The outer castle corridors bustle with kitchen wenches and servants, carrying casks of salted pork and barrels of mutton, platters of roasted heron and creamy soups and mounds of fruit-tarts.

He steps out of the way dutifully for one of the wenches flushing and nodding, grabbing a treat.

Bronn enjoys his lordly knighted status, but also enjoys one of those honeycakes garnished in blackberries and nuts. Perhaps it's the thieving, no-good sellsword behavior that's kept him alive all these years — and less hungry than others too busy with their morals and honor.

King's Landing can be a pain in his arse. At least the food's good.

He pops the freshly baked cake into his mouth quickly, chewing and sucking on his fingers loudly.

"You're the hired killer from the Lannister brothel."

Bronn turns a corner, staring immediately in the direction of a man with ochre yellow and orange tunic-layers, patterned in a motif of gilded, brocade sunbursts. He approaches with a casual, non-aggressive stride. Bronn's hand releases from the hidden knife strapped to his lower back.

"Indeed I am," he answers, bowing his head to Prince Oberyn sending him a flash of observably warm smile. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, if it pleases you, my lord."

Oberyn's smile widens. "I would say so. I am a man who lives for such things as pleasure."

"Don't we all?" Bronn sighs, resting his hand to his sword's pommel. "Killing's nice, too."

A deep, hearty laugh.

"You have an agreeable sense of humor, ser." Oberyn's viper-dark eyes gaze over Bronn, from his widow's peak to the scuffed ends of his leathered, dirtied boots. "It flatters you," he declares softly.

Bronn crinkles his nose a moment, but doesn't step away.

"I'm sure it does, but I'm partial to girls," he announces, half-amused by the fact Oberyn doesn't appear to be listening to him, circling the other man with a studious, favorable look. A tingle of heat stirs in Bronn's gut, when Oberyn's fingers brush his cheek, rasping to the dark scuff.

"Once you are had by a prince, you won't be chasing after any girls…" Oberyn murmurs, leaning in.

With a gentle and dismissive motion, Bronn nudges Oberyn's fingers away.

The other man scoffs.

"You belong to the Lannisters, is that it?"

"I belong to myself, thank you very much," Bronn says, with a clearly mock-offended tone. "I just happen to like having heaps of money. Helps keep me fed at night and my cock sucked regularly."

Oberyn's lips quirk up. "You're very handsome for a sellsword. That's unusual in your profession."

"I've been told it's my whore mother's eyes. Blue as dusky roses." Bronn has never had trouble with staring anyone down, man or woman, but something about the pure, unapologetic lust directly on him feeds the heat growing monstrously huge in him. "My cock's not bad either… have I mentioned my cock at all?"

"That'll be for me to decide, ser."

Bron strokes his chin, frowning thoughtfully.

"How about making it wager?" he suggests.

Oberyn grins, unimpressed.

"Has the imp told you the rumors about me? I'm sure you've heard of them."

"Aye. You've fucked half of Westeros, or so I'm told." Bronn then points out, lifting his head and raising an eyebrow slightly, "But you haven't fucked me."

Chancing his luck further, he hooks a forefinger underneath the hilt of Oberyn's sword easily within reach, dragging it up by a centimeter and whistling. "A very pretty sword. That's Valyrian steel, that is." Bronn watches the humor drain out of Oberyn's expression. "Who did you kill for it?"

There's a period of silence before Oberyn breathes out, composing himself.

"Dueled for it from a man who stole it off a noble's corpse in Lys," he murmurs. "The sword's original name had been Truth, and it only seemed fitting. I, too, would shed blood for the truth."

Bronn has witnessed the need for vengeance in the strangest of places, and persons, but none so dangerous as right under the nose of a King's entire army and his allies. That makes for very poor planning. He examines those viper-dark eyes narrowed in mourning and anger, clearing his throat.

"Here's how I see it," Bronn says, a little more cheerfully. "If fucking doesn't agree with me, I get your pretty little sword on your hip and I get to name it Cunt-Rider or whatever else suits me."

Oberyn's careless grin reappears, slowly but surely.

"And if it does, then I get to fuck you a second time," he tells him. Bronn considers this, before holding out his hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around Oberyn's wrist.

"You're going to need to bring in a girl with big, round teats to get me started."

