ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 53: The Griffin Lands
POV: Young Griff (303 AC)
The dark, churning waters off the coast of the Stormlands violently struck the ship's wooden hull, making the vessel groan and pitch dangerously over the crests of the waves. The cold mist of the salty breeze whipped against my face, but not even the relentless rolling of the sea or the light rain beginning to fall could divert my attention from the foggy horizon. There, emerging from the canal's mists like slumbering stone monsters, rose the black cliffs and dense forests of Westeros.
Westeros. The continent of my ancestors, the land I had been deprived of before I even learned to pronounce my own name.
I adjusted the heavy cloak over my shoulders, feeling the polished steel armor weigh against my chest. Looking out at the stormy sea, my mind inevitably drifted back to the events of a few months ago, when we were encamped on the ornate outskirts of Volantis. Until that moment, my entire life had been shaped under the convenient lie that I was merely the son of a bankrupt mercenary, educated in languages, history, and knighthood by stern tutors.
When my father—or the man I had learned to call father throughout my childhood—revealed the truth to me, my mind simply refused to accept it. He was no simple military leader in exile, but Lord Jon Connington, the former Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King to Aerys II. And I was no ordinary orphan found in the gutters of Essos; I was Aegon Targaryen, the son of the Silver Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, and the sole, true, legitimate heir to the Iron Throne.
Initially, the revelation seemed like a delusion or a dangerous madness. After all, the few stories crossing the Narrow Sea into the taverns of Essos claimed that the son of Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell remained in the North, grown under the guardianship of House Stark and the terrifying shadow of the Winter Empire. It was then that he emerged from between the silk curtains of our tent in Volantis: the Spider, the eunuch Varys, former Master of Whisperers to the Crown.
With his soft voice and an enigmatic smile on his pale lips, Varys explained to me the grand web he had woven in the past. He recounted that when he saw the inevitable decline of the Targaryen regime and understood the overwhelming, dark threat of the magic emerging from the North, he had acted in secret within the shadows of King's Landing. At the exact moment of Princess Elia's labor, when the woman was weak, bloodied, and half-unconscious in the Red Keep, Varys executed the secret swap. The princess never even got to see my face; before I was ever placed in my mother's arms, I was taken from the chambers and replaced with a newborn bought from one of the capital's slums, a child descended from a distant line of Valyrian bastards.
Varys had assured me that while the boy raised in Winterfell bore the watchful gazes of Westeros, the true heir had been sent in secret to the East, under the protection of the man Rhaegar loved and trusted most in life: Jon Connington. The eunuch swore that looking at me, he saw Rhaegar's features, posture, and nobility with crystal clarity.
On that day in Volantis, stunned and suffocated by a mixture of dread and destiny, I merely ran off into the dimness of the stone streets to try to process the magnitude of my existence. But that was months ago.
Now, doubt no longer had a place in my soul. Taking advantage of the devastation and precarious state of the Southern forces after the catastrophic war against the fearsome Northern Empire, we had finally crossed the sea. The perfect opportunity the Spider had awaited for years was wide open.
A heavy, calloused hand rested with extreme firmness and tenderness upon my shoulder. I turned my head and met the austere figure of Jon Connington. His red hair, once dyed blue to disguise his identity during our time with the Golden Company, was beginning to reveal its natural color at the roots. His gaze toward me held an undeniable shine of paternal pride.
"— We are finally home, my son, —" Jon whispered, his voice thick with the emotion of a man stepping onto his native soil after more than two decades of banishment.
"— Yes, father... we are home, —" I replied, raising my chin with authority.
Right behind us, the Captain-General of the Golden Company, Harry Strickland—"Homeless Harry," as the mercenaries mockingly called him—lumbered with difficulty across the wet deck, wiping the sweat from his fat neck and cursing Westeros's weather.
"— This damned Southern storm almost swallowed us whole during the crossing, —" Harry grumbled, adjusting the folds of his expensive leather coat. "— We lost a few horses and two supply caravels on the coastal rocks, but the bulk of the force managed to land. What now, Griff?"
Jon Connington turned his face toward the stone cliffs rising a few miles from the landing site, where the towers of his family's ancestral fortress projected against the grey sky.
"— Now... it is time for me to return to my home, —" Jon declared, his voice cold as steel.
The capture of Griffin's Roost was executed with surgical efficiency that gave the defenders no chance to react. The small garrison remaining in the castle, impoverished and depleted due to recent recruitments for the war against the North, didn't even have time to sound the alarm horns. When the guards on the walls finally noticed the troops' presence, the Golden Company's oak battering ram was already smashing through the fortress's main gates.
Under Jon Connington's relentless command and the precise cover of elite archers led by Black Balthazar, the fortress fell in less than an hour.
