THE GRIFFIN LORD
Cape Wrath had earned every bit of its name. It was the cauldron where the storms that rolled up Shipbreaker Bay to test their mettle on the walls of Durron Godsgrief's mighty castle were brewed, and there was scarce a day, if ever, when the surf did not roar like thunder, the sky piled with iron-grey anvils of clouds, the wind keening so shrilly that even ordinary conversations had to take place in a shout. Hundred-foot cliffs unraveled in a dizzying spiral to the sea, and clammy mists threaded the towering pines of the Rainwood, which proved almost hourly why it too was well named. Mud sloughs up to their knees were apt to appear at any given moment, and it was an utter bloody nuisance to keep fires burning, leather dry, and steel from rusting.
To be entirely honest, Jon Connington would not have gone this way. Rather, he would have taken advantage of their ever-tightening grip in the stormlands – they held Storm's End itself, after all, though only with a skeleton garrison that would be in serious trouble in the event of a determined counterattack. But it almost all the castles further inland were well guarded and wary of their approach, and an army that stayed on the coast was much harder to pin down than one that marched straight in and stuck itself between King's Landing on one hand and Highgarden on the other. Connington was scrupulously careful to wear his gloves at all times now, else it was not merely the prince who would notice that half his hand had turned to stone. It would have done so even somewhere far away from this misty, blustery spit of land, and it was time to let the lad stretch his wings not just as a soldier but also as a commander. Besides, after his stunning victory at Storm's End, it was becoming increasingly difficult to say Aegon Targaryen nay in anything. At the age of scarce eighteen, he had taken a castle that had defied even the gods themselves, and from the slight swagger he now walked with, it was plain that it had gone directly to his head.
Lord Jon supposed it was not much use to point out that Storm's End had been nowhere near its full strength and power, that the Golden Company had done almost all the fighting and still suffered heavy casualties, and that this was another reason they were forced to adopt a defensive position moving down the coast toward Dorne, rather than preparing to stage an attack on the capital itself. The prince had wanted to do just that, in fact, but Connington had managed to talk him out of it. The prince was young and bold and hungry for his throne, whereas Connington was much more inclined to rely on the cautious instincts that had kept them both alive and safely incognito for so long. And lost me the Battle of the Bells, of course.
Nonetheless, they were not entirely bereft of advantage by going this way. After they had sent Lady Lemore secretly to Sunspear to treat with the Martells, the family of Prince Aegon's late mother, Prince Doran had become quite convinced of the boy's legitimacy and comforted in his grief over the loss of his son Quentyn, whose body had just returned home with only two of his five companions. Apparently, he had risked the long and dangerous voyage all the way to Meereen to offer his hand to Daenerys, hoping to renew the matrimonial alliance originally intended for his elder sister Arianne and her elder brother Viserys. But the queen had turned him down, and he had met his end by not being wise enough to take the hint, and attempting instead to tame dragons.
Dragons. When Lord Jon first heard Lemore's report, he was torn between relief and fury. Relief that Daenerys had rejected Quentyn's proposal – the queen had to wed Aegon, if there was any hope of hammering together a new Targaryen dynasty. And fury that still she loitered in Meereen – had even gone missing, if the rumors were to be believed – rather than taking her three priceless dragons and flying west to join them. Aegon had not wanted to present himself to his powerful aunt as a beggar at the feast, had been certain that the instant she heard of his presence on the shores of their homeland, she'd up stakes and set sail quicker than one could say "usurper." Yet if she was vanished, dead, or merely unwilling, the game suddenly became far more dangerous and uncertain.
Therefore, the Martell alliance was the best wager they had. If worse came to worse, Aegon could marry his cousin Arianne, but without the dragons and Daenerys, a cloud of suspicion would always hang over his claim to be Prince Rhaegar's trueborn son, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. The south might well crown him, but the north would hold out beyond a doubt. The Seven Kingdoms can only be forged back into one by dragonfire.
