Concepts

Blackheart rose an eyebrow when I introduced the Golden Company's latest member.

The captain-general was leaning on the table carpeted with maps of Volantene territory and that of the Disputed Lands; with little coloured flags detailing the latest known coordinates of various armies. Commander Myles didn't wear the tasteless armour worn by the other commanders which was always gaudy and gilded as a rule, instead it was dark-grey and dented from previous battles. It made him look like a soldier, though his face and tone screamed general.

"He doesn't look like a warrior."

I glanced at Vaquo Volnyros and couldn't disagree in the slightest. The plump bellied, plain-faced boy wore embroidered silk, dull and muted, but patterned gorgeously with myrish lace and cloth-of-silver. His white-hair was slick with sweat and his hands were slippery as he rubbed and flexed them. The Volantene didn't speak a word since entering camp and instead looked very much like like a deer caught in the headlights and regretting its life choices.

"He doesn't," I granted. "But he's not a warrior."

"A scribe then. Why's he here?"

"He's not a warrior and just the look of him can tell you that. Nor will he be a scribe. But an engineer. He's been helping with my designs."

"Oh, those things." Toyne looked sceptical as he looked the Volnyros boy up and down once more. It was clear he didn't like what he saw. "We're a sellsword company, Young Griff. We need warriors. We don't need boys with their heads high up in the clouds."

"You have plenty of warriors," I said dismissively with a wave of the hand. The way he turned to me made me regret saying it like that. I coughed and quickly changed the route I was going down, "What I mean to say . . . is that there are certain skills we currently lack. I believed we went through this, my lord. You agreed with the need to get engineers and those with knowledge of technology—"

"I said I'll think on it. I don't believe that meant will. Why that look?"

I glanced at my companion who didn't seem like he was in the same room as us. He had his lips pursed and face screwed up like smelling something particularly bad. But then again, that was his face whenever he was concentrating.

"Lad. Volantene. You are . . ." The captain-generals voice started with an edge before trailing off, waiting for the Volantene to introduce himself.

"Huh?" the pale-skinned boy said abruptly, looking to have been slapped from the way he returned to the present. Then he put on the most awkward half-smile I'd ever seen. "Volnyros. Vaquo Volnyros."

"Volnyros? I know of that house. Your kin are tigers to the bone. Join the Company to impress your family? Not the heir are you?"

"Second son. Second wife," he stated, sounding bored. I could relate in that, just as I could relate to him wanting to get straight to work. "Griff thought I'd have better use working with you lot."

"Better than being in Volantis," I added, nudging him. He tensed and backed away immediately. I fought back a grimace. He was one of the most socially awkward people I'd encountered and I've met a few. "I know you doubt him, ser. But he's already aided me with what I've designed. Some of the ideas will do wonders to aid the Golden Company in the future." That was only half true. What I really wanted from Vaquo was aid in civil engineering. But should Vaquo fail, I could always send him back . . .

"I'm sure ploughs will do wonderfully," Blackheart grumbled dryly.

"Siege engines. Ships—"

"I have no knowledge of ships," Vaquo butted in. "I never really cared about that. Besides, I get seasick."

"Scratch ships. I'm sure there's other things he can help us with."

Myles rubbed his eyes. "I've been talking with the bloody Triachs for the last few days because of that bloody murder. They're crying assassination and pointing fingers at each other, within and without their own parties. I don't need any more hassle. Fine, if you're so desperate to have him. He'll be a member of the Company. He can sign up with Harry Strickland but I'll tell you this once and only once. I won't waste resources on the likes of him without first proving himself. Got it?"

"Got it, ser." I bowed my head politely and ensured my little smile was timid enough. Good boys were meant to be a little shy after all.

We were both dismissed and I was left to show Vaquo around the encampment. Like a child being shown a new place, he was intrigued and slightly intimidated and sometimes stopped mid stride or wandered off. I was telling him about all the services like cooks and blacksmiths only to look behind me and see he had gone. A few minutes of searching showed him inspecting the carriages that carried supplies and pulled by the oxen. He ignored the animals and focused on the wagons.

