(The Library Tower, The Red Keep, 120 AC)
The city of King's Landing did not belong to the King. It belonged to the man who bought its silence.
From the high balcony of the Library Tower, Aeryn Royce-Targaryen watched the slow, insidious transformation of the capital. It wasn't done with decrees or royal seals; it was done with the clink of coin purses and the heavy, familiar hand of authority returning to the streets.
Down in the muddy thoroughfares of Flea Bottom and the barracks of the Gates, the "Gold" was returning.
Daemon Targaryen was home.
Every morning for the past week, the Rogue Prince would ride out on his black charger, Caraxes wheeling in the sky above him like a hawk spotting prey. Daemon rode through the Street of Steel and the Fishmarket, and everywhere he went, the Gold Cloaks—the City Watch he had forged years ago—knelt.
They didn't kneel for Viserys, who paid their wages. They knelt for Daemon, who gave them their license for cruelty.
"The city is changing its skin," a low voice rumbled behind Aeryn.
Aeryn didn't turn. He recognized the heavy, measured tread of Ser Vardis Egen. The old knight looked tired, his hand resting perpetually on his sword hilt now, even within the castle walls.
"It is returning to its default state, Vardis," Aeryn replied, his voice calm, analyzing the scene below like a complex equation. "The Gold Cloaks were never the King's. They were a weapon Daemon forged and left in the corner. Now he has picked it up again."
"The Queen is concerned," Vardis said, stepping up to the balustrade. "She says the streets are no longer safe for those known to be... 'friends of the Hightowers'. A merchant in the Street of Looms was beaten yesterday for refusing to toast the Prince's marriage. The Watch called it 'disturbing the peace'."
Aeryn watched a patrol of gold-cloaked guards move through the square below. They walked with a swagger that had been absent for years.
"The Queen is right to be concerned, but she misunderstands the objective," Aeryn said. "Daemon doesn't want a massacre. Not yet. He wants a monopoly. He is squeezing the city so that when the time comes, the only air available is the air he allows us to breathe."
Aeryn turned away from the balcony. He walked to his worktable, which was covered not in maps of war, but in schematics of bronze gears and leverage points.
"He controls the ground," Aeryn murmured, picking up a caliper. "So we must ensure we own the sky."
He looked at Vardis.
"Prepare the carriage. We go to the Pit tonight. The 'Interface' is ready for the stress test."
...
(The Dragonpit - Midnight)
The Pit was a cathedral of silence, save for the rhythmic, volcanic snoring of the dragons in their deep vaults. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and dry rot, a scent that Aeryn had come to associate with clarity.
In the center of the western vault, illuminated by the flickering light of torches, the Bronze Fury lay coiled.
Vermithor was a mountain of hammered metal. His scales, the color of dirty bronze and old shields, rose and fell with his breathing. He was awake, his golden eyes watching the small humans scurrying around his flank with a mix of boredom and intelligence.
Aeryn stood on a wooden platform level with the dragon's neck. His team of engineers—three smiths he had brought from the Vale, men who understood rock and iron better than politics—were making the final adjustments.
The new saddle was not a simple seat. It was a machine.
Because Aeryn's left arm, encased in its rigid leather-and-copper brace, lacked the grip strength to hold a traditional chain rein during a dive, he had designed the Interface.
It was a system of kinetic leverage. Two bronze reinforced bars ran parallel to the dragon's neck spine, connected to a hidden system of pulleys beneath the saddle's girth. By shifting his core weight and manipulating the bars with his strong right hand, Aeryn could communicate complex directional commands—bank, dive, roll—with minimal physical strain.
"The tension is calibrated, My Prince," the head smith, a man named Gunthor, whispered. "The counterweights will absorb the G-force. But..."
"But?" Aeryn asked, checking the buckles on his chest harness.
"But if the central pin snaps during a high-velocity maneuver... you will be separated from the beast. It is a calculated risk."
"Life is a calculated risk, Gunthor," Aeryn said. "Being a cripple on a dragon is a variable. This machine balances the equation."
Aeryn approached the dragon. Vermithor lowered his massive head, exhaling a puff of hot steam that ruffled Aeryn's hair. The boy reached out with his braced left hand, touching the sensitive skin near the dragon's ear.
