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    1. Squrmy 11 yrs ago

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Awesome summaries, Zach! c:
Ryamsport, The Arbor, Westeros

Despite the comings and goings of the ships that docked and departed from Ryamsport day in and day out, it was quite a rare sight for the people of The Arbor to see one of the members of House Redwyne preparing to leave their island home.

Victor Redwyne stood on one of the many wide and well-built wharfs that were permanently set aside for the mooring of House Redwyne’s vessels, his arms folded across his armoured chest: bright, watchful eyes watching the movements of the shore crew who were preparing his father’s vessel for cast-off. Lord Arron Redwyne’s personal ship was a thing of beauty, created roughly ten years ago by some of The Arbor’s finst shipmakers, and maintained each and every year by the very same men who had built it.

She was a medium-sized galley, with a crew of about forty rowers - fifteen on each side, with ten to man the sails and to take over whenever another rower became tired - and usually carried about twenty to thirty knights and men-at-arms along with it, whenever the ship was setting out in pursuit of pirates or Ironborn Raiders. She was a fast vessel, and could easily keep up with most vessels larger, smaller and equal to herself, especially if there was a strong wind. She was graceful, but that was not to say she was not formidable - there was a massive ram attached to her, and she could easily sink vessels twice her size if she hit them at the right angle and with enough force. Once she’d been a flagship, but no longer - that honour belonged to Victor’s vessel, which had been built for his thirtieth nameday.

The vessel was bound for King’s Landing, where it would be at harbour until such a time as when Lord Reyne - in company with Emmon Redwyne, his childhood friend and Victor’s younger brother - arrived to board the ship, to make for the tournament at Gulltown. As well as the party from the Westerlands, the Redwynes were also expected to provide transport for their liege lords - the Tyrells - and the other Knights and Ladies of The Reach who intended to travel to the tournament. Arron’s galley would have been more than large enough to accomodate Rory Reyne, Emmon Redwyne and a few retainers, as well as the extended family and court of Lord Leos Tyrell: but with all the other Knights, horses, squires and equipment that were sure to be coming along, a good deal more than one ship would be needed.

Five other vessels - both larger, smaller and of the same size - but none of them with the grace that Lord Arron’s galley possessed, were also being prepared and provisioned for the short journey to King’s Landing, where they would be able to stock up on supplies again before heading for the tournament at Gullstown.

It was a fascinating sight to behold: the docks of Ryamsport even more of a hub of activity than usual, as deckhands and labourers scrambled to do the bidding of roaring captains and bo’suns, loading crates of grapes and fresh fruit onto the ships - along, of course, with the necessary and expected wine. Dozens of barrels of red and gold, all from The Arbor’s wineries, were being loaded into the hulls of the ships: where they would reside until the vessels arrived at King’s Landing. Lord Arron was a serious man, and he saw his travel to the Great City as part of his duty to his family and his liege lord; he would not have his men drinking on their way, even if it was a relatively easy journey to make.

The elderly Lord himself could be seen moving about on the deck of his ship, conferring quietly with his captain - who, by comparison to the men who commanded the other four vessels, was a rather reserved and respectful-looking fellow. The same could be said for the crew of the Lord’s ship - they were handpicked and well behaved, and had been sailing with Arron for years: they were not the same type of sailor as those that manned the other large vessels. Although those men were disciplined, they lacked the class of those who were under Arron’s personal command - and a lack of class was something that he would not tolerate.

Another twenty minutes passed, with Victor standing by silently - a hand kept on the shoulder of his young daughter, who was watching the activity of the dock with fascination. It was loud - incredibly so - and the Lordling winced every time he heard a sailor bellowing curses at his fellow crewmen. Although they were on their best behaviour, sailors were sailors - and their tongues were hard beasts to tame. “Father,” The little girl began, peering up at the muscular form of her armoured sire, “Why aren’t we going with grandfather?”

Victor looked down at the girl with a small smile, although inwardly he was seething. “Because he has seen fit for us to stay here - after all, a Redwyne must remain at The Arbor, and with Emmon and Halmon gone, that falls to me. I would love for you to go with him, my dear, but I’m afraid you must stay with me - he’ll be too busy with other things to keep an eye on you.” He gave her another smile, before falling silent again - the girl allowing him his silence, satisfied (although disappointed) with his answer.

Soon enough, the ships all announced that they were ready: a blast of a horn at the bo’sun’s command signifying to the commanding vessel - Lord Arron’s ship - that they were ready to depart. About a hundred of The Arbor’s sailors would be leaving that day, and five of their largest ships: along with roughly thirty other knights and men-at-arms, who were to compete in the tourney and help defend the ships in the event of an attack. After all, even though every vessel flew the colours of House Redwyne, some pirates were incredibly bold.

