It had become his habit now to curse and invoke the gods in the same breath. Sure, he received a lot of punishment from the Septon for it, but his work compensated for his tongue.
He walked into the Sept.
"Old man, where's the—by the gods, what madness is this?!"
Instead of finding the usual serene, calm, marble-clad hall inside the Sept, he instead found chaos. There were men and women sprawling on the floor everywhere, groaning in pain, all of them cut or bruised in places. Some looked like nobles, and others like knights in their armor. The Septon and his assisting septas were running around aiding the healers.
"Bronn! Quick, aid the wounded! The Lannisters have taken the city!"
At the Septon's orders, Bronn moved instinctively.
Lannisters? Ha! Weren't they licking the Mad King's boots not a moon's turn ago?
With a scoff, Bronn did his duty that was expected of him. Dressed in simple brown robes, he grabbed a bucket of water, some cloth, and started cleaning the wounded men and women. Some had their entire limbs severed. Some he recognized from the city as he often visited the Great Sept of Baelor for his studies.
The hell are the Lannisters after, eh? Burning homes? Killing smallfolk?
But then again, he reminded himself that the nobles simply didn't think that far. In their eyes, folks like him and those there in the Sept didn't exist. Smallfolks were bodies to be trampled on. To be abused. To be made use of.
Wait, I can use this too.
He paused and looked around at that massive hall. There were countless people, the Septon, the Septas, some nobles, and even a few knights. There were so many eyes, a perfect stage for him to show how blessed he was.
Bronn gulped, a little excited and a little scared. He quickly thought of a beautiful prayer in his head, recited it under his breath once, and then walked over to the man who looked best dressed there, lying on the floor with a long sword slash going across his chest and abdomen. It was deep.
"Gaaaaaah! It burns!" The nobleman gritted his teeth, groaning in agony.
Bronn took a deep breath and placed both his hands on the man's chest, over the deep wounds. They hadn't stopped bleeding, and he was sure that he couldn't fully make the wound vanish. But even a little bit of healing could help.
"Stay still," Bronn ordered and pressed his palms harder on the wounds.
"Argh! What the… are you doing?!"
Bronn ignored the nobleman and closed his eyes while kneeling there. Then he started speaking the prayer, loud enough that the nearby injured and Septas would hear him.
"O Mother above, with mercy deep,
Guard this soul in pain and sleep."
"You lunatic! Bring me—" The nobleman tried to push Bronn away. But midway, he stopped cursing. "W-Warm… It's warm!"
"Bend your gaze on flesh torn wide,
Let your love in blood abide."
Bronn focused on the wound while speaking those lines, at the same time thinking of those unknown spell-like words from his old memory, Vulnera Sanentur.
"It's working! The… Oh! The blessed boy! It's working!" The nobleman shouted in excitement, no longer feeling that burn. "I can feel it! Keep going, boy!"
"From your breast, give breath anew,
Make the broken strong and true."
Bronn frowned then, feeling like he was at his limit. Healing that wound more was getting harder and harder. The bleeding had already stopped, and any chance of an infection was gone. Only a simple flesh wound was left now.
But more than him, the nobleman was excited, feeling the warm, healing magic coursing through him. His hazy eyes grew wide now, his mind back to sanity, delirious even. "Gods, I'm blessed! Thank you, the Mother above! Thank you!"
"Through my hand, your grace be sown,
Not for glory, your son heals alone."
At last, Bronn stopped, opened his eyes, and removed his hands from the chest. He eyed it and found the wound had healed three-fourths, leaving behind just the red, bloody scar.
Then, he looked around. Other than some men groaning, there was total silence, all eyes focused on him like he were the embodiment of the Seven. Reverent eyes, excited smiles. The Septas had already broken down in prayers beside him, and the old Septon, his teacher, eyed him with pride.
There was no explanation of what he did.
It was a miracle. That's it.
"H-Heal my babe! Please!"
And so, it begins.
With a solemn smile, Bronn got up and walked over to the woman. He looked at the little boy in her arms, perhaps two years old, unconscious. The poor boy had likely been trampled on by a horse, noticeable by the marks.
With a nod, Bronn placed his hands on the child's forehead where the injury was most visible. Then, he began to sing yet another prayer.
"O Mother above, whose arms enfold,
Shield this child from pain and cold.
