In the distance, a row of unfamiliar banners flapped in the wind—not the sigils of any known noble houses, but several rare and dangerous battle flags of mercenary companies.
The three of them stopped in unison, their gazes scanning alertly over the patterns symbolizing money and bloody blades.
Euron locked onto one of the banners: on a black and white field, a hideous black goat with blood dripping from its horns.
"That's the Brave Companions—some also call them the 'Bloody Mummers'." Euron's voice held a note of disdain. "Composed of exiled knights, criminals, and outlaws, they are notorious for brutality and capriciousness. They have no honor to speak of, a group of thorough traitors and butchers."
The corner of Euron's mouth curled slightly into a sneer. "They're called the 'Bloody Mummers' not just because they're bloodthirsty, but because they dress like a comical troupe when they fight—if you consider performances of severing hands and feet comical." He paused, adding, "Their captain is Vargo Hoat, a tall, thin man from Qohor who speaks with a lisp. His favorite thing is to chop off captives' hands and feet piece by piece."
Ashara Dayne spoke up softly, her gaze landing on another flag embroidered with a knight and a lance.
"The Company of the Cat," she said. "Often active around the Stepstones. The ownership of those islands is undecided, and war never truly ceases there. They might fight for Lys today, and raise banners for Tyroshi tomorrow. Ser Osmund Kettleblack once said he was knighted there for his bravery in battle."
Tyrion's gaze was drawn to a simple broken sword banner. "The Second Sons," he said hoarsely. "Founded in the Free Cities. Their history isn't short, but their reputation isn't exactly glorious."
Finally, Tyrion's gaze froze on the most striking and disturbing banner: a gilded skull impaled on a spear, reflecting blinding luster under the setting sun.
"The Golden Company." Tyrion's voice sank, carrying a tone of disbelief. "Their motto is 'Beneath the Gold, the Bitter Steel'. Their battle cry is 'Beneath the gold, the bitter steel'. Founded by Aegor Rivers, 'Bittersteel'—for a century, they have been House Targaryen's staunchest enemies." He looked up, his eyes complex as he glanced at the two beside him. "They dare to come here?"
Euron narrowed his eyes slightly, a cold, hard arc pulling at his lips. "That was a long time ago." He smiled and said, "During the tourney, everyone registered under a name is a guest of House Whent—at least within the fenced grounds. But once they step out of the arena, into some deserted alley, or some dark forest... whether someone causes them trouble is another story." He raised his hand, pointing at the flamboyant mercenary banners, a trace of amusement in his tone.
Euron chuckled lightly. "But I must say, they have guts. For a few gold dragons, they dare to cross the ocean to muddy these waters." He turned, his gaze sweeping gloomily over Tyrion. "Just don't know if they'll live to spend their blood money, or end up as unclaimed dry bones rotting in foreign mud."
Tyrion swirled the wine in his cup, the amber liquid reflecting his furrowed brow.
"In Westeros," Tyrion's tone was steady but every word clear, "we follow the code of chivalry. Knights fight for honor, for liege lords, for vows." He looked up at the noisy mercenaries, unconcealed scrutiny and contempt in his eyes. "But in the eyes of most nobles, including my father... mercenaries are just a pack of hyenas selling their lives for money, with no honor to speak of. He often calls them 'hired labor'. Except they sweep the battlefield not with brooms, but with swords."
Tyrion sipped his wine and chuckled. "Then let us wait and see if this group of 'laborers' has the fate to collect their 'wages' in the end."
Besides those renowned—or rather, notorious—mercenary companies, there were more unfamiliar banners never seen before, crowded messily at the edge of the camp like wild mushrooms after rain. These were groups temporarily cobbled together by wandering sellswords, fallen knights, and freeriders seeking fame—a mixed bag of good and bad.
Their banners lacked any order: some crudely embroidered with twisted beasts, some just a few pieces of different colored cloth barely stitched together, some even drawn directly on dirty cloth with charcoal in symbolic signs. These makeshift patterns fluttered weakly in the wind, as if telling the equally uncertain fate of their owners.
However, though the banners were humble, unmasked ambition burned in every pair of eyes gathered beneath them.
This was the iron law of warriors: In literature, there is no first; in martial arts, there is no second. Standing in the arena, no one would think they were born to be a loser. Whether a champion shaking the four directions or a novice just emerging, the same heart yearning for victory beat in every chest.
Everyone who walked into this venue held onto the same conviction—win the match, win honor, win the gold dragons enough to change destiny. They rubbed their weapons, checked their saddles, and the gazes cast at competitors were a mix of assessment, vigilance, and unconcealed confidence. The air was filled with steel, leather, and a nearly scorching expectation, as if a single spark could detonate it completely.
Just as the three turned to leave, a sharp scream suddenly pierced the noisy air, coming from the direction of the Brave Companions' camp.
Euron's gaze shot over like an arrow—he saw the young girl who had been delivering Kraken wine to the various mercenaries, usually wearing a sunny smile, now being tightly clamped in the arms of a burly Brave Companions mercenary.
The man's dirty hands groped roughly over her body, ignoring her cries and struggles, brutally dragging her toward a dark tent.
Euron's brows locked tight instantly. Without turning back, he said to Tyrion and Ashara beside him in a calm but unquestionable voice, "Stand here. Don't move."
With that, he strode alone toward that place of trouble. His steps were steady and full of threat, like a shark smelling blood.
"Let her go." Euron's voice wasn't loud, but it cut coldly through the surrounding noise.
The mercenary looked up—he was bald, with a beard braided into an ugly plait, and two streaks of black greasepaint under his eyes. He sized up Euron coldly. Instead of letting go, he deliberately squeezed the girl hard again right in front of Euron.
"And if I don't?" he sneered, spittle flying from between his teeth.
"If you want a woman, there are plenty of whores outside the camp." Euron's tone was calm, but a storm lurked beneath. "She is hired by my House Greyjoy, responsible only for promoting and distributing wine, not for you to play with casually."
The mercenary let out a burst of exaggerated laughter. "Don't worry, My Lord! After I'm done playing, I'll tip her a copper!"
The line of Euron's jaw tightened. He spoke coldly. "I am speaking to you nicely." He spat out each word, his voice dropping to freezing point. "You'd best listen obediently. Don't. Seek. Death."
Before his voice faded, the other Brave Companions members who were watching the show gathered around, wiping the smiles off their faces, forming a dangerous semi-circle with unkind expressions.
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