(High Tide, Driftmark, 120 AC)
The sarcophagus of Laena Velaryon hit the water with a heavy, final splash.
It was a sound that seemed to suck the air out of the world. Standing on the cliffside terrace of High Tide, the court of King Viserys I watched as the stone casket sank beneath the grey waves, joining the ancestors of the Sea Snake in the watery halls of the deep.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, seven years old, stood beside the King. He wore his bronze-trimmed black doublet, his hands clasped respectfully behind his back. He did not cry. Royces did not cry for strangers. But he observed.
Observation: Lord Corlys Velaryon is staring at the water as if he wants to drown the world.
Observation: Princess Rhaenyra is holding her sons close, creating a physical wall between them and Queen Alicent.
Observation: Prince Daemon...
A sharp, jagged sound cut through the silence. A chuckle.
Daemon Targaryen was laughing. It wasn't loud, but in the funereal quiet, it was a thunderclap. He stood apart from the rest, leaning against a stone balustrade, looking not at the sea, but at the horizon where the dragons were roosting.
Viserys flinched at the sound, looking at his brother with a mixture of heartbreak and exhaustion.
Aeryn watched Daemon. Defense mechanism, his mind categorized. He laughs to keep the grief from cutting his throat.
But Aeryn's focus quickly shifted. He looked past the mourners, past the tension, toward the distant dunes of the beach.
There she was.
Vhagar.
Even from this distance, she was a terrifying majesty. She lay in the sand like a fallen mountain range, her bronze scales blending with the fading light of dusk. She let out a low, mournful roar that vibrated in the stone beneath Aeryn's feet.
She calls for Laena, Aeryn thought. She is waiting.
Aeryn touched the ring on his thumb. He had a plan. He had constructed it with the precision of an architect.
Step 1: Endure the funeral. Show respect. Viserys values piety and tradition.
Step 2: Attend the wake. Wait for the wine to dull the senses of the guards and the court.
Step 3: Slip away to the beach.
Step 4: Use the Old Valyrian song. Drakari pykiros...
He would bring Vhagar to the King. He would kneel before Viserys with the Queen of Dragons behind him, and he would say: "I have secured the legacy, Uncle. You are safe."
It was a perfect plan. It was logical. It was respectful.
He glanced to his left.
Prince Aemond stood there. The ten-year-old was vibrating. He wasn't looking at the sarcophagus. He wasn't looking at his mother. He was staring at Vhagar with a hunger so raw it looked like physical pain.
Aeryn narrowed his eyes. He wants her too.
But Aemond wouldn't dare. Not now. To leave the funeral of the King's niece before the wake was a grave insult to House Velaryon. It was a breach of protocol that would shame the Queen. Aemond was desperate, yes, but he was a Hightower. They followed rules.
He will wait, Aeryn calculated. He has to wait.
The ceremony ended. The sky opened up, and a cold rain began to fall.
"Come, Aeryn," Viserys whispered, his hand trembling on his cane. "Let us go inside. The cold is in my bones."
"Yes, Uncle," Aeryn said, taking the King's arm.
He led Viserys away from the cliff, turning his back on the dragon. He was doing the right thing. He was being the dutiful nephew. He was being Bronze.
...
The Hall of Nine was a cavern of shadows and flickering torchlight. Servants moved silently, pouring wine and offering trays of food that no one touched.
The atmosphere was poisonous. On one side of the hall, the Greens gathered around Queen Alicent. On the other, Rhaenyra sat with Daemon, their heads close together, speaking in hushed High Valyrian.
Aeryn sat next to Viserys on the dais. He watched the room.
Time check: One hour since the burial.
Status: The King is drifting into sleep. The guards are relaxed.
It was time.
Aeryn slipped off his chair. He bowed to the sleeping King. "I need air, Ser Harrold," he told the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Harrold Westerling nodded kindly. "Stay close to the walls, my Prince. The storm is picking up."
Aeryn walked calmly to the side exit. He didn't run. Running attracted attention. He walked with the measured pace of a scholar.
Once he was out the heavy wooden doors and into the wet, windy courtyard, he changed.
The protocol vanished. The boy vanished.
Aeryn ran.
He sprinted through the damp grass, his boots splashing in puddles. The wind whipped his black hair into his eyes, but he didn't stop. He ran toward the dunes. He ran toward the destiny he had designed for himself.
He crested the final hill, the sand shifting beneath his feet. He was out of breath, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
I am here, he thought, scanning the darkness. I am ready. I will sing the song. I will—
He stopped.
The beach was empty.
The massive depression in the sand where Vhagar had been lying was vacant.
Aeryn blinked, the rain running down his face. Where?
Then, the ground shook.
A roar shattered the night—not a mournful cry this time, but a scream of challenge. A sound of ancient, terrible power waking up.
Aeryn looked up.
Above him, blotting out the few stars that struggled through the storm clouds, a shadow blocked the sky.
Vhagar was airborne.
Her wingspan was immense, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. The downdraft from her beats flattened the dune grass and nearly knocked Aeryn off his feet.
And there, clinging to the scales of her neck, a tiny speck against the mountain of flesh...
"Aemond," Aeryn whispered. The word was snatched away by the wind.
He watched as the dragon banked sharply, fire—bronze and gold—erupting from her throat to light up the clouds. Aemond was screaming. Not in fear. In triumph.
Aeryn stood rooted to the spot. The rain soaked him to the bone.
His calculation was wrong.
Error: He assumed Aemond cared about rules.
Error: He assumed Aemond cared about the Velaryons' feelings.
Error: He assumed that being "Good" was a variable that mattered to a Dragon.
Aemond hadn't waited for the wake. He hadn't waited for permission. He had simply taken what he wanted while Aeryn was busy holding the King's hand.
Aeryn watched the dragon climb higher and higher, disappearing into the storm.
He felt a sensation he had never felt before. It wasn't just disappointment. It was a hollowness. A realization that his "Bronze" safety—his rules, his logic, his duty—was useless against raw, selfish ambition.
"I was too late," Aeryn said to the empty beach.
He looked at his hands. They were empty. He had no gift for the King. He had no weapon to protect himself.
He turned back toward the castle. The lights of High Tide flickered in the distance. He had to go back. He had to face the court.
But as he walked, the sound of Vhagar's roar echoed in his mind, mocking him.
You waited, the roar seemed to say. And the world moved on.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen walked back into the storm, but something inside him had broken. The boy who believed that order and patience were the keys to power died on that beach.
And in the darkness of the castle, the consequences of Aemond's theft were already beginning to sharpen their knives.