(The Red Keep, 118 AC)
The seasons turned, and the Red Keep grew colder, even as summer dragged on.
To the lords of the court, the castle was a place of feasts and tourneys, of alliances whispered behind fans and daggers hidden in smiles. But to Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, now five years old, the castle was a map of safe zones and enemy territory.
He knew which corridors belonged to the Queen's party—the "Greens," as the servants had started to call them, matching the color of Alicent Hightower's dresses. He knew which wings were dominated by the Princess Rhaenyra and her favorites. And he knew that the only place where he was truly untouchable was the King's Solar or the center of the training ring when Ser Vardis Egen held the line.
Aeryn sat at a small desk in the corner of the Grand Maester's study. The sunlight filtered through heavy dust motes, illuminating the stack of books in front of him.
"High Valyrian has nineteen tenses for the verb 'to burn'," Maester Mellos droned on, tapping a chalkboard. "Prince Aegon, are you listening?"
Across the room, Aegon Targaryen, now eleven and already bored with life, was carving his initials into the table with a small knife. He groaned, leaning back in his chair. "Who cares, Maester? If I want something burned, I'll tell Sunfyre to do it. Dragons don't conjugate verbs."
Mellos sighed, the sound of a man who had long given up on his primary student. He looked over his spectacles at the smaller boy in the corner.
"Prince Aeryn? Can you tell your cousin the difference between zaldrīzes and zaldrīzoti?"
Aeryn didn't look up from his parchment. He was copying a map of the Stepstones from memory, drawing the jagged coastlines with precise strokes of charcoal.
"Zaldrīzes is the dragon in the singular nominative," Aeryn said, his voice calm and monotone. "Zaldrīzoti is the plural. But if you mean 'Dragonfire', the word changes the root entirely depending on the heat."
Aegon rolled his eyes, throwing a piece of crumpled parchment at Aeryn. It bounced off Aeryn's shoulder. Aeryn didn't flinch. He didn't stop drawing.
"Show-off," Aegon muttered. "Bronze Bitch."
"That is enough, my Prince," Mellos said weakly.
The door opened, and the heavy thud of a cane announced the arrival of the King. Viserys I looked older than his years. His hair was thinning, and he walked with a limp that grew more pronounced with every moon. But his face lit up when he saw the boys.
"Grand Maester," Viserys greeted warmly. "How go the lessons?"
"Prince Aegon is... spirited, Your Grace," Mellos lied diplomatically. "And Prince Aeryn is, as always, exceptionally diligent."
Viserys beamed. He walked past his own son, resting a hand on Aeryn's shoulder. "Let me see, Aeryn. Ah, the Stepstones. A treacherous place. Your father fought bravely there."
At the mention of the word 'father', the room's temperature seemed to drop.
Aegon snickered.
Aeryn stopped drawing. He looked at the map, then up at Viserys. His violet eyes were blank, devoid of the curiosity they had held two years ago.
"The currents are strong there, Uncle," Aeryn said, ignoring the reference to Daemon completely. "Ships crash if they don't know the rocks."
Viserys's smile faltered slightly. He sensed the wall the boy put up whenever Daemon was mentioned. It was a wall Viserys had tried to break down with gifts, with stories, with pleas for reconciliation, but Aeryn was a Royce. He was stubborn as the mountains.
"Come," Viserys said, changing the subject. "I have something for you. Both of you."
He gestured for the guards to bring in two chests.
For Aegon, there was a magnificent set of gilded spurs, meant for his first real tournament mount. Aegon took them with a grin, muttering a quick thanks before running off to show Ser Criston Cole.
For Aeryn, Viserys pulled out a heavy object wrapped in oilcloth.
"This," Viserys said softly, unwrapping it to reveal a short-sword. The blade was not Valyrian steel, but it was Castle-forged, the hilt wrapped in black leather and bronze wire. "It is time you started your lessons with steel. Ser Vardis tells me you have the balance for it."
