A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 55 – The Black Dragon Rises

Young Griff's POV

The Golden Company marched through Volantis, their banners trailing behind them like golden serpents in the morning sun. Fifty thousand strong, the mightiest army of exiles in the world, bound together by blood, gold, and oaths of vengeance.

At their head rode Young Griff—silver-haired, though dyed blue, and violet-eyed, the very picture of Valyrian nobility. Tall, broad-shouldered, near seven feet of disciplined steel, he was not just the vice-captain of the Golden Company—he was Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

They were bound for Astapor, seeking to buy Unsullied, the finest slave-soldiers in the world. They were costly, but the Golden Company had something of even greater value—a black dragon egg.

His guardian and commander of the Golden Company, Griff—a man known once as Jon Connington, exiled lord of Griffin's Roost—had secured it long ago in negotiations with Viserys Targaryen at Pentos.

At the time, they had sworn loyalty to House Targaryen. But it was not Viserys they intended to put on the throne.

Aegon's hand clenched on his sword pommel.

This was his birthright.

Or so he believed.

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Scene Switch – Griff's POV

Jon Connington, once Hand of the King, now an exile, sat inside his tent, running a hand through his red-streaked hair. The weight of years pressed on him—all for Aegon.

Aegon, whom he had raised, trained, taught to rule.

Aegon, the last hope of House Targaryen.

Tonight, he had planned to show the boy the dragon egg, a surprise for their victory, a sign of the power that awaited them. But Aegon was not in his tent.

Jon sighed. Probably dyeing his hair again.

Then, something caught his eye. A letter, half-hidden beneath the bedding.

His heart clenched.

It bore the seal of Varys.

He broke it open, his eyes scanning the words quickly.

> The red dragon and the horses clashed, and fire prevailed.

The sun and the green dragon will marry soon.

The sun will not ally with you, for they will know you are a black dragon.

At first, the meaning was unclear.

Then, his blood ran cold.

Aegon was not like Rhaegar. He had Valyrian features, yes, but not Rhaegar's sharp, noble face. His cheekbones were wrong. The shape of his eyes—wrong.

Jon's breath quickened.

The truth struck him like a dagger to the gut.

Aegon was not Rhaegar's son.

Aegon was not a Targaryen.

He was a Blackfyre.

The realization left him dizzy, sick. His hands shook as he crumpled the letter.

Then, the tent flap swung open.

Aegon—no, the Black Dragon—entered, his violet eyes sharp as ever.

Jon rose to his feet, his voice like steel.

"Who are you?"

Aegon tilted his head. "You raised me. You trained me. You know who I am."

Jon's fists clenched. "You are a mummer's farce. A Blackfyre."

Aegon laughed—a deep, mocking sound.

"Varys plays many games, Griff. This one was his best."

Then he lunged.

A fist slammed into Jon's jaw, sending him staggering back. He was older, but still strong—he drew his sword in a flash.

Aegon was unarmed—except for the torch stand beside him.

He wrenched it free and swung, fire crackling through the air. Their battle was wild, brutal—steel against flame, father against son, truth against the lie they had all lived.

Flames licked the fabric of the tent, spreading fast.

Jon screamed as the fire engulfed him, his armor turning into a searing prison.

Aegon stepped back, breathing heavily. His face was slick with sweat, his heart pounding.

Then, something moved.

From within the obsidian-black dragon egg, a serpentine creature slithered free.

A dragon, no larger than a cat, its scales as dark as night, its eyes burning with fire.

It crawled into Aegon's arms, snapping at the air, its small wings flaring.

Aegon smiled.

He was not a Targaryen.

He was Aegon Blackfyre, only son of Saera Blackfyre.

And now, the Golden Company would march for him. On to Astapor to get the unsullied but not with gold but with blood.