These were the sorts of thoughts Jon Connington had to occupy himself, as they sloshed further down Cape Wrath. They were just south of Estermont, which Marq Mandrake of the Golden Company had already taken, and their next objective was the Weeping Tower. Prince Doran had promised that a Dornish vanguard would sail from the Tor to meet up with them there, and it was even under consideration for Aegon to pay a visit to his lord uncle in person. For while Doran had quietly become their devoted ally, it was understandable that he wished to look on his sister Elia's son with his own eyes before agreeing to prosecute an all-out war. House Martell remained superficially loyal to the Iron Throne, but writs of muster were going out through the whole of Dorne, and forges rang day and night with the song of steel. The false peace will not hold much longer, but best to playact while we can.
Prince Aegon himself, however, was considerably less keen to observe the social niceties. "Lady Lemore has already assured my lord uncle that I am who I say," he complained. "Does Prince Doran then feel the need to count my teeth? There will be time to loll about in his Water Gardens when the fighting is through. If Dorne is already risen for me, we must look to the westerlands and the riverlands instead – and the north, let us not forget. Trap the false Lannisters from coast to coast."
"There is more to winning a throne than fighting, my lord," Connington answered. "Your father knew that well. If Doran wants this courtesy, grant it. He is an old and sickly man, and his heart has hungered too long for vengeance. Do not throw it back in his face by refusing him this boon. The Golden Company and I will be able to handle the campaign in your stead. It will be a fortnight, no more."
"A fortnight too long." Aegon turned away, tousling his silver-blue hair out of his eyes. "I've waited eighteen years, I do not mean to wait a day more."
"Go to Dorne," Connington said, in the voice he had used in Aegon's childhood, to discipline him.
Aegon noticed, however, and another scowl flashed over his lean, handsome face. It was then that Jon Connington thought for the first time that as well as being the scion of Aegon the Conqueror, Aemon the Dragonknight, and his own silver prince, Aegon was also of the blood of Maegor the Cruel, Aerion Brightflame, Aegon the Unworthy, and Mad King Aerys. But he pushed that thought away at once, feeling disloyal. Aegon was neither cruel, sadistic, unworthy, or mad, and a streak of petulance was to be expected from any adolescent lad, far less one with such a great destiny on his shoulders. But I will not allow him to gainsay me in this. He is not king yet.
The issue remained unresolved when they reached the Weeping Tower the next evening. There was no battle to be fought – Ser Franklyn Flowers and his companions had reached it first, cleaned out the underwhelming defenses, and garrisoned the castle stoutly from all approaches. They were thus enjoying a spot of well-earned rest within its walls, along with the captives they'd taken from half a dozen minor keeps and holdfasts along Cape Wrath. None of them were expected to be significant prizes, but one or another might have some gold stuffed away down a root cellar, and since their ancestral loyalty was to the Baratheons, they were the first potentially treasonous weeds that needed to be uprooted. Their feelings for the bastard boy on the Iron Throne were likely to be equally as antagonistic, especially considering what the Lannisters had done to Robert, but too much sordid history lay between the stags and the dragons to allow them to be left to their own devices.
"Treat them gently," Connington urged, as he and the prince made their way into the great hall. "If you dispense blood and brimstone on them for the great crime of remaining loyal to their liege lord – especially when no man yet believes you to be Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name – all they will think of is the Mad King come again. In this case, you would do well to take a cue from Robert. He was known for changing enemies to friends."
All that won him was an incredulous look. "Take a cue from the man who slew my father at the Trident and stole his crown?" Aegon asked. "A drunk, a glutton, a lecher, who beggared the realm and only surpassed his failures as a husband and father with his failures as a king? I will not deal harshly with smallfolk who played no part. But these lords will have to choose to follow me soon or late, and it will be the wiser for them if it was the former."
With that, he pushed brusquely through the doors. Connington sighed, flexing his stone fingers in their glove; he had no feeling in that hand at all now, which made swordplay chancy. He had not participated in the fighting at Storm's End, and had pried Aegon away from leading the attack as soon as he possibly could. It was wise. If the boy dies, we are all ruined. Yet he feared that Aegon was beginning to bitterly resent him for keeping such a heavy hand on the reins. Young Griff slipped further and further away every day.
