Name: Fyren Lannister

Age: 22

Gender: Male

House: Lannister, at least in name, if not in wealth and status.

Appearance: The famous associations with his distant cousins are not present in Fyren's appearance, save for his green eye colour. He's not as tall as some with the same name. His hair is not gold at all, but coal black, soft and cut short. He is beardless, always. He couldn't grow a proper beard even if he wanted to. Luckily, he is not ugly. A girl might even call him handsome here and there. His nose is long and straight, his cheek get red in the sun, his eyebrows are thin just as his lips are full, and his forehead is high. He can't boast of any visible scars, a mere stripling in that gang of ragged veterans. Perhaps he's got a bit skinny, but that is to be expected of a depressed sellsword on constant march, although he started well-fed and strong. Most importantly, he only has his left eye. The right he lost foolishly in a game of dice. He often bears himself oddly because of that blind spot, turning his head left and right in such a way that one would think he's looking for someone or afraid of something. Perhaps that is not too far from the truth. He cloaks himself often, even when it's hot, and his hand often reaches for the hilt on its own, right there where the worn out image of a lion can barely be seen anymore.

Personality: Fyren does not ask too many personal questions and he prefers it when others treat him the same. There is something about inquisitiveness that rubs him the wrong way. He has no problems with orders and commands. He is a hard worker and obeys his superiors with utmost diligence. Those orders that are within reason, that is. Criminality and sadism, while he is ready to overlook it and turn his eye away when his comrades are engaged in it, is not something you will see him stoop to. Fyren is also quick to love and forgive, which might be a bad thing in a sellsword; but it is that very love that would make him give up his life for any of his friends and companions, a hundred times if he could and had to. That is not to say that he is free of vices, far from it. Drink and dice is what brought him across the Narrow Sea, ultimately. Now he only drinks; gambling he despises and runs away from, but he will give coin and more than coin for any information about the 'dragon girl'.

History: He was not much better off than the local bastard children growing up. His father bore the name of a famous house, but that did not do them much good. For all intents and purposes, his father was a commoner, no more noble than his commoner mother, a cold woman from the north with a good dowry left her by some generous lord she served or other. She married him because she was simple-minded, and put hopes into her husband's name even though he had nothing. (Fyren's grandfather questioned his cousin the lord one time too many and even threatened him with arms, and suddenly he had nothing except for a decrepit old house in the country where they lived. He was alive at least. 'It would be reputation, killing your own.') Tywin of course gave them alms now and that simply because of their name – or is it to mock them? – but he made it clear that they would never have anything.

And so he grew up in the decrepit old house. His father never spoke much, and his mother spent her days in regret. She loved him though, she never regretted having children. Lyra was older than Fyren. When he was 14 she left to King's Landing, 'to be a woman of faith', or whatever it was that she said. He missed her and her advice. She was always wise, his sister. And proud. And cruel. Perhaps he would've ended up somewhere else had she not left? He left too a year later, after working as a guard in Lannisport, hoping for nothing and looking for nothing. He simply wanted to move away. He found a troupe of actors and entertainers in the city, on their way East, and so he decided to follow them for a while before heading to King's Landing and perhaps one of the Free Cities.

And so on the road he got drunk one night, really drunk. A stranger head joined them somewhere along the way, an old man, gray and wrinkled, with a patch on his eye and a pouch full of gold. But his spirit was young, and he was merry and shouting, and everyone was laughing at his jokes and clapping at his stories. A charlatan , Fyren thought, or a conjurer from Essos dealing in cheap tricks. There was something odd about him, and no one could see it. And so, drunk, Fyren challenged him: a game of dice. He would take all of his money and chase him away with his sword. But he lost it all. All the money he had saved, and his golden buckle, and his ornate pipe. But the man gave him a chance to regain it all. And more. Suddenly, no one was awake, and the two of them were alone by the fire, and even the fire was dying. The man somehow knew all about him, and offered him one last game: if Fyren wins, he would be the lord, and he told him the stories of golden spoons and foreign women dancing in the castle, and feasts and wild exotic beasts brought for his entertainment. If he loses though, the man takes his eye. Fyren laughed and thought the man was insane, but everything he had lost, mixed with a lot of wine, made him accept the deal, thinking it was a joke. So he cast the dice, without thinking, mumbled random numbers. And lost. A second later the man's fingers were plucking his eye out and he was screaming, but no one in the camp woke up. He was rolling in the dirt, grabbing for his sword, but the man had it. The man thanked him, and told him not to cry and whine. 'You should be the one thanking me too,' he said, 'for with one eye gone you will keep the one you have left where you are supposed to keep it: on the road. I did you a favour,' he said. 'I have to go now,' he added. 'The dragon girl is far away, there's a long road in front of me. Perhaps we shall meet again.' He dropped the sword and left.

