THE EXILED GRIFFIN

It was dark in Volantis, which Jon Connington was thankful for. The city was filled with spies, sneaks and other men of dishonour, whose notice the Westerosi man would be thankful to escape. His blue-dyed beard and hair disguised him well enough, but the chunky longsword and mail that he wore all but quashed that illusion. He kept a hood over his face, and wrapped the thick woollen cloak about himself, despite the muggy heat of a Volantene evening.

The normally-bustling streets were almost empty, which was unusual itself. Volantis was never empty. The city housed nearly a million souls, free or not, and that meant there was always someone out in the streets. Not tonight though. Tonight there was only Connington and his memories.

By rights, he shouldn't even be here. In Volantis, in Essos, across the damn Narrow Sea, he shouldn't be anywhere near here. His place was half a world away, in Griffin's Roost. In the castle that was his birthright, by all the laws of all the gods. A birthright that the Usurper had seen fit to take away from him.

For what crime? For defending my king.

And my love.

He had been a much younger man then, a soft, green, stupid boy with dreams of glory and delusions of grandeur. He had been Hand of the King – what a king Aerys was – and charged with the most important duty in the entire war; kill the Usurper.

Even now, the bells haunted his memory. The mournful sound of the bells as the smallfolk locked their doors and half a hundred bowmen rained death on Connington's men. It wasn't only the war that they had lost that day. Jon Connington lost a future, or so he had thought.

That was until he had been approached by the eunuch, and handed a sleeping babe, and told to flee across the sea. That babe was now a man grown, the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, and what does he spend his evenings doing? Likely drinking with Ser Rolly and the Halfmaester no doubt.

Connington always thought he raised the boy to be better than that, but then reflected that he had likely been the same at that age. Besides, they were not in Westeros yet, and they were still to meet with the Golden Company.

Connington walked by the waterfront, and looked out across the bay, and saw the hundreds of ships that docked there. He wondered how he would be able to find his contact, and was beginning to contemplate walking away, when he sensed a presence behind him. It was a sense, as his new company had moved almost silently.

He turned, his hand on his sword, and relaxed when he saw the man behind him. The newcomer was pudgy and bald, and wore fine purple silks despite having been on a long voyage. The man reeked of sweetness, and Connington felt bile rise in his throat.

The Spider.

Seemingly unperturbed by Connington's distaste, the eunuch bowed his head in greeting, "My Lord Hand," his voice sweet but dangerous, "a pleasure."

"Hand no more," Connington replied, "You saw to that."

"My Lord, you wound me," Varys tittered, "I'm afraid you've none to blame for your fall but yourself. And perhaps the Usurper."

"What do you want?"

"The boy," Varys' voice had lost its levity, and seemed harder, colder, "Where is he?"

"With Ser Rolly and the Halfmaester."

"Ser Rolly?"

"Aye," Connington bit back a cold remark, "Aegon knighted him a few moons past. He intends to name him to the Kingsguard, when Westeros is his."

Varys smirked, "I assume you told him this was unwise?"

Connington snorted. Would that the boy still listened to me. He's a Targaryen, aye, like his father was. But there were dragons far worse than my Prince. Mad, cruel, and worse.

By now they were walking, though Connington was not sure where. It then occurred to him that Varys would know where they camped, and surmised that that was their destination. He misliked being led around, but supposed that there was little he could do.

"He's six-and-ten," Connington retorted, "Find me any boy who listens to his –" Father, "his guardian on such matters."

Varys tittered again at that, and Connington frowned at him. He shouldn't have been there, Connington suddenly realised, he should have been in the Seven Kingdoms, slowly advising the Baratheons and Lannisters into early graves. That was Varys' role. Looking after Aegon was his. Something must have happened, and when Connington asked the eunuch what it was, a shadow crossed his face.

"It seems we have underestimated certain souls in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Who?" Connington didn't get much news, such was a regrettable effect of living on a boat for sixteen years, "Tywin Lannister? Cersei? The Kingslayer?"

Varys looked troubled, and that alone sent a shiver down Connington's spine.

What could scare a Spider so?

What bodes ill for Varys bodes ill for the realm at large. For Aegon.

"Tywin Lannister is dead," Varys told him, "As is his daughter. The Kingslayer is to take the black, and their golden king lies in a ditch somewhere outside King's Landing."

No.

"Who holds the Iron Throne?"

"Stannis Baratheon." answered Varys, and Connington swore. He knew little enough of the second Baratheon brother – the only brother now – but what he did know did not fill him with confidence for Aegon's cause.

The man's hard as iron, and just as forgiving as winter, he thought, we'd have just as much luck treating with a wall.

