The streets stank like a sewer, but all Bronn smelled was opportunity. Flea Bottom bumped against him, becoming narrower the deeper he went. On other days, his gold armor was enough for commoners to give him a wide berth, but Bronn was meant to be inconspicuous today. He wore patched brown clothing, kept his head down and passed the lanes Qyburn told him to, with one finger on his dagger.
Qyburn had given him names, as if the twat thought Bronn’s idea would include roaming around asking blacksmiths where so-and-so stayed. He kept faith in his eyes, and they did not fail him – he saw a pair of grey garbs enter a filthy building of stone, and on the upper floor, spotted through the window, couple more laughing loudly. Most of the building had on its walls sketched pictures of Queen Margaery Tyrell.
Bronn bumped against what seemed to be a thousand men before reaching the threshold of the building. He saw the rickety staircase ahead and, on the ground, roaches eating vomit. Another day in paradise, he chuckled to himself, as he stepped on them on his way inside.
Bronn barely paced three steps when they were on him. Grey garbs emerged from behind, from ahead, from the sides, swarming him like flies on shit. Some carried swords, but they were rusty and too large for their size. Bronn grinned, and reached for his dagger, before he realized both had vanished.
*
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