Chapter 1 (Patreon)

The sun was slowly sinking behind the hills, painting the sky over Sicily in shades of orange and crimson. The courtyard of the old villa, surrounded by olive trees and a low stone wall, was quiet. The servants had long since gone about their business, and the only sounds were a dog barking somewhere in the distance and the creak of a cart's wheels as it crawled along the dusty road toward the village. In the middle of the courtyard, on a simple wooden chair, sat an old man in dark glasses with an old jacket thrown over his shirt. Despite the warm evening he was cold, and every so often he adjusted his collar with trembling fingers. On the ground beside him lay a small dog that kept lifting its head to look at its master, as if it sensed that something was wrong with him.

That old man was Michael Corleone. Once, his name alone had been enough to silence powerful men in New York, Las Vegas, and Havana. Senators had sought his favor, judges had feared his wrath, and the heads of the other families had preferred not to cross him. Now he was only a lonely old man sitting in the courtyard of his house and watching the sunset, because there was nothing else left for him to watch.

Lately Michael had often thought about his life. Before, he had never had time for it. There had always been matters that demanded his attention, people who had to be heard, decisions that could not be put off. But all of that was behind him now, and he had far too much time for memories. He went over his life from beginning to end, turning over every decision and every deed in his mind, and with each passing day he understood more clearly that everything he had lived for had not been worth the price he had paid for it.

He had achieved everything he had wanted. His family had become one of the most powerful in America, he had made enough money to last several lifetimes, he had been respected and feared, and even the Church had once welcomed him as a benefactor. But now he understood that he had paid for all of it with the lives of those he loved. And Michael had understood this once and for all on the evening he held his daughter in his arms on the steps of the opera house in Palermo.

He still remembered every last detail. He remembered how they had come out of the theater after Anthony's performance, how Mary had walked beside him in her beautiful dress trying to talk to him, how the people around them had smiled and discussed the production. He remembered the gunshots, which rang out so suddenly that at first he did not even understand what had happened. He remembered how Mary had looked at him with bewildered eyes and quietly called to him before falling onto the steps. The bullet meant for him had struck his daughter. His little Mary had died in his arms, and he had sat on the cold stones, clutching her to him and screaming as he had never screamed in his life. He would have given anything that day. All his wealth, all his standing, all the power he had amassed over decades, even his own life, if only his daughter could have lived. But no one offered him such a deal.

People say that time heals. Michael had heard those words many times, from priests, from friends, from people who tried to comfort him. But years had passed since then, and the pain of losing Mary had never faded. It had lodged itself in his heart and would not let go, day or night. Sometimes he dreamed that Mary was alive, that she was laughing and calling to him, and then in the morning he would wake and for a few moments could not remember that she was gone. And then he would remember, and it would all begin again.

Michael adjusted his glasses and looked at the olive trees growing along the wall. His father, Vito Corleone, had been born not far from here, in the small town whose name had become the family's surname. It was from here that he had fled to America as a child, escaping the men who had killed his father, his mother, and his brother. And it was here that his son had returned to die. Michael thought there was some bitter mockery of fate in that.

All through his childhood and youth, Michael had seen what his father did. He had seen the people who came to his father asking for help and kissed his hand. He had seen Luca Brasi standing in the corner of the study, silently waiting for orders. He had seen Sonny drawn deeper into the family business with every passing year, and how much Sonny enjoyed it. Michael had loved and respected his father, but he had never wanted to become like him. He had not wanted to be a criminal, and he had not wanted other men's blood on his hands. He had wanted to live an honest life, wanted his name to be associated with something other than the Corleone family. That was why he had left his father's house and gone to war, even though his father was against it and could easily have arranged for him not to be drafted.

In the war he had had to kill. He had shot men he had never seen before and knew nothing about. But back then he had told himself that he was doing it for his country, to protect the world from fascism. He had come home a hero with medals on his chest, and his father had looked at him with pride, even though he did not approve of his choice. Michael had thought then that his life would take a different path, that he would marry Kay, become a teacher or a lawyer, and visit his parents on Sundays.

