Chapter Text
In the gloomy morning light of a Pentoshi tavern, Tremmond Grove watched on with delight as one of the recruits downed their snifter of rum. This one was a fresh faced-lad of sixteen from Lannisport with ignorant eyes and foolish dreams of gold and glory. He'd handled his wine well the night before, but now he was facing the last part of the test.
Tremmond looked briefly away to make sure the woman standing next to him was paying attention.
"Watch." he whispered into her ear, struggling to contain his laughter at what was about to happen. "This will be fun"
As the lad gulped down the golden brown liquid, he seemed at first to be pleasantly surprised by the taste. His expression changed as the rum hit his throat in full, unleashing its fiery essence in the process. He began to cough and splutter, his eyes and face only getting redder and redder as his composure collapsed.
Tremmond snorted and then roared with laughter, which caused the rest of the mercenaries to join in too. The woman chuckled quietly. Her amusement was feigned, not that it mattered to Tremmond at all; he had her watching for other reasons entirely.
Having recovered from the fiery aftertaste of the rum, the lad from Lannisport managed to speak up: "You said this was a cure for the headache, ser!"
"I never said it was going to make the headache better, boy. You better get used to drinking that on the ship to Lys." said Tremmond with yet another laugh. "That's rum by the way, it's what sailors drink- keep it down or you're out of this company. The rest of you should drink up too."
That threat wasn't entirely true, but the Silver Swords appreciated recruits who could hold their liquor . Besides, the threat helped to put the right amount of fear in the recruits. The Captains only wanted the fresh meat to relax once they had actually earned their keep, a sentiment that Tremmond shared wholeheartedly. Seeing the recruits drunk meant he could quickly judge their character: who could still put up a good fight, who could still keep a secret, who kept their nerve.
The other recruits, a ragged collection of the dregs of Westeros, swallowed their rum with forced enthusiasm. Coughing filled the room, much to the approval of the older mercenaries. Satisfied that they were all suitably suffering for his amusement, Tremmond took a swig of his own drink, before he turned his attention back to his companion.
She was an attractive creature, with short dark hair and lightly tanned skin. She might have looked like any girl Tremmond could have had back in Dorne but for the colour of her eyes; a striking shade of lavender that marked as a product of the Freehold's lingering influence. She was also well endowed, which Tremmond certainly could not complain about, and a year or two older than him, which he thoroughly enjoyed. Those delightful traits aside, Tremmond had found himself drawn to her for another reason: she too was clad like a mercenary. A woman soldier was rare - not completely unheard of, but seen seldom enough to make it a peculiar sight.
Tremmond had half expected to come across such a woman on the battlefield, to cross blades with her and then, after they had fought and tested each other's worth, find some secluded spot and lay together in all the fashions on either side of the Narrow Sea.
To see his fantasy, leaning against a wall so idly in a Pentoshi tavern had taken Tremmond aback somewhat, but he would not miss this opportunity. He would have her…and she would most likely have him too. She had not yet offered him a name, not that it mattered to him much- she would surely tell him sooner or later. She now knew his name at least, and had not yet objected strongly to his company.
"Do you know what the words of my House are, my lady?" Tremmond spoke to her in his best attempt at the Valyrian dialect of Pentos, but he invariably mixed in words from other Free Cities too. It was the unavoidable habit of his lifestyle of travel, but he cared little as long as he was understood.
"What use are such things to me? "she replied, grinning at Tremmond like he was a fool.
"The Lady makes a good point, Ser. Few among us have even heard of you Groves."
That was Ulrick, a man who had served with the Silver Swords since before Tremmond had been born. In that time, he'd managed to achieve not a single promotion, large in part to the head wounds that had left him half blind and sometimes mute. Such injuries didn't stop Ulrick from working as an effective battering ram, armed as he was with a pair of hammers.
