The Demon Monkey

When his uncle had emerged from the sea mists like some ethereal spectre, Longclaw in hand, it had been an incredibly strange—albeit amazing—turn of events. The confirmation of his suspicions regarding the true identity of "Griff" had also been a pleasant surprise, with his theory about who his so-called son was adding some interesting spice to the mix.

What had come after, however, not even Tyrion Lannister would claim to understand.

The two women with Gerion claiming to be Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen? Nonsense. The heap of shining metal they claimed was Valyrian steel? Ridiculous. The cold rocks they claimed to be dragon eggs? Preposterous.

And then they'd reached Meereen while it was simultaneously in the middle of a war and a noble uprising, in which Daenerys Targaryen had vanished atop her dragon, just to find Barristan the Bold fighting alongside Oberyn Martell and Robb Stark—both of whom were, as far as Tyrion had known, dead—as well as a man who suspiciously resembled Arthur Dayne—or at least, how Tyrion remembered him from the brief glance at the tourney of Lannisport—and a man who "Visenya" had addressed as a brother and "Rhaenys" had pulled into a long kiss, gasping for air after nearly a minute submerged. This was just too much for him to deal with.

Quite simply, the minute his head touched the pillow he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep—the first since he'd left Westeros.

'Tywin, no!'

Tyrion shot up at the sound of his father's name—after all, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility for a man to survive a crossbow bolt to the midriff, and if there were any man who would be willing to chase Tyrion across the world to plunge a blade into his heart it would be Tywin Lannister. Instead of his father wielding a knife, however, all Tyrion could see was his uncle Gerion doubling over in fits of laughter.

His laughter trailed off as he wiped a tear from his eye. 'Gods, Tyrion, I'm sorry. You just looked so peaceful, and I couldn't quite resist.'

Tyrion simply glared at him. 'Very funny, uncle. Did you want something?'

Gerion straightened up and his tone flattened. 'They've called a meeting in the Queen's chambers. We're all waiting for you.'

'For me? What time is it?'

'Past noon, I'm afraid,' Gerion replied. 'You slept through the last few messengers, so we agreed that it would be best for me to fetch you.'

'Give me fifteen minutes, and I'll be ready to leave.'

'You have five.'

So there he was five minutes later, moving his legs at an exorbitant speed to keep up with his uncle's strides. Gerion had always been taller than his brothers (much to Tywin's chagrin), and while Tyrion had enjoyed seeing his uncle victorious in one thing over his father, he was beginning to wish that his legs weren't quite so long.

'Ah, gentlemen,' Ser Barristan said, rising from his seat as they entered the room. 'We can begin at last.'

Tyrion grimaced almost imperceptibly at the subtle slight. 'Apologies, my lords. And, uh, ladies,' he continued, noting the glowers from the two Targaryen women (who, by now, he'd accepted may as well be legitimate Targaryens) and a haughty looking Dornishwoman. 'And not to be a pain, but might someone tell me what you're all doing here, and how in the seven hells you're alive? After all, Lord Martell, I saw your head get crushed by the Mountain, and the entire continent has been aware of Lord—or should I say, King—Stark's death for the last few years.'

'We, uh…we returned,' Robb said.

'Ah, well, that certainly explains everything,' Tyrion snarked. 'Is that all?'

'We were brought back, I think,' Ser Arthur Dayne said. 'Fourteen of us awoke beyond the wall, with another on the wall, lady Nymeria at Sunspear, and apparently ladies Visenya and Rhaenys awoke in Valyria, on the old Targaryen homestead.'

Gods, Jaime would shit enough bricks to build a sept if he saw his old sworn brother again.

'Well,' Tyrion said. 'That certainly makes things more interesting. But why? Why now, why you specifically? Who could have brought you back, and could there be any others?'

'I do not know who brought us back, nor do I have solid evidence for any others who have returned—although I'd wager that there are, given the nature in which more keep popping up,' the tall Valyrian looking man said. This, Tyrion knew, must be Aegon the Conqueror. 'As for why we've been brought back, it…the Long Night is returning.'

Silence rung for a moment before laughter burst out from all who'd been on the Shy Maid (save for Rhaenys and Visenya, who simply looked worriedly at their brother), all leaning back in their chairs as they cackled. Then the man—Aegon—slammed his fist onto the table, and all fell silent.

'Do you think this is a joke? Some of our number faced one of the Others. All of us faced their minions, and barely survived to tell the tale. My brother was killed so we might have a chance in this gods-forsaken war! We've travelled across the bloody planet to ask Daenerys for aid, and you laugh at us!?' His eyes were blazing with fury, the embers only dimming when Rhaenys placed her hand upon his.

