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Lord Bronn

Tracking men was easier than tracking game. 

Animals only left footprints and droppings. But when men traveled, they usually brought things with them. Horses, obviously, but also supplies. And a hunting party - even a small one - was never short on either.

It was most fortunate for Ser Damon that he picked up his prey’s trail so quickly. The forest that surrounded Castle Stokeworth was a wild sort, thick with ancient, towering trees. Not much sunlight broke through its canopy of branches and leaves. Come nightfall, Damon would be forced to navigate the wild labyrinth in total darkness. 

He had a lantern, of course. Just in case. But using it would not help him in his task. Quite the opposite, in fact. A lantern in the dark would be most easy to spot. And for a man on a mission of assassination? That just would not do.

Ser Damon needed to reach Bronn of the Blackwater and he needed to do it before the sun went down.

He had sent Storm Spirit off, knowing the steed would return at the sound of his whistle. But that was for a swift escape. For now, the Queen’s sworn sword was making his way through the woods on foot.

A loyal mount, he is. Fast too. I’ll be halfway back to the capital by the time the servants realize something is amiss. Hells, they may even dismiss my doing as the work of bandits.

Ser Damon grinned to himself as he slowly, slowly came upon a pair of men. They were several meters away, trotting along at a measured pace. Damon could see from their colors that they were Stokeworth men. Both were armed with hunting spears.

The other four must be with their lord, Ser Damon figured.

Mindful of the twigs scattered along the forest floor, the bastard knight stalked closer and closer. And his targets remained unsuspecting.

Two armed men wouldn’t be a problem, Damon knew. He had faced worse odds. The tricky part would be getting rid of them quietly. If one of them hollered, the whole forest would hear it. And the last thing Damon wanted was Lord Bronn to have his guard up.

So how would he do it, the Bastard of Blackhaven wondered. Wait for them to separate and then take them out one at a time? Or try and take them both out in one fell swoop.

It was midday when Ser Damon first set off in search of his quarry. Some hours had passed in his efforts to track down the hunting party. Already, Damon could feel the forest around him growing ever dimmer. Less and less sunlight was reaching the forest floor. He had only found two of Lord Bronn’s sworn men, not the Lord himself. He still didn’t know where exactly the man was. He didn’t even know in which direction to start looking. Ser Damon was running out of time.

As he drew nearer to the huntsmen, he began to hear their voices more clearly. Ser Damon listened intently. Perhaps he would learn valuable information.

“...And he decided to name the boy Tywin? After the Lannister lord?” One of the men asked the other, incredulous. 

The mention of his queen’s father gave Ser Damon a moment of pause. He pressed his body against the base of one of the towering pines, listening even more closely.

“He tried, he did.” The other huntsman answered, laughing. He was the taller of the two and skinnier. Ser Damon knew he would be able to take him easily. “I can’t imagine the queen was too pleased with that. She denied the request, of course. So Lord Bronn goes and names the boy Tyrion instead!”

The skinny huntsman guffawed, throwing his head back. But his companion winced. 

For his part, Ser Damon shared the man’s feelings. Such an insult to the queen - to any queen - would surely be received very poorly. The more Damon learned of this Lord Bronn, the more he understood why Cersei wanted him dead.

“Lord Bronn has got balls made of bronze.” The tall man continued, chuckling now. But even so, not the name I’d have chosen for my boy.”

“I don’t doubt it. That name's cursed, most like.” The wincing man muttered, shaking his head. “Bestowed upon an Imp after he’s killed his mother being born. Then that Imp grows up and poisons the King? He escapes justice and kills the King’s Hand as well? A demon’s name.”

“I don’t know, Pate. Sounds like a lucky name to me-” The tall man was silenced by his own gurgling. He fell to one knee, clutching at the dagger that was buried in his throat. Ser Damon’s aim had been true.

His companion only stared, bewildered. Realization didn’t dawn on his face until Ser Damon strode quickly into his view, touching the blade of his longsword to his throat. 

It had all happened in an instant. One man dead and another taken hostage.

As he watched his companion choke on his own blood, Ser Damon gave his captive a deathly stare. The man’s face had gone a pale white, his wide eyes jumping from the corpse to the man that made it so.