"We never had them in the Black Walls," he said loudly above some nearby hammering when he acknowledged my presence. "I always though they'll be bigger."

"Bigger?" I looked at them. "How big did you expect them to be?"

He shrugged his sloped shoulders. "Bigger."

I then decided to show him to his accommodations which was near mine for the sake of convenience. It wasn't unknown for sellswords to have their own tents, but they were small and not at all comfortable. My latest disciple was most annoyed with his accommodations. Apparently he never worked out that being influenced to join an army would result in a downgrade from his luxurious living conditions.

"This is mine?" He pouted his lips, looking more the indignant child by the second. "My slaves had better quarters than this!"

"Granted, living quarters is much to be desired, but you'll need to prove yourself first. Captain-general Myle Toyne's words. If you do so, you'll get an upgrade of your living situation. But even then, it's only to sleep in. Nothing else."

"But where do I keep my books and everything else?"

"I'm sure Haldon can share," I answered unconvincingly. Haldon had enough books already but I'm sure that he could fit some more. Whenever he wasn't teaching me, Halfmaester spent his time aiding Homeless Harry and the rest of the scribes anyway. He didn't have much free time.

"Haldon?"

"My tutor. Haldon Halfmaester. Trained partially as a maester of the Citadel. Thin man with his hair tied back in a knot behind his head. Surely you've seen him."

Vaquo cocked his head. "I might have."

"Might have? He was with me for most of . . . You know what, screw it." I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose. It was at this moment where I began to regret my decision. But I had signed the metaphorical contract and he signed the real one so neither of us could back out. Vaquo didn't respond, only looking awkward at me, or around me. Sighing, I finally decided to get something to eat and we ate in silence.

...

This afternoon, when the day's festivities came to an end and the Golden Company returned to camp, Serpent Squad found me sitting by the campfire with Vaquo and sketching Septa Lemore reading from the seven-pointed-star. I could confidently say that my drawing skills with charcoal had much improved and, besides the slightly wonky nose I couldn't get quite right, it looked fairly accurate.

"Hello, most precious septa," Damon sang out, arms wide opened like he was waiting for a hug and a wide grin plastered on his face.

"And hello to you to, Damon," Septa Lemore replied, looking up from her book. "How was it?"

"Same old, same old," Rickard groaned. He collapsed on his arse, pulled out his wineskin and took a swig. "Riots, angry slaves and blood flowing in the streets. The usual."

I rose an eyebrow and Jon answered the unasked question, "There was a riot we needed to suppress. Bloody slaves tore up sections of New Volantis. One red priest accused this one poor sod and the next thing we knew, half the bloody crowd was chanting for the death of a politician and to rid themselves of their chains." He scoffed, but an eagerness grew in his voice. "We were sent to deal with the rabble. Five hundred of us, cavalry charge and everything. Got me-self this nasty looking bruise." He showed me his upper thigh that was red and purple and very disgusting.

"Perhaps you should have that checked," I suggested. "It's appearance might be the least of your worries."

"It's no fun unless we get some scars out of it," Symeon laughed, showing me a cut that went across his neck. It was a shallow cut that'd been bleeding. "Something to impress the girl's with. Are you impressed, lady septa?"

"In that you stood your ground against rioters? I could say so," she said warmly, closing her book. "But bragging? I thought I taught you lot better."

"You certainly taught me," Jon smiled before rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and snorting like a warthog.

"Charming."

Damon cleaned closer to me, smirking. "Symeon got his cut from a fall. No doubt he'll claim he received it for saving the captain-general when the night's done."

I chuckled and saw Qarro staring at Vaquo who'd gone silent as soon as they approached and made a decent impersonation of a tortoise having retreated into it's shell. Just before I could introduce them, the Braavosi said, "Who's the pig?"

Pig? I stared daggers at him. "Relax, Qarro. Be polite. I won't have you, any of you, insult him. Now apologise."

He turned to me, frowned, but reluctantly did so.