The elderly Lord - clad in plate-and-mail armour, too weak now for the full plate affair - disembarked from his ship, approaching his son and heir to say his final farewells. He embraced his granddauggter first, murmuring something to the girl - much to her pleasure - and promised to bring her a gift upon his return. Straightening up, he addressed his son, lowering his tone somewhat.

“I am trusting you with The Arbor, Victor,” He murmured, “I am trusting you with my - with our home. I hope you will not disappoint me: I know you will not, and I look forward to my return. Hopefully, we can all be together soon - Halmon, Emmon, Cassilda, you and I. A family reunion. It has been too long.”

“Of course, father,” Victor smiled, returning his father’s gaze. “I will not let you down.” Although, we could have had a reunion this time - of course, it’s not something that you want. You don’t really trust us. However, despite the anger he felt at being denied the chance to see his younger brothers, Victor still hoped for his father to be safe and to return swiftly: he had a great amount of affection for the aging man, and respected him immensely.

The Lord clasped his son’s arm, before moving away - giving a final wave to his granddaughter before climbing back onto his ship and disappearing into his large, roomy cabin.

The ships cast off with the usual affair - trumpets sounding and men yelling, the sound of the water of The Arbor splashing beneath a hundred oars filling Victor’s ears as the crews began the task of backing out of Ryamsport’s harbour. He stood there with his daughter, watching - waiting. Longing for his chance to head back out into the world again, and to see those whom he missed so dearly.
Posted Emmon's CS - he's a POV character now so I can do some more collabing with Ethan. Woo, fostering!
Have fun, Phoebas!

I got a post up, collab between Ethan and myself.
Essos, The Road to Pentos - Ethanjory/Squrmy Collab

Born and raised in Dorne, Erryk Yronwood knew how to act in a desert. He knew that when the sun was at its highest during the day, it was unwise to travel - as horses and men alike would soon become exhausted - and he also knew that, at night, the temperature dropped to freezing levels, and the wind howled across the sand dunes: the Dornish Desert had killed many Northern men during their attempted conquests of the Southern Kingdom, but those that had been born in the harsh country knew how to survive in its climate.

This knowledge, gleaned through a lifetime of trips to and from the desert, had served Erryk well: it had saved him from a horrible death, like a few members of the Golden Company had experienced when they fled across the Narrow Sea, and he and his Dornish companions had been able to teach the rest how to live in the desert before they, too, had perished. And so it was, as a result of his knowledge so deeply ingrained in his system it was near instinctual, that he found himself resting beneath the sparse shade given by a singular palm tree, his sandsteed just behind him - feeding from a makeshift bucket, full of dried oats. A horse was a man’s best friend, in the desert - they could mean the difference between life or death, out here, and it was important to look after them.

The Dornishman’s head leant against the tree behind him, a small yawn leaving his lips as he peered out at the lonely road only a few metres away: his doulbe-curved bow in his lap, the man ready to use it should he have to. The road to Pentos was a dangerous one, and Erryk Yronwood had no intention of dying a nameless man at the hand of bandits. He was dressed in the light, leather armour with metal disks sewn into it, which was characteristic of his people: a flowing desert robe made from thick white cloth resting on top of the armour. It served to keep the metal disks sewn into his armour from getting too hot, as they would certainly have become had they been openly exposed to the bright sun.

His lazy blue gaze eventually moved from the road to the man who sat a few short steps away from him, the Bloodroyal eyeing Robb Reyne curiously. He trusted the man, and respected him: even if he did hail from the Westerlands. He was a great swordsman, and Erryk was certain that he would need him before the Golden Company could call Pentos their own. “Beef?” He inquired, reaching into a satchel that hung from his belt - holding out a strip of dried, salted meat to the tall, broad man.

Robb accepted Erryk’s offer of food as he took the strip of salted beef from his grasp. He ripped off a piece with his teeth and chewed voraciously before swallowing. It was hardly anyone’s idea of good food, especially considering that he had grown up as the son of the richest men in all of Westeros. Regardless of that, Robb had his fair share of poor meals during these thirteen years of exile, and there was no use in hoping that their meals would become any better. Once the Golden Company marched upon Pentos, rats and bowls of brown from Kings Landing would be all that they could possibly hope for.

