The outriders returned to them as the Golden Company forded a small slip of a river, half a day since they had left to screen the march.

Daemion met them on a small hill overlooking the river, his retinue of guards accompanying him like an overly large shadow, along with his newly acquired squire. In the fortnight since they had set out from the Disputed Lands the Lyseni controlled, he had grown to appreciate Aegor Littlesteel, for the boy was truly capable. Even now, at two and ten, he sat a little taller in his saddle when Daemion glanced at him, deep purple eyes eager with light. Looks enough like Bittersteel was said to look, he thought, turning to urge Strider on as the outriders neared.

Rago was the first of them to ascend the hill. The former Dothraki bloodrider was garbed in riding leathers, the curved arakh at his hip was of plain steel, and the only gold he wore were the small bells in his braid. It was a soft song they rang as the commander of the company scouts approached. "We have sighted a free company," he said, words of bastard Valyrian flavored with the Dothraki Sea.

"Which one?" asked Daemion, thinking of which they would finally face. The Golden Company was nearing Myr with each passing day and had yet to encounter any forces to resist them. Some of the men considered it a good omen. That the Myrmen were so fearful of the Golden Company's strength that they would surely yield the moment they appeared at the city's walls. Daemion thought otherwise. Myr will not yield without a fight.

"The Stormcrows by the banners," Rago said, and his fellow outriders and scouts said the same. Five hundred men ahorse had been spotted a ways away, heading east, unaware of the Golden Company's presence. Daemion wondered for a moment if this was the enemy, then he balked at the idea of Myr and Tyrosh hiring only such a small force to face them with, one whose existence he had almost forgotten, and finally made to prepare for the alternative.

"Runner," he called, and several of the outriders perked up in their saddles. Daemion looked to the one closest to him, a brown-haired youth younger than he was, sitting a black palfrey. "You, make for the vanguard and tell Ser Arnold the Tall to halt our advance. Then inform Gorys and Harry that they're to make our fortified camp by the river." The runner was off and galloping for the head of the column at Daemion's nod. Then he turned back to Rago. "How far were they?"

"Not far." The man turned in his saddle and pointed across the grassy plains of the Disputed Lands, finger to the horizon. "An hour's ride at canter, no more than two."

A wide feint or a mere coincidence? Daemion misliked this revelation. He rubbed the golden bands on his forearms, each denoting a year of service with the Golden Company. "What say you, Ser Mark?" he called over his shoulder, the rest of his guard shifting in their saddles to listen. The captain of his guard was as astute of mind as he was strong of arm. He had proved his worth many times in the six years Daemion had served with him, and he had come to rely on the older man.

"The Stormcrows are small," said Ser Mark, "too small to challenge us. Mayhaps this be a trap, set to lure us into a battle with other companies out of sight, meaning to envelop us while on the march. But Rago's men have seen nothing else, and they are rivaled only by the Dothraki."

Indeed, they are. Rago commanded some thousand light horse and trained the men in the ways of the Dothraki when it came to horsemanship. They were the eyes of the Golden Company when on the march, fanning out in all directions to catch sight of any foe long before they fell upon the rest of the men. If they saw no others out there but the Stormcrows, then none were there. But it cannot be as simple as that. Daemion knew Myr and Tyrosh well, and when it came to the Disputed Lands, they did not dally for long.

Daemion took up the reins of his palfrey, Strider shifting beneath him at the motion. "You may very well be right," he said. "But I would rather hear the truth of it from the Stormcrows themselves. We are the only other free company near enough for days. They know of our strength, and once we reveal ourselves, they will not refuse me. Rago, send a man with a peace banner to the Stormcrows. I want to speak with their captain."

A man among the scouts was selected. He was given a fresh horse, peace banner, and an oval coin of Lys bearing the Weeping Lady. Daemion saw him off from the small hill overlooking the river. The main force of the Golden Company was across by then, with only the baggage train bringing up the rear, and the beginnings of the camp were taking shape on a neighboring hill. With no trees for as far as the eye could see, their camp would lack outer walls, and the perimeter ditch remained bereft of sharpened stakes. Yet ten thousand men were ten thousand men, and the size of their camp alone would dissuade any eager raiders looking for easy prey. Those still foolish enough to test them would be met with bitter steel.