However, one thought filled him with a little hope, "He fights the Northerners though, doesn't he?" Connington prayed that Stannis Baratheon would be distracted.

"No," replied Varys, and Connington's heart sank, "It seems that Robb Stark won him over. Now Westeros is split between the two kings. Even as we speak, Robb Stark marches west to rid himself of the Ironborn, and thence north, or so I'm told, to crush Mance Rayder."

Connington frowned, "I know no House Rayder."

"A wildling King with a hundred thousand swords," Varys explained, "If the stories are to be believed. In all likelihood he'll be crushed long before you move west. But that won't be hard."

"Why not?"

"You must not go to Westeros," Varys said firmly, "Not at the moment."

Connington stopped, and glared at the eunuch, "If not now, then when? The Seven Kingdoms are splintered, broken by war –"

"The North has never been more united," Varys snapped, his voice sharper than Connington had ever known it to be, "And with the backing of Houses Tully and Lannister, Robb Stark is unstoppable. His brother is to marry Stannis' daughter, sealing this pact in blood as well as in ink. Stannis will likely give Dorne its vengeance, closing them off from us. He is a Baratheon, so the Storm Lords kneel and kiss his boots, and Lysa Arryn will never endanger her son."

"What of the Reach?"

"Mace Tyrell fears the Starks," Varys said, but Connington wondered if he was so certain, "and his heir will marry Robb Stark's sister in the next few moons. With none of the seven great houses supporting us, who will we turn to for allies?"

Connington had to admit, he was stumped by that. He'd never cared much for the intricacies of the realm, and maybe that was coming back to bite him in the arse. Give me a sword and shield, he thought, I'd prefer those to a quill and raven any day.

"Aegon has the rightful claim," he said stoutly, and Varys gave him a look of pity.

"Perhaps when the realm was at war with five kings," came the condescending reply, "but now the Iron Throne has a king, a strong, just king with the full power of the North just a raven's flight away. We need to regroup, to think up a new plan. We cannot just march in anymore."

By now, they had arrived at the camp. Connington took Varys to the central tent, which was plain and without decoration. The boy had raged at that, but Connington counselled him that it was better to not reveal himself until he had the backing of an army.

A golden army, one founded to make Westeros kneel.

Inside were three men. Standing in the shadows was Haldon, the man they called Halfmaester. He was elderly, but had Connington's respect if not his love. Seated at the table was a large knight with a duck sewn on his breast. Ser Rolly Duckfield was not a man Connington particularly trusted, though the same could not be said of the final occupant of the room.

Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm had washed his hair. It now hung long and silver, down past his shoulders. His violet eyes glimmered with wit and confidence, and he had donned a black-and-red doublet with the three-headed dragon of Targaryen on his breast. The boy had a strange look about him. Connington wouldn't call him handsome, the word didn't seem to do him justice.

Beautiful. He is as beautiful as any who came before him.

As his father.

Aegon stood when Connington entered with Varys, and looked questioningly at the eunuch.

"Lord Connington," the Prince's voice was soft, melodious, "Who is this man?"

Varys bowed deeply, "A humble servant, Your Grace. Some see fit to call me a Spider, though my mother gave me the name Varys."

Silence fell, and Aegon walked towards Varys, strong emotions mixing in his expression. Connington saw anger, confusion, fear, hatred, "You serve the Usurper."

"Never," Varys replied silkily, "It was I who saved your life, I who sent you over here with Lord Connington, I who hid you from the Usurper's eyes."

Aegon chewed that over, "How do I know I can trust you?"

"I have served House Targaryen unwaveringly for the last thirty years," Varys tittered, "Your father trusted me, as did your grandfather. As will you, in time."

Aegon's eyes flitted to Connington, and the lord nodded slightly. Aegon then smiled broadly, and invited the eunuch for a drink. The two began to talk of Westeros, Varys filling the Prince in on all that he had told Connington. Of course, Aegon misliked most of this news, but before he could get too angry, the final member of their little group came bursting through the tent flap.

Septa Lemore was a handsome woman in her middle-forties with long dark hair and eyes the colour of honey, and was responsible for teaching Aegon about the mysteries of the Faith. She panted, as though she had been running.

"Your Grace," she said breathlessly, "The Golden Company, they're here!"

Connington's head snapped towards her, "What did you say?"

"The Golden Company," she repeated, before turning her head towards the eunuch, "What in the seven hells is he doing here?"

