A New Life

I sat on the shore of the river, my knees pressed against my chest.

Two days it had been since I woke in another body. Two days. It wasn't a dream or anything despite my earlier beliefs. Both those days I had the same thoughts going through my mind.

Thought one: this can't be happening.

Thought two: this is happening.

Thought three: this is impossible.

Thought four: unlikely, but not impossible for it's happened. I just won the lottery of shitty luck.

Sure, I had much to worry about but so far. My problem currently was just coming to grips with finding myself in another world. Another dimension possibly. I was one of those people who believed in the concept of infinite universes full of infinite possibilities. With that logic, one of them would have to conform to GRRM's twisted ideas. Maybe it was just a way for my mind to find a way to rationalise what's happened for it is human nature to try and find reason. That's to why I hadn't had much sleep. But in the end it proved not only useless but frustrating, so I decided it wasn't worth the bother.

With no knowledge on how to return or even how I got here, I was stuck in a pseudo medieval world with dragons and magic and politicking only slightly less dangerous than an actual battlefield. If there was one thing I should be thankful for, it's that I hadn't been thrown into Warhammer 40k. If that was the case I doubt I'd survive the night, not the two I've done so far. A small victory I suppose.

I stared into the river, watching the sun's reflection on the water as it began to rise. It did look beautiful. If I was in the right state of mind I would sketch it out on paper. Such beauty wasn't something I was used to after spending my whole life in a bustling city . . . when I wasn't shut in my room. I won't have that life again. Already there was so many things I missed. Electricity and computers and a toilet that wasn't just a hole in the ground. Toilet paper as well. It was amazing how much was taken for granted until you didn't have it.

That wasn't to mention my parents. I wondered what they would be doing now. Would they know? Would they care? I doubted they knew. One of the conclusions I had was that I solely transferred my consciousness. If that was true, they would have no way of knowing I was gone. They'd just see my body and think me dead, not knowing I was stuck in the works of one of fictions most notorious serial killers.

Be as it may, I was stuck here regardless of my opinions on the matter.

Chewing the inside of my cheek in thought, I wondered about myself . . . about my new life. Between everyone, why did it have to be Young Griff? There were so many others I could have been. I could have been Joffrey and have been thrown head first into a royal court I had no training for, Robb Stark where I would find myself leading a rebellion, or even Jon Snow. That did bring up questions on who I was. Aegon was Schrodinger's dragon. I didn't know if I was the legit Aegon Targaryen, or an imposter. I could be a Blackfyre if the theorists were correct, or simply a boy with the right eye and hair colour. There were even theories that Young Griff was the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. The possibilities were endless. Before I do anything else, that'll be my objective: finding out who I truly am.

"Young Griff," came a voice.

I didn't turn around and continued staring off, too deep in my own thoughts.

The orange-haired man repeated my false name, only louder. I rolled my eyes, turned around and the man grinned. In his hands were two practise swords. He wasn't a homely looking man, was Rolly not-yet-Duckfield, nor was he handsome. He was a tall and brawny with a shaggy beard that desperately needed a cut and a comb. He wasn't wearing armour, but instead a thin brown tunic that rustled in the cool breeze. Not that I could blame him, the air was hot and swarming with midges. "From the way you're brooding, I assume you've largely recovered by now," said the man with a grin. "Grab a sword and get ready to earn a few bruises. It'll take your mind off it."

I frowned. "I'm not brooding." My words didn't sound convincing even to myself.

He chuckled. "Are you sure, lad? It certainly looks like it. Nothing good has come from staring off into nothingness. Besides, you need the practise. You're behind on your lessons."

How could I forget Young Griff's lessons? At least it'll give me a fairly coherent picture of Volantene politics. Though to be frank, if Tyrion's words were anything to go by, Aegon was perhaps one of the better educated characters. Down to no small part of the company he kept around himself. At least I'll have that benefit compared to the others.

Chewing my lip, I decided it wasn't the worth the bother to argue. I was reluctant though. I didn't want any bruises as he so cheerfully put it. I just got this new body and didn't want to ruin it just yet. When I stood up, Rolly threw me the sword. I failed to catch and the blunted blade dropped to the ground, barely missing my foot. I just stared at it for a moment before rushing out an apology.