Strider snorted as Daemion wheeled him around, making a slow descent towards the river. He gave the light brown coat of the palfrey a rub. The sun was only just starting to wane down, noon but an hour past. Cool wind blew in from the east, and Daemion felt a sense of foreboding come over him. There is still time. Myr was but a week's march at most, less if they marched through the night. Extracting the new treaty from them would take a day of kind talk and keen reminding, and then they would turn east, for Volantis. For salvation, duty, and future wars.

He dismounted and knelt by the shallow bank of the river. The water was cool to the touch, refreshing in taste, and when he splashed his face, it felt rejuvenating. His horse thought the same, drinking his fill. Daemion took the time to refill his water skin, listening to the whistled tune from Melody Mark and the idle jesting of Ser Tybalt Hill, then beckoned for his squire to join him. Aegor came eagerly as the rest of Daemion's guard took the moment to rest and relieve.

"Remind me of where I left off," he said to the boy.

"Blackheart Toyne had just given you some words of wisdom before your first battle," said Aegor, eyes wide with anticipation.

Daemion remembered well what Myles Toyne had told him. Give no mercy to your enemies. Very original of the man. "Aye, Blackheart's advice. He told me it the moment before we charged into battle. The Golden Company had been contracted to deal with another free company, the Company of the Rose. A band of sellswords descendant from exiles of the North in Westeros that lot, mean and fierce, and you might even say savage. I was six and ten then, a squire fresh from Lys, and about to ride into battle on a horse I barely knew. His name was Glory, I remember, a good horse on all accounts. A strong stallion with a coat colored like Qohorik timber, taller than Strider, and with twice the temper."

Aegor furrowed his brow at that. "Ser Harwin says that a gelding is better suited for a warhorse. That they're easier to deal with."

"That is true," he allowed, "but a gelding won't ride down a line of screaming men like a charger would. I nearly fell from my seat when we first set off, so when we go into battle in the coming days, make sure to keep a firm grip on your reins. You hear? Good, now, I nearly fell, but I kept my seat as we went from a trot to a full gallop. Now, the feeling of riding alongside five hundred armored knights, shoulder to shoulder for the first time is one I will cherish when I am all old and weak, but what came next is one that I will remember as clear as if it happened but yesterday."

"Killing your first man?"

Daemion chuckled, then took a sip from his water skin. "If only. No, what I remember clear as day is the feeling of having my horse killed from under me when we crashed into their lines, and of being thrown from my saddle as Glory fell to a screeching death. All in the midst of a cavalry charge no less."

Aegor looked stricken, tanned skin paling as he glanced to his own horse watering at the river. Daemion followed and spotted the horse from the rest. He was a young one, a gelding of tan coat, saddle bare of any markings but for a thin strip of purple cloth tied around the pommel. Some girl's favor, or a reminder of home? They had lingered for half a day in the Lyseni controlled coast of the Disputed Lands whilst making final preparations, among the small walled towns of fishermen. It was there that Daemion had met young Littlesteel, jesting with fellow squires and local girls, eager to prove his worth as he was for a maiden's blush.

"Worry not," Daemion said, nudging young Littlesteel on the shoulder. "A knight does not ride into battle on a palfrey, and if needs be not one so young. They ride coursers or chargers. Even destriers too. What have you named him?"

"Hunter," Aegor said softly.

"A good name," Daemion told him, and clapped him on the back. "Here is my word of wisdom to you. Never name your warhorse. Whether he be a majestic destrier, a swift charger, or a strong courser, it matters not. If you do not name them, then their deaths will not hurt as much, and your next one will not remind you so nearly of the last."

"What happened after Glory died?" he asked.

"I fought for my life." The memory was still fresh on his mind, even six years after the fact. He could almost taste the blood in his mouth from when he had bit his tongue after being thrown from his saddle. "Now, training with sparring swords and fighting with live steel are two different things. I was not a good horseman then, but I had years of training at the sword, and even then, there are times where I wonder how I survived that day. But I did, soaked in the blood of sellswords, standing amongst the dead and dying, feeling drunk."