With that out the way, I did introduce them. "All of you fine gentlemen, this is Vaquo Volnyros. A friend of mine, oh, and one of the Old Bloods. He's the newest member to the Golden Company. Vaquo, these are the members of Serpent Squad. The best in the Company, even if the rest of them don't know it yet."

They laughed, except for Qarro who instead said, "Porky here doesn't look like a warrior. He looks like Maar and Homeless Harry's forbidden love child." That caused Symeon to burst out laughing but the person it was projected towards just looked confused.

I gave a reassuring hand. "He's a friend. We should all be here, and he's shy."

While Qarro eyed the Volantene, Damon merely shrugged his shoulders and said, "If you have the griffin's approval, you have mine." He leaned back, kicked off his boots and let his feet brush the short grass. "So Old Blood then . . . what's it like inside those tall walls of yours?"

The rest of them leaned closer, intrigued by the land they could never see. I chuckled and continued drawing, just happy it wasn't me they were questioning this time. To step into the Black Walls was like stepping into heaven in their minds and the questions never stopped. When Septa Lemore turned away from her book as Vaquo explained – albeit awkwardly – I let out a fake cough. She noticed and moved to the same position again so I could accurately do the shading I was just finishing off.

"It's different," the white-haired boy admitted, scratching his neck. "The air is cleaner—"

"You're in the centre of Volantis, how can it be cleaner?" Symeon rolled his eyes.

"Not if the walls are high enough, which they are," I answered, rubbing the excess off the parchment. "Besides, I told you the Black Walls have trees and flowers. One wouldn't notice."

"Bloody maester boy over here lecturing us mere peasants," Jon groaned, taking another swig. "That smug arse tone."

I snorted back a laugh and saw Jon's lazy grin. "I'm not smug."

"Griff, you try so hard not to be smug that it comes off as smugness," Qarro informed me briskly.

I pouted and my response was soft, "I wasn't aware of that."

Jon continued, grinning all the while, "If there are things that not even the great wise Griffin Connington doesn't know, I can't be certain of everything. So thank you."

"There goes my faith in you, Griff," Rickard put his palm against his heart in an extravagant gesture. "Whom can I trust now?"

"Someone I'm sure," I replied. "So what else have you done in New Volantis?" I asked, just finishing up the drawing.

"We were involved in a fight."

"I believe you already mentioned that."

"Afterwards we went to a tavern and drank."

I snorted. "So let me guess. One of you said something and pissed someone off?" Lemore turned her attention at me and I rushed out an apology for my swearing. "But enlighten me, Jon. Did you roughen some drunks up. Did you knock some teeth loose?"

"Aye!" Daemon laughed. "Found a place where many of us had been. But we found a group of locals there. We had a bit of an argument and they came after me."

"Can't blame them. My boy Damon here is a handsome bastard. More bastard than handsome, in truth. But he has only so much to work with." Symeon smirked.

"Your moral support humbles me," the Westerland's bastard replied mildly. "They claimed we were thrashing the city and blamed us for some of the fires . . . and the deaths, those degenerates. I said we weren't and they threw a fit . . . and a few punches."

"It was fun," Jon cheerfully grinned. "You should have been there, Griff. Never had such a rush and we had such a laugh coming back. I knocked this guy's teeth out and downed him in one punch! I'm sure I'll have a few bruises after tonight!"

I never liked being involved in fights. The act of being punched didn't exactly appeal to me. Yet I'm supposed to get involved into the thick of it . . . "I'm sure I should have," I lied, glancing at my septa who pursed her lips.

"You shouldn't be looking for confrontation," she scolded the lot of them. "There is enough tension in Volantis. We don't need more of the locals to go against us."

"Of course, lady septa," Damon said with that easy smile of this, though one that promised he wasn't truly listening. It was also one of those smiles that would make many girls forgive him instantly. It didn't work on Septa Lemore though. "It was wrong of us."

I shook my head and thought hard and deep, ignoring the world around me. Now with someone with technical skills, I could finally march forward with industrialisation. With a glass candle now in my procession, I can secure dominance of a long forgotten aspect of warfare. As the days ticked by, I had less time to prepare for the inevitable. Alea iacta est. When it finally came, I'd be ready.

