(The Vale of Arryn, 121 AC)
The wind of the Vale did not caress; it cut. It was a sharp, biting gale that smelled of salt, pine, and wet slate—a scent that cleansed the lungs of the Red Keep's perfume and rot.
High above the jagged coastline of the Peninsula, a shadow blotted out the midday sun.
Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, banked against the wind. His massive wings, spanning a hundred feet, held steady against the turbulence. On his back, locked into the mechanical interface of the saddle, Aeryn Royce-Targaryen looked down at his inheritance.
Runestone.
It was not a palace like the Red Keep. It was a fortress carved from the living rock of the cliffside. Its walls were dark basalt, etched with thousands of ancient bronze runes that glowed faintly when the light hit them right. It was a castle built to withstand the end of the world.
"Naejot," (Forward) Aeryn whispered, pulling the bronze lever on his chest harness.
The dragon descended. The roar of the wind turned into the roar of the beast.
Below, in the outer courtyard, a sea of banners fluttered—the bronze-and-black of Royce, the moon-and-falcon of Arryn, the three ravens of Corbray, the red castle of Redfort.
Vermithor landed with a force that shook the dust from the battlements. He let out a low, rumbling growl that silenced the hundreds of horses and men gathered to welcome the heir.
Aeryn dismounted. He was eight years old, clad in a flight suit of thick grey leather and bronze plating. His left arm was encased in his complex, gear-driven brace. He didn't look like a child coming home. He looked like an officer arriving at a front line.
Ser Yorbert Royce, the Castellan and his great-uncle, stepped forward. The old man was as hard as the castle walls, but his eyes shone with pride.
"Welcome home, Lord Aeryn," Yorbert said, bowing low.
Aeryn nodded, his face solemn. "The stone stands, Uncle. And so do we."
...
(The Great Hall of Runestone - The Banquet)
The feast was a stark contrast to the decadence of King's Landing. There were no jesters, no singers, no exotic dancers. There was roasted mutton, dark ale, root vegetables, and the heavy murmur of serious men and women.
Aeryn sat at the High Table. To his right sat Lady Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale and Warden of the East. She was a woman of sharp features and sharper wit, who had ruled her lands with an iron fist since she was a child herself.
To his left sat the lords of the Vale: Lord Corbray, fingering the pommel of Lady Forlorn; Lord Waynwood, watching the young Prince with calculating eyes; and representatives from House Belmore and House Grafton.
Aeryn stood up. The hall went silent.
"My Lords, My Ladies," Aeryn began, his voice clear and devoid of childish inflection. "I thank you for your presence. You honor my mother's memory by welcoming her son."
He looked at them, meeting their eyes one by one.
"I know what you see. You see a boy of eight summers. You see a dragon from the south. But know this: I did not come here to play at war. I came here to work. The Vale is the shield of the Realm, and a shield must be strong. My dragon is yours. My mind is yours. And my bronze is yours."
He raised his cup. "To the Vale."
"To the Vale!" the hall roared back.
As he sat down, Lord Corbray leaned in, a smile playing on his lips. "A fine speech, my Prince. You have the Royce fire. My daughter, Lysa, is of an age with you. She has a fondness for... history. Perhaps she could show you the library?"
It was the third marriage proposal of the hour.
Aeryn didn't smile. He cut his mutton with precision.
"Lady Lysa is kind, Lord Corbray," Aeryn said smoothly. "But a marriage is a bridge between two houses. An engineer does not build a bridge until he has surveyed the land and tested the stone. I have much surveying to do before I can think of... foundations."
Corbray blinked, taken aback by the pragmatic rejection. Lady Jeyne Arryn let out a short, sharp laugh of approval.
...
(The Solar - Late Night)
The guests had retired. The fires in the Great Hall had burned down to embers.
Aeryn sat in the solar, a room filled with maps and ledgers. Opposite him sat Lady Jeyne Arryn.
