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.”
Bronn raised an eyebrow. “You’re mad.”
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. game of thrones season 02 dthrip
The stranger smiled. “That’s Season Three. You’ll want to pre-order.”
Bronn drew his sword.
He poured the rest of his ale onto the stone. It hissed.
Bronn ripped the stone away. His hands were shaking. The next morning, he found the hooded stranger again
“What’s this?” Bronn asked.