Aemon was playing with his son.
Oh, my sweet Daeron…
Babes always grew with astonishing speed.
Scarcely a few moons had passed, yet Daeron already seemed two or three times the size he had been at birth.
Aemon came to visit him often.
He had given Solanna another considerable sum of coin, enough to arm and equip several knights.
To the brothel madam’s credit, she had kept her word.
Daeron was exceedingly well cared for.
His son had a private chamber of his own, far removed from the brothel’s patrons, and even a wet nurse devoted solely to his care.
Solanna, however, was becoming greedy.
From time to time, she would drop subtle hints, asking Aemon to grant her certain “conveniences.” In return, she promised to weave a hidden web of informers throughout King’s Landing on his behalf.
“I have no interest in making a brothel madam my spymaster.”
That had been Aemon’s answer.
He had not missed the brief flash of anger upon Solanna’s face.
Since that night, Aemon had never experienced another dream like the one of Daeron, Blackfyre, and Vhagar.
Following the death of Lord Manfryd Redwyne from illness, Corlys had naturally succeeded him as master of ships.
Traditionally, that office had been held by the head of House Velaryon.
Yet when the previous Lord Velaryon was elevated by Aemon’s father to serve as Hand of the King, allowing one house to hold two seats on the small council had seemed rather improper.
Thus, the office had instead gone to the Lord of the Arbor, whose fleet was the second largest in the realm.
These days, Rhaenys and Corlys were forever clinging to one another.
Whenever a meeting of the small council ended, the two of them invariably went off together to enjoy King’s Landing.
Rhaenys did not even spare a little time to visit her poor old father.
The thought left a sour taste in Aemon’s mouth.
His goodson was two years older than Aemon himself.
During all those years spent sailing the seas, Corlys had surely left a few bastards scattered from one port to another.
No, Aemon.
You are merely searching for excuses for your own betrayal of Jocelyn.
Aemon’s thoughts returned to Daeron’s future.
The brothel madam had concealed that fleeting change in her expression with remarkable speed, but Aemon had still seen it.
Whatever else might be said, a brothel was no place for a child to grow up.
Perhaps after I ascend the throne, I could bring him to the Red Keep.
Or perhaps Daeron could be fostered in the castle of some trustworthy lesser lord and trained at arms.
If the boy showed talent with a sword, then when a place eventually opened in the Kingsguard, Aemon might see him raised to the white cloak.
Daeron could guard his sister.
Or perhaps…
Aemon had never seriously considered legitimizing the boy.
At least, not yet.
He sighed again.
His father had taken to spending more and more time with his grandchildren, leaving Aemon to shoulder an ever greater burden of royal affairs.
There was always too much work.
Petitions, disputes, judgments, councils, and a thousand other matters chased him from dawn until dusk.
After finishing a day’s work, Aemon often slipped away from the Red Keep.
Only when he was with Daeron could his mind truly grow still.
Only here could he enjoy a rare moment of leisure and experience, once again, the feeling of being a father.
He wanted to be a father again.
Viserys and Daemon were good boys.
But they were his brother’s sons.
Aemon cradled Daeron in his arms.
He bent down and gently kissed the babe upon the brow.
Daeron seemed to be growing sleepy.
His eyelids began to droop, struggling valiantly against one another.
A knock sounded at the door. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Aemon pursed his lips in displeasure.
He gently returned Daeron to his cradle and rose to answer.
“My apologies for disturbing you, my lord.”
The visitor was a young errand boy from the brothel.
“A lord asked me to bring you a message.
He says the old man wants you home at once.
There is an urgent matter he must discuss with you.”
Aemon took out a silver stag and handed it to the boy as a tip.
The child accepted the coin with a delighted grin and bowed deeply.
“You are most generous, my lord.
May you live a hundred years.”
Aemon ruffled the boy’s hair and closed the door.
I have to go.
But I will come back to see you, my son.
Suddenly, Daeron began to wail.
His tiny arms and legs flailed wildly.
Aemon hurried back to the cradle and lifted Daeron into his arms.
He gently patted the babe’s back, looking entirely at a loss.
Whenever Aemon came to visit, Solanna always arranged for the wet nurse to feed Daeron beforehand.
The child rarely cried.
Usually, he merely stared at Aemon with those purple eyes, curiously studying him while allowing his father to stroke his cheeks and play with him.
At least, during the two moons Aemon had been visiting him, Daeron had never once screamed with such heartbreaking desperation.
