(The River Gate, King's Landing, 120 AC)
The hour of the wolf was a time for ghosts and thieves. The mist that clung to the Blackwater Rush was thick enough to chew, shrouding the base of the Red Keep in a suffocating grey blanket.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, disguised in the rough-spun tunic of a scribe's apprentice, sat huddled in the back of a cart filled with barrels of salted cod. The smell was atrocious—a pungent mix of brine and decay that made his stomach turn—but he didn't move. He didn't even wrinkle his nose.
Focus, he commanded himself. Smell is just data. Ignore it.
Beside the cart walked Ser Vardis Egen. The knight had shed his gleaming plate for a stained leather jerkin and a hood that hid his face. He led a tired mule, his hand resting casually near the hidden dagger at his belt.
They approached the Mud Gate. The portcullis was down, the iron teeth biting into the wet earth. Two Gold Cloaks leaned against the wall, sharing a skin of wine and complaining about the damp.
"Halt," one of them grunted, stepping forward with a spear. "Gate's closed for the night. No traffic until dawn."
Vardis stopped the mule. He didn't look up.
"Tell that to the shipmaster of the Ironbelly," Vardis rasped, adopting a guttural, common accent. "Tide's turning. If this fish doesn't get to the Dragonstone garrison before it rots, Captain brute will have my hide. And then I'll tell him it was you who stopped us."
The guard peered into the cart. He saw the barrels. He saw a small, skinny boy huddled in the corner, clutching a ledger.
"Who's the runt?" the guard asked, pointing his spear at Aeryn.
Aeryn froze. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He remembered the lesson from the library: When you cannot hide, become boring.
He looked up, making his eyes wide and vacant. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"I just count the barrels, ser," Aeryn mumbled, pitching his voice high and pathetic. "Thirty-two barrels. Salted. One, two, three..."
The guard snorted in disgust. "Alright, alright. Stop counting. Gods, I hate scribes."
He waved at the gatekeeper. "Open up! Let the fish-men through!"
The heavy chains rattled. The gate groaned upward, just enough to let the cart pass.
Vardis flicked the reins. "Walk on."
As the cart rumbled through the archway and onto the slick cobblestones of the docks, Aeryn didn't exhale. He waited until the gate slammed shut behind them with a final, metallic clang.
Only then did he look back.
The Red Keep loomed on the hill, a black silhouette against the night sky. Somewhere in that castle, King Viserys was sleeping, dreaming of peace. Somewhere, Aemond was moaning in his fever.
Goodbye, Uncle, Aeryn thought, a sharp pang of guilt piercing his resolve. I am stealing myself from you. But I promise, I will bring you back something better.
...
(The Narrow Sea)
The Ironbelly was not a graceful ship. It was a broad-beamed cog built for cargo, not speed. It smelled of tar and old rope, and it rolled heavily in the swells of the Narrow Sea.
For two days, Aeryn lived in the captain's small cabin, a space bought with a heavy purse of House Royce gold. He didn't sleep. He spent the hours sitting on the bunk, the heavy book of The Songs of Old Volantis open on his lap.
The sea was rough. The waves crashed against the hull with the force of battering rams. Vardis spent most of the voyage on deck, watching the horizon with anxious eyes, praying that no royal galleys would appear to drag them back.
But Aeryn was in a different world.
He was in the Draconomicon. He was memorizing the bio-rhythms of Vermithor.
Note: Vermithor is vocal. He growls before he strikes.
Note: He is accustomed to the presence of Silverwing. He is social, but territorial.
Strategy: Do not approach stealthily. Announce presence. Resonance is key.
"You are reading the ink off the page, lad," Vardis said, entering the cabin with a bowl of stew. "Eat. You look like a corpse already."
Aeryn looked up. His eyes were rimmed with red, but they burned with a feverish intensity.
"Did you know that King Jaehaerys sang to him?" Aeryn asked, his voice raspy. "He didn't use a whip. He sang. It says here that dragons are drawn to the harmonics of High Valyrian. It reminds them of the Fourteen Flames."
Vardis set the bowl down. He sat heavily on a stool, the ship tilting beneath them.
"Singing won't stop a wall of fire, Aeryn. If that beast decides he doesn't like your tune... you are ash."
"He will like it," Aeryn said, closing the book. "Because I am not singing for him. I am singing with him."
Vardis looked at the boy. He missed the quiet child who used to collect rocks in the Vale. That boy was gone, replaced by this intense, frightening creature forged in the trauma of Driftmark.
"We make landfall in an hour," Vardis said quietly. "The captain is putting us ashore at a smuggler's cove on the north side. Far from the castle. We will have to climb the Dragonmont from the wild side."
Aeryn nodded. He touched the emerald ring on his thumb.
"Good," he said. "The wild side is better. No guards. Just the mountain."
...
(Dragonstone)
The island emerged from the mist like a broken tooth.
It was a place of jagged black rock and smoking vents. The air smelled of sulfur—brimstone, the priests called it. To Aeryn, it smelled like power.
The Ironbelly anchored in a small, rocky inlet. The waves were choppy, spraying foam against the dark cliffs. A small rowboat took them to the shore.
When Aeryn's boots touched the black sand of Dragonstone, he felt it.
The Hum.
It was stronger here than in the Dragonpit. It wasn't just a vibration; it was a physical pressure in the air. The whole island felt alive, breathing beneath his feet. It was a deep, resonant thrum that rattled his teeth.
They are here, his blood whispered. The Old Ones.
"This place is cursed," Vardis muttered, looking up at the towering volcano that dominated the skyline. The Dragonmont was wreathed in smoke, its peak glowing faintly red against the darkening sky.
"It is not cursed," Aeryn said, adjusting his cloak. "It is just loud."
He looked up the winding goat path that led toward the smoking vents. He knew that somewhere up there, in the heat and the dark, the Bronze Fury was sleeping.
Aeryn didn't wait. He began to walk.
He was small against the backdrop of the volcano. A speck of grey on a canvas of black. But he moved with a relentless, mechanical pace.
Step. Step. Step.
He left the safety of the ship behind. He left the laws of men behind. He was climbing into the domain of monsters, armed with nothing but a song and a desperate need to never be afraid again.
"Wait, my Prince!" Vardis called, hurrying to catch up, his hand on his sword.
"Do not lag, Ser Vardis," Aeryn called back, his voice swallowed by the wind. "The King is waiting."
But he wasn't talking about Viserys.