Chapter 6: Finding His Subjects
The crack of displaced air echoed across the balcony, and Alaric was gone.
He reappeared high above the Shivering Sea, staff in hand, Aurelia spiraling down to join him. Below, the water stretched endless and grey, but ahead, the coast of Essos waited.
"First stop," he said, "Asshai."
Aurelia trilled curiously.
"I want to see it. The books made it sound like a ruin, but it's not. Not yet. Four hundred years from now, maybe, but today it's a living city. I want to know what that looks like."
Asshai was nothing like the books had described.
Oh, the stones were still black. The river Ash still flowed dark and strange. But the city lived. Ships crowded its harbors, trading goods from across the known world. Streets bustled with merchants in silks, shadowbinders in ornate robes, travelers from lands Alaric had only read about. The air hummed with magic, not the corrupted, dying magic of a fallen city, but the vibrant power of a place that had been a center of sorcery for millennia.
He spent a month there.
He walked the markets, listening to a dozen languages flow around him. He visited the shadowbinders' temples, watching them work their strange arts. He climbed the black towers and looked out over a city that stretched for miles, its population numbering in the hundreds of thousands.
And he learned.
The shadowbinders were happy to talk, for a price. They taught him things about the deeper magics that even Tissaia hadn't known. The merchants showed him trade routes that crossed continents. The scholars shared histories that predated the Valyrian Freehold itself.
By the time he left, he had pages of notes, a dozen new techniques to practice, and a grudging respect for a city he'd been taught to fear.
No recruits, though. The people of Asshai were exactly where they wanted to be.
☆☆★☆☆
From Asshai, he traveled west through lands he'd only glimpsed before.
The Shadow Lands stretched for weeks of travel, their strange geography slowly giving way to the edges of the Valyrian Peninsula. And there, for the first time, Alaric saw the Freehold in its full glory.
Dragons filled the sky.
Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe—it was impossible to count as they wheeled and dove above the distant peaks. The Fourteen Flames smoked against the horizon, their fires feeding the volcanoes that had made Valyria rich. Cities of black stone and obsidian covered the landscape, their towers reaching toward the clouds.
He didn't approach. Now was not yet the right time, but he watched, and he understood something fundamental.
Valyria wasn't a relic. It was an empire at its peak, with dragons beyond counting and sorcerers whose power rivaled anything he'd seen. In four hundred years, it would fall—he knew that with certainty. But today, it was the closest thing the world had to gods.
He turned north.
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Slaver's Bay sprawled along the coast like a wound that wouldn't heal.
Alaric had avoided it during his first travels, content to observe from a distance. The slave trade turned his stomach in ways monsters never had. Monsters killed because they were hungry or scared. Slavers killed because it was profitable.
He started in Meereen.
The city rose on its pyramid foundations, brick and ambition stacked toward the sky. Alaric walked through the gates with his staff visible, Aurelia on his shoulder, and let the guards stare. Let them wonder. Let them send word up the chain.
By evening, he had an audience with a merchant named Hizdahr zo Loraq.
"You're the wizard they talk about," Hizdahr said, lounging on cushions. "The one who walks where he pleases."
"I am."
"And what do you want in Meereen? Trade? Knowledge? A pretty slave for your bed?" The merchant smiled unpleasantly. "We have all three."
Alaric kept his face neutral. "I want to buy in bulk. Unsullied. Slaves. As many as you can provide."
Hizdahr's eyebrows rose. "Bulk? How many?"
"All the Unsullied you have and as many slaves a i can get. Skilled ones, craftsmen, scholars, healers, field hands and I want families."
The merchant stared. Then he laughed. "That's not bulk. That's an army. That's a city's worth of bodies. You'd need a fleet to move them."
"I'll provide the fleet."
"And the gold?"
Alaric reached into his cloak and produced a single perfect diamond, the size of a child's fist. He'd created it that morning, understanding carbon and pressure and the way light moved through crystal. "This should cover the Unsullied if not I have more."
Hizdahr's laughter stopped. He took the diamond, held it to the light, weighed it in his palm. "Where did you get this?"
"As a merchant, you should know, a merchant never revealshis secrets."
The merchant's eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Sit down, wizard. Let's talk."
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The negotiations took three weeks.
Alaric met with every major slaver in the bay, Hizdahr in Meereen, the Wise Masters of Yunkai, the Good Masters of Astapor. He let them think they were driving hard bargains. Let them believe they were taking advantage of a foreigner with more gold than sense.
He paid in diamonds, emeralds, rubies, gems he created from nothing, each one perfect, each one worth a fortune. The slavers fought over his business, undercut each other, offered better stock to win his favor.
By the end, he had what he wanted. Thirteen thousand Unsullied, their training complete, their loyalty transferred to him in the old ritual. Nine thousand slaves, carpenters and masons, weavers and smiths, healers, scholars and scribes, people who'd been bought and sold so many times they'd forgotten their own names.