Aegor looked confused, and Daemion understood. The boy had yet to face real battle, where life and death were held aloft in one's hands, a moment's slip from crashing into oblivion. How time seemed to slow to a stop, with nothing else mattering but that moment, when the world shrank to the tip of his blade. At the power it held over life and death, of how easy flesh gave way to steel.

"You won't understand until you've fought your first battle," Daemion said. "Just know that when you do feel it for the first time, you will know what I mean."

He left his squire to think on that and collected Strider's reins. The horse nickered at him, and Daemion gave some words of assurance to Strider as he mounted up. He got a snort in reply, a single hoof stamping at the grass. His men soon followed, Aegor Littlesteel the first among them, and they beat a slow return to the hill whereupon the fortified camp the Golden Company was quickly rising.

It was one that showed the strengths of the Homeless Harry Strickland. His commander of the company's knights may be an overly cautious man when it came to battle, but his skills at organizing the men were not in doubt, and it showed in the speed and efficiency with which the men erected camp. A deep ditch was well on its way to being dug around the perimeter, though it lacked the sharpened stakes it usually bore. Most of the tents were already raised, standing in even rows with broad avenues running lengthwise between them. In the distance he could even make out his own tent, standing tall at the center of the camp, ringed by cloth-of-gold battle standards with the gilded skulls atop them. The latrine ditch was more of a hollow pathway, for they would only be spending a day here, and it was placed beside the river, so the piss and shit of ten thousand men would be washed away downstream. The horses and elephants were upstream of it, grazing and watering by the river, all under the watchful eye of Rago's outriders.

Daemion looked upon the great grey elephants and could only admire them. Great beasts of war, unrivaled by any warhorse. But it was the unmounted knights, men-at-arms, and spearmen that made up the backbone of the Golden Company. The heirs of Bittersteel, as Blackheart Toyne was wont to call them, with discipline and strength like mother's milk to them. Even now, just behind the perimeter ditch, armed and armored sentries stood watch over every approach, spears and crossbows in hand. Daemion saw that it was Ser Tristifer Tally who had command of the first watch rotation, a sellsword knight born of the company, and he called to him when they neared what stood for the entrance.

"Cap'n?"

"We'll be expecting company soon," Daemion told the knight. "Send a runner to my tent when you sight the banner of the Stormcrows approaching."

Tristifer's bushy eyebrows furrowed at that, looking all like two caterpillars above his eyes kissing where they met above a nose that had been thrice broken. "They look'n for trouble?"

"No, less I've mistook them all for fools."

All along the main avenue, men of the Golden Company were outside their tents busy amongst themselves, but they all looked up as Daemion rode by with his guards. A varied group, the members of the company hailed from all corners of the world, but most of all from Westeros. Every second man Daemion passed by was the son or a son's son of an exile, with some hailing from the original men who fled with Aegor Bittersteel. Born into the company which had fought five times to put a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne, and when met with defeat, had five times been thrown back across the Narrow Sea. Many still yearned for a home they had never seen, he knew, and at times Daemion wondered if his own name was amongst that list.

No, my home is Lys, but I would like to see this Westeros with my own eyes, one day. He had been to all of the Free Cities and had gone as far as Mereen in the east. Yet Westeros was always just out of sight, and with good cause. His seeing it would only coincide with an invasion. One that was growing ever closer. One last campaign in Essos, and then onto Volantis and the Black Walls, where Egg and Griff should be awaiting me, along with the wars to come.

When they reached the Captain-General's tent, ringed with cloth-of-gold battle standards adorned with the gilded skulls of the former Captains-General, he dismissed his retinue with orders to return to him when the captain of the Stormcrows appeared. Only Aegor Littlesteel remained. Daemion handed his young squire Strider's reins and entered the tent, inclining his head to the gilded skulls of his predecessors as he went. Their hollow eye sockets seemed to judge him.

