Littlefinger and Ramsay skillfully controlled Asha and Theon's movements in the city, ensuring they never crossed paths with the Golden Company. The former prisoners released from the dungeons of Pentos, along with the first wave of defectors who had followed them, had now assumed minor official positions throughout the city. The two governors tasked them with spreading rumors among the Golden Company and bribing its members. They were useless at governing a city towards prosperity, but when it came to underhanded schemes, they were in their element.
The Golden Company had already fractured into three factions—one in favor of disbanding on the spot, another advocating for marching north, and a third aiming to head east. Such division signified that the officers had lost control of the situation. All the governors needed to do was fan the flames, turning the internal discord into open conflict.
Asha and Theon's men gradually infiltrated the city, blending into the chaotic streets without drawing any attention from the populace. Every day, Ramsay met with the two, discussing their next moves and making it clear that Wright enemies where his enemy as well. He fully supported wiping out the Golden Company and understood there would be casualties among his own men. Asha acknowledged this, even prepaying a sum for burial expenses.
Meanwhile, Littlefinger mingled with the Golden Company, leaking information about Asha's arrival in the city while also providing daily reports on the suspicious individuals entering the area. As a result, the Golden Company kept increasing their hiring fees for protection.
The Company's soldiers had a particular habit—converting all their wealth into solid gold arm rings, which were far more valuable than mixed-metal coins and universally accepted as currency. At a banquet, Littlefinger observed the officers laughing heartily, their golden armbands glistening in the light. Stroking his chin, he began calculating how best to dispose of their corpses.
Despite its decline, the Golden Company still maintained some discipline, such as restricting its soldiers to the camp and forbidding them from staying elsewhere overnight.
A few days later, after spending an exorbitant amount of coin, the Golden Company's leaders were invited to a banquet at the governor's mansion. The mansion itself was in a state of disrepair, so the feast was arranged in the square just outside its gates.
Upon arrival, the officers couldn't help but feel uneasy as they gazed up at the five-meter-tall statue of Wright. Dining beneath their enemy's feet made them suspicious of the governors' intentions.
Ramsay, dressed in elegant finery, approached with open arms.
"Haha! Honored guests! The feast is ready!"
Lorimas narrowed his eyes at the statue. "That really is Wright, isn't it? You know he's our sworn enemy. If you weren't a wanted man, we'd have drawn our swords already."
The other officers murmured in agreement.
Ramsay grinned. "If we supported Wright, his hands wouldn't be holding up a turtle! Haha! Bring out the salt and bread!"
Guest rights—an ancient and sacred tradition of Westeros. Once a guest partook of the host's bread and salt, both parties were bound by honor not to harm each other during the visit. To break this custom was to invite the wrath of the Old and the New Gods alike.
"I didn't expect you to uphold tradition," said Watkyn, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into salt before eating.
"I may be an outlaw, but I'm still a man!" Ramsay chuckled. "Eat, everyone! Everything is in place. By the time this meal is finished, Asha and Theon will be dead."
Lorimas, Brendel Byrne, and Denys Strong—the three men effectively in control—felt reassured after seeing the guest rite observed. As they passed the statue, each of them drew their swords and slashed at Wright's feet.
While the high command feasted, tension simmered in the Golden Company's camp.
"Fuck this! They're eating lavishly while we get this stale bread? This isn't the Golden Company!"
"Lorimas wants to disband us! He's hoarding all the treasury funds for himself!"
"Bullshit! This is Denys Strong's doing! He wants to settle here and is using all our money to bribe the governors!"
"Say that again, I dare you!"
"Denys Strong is a pig!"
Old comrades, now reduced to brawling among themselves, quickly escalated from shouting to full-blown combat. The few who retained their senses tried to break up the fight but could only collect weapons to prevent further bloodshed.
Meanwhile, the liquor at the banquet was strong. As the drinks flowed, the square outside the governor's mansion grew rowdy. There were no young serving girls in such a place—only burly men and thick-waisted women bringing out the dishes. The drunken Golden Company officers, however, didn't care. They grabbed at the women, groping them openly.
Seated beside Lorimas, Ramsay clinked their cups together and gulped down his drink, draping an arm over the officer's shoulders. His words slurred as he leaned in.
"You don't know… I truly admire Wright…"
"Ugh…" Lorimas burped. "you know… The Golden Company is his enemy. Wherever we go, we have to make a statement. Cutting his statue was just a formality."
"I understand, brother."
Lorimas threw an arm around Ramsay's shoulder as well, weeping drunkenly. "You don't know how many awful things I've done just to give the Golden Company an answer…"
Ramsay wiped a tear from his eye, feigning sorrow. "You want to give the Golden Company an answer? I have some words to give to Wright too."
