"Bernie, I want to use this gold dragon to buy a pony."
Bernie had finally had enough. He jumped up and smack!, slapped the Bull across the face. Then he held out his hand in front of her, fingers gesturing arrogantly for money.
The Bull was much taller than Bernie. Bernie was short and nimble, so he had to leap up just to land that slap.
The Bull looked at him, eyes filled with grievance.
"Hurry up! Don't make me deal with you in the middle of the road!" Bernie barked, voice sharp with anger.
Reluctantly, the Bull took out the gold dragon that Ser Gregor had given her as a personal reward and placed it into Bernie's outstretched hand.
Bernie gave a long, triumphant whistle and pocketed the coin. "Stupid woman. Would've been easier if you gave it to me earlier. You just love being smacked around, huh? Filthy little tramp." He spat the words out, then kicked her in the rear with a loud thud!
The Bull didn't budge, but Bernie had kicked so hard he fell backward and landed on the ground with a yelp.
Some passersby burst out laughing.
Bernie scrambled to his feet, humiliated and fuming. Whatever. He had the money now, and could finally head to Lannisport. He wouldn't make it today, but a night in Casterly Rock would do just fine.
Since he was leaving, and who knew when he'd be back, he figured he might as well leave the dumb woman with a proper memory. After all, it was her fault he tripped and made a fool of himself. He had been ready to let her go. This, this was on her.
Though small and not particularly strong, Bernie was agile. He darted up a roadside tree, snapped off a branch, and leapt down. Without a word, he brought it down on the Bull's face. Blood immediately welled up from a thin gash.
The Bull looked stunned. She didn't even raise her arms to shield herself, just stared at him in disbelief.
"What, you dare look at me like that?" Bernie snapped, even more enraged that her eyes held no fear. With a whistling swish, he swung again, putting all his strength into the next strike.
A young boy from the crowd stepped forward and casually caught the branch mid-swing.
"Hey kid, why are you beating up an adult?" the boy said cheerfully. His accent wasn't local, and Bernie, who prided himself on his ear for dialects, immediately picked up the difference, this kid was from Lannisport.
"Who're you calling kid? You're the kid!" Bernie barked. "Listen, boy, this is my wife. I can treat her however I want."
The boy looked about half-grown, with clean features and no hint of malice. Bernie figured he wasn't a real threat. He didn't know how to fight, but he was good at reading people, and came from years of traveling as a street performer.
"They call me Foulmouth, big bro!" the boy said, grinning. Then he turned to the Bull. "Sis, who is this dwarf brat to you? If he's your husband, I'll try to knock some sense into him, teach him how to cherish a wife. If he's no one to you, I'll just beat his ass, strip him down, and tan his hide."
The Bull stared at the boy who called himself Foulmouth. What a foul mouth! Nothing he said sounded like it came from a decent person. Bernie might've been short, but he was still a grown man. Against a kid, he had the upper hand.
"Child, just go. You can't beat him," she said.
Foulmouth really did still look like a kid. He'd recently been in a street fight in Lannisport, took on over twenty men by himself, and had been stabbed multiple times. He hadn't fully recovered yet. He was naturally pale and fine-featured, so to someone like the Bull, he just looked like a fragile, well-behaved boy.
"Sis, it's not about whether I can beat him. It's about whether he deserves to be beaten. Trash like this, I know just what to do with him. Back in Lannisport, I gave a little advice to a thug who used to beat his wife. He hasn't laid a hand on her since. Now he carries sacks down at the docks, takes care of his family, and comes straight home at night. Don't even go near a brothel."
"Really?" the Bull asked, her eyes lighting up with hope.
"Of course! I never lie," said Foulmouth proudly.
"Yeah, right," Bernie scoffed. "You never lie, who the hell lies just once anymore? Now it's all about stringing together half a dozen lies." He jerked the branch back hard, but the boy's grip didn't budge.
Bernie's heart sank.
The Bull asked, "Foulmouth, how did you 'advise' that wife-beating thug?"
"Oh, simple," the boy said. "First I broke the hand he used to hit his wife. Then I snapped one of his fingers. When he passed out from the pain, I tore his lips apart bit by bit until he woke up screaming. Then I took a dagger, this very one, and smashed out all his teeth."
He slowly pulled a short sword from his coat. Even just the sheath looked expensive.
Bernie's face went pale.
"Heh… kid, you've got guts. I'll give you that. I'm not gonna fight you. But stay right here. I'll go get some people. You'll regret this! You know who I am? I'm Bernie from Alex Village! I'm friends with all kinds of nobles!" Bernie backed away quickly, eyes never leaving the boy. Luckily, the kid didn't chase after him.
Just as he turned to flee for good, something clamped around his neck and lifted him off the ground.
"Put him down," Foulmouth said lazily. "Did I say anyone could catch him?"
"Yes, Captain!" came a gruff voice behind Bernie, hot breath brushing the back of his neck.
He was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.
Bernie didn't get up. He lay there, trying to assess the situation. There weren't any tough kids like this in Casterly Rock. Oh, right, he was from Lannisport.
The man who had grabbed him was a burly brute with a face that practically screamed I'm a thug, got a problem?
"Bernie, was it?" Foulmouth said with a grin. "Crawl over here yourself, and I won't break your arms, knock out your teeth, or snap your fingers. I promise, I won't hurt you."
Bernie's brain felt like it exploded. What kind of people did I just mess with?!
One look into Foulmouth's eyes, and he knew: if he didn't crawl over, his days of enjoying life were over.
He didn't even know how he did it, he just found himself crawling on all fours toward the boy, scared out of his wits by that gentle smile.
"Sis," said Foulmouth, suddenly polite again, "I heard you say your husband can mimic all kinds of voices?"
The Bull didn't reply. Instead, she stepped forward, placing herself protectively between Bernie and Foulmouth.
"You don't have to be afraid," said Foulmouth. "I was sent by Ser Gregor to protect you."
"Ser Gregor?"
"Yes. You carried a heavy log at Casterly Rock this morning and earned two gold dragons. Thousands saw it. Ser Gregor worried someone might try to rob you on the way home, so he sent me and a few others to make sure you got back safely. I'm just a footsoldier under his command. That big scary guy over there? He's actually nice. His name's Tony."
The Bull's eyes welled with tears.
This was the first time in her entire life that someone had cared about her this much. The first time.
Bernie always said Ser Gregor was a demon from hell. But now she knew the truth: Ser Gregor, no, Ser Gregor, was the kindest, most honorable man in the entire world. No one else even came close.
"Aw, don't cry, sis," Foulmouth said, grinning. "But I do want to know something."
The Bull nodded emotionally.
"Can Bernie really mimic all kinds of voices?"
She nodded hard.
"Bernie, show us," said Foulmouth, squatting down and lightly tapping Bernie on the head with the hilt of his sword.
Ser Gregor had issued a decree: Anyone with a special skill, whether it's stealing, lock picking, lying, fighting, archery, trench-digging, if it's exceptional, if it stands out, must be conscripted. No exceptions. Willing or not, all special talents must serve.
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