Chapter 43 40

Near Myr. The Golden Company' Command Tent. 290 AC.

Three days after the Golden Company's victory and Tyrosh's capitulation.

Marq Mandrake.

The Golden Company were the most powerful sellsword company in existence, with a history to match. Their soldiers were disciplined, strong, and well-trained. The company's motto captured them well: "Beneath the gold, the bitter steel." If they took a contract, they would see it through to the end. The company numbered just over ten thousand soldiers, not counting support staff. Seven hundred heavy knights, fifteen hundred light cavalry, six thousand infantry of various kinds, two and a half thousand archer-crossbowmen, and the pride of the company, a dozen war elephants. Their numbers shifted during different phases of a war, but held steady in times of relative peace.

The Golden Company were a war machine capable of grinding down any Free City without difficulty. And like any enterprise, they had leaders who sought to increase the wealth and prestige of what they had built.

Seated in the tent now were all the senior officers of the company, five captains and one captain-general. After the brilliant victory over Tyrosh and the effective completion of the contract with Myr, the leadership had gathered as was their custom to determine the company's next course.

At the center sat Captain-General Myles Toyne, a man with a big nose and crooked jaw. To his right sat I, Marq Mandrake, captain of cavalry. Going around the circle: Lysano Maar, the spymaster; Franklin Flowers, captain of infantry; Balak, captain of archers; and to the left, Harry Strickland, the paymaster.

At present there was an invisible tension running through the upper ranks of the company. The captain-general was old. He did not have much time left and wanted to go out well, meaning he intended to go in with the first wave and die taking as many enemies with him as he could. In the last few battles he had been unable to manage it, but how long would his luck hold?

There was no clear line of succession in the company, and the next general would come from among the captains. Three men currently had their eyes on the position: Harry Strickland, Lysano Maar, and Franklin Flowers. The others either could not make a credible bid or had no interest in one. The company's leadership passed through an election, though only its officers could vote. Sergeants had one vote, lieutenants two, captains five, and the captain-general ten, though that last rarely came into play since captain-generals rarely lived long enough to cast it. It sounded orderly enough, but each captain and the most respected lieutenants had their own following, men who would do as their leader directed. In practice, the captain-general was chosen by a handful of people.

While the war with Tyrosh was ongoing the matter had not been raised, but now the war was over and the problem had not gone away. If anything it had grown heavier. Many of the company's soldiers had died on Unsullied spears, and that had shifted the balance of power. The discussion now had turned to losses.

"We won, but at a price. The Unsullied live up to their reputation," Toyne said, addressing no one in particular. "What are our numbers?"

"The last battle was an act of desperation on Tyrosh's part, so the losses were not as heavy as we feared. Four hundred of ours for every thousand of theirs," Flowers reported.

"Why so many?" Strickland asked, surprised. He and Balak had been absent and did not know all the details. "The bastards sent slaves into the attack."

"The remnants of the Unsullied were with them. That is why," the infantry captain explained.

"That is cold comfort to us. Tyrosh lost slaves, we lost soldiers, and soldiers do not grow out of the ground," Toyne said, ending the back-and-forth with a touch of sadness. "Franklin, what about the heroes of the battle?"

I was listening with half an ear, more thoughtful than was usual for me. Flowers had been the front-runner for the general's seat, but in the second-to-last battle he had shown carelessness and many of the company's men had died for it, stripping him of a significant portion of his support. Now the contest had come down to the traditionalists led by Strickland, who wanted to invade Westeros again, and the innovators led by Maar, who wanted to leave the dream of the Sunset Kingdom behind and focus entirely on Essos. Their positions were roughly equal, and everything now depended on the personal achievements of each faction's leader.

I counted myself among the neutral, though I leaned toward Strickland. The idea of returning to Westeros was one of the Golden Company' cornerstones of strength. There was also the potential reward in the event of victory. Many of the men, genuinely or otherwise, claimed descent from extinct, exiled, or disgraced Houses, and when the Golden Company prevailed, a great share of lands could be restored to their "rightful" owners. That appealed to me, and the stability it would bring would serve my descendants well.

