Over the next few hours, Luke scurried between the stalls of Cobbler’s Square like a shrewd mole.
He discreetly sold off a few more jars of “Mithril Salt” and “Velvet Snow,” along with a small amount of Florida Water and Essential Balm.
His goal was clear.
He was looking for the multi-colored “stones” mixed in with cheap trinkets or thrown in as freebies at various stalls.
Thanks to his language comprehension skill and his growing bargaining skills, he was always able to trade Blue Star industrial goods for a pile of natural minerals that the locals saw as mere “pretty trinkets”—all at prices that seemed fair but yielded him a massive profit.
A few play-of-color stones suspected to be opals, some brightly colored tourmaline fragments, multicolored gemstones, and warm-textured jade…
He even traded three bottles of his newly named “Rose Water” perfume to a fur merchant from the North for several thick wolf-skin and bear-skin rugs.
Of course, he didn’t dare bring these things back to the Blue Star.
But using them to decorate his future stronghold in Westeros would not only increase his comfort but also project his “strength.”
After all, being able to procure fine Northern furs was an unspoken statement in itself.
Coral, ivory, tortoiseshell, rhino horn…
things that were contraband on the Blue Star, he steered well clear of them whenever he saw them.
He had no desire to cross legal or moral red lines, nor could he afford to!
As noon approached, his stomach began to growl.
More importantly, he still hadn’t secured a bodyguard.
Recalling the information he had gathered, taverns were often the places where sellswords gathered and information flowed.
He chose a tavern that seemed to be doing brisk business, with a sign depicting a grinning old shoemaker—”Father Cobbler.”
Pushing the door open, a wave of noise hit him, thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, sweat, and cheap tobacco.
The hall was packed to the brim, mostly with various sellswords, sailors, and petty merchants.
The air was filled with clamor and the constant clinking of cups and plates.
Luke found a relatively quiet corner against the wall and sat down, ordering a mug of ale and a plate of stew that looked reasonably clean.
He ate slowly.
The food tasted rustic, but at least it was hot.
Meanwhile, he kept his ears open, scanning the crowd for a suitable target.
Just then, a commotion near a table in the center of the tavern caught his attention.
A man with greasy, messy hair, a scruffy beard, and a lean, wolfish, menacing look was cornered at the table by a white-haired old man who seemed to have a limp.
Clutching a dirty rag, the old man pointed at him, his voice low but firm.
“…Bronn!
It’s been half a moon!
Ten Silver Stags!
If you don’t pay me back today, don’t expect to drink another drop of ale here, and don’t even think about running up a tab!”
Bronn?
Luke stopped chewing, his sharp gaze shifting to the man called Bronn.
Black hair, dark eyes, and a cynical demeanor paired with the keen, ruthless edge typical of a bottom-feeder struggling to survive…
Though he didn’t look exactly like the actor from the show, that distinct vibe—and especially that name—made Luke’s heart skip a beat.
Bronn spread his hands, a helpless, slightly roguish smile on his face.
“Come now, Pop, give me a few more days,” he said in a raspy voice.
“I’m a man of my word.
I’ll pay you back every last copper before I leave King’s Landing.
Not a single coin short.
That’s my bottom line.”
A burst of laughter and catcalls erupted from the surrounding tables.
“You hear that?
Bronn’s ‘bottom line’! Find the original chapter at g.com.
His bottom line is the tavern floor!”
“Bronn, how come we haven’t seen you at the Happy Port on the Street of Silk lately?
Did even the brothels kick you out?”
“Probably pawned his sword too!
What are you going to pay him with?
Your thick skin?”
The jeers rose from all sides.
Bronn seemed long accustomed to this.
He merely smirked, enduring the mockery, though a subtle flash of gloom and irritation flickered in the depths of his eyes.
Just as old Father Cobbler frowned, seemingly about to say more, a voice rang out clearly from the corner.
It wasn’t loud, but it possessed a peculiar, penetrating quality that cut through the tavern’s din.
“Is your name truly Bronn?”
Everyone in the tavern, including Bronn and old Father Cobbler, turned toward the source of the voice, their eyes landing on Luke, who had just set down his wooden mug.
Luke stood up and walked slowly over to Bronn’s table.
Though his cosplay attire was low-key, its fabric and cut looked entirely out of place in an establishment like Father Cobbler’s.
Coupled with his calm bearing, handsome features, and immaculate cleanliness, his presence immediately caused the tavern’s ruckus to die down a notch.
Bronn narrowed his dark eyes, sizing Luke up.
The cynical grin on his face faded slightly, replaced by a touch of wariness and calculation.
“That’s me.
What can I do for you, my lord?”
“How are your fighting skills?” Luke asked directly, meeting Bronn’s gaze with a calm look.