...

Vaquo rose an eyebrow at the schematics as Haldon flicked through the parchments.

It was an extensive pile and was easily among my most complicated works. After all, creating a printing press from nothing but crude drawings transcribed from memory would be difficult. No doubt there would be gaps that'd need to be filled. Haldon though, he was excited about such a concept and all the possibilities it promised. He even looked giddy. I, on the other hand, was more concerned about how to implement it. When I did read self-insert and they had people build a printing press, they made it sound so bloody easy.

It wasn't.

Before me was more a rough draft than anything else. Oh, I knew the basic concept of how the press worked and that wasn't the problem for me. It was building everything. Especially even when some of the simplest things would be tricky to make. I knew the person who invented the printing press was a goldsmith and finesse would be important. Such skills would have been important with creating the letters which would need to be individually handcrafted for much of the infrastructure wasn't in place. There was also so many of them. I was counting thousands upon thousands of characters to be used in just one page.

"The concept is truly intriguing," the Volantene mused, blue-eyes lingering on the page with what could be considered lust if you blurred your vision slightly. It was at this moment that I knew I had his full and unconditional support for such an endeavour. Hopefully that'd continue at least for a year or more, long enough to build one at least. Progress would always be slow at first.

"This what you've doing doing when you should be drilling outside?" Haldon's lips twisted into a half smile.

"Tis true," I confessed with false regret. There was something amusing about being proclaimed revolutionary when all I was doing was copying the inventions of better people. If it wasn't my knowledge of history, I'm sure my invention skills would be limited to making sandwiches. That was also why I needed my own engineers. Even if I could come up with the best concepts that could change the world, that would mean nothing should I be unable to build them. "Took a while," I tried to say humbly but the tone was betrayed by the smirk tugging at my lips.

Vaquo put the parchment back on the table. "There is one concern, however. I do question the efficiency of such an endeavour. Valyrian glyphs are many, numbering a few hundred. The economic benefits seem narrow compared to writing by hand."

What's what they likely said when the printing press was first invented. "I don't mean to do it in Valyrian. I mean to do it in the common tongue. Less characters in the language. Twenty-and-six." I could just say twenty-six, but they'll think me a fool in this world. That happened many times already.

Vaquo pursed his lips and spoke something in Valyrian I didn't quite understand, though I doubted it was good. "The common tongue? Why use such a barbaric language? High Valyrian is the tongue of scholars and artists and civilised men."

"But impractical," I shot back, offended by the tone he used. "We should start simple. Don't you agree?"

"I just wonder what we're going to make these characters, as you call them, out of," Haldon mused. "Metal would be required, but that may prove costly depending on what you chose."

"Father will pay for it." Illyrio never lacked coin. He brought three dragon eggs to throw away for starters. He bribed the Old Blood and made such a bloody fortune trading spices and dragonbones and slaves. "Money is of no concern." The spread of knowledge – if somewhat selective – would be a cornerstone of what needed to happen. I desired to eliminate the Citadel and their monopoly of information. I wanted to open the market place of ideas and corner said market. "Any suggestions? My knowledge of materials is not up to par, I'm afraid."

"I'd suggest copper for these." Haldon showed me my own diagram of a matrix. "With your idea of pouring in metal like how a blacksmith makes a sword . . . I suggest lead. It's a soft metal that can be easily melted down to fill the cast. Then we can simply stamp a letter onto it. It may be possible mass produce them like that."

That was good. I forgot about miracle lead. I would have filled them with copper like an idiot. "They may be easier, so we could make a near infinite amount of letters should we have the resources and time." We had neither but there was always the future to think about . . .

With their help, we came up with ideas for many of the problems that could potentially happen. Despite Vaquo's misgivings, the common tongue would be the language used. We currently didn't have the resources to construct such a device. We needed to return to Pentos for that. Illyrio could probably buy a blacksmith or even a foundry for us. He did like to buy my love and I would give that love should my ideas be supported financially. I doubted the original inventor of the printing press had as much support. If I remembered correctly, he died with no money and no home. I didn't desire the same fate.

