(The Red Keep, King's Landing, 120 AC)
Healing was not a peaceful process. It was a war of attrition waged upon the skin.
For weeks, Aeryn Royce-Targaryen had been confined to his chambers, his world reduced to the smell of medicinal moss and the rhythmic throbbing of his left arm. The firemilk applied by the Maesters numbed the sharpest agony, but it did nothing for the itching—the maddening, crawling sensation of new, scar-tissue knitting itself over the raw meat of his shoulder and forearm.
Aeryn sat by the window, the morning light illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He was pale, thinner than before, but his eyes were sharp, devoid of the hazy glaze of the poppy.
He refused the milk now. A dull blade cuts nothing, and he needed to be a scalpel.
On the heavy oak table before him lay a chaotic spread of parchment. They were not histories or genealogies. They were blueprints.
Problem: Left arm grip strength reduced by approximately 60%. Range of motion limited by scar tissue contracture.
Variable: The neck circumference of the Bronze Fury is nearly double that of a standard mount like Syrax or Sunfyre.
Solution: Mechanical advantage.
Aeryn dipped his quill into the inkpot. He sketched a series of interlocking leather straps reinforced with bronze buckles. He drew a fulcrum point that would sit across his chest, transferring the strain of steering from his weak arm to his core and legs.
"It looks like a torture device," a soft voice drifted from the doorway.
Aeryn didn't look up. The tension in his shoulders, usually coiled tight against the potential intrusion of Daemon or the King, relaxed instantly.
"It is a saddle, Helaena," he said, sketching the curve of a stirrup. "Or rather, an interface."
Helaena Targaryen drifted into the room. She was wearing a dress of pale yellow silk, and she moved with that peculiar, ethereal lightness, as if gravity had a personal agreement to go easy on her. In her hands, she cupped a large, iridescent stag beetle.
"The keepers say the beast is screaming," Helaena murmured, placing the beetle gently on the corner of Aeryn's table. "Not with his throat. With his blood. He misses the heat of the vent. He hates the cold stone of the Pit."
Aeryn stopped drawing. He looked at his cousin. Helaena was the only one who heard the world the way he felt it—a cacophony of hidden signals.
"He is bored," Aeryn corrected gently. "He spent twenty years sleeping. Now he wants to work. He is an engine waiting for a pilot."
Helaena poked the beetle. It opened its wings, flashing a hard, metallic shell.
"Armor protects the soft parts," she said, her eyes unfocused. "But if the armor is too heavy, the beetle cannot fly. Be careful, cousin. Do not build a cage and call it a saddle."
"I am not building a cage," Aeryn said, touching his bandaged shoulder. "I am building a prosthetic. If I cannot hold him with strength, I will hold him with leverage."
The door creaked open again. This time, the air in the room shifted. It grew heavier, charged with a static electricity that made the hairs on Aeryn's arms stand up.
Aemond Targaryen entered.
At ten years old, Aemond was growing fast. He was lean and sharp-edged, dressed in a black doublet with green trim. The leather patch over his right eye was no longer a bandage; it was a permanent fixture, a declaration of the price he had paid.
He didn't acknowledge Helaena. His single violet eye locked onto Aeryn, then drifted to the sketches on the table.
"Mother is looking for you, sister," Aemond said, his voice flat. "She wants to prepare you for the sewing circle with the Velaryon cousins."
Helaena sighed, a sound like wind through dry grass. She picked up her beetle. "Spiders sew," she whispered to Aeryn as she passed him. "Dragons weave."
When the door clicked shut behind her, the silence in the room changed. It wasn't awkward. It was the companionable silence of two soldiers in a trench.
Aemond walked to the table. He picked up the schematic of the harness. He studied the complex system of pulleys and counterweights.
"The Dragonkeepers are laughing, you know," Aemond said. "They say you are trying to put a carriage on a dragon's back. They say a true Targaryen rides with his knees and a whip."
"A true Targaryen," Aeryn said, leaning back in his chair and favoring his stiff arm, "is usually unburnt. Since we both failed that test, I think we are allowed to rewrite the rules."
Aemond smirked. It was a sharp, dangerous expression that made him look older than his years.
"They fear us, Aeryn," Aemond said, dropping the paper. "The Council. The Lords. Even my mother, though she tries to hide it. They look at me and see Maegor. They look at you and see... something cold."
"They see weapons," Aeryn corrected. "Weapons that they cannot put back in the sheath."
