(The Small Council Chamber, The Red Keep, 120 AC)
The air in the council chamber was stagnant, heavy with the scent of beeswax and the underlying, sickly-sweet odor of the King's rotting flesh.
Aeryn sat on a low stool in the corner, ostensibly reading a treatise on Valyrian roadways. In reality, he was watching. He watched the way Grand Maester Mellos's hands shook when he poured the wine. He watched the way Lyman Beesbury squinted at his ledgers, his eyesight failing with age. He watched the flies circling the fruit bowl, waiting for something to spoil.
The realm is old, Aeryn thought, turning a page without reading it. It is ripe.
" The harbor taxes from Spicetown are down three percent," Lord Beesbury droned, his voice dry as dust. "Lord Corlys assures us it is merely a fluctuation in the trade winds from Pentos, but I suspect—"
The heavy oak doors banged open.
It was not a servant. It was Ser Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships. He was usually a man of composed, almost arrogant vanity, but today his face was the color of curdled milk. He had run all the way from the rookery; his chest was heaving.
"Your Grace," Tyland gasped, forgetting to bow. "A raven. From Driftmark."
King Viserys, who had been resting his eyes, jolted awake. He clutched the arm of his chair with his good hand. "Driftmark? Is it Corlys? Has something happened to the Sea Snake?"
"Not Lord Corlys, sire," Tyland said, holding out the parchment as if it were a poisonous adder. "It is Ser Laenor."
The room went deathly still. Even the flies seemed to stop buzzing.
"He is dead," Tyland whispered. "Slain in the market at Spicetown. A quarrel with his companion, Ser Qarl Correy. Swords were drawn. It... it happened quickly."
Viserys made a sound—a low, wounded whimper that was painful to hear. He sank back into his cushions, covering his face with his hands.
"The Stranger is cruel," the King wept. "First Laena... now Laenor. My poor cousins. They have lost the sun and the moon in the span of a single turn."
Around the table, the lords muttered their condolences, their faces masks of performative grief. But in the corner, the seven-year-old boy with the scarred arm did not weep.
Aeryn set his book down. His mind, cold and rhythmic as a metronome, began to stack the bodies.
Item: Lyonel Strong (Hand of the King). Burned.
Item: Harwin Strong (Shield of the Princess). Burned.
Item: Laena Velaryon (Wife of Daemon). Died in fire and blood.
Item: Laenor Velaryon (Husband of Rhaenyra). Slain by steel.
Conclusion: The board is being cleared.
Aeryn looked at Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King was not looking at Tyland or the weeping King. He was staring at the map of the Narrow Sea painted on the wall, his eyes narrowed, calculating.
"It is a tragedy," Otto said finally, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "But we must ask... where is Ser Qarl? Has the murderer been apprehended?"
"He escaped, my Lord Hand," Tyland replied nervously. "Vanished into the sea. Lord Corlys has offered a fortune for his head, but..."
"Convenient," Aeryn said.
The word was spoken softly, but in the silence of the room, it landed like a stone dropped in a well.
Viserys lowered his hands. He looked at his nephew with watery, red-rimmed eyes. "Aeryn? What did you say?"
Aeryn stood up. He adjusted the leather brace on his left arm.
"I said it is convenient, Uncle. A lover's quarrel in a public market? A murderer who vanishes without a trace? Just weeks after the Princess's shield burned in Harrenhal?"
"Aeryn," Viserys warned, his voice trembling. "Do not speak of conspiracies. This is bad fortune. A curse."
"Luck is a variable, Uncle," Aeryn said, his violet eyes hard. "This is not luck. This is arithmetic. The Princess is now a widow. The Prince Daemon is a widower. The obstacles between them have been removed."
"Silence!" Viserys roared, slamming his fist onto the table. "I will not have you speak of my brother in such a way! Daemon is wild, yes, but he loved the Velaryons! He would not shed his own kin's blood!"
Aeryn looked at the King. He saw a man who was terrified of the truth. Viserys knew. Somewhere, deep in the dark recesses of his heart, he knew what his brother was. But to admit it would be to admit that he loved a monster.
"As you say, Your Grace," Aeryn said, bowing stiffly. "I ask leave to retire."
"Go," Viserys waved him away, looking suddenly very old. "Go to the Dragonpit. Fly your beast. Leave the politics to men."
Men are easily fooled, Aeryn thought as he walked out. Dragons are not.
