Chapter 4: Dawn of the Dragon
To say that Jon Connington took the news badly was nothing short of an understatement.
He cursed, he screamed, he threatened to have Illyrio and Varys' heads. It required the lot of us to physically restrain him to ensure blood wasn't spilled. Illyrio – or at least his servants – had been wise enough to make sure we took food and salt, as was custom for guests. But in the midst of being told, the whole guest rights shtick seemed to evaporate in the griffin's rage. As soon as Illyrio mentioned he was my father and my mother was a Blackfyre, Connington pulled out his sword where he was immediately dogpiled by the household guard. While Jon was outnumbered four to one, the Unsullied had proven themselves to not be all that strong, so both me and Rolly had to get involved like the heroes we were. While I wasn't a fan of Illyrio Mopatis – even if I could respect the man – I didn't want him to die. It wasn't for any emotional reason or the fact he was my father in this world. The cheesemonger was simply too useful, nor did I want Joncon to get killed in such a meaningless way.
As a result, I earned a black eye for my troubles when Jon elbowed me in the face.
That was what stopped him. He paused, turned to me and I saw in his pale-blue eyes that he bore me no ill-judgement. Blackfyre or not, he raised me, he taught me everything. While Illyrio was Young Griff's blood, he didn't raise the boy. And I suppose in many ways, Aegon was Connington's son, or the closest thing. So when he hit me, his rage evaporated. He ceased his struggling and stared at me with shock while I held my face. It was enough for the others to properly restrain him. He still put up a token struggle, of course; Jon was a proud man, but he had lost his strength after hitting me. The exiled lord managed to calm down, but he didn't lose his anger, though he'd lost the urge to shed blood. When released, the exiled lord of Griffin's Roost stared daggers at Illyrio before storming to his chambers and slamming the door behind him.
His reaction was certainly the high point of the day. The others were surprised by the news, though none of them jumped the handle like dear Jon Connington. They weren't happy, of course, but their feelings were thrown to the side when Jon Connington's own were known. Haldon kept his face stoic, Rolly looked surprised while Lemore looked at me with pity. I knew that they would remain by my side regardless. My main concern had been Griff.
The next morning, after a long night of forming my arguments and a breakfast of boiled beans and porridge, I proceeded to Jon's chambers. He had locked himself inside and refused to open up. I knocked to no response and continued until he shouted at me, politely, to sod off. I refused and he must had decided that letting me talk to him would be the easiest. When I did enter, what appeared before me was nothing short of a broken man.
"Seven years I've been at your side," Jon said, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs parted and face in his hands. "Seven years I have taught and raised you. In those years you became less Rhaegar's son and more my own. I saw you as my own flesh and blood. When you . . . w-when you fell with the fever, I feared for you, I feared what would happen to you. You came back and now . . . this . . ."
I bit the inside of my cheek. Despite rehearsing all that I wanted to say, I found the words had left my mind. Jon Connington hadn't washed the dye out of his hair, while I had. He hadn't torn himself from the clothes he'd worn previously. His eyes were inflamed and there were stains running down his cheeks. He'd been crying, perhaps all night. "I-I'm sorry."
He looked up at me. "Sorry for what? You were fooled like me, before . . . but you were wise enough to see it. Whatever happened to you . . . it opened your eyes." He grimaced. "While I was a fool. I was blind."
I sighed and sat beside him. I never had to comfort someone before. I would avoid it if I could, but this time I couldn't. "You didn't know. You were . . . you can't blame yourself." You were upset, a man with nothing but a troubled heart, then comes Varys offering you a chance to relieve your burden. A chance to atone for your failures. "Illyrio and Varys . . . they took advantage of you."
"They did. I was a fool to let that happen to both you and myself."
A moment of silence passed between us.
Connington's face tightened, a flicker going across his eyes. "He may be your father . . . you can stay here and be a Blackfyre." He spoke those words with anger in his shaking voice. "His spawn. The son of a whore and a cheesemonger, or you can come with me. We can continue going around Essos like before. Griff and Young Griff. We can go to Lys. You always wanted that, or Volantis. Somewhere far away. We can see Braavos and Myr and Tyrosh. We can continue sailing the Rhoyne. Just like the good days."