Because my father strictly forbade me from participating in the direct assault—claiming that the life of the future King of Westeros should not be risked in minor skirmishes—I was only permitted through the castle gates once the area was completely pacified.
I walked to the great stone hall of Griffin's Roost, where the Golden Company commanders and the war council were already settling around a massive oak table. The banners of the Connington griffins were beginning to unfurl along the walls once more, replacing the symbols of the former occupants.
"— The castle is secure, my king, —" Jon declared, gesturing to the chair at the head of the table for me. "— But this is only the first step. We need to define our strategy before news of our arrival reaches the ears of the court in King's Landing."
I settled into the leather chair, observing the faces of the gathered mercenaries and nobles. Right beside me, draped in his bulky, discreet silk robes, the eunuch Varys remained standing. To my surprise, the Spider seemed remarkably restless. The Master of Whisperers kept his head tilted slightly, darting his small, sharp eyes across the ceiling beams, the gaps in the stone windows, and even the shadows in the hall's corners, as though searching for something invisible in the air.
"— What are you searching for so intently in this room, Spider? —" I asked, furrowing my brow in genuine curiosity.
Varys paused his movement for a second, turning his attention to me while keeping his hands tucked inside the long sleeves of his tunic.
"— I look for any kind of animal, my young king... rats in the walls, ravens on the stone ledges, or even my little spider friends in the corners of the ceiling, —" the eunuch replied in his calm voice, though laced with veiled nervousness. "— We are no longer in the warm, distant lands of Essos. Here in Westeros, even the smallest animal can be our deadliest enemy."
Jon Connington let out a low, scoffing laugh, leaning back in his oak chair.
"— Have you begun believing in old wives' fairy tales now, Varys? —" Jon mocked, crossing his arms over his chest. "— Do you genuinely believe the damned wolf emperor can control the minds of animals thousands of leagues away?"
Varys turned his head slowly toward Jon Connington. The look the eunuch cast at the former Lord of Griffin's Roost was laden with such a profound mix of pity and disdain that he seemed to be staring at the most ignorant man in the entire known world.
The eunuch looked around the table, taking in each of the Golden Company commanders in silence.
"— Is this the opinion of all the lords present at this table? —" Varys asked, his tone dropping to an icy whisper. After an uncomfortable silence settled over the hall, he continued: "— Because if that is the level of strategic understanding you possess regarding the continent we have just landed on, tell me immediately. That way, I can pack my robes and abandon this foolish campaign before seeing my life wasted by your mystical illiteracy."
The silence that followed was heavy and embarrassing. None of the mercenary commanders dared interrupt the eunuch.
"— The stories you heard in Essos about the powers of the North were no tavern lies or exaggerations, —" Varys continued, taking a slow step around the table. "— On the contrary... they are grotesquely minimized and softened by the pride of Southern men. The magical capabilities of the Winter Throne and its emperor are something for which your minds simply possess no vocabulary. There is no conventional military strategy, stone wall, or army of a hundred thousand men that can contain it if the North decides to march."
I felt my blood rise and a prickle of irritation take over my chest at that display of veiled subservience.
"— If their power is so absolute and invincible, Spider, then what is all this for?! —" I retorted defiantly, slamming my hand on the table. "— Why land troops and claim my coronation? After I sit on the Iron Throne and unify the forces of the South, I myself will march North to cut off the head of that pretentious emperor!"
Varys stopped in his tracks. He stared at me with an almost painful patience.
"— And for what reason would you commit madness of that magnitude, my king? —" he inquired calmly.
"— Because they are traitorous rebels! —" I declared vehemently, my voice echoing off the hall walls. "— They rebelled against my house's authority and killed my father, Prince Rhaegar!"
Jon Connington, whose face had flushed a scarlet shade of contained fury, slammed his closed fist against the oak wood.
"— It seems fear has paralyzed your judgment, eunuch! —" my father barked at Varys. "— Have you completely forgotten the crimes and hideous sins House Stark committed against the Targaryen dynasty?"
Varys let out a deep sigh, shaking his head with genuine sadness.
"— Did the North err in anything, Lord Connington? —" the eunuch questioned directly. "— Unlike you, who seem to prefer ignoring the truth and closing your eyes to history, I was personally present in the Throne Room during the terrible trial of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark—and you yourself well remember Aerys's insane excesses before your own defeat at the Battle of the Bells at Stony Sept and your subsequent exile. The fact that Emperor Arawyn did not exterminate the entirety of House Stark's enemies—or House Targaryen—and allowed the maintenance of branches of your lineage already demonstrates absurd justice and temperance on that man's part. It is not simply because the North killed your silver prince in a just war against the Crown's madness that they bear the fault for anything."
