(The Training Yards of Runestone, 122 AC)
A year had passed since the return of the Prince, and the mud of the training yards had turned to hard-packed earth under the boots of a thousand men.
It was raining—a cold, miserable drizzle that turned the grey slate of the castle black. Most lords would have cancelled drills. Aeryn Royce-Targaryen ordered them doubled.
He stood on the wooden gallery overlooking the yard, wrapped in a heavy cloak of wool and fur. At nine years old, he had grown taller, though he remained lean. His face had lost the last traces of baby fat, revealing the sharp, angular bone structure of Old Valyria cut with the granite of the Vale.
Below him, fifty young men were sparring in the mud. They were not peasants. They were the second sons of the Vale—Waynwoods, Corbrays, Belmores, and Graftons. They had come to Runestone not for gold, but because the "Dragon of the Vale" was building something new.
"They are slow," Aeryn noted, his voice barely audible over the rain.
Ser Vardis Egen, now Commander of the Bronze Guard, nodded grimly. "They are knights, my Prince. They are trained for tourneys. They want to look good while they fight."
"I don't need them to look good," Aeryn said, gripping the railing with his braced hand. "I need them to hold a line when a dragon breathes fire. Or when a mountain clan charges at night."
Aeryn descended the stairs. The sparring stopped. The young men, chest-heaving and mud-splattered, looked at the boy-lord.
One of them, a squire from House Templeton named Godric, stepped forward. He was big, broad-shouldered, and arrogant.
"My Lord," Godric panted, wiping rain from his eyes. "We have been drilling formations for six hours. We are ready for steel. When do we get our bronze cloaks?"
Aeryn looked at Godric. He didn't look at his muscles. He looked at his stance.
"You are tired, Godric," Aeryn observed.
"We are exhausted," Godric admitted.
"Good," Aeryn said. "Fatigue is the only honest teacher."
He walked down the line of recruits.
"You want the Bronze Cloak," Aeryn addressed them all. "You think it is a reward for being highborn. You think because your father has a castle, you deserve to guard mine."
He stopped in front of a small, wiry boy from the Fingers—a commoner named Petyr, who had been allowed to train because he showed promise with a bow.
"Petyr," Aeryn said. "If a supply wagon breaks an axle five miles from the Bloody Gate in a snowstorm, and you have twenty men and four horses, what is the priority?"
The knights sneered. A logistics question?
Petyr didn't hesitate. "The horses, My Lord. Men can walk in snow. Horses freeze. Without horses, the grain is lost. Without grain, the garrison starves."
Aeryn nodded. He turned back to Godric.
"Godric. Same situation. What do you do?"
"I... I order the men to carry the grain," Godric stammered. "We show strength."
"And your men die of exposure carrying heavy sacks in a blizzard," Aeryn said coldyl. "And you lose the grain anyway."
Aeryn turned to Ser Vardis.
"Give Petyr a cloak. He understands the value of the asset."
"And Godric?" Vardis asked.
"Send him to the mines," Aeryn said, turning away. "Let him carry rock until he learns that strength without logic is just weight."
The yard went silent. Aeryn Royce didn't care about bloodlines. He cared about the mind.
...
(The Ministry of Works - Two Days Later)
The solar had been transformed. The tapestries of hunting scenes were gone, replaced by large wooden tables covered in blueprints, clay samples, and charcoal sketches.
This was the heart of Aeryn's obsession: The City of Stone and Water.
Aeryn sat at the head of the table. To his right was Maester Helaebar, a young scholar from the Citadel who specialized in engineering. To his left was the newly appointed Auditor of the Office of Honor, a dour man named Septon Eustace.
In front of them stood Master Mason Gylbert, the man in charge of the new sewer project. Gylbert was sweating, and it wasn't from the heat of the fire.
"The clay pipes in Sector Four cracked during the frost," Gylbert explained nervously, twisting his cap in his hands. "It... it was a bad batch of clay, My Lord. Unavoidable."
