That night, alone in his chamber, Bronn pressed the cold stone to his temple.
Then came the voice. Not Tyrion’s. A flat, bored voiceover in a strange accent: “And then the Hound—sorry, Sandor—just loses it, total panic mode. Epic fail.”
The vision shuddered to life.
The tavern in Lannisport was quiet for once, save for the crackle of the hearth. Tyrion’s man, Bronn, sat in the corner, nursing a sour ale. A hooded figure slid a leather pouch across the oak table.
“A DTHrip,” the stranger whispered. “Season Two. The Battle of the Blackwater.” game of thrones season 02 dthrip
Bronn ripped the stone away. His hands were shaking.
Bronn drew his sword.
The image was garbage: half the frame was pixelated green, the audio a watery, distorted scream. But he saw it—the massive chain rising from the Blackwater, wildfire blooming like a diseased flower, and Stannis’s fleet burning in a crooked, stuttering loop. The sound was wrong. Someone off-screen coughed. A subtitle flickered: [Tyrion smirks]