As the days passed, we continued working: scraping ideas, reconfiguring and improving what we could. With three different minds working on it, arguments came easily. Vaquo was most vocal in his disagreements, despite his passive attitude regarding everything else. It needed to be his way, just as I believed it needed to be my way. Haldon, on the other hand, spent most of that time trying to make us compromise. Once he even brought Septa Lemore after a particularly bitter spat. She didn't seem to understand and simply said how good it was to be so passionate about something. Haldon hadn't been happy with that response.

The most amusing part – when I look back at it – is that the end result was largely the same. Vaquo and I just had different ways to accomplish the same end and we were both too bloody stubborn to give the other any room. I'm even sure that Vaquo would have returned and went back to the Black Wall and take my idea with him if not for the fact he took a contract with the Golden Company, keeping him here for at least a few years. I also doubted his overbearing militant father would like his son back after such a short time, or at all. Still, Vaquo wouldn't leave out of his own freewill, I wagered, despite us butting heads over quite petty things. I was giving him the opportunity to do as he desired, as long as it was within the acceptable boundaries of the Company, which would only increase when I'm declared a Blackfyre and actually hold some proper authority. I was both scared and looking forward to that day.

...

Eventually the elections came to a conclusion with the end result being one tiger and two elephants ruling Volantis, as it had always been since the Century of Blood. With the contract over, the Golden Company was kicked out most unceremoniously with Blackheart announcing we needed to get off Volantene territory within only a few weeks. It was just our luck that there was another war brewing in the Disputed Lands.

The only bad thing was that we wouldn't return to the Rhoyne, which was unfortunate. I really needed to find Lady Lyra. But I couldn't go against the will of the Golden Company nor its officers. I was only Young Griff, not Aegon Blackfyre. I would return, that was a promise, especially after I got my hands on that black candle. I needed only to convince her to be my ally. There was no way I was going to let her get away.

The next day, with the sun bright over the training yard, I heard the shout. Sighing with relief, I grabbed Damon's offered hand and he yanked me back to my feet.

Commander Galaerys Drahar looked us up and down with some pride for once. "You have improved much in my eyes," the Myrman declared. "Aye, a fine group of young men who'll serve well in the years to come. When you came here, you were mere boys. Untested, unbloodied with no skills to speak of. But now, you are men. No longer mere recruits, but proper members of the Golden Company. Despite your past, despite your heritage, what are you?"

"Men of the Company," we chanted between panted breaths. "Beneath the gold the Bittersteel." Each morning and night we said that, and it became true. It was indoctrination and despite being aware of it, I felt myself getting drawn in regardless. They called it a brotherhood of exiles and it was truly a brotherhood. I was loyal to those I practised with and the Company. I knew they would fight for me, just as I would for them.

"You are. Now clean up. The lot of you reek and I'll rather not waste any more of my precious time with you lot. Off with you."

Grinning, we all took our leave. Damon whooped when we got out of sight. "Now longer 'pprentices. We're proper members of the Company," he said, laughing. "My whore of a mother said I'll never accomplish anything. I could laugh at her now. Fucking cunt."

"You were never close to her," I stated the obvious. My blond-haired friend never spoke much of her, nor his father. Before joining the Golden Company, Damon lived just outside Lannisport, and later Damon told me his father was a knight of House Lantell, or a Lanny. Both of whom were the distant kin of House Lannister. I had wagered he was a Lannister bastard and I was most annoyed I was wrong. I lost a few coins to Duck for that.

"Seven hells I'm not. She was a whore who opened up her legs for anyone who brought her drinks. Oh, she birthed me, but she was never my mother. Beat me, she did, and didn't feed nor clothe me. Not if she could avoid it anyway."

"Sounds like a caring mother," Jon japed.

"If it was about herself, she certainly was."