Skills:
Swimming: Fyren has never met a man who beat him in a swimming race.
Potions: Bring him a herb and he will know its name and its use, tell him of your ache and he will recommend you one. His mother taught him that.
Literacy: He can read and write the Common Tongue.
Singing: If a song's been sung in a tavern in the Seven Kingdoms, Fyren has heard of it, and he will sing it. Too bad he can't play any instrument.

Equipment: A longsword
A dagger
A tattered red cloak and tabard
An old chainmail
A helmet
Riding gloves and boots
A bedroll
Some cooking equipment
Waterskin

Name: Harwyn Storm

Alias: Red Harry

Age: A score of years and ten, or thereabouts. Recordkeeping of peasant births is iffy.

Gender: Male

House: Hah!

Appearance:


Personality:


History:


Skills:


Equipment:


Miscellaneous:

Name: Byden Yardynsson

Alias: None as of yet.

Age: Ten and Seven years, and without even a proper beard.

Gender: Male

House: As the offspring of a impoverished merchant, he is a freeman but not quite befitting of a proper surname. Instead labeling himself merely as Yardyn's son.

Appearance: Young Byden is a homely boy of middling stature. He is black of hair, and brown of eye with the look of Pentos and Dorne about him. He is not hideous by any means, but his teeth are a bit too crooked, and his nose hooked, and his eyes are sunk far too much into his head. His skin is crisped near red from exposure, and has a splotched, unhealthy look common to the sun-burnt merchant sailors. Under his lip, and in patches on his cheeks grows a scraggly beard, new grown and perhaps detrimental to the desired effect to make himself appear older and wiser. Yet despite his homely appearance Byden seems strong and capable enough, with calloused hands and broad shoulders and sturdy legs, well tuned to the pitch and roll of a ship in motion. The lad carries himself like a seaman even, with short stride, lots of arm swaying, and with his head cocked sideways and a snarky grin of perpetual challenge on his lips. The last part has more to do with his temperament, and is in fact the reason he has a crooked nose, and a few missing teeth... He garbs himself accordingly to the profession of his father, in loose sleeveless tunics and baggy pants that look as if many years ago they might have been fine clothing, but have long since been stained and tattered. Of course beneath all these outward aspects lies the voice of an angel, or at least that's what his mother claimed. The sharp tenor bark for his spoken word well conceals his capacity to sing, with admirable talent. On his hip swings a sturdy looking flanged mace, looped through his belt by a thin bit of twine, and on his head a steel halfhelm, dented but well cared for by the look of it.

Personality: Bold as he is young and inexperience, lacking entirely the talents necessary to be a merchant man. Rash, headstrong, proud and easily made the fool Byden wears his heart on his sleeve and speaks his mind with self-absorbed surety. He is a fighter at heart, and a troublemaker to boot often tickling at the nerves of his companions with pricks and prods and insinuated insults or even direct ones. His brother Tebyn often said Byden should have been born a lord to account for his nature, as only the highborn can get away with acting better then thou all the time. He is not without backing to his personality however. Alongside the many bruises, broken noses, and mud eating that came of being an irritating bastard comes a level of experience which gives him the capacity to back up his audaciousness, with a quick jab and a quicker dodge. He is only seventeen of course, and there are plenty of men who'd give him pause due to size, experience, and other factors such as nobility. Byden knows when to toe the line, and when to give it a wide berth. Beyond that lesser part of his nature comes a fun loving, roguish side. He laughs loud and often, and he loves to sing. Sea shanties, ballads, ditties and rhymes and all with exemplary talent. He can play the pipe, and dance, and keeping true to his desire to be the center of attention often does, prattling about like a bard, talking up his own bravery and accomplishments. Yet, for all his boasting and confidence Byden knows little about the realities of war, and when it comes to true bloodshed, he is as innocent and unblooded as a suckling babe.

