The Company

Dawn came early. Too early.

As groggy as I was, I hastened to put on my aketon and fasten my bootstraps. Thanks to the relentless training within the Golden Company, I had aches everywhere. No part of me was free of bruises or strain. My bedding was so thin I might as well be sleeping on a bedding of pebbles for all the padding it offered. Around me, the rest of Serpent Squad were already up and ready, all waiting for the master-at-arms to inspect us. Inside the tent resided eight, all green as summer grass. Some of us were from Westeros, others Essos, some born inside the Company, others not. Our living accommodations were very spartan with just enough space for ourselves and our equipment, nothing else.

"Woke up last again," laughed Jon Waters, looming over me with a smile that made you want to smack him. He was larger than me, a head taller with broad shoulders like an ox and a stocky build. Brushing his shoulders was limp brown hair and his greasy round face was spotted with ulcers. He was tiring up the cords of his gambeson. "What is it? The third time?"

"Forth." I grunted and flexed my muscles. Even though the work was exhausting, I found it hard to sleep in the same tent as seven others. As if Duck's snoring had been bad . . .

He laughed; half a snort, half the sound of a strangled cat. "Be wary, Tyroshi, oh, be wary. One of these days you'll be caught and we'll be punished because of you." His voice darkened, "Should that happen, well, you'll see."

I looked up at him and smiled in a way that couldn't be more condescending. "I'm quaking in my boots." Through in truth, I was intimidated in part. Jon was built like a tank and hadn't done growing yet. It just made me self-conscious how smaller I was to everyone around me. And I thought Aegon was meant to be tall.

Before Jon could respond, Galaerys Drahar strode in with a swagger so customary for many of the officers. Breaking off whatever we were doing, we stood straight before our beds. My newest teacher was a tall man, with olive-skin, dark-blue eyes and straight black hair. He had lost an ear against a member of the Second Sons and had golden teeth from where his rotted away. Ser Myles Toyne told me he'd been born into a lower branch of a prominent Myrish family, claiming descent from Draghas Drahar who'd been slain by Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. As was customary for many Essosi who'd little to inherit, he'd the choice of either becoming a merchant or a sellsword. He picked the latter.

"So," he spoke up, moving with the elegance of a cat, arms folded behind his back. His eyes were never restful, always moving and scanning the corners of the tent like something was about to leap out at him. A habit born from a lifetime as a sellsword. "Serpent Squad." I could hear the grimace in his heavily accented voice. In many ways he was your archetypal drill sergeant, just scarier because he was standing before me. "Not that impressive are you? The spawn of whatever place we dragged you from. The lowest of the low. Beggars, bastards and thieves, renegades and outcasts. You!" He stopped before Mallor. "Where are you from, boy?"

Mallor swallowed. He was a slim dark-skinned youth, with black eyes and straight black hair. "Dorne, ser."

"I am no ser for I'm no Westerosi knight. You call me master. Got it, boy?"

"Yes, master," the Dornishboy rushed out.

"Answer the question."

"Dorne. Hellbolt, my father was a—"

"I don't give a monkey's arse about your life story. You are nothing more than vermin. Something to be trained and improved upon. The same for the lot of you vermin. You should be called the Rat Squad instead, because I see nothing else. Serpents are dangerous. They are silent predators, ready to strike when angered, hiding in the grass until some poor sod steps on them. What you lot are is nothing but. You're naught but a burden we have to drag around with us. Under the orders of the captain-general, I was given the duty to shape you as soldiers worthy of the Golden Company. You will work as one unit, to assist one another on the battlefield. If anyone here think you'll do this for personal glory, you are sadly mistaken. If you dare break ranks or flee, I'll find you and beat you to death myself and piss on your remains. Now recruits, assemble in the training yard."

We did, breaking out in a jog in the blistering heat of the Disputed Lands. Beneath the thick padding we all sweltered in the heat. Not as much as plate, but we were going to be equipped with that soon enough. We marched through the camp and outside the walls were the drilling grounds had been assigned. The members of Serpent Squad and others stood in formation, evenly space apart just as we'd been trained. Two by four we stood, with me at the front. Galaerys prowled forward, inspecting us for even the most minor fault, hitting us with a hard leather strap at anything less than perfection.