The Unsullied stood in perfect ranks, spears steady, faces blank. The slaves huddled in groups, uncertain, afraid, hoping.
Alaric looked at them and felt something cold settle in his chest. Not at them. At the world that had made them this way.
"You're free," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "From this moment, you're not slaves. You're not property. You're people, and you belong to no one." He paused. "But I'm offering you a home. A place where no one will buy you, sell you, or hurt you. A place where you can work and live and build something new. If you want it."
Silence. Then, slowly, a woman began to cry. A man fell to his knees. Others just stared, unable to process the words.
The Unsullied didn't react at all. They'd been trained too well.
"We'll talk more on the ships," Alaric said quietly. "For now, just know, you're not slaves anymore."
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Creating the fleet took a month.
He found a secluded cove east of Astapor, far from prying eyes, and set to work. The creation magic flowed through him like breathing now, each ship taking shape from his will and the raw materials he pulled from the sea itself.
One hundred ships. He started with the smallest—cutters and frigates, lean and quick—and worked his way up. War-galleons with reinforced hulls. Supply ships with deep holds. Support vessels for repairs and medical care.
And the flagship.
She took three days by herself. Alaric poured everything into her, every lesson he'd learned, every bit of beauty he'd witnessed, every ounce of majesty he wanted his kingdom to represent. Blue and gold, cream sails and midnight timber. The phoenix figurehead at her prow, sapphire eyes gleaming. The Peverell crest on her main sail, a blue phoenix crowned in gold rising before a dark shield.
When she was finished, he stood on her deck and felt her come alive beneath him. She wasn't just a ship. She was a statement.
"What should I call you?" he murmured.
Aurelia trilled from the figurehead, where she'd perched the moment it was complete.
"Phoenix's Pride," Alaric decided. "That works."
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Loading the fleet took another two weeks.
The Unsullied marched aboard in perfect order, thirteen thousand soldiers who moved as one. They asked no questions, showed no emotion. Alaric watched them and wondered what it would take to make them human again.
The slaves were harder. They came with families, with belongings, with fear in their eyes. Many had never been on a ship before. Many had never been free before. Alaric walked among them, answered questions, calmed fears, repeated his promise until his voice went hoarse.
By the time the last anchor was raised, he had twenty-one thousand souls depending on him. Twenty-one thousand lives he'd taken responsibility for.
The weight of it settled on his shoulders like a physical thing.
"Set course," he told the captain of the flagship—a former slave named Daro who'd been a merchant sailor before his capture. "North and west. I'll guide you when we get close."
Daro nodded, face tight with something that might have been hope. "And where exactly are we going, lord?"
"Home," Alaric said. "We're going home."
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The voyage took six weeks.
Six weeks of calm seas and storms, of sickness among the former slaves and steady discipline from the Unsullied. Alaric worked constantly, healing the ill, calming the fearful, answering questions about the land ahead. He created food when supplies ran low, fresh water when casks went bad. He walked among his people every day, letting them see him, touch him, know that he was real.
The Unsullied remained apart. They didn't know how to be anything else. But Alaric visited them too, learning names, memorizing faces, treating them like soldiers rather than tools. Some of them, by the fifth week, almost smiled.
Daro proved invaluable. The man knew the sea the way Alaric knew magic, reading winds and currents with an instinct that couldn't be taught. By the third week, Alaric had promoted him to admiral of the fleet, responsible for all one hundred ships.
"You trust me with this?" Daro asked, genuinely surprised.
"I trust you to know what you're doing. The rest we'll figure out together."
Daro looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded and went back to work.
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On the forty-third day, Aetherion appeared on the horizon.
Alaric stood at the Phoenix's Pride's prow, Aurelia on his shoulder, and watched his kingdom take shape in the distance. The castle first—Aetherion Spire, rising from the central plateau like a promise. Then the city, terraces and towers and gardens spreading down toward the coast. Then the cliffs, ringed with eternal mist, walls of stone and magic that no army had ever breached.
Behind him, the fleet slowed as sailors and former slaves alike caught their first glimpse.
"What..." Daro breathed. "What is that place?"
"Home," Alaric said again. "Aetherion. The kingdom I built for people like you."
The ships drifted closer. Details emerged, the canals, the plazas, the thousands of buildings waiting to be filled. The sentinels standing motionless at their posts. The gargoyles perched on every tower. The wards that hummed with power, welcoming Alaric home even as they warned of any approach.
A woman began to weep. A man fell to his knees on the deck. Even the Unsullied stirred, heads turning slightly as they took in the impossible sight.
"It's beautiful," Daro whispered.
"It's empty," Alaric said. "It's been waiting for you."
Docking took the rest of the day.
The port was perfect, docks, warehouses and shipyards, all waiting, all empty. The fleet settled into place like puzzle pieces finding their spots. By sunset, twenty-one thousand people stood on Aetherion's shores, staring up at the city that rose before them.
Alaric addressed them from the main dock, his voice amplified by a simple charm.
