The wind, which had been merely been a salt-laced breeze sometime ago, seemed to suddenly bite at Lord Gerold Grafton's face, carrying the sharp scent of the sea the harbor. He stood motionless at the harbour, with the faint tremor in his fingers, a silent confession of fear, masked by the studied stillness of his face. The harbor of Gulltown lay restless and the blue water churning as hundreds of ship sailed to the coast.
Masts pricked the sky as far as the eyes went, black against a clear, cloudless sky, and the banners unfurled above them were not the Arryn blue Gerold had been born to, nor the hated Lannister crimson that had ruled the realm since the Usurper's War. Instead, they were a deep, overwhelming black that seemed to drink the light and not reflect it.
Beside him, Ser Alaric, his master-at-arms, leaned forward against the cold stone handrails of the harbour, squinting into the coastal haze. "It's been a long time since that many ships have come to our harbor, My lord" he said, his tone reminiscing.
Gerold did not take his eyes from the sea. "More ships have come today at our coast than in the last year combined."
As the fleet drew closer, the crests became unmistakable: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red upon that defiant black. Gerold's stomach tightened, a cold knot of dread. For all his encouraging words to his wife, for all his revengeful talk of blood and loyalty, he had not truly believed this day would come, not like this with such a weight of power coming to his shores.
A great warship, massive in size slid into the harbor, the dockhands by the side shouted and scrambled, with ropes flying across the air. The Grafton guards stood uncertain, the sea breeze whipping their cloaks about their legs.
Then he saw him, the boy who walked down the gangplank. He was tall for his years, broad-shouldered yet lean, his gait smooth and sure as if he no one here had guts here to touch a strand of his hair. The sunlight glanced off his hair, looking more akin to white as snow then the silver of old Valyria, but it was his eyes that for a moment he was struck by a memory, when he had met Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at sixteen, with the same solemn and melancholic eyes. Yet the color of those eyes… those were wrong. Not the customary purple of the dragonlords, but a deep, unsettling crimson, the color of old gods and blood.
Behind the boy came Ser Barristan Selmy in white armour, his step proud and more energetic than any old, living legend should have. Around them followed Velaryon knights in silver armor and mail in flowing blue and white silks, and… gods… a direwolf padding silently beside the king.
Ser Alaric whispered, his voice cracking, "Is that a direwolf?"
When the young king almost reached him, he bent his knee to him, the guards of Gulltown falling after seeing him take the knee, armor clinking. With his throat dry he started, "Your Grace," he said, the words heavy and steady, each one coming as a commitment. "House Grafton of Gulltown swears its fealty to House Targaryen as it always had and wishes to prove its worth, as it did in rebellion against the Usurper."
The king stopped before him. The sea wind tugging at his cloak, and his gaze, those unsettling crimson eyes fixed upon him. "Rise, Lord Grafton," he said. His voice, Gerold noticed, carried a softness that while not made for shouting commands carried an absolute decree. "House Targaryen accepts your fealty."
When Gerold rose, his knees felt weak, feeling the gaze of those red eyes. He had bent to kings before, Aerys with his madness and Robert with his fury but never had he felt like this.
The solar was crowded now, the air thick with the scent of parchment and sea salt. A great map of the Vale of Arryn sprawled across the table, its edges held down by heavy goblets and polished stones. Aemon, the young king, stood at its head, his palm resting lightly near the Eyrie's painted peak, eyes furrowed as he listens to host lord speaking.
Lord Grafton points to the winding mountain passes, his finger trembling only slightly. "By now, Your Grace, Baelish's spies have sent word of your landing to both the Eyrie and King's Landing. They'll complete the fortifying of valley in a week or two. Once the Eyrie is manned and provisioned, it will be near impossible to take."
Aemon nods, tracing the mountains with a fingertip. His expression betrayed nothing, but Gerold saw the faint tightening at the jaw. The young dragon was listening.
Beside him, Lady Shiera, the one he had been asked to call Princess, though she wore no jewels, only fine silk clothing and a slender sword tied at her waist, leaned close over the map, her mismatched eyes glinting in the light of chamber. "And what of those who might bend the knee?" she asks softly, her face covered with a red mask as always.
Gerold met her gaze for just a heartbeat, unnerved by the lack of human warmth in them, before looking to the King again. "There might be a few, Your Grace, though not many. The Vale has not forgotten that King Aerys beheaded Lord Jon Arryn's heir and his kin Elbert Arryn and his companion Kyle Royce. House Royce is defiant to Baelish, but I doubt they'd side with a Targaryen again. Though House Templeton of Ninestars and Waynwood of Ironoaks might, they've long soured to the meddling of Littlefinger."
Aemon's mouth curve into a faint smile, not of mirth, but of his short-comings remembering the cold and terrible death coming to everyone should they not band together under one banner. "They do not get to choose their king, Lord Grafton. War is coming to them, whether they wish it or not. All they may choose is whether to stand beside me… or beneath me."
The words were quiet, yet they struck the room like Robert's hammer blow. Some men flinched while others stared, but Gerold understood. It was not mere threat, but necessity. The King's eyes - gods, those eyes - looked too old for his face.
Before he could speak again, another voice cut the silence, soft but with northern accent. "Your Grace."
Aemon turns swiftly hearing the urgency in the voice of his green-eyed friend, Jojen Reed, sitting silent in a corner until now. He looked pale as always. "Ships of the Iron Islands have reached the North," he said. "They mean to strike while the North stands thinly manned."
A chill crept through the room, even the fire crackled softer. The assembled Valemen exchanged uncertain glances some with disbelief, others with dread. How could the boy know this? Lord Gerold thought. Yet one look at the men present with the King, told him that none had a doubt of boy's words for an instant.
Aemon's gaze sharpens as he murmurs soflty, "So Balon's spawn moves again." He was silent for a breath, then turned to the gathered lords with a look that brooked no argument. "Ser Barristan, Lord Celtigar and Lord Grafton you'll lead our army inland. Speak with every lord of the Vale that fall in route to Arryn's, those who listens to our words, add them in army, and for those who not, I'll deal with them myself." His eyes flick to everyone present. "The Eyrie will kneel, or it will burn."
Then, turning to another, "Ser Aurane."
Aurane Waters straightens up where he stood, a hand on his sword pommel. "Your Grace."
"You'll hold Gulltown's harbour. Since Lannister's have joined hand with the Tyrells then Redwyne fleet, will surely strike from the sea. You'll not let them close to our coast."
Aurane bows deeply, understanding the King's plan. "I understand, Your Grace."
From behind, Shiera's soft lilting yet defiant voice cuts in. "You'll not think to keep me here, will you, my dear nephew?"
Aemon's lips twitched, fleeing with helpless resignation. "I would not dare, Aunt."
Lord Grafton, uneasy at the words of what was being planned in his hall, spoke hesitantly. "Your Grace… even if you ride at once, it will not be possible to reach the North in time. Not by sea, nor by land."
The King only smiled, and in that smile Gerold saw something terrible and wondrous all at once. "Tell me, Lord Gerold," Aemon said, his tone low, "is there a quiet place nearby… where a dragon might land?"
The words hung in the chamber giving it a tense silence as the Valemen present shifted in their chair and others gasping softly. And from the window of the solar, the pale sky seem to suddenly darken, as though something vast and winged passed over the sun.