The public tourney grounds near the Gate of the Gods had become the liveliest spot in the Cobbler’s Square area.
Dust billowed from the rough flagstones, kicked up by countless feet.
The area was packed with commoners looking for entertainment, sellswords eager to try their luck, and vendors who had rushed over upon hearing the news.
A dozen or so drunks and sellswords who had followed them out of the tavern brandished their weapons, their faces flushed and necks strained as they clamored to duel Bronn immediately, as if those hundred Gold Dragons were already in their pockets.
Bronn, however, took his time.
He crossed his arms, leaning back against a hitching post, and shook his head with his usual mocking smirk.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he called out, raising his voice to carry over the din.
“There are too many of you wanting a piece of me.
I don’t have the strength or the interest to fight a gauntlet.
Let’s do this instead…”
He pointed to the center of the ring and continued, “You lot fight each other first.
Determine the strongest among you, and then that man fights me.
Whoever beats everyone else earns the right to take the hundred Gold Dragons and the cushy job.”
Hearing this, the clamoring crowd paused and looked at each other.
Alcohol and greed had clouded most of their minds.
No one immediately realized this was a clever ploy by Bronn to preserve his own strength; instead, they found the proposal “fair”!
After all, none of them wanted someone else to sweep in and steal their prize.
“Fine!
We do it that way!”
“I’m first!
Who’s stepping up?”
“You think I’m afraid of you?!”
The chaotic brawl began.
To win the “privilege” of fighting Bronn, a dozen men squared off in pairs in the dust, while others devolved into a chaotic free-for-all.
The clash of steel, angry roars, agonized screams, and the jeers and cheers of the onlookers melded into a deafening roar.
The level of skill varied wildly.
Some fought with ferocious, vicious strikes; others were comically clumsy, quickly ending up flat on their backs.
Some drew blood, retreating with curses as they clutched their wounds, though fortunately, no lives were lost.
The scene was chaotic and brutal, filled with a raw, primal violence.
Luke stood at the edge of the crowd, observing calmly.
This was his first time watching real combat in this world up close, and it was entirely different from the choreographed fight scenes in television dramas.
The combat here was more direct, far more perilous, and devoid of grace.
It was purely a struggle for survival and profit.
He felt a chill in his heart, his understanding of the dangers of this world deepening further.
Bronn, like an old wolf watching its prey, leaned against the post.
His sharp eyes swept over every combatant, assessing their strength, habits, and weaknesses, occasionally cracking jokes with the spectators who nudged close to ask questions.
After about half an hour, the melee finally drew to a close.
A massive, burly sellsword wielding a heavy battle-axe had taken down three opponents in a row.
Though he had sustained some injuries himself, his fierce demeanor intimidated the others, and none dared to step forward to challenge him.
He panted heavily, his bloodshot eyes glaring at Bronn.
He pointed his axe to the ground, letting out a low, provocative growl.
Seeing the time was right, Bronn cracked his neck and loosened his wrists.
He drew his broad-bladed longsword—which looked highly practical and well-maintained—and stepped into the center of the ring with light, easy strides.
“Big guy, you’ve got decent strength,” Bronn said, licking his lips.
“Pity fighting isn’t just about strength.”
The true duel began.
Unlike the chaotic brawl before, Bronn’s swordsmanship was simple, efficient, and deeply deceptive.
He did not clash head-on with the brute’s greataxe.
Instead, utilizing his superior footwork and quick reflexes, he circled, jabbed, and baited his opponent into overextending.
His strikes came from awkward angles, launched precisely when his opponent’s momentum had peaked but before he could recover.
Every thrust was executed with a clear purpose: to cripple the man’s mobility.
The brute roared repeatedly, his axe swinging with terrifying force but hitting only empty air.
Instead of landing a blow, his overexertion and blood loss caused his stamina to plummet.
Bronn was like a slippery eel, or a patient jackal waiting for its prey to tire itself out.
Luke watched, mesmerized.
