(Runestone, 115 AC)
The world was vast, cold, and made of stone. That was the first truth Aeryn Royce-Targaryen learned.
He was two years old, a small creature wrapped in furs and wool, standing on legs that still wobbled like a newborn colt's. To anyone else, he was just a toddler holding onto his mother's hand. But inside Aeryn's head, the world was not a blur of colors; it was a series of sharp, indelible images.
He saw the way the dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the high windows of the gallery. He saw the exact pattern of the cracks in the flagstones—three lines branching like lightning near the hearth, a chip missing from the corner of the second step. He didn't know why he remembered these things, only that he couldn't forget them. They were stored away in the library of his mind, stacked neatly beside the smell of pine needles and the sound of his mother's boots.
"Up," Rhea Royce said softly, tugging gently on his hand. "One more step, little dragon."
Aeryn looked up at her. To him, she was not the Lady of Runestone or the fearsome warrior who commanded armies. She was warmth. She was safety. She was the giant who lifted him when the ground became too hard.
He lifted his foot, placing it clumsily on the stone riser. He stumbled, his balance failing, but before his knees could hit the granite, strong hands caught him.
"I have you," Rhea whispered, pulling him against her leg. She smelled of leather and the sweet, dry scent of dried lavender she kept in her solar. "I will always have you."
Aeryn buried his face in her trousers. He didn't speak often. Words felt clumsy compared to the pictures in his head. But he loved the sound of her voice. It was a deep, resonant sound, like the ocean crashing against the cliffs, far steadier than the shrill winds that howled outside.
"Book," Aeryn murmured, pointing toward the heavy oak door at the end of the hall.
Rhea laughed, a sound that softened the harsh angles of her face. "Again? You never tire of the histories, do you?"
She picked him up, setting him on her hip. Aeryn wrapped his arms around her neck, resting his cheek against the cold bronze of the clasp that held her cloak. He traced the runes etched into the metal with a tiny finger. He knew the shape of them perfectly. Safe. Home. Bronze.
They entered the library, a sanctuary of dust and silence. Rhea sat in a large armchair near the fire, settling Aeryn on her lap. She opened a massive tome bound in cracked leather—The Lineage of the First Men.
"This is the first King," Rhea said, pointing to an illumination of a man in bronze armor holding a hammer. "Robar II Royce. He united the Vale."
Aeryn stared at the picture. He didn't just see a drawing; he memorized the number of rivets on the armor (fourteen on the chest), the shade of blue used for the cape (faded azure), and the grim expression on the King's face.
"Robar," Aeryn repeated.
"Yes. He was strong," Rhea told him, stroking his jet-black hair. "Like you will be. But he was also smart. He knew that bronze is harder than iron because it does not rust. It endures."
Aeryn looked up at her, his violet eyes wide and unblinking. He didn't understand politics or war. He didn't know that half the realm called him a bastard or that his father was a prince who wished him dead. He only knew that when his mother looked at him, the world felt solid.
"Read," Aeryn commanded gently, patting the page.
Rhea smiled, but there was a sadness in it that Aeryn noticed but couldn't comprehend. She kissed the top of his head. "As you wish, my love. We shall read until the sun goes down."
...
In King's Landing, the sun did not feel like a friend. It felt like an interrogation.
The Red Keep was sweltering, the heat of late summer turning the stone corridors into ovens. In the King's private solar, Viserys I Targaryen sat hunched over his great model of Old Valyria. His hands, now spotted with age and the beginnings of rot from the cuts of the Throne, moved a small dragon figurine from one spire to another.
"He walks," Viserys said, a genuine smile breaking through his weary features. "The letter says he is walking already. And he speaks. Rhea says he has a vocabulary far beyond his years."
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by the balcony, her back to her father. She was dressed in the red and black of her house, her silver-gold hair braided elaborately against her neck. She was eighteen now, a mother herself, but in this room, she felt like a child begging for scraps.
"Jacaerys is walking too, father," Rhaenyra said, her voice tight. "He has been walking for a month."
"Yes, yes, of course," Viserys waved a hand distractedly, not looking up from the parchment spread out on his table. "Jace is a strong lad. A true Velaryon."
Rhaenyra flinched. A true Velaryon. The words were meant as a compliment, but they stung like a slap. Jace had brown hair. Just like Aeryn. But while Aeryn's black hair was celebrated by the King as a sign of the "strength of the First Men," Jace's brown locks were the subject of whispers in every corner of the court. Strong. That was the word they used.
"But listen to this, Rhaenyra," Viserys continued, his eyes scanning Rhea's letter with delight. "She says Aeryn remembers the names of the servants after meeting them once. He points to the banners in the hall and names the houses. A memory like that... it is a gift. A rare gift."
Rhaenyra turned, her violet eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and annoyance. "He is a toddler, Father. All children mimic what they hear. You speak of him as if he were a prodigy sent by the Fourteen Flames."