Though larger than the other tents, and the only one not adhering to the rigid rows of the camp, Daemion's tent was still sparsely furnished. His bed a mere cot accompanied by a chest in one corner, his writing desk with quill and inkpot in another. Farthest from the entrance was the stand for his armor, a suit of steel plate inlaid with niello tigers and clashing swords, accompanied by a warhelm flanked by a dragon's wings, and finished with a cloak of cloth-of-gold. Stools and camp chairs were arrayed in such a way that it looked like a poor man's audience chamber, the throne a simple wooden chair. In the very center stood a freshly dug firepit, embers burning softly, a kettle warming atop. But his desire for a warm cup of drink was outstripped by the woman standing before it, gazing at the kettle above the low flickering flames.

Daemion smiled to himself at the sight, then came up behind her and wrapped an arm round her waist, minding the ornate pommel of the Myrish stiletto jutting from her belt. "Watching it won't make the water boil any quicker," he said to her silver-blonde hair, brushing it aside to reveal her neck. When she moved to face him, he placed a kiss right below her jaw.

"You smell of horse," Shiera said by way of greeting. There was a teasing lilt to her words, and Daemion simply gave her neck another kiss to hide his grin, rubbing some of the smell into her own riding leathers. He got an elbow in the side for his efforts, though he barely felt it.

"That never bothered you before."

She turned in his embrace, snaking her arms from his front to his back, and revealed a sly quirk of her lips as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Mismatched eyes met his own, one a deep indigo, the other like molten gold. "Mayhaps it has and I've not let you know such a thing," she countered. Nimble fingers made their way to his waist. "Mayhaps I wish to smell something pleasant and handsome before we march off to the fly infested bog that is Volantis."

"I fear the closest bath to be had is behind the walls of Myr," said Daemion.

"Then you best make quick work of whatever rabble they've sent our way. Much as I like him, I don't care to share a bed with Glory the horse. Not like Laela. I've finer tastes."

She stepped out of his embrace, taking his sword belt with her. Daemion watched as she went, liking the way the famed Valyrian steel hand-and-a-half longsword looked in her hands. Dangerous. Bereft, he shrugged his shirt off and went to the chest by his cot, rifling among the clothes for something that didn't smell of horse. "Where is Laela anyhow?" he asked, pulling on the fresh tunic.

Shiera hung his swordbelt next to his plate armor. "Speaking with Gorys and the baggage train. When she heard that you would be hosting the captain of the Stormcrows, she said you needed the good wine, and went to retrieve it."

"I'd rather she hadn't gone," Daemion said. "The Stormcrows are so unimportant that it took me a moment to remember who they were, or that they're a free company in the first place. No need to waste good wine on poor men."

"She would argue otherwise," said Shiera, returning to him. She was shorter than he was, only reaching his chin. More solemn than the loveable Laela, at times she looked as if nothing in the world could bring her pleasure. An act, he knew, for when they were alone, he got to see her ungirded self.

Daemion caught her chin and gave her a kiss. Her lips were soft like pillows. "She may very well be right," he conceded. "We sellswords make fast friends when the wine flows and the prospect of gold rears its head."

Then the tent flap was pulled back, and their moment of intimacy was ended. Aegor Littlesteel poked his head through the opening and hesitated. Daemion felt Shiera stiffen in his arms, and then she left, turning to the kettle above the small fire and sparing Aegor little more than a glance. She'll warm to him eventually. He made his way over to his squire and beckoned for whatever message he bore.

"Strider's with the grooms, Lord Gorys sends word that the baggage train is secure, and Lord Harry says that all the elephants are hale and hearty."

Daemion chuckled at that. No matter how you say it Harry, or who you get to say it, the Golden Company does not need more elephants. Two dozen of the great grey beasts were more than enough. No other free company even had elephants. He thanked his squire and bid him to rest until he was called upon. The meeting would not be for some time.

Indeed, near two hours later, word came to his tent that the captains of the Stormcrows were sighted on the approach accompanied by Rago's scout bearing the peace banner. The revelation that there were three captains surprised Daemion, for he was sure he had remembered there being only one of them. A blessing and a curse. He sent a summons to his senior officers, his guards, and his squire. They were all needed at the meeting, each in their own way.