Ser Damon touched his finger to his lips, signaling for silence. His captive didn’t nod. He didn’t do much of anything besides stare and tremble in his boots.

“Do not scream.” The Queen’s sworn sword spoke calmly. But his words came cold as death.

“I… I won’t.” The trembling man swallowed. He held both of his hands up and open. He was no threat. He was unarmed. Maybe he thought that it would save him?

Ser Damon kept his eyes leveled at his captive. But still he was alert, keenly aware of every little noise happening around them. He would take no chances. This interrogation would be conducted quickly.

“You will answer my questions.” He told the shorter man. Not a request or even a command. It was simply a fact.

The captive huntsman nodded. And Ser Damon felt a small measure of professional satisfaction.

“Good.” Said the bastard knight. “Where is the rest of your hunting party? Where is Lord Bronn?”

---

Finishing off the second man was ugly business. But it had to be done. Ser Damon couldn’t take the chance that he would run off and warn the others. This task was given to him directly from the Queen. He would not fail her.

The young knight continued on, following the directions given by his departed captive. Stalking silently through the trees, ever mindful of his footfalls, Ser Damon came upon the rest of the hunting party in little time. Damon smelled the hunting party before he saw them. Or rather, he caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and roasted hare. Lord Bronn and his fellows had made a small camp. The campfire had made it that much easier for Damon to find them.

Most fortunate for him as the daylight had only dimmed further. If the gods were good, he might complete his mission just before nightfall.

Damon drew closer, creeping on silent feet, until he was mere feet away from the gathering of five men. He remained unmoving, as still as the trees around him, and unnoticed. He watched, waited, and listened.

Two of the men were asleep, much to Damon’s relief. One of them was snoring. Very loudly. The other three men were conversing and trading japes as huntsmen did. 

The new - and soon to be late - Lord of Stokeworth was easy enough to spot. He was the man wearing the finest cloak and fresh leathers - his garb was visibly of higher quality, even after a day of hunting with the lads.

A slender, wiry fellow was this Bronn of the Blackwater. His body lent itself well to speed, not strength. And those eyes of his, dark and sharp, shifting from man to man… 

This one might be tricky, Ser Damon thought.

“Gerold picked up some boar tracks earlier, my lord.” said one of the awake huntsmen. He was sitting at the foot of a tree. His spear was right beside him, set up against the trunk. Damon felt he would be tricky as well.

“Hunting wild boar can be more trouble than it’s worth. Least from what I’ve heard. I’ve always preferred venison, anyway…” The Lord of Stokeworth answered with dry mirth, though the humor didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Ser Damon knew the truth of the man. The affable nature was a facade. The true Bronn was a killer, cold and remorseless.

It was time to put an end to the man.

Ser Damon hardened his heart and went about his task methodically. Silent as a crypt, the bastard knight delivered death to the sleeping men first. A dagger to the heart for both of them. Cleaner kills than his earlier dealings with their hunting companions, and much quieter as well. There was no retching and choking on their own blood. The snoring was no more.

The other two spearmen fell next. For them, Ser Damon had to take his time, slowly, slowly stalking around the outer edge of the campsite. He kept to the shadows, hugging the face of the tree trunks. He had to wait for lulls in the conversation, so as to not create suspicious pauses in their talking. But he did it. Two more men dead, with the last not even suspecting the danger. Not until Ser Damon’s blade was at his throat.

Frowning, the young knight wiped his dagger clean. Only one man left. The man he was sent to kill. Damon cast his eyes to where Lord Bronn had been sitting only to find that his prey was no longer there.

Ser Damon did not gasp or jump or curse, but the feeling of shock was abrupt all the same. His whole body grew tense as his eyes began to dart around the deathly quiet campsite.

How did I lose him?

Then, suddenly… the sound of a branch cracking underfoot. Very close. And coming from behind Ser Damon.

His heart nearly leaping into his throat, Damon whirled around. In an instant he had his longsword drawn and at the ready. Sure enough, he laid his eyes on the man his beloved queen wanted dead.

Lord Bronn stared back, one dagger in each hand. Though he looked almost embarrassed. He gave a quick glance down at his feet, scowling at the twig he had just stepped on. The twig that may have just saved Ser Damon’s life.

