The sea winds howled as the fleet slipped into the harbor of Dragonstone. The air carried the tang of ash and smoke here, for the great fortress loomed in front of them like a beast was located on the volcanic island. Aemon stood at the prow of his ship, his white hair whipped across his face, Ghost silent at his heel. His eyes red and unblinking scanned the sight before him.
As he saw from Myrish tube the harbor was not barren. Rows upon rows of soldiers stood like statues, their helmets gleaming dull in the gray light. The discipline of their ranks, the silence of their bearing, he knew at once what he was looking upon.
The Unsullied.
They should be with Daenerys across the Narrow Sea. Not here, his mind raced for any logical reason they could be here for, though his face betrayed nothing. Behind him the lords of the Narrow Sea muttered in unease, Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Massey men who had thought they came to a quiet isle to prepare for a conquest. Now they shifted nervously, their hands straying to sword hilts.
He heard Monford Velaryon murmur, "This is an ambush, Your Grace."
But he ignored it, his eyes fixed on the figure that emerged from the soldiers.
Her figure, lithe and serpentine, which moved with a dangerous grace. Her hair were silver, and she wore a thin armour, white as bleached bone. For an instant he thought it was Daenerys and his heart almost jolted remembering his past action. But as she came closer, he saw the truth as she looked to be taller than most men. Her shoulders were broad, but not bulky, hinting at the power in her arms and her waist was narrow, giving way to strong and powerful thighs. Beneath the polished steel of her breastplate, one could only imagine the taut muscle and lean strength honed by years of training. Over her face was a mask of red, though her eyes shone through them, one dark blue, and another bright green.
Aurane Waters stepped forward, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. "Your Grace—" he began, his voice cautious and ready to cut down the stranger if need be.
The woman stopped within arm's reach, her gaze fixed on Aemon. Her mismatched eyes held no deceit but only fierce and unwavering devotion. For a long moment the harbor was silent but for the crying of gulls and the lapping of waves. Then, with a grace of cat, she bent the knee.
Steel clanked against stone as the Unsullied moved as one, kneeling behind her, thousands folding to the ground in perfect unison. A ripple of awe passed through the gathered lords. Monford Velaryon swore under his breath, his expression showing he had never seen anything like this before. The famed Unsullied army of Essos here, on Westerosi soil sworn but to the boy with white hair and red eyes.
When the woman spoke, her voice carried clearly across the harbor.
"By blood and shadow, I, Sheira Seastar, swear my fealty to Aemon of House Targaryen, the rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Gasps followed her words like a wave. Sheira Seastar, the name was a legend, spoken by maesters and bards, filling the parchments and songs with her indulgence in sorcery and beauty. The lords shifted uneasily, doubt and fear etched across their faces, but Aemon's red eyes never wavered. He searched her face, deep and relentless. He had long learned that with his red eyes he could see through falsehoods. Yet here, he found none.
Her oath rang true.
Slowly, Aemon inclined his head. "Rise, then."
She stood, and with her, the Unsullied rose, a thousands of spears and steel flowing upward.
"These men," Sheira said, her mismatched eyes flicking toward the rows of soldiers, "are yours now, my king. They await your command."
Aemon looked upon them, rank after rank of the Unsullied, their faces expressionless, their bodies unbroken and trained from birth to obey. He turned back to Sheira. "Not mine as slaves," he said, his voice carrying across the stone harbor. "I will not call men my own who are chained. Any among you who wishes to depart may do so. The ships that brought me here will carry you wherever you wish. You are free."
A moment of silence followed. No man moved. Not one broke rank. Their stillness was an answer in itself.
Aemon nodded once, sharply, his expression grave. "Very well. From this day forth, you are no longer Unsullied. You are my Royal Army. Not bound by whips but by choice."
A murmur rose from the lords behind him, astonished by such turn of events here. Yet none dared oppose him. The sight of thousands kneeling to their prince, and now standing as his, had stripped their tongues bare.
Far away, in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the night was broken by the crash of wood and iron. Doors splintered under the attack mailed fists and heeled boots. Swords were unsheathed as men poured into chambers lit by guttering candles.
Oberyn Martell had been drinking, his chest bare, when the door of his chambers burst open. He rose like a striking serpent, but a dozen blades were already pointed his way. His daughters, the Sand Snakes, were seized before they could reach for their weapons and spears. Ellaria Sand cried out as rough hands dragged her back, her hair torn loose from its pins.
Oberyn sneered, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "What is the meaning of this?" His voice was sharp, mocking even in face of steel pointed at him. "Has the lion grown so fearful it must creep into my bedchamber at night?"
The men parted, and into the room stepped Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King. At his side moved Varys the Spider, soft-footed and smooth-faced, his hands folded in his sleeves.
"What is the meaning of this?" Oberyn spat the word. "Tell me, and tell me truly, before you face the wrath of Dorne."
Varys's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. His eyes glimmered, unreadable. "You are not as clever as I once thought, my prince." he said softly.
The torchlight flickered. And the game in King's Landing took yet another turn.