(The Private Rookery of Runestone, Winter 124 AC)
The winter had come hard to the Vale, turning the mountains into teeth of white ice. But inside the solar of Runestone, the temperature was controlled. Bronze pipes, carrying hot water from the castle's hypocaust system, ran beneath the floors, keeping the room at a precise, dry warmth.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen sat at his desk. He was eleven, but in the flickering light of the whale-oil lamps, he looked ageless. His face was a mask of concentration.
Before him lay two letters.
The first was sealed with green wax. The handwriting was elegant, shaky, and filled with strange, wandering doodles of insects.
Cousin,
The millipede has lost three legs, but it keeps walking. It doesn't know it is broken yet.
The Green spider is weaving a blanket for the old king, but the silk is sticky. The Black dragon screams in the nursery, waiting for the egg to crack.
They ask about you. The One-Eye asks if your stone burns. The Queen asks if your bronze bends.
I told them that bronze does not bend. It breaks. Or it endures.
Be careful of the rats in the walls, Aeryn. They have gold teeth.
— Helaena
Aeryn touched the drawing of the millipede. Viserys, he deduced. The King is failing. The legs are the support systems—the Hand, the Council, the health.
He opened the second letter. It was sealed with the three-headed dragon, but the wax was black, not red. The handwriting was not Daemon's sharp slash, nor Rhaenyra's confident loop. It was the trembling scrawl of a dying man.
My Son (in spirit, if not in name),
The maesters took another finger yesterday. The rot is persistent. It is a stubborn guest.
The court is... heavy. Alicent reads to me from the Seven-Pointed Star. Daemon sends me trophies from the Stepstones. They both want me to smile. They both want me to say they are right.
I look at the model of Old Valyria. It is the only thing that doesn't change. I wish you were here to explain the aqueducts to me again. I like hearing about things that work.
Stay in the mountains, Aeryn. The valley is deep, but the fall from the Iron Throne is deeper.
— Viserys
Aeryn stared at the letter. He felt a phantom pain in his left arm, under the brace. He remembered the old man who had sat by his bed when he was burned, reading him histories.
"The structure is failing," Aeryn whispered to the empty room. "The load-bearing pillar is rotting."
He picked up the letters and held them over the flame of the lamp. He watched the paper curl, turn black, and crumble into ash.
He could not keep them. Evidence of the King's weakness or the Princess's madness could be used by spies. And there were spies everywhere.
...
(The Great Hall - The Next Day)
Aeryn sat on the Bronze Throne of the Royces. He was receiving "envoys."
To his right stood Ser Vardis Egen, hand on his sword. To his left, Maester Helaebar.
Two men stood before the dais.
The first was a merchant from Oldtown, draped in green velvet, representing the "Hightower Trade Guild." His name was Ser Otto's eyes, though he called himself Master Lyman.
The second was a mercenary captain from Dragonstone, wearing a black cloak pinned with a red dragon. He claimed to be seeking a contract for "security," but his accent was pure Flea Bottom.
"My Lord Prince," the Oldtown merchant began, bowing too low. "The Hightower Guild hears of your marvelous port. We wish to invest. We offer gold for exclusive rights to your iron exports... for the Crown's benefit, of course. Queen Alicent is very interested in the prosperity of her... nephew."
Aeryn leaned forward. "Exclusive rights?"
"To ensure stability, My Lord," the merchant smiled. "To keep the iron out of the hands of... pirates. Or rebels."
Aeryn looked at the mercenary. "And you?"
"Prince Daemon sends his regards," the mercenary said, his grin wolfish. "He hears you have a legion. He says a legion needs blooding. He offers you a place in the Stepstones. A chance to fight alongside your father. To be a real dragon."
Aeryn looked between them.
Green and Black.
The Bribe and the Blade.
"Master Lyman," Aeryn said calmly. "Runestone trades with the Free Cities. I do not sign exclusive contracts. It limits market fluidity. Tell the Queen that my iron goes to the highest bidder. If she wants it, she can pay the market price."
The merchant's smile faltered. "But... surely family loyalty..."
"Loyalty is an intangible asset," Aeryn cut him off. "Iron is tangible. I deal in tangibles."
He turned to the mercenary.
"And tell Prince Daemon that my legion is not a toy for his pirate wars. My soldiers protect the Vale. They do not die on rocks in the middle of the sea for glory."
The mercenary chuckled. "The Rogue Prince won't like that answer, boy. He thinks you're hiding."
"I am not hiding," Aeryn said, standing up.
He gestured to the open doors of the hall.
Outside, in the courtyard, Vermithor was being fed. The dragon tore into a whole ox, his bronze scales gleaming, his size terrifying. Around the dragon, two hundred Blue Cloaks stood in perfect formation, watching without fear. On the walls, the Bronze Guard patrolled with crossbows.
"I am fortifying," Aeryn said.
He looked at the spies with eyes that were centuries old.
"Go back to your masters. Tell them the Vale is closed. Tell them that if they want to measure me, they should bring a longer ruler. And tell them..."
Aeryn paused.
"Tell them that the Bronze Prince does not choose a side. He chooses the Law."
...
(The Docks - Midnight)
The envoys left that evening. Aeryn watched their ships disappear into the fog.
He stood on the end of the pier, the freezing sea spray hitting his face. He felt the vibration of the city behind him—the pumps working, the forges burning, the machine humming.
But he knew it wasn't enough.
They had sent envoys today. Tomorrow, they would send assassins. Or saboteurs.
He turned to the shadows.
"Casper," Aeryn said.
A figure limped out from behind a stack of crates. It was Casper, the son of the castle steward. He was eighteen, born with a twisted spine and a clubfoot. People looked away when they saw him. Aeryn never looked away.
"My Lord?" Casper's voice was like grinding gravel.
"Did you watch them?"
"The merchant from Oldtown counted the ships in the harbor," Casper reported. "He bribed a dockworker to ask about the depth of the channel. I... took the liberty of removing the dockworker's tongue after he spoke."
Aeryn nodded. "And the mercenary?"
"He tried to enter the barracks. He wanted to see the crossbows. He asked the men if they loved Daemon more than you."
"And?"
"The men broke his nose and threw him in the mud," Casper grinned, a grotesque sight.
Aeryn looked at the dark water.
"They are probing the defenses, Casper. They are looking for cracks."
Aeryn turned to face the crippled young man.
"I need eyes, Casper. I need eyes in Oldtown. I need eyes on Dragonstone. I need eyes in the Red Keep that do not blink."
"Spying is expensive, My Lord," Casper warned.
"I have gold," Aeryn said. "I have the trade of the narrow sea. I want you to build me a network. The Shadow Bastion. Find men like you. Men the world has broken. Men who are invisible because people are too disgusted to look at them."
Casper straightened up as much as his spine allowed. "And our enemies?"
"For them," Aeryn said, "I need something sharper."
He pulled a heavy pouch of gold from his belt.
"I have contacted a... specialist... in Braavos. You will coordinate with him. He will handle the offense. You will handle the defense."
Aeryn looked back at the city lights.
"The letters are ash, Casper. The time for writing is over. Now we read the silence."
Aeryn walked back toward his fortress. The neutrality was a lie. He was at war. They just didn't know it yet.