We learned quickly to fear him . . . at least some of us anyway. Jon Waters didn't fear our drill sergeant, instead hating him with every fibre of his being. This wasn't helped by the fact Drahar picked on Jon most because of it. If anything, Jon was motivated solely by constant anger and wanting to one-up our drillmaster. Before any of us even held a weapon, we were taught to march. We did so every morning where we ate a quick breakfast of lukewarm porridge after which we equipped ourselves and marched in close formation through the rugged terrain, down roads, through forests and rivers. While usually numbering twenty or so miles, it was usually varied (though lasting five hours at least). We walked and jogged, occasionally speeding up to a full run, all the while our master-at-arms would be riding on a gelding with a cane in hand to strike the back of anyone he disapproved of (which was everyone). The conditioning regime also included gymnastics and swimming should we be near a body of water.

That was not the only training we suffered from, oh no. Galaerys was old school as he made us endure what Leo claimed was, "Ghiscari legionary training." It was something Bittersteel learned of when a King of New Ghis decided to try and reform the Old Ghiscari Empire and set his sights upon the cities of Slaver's Bay. This was also how the Unsullied were trained as well, just so you know.

"Hold the stone straight in front!" he barked as the sun beat down and sapped us of our strength. The lack of wind only made it worse. We stood in formation, arms outstretched in front with a rock held aloft in our hands. It had been easy at first, but soon enough our shoulders were arching and my arms screamed for me to drop the weight. I wanted to tense my muscles, but the longer I held the rock the heavier it grew and soon enough my arms lowered. If they got too low, Drahar would smirk and lash us with his strap. He'd already given me more than my fair share of beatings already. My arms pulsed with aches and my muscles shuddered under the strain, yet I bit my lip and concentrated on the rock. All the while he'll constantly repeat, "You will not let it fall. You will welcome the pain. You will not let it fall."

Each day with the rocks was harder than the last. Not only were we still wearing off the pain from the previous day, the rocks grew larger and heavier. If we did have a rest, it was a minute long and I wagered it wasn't even that.

"Cease," he growled and we dropped the stones simultaneously. I bit back a sigh of relief and flexed my aching muscles. The Myrman watched us, his lips a thin line of disapproval that seemed to be the only emotion he was capable of. "In the future there will come a time when you will think you can't stand the pain and men's lives will depend on it. You could be holding a rope others are climbing, or walking forty miles in full kit. Are you listening?"

We nodded. As much as I hated to be lectured to, I was just pleased he was talking instead of ordering us to hold the stones once more.

"I have seen men walk themselves to death, falling onto the road with their legs still twitching, unable to lift them. I have seen men keep rank and move in formation, holding their guts in with one hand. They were buried with honour. There will be times when you want to simply sit down and give up. When your body tells you it is done and your soul is weak. That will not happen to you. Only cravens break. Instead, you will go on. You think you're finished now, do you, Hills? Are your arms hurting you? If I order you to raise that rock a hundred more times, you will do so. A dozen more if you let it fall a hand's width. This is a lesson. Practise that will save your life."

It was harsh, and the days grew harsher still. The only proper breaks we had was at dinner, but even that wasn't relief. When we ate with the rest of the Company, we sat at the back fitting our station as new blood. We forced down hard bread stuffed with sawdust and a bowl full of grey stew that looked like oil for how thick it was. I have to give the chiefs credit when credit was due. They did manage to create a food that encouraged men to fight to the death or risk taking another bite. I would have given it to the pigs if I wasn't so hungry and yearning for more.

When we weren't marching or holding stones to improve our bodies and discipline, we were taught to use various weapons. Our main weaponry were polearms like spears and pikes, bills and halberds. We were given and trained in swords as well, though they were backup weapons. Some of our training was unarmed, for we could always find ourselves without a weapon. Master Galaerys taught us the basics of thrust and slash against wooden poles that focused on our form and technique. When the Myrish commander believed we were ready, he paired us off with wicker shields and swords twice as heavy as the ones we'd use in battle.

Taking my sword, I glanced at the others and grinned. I hadn't fought against them before, but since coming to this land, I'd been taught by the Joncon and Rolly on how to use a sword and, with my knowledge of HEMA which I was only now beginning to use with my increased confidence, I knew I had the edge.

I couldn't be more wrong.

The clanging of steel was a horrid song that echoed in my bones as I darted back and forth against Damon. I parried high and counterattacked only for my opponent to dance out the way. I gritted my teeth, holding back a curse. Whenever I found an opening, it was quickly closed and I needed to withdraw. Sweat beaded my forehead as my blue-hair hung like a curtain before my eyes. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth and my heart was beating rapidly in my throat.

