The vast camp of the Golden Company stood on the beaches of Tyrosh, with half of the mercenaries present and the other half waiting on the shores of Essos. The heat at this time of year was unbearable, so much so that several men resembled Dothraki riders with their broad chests exposed to the scorching sun. Occasionally, the cries of elephants could be heard, or the ground would vibrate with their heavy steps, but those sounds were soon forgotten amidst the laughter of the mercenaries, the clanging of hammers in the forges, and the usual bustle that the city of Tyrosh emitted.
Aemond, on the other hand, watched the clear sky above him, reclining on the sand. The platinum-haired man, dressed in his usual crimson tunic, toyed with the ruby pommel of his sword, Blackfyre, which had remained in his family all this time, from Aegon Targaryen to himself. With the Narrow Sea just meters away, he could feel relief from the sea breeze that usually arrived, until the strong footsteps of a Dornish clear came, overshadowing the natural melodies.
He and his army had arrived no more than two days ago, although the men who had accompanied him to Myr had stayed with the other garrison on Essos soil, as one never knew when a quick relocation would be necessary.
"Aemond," called Rylon Sand, with his distinctive southern Westerosi accent, "Blackheart is looking for you."
"Where is he?" he asked, rising to his feet while brushing the sand off his tunic.
"In his tent," the brown-haired man replied immediately, with his classic sly smile. "Did you hear what happened?"
"No. What?"
"Apparently, the Targaryen fool had the Dothraki kill him."
"Did they murder Viserys?" Aemond asked, stopping in his tracks. He could still remember the first time he had seen King Viserys and his little sister, Princess Daenerys. Viserys had invited the commanders of the company, including Aemond, to a feast in Myr, hoping they would support his claim to the Iron Throne. But the moment he stopped speaking, all the commanders had looked at each other, then at Aemon Blackfyre, Aemond's father, and burst into loud laughter that filled the hall, mocking the pretender's proposal while boasting their loyalty to the Blackfyres. As Aegor RĂos had said, a Blackfyre would be the one to bring them back home.
"Yes, Khal Drogo killed him in Vaes Dothrak."
"Isn't that against their rules?" Aemond inquired, confused. "You can't shed blood in Vaes Dothrak."
"He didn't shed blood; he poured molten gold on his head," the brown-haired man explained. "Myles needs to go to Pentos to speak with Illyrio about some agreements he made years ago related to Viserys."
"How do you know so much?" Aemond asked again.
"Some would find my charms quite convincing, I fear."
"Rylon," he admonished, stopping in front of Myles Blackheart's tent. "Wait in my tent; I want to know more later," he ordered, entering alone through the fabric door, and on the other side, he found the Captain-General of the Golden Company, an elderly man but with the vigor of a youth, with mostly pronounced features and a few scars on his face. "You were looking for me."
"Yes, Aemond, come closer," the older man indicated, glancing at the wooden table as he sat in a chair facing it. "Tonight I will leave for Pentos with the intention of meeting Illyrio Mopatis. I'll be gone for a few days, and I don't want the Golden Company left in unsuitable hands."
"Myles, you've left hundreds of times. Why would it be in unsuitable hands now?" the platinum-haired man asked with a look of confusion, sitting down in front of his Captain-General, not understanding what he meant.
"Aemond, boy, the Golden Company has been following your family since it was founded by Bittersteel, so it is my duty to share this information with you," the old man adjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat. "Griff, the boy, is actually someone much more important," the platinum-haired man frowned. "He is Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell."
Aemond, for his part, was left completely stunned by the recent revelation, unable to believe that the blue-haired youth he had grown up with, who claimed to be the son of Griff the elder, was actually, now that Viserys Targaryen was dead, his greatest rival for the Iron Throne. He remembered when they took classes together in languages, history, or geometry with Haldon, the Golden Company's healer and tutor for both young men.
"H-how did you find out?" he asked, trying to process the information without showing how overwhelmed he truly was.
"It was confessed to me by the one who has been helping him all this time, Jon Connington, though you might also know him as Griff."
"Wait, so Griff isn't who he says he is either?"
"Neither of them is," the old man replied, taking a few seconds to continue explaining. "They are Aegon VI Targaryen and Jon Connington, only they dye their hair blue to appear as Tyroshi citizens." He looked at the lost violet gaze of the other, then stood up and walked to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Aemond, another Targaryen appearing jeopardizes your claim, especially if he wants to take over the company."
"And what about his aunt, Daenerys?" He decided to disregard the mention of the threat to his claim, as he wasn't interested at the moment. "What does he plan to do with her? Is he foolish enough to plan a battle against forty thousand Dothraki?"
"I don't know much," the elder bent down under his bed to retrieve an old wooden box. "What I do know is that I have a duty to the Golden Company and your father."
"My father? What does my father have to do with this?" he asked, rising to his feet and instinctively placing his hand on the ruby pommel of his sword.
"Before we sent him to Valyria to spend his remaining days there, he made me swear that I would keep your claim to the Iron Throne safe. That's why I'm telling you all this, Aemond." From the box, he took out his sword and belt, but before putting them on, he approached the young Blackfyre slowly. "You are the last of the Blackfyres, heir to the Iron Throne. By the seven hells, accept it."
"Yes, sir."
"You will become the king you were always meant to be and go to Westeros with the company behind you, understood?" The platinum-haired man nodded seriously. "It is your destiny and that of every man here." He took a deep breath and turned around. "I'll go to Pentos, and while I'm gone, you will be in charge of the Golden Company," he informed with a proud smile on his face, as if he were his own son. "Consider it a training for when you take command."
"Yes, sir," he obeyed, for despite his position, he still had to respect his superior.
"Now go, I need to prepare for the journey."
"Have a good trip, Blackheart," he wished him, before making a slight bow and walking to the exit.
"And, Aemond," he stopped him, "what I told you about Aegon and Jon, avoid sharing it with anyone you don't trust. It's crucial for our mission."
"As ordered, Captain."
