Bronn stood outside the Hall of Order, unable to decide whether to go in or turn around and walk away.
He was wearing a brand-new deep-blue velvet coat with silver embroidery at the collar. The silver-buckled belt around his waist had cost him a full eight gold dragons.
Bronn looked down at his fancy new outfit, then up at the black hand sigil carved above the door. He shot a quick sideways glance at the white-bearded old man standing beside him with a sword at his hip and cursed under his breath.
Fuck.
Lord Bronn…
That was him now.
Lord Bronn of Stokeworth. Sounded impressive as hell.
A castle in the Crownlands that had been in the family for hundreds of years. The sigil was a white lamb holding a golden cup on a green field. The words: "We Serve." Very noble-sounding.
To Bronn it translated to one simple truth in plain language: "We're someone else's dogs."
Except now even that was gone, because the doghouse had burned to the ground.
The castle was nothing but ashes. Not even a splinter left standing. His mother-in-law, Lady Tanda, had died in the fire. His sister-in-law Falyse had been killed by her own husband. And that husband, Balman Byrch, was currently lying in a bed on the third floor of the Hall of Order. He would live, but he had lost any claim to the title.
In one night, the castle, the lands, and the title had all landed squarely on Bronn's head.
It had given him one hell of a headache.
He had married Lollys Stokeworth thinking he would have to wait thirty or forty years for the inheritance to fall into his lap. Instead it had dropped into his hands without him lifting a finger.
At first Bronn had been thrilled.
The morning Adam Marbrand's men came to tell him he was now Lord of Stokeworth, he had even bought Tyrion a drink. Cheap ale from a stall in Flea Bottom, but still. For a sellsword who never spent coin on anyone else, that was practically generosity.
The good mood hadn't lasted long.
"See that?" he remembered saying, slapping Tyrion on the back of the head and pointing at the smoking ruins in the distance. "That's my castle now."
"Needs a bit of fixing up, but you can come stay whenever you like. Pick the best room. Hell, pick two rooms. One to sleep in, one to fill with eight or ten girls so we can watch them put on a proper show."
Tyrion had just looked at him with that strange expression people get when they're watching a child who just learned to count and now thinks he can run the treasury.
"Do you have any idea how much it costs to repair a castle?"
Bronn had paused.
"I've got some coin saved up."
"How much?"
"A few thousand at least."
"Do you know how big Stokeworth is? The stone, the timber, the masons… that alone will bleed you dry. And once it's fixed, you still have to pay for upkeep, servants, guards. All of that costs money."
"That much?"
"Otherwise why do you think Falyse Stokeworth was such a miserable bitch? Money makes people mean."
After Tyrion finished explaining exactly how expensive a castle was, Bronn finally understood the problem.
"I can keep working as your bodyguard," he had offered, waving it off like it was nothing. "You might not be Master of Coin anymore, but you're still a Lannister. Go ask your father for some gold."
Tyrion's face had twitched. "Ask Tywin Lannister for money?"
"You might as well try pulling meat out of a lion's mouth with your bare hands."
"Right now he'd rather see me starve so he doesn't have to deal with a kingslayer suspect. If Corleone hadn't wiped out my gambling debts after I saved those kids, I'd probably be on Silk Street right now selling my ass to pay them off."
Bronn refused to give up on the castle that easily. The next day he went down to the docks looking for work.
The docks south of Flea Bottom along the Blackwater were the roughest part of King's Landing. No bright lights like the Ring of Order. Just wet planks, the stink of fish, and men who would cut your throat for a copper.
Bronn had taken off the fancy new coat and put his old worn leather armor back on. He even removed the big ruby from his sword hilt and tucked it inside his shirt. Flashing that thing around the docks was the same as holding up a sign that said "Please rob me."
Work wasn't easy to find.
The docks had their own rules and their own local bosses. You didn't just show up and have people line up to hand you gold.
He spent two days hanging around and only landed one job—scaring off a competitor for some Lysene merchant. Five gold dragons.
Five gold dragons.
A few years ago in the Riverlands that would have kept him comfortable for weeks.
Now? It wouldn't even cover fixing one corner of the west wall at Stokeworth.
Everything changed on the third evening when a small but heavily loaded merchant ship from the east pulled into the dock.
The captain and crew were arguing with a hooded old man in a gray cloak. The old man's beard was white. His sword looked old but well cared for.
The captain wanted more money than they had agreed on. The old man calmly pointed out he had already paid double the usual rate and the captain had raised the price twice already.
The captain didn't care. He threatened to call the Gold Cloaks and accuse the old man of stealing the coin in Slaver's Bay.
The old man went very still for a moment.
Then the captain was suddenly on his knees, gasping and clutching his stomach.
The crew rushed in.
They didn't last twenty heartbeats.
When it was over, the old man calmly crouched down, took five gold dragons from his purse, and dropped them one by one into the captain's shirt.
"We agreed on five," he said quietly. "That's what you get."
Then he turned and walked off the dock like nothing had happened.
Bronn had been leaning against a railing watching the whole thing.
The old man had money. Real money. From the way he handled that purse, there were at least two or three hundred gold dragons in there, maybe more.
But after seeing how he handled the crew, Bronn knew this wasn't some easy mark.
Still, Bronn wasn't some green boy either.
"Hey, old— uh, ser!"
He jogged after the man, wearing the easy, crooked grin he used to use back in the Riverlands.
"The docks aren't the safest place to wander alone. Slow down!"
The old man didn't answer. He just kept walking.
Bronn fell into step beside him anyway.
"That was some nice work back there. Haven't seen moves like that in King's Landing in a while."
