The cog docked on Dragonstone, and Galbert Ryswell breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of dry land and something to eat that's not salted fish. The gangplank is lowered and he and his companions stride towards it. A figure approaches the dock with long white hair. As she grows closer his breath catches in his throat at the sight of her. He always thought is wife was among the most beautiful women in the world, but as disloyal as it is, he cannot deny she pales next to this person. Beside him, Dallen Glover lets out a soft oath. "I knew people said the dragonlords of Old Valyria were more beautiful than any, but I had no idea…" He shakes his head and steps forward. "My lady, thank you for welcoming us so promptly." He says, giving her a shallow half-bow. Galbert follows suit, offering his own thanks, and their companions – a half-dozen guards and a maester learned in the history of Essos – give their own, deeper bows.
The woman smiles thinly. "Indeed…come, I suppose I should offer you bread and salt. That is the custom, is it not?" She steps back, gesturing to a pair of servants to come forward with both. Galbert glances at them curiously, noticing they have tattoos resembling scales on their arms. Taking the bread and salt with another murmur of thanks, he takes the opportunity to study the woman who greeted them a little more. She is dressed similarly to a lady of House Mormont, except the material is different and the cut more elegant, but he is fairly certain she has some sort of armor under it. A gambeson of some kind, perhaps? Whatever it is, she seems perfectly comfortable in it, and similarly is not bothered by the blade at her side. She is most certainly a warrior, a skilled one he would guess, but there is a sense of something even more dangerous around her that makes Galbert's skin crawl. A glance as his companions suggests that they feel it too. As they are escorted towards the castle, it takes an effort of will to shift his attention from the dangerous woman to the holdfast of the dragonlords. An immense volcano towers above the castle, rumbling like thunder, lava leaking slowly down the side where it is caught in channels of black stone which vanish into the rock going…somewhere. High above it several small shapes cavort and dance, almost seeming to collide with each other. Spurts of flame and smoke occasionally flash in their midst.
The castle itself seems as immense as Winterfell, but far less welcoming. Great obsidian braziers rise on the path to the gates, fire in a thousand colors flaring steadily. Enormous stone dragons grace the walls, curling around each other, coiling and interweaving. Rubies and emeralds and sapphires glisten from their eyes, almost seeming to watch him as they reflect the light of the many fires. The gates stand open, solid slabs of stone carved with more dragons, fourteen of them, each with gemstone eyes in fourteen colors. As he passes by, he feels a sense of weight like he does in the godswood, and for a moment his skin burns. Inside are two ranks of men lining the halls, as tall and broad-shouldered as the elite of the Winterfell guard, wearing armor just as heavy patterned to look like the scales of a dragon.
Inside the castle are even more dragons, carved into the floor, woven into tapestries, and at every intersection of halls there stands a dragon statue, although none have gemstone eyes or the sensation of watching. Galbert and Dallen share a glance as they pass what must be the thousandth dragon. There's nothing wrong with being proud of your ancestry, but this is a bit…much. One might go so far as to call it excessive. Finally, they arrive at the throne room, where much to their relief the dragons are kept to a minimum here. The throne itself is a simple construct of black stone, meant for a large man. It is empty at the moment, but beside it stood another beautiful woman, although hers was a gentler sort.
The first dragonrider took a place on the opposite side of the throne and the second spoke. "Greetings, my lords. It is our honor to host such distinguished and noble guests from such an ancient kingdom. I am Lady Rhaenys, wife of Lord Aegon." Her voice is high and sweet and her excitements seems completely genuine. There is a silence, the two women exchange glances and the first sighs. "I am Visenya." She says in an impressively flat, dry voice. Rhaenys sighs as well, then turns her attention back to the Northmen. "I do apologize…my sister has many skills, but she oft-neglected her courtesies to hone them. Please, do not take offense, and allow me to show you the warmth of Dragonstone." Galbert can only nod as she claps her hands, seeming delighted. "Servants will show you to your rooms then, and tonight we shall feast."
The next days are something of a blur. Everywhere Galbert sees dragon scale tattoos and stone dragons. A veritable horde of them flies above the ever-rumbling Dragonmont, wild and untamed, occasionally stealing sheep from fields or fish from the drying rack. Two large ones- Vhagar and Meraxes – rest in specially constructed pens, which the two dragonriders visit with him several times, even taking him for an occasional ride. The scale-armored guards seem to be as common as carved dragons and could easily match the Winterfell guard for quality, although he is uncertain about quantity. While Lady Rhaenys is a gracious host, whenever he speaks with Visenya he suspects she would rather be dueling others in the yard or in her chambers with a broad-shouldered man named Orys she seems to use as a gofer. Strange sounds and smells often come from those chambers, sulfur and smoke the two most prominent. Aegon is never present. No one will say exactly where he is, describing him as "taking care of old debts in Essos."
Only once does Lady Visenya seek out the Northmen, ruthlessly interrogating them about prophecies. Rhaenys also asks about them, but far more politely. Her manners are possibly as dangerous as Visenya's blade, or possibly even her dragon's claws, drawing out endless hints about the North from him and his companions, often without even revealing her efforts.
Long talks in the night between Galbert and Dallen confirm that they share suspicions – the Targaryens are planning a conquest. And having seen the immense power of the dragons, they wonder if they will succeed. Just before they leave, Rhaenys presses a gift into their hands. It's a long black candle with razor-sharp edges. "Should your king wish to speak with us again, tell him to wet the edge with blood and we shall call to him when we hear." She promises with a smile. "I hope we meet again, you were such charming guests…"
Galbert's nausea on the way back up isn't purely due to the rocking of the ship. It is also due to nightmares of dragons burning weirwoods and castles and the Wall itself.
