If you could draft a contract that was always tilted in your favor, you would never have to break it.
Young Griff thought to himself that if the gods ever granted him the throne, he would make Strickland his Master of Laws on the spot.
The man had a gift for twisting words until every law was airtight.
"Now leave," the captain said again, his tone harder this time. "This is for your own good."
The governors slunk out like beaten dogs. They knew their situation was pathetic.
Their own stupidity had dragged Myr into this war. Their own useless commanders had been crushed by Weymond and the three Triarchs. Now their proud Free City survived only because Strickland and the Golden Company were willing to bleed for it. Every bit of this mess was their own fault.
Better to let them crawl back to their tents, lock the doors, and drown their fear in wine and pretty boys.
No matter how the battle ended, they no longer had any power to change the outcome.
The moment the last governor's shadow vanished outside the tent, the Golden Company officers burst into loud laughter.
For sellswords, nothing felt better than stomping these fat, stupid employers into the dirt.
Black Balaq roared with laughter. Ser Franklyn Flowers howled until tears ran down his face. Even the usually stern giant of a septon allowed himself a small smile… and even Young Griff's normally humorless tutor and guardian let a rare grin slip across his face.
"Are the men ready?" Strickland asked the group.
"The men are ready," the big knight Ser Franklyn said with a contemptuous spit. "But that flock of sheep isn't."
"Those people…" The captain waved a hand dismissively. "We never counted on them. The moment the Triarch's cavalry hits them they'll break. Honestly, if I left them on their own they'd already be running, but I'm not that crazy yet."
"Now that the extra ears are gone… Lysono, tell everyone what you learned this morning."
The flashy, perfumed Lysene spoke in his soft, high voice.
"My people inside Weymond Dorya's camp report that the Volantene Triarch has figured out we might try to cut him off from the nearest crossing of the Dead River. He has only two choices—race us back through the Disputed Lands or stand and fight right here."
"Weymond chose to fight. He's moving troops to block the direct road to the bridge while forcing us into a battle with our backs to the water."
"The fact that this Volantene didn't run is good news," the bloated Ser Franklyn Flowers said, scratching at a fresh scar on his cheek. "Chasing him across the ruined Disputed Lands would be a nightmare."
"Our scouts agree," Lysono Maar said with a thin smile, his eyes sweeping the group without really looking at anyone. "But winning won't be easy for Weymond. The scouts confirm we'll be facing ten thousand infantry, two thousand heavy cavalry, and fifteen war elephants."
"The army is tired from marching and short on supplies, but they're veterans with strong cohesion."
"Don't forget," Black Balaq added, his feather cloak rustling, "those tiger-skinned fools pretending to be dragons have nowhere left to run. They know it themselves. They've come too deep into enemy territory. No one's going to retreat easily. They understand that if they break and scatter, none of them are getting home alive."
"On top of that, they can already smell the wealth of Myr," Connington added. "The Dothraki already stripped the outskirts, but this Free City still has plenty of fat to squeeze. They can't retreat, and the prize in front of them is big enough to make Dorya stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Targaryen himself. He knows it. He'll pay any price to break us."
A soft laugh came from the red-haired Ser Tristan Rivers.
"We don't need to exaggerate the danger. The Red Dragon isn't with their army. They've marched all this way through hostile land…" The knight from the riverlands pointed at the sky. "If the man in command was Viserys Targaryen, I'd be the first to urge caution. But the one opposite us is just some green boy who grew up inside the Volantene palace. What does he know about war?"
"That green boy personally lived through every fight against the Dothraki," Franklyn corrected him. "And he smashed the Myrene army to pieces. I'd advise you not to underestimate him."
Young Griff knew this wasn't the moment for him to speak.
His very presence already bent the Golden Company's rules. He had no business interrupting these men who had earned their places with blood and sweat.
But why was Harry Strickland staying silent?
Was he letting everyone speak freely so he could make the final call?
Or had he not settled on a plan yet and wanted to hear his captains' thoughts?
"Since Weymond wants a fight," the captain finally broke the silence, "we'll ride out and give him one. According to Lysono's scouts, Dorya's supply train is carrying a fortune in gold, silver, and jewels they took from the Myrene and haven't yet shipped back to Volantis. That wealth belongs with us far more than it belongs with the Volantenes."
He turned to the big septon who had stayed quiet through the discussion.
The man was tall and powerfully built, his hair iron-gray but his eyes a bright, clear green. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him.
Any stranger could see at a glance that this septon was far more comfortable in armor with an axe in his hand than in robes with a seven-pointed star around his neck.
"Hugor. How are your men holding up?"
The faithful servant of the Seven from Andalos cleared his throat.
"How are they, Harry? Almost every man attended morning prayers. No one's moping or confessing in despair. They're sharp, focused, and they know exactly what they have to do. They're getting ready."
Hugor the septon's voice carried weight.
Young Griff knew the man had once been a fine warrior who spread the word of the Seven with both words and his war axe.
Only men like that earned real respect inside a sellsword company.
"Maybe by dawn some of them will start to waver… but the cowardice of the Myrene hasn't spread to our fighters."
