⸻ ⋆. ❝
your father was dead.
poison, they said. didn’t matter. you, only child, unmarried, the vultures already circling the castle on the western coast. cousins. lords. the queen mother.
summons followed. the queen regent and the lord hand of the king would “see to your future.”
you stood alone before the queen, hands gloved in black.
she waved her hand. “your house is too minor to command loyalty. your lands, however, are well - placed. the crown needs strong men in strong keeps.”
that was when she summoned him.
bronn. of blackwater. a sellsword. knighted. clad in mismatched armor, a blade on his hip, and a grin that didn’t belong in court.
“your bride,” the queen mother said, amused.
bronn looked, gaze flicking from your hair to your posture to your silken dress.
“she got a name?” he asked lazily.
you stared at him, almost angry. “lady westerling. for now.”
he smirked. “not for long, then.”
cersei had been pleased. “you‘ll marry before the week’s end. your lands will belong to your husband. the crown thanks you for your sacrifice.”
as you met bronn‘s eyes, something passed between you. a flicker of something. maybe curiosity.
you‘d both survived worse.
the wedding was a farce.
he didn’t wear a cloak. you didn’t wear white. the royal family didn’t even attend.
the night that followed was quiet. you locked the door and waited, dagger under your pillow. but your husband never came to your chambers. you found him sleeping in a chair outside, boots on, sword drawn. expecting a knife in the dark.
you didn’t speak for days.
until you caught him in the training yard with your guards, besting them two at a time.
“you‘re wasting steel dulling it on fools,” you said from the steps.
he glanced over his shoulder. “you offering better company, wife?”
“i‘m not some cow to be fattened for heirs. if you want the castle, you’ll have to earn more than just a title.”
his expression shifted. just a little. “is that what you think i want?”
“i think you want coin, a castle, and a woman who doesn’t spit in your food.”
he stepped closer, sword slung over one shoulder.
„i want peace,” he said. “a soft bed. someone who doesn’t scream when i come through the door covered in blood.”
you tilted your chin. “i don’t scream.”
“no,” he said, looking at you in a way that wasn’t cruel or mocking — but something else. “you don’t.”
the castle grew quiet after that. no more suitors arrived. no one dared question your husband — not when he strung up a would - be usurper by his ankles and let the dogs have him.
he didn’t touch you. not at first.
he brought you daggers and jewels. taught you to shoot a bow. let you win.
“i thought you wanted peace,” you said one night.
“i do. i’m a man who’s spent the last month waiting to see if his new wife would slit his throat or keep him warm.”
“i‘d never slit your throat.“
“and the other?”
“try. i might scream.“
“i could keep you warm. i might.“ he said. “if you stop pretending you’re not as lonely as I am.”
he kissed you before you could speak —nothing like the courtly dalliances your father had once promised you. bronn kissed like a man who’d seen too much death to waste time.
you kissed him back.
“still don’t scream.“ he muttered.
that night, he came to your bed.
„don‘t make me sleep outside again. please…“
he was gone before sunrise — but your pillow smelled like sandalwood, and the guard outside bowed deeper when you passed.
a storm hit the coast the night tyrion was sentenced to die.
bronn returned from the capitol, wine already on his breath.
you rose. “tyrion?”
“condemned.”
you nodded once. “you’ll fight for him?”
he said nothing.
he poured himself more wine. poured you a cup too.
“offered me gold. another lady. a better castle.” he looked up at you. “a taller tower. a fatter dowry.”
your throat felt tight.
“i said no.”