(The Private Docks of Runestone - Spring, 126 AC)
Silence had a sound.
Usually, when a ship docked in Runestone, the air was filled with the shouts of sailors, the creaking of ropes, the swearing of stevedores, and the squawking of gulls fighting for scraps.
But today, the Bronze Horizon arrived in a silence that felt heavy, almost pressurized.
Aeryn Royce-Targaryen stood on the end of the stone pier. He wore a heavy cloak of black wool against the sea spray, his mechanical hand resting on the pommel of his cane. Beside him stood Ser Vardis Egen and Casper.
"They say they do not feel pain," Vardis whispered, watching the gangplank lower. He sounded skeptical. "They say they are not men."
"They are men," Aeryn corrected calmly. "They are just men who have had the variables removed."
The first boot hit the wood of the dock.
Then another. Then a hundred more.
They marched in perfect unison. A solid block of bronze-skinned soldiers wearing spiked helmets and carrying round shields. They wore quilted tunics, devoid of any house sigil. Their eyes were fixed forward, staring at nothing and everything.
One thousand men disembarked in less time than it took a standard Westerosi company to line up for roll call. There was no talking. No jostling. No looking at the women on the pier.
They formed a perfect square formation on the dockside plaza. Ten ranks of a hundred.
A man in the silks of an Astapori Master walked down the plank, sweating in the cold Vale air. He bowed deeply to Aeryn.
"The transaction is complete, Prince Aeryn," the slaver said in broken Common Tongue. "One thousand. The Black Goats. Unbroken. Unyielding. Yours."
Aeryn didn't look at the slaver. He looked at the soldiers. He walked up to the first rank. He stopped in front of a soldier who was missing half an ear. He looked into the man's eyes.
There was nothing there. No fear. No hate. No hope. Just a waiting command prompt.
"Casper," Aeryn said. "Pay the man."
Casper signaled the porters. Chests of gold were wheeled out. The Astapori's eyes lit up. He didn't care what Aeryn did with them. He just wanted the metal.
As the slaver's ship began to prepare for departure, Aeryn stepped onto a crate so he could be seen by the entire phalanx.
He switched languages. He didn't speak the Common Tongue. He spoke High Valyrian, the language of dragons, the language of old authority.
"Dovaogēdys!" (Unsullied!)
One thousand heels clicked together. The sound was like a thundercrack.
"You have been sold," Aeryn announced, his voice carrying over the wind. "You have been told that you are property. You have been told that you have no names, only the names of vermin. You have been told that your life belongs to the Master holding the whip."
Aeryn paused. He let the silence stretch.
"I do not hold a whip," Aeryn said.
He pulled a scroll from his belt.
"I hold a contract."
He saw a flicker of confusion in the eyes of the front rank. Just a micro-expression. The programming didn't have a response for 'contract'.
"I have purchased your bodies," Aeryn continued. "But I have no use for slaves. Slaves require guards. Slaves require fear. Fear is inefficient."
Aeryn raised the scroll.
"This is the Bronze Covenant. You will serve me. You will be my shield. You will guard my house, my city, and my secrets. You will kill who I order you to kill. You will die if I order you to die."
He looked at them.
"You will do this for ten years."
Aeryn lowered the scroll.
"For ten years, you are mine. You will be fed meat, not gruel. You will be armored in bronze, not leather. You will be paid a wage of two silvers a day, held in trust in my Vault."
He leaned forward.
"And on the first day of the eleventh year... you are free."
The word hung in the air. Free.
"You will be given a plot of land in the valley. You will be given your gold. You will be given citizenship. You will be men again."
He scanned the faces.
"Or, you can try to run now. You have spears. I have a cane. You could kill me."
He gestured to the sky, where the shadow of Vermithor circled high above the clouds.
"But the dragon would burn you all before you reached the gate."
Aeryn stepped down.
"Serve me for a decade, and I give you a life. Betray me, and I give you ash. Do we have an accord?"
The soldier with the missing ear—the officer of the first rank—stepped forward. He slammed his spear butt into the ground.
"Issa, Jentys!" (Yes, Ruler!)
A thousand spears hit the ground.
BOOM.
Aeryn nodded. He didn't smile. He didn't want their love. He wanted their calculation. They had done the math: ten years of service was better than a lifetime of slavery.
"Good," Aeryn said. "Now, we find out which of you is the strongest."
...
(The Training Arena - The Next Day)
The tournament was not a chivalrous affair. There were no heralds, no favors from ladies, no blunted lances.
Aeryn sat on a wooden chair on the sidelines, a ledger on his lap.
"I need a Commander," Aeryn told Vardis. "The Astapori appoint officers based on cruelty. I want an officer based on tactical efficiency."
The rules were simple. The Unsullied were divided into groups. They fought with training staves. The winner advanced. The loser sat down.