Ser Robb was dressed plate and mail, both of which were rusted and well-worn, bearing no insignia of any kind. In the early days of the exile, he still work the fine armor embellished with a red lion that he received from his father in his youth. Full plate, as it happened, was well and good for a knight, but less so for a sellsword, and it wasn’t long before he sold off his prized armor and put on what he wore now. Though most of it was was hidden by the large, faded gray overcoat, that was starting to fray at the cuffs and bottom. He looked like a common hedge knight, which was perfect for the particular role that he would be playing in Pentos.

The sword that he wore at his belt was not the one he usually had. He left that sword back at the camp, it had a red lion’s head carved into the hilt, it he figured that it was best to leave behind anything that could potentially give away his identity. He honestly doubted that there would be any man in Pentos, but Robb had become a much more reserved and cautious man over these long years in Essos, he’d much rather not take the risk.

As for the man that he was making this grand journey with. . . well, he had no strong opinion of the Dornish, good or bad, but of the tales that had reached his ears regarding this one, only put him to ease. His skill with a bow would come in handy, and he was sure the Dornishman had many other hidden talents as well, otherwise Bittersteel wouldn’t have found it fit to have him accompany Robb to Pentos. If Bittersteel had the smallest reason to give this momentous task to this man, then Robb figured it was safe enough to trust him. Somewhat.

He picked up the sword in sheath that he had unfastened from his belt earlier and took a seat near his companion as he took a look up towards the sky. It was cloudless and unsettling blue. Despite the sky’s beauty, Robb wished for a few clouds, perhaps they could block out some of the sun’s unforgiving heat. With his hand, he blocked out the brightness of the sun, but he was still forced to squint a little. “It could serve us to come up with aliases before we reach Pentos”, Robb finally broke the silence, “foreigners tend to raise suspicion.”

That was true everywhere- Westeros and Essos. If someone looks different from the rest, then they’re immediately distrusted, reflected Robb. But that was only natural. Men preferred to stick with those that they were familiar with, though it would be much less of an issue in a place like Pentos, with its extremely active port that was riddled with foreign traders and sailors. Even so, they would be noticed, especially if it was required of them to go outside the main port and slums.

“I could possibly be a sellsword knight looking for work, and you may be my squire, if that suits you. I’ll take the name of Robert, since it it close enough to my real name to avoid any mistake on your or my part, and different enough so that it doesn’t matter.” Robb paused for a second as he let that sink in. “If you have a better idea, then run it by me. The reason for being in Pentos does not need to be overly complicated.” He took another bite of his salted beef.

Erryk eyed the man eating his beef, nodding his head occasionally as the man spoke - blue gaze narrowing somewhat at the Reyne’s suggestion that he pose as a Knight, and Erryk as the man’s squire. His pride urged him to dismiss the idea immediately - but, Erryk decided, the idea did have some merit to it. Robb was a much greater swordsman than he, and he looked the part - he had plate and chainmail armour, and Erryk did not. It would be a good cover story, but one that would require the Yronwood to swallow his pride and submit to being beneath a Northerner. Even if it was just a cover story - a fantasy, a means to an end, it was hard for Erryk to stomach it.

He pulled a piece of beef out for himself, biting off a piece of the dried meat and chewing on it with the endurance of a man who had been living on field rations for years. Erryk was used to eating disgusting food, now - it had been a long time indeed since he had tasted the food he was served on a daily basis back home in Dorne. After a long moment of silence, chewing on his food and staring at the man who had decided to move closer to him, the Dornishman gave a nod. “It’s a good idea, certainly - and it’ll get us inside the walls, I’m sure. What about the other Sellsword Company? The Bright Banners, wasn’t it? Will we request to join their ranks?” The man perked an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder at his horse - checking that the beast was still eating. His concern for the animal was evident: the stallion was the one thing he had left of his homeland, and he was determined to look after him well.

Looking back to the Reyne, he waited for his response - brushing a golden curl out of his eyes, and back behind his ears.

Robb nodded in simple agreement. “It will serve us to offer our skills to the Bright Banners. At least it will give us a legitimate reason to ask an audience with Ascario Cosca, whenever such an opportunity presents itself.” He finished off his beef before adding, “I’ve never seen a sellsword company that will turn away prospective recruits, no matter where they hail from. That much should prove to be easy, I hope.”

The biggest of their concerns was obviously enlisting the aid of the Bright Banners, and any other company currently present within Pentos. If they could only enlist the the Bright Banners, that was well and good. That would give them at least 2,000 good fighting men within the walls of the city, enough to perform sabotage as needed, and even ambush a few of the prominent magisters and take them prisoner. After all, they were the true power behind Pentos, though it may prove to be useful to take the Prince as hostage regardless. Any bargaining chip that they would gain had to be used, no matter how much it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Once the Golden Company surround the city, the chaos that it would bring would have to be used to their advantage so that they could create even more disorder. If they managed to prevent the Pentoshi from mounting a defense, then that would give them the ability to open the gates of Pentos. Once the Golden Company was in the walls, the city would be theirs. Getting the Bright Banners onto their side, Robb realized, was critical to their success.

