The knowledge of the dragon hunt settled upon Aaryan not as a burden, but as a singular, clarifying purpose. The petty squabbles of the Six Kingdoms, the ambitions of Dornish princes, the resentments of Ironborn captains—they were all symptoms of a greater disease. The world was a vacuum of power, and Drogon was the god-like force that could fill it. If Volantis succeeded, they would become the new Valyria, and the age of men in Westeros would end in fire and slavery.
He could not bring this to the Small Council. To speak of a secret race for a dragon would incite a panic they were ill-equipped to handle. Davos would speak of honor, Tyrion would counsel a paralyzing caution, and Brienne would see only the dangers. They would debate until the Volantene fleet was already sailing west with a dragon in its chains. And the King… to inform the King would be to cede control of the game to a being whose motives and methods were utterly alien.
No. This was a war that had to be fought in the shadows, by him and him alone. He was no longer the Master of Coin. He was the clandestine defender of the realm.
His first move was to assemble his hunters. Ravens flew from the Red Keep under the cover of night, their messages bearing Aaryan's new, personal seal—a simple, unadorned lion's head.
To Kaelen in the Westerlands: "Your task is complete. The Weaver's network is now ours. Eliminate its former master. From your recruits and the newly acquired assets, select your ten best men. I need trackers who can read a cold trail, killers who can move like ghosts, and sailors who can navigate by the stars. Men loyal only to the promise of a fortune beyond their wildest dreams. A great hunt is at hand. Send them to me at once."
To the branch of the Lion's Bank in Lannisport: "Liquidate the assets from the Ferren estate. Place the sum of fifty thousand golden dragons in a secure, unmarked chest. Await my agent for collection."
He was financing a war with the profits of his political maneuvering.
Next, he needed knowledge. To hunt a dragon in the most dangerous place in the world, he needed a map. Varys the Spider was dead, but a web that vast does not simply vanish. It goes dormant, its threads waiting for a new hand. Aaryan tasked his chief auditor, Symon, with a peculiar task.
"Symon," he said, during one of their late-night accounting sessions. "I want you to pull the royal ledgers from the reigns of Robert Baratheon and Joffrey. I am looking for a ghost. A recurring, anonymous donation to one of the city's orphanages. A fund that was paid consistently, without a clear source."
Symon, now utterly devoted to his lord, asked no questions. He spent two days buried in the archives. He found it: a small but steady stream of gold, paid every month for twenty years to the Shepherd's Garden orphanage in the heart of Flea Bottom.
Aaryan went himself, dressed not as a lord, but as a minor functionary in a simple woolen cloak. The orphanage was cleaner than most, the children less gaunt. He found the woman in charge, a stern matron named Elia, her face a web of wrinkles. He did not threaten her. He made her an offer.
"I know who funded this place for years," Aaryan said, his voice low. "I am not here to harm you or your children. I am here to continue his work, but on a grander scale." He placed a heavy purse on the table. "That is the first payment from a new endowment, established by me, that will guarantee this orphanage's future for the next fifty years. The children will have tutors, proper food, and apprenticeships waiting for them."
The old woman's suspicious eyes widened. "Why?"
"Lord Varys understood that forgotten children could be useful," Aaryan said. "I believe that cared-for children can become the foundation of a better city. All I ask for in return is a name. He is gone. Someone took his place. I need to speak with them."
Elia stared at the gold, then at Aaryan's piercing blue eyes. She saw not a schemer, but a man of power offering a future she had only ever dreamed of. "I do not know who took his place," she whispered. "But the whispers… they are gathered now by a man they call the Alchemist. He runs an apothecary shop in the Street of Sisters. He buys silence and sells secrets."
Aaryan found the shop easily. It was a cramped, dark place that smelled of dried herbs and strange chemicals. The Alchemist was a surprisingly young man, with the pale skin of a scholar and the dead eyes of a killer.
Aaryan did not waste time. "I am told you are a broker of rare commodities," he said.
"I trade in many things," the Alchemist replied, his voice a dry rasp.
"I am in the market for charts," Aaryan said. "Charts of the Smoking Sea. I want every tale, every rumor, every mad sailor's story concerning the ruins of Valyria. And I want any and all whispers you have gathered, over many years, of a dragon seen in the east."
The Alchemist's eyes narrowed. This was not a request for courtly gossip. This was a request for the most dangerous knowledge in the world. "Such a commodity would be… priceless."
"Nothing is priceless," Aaryan countered, placing a heavy leather-bound ledger on the counter. He opened it. It was a list of names. "This is the complete roster of your informants, their locations, and the methods by which they are paid. I acquired it this morning. I can destroy your entire network by sunrise."
The man's composure finally broke, a flicker of fear in his dead eyes.
Aaryan pushed a heavy purse across the counter. "Or, I can become your best, and only, client. You will bring me what I require, and you will forget this conversation ever happened. You will work for me now."
The Alchemist stared at the ledger, then at the gold. He gave a slight, defeated nod.
Two nights later, a package was delivered to Aaryan's solar. He unrolled the contents across his great desk. Before him lay a collection of salt-stained charts, the frantic drawings of shipwrecked sailors, and a collection of coded messages from Varys's old network. Whispers of a great shadow seen over the ruins of Oros, a fisherman's tale of a fiery roar that boiled the sea near Tyria. It was a ghost story, a legend.
But somewhere in these cryptic tales was the path to a living god of destruction.
He looked at the map of the Smoking Sea, a place from which no ship had returned in a thousand years. He was about to send a dozen men into the heart of hell on a madman's quest. For a moment, he felt the immense weight of the lives he was about to spend. He acknowledged the cost, the cold, brutal calculus of power. Then, he dismissed it.
The price of an empire was always paid in blood. His gaze hardened as he began to trace a potential route through the haunted, deadly waters. The hunt for Drogon had officially begun.