Olenna Tyrell sat as she always did—like a queen without a crown—in her sun-drenched chamber overlooking the King’s Garden. A single lemon tree bent under the weight of its fruit, which she never failed to critique. Her fingers, spotted with age but still precise, toyed with the edge of a letter sealed in black wax.

Across from her stood her granddaughter—flushed, defiant, and visibly tired from motherhood.

“I suppose you think I should be ashamed,” the young woman said, arms folded tight across her front.

Olenna raised a brow. “Ashamed? Gods, no. I think you’ve finally done something interesting.” She took a bite of a honeyed fig and chewed thoughtfully. “You married a disfigured brute, bore his child in secret, and named the child after a mad prince. It’s practically Shakespearean. If we had a Shakespeare.”

Her granddaughter’s lips twitched. “It was love.”

“I should hope so. If you gave up roses and silk sheets for dogs and ash, it better be for love.” Olenna placed the fig back on the plate. “Now. Let me see this child everyone’s losing their minds over.”

The door creaked, and the wet-nurse entered with the infant nestled against her shoulder. Plump-cheeked and already growling at the world, the boy had dark tufts of hair, pale gold-green eyes, and the faintest curl of a smile.

“Aerion,” Olenna murmured, drawing near. “You named him after a man who drank wildfire.”

“He was also a prince,” her granddaughter replied. “A dragon.”

“Mm,” Olenna said. “So was Rhaegar. And we all saw how that ended.”

Her words were sharp, but her touch on the boy’s blanket was surprisingly gentle. She stared at him for a long, contemplative moment—then moved to her writing desk, plucking up the raven-scroll she’d ignored until now.

She broke the seal.

A few lines of the letter: “The boy is drawing notice. Whispers in the Tower. A name can start wars, my lady, and fire still runs hot in Essos. She has no heir. And no patience for threats.” —V.

Olenna read it twice. Then, folding the parchment neatly, she dropped it into the brazier beside her.

Smoke rose. Sweet, sharp.

“She’ll hear of this soon enough,” Olenna muttered, mostly to herself. “Myssa. Daenerys. The last dragon. Whatever she calls herself these days.”

Her granddaughter froze. “Do you think she’d see him as a threat?”

Olenna turned, eyes cool and calculating. “I think queens who have no children and three dragons tend to find their enemies in the cradle. And if Daenerys Targaryen sees this boy as more than a coincidence—if she sees ambition or prophecy in his name—then we’d best decide whether we mean to protect him…”

She reached over and brushed a curl from the infant’s brow.

“…or crown him.”