Game Of Thrones: A Modern Soul’s Journey in Westeros (ASOIF)

It didn't take long for both Old Griff and Haldon to rise. When I saw them, I pushed all my concerns to the deepest recesses of my mind. 

From there, my days upon the Shy Maid continued like normal. I liked the order. I loved everything being structured and planned out. 

So it made sense for my days to be likewise. When I woke up early in the morning, I would take a bath in the water, cleaning off the dirt and sweat from my body before relaxing on the deck, usually reading in the candle light or practising with an instrument. 

Then it would be lessons with Haldon and Jon before being broken off by Ser Rolly and then Septa Lemore, where I would have free time to do what I wanted, which usually was spent reading on the deck until sunset. Then I slept and the cycle would continue again.

.…

When everyone else retired to their cabins, Old Griff stood on watch as was his custom. I shared quarters with him. It wasn't that large a room, about the size of a coffin and taken up by a single bed. 

Yes, that is correct, Young Griff still slept in the same bed as his foster-father. Connington stood by a dim glow of the brazier, wrapped tightly in a wolfskin cloak and padded leather studded with iron disks. 

Not much protection, I mused. An accurate thrust could go past the studs and through the leather. Leather, especially supple leather, was shit armour in general. 

Gambeson was superior. I approached and warmed my hands above the fire. Old Griff kept the night watch to himself, usually where he would return early in the morning where I would wake up early thanks to Jon's snoring.

"Feeling better?" he asked. Despite claiming the need of secrecy, Jon was less subtle than he should. 

While a sellsword, he still acted very much like a lord and he didn't dye his hair as much as he should have, leaving long lines of red amongst the blue.

I fed some chips of wood into the fire. While the days were blisteringly hot, the night was chilly enough to see your own breath. It was refreshing though. I liked the cold. It gave me a feeling of home. 

"I could be better," was my response, tightening the travelling cloak around myself and forcing a grin. "But I could be much worse."

My father-figure nodded. "It could certainly be better, that's for sure."

"Still upset about what happened?"

"How can I not? You forgot. You forgot nearly everything. What I taught you, your lessons. Your experiences. You've changed as well. More subdued, more . . ."

"I know," I interjected. I hated what he was saying. If I could say I somehow processed this boy's body, I would. But I couldn't. 

In many ways I could understand the kid now and see why he was so agitated in the books, cooped up in the Shy Maid for all his life under the overprotective eyes of his group of mentors. 

I'm sure for many it would cause them to rip their hair out in frustration.

"Let me finish. You've changed much. Sometimes for the better, others for the worst."

"Worst?" I couldn't help but slightly smile at that.

He nodded. "Oh, Haldon praises you from dawn to dusk. How you're much more keen to learn then you'd been before. No more comments or sarcastic quips . . . at least not as much." I chuckled at that. "But with swords . . . you—"

"Were better?" While learning how to fight in martial pursuits had been fun, I just didn't have the same drive the younger boy had. That must have been obvious for my lack of skill. 

Oh, this body was faster and I had superior reaction time to my previous one, but that was about it. I was still learning the ropes, so I hoped there'd be marked improvement in the future. 

'Perhaps when I land in Westeros I can even defend myself.'

"You're good teachers. I'm sure I'll be back to normal in no time."

"Probably," Jon Connington conceded. "Rolly though, bloody blacksmith's son. I don't consider him good enough to teach you. You know what you need to do and such a man of such birth . . . you should have Ser Barristan or Arthur Dayne. Not him."

There was a pause and the silence was close to deafening. "Am I really though?" I looked up at Griff and into his pale-blue eyes. "Am I really Aegon Targaryen?"

"Of course you are," he snapped in a way that promised no more discussion of the matter. He looked shocked like I committed heresy. "Who put that in your mind?"

I quickly averted my gaze. Staring into the fire hurt less than the older man's expression. "It was just . . . I don't know. It's my story, you know. Taken from Varys in the middle of the sack, taken from a—my mother to safety while Rhaenys remained."

"Then you come five years later to raise me with all this. Maybe it's because I can't remember anything . . . but, don't you think it sounds fairly contrived?"

I heard Old Griff let out a sound from his throat. "Don't say those things. You are true. I know it."

"How?" I asked, strength going into my voice. "How do you know I'm him? How do you? Do I look like my father? Is that it?"

With that, Jon Connington didn't reply, only turned away. His face was tight with pain and I felt a touch of sympathy. 

Before me was a man who had traded everything, his honour, his life in the Golden Company for me, or for the boy that was truly Young Griff. A boy he was now having doubts about when he'd once been so certain.

I took a deep breath and awkwardly glanced around. It had suddenly gotten a lot colder, but that was likely me. 

"I'm sorry. I'm going to my quarters." That earned no response and I simply went back to my bunk where I had trouble falling asleep.