The moons passed without a sound.
Since the end of the great tournament, the Red Keep had regained a calmer face, less flamboyant, but never truly soothed. The banners, the pavilions, the people's cries had faded, replaced by silent routines, audiences, accounts, letters sealed with wax.
For Aemon, life went on… and changed everything at once.
He was now more than two and a half years old.
His legs were surer, his hands firmer, his tongue a little less clumsy. He spoke rarely, but his little sentences were clear, simple, precise. The adults found that "cute." None wondered how much he understood of what was happening around him.
He was content to watch.
And to be silent.
Many faces were presented to him.
Ladies-in-waiting who changed, passing lords, knights who came to ask a favor or offer their service. Some stayed in King's Landing for weeks, others vanished after a single dinner.
Among those who reappeared often, there was one whom even a child could not have forgotten.
Lord Jon Bettley.
A man in his forties, with brown hair already thinning, a belly a little too round for a true warrior, but clothes always impeccable. His manners were polite, his words well chosen, his smile never absent, but his eyes…
His eyes were empty.
Not like those of an idiot, nor like those of a broken man.
Empty like a room without windows: lit only from the outside.
— Your Grace, it is always an honor to serve in King's Landing, he often said to the queen with a perfect bow. The lands of the Bettleys are nothing beside the majesty of the Red Keep.
Rhaella answered with a polite smile.
Tywin Lannister sometimes regarded him from afar, with that golden look that seemed to dissect humans. No one truly took Bettley seriously.
A small lord of the Crownlands, without a great army or influence.
He was there.
Often.
Too often.
Aemon, for his part, knew neither his lands nor his full name. But he had noticed one thing: when Lord Bettley approached the princes, his heart beat too fast. Not from joy. Not from tenderness.
From nervousness.
And Aemon felt that, without knowing why.
It was Mellos who spoke of him one day before the queen.
— Lord Bettley seeks to make himself useful, Your Grace, explained the Grand Maester. He offers his services to manage part of the city's warehouses, lighten the burden of the Treasury, what do I know…
Rhaella had nodded, distracted, Aemon on her knees.
— Is he reliable? she asked simply.
Mellos had hesitated a brief instant. Just long enough for an attentive adult to notice.
Not enough to accuse him.
— He is… ambitious, he answered at last. But ambition is not necessarily a fault, not in a realm recovering from a war.
Ambition.
A word Aemon did not understand, but which he very quickly associated with Bettley.
The seasons turned.
The first dusty snows came to settle on the red roofs of the capital, melting almost at once in the mud of the streets. At the Red Keep, more braziers were lit, furs were added at the foot of beds, windows were shut better.
Aemon neared three years.
He spoke a little more, laughed more in Rhaegar's presence, sometimes imitated the gestures of the knights he saw training in the yard. He already knew he had to play the role of the child.
That did not prevent him from feeling that, under the surface of things, something was moving.
Servants whispered more often.
Guards changed posts more frequently.
Council meetings lasted longer.
Sometimes, he heard isolated words:
rarity,
expenses,
Dorne,
Laws,
loyalty.
He did not need to understand everything to guess the tournament had left traces.
It was in the heart of that winter that the new servant appeared.
Aemon noticed him the first day without knowing why.
A man neither tall nor short, neither young nor old, with smooth features, without visible mark of origin, except an accent he carefully broke when he spoke little. His black hair was short, his face closely shaved, and his eyes… his eyes were a dark gray, almost dull.
He wore the ordinary garb of the servants of the royal household, but something in his gait was wrong.
He walked too straight.
His movements were too fluid.
Too precise.
The other servants were submissive, quick, sometimes clumsy, eager to do well.
He, no.
Each gesture seemed measured.
Like a dancer playing at being a peasant.
Aemon met his gaze a first time in a corridor. The man stopped, bowed politely.
— My prince, he said in a neutral voice.
Aemon blinked.
He felt… a cold.
Not that of winter.
A finer, more inward cold.
Like when he had touched that red crystal in Mellos's room.
Like when he had brushed, with the tips of his fingers, something inhuman.
