(King's Landing, 117 AC)
The bells of the city were ringing. Not the slow, mournful toll that had marked the death of Queen Aemma, nor the frantic, clanging alarm of a fire. These were the bells of victory.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had returned.
The King of the Narrow Sea had descended from the sky on the blood-red wings of Caraxes, landing in the Dragonpit amidst a storm of cheers. He had marched through the city, not as a conqueror, but as a brother returning home. He wore a crown of driftwood and gold, and he carried the hammer of the Crabfeeder as a trophy.
Inside the Throne Room, the air was electric. The court was packed, lords and ladies craning their necks to see the Rogue Prince.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, fully four years old, stood near the base of the Iron Throne. He was no longer a wobbly toddler; he stood with the straight-backed posture Ser Vardis had drilled into him. Dressed in a doublet of black velvet with bronze clasps, he looked like a miniature lord, grave and silent amidst the riot of colors.
Ser Vardis Egen stood directly behind him, his hand resting on his pommel, his eyes narrowed as he watched the silver-haired man stride down the center aisle.
Aeryn watched with wide, intelligent eyes. His mind was spinning, the shutter of his memory clicking furiously, recording the man he had only ever known as a shadow in his mother's stories.
Caraxes. Red scales. The man. Silver hair. Dark Sister. Father.
Daemon reached the foot of the throne. He looked up at King Viserys, who sat holding Blackfyre, his face a mask of hopeful anxiety. Daemon took the driftwood crown from his head. He knelt.
"My King," Daemon said, his voice echoing in the vast hall. "I add my kingdom to yours."
Viserys stood, his face breaking into a wide, relieved smile. "Stand, brother. You have done the realm a great service."
The court erupted in applause. The brothers embraced. It was a scene of perfect Targaryen unity.
But Aeryn was not looking at the unity. He was looking at the man's eyes. He was looking for a flicker of recognition.
...
Later, the celebration moved to the Great Hall. Wine flowed like water. The tension of the Stepstones war had dissolved into laughter and music.
Aeryn sat at the high table, his plate untouched. He was watching Daemon.
The Prince was the center of gravity. He sat with Rhaenyra, laughing at a jest, his hand resting casually on the table near a goblet of Arbor gold. He looked... magnificent. He looked like the dragons in Viserys's stories. Dangerous, yes, but vital.
Viserys had told Aeryn that his father was a hero. That he was wild, but full of fire. Fire is warm, Aeryn thought. Uncle Viserys is warm. Perhaps the fire is safe.
A primal instinct, deep and childish, stirred in Aeryn's chest. He wanted to know. He wanted to see if the stories were true.
"My Prince," Ser Vardis warned softly as Aeryn slid off his chair. "Stay close."
"I am just going there," Aeryn said, pointing to the end of the table where Daemon sat. His voice was steady, the voice of a boy who had made a decision.
Vardis hesitated. He couldn't physically restrain the boy in front of the King, and technically, Aeryn was walking toward his own father. "I am watching."
Aeryn walked through the noise. He didn't weave or stumble; he walked with a purpose. He approached the knot of people surrounding Daemon.
Rhaenyra saw him first. Her smile vanished. She nudged Daemon, whispering something in his ear.
Daemon turned.
He looked down. His violet eyes—lighter and colder than Aeryn's—landed on the boy. He took in the black hair. The bronze runes. The solemn expression.
Aeryn stopped two feet away. He looked up. Up close, Daemon smelled of smoke, dragon-scale, and old blood. It was a sharp, metallic scent.
Aeryn reached out. He didn't know what he wanted to do. Shake hands? Touch the Valyrian steel sword? He just wanted acknowledgment. He wanted the man to look at him the way Viserys did.
His small hand brushed against the crimson silk of Daemon's cloak.
"Father?" Aeryn asked. The word was clear, carrying over the lull in the music.
Daemon reacted as if he had been touched by a disease.
He didn't kneel. He didn't smile. He recoiled.
"Get off," Daemon snapped, his voice cutting through the nearby chatter.
He swept his arm out, a dismissive, arrogant gesture meant to brush the child away. But Daemon was drunk, and he was strong. The back of his hand struck Aeryn's shoulder hard.
Aeryn stumbled back. He wasn't a baby, but he was light. He lost his footing on the rushes and fell, landing hard on his side.
The music didn't stop immediately, but the silence spread outward from them like a ripple in a pond. Rhaenyra looked away, sipping her wine, feigning disinterest. Ser Vardis stepped forward, his hand halfway out of its sheath, his face a mask of murderous fury.
Aeryn sat on the floor. He didn't cry. He looked at his shoulder, then up at Daemon.
Daemon stood over him, looking down with a curl of disgust on his lip. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't apologize.
"Someone collect this... thing," Daemon sneered, looking around the room. "Why is the sheep-stealer wandering loose in the hall?"
"Daemon!"
The roar came from the center of the High Table.
King Viserys I Targaryen had risen. His face was purple with rage. He knocked his own goblet over, red wine spilling across the white tablecloth like a wound.
"That is your son!" Viserys shouted, pointing a trembling finger at his brother. "You will not speak of him so! You will not touch him so!"
