(The Red Keep, 116 AC)
The Great Model of Old Valyria was more than a hobby for King Viserys I Targaryen; it was a sanctuary of dust and memory. In the heart of his private solar, the air was thick with the scent of sawdust, pine resin, and the metallic tang of the ointments the Grand Maester applied to the King's worsening sores. Here, the spires of the Fourteen Flames rose in perfect, unbreaking stone, and the glory of the dragonlords remained untouched by the rot of time or the whispers of his council.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, barely three years old, stood on a small wooden step-stool, his chin just clearing the edge of the massive basalt table. He was a quiet child, his jet-black hair kept short and neat in the fashion of the Vale, but his eyes—those deep, startling violet pools—never stopped moving. To most of the court, the boy was a curiosity, a "Bronze Prince" who spoke in fragments and preferred the company of his armored guards to the other children of the nursery. But to Viserys, Aeryn was a miracle of clarity in a world that was becoming increasingly blurred.
"The Temple of Meleys," Viserys murmured, his hand hovering over a tray of tiny, hand-carved dragon-bone figurines. He let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temple. His memory was beginning to fray at the edges, worn down by the constant fog of milk of the poppy. "I am certain I placed it near the western canal, but the maps from the Citadel are... inconsistent."
"Left, Uncle," Aeryn said. His voice was soft, possessing a clarity that was unnerving for a toddler.
Viserys paused, looking at the boy. "What was that, little one?"
Aeryn pointed a small, steady finger at a blank spot on the model, near a bridge shaped like a dragon's wing. "Four inches to the left. You moved it when the sun was orange, two days ago. You said the shadows shouldn't touch the water yet."
Viserys blinked. He didn't remember moving it. He barely remembered what he had eaten for breakfast. But as he reached for the small temple and placed it where the boy indicated, it fit perfectly. The geometry of the city snapped into place, the proportions suddenly harmonious.
"So I did," Viserys whispered, a look of genuine awe crossing his face. He reached out and ruffled Aeryn's hair—a gesture of affection the boy accepted with a small, shy smile. "Your mind is a treasure, Aeryn. You remember the shadows while the rest of us only see the light."
"I just like the stones, Uncle," Aeryn said simply, tracing a tiny rune on the table's edge. "They don't move."
"Indeed they don't," Viserys sighed, leaning back in his chair with a wheezing breath. "I wish my lords were as organized as your thoughts. They argue about succession and taxes, but you... you help me build the world again."
The door to the solar opened without a knock. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen entered, her silks rustling sharply against the stone floor. She was eighteen, radiant and regal, but the smile on her face didn't reach her eyes when she saw who was standing on the stool beside her father. Behind her, a nursemaid followed, carrying a year-old Jacaerys Velaryon.
"Father," Rhaenyra said, her voice strained. "I brought Jacaerys. He has been fussy all morning, asking for his grandfather."
Viserys's face brightened, but he didn't move from his seat beside Aeryn. "Ah, Rhaenyra! Bring the lad in. But keep him back from the table—Aeryn and I have just finished the foundations of the High Quarter. The boy has a memory like a Valyrian scroll, Rhaenyra. He remembered the placement of the Temple when I had forgotten it myself."
Rhaenyra's expression stiffened. She watched as Aeryn looked at Jacaerys with a neutral, unblinking gaze. Jace was a babbling, happy child, but as he was set on the floor, he immediately reached for a delicate stone spire near the edge.
"No, Jace," Rhaenyra said, catching his hand. She looked at Aeryn, then back at her father. "It is a useful trick, I suppose. Though I hope he finds time to be a child as well. Jacaerys is already showing an interest in the training yard. A prince must know more than just the placement of stones, wouldn't you agree?"
"He will learn what he needs to learn," Viserys said, his tone turning defensive. He reached into a small velvet pouch on the table and pulled out a ring—a band of Valyrian steel set with a small, raw emerald. "I found this in the vaults. It belonged to Prince Aemon. I thought Aeryn should have it. A token of his... assistance."