He chuckled. "Nothing to apologise for, lad. You were sick. I'm sure it'll take a while to get back to normal. Mayhaps you'll even remember something." He forced a smile, an uncomfortable one that gave me little reason to feel better.

"I don't think so," I replied. It was perhaps for the best that the lot of them thought I was suffering from amnesia. "I really can't remember all that much. Bits and pieces, but that's about it. I believe that martial pursuits are included in that list of things I need to relearn."

Rolly chuckled and shook his head. "Don't put yourself down, that's all you've been doing since you've woken up. It'll come back to you, I promise. Your mind may forget, but your muscles wont. Come, let's see how much you do remember. Pick up that sword."

I did so and weighed it in my hand. It was a hand-and-a-half sword. A bastard sword and heavier than I expected. Most likely it had been filled with lead in order to make beginners build up strength in their arms. The real deal would have been lighter no doubt. Not truly knowing what to do, my mind defaulted to the closest thing and I got into a stance I had seen others do. Rolly looked at me with confusion and it was clear I made a mistake.

My master-at-arm's chipped lips formed a smirk. "Not how you do it, lad. Close, but not good enough. Do as I do."

And I did. First, Rolly taught me how to properly stand. My legs were too close together and my sword had been held too low. Young Griff may have had years of experience in his young life, but I had none. The only experience I had was TV and watching HEMA videos online. I never practised HEMA though, so I was left following what they explained and showed without any first-hand experience.

I'm going to be covered in bruises before this is done, aren't I? "Please . . . could you teach me once more, like if I was first starting out?" I cringed at my own voice. Bloody hell, I'll have to experience my balls drop. Puberty was not something I was looking forward to experience again. "Just . . . until I get a hand of it—I'm sure it'll come back to me . . . in time. But until then . . ."

"I'm your master-at-arms. That is my duty to you. If that is what you desire, I'll give it to you, my prince."

Prince, I was never called that before. It was strange. I was only a child, but in a position of authority solely because of my birth however clouded by going incognito. It'll be something I'll have to get used to if I survived long enough. Standing as tall as I could, I tried not to look like the twelve year old I was in the body of. Twenty years I'd been alive on earth and now this . . . Well, at least this time Young Griff could be considered more mentally mature, though to be fair, that wouldn't be saying much. I'd never been the most mature person myself so that may not much of an improvement if at all. I almost laughed at the thought.

I'm so going to die.

All morning we practised. Rolly taught me the basics of sword fighting and combat. To say it was hard was the understatement of the century. Muscle memory? Ha, I wish. Rolly overpowered me every time we sparred. My knowledge of medieval combat didn't help against an opponent who knew what he was doing. It didn't help that in my former life I'd never been the most athletic person, instead I focused my time on more intellectual pursuits like reading or researching random things – most of which would prove utter useless. What use was repairing a computer in a medieval setting? Here, the only thing I had on my side was a knowledge of the books and history. Throughout my life I loved learning about the past. At school, I learned about medicine and public health from the Stone Age to the Modern Age, even though I've forgotten some of it. Others was the Norman Invasion of England as well as the Weimar Republic and the rise of the Nazis. I knew they'll prove useful in various ways.

I was too immersed in my own thoughts when Duck hit me on the side. I yelped and fell backwards to the amusement of the older man. Grunting, I looked at the area of impact and grimaced. Rolly wasn't a gentle man and, without any padding, the area would surely bruise. It had been what he offered me and something I foolishly accepted. This was perhaps the first time I'd been struck, ever, being the cautious person I was. It most certainly won't be the last if the people around me had their way.

"You're dead," Haldon informed me on the deck of the boat. "If that was sharpened steel, you'd be missing your arm and be bleeding out on the ground."

"Thank you for that lovely picture," I shot back, staring at the blood from where my tunic was cut open. The sword may have been blunted, but it was still a thin piece of metal. "I just hope you have the skills to treat me if that was the case." I then remembered about Varys' little monologue at the end of Dance. I should know how to bind up my own wounds. Honey, that's a decent antiseptic . . .

"Of course. Wouldn't want you to bleed to death now would we?"

...

