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GOT Chapter 102: An Army of Coin
🕑 Added 2025-08-28 17:05:35 +0000 UTCThe Golden Company was founded by Aegor Rivers, known as “Bittersteel,” the once-famed “noble bastard.”
This company had grown into what was now regarded as the largest, most renowned, and most expensive mercenary host among the Free Cities.
Though mercenaries were often cursed for their fickleness, the Golden Company’s honor lay in the fact that they never broke a contract, true to their own words—“Our word is as good as gold.”
Harry Strickland, nicknamed “Homeless Harry Strickland,” was the current commander of the Golden Company, a knight in exile of House Strickland.
He was corpulent, with a large round head and pale gray eyes. His thinning hair was combed across in a vain attempt to cover his baldness, leaving him looking hardly like a warrior at all.
His great-grandfather had lost their ancestral lands after throwing support behind Daemon Blackfyre’s rebellion, and so for three generations since, the Stricklands had been born across the sea in Essos.
Harry himself had been raised within the Golden Company, born there, bred there.
As he often liked to boast, his family had been “four generations loyal to the Golden Company.”
It was true he was no fierce warrior. He often complained about the blisters on his feet from marching, and before rising to the rank of commander, he had served only as the company’s paymaster.
But to Daven Lannister, all of this was perfectly fitting.
For the Lannisters had gold enough to secure their service—though Harry had initially demanded slaves as part of the bargain.
In the end, Harry Strickland accepted the Lannister offer, even bringing along his beloved elephants.
“Do they get seasick?” Daven asked curiously across the warship’s rail, eyeing the elephants crowded on another vessel. “I mean them.”
“Some do, some don’t. They’re no different from us.” Harry Strickland leaned lazily against the railing, his gaze drifting toward the other mercenary ships crossing the sea to Westeros.
Among them were the Stormcrows, also called the Company of the Brave Companions. Their banner bore a black goat with bloody horns.
They were infamous, their ranks filled with criminals and exiles from every land. Their commander was Vargo Hoat, a tall, gaunt man of Qohor with a lisping tongue.
The name “Brave Companions” was a bitter joke, for their cruelty and their grotesque attire had earned them a reputation soaked in blood. Harry Strickland, however, saw no fault in it.
The remaining companies included the Maidens’ Men, the Iron Shields, the Windblown, the Long Lances, and others besides.
Daven Lannister, over the course of several months, hired every mercenary company he could gather from the Free Cities.
This time, the Lannisters welcomed all comers in Essos. As long as a company had a name and some strength, they were invited.
And with the name Lannister as backing, these gold-hungry jackals were more than eager to sink their teeth into such a fat purse.
What the Lannisters wanted of them did not matter.
Even success or failure was of no concern—it had nothing to do with them.
What mattered was the gold that would fall into their hands.
The promise given by the Lannister was clear: the moment they set foot upon the soil of the Seven Kingdoms, they would receive their due in gold.
And so, in a short span of time, Daven Lannister had raised an army of nearly twenty thousand men.
His actions had, for a time, unsettled the governors, princes, and other rulers of the city-states.
But once they learned his purpose, those wealthy governors quickly grew interested as well, turning their eyes toward the war across the Narrow Sea.
They began to wonder what profit might be wrung from it.
These mercenary companies, showered with coin in Lannister desperation, were proof enough of that.
Harry Strickland, keeping his own thoughts to himself, let his gaze drift away from the many ships and the banners fluttering from their masts. Then he turned toward Daven Lannister.
“To speak frankly, I very much doubt the Lannisters have enough gold to sate the appetites of all these men in the end.”
His tone carried a faint, low undertone, hard to detect.
“And why would you doubt that?” Daven Lannister asked, casting him a curious glance before looking away.
Noting that flicker of unease, Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Because I must make sure the Golden Company eats its fill,” Harry Strickland said with a half-smile, fixing his gaze on the golden-haired Lannister who had come to the Free Cities to raise soldiers in such numbers.
