Over the next few hours, Luke moved through Shoe-maker's Square like a cunning mole, weaving between the various stalls.
He cautiously sold a few more jars of "Mithril Sal" and "Velvet Snow," along with some floral water and wind oil essence.
His goal was clear.
He targeted the colorful "stones" that appeared mixed in with cheap jewelry or as "freebies" on the stalls.
Thanks to his perfect language comprehension and increasingly skilled bargaining, he always managed to trade Blue Star industrial goods at prices that seemed fair but were actually massive steals, acquiring piles of natural minerals that locals saw as nothing more than "pretty trinkets."
Several pieces of what looked like opal with play-of-color, colorful tourmaline fragments, multicolored gemstones, and some warm, smooth jade-like stones…
He even traded three bottles of newly named "Rosewater" perfume for several thick wolf and bear pelts from a northern fur trader.
He naturally didn't dare bring these back to Blue Star, but they would be perfect for decorating his future base in Westeros — improving comfort while showing off "status."
After all, being able to obtain fine northern furs was itself a subtle display of power.
Coral, ivory, tortoiseshell, rhino horn… items that were taboo on Blue Star — he avoided them completely.
He had no intention of touching legal or moral red lines.
By midday, hunger gnawed at his stomach, and more importantly, he still hadn't found bodyguards.
Remembering the information he'd gathered, taverns were often gathering spots for mercenaries and the flow of information.
He chose a fairly busy tavern with a sign showing a grinning old shoemaker — "Shoemaker's Dad."
Pushing the door open, a wave of noise and the mixed smells of ale, roasted meat, sweat, and cheap tobacco hit him.
The hall was packed with people of all kinds — mostly mercenaries, sailors, and small merchants — shouting and clinking cups nonstop.
Luke found a relatively quiet corner against the wall, ordered a mug of ale and a plate of stew that looked reasonably clean.
While slowly eating — the food was rough but at least hot — he kept his ears open and scanned the crowd for suitable candidates.
At that moment, a commotion at a central table caught his attention.
A man with greasy, messy hair and a scruffy beard — lean but with a wolf-like ferocity — was being cornered by an old man with graying hair and a slight limp.
The old man held a dirty rag and pointed at him, his voice firm despite its low volume: "…Bronn! It's been half a month! Ten silver stags! If you don't pay today, don't even think about getting another drop of wine here, and no more credit!"
Bronn?
Luke stopped chewing. His sharp gaze locked onto the man called Bronn.
Black hair, black eyes, that roguish yet sharp and ruthless aura typical of bottom-tier survivors…
Although he didn't look exactly like the actor from the show, the vibe — especially the name — made Luke's heart skip.
Bronn spread his hands with a helpless but cheeky smile, his voice hoarse: "Old man, give me a few more days. I, Bronn, keep my word. Before I leave King's Landing, I'll pay you back every single coin. That's my bottom line."
The drinkers at nearby tables burst into laughter and whistles.
"Did you hear that? Bronn's 'bottom line'! His bottom line is the tavern floor!"
"Bronn, why haven't we seen you at the 'Happy Quay' on Silk Street lately? Did the brothel kick you out too?"
"Probably pawned your sword already! What are you going to pay with? That thick face of yours?"
The mockery came wave after wave.
Bronn seemed used to it. He just grinned and took the teasing, though a hint of gloom and impatience flashed deep in his eyes.
Just as the old shoemaker frowned, seemingly about to say more, a clear voice rang out from the corner. It wasn't loud, but it carried a strange penetrating power that cut through the noise.
"You. Is your name really Bronn?"
Everyone's eyes — including Bronn's and the old shoemaker's — turned toward Luke, who had just set down his wooden mug.
Luke stood up and walked over to Bronn's table.
Though his outfit was low-key, the fabric and tailoring stood out sharply in a place like "Shoemaker's Dad."
Combined with his calm demeanor, handsome features, and spotless appearance, the tavern noise quieted down noticeably.
Bronn narrowed his black eyes, sizing Luke up. His roguish smile faded slightly, replaced by wariness and assessment.
