The corridors of Dragonstone looked big and grim with dark dragon shaped architecture throughout the castle. Its black stones lit by torches that sputtered in sconces held by dragon claws. As Aemon and the lords of the Narrow Sea followed Shiera Seastar deeper into the fortress, the sound of armored feet echoed through every corridor. Rank upon rank of Unsullied stood guard at each turn, spears held straight with their spiky bronze helms gleaming dully in the torchlight. Their absolute discipline and uncanny stillness were awe inspiring to everyone, and Aemon found himself thinking of his aunt, Daenerys. The sight made him remember when he had seen them last time here, when he had come to asks her help against the coming Long Night. It was as though Daenerys's shadow lingered in the woman before him who wore a red lacquer mask and white armor, though she seemed more dangerous than her.
Behind him, whisper rippled among the Narrow sea lords. Lord Monford Velaryon, never one to keep his tongue quiet when unease pricked him, finally gave voice to what many wanted to question but had hesitated.
"My Lady, are you truly the daughter of King Aegon, Fourth of His Name?" Monford's voice carried the skepticism of a trader who had spent a lifetime hearing half-truths and false claims.
Shiera halted mid-step and turned her masked face toward him. Though the red lacquer hid her features, her words dripped with mocking mirth. "Do you wish me to prove it by blood magic, Lord Velaryon? Would that ease your doubts?"
Her tone was light, but the threat beneath it made more than one man shift uncomfortably. Even behind his iron discipline, Aemon thought he saw the tightening in Monford's throat.
Before the tension could stretch further, Aurane Waters, ever bold where discretion might have served better, tilted his head toward the young woman trailing silently behind Sheira. "And who might you be, young lady?" he asked, his voice blunt and curious.
Aemon's head turned at once. His red eyes fixed on her, and the breath caught in his chest. The girl had the same round flat face, the same dusky skin kissed by sun, and eyes like molten gold he had seen once before, when his path had crossed Daenerys's. She had died a needless death in the battle of Kings landing, after which everything went awry. But this girl looked younger, and unburdened by the weight Daenerys had carried. The name escaped his lips before he could stop it.
"Missandei… of Naath."
The young woman froze, her golden eyes widening, startled hearing her name from unrecognized man. For a moment, silence hung in the corridor. Then, slowly, she inclined her head. "Yes, Your Grace," she said, her voice soft as silk, though they trembled faintly.
The lords behind him exchanged confused looks, their brows knit. None of them had heard the name before, and none could fathom how their young king might know this foreign girl's identity without introduction. Aemon did not explain. Some truths spoken to allies, as he had experienced, carried more dangers than it in hand of enemies.
At last, Sheira led them through the gallery to pass through the middle and inner walls, to a tower, The Stone Drum a massive tower which serves as the central keep of Dragonstone. The Chamber was vast and the air smelled of smoke and brimstone, and at its center lay the Painted Table. Hewn from a single block of wood, carved and smoothed until every hill and river, mountain and coast of Westeros was rendered in detail, its surface gleaming with painted forests and seas. It was a map of a kingdom that would be whole again.
Standing beside it was a man frail with age, his back bent and his maester's chain hung loose on his thin neck, its links showing many speciality he had completed with years of study at Citadel. His hands trembled faintly upon his staff, yet he stood straight enough when Sheira gestured toward him.
"This is Maester Cressen," she said. "Long in service to Lord Stannis Baratheon and Dragonstone."
Aemon regarded him quietly, then inclined his head. "Tell me, Maester. Do you wish to serve me or would you rather return to the Citadel and lay down your burden?"
The old man's voice rasped, but there was wisdom beneath it. "If it please Your Grace, I wish to remain. My hands may shake, but my mind is clear enough, and I can yet manage my duties."
The lords stirred, some in doubt, some in dismissal. Lord Celtigar's face wrinkled as he leaned forward with scorn. "And what of Stannis Baratheon? You bent your knee to him for a lifetime. Shall we trust the loyalty that turns like sellswords worth, now that he is gone from here?"
Cressen's answer was measured, his words unbending even beneath the scorn. "A maester's oath is not to the man but to the castle, My lord. And my duty lies in service to the lord or the king who holds it. I served Lord Stannis at Dragonstone as I served Lord Steffon before him at Storms End. I shall serve Your Grace now, if you will it."
Aemon studied him, searching his face with his crimson eyes. At length, he inclined his head once more. "So be it."
He turned then, not to Cressen but to the table, to the lords of the Narrow Sea who hovered uncertainly around it, their doubts and hopes mingling in equal measure. His voice carried the steady weight of command.
"Sit," he told them. "We have to a Conquest to plan about."
And as they drew out chairs around the map of Westeros at the Painted Table, first used by Aegon the Conqueror himself, they bore witness to a new king taking his seat in its shadow.