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Bronn wasn't the only one there aiming to become a Septon. He had to start like everyone else. Wiping the floor of the Sept, dusting the walls, bringing the water, or digging graves for the dead.
But when becoming a Septon is just a stepping stone for you, you become far more focused than others.
By the age of twelve, Bronn finished reading and writing training and swiftly moved on to the core training of a Septon. Religious books, historical books, and old tomes, he started studying them. He also became an assistant to the old Septon to learn all the rituals and tasks.
Yet, that didn't mean he stopped honing his body. The one thing he'd noticed about Septons was that most were fat and weak. He didn't want that, and regularly used digging graves as an excuse to tire himself out.
As time went by, and he became somewhat proficient in a Septon's duties, he began working around on the Septon's behalf. He was regularly called to pray for the dead and the sick in the fish market area.
In time, his name grew, and so did his reach. He gained friends among the guards, the market shops, and the port workers. He began learning other trades wherever he could; lockpicking was one of them, and the second was wielding a sword. He had to do it in secret with a Westerosi sellsword who'd just returned from Essos. He had an injured knee, and Bronn used that to barter for the sword lessons.
It was confusing how Bronn remembered that dream from years ago so vividly. He still possessed that knowledge about making poisons and medicines. He even tried to make them and succeeded rather easily. Moreover, he found out that he was truly blessed with the magic of healing. But he masked it under the guise of prayers.
That time he fell from a tree and broke his ankle. He was almost discarded by the Sept as a useless cripple. But that night, after he fell, he trusted his instincts and placed his hand on his broken ankle.
He did nothing other than believe in his instincts, which told him to trust the process. He didn't know how it worked, but some words flashed into his mind.
"Episkey…" He murmured them under his breath, and just like that, his ankle started healing. It took him two days to fully heal it.
He didn't scream either, as one of the medicines he made helped suppress pain. It wasn't milk of the poppy, and yet a thousand times better. Revolutionary even.
That time, he really understood how magical his gifts were. He chose not to blindly blabber about those gifts like a fool. He chose to hold on to them and use them to pave his path forward.
By the time he turned seventeen, he was ready to take the vows to become a Septon. His fame had reached a point where the entire fish market and the nearby towns outside King's Landing knew him. He'd crafted his image well, concocting medicine for the common cold and some utterly basic diseases.
He showed his talents when it mattered the most. He gained the approval of the old Septon, having finished all his religious studies. He sold the common medicines he made and gave half of the profits to the Sept, helping with maintaining its building. On the other hand, he sometimes used to treat the utterly helpless, usually orphaned children.
But he never publicly revealed his magical healing ability. It wasn't yet the time for it. The only man he used it on was the sellsword who taught him how to wield a sword. And Bronn was proud to say that he was half-decent with it now.
There is no honor in a battle. All that matters is who survives in the end.
Those words, Bronn believed in just as told by his teacher. He learned to fight fast, move like a cat, and use any means necessary to win. Use his surroundings to win. And as he grew to his full height of six feet one, a body athletically lean yet hard, he was confident of winning against half the knights of the realm if it were one against one.
Yet, there was one last thing that he hadn't tested yet.
That last part of those instincts boiling within him.
And he knew it was time to test it out.
####
283 AC.
Clank!
"You two-faced bastard!"
Clink!
"You're no Septon!"
Clank!
Bronn dodged backward away from the knife. The six men had surrounded him in that dark, musky, filthy, rotting alley, right where they once had him.
"Still can't hold a blade properly, Malk? Can only beat a kid?" Bronn grinned and taunted him, pivoting left as the man lunged. A knife scraped along the leather at Bronn's ribs. Close, but not enough.
Bronn's blade came up with a hiss and sliced a neat line across the man's wrist.
"Aaaargh!" Malk screamed, clutching his hand.
Clack!
Another came from the right, tall one with a broken nose and a stick. Bronn ducked low and swept a leg. The tall man toppled face-first into a pile of rotten filth. The difference in experience was starkly visible. While Bronn moved efficiently, the six men looked like drunkards.
"Hah!" Bronn laughed. "You lads had your sport, sure as the Crone's got wrinkles, eh? Beat me senseless that time, how pious of you. But the Stranger walks with me now, and when I send you to Him, no soul'll ask where you went. This rebellion's a bloody blessing."