Inside the spare, drafty hall, Franklyn Flowers was lining up the captives for the prince's inspection. They were indeed a thoroughly underwhelming lot, ranging from a few quaking greybeards to a scrawny man-at-arms to a plump woman with two young boys hanging onto her skirts. They did not even look worth the effort to intimidate, in fact, but they couldn't be allowed to flee for help and spread wild tales.
As Jon Connington entered, Flowers was speaking with Aegon in a low voice, indicating the plump woman and her sons. Whatever he was saying was clearly of interest; the prince was listening with narrowed eyes. Then he whirled off and addressed the woman directly. "What's your name?"
For a moment, the woman did not answer. But the clutch of the boys onto her skirts must have reminded her that she must protect them. "Marya, my lord."
"Marya what?" the prince pressed.
"Marya the carpenter's daughter. I have no other name."
"That's a lie," said Flowers. He produced a scrap of cloth: grey, worked with the device of a black ship, an onion emblazoned on its sails. "Here, Your Grace. Take a look. Ignoring the fact that we certainly wouldn't have found her as lady of the keep if that was so, there's more. Ask her what her sons' names are."
"What are your sons' names, my lady?" Aegon asked, with somewhat exaggerated courtesy.
She hesitated.
"I'll tell you what they are." Flowers was clearly enjoying the reveal. "Steffon. Steffon and Stannis. Your Grace will recall who they're intended to honor. And this flag. . . " He handed it to Aegon. "It's the sigil of House Seaworth."
"House Seaworth?" The prince frowned. "I have never heard of it."
"You wouldn't have, m'lord. It was founded at the end of the Usurper's war, when Davos the smuggler broke the Redwyne and Tyrell cordons in the sea around Storm's End, and delivered food to the starving garrison inside. The starving Baratheon garrison, while Lord Paxter and Lord Mace were besieging the castle for your family and House."
Aegon's gaze sharpened. "I see." He lifted his blue eyes to Lady Marya. "Do you deny this?"
"I don't, my lord."
"But it doesn't end there," Flowers persisted. "Her husband is now Lord Stannis' Hand of the King. Stannis Baratheon, the Usurper's brother. Your Grace's most formidable foe."
"I. . . see." Aegon's voice was slower this time. "And then if so – "
"My husband is dead," Lady Marya interrupted. "Lord Wyman Manderly has mounted his head and hands on the gate above White Harbor. I am no use to you, my lords, and no threat. Let me return in peace to my home, and raise my sons to be good men, and you will have no trouble from me."
"That's what she says, at any rate," Flowers commented.
Aegon's scowl deepened. To Marya he said, "My lady, I am not unwilling to grant your request on principle. But if I did it for you, I would then be obliged to do it for these others. And we all desire things which we cannot have. You will stay here. Treated gently, so long as you behave, but prisoners nonetheless."
Flowers looked disappointed. "M'lord, are you sure? There's uses could be had for them. Such as – "
"No," Aegon snapped. "I am not the Lannisters, to murder a defenseless woman and her two children. As I said, what goes for one must go for all. And if you think I am killing every soul who stands in this room, you are sore mistaken. Take them away, I will question them later."
He has taken my words to heart after all, Jon Connington thought proudly. My prince, I wish you could see him now, our son. You made him and I raised him. It had gone against every one of his own instincts to counsel mercy for the Baratheon vassals; he hated Robert with a passion that Aegon, who knew of his history only through what others had told him, could never hope to match. But for all that, these ragged frightened folk were not Robert, and converting them from their old loyalties into staunch Targaryen supporters was a more elegant solution than merely killing them. Yet something told him that he'd have to keep an eye on Marya Seaworth. It would have been easy to dismiss her as a dead traitor's widow, but her expression as she gazed on her captors had been anything but harmless. She has already lost her husband, and likely older children as well. There comes a time when a soul decides they have endured enough.