History: The tenth son, and twelfth child to the Dornish ship's captain Yardyn, Byden was brought into a struggling household that know no end to their scandals and troubles. Most of Byden's elder half brothers were dead, the sons of previous wives that Yardyn bedded lost to a stormy sea, pirates blade, or foul disease. His own mother, Yardyn's third wife was a Pentos women, so frail and sickly it was a wonder she managed to give Yardyn another two sons and daughter at all before she died. At the point of Byden's birth, his father was an old man, ill tempered and prone to beating his young children with rod and whip. He had many mouths to feed, and plenty of debts to pay and not enough coin to go around. His rough treatment was not without its teaching moments, and the whip made Byden tough, and strong willed, the prince of his father's vessel while it was at sea. He tempered much the same as his father as he grew older, a cocky and bold fighter, but he lacked the subtlety and wiles of the crotchety old merchant. Yardyn despaired ever turning Byden into a skilled seller and buyer, not that it truly mattered, the boy had seven other brothers and sisters who were in line to take their inheritance. At most Byden would serve as a bosun or helmsman for them, and Yardyn's vast debts would fall upon the older children to stress over.

Byden was not interested at all in continuing to work under his half siblings. Upon his father's death he received a few pieces of gold as inheritance, and he, and his full blood brother set ashore in Myr, purchasing for themselves equipment with their inheritance and attempting to sign on with a company of sellswords whose deeds and actions seemed to compliment the boys desire for action and glory and gold. However eager they were they met only with disappointment time and time again. Mercenary companies, or at least those of propriety credited themselves for having skilled battlers, and for two green behind the ears boys of fifteen who had never fought a battle before in their life the prospect of joining a company was low indeed. They managed to sign on with a troop of guards, who protected wagons on the paths between villages, but beyond the occasional drunk lowborn in taverns there was no glory to be found, and the pay was pitiful. Byden despaired ever garnering the experience required to pad out their verbal accomplishments, he had never been very patient person and the endless days of following a cart full of stinking fish dragged on his nerves.

For two years the brothers lived day to day, taking the odd job on the wharf and ships of the free cities, sometimes crewing a vessel here, or loading lumber there, never with true direction in mind. Until that fateful day when Tebyn returned one night to the tent they shared from a evening at a brothel. Excitedly he informed Byden of a new mercenary company that had arrived in Myr and was looking for fresh swords who could speak the common tongue. The very next morning the brothers gathered up what little they called their own and recruited with the Meereenese Knot, eager for the battles to come.

Skills: When it comes to Byden's skills he is seriously lacking in the warfare department. All around he is more suited to crewing a merchant ship then swinging a sword, but when it comes to thrusting with a spear or bashing someone's head in with a mace anyone with half a wit can learn it to a measure of competence, and Byden has always been quick and smart. He is a rather good brawler, knowledgeable of where to hit a man to knock him down, or knock him out. He can read and write, though poorly, and count, and sing and dance and play the whistle pipe.

Equipment: Byden carries with him the articles of war of a poor mercenary, which includes a fine flanged mace, a short spear, a padded gambeson, and a steel halfhelm bought and paid for with his inheritance coin. The items are well cared for even though they have known previous owners and show signs of wear, they are oiled and polished with dedicated attention. Byden also keeps a two man tent which he splits with his brother, a small red-wood whistle he carved himself, and a mess kit along with all the other odds and ends folk carry with them.

Miscellaneous: I think not.

Name:
Walton Strong

Alias:
'Walt'

Age:
42

Gender:
Male

House:
House Strong

Appearance:
A man of a respectable height, Walt finds himself standing at 6'2 with an impressively muscular physique, living up to his alleged family name. He is a rather rough looking fellow, with long, thick, course black hair that has a slight tint of grey to it. He is capable of growing a full beard although seems to always shave it once it gets past the stage it could be considered a stubble.
Walt's face is home to it's fair share of scars, from his nose to his cheeks and to the most noticeable on his left eye. Or rather where his left eye once was. His is a face that has seen many fights, big and small in the Disputed Lands. Something that is understood when one is caught by his harsh glare with his remaining sharp grey eye.

