The clash of Valyrian steel rang far into the distance, every strike seeming to carry the force of deep-seated hatred.
Three lush trees stood like enormous green parasols, spreading their branches together to cast a patch of shade over the young man tirelessly practicing his swordsmanship beneath them.
The youth had tied his blue hair behind his head in a neat ponytail, which bounced with every twist and evasive step he made.
Opposite him stood a man who looked to be nearly fifty.
His hair was dyed blue as well.
The two of them looked almost like father and son.
Neither was using a blunted practice blade.
They were fighting with real steel, exchanging blow after blow as flashes of cold light danced between them.
Sweat flew from the young man’s body with every movement, catching the sunlight and scattering crystalline glimmers through the air like shards of flawless glass.
The older man’s swordsmanship was hardly flashy, but it was seasoned and ruthless.
Every strike targeted one of the young man’s weaknesses, forcing him to pay a painful price for every opening he left.
“Pain is the best teacher.”
That was what the man always told the youth, and the boy himself agreed with the philosophy.
Watching the two spar from the side, Illyrio wore a benevolent smile as he looked at Young Griff, much like an old farmer watching his crops grow strong and healthy in the fields.
After making his fortune, Illyrio had purchased a piece of land in Pentos and built himself a luxurious mansion.
He hadn’t sold his former residence, however.
Instead, he had left it for Young Griff and the others to live in.
In Pentos, wealthy men rarely owned only a single residence.
The more powerful governors had so many luxurious houses within the city and estates outside it that they could hardly count them all on both hands.
Before long, the two swordsmen finally stopped.
Illyrio eagerly stepped forward and handed each of them a towel.
“Thank you for your hard work, Lord Griffin.”
Illyrio knew that the man’s real name was Jon Connington, the former Hand of the Mad King, Aerys II.
However, to avoid unnecessary trouble or accidents, he always addressed him as Lord Griffin, even though he knew his true identity.
They had already told Young Griff his “true” identity—that he was the son of Crown Prince Rhaegar.
Yet in their daily lives, they still called him Young Griff.
After the defeat at the Battle of the Bells, Connington had been exiled from Westeros by the Mad King, Aerys.
But the defeat at the Battle of the Bells had not been caused by any lack of ability on Jon Connington’s part.
Rather, he had cared too much about honor and morality.
He had refused to burn Stoney Sept to the ground, allowing Robert Baratheon to escape.
Connington’s later service with the Golden Company proved the same thing.
Not long after joining the Golden Company, he had risen into its leadership.
Whether in governance or military affairs, Jon Connington was undeniably a first-rate talent.
He was capable of helping govern an entire kingdom, so handling a mere Golden Company was hardly beyond him.
The Golden Company was one of the most powerful sellsword companies in Essos, boasting a full ten thousand men.
Infantry, cavalry, chariots—even elephants.
And in the future, they would become one of Young Griff’s greatest sources of strength in his bid for the Iron Throne.
Connington quickly stepped forward and accepted the towel from Illyrio, then naturally handed it to Young Griff standing beside him.
The years after Aerys had exiled him from Westeros had been the darkest period of his life.
Not because he himself had been banished.
It was because of the terrible consequences of his defeat at the Battle of the Bells.
The death of Prince Rhaegar, the man he had followed with all his heart, had been the greatest blow of all.
But when Connington learned that Prince Rhaegar’s bloodline had survived, he had been overwhelmed with excitement.
And when he finally met the silver-haired, purple-eyed Young Griff, he became convinced that this was Rhaegar’s son.
He still remembered the first time he had seen the boy.
Young Griff had been only ten years old, sitting there playing a harp.
Prince Rhaegar had been skilled with the harp as well.
Connington had observed Young Griff from every possible angle.
Under the sunlight, his eyes appeared black.
Under lamplight, they seemed deep blue.
In the fading light of dusk, there was even a hint of purple.
Connington believed this was because the boy’s mother had been Dornish.
He intended to devote the remainder of his life to putting Young Griff on the Iron Throne, hoping to make amends for the mistakes he had made in the past.
To conceal the boy’s true identity from outsiders, Connington had taken on the role of his nominal father.
“Son, go and rest for a while.
I need to speak with Lord Illyrio.”
“Yes, Father.”
Young Griff bowed, then turned and walked toward a septa standing some distance away.
Seeing the natural grace and bearing he displayed with every gesture—the very demeanor one expected of a prince—Connington felt deeply comforted.
Young Griff’s days were packed from morning until night.
A septa taught him etiquette.
A maester taught him knowledge.
Jon Connington taught him swordsmanship and the art of commanding armies.
All of it was intended to prepare the boy to become a true king one day.
Now the prince had grown.
It was time to put the great Targaryen restoration on the agenda.
“What news have we heard from the Usurper?”
“Robert takes little interest in governing.
He leaves all the affairs of state to his foster father.”
“Jon Arryn?
What will Robert do once he dies?”
“Who knows what he’s planning?
I intend to search for those two Targaryen siblings.
I hear they’re currently in Braavos.”
“Viserys and Daenerys?”
Connington knew that when Viserys and Daenerys had fled to Braavos all those years ago, they had been protected by Ser Willem Darry.
Willem had been the master-at-arms of the Red Keep, and House Darry had remained fiercely loyal to the Targaryens throughout Robert’s Rebellion.
Almost every male of House Darry had died in the Battle of the Trident.
Unfortunately, Ser Willem had protected the two siblings for only five years before illness claimed his life, leaving behind two young children.
Their lives must have been exceedingly difficult.
“But Aegon…
Young Griff is Prince Rhaegar’s firstborn son.
He is the rightful and best candidate to inherit the Iron Throne!”
“Yes.
Yes, of course.
We all believe that.
Searching for Viserys and his sister isn’t about putting Viserys on the Iron Throne.
Our plan is to make use of the Dothraki.”
Illyrio lowered his voice as he began laying out the entire plan.
After all, Robert already knew that Viserys was alive.
So why not let the Targaryen siblings serve as the vanguard?
“We marry his sister, Daenerys, to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki.
Then Drogo will lead his warriors across the sea and invade Westeros.
Meanwhile, our prince can march from Dorne with the Golden Company.
He will surely receive the support of the Reach, which has always remained sympathetic to the Targaryen cause.
The Reach has no shortage of food or soldiers.
With Dorne and the Reach supporting us, the Targaryen restoration will already be halfway to victory!”
“Marry Daenerys to a Dothraki?”
Connington’s expression changed.
“She’s only twelve or thirteen years old, isn’t she?”
Once again, his powerful sense of morality rose to the forefront.
Illyrio, however, showed no hesitation.
“One little girl can be exchanged for an army of forty or fifty thousand men.
How is that not a worthwhile bargain?
How many people have shed blood for the Targaryens?
She is a Targaryen too.
What’s wrong with letting her shed a little blood for the sake of House Targaryen?”