(The Red Keep, 116 AC)
The gardens of the Red Keep were a lie.
To the casual observer, they were a paradise of blooming roses, lemon trees, and bubbling fountains. The air smelled of jasmine and sweet summer grass. But to Ser Vardis Egen, Captain of the Household Guard of Runestone, they were a battlefield with poor visibility.
Vardis stood in the shade of a large weirwood tree, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. He did not look at the flowers. He looked at the exits. He looked at the windows overlooking the courtyard. And, most importantly, he looked at the boy sitting at the base of the tree.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, three years old, was oblivious to the tactical nightmare of the garden. He was focused on a line of red ants marching across the mossy roots of the weirwood.
"They follow the line," Aeryn murmured, his violet eyes tracking the insects with an intensity that would have been unsettling in any other child. "One. Two. Three. The big one carries the leaf."
"They are soldiers, my Prince," Vardis said softly, his eyes scanning the balcony where Queen Alicent was known to sit. "They have a duty."
"They don't have swords," Aeryn noted, not looking up.
"They have jaws," Vardis corrected. "And they have numbers. Never underestimate the small things, Aeryn."
Around them, the "Bronze Guard"—as the court had dubbed Aeryn's protectors—formed a loose perimeter. They were men of the Vale, clad in heavy scale armor that clinked softly when they moved. They stood out like jagged rocks in a stream of silk. They did not mingle with the Gold Cloaks. They did not drink with the household knights. They were an island of loyalty in a sea of strangers.
Aeryn picked up a small twig and placed it gently in the path of the ants. He didn't want to hurt them; he just wanted to see how they would react. He wanted to see the pattern change.
"Well, look at this," a loud, sneering voice broke the peace. "The little stone-head is playing with bugs. Fitting."
Vardis stiffened. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Prince Aegon Targaryen strutted into the clearing. At nine years old, he was already showing the signs of the man he would become—arrogant, spoiled, and deeply bored. He was dressed in a doublet of green velvet, the color of his mother's house, and he carried a wooden training sword that he swung recklessly at the rosebushes, decapitating flowers as he walked.
Behind him trailed two squires, boys from minor houses who laughed nervously at everything the Prince did.
Aeryn looked up. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He simply recorded the image: Aegon. Green. Loud. Wood sword.
"Hello, Cousin," Aeryn said.
"Don't speak to me like we're equals, bastard," Aegon spat, stepping closer. He loomed over the toddler, enjoying the height difference. "My mother says you're only here because my father feels sorry for you. She says you belong in a kennel."
Vardis took a step forward. The sound of his armored boot crunching the gravel was deliberate. A warning.
Aegon glanced at the knight, his lip curling. "Stay back, old man. I am the Prince. You can't touch me."
"I am watching, my Prince," Vardis said, his voice flat and cold as iron. "Just watching."
Aegon turned back to Aeryn, annoyed that his intimidation tactics hadn't produced tears. Aeryn just stared at him with those unblinking violet eyes. It was the stare that unnerved everyone—it wasn't fear, it was analysis.
"Stop looking at me like that," Aegon snapped. He raised his wooden sword. "I said stop it!"
He swung the sword down, not at Aeryn, but at the weirwood root, smashing the line of ants. Dirt and crushed insects flew into the air.
Aeryn didn't flinch. He looked at the mess. "You broke the line."
"I'll break you too!" Aegon laughed. He poked Aeryn hard in the chest with the tip of the wooden sword. It wasn't enough to injure, but it was enough to hurt. "Go on, cry. Run to your daddy... oh, wait. You don't have one."
Aeryn felt the sting in his chest. He felt the cruelty in the words. But he didn't cry. His mind simply added another tag to the file labeled 'Aegon': Enemy. Pain. Green.
Aegon pulled his leg back and kicked the small pile of pebbles Aeryn had been gathering. Then, grinning maliciously, he raised the sword again, aiming a harder blow at the boy's shoulder.
Clang.
The sound of metal on wood rang through the garden.
Aegon gasped, the vibration travelling up his arm.
Ser Vardis Egen had moved with the speed of a striking viper. He hadn't drawn his steel—that would be treason—but he had stepped in front of Aeryn, blocking the wooden sword with his armored gauntlet.
He caught the wooden blade in his hand and held it fast.
"That is enough," Vardis growled.