A week or so passed before Griff considered me physically well enough to travel. None of the gang had taken the amnesia thing all that well, so they'd been busy debating on what to do. In the end it was agreed they'll continue and simply fill in the gaps of my education. I suppose I should be thankful that I wasn't at a later date. It was the year 294AC in the Westerosi calendar and I had much to learn while sailing up and down the Rhoyne on a rugged poleboat named the Shy Maid.

I continued with Aegon's studies which were very much standard for a prince of the royal blood. From Haldon I learned history, philosophy, law, maths, writing, reasoning, sciences and languages of the various dialects of Valyrian. My twenty-first century education was much more expansive than what Haldon taught and, as I was mentally an adult, I aced much of those things. I also was much more eager than Young Griff to get into arguments about things I was obviously correct about, so instead of learning we spent much of our time bickering. From Septa Lemore I was taught subjects like poetry, music and theology, which included a fair bit of astronomy. Westerosi etiquette was very important as well. I had to talk a certain way, move a certain way and follow various customs that seemed meaningless. I never considered myself a people person and socialising was more draining than the various marital pursuits I needed to practise with Rolly. The former blacksmith taught me to fight with various weapons like polearms, swords, maces and hammers, not to mention various drills to improve my strength. Lord Jon Connington, meanwhile, taught me how to lead, run a court and how to command – from whole campaigns to smaller groups of men. After all, a prince was expected to lead men into battle and therefore have a fair knowledge of military strategy and tactics. Even more so when they were expecting to be retaking Westeros in the name of House Targaryen. I was taught to strategies battles using a bunch of clay figures Haldon had and various wargames which were especially fun. In these scenarios I paid particular attention to logistics. As much as it was often went unheeded – and Joncon certainly didn't like it – I knew from history that the logistical side of things like feeding an army and making sure they were properly equipped was the most essential even if it didn't lend itself to be flashy or exciting. After all, for want of a horse the rider was lost, for want of a message the battle was lost, for want of a battle the kingdom was lost. All for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Despite my earlier hesitance, I enjoyed these lessons besides some of it being completely redundant. Learning was something that always fascinated me. I adored history both from this world and the world I left behind, so I absorbed everything like a sponge. They were certainly aware of it and when Haldon commented that I changed, I simply blushed at the praise and said losing my memory had changed me. It wasn't all good though. It was very strange to hear them call me Young Griff, Griff or Griffin. Only inside deck did they call me Aegon. My former life . . . I wasn't him any more in body, only in mind. That was a problem I had. The only knowledge of this world I had came from the books. While they gave me something to work with, it wasn't enough. Nor did I have the knowledge Aegon had.

The best thing I had in my arsenal, something the other characters lacked, was foresight. I needed every advantage I could get, after all. I'd be playing against people like Littlefinger, Tywin Lannister and the rest of them. Varys, I was sure, was going to be on my side as long as I looked like his perfect little princeling. Tyrion, on the other hand, was a wildcard. When he and Young Griff met, Tyrion was little more than a depressed drunk who did rape that girl in the brothel and the other one in Illyrio's manse so perhaps he won't be in the best mind to help me. Unless he's show Tyrion in which case everything should be hunky-dory. I liked the Lannister, don't get me wrong, a fun character who was very witty and entertaining. But as a person, Tyrion was fucked up.

I quickly decided it would serve best to let everything play out like canon where I could predict everything going on and act accordingly. Should I decide to interfere, it would run the inevitable risk of them making decisions I hadn't predicted. Between all the different characters I could have become, Young Griff was perhaps one of the better ones. I was surrounded by a loyal party of talented individuals, thought dead and therefore below notice. It could have been worse and be thrown into the deep end where I would be forced to swim against a strong current from the very start.

It wasn't all running through fields of roses, however. The danger was that my knowledge of things to come was only good until a certain point, no small thanks to George not releasing Winds of Winter. Another problem was that I couldn't make gunpowder. I didn't even know how to create the compound, nor did I know the correct formula without risking it blowing up in my face should it even work at all. That wasn't even mentioning other things like proper quality metal and the other bits not worth mentioning. I tried though. I racked my brain but nothing came of it. Perhaps I'll figure a way but I doubted it. For that, they'll sadly be no Golden Company armed with cannons mounted on the backs of elephants. It would make a fanciful image, I imagine, but I hadn't the skills to pull it off.

