They found Lord Ronnet Connington's bastard son, Ronald Storm, in the tower solar, slumped over his father's chair with his throat slashed open. The blood pooled at his feet and soaked the edges of a torn old map of the Stormlands. The boy's death was a waste as it robbed them of the chance to bring Lord Ronnet to heel, but it spared Harry the nuisance of holding the boy hostage.
A few knights and squires were taken alive—fewer than a dozen. In the great hall, stripped bare after a lot of looting, Harry summoned his captains for a war council. The fire burned in the hearth, and the rain outside the keep's high windows matched its fury. Rain lashed t the castle, and the banners overhead snapped in the gales unleashed by the storm brewing in the sky.
"Griffin's Roost was meant to fall first," said Ser Franklyn Flowers, the bastard of Cider Hall from the Reach who'd taken to pillaging the countryside with too much enthusiasm. "But this was no victory. It was a waste. We should've marched west to cut off Storm's End and sealed the mouth of the Slayne."
Though the man tended to be cruel in battle, Harry kept the man around because the bastard knight was of sound mind when it came to strategy.
"Storm's End is a rock," growled Black Balaq, his Lysene accent thick. "And rocks break teeth. The boy commander who was sent there was not ready and broke his whole face."
Harry's lips thinned, and he stared displeased into his clenched hands.
"He was under strict orders to siege only, provoke no engagement unless favourable. I should not have had to explain what favourable meant." Harry hissed, displeased at losing a battle so early into their campaign.
From the shadows, Ser Will Cole, one of the high-ranking sergeants of the Golden Company, cleared his throat.
"Then you've heard the word from the east."
Harry nodded and waved the servant forward. A scroll sealed with wax in black and gold was placed into his hand. The missive bore the mark of Lorimas Mudd, commanding the eastern detachments tasked with cutting off the supply lines into Storm's End.
Harry broke the seal.
He read. And read again to make sure he understood what he was reading.
When he spoke, it was with ice in his voice.
"Ser Quenton Gower is dead. His entire host was routed outside the walls of Storm's End. Scouts say a force out of the Rainwood joined the Baratheon banners. Crownlanders and Marchers—under Ser Rolland Storm, and worse… Ser Barristan Selmy."
A silence fell over the room at that last name. That name was most famous among the members of the Golden Company for a reason. The knight who slew Meleys the Mostrous in single combat was a knight worthy of their respect and fear.
"Selmy?" Black Balaq leaned forward with an ugly sneer. "That old man still draws breath?"
"And blood," Harry muttered dejectedly and passed the scroll to Black Balaq. "He struck at early dawn. Marched in out of sight of Ser Quenton's spies, then came in with speed and steel from both sides. Reports say a hundred of our men were killed on the initial charge itself. The rest were burned in their camps. Nothing of the siege engines remains."
"Selmy must have ridden down from King's Landing in advance and waited for a good opportunity," said Ser Franklyn Flowers.
"No," Harry said, voice hard. "He has given us a good opportunity."
"What opportunity?" Ser Franklyn asked sceptically.
"To end the long saga of Ser Barristan the Bold." Harry declared with renewed purpose.
That night, as thunder rolled beyond the hills, Harry walked the ramparts of Griffin's Roost alone.
Below him, the banners of the Golden Company rippled, and the fields glowed with the flickering of torches and the glimmer of forge fires as his smiths began repairing the siege ladders and bolt-throwers. Storm's End would need to fall soon if their foothold in the Stormlands was to mean anything.
He should have felt triumphant with the fall of Griffin's Roost. Victory had come hard. They had taken the castle, the ancestral seat of one of the last loyalist lords in the region. Their path inland was clear.
'At least, Jon Connington will be happy to hear his ancestral seat now flies the banners of the Golden Company.' Harry mused.
But Harry had spent too long with maps and coin-counters to take joy in false victories. He could not shake the shadow that lay over the field—a loss at Storm's End was not just a tactical blunder. It was a message that he had overextended his forces. His plans needed to shift in order to claim victory over the forces now arrayed against him. He had been arrogant in thinking the Golden Company alone could clinch victory in the Stormlands.
Selmy's appearance changed the pace of the war. And the rumour whispered from the seas about Dragonstone was more chilling than the prospect of facing Barristan Selmy in battle. The rumours of three dragons hatching in Dragonstone by Daenerys Targaryen disturbed him.
If those dragons were with Aegon, he'd have been a happy man. But three small dragons in the hands of a young Targaryen girl surrounded by the likes of Euron Greyjoy made him worry.
