[b]Essos, between Pentos and Myr, the Flatlands - Sini/Squrmy/Ethan Collab[/b]

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 [i]bed[/i] - 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 [i]anything[/i] 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, “[i]Now[/i].” 

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 [i]dared[/i] 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 [i]that[/i] 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]I wouldn’t blame you,[/i] 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.”