Game of Thrones Imagines Book Two

Se sȳndor morgho - Part 3 - Tyrion x Bronn x Reader

All speech in italics is supposed to be High Valyrian. I would normally try and do the translation. But I would have to then explain it, sooooooo I thought I would save myself some work. 😁 And as far as the bidding for the character is concerned, I am following more the TV show, rather than the books, so the amounts are different.

Morgho dropped down onto the small wooden bench that sat next to one of the wall of the small room, that they had called home for as long as they could remember. The fighter reaching up and slowly removing the blood soaked armour from their body. Other fighters, and even slavers nodding with respect as they passed the open room. The warrior was unusual for their kind, they had been in the pits since they were a child. A child that had no idea where it had come from, or how it had ended up in the pits in the first place. But a child that the trainers had seen potential in. A child that they had turned into the ultimate dealer of death. A child that they had turned into death itself. Most in the pits didn't last as long as they had. Morgho had seen some of the best fighters fall over the years. Had themselves killed even more. But the others had never had what Morgho had. They had never had the brains to know how to outwit and outlast everything and everyone else. The slavers and trainers often complaining that Morgho was too intelligent for their own good. That their tongue was too sharp. That when a buyer bought a slave, especially a fighter, the last thing that they were looking for, was a slave that could think. That thinking slaves were never a good thing. And that the only reason why Morgho was able to get away with it for so long, was that the slavers knew that sooner or later, the warrior would make them more gold than they could hope to get by selling one hundred other slaves.

"That was impressive. Even by your standards, Morgho." A voice came. Morgho looking up to see the familiar face of one of the trainers. The large Ghiscari man moving further into the room and leaning up against the wall.

"I didn't do it to impress you Miqeir. I didn't do it to impress anyone here. I did it to impress those out there. I did it only because you said that this time you would sell me. I want out of here. All my life I have seen nothing but this room. Nothing but the training arena. Nothing but the pits. Nothing but your ugly face. And even if I am sold to someone that expects me to do nothing more than fight and die, at least I won't be doing it to the sounds of a baying crowd." Morgho replied harshly, as they pulled the helmet from their head. The heavy lump of metal falling with a loud clang to the floor.

"You should be careful of that tongue of yours, Morgho. It has caused you and us enough trouble in the past. You better just hope that your new Master is a forgiving soul. For if they are not, you might just find yourself separated from it. A buyer doesn't need a fighter to talk. All they need is for you to do what you do best. And when the time comes.........to die." Miqeir explained. Watching as the warrior brushed their hand over their face. The sand from the pit floor mixing with the dirt, blood and sweat they were covered in. Their fingers leaving black streaks across their skin, as tried to remove the sticky combination.

"It shouldn't matter to you Miqeir whether I lose my tongue or not. And any trouble that was caused was all because of others. I never start a fight. But I do know how to finish them. All you should be concerned with is whether the buyers are bidding, and if so, how much they are bidding." Morgho countered, as they slumped back against the wall. Every muscle aching. Every fibre and sinew, screaming for relief, as the fighter did their best to stretch. Did their best to relieve the tension that had been building up within them.

"They are bidding, aren't they?" Morgho continued. Their tone quieter now. More pensive. The trained killer hoping that they had done enough. That the sight of four slain men. That four blooded corpses, would be enough to finally get them out of the hell that for so long had been their home.

"Yes, Morgho. They are bidding. And bidding well. I would say that you will soon have your wish. So, I would suggest that you clean yourself up. We don't want you looking like some crazed, wild animal, covered in the blood of the last thing that it ate, do we?" The large man said. Gesturing for someone outside to enter the room. A young girl suddenly appearing through the doorway, and quickly dropping a bucket of water onto the floor, before scurrying off again.

"Your new master will be brought down to see you. Then once he has paid, you will leave with them. So, be ready to go." Miqeir continued, throwing a small bag at the fighter, so that they could collect what few belongings they had, together.

"Oh, and Morgho...........The armour and the weapons are yours to take. You have earnt them." The Ghiscari added, before stepping out of the room. Morgho knowing that that was the closest thing that they were going to get to any kind of goodbye.

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"Five hundred gold honours.........."

"Six hundred gold honours............."

"One thousand................." Voices called out, one after another. The slaver smiling as the price for Morgho got higher and higher.

"One thousand? One thousand for what you have all just seen? One thousand gold honours for the greatest warrior that has ever graced these pits? Come now. Surly........................."

"Ten thousand gold dragons............." A voice interrupted. The crowd falling quiet. All eyes scanning the throng, for the man that had just placed the bid. Those around the bidder staring in disbelief, along with the man that stood by his side.

"What? Have ya lost ya mind? Ten thousand................."

"I won the wager, Bronn. So, you cannot complain about my bid." Tyrion interjected. Keeping his eyes firmly on the grinning man on the podium.

"Ten thousand gold dragons, slaver. Do we have a deal................?" Tyrion called out. The slavers grin growing even wider, as the crowd around Tyrion moved away.

"Sold to the little man for ten thousand gold dragons................" The slaver agreed. A man coming up behind the little lord and the shocked sellsword, gesturing for the two of them to follow him.

"Gashqi will show you to your property.............." The slaver continued. Tyrion ignoring Bronn's continued protests, as the duo made their way into the dark depths below the pits.

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"We had a wager, Bronn. You lost, so you cannot complain." Tyrion huffed, finally sick of listening to the sellsword.

"Yeah, but ten thousand.........."

"It is my gold, and my business. I want this Se sȳndor morgho. I have never been so impressed by a fighter before. Not even you. I have never seen anyone fight like that before. And neither will anyone else in Westeros. So, who better to have watching over me?" Tyrion told the bigger man at his side. Bronn simply huffing in reply, as the followed the man deeper into the dark depths. The flicker of burning torches, the only thing that allowed Tyrion and Bronn to see what was going on around them.

"Morgho." The man said, as he led the duo to a room. Tyrion's eyes growing wide, as he saw the naked back of the warrior. Old and new scars littering their flesh. The little man sure that the marks were not just from fights in the pit, but from the lash of the whip.

"Morgho. Your new master." The man continued. Tyrion and Bronn looking at one another as the warrior turned. Their breath catching in their throats, as their eyes fell on the most beautiful face that either of them had ever seen.