But whether it was his fate, or whether his love for his family and his need to protect them proved stronger, he became his father's true son after all. When his father was shot in the street and survived only by a miracle, Michael understood that he could not stand aside. He volunteered to kill Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey, the man who had broken his jaw outside the hospital doors. He remembered that evening well, in the small Italian restaurant in the Bronx. He remembered going to the restroom, feeling behind the toilet tank for the gun Clemenza had hidden there, coming back to the table and sitting down with such a roaring in his head that he could not hear what Sollozzo was saying. And then he stood up and fired. First at Sollozzo, then at McCluskey. It was the first killing he had committed not for his country, but for his family. After that, there was no turning back.

He was sent to Sicily to wait out the storm. There he met Apollonia, and for a while it seemed to him that he could live a different, simple life there. She was young and beautiful, and she loved him without knowing who he was or what he had done. They married, and he was happy in a way he would probably never be again. But his family's enemies found him even there. Apollonia got into the car that had been meant for him and died in the explosion before his eyes. She died in his place, just as, many years later, his daughter would die in his place.

And then Sonny was killed. His elder brother was gunned down at a tollbooth, and Michael, returning to America, took his place. At first he told himself it was temporary, that he would only help his father and lead the family out of danger. Then he told himself he would make the family legitimate, that within five years they would be completely out of illegal business. For years he repeated the same thing: that everything he did, he did to protect his family. He killed, ordered killings, lied, betrayed, and destroyed other people's lives, and each time he found a justification for it. And then one day he looked at his reflection in the mirror and understood that the thing he had feared most in the world had already happened. He had become like his father. Even worse, because he had gone much further than Vito Corleone ever had. His father had never been as ruthless and calculating as his youngest son had become. And the family for whose protection he had committed all those atrocities had either left him or died.

But what tormented him most, alongside Mary's death, was the death of Fredo.

Fredo had been his elder brother. Weak, clumsy, resentful of the whole world for always being passed over, but still his brother. His father's son and his mother's son. When Michael learned that Fredo had betrayed him and helped the men who tried to kill him in his own home, he could not forgive it. In his pride he decided that betrayal could only be washed away with blood, even if it was his brother's blood. Michael still remembered with disgust what a hypocrite he had been then. At their mother's funeral he embraced Fredo and let him believe he had been forgiven. Fredo wept on his shoulder, while Michael looked over at Al Neri and gave him a short nod. He had left his brother alone only so that their mother would not have to mourn the death of another son. But as soon as she was gone, he sent Fredo out on the lake to fish with Al Neri. And he himself stood at the window of his house on Lake Tahoe and heard the shot ring out over the water.

How wrong he had been then, and how badly he had deceived himself. He had had so many other paths. He could have exiled Fredo, sent him somewhere far away and forbidden him to return, punished him in any way he chose, but instead he had done the most terrible thing a man can do. He had killed his own brother. How many times in recent years had he returned to that day in his mind and imagined stopping Al Neri, walking down to the dock, embracing his brother, and telling him that despite everything Fredo had done, he forgave him. Michael would have given a great deal to go back to that time and set everything right. Many years later he made his confession to Cardinal Lamberto in the Vatican and for the first time admitted aloud that he had killed his brother, his mother's son and his father's son. He had wept then like a child. But it had not made him feel any better.

After Fredo's death, he destroyed his marriage to Kay with his own hands. She left him and took the children, and for a long time afterward he could not understand that he himself had driven her to it. For many years his relationship with his children remained cold. Anthony never forgave him for Uncle Fredo's death, though he never said so outright. Of his two children, only Mary truly loved him, despite all his flaws. She never reproached him for who he was, and she always sought his attention, even when he was too busy to give it. And it was for that very love of her father that his poor girl paid with her life. If she had not been standing beside him on those steps, if he had never taken her with him to Palermo at all, she would be alive now.

After Mary's death, Kay turned away from him for good, and his relationship with Anthony, which had only just begun to mend, was ruined forever. Michael had lost everyone for whom he had built his empire. Everything he had achieved in his life now tasted of poison, choking him with every breath. In his later years he had sincerely wanted to leave illegal business behind and give his children an inheritance they would not have to shed blood for, as he had. He had invested money in legitimate business, dealt with the Vatican, tried to make the Corleone name respectable. But he had failed at that too. The past would not let him go, and in the end it took the most precious thing he had. Though he had become a respected don, he had never managed to become a good father or a worthy husband. All he had wanted was for the blood and violence he had inherited from his father not to touch his children, and to end with him. But it had turned out exactly the opposite.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the hills, and the courtyard sank into soft twilight. Michael felt a heavy, crushing pain building in his chest. It had come to him more and more often lately, but now it was stronger than usual. He did not call for the servants. He knew his time had come, and for some reason he felt no fear. The only thing he felt was regret. Michael understood that after death he would not be able to go where his daughter was now. Men like him had no place beside creatures as pure and good as his Mary had been. He would not see her again, would not hold her, would not ask her forgiveness. And that thought hurt him more than the pain in his heart.