He passed on, held by the hand of his nurse, but kept the servant's face in mind.
He did not yet know that he had just crossed an assassin from Braavos.
The moons passed.
Aemon reached his three years. The ladies of the court organized a small celebration in their honor, his and Rhaegar's, with cakes and small dragon figurines carved from painted wood.
The king did not come.
The tournament had been his great offering.
The rest… belonged to the queen.
Ser Barristan Selmy, for his part, was there, in white armor, beside Ser Jonothor Darry. He watched the children play, but his eyes, sometimes, went toward the windows, the doors, the corridors.
Always on guard.
Aemon, since the incident of the tournament, saw Selmy differently. He did not know exactly what had happened then, only that in the presence of his father, of the crowd and that tumult, the white knight had seemed… solid.
Like a wall.
With time, he understood one simple thing:
When Ser Barristan was there, he felt a little safer.
That day, amid Rhaegar's laughter, the ladies' conversations and the clatter of plates, Aemon saw the gray-eyed servant in the shadow of a doorway.
He carried a tray of empty cups.
Their gazes met again.
The man barely bowed.
Then vanished.
The cold returned for an instant in Aemon's chest.
It was not right away.
The plot needed time, preparation, weaknesses.
Lord Jon Bettley continued to prowl the castle corridors, consulting parchments with Mellos, speaking of stewardship with stewards, of taxes with scribes, of ships with captains.
He always smiled.
But his hands sometimes trembled a little too much when he lifted his cup.
In the shadows, the servant from Braavos learned.
He learned the guards' rounds.
The queen's habits.
Meal times.
The comings and goings of the ladies-in-waiting.
The days Ser Gerold accompanied Aerys to Council.
The days Selmy was assigned to the princes.
He was not in a hurry.
This kind of work was never done in haste.
Aemon knew none of that.
He was only three years old.
He knew neither Braavos, nor the Citadel, nor the games of power that formed an invisible web around his family.
But he had eyes.
And instincts.
One night, as the moon rose above the city's roofs, he woke with a start.
Rhaegar slept deeply, mouth slightly open, one arm stretched toward him.
Rhaella was not in the room.
She had taken the habit, sometimes, of withdrawing a little later to her own apartments, an adjoining room, to read, pray, or simply breathe away from the weight of the crown.
Aemon heard a sound.
The kind of sound that had no place there.
A light clink, a rustle of cloth, a step one tried too hard to make silent.
He got up.
His bare feet touched the cold floor.
The door leading to the queen's chamber was not completely closed.
A thin thread of light passed beneath it.
He moved forward, heart beating too fast for such a small body.
A breath.
A voice barely audible.
A murmur.
— … just a few drops. No more. Without pain. Without trace.
Aemon reached out, pushed the door very slightly.
He saw.
The queen was seated at the edge of her bed, in a nightshirt, hair loose. She looked tired, but awake, speaking quietly with Lady Ellyn who was putting something away near the window.
On a small table, a carafe of wine had just been set down.
And beside it, discreet, almost invisible:
The gray-eyed servant.
He was pouring the wine into two cups.
His face showed nothing.
But Aemon felt his heart scream.
He did not know why.
He did not know how.
But everything in him shouted that something was wrong.
He took one more step.
The wooden floor groaned.
The servant flinched, turned his head slightly.
Their eyes met.
A fraction of a second.
A heartbeat.
Time seemed to freeze.
— Aemon? Rhaella asked, turning toward him, surprised. My love, what are you doing up?
He could have stayed silent.
Backed away.
Let it happen.
Instead of that, he began to cry.
Not a small whimper.
Not a tantrum.
A raw, violent sob that rose from his belly.
— Mother! he screamed, voice broken. No! No!
He ran.
Not toward the queen.
Not toward the bed.
Toward the table.
His hands caught the tablecloth and pulled with all his child's strength.
The carafe overturned.
The cups fell with a crash of glass, the wine spilled across the floor, splashing Rhaella's bare feet.
Lady Ellyn gave a cry.
— By the Seven!
— Aemon! the queen exclaimed, stunned.
