(The Barracks of Runestone - The New Wing, 122 AC)
While the Bronze Guard trained in the mud to kill knights, a different kind of army was being forged in the stone courtyards of the lower castle.
They did not wear heavy plate. They wore reinforced leather brigandines dyed a deep, slate-blue—the color of the Vale sky before a storm. They carried short, weighted clubs of ironwood and tall, rectangular shields.
Prince Aeryn walked down the line of recruits. He was nine years old, his stride rhythmic and uneven due to his mechanical brace. Beside him walked Ser Osmund, a veteran of the City Watch of Gulltown whom Aeryn had poached with a salary triple what the Graftons paid.
"They look soft, My Lord," Ser Osmund grunted, eyeing the recruits. "Most are sons of millers and tanners. They flinch when you raise a voice."
"They are not here to fight wars, Ser Osmund," Aeryn said, stopping in front of a recruit who was visibly trembling. "They are here to impose order. A soldier kills the enemy. A watchman protects the asset."
Aeryn turned to the group. There were two hundred of them in this first intake.
"You are the Blue Cloaks," Aeryn announced, his voice projecting clearly. "In King's Landing, the Gold Cloaks rule by terror. They beat the innocent to catch the guilty. They are thugs in expensive wool."
He paced the line.
"Here, we do not operate on terror. We operate on Protocol."
He held up a thick, leather-bound book.
"This is the Code of Civil Protection. You will not patrol the streets until you have memorized it. You will spend the next six months in this yard. You will learn to grapple without breaking bones. You will learn to de-escalate a drunkard without drawing steel. You will learn the difference between a thief and a starving man."
One of the recruits, a bold boy named Joss, raised a hand. "Six months, My Prince? The Gold Cloaks are given a cloak and a club on their first day."
"And that is why the Gold Cloaks are hated," Aeryn replied coldly. "And why the people of King's Landing hide when they see them. I want the people of Runestone to run toward you when they are in danger, not away from you."
Aeryn handed the book to Ser Osmund.
"Six months, Ser. Physical conditioning in the morning. Law and literacy in the afternoon. If they cannot read a warrant, they cannot serve in my city."
...
(The Port of Runestone - Three Months Later)
The expansion of the port—now officially named New Valyria by the smallfolk, though Aeryn insisted on simply calling it "Sector One"—was booming. The new sewer systems meant the air didn't smell of waste, and the paved roads attracted merchants from Braavos and Pentos who were tired of the mud in Gulltown.
But with wealth came trouble.
In a tavern near the docks, a brawl had broken out. Three sailors from a Tyroshi cog were smashing furniture, drunk on strong ale, threatening the innkeeper with jagged knives.
In any other city, this would end in blood. The Watch would arrive, kill the sailors, and likely loot the tavern themselves.
The door swung open.
Four men in Cobalt Blue cloaks entered. They didn't scream. They didn't draw swords. They moved with the synchronized precision of a machine.
"Drop the steel," the squad leader ordered. He held a weighted baton in a low stance.
The Tyroshi laughed. "Come and take it, little blue boys!"
One sailor lunged.
The Blue Cloak didn't hack at him. He stepped inside the guard, used his shield to jam the sailor's arm, and swept the man's leg. The sailor hit the floor hard. Before he could rise, he was pinned, his hands bound with iron shackles.
The other two hesitated. They saw the discipline. They saw that these weren't brawlers; they were professionals.
"The fine for public disorder is five silvers," the squad leader said calmly. "The fine for assaulting an officer of the Blue Watch is a year in the salt mines. Choose."
The knives Clattered to the floor.
From the shadows of a nearby alley, Aeryn watched. He was mounted on a black destrier, flanked by his Bronze Guard.
"It works," Ser Vardis noted, impressed. "They didn't kill them. The merchant keeps his customers. The sailors pay the fine. The city profits."
"Violence is a cost, Vardis," Aeryn said, turning his horse. "We minimize costs."
...
(The Mountain Road - Winter, 122 AC)
The true test of the Blue Cloaks came not in the taverns, but on the edges of civilization.
As Aeryn's "perfect city" expanded, the Burned Men—a savage clan known for self-mutilation—grew desperate. The patrols of the Bronze Guard had pushed them out of the valleys, but hunger made them bold.
A convoy of grain wagons was moving toward the mining outpost of Ironoaks. It was guarded not by knights, but by a squad of twenty Blue Cloaks, there to deter bandits.
The ambush happened at dusk.
Fifty Burned Men swarmed down the scree slopes, screaming war cries. They expected panic. They expected peasant guards to flee.
"Shield wall!" the Blue Captain roared.
The training kicked in. The six months of drilling in the yard.
The twenty men locked their rectangular shields together, forming a wall of blue-painted wood and iron. The clansmen slammed into it like a wave crashing against a cliff.
Spears thrust from behind the shields. Controlled. Rythmic.
Thrust. Step. Recover.
Thrust. Step. Recover.
They didn't break. They didn't chase the savages for glory. They held the line around the wagons.
High above, a screech tore the sky.
Vermithor dropped from the clouds.
Aeryn saw the shield wall holding firm against superior numbers. He felt a surge of cold pride.
"Dracarys!"
He didn't burn the melee. He burned the slope behind the clansmen, cutting off their retreat and their reinforcements. The sudden wall of dragonfire turned the twilight into noon.
The Burned Men, trapped between the Dragon and the Shield Wall, threw down their weapons.
Aeryn landed Vermithor on a rocky outcropping. The dragon's massive bronze head loomed over the battlefield.
The Blue Captain, a man named Joss (the same recruit who had questioned the six months), stepped forward, blood on his face but his cloak intact. He saluted.
"Asset secured, My Lord," Joss reported. "Zero casualties on our side. Six hostiles neutralized. The rest are detained."
Aeryn leaned forward in his saddle, the Interface humming.
"Well done, Captain," Aeryn said. "Daemon Targaryen would have slaughtered them all and lost half the grain in the chaos. You saved the grain."
"We followed the Protocol, Lord Aeryn."
...
(Runestone - The Castellan's Office)
Aeryn sat at his desk, reviewing the incident report.
He dipped his quill in ink.
To Lady Jeyne Arryn,
The experiment is a success. The Blue Cloaks have proven that order is more effective than brutality. The crime rate in the port sector has dropped by 60%. The merchant guilds are petitioning to pay for more patrols.
I am expanding the academy. We will intake another three hundred men before spring.
He paused, looking at the blue cloak hanging on his wall—a symbol of the new law.
In King's Landing, the Gold Cloaks were a gang loyal to a person.
In Runestone, the Blue Cloaks were an institution loyal to a system.
Aeryn signed the letter.
Let the Gold rust, he thought. The Blue does not fade.
He turned to the window. The city lights below were bright and steady. His city. His machine. And now, he had the gears to protect it.