(The Red Keep, 119 AC)
The Red Keep was a castle of noise. It echoed with the clang of steel from the training yards, the raucous laughter of feasts, and the whispered conspiracies in the corridors. But deep within the Queen's apartments, in a room hung with tapestries of faded Myrish silk, there was a pocket of silence.
This was Helaena's world.
At ten years old, Princess Helaena Targaryen was a ghost in her own house. The court whisperers called her "simple" or "strange." They watched her speak to empty air and muttered that the Targaryen coin had landed on the wrong side. Even her brothers, Aegon and Aemond, treated her with a mix of dismissal and irritation.
But Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, now six years old, did not think she was simple. He found her to be the most logical person in the castle.
He sat on a cushioned rug, his legs neatly crossed, watching Helaena work. She was arranging a collection of dried spider legs and beetle wings into a perfect spiral on a low table.
"The green thread is fraying," Helaena murmured, her lilac eyes unfocused as she stared at a sunbeam hitting the dust. "The weavers are arguing. They want to cut the cloth, but the scissors are dull."
Aeryn didn't ask what she meant. He didn't tell her there were no weavers. He simply processed the data.
Observation: Helaena speaks in metaphors.
Translation: The "Green thread" is likely the Hightower faction. "Fraying" suggests internal conflict or weakness. "Dull scissors" implies ineffective leadership.
"If the scissors are dull," Aeryn said, his voice calm and even, "then the cloth will tear, not cut. It will be messy."
Helaena stopped. She looked at him, her face brightening with a rare, genuine smile. She loved that Aeryn answered her. He didn't soothe her with lies like her mother, and he didn't mock her like Aegon. He played the game.
"Yes," Helaena whispered, leaning in closer. "Messy. Ragged edges. The dragons don't like ragged edges. They like to bite."
The door to the solar banged open.
The silence shattered. Prince Aegon II Targaryen strode in, followed closely by Aemond. Aegon was nearly thirteen now, lanky and sprouting the first awkward fuzz of a mustache. He smelled of wine—a habit he had picked up early—and sweat from the yard.
"There you are," Aegon sneered, kicking a cushion aside. "Mother is looking for you, Helaena. You're supposed to be fitting for a new dress, not playing with dead bugs with the Bronze Bastard."
Helaena flinched, shrinking back into her chair. She covered her spiral of wings with her hands, protecting it.
Aeryn didn't move. He didn't stand to bow. He just turned his head slowly to look at his cousins.
"She is busy, Aegon," Aeryn said.
Aegon laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Busy? She's mad, Aeryn. And you're just as bad for sitting here with her. Look at you. You look like a little crow waiting for a carcass."
Aemond, ten years old and perpetually angry, stepped forward. He glared at Aeryn. Aemond hated Aeryn for many reasons—his intellect, the King's favor—but mostly, he hated him because Aeryn had refused the dragons at the Pit, while Aemond would give an eye for one.
"Why don't you go back to your rocks, Royce?" Aemond spat. "We don't need you here."
Aeryn stood up then. He was smaller than both of them, but he held himself with a stillness that was unnerving. He smoothed his grey doublet.
"Helaena is creating a pattern," Aeryn stated. "It requires concentration. Your noise disrupts the variables."
"I don't care about her stupid patterns!" Aegon shouted. He strode forward and swept his hand across the table.
The dried wings and spider legs scattered across the floor. The spiral was destroyed.
Helaena let out a sharp cry, pulling her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. "The thread is snapped! The thread is snapped!"
Aegon grinned, satisfied with his cruelty. "See? Just bugs and trash. Now come on, Helaena. Mother is waiting."
Aeryn looked at the scattered debris. He felt a cold spike in his chest. It wasn't anger—anger was hot, like Daemon. This was something colder. It was the feeling of a calculation being interrupted by an error.
Aeryn bent down and picked up a single spider leg. He looked at Aegon.
"You have wine on your breath, Cousin," Aeryn said softly.
