(The Upper Reservoir of Runestone, 124 AC)
It was finished.
After two years of blasting granite, diverting mountain streams, and laying miles of glazed clay piping, the Great Aqueduct of Runestone stood complete.
Aeryn stood on the observation deck of the reservoir, high above the castle. He was eleven years old, his face sharp and pale, his eyes scanning the water level gauges with the intensity of a hawk.
Beside him, Maester Helaebar trembled slightly. The entire city had gathered below in the main square, waiting for the miracle.
"The pressure is holding at optimal levels, My Lord," the Maester reported, checking the brass dials. "The cisterns are full."
Aeryn placed his hand on the massive iron wheel that controlled the main sluice gate. It was cold, heavy, and real.
"In King's Landing," Aeryn said softly, "they drink water that tastes of mud and dead men. They throw their waste into the street and pray to the Seven for health."
He gripped the wheel with his good hand and his mechanical brace.
"Here, we do not pray for health. We engineer it."
He turned the wheel.
CLANG. HISS.
The gears groaned, and the heavy bronze gates opened. A roar of water filled the air as the glacial melt from the Giant's Lance rushed into the aqueduct, plunging down the mountain toward the city below.
...
(The Plaza of the Falcon - Runestone)
The crowd held its breath. Thousands of smallfolk, merchants, and soldiers stood around the newly built central fountain—a massive structure of white marble carved in the shape of a dragon coiling around a tower.
For centuries, they had drawn water from muddy wells or walked miles to the river.
Then, a gurgle. A rush of air.
And suddenly, crystal-clear, freezing cold water erupted from the dragon's mouth. It cascaded into the basin, sparkling in the sunlight like liquid diamonds.
A cheer went up—not the polite applause of courtiers, but the raw, joyful roar of a people who had just been given a new life.
Children ran to the fountain, splashing in water that didn't smell of rot. Women filled pitchers with water that was clear as glass.
From the balcony of the Keep, Ser Yorbert Royce watched with tears in his old eyes. "He has done it," he whispered. "He has turned rock into water."
Aeryn didn't smile from his high perch. He watched the flow rates. He checked for leaks.
Efficiency: 98%.
Loss: Negligible.
"The sewers are next," Aeryn murmured to himself. "The water brings life. The drains must take away the death."
...
(The "White District" - Sector One)
Weeks later, Runestone was unrecognizable.
Travelers from Gulltown and even from across the Narrow Sea were calling it "The Crystal City." The streets were paved with flat, interlocking stones that drained rain instantly into the gutters. The air, once thick with the smell of manure and smoke, was clean.
Aeryn walked through the artisan quarter, flanked by two Blue Cloaks. He wore simple clothes, but the people stepped aside with a reverence reserved for gods.
He stopped at a bakery. The owner, a man named Tomas, rushed out, wiping flour from his hands.
"My Lord! Please, take a loaf! Hot from the oven!"
Aeryn looked at the shop. He didn't look at the bread. He looked at the floor. It was swept. He looked at the water barrel. It was covered.
"Your chimney is smoking excessively, Tomas," Aeryn noted. "It suggests incomplete combustion. You are wasting wood."
"I... I will fix it, My Lord," Tomas stammered.
"Do so," Aeryn said. "Inefficiency is a tax you pay to yourself."
He walked on.
He reached the new building at the center of the district: The Academy of Scribes.
It was a severe, square building of grey stone. Inside, fifty young men and women sat at rows of desks, copying ledgers, drafting contracts, and recording census data.
This was the Ministry of Letters.
Aeryn entered. The scribes stood up instantly.
"Sit," Aeryn commanded.
He walked to the front of the room, where a large map of the Vale was pinned. It was covered in strings and pins, marking trade routes, harvest yields, and tax collection points.
"Knowledge is not poetry," Aeryn told the room. "Knowledge is data. If I do not know how many bushels of wheat are in the granary at Ironoaks, I cannot feed the army. If I do not know how many ships are in the harbor, I cannot tax them."
He picked up a ledger from a nervous girl's desk.
"Your handwriting is legible," Aeryn observed. "But your sums are slow. Practice the Abacus Method. I want the quarterly report finished by tonight."
"Yes, Lord Aeryn," she squeaked.
Aeryn walked out. He was building a brain for his city. A central nervous system that would allow him to see every coin, every grain, every threat.
...
(The Solar - Late Night)
Aeryn stood before a basin of water. He washed his hands. He scrubbed them with a rough brush and harsh soap until the skin was raw and red.
He rinsed. He inspected his fingernails. He washed them again.
It was a ritual. The world was dirty. The world was chaotic. But he could be clean.
The door opened. Ser Vardis entered, holding a letter.
"From the Capital, My Lord. From the King."
Aeryn dried his hands meticulously on a fresh linen towel. He took the letter.
It wasn't just a letter. It was a plea disguised as a greeting.
My boy,
The city is sweltering. The smell of the Blackwater is unbearable this summer. The rats are bold.
Alicent and Rhaenyra had a disagreement over the seating arrangements at the tourney. It lasted three days. The Small Council spent four hours debating the tax on wine and zero hours discussing the structural integrity of the Dragonpit.
I hear stories of your city. They say the water flows uphill. They say the streets are made of marble. It sounds like a dream.
Build it strong, Aeryn. Build it so it lasts. Because down here... I fear the rot is in the foundation.
Aeryn lowered the letter.
He looked out his window. The Crystal City glowed in the moonlight. The streetlamps—oil lanterns with polished bronze reflectors—cast a steady, geometrical light on the paved roads.
It was silent. It was orderly. It was perfect.
And it was incredibly lonely.
"The rot is not in the foundation, Uncle," Aeryn whispered to the flame of his candle. "The rot is in the blood."
He placed the letter in a box marked 'Family - Archive'.
He turned back to his desk. He had to approve the designs for the port expansion. He had to review the budget for the intelligence service. He had to keep the machine running.
Because if he stopped, even for a second, he feared the chaos might catch up to him.
"Maester Helaebar," Aeryn called out to the adjoining room.
"My Lord?" the sleepy Maester answered.
"Bring me the schematics for the coastal defense grid," Aeryn said, dipping his quill in ink. "And bring me a fresh basin of water. This one is dusty."