Aeryn took the sword. It was heavy, but he held it with two hands, feeling the weight.
"Thank you, Uncle," Aeryn said. He looked at Viserys, and for a moment, the mask slipped. There was genuine love there. "I will keep it sharp."
"I know you will," Viserys whispered, squeezing the boy's shoulder. "You are my sentinel, Aeryn. My watcher on the walls."
...
From the balcony of the Maegor's Holdfast, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen watched the scene in the training yard below.
The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the stone.
Down below, the training circles were divided. On one side, Ser Criston Cole was drilling Aemond and Jacaerys. The sounds of wooden swords clacking were rhythmic and loud.
On the other side, isolated in their own patch of dust, were the men of the Vale.
Ser Vardis Egen moved slower than Cole, but with a brutal efficiency. He was teaching Aeryn. The five-year-old held his new steel sword—blunted for practice—with a grim determination.
Rhaenyra watched as Aeryn deflected a blow, stepped inside Vardis's guard, and tapped the knight's breastplate with the hilt. It was a defensive move. Controlled. Smart.
But Rhaenyra wasn't looking at the technique. She was looking at the bench on the sidelines.
King Viserys sat there. He was wrapped in furs against the evening chill. He wasn't watching Jacaerys, his grandson and future heir. He wasn't watching Aemond or Aegon.
He was watching Aeryn. He was clapping softly every time the boy completed a form correctly. He had a servant bring water to Aeryn, wiping the sweat from the boy's brow with his own handkerchief.
"He loves him," a voice said beside her.
Rhaenyra turned. Laenor was there, holding a goblet of wine. He looked tired.
"He feels guilty, Laenor," Rhaenyra said, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "He looks at that boy and sees Daemon. He sees the brother he exiled and the sister-in-law who died because of our family's madness. He is trying to buy absolution with my inheritance."
"He is just a boy, Rhaenyra," Laenor said gently. "Aeryn has no claim. He is a Royce."
"He has the King's ear!" Rhaenyra snapped. "And he has the King's heart. Look at them. Father treats him like the son he never had. And my sons? Jace is down there, trying his best, and Father hasn't looked at him once in the last hour."
Rhaenyra gripped the stone railing until her knuckles turned white.
"That boy is a parasite," she hissed. "He feeds on my father's guilt. He grows strong on it. And one day, Laenor, that bronze shield of his will be used to bash our heads in."
Laenor looked down at the yard. He saw a lonely child surrounded by guards, fighting with a seriousness that no five-year-old should possess.
"I see a lonely boy who hates his father," Laenor murmured. "Perhaps we should pity him."
"I save my pity for my children," Rhaenyra said coldly, turning away. "Because if that boy stays in this castle, he will be their ruin."
...
That night, Aeryn lay in his bed.
His room was in the same wing as the King's, guarded by two household knights of Runestone who stood outside the door like statues.
The room was filled with the gifts Viserys had given him over the years. A model of a ship. A set of cyvasse pieces made of jade. A cloak of the finest velvet.
But Aeryn didn't look at them.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. In the darkness, his mind was active. He was organizing the day's intake.
File: Aegon. Threat level: Low (stupid). Weakness: Pride.
File: Maester Mellos. Status: Useful source of maps. Loyal to the Hand.
File: Uncle Viserys. Status: Protector. Health: Declining (cough is worse).
File: Daemon. Status: [ERROR/REDACTED].
He skipped over the last file. He pushed it down into the dark cellar of his mind where he kept the image of the canyon and the falling rock.
He rolled over, clutching the hilt of the sword Viserys had given him. He didn't hug a teddy bear. He didn't hug a blanket. He hugged the steel.
He remembered Ser Vardis's words. Bronze is stronger.
He closed his eyes. He wasn't a Targaryen prince in a fairy tale. He was a soldier behind enemy lines. This was his refuge. And as long as the King lived, he was safe.