This was no longer a television performance; it was real combat skill, balanced on the knife-edge of life and death.
Every dodge, every feint, every precise thrust or parry Bronn made was filled with pragmatic wisdom and instincts forged from years of living by the sword.
After some thirty passes, Bronn caught the man in a stumble.
With a deft flick of his longsword, he disarmed the brute, sending the battle-axe flying, and immediately pressed his blade’s tip against the man’s throat.
“You lose,” Bronn said, his voice calm, almost lazy.
The brute’s face turned ash-pale.
He panted heavily, lowering his head in bitter defeat.
Bronn sheathed his sword and turned toward Luke.
He raised his chin slightly, wearing the pride of a victor and a subtle look of anticipation.
“My lord, it seems I—”
Before he could finish, a gruff voice called out from the other side of the crowd.
“Hold on!
I don’t buy it!
The bastard didn’t win fair.
He just dodged and ran!”
“Aye!
Fight a proper fight if you’ve got the guts!”
“We just got here!
We haven’t even had our turn!”
Several sellswords who had clearly not come from Father Cobbler’s but had rushed over upon hearing the news squeezed through the crowd.
They were broad-shouldered, well-equipped, and had fierce, dangerous eyes.
Bronn’s face darkened.
He loved gold, but he also valued his life.
The fatigue from consecutive fights was real.
If a few more tough bastards stepped up, the outcome would be hard to call.
He looked at Luke, his eyes questioning, carrying a faint, hidden tension.
Would this paying noble change his mind under pressure?
Luke met Bronn’s gaze, then glanced at the new challengers, quickly weighing his options in his mind.
What he needed was a captain of the guard who could keep order and had real skill.
Bronn’s performance had already proven his worth.
But authority had to be established beyond any doubt.
He stepped forward, his voice ringing out clearly across the grounds.
“Bronn has already proven he is the strongest man I could find in Father Cobbler’s.
However, since new challengers wish to question that…”
He paused, his gaze fixing on Bronn’s face.
“Bronn, if you can win three more fights—no matter who the opponents are—not only will I recognize you as the undisputed strongest here, but I will double your prize.
Two hundred Gold Dragons.”
Bronn’s pupils contracted slightly.
Two hundred Gold Dragons!
That was enough to live like a king in King’s Landing for a long time—visiting the brothels every single day, eating fine meat, and drinking his fill.
In an instant, his fatigue and the risks were wiped away by the massive reward.
His wolfish eyes lit up once more, and he licked his dry lips.
“You’re a man of your word, my lord?”
“You have my word.”
“Good!”
Bronn grunted, raising his longsword once more to face the eager new challengers.
“Who’s first?
Make it quick, I’ve got gold to collect and wine to drink!”
In the three fights that followed, Bronn showed them the meaning of “quick and clean.”
Perhaps spurred by the doubled prize, or perhaps unwilling to show weakness before his employer, he abandoned his evasive style for a more aggressive, vicious approach.
His strikes were fast, precise, and ruthless, taking full advantage of his opponents’ arrogance or impatience.
Within an average of less than ten passes each, the three challengers fell one after another.
Two had their weapons knocked from their hands, while the third took a sword-strike to the shoulder and was put out of action.
When the last challenger stumbled back clutching his wound, the entire yard went dead silent for a moment before erupting into even louder cheers.
Bronn leaned on his sword, panting slightly.
Sweat dripped down his scruffy beard, but his back remained straight, and his gaze was as sharp as ever.
Luke walked into the center of the ring.
Under the envious, jealous, and awestruck stares of the crowd, he pulled two heavy coin purses from his coat and tossed them directly to Bronn.
Bronn scrambled to catch them, his heart leaping at their sheer weight.
“My name is Luke…
Luke Jackeneen!”
Luke’s voice was steady, carrying an unquestionable authority.
“Bronn, as of this moment, you are hired.
My personal bodyguard.”
He paused, sweeping his eyes over the sellswords who lingered, watching him with hungry eyes, and raised his voice:
“Inside these two purses are two hundred and fifty Gold Dragons.
