Bronn raised an eyebrow. “You’re mad.”
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. game of thrones season 02 dthrip
The pouch contained a small, cracked glass lens—a forbidden seeing-stone of Old Valyrian scrap, badly re-forged. Bronn had heard rumors: smugglers called them “DTHrips”—low, degraded, temporal hops. They didn’t show the truth; they showed a ghost of it, recorded by some forgotten maester’s apprentice in a future that hadn’t happened yet. Bronn raised an eyebrow
The next morning, he found the hooded stranger again. “Tell your masters,” Bronn said, “that if anyone brings another one of those foul things into Westeros, I’ll shove it so far up their arse they’ll see the Red Wedding in 144p.” A hooded figure slid a leather pouch across the oak table
