Chapter 52 49

The Disputed Lands. Eastern Plains. 295 AC.

For this moment, he had not begrudged himself one last ride into the field as a member of the Golden Company. Today was a very important day for his ward. Or rather, his friend. Despite all of the Old Griff's protests, Aegon had resolved to see the matter through to the end and fulfill every proper ceremony to earn the title so coveted by many.

"Aegon of House Connington." His voice was as solemn as he could make it. He touched Golden Wing to the right shoulder of his squire. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent." The left shoulder. "In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women." The right shoulder. "In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise." The left shoulder. "In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong." The right shoulder. "Rise, then, Ser Aegon Connington."

The moment the newly made knight rose from his knees, hundreds of men from their company erupted into applause. Much to his genuine regret, Aegon had declined, for reasons of his own, to come with him to Westeros. Even when promised comfortable and respected positions. He had not taken the bait and held firm. So, to spare them both the awkwardness of a squire leaving a knight's service before his training was properly finished, Axel had personally led his men to crush a raiding party of Dothraki.

It had been a purely formal pretext, but Aegon had shown himself well, cutting down his opponent, and had earned his spurs by any fair measure. Axel would have liked another year or two to put the boy through his paces, but confidence in his skills and the force of circumstance had made him change his mind. It was a pity he would not be coming along.

"And how do you feel, Ser Aegon?" Waymar asked, needling his younger companion with the utmost courtesy.

"Oh, Ser Waymar, the weight of knightly vows now rests upon my shoulders. I fear the burden presses down on me most grievously," Aegon replied with equal ceremony.

"I know the weight of that burden well, and I know how to lighten it," Ser Royce nodded sagely.

"And what would that be, my friend?"

"To make merry at the expense of our generous elder, the most honorable Ser Axel." Two pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon him, followed by a hundred more nearby. Robar looked at him with amusement.

Tch. He had remembered the promise after all. By some natural ease and gift of his, the bond between Axel and his squires had never been the typical arrangement of knight and servant. Usually a squire occupied the position of attendant and errand boy, but with him the young men had become trusted companions and capable sparring partners. Teaching them had been a pleasure in itself, and it had been more pleasurable still to watch them take on his views, his manner, his way of living and shape it to their own. He had not expected to enjoy it as much as he did.

"All right then. Tonight we celebrate, and it's on me!"

"Hurrah! Glory to the young Falcon!"

…

Myr. Main Dock. 295 AC.

When his sellsword contract came to its end, everything was already prepared for his return home. He had said his farewells to the captains and lieutenants at last night's going-away celebration. Every officer who was free had come, no matter whether they were his friends, his rivals, or his outright enemies. There were a few whose throats he would gladly have opened himself, and he knew the feeling was mutual. He had clashed and quarreled with many of them over the years, but all the same, they had bled together for the Golden Company, and something like fellowship had grown between them whether they liked it or not.

For better or worse, he could no longer be a sellsword. He had loved that life, but with time the fire had cooled and reason had reasserted itself. He was the Heir to the Vale, and he would not throw away his birthright for the life of a mercenary. Feasts, bloody fights, and every manner of entertainment could all be arranged in Westeros just as well.

It was after the Greyjoy Rebellion that the euphoria of killing, death, and violence had gone to his head and driven out all sense of reason, but time is a healer. During his years with the company, that bloodlust had been satisfied and his mind had come back to him. The greater part of his savings, set aside for his future reforms of the Vale, had been sent to Runestone for his Uncle Yohn to keep. Why not the Eyrie? Because of the servants of that rotten fish. He would not trust them with a copper, let alone money he had bled to earn.

Since he had been the one to initiate the purchase of the business in Myr, he had managed to skim the best of it before anyone else. The other enterprising men of the company had not been able to do the same. The Magisters of Myr had moved quickly to pass laws restricting the ability of sellswords to conduct business, so his small monopoly held. By arrangement with Strickland, the business was sold to him at a twenty-percent discount, on account of the mass departure of his men, and the pressure of time. The money would be sent to the Royces in installments, and the company had taken on the obligation of protecting it.

Again, he did not trust the Eyrie, not with the servants of the Rotten Fish, Lysa Tully, in place there. Five years was more than enough time to turn over the entire household staff, and the new maester was something of a hint in that direction. The Royces, on the other hand, were his kin, and he trusted them deeply. So long as there was no choice to be made between the preservation of House Royce and his own interests, they would stand behind him.

So as not to alarm any potential enemies in King's Landing and to give his father as much support as possible, he had ordered his trusted men to make their way to the city quietly, in separate groups, and wait for his signal. In total, four hundred and fifty fighters had chosen to follow him, not counting the support staff. Half of them were men of the Vale, a quarter Dornish, and the rest from Essos. They were seasoned cutthroats who had fought through more than one battle at his side, drawn now by the promise of a more settled life. They would form the foundation of his power.

He himself would return to the capital openly, boldly, with fifty soldiers at his back. The laws technically barred him from bringing so many men, but that particular law had long since been cheerfully ignored by everyone. He expected Robert and his father would not object and could smooth over whatever displeasure it stirred. He was pressing his luck this way because of the secrecy of the operation: it would look strange for the highest-ranking officer of the most powerful company in the world to arrive with only a handful of loyal men.

Tremble, you little worms and flatterers of Westeros. The Falcon is coming home.

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