The entire Great Hall fell deathly silent. The musicians stopped.
Daemon looked at the King, then back at the boy. He shrugged, a gesture of casual insolence. "He is a stranger to me, Viserys. He smells of the Vale. He has no place here."
"He has the place I give him!" Viserys bellowed, his voice cracking. "He is a Prince of the Blood! And you... you return to my city, you accept my forgiveness, and you strike a child? A child who has done nothing but seek to know you?"
Viserys walked around the table, moving faster than he had in years. He descended the dais and walked to where Aeryn sat.
The King knelt in the rushes. He didn't care about his royal velvet. He reached out and helped Aeryn stand. He dusted off the boy's doublet with gentle, frantic hands.
"Are you hurt?" Viserys asked, his voice trembling with emotion.
Aeryn looked at Viserys. Then he looked at Daemon.
His memory captured the moment perfectly.
Daemon: Silver hair. Sneer. Cold. Threat.
Viserys: Warm hands. Fear. Love. Safety.
The file in his mind labeled 'Father' was empty. Daemon had deleted it with a single shove. Aeryn took the empty folder and burned it.
"I am not hurt, Uncle," Aeryn said. His voice was flat. Emotionless.
Viserys stood up, placing himself between the boy and the Rogue Prince. "Apologize."
Daemon scoffed. "To the brat?"
"To your son," Viserys hissed. "Or by the Fourteen Flames, Daemon, you can take your crown and your dragon and go back to the rocks you crawled out of. I will not have you in my court if you cannot show basic decency."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. He saw the resolve in Viserys's face. He saw the way the court was watching. He had just won his way back into power; he would not lose it over a bronze-blooded boy.
Daemon sighed, the very picture of bored compliance. He looked at Aeryn. There was no regret in his eyes, only a promise of future enmity.
"My apologies," Daemon drawled, his tone mocking. "I was startled. I am not used to... small things... sneaking up on me."
Viserys turned away in disgust, his hand trembling. He looked ready to collapse from the stress.
A soft hand touched the King's arm. Queen Alicent had descended from the dais. She looked at her husband with concern, then at Daemon with cold loathing.
"Your Grace," Alicent said gently. "You are unwell. The excitement... please, sit. I will see to the boy."
Viserys looked at her, grateful for the intervention. He nodded weakly, allowing the Kingsguard to help him back to his chair.
Alicent turned to Aeryn.
She looked at the boy standing alone in the middle of the hall. He looked so small in his black velvet. She saw the way Daemon had looked at him—with the same arrogance he used to look at her. She saw a motherless child, rejected by a monster.
For a moment, Alicent didn't see a rival claimant or a threat. She saw a victim of Targaryen madness.
"Aeryn," Alicent said. Her voice was not warm, but it was kind. It was the voice of duty and piety.
Aeryn looked up at the Queen. He expected her to scold him, as she often scolded Aegon.
"The hall is too loud," Alicent said, smoothing the collar of his doublet. "And you look tired. Would you like to come with me?"
Aeryn hesitated, glancing at Ser Vardis. The knight gave a slight nod; the Queen was safe.
"Where?" Aeryn asked.
"To the nursery," Alicent said. "Helaena is there. She is playing with her collection. She... she does not like the noise either. I think she would like the company of someone quiet."
Aeryn nodded slowly. The noise of the feast was hurting his head. The image of Daemon's sneer was burned into his retinas. He wanted to go somewhere quiet.
Alicent took his hand. Her grip was cool and dry, unlike Viserys's clammy warmth, but it was firm. She led him out of the Great Hall, past the staring lords, past the smirking Daemon, and past a brooding Rhaenyra.
They walked in silence to the Queen's apartments. Alicent opened a door to a room filled with soft light and strange, glass jars.
A young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, sat on a rug. She had silver-gold hair and a dreamy, distant expression. She was holding a large, hairy spider in her hands, whispering to it.
"Helaena," Alicent said softly. "This is your cousin, Aeryn. He is going to sit with you for a while."
Helaena looked up. Her eyes were a pale lilac, unfocused yet seeing everything. She looked at Aeryn. She didn't smile, but she didn't look away.
"The green one is angry," Helaena murmured, likely speaking of the spider, or perhaps something else entirely. "But the black one is sad."
Alicent gestured for Aeryn to sit. "Be good, Aeryn. I will have the servants bring you some milk and honey cakes."
The Queen left them, closing the door on the chaos of the feast.
Aeryn sat on the rug, a few feet from Helaena. He pulled his knees to his chest.
Helaena extended her hand. The spider crawled across her palm.
"He doesn't bite," Helaena said softly. "If you don't scare him."
Aeryn looked at the spider. He looked at Helaena. For the first time all day, his shoulders relaxed.
"I'm not scared," Aeryn whispered.
Helaena nodded, accepting this. She went back to whispering to her creature. Aeryn watched her, his mind recording the way the light caught her hair, the way her hands moved with a gentleness that was rare in this castle.
He filed this moment away. Not under 'Family'. Not under 'Enemy'.
He created a new file: Helaena. Status: Safe.