"— Enough! —" I shouted, rising to my feet before Jon Connington lost his composure entirely and lunged at Varys's neck.
The hall plunged into a tense silence once more. I glared sternly at both men.
"— We shall leave the matter of the North for the future, —" I ordered, adjusting my posture. "— Right now, we must focus solely and exclusively on the present. And I have a plan to consolidate our position in the Stormlands immediately: we will take Storm's End."
Jon Connington furrowed his brow, surprised by my initiative, while Harry Strickland looked horrified at the idea of assaulting the continent's most impregnable fortress.
"— Storm's End is a legendary fortress, my son... —" Jon began to warn. "— Its walls were raised with ancient magic, and a siege could take years."
"— The castle is practically devoid of men at this very moment, —" I explained, pointing to the map on the table. "— Lord Renly Baratheon is traveling through the provinces trying to rebuild his authority shaken by the war against the North, taking the bulk of his personal guard with him. We will take the fortress through a swift strike, in the exact same manner we did here at Griffin's Roost. And as soon as the castle is under our control, we will set a perfect ambush to receive Renly upon his return."
Varys smiled a slow, calculated smile, nodding in agreement.
"— The young king reasons brilliantly, —" the eunuch praised. "— My sources confirm that Lord Renly is finalizing his visits to vassal lords and should return to Storm's End within a few days. It is the perfect opportunity."
With the plan drawn up, the operation to take Storm's End was set in motion the following night. This time, I strictly demanded to lead the vanguard contingent, refusing to be kept in the rear like a protected child.
Utilizing the secret network of underground tunnels and emergency passages that Varys discovered through his old court records, we bypassed the fortress's monumental outer walls without firing a single arrow. We infiltrated directly into the heart of the castle, where the remaining, negligent guard was subdued and disarmed in a matter of minutes, without a single alarm cry reaching the battlements.
The takeover was absolute. To guarantee absolute secrecy of our occupation, Golden Company archers were stationed at the top of the towers with strict orders to shoot down any messenger raven attempting to leave the castle rookeries. Storm's End was officially ours, and the rest of the continent remained completely blind to our presence. All that remained for us was to await the arrival of the unsuspecting Renly Baratheon.
Days later, during the celebratory dinner in Storm's End's main hall, the atmosphere was one of restrained victory. Wine goblets circulated among the commanders when the hall's heavy doors swung open and Varys—who had been absent throughout the day organizing his information networks—entered the room with hurried steps.
The eunuch's expression lacked its usual mockery; his eyes shone with an almost feverish gravity.
"— I bring news from the East that completely alters the world's geopolitical balance, my king, —" Varys announced, stopping before the main table.
"— Speak, Spider, —" I ordered, setting down my silver goblet.
"— Daenerys Targaryen has tamed one of her three dragons in the great arena of Meereen, —" the eunuch revealed, his voice echoing through the quiet hall. "— She rode the black beast into the skies, becoming the first living dragonrider in over a century. And my sources confirm she is reorganizing her troops and fleet to march definitively toward Westeros."
The revelation fell upon the hall like a clap of thunder. The Golden Company commanders exchanged pale glances.
"— A dragon rider... —" Harry Strickland muttered, sweat dripping down his forehead. "— That changes absolutely everything. How shall we proceed now, Griff?"
Jon Connington turned his worried gaze in my direction, awaiting my stance.
"— That changes nothing regarding my legitimate rights, —" I declared with firmness and calculated arrogance, standing up. "— Daenerys is my father Rhaegar's younger sister. She is my aunt. When she lands in Westeros with her army, she must bend her knees before me and pay me homage, exactly as the laws of gods and men dictate. The throne belongs to Rhaegar's son, not his sister."
Varys stared at me with a strange, deep look, where disbelief competed with patience.
"— Daenerys Targaryen ceased being merely Rhaegar's younger sister a long time ago, my king, —" the eunuch warned, his tone heavy with caution. "— She is an anointed queen and an unforgiving conqueror. Her titles were not won through passive inheritance, but baptized in fire and blood. And now, she possesses the ultimate weapon of mass destruction under her command. Killing an unriderless dragon is already an almost impossible feat in this era; killing a dragon guided by a dragonrider requires a truly divine lucky shot... or another dragon. And under no circumstances should we gamble the future of your dynasty on luck."
I turned the idea over in my mind for a few seconds. *Another dragon...*
"— If the only way to contain or match Daenerys's power is by possessing another dragon, then the decision is made, —" I declared, looking into the eyes of Varys and my father. "— I myself will take a fast ship and sail for Meereen. I will claim one of the two remaining dragons in the city and convince my aunt to seal a definitive blood alliance with me."