"I wouldn't expect you to remember something like that, Ulrick, or much else for that matter." retorted Tremmond without looking towards his fellow mercenary; his companion offered the better view, after all. "As for the rest of you…"
Tremmond stepped forward into the centre of the common room, to better let himself be seen and to catch the attention of all there who had gathered.
"Bountiful in Blood- those are our words: well chosen and true. We have grown oranges with juices as red as blood for as long as anyone can remember. We have proudly shed blood in defence of our lands from foes near and far." Few mercenaries looked impressed at Tremmond's claims thus far, but he knew to save the best to last. "And most importantly, our loins are ever bountiful and there are many Groves to prove it. Our blood ever spreads throughout the Seven Kingdoms."
That at least seemed to catch the attention of a few of the other mercenaries. Even so, they cast doubtful or bemused looks towards Tremmond. He tried not to care, for he knew his words to be true.
"The final claim I have heard many times before." said a voice that was familiar to Tremmond. His fellow Dornishman had come to his aid."House Grove has sired half the Sands in Dorne."
It was this remark that finally caused laughs to burst out across the room. A grin crept across Tremmond's face.
"I suppose you might be a half-brother to me then, Garin."
This was a jape if there ever was one, for Garin Sand could not have looked more different from pale and honey-haired Tremmond Grove. Garin had copper skin and black hair, a bastard of mixed parentage of Sandy-Dornish and something Essosi, for he did not know either his mother or his father. He was the only other Dornishman in the Silver Swords, having served with the company for a year longer than Tremmond.
"I think not. For where would my good looks have come from then?" objected Garin, who was also grinning by that point. He had arrived to save Tremmond from the other mercenaries, if only so he could mock entirely by himself. "Better to be at the mercy of a good friend", thought Tremmond. Besides, it was all in good fun.
"Good looks? I think we better have a fair lady be the judge of that." Tremmond turned to the woman mercenary to find her in possession of his drinking cup, which she was supping from without a hint of guilt in her eyes. She really was far too clever for him, but that just enhanced the appeal he now strongly felt. Undeterred by her wit, he posed the question to her:
"My dear lady. Might I trouble you to settle a simple and obvious dispute. Which one of us good Dornishmen is the most handsome? Me, a true knight of the realm in both manner and action, the scion of an ancient and noble house? Or is it the mystery bastard, with nary a touch of good breeding in him nor any sense of knightly valour?"
These were harsh words, but ones that Garin understood full well as being part of Tremmond's jape of a question. He was smiling all the while, and Tremmond thought it likely he was already thinking of a clever retort to all that he had said.
The mercenary woman placed her stolen cup down on a table, before she walked around each man, studying them both with a look of genuine, but smug consideration on her face. She was humouring Tremmond, he knew that, and he also knew she could quite easily gut him with her next words. But again, that just made her more desirable in his eyes. She could toy with him all she liked, but Tremmond would get his prize sooner or later. The waiting just made that inevitable conquest all the sweeter.
Having inspected the two specimens in great detail, the woman found herself a seat. She sighed deeply, like something out of a mummer's farce, which caused a few snorts from the gathered mercenaries.
"I cannot choose between the two of you based solely on your looks. But I do wonder…" Her eyes drifted down to the blade at Tremmond's hip and then shifted over to the one that Garin was carrying. "Perhaps a contest of sorts would settle the matter?"
This was not the outcome Tremmond had anticipated. This woman wanted him to fight another man for her amusement? He was happy to oblige…
"A fine suggestion, my dear lady. But I will insist we use blunted weapons. I won't be held accountable for any spilt blood on the floors of this fine tavern." Said Tremmond as he acknowledged the tavern's sleepy-looking owner with a nod of his head. The tavernkeep barely looked up from the drink he was pouring, but nodded anyway. It did not look like he had truly heard the words that were just spoken, but that was hardly Tremmond's problem.
"Aye, it has been a while since I've had the chance to test my blade against a worthy foe." said Garin. "But you are right to keep things bloodless, Tremmond. It would be a shame to kill you over a matter of vanity."