"As you wish, Blackwater knight."



Most men he's ever known expressed a low opinion of buggering. Unless it was buggering a woman. Bronn figures he's open to anything, as long as it feels really damn good and benefits him.

The guards, lightly armored in padded velvet and dark brown leather, drift out of Bronn's path until he's standing at the double-doors. "Lads," Bronn speaks up, offering a thin smile before entering the guest bedchambers. It's plain-looking for a royal prince's living quarters, smoky with candles.

There's a full tankard of Arbor gold and a young woman pale as milkglass, naked and sitting primly on the edge of Oberyn's bedding. "I picked her special," Oberyn says aloud — not naked and wearing a heavy, embroidered cross-coat and sashes, as Bronn discovers, mildly surprised. Oberyn pinches her naturally rosy cheek with a tender fondness. "You wanted her lovely with round teats, didn't you?"

"Big, round teats," Bronn supplies helpfully, taking a mouthful of wine. "She'll do."

Oberyn snorts at this, waiting for the young woman to pull open his coat and breeches. He encourages her to be faster, tapping her cheek. "Bring a goblet of wine," he orders to Bronn who mutters.

"Where is your wife?"

"Ellaria is busy with twins." Oberyn shrugs, grinning. "It only seemed fair she preoccupies herself with others this evening, as I am." He also takes a mouthful of the expensive, golden-colored wine, but without swallowing. Oberyn presses his lips to the young woman's mouth, opening her up widely.

Bronn observes quietly until she gets up, slinging her arms around him and kissing him too. Trickles of wine slip out of the corners of her mouth, cascading into Bronn's mouth with a delicious, moist flavor.

He groans out, feeling her hot, little mouth on his neck and her palm sliding roughly against his groin.

The sensations disappear, until he feels her suckling onto his now exposed, hardening cock. Bronn fucks her mouth in a steady but aggressive pace, gripping onto her yellow-blonde curls to hold her still.

She doesn't cry, or gag around Bronn's length, but her tongue quivers around him. "You like her," Oberyn whispers, pressing against his back, slipping his hands over Bronn's nude, hairy thighs and cradling his sides. He rocks along with Bronn's thrusts growing erratic, their hips thumping noisily.

"I like whores," Bronn grunts out. He's unable to focus between Oberyn's cock twitching noticeably against his arse and the young, lovely woman drooling excessively on Bronn's own cock.

Seven hells

Before he can release his seed deep into her throat, Oberyn reaches underneath and grasps Bronn's sack, holding down. "Fuck, that's not right," Bronn moans, suddenly frustrated and confused.

"Leave us," Oberyn instructs firmly, as the young woman nods, exiting in a flurry of yellow curls.

With a little maneuvering, Bronn ends up flat on the cot with no more belt or woolen breeches, his legs spread and his bollocks no longer in a vice-grip. Thank the bleedin' gods for that much.

The other man climbs over him, naked as the whore but with twice as much muscle, looking overly satisfied with himself. He rubs on Bronn's leaking, reddened cock, kneeling and pushing the tip over his slick, greased entrance. Bronn can hardly complain, going fully hard once more, slamming his hips repeatedly up against Oberyn's arse when they've sunk together, connected by flesh and heat.

Oberyn rides on top of him, groaning out and smiling down on him, fisting the blankets. It's the erotic, unfamiliar view Bronn loses himself to, spending in clenching, rhythmic beats.

He chokes on a new breath, when Oberyn pulls off him, tilting his head and peering at the still fully erect cock. Oberyn's is not as thick as his. Bronn tries to imagine what it would be like… buried inside his own arse, stretching him out and fucking him. Buggering is nothing akin to a cunt.

(Bronn reconsiders his thieving instincts. A sword is only a sword, after all.)

"… Now what was that business about fucking me?"



GoT isn't mine. THIS SPAWNED ORIGINALLY FROM SOME TAGS I LEFT ON A GAME OF THRONES GIFSET IN SEASON FOUR. I DREAMED UP A SCENARIO WHERE OBERYN HIT ON BRONN. Flash forward to 3 years later and now I've finally fulfilled my destiny lmao. I'm gifting this to my friends Amanda, Haylee, and Emily, because they knew about this idea existing and they have always been so good to me they deserve a million fics ilysm! Thoughts/comments appreciated!