The knowledge of the Dragonbinder was a paradigm shift. Aaryan had built his entire strategy on the belief that the world operated on the predictable, if brutal, mechanics of gold, steel, and human ambition. He was now facing an enemy whose primary weapon was a variable he could not calculate: magic.
He sat in his solar, the confession of Vorian Sand laid out on the desk, the words seeming to writhe on the parchment. A man who could enslave a dragon. It was a power beyond that of any king or army. To send his ten hunters against such a threat was to send lambs to a slaughter. His mind, a cold engine of logic, raced to find a counter-strategy. He could not out-magic his enemy. Therefore, he had to out-think him on a different level. He needed knowledge—not the folklore of maesters, but the practical, historical weaknesses of such magic.
There was only one institution in the world that would possess such information, an organization that was born from the ashes of Valyria and held a deep, institutional hatred for the dragonlords and their sorcery: The House of Black and White. But the Faceless Men were not librarians. To ask them for help was to invite a knife in the dark.
He would have to use his new, powerful intermediary. A raven flew to Braavos that morning, addressed to Tycho Nestoris.
Master Nestoris,
Our new partnership flourishes. However, my assessment of the Volantene threat has uncovered a concerning reliance on their… traditional assets. Specifically, their historical connection to the Dragonbinders of Old Valyria. The Citadel's texts are folklore. The Iron Bank, with its long and practical memory, surely has more concrete records on the true nature, and more importantly, the vulnerabilities, of such individuals. Any historical accounts you could provide regarding past encounters or known countermeasures would be invaluable in safeguarding our mutual investments from such high-risk variables.
He was not asking for a magical solution. He was asking a banker for a risk assessment of an enemy's magical asset. It was a language he knew Tycho would understand.
With that thread cast into the east, Aaryan turned his attention back to the capital. His rising power was a palpable force in the Red Keep. The shift was most apparent in the Small Council. When Tyrion proposed a slow, careful plan to use royal funds to rebuild the city's outer wall, Aaryan countered it with swift precision.
"A sound plan, Lord Hand," Aaryan said, "but the treasury cannot bear the cost, and it will take years. I have a better way." He turned to the council. "The Bank of the Rock will finance the entire project, to be completed in six months. We will offer the contract to the Stonemasons' Guild, who will hire two thousand men, feeding their families and stimulating the economy. The Crown pays nothing. My bank will be repaid via a small, temporary toll on merchant carts entering the city once the wall is complete. We will have security, prosperity, and a stronger city, all without spending a single royal dragon."
It was flawless. Ser Davos, now firmly in Aaryan's camp, endorsed it immediately. "Lord Aaryan's methods have shown results, Lord Hand. The people are fed. The city is safer. We should trust in what works."
Tyrion, seeing the council's support swing entirely to his cousin, could do nothing but acquiesce. The vote was a mere formality. It was a public and humiliating demonstration that the political gravity of the capital was shifting. Tyrion Lannister was no longer the city's indispensable man. Aaryan was.
That night, Aaryan met his ten hunters for the last time. They gathered again in the cavernous warehouse, the air thick with the smell of sea salt and tar from the nearby docks. A ship, a fast, unmarked galley named the Shadow Chaser, was waiting for them.
Aaryan looked over the hardened faces of the men he was sending into the mouth of hell. "There has been a change," he said, his voice low and serious. "Our rivals are not just sending soldiers to find this prize. They are sending a sorcerer, a Dragonbinder, who believes he can tame the beast. He is now your primary target."
He gestured to Qarl, the poison specialist, who opened a lead-lined box. Inside were a dozen vials of a dark, viscous liquid. "This is a gift from the Alchemist," Aaryan explained. "Tears of Lys, Basilisk's Blood, and other… rarer compounds. Your blades and arrows are to be coated in them. This sorcerer may be more than a man. We will not take the chance that he can survive a simple wound. Your mission is no longer to find the dragon. It is to find the Volantene expedition and kill the Dragonbinder. His death is the sole condition of your victory."
The men nodded, their expressions grim. They understood. This was no longer a treasure hunt. It was an assassination.
Garr, the old Ibbenese whaler who would lead them, stepped forward. "We will not fail you, my lord."
"I know," Aaryan said. He watched them board their ship, a collection of lethal ghosts melting into the night, their vessel slipping out of the harbor like a phantom. He had done all he could. He had sent his best men, armed with the world's deadliest poisons, on a mission to kill a wizard and stop a god from being enslaved. The outcome was now utterly beyond his control.
He returned to the Red Keep to find a raven waiting, the black seal of Pyke upon it. It was Yara Greyjoy's reply. He broke it, his face unreadable. The message was short, stripped of all courtesy, and seething with barely concealed fury.
The captain of the 'Sea Vulture' was a traitor who acted for his own greed. His name is struck from the rolls of the Iron Fleet and his family will pay the price for his shame. This business between us is done. Send my ship back to Pyke.
Aaryan crumpled the parchment in his fist. It was a capitulation. Yara, faced with the threat of exposure to her Stark allies, had chosen to cut her losses. She had disavowed her agent, abandoned her Dornish allies, and bowed to his will.
One link in the conspirators' chain had been shattered.
He looked out the window, towards the east, where his hunters were now sailing into the dawn. One enemy was cowed and broken. But the most dangerous one, the true threat to the world, was still out there. And the race had just begun.