In the month that followed Aaryan's audience in the godswood, King's Landing began to stir from its long, feverish sleep. The change was not in the grand pronouncements of the Small Council, but in the ringing of hammers on the Street of Steel and the clatter of looms in the weavers' district.
The Bank of the Rock opened its doors in a repurposed armory, its guards not Gold Cloaks, but Aaryan's own disciplined men in their stark black leather. It did not look like a bank; it looked like a fortress promising security in a city that had forgotten the meaning of the word. A master blacksmith, whose forge had been cold since the city's sacking, walked out with a loan for a shipment of charcoal and iron. A guild of carpenters received the capital to hire fifty new apprentices to help rebuild the shattered tenements.
Aaryan was not merely lending money; he was injecting confidence, the rarest of all commodities, directly into the city's heart. He was becoming a popular figure, not among the lords, but among the people who truly mattered: the craftsmen, the merchants, the guilds. He was forging a power base built on the unshakeable foundation of their prosperity.
His success did not go unnoticed. Tyrion summoned him for a private dinner in the Tower of the Hand. The wine was a vintage Arbor gold, and the food was exquisite. It was a charming affair, which meant it was an interrogation.
"The city hasn't seen this much new construction since before the war," Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his goblet. His mismatched eyes were sharp over the rim. "You're a miracle worker, cousin."
"I'm simply a banker, cousin," Aaryan replied, his smile easy. "I find opportunities where others see only ruin."
"And you find power," Tyrion countered, his voice losing its lightheartedness. "Power in this city is a tide. When it comes in for one man, it goes out for another. The lords of the court, the old money families… they are beginning to whisper. They see a Lannister controlling the Crown's coin and now the city's private debt. It makes them nervous." He leaned forward. "What is it you truly want, Aaryan?"
"I want what we all want," Aaryan said, his voice smooth as silk. "A realm that functions. A city that doesn't starve. And a family name that is no longer a synonym for tyranny and ruin." He raised his glass in a toast. "To a functioning realm."
Tyrion drank, but his eyes were filled with a deep, frustrated suspicion. He knew there was more to the game, but he could not see the board clearly enough to challenge his cousin's flawless moves.
While Aaryan played his public game, his secret one continued to unfold. A raven arrived from the Westerlands, Kaelen's latest report on the Dornish agent. The spy, a man named Vorian Sand, had been attempting to build a new network to acquire weapons. He had found a potential partner in Lannisport's underworld: a shadowy figure known only as "the Weaver," who controlled a web of informants among the sailors and dockworkers.
Aaryan sent his reply immediately. "Do not touch the Weaver. I want his entire network mapped. Every informant, every smuggler's cove, every whispered secret. When the time comes, we will not simply remove him. We will become him."
He knew he was being watched, not just by Tyrion, but by the silent King in his tower. He needed to make his public actions so unimpeachable that his hidden ones became irrelevant. The perfect opportunity arose at the next Small Council meeting.
Ser Davos, his honest face etched with worry, brought up the plight of the city's orphans. "The orphanages are overflowing," he said, his voice heavy. "They are breeding grounds for sickness and despair. The Crown must do more."
While the council debated the cost of new buildings and the sourcing of grain, Aaryan waited. When they had exhausted themselves, he spoke.
"This is not a burden," he said, his voice cutting through their tired arguments. "It is an opportunity." He looked at each of them in turn. "The Bank of the Rock will fund the complete refurbishment of every orphanage in King's Landing. We will provide new kitchens, clean water, and maesters to teach the children to read and write."
He wasn't finished. "Furthermore, my bank will fund a new apprenticeship program. Every child, upon reaching the age of ten, will be placed with a guild—the weavers, the blacksmiths, the carpenters—that my bank is also funding. We will turn a generation of orphans from beggars into the master craftsmen who will rebuild this city."
The room was stunned into silence. Davos stared at him, his mouth agape, his eyes shining with unshed tears of gratitude. He had seen Aaryan as a cold calculator, but this… this was an act of profound, visionary compassion. Tyrion simply closed his eyes, a flicker of pained understanding on his face. He saw the political genius of the move, a masterstroke of public relations that he was utterly powerless to oppose.
Aaryan glanced towards the end of the table. King Bran's expression was, as always, a distant calm. But Aaryan felt a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere. He was acting in the undeniable, long-term interest of the realm. He was nurturing the roots of the city, not just its branches. He was making himself untouchable.
Later that evening, he stood in his solar, looking over two documents that represented the two halves of his new reality. One was a report from his chief auditor, Symon, detailing the first wave of profits from the guilds he had funded, and the corresponding, shocking increase in the Crown's tax revenues. His economic engine was roaring to life. The other was Kaelen's latest message, a complex diagram of the Weaver's spy network in Lannisport. The web was almost fully mapped.
He was mastering the flow of both coin and whispers. Power, he mused, was simply the control of those two great rivers.
Then, another raven arrived. The seal was the direwolf of Winterfell, but the wax was the black of the Night's Watch. No, not the Night's Watch. The seal was Damon Marbrand's. Urgent.
He broke it, his composure hardening as he read.
My Lord Warden,
A ship flying the Greyjoy kraken has been sighted off the coast near the Crag. It did not raid. It appeared to make a rendezvous in a hidden cove before sailing north. Lord Westerling's port is secure under your man's watch, but the Ironborn are probing our shores again. Yara Greyjoy is the Queen of the Iron Islands, a friend to the Starks, and yet her ships are meeting in secret on our coast. The game is expanding.
Aaryan placed the parchment down. The Dornish in the south, the Ironborn in the west. His cousin's suspicions in the capital, and a god-king watching over it all. He had thought he was playing on a single board. He now saw it was a far larger map, and new players were making their first moves.