An Golden Company outpost

A splash of cold water startled Jon from the otherwise consuming oblivion of unconsciousness. The cold bit into him and dragged a gasping breath from his body as he heaved in place. He was bound by his wrists to a wooden beam, **** to look up in bleary misery at the source of his discomfort.

They were dressed in fine military armour, with polished steel that was adorned with all manner of jewellery and golden bands, wielding weapons that looked decidedly Westerosi in their make. One of them seemed to be obviously from the Summer Isles, but the other two men would not look out of place in the King’s army back in the Capitol. The leader, a bald man with a prominent moustache, grinned down at him in lazy victory.

“I hope you realise,” the man said, his voice a strange mix of Westerosi accent tinged with a flavour of Braavos, “that you have effectively given my friends and I happy lives from this day forward.”

Jon worked his raspy throat, struggling to produce words. “How’s that?”

“Never in it’s long exile has the Golden Company taken a Targaryen prince hostage,” he smiled again, his moustache dancing a little on his top lip, “you can’t begin to imagine the rewards we’ll receive.”

“I don’t have to imagine it,” Jon replied, his voice effecting a tone of mild disinterest. “Whatever your masters can pay you, I’ve the entire wealth of Westeros behind me. I could easily double whatever Blackfyre’s offer.”

There was a spattering of laughter, and then a fist which connected hard with Jon’s cheek. Blood quickly filled his mouth and made his eyes roll into the back of his skull for a moment. He blinked, worked his tongue over the wound on the inside of his mouth, and spat blood onto the floor beside him with a groan.

“Don’t try to buy us like common whores, Targaryen. We have loyalty,” His snarling, moustacheod face twisted back into a confident grin. “Best save your strength boy, it’s a long way to Volantis...”