The solar of Lord Gerold Grafton was a room built for comfort and quiet contemplation by his grandfather, a place where the grey light could filter through narrow glass panes, warming the leather-bound books and heavy oak furniture. But that peace had fled days ago, and now the brittle parchment bearing the Targaryen seal lay on his lap, its weight far more substantial than the comfort of the chamber. It seemed like history repeating itself.
Across from him, his wife, Lady Ayana Grafton, born a Templeton, sat in a carved oak chair, her posture tense since the arrival of Targaryen sealed parchment. She was small in posture, and the tidings of the coming war seemed to have made her smaller still, her hands twisting the fine linen of her skirt.
"What do you wish to do, Gerold?" she asks in a thin shaky whisper that barely disturbed the quietness of the room.
Gerold Grafton lifts his eyes from the page, his gaze usually stern now softening with a sympathetic light as he rested it upon his wife. "War was bound to come, dear," he says, his voice a low. He closes his fingers over the parchment, crinkling the edge. "With Petyr Baelish crawling his way into the Eyrie, poisoning Lysa's ear and maneuvering her boy, while still warming his hands with the Lannisters while Lysa claims Lannisters killed Lord Jon Arryn... war was already a certainty, whether by Lannister hands or by the now-coming Dragon's."
Ayana swallows hard, the muscles in her neck taut with fear. Fear for her kin, for their sons, for their ancestral seat of Gulltown. "And you," she asks the words catching in her throat, "who would you side with?"
Gerold stands up, knowing his house that had seen its fortunes fall with the tides in past years. He walks to the window of the solar, which offers a big view of the sea and its rugged coast. His eyes narrows, catching the faintest hint of something dark on the far horizon, like smudges of ink on the pale blue canvas of the water.
"My father sided with the Targaryens in the rebellion, and I lost him and my elder brother to Robert Baratheon hammer in that war," he said, his back to Ayana. His voice holding the deep ring of long-nursed grievance. "I would not betray my house's trust and honour like the Arryns and the others. My house has faced the wrath of the Lannisters, the Arryns, and the Baratheons for more than a decade. It is time for the debt to be repaid."
Before Ayana could formulate a reply, a hasty, frantic rap hammered on the solar door, cutting her short. She looked to her husband, her eyes wide with alarm. Gerold merely sat back down, a frightening stillness settling over him as if he had been expecting this knock since the day his father was laid in the ground.
"Enter," he commanded.
A soldier, one of the household guard, stumbled into the room breathing hard, his face slick with exertion. "My Lord," he gasps out, bending at the waist trying to formulate his words, "ships bearing the Targaryen flag sail toward Gulltown! They would make the harbor in the next tide!"
Gerold nods slowly. "You can leave now," he told the man, with a dismissive wave of his hand sending the soldier back out. He then turns to Ayana, who had risen and moved towards the window, her gaze fixed to the distant shapes growing larger on the sea. He walks up behind her, placing his large, steady hand on her shoulder. The black shapes identity unmistakable now.
He looks from the fleet to his lady wife. "Prepare the feast, Ayana," he said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a grim, satisfied line. "The King has chosen to start his conquest from Gulltown of the Vale, and we will not disappoint him in his decision."
She nods, apprehension darkening her eyes. "Ayana," Gerold calls out, just as she reaches the door. His voice was softer now, full of tenderness. "Everything will be alright, do not worry."
She takes a deep breath, visibly calming herself. "Yes, My Lord," she said softly, before slipping out.
When the door close behind her, Gerold exhales through his nose and calls out, "Send for Ser Alaric."
The master-at-arms enters within minutes, a scarred man of fifty with gray hair and the bearing of an old sellsword made noble by service. He bows after entering. "My lord."
"Our new king will soon stand in my hall," said Gerold. "See that our men remember they serve Grafton blood, not Baelish coin. There will be no drunken stumbling, and make sure they are at their best behavior."
Alaric straightens, his dark eyes furrowing. He understood the nature of a sudden, unexpected king. "It's true then?" he asks, eyeing his lord. "The whisper of the Targaryen king. Will you kneel?"
Gerold's eyes drifts to the high-hanging banner of his house, with a burning tower in yellow, within a black pile, upon flaming red. "We will see," he said, his jaw setting, "if this prince is truly what he says he is." Alaric nodded, asking no further questions, and retreats to begin his duty.
Meanwhile, on the deck of the Targaryen flagship, a massive warship named Dragons Wrath, the air was sharp with the spray of the sea and the sound of steel clashing. Aemon Targaryen and Ser Barristan Selmy sparred under the captivated eyes of dozens of men.