“After all, you know well enough—even though the Lannister name is famed from the Free Cities to beyond the Dothraki Sea for its wealth—”
“As a former paymaster, I’ve always felt a peculiar fondness—and sensitivity—toward those darling little golden coins.”
He chuckled, ran a hand through his hair tousled by the sea wind, then drew a dagger from his belt to scrape the grime from beneath his nails.
Yet his eyes never left Daven Lannister’s face.
At that, Daven’s own face broke into a confident smile.
“If that is what troubles you, I’d say you’d be better off worrying whether the lemons in your hold will last the voyage.”
“Because the gold buried beneath Lannister lands far outweighs the lemons stored in these ships!”
“The Lannisters have spent centuries, and still they’ve not exhausted it all.”
As Daven spoke, he stepped closer to Harry Strickland.
He swept aside the red velvet cloak draped over his shoulders, revealing the gilded armor beneath, and rested one hand upon the ship’s rail, eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
All around shone with golden brilliance, made all the more dazzling by the setting sun over the sea.
Seeing this boastful display, Harry Strickland’s lips curved into a smirk. “But if my information is right, the Iron Throne still owes the Iron Bank a considerable sum of gold. That is no small debt.”
Daven arched a brow, as though not quite catching the meaning of his words.
“And why should you trouble yourself over that?” he asked.
“I’ve already told you—I must ensure the Golden Company eats its fill,” Harry replied with an easy smile. “Our greatest honor is that we never break a contract. Our motto is: ‘Our word is as good as gold.’”
“After all, gilding every commander’s skull is no cheap tradition.”
Harry let the jest hang in the air, though beneath his tone lay an evasiveness that Daven failed to grasp.
“The Lannisters want for nothing but gold!” Daven declared, his voice steady, brimming with confidence.
...
There were many ways to reach the Eyrie in the Vale from the Blackwood Vale. Kal could return to Fairmarket and cross the Blue Fork by the wooden bridge there.
Once he found a way across the Green Fork, he could reach the Kingsroad. From there, the whole of the Vale would be spread out before him, and he could take whichever route he pleased.
Or, after crossing the Blue Fork, he might retrace his steps, return to Riverrun, and then pass through the relatively flatter lands that led into the mountainous regions of the Vale.
Once he crossed those mountains and reached Stone Hedge, he could continue onward to the Eyrie.
Given the current state of war, both of these routes were relatively reasonable.
But for Kal, neither was suitable.
Nor was there any need.
So, for this journey to the Vale, he brought only five men including himself. After parting ways with the larger host of the North, they found a riverboat on the opposite bank of the Kneeling Man’s Crossing and drifted downstream along the Red Fork, heading toward where it joined the Trident.
His destination was a small town in the Riverlands, perched on the edge of Crab Bay—Saltpans.
It was not a large trading port. The Cox family, a landed knightly house, ruled over it.
But just as Kal, Jon, and the others were sailing eastward past Lord Harroway’s Town along the Red Fork, Kal suddenly noticed a conspicuous party on the riverbank preparing to cross.
Conspicuous—not because they were Lannister soldiers clad in their striking red and gold, but rather the opposite. The group was garbed entirely in black, and their number was scarcely more than a dozen.
More than half of them were locked inside wooden cages. Three men in black drove them out of the cages.
“They’re from the Night’s Watch,” Jon Snow muttered, leaning closer.
Hearing this, Jory Cassel shook his head. “Not exactly. Those are the ‘Wandering crow,’ the recruiters of the Watch.”
Wandering crow—that was what the Watch called those officers whose duty was to gather men. Kal recalled the meaning of the term.
But at this moment, when the war raged so fiercely, how could men of the Night’s Watch be venturing south across the battlefields?
Kal furrowed his brow, his eyes lingering on them, and then as though struck by a thought, he gave an order.
“Row closer,” Kal commanded suddenly. “We can ask them a few questions. Perhaps they know something of the Lannisters.”
Jon and the others had no objections. At once, under the order of Ser Kal Stone, the boatman steered their vessel toward the party of black-clad brothers.