"You handled Corbray well," Jeyne said, sipping a cup of mulled wine. "He wants your dragon for his own ambitions. He thinks Lady Forlorn needs a mate."
"He thinks in swords," Aeryn said, studying a map of the coastline. "Swords are useful, but limited."
"The Vale is quiet, mostly," Jeyne warned. "But the Graftons in Gulltown are restless. They control the only major port. They set the tariffs. They are rich, and rich men do not like it when new powers rise."
Aeryn pointed to a spot on the map—a natural deep-water bay near Runestone, currently used only by fishing boats.
"Gulltown is a bottleneck," Aeryn said. "If the Vale is to prosper, we need redundancy. I intend to expand the anchorage here. A military port, ostensibly. But one capable of handling heavy trade."
Jeyne raised an eyebrow. "Grafton will not like that."
"Grafton can complain to the King," Aeryn said coldly. "But the King is my uncle. And the King loves progress."
Jeyne stood up, smoothing her skirts. "You are dangerous, little cousin. You don't want the throne, do you?"
"I want order, Lady Jeyne," Aeryn replied. "The throne is just a chair. Order is a system."
...
(The Castellan's Office - The Next Morning)
The sun had barely risen when Aeryn summoned Yorbert Royce.
The old knight found the eight-year-old Prince already awake, surrounded by stacks of parchment.
"Sit, Uncle," Aeryn said. "We need to discuss the numbers."
Yorbert sat, looking bewildered. "The harvest was good, Aeryn. The sheep provided excellent wool. The treasury holds nearly thirty-five thousand golden dragons. We are wealthy."
"We are stagnant," Aeryn corrected. "Thirty-five thousand is a safety net, not an economy. It sits in a vault gathering dust."
Aeryn pushed a piece of parchment across the table. It was a schematic.
"This is the plan for the next five years," Aeryn said.
Yorbert looked at the drawing. It wasn't a plan for a new wall or a statue. It was a plan for... tunnels?
"Sewers?" Yorbert asked, confused. "You want to spend gold on... shit?"
"I want to spend gold on health," Aeryn said, his eyes gleaming with his obsession. "I have read the records of the Citadel. In the last ten years, Runestone lost four hundred subjects to the Bloody Flux and winter fevers. That is four hundred taxpayers. Four hundred soldiers. Four hundred farmers."
Aeryn tapped the drawing.
"Disease comes from filth. We throw our waste into the streets and the shallow ditches. It poisons the water. This..." he traced the lines of the ceramic pipes, "This is a dual-flow system. Rainwater to the cisterns. Waste to the deep tide. We will use glazed clay, fired in our own kilns. It is cheaper than lead and cleaner."
"It will cost a fortune," Yorbert muttered.
"It will save a generation," Aeryn countered. "And once the people see that Runestone is clean... that the air is sweet and the water is pure... they will flock here. Craftsmen. Merchants. Smiths."
Aeryn stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling, chaotic village that surrounded the castle.
"I am going to build a perfect city, Uncle," Aeryn whispered. "A machine of stone and water where everything works. Where there is no rot. Where there is no chaos."
He turned back to Yorbert.
"I am establishing a Ministry of Works. I want the best masons from the Fingers. I want the best hydraulic engineers from Braavos. And I am establishing an Office of Honor to oversee them."
"Office of Honor?"
"Auditors," Aeryn said. "Men who answer only to me. If a single copper is stolen, the thief loses his hand. If a project is delayed by corruption, the overseer loses his head."
Yorbert stared at the boy. He realized that the Targaryen madness had skipped Aeryn entirely, replaced by something far more terrifying: Valyrian Efficiency.
"It shall be done, My Lord," Yorbert said.
Aeryn nodded. "Good. Now, bring me the reports on the Mountain Clans. I have an idea about the trade roads, and I do not want savages interfering with my logistics."
The banquet was over. The work had begun.