Young Griff had heard that Andalos had no kings, no princes, no dukes, and no governors. The poor villages and broken towns there had always been led by warrior-septs whose only duty was to protect the faithful.
They still kept the old Andal traditions that the people of the Seven Kingdoms had long forgotten.
Before joining the Golden Company, Hugor had led charges against the Norvoshi, the Braavosi, the Pentoshi, and every slaver who crossed his path.
He had joined the company because he broke with the righteous men of his homeland. He would rather live as an exile than die a pointless martyr.
"Hugor, I have one more task for you," Strickland said, pleased with the answer. "Send your novice septons into the Myr militia camp. Tell every man who follows the Seven—or is willing to listen—that they should come hear you preach. At the very least, remind those useless bastards that they're still men."
Not every septon was qualified to preach to sellswords.
Especially not inside the Golden Company, with its centuries of iron tradition.
A septon who could swing a war axe was worth far more respect than the most pious chanting priest across the Narrow Sea.
Besides, Hugor lived the hardest life of any man in the company. No one had ever seen him share a bed with anyone outside the Seven-Pointed Star. He never overate, never drank to excess, never lied to his brothers, and always did his duty.
If anyone could put steel back into the Myrene…
"I don't expect miracles," Strickland said. "But it's worth a try."
When he finished speaking, the captain's pale, almost colorless eyes swept across the rest of his officers.
"Listen up. This is how we're going to fight tomorrow…"
Young Griff leaned forward, listening with every ounce of attention, trying to memorize every word and every detail the captain spoke.
He knew better than to open his mouth. He simply locked everything away in his mind.
Strickland's plan was interrupted only a few times for quick confirmations. The captains largely agreed it was sound.
Young Griff measured the plan against every bit of military theory he had read and every legend he had heard.
In his heart, he agreed with the commander's intent.
The battle would be dangerous… but nothing worth achieving ever came without risk.
"Now… if you'll all excuse me, I need a private word with Jon and his… foster son."
The heir of Bittersteel said the last two words with a hint of reluctance.
"There's something I need to discuss with the two of you."
The rest of the Golden Company commanders bowed and filed out quickly.
Young Griff noticed they left faster than the situation seemed to require.
He felt a flicker of surprise. The tasks Strickland had just handed out weren't that urgent… but the captain tipped his head back and drained a large horn of strong wine, and the doubt vanished.
"Boy, I'm not throwing you into the front rank of spearmen to die," Harry Strickland said bluntly, his voice carrying absolute authority. He knew exactly who held the power in this tent. "But in the fighting ahead you're going to have to show your hand. I want every man not only to see you—I want them to remember you."
"I understand…"
"I'm not finished," Strickland cut him off, the move drawing irritated looks from both Griffins.
"My great-grandfather gave everything for the noble Daemon. He was a great warrior, a true king, a born leader. I don't think he would pat his great-grandson on the head and praise him for dying for the false Daeron or the Mad King Aerys's bloodline as some glorious act.
There are plenty of men like me in this company.
The king the Golden Company means to put on the throne has to be worthy of our brotherhood."
"So you've known who I am all along, Strickland."
The truth clicked into place for Young Griff. The captain's words carried a second, deeper meaning.
The real issue was never about convincing these eternal exiles to forget their hatred of the Targaryens. It was about making the last Blackfyre prove he was worthy of his ancestors' legendary glory.
"Harry," Connington interrupted quickly, "how many years has it been since the Redgrass Field? Isn't it time to let go of old grudges and point our swords at the real enemy?"
Strickland's cracked lips curved into a cold smile.
"Didn't I take that fat man's gold? And I never broke the oath Myles made, did I? You can tell yourself whatever you want, Jon. I've… moved on." The captain shrugged. "But convincing the others won't be that easy. This brotherhood never followed anyone who wasn't worthy of carrying the Blackfyre name, even if he wore the crown of a rightful king."
He took another drink and laid it out plainly.
"And no one's going to follow a man just because Prince Rhaegar was the Mad King's son. That old fool wore out the seat of his breeches on the Iron Throne and then lost it completely." Strickland's tone was unusually sharp. "What we need is the Sword King… a man who actually knows how to use a sword."
Both Griffins heard the words. Only the younger one truly understood what lay beneath them.
"I understand," the young man repeated, keeping his voice steady and serious. "I intend to fight alongside everyone else."
"Then it's settled," Strickland said after a moment. "You'll ride in the knightly line. You won't be able to slack off there… but you'll also be surrounded by the finest warriors in Essos. They'll watch over you. If things go wrong and the line breaks, they'll pull you out."
"Harry, that's far too dangerous!" Connington protested at once. "If something happens to him, all the plans, all the years of work…"
The old sellsword and the blue-haired youth both turned to look at the exiled knight.
The captain clearly meant to deliver a blunt warning to his old rival who had returned to the fold, but the future king spoke first.
"Thank you for your concern, Jon. You're right—this battle will be dangerous." Young Griff's tone was completely sincere. "But Captain Strickland is also right. These men need a real dragon, not a puppet propped up on a litter. I'm willing to prove to them that I'm worth following."
"I like that attitude," Harry said with a grin that mixed contempt and something almost fatherly. "All right, boy. You can go. Jon and I still have things to discuss."