He sounded desperate, his tone heart-breaking. "Jon. All those years you've raised me, looking after me. You were the closest thing I had to a father. Oh, Illyrio claims I am his son. Oh, I came from his seed, but you raised me. You taught me what I knew, you made me into the person I am now." A lie, but a kind lie. "In every way that matters, you are my father. I know that I'm not Rhaegar's son, but—"
My words were silenced when he embraced me, not unlike when I woke up from the fever. He was desperate to cling to his past life, one that had meaning. As much as I hated to do that, I needed to take advantage. I wasn't a nice person for doing so, I know, but sometimes horrible things needed to be done. I needed him with me. Say what you want, but Jon Connington was a lord, a skilled knight and a commander. He was a useful man.
"Help me," I said softly. "You raised me as a king, you raised me how a prince needs to be taught. You and Haldon, Septa Lemore and Rolly. You were once in the Golden Company. Perhaps you can have that life once more."
That was when Jon loosened his grip. Any warmth and sorrow left him all at once. He glared. "A life I lost for a lie. If not for guest rights and yourself, I would have slit Illyrio's neck, cut open his belly and see what tumbles out. I would go to the Red Keep and strangle the Spider's throat."
Or die in the attempt. "I would too, if I remember all those years of being Aegon Targaryen." I had no emotional involvement in the lie. I'm sure the boy would have had a much greater reaction to everything. I don't think his reaction would be all that different from the exiled lord before me. "But if I'm a Blackfyre . . . that means the Golden Company is rightfully mine, maybe even the Iron Throne."
"You have no right to the Iron Throne," he growled, letting go and stepping back. He looked at me with fresh eyes, as if he wasn't seeing the same boy. He wasn't. "You are a Blackfyre. You have no right."
"Nor does Robert Baratheon." In truth, I found blood claims more a formality. They didn't matter at the end of the day. Force of arms was what forged the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and what held it together. Fire and blood. But even then, Robert had a claim due to his grandmother and would sit as king anyway should anything happen to House Targaryen. But instead of inheriting it, Robert got it by conquest when Rhaegar decided to fuck Westeros by fucking a betrothed girl which was the catalyst for a downward spiral that brought the end to House Targaryen's power. "What will you do now, my lord?"
He shrugged. "Robert . . . he doesn't deserve to sit the Iron Throne. He doesn't deserve to be king, he's a usurper and tyrant. But what can I do? I raised a boy I thought was my prince's son, a prince. But you're an imposter. An unknowing one, true, but an imposter nonetheless."
"I never asked to be Aegon Blackfyre." Or Aegon Targaryen, or Young Griff. I didn't ask to be in Essos or this world. "Nor did I ask to be Illyrio's son or that of his wife." Once more there was another tense silence. It was among the most awkward moment I'd ever had the misfortune to be in. "I never asked for this but we are here now. If you desire, you can leave all this. You can wander Essos and live in guilt for your failures. Or you can stand with me just as you did before. I may be a Blackfyre, I may have unknowingly deceived you and been deceived in turn. But it's the Baratheons who are the enemy. The true enemy, not I. The stags were the ones who pulled down the Targaryens and sent them running. It was Robert who slayed Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. I know you may not see him in me, if you ever did. I won't ask for any oaths of loyalty for I deserve none, but if you stand with me, you can avenge your prince when the time comes. You can avenge your failures at the Battle of the Bells. You can get the vengeance you crave. What do you say?"
With the most utter reluctance, Jon Connington, the exiled Lord of Griffin's Roost, looked into my eyes and agreed.
...
I sat with Haldon in my chambers, running my fingers along the silver strings of the harp. It was a beautiful sound it made. Soothing. Calm. I still couldn't play, but Illyrio promised he was going to find me a master to learn from. In truth, I wasn't that dedicated to perfecting it. Music was just something to pass the time.
As Haldon read though my notes, I recited the words to Scarborough Fair. The song was a favourite of mine when I was working. Why not continue my little tradition? In truth, while I could remember the tune, I couldn't remember so much the words. I made a point of writing the lyrics down when I could. I did that with many things so I could avoid losing any knowledge of the world I vanished from.
Much of what I wrote down were ideas and possible schematics for inventions that were anything from seed drills that would increase the efficiency of the vast estates outside Pentos, to notes on various tactical formations throughout earth's history like the ancient Macedonian phalanx and the Romans. In truth, I didn't know how to make the various inventions. I wasn't an engineer, nor did I ever have an interest in the subject, but I had a clue on how they worked. I just needed people with actual know-how to make them for me. I wouldn't be hard to find specialists. Essos was more advanced then Westeros and Illyrio didn't lack the coin to find experts in any given field.