"Dohaerās, ñuha jēdar," (Serve, my sky) Aeryn whispered.
The dragon rumbled, a sound that vibrated through the floorboards.
Aeryn mounted. He slid into the high-backed leather seat and clicked the four-point harness into place across his chest. He gripped the right control bar. It felt solid. Connected.
"Open the dome," Aeryn commanded.
The heavy bronze doors of the roof groaned open, revealing a circle of starlit sky.
"Sōvegon!"
Vermithor didn't hesitate. With a single, earth-shaking leap, the Bronze Fury launched himself into the vertical shaft.
The ascent was a violent rush. Gravity tried to crush Aeryn into the seat, but the Interface held. The counterweights shifted, absorbing the shock. Aeryn didn't fight the dragon; he became part of the dragon's center of gravity.
They burst out of the Pit and into the cool night air.
Aeryn pulled the control bar back. The system engaged. Vermithor banked sharply to the left, a maneuver that should have required two strong arms to signal. The dragon responded instantly to the mechanical input.
Aeryn laughed. It was a rare, genuine sound, lost to the wind.
He leveled out at two thousand feet, soaring over the Blackwater Bay. The city below was a scattering of embers, fragile and small.
Then, a shadow fell over him.
From the clouds above, a massive shape descended. It was larger than Vermithor—ragged, ancient, and terrifying.
Vhagar.
Aemond Targaryen rode the Queen of Dragons. He pulled alongside Aeryn, the two behemoths flying wingtip to wingtip. Aemond, now ten, looked small on the back of the green leviathan, but his posture was rigid, commanding.
Aemond looked across the gap. He saw the complex machinery of Aeryn's saddle. He saw the ease with which Aeryn controlled the Bronze Fury.
Aemond nodded. A silent salute between the two "damaged" princes.
They flew together over the city—a green mountain and a bronze fortress.
Far below, in the courtyard of the Red Keep, a figure stood watching. Daemon Targaryen looked up at the sky. He saw the two shadows blotting out the stars. He saw the discipline. He saw the power.
Daemon didn't smile. He gripped the hilt of Dark Sister until his knuckles turned white. He had the Gold Cloaks. He had the streets. But looking up at the synchronized flight of Vhagar and Vermithor, he realized he did not have the sky.
...
(The Library Tower - Dawn)
Aeryn returned to his chambers as the sun began to bleed over the horizon. He was exhausted, his body aching from the flight, but his mind was crystal clear.
He sat at his desk, still wearing his flight leathers. He looked at the model of Old Valyria that his uncle Viserys loved so much. A city of stone that never changed.
Viserys wants peace, Aeryn thought. He thinks that if he loves everyone enough, the fire won't burn.
But Aeryn knew the truth. He had seen the way Daemon looked at the sky tonight. He had seen the way the Gold Cloaks sneered at the Hightower guards.
The scale is tipping.
If Aeryn stayed in King's Landing, he would be forced to choose. Alicent wanted him to be her sword. Daemon wanted him to be a victim. If he stayed, he would be ground into dust between the Green and the Black.
Aeryn opened a small wooden box on his desk. Inside were dried beetle wings—a gift from Helaena. Beneath them was a scrap of parchment.
The web vibrates, Helaena had written. The spider is hungry, but the stone is too heavy to eat. Move the stone, cousin, or it will crack.
Aeryn touched the paper. Helaena understood.
Equilibrium could not be maintained from the center of the chaos. To balance the scale, he had to step off it. He needed a position of strength that belonged to neither side.
"The Vale," Aeryn whispered to the empty room.
Runestone was his. The armies of the Vale respected blood and strength, not courtly intrigues. If he went there—if he took Vermithor to the mountains—he would not be a pawn. He would be an independent power. A third player.
He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill.
To His Grace, King Viserys I Targaryen,
Regarding the matter of my inheritance and the security of the Vale of Arryn...
Aeryn wrote with a steady hand. He was turning eight soon. By the laws of his mother's house, he was ready to begin his wardship in his own lands.
He wasn't running away. He was taking the high ground.
The Gold was rising in the city, rusting the iron of the law. But the Stone was about to move. And when the Stone returned, it would crash down with the weight of a mountain.