In the end, Harry Strickland gave in to the terrified pleading of the Myr governors. He ordered the army to break camp and march out to meet the Volantenes in open battle.
Outside the tent, Ser Rolly Duckfield was already waiting with the gear.
To Young Griff, the skilled armorer was simply helping his king into his armor.
On the march, Griff and his companions wore only light chainmail and practical longswords—the standard kit for ordinary sellswords. Better gear would only draw unwanted attention.
"My lord, Captain Strickland requests your presence at once," the loyal knight said while buckling Griff's sword belt. He turned to Connington. "He wants you right now."
"Harry knows I didn't earn my place as one of Myles's possible successors by accident," Connington said with a rare, fleeting smile that vanished almost instantly. "My advice matters to him more than he'll ever admit. After all, this is the first real battle of his captaincy. His entire reputation is riding on it."
"What about me?" Young Griff asked.
"You're coming with me," Connington answered. "As my foster son, I'm not letting you out of my sight. Best if you stay quiet. Strickland and the others still don't know your true identity."
The old Griff's careless words drove another knife into the young man's heart.
These men who called themselves his protectors had used the vilest deception. Day by day the lie made him feel more sick and suffocated.
They had convinced a good lord and a brave knight that he was raising the true heir of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia—the real Aegon Targaryen.
They had coldly played upon a loyal man's devotion, even though that devotion had been given to the wrong person.
For years Jon Connington had ridden beside Daemon Blackfyre's last descendant, never suspecting the truth, genuinely believing he served Aegon Targaryen.
Under Illyrio Mopatis's careful influence, the old Griff had even come to see Viserys as a second Maegor—a tyrant who would murder any nephew with a better claim.
Young Griff still remembered every word of that fateful conversation on the warm summer night when the Pentoshi magister finally told him who he really was.
He had asked a hundred questions. The one that still haunted him was simple.
Why lie to Connington? Why keep lying?
Could they not have entrusted the true king to a handful of loyal men who knew the truth?
Illyrio had given him a full answer.
"I could have raised you to be the greatest merchant prince in the world, Aegon! Your wealth would make the sharpest paymaster weep. Your agents would trade from the Sunset Sea to the Jade Sea. You would own treasures beyond counting… and die fat, sated, and forgotten, just like the men who once threatened me."
"Myles Toyne could have turned you into the finest sellsword who ever lived. Men would follow you to the ends of the earth, to Yi Ti or Asshai. You would master every trick of the free companies. Your name might even eclipse that of the Golden Company itself. Of course, you would most likely die young, and your gilded skull would decorate your successor's tent."
"There was one other possibility… but our friend was never fit to teach anyone. He knew it. We knew it. That option was discarded from the start."
"Your mother never wanted that life for you, Aegon. She didn't want you to become a soft, pampered merchant prince or a blood-soaked sellsword in the pay of men like me. She wanted you to sit the Iron Throne that is yours by right—and to succeed where every predecessor failed."
The young man had listened in silence while the stranger who claimed to be his father spoke.
On the streets of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis had never heard a kind word. Yet in that moment he sounded exactly like a father having a hard talk with his son.
"So Connington came into our sights. A king is not made by a runaway septa and a maester alone. He needs a guide—someone born to the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, someone who knows every rule inside and outside the castle walls. We searched everywhere. We found no better man than Connington. In my opinion, Jon has done an outstanding job. No family that ever bore the noble name of Daemon has ever had a finer foster father."
Those final words from the spice-and-cheese merchant had burned themselves into the young prince's memory forever.
"I apologize for deceiving you, Aegon. But deceiving Connington was a necessary price if we were ever going to reach our goal. Keep playing your part. Keep helping him until your moment comes. Keep playing your part until your moment comes. When that day arrives… either he will understand everything, or he will walk away on his own."
Right now, deep in his heart, Young Griff was inclined to agree with Illyrio.
He truly felt the call. He truly hungered for something great.
After all, he was the last true heir to the Iron Throne—the final hope of correcting every terrible mistake of the past.
Yet if the gods truly cared nothing for justice, if they had allowed a fat bastard like Robert Baratheon to sit the throne, then perhaps they cared just as little about rightful blood.
Even if Queen Rhaella's belly had never carried her brother's child, the false Daeron had still carried dragon blood.
But Robert Baratheon had no claim at all. His only right was the warhammer in his hands.