The pain in his chest grew stronger, and the weight became so great that Michael found it hard to breathe. He tried to stand, but his legs would not obey him. His glasses slipped from his face, and he slowly toppled sideways, falling from the chair onto the dry earth. The little dog leapt up and began to bark, but Michael no longer heard it. The last thing he saw was the darkening sky above the olive trees, and then darkness fell.

He drifted in the darkness without knowing where he was. Around him there was no sound, no light, no sense of his own body. He could not tell how long it lasted, a minute or an eternity, because time here seemed not to exist. Michael did not understand whether he had died or not, and if he had died, why he could still think.

After what seemed to him an eternity, the darkness began to lift, and he felt ground beneath his feet. At first Michael thought he had ended up in a forest. Trees stood all around him, and fallen leaves rustled underfoot. But when he looked more closely at his surroundings, he realized these trees were unlike any tree he had ever seen in his life. Their trunks were white as bone and far thicker than the ones he was used to. Their leaves were the color of blood. And carved into the trunks were faces, old and sorrowful, from whose eyes a thick sap slowly seeped, like blood. Michael walked up to the nearest tree and stared for a long time at the carved face, trying to understand what it was and why he was seeing all this after death. It looked nothing like the heaven or hell the priests had told him about as a child.

The next moment a light wind blew, and the red leaves on the trees rustled. It seemed to Michael that in the rustling he could hear whispers, quiet and indistinct, as if hundreds of people were speaking at once somewhere far away. And then his whole life flashed before his eyes. He saw himself as a child on his father's knee, saw his mother cooking sauce in the kitchen, saw Sonny, Fredo, and Connie when they were still small. He saw the war, his sister's wedding, the restaurant in the Bronx, Apollonia in her white wedding dress, and the burning car. He saw Fredo in the boat on the lake and Mary on the steps of the opera house. Every moment of his life, good and bad, passed before him so clearly that it was as if he were living it all over again.

When the visions ended, Michael was on his knees in the middle of the forest, breathing heavily. And then he heard the voices. They came from everywhere at once, from the trees, from the earth, from the very air around him, and it was impossible to tell who exactly was speaking.

"He is strong of spirit," the voices said, and the rustling of the leaves grew louder, as though the trees were agreeing with one another. "He knows the price of blood. He knows the price of power. He is suitable."

Michael slowly rose to his feet and looked around, trying to see who was speaking to him. But there was no one, only the white trees with their weeping faces.

"Suitable for what?" he asked, and his own voice sounded strange to him, because for the first time since he had arrived here he had said something aloud.

The wind died, and for a moment complete silence fell over the forest. And then the voices answered him.

"To change the song of ice and fire."

Michael wanted to ask what that meant, but he had no time. A roar rang out above the forest, so loud and powerful that he thought he would be deafened. It was not the roar of any animal he could recognize, and it was unlike any sound he had ever heard before. The ground shook beneath his feet, and the next instant Michael felt a blow to his chest, as if a battering ram had struck him. He was thrown backward, the forest vanished, and once again he lost consciousness.

111 AC. King's Landing

The chambers of the heir to the throne in the Red Keep were stifling, even though the windows were open a crack. A fire burned in the hearth, maids kept bringing in clean sheets and pitchers of hot water, and the air was heavy with the scent of the herbs the maester had ordered burned in copper bowls. On the great birthing bed lay Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her silver hair, soaked with sweat, clung to her face and neck, her shift was drenched through, and her fingers gripped the sheets so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. It was the one hundred and eleventh year after Aegon's Conquest, and Rhaenyra was giving birth to her second child.

