(The Port of Runestone - "Sector One", 123 AC)
Success has a smell. In Runestone, it smelled of tar, fresh lumber, and spices from the Free Cities.
Aeryn stood on the newly paved quay, watching a Braavosi cog, the Titan's Daughter, struggle to dock against the rising tide. The port was alive. Cranes—designed by Aeryn himself using counterweight principles—were lifting crates of Vale marble and iron ore into the hold.
But something was wrong.
Maester Helaebar approached, holding a manifest. The young scholar looked anxious.
"The captain of the Titan's Daughter is furious, My Lord," Helaebar whispered. "He says this is his last run. He refuses to return to Runestone."
Aeryn turned, his mechanical brace clicking softly. "Why? The harbor fees are 20% lower than Gulltown. The loading times are half. It is illogical to leave."
"It is politics, My Prince," Helaebar said. "Lord Grafton of Gulltown has issued a new decree. Any ship that docks at Runestone is barred from entering Gulltown for a full year. And since Gulltown controls the grain imports from the Riverlands..."
Aeryn looked at the ship. "He is enforcing a blockade. A soft blockade."
"It is a stranglehold," Yorbert Royce grumbled, stepping up beside them. "Grafton is bleeding us. He knows we can export iron, but we need Riverlands grain to feed the new workers. If ships can't stop at both ports, they will choose the bigger one. They will choose Gulltown."
Aeryn looked out at the grey horizon of the Narrow Sea.
"Gulltown is a monopoly," Aeryn said coldly. "Monopolies make men lazy. And lazy men make mistakes."
"We should petition Lady Jeyne," Yorbert suggested. "She is the Warden. She can order Grafton to rescind the decree."
"If I run to Lady Jeyne every time a lord tries to bully me, I look weak," Aeryn countered. "I am a Prince of House Targaryen. I do not petition for the right to trade. I take it."
He turned to his uncle.
"Prepare the flight suit. I am going to Gulltown."
...
(Gulltown - The Grafton Keep)
Gulltown was a sprawling, chaotic city of white stone and red roofs, protected by thick walls and a massive harbor. It was the jewel of the Vale, the seat of House Grafton, and the center of all commerce in the region.
Lord Gerold Grafton sat in his solar, sipping Dornish wine. He was a fat man, enriched by decades of unchecked tariffs.
"The boy will fold," Grafton chuckled to his steward. "He plays at building cities, but he cannot eat stone. When his workers start starving, he will come begging, and I will buy his iron for pennies."
BOOM.
The wine in Grafton's cup rippled.
It wasn't thunder. The sky was clear.
BOOM.
A shadow fell over the balcony. A massive, terrifying shadow that blocked out the sun.
Grafton ran to the window.
Hovering directly above the Keep—so close that the wind from his wings stripped the tiles off the roof—was Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury let out a shriek that shattered the glass in the solar windows.
The dragon didn't breathe fire. He simply landed.
He crashed onto the wide terrace of the Grafton Keep, his claws digging deep furrows into the expensive Myrish marble. His tail smashed a stone statue of the Maiden.
Grafton fell back, trembling.
From the saddle, a small figure dismounted.
Aeryn walked through the shattered doors of the solar. He was ten years old now, clad in full flight armor, his bronze mask pushed up to reveal a face of absolute, freezing calm.
"Lord Grafton," Aeryn said, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the room. "You have a nice view."
"This... this is an act of war!" Grafton sputtered, trying to find his dignity while cowering behind a desk. "You cannot bring a dragon here! The King..."
"The King loves trade," Aeryn interrupted, walking to the table and picking up the wine pitcher. He poured himself a cup, smelled it, and put it down. "Too sweet."
He looked at Grafton.
"You have blocked my ships. You are taxing vessels that carry my flag. You are trying to starve my city."
"It is my right!" Grafton yelled, emboldened by his guards rushing into the room. "I control the port authority! Gulltown is the gateway to the Vale!"
The guards froze. Vermithor poked his massive head through the broken balcony doors, opening a maw filled with teeth the size of swords. A low growl vibrated in his throat, heating the air in the room.
"Gulltown was the gateway," Aeryn corrected.
He pulled a scroll from his belt and threw it on the desk.
"That is a trade agreement with the Sea Lord of Braavos. I signed it three days ago via raven. Runestone is now the primary port for Braavosi iron imports. In exchange, they are sending a fleet of grain barges directly to my docks, bypassing you entirely."
Grafton stared at the scroll. "Directly? But... the tariffs..."
"There are no tariffs if they don't stop here," Aeryn said. "I have cut you out of the loop, My Lord. And since your wealth depends on taking a slice of every pie, you are about to become very thin."
Aeryn leaned over the desk.
"Or..."
Grafton swallowed hard. "Or?"
"Or we integrate," Aeryn said. "You lift the ban on Runestone ships. You lower your tariffs to match mine. We create a trade zone. Gulltown handles luxury goods and textiles. Runestone handles heavy industry and raw materials. We stop competing and we start dominating the Narrow Sea."
Grafton looked at the boy. He realized then that Aeryn hadn't come to burn him. He had come to buy him.
"And if I refuse?" Grafton whispered.
Aeryn glanced at Vermithor. The dragon exhaled a puff of black smoke that curled around Grafton's boots.
"Then I will let the Braavosi know that Gulltown is 'unsafe' for commerce due to... fire hazards."
Grafton looked at the dragon. He looked at the ledger. He looked at the terrifyingly pragmatic child.
"I will draft the new tariffs in the morning," Grafton said, his voice shaking.
"Tonight," Aeryn corrected. "Vermithor gets restless when he sleeps in strange places."
...
(Runestone - Three Days Later)
Aeryn stood in the rookery, watching the sunset.
The blockade was broken. The grain was flowing. House Grafton was now a junior partner in the economic engine Aeryn was building.
A raven arrived from the South.
Aeryn took the message. It was sealed with the green wax of the Hightowers, but the handwriting belonged to King Viserys.
My dear nephew,
I hear rumors of dragons in Gulltown and new laws in Runestone. Lord Grafton writes to complain, but his coffers are full, so he complains softly. You are a wonder, Aeryn. You remind me of Jaehaerys. He built roads. You build systems.
But systems are cold comfort. Aemond asks for you. Helaena asks for you. The court is... loud. Rhaenyra and Alicent argue over the color of the drapes, and I feel the winter coming, even in the summer.
Do not stay in the stone too long, my boy. A heart can turn to bronze if it is not careful.
Aeryn lowered the letter.
He looked out at his city. The lights of the new district were turning on—oil lamps fueled by the efficiency of his administration. It was perfect. It was clean.
And it was completely silent.
"A heart of bronze doesn't break, Uncle," Aeryn whispered to the empty air.
He turned back to his desk. There were new plans to draw. The aqueduct needed expansion. The mines needed better ventilation.
The Shadow of the Child had passed. The Lord of the Vale was in command. And he was just getting started.