Fortune really is on my side…

“Fuck’s sake.” The up-jumped cutthroat muttered. No hint of anger or fury. But plenty of annoyance. “My footing is usually better than that.”

Ser Damon stood at his full height then, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword. He pointed the blade right at Lord Bronn.

“You heard me coming.” He guessed, slowly circling to his target’s flank. Lord Bronn did the same, mirroring his movements.

“No.” He snorted, twirling his daggers. “I knew something was wrong when Edric stopped snoring. The cunt never stops snoring.”

Damon clenched his teeth, silently chiding himself. He should have known better. Such an oversight was unbecoming for a man of his experience. The Bastard of Blackhaven said nothing, keeping his gaze firmly on the other man. On his daggers, specifically. Damon’s vision was focused, looking for the tells. An attack could come at any moment.

The two men continued to circle each other. A smile broke across Lord Bronn’s face, the glow of the campfire dancing in his eyes.

“So… you’re the fucker who thinks he’s going to kill me.” He said to Damon, though not quite accusingly. “Did the queen send you?”

“There are many that want you dead.” Damon answered curtly.

“Not many that are still alive.” Bronn bit back in turn. The smile dropped off of his face. He slid the blades of his daggers together, flourishing them. As if Damon would be threatened by the theatrics. “Well get on with it, then.”

Ser Damon advanced. He had the advantage in both size and weaponry. So he was going to use it.

Their blades came together, daggers against longsword. Sure enough, it became clear that Bronn was working with less. Even with two blades, they were too short to reach him when Bronn swung at his legs or at his neck. And with his sword keeping his opponent at a distance, Damon knew the other man had the tougher fight. 

Still, Damon could not deny Lord Bronn’s tenacity. He respected the man’s fighting spirit, if not his deeds. Against anyone else, the man would come out the survivor. Today, though, luck just wasn’t on Bronn’s side. 

Ser Damon was the bigger and stronger man. He advanced with unshakable conviction, purpose in every swing of his sword. And Bronn could do nothing but retreat. On the backfoot, the other man moved, ducking and dodging just out of the reach of death. But death closed in quickly, merciless.

Now there was anger in Lord Bronn’s eyes. Ser Damon could see it. The casual annoyance had melted away quickly when it became clear to Bronn that Damon was no ordinary sellsword. Ser Damon wasn’t just any other mercenary. He was the Queen’s Sword. He was the man with fortune on his side.

The end came quickly. A sudden elbow to Lord Bronn’s face. A missed check against Ser Damon’s longsword. The Bastard of Blackhaven thrust his blade forth, hard and with blessed purpose. And so he ran through Bronn of the Blackwater, piercing the man’s black heart until the hilt of his sword was pressed against his chest. 

It was the killing blow that would earn Damon the right into Queen Cersei’s bed.

Bronn stared at Damon in shock. But it was only for a short moment. The light quickly left the man’s eyes. Ser Damon heard two clunking sounds as the daggers slipped from lifeless fingers and hit the dirt. 

It was done. Lord Bronn was dead.

Ser Damon drew his sword free of the corpse, the blade slick with blood. As he wiped it clean, he noticed just how dark the forest had become. Night hadn’t fallen, but it soon would.

The campfire glowed brilliantly, the light catching on his blade. Like the gods themselves were blessing this killing. Ser Damon had never put much faith into the gods, old or new. But with his recent stroke of astronomical luck… he had to wonder.

The young, seasoned knight sheathed his sword, sighing. He stood at the edge of the hunting camp, surveying the bodies. Seven men he had killed today in the name of his Lannister queen.

Damon spared one last look at the body of Bronn of the Blackwater. They hadn’t been so different, he realized then. Men with no name, no inheritance, trying to make their way in a violent world. Trying to find their fortune. 

“Sorry, mate.” Ser Damon said to the corpse. “Ugly business.”

Damon gave a tired huff and turned away. He moved closer to the campfire, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth. Then he brought his fingers to his lips and whistled.

Though there was one difference between him and Bronn, the Bastard Knight noted as he awaited Storm Spirit.

Ser Damon was still alive.