Chapter 47

Maegor’s Holdfast, Small Council Chamber,
King’s Landing Next Morning

“So, let’s begin. I have plenty to do and I’m not alone there. Sam, how are those scorpion plans coming along? The ones from Qyburn? Are they all ready to send up North?” Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lord of Castamere and Lord Commander of the City Watch (they couldn’t very well refuse him using the word “Lord” in the title when he was effectively governor of the capital), asked Samwell Tarly, the Grand Maester on the Small Council.

“Quite nicely, in no small part due to Gilly here. She’s been able to make very good sense of the madman’s scribblings ... perhaps because her own writing is so much like chicken scratch,” Sam answered, getting a playful elbow to his cushy torso that could well absorb the blow, “seriously, though, it’s true. She’s been a tremendous aid to me and this matter is coming along well, as is the transportation of as many criminals and other captives as we can send to the Wall. My former brethren of the Night’s Watch will be much better reinforced, even if they won’t have much time to train these fellows.”

“Sink or swim, then. They’ll have to learn how to fight or die,” Ser Bronn raised an eyebrow, “speaking from experience, by the way, the scorpions don’t require that clever of a mind to run them, if even I could do it. And I did. Knocked Drogon out of the sky for a wee bit. Thankfully not down for good, though he damn near cooked Ser Jaime and myself. I’m not stupid, but I’m no maester or engineer. Just a common sellsword.”

“Not that common, if you’re Lord of Castamere, Lord Commander of the City Watch, and a knight of the Blackwater to boot. You really should adopt ‘Blackwater’ as a formal House name and surname, Bronn. The Scorpion can be your sigil, too,” Bronn’s bride, the now already pregnant Bernadette, unofficial Mistress of Whispers, suggested to him.

“As a maester, I highly recommend it. It would make it easier for me when chronicling this era. ‘Ser Bronn Blackwater’ sounds more aristocratic, and yet in step with the times, than your current formal designation. House Blackwater can pass Castamere down from father to son, said son can then be ‘Lord Blackwater,’ can point with pride to your legacy as a hero of Blackwater Bay, that kind of thing. Any thoughts of names? Gilly and I were thinking of a few for her next little brat. A fat little brat, that one’s like to be with me as its sire,” Sam grinned while Gilly stared at him with a mix of curiosity and adoration.

She wasn’t always so flattering, of course. Just in moments where she was freshly reminded of what a catch her lover was. They couldn’t marry, she knew that, not with him being the Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms, but still ... still, she was his concubine and she knew it. And everyone knew it, in fact.

Being Sam’s concubine beat being her own father’s wife by a sizable margin, too. Craster was as awful a husband as he was a father, after all. She didn’t miss his rancid breath during kissing and worse in the slightest. She’d take pudgy men over smelly ones any day. Especially since Sam nowadays worshiped the old gods, just like her. He had discarded the Faith of the Seven and now prayed at the godswood with her, to the chagrin of many maesters who still favored the Seven.

“Anyway, back to business. So, convicts and scorpion plans en route to the King and Queen and their host. Oh, and a raven announcing that the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord Gendry Baratheon, would make his progress westward across said Stormlands from his keep at Storm’s End. It’s not surprising that his company includes just about every hedge knight in all of the Stormlands, any sellswords willing to offer themselves, and more than a few bannermen to boot.

“The lad’s not ‘making a progress.’ He’s marching off to war ... to join his King and Queen against the Dead. Warhammer in hand. The less like Robert Baratheon he first appears to be, the more like him he turns out. He’ll be caving in breastplates and crushing skulls before you know, bull’s horns on his helm and all. The man is definitely the Usurper’s son, black hair and all. I bet you he’s already sired a dozen brats and doesn’t even know or care,” Bronn chuckled, knowing full well that Gendry now lived up to the words of House Baratheon, “Ours is the Fury.”