"Perhaps he is," Viserys mused, finally looking at her. "He is Daemon's son, Rhaenyra. My own flesh and blood, exiled to the mountains. If the gods have granted him a sharp mind, it is a blessing. It means he might survive the harshness of that land."
"He has a mother," Rhaenyra countered sharply. "A mother who hates us. Or have you forgotten the letters she sent? The threats?"
"Rhea protects her own," Viserys said softly, his smile fading. "I cannot fault her for that. I only wish... I wish I could see him. Just once. To see Daemon's fire in him."
Rhaenyra felt a cold knot of jealousy tighten in her stomach. It wasn't just about Aeryn. It was about what he represented. Another claimant. Another male. Another distraction. She had spent her life fighting for her father's approval against the shadow of a dead brother, then against the living sons of Alicent Hightower. And now, she had to compete with a cousin she had never met, a boy living in the ass-end of Westeros.
"You have grandsons here, Father," Rhaenyra said, her voice trembling slightly. "Jace and Luke. They are here. They are yours."
Viserys sighed, standing up and walking over to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, but his gaze was distant, looking out over the city towards the north.
"I know, my delight. And I love them," Viserys said. "But Aeryn... Aeryn is a piece of the brother I lost. I cannot help but wonder what he sees with those violet eyes of his."
Rhaenyra pulled away gently, masking her resentment with a polite smile. "I am sure he sees only rocks, Father. He is a Royce, after all. You said it yourself in your decree. Let him be a Royce."
She swept out of the room, her skirts rustling angrily. As she walked down the hall, she passed Queen Alicent, who was walking with young Aemond. They exchanged a cold nod, but for once, Rhaenyra felt a strange kinship with the Queen's children. They were all being ignored for the ghost of Daemon Targaryen and his bronze bastard.
...
Night had fallen over the Vale, turning the mountains into jagged silhouettes against a star-strewn sky.
Rhea Royce sat at her desk in the solar, the single candle flickering in the draft. The castle was quiet, save for the rhythmic breathing of Aeryn, who slept in a small cot she had moved into her own chambers. She couldn't bear to have him in the nursery, not after the threats, not with Daemon's shadow always looming in her mind.
On the desk lay a stack of letters. They were all from Viserys.
Rhea picked up the most recent one. The handwriting was shaky, the seal imperfect.
My Lady Rhea,
I hope the winter has been kind. Does the boy like the wooden dragon I sent? I had the carvers paint it black, as you said he favors the color. I worry about the cold. The Maesters say Dragon blood runs hot, but the Vale is unforgiving...
Rhea traced the words. For two years, she had read these letters with a hardened heart, seeing them as attempts by the Targaryens to steal her son. She had replied with short, formal notes, giving away nothing but the barest facts.
But tonight, looking at Aeryn sleeping soundly, clutching the very wooden dragon Viserys had sent, she felt a crack in her armor.
"He is just an old man," she whispered to the empty room. "An old man who misses his family."
She realized, with a heavy heart, that her anger was directed at Daemon, but her punishment was falling on Viserys. The King had legitimized her son against the wishes of his own council. He had given Aeryn a name and protection when his own father had offered only spit and insults.
Rhea dipped her quill into the ink. Her hand hovered over the parchment.
To His Grace, King Viserys,
Aeryn is well. He sleeps with the dragon you sent. He calls it 'Balerion', though I do not know where he heard the name.
He is strong, Your Grace. He has the Royce chin, but his eyes... his eyes are yours. When he looks at me, I see the fire you speak of.
Perhaps... when the snows melt in the spring... if the roads are safe...
She stopped. She couldn't bring herself to write the invitation yet. The fear was still too deep. But she didn't burn the letter this time. She finished the sentence differently.
Perhaps he will one day know the uncle who writes him so faithfully. I will tell him of your kindness.
Lady Rhea.
She sealed the letter and stood up, walking over to the cot.
Aeryn was fast asleep, his thumb near his mouth, his black hair messy against the white pillow. He looked so small, so fragile.
Rhea reached down and smoothed the blanket, her heart swelling with a love so fierce it terrified her. She remembered teaching him to walk on the battlements that morning. She remembered the way he looked at the world, trusting that she would always be there to explain it to him.
"I will protect you," she promised him in the dark. "I will keep the monsters away, my little observer. You will never have to know the cruelty of your father. I will be enough for you."
She kissed his forehead, lingering there for a moment.
Outside, the wind shifted, blowing from the east, carrying the scent of salt and rain. Rhea didn't know it, but the spring she wrote of would never come for her. The roads would open, but not for a royal visit. They would open for a rider on a red dragon, coming to shatter the peace she had fought so hard to build.
Aeryn stirred in his sleep, murmuring a single word. "Mama."
"I am here," Rhea whispered, sitting in the chair beside him to keep watch. "I am always here."