Still no answer.
"From Slaver's Bay?" Bronn tried again. "Heard that's a good place if you don't mind the slave markets. And Lys… plenty of beautiful women there with all kinds of talents—"
"What do you want?"
The old man finally spoke, voice low and impatient from under the hood. He didn't slow down.
Bronn's grin widened.
"Nothing much. Just thought we could be friends."
"King's Landing's been rough lately, especially around the docks. You probably don't know, but kids have been going missing—"
"You want to protect me?" The old man stopped and turned his head. There was something almost amused in his tone.
Under the hood, Bronn could see a pair of sharp blue eyes.
"Protect might be a strong word. But I can show you around."
He spread his hands. "First time in the city, right? Where are you headed? Who are you looking for? I'm Bronn— well, Lord Bronn of Stokeworth. There isn't much in this city I don't know."
"Lord?"
The old man gave him a slow once-over, eyes lingering on the worn leather armor and plain sword.
Bronn straightened up. "Stokeworth. One of the oldest houses in the Crownlands. Sigil's a white lamb holding a golden cup. You've heard of it?"
"I've heard of it," the old man said after a long pause. "House Stokeworth has served the crown for generations. Lady Tanda. Lady Lollys. Lady Falyse. But I don't recall them having a lord named…"
He tilted his head slightly. "What did you say your name was again?"
Bronn's smile froze for half a second before he forced it back. "Bronn. Lord Bronn."
"Knighted after the Battle of the Blackwater. Ser Adam Marbrand himself gave me the title. I married Lollys Stokeworth. Her mother and sister are both dead, so now—"
"So now you're the lord," the old man finished for him. His tone gave nothing away.
Bronn lifted his chin. "That's right."
The old man studied him for a long moment. Then a small, mocking smile touched his mouth.
"You say you know everything about King's Landing," he said, "but you don't know who I am."
Bronn opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked the old man over again but came up empty.
"You…" he tried. "Who are you supposed to be?"
"Call me Whitebeard." The old man turned and started walking again, gray cloak swaying behind him. "I'm looking for someone."
Bronn hurried to catch up. "Who? Listen, if you need help finding anyone in this city, there's no one better than—"
"Vito Corleone."
The name hit Bronn like a fist to the face.
He stopped walking.
Fuck.
Corleone again.
Every time that name came up, something went wrong. Either Tyrion got kidnapped or castles burned down.
And if Corleone found out Bronn was hanging around the docks doing cheap jobs like some broke sellsword again…
He was supposed to be Lord Bronn of Stokeworth now.
Even if the castle was ashes and his pockets were empty, he still had the title.
"Don't know him," Bronn said quickly, already turning away. "Try someone else. I've got things to—"
"Stop."
Bronn froze.
Not because he wanted to, but because something sharp was now pressing against his lower back.
Oh. A sword.
That was fine.
The old man's voice came from right behind him. "You said there wasn't anyone in this city you didn't know. Take me to him."
Bronn swallowed. "I'm not that close with him. Corleone's a busy man—"
"Lord Vito Corleone."
Bronn corrected himself fast. "Right. Lord Corleone. We've only met a few times at the gambling house. If you want to see him, just go to the Hall of Order in Flea Bottom. Three streets south. Big sign out front. Can't miss it."
"Do you think the Master of Coin sees every old man who walks through his door?"
The sword pressed a little harder. "Stop wasting time. Take me to him, Lord Bronn."
Bronn's eyes darted around, looking for an exit. Then he spotted a big poster for the Ring of Order across the street and an idea formed.
"Not impossible," he said, turning back with a fresh smile. "Fastest way to get Corleone's attention is to beat one of his one-tier fighters in the Ring. I recommend you challenge that big bastard they call the Hammer."
Bronn almost laughed out loud at his own suggestion.
He had watched Gendry fight several times. Seventeen straight wins. Swung that twenty-pound hammer like it was a stick. Knights from the Vale, sellswords from the West, fighters from across the sea—none of them lasted ten exchanges.
Bronn had once seen a Dornish swordsman get launched into the stands like a catapult had fired him.
This old man was good, sure. But sending him against the Hammer? That was basically suicide.
"You don't know the rules yet, do you?" Bronn said, trying to sound helpful. "Challenging up costs two hundred gold dragons in bond money. You lose, you don't get it back. Got that kind of coin?"
He expected the old man to back down.
Instead Whitebeard simply pulled out his purse, weighed it in his hand, and said, "Take me there."
Bronn blinked. Then he stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture toward the street. "Right this way, then. Ring of Order's on the west side of Flea Bottom. Easy to find. I'll just be going now—"
"You're coming with me."
"What?"
"I said you're taking me there yourself."
Whitebeard's tone left no room for argument. "You claim to know this city. Guide me. Once I've beaten a one-tier fighter and spoken with Corleone, you can go."
Bronn opened his mouth to refuse, but the sword at his back pushed forward another inch. He swallowed whatever he was about to say.
Gods damn it. This old bastard was like glue.
"Fine!"
He threw up his hands like he was doing the old man a favor, already planning to slip away the moment they reached the Ring and the Hammer turned Whitebeard into paste.
"Follow me, Whitebeard."
They went.
And now, standing outside the Hall of Order after watching the old man dismantle Gendry in front of thousands of people, Bronn was trying very hard to disappear into the crowd.
He had barely taken two steps when that calm voice spoke from right behind him again.
"Don't even think about running, my lord."
Bronn stopped. His shoulders slumped.
He was starting to think that going down to the docks looking for work might have been the single stupidest decision of his entire life.
Even stupider than marrying Lollys.