Damon stood before me, shield in front and sword ready to meet mine again. Unlike Jon who used his sword more like an axe or Mallor who was too hesitant in his fear of being hit, Damon knew how to spar. He was perhaps one of our best duellists and a strikingly handsome youth, just two years older than myself. With curly golden-hair and green-eyes, he was just as I imagined a Lannister to look. The fact he was a Hill made me certain he was one of their bastards from a lesser branch of House Lannister if he wasn't from one of their cadet houses.

I held my ground, my chest heaving as I paid attention to my opponent's face. Master Galaerys taught us to guard our emotions and responses for they could be used against us by the enemy predicting our next action. I learned quickly, with any unintended emotions only appearing in flashes thanks to Galaerys' whip and unexpected punches to my stomach. But when it came to Damon hiding emotions, he was perhaps the worst and therefore the easiest to predict. Didn't mean it was an easy fight though.

My golden-haired opponent approached slowly like a wary predator. Damon was taller than me, giving him greater reach. I needed to be careful, every movement I made was cautious less I suffer I misstep that'd be the death of me. I had some experience fighting Rolly and Jon Connington. They usually beat me, of course, but I wasn't inexperienced fighting against those with size advantage.

With a sudden burst of speed, Damon attacked. He swung, putting all his strength into an overhead blow. I rose my shield, stopping the sword in its tracks. Grunting, I felt the pain shoot through my arm. I aimed for his hand in retaliation only for Damon to twirl gracefully away, my sword simply whistling as it arced through the empty air. Not even close to what I aimed for.

"Too slow, Griff," he laughed, a smirk plastered his face while the others watching chuckled.

I lost precious space taking a few steps back, giving me much needed distance. Purple eyes fixed on my foe's green ones. We were equipped similarly, a wicker shield strapped to our arms, a bastard sword, an open helm and padded armour. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I got into another stance; sword above my shoulder and shield ready to defend. Trickles of sweat ran down my face as we circled each other. My form was tense while Damon's was more open and relaxed, a lightness in his steps and a laughter hanging on his lips.

He smiled, then he lunged.

I was ready. I deflected his cut with my sword and pushed forward. Damon, however, refused to budge and soon I was in the middle of his onslaught. Damon was fast, surprisingly so considering we'd both been training all day. Avoiding his shield bash, I met his blade with my own, absorbing all the force from the blow. Pain shot up my arm. Damon sidestepped and, when I slashed at his helm, Damon ducked. It was then I knew I was in trouble.

For overreaching myself, he rewarded me with an uppercut that threw me to my knees and gasping for breath. Blood ran down my chin from the split lip.

"Bending the knee for me already?" Damon jested, his laugh had a musical quality. "While I'm not your superior yet, I appreciate your—"

The rest of his words were swallowed by the dirt as his face slammed against the ground. I had kicked his legs from under him and the rest of Serpent Squad burst out laughing. I grinned with satisfaction at watching him splutter indignantly, spitting out bits of dirt from when he should have closed his mouth.

You'll be kneeling to me. Getting back to my feet wasted me valuable seconds, however. Valuable seconds I didn't use to go straight for the kill. As much as he played around, Damon knew how to fight. As soon as he noticed my shadow hanging over him, Damon stopped playing in the dirt and slammed his foot against my groin.

I staggered, and cursed so colourfully that it could be mistaken for a rainbow. That was enough for Damon to return to his feet. I didn't collapse, thankfully. My groin did have protection, though I felt the impact. I barely dodged a slash from him and got enough distance away to recover. "Fine," I spat. "The hard way it is then."

"Cocky little bastard, aren't ya?" Damon growled, his usually carefree attitude suddenly gone. He approached me with careful steps before rushing into a counter attack.

"I could say the same about you," I replied just in time to slap his sword away before it reached my neck. You, Damon, may be a lion after all.

We reeled back when I failed to counterattacked and we once more circled each other, more than a sword's length away. Then, suddenly, the Westerman lunged forward, swinging his sword to unbalance my own. I caught his attack on my shield. I sidestepped and slashed at his exposed side. Damon twisted his body around, just parrying in time as he stepped back. He smirked, though I wasn't sure what about. So far, it seemed neither of us had an edge.

As Jon cursed me to finish him, I charged. Damon stumbled back at the sudden assault and looked about to slip on the ground. I smirked and, in that brief opportunity, I was on him. Sword raised above me to bring all the force down upon his head.

