(The Private Solar of Runestone - Late Autumn, 126 AC)
The letter had arrived with the morning tide, carried not by a raven, but by a trusted captain of the Royal Fleet who had been bribed heavily to deliver it into Aeryn's hands alone.
The seal was the three-headed dragon, but the wax was brittle and cracked, much like the man who had pressed it.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen sat in the silence of his solar. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting a deep red glow over the room. He held the parchment with his mechanical hand, the bronze fingers locking gently onto the paper to keep it steady.
He read the words of the King.
My boy,
The nights are getting longer. The Maesters say it is just the season, but I know it is the shadow. I feel it creeping up my legs.
The court is a nest of vipers, Aeryn. They smile at me with teeth made of glass. Alicent brings me soup and talks of Aegon's heritage. Rhaenyra sends me gifts and talks of Jacaerys's strength. They are not talking to me; they are talking to my crown.
I am tired. I look at the Iron Throne and I do not see a seat of power. I see a mouth waiting to swallow my family.
I wish you were here. Not the Prince of Runestone. Not the Lord of the Vale. Just Aeryn. I miss the boy who built towers out of wooden blocks. Come back to me, son. Before the shadow reaches my heart.
— Viserys
Aeryn lowered the letter.
He felt a tightening in his chest—a phantom pain in the space where a normal boy would keep his love for a father. But Aeryn suppressed it. Emotion was data noise. It clouded judgment.
"He is alone," Aeryn whispered to the empty room. "He is surrounded by thousands of guards, yet he is undefended."
He stood up and walked to the window. He looked down at the courtyard where the Bronze Guard was drilling. They were good men. Loyal men. They marched in rhythm, they kept their armor clean, and they feared him.
But they were men of the Vale. They had mothers in the villages below. They had cousins in other castles. They had debts. They had dreams.
Variables.
If Aeryn returned to King's Landing—and he knew he must, for the letter was not just a plea, it was a countdown—he would be walking into a pit of spies and assassins.
Could he trust Ser Vardis to stand against a Kingsguard? Yes.
Could he trust a common soldier to ignore a bag of gold from Otto Hightower? Maybe.
Could he trust a thousand men to die for him without asking why?
"No," Aeryn concluded. "Loyalty has a fatigue limit. Everyone has a price, or a fear."
He needed a constant. He needed a force that existed outside the equation of Westerosi politics. He didn't need soldiers. He needed biology that had been stripped of humanity.
He needed the Black Phalanx.
...
(The Vault - Section 4: Foreign Procurement)
An hour later, Aeryn was deep underground.
Casper was waiting for him. The spymaster looked tired, his eyes rimmed with red, but he snapped to attention as the Prince entered.
"My Lord? A late night inspection?"
"A purchase order," Aeryn said, walking past him to the shelves containing the trade agreements with the Free Cities. He pulled out a scroll marked Slaver's Bay - Astapor.
"We are expanding the military budget," Aeryn stated, unrolling the map of Essos on the central table. "I am returning to the Capital within the year. I cannot take the Bronze Guard. Their loyalties are tied to the land. If I order them to arrest a Hightower, they will hesitate. If I order them to kill a Septon, they will pray."
"And what will you take instead?" Casper asked, limping closer to the table. "Sellswords? They turn their cloaks faster than the wind changes."
"Not sellswords," Aeryn said. He placed a heavy bronze marker on the city of Astapor. "Products."
Casper's eyes widened. "The Unsullied? My Lord, they are... slaves. The Vale will not look kindly on a slave army."
"They will not be slaves when they land," Aeryn said dismissively. "That is a legal technicality I can solve with contracts. What matters is their programming."
Aeryn tapped the map.
"They are castrated at five. They are beaten every day until pain becomes irrelevant. They are forced to kill a puppy to break their empathy. They kill a human infant to break their morality."
"It is monstrous," Casper murmured, though he didn't look horrified. He looked impressed.
"It is efficient," Aeryn corrected. "They are not men, Casper. They are flesh automata. No desire. No fear. No ambition. They will stand in front of dragonfire and not blink unless I order them to blink."
Aeryn grabbed a fresh sheet of vellum.