As the prisoners were cleared out of the hall, one of Flowers' serjeants tugged on the prince's sleeve. "M'lord. Beg pardons, but there's a visitor waiting to see you, in the antechamber. Said only you were expecting him."
"Must be Dornish, then," the prince mumbled, but beckoned for Connington to follow him. They were shown through a door into a much smaller and more intimate room, drowned in a miserable twilight only barely repelled by the rack of candlewax gremlins. A stout, hooded figure waited by the window, projecting a suitably mysterious aura.
Aegon stopped in his tracks, so abruptly that Connington almost ran into him. "Lord Varys."
The figure emitted a sound of surprise. "Your Grace," he said unctuously, proving that Aegon was indeed correct. "I confess, I am impressed. I look so little like myself."
"You can look like anyone you choose. Others see what they expect." Aegon must surely have noticed the eunuch making hopeful movements toward the settle, but he remained standing. "Why are you here?"
"To serve you, my king. I fear I am past the age to enjoy travel for its own sake." Varys tittered. "And with such news as I bear. . . my lords, I thought it best not to wait an instant. Our little Dornish bird in King's Landing has disclosed a plot to deliver the westerlands and the riverlands to our cause. Bloodlessly."
"Bloodlessly?" Jon Connington repeated skeptically. Such a thing did not exist, not in this world.
"My lord, you have caught me out. Not quite bloodlessly." Varys whisked a pomander out of his sleeve and took a bracing snuffle. "But against the terrible carnage of this war, what are six deaths, truly?"
"Six deaths." Aegon looked even more leery than his mentor. "There are a fair few leagues of difference between six knights of the Kingsguard and six crofter's brats."
"You've seen six Kingsguard knights? Do tell me where, they are such a rare species just the moment. But no matter. Your Grace needs not to lift a finger. The Lannisters will kill them for you."
"Whose deaths?" Aegon demanded. "Answer me!"
"Such a suspicious mind, Your Grace. Very well. Lord Gawen Westerling and his lady wife Sybell, and their children Elenya and Rollam. Then Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun – currently and most conveniently a prisoner at Casterly Rock – and his lady wife, Roslin Frey."
"And how will this work? Exactly?"
Varys' surprise appeared to be genuine. "Why, when Edmure Tully suffers a mysterious and fatal accident while the Lannisters' prisoner, how long do you think it will take the river lords to get off their knees and in arms against Tommen Baratheon? How enraged will the Freys be – and Your Grace has surely heard of what the Freys do when they are enraged. And if the Westerlings, bannermen to Casterly Rock for gods' years, are seized, arrested, and executed without trial, that might cause hard feelings among the rest, don't you think? The Faith and Queen Cersei will take care of it all. We only need sit back and watch."
"How?" Aegon said. "Why on earth would the Faith do this?"
"Why, because your charming cousin has the High Septon wrapped about her little finger." Varys giggled again. "He won't know what is in those warrants she has him sign – oh dear me, no. They will appear to be matters of a different sort entirely – something to do with the sparrows, no doubt. I do love little birds. And then your cousin will smuggle them to Queen Cersei, tell her gaolers how delightfully well she has behaved, and surely she deserves a visit with her son. Whereas the warrants will be presented to the king, and Tommen, who is such a dutiful boy and does so love playing with his royal seal, will sign them forthwith. Do you see how politics work, my lord? So intimate, so familial, so personal. Naught more than a loving mother sharing a tender moment with her son. And then your cousin will take the signed warrants directly to the Lannister guardsmen, before the Tyrells have a chance to intervene."
"That is a brilliant plan, yes," Aegon said. "It is also utterly dastardly and dishonorable. Lie to the High Septon, to the gods themselves? Execute six innocent people without charge or justification? If I gave my assent to this scheme, it would be as if I had gone back out and killed my prisoners myself."
