MAESTERPLAN [egen]

[attr="class","boneshatter3"]The two-thousand men of the Golden Company were encamped on the shore of Blackwater Bay, the city of King's Landing to the North-East. The Hand of the Dead King had thought it a wiser move to keep the Blackfyre banners of former rebels and pretenders outside the city walls. Maekar had agreed, and not reluctantly. But unlike the Hand, he had considered the issue from a point of sovereignity. If the company had their own camp, they had their own rules and more control. It was their way of life. A brotherhood of exiles. The only ones that were suffering from the not too large distance to the city were the whores of the capital - conducting business with the mercenary soldiers required them to slug to the company's army camp every night. Or morning. Waiting soldiers could only polish their steel swords for so long. Swords made of flesh required attention all times of the day.

Maekar Blackfyre didn't consider the Golden Company a band of outsiders. Truly, they had been in exile for three generations, spawning under the banners of a failed rebellion, but did not origin matter more? Houses that had been in Westeros for thousands of years had sworn allegiance to Blackfyre. Daemon I Blackfyre had gathered the finest knights of the realm. Some say, that day had been the toss of a coin. Anybody could have won. But in the end, it had been House Targaryen. Fifty years after the last rebellion, Aenys Blackfyre had brought their house back to Westeros. But he had forgotten all those men that had served him well in exile.

Back then, the Targaryens pardoned the Blackfyres, but they would have never allowed them to return at the head of an army of traitors. Maekar had blamed his father for a lot of things, but not for that. But the times had changed once again, and this time Westeros was in need of swords willing to defy the heirs of the dragon. Even if the employment of the Iron Throne ended within the year, a few months would serve the company well enough. The issue of resupply was ever present - since the Blackfyres no longer aspired to be kings, did the Golden Company really continue existing for its original purpose?

As eventless as the last weeks had been, today had seen some action. It was the day of the King's funeral and for some reasons or another, the Greyjoys had started trouble in the streets. The city watch had handled most of the fighting within the city, but a couple of Ironborn had fled to the harbour. Some reavers had missed the ships that had sailed away with Quellon Greyjoy. Continuing their flight into the woods across the river, they had come across the Golden Company. And the mercenaries had been itching for a fight for weeks.

The result of a few Ironborn stumbling into an army camp had turned out to be rather short-lived but bloody all the same. They had fought like madmen, seeing no way out but riding upon a river of blood.

That night, the mercenaries had not sent only for whores and wine from the city. Also Maesters had been requested. Resentment lingering on, Maeekar doubted that the best of their craft would really leave the embrace of the city. And indeed, they had not. But a few had come regardless. Not Maesters, but any healer was better than no healer. Considering how few Ironborn had made it out of the city, Maekar had surveyed the situation and come to the conclusion that the company hadn't suffered any number of life-threatening wounds. But a cut could still kill anyone by putting upon them fewer or infection. Didn't he know?

Blood-smeared face, armoured frame, Prince Maekar knelt by the side of the man that had worked throughout all of the night. Maekar's voice rose, not the sternness with which he ordered his men for the sake of discipline. He was indebted to the nameless healer. Maekar's frame hit the floor. He sat. Tired. In the blood and the dirt, they were all the same. "You've seen to the injuries of my men. Even if you did it for the gold. You have my thanks. But you're young for a Maester, aren't you?"