“M’lord, a toast to you!”
It wasn’t long before a man in leather armor came over, cup raised.
His gear was nothing like the stranger’s own, just plain, worn leather of the common Westerosi sort, no house sigil stamped anywhere on it.
Erwin raised his cup to him and nodded, then took the smallest sip of the ale inside.
Not that he minded a drink.
It was the ale itself he minded.
It hadn’t fermented right, the malt undercooked and sour beneath a raw grain stink, tangled up with the mildew of a bad cask and a faint vinegar bite…probably the malt hadn’t been dried properly, or the barrel never got scrubbed clean, or the whole thing had just gone off sitting too long in some cellar.
Whatever the cause, to a man used to the food and drink of the world he’d come from, the stuff was bitter, sour, and scraped the throat going down.
Watered pisswater would have been an improvement.
So he took the one polite sip and no more, and couldn’t quite stop his brow from creasing.
The man across from him caught the flicker of it and dipped his head.
“M’lord, the name’s Willem Storm.
If there’s aught I can do for you, you’ve only to ask.”
Erwin placed it fast enough.
He’d watched the show closely enough to know how it worked.
In Westeros, a bastard born to a noble parent didn’t take his father’s name.
He took the name of the land he was born in, marked for what he was and nothing more.
Storm for the stormlands.
Snow in the North.
Rivers in the riverlands.
Stone in the Vale.
Waters in the crownlands.
No inheritance came with it.
No claim to land, coin, or title.
Only the surname, and whatever a man could make of himself carrying it.
A few, luckier than the rest, found a lord willing to raise them, or even a king willing to legitimize them.
Most never did.
Most spent their whole lives not knowing which lord’s blood ran in them at all.
Erwin took the measure of the bastard in front of him.
Serviceable leather, a longsword at his hip, the build of a man who used it.
A scar cut clean across his brow, proof enough he’d been close to dying at least once and walked away from it.
“How’s your sword arm?
I’ve work that needs a few hired blades.
Skilled ones, and honest ones.”
Willem’s eyes lit up at that.
He looked like a man who’d just found what he came in for.
“M’lord, eleven years gone, I was sixteen and already marching with King Robert’s rebellion.
Took three heads myself at the Trident.”
Erwin’s brows went up despite himself.
A blooded soldier, this one.
“Ha!
Windbag Willem’s telling his famous war story again!”
Three more sellswords in leather came swaggering over, laughing.
The big bearded one in front let out a drunken belch as he reached Erwin’s table.
“Don’t listen to this liar, m’lord.
You want men who can actually fight, the three of us are your men.
Ten silver stags a day, each, that’s all.”
He stuck out his thumb, pleased with himself.
“Ask around if you like.
The three of us served with a company of some name across the narrow sea, in the Free Cities.
You won’t find better for the coin.”
Willem’s hand shot to his sword hilt, face dark with anger.
“Griff, you great bearded arse, I’ve held my tongue with you long enough!
I’ll swear it by the old gods and the new, every word of it’s true!
And old Walt of Coppergate will vouch for me too, he was standing right beside me!”
“Question my honor in front of another man again and I’ll call you out for it!
I’ll prove my word’s as good as my sword arm!”
Griff only sneered.
“That crippled old drunk?
He’s sober for less time a day than it takes him to piss.
Who’d believe a word out of his mouth?”
“And if you’re so keen to die, I’ll gladly help you along.”
Steel rang as Griff drew.
The two behind him drew as well, eyes locked hungrily on Willem.
Willem drew in answer, no fear showing on his face at all.
The rest of the room came up out of their seats.
Some craned to watch, others already easing toward the door.
“Enough.”
Erwin hadn’t raised his voice.
He didn’t need to.
Every eye in the room found him anyway.
He let his gaze pass over the four men, unhurried, then cut a piece off the sausage on his plate and ate it, chewing without any particular concern.
“No need to fight over it.
This work I’ve got needs more hands than just the two of you.”
He drew out another fistful of silver from inside his coat and let it fall across the table, coins clattering and rolling, a few of them spinning off the edge onto the floor.
“Anyone who can hold a sword.
I’ll take you all.”
At the sight of good silver treated like scrap, every eye in the room went wide, none wider than the pair standing behind Griff, greed plain on their faces.
Willem and Griff showed a flicker of surprise too, but neither man let it show for long.
They traded a look, and as one, sheathed their swords.
The rest of the hired swords in the room drifted over.
“M’lord!
I’ll serve you!”
“Me as well, m’lord!”
“And me!”
Erwin looked over the men crowding toward him.
Counting Willem and Griff’s three, there were eleven or twelve sellswords with steel at their belts here.
Beyond them, unarmed men who looked like nothing more than common farmers watched with the same hungry want in their eyes.
He rapped his knuckles once against the pile of silver.
“Good.
All of you.
I’ll take the lot of you.”