Robb had never met the man named Cosca who commanded the Bright Banners. Whether he was fickle or not was uncertain, but Robb had a feeling that he would turn his cloak when offered enough gold. Sacking a city as wealthy and large as Pentos wasn’t something that did not make those involved rich. As long as you grabbed the wealth lying around before others did.
“We may have a need of your natural Dornish charisma when we finally have a chat with Cosca”, Robb mused, “a man like him will be turned by gold. Only problem is that all we have is promises and could bes.” Robb grimaced at that notion. “And I hope your aim is true”, Robb motioned to Erryk’s bow, “I do not doubt that you will have plenty of chances to practice your skills with a bow.” Moreover, he knew that he would have to kill many men once again, and the anticipation made his fingertips tingle. That was just the kind of man he was and always would be. A killer. But Robb was fine with that. After all, he was among the best at what he did.

Erryk grunted, nodding his head; tearing off another mouthful of the salted beef with his front teeth, with none of the airs and graces he would once have had at his father’s table in Castle Yronwood. “I’m sure that they’ll be happy to enlist us - especially if you mention your Squire’s skill with a bow,” He shrugged, running a hand through his curls with a sigh - looking up at the sun above them, which was gradually beginning to move towards the West. “A Hedgeknight and his squire from Westeros - I don’t have much of an accent anymore, so we’ll say we’re Deserters from the Riverlands, or something along those lines. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He paused, a grin spreading across his lips. “And I’ll have to make some time to explore the Pentoshi brothels - it could be a good way to bond with the Sellswords. Whether you admit it or not, all of us like a good fucking.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling with mirth as he swallowed what had remained of his beef, rising to his feet.

“I’m sure that he’ll turn - I’ve heard from a few of the boys that he’s somewhat of a whimsical man. If we woo him with promises of grand castles and vast amounts of gold, I’m sure he’ll come over to our side - besides, from what I hear, the Magisters are stuck-up bastards: he probably dislikes them. Hopefully he does, at least - that way we might not have to do much persuasion at all: just provide him with the reassurance that he’ll be backed by our men when Bittersteel arrives with the rest of the Company.” A pause. “I could even try to use my real Dornish charm on him,” He smirked, “You’d be surprised at the amount of important men who like to bite the pillow behind closed doors - our own so-called Blackfyre Heir amongst them, from what I’ve heard.”

Erryk laughed, obviously teasing the man - an eye kept upon him to see how he reacted to his joking, as his footsteps carried him towards his sandsteed. He ran his hand down the yellow-coloured stallion’s side, leaning forwards and resting his forehead against the animal’s neck - murmuring quietly in its ear. Once he was done, the horse whinnied - the Dornishman slapping its neck, and returning to his previous position: legs folded in the strange, Dornish fashion. “Aye,” He murmured, referring to the man’s previous statement. “I’ll riddle a few of their Magisters with arrows - and perhaps even the Bright Banner’s leadership, if the time comes. We can’t have loose ends, if this is more than just a sacking - and I get the feeling that it is. Bittersteel wants more than just gold to keep the Company together from this sacking.”

The Dornishman was cocky and arrogant, Robb admitted, though he didn’t dislike the man because of it. He had been just as arrogant before the rebellion, but, he supposed, all things have to change. And since those days, he sincerely hoped that he was wiser than he was then, it would prove to be certainly useful when faced with the many challenges that would appear in the coming months. Even so, of the man himself, Robb knew very little, other than the fact that he was the rightful heir to the Yronwood lands, much like how Robb was the rightful heir to Castamere. Unlike this Dornish counterpart, Robb had little interest in reclaiming his family lands. If reports were true, his younger brother, Rory, had taken to being a lord like a fish to water, and Robb was well aware that he would no doubt make for a poor ruler. He was always the most comfortable with steel in his hand, and that certainly hadn’t changed for the past thirteen years. Besides, he’d have to face his brother if he wanted those lands, and Robb was no kinslayer.

“Save those arrows for when they turn against us, Yronwood. I’d rather not be in the midst of negotiations and have Cosca take an arrow to the throat”, Robb joked, which was evident by a half-smile on his face. It had been such a long time since he last smiled, and that seemed odd to him when he had smiled so often when he was young. I’ve changed much more than I realized, Robb thought to himself.