Despite all I needed to do, I wasn't rushing myself. Rome wasn't built in a day, nor were her armies. Warfare was an ever evolving battle, each side trying to get an edge on the other. Strangely – or should I say fortunately – it seemed neither Essos nor Westeros got the memo. Of course, this came from the maesters who were fans of censorship and changing history to fit their narrative (if the theories were correct). But even so, the treatise I found were more primitive than anything, though accounts from Jon give me more an accurate picture. I would still need to experience battles myself to truly understand.
What I managed to learn was that Westerosi armies used three different types of soldiery in battle. Their armies were mostly formed of levies who provided the bulk of any given force. These men were farmers, lesser craftsmen and labourers, given the most basic of equipment and little in the way of training. They were raised and kept only for the length of a campaign before being disbanded. They were vulnerable to shock tactics, preferring to run rather than stand their ground when a glittering wedge of heavy cavalry charged towards them. The second kind of soldiery the Westerosi fielded were the semi-professionals. A step above levies, these men would put up more of a fight and made up the backbone of a lord's army. While the variety was broad, these could range from anything from professions like city watch and guardsmen. Also thrown into this category could be urban militia and guildsmen, sellswords and volunteers looking for coin and glory. Overall, these men were better equipped, better trained and more disciplined, where they'd be positioned to hold the line for the next group. Some would be mounted, but those on horses were mostly skirmishers, mounted bowmen and light scouting cavalry. The next and final group were the fully professional soldiers. The smallest group but also the most dangerous. These were the knights and men-at-arms, personal retainers and the nobility. These men had the best training, beginning so at a young age, and outfitted in the best armour money could buy. While some fought afoot, they were usually mounted and performed in what could be described as an armoured fist. Heavy horse, the lot of them, relying on cavalry charges to smash formations and enough of a danger to change the fate of battles. They'll be my greatest threat.
It all looked simple on paper . . . too simple and too broad.
To fight them I needed a force designed to take on these threats. I would do so, making an army using the best military doctrines from Earth. I knew much of military history – it being a hobby of mine after all. But while I didn't have more advanced technology, I could use more advanced strategies. I would have to style the Golden Company after armies such as Imperial Rome and its latter successor: the Byzantines. That wasn't to mention others like ancient Macedonia, the Sassanid Empire, various Caliphates and the latter medieval units and tactics from groups like English Longbowmen, Genose Crossbowmen, French Knights, the Black Legion of Hungary, Swiss and Spanish Pikemen and, of course, the Mongols. Should I manage to succeed at that, I would have with me a military force far ahead of whatever Essos and Westeros were capable of. An army strong enough to take on the Seven Kingdoms.
But how do I implement such a force? That was the hard bit. Even if I get my hands on the Golden Company, which would be certain with Young Griff getting them in the books and with my Blackfyre heritage, but could I reorganise them? I had only been in this world for a few months so I should have at least four years. Would that be enough time?
While I had been sending a lot of my time planning to create an army that could – theoretically –curb-stomp everything it came across, it hadn't been the only thing I'd been doing.
While I had many ideas on what to be built, I started with the more basic. Oh, it didn't have any practical use or anything, it was just because it was easy and I wanted to do it. In many ways, I was one of those rich kids who had a doting father unable to say no. Out of boredom, and missing things like chess and checkers, I hired myself a skilled craftsman who made the pieces and board with a mixture of ivory and onyx. Nice looking pieces masterfully crafted in minute detail. It was fun to be playing that instead of cyverse and I'd been busy teaching Haldon and the others in my free time. Maybe I could even export them and make a little coin on the side.
Besides creating board games, I'd been busy with other things . . .
"It's an interesting idea," Haldon said, sitting at the desk with a bottle of lemon water beside him. He didn't really drink much, did Haldon Halfmaester. "The concept is intriguing. It should, if what you say happens, boast efficiency and the quantity of yields."
"I know," I said with a wide grin, running my fingers along as I finished the song. I jotted the last few notes down. "It should improve the ratio of crop yields with less need of workers." Haldon rose an eyebrow at me and I continued unabated, "Compared to this, slavery won't be as practical, will it? Expensive with guards and making sure they don't escape. One will have to pay for food and dwelling and the like. What if we replace slaves with these? Machines don't ask for lodging, food or rest? While the one-time cost will be greater, a seed drill such as this will pay for itself in the long run." It was an idea of mine going through the vast Pentoshi estates when learning to ride. Thousands upon thousands of slaves were needed to harvest those vast farms. While they used simple tools, they could make use of greater technology and improved crop rotation.
