A week after his unsettling discovery about the King, Aaryan decided it was time to probe the abyss. To fight an enemy, you must first understand the shape of his sword.
He sat in his now impeccably organized office, the scent of old parchment replaced by beeswax and fresh ink. His chief auditor, Symon, stood before him, looking like a new man in his fine but simple robes.
"Symon," Aaryan said, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, though they were quite alone. "I have received a troubling, anonymous report. It suggests deep-seated corruption within the administration of Claw Isle. Embezzlement from the royal tariffs."
Symon's eyes widened. "House Celtigar? They have always been loyal to the crown, my lord. Their payments are prompt."
"Precisely why the corruption would be so well-hidden," Aaryan lied smoothly. "I want you to begin a preliminary file. We will speak of it loudly at the end of the day, here, in this office. Mention specific shipments of timber and salted cod. We will let it be known that I intend to personally lead the investigation."
"Yes, my lord," Symon said, though a flicker of confusion crossed his face. It was the first time his lord's command had felt… theatrical.
Aaryan was planting a seed of pure fiction. A lie, carefully crafted and spoken with intent within the stone walls of the Red Keep. He wanted to see if the King's all-seeing eye was drawn to the whispers of men, or only to the cold, hard facts of their deeds. It was a baited hook, cast into a dark, silent pool.
While he waited for a ripple, Aaryan immersed himself in his work. He was no longer just the Master of Coin; he was becoming the economic heart of the city. His office was now a court in its own right. Merchants, guildmasters, and even minor lords came to him to plead their cases regarding the new, rigorously enforced tariffs and charters.
Today it was Lord Hayford, a landed knight whose family was dangerously close to insolvency.
"My lord, this new tax on wool futures… it will bankrupt me!" he pleaded, his face slick with sweat.
Aaryan didn't look at the man, but at the ledger Symon had prepared. "Lord Hayford," he said calmly. "My records show that for the past five years, you have sold your wool exclusively to a merchant from Tyrosh, at a price twenty percent below market value. This same merchant also happens to be the primary investor in your nephew's disastrous shipping venture. You are not a poor businessman. You are using your house's assets to cover your family's mistakes. That is your right."
He finally looked up, his blue eyes locking onto the terrified lord. "But you will not do it at the Crown's expense. You will pay the proper tax, or I will grant the shearing rights on your lands to Lord Rosby. The choice is yours."
Lord Hayford paled and bowed, his resistance utterly broken. Aaryan had not raised his voice. He had simply used the truth as a weapon. This was becoming his reputation: a man of unnerving fairness, whose justice was as inescapable as it was logical.
That afternoon, at the Small Council meeting, Aaryan watched the King. The session was a dull affair concerning a border dispute between two houses in the Vale. Through it all, Bran remained silent, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the walls of the room. Aaryan found an opportunity to mention Lord Celtigar in passing, a casual remark about coastal trade. The King did not stir. There was no flicker of recognition, no cryptic utterance. The test, it seemed, was inconclusive.
But someone else was watching him.
After the meeting, as Aaryan was leaving the chamber, Tyrion fell into step beside him.
"You seem fascinated by His Grace," the Hand said, his voice casual, but his eyes were sharp with inquiry.
"He is the King," Aaryan replied with a charming smile. "It is my duty to be fascinated."
"He is not like other men," Tyrion warned, his voice low. "He is… something else. We do not command him. We merely advise and enact his will when he chooses to share it. He is a force of nature, Aaryan. It is best to simply… let him be."
"A wise policy, cousin," Aaryan said, his expression unreadable. He saw Tyrion's suspicion, the glint of the old player who recognized a new piece moving in an unexpected way. The webs in this city were more complex than he had imagined.
He returned to his office that night, a frustrating sense of uncertainty gnawing at him. His probe of the King had yielded nothing. Kaelen stood guard by the door, a silent shadow. Symon was waiting for him inside, a fresh stack of reports on his desk.
"Anything of note?" Aaryan asked, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"The usual, my lord. Petitions, customs reports…" Symon hesitated. "There was one royal decree issued this afternoon. It seemed… trivial."
Aaryan paused. "Oh?"
"His Grace granted a small, unclaimed plot of land in the northern Riverlands to a family of goat-herders. The Stryns." Symon, ever the diligent archivist, pushed a piece of parchment forward. "I took the liberty of looking into the name. It is an old one in that region. Obscure."
Aaryan picked up the paper. He read the decree. A minor land grant. Utterly insignificant. But his mind was already working, sifting through the archives of knowledge he had absorbed from the Casterly Rock library. House Stryne. House Celtigar. The Riverlands. The Dance of the Dragons.
The pieces clicked into place with the force of a physical blow.
"Gods," he whispered.
House Stryne had been wiped out during the civil war nearly two hundred years ago. Their lands, including the very plot just granted, had been seized by their opportunistic neighbors who had sided with the Greens. Those neighbors were the ancestors of the current House Celtigar.
The King had heard him.
He hadn't reacted to the lie Aaryan had told. He had dismissed it as irrelevant. Instead, he had taken the name Aaryan had spoken—Celtigar—and reached back two centuries into the deep, dark well of the past. He had found a genuine, ancient injustice connected to that name and enacted a quiet, symbolic, and utterly untraceable form of retribution. He hadn't just ignored the bait; he had sent a message back on the line.
Aaryan sank into his chair, the wine forgotten. The King wasn't just watching the present. He was the judge of all history. He wasn't playing the game of thrones; he was playing the game of ages, a game whose rules were written in blood and time.
The message was terrifyingly clear. I don't care about your clever little lies, but I hear your whispers. And I am the ultimate arbiter of every debt, every crime, and every betrayal this world has ever known.
Aaryan had tried to probe an enemy. He had discovered, instead, that he was little more than a child tapping on the glass of an aquarium, trying to startle a creature from the benthic depths of time itself.
A direct confrontation was impossible. He was facing not a king, but a god. And he would have to find another way.