The servant made a movement too abrupt for a simple household man surprised. His hand went to his belt.
A glint of metal.
The door behind them almost flew.
Ser Barristan Selmy entered, sword already half drawn.
He had not heard Aemon.
He had heard something else.
The sound of glass, the cry, the particular sound of steel drawn too fast.
His gaze swept the scene in a fraction of a second:
the child in tears,
the queen standing,
the wine on the floor,
the servant frozen with his hand on a small dagger.
— Do not move, Selmy ordered.
The servant moved.
He threw himself not at the queen, but to the side, in an evasive motion, as if he wanted to reach the door, or perhaps the window. He was fast.
But Ser Barristan Selmy was faster.
His left hand seized the armed wrist.
His right hand finished drawing his sword, which he set against the man's throat in the same movement.
The servant, mastered, let go of the dagger, which fell to the floor, joining the shards of glass and the spilled wine.
— On your knees, Selmy growled.
The man hesitated.
The sword pressed a little harder.
He obeyed.
Lady Ellyn, white as candle wax, grabbed Aemon and held him against her.
Rhaella was trembling.
— Ser Barristan… she stammered. What… what is happening?
The white knight did not take his eyes off him.
— Stay back, Your Grace.
He kicked the dagger away from the servant, then called in a voice that cracked like a battle order:
— GUARD!
The door opened almost at once.
Ser Jonothor Darry appeared, then a Red Cloak.
— Take this man, Selmy ordered, without letting go of the servant's wrist. No one touches him unless the Grand Maester is there. And warn the Lord Commander.
The servant said nothing.
Not a word.
Not a cry.
Not a plea.
His gray eyes settled one last time on Aemon.
Then he was taken away.
The hours that followed were blurred for the young prince.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Orders given at full speed.
The queen held Aemon in her arms, unable to bring herself to set him down. Rhaegar, woken with a start later, understood nothing but felt the tension. He clung to his mother's sleeve, silent for once.
Gerold Hightower arrived in person, followed by Tywin Lannister and Mellos.
The spilled wine on the floor was studied, collected, smelled, analyzed.
Mellos returned later, face graver than Aemon had ever seen it.
— There was poison in the carafe, he said simply. Not in a massive dose, but enough to kill in a few hours… without obvious trace.
Rhaella felt her legs give way.
Gerold caught her before she fell.
Tywin, for his part, clenched his jaw.
— Who? he asked. How?
— The servant, Ser Barristan replied. But he is not alone. A household man does not procure that kind of substance with a snap of the fingers.
Mellos nodded.
— This poison does not come from the maesters' gardens, he said. Nor from our stores. It traveled.
Tywin set an icy look on him.
— From Braavos? he asked.
Mellos did not answer right away.
— From the Free Cities, he admitted at last. It is… very likely.
Gerold turned toward him.
— Can he speak?
— He will speak, Tywin answered in a cutting voice. No one tries to kill the queen with impunity.
Aemon, nestled against his mother's chest, did not hear all the words.
But he heard one.
Poison.
And he understood, with the simple brutality of an intelligent child, that he had torn the tablecloth… because a part of him knew.
He would never know whether, without him, Rhaella would have drunk the wine before Selmy realized anything at all.
He only knew that she was still there.
The interrogation took place far from him, in a windowless room even the princes had never seen.
They did not tell him what had been said there.
But the consequences were visible.
A few days later, the court was summoned in the great inner courtyard, below the Red Keep.
The king sat on a platform, draped in a dark red cloak. At his side stood Gerold Hightower and Barristan Selmy, white armor gleaming. The other White Cloaks were behind, faces closed.
The nobles had been forced to come.
Lord Jon Bettley was at the center.
His fine clothes had been taken from him.
They had left him in a shirt, barefoot, wrists bound by an iron chain. He sweated profusely despite the cold. His face, usually so well controlled, was now only a mask of terror.
Aemon was not in the front row.
Rhaella had insisted they remain in the rear, on a balcony overlooking the yard, far enough not to see everything in detail, but close enough to hear.
— Why…? she murmured. Why must the king…
— He wants an example, Mellos answered softly at her side. He wants to show that no one can touch the queen without being punished.