"Slavery is profitable, Aegon. That's why the Free Cities, the Dothraki and Ghiscari are rich. Richer than the lords of Westeros. Besides, this is all theory. We don't know whether it'll truly work and even if it does, many might not accept it."
"We don't know it'll work," I agreed, putting my harp to the side. "But we won't know until we find out, now can we? We can't throw the idea away just because someone somewhere fears it threatens the status quo." I scoffed. "Besides, the benefits are having less slaves to pay for and having just as much if not more food that can be sold. Less costs, more profits." Somewhat amusingly, I could take advantage of the slaveholder's own self-interest to help dismantle slave trade.
"I'm not doubting you with that, Aegon. Just how do you create these things? I suppose the funnel and that wheel acts as a mechanism that drops the seeds. I'm no expect when it comes to engineering, but I can see how this will benefit Pentos."
"I certainly hope it does."
What I planned to do was a sort of agricultural revolution to increase the food output of one of the largest food producers of Essos. In college, the British Agricultural Revolution was one of the things I did. It increased the population by around nine million and became less labour intensive which allowed people to move into cities. In turn, that fuelled the Industrial Revolution. Not only did I plan to lay the foundations for change, but also end the slave trade in a different way to Daenerys. While she may free the slaves and spread an abolitionist ideology throughout Essos, I was going to instead play the long game of simply making slavery less profitable and therefore less desirable. Why buy slaves to work the fields then machines do it better and with less the cost? It wouldn't end the slave trade, of course, but would aid in diminishing its importance to the Essosi economy.
So I hope.
I also had a few other projects still in the concept stages, which were little more than notes on a few parchments. But with these, it would be handled by others so they were getting increasingly more detailed by the day. One such idea was to make use of a major river that separated Pentoshi territory to that of Myr. It was a fast flowing river connecting the ocean to the lake of Myrth. I wondered if I could turn it into a place of industry. The river would serve an ideal location for lumber and watermills that use hydropower to increase production for flour and food. The regions of Amenos and Samal provided wood from their forests, not to mention the woods on the Myrish side. I can confidently say that Illyrio had taken interest in the concept. Unlike Westeros, money translated to political power so Illyrio and many other nobles were always looking for ways to get more. The main problem would be the Dothraki Khalasers. They didn't attack the cities themselves, but ravaged the countryside; razing towns and farmsteads to the ground while enslaving the population. Not even Pentoshi influence or gold could stop the smaller ones that numbered anything from a few hundred to a few thousand warriors. Braavosi treaties really helped hinder any solutions to fix the problem. I could now really understand Pentoshi desire to free themselves from the Titan's yolk.
Haldon scratched his chin and looked down at the pile of parchments before him. "You wanted my opinion and I will say it. I think these can work. Though I'm surprised you came up with these things yourself. It's not like you."
"I never had a knack for coming up with solutions to problems?" I gave him an impish smile when he shook his head. "Oh, what a shame. Well, I can say this Aegon Blackfyre is a marked improvement."
Haldon shook his head. "As I've said before, pride is unbecoming of you."
"Maybe." But at least I have something to be proud of. Even if all my ideas came from other people . . . "What other twelve year old has thought of these?"
"Not many, I confess. Sometimes . . . since coming back from your fever, I wondered if something happened. You may have forgotten much, but you know things as well. You also act different, sound different. Septa Lemore sometimes muses that you saw the Seven Above. She says you may have died in your fever only to be resurrected with their knowledge, like the Smith himself taught you."
I gave a pause and forced a chuckle. "I guess dying changed me. It would make sense for it to do so. Sometimes . . . I-I don't know. I see things in my dreams. Things that could come to be. I feel like I need to change them."
Haldon looked at me quizzically. "What kind of dreams?"
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to go into it. Saying I have dragon dreams or prophetic equivalent could be a way to justify my actions to everyone. I may be called a Blackfyre, but I still carried the blood of House Targaryen and they had seers in their line. Blackfyres weren't excluded from processing dragon dreams. "One thing or another. I don't really understand them though. But I can feel . . ."
I must have looked like I didn't want to continue with the subject, because Haldon changed it for me. "I'm sure you can talk to Septa Lemore about it another time. You still have lessons you need to do. I've still a duty to teach you what you need to know."
