(Blackwater Bay, 120 AC)
The sea was the color of bruised iron. The Royal Fleet cut through the chop of Blackwater Bay, a procession of black sails and golden banners snapping violently in the wind. They were sailing to Driftmark, to the seat of the Sea Snake, to bury a daughter of Old Valyria.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen stood at the stern of the King's Pride, gripping the rail. The salt spray stung his face, but he didn't blink. He was replaying the morning in his mind, winding the memory backward and forward like a clockwork mechanism.
He was thinking of the pig.
It had happened at the Dragonpit, just before the departure. Aegon, Jacaerys, and Lucerys had emerged from the tunnels, laughing with a cruelty that was specific to boys of their station. They had presented Aemond with a "mount."
A pig. Dressed in wings of stiff pink canvas. The Pink Dread, they had called it.
Aeryn had watched from the shadow of the archway. He had seen the way Aemond's face crumbled—not into tears, but into a rictus of pure, vibrating humiliation. He had seen Aegon laughing the loudest, betraying his own brother for the approval of his nephews.
Aeryn hadn't laughed. The joke was inefficient. It served no purpose other than to create an enemy.
When the others had run off, leaving Aemond standing in the mud with the squealing animal, Aeryn had approached.
"It is a domestic pig," Aeryn had stated, his voice cutting through Aemond's ragged breathing. "Genus Sus scrofa. It has no aerodynamic properties. It cannot fly, even with canvas."
Aemond had spun around, his eyes burning with hate. "Go away, Royce. Go count your rocks."
"The fire isn't in the pig, Aemond," Aeryn had whispered, looking toward the dark tunnels where the true beasts slept. "And it isn't in their laughter. If you want them to stop laughing, you have to change the variable."
Aeryn didn't know if Aemond understood. But he had seen the way Aemond looked at the tunnels afterward. A look of total, reckless desperation.
Now, hours later, the King's Pride groaned as it hit a swell.
"Aeryn," a weak voice called from the sheltered alcove of the deck.
Aeryn turned immediately. The cold logic of his mind vanished, replaced by a warm, anxious devotion.
King Viserys sat bundled in furs, his face pale and gaunt. The sea air was hard on him; his breathing was a wet, rattling wheeze. He looked small inside the heavy cloak of House Targaryen.
"I am here, Uncle," Aeryn said, stepping to his side and adjusting the blanket over the King's legs.
"The waves are angry today," Viserys murmured, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the jagged silhouette of Driftmark was beginning to emerge. "They mourn her. The sea mourns its own."
"Lady Laena," Aeryn said softly.
"My niece," Viserys sighed. He rubbed a trembling hand over his face. "Daemon wrote to me. He said... he said she did not die in the birthing bed. The maesters could not save the babe. The pain... it was tearing her apart."
Viserys paused, his eyes glazing over with a mix of horror and awe.
"She walked out to the sands, Aeryn. Bleeding. Dying. She went to Vhagar. She knelt before the great beast and she gave the command."
Aeryn froze. "She asked the dragon to kill her?"
"She wanted to die a dragonrider's death," Viserys whispered. "Not as a mother failing to bring life, but as a Targaryen returning to the ash. And Vhagar... Vhagar obeyed."
Aeryn looked at the King. He saw the way Viserys's hands shook, not just from illness, but from the emotional weight of the story.
"Is that... normal?" Aeryn asked. "For a dragon to do that?"
"Nothing about Vhagar is normal, my boy," Viserys said, shifting in his chair, a sudden spark of life igniting in his tired eyes. "She is not like Syrax or Sunfyre. She is the last of the Three. The Queen of all Dragons."
Aeryn moved closer, drawn in by the reverence in Viserys's voice. "Tell me about her."
"She is one hundred and eighty-one years old," Viserys said, his voice gaining strength. "She was hatched on Dragonstone during the Century of Blood. She carried Queen Visenya during the Conquest. Her fire... Aeryn, her fire is not orange. It is bronze and gold, hot enough to melt stone into glass. When she roars, the sound is so deep it cracks the earth."
Viserys looked at Aeryn, clutching the boy's hand with a desperate intensity.
"She is a living monument. She holds the memory of Aegon the Conqueror, of Maegor, of Baelon... my own father rode her, you know. Before he died. She carries the history of our house in her scales."
Aeryn listened. His mind, usually so cold and categorical, began to race.
Data Point: Viserys loves history.
Data Point: Viserys loves the glory of House Targaryen.
Data Point: Vhagar is the history.
Aeryn looked at his uncle. He saw the sadness in the King's face—the sadness of a man who felt his house crumbling, who felt his family tearing itself apart. He saw how much Viserys admired the strength of the past, a strength he no longer possessed.
If I had Vhagar, Aeryn thought, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. I would not just be the 'Bronze Prince'. I would be the Keeper of the History. Uncle Viserys would look at me and see his father. He would see the strength he lost.
It wasn't a desire for power. It wasn't a desire to burn cities. It was a terrified, desperate desire to be essential.
"She is alone now?" Aeryn asked quietly.
"Yes," Viserys nodded, leaning back, exhausted by his outburst. "She waits on the shores of Driftmark. A lonely god, mourning her rider. It will be years before she accepts another. Perhaps never. She is too great for this diminished age."
Aeryn looked back at the sea.
The island of Driftmark was close now. He could see the towers of High Tide. And somewhere on those beaches, the "Lonely God" was waiting.
Aeryn touched the emerald ring on his thumb.
He remembered the pig. He remembered Aemond's humiliation. He remembered how weak Aegon looked when he fell in the mud.
I cannot be weak, Aeryn decided. I cannot let Uncle Viserys look at me with pity, like he looks at Helaena. I must be strong. I must be the Bronze that holds the Fire.
"I will help you down the gangplank, Uncle," Aeryn said, his voice firm.
"You are a good lad, Aeryn," Viserys smiled weakly, patting his cheek. "My strong little sentinel."
Aeryn didn't smile back. He was too busy calculating the variables.
He needed to attend the funeral. He needed to be respectful. That was the Royce way. That was the "Good Boy" way that Viserys loved.
But after the funeral... after the prayers were said and the tears were shed...
Aeryn would go to the beach. He would use the High Valyrian words he had memorized from the scroll 'The Songs of Old Volantis'. He would not approach Vhagar with a whip. He would approach her with the weight of the past.
He would bring the Queen of Dragons home to his Uncle. And then, he would be safe forever.
The ship docked with a heavy thud.
Aeryn stepped onto the wooden planks, holding the King's arm. Above them, the sky turned black, and the first drops of rain began to fall, masking the tears of the realm, but doing nothing to dampen the fire that had just been lit in the heart of a seven-year-old boy.