The dawn that followed was grey and listless, the sun a pale wafer struggling to burn through the morning haze. Aaryan was already awake, having dismissed sleep as an indulgence. He stood before a polished mirror in his guest quarters, his man Renn methodically laying out his traveling attire. It was not the crimson and gold of his house, but the practical, dark leathers of a seasoned traveler. He was done playing the part of the long-lost cousin for the court. The road required a different man.
"The horses are ready, my lord," Renn said, his voice as quiet and unobtrusive as his presence. "The provisions are packed. Light, as you requested."
"Good," Aaryan said, his eyes not leaving his own reflection. He was assessing, analyzing. The face looking back at him was a weapon: the handsome features to disarm, the winning smile to deceive, the startling blue eyes to unnerve. "And the letters?"
Renn produced a leather portfolio. "Bearing the seal of the Hand of the King. One for the steward of Casterly Rock. The others are letters of introduction to the major vassals: the Leffords, the Crakehalls, the Marbrands."
Aaryan took them, feeling the weight of the parchment. Keys to a kingdom. Tyrion's last, desperate attempt to hold his home together with ink and wax. He almost pitied him.
His cousin was waiting for him in the courtyard, a small, solitary figure beside a surprisingly fine-looking chestnut mare. Ser Podrick Payne, now a knight of the Kingsguard, stood a respectful distance away, looking as earnest and out of his depth as ever.
"A long ride ahead of you," Tyrion said, his voice gruff. "I'd have given you a kingsguard escort, but our numbers are… limited."
"Unnecessary," Aaryan replied smoothly, swinging onto his own black destrier with fluid grace. "I've traveled through worse than the Kingswood with less." He looked down at his cousin. "Thank you for this opportunity, Tyrion. I will not fail you."
"Don't fail the Westerlands," Tyrion corrected, handing him the reins to the chestnut mare. "A gift. She has a smoother gait than that brute you're riding."
"My thanks." Aaryan took the reins, his eyes briefly meeting Tyrion's. "Tell me, who holds the most sway in the West now? Who is the biggest dog in the yard, with the lions away?"
Tyrion grimaced. "Damon Marbrand is the most respected. A good man, a traditionalist. But Stafford Crakehall is the richest, and the most ambitious. He's been buying up land from minor lords bankrupted by the war. Be wary of him."
"Wary," Aaryan repeated, the word tasting like an alien concept. "Of course." He offered one last, brilliant smile. "Until we meet again, Hand of the King."
He turned his horse without another word, his small retinue of five handpicked Essosi sellswords falling in behind him. As he rode out through the gates of the Red Keep, he did not look back.
The Kingswood Road was a sorry-looking thing, overgrown and poorly maintained. The further they rode from the capital, the more the illusion of peace and rebuilding crumbled, revealing the rot beneath. They passed fallow fields and burned-out farmsteads, grim testaments to a war the smallfolk had paid for in blood and bone. Twice they saw bodies hanging from trees, picked clean by crows, with no sign or sigil to explain their crime. This was the King's Peace. It was neglect. It was a vacuum.
On the third day, they found the toll.
It was set up at a narrow crossing over a muddy stream, a crude wooden barrier manned by a dozen men. They wore the colors of a local house—a minor lordling whose name Aaryan couldn't be bothered to remember—but their armor was a mismatched collection of scavenged steel and boiled leather. They were soldiers who had never been told the war was over.
Their leader, a beefy man with a broken nose and a sneer, stepped forward as Aaryan's party approached. "The King's Road is a dangerous place, my lords. Lord Stokeworth provides protection. For a price. Five silver stags per man."
Aaryan reined in his horse, his expression one of mild curiosity. He looked at the men, then at the barrier. He looked at the ragged merchants and farmers waiting in a sullen line, their purses already lighter.
"Lord Stokeworth?" Aaryan asked, his voice pleasant. "I don't recall King Brandon granting the lesser lords the right to levy taxes on the King's Road. That is a royal privilege."
The man's sneer widened. "The King's in his castle. We're out here. You want to pass, you pay the toll."
"I see." Aaryan's smile didn't waver. He reached into a pouch on his belt. The men relaxed, seeing the gesture of compliance. Instead of coin, however, Aaryan's hand emerged with a small, wicked-looking throwing knife.
His movement was a flash of silver, too fast to track. The knife flew through the air and embedded itself in the throat of the man next to the leader. He gurgled, clutching at his neck, and collapsed into the mud.
Panic erupted. Before the other men could even draw their swords, Aaryan's five Essosi mercenaries moved as one. They were not knights; they fought with a brutal, synchronized efficiency. Swords and axes rose and fell. It was not a battle; it was an execution.
Aaryan, meanwhile, urged his horse forward at a slow walk, his eyes locked on the broken-nosed leader, who stood frozen in shock and terror.
"You have mistaken me for a sheep," Aaryan said calmly, his horse stopping directly in front of the man. "I am not here to be shorn."
The man, finally spurred to action, let out a roar and swung his rusty sword. Aaryan didn't even bother to draw his own blade. He leaned to the side, the sword whistling past his ear, and delivered a vicious backhand blow with his gauntleted hand. The sound of steel on bone cracked through the air, and the man crumpled to the ground, spitting blood and broken teeth.
The skirmish was over. The toll collectors were all dead or dying. The waiting merchants stared, mouths agape, in terrified silence.
Aaryan dismounted, walking over to the groaning leader. He crouched down, his piercing blue eyes devoid of any emotion. "This is the King's Road. It belongs to the King. My king." He pressed the tip of a dagger to the man's cheek. "And I am his Warden of the West. Your little enterprise is over." He stood, wiping his dagger clean on the man's tunic.
He turned to his men. "Burn the barrier. Leave one man. String him up on that tree," he said, pointing to a large oak. "With a sign. Let it read: 'The Lions Have Returned'."
He mounted his horse, gave the stunned merchants a brief, unreadable glance, and trotted across the stream without a second look. As he rode, the first wisps of smoke began to rise behind him, carrying the news of his passing. It was a small act, a single bloody ripple in a vast, troubled pond.
But Aaryan knew how ripples worked. They spread.
He looked west, towards the setting sun. Towards Casterly Rock. Towards home. His work in the capital was done. His work in the world was just beginning.