"M'lord, a toast to you!"
It didn't take long before a man in worn leather armor came over, cup raised.
His gear was nothing special—just the usual beat-up Westerosi leathers, no house sigil, no polish. Nothing like the gleaming plate Leo wore.
Leo lifted his own mug, gave a short nod, and took a polite sip.
He wasn't against drinking. The ale just sucked.
It had zero proper malt smell and tasted like raw grain mash mixed with moldy barrel and a sour bite. Probably shit malt, dirty casks, or it had sat too long in the cellar.
To someone used to modern beer, it was bitter, harsh, and burned going down like watered-down swill.
Leo barely drank any. His brow furrowed before he could stop it.
The man caught the look and dipped his head respectfully. "M'lord, name's Varyn Storm. Anything I can do for you?"
Like folks back on Earth, Westerosi put the family name last. So this guy's first name was Varyn, surname Storm.
"Storm" wasn't some noble house name. It was the tag given to bastards born in the Stormlands.
Most of Westeros ran on one husband, one wife. Only kids from the legal wife counted as true heirs. Bastards got nothing—no lands, no titles, no family name—and the whole realm looked down on them. They got slapped with a regional bastard surname instead: Storm for the Stormlands, Snow up north, Rivers in the Riverlands, Stone in the Vale, Waters in the Crownlands, and so on.
Noble lords knocked up noble girls, peasant women, even whores, then left the kids to rot. Most never acknowledged them. A few might raise one out of guilt or if they had no legitimate heir. Once in a blue moon a king might legitimize a bastard, but that was rare as hell.
Varyn Storm was one of those unwanted leftovers.
Leo sized him up. Solid build, decent sword at his hip, and a nasty scar across the forehead that said he'd seen real fighting and lived.
"How good are you with that blade?" Leo asked. "I've got work. Need a few skilled, trustworthy sellswords."
Varyn's eyes lit up. He knew he'd picked the right table.
"M'lord, eleven years back I was sixteen and rode with King Robert's rebellion. Took three heads myself at the Battle of the Trident!"
Leo raised an eyebrow. A real veteran?
"Hah! There goes 'Bullshitting Varyn' spinning his glory days again!"
Three more leather-clad mercenaries swaggered over, laughing.
The big bearded one in front burped loudly. "Don't listen to this lying bastard, m'lord. If you want real fighters, the three of us are right here. Ten silver stags a day each and we're yours."
He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "Ask around. We served in a famous company across the Narrow Sea in the Free Cities. You won't be disappointed."
Varyn's hand shot to his sword hilt. "Griff, you bearded prick! I've had enough of your shit! I swear by the old gods and the new—every word I said is true! Old Watt from Coppergate was right there next to me. He'll vouch!"
"If you question my honor one more time, I'll demand a trial by combat right now to prove it!"
Bearded Griff sneered. "That one-legged drunk? He's sober less time than it takes him to piss. Who'd believe him?"
He drew his sword with a sharp ring. His two buddies did the same, glaring at Varyn.
Varyn yanked his own blade free, not a trace of fear on his face.
The rest of the inn started standing up. Some crowded in to watch, others edged toward the door.
"Enough!"
Leo stayed seated on the bench, voice low but cutting through the noise. Every head turned.
He calmly sliced off a piece of sausage with his knife and fork, popped it in his mouth, and chewed once.
"You don't need to fight over it. This job isn't just for a couple of you…"
He reached into his pouch, pulled out a handful of silver coins, and tossed them onto the table. They clattered and spun, a few rolling onto the floor.
"Any man who can hold a sword—I want all of you."
The sight of all that shining silver thrown around like trash made every eye in the room go wide. Griff's two buddies looked like they'd just seen the Seven themselves. Pure greed.
Varyn and Griff stayed cooler, but their eyes still flashed with surprise. They glanced at each other, then sheathed their swords in perfect sync.
The other sellswords in the inn drifted closer.
"M'lord, I'm in!"
"Me too!"
"Count me in!"
Leo scanned the eager crowd. Counting Varyn, Griff, and the rest, there were eleven or twelve armed men. His gaze moved past them to the farmers and smallfolk watching with naked envy.
He tapped the pile of coins on the table.
"Good. Every last one of you—I'm taking."