'What if those dragons get taken by Aegon's enemies?' Harry mused.
For now, the dragons were small. But inevitably they'd grow larger.
He had also heard rumours of dragons being sighted far in the North. But he suspected the fools spreading the rumour had never witnessed the might of House Starks' airships. After all, one airship had reduced the grand city of Myr to ashes.
He thought of Griff – Aegon. The boy whom he and his predecessor had sworn to follow and partially succeed the founding cause of the Golden Company. The Blackfyre cause was dead with Meleys. But a black or red dragon remains a dragon. Restoring the House of Dragon to the Iron Throne would be the crowning achievement of the Golden Company under his stewardship.
The question was, would Aegon rise to this challenge—or be shattered under the weight of the task ahead?
Would the Stormlands burn, or rise behind the true dragon or another?
Was there room for men like Harry Strickland in the songs of dragons and knights?
Or would his be a name written only in contracts, forgotten once gold ran dry, just like most of his predecessors?
He drained the last few drops of wine from the cup before he dropped it from the rampart. He watched the cup disappear into the bottom of the castle and wondered whether glory would come to his name.
The wind howled in answer, and Harry Strickland turned away from the stormy skies above. Far in the east, beyond Harry's sight, ships with black sails crept toward the shore.
******
The ruins of Summerhall loomed like a haunted ruin upon the hill, its cracked stones blackened by fire and partially consumed by nature. The shattered remnants of the once-splendid Targaryen palace stood in solemn witness as the banners of Dorne unfurled across the wind-blown plains. Banners of red suns stood proud, fluttering beside the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Jon Connington dismounted beneath the crumbling archway that had once led to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. His armour, dulled from dust and travel, creaked as he stepped aside for Aegon and Prince Oberyn Martell. Together, they had led the men who claimed victory over Stonehelm and reunited with the rest of the army camped on the road to Summerhall.
Their victory over House Swann was total. Stonehelm was stripped bare of all things valuable, and the lands were foraged for food, weapons and any worthy supplies for the war effort. Hostages were taken from House Swann to keep them out of the war, and Ser Donnel Swann swore he would never take up arms against Aegon.
It took them too long to reach Summerhall. The relentless rain had turned the hilly passes into muddy pits of hell. Their horses and carts were left flailing in mud pits along the way, costing them days in their march.
And now, beneath the shadow of a dead king's dream of rebirthing the dragons, they awaited news of war.
Aegon pulled his cloak tighter against the rising chill. Though it was high summer, a wind blew from the west—brisk and biting, as if the onslaught of winter was coming. His amethyst eyes scanned the horizon. The fields around Summerhall had become a sprawl of canvas and tents, lit by campfires and humming with the distant rhythm of boots, hammering, and the neighing of horses.
"We should've reached Storm's End a fortnight ago," Aegon muttered. "If the Golden Company has surrounded Storm's End…"
"It's not worth the trouble. We must lure Renly onto the battlefield. We'll have better luck in going after the other castles in the Stromlands." Jon said with a shake of his head.
At that moment, a rider galloped through the muddy lane from the southern outpost, his cloak streaming behind. Mud and sweat streaked his face as he reined in sharply before them. A parchment was thrust into Connington's hand.
"Those utter fools!" Connington cursed with a glare at the words on the parchment.
"What happened?" Oberyn asked, sensing something unexpected had happened.
"Griffin's Roost has fallen to Harry Strickland. But Ser Barristan Selmy led an army of Crownlanders to Storm's End and routed the Golden Company. Caught them before they dug in."
Aegon's face paled, his jaw clenched. He disliked the feeling of defeat, and even though he was not one to suffer this in the field, it still felt like he failed.
"How many dead?" Aegon asked with a wince.
"Maybe hundreds," Jon answered grimly. "Half the company under Ser Gower lies dead, and the rest are scattered. Strickland knows not where they went."
"There'll be no need to worry about them. The Stormlanders will hunt them down." Aegon said darkly.
Oberyn Martell chuckled, not unkindly. He leaned lazily against a broken column, arms crossed.
"Barristan the Bold. Seventy years old and still cutting through sellswords like they are greenboys. You cannot help but admire him."
Aegon turned sharply and glared at his uncle.
"Admire him? He just broke the back of our best hope to secure the Stormlands. You'd laugh if it were Dorne in flames?"
The Red Viper merely shrugged.
