In the 91st year After the Conquest (AC), in King’s Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms of the Iron Throne.
Two men clad in black cloaks stood side by side before a tightly shut door.
Strands of silver hair had escaped from beneath their hoods, stubbornly betraying their identities.
They lingered there, hesitant to enter—or rather, one of them did.
The taller man wore an expression of deep discomfort.
His black cloak concealed most of his face, yet the portion left uncovered was enough to reveal the turmoil written across his features.
The other man merely stood beside him with a wine cup in hand, watching helplessly.
“Baelon, I should not be doing this…” Aemon drew a deep breath.
“If I truly take this step, how am I ever to face Jocelyn and Rhaenys?”
His voice grew heavier.
“Am I to tell her that her father doubted himself?
Or suspected that something might be amiss with her mother?
That merely to seek an answer, I betrayed the sacred vows I swore to her mother before the Seven?”
Baelon raised his wine cup and sighed.
“Brother, do you remember how many namedays you’ve seen?”
“Thirty-six,” Aemon answered at once, irritation flashing across his face.
“I am not yet old enough to have gone senile.”
He gave Baelon a light kick in the arse.
Yet the moment the words left his mouth, Aemon seemed to realize something.
Bitterness crept across his face.
He slumped down beside the door and buried his face in his hands.
“Jocelyn and I are still young…
Vaegon even sent formulas from the Citadel by raven.
Tonics meant to strengthen a man’s seed…” His voice trembled despite his efforts to steady it.
“We will have a son.”
Baelon sighed.
Finding a place beside his elder brother, he sat down and wrapped one strong arm around Aemon’s shoulders.
“Brother,” Baelon said helplessly, “have you ever considered that the difficulty might lie with Jocelyn?”
Aemon gave no answer.
His face remained hidden behind his hands.
Baelon did not wait for one.
“Brother, Jocelyn…
forgive me.
I love and respect her dearly.
But if my memory serves, Lady Jocelyn is seven-and-thirty now.
Grand Maester Elysar examined her, and he believes she may…”
Aemon’s body suddenly began to tremble.
Baelon hurriedly changed his wording.
“…have very little hope of bearing another child.
And Father…” He paused.
“His voice remains commanding.
His body still appears strong.
Yet we both know he grows older with every passing day.
Brother, you are the Prince of Dragonstone.
You are heir to the Iron Throne.
You and I both know that one day you will sit the Iron Throne, but as things stand, you have only—”
“Rhaenys is my heir.”
Aemon lowered his hands and shoved Baelon’s arm from his shoulders, cutting him off before he could finish.
“When I ascend the throne, I will name my daughter Princess of Dragonstone.
My daughter will become a great queen.
Do you question her ability?”
Aemon’s pale violet eyes were red now as he stared fiercely at his younger brother.
Baelon met his gaze without flinching.
“And after her?”
Aemon fell silent.
“Rhaenys has already wed Lord Corlys,” Baelon continued.
“Their children will bear the name Velaryon, not Targaryen!
Yes, we could have Rhaenys’s eldest son take the Targaryen name when he inherits the Iron Throne.
But Corlys hides the heart of a jackal beneath all his grandeur.
At times, I even suspect he deliberately seduced our little princess and made Rhaenys fall in love with him…”
“Seven hells, they had scarcely been wed before he wanted Rhaenys to mount her dragon and follow him to war, all so he could rid the seas of pirates interfering with his family’s trade!”
Baelon’s voice hardened.
“Aemon, Corlys means to use this marriage to fill House Velaryon’s coffers with the blood of the dragon.
He wants a share of the power of dragonriders.
Perhaps even influence over the succession to the Iron Throne itself!”
He gestured toward the closed door.
“The realm needs a male heir.
She is only a whore from Pentos.
Try it.
At worst, you sire another bastard.
And if…”
Baelon sighed once more.
“If nothing comes of it, there will still be time to seek Vaegon’s aid again.”
Aemon stared into his brother’s pale violet eyes, so like his own.
His breathing quickened.
Then, without warning, he snatched the wine cup from Baelon’s hand and drained it in a single swallow.
He thrust the empty cup roughly back at his brother, wiped his mouth, and shoved open the door with all his strength.