Aeryn looked at the report in front of him. He ran his finger down the column of expenses.
"Unavoidable," Aeryn repeated. "Strange. Because the kiln records show that the firing temperature for Sector Four was lowered by two hundred degrees to save charcoal. And the 'bad batch' of clay was purchased from a quarry owned by your brother-in-law."
Gylbert paled. "My Lord... it was a minor adjustment. The savings were meant to go back into the treasury..."
"The savings went into your pocket," Aeryn said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And because of your 'minor adjustment', three streets in the lower village flooded with sewage last week. A child died of fever."
Aeryn stood up. He walked over to the mason.
"I am building a perfect system, Gylbert. A machine where every part does its job. You are a defective part."
He turned to Septon Eustace.
"What is the penalty for corruption under the Bronze Law?"
Eustace cleared his throat. "Confiscation of all assets held by the individual and their immediate kin to repay the damages. And... branding of the right hand to mark the breach of trust."
"No," Aeryn said.
Gylbert let out a breath of relief.
"Branding is for thieves," Aeryn said coldly. "He is an architect who built a faulty structure. He should experience his work."
Aeryn looked at Ser Vardis.
"Put him in the cleaning crew for Sector Four. He will clear the blockage he caused. With a shovel. If he finishes before winter, he keeps his hand. If not... the frost will take it."
As the guards dragged the weeping mason away, Aeryn sat back down. He rubbed his temples.
"Next item," he said to the stunned room. "The aqueduct expansion."
...
(King's Landing - The Small Council)
"He is building a sewer," Daemon Targaryen laughed, tossing a letter onto the table. "My son has conquered the mountain clans, and now he is fighting a war against... shit."
The Small Council chuckled nervously.
King Viserys smiled, though his eyes were weary. "He is improving his lands, Daemon. Lord Yorbert writes that the port of Runestone has increased its trade volume by forty percent. The people love him. They call him the 'Young Builder'."
"They call him the 'Bronze Prince'," Otto Hightower corrected, his voice tight. "And he has raised a standing army of five hundred men. Not levies, Your Grace. Professional soldiers. 'The Bronze Guard'."
Otto looked at the King.
"Five hundred men loyal only to him. A fleet of trade ships that bypass Gulltown. A dragon that patrols the mountains like a hawk. He is creating a kingdom within a kingdom, Sire."
"He is securing the Vale!" Viserys insisted, slamming his hand on the table. "He is doing what a Lord Paramount should do! Would you prefer he spend his time in brothels or fighting in tourneys?"
Daemon stopped laughing. He looked at the map of Westeros on the wall. He looked at the Vale.
He remembered the boy in the Dragonpit. The cold eyes. The mechanical arm.
He is not playing, Daemon realized. He is fortifying.
"Let him play in the mud," Daemon said, leaning back, though his eyes remained hard. "Sewers and trade are fine for peacetime. But winter is coming. And bronze breaks when you hit it hard enough with steel."
...
(Runestone - The Rookery)
Aeryn stood on the high tower, looking out over the expanding town below.
It was working. The streets were being paved. The water flowed. The smell of rot was replaced by the smell of salt and bread.
A raven landed on the railing. It carried a seal of green wax.
Aeryn took the scroll. It was from Helaena.
The spider has spun a new thread, it read. A baby boy. They call him Jaehaerys. He has six fingers on his left hand, and he cries when the bells ring.
The Green thread is getting thicker. The Black thread is getting sharper. And the Stone... the Stone is getting far away.
Do you have spiders in the mountains, cousin? Or just eagles?
Aeryn rolled up the parchment. He looked at his own hand—the scarred, braced claw of a dragonrider.
"We have eagles, Helaena," Aeryn whispered to the wind. "And soon, we will have walls that not even spiders can climb."
He turned back to the castle. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the mountains.
The boy was gone. The Lord of Runestone had arrived. And the Foundry was just beginning to heat up.