The rest of their journey to Pentos would prove to be uneventful, or so Robb hoped. He had no interest in engaging a motley band of highwaymen- there was no challenge in engaging men who barely knew have to fight. Besides, there would be definitely plenty of that after they were inside Pentos. For now, at least, it was probably wise to keep moving, they probably already lingered in this area long enough.

For the time that they both had been travelling together, Robb had heard no complaints from the Dornishman, which was to be expected, considering that he had been in exile with the Golden Company for as long as Robb. Besides, it almost seemed that he was born to ride, considering the skill that he displayed in horsemanship and the love he had for his steed. Though many considered Robb to be an exceptional rider, it was clear that he paled in comparison to his companion. For that reason alone, perhaps they would arrive in Pentos even faster than expected.

He finally rose and strapped his sheathed sword to his belt. With a stretch that made his back crack, he finally said, “It’s time for us to move on. Once you’ve finished with your gourmet meal, of course.” He moved toward his courser, and though he owned a destrier, he had opted for a much less impressive horse, in an attempt to make his role as a poor hedge knight more believable.. The Gods knew that he already looked the part. Still, a poor man can kill as easily as someone who is rich, and he knew that he had many to kill.
Oh.. well, that ruins my fun. :c Still, it'll be fun to get something naval happening - I'll just have to read up on ships. >.>
I'm here, too - but I'm not too sure on what to do, at the moment. Alex is sort of a supporting character for Ruby's coterie, so I'll start working on a faction of my own sometime soon.
Scambo said
Thanks for the advice Sini :) And you're quite right, but I'd guess anyone in the Reach with two dragons to rub together is getting sloshed on Strongwine or Gold.


Sini said
House Hightower is the nearest house to the Arbor. A huge amount of traffic between Oldtown and the island, I wager.Also, Scambo, if you want to center images, this is the coding: [center*][*img=xxx][*/center]. I tink you missed a [ or ] there. Remove the *s.


We should get somethin' written up sometime soon, Scambo! Even work out a history between some of our characters, perhaps? All the Redwyne boys travelled, in their youth.

Ruby said
A pirate fleet will be going through the area. So, there's that.


Pirates, eh? Well, I shall see to it that they're crushed against the banks of the Mander!
Essos, between Pentos and Myr, the Flatlands - Sini/Squrmy/Ethan Collab

It was midmorning, and Erryk Yronwood was still not awake. The noise of the Golden Company’s encampment raged on all around him, but still the Lordling slept - a pair of Essosi women cuddled up against him on either side of his chest. The tent in which the horseman slept was a far cry from the chambers he had had back at Castle Yronwood: he didn’t even have the gold to afford a bed - not that there would be room anyway. Instead, he slept on a number of large, straw-stuffed bags: with a few silken pillows tossed over them, one of the only reminders of Dorne he had been able to bring with him during his flight from Westeros.

He was not a particularly deep sleeper, despite what many people said about him: in fact, it was his desire not to have to do anything that kept him so close to his bed. About three years into his exile across the Narrow Sea from Westeros, Erryk had finally come to terms with the fact that it was very unlikely that he would ever return to Castle Yronwood - in fact, it was nigh on impossible. Instead, he was stuck in a strange land that bore more resemblance to the deserts of Dorne than the mountains which he had called home in his youth, in the service of a King he did not believe in - the son of a man whom his father had only backed in order to get rid of the Northerner’s influence in Dorne. Such things were bound to make a man lazy and woeful, and to look to drink and women for comfort they could not find in themselves.

Erryk did not believe in Daemon Blackfyre’s son, and he did not believe in Aegor Rivers - but he had no choice. He would stay with the Golden Company, together with the few Dornishmen he had brought with him from Dorne, in the half-hope of one day returning to his homeland - a wish which he knew would be almost impossible to achieve.

So, he had gradually slipped from the noble man he had once been: indulging more and more of his sexual appetites, and gaining a reputation as one of the Golden Company’s greatest debauchers. Aside from drinking and fucking, the only thing that interested him still was fighting - yet another thing he was renowned for throughout the Company, and the thing that had earned him the little bit of respect that he had from some of the Company’s members - and, although he did not know it, a chance for just that was about to present itself to him.

