The knowledge of the Greyjoy rendezvous sat in Aaryan's mind like a shard of ice. It was a piece that did not fit the puzzle he was assembling. Dorne arming itself was a logical, if treasonous, political move. But Yara Greyjoy, the staunch ally of the Starks, making secret contact on his shores? It suggested a different game entirely, one whose rules he did not yet understand.
Were the plots connected? Was some third party orchestrating a multi-pronged attack on the Six Kingdoms? Or was this simply the natural state of the world: a dozen different predators circling a wounded beast, each with their own agenda? He needed more information. The time for passive observation was over.
He sent two ravens from the rookery before the sun had fully risen.
The first flew west, to Kaelen in Lannisport. "The Weaver's web is no longer secondary. It is your absolute priority. I want it dismantled or absorbed within the fortnight. Your new target is the Ironborn. I want the name of that ship, its captain, and its purpose in that cove. Use the Weaver's own informants. Offer them gold. Offer them fear. I do not care which. Turn his web against him and get me the truth."
The second flew to Rennifer at the Crag. "Redouble your watch upon the coast. The Ironborn are now as much a concern as the Dornish. I want a log of every sail that passes, from a trading cog to a fishing skiff. Report any and all unauthorized contact immediately. You are no longer just a customs officer. You are the Warden's Eye upon the sea."
With his assets in the West mobilized, Aaryan turned his attention back to the capital. To counter threats of this magnitude, he needed more than just economic influence; he needed direct control over the city's instruments of power. He found his target in the festering corruption of the City Watch.
At the next Small Council meeting, after the usual litany of minor disputes and petitions, Aaryan spoke.
"My lords," he said, drawing their attention. "My auditors have completed their review of the City Watch's finances. To call them a mess would be a kindness. The quartermasters are stealing half the provisions, captains are taking bribes to ignore smuggling on the river, and the average guardsman is paid so poorly he must resort to extortion to feed his family. The Gold Cloaks are not a shield for this city. They are a parasite."
Ser Davos nodded grimly. "It's been that way for years. We lack the funds to properly reform them."
"On the contrary," Aaryan replied smoothly. "Thanks to the increased revenues from the new charters and the loans from my bank, we now have a surplus. I propose we use it."
He laid out his plan. A fifty percent pay raise for every guardsman, a new, centrally-managed quartermaster's office under the direct oversight of the Master of Coin, and the formation of a new, elite branch of fifty men.
"We will call them the City Guard Investigators," he explained. "Men chosen for their sharp minds, not their brute strength. They will handle complex crimes: conspiracy, organized smuggling, and corruption within our own ranks. They will be the city's scalpel."
"A fine proposal, Lord Aaryan," Brienne said, her voice filled with a rare, genuine enthusiasm. "A professional, honorable watch is something my Lord Commander Renly always dreamed of."
"A noble dream, indeed," Tyrion cut in, his eyes narrowed, fixed on his cousin. He had been silent until now, watching. "But who is to command this new branch? Surely the Commander of the City Watch himself."
"The Commander will have operational command, of course," Aaryan said, his tone reasonable. "But to ensure there is no misuse of funds and that this new branch does not immediately fall to the same corruption as the old, I propose that its budget, supplies, and oversight be managed by the Office of the Master of Coin."
There it was. The power grab, laid bare on the council table.
Tyrion's expression soured. "You overreach, cousin. Your role is finances, not justice. We cannot have one man controlling the city's purse strings and its watchmen. It is the very definition of tyranny."
"I am not talking of justice, Lord Hand. I am talking of accounting," Aaryan countered, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. "The corruption is a financial problem that bleeds the city dry. My proposal is an economic solution. The Commander of the Watch will still command his men. But those men will be paid on time, they will have untarnished steel, and their resources will not be siphoned off by his corrupt subordinates. I am offering to clean his house for him." He leaned back, his gaze sweeping the council. "Unless you believe our current system of rampant, unchecked corruption is working?"
The debate was short and sharp. Tyrion argued passionately about the dangerous precedent, but Aaryan's logic was unassailable. He was not asking for command; he was offering accountability. Davos and Brienne, captivated by the promise of a truly reformed and honorable City Watch, sided with Aaryan. With the Grand Maester abstaining, the vote was tied. As always, the final decision fell to the King.
Every eye turned to the end of the table. Bran Stark had been silent, his gaze lost in the middle distance. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice a flat echo in the tense room.
"The sewers are blocked. The water is foul. The rats grow fat. Clean the sewers."
And that was it. Tyrion's face fell. Aaryan had won. He had been granted fiscal control over the most important new division of the City Watch. He now had a legitimate reason to place his agents and his influence inside the city's law enforcement.
He returned to his solar that evening with the taste of victory on his tongue. He had met his cousin in an open political battle and had bested him. The game in the capital was no longer subtle. It was a direct contest of wills.
A raven was waiting. The seal was Kaelen's. He broke it open, his mind already shifting back to the shadows of the west. The message was short, the handwriting rough. Kaelen had followed his orders. He had squeezed one of the Weaver's key informants, a man who tracked the movements of foreign ships.
The informant had identified the Ironborn vessel. He knew its captain. But the crucial piece of information, the reason for the rendezvous, was what made Aaryan's blood run cold.
The Greyjoy ship had not been delivering weapons or smuggling goods. It had been picking up a passenger. According to the informant, a high-ranking envoy from the Free City of Volantis had been secretly traveling across the Westerlands for a month. The Ironborn were escorting him home.
Volantis. The oldest, proudest, and most powerful of the Free Cities. A city of slavers and tiger-striped banners, with a fleet that dwarfed anything in Westeros.
Aaryan stood by the window, the pieces of the puzzle rearranging themselves into a new, terrifying mosaic. The Dornish were secretly arming. The Ironborn, supposedly loyal to the Crown, were secretly trafficking envoys for a foreign superpower. These were not disparate, opportunistic plots. They were the coordinated moves of a vast, international conspiracy aimed directly at the heart of the Six Kingdoms.
He had thought he was a player in the game of thrones. He now realized he was standing on the shore, watching the first waves of a tsunami that threatened to swallow the entire world.