(The Red Keep, 118 AC)
The Grand Library of the Red Keep was a cathedral of silence. It smelled of dry parchment, beeswax, and the slow, creeping decay of time. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the high, narrow windows, settling on rows upon rows of books that contained the history of a world built on fire and blood.
For Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, barely five years old, this room was not a place of study; it was a sanctuary of order. Outside, in the training yards and the banquet halls, people lied. They smiled when they were angry, they bowed when they were proud. But here, in the ink and the vellum, facts remained facts. A date did not change its mind. A map did not have a hidden agenda.
Aeryn sat at a long table of polished oak, his small boots dangling inches above the rush-covered floor. He was dressed in a doublet of dark grey wool, clasped with the bronze runes of his mother's house.
Beside him sat Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. At four years old, Jace was a sweet, brown-haired boy with a perpetually furrowed brow. He was trying his best to hold a heavy quill, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he struggled to copy a sentence from a history of the Faith Militant.
Grand Maester Mellos paced at the head of the table, his maester's chains clinking softly with every step.
"The reign of Maegor the Cruel," Mellos droned, tapping a pointer against a slate. "Ended in the year 48 AC. Can anyone tell me the name of the battle that preceded his... sudden demise?"
Jacaerys looked up, panic flashing in his dark eyes. He looked at his mother, Princess Rhaenyra, who sat in a nearby window alcove. She was embroidering a handkerchief, but her eyes were fixed on the boys. She gave Jace a small, encouraging nod.
"The Battle of... the Muddy Way?" Jace guessed, his voice small.
Mellos offered a kindly, pitying smile. "A valiant guess, Prince Jacaerys. But the Muddy Way was a skirmish during the Faith Uprising, years prior."
The Grand Maester turned his gaze to the smaller boy. "Prince Aeryn?"
Aeryn didn't look up from the scroll he was studying. He was tracing the coastline of the Stepstones with a dry finger, memorizing the depth charts.
"There was no battle," Aeryn said. His voice was calm, lacking the fluctuating pitch of a normal child. It was a flat, observational tone. "Maegor's bannermen abandoned him. Lord Tully declared for Prince Jaehaerys first. Then Lord Hightower. Maegor was found dead on the Iron Throne. His wrists were cut by the blades."
The room went quiet.
Mellos blinked, impressed despite himself. "Precisely. And the date?"
"The third moon of 48 AC," Aeryn added, finally looking up with those unsettling violet eyes. "It rained that morning."
"It... rained?" Mellos frowned, checking his own reference book. He flipped the pages rapidly. "I do not recall... ah. Here it is. 'A storm broke over the city as the King was found.' Well. Yes. Extraordinarily detailed, my Prince."
From the window alcove, the sound of a needle snapping broke the silence.
Rhaenyra set her embroidery down. She stood up, her silk skirts rustling like dragon wings. She walked over to the table, her face a mask of composed, icy beauty.
She placed a hand on Jacaerys's shoulder. The boy leaned into her touch, seeking comfort. He knew he had failed the question, and worse, he knew his younger cousin had answered it without even trying.
"He is five years old, Grand Maester," Rhaenyra said, her voice cool. "And Jacaerys is four. Perhaps we should not expect them to know the weather patterns of a century ago."
"Of course, Princess," Mellos bowed low. "Prince Aeryn simply has a... unique retention. It is a gift."
"A gift," Rhaenyra repeated. She looked at Aeryn.
She didn't hate him. Hate required a fire that she was too exhausted to stoke. What she felt was a profound, aching resignation. She looked at Aeryn's black hair—so like the hair of her own sons—and she saw the injustice of it. When the lords looked at Aeryn, they saw a prodigy of House Royce. When they looked at Jace, they saw a "Strong" bastard.
Aeryn looked back at her. He saw the tension in her jaw. He saw the way her fingers dug slightly into Jacaerys's velvet tunic.
She is guarding him, Aeryn's mind recorded. Like the mother wolf in the book.
Before Rhaenyra could speak again, the heavy oak doors groaned open.
The tapping of a cane echoed against the stone. Tap. Step. Wheeze. Tap. Step.
King Viserys I Targaryen entered the library. The years had not been kind to him. His face was gaunt, his skin sallow, and he moved with the fragility of a man made of glass. But when his eyes landed on the table, a genuine, beaming smile broke through the pain.
"My scholars!" Viserys exclaimed, his voice hoarse but warm. "Hard at work, I see. Building the mind is as important as building the realm."
He shuffled forward, ignoring the chair a servant offered him. He went straight to the table.