The unguarded flaps of the Dornishman’s tent were unceremoniously thrown open by a pair of gruff-looking men, both just as Andal as he: supporters of the Blackfyre Rebellion, they too had fled across the Narrow Sea with Bittersteel. With a squeal of surprise, the scantily-clad women jerked awake - throwing off their bedclothes and scrambling to get away from the Dornishman who they assumed the two men had come to kill in his bed: the expressions of disgust that they wore on their faces implied that their intentions were along those lines, in any case. As a result of his negative attitude and general lack of involvement with the day-to-day tasks of the running of the Company, Erryk had earned himself the dislike of the majority of the Exiles (who had disliked Dornishmen anyway) who made up the bulk of the Sellswords. Luckily, he didn’t fight alongside many Northerners, and the Dornishmen who had joined him in exile shared his sentiments of xenophobia and dislike towards the Andals they were bound to.

“Yronwood,” The tallest of the pair growled, past the thick beard that covered much of his facial features, “The Captain-General wants to see you.” He waited for a moment or two, and, having received no response from the Dornishman, marched forwards - growling, “Now.”

Before the brute of a man could lay his hands upon him, Erryk was rolling out of bed: suddenly full of life and vigour, and not at all fatigued. If the man had dared to address him in such a manner ten years prior, he would of found his head on a spike - but now, there was nothing stopping him from treating Erryk just like any other sellsword. Nothing but the Dornishman’s skill with a bow, of course: but he decided against that course of action, considering it unwise to shoot one of Bittersteel’s personal agents.

“The Bitter Bastard wants to see me, eh?” The Dornishman grinned, giving the Andal a wink as he searched for his trousers, ignoring the scathing look he was giving him. “Well, in that case, I’d best scurry to meet his demands, hadn’t I?” Erryk’s disrespectful words were meant more to rile the two sellswords than in any actual offense to Aegor Rivers, and anyone who knew him would know better than to rise to his bait: these two men, however, did not.

“Shut up, snake - get dressed, and be quick about it. He won’t wait forever.”

Ten minutes later, Erryk exited his tent - flanked from behind by the two tall, gruff-looking men. He was dressed simply - but practically - in a baggy white vest, a leather jerkin, and well-made trousers of heavy leather. A pair of riding boots made from soft leather reached up to just below his knees, and two identical, slightly-curved swords could be seen hanging from either of his hips: the Dornishman having decided, for the moment, to leave his bow behind in his tent - along with the rest of his weapons.

Prompted by a growl from behind, the Yronwood began to make his way through the Golden Company’s encampment - pausing momentarily to brush his fingertips along the side of his horse’s face - a sand steed he had brought with him from Westeros. The horse whinnied in response to its master’s touch, throwing its head back; drawing a smile from Erryk’s lips as he swaggered his way down towards Bittersteel’s tent - a few murmured greetings and the odd wave heralding his approach towards the Captain’s pavillion.

Elsewhere in the camp, unlike his Dornish counterpart, Ser Robb Reyne was very much awake, a state in which he often found himself, ever since the dark days of the ill-fated rebellion. Those had been far different times, to be sure, but he would still go as far to say that he had been happier then. Both Randyll and Richard had still lived, and it was partially Robb’s fault that they were killed in the rebellion. It was he who had convinced Randyll to raise the men of Castamere against the crown. Quentyn Ball, Bittersteel, Redtusk, and Daemon Blackfyre; they had so many talented men on their side, how could they lose?

This proved to be true during the majority of the rebellion. It had started with a few minor skirmishes near the border between the Westerlands and the Riverlands, until he had the opportunity to link up with the main army that was being led by the Fireball. From that moment on, the Westerlands easily fell before them, culminating with the decisive battle near Lannisport, where they sent Lord Damion Lannister running back to Casterly Rock as if he was a small kitten. He had little doubt that his name was still vilified there- he personally killed scores of good fighting men, many of which were lordlings. Back then, he didn’t know the names of the men that he killed, whether or not they were lords, miners, farmers, or fishermen.

The fighting above the Mander was no different, no doubt to the sheer brilliance of the Fireball, but Robb’s contribution couldn’t be diminished. He hadn’t gained a reputation of being one of the finest swordsmen and jousters in the seven kingdoms for no reason. And unlike other knights, who fared well in tourneys, but faltered in war, it almost seemed as if Robb thrived during these battles, and that was true enough. He had complete confidence in his sword arm, and little else. Something that his father had been completely content with when he made it constantly known that Robb was his favored son, much to the chagrin of his two elder brothers. Fortunately for Robb, neither of them were men to hold grudges, especially not Randyll who was always complaining that Robb should be taking things more seriously. These concerns seemed to always fall on deaf ears those days.