Aeryn took the ring. It was far too large for his finger, so he slipped it onto his thumb, holding it up to the light. "Thank you, Uncle."
Rhaenyra stared at the relic. It was a piece of history that should have belonged to her or her sons. To see it given to a "bastard of bronze"—as the servants called him—was a bitter insult.
"A generous gift, Father," Rhaenyra said, her voice trembling slightly. "Especially for a boy who is already so... favored."
She didn't stay long. She made her excuses, taking Jacaerys and leaving the room with a cold, elegant dignity that masked the fire burning in her chest.
...
The walk back to her apartments felt like a march through an enemy camp. Rhaenyra held her head high, her hand white as she gripped the handle of Jacaerys's small hand, but inside, she was screaming.
As she turned the corner into the residential wing, she stopped dead.
Ser Laenor Velaryon was there, leaning against a stone pillar. He wasn't alone. He was laughing, his head tilted back as he whispered something to Joffrey Lonmouth. The Knight of Kisses was smiling, his hand resting a moment too long on Laenor's shoulder. They looked relaxed. They looked happy.
Rhaenyra felt a surge of cold fury.
"Laenor," she said, her voice like a whip.
Both men jumped. Joffrey quickly pulled his hand away, bowing low, his face flushing. Laenor straightened his tunic, a sheepish, playful grin appearing on his face.
"Rhaenyra! I didn't expect you back so soon. I was just telling Joffrey about the race we planned for—"
"I don't care about your races, Laenor," Rhaenyra snapped, stepping into his personal space. Joffrey, sensing the danger, murmured a hasty excuse and vanished down the hall. "I have just come from my father's solar. He is giving away our house's relics to that... that boy from the Vale."
Laenor sighed, his shoulders drooping. "Aeryn? He's just a child, Rhaenyra. A lonely one at that."
"He is a threat!" Rhaenyra hissed. "And while he sits at our father's feet, recording every word and every secret with that unnatural mind of his, you are out here playing games with your 'friends'. Jacaerys is being ignored. His own grandfather treats him like an afterthought because he's too busy being 'The Little Architect' with Daemon's mistake."
"The boy has done nothing to you," Laenor said, his voice pleading for peace.
"He exists, Laenor! That is what he has done!" Rhaenyra stepped closer, her eyes blazing. "You should be in that solar. You should be showing the King that your sons are the future of this realm. But you would rather divert yourself while our children are mocked and pushed aside. You are their father, Laenor. Act like it, or stay out of my sight."
Laenor opened his mouth to defend himself, but the look on Rhaenyra's face was devastating. It was a look of pure, unadulterated coldness. She didn't wait for his reply. She turned her back on him and marched toward her chambers, the sound of her heels echoing like hammer blows.
She reached her heavy oak doors and shoved them open. The nursemaid took Jacaerys, and Rhaenyra gestured for her to leave immediately.
The room was dimly lit, the hearth fire burning low. Standing by the window was a shadow—a massive, broad-shouldered man in the dark leather of the City Watch.
Ser Harwin Strong turned.
The moment Rhaenyra saw him, the mask of the iron Princess shattered. Her breath hitched, and the tension that had been holding her together for the last hour simply evaporated.
"Rhaenyra," Harwin said, his voice a deep, comforting rumble.
She didn't speak. She crossed the room in three strides and threw herself into his arms. Harwin caught her, lifting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing. Rhaenyra buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of smoke, rain, and the honest strength of him.
"He gave him the emerald ring, Harwin," she whispered against his skin, her voice breaking. "He treats that boy like he's the heir, while my sons... my sons are nothing to him."
"You are the dragon, Rhaenyra," Harwin murmured, his large hands stroking her back with a tenderness that no one else in the world was allowed to see. "And your sons are dragons. Let the boy have his stones. You have the fire."
Rhaenyra let out a long, shuddering breath, melting against him. In the safety of Harwin's embrace, the "Bronze Prince," the dying King, and the useless husband all faded into the shadows. For a moment, she wasn't a Princess fighting for a throne. She was just a woman, held by the only man who made her feel like she wasn't alone in the dark.