Baelon gave a soft whistle and reached out to pull the door shut behind him.
“Good luck, brother,” he murmured, so quietly that the words were scarcely audible.
Aemon stepped into the chamber.
The scent of perfume was overpowering.
He immediately felt uncomfortable, drawing several sharp breaths through his nose before waving a hand through the air as though he might drive away the strange fragrance.
“Have I used too much perfume, my lord?”
A girl’s voice came from the bed.
Her Common Tongue carried the thick accent of a Valyrian bastard tongue, yet her voice itself was soft and delicate, gentle as spring water warmed beneath the sun.
It flowed pleasantly into Aemon’s ears.
“My apologies, my lord.
It is a floral essence made from spice-flowers brought from the Dothraki Sea.
Those who smell it for the first time often find it somewhat overwhelming…”
At last, Aemon raised his head and looked toward the “whore” his brother had found for him.
One glance was enough to leave him stunned.
Silver hair.
Purple eyes.
The young woman had pale, flawless skin.
A red coverlet concealed most of her body, though a glimpse of snowy flesh remained exposed, making what was hidden all the more alluring.
Her features were exquisite, and she watched Aemon with a shy flush upon her face.
Viserra…
For a moment, Aemon remembered the younger sister he had lost far too soon after her fatal fall from a horse.
Perhaps, in beauty alone, this supposed Pentoshi whore was even more striking than Viserra had been.
“Did you say something, my lord?”
The girl tilted her head slightly, confusion touching her lovely face.
Two pairs of violet eyes met across the chamber.
Aemon shook his head.
Slowly, he walked to the table beside the bed and poured himself another cup of wine.
“My…
my servant told me you came from Pentos?”
He swallowed a mouthful of wine and stared at his own reflection in the polished bronze mirror.
Damn you, Baelon…
For some reason, anger stirred within him.
Yes, the face in the mirror was still handsome.
Yet fine wrinkles had already begun to gather at the corners of his eyes.
Perhaps it had begun after Father lost four beloved daughters, one after another.
Or was it five?
That depended on whether one counted Princess Saera, the whore-princess who had spread her “good name” across half of Essos.
Daenerys.
Daella.
Alyssa.
Viserra…
The Seven seemed especially cruel to the daughters of House Targaryen.
Saera’s flight had been the final blow to break the aging king’s heart.
Yes, Father claimed that Saera was no longer his daughter, but Aemon knew the truth.
Both he and Mother still loved her.
Baelon had spoken truly.
Father’s voice remained filled with authority, and his body still seemed strong, but the king no longer possessed the same vigor when attending to the affairs of the realm.
He named me master of laws and entrusted me to pass judgment in the king’s name.
Every day I bury myself beneath mountains of petitions and case records, settling disputes between quarrelsome vassals…
Had age truly come for him so soon?
Aemon stared vaguely at the man in the bronze mirror.
“I never knew my father,” the young woman was saying.
“But my mother told me that my grandsire’s forebears were…
She also told me once that my father was a captain from Volantis.
My lord?
Are you listening?”
Her voice pulled Aemon’s thoughts back into the chamber.
“What is your name?”
He turned and looked once more at the beautiful young woman.
“My name is Jaenara, my lord.”
She lowered her eyes, her expression meek and deferential.
Jaenara…
Aemon silently rolled the Valyrian-sounding name across his mind.
A Volantene?
Do Volantenes give their daughters names such as that?
He dismissed the thought.
It mattered little.
She was only a whore.
Though she did seem rather young…
Aemon tried to resist the fragrance hanging thick in the air.
He failed.
He could feel a strange fire of desire rising from deep within his belly, climbing higher with every breath.
“My lord!”
Aemon lunged toward the bed.
“My lord…
please…
be gentle…”
Jaenara’s startled cry soon softened into a coquettish laugh.
And after that…
Certain things occurred quite naturally, things better left undescribed.
The bed shook violently.
Again and again, sounds emerged from the chamber that would have made even a hardened man blush.
Outside, Baelon had pressed himself against the wall, shamelessly listening.
A quiet snicker escaped him.
Before long, however, he mastered his amusement.
Straightening, the prince turned and walked away.
Good luck, Aemon.