They were the same six boys who'd beat him that day. The memory of which he held on to. His mother's hanging body, her cold face, he remembered every detail.
"Haaaa! Die, you—"
Bronn turned just in time to catch a clumsy downward stab from a third. The man's arms trembled as Bronn locked blades with him. He stepped in, real close, eyes cold, and drove the hilt of his sword into the man's mouth.
Crack!
Teeth flew. The man crumpled to his knees, gagging on blood.
"W-We… We had nothing to do with your mum!" Malk cried from the ground.
Bronn spun fast again. The fourth man, smaller, tried to dart behind him, clutching a kitchen knife. Bronn slashed backward without looking, Shunk!—and the man yelped, staggering away with a slice from hip to thigh.
"Aye, I know. Still blame you, though. Could've saved her, maybe cured her too, Seven strike me. But no, you lot got in the bloody way. Now I'll open your bellies and let the Stranger sort what's left." Bronn coldly growled back at them.
Woosh!
A stick whistled toward his head right then. Bronn raised his sword, caught it, and shoved forward with his boot. The man staggered. Bronn darted in, sword low, and jammed it right up beneath his ribs.
"Gaaaah!" The man groaned, his life fading from his eyes.
Thud!
"Four down," Bronn spat. His voice was calm.
The alley was narrow, wet, and lined with fish guts and filth. The last two of the six men hesitated now. Malk nursing his bleeding hand, and the one with the broken nose, Hobb, stumbling upright and wide-eyed.
"We should've killed you!" Hobbs growled.
"Aye, you should've," Bronn replied and stepped forward slowly.
Malk tried to run away, cut from one wrist. But it was a mistake.
Bronn lunged, caught the back of Malk's tunic, yanked him hard, and drove his knee into his spine. Malk dropped, screaming.
"Aaaaaaaagh! N-No… No…"
Swoosh!
Bronn drove his sword through Melk's nape and sliced right through, without severing the head. When he pulled out, Melk was left sitting on his knees, now dead, with a puddle of blood around him.
He then turned to Hobb.
The tall man backed away, whimpering. "I didn't want to! It was Tuck's idea, not mine—!"
Bronn rolled his shoulders, walking forward with a casual swing of his sword.
"Tuck's dead. You're next."
"Wait, wait!"
Bronn feinted a left. Hobb flinched.
Slick!
The blade punched clean through Hobb's belly, leaving him kneeling, groaning as he bled.
Bronn pulled the blade back and stepped aside, letting the man fall into the muck.
As silence returned, he wiped his blade on Malk's shirt as the man was still seated, kneeling.
"By the Mother's saggy tits, I'm done with this cursed place!"
He spat, turned, and left the alley into the night. He hated King's Landing and the place he lived in. He had no desire to stay there after taking his septon vows. His talents and blessings were meant for something else. Something greater.
Sure, he did plan to return to King's Landing one day. But when that would happen, he'd be riding in a lavish stagecoach and taken straight to the Red Keep. Right at the center of all power in Westeros. Right where he'll have the most sway and use of his talents.
Fucking blue-blooded cunts!
Clang—Clang—Clang!
"Hm?"
He raised his head and looked in the direction of the city walls. The bell was ringing from inside it. That late in the night, it made no sense.
"Unless…"
Knowing that a rebellion was going on, the ringing of the bells that late could signal one thing only. The city had been breached by Robert Baratheon's forces.
To Bronn, it didn't matter at all. Who won the rebellion, who won the throne, who lost it… It was all meaningless because, in the end, nothing ever changes for the small man. The peasants remain peasants. He, a mere septon, would remain a septon. So, he loathed all the nobles equally.
As the main city was the target, Bronn saw no activity outside at the fish market. He strolled all the way back to the sizable Sept. It was bigger now than when he started, and most of the upgrades were thanks to him.
Having turned eighteen just two months ago, he was all set to become an official septon soon. But he reckoned it might get delayed slightly now since the city was being sacked.
Hah! Sacking the city you're meant to rule. Gods, what madness! That's nobility for you, mad as piss!