This labor was far harder for her than the birth of her firstborn, Jacaerys. That time it had all been over within a few hours, and by evening she had been holding her son in her arms. This time the pains had begun early in the morning, and now the sun was already sinking toward the horizon. Each new pain was stronger than the last, and Rhaenyra felt her strength draining away. Somewhere deep in her heart a fear had taken root that she had not felt during her first labor. She thought of her mother, Queen Aemma, who had died trying to give her father a son. Rhaenyra remembered that day and remembered how it had ended. And now she was afraid the same fate might await her.

Rhaenyra hoped for a boy. She would love this child whoever it was; of that she had no doubt. But a boy born of Laenor could give her what Jacaerys could not. He could secure her the loyalty of Rhaenys and Corlys. Rhaenyra had seen perfectly well how they looked at her firstborn. Jacaerys, with his brown hair and dark eyes, told everyone by his looks alone that he was not Laenor's son. He had neither the silver hair of the Targaryens, nor the violet eyes, nor the features of the Velaryons.

When Rhaenyra married Laenor, she had known that he did not care for women and preferred men. It had not troubled her overmuch, for only one thing was required of the marriage, and she had thought they could do their duty even without loving each other. But she could never have imagined that Laenor would be unable to give her a child. For six months they tried, and every time it ended the same way. Laenor would turn to the wall, mumble apologies, and then be unable to meet her eyes for a long while afterward. After those months Rhaenyra despaired and took a lover. That lover was Harwin Strong, heir to Harrenhal and commander of the City Watch. He gave her Jacaerys, and she never for a moment regretted her son's birth. But unfortunately Jacaerys had inherited far too much of his true father's looks. At court they began to whisper about the heir's wantonness, and the whispers grew louder and louder. And Rhaenys and Corlys, though they never once openly accused her, withdrew their support and held themselves cold and distant toward her.

As the Hightowers grew stronger at court with each passing year, Rhaenyra and Laenor understood that they needed a son of their own, or their position might worsen still further. So Laenor, through his friends, managed to obtain a special potion from Lys that was meant to help him perform his marital duty. Thanks to that potion, they were able to lie together several times. Thank the gods it proved enough for Rhaenyra to become pregnant. Otherwise she did not know how they could have gone on using the potion. Each time Laenor drank it, he could lie with her, but afterward he was tormented by sharp pains in his chest. He would go pale, clutch at his heart, and lie for a long time unable to rise, and Rhaenyra feared that one day the potion would simply kill him. Though there was no love between them of the kind the singers sing of, Rhaenyra loved Laenor in her own way and cared for him. He was a kind man and a good father to Jacaerys, and she did not want him to die because of what was demanded of them.

But now all of that was behind them. Now she was giving birth, and she prayed only that the child would be born healthy.

To her surprise, Princess Rhaenys was in the room along with the midwives and the maester. Laenor's mother had come of her own accord when she learned that Rhaenyra's pains had begun, and said that she wished to help and support her. This had greatly surprised Rhaenyra, especially after the estrangement that had grown between her and the Velaryons after Jacaerys's birth. But Rhaenys had not explained herself. She had simply sat down at the head of the bed, taken Rhaenyra's hand, and had not let go of it for several hours.

Rhaenys had not come only out of courtesy. In recent months she had noticed how her son had changed. Laenor smiled more often, spent more time with his wife, looked after her, and even saw to it himself that she ate well and rested. He had not behaved this way when Rhaenyra was carrying Jacaerys. Then he had been courteous and attentive, but there had always been a kind of guilt in his eyes that he tried to hide. Now he seemed truly happy. And Rhaenys had begun to suspect that perhaps this time her good-daughter truly carried her grandchild. And she wanted to see it with her own eyes.

A new pain made Rhaenyra arch against the pillows and scream. One of the midwives, an elderly woman with strong hands, bent over her and spoke in a firm voice.

"Push, Princess, push harder," she kept saying, holding the princess's knees. "I can see the head. A little more and it will all be over, I promise you."

"I can't," Rhaenyra moaned, falling back, tears running down her cheeks and mingling with the sweat. "I have no strength left. Seven hells, I can't anymore."

Rhaenys squeezed her hand tighter and leaned so close that Rhaenyra felt her breath on her cheek.

"You can," Rhaenys said quietly, but with such certainty that Rhaenyra could not help looking into her eyes. "You are a daughter of House Targaryen and heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra. You have done this once before, and you will do it again. There is only a little left, do you hear me? One more effort and you will be holding your child in your arms. Push."