Damon did fall, though not by accident. He ducked my swing and, with a disarming blow, I was left without a weapon before he kneed me in the stomach. The air was knocked out of my lungs and the next thing I knew, I was on my back looking up with Damon's sword pressed against my neck. I gave a token struggle but with my sword a distance away and his foot was pressed against my shield, there was nothing I could do.

"Surrender, Griffin? Do you yield?"

I grimaced. With him looming over me with a victorious smirk, I planted my head against the dirt and submitted.

"Enough," Master Galaerys said with a voice as sharp as an obsidian blade. With a chuckle, Damon backed off and gave me a helping hand. Any harshness of his face vanished and he was once more had that winning smile plastered on his features. Holding back a bitter groan, I accepted and he lifted me to my feet. "Fine work, Damon. Much improvement with your stances. Young Griff," he turned to me, his lips a thin line, "some marked improvement. You need more practice. When the opportunity presents itself do not hold back. Rest, the both of you. Jon and Leo, you're up next. See that you do better than the blue griffin here."

Both me and Damon gave him a nod before moving onto the side-lines. While the victor was rewarded with praise, I was handed a waterskin by Mallor. "You did well," the Dornishboy said. "Shame you lost. I had money on you."

"How dare I lose," I chuckled darkly before pouring the water onto my face. "You did well as well against Qarro." That was a lie and Marro knew it. Qarro was the largest in our squad, an apprentice from Braavos who used a hammer as his preferred weapon. While slow, he had plenty of strength. It was just a wonder Mallor didn't have broken bones when he got hit. It had been the knock out that won the match.

The Dornishboy snorted from the back of his throat and glanced at the massive older boy who was sitting atop a makeshift chair of crates. Qarro's shaggy red-hair hung before his eyes as he watched the battle. He didn't speak much, did Qarro, though he bulged with muscle and stood a head larger than Jon Waters. "That's like saying a deer put up a fight against a lion. It may delay the inevitable, but can't stop it."

"Perhaps," I agreed, watching the battle. "But was it entertaining to watch?" I gave him a grin and the other boy laughed, earning us both a scathing look from our master-at-arms.

...

It was later the war between Myr and Tyrosh came to an end. The treaty had been signed in the fortified town of Kios where the delegates of both cities signed a treaty of everlasting friendship. Shallow words to say the least. In return for the Golden Company ceasing their employment with Tyrosh, the traditional borders between the two city states would be set once more. Myles Toyne hadn't been pleased with the truce; no sellsword company liked peace, but with news of a Lyseni ship raiding a Tyroshi trading galley full of high-valued slaves and with the Magisters of Lys refusing to pay compensation, no doubt a new war was brewing. As was the way of the Disputed Lands.

I laid on the bank of the river, a blade of wheat in my mouth and a straw hat covering my face. The silken grass brushed my sides as I laid with my arms crossed behind my head. It felt nice to lay down and relax after days of relentless and harsh training. Men were bathing in the river, practising or playing games like dice or cyvasse, chess or checkers. The new games were really taking off throughout the Golden Company, I've found. The best part was that I ruled supreme with both games I'd introduced from earth. I sucked at cyvasse though, for I was still learning how to play that.

"Relaxing are you, Griff?" asked Rickard with that easy smile of his. I lazily opened my eyes and tilted my hat to see him sitting shirtless beside me. Like his brother, Rickard was stocky with the same grey-eyes and black-hair, though his face was squarer. "Can't blame you, with all the extra lessons you have."

"The beauty of being a lordly lord's son," I muttered, not really caring. Even after my training with Galaerys, I was dragged off by Haldon and Septa Lemore for lessons, not to mention even more sparring with Rolly. By the time we'd finished, I was too exhausted for anything else.

The Darkstone boy snorted rudely. "An exiled lord's son with a silver spoon in his mouth. That's what you are. Getting tutors for everything. All because you're a lordly lord's son and your father's close to the captain-general. All you are is an exile, just like the rest of us. Nothing more, nothing less."

I am more though. I'm a Blackfyre in hiding. Though one with blue hair instead of silver.

While I still dyed my hair, everyone thought my mother was Lysene or someone with Valyrian blood, nothing more. Jon Connington had somehow been convinced after a night with Myles Toyne to go along with his plan so people now believed the knight got wooed by a woman and stole Golden Company chests to build a life with her. Many believed I was the result of that union, therefore giving me a less than favourable view within the Company. The sins of the father were the sins of the son, after all. Besides the ruse, me and Joncon, well, we haven't seen each other much since he returned to Toyne's side. Ser Jon Connington now spent his time performing duties like drilling and leading more seasoned men whenever he wasn't in Myles' shadow.

