The door creaked open, and all eyes in Lord Monford Velaryon's solar turned to the boy who stepped through. He looked like no lord's heir, no knight in fine mail and armor, but a wisp of a thing, thin as a reed, his hair dark and damp with unusual green eyes. His eyes were deep, which added with his gravity and mature personality made him seem older.
He bowed low. "Your Grace."
Aemon Targaryen inclined his head in return, saying nothing at first. It was not lost on him how much weight those two words carried in this chamber, how easily they had been spoken. Howland Reed's son, Jojen, had not hesitated for a moment in speaking them.
His voice was calm, steady, as if the sight of a direwolf the size of a small horse and a prince with eyes of red fire meant no danger to him. "Robb Stark has now marched to green fork."
Aemon leaned forward. "And how do you know this?"
Jojen's gaze did not waver. "Because I see, as my father had told you what I am."
He remembered meeting Lord Howland Reed, a quiet, watchful man in his solar who had told him of his children. "My son Jojen," Howland had said, "sees more than most men dare look upon. He walks the green dreams, though his true gift lies in warg that comes unbidden." Now that boy, barely an adolescent, stood before him.
Aemon did not react, but the faintest shift in his red eyes showed acknowledgement. He looked back to Jojen. "Tell them."
The boy crossed to an empty chair and sat, hands folded on his lap. For a moment he was still, a small, still point of quiet in a room full of noise. Then his body stiffened, and his eyes rolled back until only whites remained. His frame sagged into the chair, limp, as if it had lost his life. The chamber now suddenly felt cold.
The lords of the Narrow Sea shifted uneasily in their seats. Old Lord Adrian Celtigar, with his hawk-like nose and perpetually sour expression, pursed his thin lips, drumming his bony fingers against the arm of his chair. Lord Guncer Sunglass muttered something under his breath about false portents. Aurane Waters glanced from the boy to his half-brother Monford, as though waiting for one of them to laugh and dismiss the claim. No raven had come from the Trident and certainly no rider had spurred his horse day and night to bring them tidings. Yet here was this boy from the swamps of the Neck, delivering the news as though he'd walked from the trident just minutes ago.
At last, Jojen drew a sharp, rattling breath, and color returned to his cheeks. His eyes opened, clear and focused, though shadows of what he had seen seemed to cling to him.
"There is battle," he said evenly, though his voice was softer now, almost hoarse. "At the Green Fork. The wolf and his bannermen clash with the lions. The Reach rides with the Lannisters, Tyrell men, Redwynes, others. Yet there are banners absent, I saw no Tarly and Rowans."
The lords erupted in talk.
"That cannot be—" sputtered Celtigar, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Traitors, all of them!" cried Sunglass, gripping the pommel of his sword.
"Tyrell treachery," Massey muttered bitterly, a dark expression passing over his face.
Aemon's face did not change. He listened to present lords anger, but without surprise, as though he had long ago expected no different from Tyrell's house. He had heard all about Olenna's plan for her granddaughter from Lord Tarly, Lord Rowan and Lord Ashford when he had met them at Horn Hill and had heard about the depth of their ambitions.
Jojen's eyes sought his again. "There is more. Its Ser Barristan Selmy. He heard the whispers that Rhaegar's son lives and what you have done to the Mountain and his men. He knows they are true and he waits at Castle Darry, anxious for word of you."
That name hushed the chamber at once. Ser Barristan the Bold. The knight of a hundred tales, the man children pretended to be when they played at swords. Even Celtigar, sour as he was, pressed his lips together and looked uncertain.
Aemon felt his heart stir. He knows in path of past life, the old knight had bend his knee in far-off Essos, swearing fealty to Daenerys. Yet here, in this turning of the wheel, Ser Barristan lingered here in Westeros, waiting for him.
The lords stirred again, louder this time. Words like warg and greenseer and sorcery carried through the room. They were of the old world, of tales told by nans and maesters alike, but never to be believed.
Monford Velaryon lifted a hand for silence, though his own face betrayed a rare awe. "Sevens above. Your Grace, if what he says is true then no raven will ever outpace such a gift. We could hear of wars, plots and allies before the ink dries on parchment."
None dared speak hearing that. Lord Celtigar swallowed audibly and Lord Guncer Sunglass muttered a prayer through clenched teeth. Only Ghost seemed unmoved, his red eyes fixed unblinkingly on the boy.
"Then send word," Aemon said at once, his voice decisive, turning to Monford. "A raven to Castle Darry. Tell him the prince awaits him at Drift—"
Before he could finish, Jojen spoke again, cutting across him with quiet finality. "Dragonstone."
The chamber stilled again.
Aemon turned his head slowly, his gaze questioning. "What?"
"Dragonstone, Your Grace," Jojen repeated. "Stannis Baratheon has left it. Your ancestral island awaits. And someone waits there for you."
Aemon stared into the boy's green eyes with his red eyes, a gift from the Old Gods, he concluded what Jojen was saying was true. He looked to Monford. The Lord of Driftmark inclined his head, silent and resolute in his Kings decision.
Rising from his seat, Aemon placed a hand on Ghost's white fur, grounding himself in the presence of his direwolf. He looked around the chamber at all of them.
"Then it is decided," he said, his voice carrying the finality of command. "We sail tomorrow to Dragonstone."