Aegon froze. "What?"
"It is only midday," Aeryn continued, his violet eyes locking onto Aegon's. "And you have a bruise on your left shin. You are favoring your right leg. You fell in the yard today. Ser Criston knocked you down twice."
Aegon's face went red. "Shut up."
"He knocked you down because you were slow," Aeryn recited, the memory of the morning's practice playing in his head like a painting. "You were slow because you were drinking with the squires in the stables last night. You drank three cups of Arbor Red. You stole them from the Master of Horse."
Aemond looked at his brother, surprised. "You said you were studying."
"I was!" Aegon lied, but his voice cracked. He took a threatening step toward Aeryn. "You little spy. I'll cut that tongue out."
"If you hit me," Aeryn said, not backing down an inch, "I will tell Uncle Viserys about the wine. And I will tell him about the stable boy you paid to keep quiet. I remember his name. Pate. He has a scar on his chin."
Aegon stopped. His fist hovered in the air. He looked at Aeryn and saw no fear. He saw a mirror reflecting his own secrets back at him.
The threat was real. Viserys doted on Aeryn. If Aeryn spoke, the King would believe him over his own drunken son.
"You're a freak," Aegon whispered, lowering his hand. "A little stone freak."
"Fix the table," Aeryn said.
"What?"
"You disrupted the pattern," Aeryn said. "Fix it. Or I tell the King about Pate."
The room was deathly silent. Helaena stopped rocking, peering through her fingers. Aemond watched, stunned, as his older brother—the Heir—gritted his teeth, knelt down, and roughly scooped the bug parts back onto the table.
"Happy?" Aegon snarled, throwing the debris down.
"It is not a spiral anymore," Aeryn noted. "But it will suffice."
Aegon turned and stormed out of the room, shoving Aemond out of his way. "Come on. This room smells like a grave."
When they were gone, the silence returned. But it was heavier now.
Aeryn knelt back down on the rug. He began to reorganize the wings, his small fingers moving with precision.
Helaena watched him. Her eyes were wide. She reached out and touched his hand. Her skin was cool.
"You stopped the storm," she whispered.
"I redirected it," Aeryn corrected. "Aegon is a simple system. He fears consequences. Fear is a lever."
Helaena squeezed his hand. "You have a shadow, Aeryn. It is getting long."
"Everyone has a shadow, Helaena."
"No," she shook her head, her expression turning grave. "Yours is not a shadow of light. It is a shadow of wings. Big wings. Ancient wings."
Aeryn paused. He thought of the hum in his blood at the Dragonpit. He thought of the King's stories about the Old Valyria.
"The Mountain?" Aeryn asked, remembering her words from before.
"The Mountain is waking," Helaena confirmed. She picked up a piece of black obsidian and placed it in Aeryn's palm. It was heavy and cold. "When you climb it... do not look down. If you look down, you fall into the fire. If you look up... you become the sky."
Aeryn closed his fingers around the stone. He didn't know why, but he felt a shiver run down his spine. It felt like a promise. Or a warning.
"I won't look down," Aeryn promised.
The door opened again, softly this time. Queen Alicent stood there. She had seen Aegon storming out in a rage, and she had feared the worst. But when she looked inside, she saw Aeryn and Helaena sitting together, the table tidy, the peace restored.
She saw Helaena holding Aeryn's hand, looking calmer than she had been in weeks.
Alicent leaned against the doorframe, a wave of relief washing over her. She knew Aeryn was Daemon's son. She knew he was a reminder of Rhaenyra's faction. But in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care.
"Thank you, Aeryn," Alicent whispered to herself.
Inside the room, the silent language continued. Aeryn placed the black stone in the center of the spiral.
Center point established, his mind recorded. The foundation is set.
He didn't know it yet, but Helaena was right. The Mountain was waiting for him. And in a few months, on the shores of Driftmark, Aeryn Royce-Targaryen would stop looking at the ground and finally look up.