(The Grand Maester's Chambers, The Red Keep, 120 AC)
The world was not stone or fire. It was a swamp.
For days, Aeryn floated in a thick, narcotic haze. The Milk of the Poppy tasted like sweet rot on his tongue, dragging him down into dreams where the sky was made of bronze and the ground was made of teeth.
In the fever, he wasn't in the Red Keep. He was back in the cave. He felt the heat peeling his skin. He heard the roar. But sometimes, the dragon had Daemon's face. Sometimes, the dragon laughed.
"Burn," the voice whispered. "It is the only way to be clean."
Aeryn thrashed in the sheets. His left arm felt heavy, like it had been replaced by a block of lead. A fire burned inside the marrow of his bones.
"Peace, my boy. Peace."
A cool hand touched his forehead. A hand that trembled.
Aeryn forced his eyes open. The light was dim, filtered through heavy velvet curtains. The smell of medicinal herbs—aloe, firemilk, and poppy—was overpowering.
King Viserys sat by the bed. The Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms looked like a beggar. His robes were wrinkled, his silver hair unkempt, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He was holding a wet cloth.
"Uncle?" Aeryn rasped. His throat felt like he had swallowed sand.
Viserys let out a sob of relief, dropping the cloth into a basin. "He is awake! Mellos! He is awake!"
Grand Maester Mellos shuffled out of the shadows, his chains chiming softly. He looked grave. He approached the bed and began to check Aeryn's pulse.
"The fever has broken, Your Grace," Mellos murmured, though his eyes remained critical. "But the boy is weak. The burns are deep."
Aeryn tried to sit up. A jagged bolt of pain shot up his left side, tearing a gasp from his lips. He looked down.
His left arm, from the elbow to the fingertips, was wrapped in thick layers of linen bandages soaked in ointments. His shoulder was heavily padded. He could feel the throbbing pulse of the wound, a reminder that he was not unburnt. He was merely a survivor.
"Vermithor," Aeryn whispered. It was the first word that mattered. "Where is he?"
Viserys sighed, sinking back into his chair. He looked aged by ten years since the morning in the courtyard.
"He is in the Dragonpit," Viserys said. "Though 'in' is a generous word. He refused to enter the caves. He sleeps on the outer rim, coiled around the dome like a bronze serpent. The Dragonkeepers are terrified of him. He does not let anyone approach. He... he waits for you."
Aeryn sank back into the pillows. A faint, grim smile touched his lips. Good.
"You almost died, Aeryn," Viserys said, his voice hardening with a rare flash of anger. "You stole a boat. You climbed a volcano. You faced a beast that has killed knights and lords. Why? Why would you do such a thing?"
Aeryn looked at his uncle. He saw the love there, but he also saw the fear. Viserys wasn't just afraid for him; he was afraid of what was happening. The control was slipping.
"Because I was tired of being afraid, Uncle," Aeryn said softly.
"I protect you!" Viserys insisted, gripping the boy's uninjured hand. "I have given you everything. A place at court. My protection."
"You cannot protect me from him," Aeryn said. He didn't say the name. He didn't have to.
Viserys flinched. He knew. Deep down, in the places he refused to look, the King knew what his brother was.
"Daemon... Daemon is my blood," Viserys stammered, looking away. "He is volatile, yes. But he would not..."
"He laughed," Aeryn closed his eyes. "At the funeral. He laughed at me."
Viserys fell silent. The room was heavy with the truth that neither wanted to speak aloud: that the King's love was a shield made of paper, and Daemon's sword was made of Valyrian steel.
"Rest now," Viserys said, standing up shakily. "I must attend the small council. The realm... the realm is uneasy. A dragon of that size appearing in the sky... rumors are spreading."
Viserys leaned down and kissed Aeryn's forehead.
"Do not scare me again, Aeryn. I cannot lose anyone else this year."
...
(Later that afternoon)
Aeryn was alone. The pain in his arm had settled into a dull, rhythmic ache. He was staring at the ceiling, calculating the structural integrity of the stone arches, when the door creaked open.
It wasn't a Maester. It wasn't a servant.
It was Aemond Targaryen.
The Prince was ten years old, three years older than Aeryn. He wore a fine green doublet, and his face was pale. Over his right eye, he wore a simple leather patch, the wound still healing underneath.
Aemond didn't knock. He walked in with a stiff, formal gait. He stopped at the foot of the bed and stared at Aeryn.
For a long moment, neither spoke. They were two broken boys. One missing an eye, the other with a arm wrapped in rags.
"They say you screamed," Aemond said. His voice was flat, devoid of the usual mockery.
"I did," Aeryn admitted. "Fire hurts."
"Yes," Aemond touched his eye patch unconsciously. "It does."
Aemond walked around the bed, inspecting Aeryn like one might inspect a new horse or a weapon.
"Vermithor," Aemond said, the name rolling off his tongue with a mix of jealousy and respect. "The Bronze Fury. He is bigger than Vhagar?"
"No," Aeryn corrected. "Vhagar is the largest. Vermithor is second. But he is younger. Faster."
Aemond nodded, conceding the point. "Daemon is furious."
Aeryn turned his head. "Is he?"
"He hasn't left his chambers since you landed," Aemond said, a gleam of dark satisfaction entering his remaining eye. "He hates it. He hates that you have him. He thinks Vermithor belonged to him by right of ego."
Aemond leaned in closer, resting his hands on the bedframe.
"My mother is afraid," Aemond whispered. "She says you have joined the Blacks. That you will use that monster to burn us."
Aeryn looked at his cousin. He saw the lonely boy who had been bullied for not having a dragon. He saw the desperate hunger for power that had driven Aemond to claim Vhagar at a funeral.
"I am not a Black, Aemond," Aeryn said calmly. "And I am not a Green."
"Then what are you?"
Aeryn looked at his bandaged arm. He felt the "Hum" in the back of his mind, the connection to the beast waiting on the hill.
"I am Bronze," Aeryn said. "Bronze doesn't take sides. It endures."
Aemond studied him. He seemed to be weighing Aeryn's soul. Finally, the older boy smirked. It wasn't a cruel smile. It was a smile of recognition. Game recognizes game.
"You paid a price," Aemond said, gesturing to the arm. "I paid an eye. It seems power demands a piece of flesh."
"A fair trade," Aeryn replied.
"Maybe," Aemond straightened up. "Get well, cousin. The Dragonpit is lonely with just the keepers. Vhagar wants to meet her mate."
Aemond turned to leave, but stopped at the door.
"Oh," Aemond said, not looking back. "Daemon called you a 'burnt cripple' at supper. But he didn't laugh. He didn't laugh once."
Aemond walked out.
Aeryn lay back in the bed. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, hot and salty.
He had done it.
He was in pain. He was scarred. He was bedridden.
But the Monster had stopped laughing.
Aeryn closed his eyes and let the milk of the poppy take him again. This time, he didn't dream of falling. He dreamed of flying.