Aemond leaned in, resting his knuckles on the table.
"My uncle—your father—is still at Dragonstone," Aemond said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But he will come back. When he does, he will bring Caraxes. He thinks he owns the sky, Aeryn. He thinks you are a fluke. A child who got lucky in a cave."
Aeryn looked at the drawing of the saddle. He traced the line of the chest strap.
"Let him think that," Aeryn said softly. "Let him think I am a cripple tied to a beast I cannot control. Confusion is a valid tactic."
"And when he realizes the truth?"
Aeryn looked up, meeting Aemond's single eye.
"By then, I will be above him."
...
(Three Weeks Later - The Dragonpit)
The Dragonpit was a colossal dome of stone and bronze, a cavernous arena that smelled of ash, old meat, and fear.
Today, the galleries were empty of smallfolk, but the Royal Box was full. King Viserys sat wrapped in furs, looking frail but eager. Queen Alicent stood beside him, her hands clasped tightly in prayer. Ser Otto Hightower watched with the impassive gaze of a hawk.
And in the center of the sandy floor, the Titan waited.
Vermithor was coiled like a great bronze serpent. He was massive, his bulk dwarfing the Dragonkeepers who stood at a respectful distance with their long pikes. Steam rose from his nostrils in rhythmic bursts.
When Aeryn walked out of the tunnel, the dragon lifted his head. A low rumble shook the sand.
Aeryn walked with a slight limp. He wore a tunic of dark grey leather, reinforced with bronze plates. On his left arm, he wore a custom-tooled brace that ran from his knuckles to his elbow.
He carried the saddle himself, refusing the help of the keepers. It was a strange contraption of boiled leather, chains, and winches.
"He cannot mount that beast," Lord Strong whispered to Otto in the stands. "The boy is seven. The dragon is a mountain. One shake and he will be broken."
Otto didn't answer. He just watched.
Aeryn approached the dragon. He didn't speak High Valyrian commands. He simply stopped and looked into the golden eye. He projected an image in his mind: The structure. The connection. The flight.
Vermithor huffed, lowering his massive wing to form a ramp.
Aeryn climbed. It was not graceful. He had to haul himself up using his good arm, gritting his teeth against the phantom pain in his burns. But he didn't stop. He reached the hollow between the neck spines and set the saddle.
Click. Snap. Ratchet.
The sound of the buckles locking into place echoed in the silent arena. Aeryn strapped his chest into the harness. He slid his boots into the locking stirrups. He hooked his weak left arm into the tension loop.
He took a deep breath. He wasn't just sitting on the dragon. He was bolted to him.
Aeryn looked up at the Royal Box. He saw Aemond, standing near a pillar, nodding once.
"Sōvegon!"
The command was calm, almost conversational.
Vermithor didn't need to be whipped. He exploded into motion.
The great wings slammed down, creating a shockwave of dust that blinded the front row of the gallery. With a roar that rattled the teeth of every soul in King's Landing, the Bronze Fury leaped.
They shot through the open dome of the Pit.
The force of the takeoff was immense. Gravity tried to tear Aeryn from the dragon's back, but the harness held. The fulcrum across his chest absorbed the G-force, distributing it through his core.
Aeryn laughed.
It wasn't a maniacal laugh. It was a laugh of pure, mathematical triumph.
The hypothesis is confirmed. The system works.
He banked hard to the left. He didn't yank the reins. He simply shifted his weight and twisted the torque-bar with his right hand. The pulley system multiplied his force. Vermithor responded instantly, turning on a dime with a grace that defied his size.
They climbed. Higher. Past the Red Keep. Past the clouds.
The air grew thin and cold. The pain in his arm vanished, replaced by the numbness of the altitude.
Aeryn looked down at the world. It was a map. A grid of variables.
King's Landing was just a collection of stones. The fleets in the bay were just toys.
For the first time in his life, Aeryn Royce-Targaryen felt completely whole. He wasn't the boy who had lost his mother. He wasn't the boy Daemon had rejected.
He was the Pilot.
He leveled the dragon out, gliding on the thermal currents above the Blackwater. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the heartbeat of the beast thumping against his own ribs through the leather of the saddle.
Let them play their games of thrones, Aeryn thought, opening his eyes to the endless blue horizon. Let Daemon marry Rhaenyra. Let the Greens plot.
He patted the warm bronze scales of the neck.
I have the high ground.