Varys giggled again, but something about it didn't reach his eyes. "That's the catch, my lord. They are guilty. I am unsure how much you know about the fall of the short-lived Kingdom of the North. . . but suffice it to say that Robb Stark's unwise decision to marry the eldest Westerling daughter was a major factor, as well as Lord Walder Frey's singularly vengeful nature. The daughter was supposed to be surrendered when Ser Jaime captured Riverrun, but it has lately come to light that we have all been grossly deceived. She has escaped to parts unknown. A grievous treason against the Iron Throne. If the Westerlings and Lord and Lady Tully were merely held for questioning, I imagine many would support King Tommen in so doing. But this arbitrary, absolute, unlawful and extreme action will remind many of. . . dare I say. . . the Mad King."
"Do not mention that name to me." It must still be raw, considering that Connington had already done so earlier.
"My apologies, Your Grace. But men will mention it, you know. I suspect as well you are still thinking of yourself as a hero, and you know that heroes do not kill children. Which is what stays your hand with Marya Seaworth and her sons, no doubt. But only six deaths, the death of those who have worked to undermine the strength of your crown and insist on the North's independence. . . my lord, will you be king of a broken realm?"
Aegon hesitated. "No," he said at last. "I will rule seven kingdoms. No less."
"So you give your assent to this plan?"
"Are you certain it will work?"
"How can it not, I ask?" Varys gave a one-shouldered shrug. "The Lannisters are so determined to shoot themselves in the foot, I say we let them. This is a gift from the seven heavens, Your Grace. Do I have your assent?"
Aegon hesitated even longer. Finally he said, "Yes."
"Marvelous." Varys beamed at them and sidled toward the door. "I've had such a long wet ride, I think I'll take a drop to refresh myself. If I have Your Grace's leave to go – "
"You do not."
Varys paused, hand on the latch. "Have I given offense, Your Grace?"
"That depends." Aegon took two quick strides across the floor, positioning himself between the eunuch and the exit. "On the answers you have to give to me."
If there was uneasiness in Varys' face or voice, it was invisible. "I am Your Grace's humblest servant."
"Good." Aegon had at least half a foot of height on the spymaster, and was using it to his advantage. "Why didn't you give me the dragons?"
"I. . . beg pardon?"
"Don't play the fool," the prince snapped. "It will not serve. I have been wondering, my lord. Wondering intently. You and your fat magister friend claim to be the most devoted supporters of my House and my claim. Why then did you permit my aunt and uncle to wander for years in the Free Cities, homeless and hungry, when you could have hidden them safely away as you did me? And on that accord, why did you arrange my aunt's marriage to Khal Drogo and give her the dragon eggs?"
Varys was starting to perspire. "My dear boy. . . the nature of politics, as I explained. . . no one ever truly expected them to hatch. . ."
"I am not your boy."Aegon seemed to grow even taller as he stood there in the wretched, sodden twilight. "I am your king. If you had expected them to hatch, you would have given them to me, wouldn't you? And yet I still cannot understand why you did not. You had to know the value they possessed even symbolically. What role were the Dothraki to play? You'd best tell me, my lord. Tell me now."
"We. . ." Varys wrung his plump hands. "We did need both a male and a female Targaryen. And Viserys, well. . . it was plain that he. . . that he was rather. . ."
"So you would have killed him yourself, if the Dothraki had not attended it first? I am older than Daenerys, I am Rhaegar's son, the dragons are mine! If you had given them to me, we would be mounting an attack on King's Landing right now, not playing hopscotch along the narrow sea! Now she's sitting in Meereen with them, where they're no bloody use to anybody, and still you play your little games. Perhaps you think I am still a boy, my lord? I am not. I am a man grown, and I want what is mine."
Varys shot an appealing look in Connington's direction. "Patience, Your Grace, patience. Everything will yet be fulfilled. As soon as Daenerys hears of your successes – "
"You still have not answered the question, my lord. If all this time you have intended them for me, then why not – "
"Perhaps no man should think he has a birthright to so much power, my lord."
"No man, but a woman?"
