(Blackwater Bay - Late Autumn, 126 AC)
King's Landing was a city of noise. It was a cacophony of shouting merchants, rattling carts, church bells, and the ever-present hum of half a million people living on top of each other.
But on this morning, the noise stopped.
It started at the Mud Gate. The fishmongers stopped scaling their catch. The whores on the Street of Silk stepped out onto balconies. The Gold Cloaks on the walls lowered their spears, squinting at the horizon.
The bay was full.
Not with the Velaryon fleet, nor with the Royal Navy.
It was a commercial fleet. One hundred heavy merchant carracks, their hulls painted a deep, slate grey, their sails black as a moonless night. They didn't move with the chaotic jostling of independent traders. They moved in a phalanx on the water, perfectly spaced, cutting through the waves with mathematical precision.
At the lead was the Bronze Horizon, the fastest ship in the Narrow Sea. And circling above it, casting a shadow that swallowed the Red Keep, was Vermithor.
The Bronze Fury roared. It wasn't a challenge. It was an announcement. The landlord is home.
...
(The Docks)
Otto Hightower stood on the quay, flanked by a nervous Ser Harrold Westerling and fifty Gold Cloaks. The Hand of the King looked pale. He had expected a boy to come on a single ship. He had not expected an armada.
The Bronze Horizon docked. The gangplank lowered.
Otto stepped forward, ready to offer a condescending welcome, ready to remind the "Lord of Runestone" of his place.
He never got the chance to speak.
The first boots to hit the wood were not Aeryn's.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A wall of black leather and bronze shields poured out of the ship's belly. They moved with a synchronization that made the Gold Cloaks look like a tavern brawl. They formed a perimeter instantly, pushing the crowd back without saying a word, their spears creating a corridor of steel.
The Unsullied.
Otto's eyes widened. "Slave soldiers?" he hissed to Ser Harrold. "In the capital? This is an affront to the Seven!"
Then, the procession stopped. A single figure emerged from the ship.
He was thirteen years old, but he looked like something forged, not born.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen was not wearing court finery. He was dressed for war.
His armor was a masterpiece of intimidation, crafted in the foundries of the Institute. It was made of fire-darkened steel, matte black to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
The breastplate was the centerpiece. Erupting from the black metal was a massive, three-headed dragon in high relief, forged in red copper and polished bronze. It didn't look like a decoration; it looked like the beast was tearing its way out of his chest.
His shoulders were encased in segmented pauldrons, overlapping plates that resembled the shell of an armadillo or the exoskeleton of an insect, allowing for fluid, lethal movement.
A heavy cloak of silk, black on the outside and blood-red on the inside, hung from his shoulders, fastened not with chains, but with heavy bronze brooches carved with the ancient runes of House Royce.
And at his hip, resting in a scabbard of white weirwood and bronze, hung the legend. Lamentation. The ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Royce, lost for generations, now recovered and sharpened by the deadliest mind in Westeros.
Aeryn descended the ramp. He didn't limp. The rhythmic clank of his mechanical brace was hidden by the heavy tread of his armored greaves.
He stopped in front of Otto Hightower.
He wore a helmet that hid his face completely. It had no visor. Instead, it featured a vertical grille—a rigid bellows design that covered his entire visage, turning him into a faceless, bronze-voiced automaton.
"Lord Hand," Aeryn's voice boomed from behind the grille, amplified by the helmet's acoustics.
"Prince Aeryn," Otto managed to say, trying to regain his composure. "You... you bring an army. This is a violation of the King's Peace. No lord may march on the capital with..."
"I bring no army," Aeryn corrected calmly. He gestured to the hundreds of Unsullied disembarking from the other ships.
"These are 900 laborers and honor guards," Aeryn lied with the smoothness of a sociopath. "They will remain outside the city walls, camped in the tourney grounds, to ensure they do not disturb the peace of the good citizens."
He pointed to the 100 men surrounding him, led by Commander Aegis.
"Only these one hundred will escort me to the Red Keep. A personal guard. Surely, Lord Hand, you would not deny a Prince his safety in these... dangerous times?"
Otto looked at the Unsullied. They stood like statues. He looked at Vermithor, perched on the highest tower of the city walls, watching them.
"And the ships?" Otto asked, pointing to the fleet.
"Cargo," Aeryn said. "My cousin Helaena has married. I heard the festivities were... frugal."
Aeryn signaled.
Sailors began unloading crates. They popped the lids open.
The crowd gasped.
Bolts of Myrish lace. Ivory from Yi Ti. Spices from Volantis that were worth their weight in gold. Chests overflowing with pearls and gemstones.
"A dote," Aeryn announced to the crowd. "From House Royce to Princess Helaena. Let it never be said that the Dragon does not provide for its own."
