The Great Council of Casterly Rock concluded not with a grand feast, but with the quiet, determined departure of the lords the following morning. They had arrived as a fractured collection of individual ambitions. They left as something else, something new, bound by a compact of fear and avarice. Aaryan watched them go from a high balcony, a master craftsman observing the first movements of a complex machine he had just assembled.
Only one lord remained. Damon Marbrand had requested a private audience, and Aaryan had granted it. They met in the Stone Garden, a quiet, windswept place where ancient, gnarled trees grew amidst carved stone lions.
"My lord," Marbrand began, his voice as steady as the rock beneath their feet. "You have won the day. My father served your grandfather. I will serve you. But I would offer a word of counsel, if I may."
Aaryan turned from his observation of a moss-covered lion. "I value wisdom, Lord Marbrand. Speak freely."
"Your grandfather ruled the West with an iron fist. He was feared, and in that fear, there was a brutal sort of order. Your own father, Lord Tytos, was loved, and in that love, there was chaos," Marbrand said, his eyes meeting Aaryan's. "You, my lord, seem to possess the capacity for both fear and a certain kind of charm. Be careful which one you favor. A beast that is only feared will one day be hunted. A beast that is only loved will be turned into a pet."
Aaryan considered the old lord. Marbrand was not a sycophant or a fool. He was a man of honor, a relic of an older time, and for that, he was both valuable and dangerous.
"I have no intention of being a pet, my lord," Aaryan said, his voice devoid of its usual mockery. He was showing the man a sliver of genuine respect. "And as for being hunted… a lion is never more dangerous than when it is cornered. Thank you for your counsel. I will not forget it."
Lord Marbrand nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. He would be Aaryan's loyal vassal, but he would also be his conscience, a fixed point of honor in a world Aaryan intended to bend to his will.
In the weeks that followed, the Warden's Compact began to snake its tendrils into every corner of the Westerlands. Maesters from the Rock, armed with Aaryan's authority, arrived in the keeps of his vassals. They were polite, deferential, but their work was relentless as they copied ledgers and took stock of every asset. The lords, remembering the look on Lord Westerling's face, complied. The Tithe of Truth was paid, and the Great Ledger in the library of Casterly Rock grew thicker by the day.
Meanwhile, the Warden's Men made their presence known. Kaelen led them with brutal efficiency. They descended on a bandit camp in the hills near the Golden Tooth and slaughtered every man, hanging the leader's corpse from the gates of a nearby town. They established patrols along the coast, and suddenly, smuggling operations that had flourished for years dried up overnight. Trade caravans began to move more freely, and for the first time in years, the smallfolk began to feel that the roads belonged to them again. The name Aaryan Lannister was spoken with a new kind of reverence in the taverns and marketplaces. He was bringing order. He was making them safe.
Aaryan spent his days overseeing the vast logistical operation, his nights absorbing the data that flowed into his library. He was learning the true anatomy of his kingdom: its arteries of trade, its bones of ore, its secret, festering wounds of debt and deceit. He was becoming the undisputed master of his domain.
And then, a raven came from King's Landing.
It arrived on a grey, drizzly afternoon, a black speck against a colorless sky. Maester Gerold brought the scroll to the solar, his hands trembling slightly as he broke the seal of the Hand of the King.
Aaryan took the parchment and read. A slow, cold smile spread across his face.
"What is it, my lord?" Gerold asked, his voice thin with anxiety.
"An invitation," Aaryan said, his eyes scanning the familiar, spidery script of his cousin Tyrion. "It seems Lord Bronn of the Blackwater has been… overzealous in his duties as Master of Coin. His methods of tax collection have offended the delicate sensibilities of the other great lords. He is to be retired from the Small Council."
He let the parchment rest on the desk. "King Brandon, in his infinite wisdom, has decided the realm requires a steady hand on its purse strings. My cousin, the Hand, has graciously put my name forward for the position."
Maester Gerold looked horrified. "You cannot go! My lord, your work here has just begun. To leave now would be to abandon it all. They mean to trap you, to put you under their thumb in the capital!"
The old maester's fears were logical. To leave the Westerlands now was to risk everything he had just built. He would be trading the absolute authority he held here for a single seat at a council of his rivals.
Aaryan walked to the great map on the wall. He placed a hand on the coastline of the Westerlands, his domain, his fortress. Then his fingers traced the road east, all the way to the black circle that marked King's Landing.
Gerold saw it as a choice between two worlds. Aaryan saw only the next step.
"My cousin is a clever man," Aaryan mused, his voice soft. "He sees the waves I am making here and thinks to contain me. He wants to put me on his council where he can watch me. He thinks he is putting a leash on a troublesome dog."
He turned from the map, and the look in his eyes was one of pure, predatory exhilaration. The old maester flinched. The Warden's Compact, the Tithe of Truth, the Lion's Bank—Gerold had thought these were the tools for rebuilding the West. He saw now, with chilling certainty, that they were only practice. The Westerlands was not the great project; it was merely the forge where the weapons were being made.
"My cousin thinks he is locking me in the kennel," Aaryan said, picking up the raven's scroll and crushing it slightly in his fist. "He does not realize he is handing me the keys to the entire castle."
He looked at the stunned maester, his smile widening.
"Gerold," he commanded, his voice ringing with a newfound authority that seemed to fill the entire room. "Pack my finest clothes. Send a raven to my cousin Tyrion and inform him that I accept the King's offer with the utmost gratitude."
"And summon Lord Marbrand. He will govern the West in my stead. Tell him the Warden is going to King's Landing to ensure the lions get their proper share."