Walt has been in the Disputed Lands for too long to not carry about a blade on his hip wherever he goes. He has learned all to well that around sell-swords a fight could break out at any moment.

Personality:
Walt is rather notorious for being a rather prickly and flinty individual. A harsh, stern and unforgiving man who has grown to be quite a humourless and cold person. His father was not particularly good at keeping his coin, which in turn has resulted in Walt himself being rather tight fisted when it comes to money. Keeping good hold of any payments that he winds up getting.

Now Walt isn't a complete stick in the mud like some might say. He does have a rather blunt, dead pan sense of humour about him but he does treat his fellow man with respect and can even be considered good company once he has warmed up to a person. He isn't a harsh person on purpose, it's just one must always be careful in his line of work.

History:
Walton Strong was born in the mercenary camp of the Golden Company, to his father Lucas Strong and his mother Lanna Strong. His family had been long term members of the Golden Company, claiming lineage from House Strong of Harrenhal before they were exiled by the Targaryens. From there they found themselves in the camp of the Blackfyres, hoping that one day that they may return home and reclaim what they believed to be theirs. At least that is how it had been for the generations before Walton. But the Blackfyres were gone now, Maelys the Monstrous had been the last of the Black Dragon and he had failed to fulfil the dream of the Golden Company just like the rest of his line. 'Beneath the Gold the Bittersteel' were the words of the Golden Company. Well Bittersteel was questionable but the company certainly was full of bitter and defeated men.

But still the men of the Golden Company dreamt on, one day they would return home, they believed that with all their hearts despite half of them never even seeing that home that they dreamt for so dearly. Walt was of a different mind, the cause was over with. There would be no future for him in the Company. What could he amount to? Become a Lieutenant just to try and fight the Iron Throne once more? To be humiliated and squashed as they had been all the times before? No, he would have his own dream. To carve out his own future with his own arms. He would make his own place in these lands as a sellsword, but not with this Company.

For most of his life Walt has found himself going from company to company, earning as much coin as he could get his hands on and taking part in any conflict that he could find. From the Second Sons to the Windblown, from the Bright Banners to the Wolf Pack. Mayhaps he had delusions of grandeur to begin with but he had certainly believed that by the time he reached the age he was now he would have been a rich man... Well that is not always how things work out. Even now Walt lives from payment to payment, although he has garnered a fair amount of respect and experience due to his efforts throughout his career. Whether the conflict is a victory or a defeat for him. Walt is a man who fights valiantly and fights well as long as he gets his pay. But like many sellswords, Walt is not so eager to give up his life over a contract.

And that is when Walt heard the news of a new company forming itself in the Disputed Lands. The Meereenese Knot it styled itself. Well it was a rather embarrassing name but it was one that was making the rounds. Furthermore the pay was said to be particularly good. That was more than enough for Walt to set aside his pride and sign up for the Company. If it came to a bit more coin then well, Walt would just have to do what he needed to in order to get that. The Company was definitely well funded but on the other hand... Leadership was not particularly outstanding and it would not surprise Walt if the Company was to collapse after a few failed battles. Well just like before, as long as he got payed and got away from the whole thing with his life. He would just move onto his next venture if that came to pass.

Skills:
Horsemanship:
Walt has developed a rather respectable riding ability over the years. Now he isn't an outstanding rider but he has enough skill to be considered 'above average'.

Swordmanship:
His weapon of choice is a bastard sword and once again he could be considered above average with it, although it should be noted he is past his best years his age isn't too much of a factor when it comes to his strength and skill.

Archery:
Little more can be said about this other than Walt is mediocre at best. He can hit a target... Sometimes.

Reading:
Now this might not be a particularly noteworthy ability among nobles and merchants. But for sellswords, well, this is definitely among the rarer skills. Walt can be thankful for the education his parents provided him with.

Experience:
Not particularly a 'skill' so to say but the accumulated years that Walt has been a sellsword has definitely paid off in some regards. He has a good mind for coin and the price of things, something one needs to know if a deal is a good one or a bad one. He has picked up on some tactics and strategy from a commanders perspective as well as experienced combat against a variety of fighting disciplines from all over the known world. He believes that he has a good nose for liars and a good eye for a lost cause when he sees one. Walt is rather proud of his instinct at this point but well... If it was right all the time he certainly would be a lot richer by now. And still have two eyes at that...

