Chapter 393: The Young Griff

The "Imp," Tyrion Lannister, drank his way across the Narrow Sea.

The moment he disembarked in Pentos, he promptly vomited all over the dock.

"I never want to board a ship again for the rest of my life," Tyrion declared weakly.

Princess Myrcella Baratheon wrinkled her delicate nose and said,

"But Uncle, we still have to sail again to King's Landing."

Collapsing onto the ground without a shred of dignity, Tyrion groaned,

"Then go back to King's Landing by yourself. I'll live out the rest of my days here in the Free Cities."

The princess, accustomed to her uncle's antics, saw through his jest.

"Alright then, I'll just tell Mother and Grandfather that you were recruited by a Pentoshi circus to perform as a dwarf jester."

Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"You might as well tell them I died on top of a whore instead."

Myrcella burst out laughing.

At that moment, an older man dressed in fine clothes approached them and asked,

"Excuse me, but are you Lord Tyrion Lannister of Westeros?"

Supporting himself with both hands, Tyrion sat up and squinted at the man, his expression puzzled.

"Yes, that's me. And who might you be?"

The elderly gentleman smiled slightly and replied,

"I am the steward of Magister Illyrio. Upon hearing of your arrival in Pentos, my lord has extended an invitation for you to dine at his residence."

Tyrion's sharp eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing across his face.

"How does Illyrio know I'm in Pentos?"

"The Fragrant Breeze, the ship you sailed on, happens to be one of Magister Illyrio's vessels."

"Well, what a coincidence!" Tyrion laughed lightly, though inwardly he wondered who might have leaked his whereabouts.

The steward continued, "The magister has prepared a sumptuous feast in your honor. May we have the pleasure of your company?"

"Alright," Tyrion said with a mischievous grin. "I'm always eager to make new friends. Since your magister is so warm and welcoming, how could I refuse?"

At the steward's signal, a luxurious carriage pulled up to the dock.

Tyrion and Myrcella climbed aboard, leaving the bustling harbor behind. They traveled through the vibrant streets of Pentos until the carriage came to a stop in front of a grand mansion.

The steward led them into a banquet hall where a long dining table had been set. Three individuals were already seated.

At the head of the table sat a massive man with a yellow mustache. His oversized robes were so voluminous they could have served as tents, and his immense white belly protruded prominently, giving him the appearance of a walrus.

"Welcome to Pentos!" the walrus beamed. "The wise Lord Tyrion Lannister and the beautiful Princess Myrcella Baratheon."

"And you must be Magister Illyrio?"

"Indeed, that is I. Please, take your seats," Illyrio gestured to two empty chairs. "I have long admired your father, Lord Tywin."

"Well, that's a surprise," Tyrion remarked, leading his niece to the table. "After all, my father holds nothing but disdain for the Free Cities. He finds the notion of waging war with gold instead of steel utterly foolish."

Illyrio laughed heartily.

"And yet, it's the Lannisters who have the most gold of all!"

"Indeed. But we still wage war with knights and steel rather than bribery. According to my father, the more you give your enemies, the more they will take." Tyrion pinched his nose and turned to the two other men at the table. "And who might these gentlemen be?"

"This is Lord Griff of the Golden Company, and his son, Young Griff," Illyrio introduced.

Lord Griff was a man in his forties, with a weathered but resolute face. His clean-shaven appearance was offset by striking blue hair, though the red roots betrayed it as dyed.

As for Young Griff, he appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen, with a tall, lean frame, violet eyes, and similarly dyed blue hair.

"The Golden Company?" Tyrion mused. He was well aware of its reputation as the most formidable mercenary force in Essos.

Curiously enough, it had been founded by Westerosi exiles. A century earlier, "Egg-the-Unworthy," King Aegon IV, had legitimized his bastards. Among them was Aegor Rivers, known as "Bittersteel," who had joined the Blackfyre Rebellion. Defeated, Bittersteel fled to Essos and established the Golden Company alongside fellow Blackfyre loyalists and other displaced Westerosi knights and lords.

The Golden Company had since become renowned for their loyalty and discipline, though they still harbored dreams of one day reclaiming their ancestral homes in Westeros.

As Tyrion mulled over the implications of meeting these representatives, Griff spoke.

"Lord Tyrion, I've heard you recently returned from Dorne?"

"Yes."

"What is the state of House Martell?"

"Dire," Tyrion sighed. "They're embroiled in a conflict with House Yronwood, but their situation worsens by the day. Thanks to Caesar's blockade of both land and sea routes, their food supplies are dangerously low. It's only a matter of time before they face a full-blown famine."

Griff nodded and asked,

"Beyond the naval blockade, has the Stormlands sent troops into Dorne?"

"Not yet," Tyrion replied, his eyes glinting. "I've heard Prince Doran Martell has allies in the Free Cities. Would you count yourself among them?"

"Indeed," Griff confirmed. "Prince Doran once vowed to support the Golden Company in our return to Westeros."

Tyrion immediately understood the purpose of this gathering. With a sly grin, he whistled.