"Whatever you need, just say the word! In private, I'll help however I can!" Lorimas straightened up and pounded his breastplate.
"Just like this!"
Ramsay pulled a dagger from his boot and, without hesitation, plunged it into Lorimas's throat. He withdrew it and stabbed again—three times, four times, five, six—never stopping.
The officers at the table recoiled, reaching for their weapons, but before they could rise, a barrage of arrows rained down upon them. Surrounding them, the supposed servants—those burly men and thick-waisted women—brandished axes and began hacking their way through the guests.
"If you dare touch my thigh, I'll crush you!" The burly woman chopped off a soldier's hands, then sat on his face, squeezing her legs together with enough force to snap his neck.
Ramsay carried Lorimas' head to the base of Wright's statue and placed it beside the shattered foot. "I'll turn your skull into an oil lamp! Every night, it will illuminate my god!"
The slaughter had gone smoothly. Littlefinger approached Ramsay, still holding his wine cup. "My part is done. How's yours?"
Ramsay, busy with his family's traditional craft of skinning, was peeling the scalp off Lorimas' head. "The Golden Company's weapons should all be locked away. Whether Asha and Theon can win will depend on their skills."
Littlefinger sipped his wine, unfazed by the blood-soaked ground. "You still held back a little."
Ramsay tore off another strip of scalp and tossed it aside. "If I had gone all the way, too many of Asha's men would have survived. That wouldn't be good for us."
Littlefinger swirled the wine in his cup. "Fair enough. As long as Asha and Theon live, that's all that matters."
Ramsay asked, "What do you plan to do next?"
Littlefinger smirked. "Find a safe foothold. Our forces are still small. I'll take some gold and visit the nearby cities, see how they feel about all this."
On the ground, Watkyn, missing an arm and a leg, crawled toward them, pointing a trembling finger. "You violated guest right! The gods will punish you!"
Ramsay and Littlefinger exchanged glances before bursting into laughter, completely ignoring the man writhing in agony. Moments later, a burly warrior approached and, with a single swing of his axe, beheaded Watkyn. With that, the last of the Golden Company's high command was wiped out.
At the Golden Company's camp, the men were exhausted from their earlier brawl, sitting on the ground catching their breath. Over a hundred of the gravely wounded had already been carried away.
A commotion erupted at the camp's entrance—Asha and Theon had arrived with their troops.
"Form ranks! Grab your weapons and hold the line!"
"Where's my sword?!"
"It was taken during the fight!"
Only now did they realize that most of their weapons had been confiscated earlier. While a few still had blades and fought desperately, the rest scrambled around the camp in a frantic search.
Their weapons hadn't disappeared—they were locked inside chests scattered across the camp or chained together in heavy bundles.
"Break them open!"
"There's no time! Use rocks!"
Meanwhile, Asha's forces stormed in, cutting down anyone in their path. The Golden Company had no choice but to fight with their bare hands.
The battle raged on. Of the original two thousand men, over a thousand lay dead, and several hundred wounded had been captured. The remnants scattered, fleeing for their lives.
Asha's forces had suffered as well. Though the enemy had been unarmed, they were still armored veterans, and in their desperation, they took many down with them. When the dust settled, only three hundred of Asha's men remained standing.
"What do we do with the prisoners?" Theon, nursing a few minor wounds, winced in pain.
Asha quickly analyzed the situation. "We don't have enough men to keep them in check."
Theon nodded. "Then I'll march them to the river, tell them to bathe, and take care of them there."
Asha glanced toward the approaching figures outside the camp. "Make it quick—I'll handle things here."
Theon turned to see Ramsay and Littlefinger arriving with their men, still carrying the severed heads of their victims. He signaled for a group of soldiers to take the bound prisoners toward the river. Theon wanted to stay as far from Ramsay as possible—two nights ago, they had spent the night together, and Theon had returned only to collapse in bed, weeping. It had taken Asha hours to console him before he finally fell asleep.
"Glorious victory! Congratulations!" Littlefinger greeted Asha with a grin.
Exhausted, covered in blood, Asha grabbed some food and sat down, gulping water. "We lost too many men."
Littlefinger's smile remained. "But in the end, you still won, didn't you?"
Asha eyed him warily. "What are you doing here?"
Ramsay had his men unfasten the severed heads and dump them onto the ground. "We kept our promise. Now we're here for our share of the spoils."
Asha gestured toward the battlefield, her tone indifferent. "Take whatever you want."