Equipment:
- Bastard Sword
- Short Bow
- Quill of Arrows
- A raven black Rousney horse
- Bedroll
- Several Deer Skins of Assorted Ale and Wines
- Rations

Miscellaneous:
Careful now

Name: Ser Baelor Beesbury

Alias and Epithets: Yellowjacket and Baelor Bittersweet

Age: 22

Gender: Male

House: Beesbury of Honeyholt

Appearance: There is no question that Baelor is a handsome man. His head is a mess of sandy blonde curls that could prove to be unwieldy if not properly maintained. These curls are accompanied by eyes that are the color of fresh honey, large, striking, and intense. The only takeaway is his numerous freckles, but this only tends to add to a certain boyish charm, especially with a smile that has sent the hearts of many girls fluttering. In the past, Baelor has always kept cleanly shaven, though this has been ignored since his time in Essos. Despite being a few inches short of six feet, he has a warrior’s body, muscular and lean. This tends to promote a certain quickness in battle, which is just as well since he has little other choice. His armor is well-made and simplistic; made of dark gray steel with gray rings that have the singular purpose of keeping him alive. His breastplate once had his personal sigil, a hornet, painted onto it, but it has since been faded and scuffed beyond recognition. However, his shield still displays the sigil, with it being repainted every so often.

Personality: Baelor is quite well-known for his hot temper, even as early as childhood, which led to many thrusting the moniker of Yellowjacket onto him. As such, he inevitably adopted a hornet as his personal sigil, as a way to differentiate himself from the main line of House Beesbury. His temper has become quite legendary, with even the smallest things apt to set him off in a blind fury, which can be useful enough on a battlefield. Still, there are others who refer to him as Baelor Bittersweet, a name that he openly detests. Even so, he is quite bitter in several aspects. Bitter towards his cousins who had to work little towards want was ultimately handed to them. Bitter that he has to scrape by in Essos as a common mercenary, of which he adamantly believes is far below him. And bitter that he has so far been deprived of the glory that he’s entitled to. Beyond anything else, he’s thirsty for glory, if only to earn his rightful place among Westerosi knights of legend. It’s what pushed him into becoming a tourney knight, in which he was largely successful, at least on a local level. His own vanity led him to adopt a different persona for this, one of a chivalrous and courteous knight. It had the intended effect, winning the affection of the smallfolk and women. As his ego became inflated, it led him to debt problems concerning buying the most expensive and elaborate armor, the best horses, and other luxurious items, if only to raise his own status. This would lead to a chain of events that would eventually land him in Essos.

History: Baelor was born to the youngest son of the Lord of Honeyholt, which placed him quite far down the line of succession when factoring in his uncles and cousins. When he was just a boy, Baelor’s father died fighting in Robert’s Rebellion and his mother died from an illness not long after, leaving him entirely under the supervision of his eldest uncle, who had since become the Lord of Honeyholt. He got along with his uncle reasonably well, but he often quarrelled with his cousins, as they were often held to an entirely different standard than Baelor, which infuriated him. They received the finest arms, armor, and horses, with what Baelor was left with was secondhand at best, and sometimes he was even forced to share equipment with the castle garrison. It had been Baelor’s view, even back then, that they weren’t truly worthy of it. He was vastly better than his cousins when it came to swordsmanship and horsemanship, both of which they barely took seriously. They clearly benefited from being the son of the reigning lord. It was on more than a single occasion in which Baelor was forced to go easy on his cousins whenever they sparred in the yard or hunted, otherwise he’d receive a beating for making his cousins look foolish. It didn’t take long for Baelor to become embittered against his own family.