"There's a difference between admiration and approval. But don't mistake my tone for joy, nephew. I warned you not to put your trust wholly in sellswords. Men who fight for coin bleed differently than men who fight out of passion or vengeance."
Aegon took a deep breath and calmed himself. One victory in battle by the enemy was hardly the end of their war. So, he looked to his mentor for advice.
"You have known Barristan far longer than anyone else, Jon. What do you think he'll do?" Aegon asked earnestly, hoping his mentor would hold an answer to this dilemma.
Jon Connington folded the letter and frowned thoughtfully into the distance.
"He cannot stay in Storm's End indefinitely. He'll have left Storm's End lightly defended if he marches in force to smash Strickland and retake Griffin's Roost." Jon said after taking a moment to think.
"Then this is our chance to strike!" Aegon said with an excited gleam in his eyes.
"No." Jon shook his head. "We cannot rush in blindly. Just as we're aware of his position, he is clear on what ours is as well. He already knows of our movements, so he'll be wary."
"We'll have to force Barristan out of Storm's End." Oberyn said with a knowing look.
"To do that, we need to threaten his position. Felwood, Bronzegate and eventually the Wendwater Bridge itself must be taken to trap Barristan and his army inside the Stormlands." Jon said with a frown as he worked out the beginnings of a plan. "But, it'll have to be quick."
"You think he'll retreat and leave Storm's End?" Aegon asked sceptically.
"Storm's End is a massive castle, Aegon. A small garrison can hold it so long as they have the proper supplies." Oberyn said helpfully, aligning with Connington's thinking. "Someone like Barristan knows the importance of not getting his army trapped between two armies."
"So, how do we lure him out?" Aegon asked looking between the two men he trusted most.
He watched in confusion as a grim look came across the face of his mentor while Prince Oberyn grinned wickedly.
"We do what is necessary to lure the man out." Jon said, eyes closed, as if he were about to commit some terrible crime.
"I don't understand." Aegon said, looking perplexed.
"Dear nephew, we test the vows of Ser Barristan the Bold. From Summerhall to Bronzegate, we burn and pillage. Let's see how long Ser Barristan and Renly Baratheon will remain holed up inside their castle." Oberyn said with a wicked smirk.
"Burn the smallfolk!" Aegon said, aghast at the mere notion of such cruelty. "No! We cannot do that."
"Why not?" Oberyn asked, raising a brow with an amused smirk.
"Because they're not my enemies. House Baratheon is my enemy, not some innocent farmer tilling the fields." Aegon said with clenched teeth.
"And how many more innocent farmers will die if we don't win the war as soon as possible and instead drag it out for years?" Jon Connington asked with a cold look that shook Aegon.
"Jon… you!" Aegon gaped at his mentor, who taught him the virtues of a good knight. "Why?"
Of all the people fighting by his side, he never expected his foster father/mentor to be the one to advocate such a dishonourable act to win a battle.
"Sixteen years it has been since the Battle of the Bells. The Usurper had fled after a crushing defeat dealt by Lord Randyll Tarly and took refuge near the Stoney Sept. I had loyalist men surround the area and search house for house for Robert Baratheon." Jon looked afar, reminiscing about the pivotal moment that changed the fates of many.
"I was a knight and I took my vows seriously. I ordered the men under my command not to bother the smallfolk, though I knew the Usurper was given refuge somewhere. I wanted the glory of slaying the Usurper in single combat, and I did not want my honour blemished with butchering innocents. That decision cost me the life of your mother, your sister, your father and your grandfather."
"Jon." Aegon whispered, staring at his mentor with wide eyes, seeing the man at his most vulnerable.
"My honour led to Robert Baratheon surviving the Battle of Bells, and the rebels won the day when Eddard Stark arrived with his Northern army. I should've burned the town and every living soul with the Usurper that day. If I had done so, my friend would've been alive today and ruled the Seven Kingdoms." Jon said, his eyes hardening with resolve, absent of doubt or hesitation. "You would be the crown prince and your sister the envy of the realm. My honour and my pride made you an orphan, Aegon. I will never forgive myself for failing my friend, your father. I will not fail you. Never again!"
"Take this lesson to heart, nephew. If you truly hope to reclaim your birthright, the road ahead is paved with the blood of innocent and enemy alike. Once you play the Game of Thrones, you'd better play to win at all costs. Else, the game will devour you." Oberyn said with a certainty that made Aegon gulp nervously. "We move at dawn tomorrow. I'll send word to your sellsword friends of the plan."