Tremmond caught the attention of one of the recruits with a snap of his fingers. The lad looked up at the knight with surprise, caught off guard by the request.
"You want me to fetch weapons, ser?" he said with stuttering words.
"No, boy, I want you to fetch blunted swords and nothing else." snapped Tremmond, who made no effort to hide the anger in his voice. "Bring back anything sharp, and I'll be sure to show you just how bloody a mistake like that can get."
This seemed to hit home with the lad, as he proceeded to jump up from his seat at the bar and rush outside to go pick up the blunt blades.
A minute or so later, he returned, which pleasantly surprised Tremmond. In that time, the other mercenaries had begun to clear away tables to make space for the two combatants. This sudden rearrangement of his tavern had briefly roused the owner from his stupor, but a pouch of coins had seemingly assured him that all would be well. Tremmond and Garin had passed the time by hurling petty insults at one another, as was their habit. Having handed off their sharpened blades to Ulrick, the pair now took up starting positions on either side of the makeshift circle in the centre of the tavern common room.
Tremmond greeted his opponent with all the decorum expected of him as a knight, while Garin simply grinned widely and pointed with his sword held at neck-height. Tremmond then bowed to the woman who had gotten him into this duel in the first place. She nodded her head politely in return, a cordial smile decorating her face. Not content with that, Tremmond grabbed a blood orange, one of the last that he had brought from home, from the bar and cast it up in the air. With a practised thrust of his blade, he caught the descending fruit on the sword's tip and offered it to the mercenary woman. This time she nodded with a sense of sincerity and gratefully plucked the fruit from Tremmond's blade.
"You always did love your tricks, Tremmond. What would you do without them?" shouted Garin. "Now let's start before we both grow bored."
The two Dornishmen began to circle the edge of the makeshift arena, their blades probing the immediate air in front of them. Their steps were slow and cautious, for right now, the key to this duel was to never lose sight of anything the other was doing. Tremmond had fought Garin before, that was their shared advantage. Garin was taller, quicker and probably stronger too, but Tremmond had his training with a blade. In a contest of pure swordfighting, he would have no trouble beating Garin, but he could not count on this duel being so disciplined. Garin could be unpredictable and formal training could seldom account for that. Tremmond would be patient, he'd bore Garin if he had to. And so, the dance continued.
Every so often, Garin would gently flick his blade just slightly upwards, providing the smallest glimpse of what a proper strike might offer. Tremmond ignored these infant feints, and instead kept his eyes focused on Garin's feet. The distance between them was vital. And then, quite suddenly, Garin leapt forward with his sword thrusting towards Tremmond. Before Tremmond could counter the blade, Garin swiftly darted backwards, denying him any chance of their swords connecting. It was a ridiculous feat, utterly lacking in grace, but undeniably effective. Tremmond was forced to retreat as well, lest he leave himself open for too long. And so, the dance resumed.
When Garin once again tried a feigned lunge, Tremmond did not advance to meet him and instead simply raised his sword to counter. This proved wise, as Garin did not retreat but instead pushed forward. Tremmond countered the blade with ease and then gave him a light kick for good measure. The momentum of this exchange carried Garin back to his side of the arena, where he turned around and bowed to the crowd, utterly undeterred.
Garin advanced slowly towards the centre of the circle and Tremmond responded in kind. Their blades connected at the first possible moment; Tremmond provided an elegant swing of his sword, which Garin then blocked with unrefined strength. Their blades lingered for a good moment, steel interlocked with steel, as the two spun around each other. With a terrific clang of metal, Garin withdrew his blade, reared his body back before again thrusting it forward. Tremmond sidestepped out of harm's way, letting Garin overextend, before he deftly flicked the blade back into his opponent's face. He withdrew after that, satisfied with the result of the skirmish.
