(The Red Keep, King's Landing, 120 AC)
The rain had followed them from Driftmark. It battered the high walls of Maegor's Holdfast, turning the world outside into a grey, weeping blur. Inside, the Red Keep was suffocatingly quiet, the silence of a house waiting for the next beam to crack.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen sat on the cold stone floor of his chambers. He was seven years old, but his eyes, staring fixedly at the dancing flame of a single candle, looked ancient.
He was running the simulation again.
Input: The Hall of Nine.
Event: The blood on the floor. The flash of the knife.
Trigger: "White... Rock... Blood."
He squeezed his eyes shut. The memory of the canyon tried to claw its way out—the screaming horse, the woman's broken body—but Aeryn forced it back. He replaced it with a newer, sharper memory.
He saw Daemon Targaryen.
He saw the way his father had looked down at him while he was having a panic attack. There was no pity. No concern. Only a sneer that peeled back the skin to reveal the bone.
"A worm that curls up."
Aeryn opened his eyes. He blew out the candle. The smoke drifted up, grey and thin.
"I am not a worm," Aeryn whispered to the darkness. "I am a calculator. And you just gave me the final variable."
He stood up. The logic was brutal and irrefutable:
* Viserys loved him, but Viserys was dying. The King's rot was spreading, his mind drifting into the fog of milk of the poppy.
* Aemond now had Vhagar. The Greens had the nuclear weapon.
* Daemon had Rhaenyra. The Blacks had Caraxes and Syrax.
* Aeryn had books.
Conclusion: Books burn.
If he stayed in the Red Keep, he would be a pet. A mascot for the King until the King died. And then? Then the "Monster" would come back. Daemon would look at the son who reminded him of the "Bronze Bitch" and he would crush him, just to tidy up the board.
Aeryn walked to his wardrobe. He didn't pack clothes. He packed purpose.
He pulled on his thickest riding leathers. He clasped his bronze-rune cloak around his shoulders. He slipped the small dagger Viserys had given him into his boot.
Then, he left his room.
...
The Royal Library was empty at this hour, save for the ghosts of old maesters. Aeryn moved through the shadows, a small grey phantom. He didn't need a light; he had memorized the layout of the shelves months ago.
He went straight to the restricted section, the heavy iron gate that guarded the Draconomicon of House Targaryen. The lock was complex, designed to keep out curious squires. Aeryn picked it in ten seconds using a tension wrench he had fashioned from a discarded belt buckle.
Click.
He slid inside and pulled the heavy tome from the shelf. He laid it on the reading table and flipped the pages past the dragons he knew.
Balerion (Dead).
Meraxes (Dead).
Vhagar (Taken).
He stopped at the page he had been thinking about since the ship ride home.
Vermithor.
The illustration depicted a beast of terrifying proportions. His scales were not the bright gold of Sunfyre, nor the red of Caraxes. They were bronze—a deep, earthen metallic brown that shimmered with tan and gold highlights. His horns were twisted and massive.
The Bronze Fury.
Rider: King Jaehaerys I Targaryen.
Location: Dragonstone (Dragonmont Vents).
Status: Dormant. Hostile.
Aeryn ran his finger over the drawing.
"The Conciliator's mount," he murmured. "A dragon of law. A dragon of weight."
It fitted. It was a dragon for a boy who was half-stone. But the text below the image was a warning written in red ink:
> "Since the Old King's death, Vermithor has burned three men who attempted to mount him. He does not tolerate fear. He does not tolerate weakness. He waits for a voice that can command the earth."
>
Aeryn felt a tremor in his hands. He was afraid. Of course he was afraid. He was a child who hated fire.
But then he remembered the laugh. Daemon's laugh.
If I burn, I burn, Aeryn thought, his face hardening into a mask of stone. But if I fly... I will never have to look down again.
"You are planning suicide, my Prince."
Aeryn didn't jump. He closed the book slowly and turned around.
Ser Vardis Egen stood in the doorway of the cage. The knight was not wearing his white cloak, but his old House Royce brigandine. He looked tired, and his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
"Ser Vardis," Aeryn said calmly. "You are up late."
"The King wakes screaming from his dreams," Vardis said, walking into the candlelight. "He calls for you. And I find you here, looking at the one beast in the world that might be more dangerous than your father."
Vardis looked at the open book. He saw the name Vermithor. He paled.
"Aeryn," Vardis knelt, bringing himself to the boy's eye level. "You saw what happened to Aemond. He lost an eye. You could lose your life. Vermithor is not a pet. He is a mountain of rage."
"Aemond stole Vhagar with greed," Aeryn countered, his voice steady. "I will not steal. I will ask."
"Ask?" Vardis shook his head. "Dragons do not understand politeness."
"They understand authority," Aeryn said. "Jaehaerys was not a warrior like Maegor. He was a King. Vermithor respects the mind, not the whip."
Aeryn stepped closer to his guardian.
"Vardis, look at me. What do you see?"
"I see a boy," Vardis said softly. "The son of my lady."
"You see a victim," Aeryn corrected. "You see a boy who hides behind his uncle's chair while his cousins sharpen their knives. You see the son Daemon abandoned."
Aeryn grabbed Vardis's rough hand with his small, pale ones.
"I am done being the victim, Vardis. I am done hiding. If I stay here, I die slowly. I become a footnote in the history books. 'The Bronze Prince who did nothing'."
He pointed to the book.
"I am going to Dragonstone. I am going to walk into the dark. And I am going to come out with the Furia de Bronce. Or I am not coming out at all."
Vardis looked into Aeryn's eyes. He searched for madness, for the "Targaryen coin" that people whispered about. He didn't find it. He found the cold, hard resolve of the Vale. He saw Rhea Royce's stubbornness mixed with a terrifying, icy ambition.
The knight let out a long, heavy sigh. He stood up.
"The supply cog Ironbelly leaves for Dragonstone on the morning tide," Vardis said, his voice gruff. "The captain owes me a favor. He thinks he is transporting rare books."
Aeryn's shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. "Thank you."
"Do not thank me yet," Vardis warned, pulling his hood up. "If you burn, Aeryn... if you burn, I will have failed your mother for the last time. And I will throw myself into the sea."
"I won't burn," Aeryn said, picking up the heavy book.
He walked past the knight, out of the library, and into the shadows of the corridor. He walked with a new rhythm. He wasn't walking like a scholar anymore. He was walking like a King in waiting.
The decision was made. The Vow was taken.
The Bronze Warden was going to war. Not against a kingdom, but against his own fear.