Aegon watched the two men plan the days ahead. Their plan to strike at the rebellious lords of the Reach was abandoned in favour of drawing out Ser Barristan into a decisive battle. The details of which left Aegon with a queasy stomach. In the coming days, he expected that feeling to worsen even further.
******
The wind shrieked across the deck of the Silence, flinging sea spray into the air like a war cry echoing from the depths. Countless ships with black sails arrayed themselves like a pack of wolves sailing through the tremulous seas.
Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow of his infamous ship, a black leather eyepatch covering his left eye, his dark blue cloak snapping behind him like a banner of doom. Behind him, the fleet stretched like a serpent across the waves—sleek Myrish galleys with golden prows, their sails dyed a deep red, gleamed in the rising sun. They had come for blood and spoils.
The coasts of Tarth—once a shining sapphire in the sea—lay before them, rich and ripe and unsuspecting.
"Send the swiftest of the Myrish outriders ahead," Euron growled to his first mate, a dour, scarred Ironborn named Rulf. "Burn the fishing villages. Take the women. I want the lords of Evenfall Hall pissing themselves before we reach their gates."
Rulf nodded and vanished into the men standing on the deck of the Silence. The Myrish captains aboard the trailing ships were already rowing hard, eager for plunder. Their crews sang in the bastardised tongues of the Free Cities, blending into a chorus of greed and bloodlust.
Euron smiled to himself. The ascension of Daenerys Targaryen as queen presented him with a unique opportunity. She had hatched dragons into the world just as predicted by the Red Priestess. He had sails, madness, and steel. But what would a dragon queen be without a reaver to serve her? Not as a consort—no, Euron Greyjoy would not bow before a young girl even if she was a beauty beyond compare. He would reign beside her, or over her.
'Reigning over her seems to be the most apt way forward.' Euron thought with a grin.
He gazed toward the green cliffs of Tarth and the veil of morning mist shrouding the coast.
"Bring me her attention," he whispered to the sea as he watched the ships under his command start raiding along the coasts of Tarth.
The village of Cragshore became a pyre as pirates ravaged the village. Smoke spiralled into the sky, black and thick, curling over the treetops. The Myrish sellsails disembarked with swift brutality, setting fire to cottages, gutting boats, and rounding up the villagers. Anything of worth was carried off into the ships, including the comely women.
Some men were also taken in chains to the ships to be sold in the slave markets of Essos.
Euron had his fair share of blood for the day, his battle axe dripping blood. Lightbringer remained sheathed on his belt. He considered these people unworthy to die by his magical sword that glowed in the dark.
"Mercy for the women," one of the Myrish captains asked, his hand still wet with blood, "or no?"
"Give them the mercy of your beds. Let them not know the absence of their husbands." Euron replied with a mad grin.
By dusk, four villages along the northern coast had been razed. The screams had died down, but the silence left in their wake was sweeter than the fine peaches in the Reach.
Euron dined that night aboard the Silence, feasting on roasted fish, goat cheese, and stolen Arbour gold. The prisoners—noble and lowborn—were kept in the hold, their moans drifting through the cracks in the deck.
Rulf returned with a Myrish scout.
"The Sapphire Isle bleeds," the scout said. "Evenfall Hall rallies their knights under Ser Goodwin Peak. However, Lord Selwyn Tarth seems to be absent."
"Most interesting." Euron muttered upon hearing the news of Lord Tarth's absence.
He assumed the man was at Storm's End or maybe at King's Landing. In either case, Euron's course was clear. He needed the pirates to engage in as much carnage and pillaging along the shores. Soon enough, more pirates from across the Narrow Sea would join his fleet for the promise of slaves, silver and blood. This was the only way he could now build his fleet, as the Iron Fleet was lost to the wolves of the North.
"Let this knight come if he dares," Euron chuckled. "We'll kill him under the moonlight. The sea will drink his blood, and the vultures will feast on his flesh."
Euron grinned as the men shouted in unison, shaking their fists and weapons. With Stannis Baratheon pulling back from the Gullet, Euron hoped to gain total control over the Narrow Sea as soon as possible. The arrival of the Golden Company and their subsequent invasion of the Stormlands spurred him into action.
It was now his hope that Stannis Baratheon would focus on the enemy on the mainland instead of the one in Dragonstone. A most opportunistic moment in Euron's eyes, and he meant to achieve his goals at this time.
AN:
To read ahead of the update schedule; pat(r) eon. C (O) M/Dragonspectre.
For artwork related to the fic:
https://discord.gg/Nw2JH25fJf