Varys paused once more. Then he said, "Your Grace, whatever you may believe, the dragons will be yours one day, and so will Daenerys. Now, I do believe that a spot of refreshment is in order, after everything I've accomplished for you of late. I hope to see you again before I depart, but if not, then be assured that Illyrio sends his greetings as well – you do so remind him of his beloved Serra, he plans to have another ten thousand golden dragons at your disposal by the end of the month. Not the fire-breathing sorts, alas, but still useful in their way. Now, my lord, your leave?"
"You have it," Aegon said coolly. "Get out."
Varys hastened away. Aegon and Connington stood there in silence as the room grew darker, until at last the latter spoke. "That was not wise, my prince."
"I am sick to seven hells of being wise." Aegon wrenched away from the hand his adoptive father tried to put on his shoulder. "And I'm none so sure that I trust either of them. Too much doesn't add up. What's in it for them? The satisfaction of knowing that they pulled off a deception of nearly twenty years to bring down an usurper, root and branch, and nobly restored the true heir to the throne? Illyrio Mopatis has all the money that money can buy, and Varys. . . if he was a real man, I might think he wanted women, or gold, or lands, or renown, but he's not. Am I to believe that I will become king, and he will happily go on being the master of whisperers as he has always been? He's pulled every string of any significance in the Seven Kingdoms for the gods know how long, he bloody well doesn't need me for that."
He is not wrong, Jon Connington was forced to admit. "My prince, when you are crowned, it will be in your power to demand whatever answers from them you like. But for now, whatever their reasons, they are working night and day to bring you there. Let them do so, then move against them, if you must."
"I need those dragons." Aegon's hand closed into a fist. "I am no fool, and I heard what befell my cousin Quentyn. But I grow weary of waiting on my aunt's initiative."
His words seriously alarmed Connington. "My lord, you cannot possibly be thinking of leaving Westeros again and. . .?"
"No," Aegon said, and Connington tried to disguise his breath of relief. "My fight is here, my throne is here. Meereen is many thousands of leagues away, and plagued with war and death. But I ought as well be dressed in motley and standing on my head, if Daenerys does not come soon. And if she does not come at all, then. . . this plan of Varys', it is just mad enough that it might work, but. . ."
"We must be – brave," Connington urged. He had nearly said wise. "Attend to what we can control, bind Dorne and the stormlands to our banner and yes, the westerlands and the riverlands if all plays out." The boy is right, it is a disgusting and vile trick. He had not captured Robert in the Battle of the Bells for the thought of slaughtering all the innocent townspeople. Yet what had that led him to but dishonor, ruin, and exile? Mayhaps, however little he liked it, he must make his heart as hard as his fingers. I am slowly turning to stone, after all. But a dying man stood that much closer to the judgment of the Seven, and he did not want to reunite with his silver prince in the afterlife and tell him that he had put his son on the throne at the cost of becoming his father.
"Dorne," Aegon said, slightly sardonically. "Dorne and prudent old Prince Doran. I can read a map. That is still only the south, my lord. Storm's End is not King's Landing. Nor is Sunspear."
"I understand your sentiments, my prince, but we must move with care – "
"Yes," Aegon said. "Piece by piece, square by square. As the gamemasters would have of us. If only we knew who they were. But I am not going to Dorne."
"You're not?" Connington had feared this. "My prince, you must – "
"I must do as I will. It is my throne. And I mean to win it. Now."
"So you – "
"Yes," Aegon said again. He smiled. "I will give Varys and my cousin time for their scheme to be accomplished, but no more. Then we march on King's Landing itself, and the westermen and the riverlords will fall into train behind us, while their blood is still up. And if my aunt should finally bestir herself and return with the dragons, she will find me seated on the Iron Throne. Those who object, I shall give a taste of flame. How is that for a bargaining position?"
It is formidable, Jon Connington thought. He could not elucidate why he felt faintly, ever so slightly, uneasy. You ought have stayed, Varys. Then you would see that the boy is a true Targaryen indeed.