"A pleasure, as always, my Lady," Varys murmured, "We must away, my Lord, Your Grace. I have alerted Harry Strickland to your presence, he will be here –"

But Varys was cut off when the tent flap burst open again. The newcomers were sellswords, the very best, and Connington sized them up. First was Homeless Harry Strickland, a man who looked less like a warrior than Varys. His mail did little to hide his substantial gut, and he had started to go to bald.

Beside Homeless Harry stood a night-skinned Summer Islander with white hair, a man Connington named Black Balaq. Black Balaq commanded the company's archers, and wore a splendid cloak of green feathers. At his side was his bow, six-feet of strong wood. On Strickland's other side was Franklyn Flowers, a great brute of a man with most of his face carved off as if by a blind butcher. He was the bastard of one of old Lord Fossoway's sons, and so hated the Lords of Cider Hall with all of his heart. He glowered down at everyone in the room.

Harry Strickland knelt, "My King," he said, "It is good to know that a Targaryen still lives."

"Your company was founded to kill my ancestors, Ser," Aegon retorted, "Your compliments mean nothing to me."

"We served the true line of House Targaryen," Strickland replied, adding hurriedly "or so we thought. It is clear that the dragons we served were weak. The blood of Valyria flows through your veins in greater volume than it ever did with Bittersteel or his kin."

Aegon was silent for a moment, allowing a small smile to dance across his beautiful face. He studied Strickland for a long, long moment, before his mailed fist crunched into Strickland's flabby cheek.

Blood sprayed across the tent, and Homeless Harry Strickland was sent sprawling. He grabbed for his sword, and Aegon stamped on his fingers, causing the sellsword to scream in agony.

Flowers drew his sword, but Connington pointed his own blade at the bastard's throat, a dangerous glimmer in his blue eyes. He also pulled a dagger and threw it at Black Balaq. The Summer Islander screamed as the blade embedded itself in his left arm, dropping his bow, which had been pointed at Aegon.

The prince himself seemed to be sated after burying his foot into Strickland's gut. Homeless Harry choked blood, but Aegon stepped away, his silver hair falling over his face. His voice came out harsh and angry.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself, Ser?"

Connington didn't think he'd seen the fat sellsword move as fast as he did when prostrating himself before Aegon, "A thousand pardons, Your Grace," he whimpered, "I meant no offence."

"Take out your sword."

Strickland did so.

"Swear," Aegon commanded, "Swear on the name of your piece of shit House that you will serve me in all that I command."

"I-I swear."

"Now swear your sword to Lord Connington."

"My – Your Grace?"

"You heard me," Aegon's voice was like dragonfire, "swear your sword to Lord Connington. Or rather, Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost, Hand of the King and Lord Commander of the Golden Company."

"Y-your Grace," Strickland stood indignantly, yet quailed under Aegon's gaze, "I must protest –"

"No," Aegon silenced the man with a single word, "You will serve Lord Connington, or your head will be struck from your shoulders and dipped in gold like those who came before you."

That silenced Strickland, who rose and stood by his captains, whose gazes smouldered with rage. Connington knelt next, and offered his sword to Aegon, knowing the words he had to speak, "I swear to serve you with all of my heart, as I served your father before you, and his father before him."

"Very good," Aegon nodded. He turned to the eunuch, "Lord Varys, tell me news of my aunt. We will need her dragons if Stannis Baratheon is to kneel before us, and Robb Stark with him."

"It seems that Daenerys has sacked Astapor, the slave city," Varys reported, and Connington frowned. Astapor was in the east, the wrong way, "And she has, by all reports, acquired an army for herself."

"An army? How?"

"She rides with eight thousand Unsullied soldiers."

Unsullied? Where in the seven hells did she find the coin?

"Unsullied?" Aegon seemed to like that. He grinned, and turned to Strickland, "Does the Golden Company have ravens?"

"A-aye, Your Grace."

"Good," Aegon replied, "Send a raven to Astapor, or wherever she is. Lord Varys will tell you the details of that. Tell her of my claim to the Iron Throne, and suggest an alliance, to restore our House's power and prestige. Tell her that we shall meet her here, in Volantis."

"It will be done, Your Grace."

"See that it is," Aegon growled, "You have much to make up for, Ser Strickland."

Homeless Harry and the Spider left the tent, followed by Black Balaq and Franklyn Flowers. Connington turned to Aegon, concern in his eyes.

"Your Grace," he warned, "that was ill-advised."

"What was?" Aegon snapped, "Strickland is no loyal commander, and no battle commander from the look of him. You are my most loyal servant, Lord Connington, and I rewarded that loyalty today."

"He will not forget the slight."

"Good," came the reply, "Let him know what it means to wake the dragon."

Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;

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