"What are you talking about, lad?" Barristan demands with in a straight forward voice as he stepped forward with same blunt care he always had. Jojen Reed did not flinch, but merely tilted his head head to him with his ever distant green eyes, when a resounding roar echoed in the halls of the ancient castle.
A roar rolled across the island that rattled the glass in the windows. Monford Velaryon was the first of the lords to move. "Outside!" he barked, and the small court spilled out of the chamber though they did not have to run far.
The Dragonmont, the ancient active volcano seemed to breathe out grey and black and black smoke as always but at the ground level just outside the caves there stood a dragon, its scales red as blood, threaded with thin silver lines. It's head seemed not as big as the skull Barristan had seen of Balerion in the lower levels of Red Keep but its fierce horns jutting out of skull made him remember that this thing surely isn't less deadly then any who were alive back then. The air here smeeled heavy of brimstone, sulfur, and salt. Three figures slid from between its massive neck and down its flanks though his eyes remained still on the man with white hair.
Lord Velaryon's grin was a thing Barristan had never seen ever on the grim and stone faced man and it was ladden with profound relief that made his throat ache with distant and forgotten memory. "Did everything go well, Your Grace?" Monford asked, his voice high with the pride of a man who seemed ready to gamble whole of his House fortunes and future to settle the mentioned man on the throne.
While the dragon dipped its heavy neck near enough to the King to see the intricate, jagged pattern along its brow. The young king reached out, to it with his gloved hand and laid flat against the flank, caressing its reptilian shape which seemed to bring out the purr of the ancient mosnter.
Aemon nodded, pulling his hand away only when the dragon's immense heat that had warmed his fingers to the bone. "It did, Lord Monford."
Barristan's feet carried him close without his bidding. Old oaths rose in the back of his throat, it had been far too long since he had seen a face and character like that. He had been waiting, a knight in an age when many had forgotten what a true King and Knight looked like. He had earned many things in life glory, shame, ruin but the heart of it him stayed the same, a man who must stand when his king bids. He fell to one knee without thinking. "My liege," the words came out of him with real meaning after so long, "Aemon, First of his name, by the Old Gods and the New, and by the sword I bear, I swear that I shall be your shield and your sword. I shall guard your person and your secret until my last breath. I shall heed your commands, defend your honour and fight your battles. I shall not flee from your foes, nor betray your trust, nor suffer any harm to come to your grace while life remains in me. My long search for a true king is over. My king, I give you my life, my name, and my last years. I am yours, now and always."
There seemed a beauty to the oath he gave, in a world where a man who has kept his vows longer than most men keep their wives. Barristan's oath drew the eyes and ears of many lords present closer, pulling at deep cords even he could not see. Aemon felt the weight of Barristan's words as much as he feels the weight of the legendary sword at his hip, as he nodded in acceptance of it.
One by one, the lords of Crackclaw Point, then Rykker of Duskendale, stepped forward. Their pledges started with their knees on the stone floor clumsy but passionate and true. The mark of house, the iron in their eyes as they swore, and Aemon took each oath with the grave patience as he knows how precious such things are. They did not make vows lightly. These were men who have bent the knee and kept faith with the Dragon Kings through rebellions and betrayals. Their voices were rough and their pledges far shorter than Barristan's but no less binding as they swore, not with high-sounding poetry, but with the blunt truth that simple men carry: their shields, their ships and their sons. One by one they knelt on the volcanic-rock, the stone stained by salt and sulfur, and promising what little they had.
They moved inside then, into the Chamber of the Painted Table where stood the table showcasing entire of Westeros. Lords and captains crowded around it and leaned over the painted coastlines. Ser Barristan took his place behind Aemon, steel at his hip and despite his years, the man seemed like a living wall.
Barristan's gaze moved over the room. Most of the company were those who had been Targaryen's core loyalist in old stories: Brunes, Crabbs and Pynes of Crackclaw peninsula and Velaryon, Celtigar and Sunglass from Narrow sea. Oberyn's presence still hooked his attention, as did the red masked woman who watched over King's shoulder with total stillness. He had questions, did the King sign a pact with Dorne, about the masked woman who shadowed by the king's shoulder with the deep caution — yet the moment was not his to fill and the King had matters to speak.
Aemon did not start with speech right now he wanted numbers clean and final.
"Commander of Royal Army," he said, and the said commander stepped forward, he turned to the man he had not expected to see, the familiar black-clad figure who had led the Unsullied army under a different queen last time, though he continued all the same. "What strength does the our Army hold?"
Grey Worm answered without ceremony and precise. "Fifteen thousand battle-ready, Your Grace. Five thousand more in final training."
Aemon let the numbers settle into his mind. He measured the number that will be necessary to continue with the war as well as hold the conquered territory. He then turned to Lord Monford, "What of the Narrow Sea?"
Monford's hands folded neatly in his lap, and spoke with clear mind. ""We might muster twenty-five thousand men in total, Your Grace, but many are sailors first, soldiers second. Of those, perhaps only fifteen thousand will fit for service upon the land in a pitched battle."
Aemon nodded, adding the numbers to Royal army necessary to sail forward. Lord Gwayne Boggs with a raspy and hoarse voice started. "Cracklaw Point can raise eight thousand in a pinch, Your Grace" he said. The other lords muttered their assent in helping their King with whatever help needed. Their figures were least but held unquestioning loyalty to the dragons, but Aemon saw the risk in counting them in.
"It would be too much to ask of your houses, My Lords. You are closest to the capital." he started. "If word of your cooperation leaks and Tywin Lannister hears that the Crackclaw Point Lords have bent a knee to the Targaryen, your lands will be scorched with your homes sacked before you put the first mail shirt on. I ask you only to hold your borders and coasts, and guard your people. The rest of us will do the cutting. Keep your men at the ready for a time of need, but do not march."
They nodded, the minor Lords had big voices but hearing the cold logic from their King kept them to preserve their sons and wives.
Aemon paced the painted map with a finger, tracing the lines between Kings Landing and Dragonstone. "Dragonstone and rest of islands of Narrow sea will be garrisoned," he said, "Lord Monford you will hold the defense of whole it with ten thousand of the Royal Army: five thousand battle-ready and five thousand under training with five thousand of your own men."
Monford's hesitated for a moment, he wanted to ride with King Aemon and claim the honour of first battle but duty outweighed his desire. He knew the cost if Dragonstone were to fell to Lannister hands and he certainly didn't want the lions to sully this land just like they did to Kings Landing. He bowed and nodded his head, the understanding and the cost plain on his face.
Aemon then turns to the others present. "The rest of us leave for Gulltown tonight," he said. "Gulltown, to take the Vale and break the line between north and south if we must. Maester Cressen," he turned to old Maester of Dragonstone, laying hands flat on the table, "send ravens to every major house in Westeros. Tell them this, House Targaryen, calls for their fealty, those who refuse shall learn what fire and blood mean."
The maester dipped his head and started writing the message on the parchment though the scratch of quill seemed terribly loud. Barristan's hand tightened on his sword, his King had called out for war and he felt the king's burden in the slope of his shoulders and in the way the youth's jaw set.