I chuckled. "Do you desire to read all the seven-pointed-star until you memorise it by heart? Do you want Haldon to preach about how beautiful and complex squares and triangles are?" I saw my companion's face turn sour and I smiled thinly. "Didn't think so." Both the Darkstone brothers very much preferred wrestling and fighting to learning, evident by the fact that both were illiterate despite being given basic tutoring as squires.

"Be a maester all you want, Griff. But I'm going to be a knight as my father was and his father before him. I want to be the best in the Company. I won't get that way with my nose in books like you. Besides, I like to be in the thick o' things."

"You do that then," I closed my eyes once more and took in the smell of earth and fresh grass, listening to the laughs and shouts of the men and the gentle splashing of the river. "They say that the scroll is a sword in the right hands."

"Listening to Homeless Harry have you?" He laughed. "Oh please, that man can't lead to save his life. That's why he's paymaster. Can't even walk without complaining about his blisters. I swear, I thanked the Seven Above I wasn't picked to be his squire. I'll get nightmares after touching those things he calls toes."

"He runs the Company well, none can deny that. He's no Myles, but he isn't bad at his job." It was Myles who rose Harry to the position. Which made sense seeing as Harry never wanted to be a knight, instead having it forced upon him by his father. In truth, Strickland wanted to be a merchant and had skills when it came to organisation and numbers. That was why l liked Myles Toyne. He was harsh, but only as harsh as he needed to be. He made Harry a paymaster after realising his talents and would always listen to his officers before making a decision himself. It did make me wonder how he died in canon, and what it would have been like if he was still in charge instead of Harry Strickland.

"Tis true," I heard some laughter in his voice.

Then, all of a sudden, I was soaked head to toe in water. I was on my feet in an instant. My hat was dripping and water had seeped through my tunic. My face was sodden and my blue hair draped over my eyes, dark dye running down my face.

"What the actual fuck?" I shouted eloquently.

Around me, everyone was laughing. None more than Symeon Lime who'd thrown his head back. "You laying down there with your eyes closed was just so tempting." The pipsqueak leaned forward, arms resting against his legs, mouth open in silent laughter.

As soon as I managed to take everything in, I looked at my squad who were with him, all grinning from ear to ear. I knew it was Symeon who'd done it. The shit-eating grin wasn't the look of an innocent man. "You muppet," I hissed before springing after him.

He dodged my leap, did a spin and everyone continued to laugh. Some even began placing bets as I chased him. "Fight. Fight! Fight!" one person began, and soon everyone was shouting it. Symeon was an agile lad, but when he was forced to the edge of the riverbed, I charged and we both tumbled into the crystal clear waters. It began half a fight, half a game from there on. We wrestled, trying to force the other beneath the water. We kicked, punched, kneed and grappled, using all the skills we learned from training. It wasn't angry, after a point we were both grinning and laughing.

It wasn't just us two though. Leo and Rickard tried to get us out only to find themselves involved. Damon wasn't one to be ignored nor did Jon like the idea of a fight happening without being in the middle of it. At one point we even formed teams – three on three. Me, Damon and Jon fighting Leo, Rickard and Symeon. It had been fun, until Jon Connington stormed forward, his face as red as the griffin on his sigil and demanded we report to him.

"I will not tolerate fights," he scolded all of us outside the command tent. Connington had removed the dye from his hair, showing off the bright red strands that were beginning to grey. Instead of the clean-shaven Griff, he was growing a fiery beard. "This is the Golden Company, not a mindless rabble. Who do you think you are to start a fight?"

"It was a game," I defended meekly. I didn't know how thin the ice was between me and him. Oh, I could afford to be more confident if I was Rhaegar's son, or believed to be. But I don't have that luxury now. While Joncon didn't blame me for the lie, he was certainly not happy. "Not like any of us could have got hurt."

"You fought and not in the training yard. We've got a specific area if you want to spar each other." Then his eyes gazed upon me. His false son. "Not to mention you fighting in the river, one of you could have been seriously hurt."

I tried to hide it, but I frowned.