Aemon was held by the hand.
He did not realize he was seeing something few children saw.
He only saw Bettley, below, on his knees, chained to a sort of wooden post.
— LORD JON BETTLEY, the herald called.
The noble lifted his head.
— You are accused of high treason, the voice proclaimed. Of conspiracy against the queen, mother of the princes. Of having helped an assassin come from Braavos to infiltrate the Red Keep, and prepared the murder of Your Queen.
Murmurs ran through the crowd.
Bettley stammered, voice broken:
— I… I did nothing… I… I didn't want… It's him! It's the foreigner! I… I was forced!
— You were paid, Tywin Lannister corrected from below the platform. With gold. And promises.
The king rose.
Aemon saw him, scarlet and silver silhouette above the crowd.
His voice snapped:
— You accepted that my queen could die in her own castle, he said. You let a serpent into our walls. You chose your side.
Bettley burst into sobs.
— Majesty… mercy… I… They told me… that it was for… for the realm! For the future! That… that the fire would end by destroying everything… I… I didn't want…
Aemon felt an icy shiver run down his back.
Fire.
That word again.
Aerys stared at him for a long time.
— Fire destroys traitors, he answered. And today, it is you.
He made a gesture.
They brought forward logs.
Aemon understood.
His belly knotted.
— Mother… he breathed.
Rhaella placed a trembling hand on his head.
— Do not look, she murmured.
But he looked anyway.
He saw the men stacking wood at Bettley's feet.
He saw the straw, the flames brought near.
He saw the noble shaken by tremors, face twisted by panic, screaming words the wind carried away.
He did not hear everything.
He heard enough.
— I… I was not alone! Bettley cried. Others… others fear the fire! They…
The rest was lost.
The pyre caught.
The heat rose up to the balcony.
Rhaella closed her eyes.
Aemon felt his throat tighten. He did not understand everything. But he understood this:
A living man, who had smiled at him more than once, who had spoken to his mother, who had eaten at the same table as he… was now dying in the flames.
And everyone watched.
No one moved.
Some nobles looked away.
Others remained still, as if they were attending a play.
Ser Barristan, below, did not change expression.
Gerold did not either.
The king, for his part, fixed the pyre with a cold intensity.
Aemon gripped his mother's dress tighter.
He would have wanted to cry.
He could not.
He only felt…
small.
Fragile.
Lost.
In his former life, death had come slowly, on a bed, in the silence of a hospital room.
Here, it came with wood, fire and screams.
This realm decidedly resembled nothing of what he had known.
When the pyre was reduced to a blackened heap, the crowd dispersed.
The king returned to the Red Keep, surrounded by his guards.
The nobles murmured cautious words about royal justice, the queen's safety, the necessary harshness of the times.
Aemon, brought back to his apartments, remained silent a long time.
Rhaegar babbled, already absorbed by something else.
Rhaella, for her part, had reddened eyes, even if she did not let her tears fall before the servants.
— Everything is fine now, she whispered, rocking Aemon. You are safe. We are protected.
Protected.
Aemon thought of the gray-eyed servant, the carafe, the wine, Selmy's hand squeezing an armed wrist.
He thought of Bettley screaming that others feared the fire.
He did not feel protected.
He felt… warned.
He raised his eyes toward Ser Barristan, posted near the door.
The white knight met his gaze.
For an instant, there was a silent accord between them.
You saw, Aemon's look seemed to say.
You saw what this world can do.
I saw you, Selmy's seemed to answer.
And as long as I am here, no one will touch your family without finding me on their road.
Aemon looked away, heart still too heavy for a three-year-old child.
He did not understand the name Braavos, nor the hidden movements of the Citadel far from the capital.
But he understood this:
The enemies of his family were not only swords on a battlefield.
They were also polite smiles at a banquet.
Silent servants in a corridor.
Men who spoke of fire in the shadows.
Pyres raised in the middle of courtyards.
And if he wanted to survive in this world…
he would have to learn to see the flames before everyone else.
Even when they were not yet burning anywhere but in the hearts of men.