Lay your peace on skin so small,
Let no shadow on him fall."
He was just freestyling it, but gods, he loved doing it while feeling the healing happen. He was shocked by it himself. It was so magical, and yet had no explanation. He was no blessed child. He was no boy of good deeds. He was as sinful as they come. So, it made no sense that it was an actual blessing.
Something told him it had something to do with that ugly old man from the sky, that strange dream, and the unknown memories. But at eighteen years old, he couldn't care less.
"Waaaah!"
"Oh, Mother above!"
"Seven!"
The men and women who could walk crowded around Bronn to look at the miracle happen in real time. And that was exactly what they saw. The little boy slowly opened his eyes. At first, the boy looked witless, cross-eyed, as if the head injury had knocked his brain out.
But then, as Bronn kept praying, the eyes slowly aligned themselves. That unintelligent gaze started to gain life again.
"From your breast, let life be poured,
By your mercy, soul restored.
Through my hand, your blessing flow,
Tiny heart made whole and grow."
At last, Bronn opened his eyes and removed his hand from the child's head.
"M-Mum… M—Waaaa!"
Intelligent, healed, and crying out loud. The young boy was cured, leaving behind mere scars.
Bronn, although he naturally had a wolfish smile, no one saw it that way in that hall. To all, it was the smile of a blessed man. A man who made miracles.
Let's not overdo this.
Although he didn't feel tired. He didn't want to make the miracle so big that even the King would take notice. He had nothing against the maesters either, but healing was their line of work. And it was best not to annoy them.
"Septa Mendy!" Bronn eyed the nearby woman. "Go to my chamber and bring the bag under the table. It has the pain medicine I've made."
His pain medicine was already known throughout the fish market and the nearby towns. Now it was time to hand over the recipe as well. It was barely one percent of the poison and medicine knowledge he had. But that night, even his basic medicine would appear miraculous.
The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor kept ringing that night.
Hours went by, and Bronn healed many, gave his potions to others, and directed the Septas on making more pain medicine.
"You're well to go, Ser." Bronn finished healing the knight.
"You're a godly man, Bronn."
The knight, with a sigil of a red sun pierced by a golden spear on the chest, rose up as soon as he was healed. He put on his armor again, grabbed his sword, and ran out. And he wasn't alone. There were a few more men with the same sigil there, and whenever he healed them, they thanked him and ran away, back towards the city.
While interested, Bronn had better things to do that night. He went on to heal two dozen men and women who were the most wounded. Then, healed the rest conventionally as per his training in the Great Sept of Baelor.
Time went by, and the bells eventually stopped ringing. The number of wounded was reduced, and yet there was no rest for Bronn. Come morning, the true state of King's Landing became known. It was carnage on the streets. Any man or woman found outside was killed by the Lannisters. Many houses were set on fire.
Countless women were violated, some right before their husbands or children. Even young girls weren't spared.
Finally, when the Baratheon and Stark armies arrived, the sacking stopped. Yet, there was no peace. Bronn, aided by two septas, had to go around King's Landing, praying for the dead, or those too wounded to live, as they were put to rest by Stark and Baratheon swords.
Countless families were uprooted. Fathers dead, mothers dead, sons dead, daughters dead. Some men were roaming around, shouting the names of their mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives. Death and misery were everywhere.
And Bronn… he saw the face of his mother in each dead woman. What was their fault other than being smallfolks? What was their fault other than being in the way of a game of nobles? What was their fault that they deserved such a fate? Worse than death to many.
With teeth clenched tight, Bronn loaded the dead into carts throughout the day and buried them in the communal plots. The rebellion was over, and the Mad King was murdered by his own Kingsguard. The new King, Robert Baratheon, had arrived, roaring, laughing, and galloping in his victory parade through the streets as he rode to the Red Keep.
Not a single glance or prayer was given to the innocent killed for no reason.
Bronn loathed them. He loathed himself for being an ant in a world ruled by giants. An insignificant, nameless creature worth less than a noble's dog.
He just did his job. His journey was yet to begin.
His stepping stone, becoming a septon, was within arm's reach.
"Bronn, there are dead gathered near the Sept. Go to them. Let the Seven hear their names."
At the Septon's orders, he moved. It had been nearly two days since he last slept. Yet, he felt no sleep near his eyes.