"It's just boys being boys," Blackheart said, smiling as he approached. He wore dull grey plate armour and over that he wore a golden tabard with a black winged heart. He slapped Jon casually on the shoulder. "A few scrapes and bruises, nothing more. This is how you create men, Jon. Training to fight, were you?" We nodded in unison. "Putting on a show for the men as well, it seemed. You may all take your leave. Except you, Griffin. I would like to speak with you."

That earned a few chuckles around me as they left, with Damon nodding a farewell. When I return to them, no doubt they'll want to know what this was about. I was led inside the command tent where a map of the Disputed Lands and the positions of settlements and sellsword companies signified by tiny flags.

"So, lad," Myles leaned on the table, grinning all the while. "How are you finding it being a normal soldier in the Company?"

"A sellsword. We are sellsword's here, not soldiers."

"A brotherhood of exiles. Exiles, soldiers, sellswords, men of fortune and adventure. Little difference between them if anything. Sellswords and soldiers aren't different. Warriors though . . . we're not like Ironborn, Westerosi knights or Dothraki screamers. We of the Company fight as a group who support each other in the battles ahead. That is one of the reasons you're trained the way you are. Do you know the other reason?"

"So I know the people I'll be leading," the words left my mouth confidently. "I'll lead most effectively if I earn my spurs, that I know the strengths from first-hand experience. The men know I've experienced what they have so they'll respect me when I'm finally revealed."

"Smart lad." Toyne glanced at Jon. "You have done well by him. I've met many young nobles not so learned. That is true, Aegon. I want to see if you're what Varys claims you are."

"So why did you want to see me, ser?" I asked.

He scratched his chin. "I did speak with Magister Illyrio and Varys who decided to slither over from King's Landing. Currently not much of importance is happening in Westeros, so no news there. But you though . . . you did single-handedly destroy Varys' master plan. Quite amusing to be perfectly honest. A spider is a harmless creature until it bites you when enraged, and you did enrage him."

"I-I understand, but . . . I couldn't lie. I won't. Not with this."

Myles nodded understandingly. "Lying has its uses, but so does honesty. The past has happened and won't unless Connington vouches for you. Will you, Jon?"

Jon Connington grimaced. "I'll die before going back to the lie, Toyne. Remember that."

"I don't expect you to. This will be different. No more lying between us friends, you have my word. But Aegon, you will remain hidden and continue as you do now. Later, you'll know how to command, how to lead. When the time comes, when Westeros is shattered and weak, we'll come. Only then will you reveal yourself."

"What of the Targaryens?" I ask, noticing Jon's face flicker at the word. "There is still two in the world. Viserys and Daenerys. Both hold greater claims than myself. Viserys is the rightful ruler." Well, if one considers them to have a greater claim that is. In the eyes of the Westerosi, both he and Dany held a greater claim than myself. Even though they were decedents of the Mad King, there were many who would rise for them. They had supporters from those loyal to House Targaryen, those disliking Baratheon rule and houses who were simply opportunistic. The idea of Blackfyre's being serious contenders after so many defeats would be laughable to the Westerosi, I was sure. Besides the "friends in the Reach," all the supporters of House Blackfyre were either exiles, extinct or had switched sides.

Myles Toyne didn't seem happy with my words. "It can be said they have the superior claim in the eyes of most of Westeros, tis true. But do not worry about such a thing. Robert Baratheon is sitting the Iron Throne at the moment and his eyes are on them. Not you. He doesn't even know you exist."

"But the Targaryens . . ."

"It can be safe to say that Varys has agents watching them—"

"That is not what I—"

He shut me up with, "They are protecting you from King Robert's eyes. The last thing any of us want is for you to get noticed by the Iron Throne. Varys may be Master of Whispers, but I trust the eunuch only as far as I can throw him. Prince Viserys is nothing for you to worry your pretty little head over. He's safe going from place to place. He's an exiled Targaryen living on charity, he'll survive, and that's good enough for me."

I frowned. "Good enough for you?"

Toyne shrugged. "That's me being charitable with my words. In truth, Viserys Targaryen nor his kin deserve pity, especially from what his family did to mine. You could say this is a little payback after a century of injustice. He's the Mad King's son and, if my reports are correct as was my past experience, he seems to be following the same path. A danger I'll rather not risk."

I bit back my retort and saw Jon keeping silent for some reason. Though he didn't say anything, I could tell he saw it differently. I sighed, bowed my head like an obedient little boy and agreed with his course of action. Despite of what Myles claimed, I needed the Targaryens. I needed Daenerys' dragons. With my Blackfyre blood there was a chance I could even claim one.