Rhaenyra clenched her teeth, gripped Rhaenys's hand, and when the next pain came, she gathered all the strength she had left. With a final furious cry that seemed to shake the very walls, she at last pushed the child out and collapsed onto the pillows, breathing hard and feeling weakness flood her whole body.

Maester Gerardys quickly caught the infant, cleared its mouth and nose, and cut the cord. The room went quiet. Too quiet. The child was not crying and not moving, and Rhaenyra, noticing the silence, immediately raised herself on her elbows despite her weakness.

"What is wrong with my child?" she asked in a panic, her eyes darting from the maester to the midwives, her voice breaking on the last word. "Why is he silent? Maester Gerardys, answer me, what is wrong with him?"

Maester Gerardys did not answer. He took the infant by both legs, turned him upside down, and gave him a short slap on the buttocks. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the child shuddered, cried out in pain, and began to wail loudly, kicking in the maester's hands. Everyone in the room let out a breath of relief, and one of the young maids even pressed her hands to her lips and gave a quiet sob. Rhaenyra fell back onto the pillows and closed her eyes, feeling as though a heavy stone had been lifted from her chest.

Maester Gerardys examined the child carefully, counted the fingers and toes, checked that he was breathing evenly, and then handed him to the midwives, who at once began washing the infant in a silver basin of warm water.

"He is a perfectly healthy boy, Your Highness," Gerardys said, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, and a faint smile appeared on his usually stern face. "Strong and sturdy, though he gave us a bit of a fright. I congratulate you on the birth of your son, Princess Rhaenyra. And you, Princess Rhaenys, on the birth of your grandson."

Rhaenys gave the maester a short nod but said nothing. Meanwhile the midwives finished washing the child, swaddled him in soft cloth, and handed him to his mother. Rhaenyra took her son carefully and held him to her breast, and he stopped crying almost at once.

All this while Rhaenys had not taken her eyes off the infant's face. She moved to the edge of the bed beside Rhaenyra and leaned in to see him better. Thin wisps of silver hair were already visible on the boy's head, still damp from his bath and the birth. Rhaenys felt her breath catch. And when the infant opened his eyes and looked straight at her, she was utterly struck. The eyes looking at her were so like those she remembered from her childhood. The eyes of her mother, Jocelyn Baratheon. A clear, vivid blue, like the summer sky over Storm's End. And the boy's face was almost an exact copy of her son Laenor's face as a babe; she remembered it very well. Rhaenys also recognized something of Corlys in him, especially in the shape of his chin and nose.

She carefully reached out and tenderly stroked the cheek of the now calm child. The boy turned his head slightly toward her touch and kept looking at her with his clear eyes.

"My grandson," Rhaenys said softly, and there was more warmth in her voice than Rhaenyra had heard from her in all the years of her marriage.

Rhaenyra held her son even closer and looked at her husband's mother, then back at the child.

"He looks so much like Laenor," she said with a faint smile, though her voice still trembled with exhaustion. "Look, he even has the same chin. And his eyes, I have never seen such beautiful eyes."

"My mother had eyes like these," Rhaenys replied, without looking away from the boy. "I thought I would never see them again."

At that moment the door to the chambers was flung open and Laenor Velaryon burst into the room. His silver hair was disheveled, his doublet unbuttoned, and his face showed such agitation that it seemed he had spent all those hours standing outside the door, unable to find a moment's peace. Most likely he had. The maids hastily stepped aside to let him through, and Maester Gerardys frowned in disapproval but held his tongue. Laenor strode quickly to the bed and stopped, looking at his wife and the bundle in her arms.

Rhaenys turned to him with a smile he had not seen on her face since Jacaerys was born.

"I congratulate you, my son," she said, rising from the bed and giving him her place. "You have a son."

For a few moments Laenor stood motionless, as though he did not believe her words, and then he walked around the bed and sat down beside Rhaenyra on the other side. He bent over the infant and looked at him for a long time, then carefully touched the tiny palm with his finger. The boy at once closed his little fingers around it, and Laenor broke into soft, happy laughter.

"Thank you, Rhaenyra," he said, turning his gaze to his wife, tears shining in his eyes that he made no attempt to hide. "Thank you for giving me another son. I know how hard it was for you. I heard you screaming, and I thought I would go mad behind that door."

Rhaenyra gave him a tired smile and laid her hand over his.