Baelor would squire for his uncle during the Greyjoy Rebellion, while his cousins stayed within the safety of Honeyholt. During the Siege of Pyke, an Ironman archer managed to kill his uncle, which briefly caused chaos amongst the men he had been in command of. It was then left to Baelor to rally the Beesbury forces to overtake the section of wall that they had been entrusted with, in which he avenged his uncle in the process. Once the fighting was done, Baelor was knighted for his bravery despite his young age, among many others. Nearly a month passed from the end of the rebellion until Baelor finally made it back to Honeyholt, due to all the festivities and celebrations held within that time. Baelor expected some recognition upon his return to Honeyholt, but he received nothing, other than his lordly cousin essentially blaming Baelor for the death of his father. His cousin did offer him a common place in the garrison, but Baelor took that as a slight and turned his back on Honeyholt.

After his departure from Honeyholt, his options were limited, as was his coin. He was of a singular mind to dedicate himself in becoming a tourney knight; he was a good swordsman and an even better horseman, after all. Since he would need to eventually pay for better equipment, it made sense to join the City Watch of Oldtown. They were always in need of good men, and a knight of a prominent noble house was the sort to be groomed for eventual command. In any case, it was stable pay and he needed the gold. Soon enough he had the gold needed to pay for basic equipment and a decent horse, and began to enter himself in local tourneys. He had considerable success in these tourneys, becoming a local celebrity in the process. As his fame increased, so did his vanity. He began to spend more gold than he had on expensive armor with exquisite engravings from the finest armorsmith in Oldtown, usually commissioned great lords like the Hightowers. He did the same on weapons, horses, and gifts for noble women he had taken an interest in. It wasn’t long before he was deeply in debt.

It wasn’t long before he was confronted by a commander of the City Watch who was responsible for the city’s port. He was running a smuggling ring that brought in all kinds of contraband into the Seven Kingdoms. It didn’t take much more than manipulating records and looking the other way- and it was far more lucrative than Baelor’s basic pay. He could hardly refuse. Baelor returned to the lavish lifestyle that he had already become accustomed to, without any more debt problems. It went on like this for some time, until the day came when one of the other conspirators was too drunk to perform his duties, and Baelor took over for him. These duties included inspecting cargo that was to be shipped out, and it was much to Baelor’s astonishment that he found a ship filled with people. Some of these were prisoners destined for the Night’s Watch. Others were were prostitutes. The rest were of variety of people that no one would ever miss. He instantly knew that these people were being sent to be sold into slavery. Normally, Baelor couldn’t be bothered to care about these sort of people, but even he couldn’t stand for slavery. Privately, he confronted his commander, and with his temper getting the better of him, broke his commander’s jaw. At this point, the conspirators would surely kill him to keep him silent, and the City’s Watch hardly looked favorably towards someone who would strike their own commander. So, he decided to smuggle himself onto one of the ships headed for Essos, though he did manage to leave an anonymous tip about the smuggling ring with Ser Moryn Tyrell. Baelor did get some amusement out of this entire ordeal when he received word months later that the smuggling ring had been dismantled and the conspirators’ heads placed on spikes along the city’s wall.

Once in Essos, it was difficult for him to scrape by, considering there wasn’t a lot he was able to take with him. Eventually, he managed to earn some decent coin as a member of a household guard, but he truly detested being a glorified bodyguard to pompous merchants. Baelor briefly considered joining the Night’s Watch, since a knight of his caliber could easily rise to command, but he was too prideful to take that route just yet. That was when he heard word of a newly formed sellsword company looking for men. There was a time in which he viewed mercenary work below him, but he only need a little more gold before he could make way for King’s Landing, and he was certain that he could squeeze more gold out of the idiot captain besides.

Skills: Baelor is a skilled swordsman and warrior, having been taught by a proper master-at-arms since his childhood. The same goes for horsemanship, having spent his childhood riding, as well as the years he spent as a tourney knight - which also made him wickedly deadly with a lance. He had the benefit of a noble’s education, so he’s already a head above most of the rabble that call themselves sellswords. However, he’s more of a soldier than a battlefield commander, and would probably be a good man to command a garrison.

Equipment: His time spent in Essos has truly made the quality of his equipment suffer, and now he looks more a sellsword than knight. His primary weapon is a longsword, often carried at his hip, though he utilizes his lance in the initial charge. His armor is dark gray steel with gray rings, accompanied by a matching helmet. He rides upon a basic warhorse that he had to settle for, lacking the coin to purchase anything superior, and this is where he stores the other basic items necessary for a knight on campaign.

Miscellaneous: His greatest fear involves attending a wedding.