Marai, a young courtesan from the Street of Silk, learns to her horror she is the bastard daughter of Aegon II. Prince Aemond could help her...or he could be her greatest peril yet.
Contains sexual situations, strong language, and uncle/niece inces...
"How long has Ryker been with you?" he asked, with a lazy smile. "A fortnight? But even Maesters must take their ease. I'll be covering your lessons today." He lifted the books on the table. "Have you been to the Godswood?" I shook my head.
"I thought Ryker would have taken you by now. Perhaps we will find him there, sleeping under the weirwood tree like a true Northman. Did you know they dream in green?"
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The Godswood was a labyrinth of high boughed trees, cottonwood and elm, that turned downwards towards the Blackwater Rush. The river and the rustle of leaves met in unearthly whispers which had little place in the heart of a city. The high canopy of foliage overhead shifted and cast fresh shadows with each breeze.
I had heard of weirwoods, the holy places of the First Men cut down by the Andals in their ancient war. The red leaves above were eerily still, and the face cut into the wood wept bloodlike sap. I understood why Northmen were called savages. Such gods were not inviting to outsiders.
But the weirwood was patient. A cloud passed and a shaft of golden light glittered over the somber features, tilting their lines so the wizened face beamed. The serving man chattered as he laid out a blanket along with a platter of cut pears and decanter of sweet cider. I leaned against the holy tree and basked in the sunlight. I felt welcomed, somehow.
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Aemond knelt down, arranging his books on the cloth. "Where should we start?" His eyebrow tilted upward. "You will want to know who you are living with, no doubt. Let's start with Aegon- the first one, I mean."
He cracked open a book, and read aloud. I found myself slipping down the oak. I took a pear in my hands and was barely aware I was eating it, that the juice had spilled over my chin as I listened, entranced.
I had never noted the true clarity of his voice, and he kindled life into the figures of history. He accentuated each story with notes of his own, elaborating with carefully wrought ideas, and his explanations were somehow even more intriguing than the original text.
Aegon and his sisters were a splendid horror in my eyes, and always had been. But as story told under a tree they were a myth, safe in their distance. And yet there was an intimacy there as well. In the telling I could join in their love and rage rather than be subjugated by it. I savored the illusion.