While gunpowder was out the question, I could modernise the Golden Company into something that could change the face of warfare using the very tactics that changed Europe. My parents said I was nearly obsessive about history and that it would give me nothing of worth. I disagreed then and I really disagree now. If anything, it may just save my life.

...

The sun was beginning to rise as I sat on the deck of the Shy Maid, fingering the strings of the harp Griff had given me. It was a nice looking instrument, polished and oiled and decorated with elaborate patterns. Valyrian symbols, the exiled lord explained when we stopped at the town of Valysar. Not like I could read them, but they looked nice and that was good enough for me. I ran my fingers across the stings, the soft sound filling the air alongside the unconstrained chirping of grasshoppers, the songs of distant birds and the humming of crickets.

I couldn't play, not yet at least. In my past life I never played instruments, something I wanted but never did. My fingers seemed suited for it, slender and elegant as they were. Septa Lemore claimed I had the fingers of an artist and had offered me lessons on how to play. Something I eagerly accepted. Rhaegar's fingers, my mind thought as they held the harp. I thought deep about that. Apparently, after my second coming and with Young Griff's change in attitude to becoming more solemn, Old Griff took that as meaning I was acting more like my possible father. Such a feat was worthy of gifts apparently.

Speaking of which, I really did need to find out about my true father. While I wasn't the kind of person to make plans on the fly, I had a grasp of long term planning and made a few of them should any of my considered outcomes come true. It mostly boiled down to either being a Blackfyre or the sun's son. Illyrio Mopatis would know and it was a good thing we were heading to him after much persuasion on my part. Pentos was still near half a continent away and we were chugging along upriver with all the speed a small single-mast poleboat could go. It was also a shame we took various stops that lasted anything from a single night to a few days, one time had been a whole week. Annoyingly, none of the others were in any haste for Pentos. If anything, it felt like they were purposely delaying it. Not something I liked, but I didn't complain. They could have simply refused. At least they were listening.

So while we made route, I acted a good little boy. The few times I was allowed to leave the safety of the Shy Maid I put my head down and tried to act like part of the crowd. Fat chance with a full head of blue hair. Many times both me and Old Griff stood out like sore thumbs nor did it help that I spoke none of the native tongues despite claiming Tyroshi heritage. I supposed it would have been amusing to outsiders as I stared at them dumbfounded while they spoke in a language that made them sound like they were bloody singing. It was perhaps because of these various linguistically problems that I was fast learning it. I could even say a few words of trade talk and Volantene. Children were fast learners compared to adults. When I asked the reasoning behind the stops, Septa Lemore's excuse was to resupply as well as money. Illyrio wasn't constantly supporting us and only sent supplies on occasion. So most of the time we were forced to make do on our own. I had never tied fishing nets before, nor did I do much work that was labour intensive. Essos had proven to be a good learning experience. If I had been Joffrey or any other noble with servants to do my bidding, I would have quickly fallen to sloth. This way I'd be constantly working.

I continued listening to the chorus of nature when the door opened and Septa Lemore stepped outside in her grey woollen garbs. She grinned at me, saying, "Good morning, Griff," as I lounged on a collection of crates I'd formed into a makeshift chair. It was customary for the older woman to take a bath in the river every morning before the rest woke. Originally she had been surprised when I first sat on deck reading a book by the candlelight. Aegon had never been a morning person and usually slept in. I was the opposite in that I woke up before everyone else. That day it also came to a shock to me when she stripped before climbing into the river. Since then, I made an effort to avoid looking. Being the quintessential British gentleman that I was, it felt improper.

We still talked though.

Away from the ears of Jon Connington, I learned more about her. She wasn't Ashara Dayne, I learned that much. Instead, she was a simple septa from Dorne who'd been thrown out the motherhouse when she was seduced by a travelling bard. She had been a septa since she was a young girl, taken in as a novice when she was six. The matron found out she'd lost her maidenhood and thus her purity. She was then expelled. A soiled septa was seen as wrong and corrupted and after a few weeks of harsh living, was taken in to teach me the mysteries of the faith. A part of me doubted she was telling me the whole story, but I didn't press any deeper.

Averting my eyes as the septa's robes pooled to the floor, Lemore climbed down the side of the boat. I flicked the page and she spoke up, her voice broken apart by the splashing of water. "May I ask what this book is about? Reading more about Westeros or is that the Seven-Pointed-Star I gave you to look at."

