(The Great Hall, The Red Keep, 120 AC)
The feast was meant to be a celebration of unity. It felt more like a wake held in a cage of lions.
King Viserys had ordered the Great Hall to be draped in the black and red of House Targaryen. He sat at the center of the High Table, a skeletal figure smiling through the haze of milk of the poppy. He raised his cup again and again, toasting to "love," to "family," to the "strength of the blood."
Every toast was a lie. And Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, sitting at the far end of the table, cataloged each one.
Lie 1: The Velaryons have forgiven Daemon.
Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys sat like statues carved from driftwood. Their eyes were cold, fixed on the man who was now sitting next to Rhaenyra—the man who had married their son's widow days after his murder. They ate nothing. They drank nothing.
Lie 2: The Greens accept the marriage.
Queen Alicent wore a dress of emerald green so dark it looked black in the dim light. She cut her meat with surgical precision, her gaze fixed on Rhaenyra's swollen belly. Beside her, Otto Hightower whispered to Tyland Lannister, weaving webs of whispers that would choke the realm for decades.
Lie 3: We are one house.
The hall was physically divided. The Blacks sat on one side, raucous and loud, led by the laughter of Daemon Targaryen. The Greens sat on the other, stiff and silent.
Aeryn sat in the middle, in the "neutral" zone reserved for minor kin, though no one dared sit close to him. He swirled the water in his goblet. He watched Daemon.
The Rogue Prince was in his element. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped possessively over Rhaenyra's chair, the other gesturing with a wine cup. He looked like a dragon that had just eaten a very satisfying meal.
At one point, Daemon's eyes drifted down the table. They locked onto Aeryn.
Daemon raised his cup in a mock salute. His lips moved, forming a silent word: Bronze.
Aeryn didn't raise his cup. He didn't smile. He simply stared back, his violet eyes unblinking, until Daemon—unsettled by the boy's lack of reaction—turned back to laugh at something Lord Celtigar said.
The noise became unbearable. The laughter sounded like glass breaking. The music sounded like screaming.
Aeryn stood up. His mechanical brace clicked softly against the table edge. He bowed to the empty air and slipped out of the side door, leaving the suffocating heat of the dragon's den for the cool air of the night.
...
(The Godswood)
The silence of the gardens was a balm. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, cleansing the scent of roasted meat and hypocrisy from Aeryn's nose.
He walked toward the weirwood tree, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. He wasn't surprised to find someone else there.
Helaena Targaryen was crouched by the roots of the heart tree.
She was eleven years old now, growing into a strange, distant beauty. She wore a dress of pale pink spider-silk, the hem stained with mud. She didn't look up as Aeryn approached. She was focused intently on a spider weaving a web between two exposed roots.
"The knot is too tight," Helaena whispered to the spider.
Aeryn sat on a stone bench nearby. He adjusted his heavy left arm, resting it on his knee. "The spider knows what it is doing, Helaena. It is engineering."
"No," Helaena murmured, tracing the air with a finger. "The weaver is angry. He pulls the green thread too hard. He pulls the black thread too fast. If they pull at the same time... snap."
She made a small, breaking motion with her hands.
Aeryn looked at the web. It was a complex geometry, beautiful and fragile.
"Viserys is the knot," Aeryn said softly. "He holds the threads together. When he is gone..."
"Spools of green, spools of black," Helaena chanted softly, rocking slightly on her heels. "Dragons dance and towers crack. The boy of stone sits on the wall, watching the fire eat the hall."
She turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide, violet pools that reflected the moonlight.
"You are leaving," she said. It wasn't a question.
Aeryn nodded. "I cannot breathe inside the Keep, Helaena. The air is poisoned. Everyone wants to use me as a weight for their side of the scale. If I stay, I become a weapon for Alicent or a target for Daemon."
"The Valley is high," Helaena said, turning back to the spider. "The air is thin. The Stone remembers."
"I need to be where the noise stops," Aeryn admitted. "I need to secure my inheritance. If I hold the Vale, I hold the mountains. Mountains are hard to burn."
Helaena reached out and touched the spiderweb. The spider scurried away.
"They will miss you," she said. "Aemond will be lonely. He only has the eye that was taken. You have the arm that was given."
"Aemond has Vhagar," Aeryn said, standing up. "He is finding his own path. It is a dark path, but it is his."
He walked over to her and knelt, disregarding the mud on his trousers. He took her hand—her delicate, pale hand—in his scarred, braced one.
"I am not abandoning you, Helaena. I am positioning myself. When the thread snaps... and it will snap... you will need a place that is not burning. Runestone will always be open to you."
Helaena looked at his mechanical brace. She ran her fingers over the cold copper and leather.
"Bronze is cold," she whispered. "But it does not lie."
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. It was a chaste, sisterly gesture, but it felt like a blessing from a strange god.
"Go to the stone, cousin," she said. "The Beast Beneath the Boards is waking up. You should not be standing on them when he breaks through."
...
(The Outer Yard - Later)
Aeryn walked back toward the castle, but he didn't return to the feast. He walked to the rookery.
He found the Maester on duty dozing in his chair. Aeryn woke him with a tap of his cane on the desk.
"Paper," Aeryn ordered. "And the seal of House Royce."
He wrote quickly. He didn't ask the King for permission this time; he informed him. He drafted orders for his Bronze Guard to prepare the supplies. He drafted a letter to his uncle in the Vale, announcing the return of the Prince.
He walked to the window and looked out at the Dragonpit.
Vermithor was there, sleeping in the vault Aeryn had secured. The dragon was ready. The saddle was ready.
Aeryn looked back at the Red Keep, glowing with the lights of the wedding feast. He could hear the faint sound of music—drums and high flutes. It sounded like a war march disguised as a dance.
Let them tie their knots, Aeryn thought, turning away from the light. Let Daemon think he has won the city. Let Alicent think she has won the law.
He touched the spot on his forehead where Helaena had kissed him.
I am the blade that cuts the knot.
The Dragon's Knot was tied tight around the throat of the realm. Aeryn Royce-Targaryen wasn't going to try to untie it. He was going to the mountains to sharpen his sword.