Connington had finally made peace with his decision.
He accepted Illyrio’s plan: Daenerys would be promised to Khal Drogo in exchange for his support.
For Connington, it had been an agonizing choice.
He had even dreamed about it.
In the dream, the Dothraki burned, slaughtered, and pillaged their way across Westeros.
They ravaged the Riverlands.
They ravaged the Crownlands.
Countless smallfolk were driven from their homes, wandering the roads with nowhere to go.
Yet when Connington awoke, he realized there was something he found even harder to accept than that nightmare.
Allowing the Usurper to remain seated upon the Iron Throne, laughing arrogantly as he pleased.
Forgive me, Rhaegar.
That was what Connington told himself after making his decision.
Naturally, Illyrio was delighted to learn that Connington had finally changed his mind.
At the same time, he informed him that Aegon would soon be leading troops against the bandits.
The two men did, however, encounter a small disagreement.
Connington wanted to seize this opportunity to take Young Griff with him so that the boy could experience a real battlefield.
Illyrio flatly refused, insisting that it was too dangerous.
“Lord Illyrio, I don’t understand.
Why are you opposed to me accompanying the prince on this campaign?
What better opportunity could there be?
How strong could a band of bandits possibly be?
Are we really going to wait until the war of restoration before allowing the prince to draw blood for the first time?”
According to the traditions of Westerosi knighthood, boys became pages at seven or eight.
By twelve or thirteen, they were expected to become squires and accompany their knights onto the battlefield.
Young Griff was nearly sixteen years old, yet he had never seen blood spilled in battle.
That simply wasn’t right.
“Even if we take a step back, Silas is your son.
You’ve done so much for us.
Think of this as our way of repaying you.”
Connington’s reasoning was perfectly sound.
Young Griff could use this campaign to gain some practical experience, while Connington himself was more than capable of commanding troops and could assist Illyrio’s son.
It was a solution that benefited everyone.
Yet Illyrio stubbornly refused.
The main reason was that he was terrified of what might happen if Connington and Aegon were away from his watchful eye.
Connington had met Aegon’s mother, after all.
What if—just what if—Aegon displayed some habit or mannerism inherited from his mother?
What if Connington noticed something familiar and began to suspect the truth?
Illyrio thought for a moment before trying to deflect him.
“Lord Connington, I understand your goodwill, but your mission is to protect the prince and place him upon the Iron Throne.
This is still a military campaign.
Connington shook his head.
“Do you really not know my history?
It’s merely a campaign against bandits.”
He proceeded to point out his former service as Hand of the King and his experience with the Golden Company, attempting to convince Illyrio.
Sending a man like Jon Connington to suppress a group of bandits was practically like using a battle-axe to butcher a chicken.
Yet Illyrio still couldn’t make up his mind.
Aside from worrying about what might happen if Connington and Aegon were separated from him and had some unexpected conversation, he was also worried about Young Griff’s safety.
He knew that one day Young Griff would command armies numbering in the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands.
But when that day came, the prince would undoubtedly be surrounded by countless elite soldiers sworn to protect him.
This campaign was different.
The bandits might be weak, but the soldiers being sent against them weren’t exactly formidable either.
What if something went wrong?
In Illyrio’s mind, a king didn’t necessarily have to fight his own battles.
Just then, a man and a woman entered the room.
The man possessed the unmistakable air of a scholar, while the woman was dressed in the robes of a septa.
They were Maester Haldon and Septa Lemore.
“This is a decision the three of us have made together, Lord Illyrio.”
Along with Connington, the two of them were responsible for Young Griff’s education: Halton taught him knowledge, Lemore taught him etiquette, and Connington trained him in martial arts and military command.
Illyrio desperately wanted to say, Young Griff is my son.
What I say goes.
But he also understood that he had no authority to overturn the three of them.
If he continued refusing, they would inevitably become suspicious.
“Very well.
But there are several capable men among my personal guards.
I’ll have Belwas take them along as well.
They’ll be responsible for protecting the prince.”
Illyrio finally appeared to relent.
At that moment, Lemore, her soft features framed by her septa’s hood, spoke gently.
“Lord Illyrio, we will make sure the prince knows of your concern for his safety.”
Even so, Illyrio remained uneasy.
At present, it seemed the greatest danger might actually be coming from his nominal son.
“Lord Connington, if you could command Aegon’s army yourself, then I believe the prince’s safety would be assured.”
Connington frowned.
“I don’t think Silas would surrender command.
Those soldiers were trained by him personally.”
There was another reason he didn’t mention.
Judging from Aegon’s behavior so far, it was highly unlikely that he would simply obey Illyrio’s wishes.
Illyrio had realized that as well.
He began pacing back and forth across the room, desperately trying to think of a solution.
His massive body stirred the air with every step.
“Perhaps you could find an opportunity to take command of his army?”
Connington considered the suggestion.
“I’ll give Silas appropriate advice, but taking his command away…” He shook his head.
“He is, after all, the actual commander.”
“Very well.
Then the prince’s safety is entirely in your hands.”
The fat merchant spoke as though he had finally resigned himself to the situation, placing all his hopes on Connington before turning to leave.
But just after stepping through the door, he suddenly remembered something and turned around.
“Have you prepared armor for the prince?”
“We have,” Connington assured him with a nod.
“Don’t worry.”
“If he needs something better, I can send someone to purchase it.”
“With me at his side, you can rest assured.”
After an assortment of promises and reassurances, the three men finally managed to send Illyrio away.
Septa Lemore rested a finger against her chin and spoke thoughtfully.
“Lord Illyrio certainly seems remarkably concerned about the prince.”
“He wants to become Master of Coin once we reclaim the Iron Throne,” Maester Haldon replied.
“But is becoming Master of Coin really more important than his own flesh and blood?” Lemore looked at the other two.
“He seems to care more about the prince than he does about his own son.”
Only then did Connington and Halton realize that Illyrio’s reaction really had been somewhat unusual.
“Perhaps he wants even more,” Halton said confidently.
“A position as Master of Coin may not be enough to satisfy this merchant’s appetite.
Perhaps he wants a castle.
Or even to become a lord paramount!”
The corners of Halton’s mouth curled upward, as though he had seen through the entire situation.
He seemed extremely confident in his deduction.
“Merchants, after all.
Isn’t everything they do about turning one investment into ten?”
Halton’s conclusion was that Illyrio was putting on an act.
He wanted everyone to believe that he cared deeply about the prince so that when Aegon eventually rewarded those who had helped restore the Targaryen dynasty, Illyrio would have a stronger bargaining position and receive a greater reward.
But Connington interrupted their speculation.
“Whatever he truly wants, he is still the only friend we have in Pentos whom we can rely upon.
He raised the prince with care for years.
He was the one who brought the prince to me.
Until we help the prince reclaim the throne, none of those things matter.”
…
In a room downstairs, Illyrio pressed his ear against a trumpet-shaped ornament built into the wall.
He had heard every word of their conversation.