Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, master of laws, judge acting in the name of Jaehaerys the First, the Old King…
Oh, forget it.
Aemon himself could scarcely recite that endless string of titles without stumbling over one or two, yet the weight those titles placed upon his shoulders was enough to leave him struggling for breath.
Aemon pressed both hands to his temples.
For reasons he could not quite name, irritation had been steadily building within him all morning.
At last, he raised his head and glared darkly at the man seated across from him.
Lord Martyn Tyrell was the younger brother of Leo Tyrell, the present Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South.
Martyn himself currently served the realm as master of coin.
He sat upright opposite Prince Aemon, entirely oblivious to the prince’s growing impatience, and continued droning through an interminable financial report.
Aemon hardly needed to listen.
He already knew what was written in it.
Yet another proposal to improve the appearance and sanitation of King’s Landing.
Another Stark in the North pleading poverty and begging the Iron Throne to dispatch grain.
The Vale, meanwhile, would doubtless request that the Crown send dragonriders to help clear out the mountain clans.
The stormlords and the Reachmen whose lands bordered the Dornish Marches would make much the same demands.
All of them had one thing in common.
Whether they wanted relief or war, they wanted the Crown to pay for it.
Gold dragons.
Gold dragons.
And still more damned gold dragons.
Seven hells.
Those Dornish savages are raiding the borders again.
Perhaps we did not hurt them badly enough last time?
If Lannisters truly shit gold, I would gladly advise Father to appoint one as master of coin.
Lord Tymond Lannister’s younger brother is said to be capable.
So long as he is less of a fool than the man sitting before me, I will count it an improvement.
The wicked thought offered Aemon a fleeting moment of amusement.
Florence Fossoway, where have you gone?
Why are you not here helping Martyn?
I cannot endure your husband much longer…
Knock.
Knock.
At the sound, Ser Clement Crabb opened the doors to the council chamber.
Prince Baelon stood beyond them.
Smiling, Baelon inclined his head courteously toward Martyn.
“Lord Martyn.
My brother and I have a matter of some secrecy to discuss.
Might I steal a little of your time with him?”
Martyn immediately rose and bowed to the prince.
“Of course…
Prince Baelon.
By all means.
I was just about to…”
He attempted to gather the mountain of documents spread across the table.
Instead, his sleeve swept half of them onto the floor.
“Ser Clement, forgive me.
Please lend Lord Martyn a hand,” Aemon said, gesturing to the Kingsguard knight.
Ser Clement nodded to Prince Aemon and moved to Martyn’s side, helping the flustered master of coin retrieve the scattered parchments.
Baelon hooked an arm through his elder brother’s and began pulling him away.
Aemon could only sigh as the two princes left the council chamber side by side.
“Thank you, brother…” Aemon said with a bitter laugh.
“Had you not rescued me, I fear I might have smashed my cup into Martyn’s face before he finished.”
He allowed Baelon to drag him toward the gardens.
“The gardens?” Aemon glanced at his brother suspiciously.
“What secret matter is so important that it can only be discussed out here?”
Only after Baelon had drawn him deep into the garden did the younger prince lower his voice.
“Brother…
do you remember that whore?”
Aemon’s smile froze.
“She gave birth.”
Aemon said nothing.
Baelon hesitated before continuing.
“Will you go and see him, brother?
The brothel’s madam says she bore a lovely little boy.”
He paused.
“A healthy little boy with silver hair and purple eyes.”
Aemon slowly raised his head and looked at his brother.
A strange, indescribable expression crossed his face.
A beautiful newborn boy lay quietly in the midwife’s arms.
Several wisps of silver birth-hair clung to his little head.
The midwife gave his bottom a light slap.
“Waaaaah!”
Another slap landed upon the babe’s backside.
The boy grunted indignantly several times before finally releasing a loud, vigorous cry.
Solanna laughed and took the child from Willow’s arms.
She lifted him high and examined him carefully.
The babe had inherited his mother’s high-bridged nose.
He was larger than most newborn boys and seemed sturdier as well, his tiny limbs already possessing a surprising strength.
Then Solanna looked into his eyes.
Purple.
The word echoed silently through her mind.
Delighted, Solanna kissed the babe’s little face, entirely unconcerned by the traces of birthing fluid that had yet to be properly wiped from his skin.
Her fascination did not last long.
Soon enough, boredom crept over her.
She handed the boy to a wet nurse who had been waiting nearby.
“Take good care of him.
This little boy is the treasure of our brothel.”
Solanna chuckled and patted the wet nurse on the shoulder before turning to leave.
“Wait, Solan—ah, no.
Queen.”
The girl who had prayed for Jaenara from the corner of the room called after her.
Her name was Ciss.
The instant the first word left her mouth, Ciss realized she had overstepped.
She hurriedly lowered her head and spoke with exaggerated respect.
“My Queen…
Jaenara…
what are we to do with her…
her body?”
Solanna stopped.
(Note: Solanna is a woman of mixed Summer Islander and Lysene blood.
In her homeland, everyone is a prince or princess, and she calls herself a queen and madam of the brothel)
Her expression became dangerous.
Step by deliberate step, she approached Ciss.
Then she raised one hand and lightly patted the girl’s cheek.
“Why?” Solanna asked softly.
“Does our little princess wish to go and keep her sister company?”
Ciss began to tremble.
Yes.
She feared Solanna.
Jaenara had screamed and begged Solanna to spare her.
At first, there had been desperate pleading.
Then came curses and shrieked insults.
After that, only sobbing…
And then…
Ciss shuddered.
At Solanna’s command, they had all been forced to hold Jaenara down by her arms and legs.
No one had expected such astonishing strength from so small and delicate a girl.
It had taken five or six of them together to barely restrain her as she thrashed wildly, struggling again and again to tear herself free of the bed.
Fortunately, Willow—the midwife—seemed to have performed such an operation many times before.
One cut.
That was all it had taken for Jaenara to fall still.
Poor little Jaenara.
At least she had not suffered any longer.
With the ease of long practice, Willow had cut through flesh and tissue and drawn the baby boy from his mother’s body.
Ciss had shared a room with Jaenara.
Jaenara had once told her what she intended to name the child in her belly.
Daemon?
Or was it Daeron?
Ciss could no longer remember.
Jaenara had also shown her the cloth dragon she had sewn for the babe with such delight.
The workmanship had been clumsy, and the green thread she had chosen to decorate it looked almost laughably mismatched.
It had been meant for her child.
I’m sorry, Jaeny…
You were a kindhearted, beautiful little girl.
I was only jealous of you.
Jealous because Solanna always stopped those fat-bellied merchants and nobles from coming near you.
Jealous because you were given clean, costly dresses to wear every day.
Jealous because Solanna herself chose the jewels you put around your neck.
And that cloth dragon…
It was actually rather sweet.
Solanna watched Ciss’s trembling body with cold eyes.
Soon, even that ceased to amuse her.
She waved a hand dismissively.
“Take her to the docks.
Stuff her into a sack and throw her into the Blackwater.
Or feed her to the dogs, you fool.
If it pleases you, you may even send her off to become a pot of brown.”
Solanna walked out of the chamber.
“A lord will be coming later.
Mind your tongues, and do not let foolish ideas creep into your heads, my princesses.”
Her voice drifted back through the doorway.
“And clean this room quickly.
Dispose of the corpse.”
Every girl in the chamber lowered her head.
Every girl save the wet nurse and the midwife.
Ciss lowered hers as well.
“Yes, my Queen.”