The deck of the Golden Spear pitched beneath Young Griff's boots as another wave crashed against the hull. Salt spray stung his eyes, but he refused to look away from the dark line of the Stormlands coast rising ahead.
Jon Connington stood beside him, one hand on the rail, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. The wind tore at his cloak, revealing flashes of the old griffin sigil he had begun wearing again in secret.
"We've lost at least four ships in the storm," Connington said grimly, voice barely carrying over the wind. "Maybe more. Harry Strickland will bring the rest when he can. For now, we have perhaps two thousand men, some horses, and no elephants. It will have to be enough."
Aegon tightened his grip on the rail.
His blue dyed hair was plastered to his forehead, but his purple eyes burned with determination.
Tyrion was right, he thought bitterly. The Imp's words still sting, even now.
The dwarf had laughed at him on the Shy Maid, mocking the idea of begging his aunt for help.
"Let her come to you." Tyrion had said.
It had pained him to hear it then. It pained him more to admit it now. But the Imp had been right. He would not crawl across the world begging for his aunt's dragons.
If Daenerys wanted the Iron Throne, she would have to come to him or meet him as an equal when he took it.
"Griffin's Roost first," he said.
"Your old seat. "We take it fast and quiet. No horns. No banners. And no ravens get out."
Connington gave a sharp nod. Pride and old pain twisted together in his chest. This was the seat that should have been his reward for loyalty to Rhaegar.
Instead, Robert had given it to Red Ronnet after the Rebellion.
"Black Balaq's archers will see to the ravens," Connington said. "We strike before they know we're here."
The longboats were lowered in silence. The Golden Company moved with the grim efficiency of exiles who had waited half their lives for this day.
No war cries.
No trumpets.
Just steel and purpose.
Connington climbed down into the lead boat with Young Griff, Duckfield, and a dozen hardened men. The water was cold against the hull as they rowed toward the narrow shingle beach beneath the cliffs.
By the time they reached the shore, the sky had lightened to a bruised grey. Black Balaq's archers slipped ahead like shadows. The castle above looked half-asleep.
The attack was swift and mercilessly efficient.
The outer gatehouse fell in minutes. Sentries died before they could raise the alarm. When a maester tried to loose a raven from the rookery, three arrows brought the bird down before it cleared the walls. The maester himself was thrown from the tower moments later, his body breaking on the rocks below.
Not one raven escaped.
By the time the sun broke over the horizon, Griffin's Roost was theirs.
They lost only four men in the fighting.
Connington stood on the battlements, wind tugging at his cloak. Below him the Stormlands stretched out wild, rugged, and his once more, if only for a little while.
The guilt he had carried for seventeen years sat heavy in his chest. He had failed Rhaegar.
Failed the boy's father.
Failed the realm.
But perhaps he could still make it right.
Young Griff joined him, Blackfyre sheathed at his hip. The boy looked out over the land with quiet intensity.
"It is done," Connington said. "Griffin's Roost is yours again… my prince."
The boy looked at the crimson-and-black griffin banner now flying once more above the tower.
"Not mine alone," he replied softly. "Ours."
Later, in the solar that had once belonged to Connington's father, they held council.
Harry Strickland, the company's captain-general, looked tired.
"We should hold here and wait," he advised.
"The castle is strong. We can defend it while the rest of the company regroups. The storm scattered us badly."
Connington shook his head. "Waiting makes us look small. If we sit behind these walls, the Stormlords will see only desperate exiles. We must keep moving. Take Crow's Nest next. Then Rain House. Strike while they are still off balance."
Young Griff listened in silence, then spoke.
"I agree with Lord Connington. We do not wait. The faster we move, the more lords will have to choose sides."
Strickland bowed his head reluctantly. "As you command, Your Grace."
As the meeting ended, Connington stepped alone onto the battlements once more. The wind smelled of salt and pine. Far below, the sea crashed against the rocks.
One step, he thought.
Today, Griffin's Roost.
Tomorrow… the rest.
The dragon had returned to Westeros.
And this time, Jon Connington would not fail him.
Below the battlements, the first scouts were already riding out under cover of dusk. Black Balaq's archers moved with them, silent as shadows. By morning they would strike Crow's Nest. Rain House would follow soon after.
Each castle taken would send a message louder than any raven: the dragon had returned, and those who stood against him would fall.
Connington allowed himself one last look across the wild, pine-dark hills that had once been his family's.
Then he turned and descended the steps, the weight of seventeen years of failure and exile pressing on his shoulders.
He would make it right.
For Rhaegar.
For the boy.
For the realm that had been stolen from them.
The storm that had scattered their fleet was nothing compared to the storm they were about to unleash.