All weapons and gold from the Golden Company rightfully belonged to the governors, as per their agreement. Littlefinger signaled his men to start collecting the loot. Then, turning back to Asha, he extended a hand to her. "Now, it's time to enjoy the fruits of victory."
Asha took Littlefinger's hand and got up. Littlefinger then asked, "Where are you headed next?"
Asha replied, "To Volantis to collect the bounty for these heads."
Littlefinger narrowed his eyes and leaned in to whisper in Asha's ear, "Are you still in contact with Westeros?"
"We have ties to the Iron Islands through Euron." Asha immediately grew alert and threw out a random excuse.
Littlefinger raised both hands. "No need to be alarmed. I'm just curious how things fell apart between you and the Golden Company. The reasons floating around the mainland seem rather flimsy."
Asha didn't give a direct answer. "For Daenerys."
"Heh." If Littlefinger actually believed that, there would be something wrong with him. But he didn't press further, merely smiling as he stood beside her.
Theon and his men declined another invitation to feast and instead packed up their belongings, preparing to head south to Volantis.
As they parted ways, Ramsay suddenly grabbed Theon's ass, giving him a sharp squeeze, and shot him a longing look.
"I want to kill Ramsay!" Theon said to Asha as they rode.
"Just think of it as spending a night in a pigsty with a hog."
Theon seethed, "I want to kill him! Every night I dream of killing him!"
"Ramsay is just a vicious brute. The real danger is Littlefinger."
"I don't care! I just want him dead!"
Seeing her brother descending into madness, Asha decided that once they reached Volantis, she would find him a dozen women to soothe his mind.
---
Far away in Tyrosh, Wright had already received the letters sent earlier by the siblings. Ramsay and Littlefinger had surfaced, but they wouldn't be able to stir up much trouble. All four of them were fugitives, relying on each other for survival. Wright set the letters aside on his desk, deciding to wait and see how things unfolded before taking any action.
The second shipment of supplies bound for Dorne was about to depart, and Wright needed to oversee the inventory.
After finishing his work at the port, Wright returned to his study, where Garlan Tyrell handed him another document.
"These are the names that have gained the most traction among the locals for the new settlements in the Disputed Lands."
Wright took the paper and glanced over it. "What kind of garbage names are these? Rotwood Port, Women's Hollow, Mudflat? These lands are directly under my control, and you think it's acceptable to call them this? Aren't you ashamed?"
Garlan shrugged. "Most of Westeros' place names came about this way. The future lords can always rename them if they wish."
Wright frowned. "I granted each of you a piece of land in the Disputed Lands. Right now, you lack the manpower to develop them, but that doesn't mean you can be so careless! This is about setting a standard!"
Garlan conceded, "Alright, alright. I'll have my men come up with something more fitting."
"Wait." Wright unrolled a map on his desk. "The western coastal region of the Disputed Lands, including the peninsula at Breakwind Point, has already been stripped of its high-quality timber. What's left are scrublands and trees too small to be of use. The land is clear. If your islands have surplus labor, you can start settling the area now."
"Great! We've been waiting for Lord Wright's approval for ages! I'll cover the land in flowers and sugarcane!" Garlan beamed, imagining a new Highgarden blooming on foreign soil.
Wright scoffed. "You wish! The climate here is different from the Reach. If you plant flowers and sugarcane, you'll starve to death! Don't come crying to me when that happens."
Garlan groaned. "Then what should we plant?"
Wright replied, "The new school in Tyrosh is nearly finished. Soon, maesters and apprentices will be arriving. Ask an agricultural maester when they get here."
Garlan sighed. "I don't understand why you're spending so much money to build a maester's school. Those old scholars from the Citadel give me a headache."
Wright smirked. "Think it through more carefully when you get back."
He had no intention of explaining himself outright. He wasn't funding a branch of the Citadel out of charity. The maesters held a monopoly on higher knowledge in this world, deeply rooted in both noble and common circles for thousands of years.
Wright needed their knowledge and expertise, but he intended to divide them from within. The Citadel represented the old school—traditionalists who served the nobility and common folk alike. Tyrosh, however, would be home to a new school, one that embraced innovation and practical application. With these scholars under his watchful eye, he could gradually introduce modern ideas, shaping a generation of maesters who would drive real progress. If that led to internal conflicts within their order, well, that was no concern of his.
The magic School he was establishing served a similar purpose. At present, magic had the potential to bring even greater change to this world.
In the study, Renly, Margaery, and Loras sat on a couch reading. Loras glanced at his brother Garlan, who was being lectured by Wright, and simply raised his hands in a helpless gesture. Margaery, on the other hand, struggled to suppress her laughter as she watched her brother get scolded.