Bronn stared blankly for a moment, not expecting such a direct question.
He glanced at the surrounding patrons who had just been mocking him, and his lips curled back into his signature smirk—a mix of self-deprecation and defiance.
“Good enough.
Good enough to beat anyone in this room without much trouble, at least.”
“Hoh—!”
“Bronn, watch you don’t bite your bloody tongue off boasting like that!”
“Step up, then!
Let ‘Hammer’ Hank test your ‘good enough’!”
Bronn’s words were like water dropped into boiling oil, instantly exploding the tavern.
The sellswords who had been enjoying the show were outraged.
They slammed their tables and stood up, filling the room with foul curses and provocative shouts.
Luke, however, acted as if he hadn’t heard them.
He simply stared at Bronn and repeated, “You say you can beat anyone in this tavern?”
Bronn felt slightly unnerved under Luke’s gaze, but since he had already spoken, he hardened his resolve and nodded.
“That’s right.”
“Good.” Luke stopped looking at him and turned to the entire tavern, raising his voice.
“You all heard him!”
With a heavy thud, he slammed a weighty leather pouch onto the wooden table in front of Bronn.
It let out a melodious clinking of metal.
“Inside this pouch are one hundred Gold Dragons.”
Luke’s voice echoed clearly through the suddenly silenced tavern. Get faster updates on g.com.
“Today, right here, before Master Bronn proves his words—or rather, before someone proves him wrong—this bag of gold belongs to whoever proves themselves the strongest in Father Cobbler’s tavern.”
He paused, his eyes sweeping over faces that had instantly grown greedy, excited, or skeptical at the mention of “one hundred Gold Dragons.”
“Furthermore, I will hire this ‘strongest man’ as my personal bodyguard.
The wage is one Gold Dragon a day.
Room and board included, weapons and armor provided.”
Dead silence.
Then, with a deafening roar, an even greater uproar erupted!
One Gold Dragon a day!
Room and board included!
Weapons and armor provided!
Plus the hundred Gold Dragons bounty sitting right before them!
A bodyguard gig, especially for a wealthy-looking noble lord, was one of the cushiest and most lucrative jobs in the sellsword business!
Highborn lords usually valued their lives more than anyone, rarely putting themselves in harm’s way, which meant low risk, easy work, and extremely high pay!
Such wages were beyond the dreams of even elite soldiers marching off to real war with their lives on the line!
A few hot-tempered brutes, already half-drunk, glared with bloodshot eyes.
With a sharp ring, they drew their rusted longswords and lunged forward with roaring cries.
“Hold!” old Father Cobbler shrieked, waving his dirty rag as he threw himself between them.
“If you’re going to fight, take it outside!
No drawing blades in my establishment!
If you break my things, I couldn’t get enough to cover it even if I sold you off!”
“Aye!
Take it outside!”
“To the Gate of the Gods!
There’s a tourney ground over there!”
“Whoever wins is the boss, takes the gold, and rides with the lord!”
The crowd became a noisy, shoving, shouting mass, like a dry pile of brushwood set ablaze.
Many were already scrambling for the door, terrified of arriving late and missing out on the contest that would decide who got the hundred Gold Dragons and the gold-a-day dream job.
Bronn licked his dry lips.
He looked at the heavy pouch of Gold Dragons on the table, then at Luke, who remained perfectly calm as if he had just conducted a minor transaction, and finally at his fellow sellswords who were eagerly crowding out the door.
In those dark, wolfish eyes of his, a familiar light began to burn—one of combativeness and a raw, naked lust for gold.
“My lord,” he said, “looks like I’ll have to stretch my limbs a bit before we can properly discuss my employment contract.”
He grabbed his unfinished cup of cheap ale from the table, downed it in a single gulp, and wiped his mouth.
Luke smiled slightly and made a gesturing motion.
“After you.”
Like a burst dam, the crowd flooded out of Father Cobbler’s tavern, clamoring as they headed toward the public tourney grounds near the Gate of the Gods in King’s Landing.
There, bloodshed and even death were considered “legal” competition, tacitly permitted by ancient custom.
People often fought duels or held trials by combat there.
Luke followed behind at a leisurely pace, calculating in his mind.
Using a hundred Gold Dragons and top-tier pay as bait would not only weed out the weak and select someone truly capable, but it would also draw a crowd in a short time, establishing his reputation as a wealthy lord who valued martial prowess.
More importantly, this public contest might attract even more potential talent…
Or the attention of those with ulterior motives.
Killing several birds with one stone.
He wanted to see for himself whether Bronn—a man known in the original story for his pragmatism, agility, and survival instincts—was truly as formidable a fighter as he remembered.