Myrwin was having a very good day. Mostly because today was the day he'd selected to randomly review his good Dornishmen to verify their readiness, their sobriety and their preparedness.
For the most part, his men had obliged him. Sure, some were sporting what must have been mammoth hangovers and one fool boy had gone and wed one of the local sluts, but the rest were sober men of eager mien and unsurpassed deadlyness.
So it was his duty - and his pleasure! - as their Crown Prince to get his entire stinking detatchment roaring drunk.
There was much gold spilled in Flea Bottom and in King's Landing that night. Most of it bore his portrait on it, or that of his dearly-departed sister.
By the time he staggered back to his chambers, he had the most appalling need to piss. And he needed a woman. Badly.