...
(The Godswood, Twilight)
The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the weirwood tree. Aeryn found Alicent Hightower pacing beneath the red leaves, twisting a ring on her finger until the skin was raw.
She looked up as Aeryn approached. Her eyes were wide, frantic.
"You heard?" she whispered.
"I heard," Aeryn said. He sat on one of the mossy roots of the heart tree. "Laenor is gone."
"He did it," Alicent hissed, clutching her skirts. "Daemon. It has his mark all over it. The violence, the theatricality of it. He killed Laenor to get to her."
She sat beside him, gripping Aeryn's uninjured shoulder.
"They will marry, Aeryn. I know it. Viserys says it is impossible, that it is too soon, that decency forbids it. But Daemon does not know decency. He knows only want."
Aeryn looked at the carved face of the weirwood. It was weeping red sap.
"If they marry," Aeryn reasoned coolly, "they consolidate their power. Rhaenyra gains the legitimacy of a Targaryen consort. Daemon gains proximity to the Throne. And they unite their dragons."
"Syrax. Caraxes. Vermax. Arrax. Tyraxes. Moondancer," Alicent listed them like a curse. "And Meleys, if Rhaenys stays loyal to her grandchildren."
She looked at Aeryn, desperation in her eyes. "We are outnumbered, Aeryn. Even with Vhagar... even with Sunfyre..."
"Numbers are not the only metric," Aeryn interrupted. "Syrax is lazy; she hasn't hunted in years. The hatchlings are small; snacks for a larger beast. Caraxes is formidable, yes. But he is a lean fighter."
Aeryn held up his bandaged hand, flexing the stiff fingers.
"Vermithor is not a fighter, Aunt Alicent. He is a king. He is mass and muscle. When he lands, the ground breaks. And Vhagar... Vhagar is a god of war."
He looked at the Queen.
"Let them marry. Let them gather in one place. It makes them easier to watch."
...
(The Rookery, Three Days Later)
Aeryn was feeding a strip of raw beef to a raven when the door opened. Otto Hightower entered. The Hand of the King looked impeccable as always, but there was a tightness around his mouth that betrayed his fury.
He held a small scroll in his hand. The seal was broken. It was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, stamped in black wax.
"You were wrong, Prince Aeryn," Otto said, his voice dangerously calm.
Aeryn wiped his hands on a rag. "About the murder?"
"About the timeline," Otto said. "You predicted three days for decency."
Otto handed him the scroll.
"They didn't even wait for the sun to set on Laenor's pyre."
Aeryn took the parchment. The words were brief, written in Rhaenyra's handwriting, but the phrasing had Daemon's arrogance.
To His Grace, King Viserys,
We write to inform you that we have been united in the holy bonds of matrimony, under the rites of Old Valyria, here on Dragonstone. We ask for your blessing in this union of blood, meant to strengthen the House of the Dragon against its enemies.
Aeryn lowered the paper.
"Enemies," Aeryn repeated the word. "He means us."
"He means anyone who stands between him and the Iron Chair," Otto corrected. "He has taken the heir. He has secured his position. He is coming back to King's Landing, Aeryn. And he will not be the exile anymore. He will be the Prince Consort."
Otto walked to the window, looking out at the city that was oblivious to the shifting tides.
"The King is devastated. He feels betrayed. But he will forgive them. He always forgives them. He will welcome them back with open arms, and Daemon will sit at the table, smiling at us while he sharpens his knife."
Otto turned to look at the boy.
"When they return... Daemon will look for weakness. He will look for fear. He remembers a little boy who cried at a funeral."
Aeryn walked to the window. He looked up at the Hill of Rhaenys. He could see the silhouette of Vermithor coiled around the dome of the Dragonpit, a dark blot against the stars.
"The boy who cried is dead, Lord Hand," Aeryn said. "He died in the Dragonmont."
He touched the silver scar that ran down his arm, hidden beneath his sleeve.
"Daemon thinks he is the fire," Aeryn murmured. "But fire needs air to burn. If we control the skies... if we control the laws... we can suffocate him."
Aeryn turned back to Otto. His face was a mask of cold, bronze resolve.
"Let him come. Let him bring his wife and his 'decency'. I will be waiting."
Otto nodded slowly. For the first time, he didn't see a child. He saw a player.
"The tide has turned, Aeryn," Otto said. "Prepare yourself. The storm is here."