(The High Council Chamber - Runestone, Late Autumn 126 AC)
The letter lay on the center of the obsidian table. It was heavy, sealed with the royal wax, and smelled of lavender and rot—the scent of the Red Keep.
It was not a threat. It was worse. It was a plea disguised as a command.
To Aeryn Royce-Targaryen, Lord of Runestone and Prince of the Realm,
The festivities for the union of our children, Aegon and Helaena, continue. Yet, there is a seat empty at my high table. A father should not have to beg his son to return home. The court asks for you. I ask for you.
Come to King's Landing. Take your place. The dragon must have two wings to fly.
— Viserys I Targaryen
Aeryn stood at the head of the table. He was dressed for travel, wearing a high-collared tunic of black leather and the heavy bronze chain of his station. His mechanical hand rested on the table, the metal fingers drumming a slow, rhythmic beat. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Around him sat the architects of his empire.
Ser Yorbert Royce, his great-uncle and Castellan.
Maester Helaebar, the Head of the Institute.
Casper, the Master of Whispers.
Galen, the Chief Engineer.
Lyman, the Head of the Trade Council.
They looked at the letter, then at the Prince. They knew what it meant. The Architect was leaving the building.
"The King summons me," Aeryn said, his voice devoid of emotion. "To refuse a third time would be tantamount to rebellion. Otto Hightower would use my absence to paint me as a traitor in the King's ear. I cannot allow that narrative to take root."
"It is a trap," Casper said, his voice rasping from the shadows of his hood. "You sent them a box of dead spies, My Lord. They are not inviting you to a party. They are inviting you to an interrogation."
"They are inviting a boy," Aeryn corrected. "They think the dead spies were a message from a petulant child. They do not know what I am bringing with me."
He looked at Ser Yorbert.
"We are activating Protocol Zero."
The room went silent. They had heard rumors of this, but seeing it enacted was different. It meant the machine was going to run on autopilot.
Aeryn pulled a thick ledger from his belt and placed it on the table.
"This is the Manual of Regency. It contains the operating parameters for the next five years. It is not a suggestion. It is a script."
He turned to Yorbert.
"Uncle. You are hereby named Regent of Runestone. You will sit in the Bronze Chair. You will hear petitions. You will dispense justice."
Yorbert puffed out his chest, looking grave. "I will hold the seat until you return, nephew."
"You will hold the seat," Aeryn said, sliding the ledger toward him. "But you will not make policy. The tax rates are fixed in Section 4. The trade tariffs are fixed in Section 9. Do not raise them to pay for tournaments. Do not lower them to please your friends. Follow the numbers."
Aeryn looked at the old knight with a piercing gaze.
"If a famine strikes, Section 12 dictates the opening of the silos. If a war starts, Section 20 dictates the mobilization of the militia. You do not need to think, Uncle. You only need to execute the logic I have written."
Yorbert touched the book. It felt cold. "And if... if something happens that is not in the book?"
"Then you consult the Council," Aeryn said. "Majority vote. But the book covers 98% of probable scenarios."
Aeryn turned to Maester Helaebar.
"Maester. The Institute is the heart of our economy. You will continue the research on the steampowered pumps for the mines. I want the prototype operational by winter."
"It requires more gold, My Prince," Helaebar noted nervously.
"The funding is allocated in the trust," Aeryn said. "But be warned. I want results, not explosions. If the Citadel sends agents to shut you down, you refer them to the Bronze Code. Heresy is not a crime here. Interference with industrial progress is."
Aeryn moved down the line.
"Lyman. The Trade Council. You will maintain the neutrality of the port. We trade with the Greens. We trade with the Blacks. We trade with the Triarchy. Gold has no political allegiance. If Daemon Targaryen wants to buy steel, you sell it to him at a 20% markup. If Otto Hightower wants to buy grain, you sell it to him at a 20% markup."
"And if they demand a discount because of your blood ties?" Lyman asked.
"Tell them that family discounts are bad for market stability," Aeryn said dryly.
Finally, he turned to Casper.
The crippled spymaster sat at the end of the table, his eyes gleaming with a dark intelligence.
"The room," Aeryn said. "Clear it."