"Westeros, I'm afraid, lady septa," I chuckled. It would be wise to come up with a printing press and allow information to spread quickly. But like many things, I knew what they were, I just didn't know how to make them. I was sure I could figure it out, but until then I had to make do. "I'm looking at Daeron the Young Dragon."

"Him," the words came out almost as a growl.

"You don't approve?"

The Dornish septa splashed in the river. "He attacked my people, let his army loot and rape yet is heralded as a hero despite his many atrocities. The Young Dragon is loved by the smallfolk north the Red Mountains. Loved even more by the lords."

"But yours don't, I'm guessing. That is the way of war," I said softly. I would put it down to the lack of discipline in feudal armies, but raping and looting the population was usually encouraged by commanders to reward their men and spread terror to the population. One story I heard was a besieging army raping women before the walls of a city, goading the defenders to leave their fortifications. Maybe it was due to lack of acknowledgement on specific events, but Earth was brutal compared to Westeros.

"Aye. Ten thousand men he lost fighting the Dornish armies, and fifty thousand he lost trying to hold it. It seemed the Targaryens never realised dragons die in the deserts of Dorne."

I chuckled. Maybe I was biased, but I'd always been impressed with the stubbornness and independent mind-set of the Dornish. Even when faced with overwhelming odds they refused to submit. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken indeed. A part of me actually hoped I was Elia's son just so I wouldn't have to fight through a scorching desert. It would also give me a kingdom that would fight for me should I prove myself. "I'm just reading that part. Thank you for spoiling it."

The septa laughed at that and continued to bathe. From then on, it was mostly silence but occasionally it was broken up with small chatter about one thing or another.

The Rhoynish couple of Yandry and Ysilla arose shortly after septa Lemore did. Both were lithe with dark-olive skin and dark hair that was tied back. For clothes they wore baggy linen stained with sweat from working long days in the heat. They went about their business, getting the Shy Maid ready for continuing its journey northward. Yandry was a tall man, with gaunt features, a heavy hook nose and broad shoulders. He checked and pulled the lines while his shorter, old wife fed some wood to the brazier, stirring the coals and preparing breakfast.

"Got any more stories of the Rhoyne?" I asked, putting on a devilish smile.

I learned that both Yandry and Ysilla were solely doing it as a job. They weren't doing it for reasons like Old Griff or Haldon or Illyrio. Simple coin to transport the gang from one part of the Rhoyne to another. Both came from Dorne, orphans of the Greenblood who never forgot their Rhoynish heritage and came to Essos to get closer to the Mother Rhoyne. It was something they loved to brag about, claiming it was the greatest river in the world and that it had no peer. I had never seen any other river in this world so I took their word for it. The Shy Maid was a small transport boat transporting goods around the various towns and cities of the Rhoyne. Despite their passengers, they continued that business. This time, they were transporting Volantene spices and sweat beets and even sweeter wine. They were also in the employ of Illyrio which wasn't surprising.

"Depends," was the old woman's response, her accent thick and almost unintelligible. "Have you heard of the water wizards or the tales of the Rhoynar princes riding on the backs of turtles?"

"No I haven't," I said, sitting up with interest. "Please enlighten me."

The older woman chuckled and began to explain away the time before the Rhoyne was conquered by the ancient Valyrians, where the various principalities constantly fought against each other over trade. The royals of the cities rode on the backs of turtles, guiding the beasts – that were the size of ships – with magic, where they fought and hunted and rode for leisure. Some of the largest turtles were used similarly as boats, with groups of men riding atop the shells. The turtle-mounts smashed against each other and the princes duelled, as was tradition. Ceremony and tradition were very important for the Rhoynar.

That must have be quite the sight to see, I mused. I had seen many turtles in the Rhoyne. Large turtles and small turtles, those with domed shells and flat shells, those that were hard and those that were soft. Bonesnappers, brown turtles, green turtles and horned turtles. Those with ridges and those with whorls of gold, jade and cream. Using the charcoal from the brazier and some spare parchments I poached from Haldon, I drew a few. My hands were usually smudged, as was the sheet, but my drawing skills were improving. Enough to look slightly like a turtle if one squinted their eyes.

