The two months that followed were a period of quiet, seismic change within the ancient stones of Casterly Rock. While the lords of the West speculated on the nature of their strange new warden, Aaryan was not waiting. He was building his machine.
A week after the ravens flew, the first of the scribes arrived from Lannisport. They were followed by a trio of pale, curious acolytes from the Citadel, lured by the promise of unrestricted access to a great house's private records and a stipend that far exceeded their expectations.
The library, a place of silence and dust for a generation, was transformed. The rhythmic scratch of quills on parchment became its new heartbeat. The air grew thick with the smell of old paper and fresh ink. Day and night, under the watchful, increasingly stunned eyes of Maester Gerold, the history of the Westerlands was being un-earthed, dissected, and re-catalogued not by dynasty, but by debt, by crime, by secret, by weakness.
Aaryan would spend hours there each evening, not reading the histories of kings, but the ledgers of merchants. He absorbed the information effortlessly, his unique mind building a complex, invisible map of the entire kingdom.
It was in the third week that Gerold brought him the first true nugget of gold from their new mine.
"My lord," the maester said, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. He laid two ledgers on the table in Tywin's solar. "House Westerling. At the Crag. Their official tax records declare their fishing fleets bring in a modest income, barely enough to sustain their household."
"And?" Aaryan prompted, not looking up from a chart of coastal tides.
"And their private household accounts, which we found in a sealed container from your great-uncle's time, show three large, unexplained payments last year. The sums coincide with letters to a trading contact in the Free Cities, referring to the successful offloading of 'special cargo.' My lord… they are smuggling."
Aaryan finally looked up, a flicker of interest in his blue eyes. "Smuggling what?"
"I don't know. But the payments are substantial. Far more than fish would ever command."
Aaryan leaned back, a slow smile touching his lips. He had expected corruption, but to find it so quickly and so clearly documented was a gift. "Don't do anything. Do not send any inquiries. Simply open a new ledger. Title it 'Vassal Vulnerabilities.' This is the first entry. Find me more."
A month after his summons, Kaelen returned. He was not alone. Behind him trailed a column of thirty-four men. They were a motley collection, united only by the lean, hungry look in their eyes. There was a former siege engineer with burn scars on his hands, a third son of a minor knight whose fine cheekbones were marred by a tavern-brawl scar, and a Lannisport wharf-rat named Rennifer, whose lithe frame and constantly moving eyes suggested he had survived by seeing things others did not.
Aaryan gathered them in the cavernous, empty barracks, the same place he had first seen the hollowed-out state of his home. Now, he intended to fill it.
He stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back. He did not speak of glory, or honor, or duty to House Lannister.
"Look around you," he said, his voice calm and clear, echoing in the vast space. "They call this the Lion's Rock. For the past decade, it has been a museum. A monument to a dead beast. The lords of this land have grown fat and lazy in its silence. The King in King's Landing is a boy who stares at trees. The Queen in the North cares only for her snow. The world you were promised is gone. It was a lie."
He let the words settle. He saw the flicker of angry recognition in their eyes. He was speaking their language.
"You have been left with the scraps. You have the skills, the minds, the ambition, but your names are not right. Your pockets are not deep enough. You have been told your place. I am here to tell you that your place is what you take for yourself."
He began to walk before them, his gaze passing over each man. "I do not offer you a soldier's pay. I do not offer you a lord's empty promises. I offer a compact. You will give me your absolute skill, your unwavering discretion, and your relentless intelligence. In return, I will give you the tools and the opportunity to carve your own damn sigil into the face of this world. Here, you are not defined by the father who disinherited you or the master who cheated you. Here, your skill is your name. Your results are your title. Are we agreed?"
A low, guttural murmur of assent went through the men. It was not the cheer of a loyal army. It was the growl of a hungry pack.
A few weeks later, Aaryan put his new tools to the test. He summoned the wharf-rat, Rennifer, to his solar. He laid out the details of the Westerling smuggling operation.
"Lord Westerling will be attending my council," Aaryan said. "His absence will be an opportunity. Your task is to go to the Crag. Use your old skills. I don't want you to stop them. I want you to join them. Find out what the cargo is, where it comes from, and who buys it. You are not a soldier of the law. You are a whisper in the dark. You are my eyes. Do you understand?"
Rennifer, who had probably spent his entire life avoiding the notice of powerful men, looked at Aaryan and gave a sharp, feral grin. "Perfectly, my lord."
The day before the council, Casterly Rock was transformed. The dust was gone, the grime scoured away. The faded Lannister banners had been taken down, and in their place hung new ones, their crimson fields rich and their golden lions so bright they seemed to burn. Thousands of candles were lit in the Lion's Mouth, their light glinting off the polished floors and the newly sharpened steel of Aaryan's thirty-four men, who now stood as an honor guard, their mismatched origins hidden beneath fine, new black leather armor. The illusion of power was complete.
Aaryan stood on the dais in the great hall, surveying the scene. It was a stage, and he was its director.
Maester Gerold hurried to his side, his face flushed. "My lord, the first of the lords' retinues have been spotted on the road. Lord Damon Marbrand has just entered the gates. Lord Crakehall's banner is less than a league away."
Aaryan nodded, his gaze fixed on the great, empty chair at the high table—a chair that had once been his grandfather's.
For two months, he had worked in the quiet and the dark, gathering his knowledge, forging his weapons, setting the board. Now, the pieces were arriving. He could feel the first, faint tremors of their greed, their fear, their ambition. They were coming to test him, to measure him. They thought they were wolves, come to see if the new lion had any teeth.
He smiled, a cold, thin line in the candlelight.
Let them come, he thought. The Rock has been silent for too long. It is hungry for the sound of roars again.