One of Daeron’s tiny hands closed tightly around Aemon’s forefinger.
Aemon tried several times to pull it free.
He could not.
The little rogue is surprisingly strong.
But I truly have to go.
“Men of Myr?” Prince Baelon looked doubtful.
“As far as I know, Lord Barth, the Seven Kingdoms have certainly had their disputes with the Free Cities of Essos, but we are hardly openly at war.
Why, then, would a host of Myrish soldiers dare land openly upon lands sworn to the Iron Throne?”
“They are desperate exiles with nowhere else to go,” Corlys Velaryon answered.
House Velaryon and House Targaryen shared the same origins.
Both had come from the Valyrian Freehold to settle in Westeros.
In truth, the Velaryons had reached the continent even before Aenar Targaryen the Exile.
Driftmark was the ancient seat of their house.
When the exiled Targaryens arrived upon Dragonstone with their dragons, House Velaryon had bent the knee and become their sworn vassals.
The blood of old Valyria still showed strongly in the Velaryons, granting many of them silver hair and purple eyes.
Years spent sailing beneath foreign suns had darkened Corlys’s once-pale skin.
At nine-and-thirty, he stood in the very prime of a man’s life, vigorous and commanding.
His fingers tapped a steady rhythm against the table.
“Prince Baelon, civil war broke out in Myr a year ago.
The former First Magister refused to recognize the result of an election.
His supporters incited riots throughout the city and attempted to regain power through poison and assassination.”
Corlys’s fingers continued their measured tapping.
“The war is largely over now.
The defeated rebels fled to the Stepstones, hoping to gather fresh men and rebuild their strength.
Instead, the Archon of Tyrosh joined forces with local pirates and drove them out.”
He turned slightly toward the Old King, who sat lost in thought.
“Beldro Nerykos, the man who led the rebellion, was executed by the First Magister of Myr along with every male member of his family.
Those who landed upon Tarth are no more than leaderless remnants of a broken army.”
“My fleet and I await your command, Your Grace.”
“Dragons are swifter than ravens or warships.
We need a dragonrider.”
Septon Barth, the current Hand of the King and one of Jaehaerys’s oldest and dearest friends, spoke next.
“Your Grace, Lord Boremund Baratheon has already sent ravens summoning the stormlords and calling their levies.
Although these brigands have occupied the eastern part of Tarth, Lord Cameron Tarth still holds Evenfall Hall.
The invaders lack the strength to push farther inland and plunder the island at will.”
Barth folded his hands.
“We need more information.”
Baelon was plainly eager for battle.
A fierce light burned in his eyes.
“Let me go, Father!
There is no need to raise a great host.
I will ride Vhagar and join the Evenstar.
Together, we can burn these invaders to ash!”
“No.”
Every head turned toward the speaker.
Prince Aemon.
“My lords, we must first consider whether another power stands behind these men.”
Aemon rested one arm upon the table and stroked his jaw thoughtfully.
“By any measure, the Seven Kingdoms are a poor choice of refuge for defeated exiles.
They could have fled to Pentos.
Or gone to the Disputed Lands and waited for another opportunity.”
His eyes narrowed.
“A broken remnant of a defeated army has instead chosen to provoke dragonlords who command living dragons.
That is plainly not a wise decision.”
Aemon looked around the council table.
“I fear there may be another power supporting them.
Dorne, perhaps.
Or one of the other Free Cities…”
“Lord Barth is correct.
We need more intelligence.”
Aemon straightened.
“I will ride Caraxes ahead to Tarth and meet Lord Cameron myself.”
He turned toward his younger brother.
Baelon was clearly displeased that Aemon had rejected his eager offer to fight.
“Lord Corlys, take your fleet to Storm’s End first.
We will need ships to transport the soldiers.”
Then Aemon looked directly at Baelon.
“Brother, I leave the protection of the fleet to you.
Once the army reaches Tarth, you and I will fight side by side and drive these Myrmen back into the sea.”
Baelon’s displeasure immediately faded.
Jaehaerys nodded approvingly.
Aemon had always been a rational child.
Why?
That seemed to be his favorite question.
He possessed courage no less than his brother’s, yet unlike Baelon, Aemon preferred to consider every possibility before committing himself to action.
The Old King approved of his heir’s plan.
“We shall proceed according to the Crown Prince’s plan, my lords.”
Jaehaerys smiled.
“I will remain in King’s Landing and prepare a victory feast for your return.”
“This should be an easy victory,” said Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.