"I don't understand why you wish to make common cause with them," said Homeless Harry Strickland. The commander of the company knights was a porty man, with grey eyes, and thinning hair that was swept over his scalp to hide a bald spot. Little like a knight, yet he had a mind for organization, and had been born into the Golden Company. "They are only five hundred horse. Rago here commands twice their number."

The commander of the scouts inclined his head at that, hands going through the motions of polishing his curved arakh all the while. Next to him sat Black Balaq, the commander of the company archers, a tall Summer Islander with skin like pitch, the feathered cloak of green and orange he wore magnificent to behold. He was stoic in his silence, holding his cup of wine with both hands in his lap, eyes closed like he was in prayer.

"Don't mistake me, Harry. We are not making common cause." Daemion sat next to Strickland and sipped at the cup that Laela had given him. The smooth white wine from Lys was rich as it was sweet, tasting like home. Sharing it with the Stormcrows felt half a crime.

"Then why are we meeting with them at all?"

"To turn them against Myr," answered Gorys Edoryen. The Volantene paymaster readjusted the leopard cloak draped over his shoulder, looking sour faced even after tasting the wine. "No doubt they were hired by the Tyroshi, a token force for the uneasy alliance, for the Archon has no love for Myr. They will not be saddened to hear that the Stormcrows have turned cloak and now fight for Lys."

"Myr is the prize here," Daemion said. "The Stormcrows are but a distraction. Any information about Myr's defenses and what free companies they've hired will be useful. Once we have that out of them, they are only as useful for as long as the campaign lasts. Once we reach the city, the Golden Company will rid itself of them, by the sword if necessary."

Realization dawned on Homeless Harry's face. "We're to cheat them."

"It is not cheating if I never entrusted any promise to them in the first place."

All assembled, they only lacked Lysono Maar, the company spymaster, who was off dealing with whatever issue Illyrio Mopatis had in Pentos. Daemion had his squire serving as their cupbearer, silent but listening, watching and learning all that would be said. Choice members of their guards were present as well, armored and armed keeping watch off to the sides, while Laela sat with Melody Mark who strummed out a tune from his harp. Shiera sat next to his suit of plate, away from the group, lost in her thoughts as she gazed at the firepit.

They heard the approaching captains first, the usual noise of ten thousand men quieting to nothing, only the sound of horse hooves pounding dirt reaching their ears. Though the captains surely knew of the Golden Company by reputation alone, a show of force was needed, and Daemion knew that his men were eager for battle and gold. To shove that in the face of lower men was all the better.

Ser Arnold the Tall was the first through the tent flap, so called the Winged Knight for his winged helm and claimed Arryn heritage. He announced the three captains of the Stormcrows with his booming voice. Bedecked with polished helms adorned with black feathers, it was only there that the three men were similar, for they differed everywhere else. Daemion studied them as Aegor offered them cups of wine and wooden seats. Prendahl na Ghezen was a thickset Ghiscari with a broad face, wide chest, and strong arms. His dark hair was going grey. Sallor the Bald was from Qarth, with a scar snaking its way across cheek and a large nose that had been previously broken. Daario Naharis was the man who Daemion remembered from the recesses of his mind. A Tyroshi with a blue beard forked like a trident and curly hair that fell to his shoulders, mustachios dyed gold, with clothes so flamboyant he looked like a mummer.

It was all Daemion could to not snort at his appearance. "I'm gladden to see that you've all come to speak," he said instead, sipping his wine. "We do have much to discuss."

The three captains looked out of place sitting amongst so much gold, backs to the entrance. "I would think differently," said Prendahl na Ghezen. "We are here at this meeting in respect for the Golden Company and its Captain-General. The tales of your deeds are widespread."

"Good, then you know when I say this that I do not jest." Daemion tapped a beat against Blackfyre's pommel with his thumb. "Myr has no hope of winning this conflict. You three know this. My men and I know this. The fucking Archon of Tyrosh knows it, for why else would he hire such a small force to fight alongside whatever Myr has sent for?"

"The Archon's reasons do not matter," insisted Prendahl. "We fight alongside the Company of the Cat, the Windblown, and the Long Lances. Your victory is not as assured as you think."

