"How dull. If I were you, I'd pick a surname right away—and make people call me by it, with a 'Ser' or 'Lord' before it."
Seeing Jon lost in thought, Bronn muttered under his breath, eyes glinting with a faint spark.
Jon glanced at him at those words and shrugged.
He felt this sellsword was unlike other sellswords.
If one had to describe it precisely—it was that he possessed ambition, a refusal to remain as he was.
Most mercenaries were carefree rogues who never cared how tomorrow would go.
But Bronn wasn't like that. He paid attention to certain things—and showed intense desire for others.
As Lord Kal had once said to him, Bronn longed to leap beyond his class.
His ambition made him unwilling to sleep in a different stable every night, waking to the same foul stench.
Even when tending to his physical urges, he didn't wish to deal hastily with some nameless whore in an alley or atop a dining table.
Jon remembered that before they left King's Landing, Lord Kal had jokingly told Bronn that if he worked hard enough, he might even consider introducing him to a noblewoman—at least one who had her own castle.
Those words had made Bronn all the more enthusiastic.
"If I ever have the chance to possess lands of my own, then it won't be too late to think about it—" Jon found himself an excuse for the matter.
It somewhat balanced out the sourness in Bronn's tone.
Hearing that, Bronn turned his head to glance at Jon and suddenly felt that it did sound reasonable.
After all, for a landless knight, there didn't seem much point in thinking about family legacy.
"That shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?"
A sly smile appeared on Bronn's face.
"Your father's the King's Hand, and the one who knighted you is the King's own son."
"Though you're both bastards, even the blind men on Silk Street now know he might soon be legitimized as a prince."
Bronn's eyes gleamed, his expression far more animated than that of the man who sat daily behind his desk in King's Landing.
As he spoke, he let out a low chuckle.
"So what you ought to be thinking about is—where will your lands be?"
"The North, maybe? I bet Lord Eddard Stark would be glad to grant you a large piece of territory to build your own castle. That place is cold, vast, and barren—he'd surely welcome some life in his domain."
"So yes, you really ought to start considering these things ahead of time."
Bronn swayed lazily in his saddle, lips flapping as he offered his advice.
Hearing the jealous yet envious tone in his words, Jon's expression went blank for a moment, lost in thought.
After a while, he said softly, "If that's the case, perhaps I'll become Robb's right hand. Father's always thought so."
As he murmured those words, Jon couldn't help but smile.
That faint smile was soon drowned beneath the clatter of hooves.
He lifted his gaze toward the distance—sunlight gleamed bright, and the city of Blackhaven was drawing ever nearer.
There, the gathered armies of the Stormlands' lords had blocked the invading forces from Dorne.
Because of House Martell's ambiguous attitude, distrustful both sides now faced each other in tense standoff.
And the King's younger brother, the Lord of Storm's End, Renly Baratheon, was also present.
It was said that "the Knight of Flowers," Ser Loras Tyrell, was with him as well.
He had once been fostered at Storm's End as Renly Baratheon's squire—marking the beginning of their friendship.
So this time, when Renly Baratheon returned to Storm's End to summon his bannermen, Loras had come along to assist.
Of course, that was only the reason on the surface.
In private, Bronn had told him a rather shocking story.
Blackhaven was built with walls of black basalt and surrounded by a dry moat said to be bottomless. Yet compared with the great castles of the Seven Kingdoms, it was small and plain.
When Jon and his companions first caught sight of the fortress from afar, they were stopped by rangers from Storm's End.
After both sides exchanged words and stated their purpose, Jon's group was escorted into the castle within Blackhaven.
Jon, Bronn, the maester, and the Lannister soldiers were brought together into the great hall of Blackhaven, led by two guards from Storm's End.
"Oh, he's really handsome—"
But as soon as they entered the hall, Bronn, who was carrying that black-painted wooden chest, couldn't resist murmuring to Jon under the cover of it.
Jon, whose chin had begun to show the faint stubble of a beard, instinctively gave a small nod.