He didn't look at Jacaerys. He didn't look at Rhaenyra.
He looked at Aeryn's scroll.
"What is this?" Viserys asked, leaning down. "The Stepstones?"
"Yes, Uncle," Aeryn said. "The tides are dangerous here." He pointed to a specific strait. "If the ships are heavy, they break."
Viserys let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands together. "Did you hear that, Mellos? Five years old, and he understands naval logistics! My brother could conquer the islands, but I doubt even Daemon knows the tides as this boy does."
The King reached out, his hand trembling, and cupped Aeryn's cheek. It was a gesture of such blatant, overwhelming affection that it sucked the air out of the room.
"You are a wonder, Aeryn," Viserys whispered. "Truly. You are the future of our house's wisdom."
Rhaenyra stood frozen. She watched her father touch the boy. She watched Jacaerys looking up at his grandfather, waiting for a smile, a nod, anything.
Jacaerys tugged on Viserys's sleeve. "Grandsire? I drew a dragon."
Viserys glanced down, distracted. "That is nice, Jace. Very nice." He immediately turned back to Aeryn. "Tell me, Aeryn, have you read the accounts of the Doom yet? I have a new translation I think you would enjoy..."
It was a knife to the heart. Not a sharp, violent stab, but a slow, twisting blade.
Rhaenyra felt the tears pricking her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give the Greens the satisfaction. She would not let Aeryn see her bleed.
"Father," Rhaenyra said. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the King's doting rambling.
Viserys looked up, blinking as if waking from a dream. "Rhaenyra? Is something wrong?"
"Jacaerys is tired," she said, her tone devoid of warmth. "And we are leaving."
"Leaving?" Viserys looked confused. "But we were just discussing—"
"You were discussing," Rhaenyra corrected. She grabbed Jacaerys's hand, pulling him off the chair. "Come, Jace. Your father is waiting for us in the yard."
"But I haven't finished my letters," Jace protested weakly.
"You have finished enough," Rhaenyra said firmly.
She looked at Aeryn one last time. It was a look of profound pity and cold distance. You steal his love, her eyes said. You don't even try, and you steal it all.
She turned and swept out of the room, her skirts swirling around her, dragging a confused and saddened Jacaerys behind her.
The door slammed shut.
The silence that followed was heavy. Grand Maester Mellos cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling his papers.
Viserys stared at the door, a shadow crossing his face. He rubbed his chest, where the rot was slowly eating him alive. "She is always so spirited," he murmured, trying to convince himself. "Always in a rush, my Rhaenyra."
He turned back to Aeryn, his eyes pleading for validation. "She is just tired, isn't she, boy? Mothers worry."
Aeryn looked at the closed door. His mind replayed the scene.
Observation: Rhaenyra's pupils were dilated. Her voice pitch dropped. Her grip on Jacaerys was tight.
Analysis: Pain. Not anger. Pain.
Cause: The King ignored the other boy.
Aeryn looked at his uncle. He saw a dying old man who was desperately trying to replace a brother he had lost with a nephew he could mold. He saw the delusion in Viserys's eyes.
Aeryn could have lied. He could have smiled like a child and said yes.
But he was the Scholar of Bronze. He dealt in facts.
"She is sad, Uncle," Aeryn said quietly.
Viserys flinched. He slumped into the chair Jacaerys had vacated, looking suddenly very old. He sighed, a sound that rattled in his lungs like dry leaves.
"We are all sad, Aeryn," Viserys whispered, staring at the map of the rocks that broke ships. "That is the price of the crown. It isolates you. Even from your own blood."
He reached out and took Aeryn's small hand, squeezing it with a desperate strength.
"Promise me," Viserys said, his voice urgent. "Promise me you will use that mind of yours to help them. When I am gone... they will need you. Even if they do not know it."
Aeryn looked at the King's hand. It was spotted with age and sickness. Then he looked at his own hand. Small. Pale. Strong.
"I promise, Uncle," Aeryn lied.
He didn't mean to lie. But he knew, with a certainty that defied his age, that he couldn't help people who didn't want to be saved. He could map the rocks, but he couldn't stop the ship from sailing into them.
Rhaenyra had resigned herself to the distance. And Aeryn, sitting in the dust of the library, accepted it.
He picked up his charcoal.
"The Battle of the Burning Mill," Aeryn said softly to himself, returning to the work. "43 AC. It rained."
Viserys closed his eyes and listened to the scratching of the charcoal, finding peace in the boy's voice, unaware that he had just widened the chasm that would one day swallow his entire family.