Chapter 2: The Black Dragon

A full-scale battle was taking place in the center of the Disputed Lands, a place that had long been a battleground between the Free Cities of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. This time, Myr, with the Golden Company on their side, was fighting against Lys, with the Sons of the Wind.

The skirmish was marked by the rain of blood that stained the sand, forming crimson rivers that flowed across the terrain until they dried under the scorching sun. The sound of steel clashing filled the air, only to be drowned out by the groans of a man being gutted.

The mercenaries of the Golden Company were recognizable by their shining golden armor, which contrasted with the dark leather of the Sons of the Wind. However, despite everyone around him wearing resplendent armor, it was impossible to ignore the platinum-haired warrior who shone as brightly as the sun. This young man, on Myr's side, could take down two men in the time it took anyone else to kill one. He dodged blows with the same speed he delivered them.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead caused by the unbearable sun and quickly returned to the fray, using his ancient sword to block the assault of a young enemy mercenary. Poor devil. The Valyrian steel of Blackfyre pierced his heart with such precision that he barely suffered. Later, another foe thought the best way to defeat the dragon was to attack from behind, but a throwing knife struck his eye before he could even draw his sword. The platinum-haired warrior turned to see what had happened, finding the lifeless body of his would-be attacker and smiled, knowing who had protected him.

He had been the strategist of that engagement, and it was clear his plan was working. Despite being less than half the number of men of the Golden Company, they seemed more than enough to hold off the other two thousand mercenaries, a number that was gradually dwindling. But what the golden-armored men hadn't counted on was that their enemies had archers in distant dunes, causing the sky to periodically fill with arrows with no fixed target, resulting in dozens of casualties in mere seconds. However, the silver-haired warrior managed to control the situation after a while and ordered his men to use the shields of the fallen upon hearing the whistling of the arrows.

To his right, a man with golden hair rose among the enemies, turning to decapitate them with a clean and precise movement of his short sword that slipped through the narrow gap in the Sons of the Wind's helmets. On the left, a young brown-haired man with two sabers was slashing through any man who crossed his path, dodging incoming attacks with total clarity and aiming his throwing knives at their throats. Both joined the platinum-haired warrior, renowned throughout Essos for his feats: Aemond Blackfyre, the last descendant of the black dragons, wielding his family sword, bathing the blade in blood so red it resembled the rubies decorating the hilt; Herrath Ball, a warrior as swift and strong as a lion, the only member of the Golden Company who had never lost a fight; and finally, Rylon Sand, the bastard from Starfall, the shadow, as fast as lightning but as deadly as Valyrian fire.

After an extensive four hours of fighting, the five hundred men left of the Sons of the Wind decided to flee before being slaughtered by the rest of the Golden Company, who, upon seeing the enemies retreating from the battlefield, let out a loud cry of victory, waving their swords in the air. But after their joyous cheers, they began to lie down on the sand, craving some shade and water.

"Well done, company," Aemond congratulated them. "We were the best today, and we can be even better, but first, let's gather our dead," Aemond ordered, with a mix of sweat, sand, and blood covering his face, not allowing his soldiers to relax. "And let's go after some good Myrish arse."

Minutes later, the Golden Company army set off again towards Myr, tallying approximately three hundred casualties, the same number of Sons of the Wind who had survived, which became the subject of jokes all the way to the city, where they were welcomed with open arms by the magisters and baskets of fruit, which the mercenaries quickly devoured. The carts with the deceased bodies were left aside, filled with flies and a repugnant smell that drove people away, but in a few hours, the bodies would be properly burned.

"Oh, Prince Aemond," smiled one of the city's rulers, approaching him when he dismounted from his horse but keeping his distance upon noticing the mercenary's unclean state. "May I offer you a refreshing bath, Your Grace?"

"No, thank you," he declined, walking down the corridor of the magisters' palace, followed by Herrath and Rylon. "We must leave for Tyrosh as soon as possible."

"Accept a feast for the victory," the magister requested, to which Aemond could not refuse, especially since he knew a night of rest in Myr would do his men good after a battle under the scorching sun, though they would prefer to spend it with other company.

"I'm afraid I must decline. Mercenaries like to be face-to-face with adrenaline, and there's plenty of it in the city," he said with a feigned friendly smile to the contrary, "but first, we need to discuss business, Alario," dismissing his pleased expression, the man led him to the main hall of the palace, where the other magisters were gathered. There were seven men of various ages seated around a semicircular table.

"Congratulations, Prince Aemond," cheered Besthyo, the oldest, from the center of the table. It was common among the cities of Myr and Tyrosh to address him by the title used for all Blackfyres in Essos.

