(The Small Council Chamber, The Red Keep, 121 AC)
The morning of Aeryn Royce-Targaryen's eighth nameday was bright, clear, and suffocatingly political.
King Viserys had convened a special session of the Small Council, ostensibly to discuss trade tariffs with Pentos, but the table was laid with gifts. The King sat at the head, looking frail but determined to force joy into the room. Queen Alicent sat to his right, her hands folded primly. Prince Daemon, now a fixture of the court again, lounged at the far end, picking at his fingernails with a dagger.
Aeryn stood before them. He wore a formal doublet of bronze velvet, the crest of House Royce stitched over his heart. His left arm was in its brace, polished to a dull shine.
"For you, my boy," Viserys beamed, gesturing to a velvet cushion on the table.
On it sat a dragon egg. It was small, scaled in pale cream and gold.
"From the latest clutch of Syrax," Viserys said proudly. "A symbol of your blood. I know you have Vermithor, but... a Targaryen can never have too many connections to the fire."
Aeryn looked at the egg. It was a beautiful, priceless object. To anyone else, it would be a treasure. To the rider of the Bronze Fury, it was a paperweight.
"Thank you, Uncle," Aeryn said, his voice flat. "It is... distinct."
"It is a reminder," Queen Alicent interjected smoothly. She leaned forward, her eyes intense. "A reminder that your place is here, Aeryn. With your family. With Aemond."
She turned to the King.
"Viserys, surely now that Aeryn is eight, it is time to formalize his position. He has a mind for law. He should be fostered here, in the Red Keep, perhaps as a cupbearer to the Hand, to learn the administration of the Realm. He would be a shield for his cousins."
Aeryn watched her. She wants a hostage, he calculated. She wants Vermithor parked in the Dragonpit as a deterrent against Rhaenyra.
From the other end of the table, a dark chuckle broke the silence.
Daemon Targaryen didn't look up from his knife. "A shield, Alicent? Or a pet?"
Daemon slammed the dagger into the table. It stood quivering in the wood.
"The boy rides a monster," Daemon said, looking at Aeryn with cold amusement. "You cannot make a cupbearer out of a dragonlord. It is an insult to the beast. If he stays here, he will just be a guard dog waiting for scraps."
Daemon's eyes locked onto Aeryn's.
"And guard dogs have a nasty habit of being put down when they bark too loud."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and unmistakable.
Viserys looked distressed. "Daemon, please. We are discussing Aeryn's future. He is bright. He is capable."
"He is a Royce," Daemon spat. "He belongs to the rocks."
Aeryn stepped forward. The movement was small, but it commanded the room. He placed his braced hand on the table, next to the useless egg.
"My progenitor is right, Your Grace," Aeryn said.
Viserys blinked. Alicent frowned.
"I am a Royce," Aeryn continued, his voice gaining the resonance of authority. "And today, I am eight years old. By the laws of the Vale, and by the terms of my mother's inheritance, I am the Lady Rhea's heir."
He looked at Otto Hightower, appealing to the man's respect for law.
"Runestone has been without a lord for six years. My uncle, Yorbert Royce, writes that the mountain clans are growing bold. They burn villages. They steal grain. The Vale needs its bronze."
Aeryn turned back to the King.
"I am asking for your leave, Uncle. Not to run away. But to take up my seat. I must go to Runestone. I must learn to rule my own lands before I can ever hope to serve the Realm."
Silence descended on the chamber.
Alicent looked furious; she was losing her nuclear weapon. Daemon looked surprised, then calculative; the threat was removing itself from the board.
Viserys looked heartbroken.
"You... you want to leave us?" the King whispered. "You are just a boy, Aeryn. The Vale is harsh. It is cold."
"I have a warm coat, Uncle," Aeryn said softly, glancing at the window where the Dragonpit was visible. "And I have the Fury."
He bowed low.
"I will not be a cupbearer. I will not be a pawn in the court. I will be the Lord of Runestone. And I will hold the Vale for the Crown, faithful and true."
Viserys sighed, a long, rattling sound. He saw the resolve in the boy's eyes. He saw the stone that refused to be moved.
"Very well," Viserys murmured. "If it is your wish. You have my leave, Lord Royce."
...
(The Dragonpit - High Noon)
The departure was not a secret. Aeryn wanted the city to see him leave.
The great bronze doors of the main vault were thrown open. Aeryn walked out into the sunlight, fully armored in his flight leathers. Behind him, the Bronze Guard—twelve knights of the Vale—were mounting their horses to begin the long ride north along the Kingsroad.
But Aeryn would not be riding a horse.
Vermithor emerged from the dark.
The dragon was magnificent in the daylight. His bronze scales blinded the onlookers, shining like a living treasury. He roared, a sound that shook the dust from the roofs of Flea Bottom.
Aeryn climbed the Interface. He locked his brace into the control arm. He checked the pressure valves.
"Going somewhere, little cousin?"
Aeryn looked down. Aemond stood by the arena fence. He was alone.
"To the mountains," Aeryn said.
"It will be boring," Aemond warned, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Just rocks and sheep. No courts. No games."
"That is the point, Aemond," Aeryn said. "In the Vale, the only game is survival. And the rules are honest."
Aemond kicked the dirt. "Vhagar will miss the company. The other dragons... they are small. They don't understand the sky like we do."
"Then come visit," Aeryn offered. "The skies over the Giant's Lance are wide. We can race where the air is thin."
Aemond smirked, touching his eye patch. "Careful, Lord Royce. If I come, I might not let you win."
"You can try," Aeryn smiled.
He pulled the lever.
"Sōvegon!"
Vermithor launched. The power of the takeoff knocked Aemond's hair back. The dragon climbed steeply, banking over the city in a wide, triumphant arc.
Aeryn looked down one last time.
He saw the Red Keep, a festering wound of red stone. He saw the tiny figures of Daemon and Rhaenyra on the walls. He saw the green dress of Alicent.
He felt the heavy, suffocating weight of their expectations lift from his shoulders.
He turned Vermithor's head North. Toward the Bloody Gate. Toward the cool, grey mist of the Vale.
The boy who had arrived as a hostage was leaving as a Warlord.
Let them fight for the chair of swords, Aeryn thought as the wind roared in his ears. I am going to build a throne of stone.
The Interface clicked. The dragon surged forward. And Aeryn Royce-Targaryen disappeared into the clouds, leaving the game of thrones behind to start his own.