I smiled with false relief. "I look forward to. When do we start?"
...
The sun was beginning to set as we rode through the Disputed Lands.
As the name suggested, it was a region fought over by four of the Free Cities. The Myrish to the north, Lysene to the south, Tyrosh to the west and occasionally mighty Volantis to the east. A rich region thanks to its extremely fertile soil and being home to vast latifundia. The whole region served as the breadbasket to all the surrounding cities.
Why wouldn't they fight over it? To control the Disputed Lands meant control over the cities from a position of power. If one could beat the others, they would hold a monopoly over food that supports the other cities population. In such a scenario, they could either cut it or hike up prices and force their rivals to spend precious coin importing grain. That would mean less coin to compete with more valuable commodities, not to mention easy access to grain and slaves that would be used for armies. But rarely did one city have control over the Disputed Lands, at least for long. The three daughters of Valyria couldn't keep an alliance for long before going at each other's throats. They switched alliances as easily as a person changed their clothes. Which meant a greater reliance on Westeros for staple crops the made up the trade balance between both continents on either side of the Narrow Sea.
Thanks to this perpetual conflict, sellsword companies were attracted to the Disputed Lands like flies to honey. One of whom I was visiting.
We found the Golden Company encircling the port town of Kylos, currently in the Myrish occupied territory of the Disputed Lands. It was the first time I had ever seen an army in real life and not for a moment did it fail to please my fairly high expectations.
I knew that the Golden Company numbered ten thousand men, not including camp followers and hangers-on. The best mercenary company in Essos, perhaps the world. It certainly looked it from where I stood. The camp they formed would have put them on par with the ancient romans: compact, orderly, defensible. A deep ditch had been dug around it, protected further with sharpened stakes. The tents stood in orderly rows, with broad avenues between them. Latrines had been dug near a river so the current would flush away the waste into the sea while further up were women cleaning and washing clothes. Outside the palisade walls was a makeshift pasture for horses and a few dozen elephants. Around the perimeter were tall battle standards of cloth-of-gold draping lazily atop lofty poles. Beneath them stood sellswords armed with spears and crossbows, watching every approach. They must have seen us before we saw them because a cavalry force was already heading towards us. Cataphracts, from the looks of it, with two standard-bearers in the ranks that numbered half a dozen.
"The commander is Ser Myles Toyne," I said, shifting awkwardly on the saddle, slowing the horses to a stop to meet them. "I've heard . . . but never had the fortune to know him." He was dead before the events of the books, I knew. A man Jon Connington respected when he still served the Golden Company. Well, he's still alive here and hopefully whatever fate that happened to him wouldn't happen this time. If he was respected by the Joncon, he was hopefully a skilled battle commander. Which was something I seriously needed.
"Aye. A good man. Among the best you can have," Connington said with more bitterness than he had ever shown me before. Not that I could blame him. He was polite, though I could see it in his eyes he wasn't pleased to be warding a Blackfyre. He was still expectedly sore.
"Let's hope, my lord."
"I'm no lord. Not anymore."
But you will, if you stand by my side. "Of course." Without shade, the heat in the Disputed Lands were unbearable. I had dressed coolly this day: a tunic of black cotton, black trousers and high-heeled riding boots that kept my feet on the spurs. Septa Lemore had cut and neatened my hair, making it look more presentable. Running a hand through my curls, I said, "I am sick of this blue dye. We should wash it out."
"For your own protection," Septa Lemore said.
"Mockery more like. I look a fool and would they bend the knee to a fool?"
"They'll bend their knee to a Blackfyre." Jon said, averting his gaze away from me.
Despite myself, I felt a smirk tug at my lips. "You sound like they're one and the same."
"They were."
"And now?"
"Honest to the Seven, I don't know."
I'll take that as a compliment. Eventually, the heavy cavalrymen reached us. They certainly looked intimidating. The horses themselves were decked head to toe in scale armour, with the riders enclosed in heavy chainmail with long conical helms. Even their faces were covered with mail. The sight of them was enough for a shiver to run down my spine. What I wouldn't give to have an army of these . . .
Only one didn't wear a helmet. He was an olive-skinned man, with a broad nose, black stubble on his gaunt cheeks and crooked teeth. His lips were split and he looked to be in his mid-thirties. "Three men, a boy and a woman. Looking to join the Golden Company are you?" His tone of jovial. "Or are you spies?" That caused a chuckle to come from the other cavalrymen.
