(King's Landing, 115 AC)
The raven arrived at dawn, a black speck against the bleeding orange of the sunrise.
King Viserys I Targaryen was already awake. He rarely slept well these days, his nights plagued by the coughing that rattled his chest and the phantom pains of the cuts on his back. He sat on the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, watching the city wake up, a cup of watered wine in his hand.
When the Grand Maester entered, he did not knock. The heavy oak door creaked open, and the silence that followed was heavier than any shout.
Viserys turned. He saw the scroll in Mellos's hand. He saw the black wax. Not the red of the dragon, not the white of the Kingsguard. Black. The color of mourning.
"Your Grace," Mellos said, his voice soft, as if he were speaking to a frightened animal. "A bird from Runestone."
Viserys felt his hands go cold. The cup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the stone floor. The wine spread like a pool of blood, but the King did not look at it. He stood up, his breath catching in his throat.
"Rhea?" he whispered.
Mellos bowed his head. "An accident, Your Grace. A fall from her horse. Her neck was broken. She... she did not suffer."
Viserys collapsed back into his chair. He covered his face with his hands. He hadn't loved Rhea Royce—he barely knew her—but she was family by law, and she was the mother of his brother's son. She was a woman of honor who had been dragged into the mess of House Targaryen, and now she was gone.
"And the boy?" Viserys asked through his fingers. "My nephew?"
"Safe, Your Grace," Mellos assured him quickly. "He was with her. He... he witnessed it. But he is unharmed physically."
Viserys let out a ragged sob. A two-year-old boy, watching his mother die in the dirt. It was cruel. It was unfair.
"Daemon..." Viserys murmured, looking up with wet eyes. "Does my brother know?"
"Prince Daemon has not been seen in the Vale," Mellos said carefully. "The report states it was a hunting accident. The Lady Rhea was riding alone with the child."
Viserys nodded, latching onto that truth with desperate strength. An accident. It had to be an accident. The alternative—that Daemon had returned, that Daemon had been there—was a thought so dark it would shatter what little remained of Viserys's heart. He pushed the suspicion down, burying it deep beneath his grief.
"The boy cannot stay there," Viserys said, his voice gaining a sudden, frantic energy. "He is an orphan now. Daemon is... gods know where Daemon is. Aeryn has no father. He has no mother."
"The Royces will want to keep him, Your Grace," Otto Hightower said from the doorway. The Hand had arrived silently, as he always did. "He is the Heir to Runestone. His place is in the Vale."
"His place is with his blood!" Viserys snapped, standing up. The sudden movement made him dizzy, but he held his ground. "He is a Targaryen, Otto. He is a Prince of the Realm. I will not leave a toddler alone in a castle of cold stone with only ghosts for company."
Viserys walked to the window, looking North, as if he could see the mountains through the haze of the city.
"Send the Kingsguard," Viserys commanded. "Send a ship. No, send a retinue. Bring him here. Bring him to me. He shall be a Ward of the Crown. I will not fail this boy as I failed his parents."
Otto pursed his lips but bowed. "As you command, Your Grace. But the Royces are proud. They will not release him to just anyone."
"Then let them send their own," Viserys said. "I do not care who holds the sword, as long as the boy is brought to safety. I want him home."
...
The funeral of Rhea Royce was a quiet affair, held beneath the grey skies of the Giant's Lance.
There were no dragon flames. There were no songs of High Valyrian. Instead, she was laid to rest in the ancient cairns of the First Men, covered in a shroud of bronze and runes. The wind howled through the pass, a mournful dirge that chilled the bones of everyone present.
Aeryn stood at the front of the procession.
He was wrapped in a thick black cloak that swallowed his small frame. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried since the day in the canyon. He stood perfectly still, his gloved hand gripping the finger of Ser Vardis Egen so tightly his knuckles were white.
The trauma had done something to his face. The toddler's softness was gone, replaced by a vacant, haunted stare. His violet eyes watched the stones being piled onto his mother's grave, recording every rock, every hand that placed them, every word of the Old Tongue spoken by the septon.
Mama is sleeping under the rocks, his mind whispered. Like the kings in the book.
He waited for her to get up. He waited for the game to end. But the rocks kept piling up, higher and higher, until they blocked out the sun.
"Little Prince," Ser Vardis whispered, kneeling beside him. The old knight's face was grim. He looked at the boy with a fierce protectiveness. The Royces knew. They didn't have proof, but they knew. The timing, the rumors of a hooded rider, the way Rhea had died... it smelled of dragon.
But they could do nothing. The King's decree had arrived the same day as the funeral.
