The lords of the West came to Casterly Rock like wary dogs approaching a new master, each one bristling with their own pride and suspicion. They gathered in the Lion's Mouth, a hall so vast it could have swallowed their entire retinues without a trace. The sheer, calculated spectacle of the place—the thousand burning candles, the unnervingly silent honor guard in their new black leather, the impossibly bright Lannister banners—did its work. The air was thick with tension and the ghosts of old power.
Lord Damon Marbrand was the image of Westerlands nobility: grey at the temples, his face a roadmap of honor and duty, his eyes cautious and intelligent. He nodded respectfully to Aaryan's empty chair. Lord Stafford Crakehall, by contrast, strode into the hall flanked by his two hulking sons, his booming voice echoing off the stone as he greeted other lords, a blatant performance of his own importance. Lord Westerling, a man with the nervous disposition of a mouse, scurried to a seat and spoke to no one.
They took their places at the great table of polished oak, a sea of boars, badgers, and burning trees. They waited. Aaryan made them wait just long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable.
He did not enter with a herald or a procession. He simply emerged from a shadow-draped doorway behind the high table, his steps silent. He wore no crown, no finery, only a tailored doublet of black wool with a simple golden lion embroidered over the heart. His presence was a quiet weight that immediately drew all eyes and silenced the last of the murmurs. He took his seat at the head of the table, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over them all, each lord feeling personally assessed and found wanting in that single, silent moment.
"My lords," Aaryan began, his voice not loud, but carrying to every corner of the hall. "I thank you for coming. You honor me, and you honor this house."
He paused, letting them absorb the unexpected humility. "For a generation, the strength of the West has been spent elsewhere. We sent our sons to fight in the Riverlands. We sent our gold to prop up a throne in King's Landing. We bled for the ambitions of others, while our own home, our own lands, have been left to wither. The realm called, and the West answered. Now, it is time to tend to our own wounds."
The sentiment resonated around the table. He saw heads nodding. He was not blaming them; he was uniting them in a shared grievance. He had made himself one of them.
"You have come here today expecting me to make demands of you," he continued. "To levy taxes to refill these empty coffers. To call for oaths to secure my own position. I will do neither."
A wave of shock rippled through the hall. Lord Crakehall's bushy eyebrows shot up.
"I cannot restore the West with your gold or your swords. Not yet. First, we must restore the foundation. Therefore, I propose a compact. A new way forward for all of our houses, together." He laid out his plan, his voice calm and deliberate, each proposal a carefully crafted lure.
"First, for a period of one year, all traditional tithes of gold and grain to Casterly Rock are hereby suspended." The shock turned to disbelief. He saw Crakehall exchange a stunned look with his son.
"In its place, I ask for a Tithe of Truth. I am dispatching maesters and scribes, who will work with your own to create a full and honest accounting of every mine, every field, every port, and every village in our lands. We cannot rebuild our house until we know which rooms are sound and which are rotten. This Great Ledger will be the foundation of our restoration."
He didn't give them time to debate it before moving to the next point. "Second, once this accounting is complete, Casterly Rock will found the Lion's Bank. Using our combined knowledge, we will offer zero-interest loans to any lord who wishes to undertake a project of value—to reopen a flooded mine, to build a new cog for trade, to expand a vineyard. We will invest in ourselves. The prosperity of House Marbrand is the prosperity of the West."
He could see the greed glittering in their eyes now. It was a potent, irresistible bait.
"Finally," he said, his gaze sweeping the room, "all this new prosperity will attract predators. The Ironborn are quiet for now, but for how long? Bandits still plague our roads. Therefore, I am forming the Warden's Men. A small, elite force, funded by me, commanded by me. Their sole purpose will be to patrol the King's Road, guard our coast, and ensure that a bale of wool from the Golden Tooth can reach the docks of Lannisport unmolested. They will be the shield for our new prosperity."
He finished, and the silence that followed was heavy with calculation. It was an offer no sane man could refuse, yet it felt like a trap.
It was Stafford Crakehall who finally rose to his feet, his great bulk casting a long shadow. "A fine speech, Lord Warden," he boomed, his voice dripping with false congeniality. "No taxes. Free money. A private army. It is a generous offer. So generous, in fact, that a man must ask… what's the catch?"
The question hung in the air. The lords all leaned forward. This was the heart of it.
Aaryan did not look at Crakehall. Instead, his gaze drifted down the table and settled on the pale, sweating face of Lord Westerling.
"Lord Westerling," Aaryan said, his tone light and conversational. "A question for you. Your lands at the Crag are beautiful, are they not? A fine position, overlooking the sea. Well-situated to receive trade ships sailing north from the Summer Isles, I imagine?"
Lord Westerling's blood drained from his face. He stammered, "I… yes, my lord. We have a modest port."
Aaryan's smile was razor-thin. He did not press the point. He had made it. He turned his devastatingly bright eyes back to Stafford Crakehall.
"You ask what I get from this, Lord Crakehall," he said, his voice dropping, becoming a cold, sharp instrument. "I get a Westerlands that is strong. A Westerlands where every lord is so prosperous that he has no need for… unconventional shipping manifests. A land where our trade flows so freely and our defenses are so secure that our wealth becomes a weapon. I get a West so unified and powerful that no one—not the up-jumped lords in King's Landing, not the Queen in the North, not even the Iron Bank of Braavos—would dare to interfere in our affairs."
He leaned forward, his voice a low, intense whisper that every man in the hall could hear. "I get a fortress. And all of you are its walls. The only catch, my lord, is that you must decide if you wish to be a part of that fortress… or if you are content to remain a crumbling stone, waiting for the tide to wash you away."
The veiled threat, so perfectly delivered, sucked the air from the room. He had shown them the carrot, and then he had shown them the stick, all without raising his voice. He knew their secrets. That was the message.
The silence was broken by the scrape of a chair. Lord Damon Marbrand rose slowly to his feet. He was the moral center of the room, the voice of the old way. He studied Aaryan for a long moment, his gaze weighing the immense promise against the terrifying ambition.
"The West has been without a leader for too long," Lord Marbrand declared, his voice firm and clear. "We have been a body without a head. Your methods may be new, Lord Warden, but your vision is sound. House Marbrand accepts the Warden's Compact."
That was it. The dam had broken. With the respected Lord Marbrand on board, the others scrambled to follow. One by one, they stood. The Leffords. The Swyfts. Even a humbled, shaken Lord Westerling.
Finally, Stafford Crakehall, seeing he was utterly outmaneuvered, gave a stiff nod. "House Crakehall accepts."
Aaryan watched them, his face an unreadable mask. They came to his home to measure him, to see if he was a worthy successor to the lions of old. They were leaving as the first willing cogs in his grand machine, their ambitions and fears now leashed to his own.
The council was over. The first battle was won.