When Septa Lemore rose from the river, water beading down her naked form, I averted my eyes once more. It felt wrong of me to look. Septa Lemore, on the other hand, laughed. "Oh, Griff. No need to protect my dignity and be modest. The Mother and Father above made us all in their image. Our bodies are their work, crafted by their own hands. Covering your eyes could be seen as disrespectful." There was no chastisement in her voice, it was a gentle teasing.

"I find it disrespectful to look at a naked woman who I'm not close to . . . in a certain way," I said, spitting out the latest bit quickly. In many ways, the gang were still strangers, and while I'd seen the others bathe, it felt awkward looking at a naked woman. Especially when I was twelve years old. "I don't think it's proper."

Once more, she laughed and patted herself down with a linen cloth. Yandry looked to be watching her but quickly turned away whenever his wife so much as glanced in his direction. "We should bring glory to our bodies. Not hide them."

"Perhaps," I allowed, still not looking. "I would rather the only body I see being the one I married when I'm older."

"What happened to the boy you once were?" she asked, her voice now more curious than playful now. "That doesn't sound like the words of the boy we all know and love."

"He's gone," I said truthfully. I doubted they would believe me as processed by a demon or something. I certainly hope not. But I couldn't deny I was a different person that Young Griff had been. "I'm someone else now."

"That is true. I do miss the old you though," she said, pulling her clothes back on and allowing me to look into her direction once more. She looked sad. "You were such an energetic boy. Easy to laugh and always smiling. You had such a sweet smile."

"I hope I still have that smile," I grinned, though forcibly, feeling more awkward that anything, "And I do laugh."

"Less so. You're different. You spend less time with Duck and more time with books. More like your father in that regard."

"My father? Do you know him?"

"Only what Griff tells me, which is little, I'm afraid. I can't say I know him, only about him."

Like most people. I leaned back, put the bookmark in place and close the thick tome. Then I went over to the side of the ship to have a morning piss.

"Making the mighty Rhoyne even mightier, I see," Rolly called out as he stepped onto deck, yawning and stretching his arms. He slept in the hold, nude except for small clothes more often than not. His body was covered with coarse hair and bulged with muscle.

I laughed, glancing back at him. "Making the river slightly deeper."

Ysilla scoffed. "She has no need of your piss, Young Griff. She is the deepest river in the world. The greatest in the world."

"Well, she's slightly deeper now and slightly greater." I emptied my bladder and pulled up my trousers, stretched my back and sighed. The life of an exiled prince, I mused. Pissing in lakes and sailing a boat. Not what I expected my life would be. But compared to others, it was good enough.

I looked into the water at the face staring back at me. I had never been as diligent in dying my hair as Young Griff had been and it was beginning to show hints of the blond underneath. Silver hair, the blood of the dragon. But was I really one though? Inside the Shy Maid, they called me Aegon Targaryen, the blood of dragons, the descendent of Aegon the Conqueror and the boy who would return to Westeros and take back what is rightfully mine. But it wasn't mine. It was someone else's. I had merely been a college student, nothing more. Even the face looking back at me wasn't mine. It was a pretty face, with long eyelashes that made me look half a girl. I had stepped into the shoes of another, one I was trying desperately to fill. Would it be enough?

If it was any other story I was sucked into it, it would be no less clear who I was. I would be the obvious protagonist. Lost royal heir, conceived during a comet, with a tragic past – possibly. I'm armed with all the tropes but this isn't most stories. It wasn't Earth either, though I sometimes forgot it was. If I could be proud for a moment, while I may not know the world, I knew the characters. I knew their ambitions, I knew what they wanted. I knew their darkest secrets and wildest fantasies. I would use that that against them. Not a very honourable thing, sure, but I couldn't afford to be honourable. I had to walk the thin line of pragmatism else I stumble and fall never to rise again.

It didn't take long for both Old Griff and Haldon to rise. When I saw them, I pushed all my concerns to the deepest recesses of my mind. From there, my days upon the Shy Maid continued like normal. I liked order. I loved everything being structured and planned out. So it made sense for my days to be likewise. When I woke up early morning, I would take a bath in the water, cleaning off the dirt and sweat from my body before relaxing on the deck, usually reading in the candle light or practising with an instrument. Then it would be lessons with Haldon and Jon before being broken off by Ser Rolly and then Septa Lemore, where I would have free time to do what I wanted, which usually was spent reading on the deck until sunset. Then I slept and the cycle would continue again.

