(The Red Keep, King's Landing, 120 AC)
The air in the Red Keep was no longer thick with mourning; it was saturated with the electric hum of an impending storm.
The news of the marriage on Dragonstone had hit the castle like a catapult stone. It wasn't just a scandal; it was a declaration of war against the sensibilities of the court. Princess Rhaenyra, the heir to the throne, had wed the Rogue Prince before her husband's ashes were even cold.
Aeryn sat in the library, his scarred arm resting on a velvet cushion. He was seven years old, but the events of the last few moons had etched a hardness into his face that made the servants avert their eyes. He wasn't a child anymore; he was a political anomaly—a Royce-Targaryen who held the second-largest dragon in existence and a mind that calculated the world in cold, unforgiving strata.
The door burst open. Alicent Hightower marched in, her green skirts rustling with a violent, staccato rhythm. Behind her followed Otto Hightower, his face a mask of controlled fury.
"He has done it," Alicent hissed, her fingers white-knuckled as she clutched a prayer book. "He has corrupted her completely. They defy the King, they defy the gods, and they expect us to bow!"
Aeryn didn't look up from his book. "They expect the King to forgive them, Aunt Alicent. And based on historical data, the probability of the King's forgiveness is 92%."
Alicent stopped, staring at the boy. "How can you be so cold? He is your father, Aeryn! He has just spat in the face of your mother's memory by uniting with the woman who... who allowed this chaos!"
Aeryn finally closed the book. He looked at the Queen, his violet eyes flat.
"I have no father," Aeryn said. "I have a biological progenitor who is currently consolidating his power. If you want me to scream and tear my clothes in grief, you are asking the wrong person. If you want to know how this affects the tactical balance of the Realm, I am listening."
Otto Hightower stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with interest. "The boy is right, Alicent. Rage is a luxury. We need a wall. We need a Third Bando that cannot be swayed by the Princess's tears or the Prince's threats."
Otto leaned over the table, looking at Aeryn. "The Greens are the party of the Law, Aeryn. We believe in the stability of the succession. Your father... Daemon... believes only in the fire. Where does the Bronze Prince stand?"
Aeryn stood up, his small stature negated by the absolute stillness of his posture.
"I do not stand with the Greens because I love the Hightowers, My Lord Hand," Aeryn said, his voice a cool, measured blade. "I stand with the Greens because you are the only ones who aren't burning the house down to see who owns the ashes. I am for the Law. I am for the Order. And currently, the Law is wearing a green cloak."
He looked at Alicent.
"I will support your cause, Aunt, but do not mistake my pragmatism for devotion. I am not your pawn. I am the Warden of the Law. And the Law says that a man who cleans the board with blood must be contained."
...
(The Outer Yard, Two Days Later)
The bells of the city didn't ring for joy. They rang with a hollow, fearful toll.
The Black sails had been spotted at dawn. Now, the royal carriage was waiting in the yard as the gates opened to admit the returning "prodigals."
King Viserys stood at the top of the stairs, leaning heavily on a cane, his face a tragic mixture of heartbreak and desperate love. Beside him, Aeryn stood like a sentinel, dressed in a tunic of dark charcoal leather and bronze scales. He held a small, iron-bound staff—his "architect's cane"—to help with the slight limp he still carried from the Dragonmont.
Daemon Targaryen rode into the courtyard on a black charger, his silver hair catching the sun. Behind him, Rhaenyra sat in a gilded carriage, her expression defiant, almost daring anyone to challenge her.
Daemon dismounted with the grace of a predator. He didn't look at the King first. His eyes scanned the line of the court, passing over Otto and Alicent with a sneer of pure contempt.
Then, he saw the boy.
Daemon paused. The last time he had seen Aeryn, the child was a broken heap of burnt wool. Now, Aeryn stood at the King's right hand, his left arm encased in a reinforced leather brace, his eyes locked onto Daemon's with an intensity that made the Rogue Prince's smile falter for a fraction of a second.
"Brother," Daemon called out, his voice echoing in the silent yard. He walked up the stairs, ignoring the Kingsguard.
"Daemon," Viserys whispered, his voice cracking. "You... you have much to answer for."
"I have secured the line, Viserys," Daemon said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "I have brought the Princess home. We are one house again."
Daemon's gaze drifted to Aeryn.
"And the little scholar," Daemon said, stepping closer until he was looming over the seven-year-old. "I hear you found a new toy in the dark. A big, dusty thing that belonged to a better King."
The court held its breath. The insult to Vermithor—and to Aeryn—was a slap in the face.
Aeryn didn't flinch. He didn't look at the King for protection. He looked Daemon straight in the eye, his voice low enough that only those on the stairs could hear.
"The dragon recognized the blood, progenitor," Aeryn said, using the cold, clinical term. "He saw a rider who was willing to burn for the Law. He didn't see a man who hides in the shadows of a woman's skirts."
Daemon's hand went to the hilt of Dark Sister. The air in the courtyard turned to ice. Ser Vardis Egen, standing behind Aeryn, stepped forward, his hand on his own sword.
"Careful, boy," Daemon hissed, his eyes burning with the 'dragon-madness'. "You are still small. And dragons... dragons have accidents."
"So do men who walk in the dark," Aeryn replied.
Viserys, oblivious or choosing to be, stepped between them, putting a trembling hand on Daemon's shoulder. "Enough! This is a day of union! Daemon, Rhaenyra... come. We shall feast. We shall put this unpleasantness behind us."
As the King led them into the holdfast, Daemon looked back over his shoulder at Aeryn. It wasn't the look of a father. It was the look of a man who had finally realized that the 'worm' he had crushed had grown into a serpent with very long fangs.
Aeryn watched them go, his face a mask of stone.
"He hates you," Aemond whispered, stepping up beside Aeryn. Aemond was ten now, his eyepatch a permanent reminder of the price of power. "He hates that you have him."
"He doesn't hate me, Aemond," Aeryn said, turning to walk toward the Dragonpit. "He fears the variable I represent. He understands fire. He understands blood. But he does not understand a boy who thinks in iron and logic."
"What do we do now?" Aemond asked.
Aeryn looked toward the Hill of Rhaenys, where the massive silhouette of the Old King's mount was visible against the sky.
"We establish the Law," Aeryn said. "If the King will not rule his house, then the dragons will."