(King's Landing, 113 AC)
The Small Council chamber was usually a place of calculated whispers and slow deliberations, but today, the air was sharp enough to cut skin.
On the heavy oak table lay a copy of the scroll that had already flown. The red wax seal of the dragon was broken, but the words written in the King's own hand remained, staring up at the gathered lords like an accusation.
Grand Maester Mellos was the first to break the heavy silence, his chain clinking softly as he gestured to the parchment with a trembling hand.
"Done," Mellos murmured, looking at the King with eyes wide in disbelief. "It is done. The raven has flown before the Council could even debate the merits of... of this."
Viserys I Targaryen sat at the head of the table. He looked weary, the persistent cough that had plagued him all winter rattling deep in his chest. But he did not look down. He met the Grand Maester's gaze with a firmness that had been absent for years.
"There was no debate to be had, Maester," Viserys rasped. "I saw the truth. I acted upon it."
"But a double name, Your Grace?" Mellos pressed, his voice rising in agitation. "To issue a Royal Decree legitimizing a child not yet born is one thing. But to style him 'Royce-Targaryen'? It is unprecedented. In all the annals of the Seven Kingdoms, since the Conqueror landed, the blood of the dragon has never shared its name so openly with a vassal house. It dilutes the supremacy of the Crown."
"House Royce is not a mere vassal house," Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, interjected softly. He looked uneasy, caught between the indignation of the council and his own sense of decency. "They are the blood of the First Men. They ruled as Bronze Kings before the Andals ever crossed the Narrow Sea. Their lineage is as old as the mountains themselves."
"Lineage is not the issue, Lord Beesbury," Ser Otto Hightower cut in. The Hand of the King stood by the window, his back to the room, looking out at the city below. His voice was calm, measured, but laced with a cold disapproval. "The issue, Your Grace, is that you have created a legal quagmire without consulting your advisors. Who does this child serve? If he is a Prince of the Blood, his loyalty belongs to the Iron Throne. If he is a Royce, his loyalty belongs to the Eyrie. By hyphentating the name, you have split the boy in two before he has drawn his first breath."
Viserys let out a heavy sigh, taking a sip of water to soothe his throat.
"I did not consult you, Otto, because I knew what you would say," Viserys said, his voice hardening. "You would have spoken of precedents. You would have spoken of political convenience. You would have urged me to wait."
The King slammed his cup down. The sound echoed off the stone walls.
"But while you speak of laws, my brother speaks of bastards!" Viserys shouted, the sudden anger flushing his pale cheeks. "Daemon has shamed our blood. He has slandered the honor of a noble lady to hide his own depravity. He calls the mother a whore. He abandons his post and his wife to play pirate in the Stepstones!"
Viserys pointed a shaking finger at the scroll on the table.
"I am the precedent!" he declared. "If the only way to restore dignity to this child—my nephew—is to weave our names together, then so be it. I will not have a Targaryen child branded a bastard because his father lacks a soul."
"The Lords of the Realm will be confused," Mellos tried again, though weaker this time. "They will ask why a Targaryen prince bears the name of a bannerman first."
"Because the bannerman stayed true while the Prince fled," Viserys retorted, leaning back in his chair, the burst of energy leaving him drained. "The decree stands. He shall be Aeryn Royce-Targaryen. He shall be the Heir to Runestone. And let it be known that any man, be he lord or peasant, who speaks the word 'bastard' in his presence shall answer to me."
Otto Hightower turned from the window. He looked at the King, analyzing this sudden spine Viserys had grown. It was rare. It was dangerous. But as Otto looked at the copy of the decree, he saw the opportunity. A Royce-Targaryen. A child raised in the Vale, with a sanctioned hatred for Daemon.
"As Your Grace commands," Otto said, bowing his head in a perfect performance of obedience. "The herald is already en route. We can only pray the gods are kinder to this boy than his father was."
Viserys closed his eyes, the weight of the crown feeling heavier than ever. "Pray indeed, Otto. For we have sown a seed in stone, and I fear what harvest it will bring."
...
The Mountains of the Moon did not care for kings or councils. They only knew the cold.
A blizzard had descended upon the Vale, burying the passes in ten feet of snow. The wind howled around the ancient basalt towers of Runestone like a pack of starving wolves, rattling the shutters and stripping the heat from the stone walls.
Inside the Lady's solar, which had been converted into a birthing chamber, the heat was stifling. Braziers burned in every corner, filling the air with the smell of burning pine, blood, and sweat.
Rhea Royce lay on the bed of furs, her body twisted in agony. She had been in labor for fourteen hours. Her hair, usually braided tight for riding, was matted against her skull. Her face was pale, save for the feverish flush on her cheeks.