I don't mean to join the Golden Company. I mean to lead it. "If we were spies, we've proven ourselves failures at our task then. After all, no man can sneak past the Golden Company." Nothing wrong with a little flattery. Sellswords seemed to love that.
"Indeed. And this Tyroshi is?"
"Young Griff," Jon introduced, his voice expressionless. "I'm Griff. This is Septa Lemore, Haldon and Rolly."
"Rolly . . . oh. You were squire to Harry Strickland than buggered off for some reason. Why return to us?"
Rolly chuckled. "The pay's better and I didn't want to deal with Homeless Harry's feet." To that the cataphracts laughed. "I was to mentor this boy here in the art of swords."
The olive-skinned man nodded and looked at me, his smirk growing. "Good with the sword are you, lad?"
"Decent enough, I suppose. I'm no expert," I replied honestly. I did consider myself decent at it, at least compared to the people who taught me. "I hope that your company would teach me more."
"Mayhaps. If you seek to join, speak to Homeless Harry. He's the paymaster and deals with all the paperwork. Come, I'll take you to him."
We were escorted to the front gate where we needed to dismount our horses and proceed afoot. All the while, the serjeant – who was named Melio – gave a talk about the camp, about the various people in charge and what they were currently doing. The men who formed the best sellsword company were lounging away outside their tents. Dicing, drinking, swatting away flies. Some looks at us and a few watched me with eyes nothing short of unsettling. I ignored them.
"I'm afraid to say that Lord Harry is unavailable currently," Melio said. "There is a meeting within the command tent. Bloody town refuses to surrender so we're forced to remain here else we risk leaving a vulnerable flank. No doubt you're eager to bloody yourself, aye lad?"
"When do I start?" I grinned.
"Soon enough, no doubt you need to be drilled. We don't throw recruits into battle to die. You'll be trained first."
Melio led us to the captain-general's tent in the centre of the camp and slipped inside. The pavilion was surrounded by a ring of pikes topped with gilded skulls. The largest skull could only be Maelys the Monstrous, grotesque and malformed. Below it was a second, no larger than a child's fist. Siamese twin, I wondered. Or is the smaller one a parasite? If I remembered correctly, the condition had a name, one I couldn't remember. Not that it really mattered. Maelys was considered a kinslayer before he was even born, and now he was dead. The last Blackfyre ever to command the Golden Company. All the skulls were gilded, but unlike Maelys, all looked more similar, though some were cracked and splintered by the blows that had slain them. One even had filed and pointed teeth. It looked like he was smiling, which I found strange. What reason do you have to smile? You're dead. You've failed your life's work.
It was barely a second later when the tent flap opened and a man stepped out. He was massive, with a big belly and a bald head crisscrossed with old scars. His right ear looked like it had been bitten off in part by an angry dog, while the other was missing in its entirety. Nothing in my life prepared me for the sight. I felt myself squirm, and Septa Lemore put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"Lad, this is Flowers. Franklyn Flowers. I don't think he's going to bite you," Connington introduced with all the warmth of a man who had his world collapse around him.
"Not like those bloody Dothraki," the man laughed, spitting out spittle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not just Franklyn Flowers. It's ser now. Not only knighted me, but made me a captain after the other fell to an arrow." He grabbed Jon by the arm and pulled him into a tight though short-lived hug.
"Captain? Bloody hells, how did you achieve that? Merciful Mother, I was hoping that Myles wouldn't lower standards."
I glanced at the both of them. Some blimmin déjà vu going on over here.
"Things went differently since you left. When I popped my head out this tent, I almost shat myself. Bloody Jon Connington returned from the dead. With blue hair as well. Why is that? Impersonating Tyroshi, the both of you?" Flowers laughed and glanced at the others, his small eyes lingered on myself. "The rest of you as well. Haldon, you icy cunt, how has it been? Good to see you've return. We need some more scribes, though I hope you unsheathed that sword from your arse. Septa Lemore, my favourite Dornish girl, and you, Rolly. Going back to the smithy or Homeless Harry? So the lad would be . . ."
"My squire," Jon said. "Lad, this is Ser Franklyn Flowers. Captain of the Golden Company. Bastard of Cider Hall."
"Bloody Fossoway," the captain grimaced. "At least in part. The brown apple kind. The corrupted one. Enough of that. The rest of the officers aren't patient thanks to the siege. They'll want to see you lot now. Wasted enough time as it is."