"He was worth it," she answered quietly. "Look at him, Laenor. Our son."

"Ours," Laenor repeated, as though tasting the word, and looked at his son again. "Gods, he truly is mine."

Rhaenys watched them in silence for a while, then came closer to the bed.

"What will you name him?" she asked, looking from her son to her good-daughter. "Have you already decided what name to give him?"

Rhaenyra and Laenor exchanged a glance. Several months earlier they had agreed that if a boy was born, they would let Rhaenys name the child herself. It was a decision meant to strengthen their bond with her further and to show that they valued her and House Velaryon. Rhaenyra carefully raised herself up and held her son out to Rhaenys.

"Laenor and I decided long ago that we want you to be the one to name him, Princess Rhaenys," Rhaenyra said, looking her straight in the eye. "He is your grandson, and we would be glad for you to choose his name."

Rhaenys froze for a moment, clearly not expecting such an offer. She looked at her son, and Laenor gave her a short nod, confirming his wife's words. Then Rhaenys gently took the infant into her arms, held him close, and kissed his brow. She gazed at her grandson for a long time, and no one in the room dared to break the silence. Rhaenys thought of her father, Prince Aemon, who should have become king but was killed on Tarth by a crossbow bolt when she was still very young. Of how he had taught her to fly and how proud he had been of her. Of how, after his death, she had been robbed of her claim to the throne, which should have been hers by right of blood.

"Since that is your decision," she said at last, lifting her gaze to Rhaenyra and Laenor, "then let his name be Aemon. In honor of his great-grandfather, my father. He was a good man and should have been a good king. Let his name be heard within these walls once more."

Laenor smiled and looked at his son, who had closed his eyes again and seemed to be falling asleep in his grandmother's arms.

"Aemon Velaryon," he said slowly, as though testing how it sounded. "It's a beautiful name, Mother. It suits him very well."

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer, a young maid in a gown of House Hightower's colors entered the room. She dipped into a shallow curtsy, cast a quick glance at the child in Rhaenys's arms, and spoke, trying to sound confident.

"Forgive me, Princesses, my lord," she said, folding her hands before her. "Queen Alicent wishes to see the newborn and asks that the child be brought to her chambers."

Laenor's expression changed instantly. His smile vanished, his jaw tightened, and he slowly rose from the bed, looking at the maid in such a way that she involuntarily took a step back.

"No one has the right to demand that my son be carried anywhere when he is not yet an hour old," Laenor said coldly, and not a trace remained in his voice of the gentleness with which he had just been speaking to his wife. "My wife nearly died giving birth to him. The boy needs rest, not strolls through the castle corridors to satisfy someone's curiosity."

The maid was flustered, but she did not leave. It was clear that she had been ordered to return with the child and that she feared her mistress's anger more than Laenor's.

"But it is the queen's command, my lord," she replied more quietly, her eyes lowered to the floor.

Rhaenys said nothing. She walked around the bed to her son and carefully handed him his son, supporting the infant's head until Laenor had him properly in his arms.

"Hold your son, Laenor," she said calmly, straightening the edge of the swaddling cloth.

Then Rhaenys turned and walked slowly toward the maid. She did not raise her voice or make any sudden movements, but the girl went pale the moment the princess stopped in front of her.

"As my son said, no one will take my newborn grandson from this room," Rhaenys said in an even voice, looking the maid straight in the eye. "Not today, not tomorrow, not on anyone's command."

"But, Your Highness, the queen..." the maid began, nervously twisting the edge of her gown.

"Be silent," Rhaenys cut her off, and that single word was so cold that the maid shut her mouth at once. "Do not meddle in matters that do not concern you, girl. You will go to your mistress and deliver my words to her. If Queen Alicent wishes to see my grandson, let her come here herself and visit him, as is proper when a child is born into the family. And if something displeases the queen, she may bring her grievances to me in person."

The maid stood motionless for a few moments, then hastily dropped into a curtsy, mumbled something unintelligible, and all but ran from the room, forgetting to close the door behind her. One of the midwives silently went over and shut it.

Rhaenys stood by the door a little longer, then returned to the bed. Laenor was still standing with his son in his arms, and Rhaenyra was looking at her with surprise and with gratitude she made no attempt to hide. Little Aemon Velaryon, knowing nothing of what was happening around him, slept peacefully in his father's arms.