"Push, my Lady!" the midwife urged, wiping Rhea's brow with a cloth soaked in cool water. "The head is crowning. You must push!"
Rhea let out a scream that was less a cry of pain and more a snarl of defiance. Her hands gripped the iron bedposts so hard her knuckles turned white.
Every contraction was a wave of fire that tore through her lower back, but with the pain came the memories. Flashbacks of the Bronze Night. The smell of dragon-stink. The weight of Daemon crushing her into the mattress. The humiliation of his laughter.
I will not die, Rhea thought, gritting her teeth until her jaw ached. I will not die and let him win. I will not let him laugh at my corpse.
"One more!" the midwife shouted. "He is almost here!"
Rhea summoned every ounce of strength left in her warrior's body. She pushed with a force that felt like it would split her in two. She screamed a curse against House Targaryen, a raw, guttural sound that was swallowed by the storm outside.
And then, silence.
The wind seemed to stop. The fire in the braziers crackled.
A wet, gurgling cry broke the stillness. It was strong, demanding, the cry of a creature that refused to be ignored.
"It is a son," Maester Hyle announced, his voice trembling slightly with relief. "A healthy son, my Lady."
Rhea collapsed back onto the pillows, her chest heaving. She felt hollowed out, exhausted beyond words. "Give him... give him to me."
The Maester quickly cleaned the babe with warm water and wrapped him in a blanket of soft wool embroidered with the runes of the First Men. He hesitated for a fraction of a second as he looked at the child's face, a flicker of surprise crossing his old eyes.
He handed the bundle to Rhea.
She took the child, her arms heavy as lead. She looked down at the small, squirming thing that had caused her so much pain.
The boy was pale, but sturdy. He didn't have the delicate features of the Andals. He had the strong jaw and the broad brow of the Royces. And his hair...
Rhea brushed her finger over the babe's head. It was covered in a thick fuzz of hair as black as volcanic glass. Black as the armor of her ancestors.
He is a Royce, she thought, a fierce surge of triumph warming her cold blood. He is all Royce.
Then, the baby opened his eyes.
Rhea's breath hitched. The triumph froze in her chest.
Staring back at her were not the grey eyes of the Vale, nor the brown of the mud. They were violet. Deep, electric, impossible violet. They shone in the dim light like two shards of amethyst, burning with an inner fire that belonged to a different kind of monster.
It was the mark of the Dragon. Unmistakable. Undeniable.
"Aeryn," Rhea whispered, the name slipping from her lips before she could stop it. It was a Valyrian name, but she spoke it with the hard consonant of the mountains.
The door to the chamber creaked open, letting in a draft of freezing air. Ser Vardis, the Captain of the Guard, stepped inside. He looked exhausted, covered in snow, but his face was grave. Behind him stood a man in the livery of the Crown, shivering despite his heavy cloak.
"My Lady," Vardis said softly, bowing his head. "Forgive the intrusion. The storm delayed them, but a royal herald from King's Landing has arrived. He bears the King's seal."
The herald stepped forward, his teeth chattering, holding the scroll that Viserys had signed days ago. He looked at the bed, at the blood, and at the Lady who looked ready to kill him if he spoke a wrong word.
"A decree... from His Grace, King Viserys," the herald announced, his voice shaking. "To the Lady Rhea Royce. The King... the King acknowledges your son."
Rhea stared at him, her violet-eyed son clutched to her chest. "Read it."
The herald broke the seal. "The Crown rejects the lies of Prince Daemon. The child is legitimate. He is named Aeryn Royce-Targaryen. Prince of the Blood. Heir to Runestone. The King grants him the protection of the Iron Throne and declares that any harm befalling him shall be considered an act of treason."
Silence filled the room. The Maester and the midwife looked at each other in shock. A double name. It was unheard of.
Rhea looked down at her son again. The baby had stopped crying. He was staring at her, his strange, beautiful, terrifying eyes focused with an intensity that seemed unnatural for a newborn. He didn't blink. He seemed to be studying her face, memorizing the curve of her nose, the sweat on her brow, the fear and the love in her eyes.
"Royce-Targaryen," Rhea tested the weight of the name. It tasted like ash and iron.
She looked at Ser Vardis. "Did you hear the King's words, Ser?"
"I did, my Lady," the old knight replied, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"Then let the Vale know," Rhea said, her voice regaining its steel. "My son is a Prince. But he will not be raised in silk. He will be raised in bronze. And if his father ever dares to come for him... remind him that dragons can bleed."
Rhea pulled the blanket tighter around the boy. Aeryn Royce-Targaryen closed his eyes for the first time, the image of his mother's fierce, protective face locking into the recesses of a mind that was already beginning to record the world.
Outside, the storm raged on, but the cry of the Bronze Dragon had already pierced the wind.