(The Dragonpit, King's Landing, 120 AC)
The Dragonpit was a cathedral of silence and shadow, a cavernous dome where the air always tasted of sulfur and dry rot. For decades, it had been the domain of the Dragonkeepers—an ancient order of monks who spoke in High Valyrian and moved like ghosts. They answered to the King.
But the King was rotting in his keep.
And in the western vault of the Pit, a new authority had taken root.
Ser Vardis Egen stood at the entrance of the massive archway, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He did not wear the white cloak of the Kingsguard, nor the gold of the City Watch. He wore a heavy cloak of mountain-grey wool, clasped with the bronze runes of House Royce.
Behind him stood four other men-at-arms, brought from the Vale. They were not ornamental knights. They were men who knew how to kill clansmen in the rocky passes of the Mountains of the Moon. They stood like statues, blocking the path into the darkness where the Titan slept.
"Halt," Vardis said. His voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of stone.
A patrol of Gold Cloaks stopped. The City Watch, once the personal army of Daemon Targaryen, still carried his swagger. Their captain, a broad-chested man named Ser Luthor Largent, sneered.
"Step aside, old man," Largent said, his hand drifting to his baton. "We are on inspection duty. Prince Daemon has ordered a census of the dragons. He wants to know if the beasts are fit for the royal wedding celebrations."
"This sector is closed," Vardis replied, his face impassive.
"Closed?" Largent laughed, a harsh bark in the echoey chamber. "This is the Royal Dragonpit. It belongs to the Crown. Nothing is closed to the Commander of the City Watch."
"It is closed to you," a voice cut through the tension.
From the shadows of the vault, a small figure emerged.
Prince Aeryn walked into the shaft of sunlight filtering from the dome above. He looked absurdly young—a seven-year-old boy in a grease-stained tunic, holding a charcoal stick and a sheaf of blueprints. But there was nothing childlike in the way he stood. His left arm was encased in a complex leather and copper brace, a piece of engineering that looked more like armor than medicine.
"Prince Aeryn," Largent said, his tone mocking. "Your father sends his regards. He wishes to see the condition of the Old King's mount."
"My progenitor," Aeryn corrected calmly, walking past his guards to stand toe-to-toe with the massive captain, "has no authority in this vault. The Dragonpit is neutral ground. But Vermithor... Vermithor is a sovereign entity."
Aeryn looked at the Gold Cloaks. He analyzed their armor, their stance, their weapons.
Variable: Twelve men. Lightly armored. Arrogant.
Asset: Five Bronze Guards. Heavy plate. Disciplined.
Asset: One Level 5 Dragon.
"You are a boy," Largent spat. "You do not make the laws here."
"I do not make laws for the city, Ser Luthor," Aeryn said, his voice dropping an octave. "I make laws for the Bronze. And the Bronze Law is simple: No one approaches the Fury without my direct consent. Not the Hand. Not the Queen. And certainly not the street thugs of the Rogue Prince."
Largent flushed red. He drew his sword halfway. "Careful, boy. We are the Law in this city."
BOOM.
The ground jumped.
It wasn't a tremor. It was a footstep.
Inside the dark vault behind Aeryn, something immense shifted. A sound like grinding tectonic plates filled the air. Then, a low, vibrating growl began—a frequency so deep it rattled the teeth in Largent's skull.
Two golden eyes, burning like smelting furnaces, opened in the gloom.
Vermithor exhaled. A cloud of hot, sulfurous steam rolled out of the archway, washing over the Gold Cloaks. It smelled of ancient fire and impending death.
The horses of the City Watch panicked, rearing and bucking. The men stumbled back, terror seizing them.
Aeryn didn't flinch. He didn't even turn around. He kept his violet eyes locked on Largent.
"The Law in the city is Gold," Aeryn whispered. "The Law in this Pit... is Fire."
He took a step forward.
"Go back to your master, Ser Luthor. Tell him that if he wants to inspect Vermithor, he can come himself. But tell him to bring Caraxes. Because if he walks in here on foot... he might not walk out."
Largent stared at the boy, then at the monstrous silhouette behind him. The arrogance drained out of him, replaced by the primal instinct to survive.
"This... this is treason," Largent stammered, backing away.
"This is property management," Aeryn said coldly.
The Gold Cloaks retreated. They didn't march; they scrambled, their dignity left in the dust of the arena floor.
Aeryn watched them go until they disappeared through the main gates. Only then did he relax his shoulders.
"They will be back," Ser Vardis warned, sheathing his sword. "Daemon will not take this lightly. You have humiliated his men."
"I have established boundaries," Aeryn said, turning back to his blueprints. "Daemon respects strength, Vardis. If I had let them in, he would have seen me as weak. Now, he sees me as a problem. Problems are respected."
...
(The Interior of the Vault)
Aeryn walked back into the darkness. The air here was hot, kept warm by the internal furnace of the dragon.
Vermithor lowered his massive head. The bronze scales were rough to the touch, warm and living. Aeryn reached out with his braced left hand, stroking the sensitive skin near the dragon's nostril.
"Rytsas, ñuha jēdar," (Hello, my sky) Aeryn whispered in High Valyrian.
The dragon rumbled, a purr that vibrated through Aeryn's bones.
Aeryn walked to a workbench set up against the stone wall. It was covered in tools, gears, and sketches. He wasn't just riding the dragon; he was optimizing him.
He picked up a prototype for a new stirrup mechanism. The standard Targaryen saddles were designed for men with two strong arms. Aeryn needed a saddle that responded to weight distribution and leverage. He was building a system of pulleys that would allow him to steer the massive beast with the twitch of a shoulder.
If I cannot overpower him, I must outthink him, Aeryn thought, adjusting a screw.
"My Prince?"
Aeryn turned. Elder Torgon, the High Dragonkeeper, stood in the doorway. The old man looked weary. The return of Daemon and the proliferation of dragons in the city had strained the Order to its breaking point.
"The Gold Cloaks are gone?" Torgon asked.
"For now," Aeryn said.
Torgon looked at the boy. He had seen many Targaryen princes come and go. Most were arrogant. Some were mad. But this one... this one was different. He was like a Maester who had been born with scales.
"You challenge the King's brother," Torgon noted. "It is a dangerous game."
"The game has already started, Elder," Aeryn said. "I am just ensuring that when the pieces start falling, they don't fall on me."
Aeryn pointed to the upper walkways of the dome.
"I want the Bronze Guard stationed at the ventilation shafts. And I want the food supply double-checked. No meat comes into this vault unless your men taste it first."
"You suspect poison?" Torgon asked, horrified. "In the Dragonpit?"
"I suspect everything," Aeryn replied. "My 'father' is a man who wins by any means necessary. A sick dragon is a grounded dragon."
Aeryn turned back to Vermithor. The beast watched him with an intelligence that mirrored his own.
"We are the Third Position, Torgon," Aeryn murmured. "We do not serve the Blacks. We do not serve the Greens. We serve the balance."
He climbed onto the workbench to reach the dragon's neck, checking the fit of the leather collar.
"Let Daemon have the city streets," Aeryn said, his voice echoing in the vault. "Let Rhaenyra have the balls and the feasts. Let Alicent have the septs."
He patted the bronze scales, hard as iron.
"I have the nuclear option."
Aeryn looked at his reflection in the polished bronze of the dragon's scale. He saw a boy of seven, scarred and small. But in the distortion of the metal, he looked like a king.
The Bronze Law was set. The Pit was his fortress. And for the first time since he left the Vale, Aeryn Royce-Targaryen felt completely, terrifyingly safe.