"I am drafting the offer. I want one thousand."
"A thousand?" Casper choked. "My Lord, the Unsullied are sold in centuries. A single unit of high quality costs... gods, hundreds of gold pieces. A thousand would bankrupt a lesser kingdom."
"I have done the math," Aeryn said, dipping his quill in the ink. "The current market rate for a fully trained Unsullied—one with the spiked cap, ready for export—is roughly two hundred dragons. However, the Good Masters of Astapor are currently suffering from a Dothraki blockade that has stifled their food imports. They are hungry."
Aeryn began to write. His script was sharp, angular, and predatory.
"I will offer them one hundred and fifty dragons per unit. That is one hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons."
Casper let out a low whistle. "That is the entire surplus of the Trade Council for the year. It is the money for the new harbor extension. It is the money for the university."
"The harbor can wait," Aeryn said, not stopping his writing. "The King cannot."
He finished the letter and sprinkled sand over the wet ink.
To the Good Masters of Astapor,
I do not require your 'decorations'. I do not want the ones trained for the pleasure chambers or the ones who sing.
I require the steel. I require the wall.
One thousand spears. Top tier physical conditioning. Mental conditioning absolute.
Payment in Gold Dragons of Westeros, minted weight, delivered upon inspection at the port of Gulltown.
If the quality is insufficient, if a single one of them flinches at the sight of a dragon, I will burn your pyramid to the ground.
— Prince Aeryn Targaryen
"Send this with the fastest ship in the fleet," Aeryn ordered, handing the scroll to Casper. "The Bronze Horizon is the fastest. Strip her of cargo. Load her with ballast and speed. I want the reply in three months."
"And the gold?" Casper asked, holding the scroll like it was made of fire.
"Begin the liquidation of the assets in the secondary vaults," Aeryn said calmly. "Move the coin to the secure holding area. When the slavers arrive, I want them to see the mountain of gold. I want them to understand that the Bronze Prince does not bargain with credit."
...
(The Cliffs of Runestone - Dawn)
Aeryn stood watching the Bronze Horizon sail out of the harbor, its sails catching the first light of the sun. It was a beautiful ship, a pinnacle of naval engineering.
But it was sailing toward hell to buy demons.
Ser Vardis approached him. The old knight looked concerned. He didn't know the details, but he knew something dark was in motion.
"My Prince," Vardis said. "You look troubled."
"I am not troubled, Ser," Aeryn lied. "I am calculating."
"Calculating what?"
"The cost of a soul," Aeryn said. "It turns out, Ser Vardis, that it is surprisingly cheap. One hundred and fifty dragons."
Vardis frowned. "I do not understand."
"You don't need to," Aeryn said. He turned to face his captain. "Tell me, Vardis. If I asked you to kill a child because it was necessary for the stability of the realm... would you do it?"
Vardis stiffened. "I... I would question the necessity, My Lord. I am a knight. I swore vows to protect the innocent."
"Exactly," Aeryn noted. "You would question. You would hesitate. You have a conscience."
Aeryn patted the knight's pauldron with his mechanical hand. The metal rang hollowly.
"A conscience is a variable, Vardis. In the game I am about to play, I cannot afford variables. I need constants."
He looked back at the sea.
The Unsullied would not question. They would not hesitate. They would not care if the innocent died or lived. They would only care about the command.
In King's Landing, surrounded by the lies of the Greens and the Blacks, Aeryn would be the only one holding the leash of a truth that did not speak.
"Prepare the barracks in the lower district," Aeryn ordered. "Clear out the warehouses. We are expecting guests. Silent ones."
"How many, My Lord?"
"Enough to hold the Red Keep," Aeryn said. "Enough to make sure that when I speak, the Iron Throne listens."
He walked back toward the castle. The wind whipped his cloak, but he didn't feel the cold. He felt the weight of one hundred and fifty thousand dragons leaving his treasury.
It was a bleeding wound in his finances. But Aeryn knew the rule of engineering: Safety features are always expensive. But accidents cost more.
Viserys wanted his son back.
He was going to get him.
But he wasn't getting the boy with the wooden blocks. He was getting the Lord of the Machine, and he was bringing his own monsters.