The candle flame swayed in the silent office, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. Aaryan held the coded message from Rennifer, the parchment cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the information it contained. Dorne was arming itself. Treason, plain and simple.
His mind, a machine of cold logic, processed the strategic implications in seconds. He could take this information to the Small Council. It would make him a hero, the man who uncovered a plot against the Six Kingdoms. It would also be a catastrophic mistake. His proof was the word of a spy, easily denied by a Prince. Revealing the plot now would shatter the realm's fragile peace, plunging them into a new war they could not afford, all while exposing his own intelligence network.
To reveal a secret is to spend its power. To hold it is to wield it.
He walked to his desk, took up a fresh quill, and penned a raven's note. It was not addressed to Tyrion, but to Lord Westerling at the Crag. He did not write of treason or smuggling, of poisons or scorpions. He wrote as the Master of Coin, his tone one of mild, bureaucratic concern.
My Lord Westerling,
In the course of my audit of the Crown's revenues, certain… irregularities… have come to my attention regarding the shipping manifests from your port. I trust this is a simple clerical error, a remnant of the chaos of the post-war transition. To avoid any further confusion, I will be sending one of my own agents to serve as the Crown's official Customs Officer at the Crag to assist you in sorting out your bookkeeping. His name is Rennifer. He is a man of remarkable diligence. Please afford him every courtesy and the full authority of his office.
In service,
Aaryan Lannister, Master of Coin
He sealed the letter with the Crown's wax. It was a checkmate delivered with a smile. Westerling would understand the unspoken message perfectly. He was caught. By installing Rennifer—the very spy who had uncovered the plot—as the man in charge of the port, Aaryan was not just stopping the flow of weapons. He was seizing control of the entire operation. He now owned the supply line to the Dornish conspiracy.
The next morning, Aaryan began the second phase of his plan. His five men in King's Landing were not enough. He needed a web, and he would weave it with the resources of his new office. He walked through the warren of administrative tunnels beneath the Red Keep, places where the real work of the realm was done by a thousand nameless clerks.
He found his first recruit in the Office of Measures and Weights. The man's name was Symon, a clerk in his forties with ink-stained fingers and intelligent, resentful eyes. Aaryan had seen his work in the ledgers—it was meticulous, perfect—and he had seen his name repeatedly passed over for promotion in favor of the sons and nephews of minor lords.
Aaryan stopped at his desk. "Symon," he said, his voice quiet.
The clerk looked up, startled. "My lord?"
"I have read your reports. Your analysis of the grain tariffs from three years ago was insightful. You were right. The Crown lost a fortune."
Symon stared, speechless. No one had ever noticed his work before.
"I am creating a new position in my office," Aaryan continued. "Chief Auditor. The post comes with a significant raise in stipend and quarters in the Red Keep. It is yours, if you want it."
Tears welled in the man's eyes. "My lord… I… of course. I accept."
"Good," Aaryan said. "Your duties will be as stated. However, you will also provide me with private reports. I want to know who is living beyond their means, who is taking bribes, who is whispering secrets in the corridors. You have been invisible in this castle for twenty years, Symon. I want you to remain so. But now, you will be my eyes and ears."
Symon nodded, a fierce, burning loyalty igniting in his chest. Aaryan had not bought him with gold. He had bought him with recognition, with purpose. It was a bond that no other lord could ever hope to break. This was how he would build his network. Not with a bag of coins, but with a quiet word and a key to a locked door.
He attended the Small Council meeting that afternoon feeling as though he was moving in a different reality from the others. They were debating a petition from the Prince of Dorne, a complaint about Ironborn pirates disrupting trade routes to the Sunspear.
"We must send ships," Davos argued passionately. "We have a duty to protect all the kingdoms of the realm."
"We have three seaworthy ships in the royal fleet," Tyrion countered wearily. "Sending them to Dorne would leave King's Landing defenseless."
Aaryan listened to them bicker, the irony a fine wine on his tongue. They were debating how to protect Dorne from a few pirates, while the Prince of Dorne was secretly amassing an arsenal to threaten them all.
"The Prince of Dorne seems quite ambitious for a man so new to his title," Aaryan commented idly, watching their faces. "We should be sure to cultivate his friendship."
No one reacted. The comment passed without notice. They were blind, all of them, playing with painted shields on a map while real swords were being sharpened in the shadows.
That night, Kaelen appeared in his chambers. His most trusted man had been given a single, vital task since their arrival: to observe the King.
"He spends four hours every day in the godswood," Kaelen reported, his voice a low murmur. "By the weirwood. He does not move. He does not speak. But people come to him."
"What people?" Aaryan asked.
"Never lords. Commoners. A stonemason. A serving girl. A child. They sit with him. Then they leave." Kaelen paused, his scarred face troubled. "Something strange happened yesterday, my lord. I followed a girl who sat with him, a baker's daughter. When she returned to her father's shop, a Gold Cloak captain came to shake them down for money. The girl… she told him he shouldn't be there. She said, 'The northern gargoyle on the old sept will fall in an hour. Your wife is shopping for lace nearby.'"
Aaryan straightened, his full attention fixed on Kaelen.
"The captain laughed at her and went to the market. I was curious. I went to the ruins of the Great Sept," Kaelen continued. "An hour later, a piece of the roof—a stone gargoyle—broke free and crashed to the ground. It landed on the exact spot where the Gold Cloak's wife was haggling with a lace merchant."
The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire.
Aaryan processed the information, a chill creeping up his spine that had nothing to do with the night air. The King was not just a passive observer. He was an active player. He was feeding scraps of his perfect knowledge to the common folk, turning them into his unwitting agents, his prophets. He was subtly, invisibly shaping the world around him with whispers and warnings.
Aaryan had been building his network of spies and informants, a web of human intelligence bound by greed and ambition. But the King… the King was building a network of oracles, bound by something far stranger. It was a power Aaryan could not counter, could not calculate.
He had entered a war of secrets, believing his was the sharpest mind on the field. He now understood he was facing an opponent who did not need to think, but simply… knew. The game was infinitely more dangerous than he had ever imagined.