"Look at this place," he said. "Every stone, every street, every building, I made it for you. For people who needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to be safe." He paused, letting them absorb it. "You're not slaves here. You're not soldiers or property or tools. You're citizens. The first citizens of the first true free city in the world."
He pointed toward the terraces rising above them.
"Up there, houses are waiting. Real houses, with real walls and real roofs. You'll be assigned based on your skills—craftsmen in the workshop district, farmers in the agricultural terraces, scholars in the academy quarter. The Unsullied will have their own barracks, if they choose to stay as soldiers. If they want to be something else, we'll find something else."
He looked at their faces, fear and hope and disbelief all mixed together.
"This will be hard. You'll have to learn new ways, new work, new lives. But you'll never be bought or sold again. You'll never belong to anyone but yourselves. That's my promise to you."
Silence. Then, slowly, someone started to clap. Others joined. Soon the docks rang with applause, with cheers, with the sound of people who'd spent years believing they'd never have anything to cheer for.
Alaric stood among them and let himself feel it. Just for a moment.
Then he got to work.
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The sentinels problem became obvious within days.
Twenty-one thousand people needed guarding. Needed watching. Needed protection from the outside world and, more immediately, from themselves. The Unsullied helped, they were soldiers, after all, but they were also adjusting to freedom for the first time in their lives.
One thousand sentinels wasn't enough.
Alaric spent the next month in the castle's lower chambers, working without rest. The creation magic flowed easier now, each sentinel taking less time than the last. He made four thousand more, tall stone-and-metal guardians with glowing blue eyes, loyal absolutely, tireless completely.
Then more gargoyles. A thousand additional watchers for the towers and walls, their claws sharp, their eyes sharper.
And something new. He'd been thinking about it since the voyage, watching seabirds wheel above the fleet. Aerial sentinels, smaller than the ground troops, winged, designed to patrol the skies above Aetherion. They looked like their grounded cousins but slighter, with wings of enchanted membrane stretched over metal frames, claws that could snatch a man from the ground, eyes that missed nothing from a thousand feet up.
Two thousand of them. When they launched from the castle's highest towers for the first time, their wings blotting out the sun, the people below stopped and stared.
"What are those?" someone asked.
"Protection," Alaric answered. "Same as the rest."
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Assigning houses took weeks.
Every former slave came to Alaric or his designated helpers, Daro, a few of the more educated freedmen, even some Unsullied who'd shown administrative skill, and answered questions. What did you do before? What do you know? What do you want to learn?
Carpenters went to the workshop district. Masons too, and smiths, and weavers. Farmers climbed to the agricultural terraces, where fields waited for planting and orchards for tending. Scholars and scribes and healers ascended to the academy quarter, where libraries and lecture halls stood empty.
The Unsullied were offered a choice. Stay soldiers, with their own barracks and their own chain of command, or learn something new. Most stayed soldiers. A few, mostly the younger ones, asked to try other trades. Alaric granted every request.
By the end of the second month, the city had begun to live.
Smoke rose from chimneys. Lights glowed in windows. Voices echoed through streets that had known only silence. Children, there were children among the slaves, they ran through plazas and played in gardens, they slowlygave life the the city.
Alaric walked among them sometimes, Aurelia on his shoulder, and watched them live. It was strange. Wonderful. Terrifying.
They depended on him now. All of them. Twenty-one thousand lives, and more coming, if his plans worked out.
One evening, Daro found him on the castle balcony, looking down at the city.
"You did this," the admiral said quietly. "All of it."
"I built the buildings. They're making it a home."
Daro shook his head. "I was a slave for twelve years. Believed I'd die one. Then you came, and now..." He gestured at the lights below. "Now I have a city. A life. A purpose." He looked at Alaric. "How do you thank someone for that?"
Alaric was quiet for a moment. Then: "You live it. You build something with it. That's enough."
Daro nodded slowly. "What's next, lord?"
Alaric smiled. "Next, I go find more people. Administrators who can run things while I'm away. Magisters who understand trade and law. Mages who can teach in the academy. Vassals who can rule in my name when the kingdom grows."
"That's a lot."
"Valyria's at its peak right now. Dragons everywhere, sorcerers ruling half the world. I've got time to build something that can stand alongside them, or at least survive whatever comes after."
Daro didn't understand the reference, but he nodded anyway. "When do you leave?"
"Soon. A few months to make sure everything's settled here. Then Essos again. Pentos, Myr, Lys. Maybe back to Sothoryos." He glanced at Aurelia, preening on the balcony rail. "Got a lot of people to find."
"And if they don't want to come?"
Alaric shrugged. "Then they don't. I'm not building an empire by force. I'm building a place people want to be." He looked back at the city. "That takes time. But we've got that."
Daro followed his gaze. Below, the city hummed with life—small, fragile, but real.
"We've got that," he agreed.
The king had found his people.
Now he needed the ones who'd help him rule them.