From the moment he had stepped through the hall's great doors, his gaze had been drawn toward the knight standing beside a long table—
A knight clad in armor inlaid with colorful gems and carved with fine floral patterns.
With just one glance, Jon recognized him at once.
The Knight of Flowers—Ser Loras Tyrell. He had long, flowing brown hair and striking golden eyes.
He wore no helm, and those golden eyes were now fixed upon him.
Fortunately, after recognizing the man, Jon quickly looked away, avoiding any impolite staring.
He turned his gaze toward the man seated at the far end of the long table—
Dressed in a green silk robe, with black hair that fell to his shoulders, and a short golden cape draped across them.
He was dining, and Ser Loras Tyrell stood just behind him.
Noticing the movement, the man gracefully set down his utensils, picked up a silk napkin beside him, and wiped his mouth.
"Ser Jon Snow?"
Setting the silk napkin aside, Renly Baratheon spoke first. His blue eyes, tinged faintly with green, shone brightly, and a smile curved his lips.
Jon, who had just realized that the world differed somewhat from what he'd imagined, felt a few goosebumps rise along his back.
He couldn't shake the feeling that the Lord of Storm's End, Renly Baratheon, was looking at him in a rather peculiar way.
That feeling made him uncomfortable.
"Greetings, Lord Renly Baratheon. I am Jon Snow, squire to Lord Kal Stone."
Suppressing his unease, Jon quickly stepped forward to pay his respects.
Having grown up alongside Robb, he was no stranger to noble etiquette—though his movements were somewhat stiff.
"You're already a knight now, Ser Jon. Oh, and this is Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. He once served as my squire—perhaps you two could get to know each other better."
Seeing Jon's overly formal demeanor, Renly smiled warmly as he introduced the man standing behind him.
The Knight of Flowers gave a courteous greeting to Jon Snow.
And Lord Renly Baratheon continued, "So, you're here to help resolve our present predicament, are you?"
"Oh, right—I almost forgot. Today's lunch is charcoal-grilled sturgeon, with lemon and bread."
"Come, sit with us and have something to eat."
As he spoke, Renly Baratheon seemed suddenly to recall himself and hurriedly arranged for Jon to sit beside him, gesturing to a nearby servant to fetch food for Jon and his companions from the kitchen.
Yet after making these arrangements, Renly's gaze lingered on the black chest held in Bronn's arms.
"So this is the head of the Mountain—Gregor Clegane?"
"I heard it was Lord Kal Stone who personally struck it off?"
At Renly's words, Loras Tyrell's eyes also turned toward the chest.
What lay within was the crucial gift meant to resolve their current dilemma—
A gift from Kal Stone to House Martell.
As King Robert's youngest brother and the Master of Laws on the Small Council, Lord of Storm's End, Renly Baratheon did not appear overly arrogant.
On the contrary, he gave off a gentle and amiable air.
Not only was his voice low and magnetic, but there was always a faint smile upon his face.
Yet to Jon, whose worldview had recently broadened greatly, locking eyes with those blue-green pupils felt strangely unsettling.
Jon quickly lowered his head and signaled for Bronn, who had been chatting idly just moments ago, to step forward.
"Lord Renly, this is Gregor Clegane's head. Lord Kal ordered me to deliver it to House Martell."
As he spoke, Jon gestured for Bronn to open the box and show Renly Baratheon the contents.
Bronn stepped forward, carrying the box, and was about to lift the lid.
But Renly hastily waved his hand, indicating Bronn need not come closer, nor open the box to reveal the severed head within.
Glancing at the roasted fish before him, he said, "Forgive me, but perhaps we could postpone this matter. I'd rather not have my pleasant luncheon spoiled by a bloody head."
"Mm, perhaps it even reeks of rot. But after all, I'm no vulture from Dorne's deserts—I can't very well enjoy a meal with a corpse beside me."
Feigning disgust, Renly covered his nose lightly, a faint smile on his face, implying such things were far from his tastes.
All the more because, compared to such filth, he preferred cleanliness in all things and surroundings—
Just like his perpetually well-groomed black shoulder-length hair and smoothly shaven chin.
He had a slight touch of fastidiousness.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---