"If the Golden Company seeks to return to Westeros, the Lannisters could be valuable allies. I know you've been long persecuted by the Targaryens, and now that the trueborn dragons have resurfaced at Storm's End, they're our common enemy."

"Agreed." Griff raised his cup. "To a common enemy."

"To a common enemy," Tyrion echoed, clinking his cup against Griff's.

A verbal alliance was quickly forged.

Magister Illyrio clapped his chubby hands together in delight, his massive rings clinking.

"Wonderful! The Lannisters and the Golden Company! Together, you'll surely rid the world of those damned dragons. Dangerous creatures, those dragons—so terribly unpredictable."

Tyrion chuckled, but his tone was sharp.

"Magister, I seem to recall you once supported Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. Generously, too."

"That was different," Illyrio waved his meaty hand dismissively. "Back then, they were harmless exiles—no dragons, no armies, just a pair of frightened children being hunted like dogs. I took pity on them. But now that girl has hatched her dragons... and worse, one of them has been stolen by Caesar. It's unacceptable."

So, this is about a poor investment gone awry, Tyrion mused. Illyrio must be bitter after losing his grip on Daenerys when her dragons and Caesar entered the picture.

But Tyrion didn't care about Illyrio's personal grievances. What mattered was the potential of the Golden Company as allies—at least for now. They were dependable enough to trust against Caesar and his forces. What would happen after that, however, was another matter entirely.

Tyrion's gaze drifted back to Young Griff, the silent teenager who had been watching the conversation closely. Something about him piqued Tyrion's curiosity.

The conversation flowed smoothly from there, and the banquet continued in high spirits. It wasn't until the festivities were winding down that Tyrion, on his way to the quarters prepared for him, paused and turned back to Griff.

"Ser Griff, where does the Golden Company plan to land when it returns to Westeros?"

Griff corrected him mildly, "I am no Knight. Just Griff." He paused and then added, "We plan to land at Stormlands' Griffin's Roost. With the Lannister forces striking from the west, we'll hit Caesar's forces from the south. A two-front war."

I am not a dwarf. Tyrion complained to himself.

"Griffin's Roost, eh?" Tyrion smirked inwardly at the name. "That's a bold choice. Stormlands' heartland lies just beyond, and Caesar won't let such a strike go unanswered. Are you ready for his retaliation?"

Griff narrowed his eyes slightly. "Do you have a better suggestion, Lord Tyrion?"

Tyrion chuckled. "As it happens, I do. Go to Dorne instead. Help the Martells."

"Dorne?" Griff seemed intrigued.

"Yes. If you save House Martell from the brink of ruin, you gain an immediate ally. And strategically, Dorne is perfect—it's separated from Caesar's forces by mountains and deserts. By the time he musters an army to cross that terrain, the damage will already be done."

Griff pondered this for a long moment. "We'll consider it."

Tyrion didn't push further, leaving the seeds of his idea to take root. He offered a polite farewell and departed with Myrcella.

---

In their chambers later that night, Myrcella turned to her uncle with wide eyes.

"Uncle, will this Griff be our friend?"

"For now, perhaps," Tyrion replied, reclining on the bed. "At least until Caesar is dealt with. But afterward? That's harder to say."

"Why not? Aren't we on the same side?"

Tyrion leaned forward and gently tousled his niece's golden curls, his tone grave.

"The Golden Company isn't like ordinary allies. They're exiles, Myrcella, all of them. And Griff? He's no ordinary exile either."

Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Think, my dear niece. Who would wish to land at Griffin's Roost?"

Her eyes lit up as recognition dawned.

"You mean the Griffin Lord! The old Hand of the King!"

"Exactly. Jon Connington, the Mad King's former Hand, who once ruled Griffin's Roost and fought alongside Prince Rhaegar Targaryen during Robert's Rebellion." Tyrion's grin widened. "He was exiled after Rhaegar fell at the Trident. But it's not Jon Connington who interests me—it's his 'son.'"

"His son? You mean the Young Griff?" Myrcella tilted her head. "Why is he important?"

"Why, indeed." Tyrion's sharp eyes gleamed. "Did you notice his dyed hair?"

"Dyed?" Myrcella blinked. "I thought it was blue naturally."

Tyrion let out a mocking laugh. "No, sweet niece, it's dyed. Why else would he hide his natural color?"

"What color is it, then?"

"I would wager it's silver."

"Silver?" Myrcella frowned in thought. "And his eyes—they were purple… Silver hair and purple eyes…"

She gasped. "That's the Targaryen look! Is he—could he be—"

But the next moment, the girl fell into doubt again: "But, isn't Princess Daenerys the only one left in the Targaryen family? Could it be that this little Griffin is also a Blackfyre like Caesar?"

"Perhaps," Tyrion interrupted, relishing her dawning realization. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if it's another Blackfyre pretender. The Golden Company has always clung to that old dream of putting one of their bloodlines back on the Iron Throne."

"But if he's a Targaryen, how could he still be alive? Weren't they all…"

"Perhaps not all of them," Tyrion murmured darkly. "If Jon Connington has returned with a silver-haired boy calling himself Griff, there's only one explanation: Westeros is about to get very, very interesting."

(End of Chapter)