Jon Connington tried to protest and raise objections against the danger of that journey, but after a heated debate where I asserted my authority as king, my father was forced to yield.
"— If you are determined to proceed with this madness, young king... exercise extreme caution when stepping foot in Meereen, —" Varys warned, approaching my chair after the discussion ended. "— After all, Daenerys has someone infinitely more dangerous than mere generals advising her steps at court."
"— And who might this terrifying advisor be, Spider? —" I asked, arching an eyebrow.
Varys let out a heavy sigh, adjusting the folds of his silk tunic.
"— When I first received reports from my little birds in Essos, I imagined my informants had gone mad, —" the eunuch admitted. "— But the reports were confirmed. Daenerys's chief advisor was previously known as the masked woman... the great leader of the rune-smiths and high sorcery of the Northern Empire."
Harry Strickland, listening to the conversation nearby, flashed a triumphant smile and slapped his hand on the table.
"— Why, that is excellent news! —" Homeless Harry exclaimed. "— It means this sorceress betrayed the Northern Emperor! If we can convince her to join us, we can use the secrets of the runes to create magical weapons and match the South's forces against the Winter army!"
I looked at the faces of the commanders around us, realizing that same naive hope was taking hold of these men's minds.
However, Varys turned sharply toward Strickland, his expression contorting into pure irritation and suppressed anger.
"— Do not be an absolute fool, man! —" the eunuch snapped at the mercenary commander, his raised voice causing everyone in the room to flinch. "— Do you genuinely think you are dealing with an ordinary Southern king?! The Northern Emperor is no ignorant barbarian wielding magic like a club! He is a manipulator infinitely more cunning and profound than any of us can conceive!"
The hall plunged once more into a sepulchral silence. The weight and infamy of Arawyn Stark's name seemed to fill the air of Storm's End with a prehistoric chill.
For the first time since I had met Varys, I could see real, genuine dread stamped across the Master of Whisperers' features.
"— The elemental magic and runic army he commands are nowhere near the most dangerous things dwelling inside that man... —" Varys confided, his voice trembling with fear. "— What makes Arawyn Stark truly terrifying is his Greensight. That mystical power allows him to behold timelines, see the future, and anticipate every movement in the world years in advance. There is not the slightest possibility that a woman of that importance 'betrayed' the North without Arawyn having already foreseen it through his visions of millennia and prepared countermeasures for every possible scenario."
"— Do you mean to say he sent an elite spy to watch my aunt in the East? —" I asked, trying to keep firmness in my voice.
"— I considered that hypothesis initially, my king, —" Varys answered, looking me in the eye. "— But when I discovered the true and terrifying identity behind that metal mask, I understood the situation is even more complex. The masked woman is none other than Shiera Seastar."
Harry Strickland widened his eyes in pure shock, letting out an audible gasp.
"— The Great Bastard... —" Strickland muttered, awestruck. "— The legendary lover of Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven, and the woman over whom our own founder, Ser Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel, waged wars of rivalry!"
I turned my face sharply toward the Captain-General of the Golden Company, narrowing my eyes in a stern warning.
"— Do not mention those old bastards and rivalries from the Blackfyre era in that tone of fascination in my presence, Harry! —" I reprimanded him harshly. "— Or have you forgotten who I am and to which lineage I belong?"
Harry Strickland lowered his head immediately, offering a respectful bow.
"— I beg a thousand pardons, my king... it was not my intention to disrespect your crown, —" the commander quickly recanted.
"— It is merely that the Golden Company possesses a deep, ancestral history tied to Bittersteel's lineage, as you well know."
"— I know perfectly well, —" I replied, relaxing my posture. "— And fortunately, today you are supporting and fighting for the right side of history."
I returned my gaze to the eunuch, my mind struggling to absorb the magnitude of that revelation.
"— But how can a woman who lived in the era of Aegon IV still be alive after more than a century, Spider?"
"— Through blood magic and ancient sorcery, my king... —" Varys answered sombery. "— Arts of which she was always the greatest mistress the world has ever seen."
The conversation concluded with that veiled warning hanging over the oak table.
After hours of persistence and finally managing to soothe the concerns of Jon Connington and the other Golden Company commanders, I gave the final orders for my departure. While the land forces under my father's command remained firm at Storm's End to consolidate our presence in the Stormlands, I made my way secretly to the fortress's harbor.
I settled aboard the fastest, sleekest galley in our fleet, watching the monumental walls of Storm's End slowly vanish into the sea mist as the ship hoisted sails and cut through the churning waters of the Narrow Sea.
My journey toward Meereen began now. I would seek my dragon, claim my blood, and seal the fate of my house. And nothing—neither Southern diplomacy, nor Northern magic, nor even my own blood—would stand in my way.