The Outskirts of Myr. The Golden Company' Main Camp. 291 AC.
Ser Axel Arryn. Lieutenant of the Golden Company.
"TO THE Falcon's EYE!!!" A sergeant of the infantry raised his cup.
"AAAYE!!!" Dozens of voices answered him.
The battle had ended not long ago, bloody but rcifully brief. A khalasar of seven thousand riders, led by the newly crowned Khal Pumba. He was young, freshly inherited from his father, and desperate to prove himself worthy of the braid. He needed a victory, or sothing of consequence, and so he chose to demand tribute from Myr.
From Myr. One of the wealthiest Free Cities in the known world.
I still cannot fathom what he expected. Cowardice, perhaps, or sothing else entirely, but even rchants have their pride. In Westeros, you hear stories of cities that bend the knee to the Dothraki and pay their tribute without a fight, and the Free Cities are no strangers to that humiliation either. But those cities only buy off truly monstrous khalasars, of which there are no more than ten roaming the Dothraki Sea. And a khalasar is only considered truly monstrous if it numbers at least fifteen thousand riders.
It was no great surprise, then, that when the upstart made his demand, the Magisters erupted in fury and hired the Golden Company at full strength. Profitable for the Company, expensive for the buyer. The Golden Company are the largest and most costly sellsword company in the known world, and we hold that distinction by a wide margin. Ten thousand n march under our banners, while the next largest commands three or four thousand at best. Only our company can take on two major contracts simultaneously alongside a dozen smaller ones. The numbers allow it. Even during the last war with Tyrosh, not every soldier in the company was called to fight.
We had been hired to make an example of Pumba, to kill him visibly and brutally. I had sat in on the planning as an observer and as a lieutenant-in-waiting, a matter that was already settled. At a certain point, I offered a plan. After brief debate, it was approved.
Draw the khalasar into a canyon with bait, seal off the entrance and exit, rain down rocks, arrows, and javelins, finish off the survivors. The plan worked, mostly. What we had not accounted for were horses that could climb. Pumba rallied his n and sent his elite cavalry crashing toward a breakout. Our detachnt was badly outnumbered, so we moved to intercept. That was where I t Pumba in battle and killed him. After that, I cut off the heads, took the scalp, and began signaling to the Dothraki that their khal was dead.
So surrendered. So fought to the last. So fled. The outco was the sa for all of them: the khalasar of Pumba ceased to exist. My n and the reinforcents spent another two days hunting down stragglers and executing them where they stood. Those who had surrendered were sent into slavery.
The Magisters received their trophies, thousands of severed braids and broken horse-lords. The Company received an enormous sum in loot, paynt, and bonus. I received my promotion. I was now a respected lieutenant of the Golden Company's cavalry.
But the greater prize was the new five-year contract with Myr. Tons of gold, stability, and far less danger than the ordinary life of a sellsword.
It was in that mont that I understood. The ti had co to set certain plans in motion. But first, I needed to speak with a few people.
…
The Golden Company' Main Camp. 291 AC.
Harry Strickland. Paymaster of the Golden Company.
While the rest of the company celebrated, the poor (taphorically speaking) Paymaster had to figure out the most sensible way to invest a portion of the company's funds so that it would grow stronger. Truth be told, the five-year contract had caught the company pleasantly off guard. The spies had reported that the Magisters were discussing the matter, but none of the captains had genuinely believed the offer would be accepted. And yet, here they were.
Five years would be more than enough ti to recover and reinforce the company, which would prove invaluable when the distant future finally arrived. Not long ago, a friend in Westeros had reached out and spoken of the early signs of serious upheaval in the kingdom. The Iron Throne had begun borrowing heavily, and judging by the king's appetites, showed no intention of stopping. Good news, especially in light of what was to co, but for now every effort had to be made, or the plans would require fundantal revision.
He was not yet Captain-General and could not move too freely. The other captains and the General himself kept him in check. His ambitions had found little support among the rest, and only the now-deceased Captain-General Myles Toyne had shared his vision. Unfortunately, Toyne had died, and his mantle had been taken up by an older man, not young, but universally respected. Morango had imdiately cut off all communication with the Sunset Kingdom and refused to so much as hear a word about a new invasion of Westeros. His mories of the War of the Ninepenny Kings ran deep, he had beco the Captain-General quite unexpectedly, a man with Westerosi heritage from Braavos.
Killing him and seizing power by force was out of the question, and frankly, not sothing he particularly wanted to do. It was simpler to wait for the man to retire. All these years had been spent preparing to beco the company's general. He had bribed, sought out n who shared his ideas and helped them rise through the ranks, and taken firm hold of the treasury. Whom do sellswords listen to? The one who pays them. And that was precisely what he did.
But gold alone would not make a man general. By his preliminary estimates, roughly a third of all officers would back him. Of those, he was certain of perhaps twenty percent at most. As unpleasant as it was to admit, the bloody victory over Tyrosh had allowed him to place his own n, or those who sympathized with him, in positions of command. They were, for the most part, exiles from Westeros who wanted nothing more than to go ho.
Among them, Jon Connington had proven one of the most valuable acquisitions. The forr Hand of the fallen dynasty was educated, sharp-minded, shared his convictions, and had many friends. Through him, he had co to know Illyrio Mopatis, the Magister of Pentos, one of the wealthiest n in the world. That was how he had learned of the plans to restore the Targaryen dynasty, and of the two figures who might serve as its symbols. One was Prince Viserys, whom the Mad King had nad heir in defiance of custom. The other was Prince Aegon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and the rightful King of Westeros. Whether the Magister of Pentos was truly hosting such people, and whether they were truly Targaryens, did not concern him overmuch. What mattered was a cause and the support to carry it, and the na of the Dragons would provide both.
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