Yet as you speak our chances increase. Daemion did not need to look at the Golden Company's paymaster to know that he was going over the numbers. A sellsword's loyalty was to gold and gold alone. For Myr to hire so many companies meant that they were bleeding their vaults. The threat from Lys was being taken seriously, yet they had blundered all the same. While he remembered little of such a small company as the Stormcrows, Daemion was familiar with the Company of the Cat and its commander, Bloodbeard. The man had a singular hatred for the Tattered Prince, the very same one who led the Windblown. They are like to turn on each other before we even arrive.

"Mayhaps not assured, but I now know who we face, and the odds are in the Golden Company's favor more than ever before."

"Is that so?" said Daario Naharis, interrupting Prendahl. "I have heard many great deeds of the Golden Company, but not of you, their captain. The Lyseni are good for bed-boys and merchants, not warriors."

"And the Tyroshi are only good for colorful dyes and mummer's dress." Daemion indicated to the clothes Daario Naharis wore, colorful and bright as they were. "Yet here we are among sellswords, fighting for our gold."

"The Archon is unlikely to pay you the full amount of your contract as well," added Gorys Edoryen. "When we defeat the cobbled band of defenders and sack the city, the Tyroshi will blame you for failing to stop us, and any promise of gold will vanish."

"You would not dare sack a Free City," said Prendahl. "I know that you are many things, Daemion of Lys, but a fool is not amongst your titles. You have a brain in that skull of yours."

"And I hope that you have one as well," Daemion said. "This campaign will end with a Lysene victory. Infighting will consume the free companies standing against us, and when we crush the sellswords Myr has hired, it will be the Golden Company who will loot their corpses, and it will be the Golden Company who besiege the walled city until they concede defeat. They will shower us with gifts like they do the Dothraki, all to get us to leave them and their city unscathed. You would still choose the losing side in this, knowing what you know?"

Sallor the Bald picked at his nose. "You would have us break our oaths to the Archon."

"And to fight alongside the golden pricks at that," said Daario.

"For as gold as your words are, betraying Tyrosh will mark the Stormcrows as false," said Prendahl.

"So, you are all turning your backs on easy gold?" Homeless Harry asked, and Daemion did not know if the incredulous tone in his voice was genuine at all. "Well, there's a first for everything."

Daemion downed the rest of his wine, then set the cup aside. "A sellsword's loyalty flaps every which way like a cloak in the wind." His squire came up silently and refilled it. "Will anyone place blame on you for choosing to flap with the wind rather than against it? Sellswords have shit for honor, so what is one more stain?"

"What Myr will offer us in gold is twice, mayhaps thrice, what the Archon has offered," said Gorys. "Am I wrong in this?"

Daemion could see the conflict in them, even as they sat in silence. He remembered little and less of Prendahl na Ghezen and Sallor the Bald. A blessing and a curse. But he did know some of Daario Naharis, and he knew the mind of a sellsword, for he was one himself. Gold and the prospect of it trumped all else. They will betray their oaths and contracts for the promise of gold, they just don't know it yet. If for some reason he had misread them, he would honor the peace banner and let them leave unscathed, then fall upon them at the head of a cavalry charge with Blackfyre in hand. Either way, he was on the winning side.

"Know that five hundred horse will not make a difference if you choose to oppose the Golden Company in the field of battle," Daemion said, "but I feel honor bound to provide some compensation for the information you've given us on our enemy. Join me and mine, and we will share the riches of Myr together after we have crushed the Second Sons and the Windblown and the Long Lances. If not, then I give you leave to return to your men unharmed, and when we meet again it will be on the battlefield."

The three captains of the Stormcrows looked amongst themselves, a silent conversation passing between them by looks alone, all the while Melody Mark strummed out a tune on his harp. Daemion sipped at his wine again, as Harry cursed his swore feet under his breath, and Rago looked on with a hint of a frown. When an agreement had been made, the three men turned, and Prendahl spoke for them. "For now, we shall see how gold your words truly are," he said, and Daemion grinned.

"Trust me, I am gold to the core."