...

When everyone else retired to their cabins, Old Griff stood on watch as was his custom. I shared a quarters with him. It wasn't that large a room, about the size of a coffin and taken up by a single bed. Yes, that is correct, Young Griff still slept in same bed as his foster-father. Connington stood by a dim glow of the brazier, wrapped tightly in a wolfskin cloak and padded leather studded with iron disks. Not much protection, I mused. An accurate thrust could go past the studs and through the leather. Leather, especially supple leather, was shit armour in general. Gambeson was superior. I approached and warmed my hands above the fire. Old Griff kept the night watch to himself usually where he would return early morning where I would wake up early thanks to Jon's snoring.

"Feeling better?" he asked. Despite claiming the need of secrecy, Jon was less subtle than he should. While a sellsword, he still acted very much a lord and he didn't dye his hair as much as he should have, leaving long lines of red amongst the blue.

I fed some chips of wood into the fire. While the days were blisteringly hot, the night was chilly enough to see your own breath. It was refreshing though. I liked the cold. It gave me a feeling of home. "I could be better," was my response, tightening the travelling cloak around myself and forcing a grin. "But I could be much worse."

My father-figure nodded. "It could certainly be better, that's for sure."

"Still upset about what happened?"

"How can I not? You forgot. You forgot nearly everything. What I taught you, your lessons. Your experiences. You've changed as well. More subdued, more . . ."

"I know," I interjected. I hated what he was saying. If I could say I somehow processed this boy's body, I would. But I couldn't. In many ways I could understand the kid now and see why he was so agitated in the books, cooped up in the Shy Maid for all his life under the overprotective eyes of his group of mentors. I'm sure for many it would cause them to rip their hair out in frustration.

"Let me finish. You've changed much. Sometimes for the better, others for the worst."

"Worst?" I couldn't help but slightly smile at that.

He nodded. "Oh, Haldon praises you from dawn to dusk. How you're much more keen to learn then you'd been before. No more comments or sarcastic quips . . . at least not as much." I chuckled at that. "But with swords . . . you—"

"Were better?" While learning how to fight in martial pursuits had been fun, I just didn't have the same drive the younger boy had. That must have been obvious for my lack of skill. Oh, this body was faster and I had superior reaction time to my previous one, but that was about it. I was still learning the ropes, so I hoped there'd be marked improvement in the future. Perhaps when I land in Westeros I can even defend myself. "You're good teachers. I'm sure I'll be back to normal in no time."

"Probably," Jon Connington conceded. "Rolly though, bloody blacksmith's son. I don't consider him good enough to teach you. You know what you need to do and such a man of such birth . . . you should have Ser Barristan or Arthur Dayne. Not him."

There was a pause and the silence was close to deafening. "Am I really though?" I looked up at Griff and into his pale-blue eyes. "Am I really Aegon Targaryen?"

"Of course you are," he snapped in a way that promised no more discussion of the matter. He looked shocked like I committed heresy. "Who put that in your mind?"

I quickly averted my gaze. Staring into the fire hurt less than the older man's expression. "It was just . . . I don't know. It's my story, you know. Taken from Varys in the middle of the sack, taken from a—my mother to safety while Rhaenys remained. Then you come five years later to raise me with all this. Maybe it's because I can't remember anything . . . but, don't you think it sounds fairly contrived?"

I heard Old Griff let out a sound from his throat. "Don't say those things. You are true. I know it."

"How?" I asked, strength going into my voice. "How do you know I'm him? How do you? Do I look like my father? Is that it?"

With that, Jon Connington didn't reply, only turned away. His face was tight with pain and I felt a touch of sympathy. Before me was a man who had traded everything, his honour, his life in the Golden Company for me, or for the boy that was truly Young Griff. A boy he was now having doubts about when he'd once been so certain.

I took a deep breath and awkwardly glanced around. It had suddenly gotten a lot colder, but that was likely me. "I'm sorry. I'm going to my quarters." That earned no response and I simply went back to my bunk where I had trouble falling asleep.