The chamber smelled of old parchment and oak smoke, a hall turned to a lord's council room. The banners of House Tarly hung limp against the stone walls, red huntsmen on a field of green, their eyes seeming to watch the lords who argued beneath them.
Randyll Tarly sat in his chair, stern of face, his hair dark streaked with iron-grey. His fingers drummed against the oak table, keeping pace with his thoughts. To his front on the left, Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove leaned forward, wide of shoulder, his gold-and-green doublet straining at the seams as he listened. Lord Androw Ashford sat on the right, younger and sharper, his thin lips curled with distaste as though every word spoken here carried the stink of betrayal.
"It is folly," Tarly said at last, his voice sharp, breaking the quiet. "First we were asked to bend a knee to Renly, the king's youngest brother, a boy in a green cloak who thought charisma and roses made a crown. Now we are asked to kneel to Joffrey, the incestuous get of Cersei and her brother. I may have been no friend to Eddard Stark in the rebellion, but I knew the man. I crossed swords with him in word and in battle. He was no liar, and if he named those whelps bastards, then by the gods, that's what they are."
Rowan grunted in approval. "Well said, Randyll. Robert made us kneel for his crown once. I will not do it again for Cersei's golden lions."
Ashford leaned forward, his hands clenched. "And yet, what of Olenna Tyrell? The old witch plots endlessly. She would see her granddaughter wear the crown of Westeros, and with Eddard Stark now in chains, there is no wolf to block her rose. They will press and connive until Margaery sits in a queen's seat, whether it be beside Renly, Joffrey, or some other puppet."
The lords exchanged dark looks, their words circling back to the same poisoned chalice.
"Stannis," Rowan said heavily, "has the stronger claim by law and blood both. But he is iron without honey, and men do not rally to a lord who gives them no sweetness. He is as unbending as his Dragonstone castle walls, and such men often break."
"And what of the girl across the sea?" Ashford pressed. "Daenerys, with her dragons. I hear whispers in Oldtown that she yet lives, a Targaryen princess with the blood of kings. And if she truly has dragons…" He left the words to hang, heavy with meaning.
The chamber fell to silence, broken only by the sound of steps coming from outside.
It was then the door opened. A soldier stepped inside, helm tucked under one arm, his eyes flicking nervously across the gathered lords. He bowed low to Randyll Tarly.
"My lord, there is… a boy at the gate. A lad of fifteen, he says he must speak with you. He travels with a beast, a wolf the size of a pony."
Rowan frowned. "A wolf size of pony, a direwolf from the North, then? Some Stark child?"
Ashford pushed back his chair, already half-rising. "Send him away. We've no time for—"
"Wait." Randyll lifted a hand, his eyes narrowed, sharp as spearpoints. "Bring him in. I would be a fool not to hear a lad who arrived this far to meet me."
The soldier bowed again and withdrew.
Moments later the door opened once more, and the lad entered. He wore a dark cloak, its hood drawn low, a cloth wrapped about his lower face. Beside him padded the wolf—vast, white as winter snow, its eyes burning red. The beast moved with silent grace, its bulk filling the chamber with a presence none could deny.
The lords stiffened at once. Rowan's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw. Ashford muttered a curse, his eyes wide. Even Randyll Tarly, who had faced battlefields without flinching, felt his heartbeat quicken.
The boy stopped before the table. He inclined his head once, briefly. "My words are for Lord Tarly."
Randyll studied him, eyes narrowed. Something in the boy's bearing unsettled him—the calmness was cold and deliberate. "Speak freely, lad. Whatever you have to say, you may say before them as well."
For a moment, the lad said nothing. His eyes glinted red beneath the hood. Then, without haste, he lifted his hands and drew away the cloth covering his face. The hood fell back, and his features were revealed.
The room seemed to freeze.
Rowan's mouth fell open, Ashford went pale as chalk and Randyll Tarly himself was on his feet before he realized he had risen. The boy's face bore the high cheekbones and white hair that spoke Valyrian ancestry, yet there was something northern too, something Stark—the long and solemn face. And those eyes, those uncanny eyes, red as the leaves of a weirwood tree.
The wolf sat as a silent guard, its own gaze the same red flame.
The boy's voice rang again, bringing out the truth Lord Eddard Stark had long kept hidden.
"My name is Aemon Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, son of Lyanna Stark. Blood of dragon, blood of wolf. Tell me, lords of the Reach—are you still true to House Targaryen?"
The sound of breathing quickened, and no man spoke.