Two hundred is your prize.
The other fifty…”
He looked at Bronn.
“I want you to do two things for me before sunset.”
Bronn clutched the purses tightly to his chest, looking at Luke with a mix of wariness and excitement. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“Command me, m’lord.”
“First, use these fifty Gold Dragons as starting funds to recruit ten sellswords who are capable and of decent…
well, at least what you would consider ‘reliable’ character.
I want to build a security team to handle my safety and other matters here.
Their monthly wage will be set at fifteen Gold Dragons, with room and board fully covered.”
A monthly wage of fifteen Gold Dragons!
The watching sellswords’ eyes nearly popped out of their heads.
This was far beyond the going rate for common mercenaries!
Instantly, many among them began to stir, eager to put themselves forward.
Bronn felt a jolt as well.
This was a considerable amount of power and responsibility, not to mention a massive expense.
This Lord Luke was terrifyingly generous.
“Second, also before sunset, use your connections in King’s Landing to find me a property.”
“It must be large enough, clean, and in a relatively safe neighborhood.
I intend to buy it.
Any price…
up to one thousand Gold Dragons is acceptable.”
Buying a house?
A budget of one thousand Gold Dragons?
Bronn was once again astounded by Luke’s wealth.
This lord didn’t seem like he was just visiting King’s Landing; he looked like he wanted to put down roots and build his own faction.
“As long as you’re paying, anything is possible, Lord Luke,” Bronn said with a grin, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco.
“As for character…
well, as you know, a sellsword’s ‘character’ is usually directly proportional to the number of Gold Dragons he’s paid.”
Luke nodded, seemingly unsurprised by the answer.
He leaned in slightly, staring straight into Bronn’s clever, cunning dark eyes—eyes filled with the hard-won wisdom of survival.
His voice was low, yet it carried a strange, piercing weight:
“Bronn, listen.
I have plenty of Gold Dragons.”
He paused, speaking clearly, word by word:
“If, in the future, someone approaches you and offers to buy my life…
no matter what his price is, I will pay you double that to buy my own life back.
Do you understand?”
The smile on Bronn’s face instantly froze.
His pupils shrank slightly as he stared back at Luke, trying to gauge whether these words were real or fake, a test or a genuine warning and transaction.
Paying double to buy back his own life?
This blunt, direct method of measuring loyalty and betrayal with coin was crude, yet chillingly effective.
After a few seconds, Bronn nodded slowly and thoughtfully.
That cynical, yet sharp smile returned to his face.
“M’lord…
that is a very memorable way of putting things.”
He hefted the heavy purses, producing a pleasant clinking sound.
“I’m starting to wonder if you aren’t a Jackeneen, but a Lannister instead.
I hear those folks also like using Gold Dragons to…
buy whatever they want?”
“And what kind of house is Jackeneen anyway?”
Luke gave a noncommittal smile and didn’t answer, simply patting Bronn on the shoulder.
“Go get to work.
I want to hear good news before sunset.”
He turned and calmly departed the dusty tourney grounds under countless complicated stares.
Bronn stood in place, watching Luke’s departing back, then looked down at the two bags of Gold Dragons in his arms—wealth enough to change the lives of many.
His eyes flickered with calculations.
This lord who called himself Luke was mysterious, wealthy, and remarkably generous.
More importantly…
he seemed to understand the rules of survival in this world perfectly.
Bronn spat a mouthful of bloody spit and carefully tucked the purses into the inner pockets of his jerkin.
The usual cunning, wolfish smile returned to his face as he walked toward the sellswords who were still hanging around, watching him eagerly.
“You all heard him!
Fifteen Gold Dragons a month, room and board included!
If you think you’ve got what it takes, come sign up!
I’ll be vetting you myself!
I want ten men before sunset!”
The din rose once more, but this time, the center of it all was the newly appointed captain, Bronn, and the unfathomable employer backing him: Luke.