The smallfolk cheered. Otto's jaw tightened. It was a bribe. A massive, public bribe that painted Aeryn as the generous prince and the Hightowers as paupers.
"Shall we go to my father?" Aeryn asked.
He didn't wait for permission. He began to walk.
...
(The Procession)
The march to the Red Keep was silent.
Usually, when a lord rode through the city, there were horns and heralds. Aeryn walked.
He walked at the head of his Centuria—the 100 Shadows commanded by Aegis. They moved in a perfect square formation, locking step. Left. Right. Left. Right.
The sound of their boots on the cobblestones was hypnotic.
People watched from the windows. They saw the black armor. They saw the faceless helmet. They saw the bronze dragon burning on his chest.
They didn't see a boy. They saw the Bronze Titan.
Aegon and Aemond watched from a balcony in the Keep.
"He's small," Aemond noted, clutching the railing. "He's just a dwarf in a tin suit."
"He's not small," Aegon whispered, rubbing his chest where his heart raced. "He's dense. Like a collapsed star."
...
(The Throne Room)
The doors of the Great Hall swung open.
The court was assembled. The Greens stood on the right—Alicent in emerald, Otto, the Kingsguard. The Blacks stood on the left—Rhaenyra, Laenor, the Velaryons.
And on the Iron Throne, slumped and looking older than his years, sat Viserys I Targaryen.
Aeryn entered.
He left his 100 Unsullied at the door, lining the entrance hall like statues of judgment. Only Aegis walked with him, carrying the spear The Bronze Needle.
Aeryn walked down the long aisle. The sound of his armor was heavy, distinct.
He stopped at the foot of the throne.
He reached up and unclasped his helmet. He pulled it off.
His face was pale, angular, striking. His violet eyes scanned the room. They didn't linger on Rhaenyra. They didn't linger on Alicent.
They locked onto Daemon Targaryen, who was leaning against a pillar, smirking.
Aeryn didn't smile back. He looked at Daemon with the clinical disinterest of a coroner looking at a corpse.
Then, he looked at the King.
"Father," Aeryn said.
He didn't kneel.
A gasp went through the court. A Prince must kneel.
But Aeryn stood there, leaning slightly on his sheathed sword, Lamentation. The message was clear: I am not here to beg. I am here to negotiate.
"Aeryn," Viserys breathed, leaning forward. His eyes filled with tears. "My boy. You... you have grown."
"Time passes, Your Grace," Aeryn said coldly. "Even in the mountains."
"You wear the armor of a conqueror," Alicent spoke up, her voice trembling slightly. "Is this how you greet your King? With steel and mercenaries?"
Aeryn turned his head slowly to face the Queen.
"It is not a conquest, Your Grace," Aeryn said. "It is a delivery service."
He gestured to the door.
"I brought the dote for Helaena. Since the crown's treasury seems... strained."
Alicent flushed red.
Aeryn turned back to Viserys.
"You asked for me. I am here. Runestone is secure. The Vale is wealthy. My fleet is in your harbor. My dragon is on your walls."
He took a step forward, the metal of his greaves scraping the stone.
"I am ready to serve the Realm, Father. But I will serve it my way."
"And what way is that?" Daemon asked, pushing himself off the pillar. His hand rested on Dark Sister.
Aeryn looked at his father's brother. The man who stole the egg. The man who murdered Rhea. The man who was the chaos to Aeryn's order.
Aeryn tapped the pommel of Lamentation.
"The way of the Machine, Uncle," Aeryn said softly, but the acoustics of the hall carried it to every ear. "Precision. Calculation. And zero tolerance for error."
He looked up at Helaena, who was standing by a window, playing with a spider. She looked up. She saw him. She smiled—a real, genuine smile.
Aeryn felt a crack in his armor. Just a small one.
He looked back at the court.
"I request quarters for my Commander and myself. And I request a seat on the Small Council."
"You are a child," Otto scoffed. "You cannot sit on the Council."
"I am the wealthiest man in Westeros," Aeryn countered instantly. "I control the food supply of the Vale. I have the second largest dragon alive. And I have just parked a private army on your doorstep without shedding a drop of blood."
Aeryn put his helmet back on. The grille snapped shut, hiding his humanity once more.
The voice that came out was metallic, final.
"I do not ask for a seat, Lord Hand. I am auditing the chair."
Silence reigned in the Throne Room. Viserys looked at his son—this terrifying, beautiful, efficient monster he had created by neglect—and he laughed. It was a weak, wheezing laugh, but it was real.
"Give him the chair," Viserys ordered. "Welcome home, my son."
Aeryn didn't bow. He nodded.
The Game had changed. The constant had arrived.