"It is everyone's victory, Besthyo," Aemond said calmly, as a servant poured wine for him and his two companions. "Without the crossbowmen from Myr, we wouldn't have broken their ranks," he admitted, taking a gentle but thoughtful sip of the wine he was given. "But as I told Alario, it is time to do business," in contrast to the previous magister, Besthyo maintained an immaculate calm, something Aemond did not appreciate, but he limited himself to observing him calculatingly. "This will be the last time the Golden Company makes an exception to the advance payment."

"Your Grace, you must understand the situation we are in," another magister added. "These battles are breaking us."

"Then why fight them?" Herrath asked, crossing his arms. "It's clear that you can't win them, nor can you pay a mercenary company. Why don't you step aside and let Lys and Tyrosh destroy each other?"

"And lose the Lands of Discord? Not a chance!" Besthyo denied, offended. "We just need more time to gather the money. One more debt, one less debt."

"There are no debts with the Golden Company," Aemond interrupted, irritated by the magisters' behavior. "We will leave Myr with the payment, whether you give it to us or not." Of course, there was always the option to sack the city and take everything, but the dragon always preferred to practice diplomacy with threats, and he knew that Myr had sufficient funds in its vaults. "The orders are basic."

"But..."

Before another magister could say another word, Aemond slammed his fist down on the table where the seven men were seated, startling them with such an impudent and unexpected outburst, while the guards there aimed their lances at him, not knowing they would become victims of Herrath and Rylon before they could even move a centimeter towards Aemond.

"We're leaving with the payment, or we'll take it," he declared, turning on his heel and leaving the room with a firm step, followed closely by his companions. "And?" he asked as soon as the palace doors closed behind them.

"It was intense," Rylon remarked, "though tough. Didn't it hurt your hand?"

"Not much; I even thought about doing it with a knife."

"That would have been too much," added Herrath. The three walked towards their horses down the stairs.

"We're taking the crossbowmen, right?" the brown-haired man asked, mounting his brown horse.

"I doubt Blackheart will like the idea," the platinum-haired one objected, mounting his black horse. "Maybe the crossbows will. It all depends on what the magisters decide to do."

That afternoon, the company members spent their time in seedy taverns and brothels, drinking, fornicating, and drinking more.

"For the Black Dragon!" roared a mercenary, holding his cup high.

"The Black Dragon!" the others responded in unison, with Aemond acknowledging them with his cup raised in thanks.

"Another Blackfyre, then," the innkeeper, an old man with an eye patch, sat down at their table. "This tavern has hosted five Blackfyres, including you. I even remember Maelys 'The Monstrous' smashing my assistant's head on this table because he didn't bring him what he wanted."

"My dear grandfather," the platinum-haired man raised his cup again. "Let's hope he's rotting in Hell."

That phrase only elicited laughter from everyone present, and the innkeeper ended up buying the next round as thanks for fighting for Myr. However, when Aemond decided to step outside to urinate, he found two of his men arguing with a group of five city soldiers.

"What's going on?" he asked, adjusting the leather of his pants as he approached.

"These Myrish bastards say they won't let us get the payment!" one of his men, wounded in the battle, exclaimed, pointing to the soldiers. "They want to arrest us, but they'll have to catch us first."

"I knew this would happen," Aemond said calmly. "Gentlemen, please stay where you are. You two, go back to the tavern." He said it firmly and quickly, approaching the soldiers with a smug grin. He extended his hand with a bag of gold coins. "Let's be honest. You're paid to do your duty. You've been paid. Now, let us be on our way."

A soldier approached him, accepting the bribe. "We were ordered to arrest you," he said, opening the bag to count the coins.

"You've been paid more than a hundredfold," Aemond said calmly. "Now go."

"Do you know what happens to those who disobey the orders of the magisters?" the soldier asked, observing the amount of money in disbelief.

"You'll be with me," Aemond assured him, turning around to rejoin his companions. "But if you try to follow us, the bribe will turn into a debt to the Golden Company."

The soldiers, seeing the notorious warriors' threat, did nothing to stop them as they mounted their horses. After the company gathered in their camp, Aemond prepared for their departure. They had spent a good amount of gold on the drinks, but it was worth it, considering that the same amount was about to be replenished.

"What will they do when they realize we're gone?" Rylon asked, taking a deep breath of fresh air before his departure.

"Chase us," Aemond answered. "But the Golden Company doesn't let anyone get away with it."

The next morning, when the sun began to rise, the mercenaries left the city of Myr with a full pouch of gold. As soon as they crossed the gates and saw the first dunes of the desert in the distance, they prepared for the journey to Tyrosh. With a fresh wind guiding their way, they resumed their mission. The land was theirs to conquer, and the conquest would continue.

In the coming days, as they approached Tyrosh, Aemond prepared himself for another battle and another opportunity to prove that the Black Dragon was unstoppable.