"We have to go, Aeryn," Vardis said gently. "The King... your uncle... he wants to see you."
Aeryn looked up. "Uncle?"
"Yes. In the south. Where it is warm."
Aeryn looked back at the cairn. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay with the rocks. But the memory of the canyon—the shattered mirror in his mind—made him afraid of the silence. He nodded slowly.
The departure was swift. The Royces did not trust the Crown, so they sent their own steel. Ser Vardis Egen and twenty of the finest household knights of Runestone formed a ring of bronze around the boy.
They rode through the Bloody Gate not as guests, but as a convoy moving through hostile territory. Aeryn sat in front of Vardis, his small body shielded by the knight's armor.
He watched the Mountains of the Moon fade into the distance. He recorded the changing landscape—the snow giving way to green valleys, the rocky paths turning into the Kingsroad.
For days, he didn't speak. He just watched. He ate when they told him to eat. He slept when the horses stopped. He was a perfect, silent doll, broken by a truth he couldn't remember.
...
King's Landing was a shock to the senses.
After the clean, cold air of the Vale, the capital smelled of rot, fish, and too many people. The noise was a physical wall—shouts, wheels on cobblestones, the ringing of bells.
Aeryn pressed his face into Ser Vardis's cloak as they rode through the River Gate. The people stared. They pointed at the knights in bronze armor, looking like relics from another age. They pointed at the small boy with the black hair and the purple eyes.
"The Bastard of Bronze," someone whispered in the crowd.
"The Dragon's shame," another muttered.
Aeryn heard them. His mind recorded the words, the tone, the faces of the people who said them. He didn't understand what "bastard" meant, but he understood the venom. He shrank smaller in the saddle.
They rode up the Hook, toward the Red Keep. The castle loomed over the city, a massive beast of pale red stone. To Aeryn, it looked like a monster's mouth, waiting to swallow him.
In the courtyard of the Red Keep, the King was waiting.
Viserys stood surrounded by his Kingsguard. Queen Alicent was there, holding the hand of a chubby boy with silver hair—Aegon. Rhaenyra stood a few paces apart, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
Ser Vardis dismounted. He lifted Aeryn down, setting his boots on the dusty ground.
The guards of the Vale formed a semi-circle behind the boy, their hands resting on their sword hilts. They glared at the Gold Cloaks, daring them to make a move.
Aeryn stood alone in the center of the yard. He felt tiny. The sun was too bright. The castle was too big.
Viserys stepped forward. He leaned on his cane, his eyes locking onto the boy.
He saw the black hair of the Royces. But then he saw the eyes.
Viserys let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was Daemon's face, staring back at him from the innocence of childhood. But where Daemon's eyes were full of chaos, this boy's eyes were pools of stillness.
"Aeryn," Viserys choked out.
He dropped his cane. The clatter made the guards flinch, but Viserys didn't care. He fell to his knees in the dirt, opening his arms.
"Come to me, boy," Viserys wept. "Come to your kin."
Aeryn hesitated. He looked at Ser Vardis. The knight gave a barely perceptible nod.
Aeryn took a step. Then another. He walked toward the man who was crying. He had never seen a grown man cry before. It was confusing, but it was also... safe. This man wasn't holding a rock. This man wasn't angry.
Viserys pulled him into a crushing embrace. He smelled of milk of the poppy and lavender water.
"I am sorry," Viserys whispered into Aeryn's black hair, his tears soaking the boy's tunic. "I am so sorry, little one. You are safe now. You are home."
Aeryn stood stiffly for a moment, unsure. But then, the instinct to be held, the desperate need for a parent that had been severed in the canyon, took over. Aeryn wrapped his small arms around the King's neck. He buried his face in the velvet of Viserys's doublet.
"Mama is gone," Aeryn whispered, his voice cracking.
"I know," Viserys sobbed, stroking his back. "I know. But I am here. I am here."
From the balcony above, Otto Hightower watched the scene with a calculating gaze. He saw the King's weakness. He saw the potential of the boy.
From the side of the courtyard, Rhaenyra watched her father crumble for a nephew he had never met. She saw him hug the boy with a desperation he rarely showed her own sons. She looked at Aeryn's black hair—so like her own Jace's—and felt a bitter taste in her mouth.
And Aeryn, safe in the arms of the King, opened his eyes. Over Viserys's shoulder, he looked at the Red Keep. He saw the faces of the people watching him. He saw the Queen. He saw the Princess. He saw the white knights.
He recorded them all.
He didn't know it yet, but he had just walked into the dragon's den. And the only thing protecting him was the broken heart of a dying King and the bronze steel at his back.