Ser Guy watched the unexpected arrival of the sellswords with a deepening frown. He was no fool; he knew these professional killers would decide who lived and who died in this clearing.
He mentally calculated the possibility of hiring them and then butchering them afterward to save the coin. He raised his voice, shouting over the tension. "I am Ser Guy! Kill these merchants and their guards, and I'll give you twenty silver stags!"
Internally, he sneered. Once the work is done, you're dead too. Thinking you can take gold from my hand? You're asking for a grave. Twenty silver stags... enough for these gutter-rats to live like kings for months. They won't refuse.
Every eye in the clearing fixed on the man in the center.
Bana's mind raced. He couldn't formally set a price in Lord Solomon's name—he had the coin the Lord had given him for supplies, but it wouldn't be enough to engage in a bidding war with a landed knight. Suddenly, a realization struck him.
He drew a ragged breath, summoning every ounce of courage in his chest. He stepped forward and shouted, "I don't know exactly how much my master will pay you! I cannot make that decision for him!"
His voice shook with nerves, but his eyes were unnervingly bright.
"But I stake my life on this: if you help us, he will reward you with far, far more than you can imagine! I believe in my master!"
The man in the center—Bronn—tilted his head, intrigued by the bizarrely vague promise. He let out a low whistle, his smile widening. "Your master, eh?"
"That's a hell of a lot more interesting than a few silver stags. Tell me, who is this 'generous master' of yours?"
Bana remembered Solomon's strict instruction not to reveal his identity casually. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.
"I cannot say. But I promise you, for our lives, he is more generous than any man you have ever met."
Bronn's smile slowly faded. Typical merchant, he thought. Trying to sell me air. He had always loathed merchants. His eyes grew cold and impatient. "Friend, my patience has a short fuse."
"Without a name, your promise isn't worth a pile of horse shit."
"Looks like I'll have to take the Ser's twenty silver stags after all."
He seemed to reach a decision, his hand sliding slowly toward his sword hilt. Around him, his brothers-in-arms lowered their blades from their shoulders, settling into a combat stance.
Ser Guy's face broke into a triumphant sneer. Bana's heart plummeted into his stomach.
Suddenly, one of the veterans standing beside Bana—one of the old soldiers Solomon had mobilized from his own lands—snapped his eyes wide. He stared intently at Bronn's face, a memory clicking into place like a key in a lock.
The old soldier roared with the full strength of his lungs, "Bronn! You coin-snatching bastard! Have you forgotten who it was outside Deepwood Motte? The one who threw a bag of Golden Dragons at you without even blinking?!"
The man who had been stepping forward with his sword half-drawn suddenly jolted. His entire body went rigid. The mocking smile on his face froze, turning into a mask of pure, unadulterated shock.
Bronn's eyes narrowed into two lethal slits, pinning the old veteran where he stood. The veteran didn't flinch; he simply gave a single, heavy nod. The air in the clearing seemed to turn to ice.
"Gods damn it! Why are you nodding?" Bronn hissed under his breath. He fell into a heavy, cursed silence. I ran halfway across the Riverlands... and I still run into you lot.
The image of that "Little Lord" instantly surged into his mind—the boy with the deep, calculating eyes who moved as if the whole world was a game he'd already won.
He remembered the sheer audacity of the boy tossing that heavy purse of gold. He remembered the cold threat that had accompanied the payment. And most of all, he remembered the fact that he had taken the gold and failed to deliver on the promise.
A few seconds passed. Bronn's mouth twisted into a dry, mocking smile. This time, the cynicism was gone, replaced by a sort of weary, gallows-humor resignation. The merchant wasn't lying. There probably isn't a more generous paymaster in the world than that boy.
Slowly, he turned his back on the merchant and faced the bewildered Ser Guy.
"Ser," Bronn said, his voice dripping with a newfound, exhausted regret. "It looks like your bid... is a little on the low side."
"I can't help it. He's right. There isn't a more generous employer in the world than his master."
"What are you talking about?" Ser Guy barked, not yet understanding the shift.
"What I mean is..." Bronn didn't finish the sentence. Instead, his body exploded into motion.
He dropped his center of gravity, his left hand whipping a short blade from his belt. A flash of white steel tore through the air, crossing the distance before the knight could even react. Ser Guy roared and threw himself backward; the tip of the blade raked across his left cheek, opening a jagged red line and spraying a fine mist of blood as the knight tumbled from his saddle.
"Tch. Pity," Bronn muttered as he surged toward the fallen man. His footsteps were light, predatory. His mercenary brothers followed him in a well-practiced rush.
A soldier lunged with a longsword to intercept him. Bronn didn't even bother to parry. He simply pivoted on his heel, letting the blade whistle past his ribs. As they crossed, he swung his own longsword in a brutal backhand. The edge tore through the soldier's abdomen and exited through his hip.
The man let out a horrific, gurgling scream, clutching his stomach as his intestines spilled into his hands, and collapsed into the mud.
"KILL!!!"
The four veterans had been waiting for the signal. They let out a synchronized roar and charged into the fray. They were men who had survived a dozen skirmishes; they knew that life and death were decided in the first few seconds.
Bana and the dozen commoner helpers were left standing in a daze, caught in the sudden whirlwind of violence.
"With me! Charge!" Bana finally snapped out of it. He gritted his teeth and lunged forward, his sword held awkwardly. The helpers, seeing their leader move, finally drew their blades—most for the first time—and followed him with a ragged shout.
Ser Guy scrambled to his feet, swinging his sword wildly to fend off Bronn's relentless advance. The sellsword's technique was a nightmare of efficiency. The knight could only scream in a voice high with terror, "I am a knight! I am Ser Guy! You wouldn't dare kill me!"
"Give it a rest, Ser," Bronn said, his voice as casual as if they were sharing a cup in a tavern. "I've killed more knights than you've had women. Hell, before I met you, I accidentally did in a Great Lord of the Westerlands."
As the words left his lips, Bronn dropped into a lightning-fast slide-tackle, letting Ser Guy's heavy overhead swing whistle harmlessly into the dirt.
He didn't retreat. He surged upward into the knight's guard, his blade snapping down against Ser Guy's wrist with a sickening crunch.
"NO!!!"
Terrified of losing his hand, Ser Guy let his sword fly from his grip. In an instant, every ounce of the "knight's" courage evaporated.
He turned to flee, but Bronn was faster. The sellsword didn't stab him in the back; he chose a more humiliating conclusion.
He delivered a brutal kick to the back of Ser Guy's knee. The bloated knight let out a cry and crashed to his knees, sending a spray of mud into the air.
Without missing a beat, Bronn flipped his sword in his hand and brought the heavy pommel crashing down against the base of Ser Guy's skull.
Thud.
Ser Guy slumped forward into the mud, unconscious before his face hit the ground.