'O-Orys?' she said. 'He, he's dead?'

Aegon just nodded, gripping her hands more tightly as tears brimmed in her eyes.

He swallowed before he resumed speaking, all the rage replaced with a weary sadness. 'My…my apologies for shouting. I merely wished to emphasise the severity of the situation. I understand it is hard to believe, but I would ask for you all to do your utmost to do so. The threat that comes from beyond the wall is unlike any we have ever seen—near invincible beasts, from what my companions here tell me, with complete control over every body north of the wall since the last Long Night.' He paused for a moment and took a breath. 'When this is all over, you can engage in your petty squabbles, for power, and riches, and those gods-forsaken swords in the iron throne. For now, however, there is only one enemy, and we have precious little time.'

The room was silent for a moment, as a tempest of thoughts swirled around Tyrion's brain. Surely it could not be real—these were the ramblings of a madman, the words of a simpleton from the tongue of a zealot.

But the eyes. Tyrion had always had the uncanny ability, much like his uncle Gerion, to see through horseshit into the heart of the matter, to separate between the truth and—more often—the lies by seeing the true character of a man's eyes. Whoever this man who claimed to be Aegon Targaryen really was, he certainly wasn't a liar.

'Bollocks.'

All heads turned toward Jon Connington, a look of derision crossing his face as he leant back into his chair. Young Griff shot him a worried look but quickly schooled his face into one of indifference, while mutters broke out around the table, silenced as Aegon rose a hand.

'You are sceptical, Lord Connington?' he asked.

'Sceptical, no,' he spat, a rasping laugh following the words. 'That would imply even some level of believability. What you're telling us is hogwash, pure and simple. Others? Wights? I suppose you want me to believe that those rocks your sisters are holding are real dragon eggs. That usurping Lannister bastard must be desperate to keep his throne if he really thinks I'd believe such a fairy tale in order to keep the lad from his birth right, fighting savages in the north while he cosies up in the Red Keep.'

'And what birth right would that be, Lord Connington?' Oberyn asked, eyeing the man suspiciously.

'What, he hired a few lookalikes to pass as these lords and knights, a Dornish tavern wench claiming to be the Rhoynish queen, and a trio of Lyseni whores to pretend to be Targaryens? If nothing else, I have to respect the boy's creativity,' Jon continued, completely ignoring Oberyn's question.

'The next time you call either of my sisters a whore, Lord Connington, will be the last time your tongue is used to anything,' Aegon cut in, anger creeping into his voice as their eyes met. 'Now, how about you answer Prince Martell's question. What birth right?'

Jon simply sat in silence for a moment, his eyes angry and his jaw grinding. Young Griff suddenly shot up, stretching his back to give the illusion of height. 'It is my birth right,' he said, his voice clear and deep and clearly trained for such a situation. Had Tyrion not seen him being a useless teenager on the shy maid, he may have even been impressed. 'I am—'

He was interrupted by Lord Jon pulling him down, clattering into his chair as he did so. 'Quiet, boy. Tell me, Prince Oberyn,' he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Do you truly mean to tell me that you don't recognise the boy at all? Sure, you may look like the prince, and I've obviously noticed you barely being able to restrain yourself from punching me all this time, but your claim to truly be the Red Viper falls flat at your blatant ignorance of who this boy is.' The lord of Griffin's Roost smiled slyly and once again leant back.

Oberyn simply remained silent, his eyes trained on the boy as he thought. Although hot-headed and impetuous, only a simpleton could ever call the Red Viper a fool—his was not the intelligence of a maester, the contents of a hundred old tomes stored away for a lifetime, never to be used; his was the cunning of a snake slithering through the grass, ready to kill its prey with a single strike, instinct perfectly twinned with colossal smarts.

And then his mouth opened, his eyebrows rising to his hairline as his hands began to shake. 'It…it can't be! No, he died…the, the stains on the wall, the Mountain! It can't be him!'

'Gods, Oberyn!' Robb shouted, grabbing his comrade's forearm in a vain hope to calm him down. 'Who can it not be.'

'A-Aegon.'

'Yes?' the Conqueror replied, unsure of how he could possibly be involved.

'No, not you. The boy,' Oberyn replied through shaky breaths. 'His name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen. He…he's Elia's son.

Despite all the shocked looks around the room, all Tyrion could manage was a smug grin.

I bloody knew it.

The boy simply looked dumbfounded at his identity being deduced with such ease, although any confusion appeared to vanish as his uncle barrelled into him, pulling him into a tight hug.

'Gods, I'm so sorry,' Oberyn said, tears brimming i his eyes. 'If I'd known you were alive I'd have come for you years ago.'

