive," said Cersei and the giant relinquished his hold on Bronn long enough for Bronn to fall to his knees and swallow a gasp of pain.
"I'll see it done, Your Grace," he panted, and then he was alone. Cersei and Ser Gregor were gone as if they had never been there and Bronn stuffed his fist into his mouth to stifle the scream he knew was coming. Knowing that questions would be asked as to the state of his appearance when he reappeared in the war council chamber less than ten minutes from now, Bronn toppled backward and lay still on the ground, hating everyone and everything.
Fuck them all, every last one of them. If all they could do with the end of the world on the horizon was bicker and plot to murder each other and use him as a pawn to achieve their ends, they deserved the death that was coming for them. He never asked for this and he'd be damned the day he decided to die for any of the fuckers. Not a one of them cared who took the fall for their schemes, so why should he give a fuck?
He should take a horse, ride south, and keep riding. He should sail for Essos where he doubted the dead could reach and live out the rest of his days in sweltering heat with only biting flies for company because nothing north of the Narrow Sea was worth dying for and especially not any of these ungrateful shits.