Fic: Last Words Chapter XVII
Title: Last Words
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rodo
Chapter: 17/24
Length: 310
Rating: 12+
Character: Bronn
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to GRRM/HBO
Beta:isiscolo
A/N: This is a part of Last Words, my 2019 Game of Thrones advent calendar.
Summary: Bronn regrets ever becoming a lord.
XVII. Bronn – The Troubles of Lordship
Fuck this, Bronn thought. Fuck this with a rusty sword.
Highgarden was huge. He’d wanted a nice castle. He’d had a nice castle, and been happily betrothed to a stupid woman who wouldn’t have noticed that he preferred the company of whores. It had been perfect. But then came the fucking Lannister brothers and his own greed and now he had a huge fucking castle and an entire fucking kingdom to deal with. He had ledgers to study, lords to wrangle and above all, audiences to hold.
“Melvin the Bald and Alyn the Wheeler, my lord,” the herald announced. The two men walked in, and Maester Gyldain began to summarize their complaint. They were neighbors whose fields bordered one another’s. Alyn had been married to Melvin’s sister, but the woman had died without having children, and now her dowry was being disputed. A couple of fields, Bronn thought. I have to worry about a couple of fields.
When the maester was done, Melvin presented his side, then so did Alyn. It was terribly predictable. After they were done, they all stared at Bronn as he sat slumped in the high seat.
“Do you have any documents to back up your claims?” he asked the men. They shook their heads.
“But it was shook on,” Alyn insisted.
Bronn rolled his eyes, then cracked his neck. “Alyn keeps the land until his death, then it reverts to Melvin or his heirs. And Gyldain – put that in writing. In triplicate.”
Both men looked like they wanted to argue, but a glare shut them up. They shuffled out and for a blessed moment, Bronn thought it was over. Then the herald lifted his scroll again.
“How many more?” Bronn asked the maester.
“Today? Fifteen.”
Fuck this, Bronn thought again. He wanted a whore. He wanted to kill someone. Preferable a golden-haired twit named Lannister.
Chapter XVI: Jon II – King-Against-His-Will | Chapter XVIII: Sansa II – The Crypts
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Author:
rodoChapter: 17/24
Length: 310
Rating: 12+
Character: Bronn
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to GRRM/HBO
Beta:
isiscoloA/N: This is a part of Last Words, my 2019 Game of Thrones advent calendar.
Summary: Bronn regrets ever becoming a lord.
Fuck this, Bronn thought. Fuck this with a rusty sword.
Highgarden was huge. He’d wanted a nice castle. He’d had a nice castle, and been happily betrothed to a stupid woman who wouldn’t have noticed that he preferred the company of whores. It had been perfect. But then came the fucking Lannister brothers and his own greed and now he had a huge fucking castle and an entire fucking kingdom to deal with. He had ledgers to study, lords to wrangle and above all, audiences to hold.
“Melvin the Bald and Alyn the Wheeler, my lord,” the herald announced. The two men walked in, and Maester Gyldain began to summarize their complaint. They were neighbors whose fields bordered one another’s. Alyn had been married to Melvin’s sister, but the woman had died without having children, and now her dowry was being disputed. A couple of fields, Bronn thought. I have to worry about a couple of fields.
When the maester was done, Melvin presented his side, then so did Alyn. It was terribly predictable. After they were done, they all stared at Bronn as he sat slumped in the high seat.
“Do you have any documents to back up your claims?” he asked the men. They shook their heads.
“But it was shook on,” Alyn insisted.
Bronn rolled his eyes, then cracked his neck. “Alyn keeps the land until his death, then it reverts to Melvin or his heirs. And Gyldain – put that in writing. In triplicate.”
Both men looked like they wanted to argue, but a glare shut them up. They shuffled out and for a blessed moment, Bronn thought it was over. Then the herald lifted his scroll again.
“How many more?” Bronn asked the maester.
“Today? Fifteen.”
Fuck this, Bronn thought again. He wanted a whore. He wanted to kill someone. Preferable a golden-haired twit named Lannister.