We got cleaned up and changed into more suitable garbs. Our soiled padding was given to camp followers to clean up because Galaerys said, "Cleaning is a woman's duty." Free labour was free labour and the camp followers were allowed to follow the army in return for basic services. They were families, merchants and whores who all tagged along. They nursed, sewed, washed and traded. Prostitution was restricted to maintain order and limit the chance of sexually transmitted diseases that could decimate an army. Most of the time, Myles Toyne considered them little more than mouths on legs. They needed to be fed, transported and guarded, but even he conceded they provided aid when it came to companionship as well as somewhat basic logistical support. Thinking about that, I believed that the Company needed a proper logistical and support company, but the camp followers would remain for sure. Many sellswords brought their families with them and wouldn't want them left somewhere. I would have to deal with that problem when I got to it and brainstorm potential solutions.

I added that to the expansive list of things to do.

Stretching my aching limbs, I turned to a chuckling Mallor who was looking at me, dark eyes grinning. "Look at those bruises. You're an awful fighter, Griff."

"I am. No need to add salt to the wound by mentioning it," I grunted bitterly. While I had much improved - especially when I didn't have any experience fighting, ever, let alone medieval combat before entering Essos - those around me improved as well. They'd been serving in the Company for longer and had experience before that. I was at a disadvantage.

"He sees himself a scholar and too fancy for the likes of us," Symeon Lime declared, though his tone was more jovial than hostile. "That's why he spends time with Snowball. The one person he knows he can beat."

I rolled my eyes at the name they gave Vaquo. Mostly, I think it came down to the fact his name wasn't that easily pronounceable and the fact that he was plump and had white hair. They didn't use it as an insult, though, which I was thankful. They merely called him that as a nickname, though I personally found it a bad one. "I don't see myself as being fancy."

"You weren't with us in Volantis," Qarro grumbled, splashing himself with some cool water from a bowl. "You either sodded off to the Black Walls or remained in camp with your highborn friend. Sometimes I wonder why you're even here. We're meant to work together."

Those words hurt more than I cared to admit and I bit the inside of my cheek. "I did leave you, that much is true. But not out of my own volition. It was because of my father. He . . . he's very overprotective."

"He doesn't want his son to scratch his pretty face," Lime chuckled, slapping me on the back, the palms of his hand sticking to my skin, peeling off as he removed it. Was there a more uncomfortable sensation then sweaty hands?

"Pretty?" I turned to him.

"Prettier than most of the girls here," he replied, beginning to strip into fresh clothes. "You look like one of those Lysene boy whores nobles sodomise up the arse."

Despite myself, I felt my face blush. "Well . . . each word you say makes me more uncomfortable. Thank you for you that."

The ginger smirked crudely. "You're welcome."

"You know, Symeon, when we get into the sparring yard next, I'll make you eat those words," I said, trying to sound as threatening as my pubescent voice would allow.

It seemed to amuse all the older boys than anything. "I'd love to see that," Lime grinned. "It'll be all the funnier when I put you on the ground again."

"Won't happen."

"It will. I mean, to be fair, you are the worst among our little group," Damon said. "You do lose most of our bouts."

"Granted, maybe it's your size. You're smaller than the likes of us," added Mallor unhelpfully. "You've improved, though."

"Still lost most of our bouts," Damon repeated. "You haven't improved enough."

I pouted. "Winning isn't everything." I did know skill in arms was important, if not just survival but being used as a propaganda tool. One of the reasons for Daemon's support during the Blackfyre rebellion was the fact that the Black Dragon was a master swordsman and Daeron wasn't. In Westeros it was believed that if you could swing a sword around, that made you worthy enough to rule over everyone. No doubt my Blackfyre-ancestors were rolling in their grave with my skill level. I would need to improve my swordsman skills for when I did invade.

"To survive a battle it is. Griffin, I would love to see you face off against a Dothraki horselord. He'll gut you like a fish in mere moments."

I only scoffed. I wasn't afraid of Dothraki. They were caricatures of caricatures. People said they were the Mongols of Essos, but should they find themselves against the actual Mongols, it would be such a one-sided battle it wouldn't even be funny. I could have said that, but instead I said, "You're right, you know. I won't stand up to them."

"Not without our help anyway," Damon chuckled. "Don't worry, Little Griff. Hide behind me. I'll protect you."