"That's me. What can I do for you, my lord?"
"How good are you with a blade?" Luke asked directly, looking straight into Bronn's eyes.
Bronn was momentarily stunned by the blunt question.
He glanced at the drinkers who had just been mocking him, then curled his lips into that signature self-mocking, arrogant smile. "Good enough. At least… beating anyone in this room shouldn't be a problem."
"Oooh—!"
"Bronn, you're not afraid of biting your tongue with all that bragging!"
"Come on, let 'Iron Hammer' Hank test your 'good enough'!"
Bronn's words were like water droplets in hot oil, instantly igniting the tavern.
The mercenaries who had been watching the show jumped up, slamming tables and hurling curses and challenges.
Luke acted as if he hadn't heard them. He simply looked at Bronn and repeated, "You claim you can beat anyone in this tavern?"
Bronn felt a bit unnerved by Luke's stare, but the words were already out. He nodded stiffly: "That's right."
"Good." Luke stopped looking at him and turned to the entire tavern, raising his voice. "Everyone heard that!"
Bang!
He slammed a heavy leather pouch onto the table in front of Bronn. The clear sound of clinking metal rang out.
"There are one hundred gold dragons in here."
Luke's voice echoed clearly in the suddenly quiet tavern: "Today, right here, before this man Bronn proves his claim — or before someone proves him wrong — this bag of gold belongs to whoever becomes the strongest in 'Shoemaker's Dad' tavern."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across faces that had turned greedy, excited, or skeptical at the mention of "one hundred gold dragons."
"Furthermore, I will hire this 'strongest' as my personal bodyguard. Daily pay: one gold dragon. Food and lodging fully covered. Weapons and armor fully covered."
Dead silence.
Then — Boom! — an even louder uproar exploded!
One gold dragon per day!
Food and lodging included!
Weapons and armor included!
Plus the immediate prize of one hundred gold dragons!
Being a bodyguard — especially for a clearly rich noble lord — was one of the most desirable, easy jobs in the mercenary world!
Nobles usually valued their lives highly and rarely put themselves in danger, meaning low risk, light work, and extremely high pay!
Even elite soldiers who fought in real wars with their lives on the line couldn't earn this much!
Several hot-tempered men, already drunk on cheap ale, drew their rusty swords with a clang and roared as they prepared to charge.
"Stop!" the old shoemaker shouted shrilly, waving his rag to block them. "Take your fighting outside! Don't swing blades in my place! If you break anything, even selling all of you wouldn't cover the damages!"
"Yeah! Outside!"
"To the Gods' Gate! There's an arena there!"
"Whoever wins is the boss, takes the gold, and follows the noble lord!"
The crowd grew rowdy, shoving and shouting as they surged toward the door, afraid of missing the fight that would decide the "one hundred gold dragons and daily one-gold-dragon dream job."
Bronn licked his dry lips, looked at the heavy bag of gold on the table, then at the calm Luke — who looked like he had just made a small business deal — and finally at his fellow mercenaries who were pouring out, cracking their knuckles.
The familiar, combative gleam mixed with naked greed for gold lit up in his wolf-like black eyes.
"My lord. Looks like I'll need to stretch my muscles a bit before we can properly discuss that employment contract."
He grabbed his unfinished mug of cheap ale, downed it in one gulp, and wiped his mouth.
Luke smiled faintly and made a "please" gesture.
The crowd surged out of "Shoemaker's Dad" like a bursting dam, shouting and yelling as they headed toward the public fighting ground near the Gods' Gate in King's Landing.
There, bloodshed and even death were "legal" under ancient custom.
People often held fights or "trial by combat" there!
Luke followed unhurriedly, calculating in his mind.
Using one hundred gold dragons and a top-tier salary as bait would not only screen for real talent but also quickly build his reputation as a generous lord who valued martial strength.
More importantly, this public fight might attract even more potential talent.
Or… the attention of those with ulterior motives.
Killing many birds with one stone.
He was curious to see whether this Bronn — known in the original story for pragmatism, agility, and survival wisdom — was truly as capable as he remembered.