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    Summary

    Strong were the lungs of Maegor, and tireless. Within the first sennight of his life, he had established a tyranny over the Red Keep; servants crept about corridors with anxious eyes and noble ladies who had once begged for a glimpse of the prince now contrived polite excuses to shorten their visits. The babe wailed at the light, at the dark, at hunger, at fullness, at swaddling and at freedom alike.

    He had survived his birth. Aerion, in truth, had scarcely done so.

    Sleepless and recovering from his labors, Aerion tends to the fussiest babe of the realm and tries not to think of a certain knight’s absence.

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