Yorbert, Helaebar, and the others hesitated, then stood up. They bowed to their Prince and filed out of the chamber, leaving Aeryn alone with his monster.
...
(The Shadow Protocol)
When the heavy doors closed, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew colder.
"The public regency is a puppet show," Aeryn said, walking over to Casper. "Yorbert is a good man, but he is soft. He believes in honor."
"Honor is a glitch," Casper replied.
"Precisely," Aeryn said. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, black iron cylinder. He handed it to Casper.
"This contains the Shadow Mandate."
Casper took it. "New orders?"
"Contingencies," Aeryn said. "I am going into the viper's nest, Casper. King's Landing is not Runestone. I cannot control the variables there. I might be arrested. I might be poisoned. I might be held hostage to force the Vale's loyalty."
Aeryn leaned against the table, his mechanical hand gripping the edge.
"If I send a letter signed with green wax, it means I am writing under duress. Ignore the words. Proceed with normal operations."
"And if you send black wax?"
"Black wax means I am free," Aeryn said.
"And if...?" Casper let the question hang in the air.
"If I die," Aeryn finished for him. "Or if I disappear for more than three years without a verified contact."
Aeryn looked Casper in the eyes.
"If that happens, you initiate Protocol Omega."
Casper's fingers tightened around the cylinder.
"You seal the Vault," Aeryn ordered. "You pour the molten lead into the keyholes. No one enters. Ever. The data dies."
"And the city?"
"You trigger the charges in the aqueducts," Aeryn said, his voice devoid of mercy. "You collapse the harbor mouth. You burn the Institute."
Casper stared at him. "You would destroy it? Your life's work? You would turn the Crystal City back into a ruin?"
"I built this machine to serve me," Aeryn said terrifyingly. "To serve Order. If I am gone, the machine will be captured by them. By Otto. By Daemon. They will use my gold to fund their wars. They will use my cement to build their dungeons. They will use my press to print their lies."
Aeryn straightened up.
"If I cannot hold the leash, Casper, I will not let the dog hunt for anyone else. Runestone belongs to the Bronze Prince. Without the Prince, it is just stones."
Casper smiled. It was a grotesque, jagged smile. He loved this. He loved the absolute, nihilistic logic of it.
"Scorched earth," Casper whispered. "It shall be done, My Lord."
"Good," Aeryn said. "Now, give me the update on the escort."
"Commander Aegis has mobilized the Black Phalanx," Casper reported, shifting back to business. "Nine hundred men are encamped outside the city, ready to march. One hundred of the Shadows are prepping the ships. The cargo holds are loaded with the dote."
"And the armor?"
"The smiths finished it this morning. It is... distinct."
Aeryn nodded. "It needs to be. I am not going there as a knight. I am going there as an industry."
...
(The Balcony - Sunset)
Aeryn walked out onto the high balcony of the Keep. The sun was setting over the Mountains of the Moon, casting long shadows across the valley he had transformed.
He saw the smoke from the glassworks. He saw the white stone of the silos. He saw the flash of the semaphore tower signaling "All Clear."
It was perfect. It was a watch that ran without a clockmaker.
He felt a pang of something—melancholy? Pride?
He had come here as a broken child, a cast-off prince with a burned arm and a dead mother. He had been sent to the mountains to be forgotten.
Instead, he had carved a kingdom out of the granite.
"I will miss the silence," Aeryn said to himself.
In King's Landing, there was only noise. Lies, whispers, screams, laughter. The noise of biology.
He touched the cold stone of the railing.
"Goodbye, Runestone," he whispered. "Be good. Be efficient."
Below him, a shadow detached itself from the cliffs. Vermithor.
The dragon was massive now. His wingspan blotted out the twilight. He circled the tower once, his bronze scales glowing like embers in the fading light. He roared—a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in Aeryn's chest plate.
The dragon was ready. The dragon was bored of goats. The dragon wanted to fly south, where the other dragons lived.
Aeryn looked at his beast.
"Yes," Aeryn told him. "We are going to the pit. But we are not going to fight, Vermithor. We are going to remind them why they should be afraid of the dark."
He turned and walked back inside. The ledger was signed. The orders were given. The Vault was locked.
The Regency had begun. The Lord of Runestone was dead.
Long live the Prince of King's Landing.