For six hours, the arena was a blur of violence.
The Unsullied did not fight like knights. They fought like water dancers stripped of elegance. They used elbows, knees, shields. They fought in silence.
By late afternoon, only two men remained standing.
One was a giant of a man, designated "Red Rat" by the slavers. He fought with brute force, overwhelming his opponents.
The other was smaller. Leaner. He moved with an economy of motion that reminded Aeryn of Loro Antaryon. He didn't block attacks; he redirected them. He waited. He conserved energy.
His designation was "Grey Worm".
"Begin," Aeryn ordered.
Red Rat charged, swinging his staff like a club. Grey Worm stepped sideways, caught the blow on his shield rim, and drove the blunt end of his staff into the giant's knee.
Red Rat stumbled. Grey Worm didn't hesitate. He swept the leg, brought the giant down, and placed the tip of his staff on the man's throat.
Total elapsed time: six seconds.
"Hold," Aeryn called out.
Grey Worm froze. He stepped back and stood at attention, breathing steadily.
Aeryn walked into the arena. He looked at the smaller soldier.
"Why didn't you attack his head?" Aeryn asked in Valyrian. "He left it open."
"Helmet is thick," the soldier replied, his voice raspy from disuse. "Knee is weak. Man cannot fight if man cannot stand."
Aeryn nodded. "Logic."
He turned to the thousand watching soldiers.
"This designation 'Grey Worm' is deleted," Aeryn announced.
He looked at the soldier.
"A worm crawls in the dirt. You do not crawl. You stand between the threat and the target."
Aeryn placed a hand on the soldier's shoulder.
"You are Aegis."
The soldier blinked. Aegis. Shield.
"Aegis," the soldier repeated, testing the word. It felt heavy. It felt like a name.
Aeryn turned to Casper. "Bring it."
Casper approached carrying a long case wrapped in velvet. Aeryn opened it.
Inside lay a spear. But it was not a standard-issue weapon.
"This was forged in the foundries of Braavos to my specifications," Aeryn explained, lifting the weapon. It was perfectly balanced.
"The shaft is Ironwood from the North, treated with oil to resist rot and shatter-proofed. The core is tempered steel."
He touched the tip. It shone with a strange, blue-gold luster.
"The head is not simple steel. It is an alloy of bronze and cobalt, sharpened to a monomolecular edge. It will not rust. It will pierce plate armor as if it were parchment."
Aeryn handed the weapon to Aegis.
"This is The Bronze Needle. It is not a weapon for a slave. It is a weapon for a Commander."
Aegis took the spear. He spun it once, feeling the balance. It became an extension of his arm instantly.
He dropped to one knee.
"I serve," Aegis said.
"Rise, Commander," Aeryn ordered. "We have work to do. Your phalanx fights well as individuals, but they fight like Astapori. Here, we fight like a machine."
...
(The Barracks - Sector 5)
Over the next weeks, the integration began.
Aeryn didn't just dump the Unsullied into the Bronze Guard. He restructured them.
He divided the 1,000 men into specialized units, abandoning the traditional decimal system of the legions for a task-oriented structure.
* The Wall (600 Men): Heavy infantry. Tower shields. Their job was to hold the line and be immovable.
* The Fangs (300 Men): Light infantry/Skirmishers. Short swords and throwing spears. Their job was to flank and pursue.
* The Shadows (100 Men): Aeryn's personal detail.
This last group, The Shadows, was placed under the direct command of Aegis.
They were moved into the inner sanctum of Runestone. They guarded the door to the Vault. They guarded Aeryn's sleep. They guarded the food.
Aeryn trusted Ser Vardis with his life in battle. But he trusted Aegis with his life in his sleep. Because Vardis might hesitate if a High Septon ordered him to stand down. Aegis would put a spear through the High Septon's eye before the holy man finished his sentence.
One evening, Ser Yorbert watched the Unsullied drilling in the courtyard. They moved like a single organism, their breathing synchronized.
"They are terrifying," Yorbert admitted to Aeryn. "They have no souls."
"They have souls, Uncle," Aeryn said, watching Aegis correct a soldier's stance with a quiet word rather than a whip. "They just don't have agendas. In King's Landing, everyone has an agenda. The Hand wants power. The Queen wants succession. The Prince wants chaos."
Aeryn tapped his cane on the stone.
"These men want one thing: to fulfill the contract. In a world of variables, Uncle, I have bought a thousand constants."
Aeryn turned away from the window.
"Prepare the fleet," he told Yorbert. "The pieces are on the board. The Dragon, the Gold, the Secrets, and the Shield. It is almost time to play."
The Unsullied continued their drill. Thrust. Step. Kill.
They were the most expensive purchase in the history of House Royce. And Aeryn knew that when he walked into the Red Keep with Aegis at his back, every gold dragon spent would be worth its weight in fear.