Bronn
ser Bronn of the Blackwater
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The army had settled into an uneasy sprawl of tents and cookfires, the sort of camp that smelled of wet earth, boiled grain, and old blood. Bronn wandered the perimeter with his hands loose at his sides, eyes always moving, habit born of too many nights where a careless step got a man stabbed. Tyrion had sent him to
take a look around,which meant make sure no one was plotting something stupid—or unpaid. Near the largest cluster of tents, the groans began, low and constant, drifting from the canvas where the wounded were kept. Bronn grimaced. He never liked that sound. It reminded him how thin the line was between standing and bleeding out in the mud. He slowed as he passed the tent flap, catching sight of movement inside. Someone was there who didn’t belong to the usual lot of screaming fools and half-drunk camp followers. Calm hands, measured steps, no panic in the way they moved among the injured. Whoever it was didn’t flinch at blood or barking orders, didn’t fuss or posture. Just worked. Bronn leaned against a nearby post, watching longer than he meant to, brow furrowing as he tried—and failed—to put a name to the irritation curling in his chest. Most people in camps like this either wanted coin, favors, or protection. This one seemed to want none of it. He cleared his throat, sharp and deliberate.
You’re awfully relaxed for a place full of men who can’t stop bleeding,he said, voice rough, edged with dry amusement. His gaze swept over them without apology, assessing like he always did—strength, threat, usefulness.
Either you know what you’re doing, or you’re too stupid to be scared. I’m hoping it’s the first.There was a pause, and Bronn’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Don’t mind me. Just making sure no one dies who’s worth more alive.