The chamber was close and dark, firelight spilling against cold stone. The wolf lay stretched by the hearth, eyes gleaming red. The three Reach lords sat rigid in their chairs, their wine untouched, their gazes fixed on the boy who had named himself Aemon.
Aemon stood before them unflinching, his face calm though the expression of lords in front were full with disbelief. "You doubt me," he said softly, and his voice carried a weight beyond his years. "I would too, if I were you. But you know what was done to Rhaegar's children. You know who ordered it. Robert wore the crown, but it was Tywin Lannister who played the massacre of Maegor's Holdfast. My brother smashed by the wall, and sister stabbed half a hundred times. The lion's legacy is built on blood and treachery."
Rowan's mouth tightened. Ashford lowered his eyes, shame flashing across his face. Randyll Tarly, stern as granite, leaned forward, studying him with the cold scrutiny of a commander.
"And you would have us believe Lord Stark spirited you away from Robert's wrath?" Randyll asked at last.
Aemon inclined his head. "Aye. Lord Eddard Stark—my mother's brother—saved me when Robert and Tywin had they known, would have had me slain. He kept me hidden, raised me in Winterfell as his bastard, even at the cost of his honor, because to speak the truth would have meant my death. Ask yourself, my lords—does that not sound like the man you know? Would Ned Stark ever break his marriage vow?"
The words hung heavy. They all knew Stark's reputation. Randyll's brows knit, but his silence was answer enough.
Aemon stepped closer, his red eyes gleaming in the firelight. "If you seek proof beyond my face and my blood, you will find it in the Starry Sept. High Septon Maynard left his ledgers there—records of my parents' union, blessed and true. The rebellion buried it. The Lannisters would see it never brought to light. But truth does not rot, not even in dusty pages."
Rowan exhaled sharply, exchanging a look with Ashford. Randyll Tarly drummed his fingers on the table, the sound sharp as a drumbeat. "Say this is true. What would you have of us, Your Grace?" The title sat strange on his lips, but he gave it without mockery.
Aemon did not hesitate. "I would have you bend knee to false king—for now. Show the Tyrells and Lannisters your smiles, march beneath their banners when called, raise your cups to their toasts. Soon, they will ask you to march against my kin in the North, against the Starks. That is when you will show your true hearts. That is when you will strike—not for lions or roses, but for dragon."
A silence fell, then slowly, almost reluctantly, Randyll's lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. Mathis Rowan gave a soft chuckle, low but whimsical. Androw Ashford looked between them and let out a long breath.
"You ask us to wear false cloaks," Rowan said. "To play the part of loyal vassals until the hour comes."
"It will not be the first time the Reach has worn roses over thorns," Ashford muttered.
Randyll straightened in his chair, his voice iron-hard. "Very well. When the hour comes, we will do as you command, Your Grace."
He stood, and the other two lords rose with him. Together, they bent their knees. "House Tarly, House Rowan, House Ashford—all pledge to your cause, Aemon of House Targaryen."
The boy's red eyes studied each man in turn, his strange gift peeling past their oaths, searching for cracks, for falsehood. He found none. Their words were iron, and their intent true. He inclined his head.
"Then the dragon flies still," he said softly.
Far across the sea, beneath the blistering sun of Slaver's Bay, the Plaza of Pride in Astapor lay silent. Too silent.
Daenerys Targaryen walked at the head of her khalasar, her silver hair caught in the hot wind. Beside her strode Ser Jorah, his sword-arm ever near, and the boy Aegon—her nephew, though she still stumbled over the word—walked a half-step behind, Jon Connington at his side. They had come to see the Unsullied, to bargain, and to buy. But the plaza was empty.
No training cries, no whips cracking, no lines of soldiers standing to command. Only stillness, broken by the flap of banners in the wind.
They walked forward warily. The smell came first—sickly burnt, like meat left to rot in hot summer sun. Then Daenerys saw them.
Kraznys mo Nakloz, and seven other slavers—all of them sprawled in grotesque heaps, their bodies reduced to husks. Mass and muscle were gone, stripped to bone, yet their faces remained stretched in death's rictus, mouths frozen in silent screams. Between them, driven like a stake into the ground, was a banner.
Black silk, bearing the three-headed red-dragon of House Targaryen. Its pole was speared through Kraznys ribs.
Daenerys stopped, her hand to her lips. Her stomach twisted, not from horror alone but from the pain etched on their skeletal remains. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had stolen their very life, left them empty shells.
Ser Jorah muttered a curse, his hand on his sword though there was no foe in sight. Daenerys could see it in his eyes—filled with unease and disbelief while Aegon looked ready to puke his guts out.
Behind her, Jon Connington stiffened as a soldier in golden armor came running from the far end of the plaza. He bent low, whispering into Connington's ear. Whatever words he spoke made the griffin's face turn same shade as his hair.
"Seven hells," Connington spat, his voice sharp with rage. "Seven bloody hells!"
Daenerys turned sharply. "What is it?" But he did not answer at once, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard with fury.
And far away, upon a ship cutting across the Narrow Sea, a cabin lay cloaked in candlelight.
A woman sat within, her face hidden behind a lacquered mask of deep red color. She moved slowly, deliberately, her hands tracing the dragon-shaped crossguard of a bastard sword. Each stroke of the cloth was reverent, as though she polished not steel but relic.
A knock came at the door. Three soft raps.
"Enter," the masked woman said, her voice smooth as silk yet sharp with command.
A girl no older than eighteen stepped into the room, her dark hair braided, her eyes lowered in respect. "Forgive me, my lady," she said softly. "The sailors beg for your command. They ask—where do we sail?"
The masked woman paused. The cloth stilled in her hand, hovering over the gleam of the sword. For a long moment she said nothing, lost in thought. Then she lowered her hand and spoke, a single word with certainity.
"Driftmark."
The girl bowed, retreating without question. The woman leaned back, her masked face turned toward the sea. Then, with careful, deliberate motions, she resumed polishing the dragon-guard, her devotion unbroken.