'I hate to break up this…touching reunion, nephew,' the woman claiming to be Queen Nymeria interrupted. 'But, uh, are you sure it's him? Completely certain?'

'I must agree with the Lady Nymeria,' Barristan agreed. 'There is no sense in proceeding until we are sure of Young Griff's true identity. Do you know of any way of providing such proof, Prince Oberyn?'

The red Viper thought for a moment before his eyes lit up. 'There is one thing, had in common by every member of House Nymeros Martell since the days of Mors Martell. A mole on the back of the head—my mother spoke of Doran having one before his hair grew in as a babe, I saw Elia's when she was having a blood-letting procedure in her head to relieve seizures, and an acolyte mentioned mine when my head was wounded in a duel at the Citadel. Not to mention every other Martell ever including young Rhaenys and Aegon. I'm sure it's been mentioned at some point or other in one of the many books about the lineages of the Great houses. Does that sound correct, Lord Tyrion?'

Shocked at being dragged back into the conversation that, by rights, should've had nothing to do with him, Tyrion floundered for a moment before remembering a paragraph or so that he must've consumed a decade or so ago.

'I…I think you may be right, Prince Oberyn. Archmaester Yarman, I believe. Is that acceptable to everyone then? If the mole is found, in the position it's said to be in, we know the true identity of the man before us. If not…'

He trailed off, and although not everyone looked particularly happy, all seemed satisfied overall.

Young Griff stepped forward, placing his elbows onto the windowsill and craning his neck down so that Oberyn might check his head.

Tyrion could do nothing but watch.

The Young Griffin?

A few hours ago, he'd been safe and happy in his relative anonymity, his identity a closely guarded secret known only by those he loved and trusted as he would family. Now, not only had the secret been spilled for many others, but the very credibility of his identity was being called into question.

Of course it wasn't truly in question—after all he knew who he was: Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name. He had always been so, and would always be so.

But what if he wasn't? The thought crept unbidden into his mind, the tendrils latching onto his brain and refusing to let go in a curiously similar manner to the way Oberyn's fingers were fiddling with his skull, peering though the hair in attempt to find the all-important mole. What if he was really nobody, some orphan abducted by Lord Jon in the rubble of King's Landing.

No. He couldn't afford to think like that. He was a king, and he would always be so.

So, as his uncle—or at least, the main who claimed to be so—continued his search, Aegon simply shifted his eyeline up, glancing over the mid-afternoon Meereenese skyline. For something built atop so much misery and death, it really was a beautiful city. If he was to be executed for pretending to be a dragon, he could certainly do far worse in terms of the last thing he ever saw.

The bay glistened in the distance, all the ships barely specks of brown against the sea of azure with the seabirds crowding around the ships like carrion on a corpse-although now he really thought about it, there did seem to be one bird getting closer and bigger, and its plumage didn't seem to match the stark white of all the other birds.

Gods, it was still approaching, still enlarging, its wingspan growing ever bigger.

By the old gods and the new, Aegon thought, deaf to the shouts of joy between Jon and Oberyn behind him. That's a fucking dragon, and it's coming straight towards us.

A/N: Bonjour lads. I know its been a while since I've updated, but I've been madly busy and not at all in the right space mentally to write. Anyways, sorry for the delay, and hopefully the next update will come sooner (although I wouldn't put any money on that).

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always feel free to favourite, follow and review, with a massive thanks to those of you who've already done so. That's the kind of shit that keeps me going/gives me a kick up the arese to continue writing when I most need it.

Again, cheers, and I'll hopefully see you all soon,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

miguelgiuliano .co: Afraid not, mate-whilst there are some with warging abilities/greensight/dragons and stuff like that, they are all very much human, but could be considered the best of humanity/those who stand the best chance of fending off the Night King. And while Nymeria might be prickly, she's not exactly a major source of tension.

redhidra1: It's an exaggeration mate-I'm obviously not comparing the actual sizes of Visenya or the Greatjon, but given how women would've been expected to look, someone who's such a committed warrior as Visenya might seem equally as huge for the male gaze. Hope you're enjoying the fic.

ficreader2011: Cheers!

kingmanaena: Really glad you're still enjoying it! Sorry it's been so long since I last updated, hope you'll still like this chapter.

Donny Donuts: I think it;s safe to say that the dream team has been reunited. Glad you're still liking it.

Blackwidow713: Cheers! As for Blackfyres, we'll definitely see some of them in the future, but I won't say any more than that. In terms of updates, it fully depends on what's happening in my life.

JAIMOL: Thank you! Hopefully I won't balls it up.

larsdewit: Cheers mate, will definitely try to.