And apparently that had been enough.
Young Griff glanced nervously at the sword at his hip.
One side of that blade pointed toward an entire kingdom. The other side pointed toward three living dragons.
Was the sword enough?
He never got the chance to answer his own question.
The armor was on. It was time to move.
"Harry is waiting. Don't keep him. He gets unbearable when he's impatient."
Young Griff was quietly grateful for Connington's decision. It gave him an excuse to push the heavy thoughts aside.
The walk through the Golden Company camp didn't take long, but every step only hardened the last Blackfyre heir's resolve.
The sons of Bittersteel still lived by their founder's creed. Even a temporary camp was kept in near-perfect order.
Connington's fears had not come true. The new captain had not let discipline slip.
Though the enemy was still far away, the Golden Company was already strengthening the defenses. Horses and war elephants were fed and watered. Warriors carefully cleaned and oiled their weapons while swapping stories.
As they walked toward Strickland's tent, Young Griff felt a surge of pride at the quiet confidence and steady laughter all around him.
The Golden Company believed in itself, in its destiny, and in its skill at arms.
With men like these, anything was possible.
He also saw the Myr militia.
Those poor wretches the governors had shoved onto the battlefield to die for nothing.
They had been armed in haste, given almost no training, and already carried no hope of victory. Many looked ready to weep openly.
They kept their distance from the Golden Company warriors, sighing and sniffling all day, then falling to their knees to pray.
They prayed to the Seven, to R'hllor, to every god the Free Cities had ever known. They begged every power they could name—not for victory, only for the chance to live.
Men who prayed only to survive had no chance of winning a battle that would decide everything.
These were men doomed to break. They had no stomach for attack, no solid formation, and would scatter at the first sign of real danger.
What was it the Valyrian Triarch Daemon Velaryon had once said?
"The strength of an army is measured by the strength of its weakest soldier."
Strickland had better understand that simple truth, even if he had never read The Art of War.
A squire took their horses. Young Griff swung down lightly.
The guards at the tent flap gave him an unfriendly look, but the moment they saw Connington they stepped aside.
Inside, Harry Strickland stood at a wide campaign table surrounded by several richly dressed Myr governors.
These fat fools had been sent out by their fellow citizens to "oversee" the battle and were now desperately trying to seize command.
Behind them stood the captains of the Golden Company.
By the rules of their contract the captains could not openly argue with their employers or the men's representatives.
The rulers of Myr, however, had clearly run out of patience.
"The militia cannot possibly hold against a heavy cavalry charge!" shouted one governor so fat he could no longer see his own toes. "They'll be trampled flat in seconds—it will be a slaughter!"
"Clause Six," Strickland said calmly, his pale eyes almost colorless.
"The captain of the Golden Company decides when and how to fight."
"Our men will be turned into bloody pulp!" another even fatter governor roared. "You have a duty to stop this!"
"Clause Six."
The sellsword's voice was hard. He knew better than anyone that the employers needed him far more than he needed them.
"My duty is to defeat the Volantene army. That is exactly what I intend to do… according to my plan, my lords."
"Then why can't we discuss the battle plan? You must have one, surely, good ser?"
"Clause Six, subsection three."
The white-haired man repeated the words without changing tone.
"The Myr Council already agreed that all military decisions rest solely with the captain."
"You're deliberately stonewalling us!"
"I'm simply quoting the contract you signed of your own free will, without coercion."
Only then did Harry seem to notice the two Griffins had arrived.
He had been waiting for Connington. The gesture toward the door was urgent.
"Speaking of tactics, now that my last captain has arrived… my lords, if you would step outside for a moment, we still have plans to finalize."
Young Griff could see the governors shaking with rage.
"We demand to know every detail of the fighting!"
"How dare you be so rude!"
"We pay your wages!"
"Clause Eight, subsection five," Strickland recited without missing a beat. "Military councils called by the captain are open only to those he deems necessary. When I need advice on the current market price of Myr glass, I will be sure to invite you all."
Watching Harry Strickland, Young Griff felt a flicker of genuine respect—an emotion his tutor had never inspired.
From childhood he had been taught to value every subject's talent and service.
Right now the captain was displaying a gift no one else possessed: the ability to weaponize contract clauses with perfect precision.
This was how the Golden Company had built its fearsome reputation.