I was surprised when I entered and saw all the commanders of the Golden Company sitting around the table. Only some stood up, greeting us with smiles and clasping our hands, some casually, others formally. Others remained seated and kept their distance, eyeing Jon Connington with nothing short of distrust. They still remembered him stealing from their war chest. Just like in the books, it was Ser Flowers who introduced them all. Some of the captains had names of Westerosi houses: two Strongs, three Peakes, a Mudd, a Mandrake, a Lothston, a pair of Coles; while others had bastard names like Snow, Stone, Waters, Sand, Hill and Rivers. Not all their names were genuine. In Essos, names didn't really carry the same weight and in the Free Companies one could call themselves what they wished. Regardless of their name, all wore more gold than I'd ever seen – maybe excluding Magister Illyrio. All kept their wealth upon their person: jewelled swords, inlaid armour, heavy torcs, fine silks dyed and painted, and golden arm rings that signified a year's service within the company. Many, I saw, were of Westerosi heritage. Some were like Joncon and joined the Company more recently, either before Robert's Rebellion or after. Most would have been born into the Company, though, the descendants of exiles. But there were others who were not of Westerosi heritage. Black Balaq was a white-haired Summer Islander who wore a feathered cloak of green and orange. While some called it beautiful, it did make me wonder how many parrots were slain to create such a piece. There was Gorys Edoryen, a Volantene who I knew was paymaster in the books, but was a captain here with Harry Strickland as paymaster. The Volantene had a leopard skin draped across one shoulder, and hair as red as blood, tumbling to his shoulders in oiled ringlets. The spymaster was a Lysene I knew for Lysono Marr. A man who looked so androgynous I initially confused him for a woman. Marr had lilac eyes and white-gold hair, full lips and porcelain skin. His fingernails were long and painted purple, while his earlobes dripped with pearls and amethysts. He was certainly an interesting looking gentleman, to say the least.
"So you've finally arrived," spoke the man introduced as Ser Myles Toyne, the captain-general of the Golden Company. He looked up from the table carpeted with the various maps of Essos. Myles Toyne wasn't a handsome man by any means. He had a face of a thug; with jug-like ears, a large nose that had been repeatedly broken and a crooked jaw. He was also perhaps the shortest officer in the tent. "I can say I've been waiting long enough, Jon. For both you and your ward."
I spoke up then, saying, "I assume you know of me." I glanced around, now commanding the tent's full attention.
"We know of you, lad," Myles said, taking a sip of his wine. He didn't sound happy. "Blackfyre hiding as a Targaryen to come back when the time was right. I see you've ruined all the plans. But seeing as you did, I must congratulate you on your wits."
"You tricked me," Jon growled, stepping forward. The officers put their hands to the handles of their blades, but Myles stopped them by raising his palm and meeting Jon's eyes with his own dark ones. "I was manipulated by you . . . by others. I was made my Varys to steal from the Company, for him . . . for this boy. I thought . . . I thought he was the true Aegon, Rhaegar's son. You knew he was a lie yet you betrayed me."
"I'm sorry, Jon. But it was needed. I hope you'll understand if you were my position."
"You deceived me, Myles. You—"
"You can talk about your petty acts later," interrupted the gruff voice of Black Balaq, rolling his black eyes. "You two fight like husband and wife. We work now. Argue later." He turned to me, studying me. "So this boy here is the last Blackfyre? Can't say I'm impressed. Who will fight for a boy who looks half a girl?"
"He's a child, nothing more," Harry Strickland grumbled, his blistered toes submerged in a footbath. "He's young, malleable. Seeing as the plan's no longer in action. Will we treat him as a proper Blackfyre? A member of the company?"
"If you're going to talk about me, don't talk through me," I growled, earning me a few looks. "I'm going to be the leader of this company. I'm a Blackfyre after all."
Myles Toyne chuckled. His thin lips curling into a smirk, he shook his head. "We'll have none of that here. You may have the blood of Daemon the Black Dragon in your veins, but don't give us orders. Here, you need to prove yourself. This isn't Westeros, this is the Golden Company. You don't have the right to command people with more experience just because your mother happens to be a Blackfyre. You are no Daemon, nor are you Bittersteel. Prove yourself to us and you'll be rewarded justly. But nothing more."
I grit my teeth.
Myles huffed and turned to my party. "I'm surprised. I was told he was good and humble and just. But I see he's just a petulant child. How disappointing."
