Bronn tore into a massive pork rib, washing it down with a swig of ale.
He leaned against a large oak tree, enjoying the warmth of a full belly for the first time in weeks. But his eyes never stopped moving. He watched the strange Riverlands army camped around him.
Campfires crackled. Smoke rose into the night sky. Soldiers took turns disappearing into the town's brothel.
I hope the girls survive the night, Bronn thought grimly.
This army was... weird.
They were poorly equipped. Two hundred men in mismatched armor.
But they had a smell. The metallic tang of fresh blood.
They didn't act like a lord's household guard—too messy. They didn't act like peasant levies—too confident.
Bronn had traveled from Dorne to the Wall. He knew killers when he saw them. These men acted like bandits.
Or mercenaries.
But they were rich. And they paid for things.
Bronn's cheek twitched.
Usually, he was the one starting the fight. But today? He had been the victim.
Those six scouts hadn't asked for a toll. They hadn't asked his name. They had just drawn steel and charged him like starving wolves spotting a lamb chop.
Wolves, Bronn realized. That's what they are. A pack.
I need to get out of here. These people are dangerous.
"What are you looking at?"
A nasal, raspy voice interrupted his thoughts.
Bronn looked up. It was the scout he had pummeled earlier. The man's face was a map of purple bruises, his nose packed with bloody rags. He was glaring at Bronn with pure hate.
Behind him stood five other soldiers—the ones Bronn had beaten into the dirt. They looked ready for round two.
Bronn chewed his meat slowly.
"Looking at you, ugly," he mumbled.
The scout flushed red and stepped forward, hand on his dagger. But his friend held him back, pointing toward the command tent.
Lushen was walking toward them.
The scout spat on the ground and backed off.
"Lord Solomon wants to see you," Lushen said. He didn't blink. His hand rested on his sword hilt.
Bronn stood up and cracked his neck.
"Lead on."
Inside the tent, Solomon watched the sellsword enter.
Lean build. Black hair. Dark eyes. Stubble. Dressed now in clean black clothes, looking like a commoner.
You wouldn't know he was one of the deadliest swordsmen in Westeros just by looking at him.
But Solomon knew. He knew the name Bronn. He knew the man's future—from protecting Tyrion Lannister to becoming Lord of Highgarden (in that terrible ending).
"The Lord wants to see me?" Bronn asked. He felt a chill. The young lord was looking at him like he was a book he'd already read.
"You said you broke out of Deepden to find reinforcements?" Solomon asked, leaning back in his chair.
"I am!" Bronn said, putting on his best honest face. "Lord Lover is desperate! The food is gone!"
"Lord Lover is angry with you, my Lord," Bronn added, testing the waters. "He thinks you... abandoned him."
Solomon's expression didn't change.
He stood up.
Instantly, the guards around the tent drew their swords. Lushen and Lauchlan, standing behind Bronn, kicked the back of his knees.
Bronn hit the ground hard.
"What is this?! My Lord!" Bronn shouted, his mind racing. He calculated the odds. Ten men in the tent. Two hundred outside.
Zero chance.
Solomon picked up a piece of parchment from his desk. He held it so Bronn couldn't see the writing (or lack thereof).
Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he stabbed a dinner knife into the table. Thunk!
"This is a letter from Lord Lover," Solomon lied smoothly. "He asks for help. And he also asks me to arrest a mercenary who took his gold and ran away."
Bronn's face went pale.
"My Lord... what do you mean?"
"So," Solomon said, his voice cold. "You admit you deserted Deepden?"
Lushen drew a dagger and pressed the cold steel against Bronn's throat. A drop of blood beaded on the skin.
Bronn swallowed carefully. He felt naked. This boy saw right through him.
"No! My Lord! You are mistaken! I am a messenger!"
"If Deepden is falling... and you won't help... maybe I should just leave? Go back and tell them?" Bronn rasped, trying one last bluff.
Solomon looked at Lushen.
Lushen pressed the knife harder.
"Wait! Wait!" Bronn screamed.
"Alright! I admit it! I ran!"
"That damn castle is doomed! It won't last a week!"
"I didn't want to die in a rat trap!"
Solomon snapped his fingers.
Lushen pulled the knife away.
Bronn collapsed forward, hands on the ground, gasping for air. He touched his neck. Still attached.
"My Lord..." Bronn panted. "I... I told the truth. Except for the 'messenger' part. The rest is true. The castle is finished."
"Lord Lover hates your guts."
"That is the truth."
Solomon waved his hand. The guards sheathed their swords.
"Good."
Bronn looked up. The young lord was smiling.
And it was a smile that made Bronn more nervous than the knife.