Everything seemed to be going in the rebels favor, until the Battle of Redgrass. So many good men died on that day, including two of his brothers. After seeing a arrow pierce Randyll’s throat, he remembered little else of that day. He was told afterwards that any living man that stood in my path was cut down with lightning fast efficiency. Perhaps the argument could be made that Robb more than avenged the deaths of his brothers on that day, but Robb didn’t think so. He could kill every man, woman, and child in Westeros, and it still wouldn’t be enough in his eyes. And worse of all? When he fled in exile with Bittersteel and the rest, he left his youngest brother, a boy of only 12 years, alone, tasked with the burden of accepting the full punishment of House Reyne siding with the rebellion. He often told himself that it was the for the best. Rory’s young age had shielded both him and Castamere from a harsher fate.

At this particular moment, Robb found himself sharpening the edge of his blade, a gift from his father upon gaining his knighthood. Although it was made from some of the finest steel that gold could buy, it had definitely seen much better days, as evidenced from the many marks upon the blade. A true testament of his career as a sellsword. Bittersteel had made this company into one that was honorable and respected, but it was still never intended to last. The fate of every man in this company would eventually fall upon the shoulders of the boy who was named after his father, if they could manage to ever place him upon the Iron Throne. Even Robb was well aware that many men had doubts that they could ever accomplish this feat. It was fortunate that what they required was their swords, and not their doubts.

He was in the midst of his thoughts as he was approached by two burly Westerosi who were well-known to be in the direct service of Bittersteel. “The Captain-General wishes a word”, the bigger and dumber one barked, and Robb was surprised that he was capable of memorizing that much to repeat. Robb sheathed his sword and rose, easily making eye contact with the bigger man.

“Words is all he ever wants these days.” With that, he pushed his way through the two grunts and made his way to Bittersteel’s tent, which was situated in the center of the encampment, definitely no surprise to Robb, who had served with the company since its inception. He was greeted by two guards that he knew on a personal basis, and they both motioned him to enter the tent behind him. He did.

Once inside the tent, he noticed the far too familiar table set in the middle of the tent, in which strategies were often planned. The demise of more armies than he could count was plotted on this table, and rarely did anything go awry when it came to the tactics of Aegor Rivers. Otherwise the room was mostly bare, save for a few necessities required by Bittersteel, such as a bed and other such things. To his right, he finally noticed Erryk Yronwood, whom he had served with on a thousand battlefields, and even Redgrass, though he was unaware of it at the time. Robb respected him as a fellow soldier, but wasn’t extremely well acquainted beyond that, nor did he concern himself over the rumors of the many pleasures that Erryk took a part in his personal time. Robb was hardly a stranger to a whorehouse. With that thought, he gave Erryk a short nod of acknowledgement before turning his head back towards Bittersteel.

Erryk passed by the lines of men who were waiting to receive their pay with a small smile painted upon his lips, nodding to the few familiar Dornish faces which he saw amongst the sea of Westerosi Exiles - Lords and farmers alike, now turned sellswords. In Essos, noble titles meant nothing - those from Westeros were strangers in this land, and everyone had to work for their dinner - no matter what their previous rank had been.

He received a few glares as he entered the command tent, but he was well used to that by now - as his father had always told him, he should not concern himself with the opinions of those beneath him. The heir to Castle Yronwood seated himself beside Robb Reyne - a nobleman from the Westerlands. If the Rebels had won the war in Westeros, Erryk would only ever have met the nobleman at the head of a column of Dornish raiders with a bow in his hands - but, as a result of circumstance, he had fought in hundreds of battles alongside the tall, strong swordsman. Erryk had respect for him - a rare thing for the Dornishman to bear towards a Northerner. He gave the renowned swordsman a singular nod of acknowledgement, afterwards giving his full attention to the Targaryen-sired bastard from the Riverlands.

Aegor barely trusted the men before him, and he said as much. He might not have been loved like Daemon, nor as genial in his ways with others, but he was disciplined and single-minded. “I don’t trust you that well.” Say one thing for Aegor Rivers, say he was direct. He saw and said how things were. Men followed him because of that ruthless honesty.

Both Robb Reyne and Erryk Yronwood had fought for the Black Dragon’s cause, and had followed Bittersteel into exile. The years had not been kind to them, to none of them. Their service record with the Golden Company was impeccable, and they had been supporters from the first hour. Nevertheless, allegiances can shift, and Bloodraven had his agents everywhere. Bittersteel knew he was taking a risk, gambling, but it he was willing to take it.