I frowned despite myself. "I'm not petulant." You just fucked over my plans. Thank you Myles fucking Toyne. Though from the look Harry was giving me, it may still be the better alternative. I took a breath to steady myself. "I understand, my lord. I am inexperienced, though I hope to learn. That is why I'm here." Meritocracy was needed after all. I would have been hypocritical for me to rise solely because of my heritage. When it comes to an army, at least I'll have a foundation to work with instead of a completely clean slate.
"Somehow humbled you? Good. You will be tutored, boy, as needs be. When this war is done I'm going to speak with your father personally, see how this changes everything and the newest variant of the plan. In the meantime, you'll be placed alongside others who have just recently joined. Green boys they are. Mayhaps you'll be taught by myself on how to lead on top of that."
"It would be an honour," I bowed my head respectfully just as Septa Lemore taught me. One couldn't forget their courtesies.
"Indeed." Toyne turned from me to my foster-father, if he could be continued to be called that. "We can talk later, Jon. I'm sure you have much to say to me, just as I have much to say to you."
"Of course . . . captain-general," Griff hesitantly accepted the offer.
"But what of King Robert?" asked Ser Tristan Rivers, drumming his fingers against the table. He was a tall and brawny man, encased in dull grey plate and mail. He had a long face with a mane of dark-red hair and pale-green eyes. "He's hunting for those two Targaryen spawn. That boy who screamed and kicked the table when we refused to bend the knee, and that scrawny little thing who hid under said table. They're no threat going from city to city with only the clothes on their backs. We here have the one true king. A young king, yes, but one who stands with an army. How long would it take for His Grace to send an assassin? If Robert is a fool to not do so, what about Lord Tywin Lannister? There is no way he wants his grandchildren to face us. Like Bloodraven, he doesn't have an ounce of honour in his blood."
Myles Toyne nodded thoughtfully before turning to me. "Aegon Blackfyre can't be known to exist. Not yet. As you said, if the Baratheons knew . . . they'll send our prince a sharp blade as his final gift. A Blackfyre is currently much more a threat than any Targaryen. They're little more than beggars. We have an army."
That made me cautious. "So what will I do?"
"You'll be here until the new plans unfold. You will remain Young Griff, and Jon Connington can remain your father. While we know, the common soldiery won't. You will be father and son, joining the Golden Company. Tell a story of how Jon found a woman that made him lose his wits, then he got a child on her. She died so he raised the lad before returning." He gave a dismissive wave. "If not that, make something else up. Can you do that, Jon?"
I sneaked a glance at my tutor and found it a blank stare. I doubted there was any woman in the world Jon would lose his honour to. Though a certain silver princeling . . . I still felt bad over that, but it was needed. If I waited any longer, it would just hurt him more. Rip the plaster off quickly, as they said.
Old Griff crossed his arms. "And why would I agree with this deception?" His voice was a growl and he looked willing to kill the captain-general. "You manipulated me once with this muse, why should I do it again?"
"Because it's in your interests," Myles replied. "You're an exile like us. Targaryen loyalist you may be, but you need the coin, you need the motivation to remain standing. You submitting will only mark Robert Baratheon as the winner. He beat you once at the Battle of the Bells, yes, but there is still a way for you to avenge yourself, to avenge your prince. Do it not for the lad, not anymore. Don't do it for the dragon regardless of the colour of its scales. Do it for yourself."
"What if I refuse?"
"Then leave. We don't force people in the Company unless they agree. If you leave, you won't be missed. You'll be forgotten, remembered as an oath breaker, a thief who stole from his brothers in arms. Stay with us, griffin. Remain with us and regain what you lost. We can't offer you Rhaegar's son, but we can offer you vengeance and purpose. Instead of running from the ghosts of your past, stand with us and hold your head up high. Be the creature of your house."
Jon glanced at me and, for a moment, I saw his thoughts. He didn't want to serve a Blackfyre, but he wanted revenge. He needed a purpose after losing everything. Revenge and hate, experiences I didn't have to fuel my being. Joncon turned from me to Myles, his shoulders slacked and his next words were just above a whisper. "I'll do it. But not for you."
Myles nodded and clasped him on the shoulder like long lost friends. "I'm happy to hear it. One of these days you'll get what you lost. Maybe more. You've picked rightly, Jon. We have a war to fight after all. It may be a trade war, but we still kill and be killed. You to, Young Griff. Newest member of the Golden Company."
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