For as long as Aemon could remember, the air of King’s Landing had always seemed steeped in this same overpowering stench.
Once again, he found himself riding down that street of infamous renown—the Street of Silk.
Aemon needed only the faintest sniff to distinguish the odors hanging in the air: animal dung mingled with the foul wastewater dumped from the tanneries, together forming a reeking miasma fierce enough to assault the senses.
Grandfather, if you had known the air of King’s Landing would one day smell this foul, would you have chosen another place to build Aegonfort?
No.
Perhaps he ought to blame Maegor the Cruel instead.
You were so obsessed with building the Red Keep.
Could you not have troubled yourself to build King’s Landing a proper system of aqueducts and sewers while you were at it?
Aemon suddenly realized that something had been wrong with him of late.
Somehow, he had grown increasingly prone to melancholy and idle reflection.
He turned his head and glared fiercely at Baelon, who rode beside him beneath a black cloak much like his own.
With a sharp command, Aemon urged his fine horse into a faster pace.
Baelon stared after him in bafflement.
What in seven hells had he done now?
He hurriedly beckoned to the Kingsguard knight riding behind them in plain clothes, then spurred his own mount forward to catch up with his brother.
The last time I came here…
it must have been a year ago.
No.
More precisely, ten moons and some days.
That had been after a terrible quarrel with his wife.
My poor Jocelyn…
At the thought of his wife and his beloved daughter Rhaenys, bitterness tightened around Aemon’s heart.
Rhaenys, you are always so proud to tell everyone that your father is powerfull and brave.
If you ever learned of the mistake I made…
We’re here.
The thought passed silently through Aemon’s mind.
He looked toward the tightly closed doors ahead.
Night had not yet fully fallen, yet the brothel was unnaturally quiet.
It seemed the proprietor had deliberately closed the establishment to ordinary customers in anticipation of an important guest.
“Ser Ryam Redwyne,” Baelon said, his voice carrying a faint note of entreaty, “would you be so kind as to wait outside for a short while?”
The brothers had intended to slip secretly from the Red Keep.
Unfortunately, they had been caught by the elderly knight—and the old king himself.
Despite every excuse and evasion Aemon and Baelon could devise, King Jaehaerys had insisted that the old knight accompany them to ensure the safety of his heir and younger son.
Ser Ryam raised his head.
He looked at the sign hanging above the establishment.
The Blue Pearl.
The name was written in both the Common Tongue and a Lysene dialect of bastard Valyrian.
Then the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard lowered his gaze and looked at the two brothers standing before him.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“As you command, Your Graces.
Yet, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I must still remind you that as the heir to the throne and a member of the royal house, it is hardly proper for you to openly—”
Ser Ryam stopped.
For some reason, his thoughts turned to the last king who had sat the Iron Throne.
Maegor.
He compared the deeds of Maegor the Cruel with the activities of the two princes standing before him.
The old knight sighed.
Without another word, he turned his back on them.
One hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his sword as his vigilant gaze swept the narrow alley ahead.
“Thank you for your understanding, Ser Ryam,” Aemon said gratefully.
He stood before the door and hesitated for a moment.
Knock.
Knock.
A side door opened.
A chestnut-haired girl peered out.
“My lords.
Please, follow me.”
She glanced toward their horses.
“Our stables can tend to your mounts, my lords,” she added.
A flicker of anticipation suddenly rose within Aemon.
It was immediately smothered beneath guilt.
In their youth, he and Baelon had both been wild enough.
They too had lingered in this very alley, losing themselves in its pleasures…
Yet at least they had never sired a bastard.
Or perhaps no whore had ever dared carry a babe to the Red Keep, proclaim it the bastard son or daughter of a prince and demanding suitable treatment.
I sincerely hope those girls all drank moon tea.
The thought came to Aemon without warning.
How many times had he taken that girl on that night?
Still, it had only been one night.
And wine had played no small part in it.
Afterward, Aemon had never returned to the alley.
He had never sought her out again.
The endless burdens of the realm had kept him running from one duty to the next until he scarcely had time to breathe.
What was her name again?
Jaenara?
“The boy is inside, my lord.”
Ciss bowed respectfully to Aemon.
“And our Queen.”
The instant the words left her mouth, Ciss realized how they might sound to the two noblemen before her.
She hurriedly added an explanation.
“Forgive me, my lords.
Our…
mistress 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.”
Aemon’s expression did not change.
His fists, however, clenched unconsciously.
Baelon merely smiled gently at Ciss, silently forgiving the lowborn girl’s offense.
Ciss quickly turned and hurried away.
A brothel madam dares style herself a queen?
Aemon’s thoughts were far less calm than his face.
“Brother, I think I’ll keep watch outside.”
Baelon lightly patted Aemon on the back.
Then, imitating Ser Ryam, he turned his back to the door.
Aemon placed his hand upon the handle.
He opened the door.
Candles had been lit throughout the chamber, filling it with warm, brilliant light.
Aemon narrowed his eyes and needed several moments to adjust to the brightness.
There was a woman inside.
A silver-haired woman.
And within the swaddling clothes in her arms rested a child.
Is that her?
Solanna rose to her feet and offered a shallow bow.
“My ‘lord,’ I beg you to forgive this foolish woman for failing to offer you a proper courtesy.
As you can see, I am holding a child.”
Aemon’s pale violet eyes settled upon Solanna.
Jaenara.
The name suddenly surfaced in Solanna’s mind.
Only a few hours ago, the poor girl had died because Solanna had given the order to cut the child from her womb.
Damn her.
Solanna cursed furiously within the privacy of her thoughts.
There was only one game that never ended.
The game of thrones.
You stupid little girl.
I fed you well.
I dressed you well.
I gave you fine things.
All because I meant to sell you for a fine price.
And instead of being grateful, you dared curse me with dragonflame before you died.
Did you truly believe the ravings of that mad mother of yours?
If your ancestors were dragonlords, then I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Ha!
The Whorehouse Queen!
Yet Solanna was still alive.
Jaenara was dead.
And through Jaenara’s child, Solanna would slowly climb the ladder of power.
The thought filled her with satisfaction.
“Let me see him.”
Those were the first words Aemon spoke after entering the chamber.
There was none of the authority he displayed in council meetings.
None of his usual composure.
His voice was dry.
“Let me see the child.”
Solanna hurried toward him in small, quick steps.
“Look, my lord.
Such a lovely little boy.
Look at that silver-white hair.
And his eyes…”
She tried to wake the babe by patting him.
Then she reached down and attempted to force one of his eyelids open with her fingers.
Aemon frowned slightly.
Solanna immediately noticed the change in his expression.
She closed her mouth.
Without another word, she passed the swaddled babe into Aemon’s arms.
Aemon held the child beneath the candlelight and studied him carefully.
Yes.
The self-proclaimed brothel queen had spoken truly.
The boy possessed silver-white hair.
Under the light, there was even a faint hint of platinum to it.
Aemon knew that shade.
It was his own.
The babe had a high-bridged nose and finely formed features.
More importantly…
He was a boy.
A strange sweetness blossomed in Aemon’s heart.
Then an icy chill pierced straight through his body.
He is a boy.
He is a bastard.
Perhaps Solanna had been too rough with him moments before.
The boy opened his eyes.
He did not cry.
He did not fuss.
Instead, he simply stared with open curiosity at the “giant” who now held him so gently in his arms.
Aemon stared back.
The boy had dark purple eyes.
A beautiful pair of purple eyes.
Aemon’s breath caught.
My son’s eyes.