Feeling ambitious, Tremmond denied Garin the chance to retaliate and re-entered the fray with downward swing. As Garin regained his footing and blocked the strike, he smiled at Tremmond before kicking him in the stomach. Winded from the blow, Tremmond went staggering backwards until found himself lying on top of one of the tables. Only a moment later, Garin was looming above him, sword raised aloft and beaming broadly. As steel plunged downwards in a sweeping arc, Tremmond's counter could only slow the attack, but not stop its advance entirely. He was now pinned by the grinding of metal against metal, his arm shuddering with the force required to keep Garin from as much as poking him. With so much of his attention on the blade juddering above his chest, Tremmond had only just realised that he could still kick his legs about. Kicking had worked just moments ago, kicking could work again. "Garin won't be forgiving me soon for this", Tremmond thought just before his shin connected with Garin's groin.
Garin wheezed and the force of his blade weakened considerably as the air seemed to go out of his lungs. Tremmond pushed back with his own sword and knocked the other man away from himself enough to get up from the table. Garin had admirably recovered and was standing ready for the next meeting of their blades. Tremmond obliged him immediately.
The pair now exchanged blows on equal terms, each strike offering a satisfying clang of steel and a grunt of exertion. They were well-suited combatants, that much was obvious to even the least informed onlooker. Each blow should have connected, ending the duel, had they not been so perfectly countered or dodged in return. But each strike arrived faster than its predecessor, gradually increasing the speed at which each cycle of the duel was carried out: inevitably, a mistake would have to be made. The exchange grew faster and faster still, neither man moving more than a step or two between each strike and counter. The sound that filled the tavern lacked the usual rhythm of a swordfight. It was more akin to the ringing of some great bell; rapid and consistent and urgent.
Finally that inevitable mistake came when Tremmond did not pull back his countered blade, but instead left it locked against Garin's and pushed with all his might. He forced his opponent's sword upwards and away, leaving Garin open and exposed when the blade dropped from his hand. Tremmond gently poked the tip of his sword against Garin's chest.
"I believe I have won, ser." he said in between breaths that were hungry for air.
"Not quite." replied Garin, who grinned once more, like he always did. He dropped low and delivered a sweeping kick to Tremmond's leg, the leg he very well knew was a little weaker from an old training injury. Tremmond staggered and fell to the hard stone ground. Garin retrieved his sword and clambered over to poke it firmly against Tremmond's chest. Their positions had been reversed in the blink of an eye.
"Now…I believe I have won, good ser." Garin said, looking particularly satisfied with his underhanded victory.
"No…not quite." retorted Tremmond and tapped Garin on the neck with the sword he had kept a firm grip on during his fall. "We're too well-matched these days, my friend."
And that having been said, they both burst out into fits of laughter.
As Garin helped Tremmond rise from the ground, they both turned to look at the Pentoshi woman, eager to hear what she had to say about their bout.
"And your astute judgement, dear lady?" inquired Tremmond.
"It was a draw… you are equally matched in martial prowess. Thus, I still cannot come to a decision" she admitted, with another practised sigh. "And neither can I think of another means of finding the truth."
Tremmond hung his head. He had been willing to amuse this woman for a good while, to make her content and to impress her with his skill.
"I must admit, you are beginning to test my patience somewhat, dear lady." Tremmond said through gritted teeth. "We've given you quite a show…what more could you ask of us?"
The woman mercenary grinned back as she withdrew a pair of daggers from her belt.
"I want you, Westerosi, to fight me."
If Tremmond had felt any frustration building towards this woman, it quickly evaporated with her most recent words. This is surely too good to be true, he thought to himself. Tremmond raised his sword once more.
"I will accept your most auspicious of offers, my lady. But I must now ask you this again… who are you? You are a most delicious rarity ... I much desire to know what its name is."
The woman raised her two daggers in a defensive stance, the blades becoming like two vicious barbs. "My name you shall have at last, Tremmond of House Grove. My name is Sirasha Esselar, and I lead the Shadow-Wings… now, come taste the Wyvern's talons!"