"Let go!" Aegon shrieked, his face turning red. "I'll have your hand cut off! I am the blood of the dragon!"
"You are a boy bullying a babe," Vardis said, not letting go. The other Vale knights had closed in, their hands hovering over their hilts. The air in the garden suddenly became very thin.
"Unhand the Prince, Ser Vardis."
The voice was calm, authoritative, and dangerous.
Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped out from the shadows of the archway. His white cloak billowed softly in the breeze. He looked at the scene—the Vale knights in formation, Aegon struggling, and Vardis holding the weapon.
Vardis looked at Cole. There was a moment of silent communication between the two warriors. They were both soldiers who served their houses before their kings. They understood the language of violence.
Vardis released the wooden sword. Aegon stumbled back, almost falling.
"He attacked me!" Aegon lied immediately, pointing a shaking finger at Vardis. "He threatened me! Kill him, Ser Criston!"
Criston Cole looked at Aegon, then at the small, silent figure of Aeryn sitting behind the wall of bronze armor. He saw the crushed ants. He saw the red mark on Aeryn's tunic where the sword had poked him.
Cole was many things—bitter, political, ruthless—but he was not blind. And he knew that a brawl between the Kingsguard and the Royce household guard would be a disaster that not even Otto Hightower could spin.
"The knight did not attack you, my Prince," Cole said coolly. "He stopped an accident."
"But—"
"Silence, Aegon," Cole ordered. It was not a request. He grabbed the boy's shoulder with a grip that made Aegon wince. "You are expected in the library. Your Valyrian lessons are waiting. And the Queen does not like to be kept waiting."
Aegon tried to pull away, but Cole was immovable.
"You're all traitors!" Aegon screamed, throwing a glare of pure hatred at Aeryn. "I'll tell my mother! I'll tell her you let the bastard hurt me!"
"Move," Cole said, dragging the struggling Prince away.
As he passed Vardis, Cole paused for a fraction of a second. He didn't nod. He didn't smile. He simply met the older knight's gaze.
"Keep your steel sheathed, Egen," Cole murmured, his voice low. "Next time, I cannot stop the White Cloaks."
"Keep your pup on a leash, Cole," Vardis replied, his voice just as low. "Or the bronze will not care about the color of your cloaks."
Cole's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He marched Aegon out of the garden, the Prince's protests fading into the distance.
...
Silence returned to the weirwood tree.
Vardis let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He turned to Aeryn.
The boy was still sitting there. He picked up the twig again. He looked at the scattered survivors of the ant colony, who were already beginning to reform their line, bypassing the destruction Aegon had caused.
"Are you hurt, little one?" Vardis asked, kneeling to inspect the red mark on the boy's chest.
"No," Aeryn whispered. He didn't look at the mark. He looked at the spot where Cole had stood. "The White Knight... he stopped the Green Boy."
"He stopped a war," Vardis muttered, rubbing his beard. "But he is not your friend, Aeryn. Never mistake him for a friend. He protects the Queen, and the Queen... the Queen is not us."
Aeryn looked at the knights surrounding him. He saw the runes on their armor. He saw the dents in their greaves from battles fought in the mountains long before he was born.
"Bronze is stronger," Aeryn said. It was a statement of fact, derived from the evidence he had just witnessed. The wood had broken against the gauntlet. The green velvet had retreated.
Vardis smiled, a rare, grim expression that crinkled the scars around his eyes. He reached out and placed his hand on Aeryn's small shoulder.
"Aye, lad. Bronze is stronger. It remembers. Iron rusts, flowers wilt, and even dragons die. But the stones? The stones are always there."
Aeryn nodded. He understood.
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his breeches. He took Vardis's hand.
"I want to go inside," Aeryn said. "The ants are fixed now."
"As you wish, my Prince."
They walked back toward the fortress, a small boy and his phalanx of ancient warriors. High above, from a balcony, King Viserys watched them go, unaware of the incident, simply happy to see his nephew safe.
But Aeryn wasn't thinking of safety. As he walked into the dark throat of the castle, his mind was busy. He was replaying the scene. He was memorizing the way Aegon held his sword (poor grip, too much wrist). He was memorizing the way Cole had looked at Vardis (respect mixed with warning).
He filed it all away. The library was growing. And one day, the Little Architect would use these bricks to build a fortress that no dragon could knock down.