Aemon had previously shrewdly exchanged Blackfyre, the famed Valyrian sword of his House, for a simple and good-quality steel sword. It was a calculated move to spar with the legendary knight, he wanted to simply test his unadulterated skill, not show demonstration of wealth and privilege.
The fight had been going on for some minutes in a blur of motion and clashing metal. Ser Barristan, though his age might have touched sixty he still moved with a fluid grace and flawless technique that had been honed over half a century of war and tourney. He looked to be the very epitome of classical Westerosi knighthood, his attacks came from his vast experience of practiced cuts and thrusts, each one precise, each one that has shown its effectiveness from War of the Ninepenny Kings where he slew Maelys the Monstrous to his actions during Defiance of Duskendale where he dealt with Darklyn men all by himself.
Aemon met the legend blow for blow, his own style casting a unsettling contrast. Where Selmy was orthodox and perfectly weighted attacks, Aemon was fast, unnaturally fast, with a focus on being quick on his feet with launching decisive attacks at perfect timings. He was light on his feet, dodging where others would block, his movements matching more to a Braavosi style than a Westerosi knight.
Selmy continued to press the attack, driving Aemon back with his furious flurry of cuts, a high diagonal cut to the head then a quick draw-back for a low strike at the knee followed by a snapping thrust aimed straight for his heart. Aemon seem to dodge all these attacks without ever seeming desperate. He spurned the final thrust with a quick, upward flick of his own blade, catching the steel of Selmy's sword and deflecting it away. In the very same second, he counterattacked. A lightning-quick thrust from Aemon drove Ser Selmy's blade away from the front, the momentum of the deflection forcing the veteran to take a wide, defensive step to avoid being thrown off balance.
But Ser Barristan had an experience few could question, he pivoted on his heel on the very same defensive step, with the speed of a man half his age, and used the very momentum of Aemon's deflection to spin. His sword came around in a wide, sweeping arc aimed right at his young King's chest.
It was a brilliant, veteran's move, made to catch a cocky or less experience opponent completely unaware but Aemon saw it coming. He didn't try to block it, for the angle was too wide and the force looked too great. Instead, he entered Selmy's space with a rush of speed. He took three quick steps, closing the distance, and instead of raising his own blade for a wild block, he reached out with his free left hand and directly grabbed the wrist of Ser Barristan's sword hand, twisting it just enough to throw it out of the cut line, sending the sword harmlessly over his shoulder. In the same motion, Aemon brought his own sword up, the flat of the blade resting lightly against the legend's throat.
The clash of steel died in an instant. Ser Barristan stood frozen, his chest heaving under his quilted jerkin, his sword-arm locked by the younger man's surprising strength and what looked like sheer audacity. The move was quick, dangerous, and unknightly.
Caught entirely off guard by King's action, Ser Barristan dropped his sword, which fell with a dull thud. He nodded once. "I yield, your Grace."
A wave of astonished murmuring swept through the spectators, though they quickly dispersed after that receiving a a sharp look from the newly appointed ship captain, Aurane Waters. The greatest living knight in the Seven Kingdoms had been forced to yield to their young King, Aemon Targaryen.
Aemon immediately stepped back, letting go of the elder knight's wrist. He took the ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, from his aunt, Shiera Seastar, who had appeared quietly at his side. The deck quickly cleared as the men returned to their duties.
Aemon sheathed Blackfyre. He turned his head, feeling the persistent weight of an eye upon him. "You wish to ask me something, Ser Barristan?" Aemon inquired, his voice respectful and steady. He knew the knight had been watching him closely since their journey.
Ser Barristan coughed, a soft, dry sound. He took a step forward, his face showing a thoughtful intensity. "Your swordsmanship, your Grace," he said, his voice respectful. "It is a style I have never seen before. Your speed, your focus on the opponents body and the way you use your entire body to avoid the impact... it is certainly amongst the best talent I have ever witnessed in this realm."
Aemon nodded, his expression thoughtful, though he answered it with humility of his own. "And you would have knocked me down, Ser Barristan, were you a decade or so younger. Your talent of the blade is impeccable."
A genuine smile touched Ser Barristan's lips at the honest reply from his rightful King. He watched the young King turn to speak with Shiera, noting the chiseled lines of his jaw. Looking at King's features and demeanor it matched those of wise and good King Aegon the Fifth. But in his sheer prowess with the blade... he knew for certain, only Aemon the Dragonknight or Ser Arthur Dayne could have matched the King's swordplay.