“Go to Pentos, listen to the news, talk to peddlers,” Aegor droned as he kept his cold eyes on his fellow Westerosi warriors. “I need eyes on the inside. Tally their soldiers and supplies. Ascario Cosca and the Bright Banners are currently in Pentoshi employ, see if you can persuade them otherwise.” Bitterseel paused. “Knowing him, gold will do the trick... A long siege is something we cannot afford, the other Free Cities would surely intervene. Besides, we lack the fleet to entirely surround the city.” Supplies and provisions, as well as reinforcements, would simply sail into the harbour and find a welcome embrace in the Pentoshi.

Erryk listened to the words of the Bitter Bastard intently, following the movements of his lips from one phrase to the next. Despite the Yronwood’s distaste for the Northern Andals who he had been taught since birth to despise, Erryk had respect for the man: he was a fierce fighter, and a great leader - and loyal to his half-brother, to the extent that he had raised his sons and would fight to get them on the throne their father had failed to take for himself in the Blackfyre Rebellions.

When he spoke of not trusting them, Erryk half-smiled. I wouldn’t blame you, he said to himself inwardly: blindly trusting a knight from the Westerlands and a Dornishman who had only fought alongside you for the chance of his country’s independence would be a foolish thing to do indeed, and Aegor Rivers was no fool.

“Pentos?” He inquired, with no trace of a Dornish accent - unlike many of his kindred, he had been trained how to speak with the airs and graces of a nobleman in King’s Landing; yet another thing that set him apart from those that ruled from Sunspear, on top of the hue of his skin. The question proved to be rhetorical, however, as he quickly moved on to an actual inquiry. “How much gold are you going to give us?” The question was blunt, and straight to the point. “If we’re to bribe these sellswords, we’ll need gold - and, although it pains me to say it, my pockets are not particularly full of the stuff.” His words were sarcastic, but not meant to be disrespectful - it was simply the way Erryk was: he saw a problem with the proposed plan, so he’d point it out. “Gold for the bribery, and gold for the risk that we’re taking. I don’t particularly fancy the idea of the possibility of my head winding up on a pike with no currency in my pockets.”

Robb couldn’t help but give the Dornishman a look after his remark about gold. He had become every bit a proper sellsword, it seemed, though it wasn’t as if he had Robb’s scorn for that fact. Many in the company weren’t exiles from Westeros, and therefore couldn’t see the true purpose of the Golden Company, likewise, those who were from Westeros, were abandoning the the purpose altogether, much like the Yronwood in his own right. It mattered little to Robb, however. A man who loved gold was easy to control, a lesson that his father had taught him so long ago.

“Nothing,” Aegor replied to the matter of coin. “The pay we handed out a few days ago depleted our reserves. We either need a new contract to refill our coffers, or place a bet.” Aegor Rivers smiled his dreadful smile, the skin drawing tight across his skull. “Raise the stakes and raise them again. I am not planning on dying at the wrong side of the Narrow Sea!” Bittersteel rammed his gauntleted fist on the table. “You’ll have to bribe them with promises. People kill and die for less.”

“We’re bankrupt, then?” Erryk laughed - making no attempt to cover the sound up; a bitter, humourless laugh. “Fine. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to achieve this: after all, I don’t really have a choice, do I?” He paused, somewhat inspired by the man’s drive to return to Westeros. “I have no desire to die here, either - a desert it may be, sir, but it is not Dorne.” The Yronwood rose to his feet, looking to Robb with an arched eyebrow; suddenly casual once again. “Unless Ser Robb has something to say, I suppose we’d best be off. Pentos is quite a ways from here.”

“It’s best if you start using your tongue less and your sword more, I think. It’ll be no joy for either of us when we get caught inside Pentos during any length of siege”, Robb grimaced as he rose and rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Sacking Pentos was more than just refilling the Golden Company’s coffers, Robb could see, even if he had no interest in plots or schemes. “It shall be done Aegor, both me and Yronwood shall see to it”, the Westorosi said with a half-smile- definitely a rarity for him during these days. This would be fun- Pentos was just your average cesspool of a city, rife with sex, corruption, and murder. It would give him a queer feeling of satisfaction to witness the Pentoshi’s way of life crumble around them. Regardless, he was sure his blade would see plenty of use in the coming days, something that he was more than content with. “Still,” Robb said mostly to himself, “it’ll be fun.”
Woooo! More Reach Houses! This makes me happy. =D

I really need some stuff to do with Victor and Emmon, so they're not just sitting at The Arbor doing nothing - I have a few things in the works with Cold and Flagg, but if anyone else is interested, feel free to chuck me a PM!

Collab with Sini/Ethan and myself is on its way! Watch out Westeros, the Golden Company is a-comin'! ;)
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