At a certain point Toyne stopped Flowers and asked him to repeat a name.

"Axel Arryn?" Toyne said with a puzzled look.

"Arryn, as is not difficult to guess, is from Westeros. Arrived, enlisted, brought sixty mounted men with him. He has shown himself to be a capable commander and an excellent swordsman. More pride than is necessary, but the cavalry breakthrough was something to see." I gave my honest impression of the young man.

"He wouldn't happen to be from Gulltown, would he?" Harry asked, with a note of interest.

"Here it gets more interesting. He is the heir to the Vale and the son of the Hand of the Stag King," I said. Axel had made no secret of his position and had mentioned it in passing.

That silenced the room for a moment. Men did not turn to sellswords from a position of comfort. The usual stock was exiles, younger sons, or men with nothing left to lose. A man who by the simple fact of his birth would one day control the Vale did not belong in that company.

"Is that so," the general said. "Exile, hunger for adventure, or something else?"

"More adventure with a touch of politics, I would say."

A few seconds passed while the room considered this unusual situation. Then the opinions came.

"The Old Falcon will want his nestling back," Balak stated the obvious. "We should return the boy and take money for it."

"I disagree. That would damage our reputation. Men would be less willing to join a company that sells its own." Harry evidently had some plan forming around Arryn and was defending him accordingly.

"Don't make a temple out of a chicken coop. Nothing will happen to our reputation," Maar shot back.

"A good portion of our recruits come from the third and fourth sons of magisters and merchants. If we sell him out, will those who want shelter from pursuit still come to us?" Strickland had a talent for putting things well.

"And if he dies here, then..."

"...then nothing. The Seven Kingdoms have no hold over us, which is precisely why exiles turn up at our door," Flowers cut in unexpectedly on Harry's side. "Harry is right. Arryn has already brought sixty cavalry and can bring more. Selling a man of his standing would not serve our interests." Everyone understood that had it been someone of lesser standing, the outcome would have been different.

"Settled then. We keep Arryn, promote him to sergeant, and do not stand in the way of his advancement." Toyne put an end to the debate.

...

Ser Axel Arryn / The Witch-King of Angmar.

The arrival of the cavalry had put an end to the battle. The victory marked the close of the war between Myr and Tyrosh and the end of active hostilities. A great deal happened after the battle, and at the same time almost nothing did. Eleven of my sixty men were dead, which I considered a personal disgrace for each of them. A horseman who lets himself be killed by a disorganized mob of slaves is a poor horseman.

For my outstanding contributions I was promoted to sergeant. It was a predictable enough move. Several factors had converged at once: the heavy losses, my personal company of men, the "heroism," the family name, and my status.

After that we were transferred to the scouts and sent to mop up whatever stragglers remained on Myr's territory. We hunted down the remnants of the routed army and brought in those who had surrendered. It was not especially honorable work and there was grumbling among my men. That was easily silenced and they were given reason to work. My past experience as a tracker served me well here. Bands were destroyed, prisoners were brought in.

By first impressions I liked it here. I felt more at ease than I had in Robert's army. Where the Royal Army had resembled a rabble united by a single purpose, the Golden Company were a regular, professional force. I found it easy enough to speak the same language as these sellswords. They were blunt, rough, straightforward, and had their own traditions. If someone did not like you, they would say so to your face without choosing their words carefully.

In short, within a short stretch of time I had found fighting companions, men you could share wine with, visit a brothel alongside, and the next day spill someone's guts together. There were detractors, of course, men who resented my quick rise through the ranks, but they were dealt with in words and in kind. They were not at a level where they could afford to open their mouths at me.

I also gained a direct connection to Lysano Maar and Harry Strickland. The first was straightforward enough, he was my commanding officer and I was no common soldier. The latter was quietly trying to work his way into a friendship, which I had no objection to. Useful connections were useful to everyone.

And so, gradually, we made ourselves part of the Golden Company.