The morning of his departure from Casterly Rock was clear and cold. Aaryan stood on the battlements, the sea wind sharp against his face, with the man he was leaving in charge of his fortress.
"The Warden's Men are yours to command for the defense of the West," Aaryan told Lord Damon Marbrand, his voice crisp. "Use them to finish clearing the roads and to hunt down the last of the Ironborn reavers on the coast. Show the people that the lion's protection is a real and terrible thing."
"And the Great Ledger?" Marbrand asked, his eyes full of a wisdom that Aaryan knew he could not afford to dismiss.
"Maester Gerold will continue his work. His reports, and those from the Lion's Bank, are to be sent directly to me in King's Landing. You are the sword of the West, my lord. I shall remain its mind." He placed a hand briefly on the older man's shoulder. "Govern well, Damon. Rule with the honor for which your house is known. But do not forget that a velvet glove should always hide an iron fist."
With that, he left. He took no grand army, no massive retinue. His party consisted of ten of his best men, including the ever-silent Kaelen, all dressed in the same practical black leather as before. They rode not under a great banner, but as a small, lethal unit. He had already demonstrated his power; now, he would demonstrate his efficiency.
The journey back east was a revelation. The roads that had been haunted by fear and neglect on his first trip were now safer. At the very crossing where he had slaughtered the Stokeworth men, a new, sturdy wooden bridge had been built, and a pair of his own Warden's Men stood guard, ensuring merchants passed without harassment. He saw the tangible results of his will impressed upon the land, and it was satisfying. He had turned the Westerlands from a crumbling ruin into his personal sword and shield. Now, he was returning to the battlefield.
His arrival at King's Landing was markedly different from his first. There was no quiet disembarking at the docks. A league from the city gates, they were met by a delegation flying the Targaryen three-headed dragon, the sigil of the new monarchy. Ser Podrick Payne of the Kingsguard, looking more comfortable in his white cloak than he had a few months prior, greeted him with a formal bow.
"Lord Aaryan," Ser Podrick said. "Welcome. The Hand of the King has prepared quarters for you in the Red Keep."
As they rode through the city, Aaryan noted the changes. The rebuilding was more organized, the presence of Stark and Tully guards replaced by men wearing the crowned stag of the new royal house. But the faces of the people were the same: tired, thin, and wary. His cousin was patching the walls of the city, but its soul was still bleeding.
He was led directly to the Small Council chamber. The afternoon session was about to begin. As he entered, the conversation stopped. He saw the same faces as before—Brienne, Davos, Samwell—but this time, he was not an observer. He was one of them. Tyrion sat at the head of the table, looking strained. And at the far end, in a specially-made rolling chair, was the King.
Brandon Stark was an unnerving presence. He was young, but his eyes held an ancient, chilling emptiness, like two dark pools of still water. He did not look at Aaryan so much as through him. Aaryan gave a respectful bow.
"Lord Aaryan," Tyrion said, forcing a welcoming tone. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. We are grateful for your service. Please, take your seat."
Aaryan took the chair recently vacated by Bronn, the seat of the Master of Coin.
"The ledgers, my lord," said Grand Maester Samwell, pushing a stack of heavy, leather-bound books towards him.
Tyrion cleared his throat. "As you will soon see, the Crown's finances are… precarious. The wars were costly, and our debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos is staggering."
Ser Davos nodded grimly. "We need to raise taxes. It's the only way. The people won't like it, but they'll understand it's for the good of the realm."
Aaryan listened, a faint, dismissive smile on his lips. He opened the top ledger, his eyes scanning the columns of figures with incredible speed. His mind absorbed the catastrophic numbers, the crippling interest payments, the pathetic streams of revenue.
"You cannot tax a corpse, Lord Seaworth," Aaryan said coolly, looking up from the book. The council fell silent, turning to him. "To raise taxes now would be to demand blood from a man who is already bled out. It is poor business. It will only lead to unrest and rebellion, and then you will have neither taxes nor peace."
"Then what do you propose, my lord?" Brienne asked, her tone stiff and challenging.
"An accounting," Aaryan replied. "Just as I have begun in the West. I will conduct a full audit of every asset, every tax farm, every customs house, and every contract held by the Crown. We are bleeding gold from a thousand small cuts, from inefficiency and corruption. We will seal those cuts before we demand more from the people."
He then turned a page in the ledger. "For instance, I see here the royal charter for the Guild of Fishmongers in King's Landing is over a century old. Their tax rate is based on the fleet size of Aegon the Third's reign. I would wager the fleet is significantly larger now. We will renegotiate every charter, starting tomorrow. We will not raise taxes. We will simply collect what we are already owed. Diligently."
The suggestion was brilliant, practical, and utterly unassailable. Davos and Brienne could not argue against fairness. Tyrion looked impressed, and slightly unnerved, at the speed with which Aaryan had not only grasped the problem but also offered a viable, politically savvy solution.
The meeting concluded shortly after, Aaryan having firmly established his competence. As the others filed out, he remained for a moment, looking at the ledgers.
"Aaryan."
The voice was flat, distant. He turned. King Bran had not left with the others. He sat in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on him.
"Your Grace," Aaryan said with a slight bow.
"You read books very quickly," Bran stated. It was not a question. "And you see the patterns others miss."
Aaryan's smile remained, but a cold watchfulness entered his eyes. "I have always had a mind for numbers, Your Grace."
"Yes," Bran said, his gaze drifting towards the window. "The things one can find in old books are so interesting. Debts and harvests. Promises and poisons. A lion went west to a silent mountain. The mountain is roaring again. It is a new sound."
The King's head turned, and for a fleeting second, his dark, empty eyes seemed to focus, to pierce through Aaryan's carefully constructed facade, seeing the cold, calculating machine within.
"Welcome to the Small Council, Lord Aaryan," Bran said. The moment passed. His eyes became distant pools once more. Ser Podrick appeared and began to wheel him from the room.
Aaryan stood perfectly still, his heart beating a steady, calm rhythm. Outwardly, he was unruffed. But inwardly, his mind was racing. The King's words were not a random, cryptic utterance. They were a message. I see you.
He had come to King's Landing believing the game was between him, his cousin, and the sentimental fools on the council. He realized now that he had overlooked a piece on the board. A piece that did not move according to any known rules.
The broken boy in the chair was not a puppet king. He was something else entirely. And for the first time since returning to Westeros, Aaryan Lannister felt the unfamiliar chill of a truly unknown variable.