IMPORTANT WARNING- Bronn in this fic is a Septon with magic from Harry Potter, but it's kinda nerfed because there is no reincarnation or transmigration. Bronn just stumbled upon magic, and he's slowly understanding it as he grows. And he has no wand.
Also, Bronn in this fic is not a good person. He acts and shows to the world that he is, but he isn't. He schemes, he bangs women left and right, and he's pretty vile as a person. Please don't spam in the reviews when he does something crazy/evil/vile/disgusting.
Bronn will grow to be pretty OP, extremely influential, and secretly depraved as the story progresses. But for the first few chapters, he's seen as a small fry by the realm, because he IS a nobody.
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[Story Tags: Bronn being Bronn, Bronn having fun, Bronn being a godman, Bronn scheming around, Bronn being a scammer, Bronn making a sex 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. Yuri(His women will help each other get fucked. No kissing or romance between the women, however. But they'll be involved in the scenes, like fingerfucking while the other chick is getting her face fucked. No female X female romance.]
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Chapter 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.
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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.
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"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."