The name 'Volantis' echoed in the silent solar, a thunderclap from a distant storm. Aaryan stood motionless, the pieces on the grand chessboard of the world rearranging themselves in his mind into a new and terrifying alignment. Dorne, the Ironborn, Volantis. It was an alliance of the old world's grievances, a coalition of the resentful and the ambitious.
Dorne, with its ancient pride and hatred of Targaryen-descended rule. The Ironborn, a culture of reavers chafing under a peace that forbade them their very nature. And Volantis, the ancient slaver empire, the self-proclaimed heir of Old Valyria, watching with contempt as the Six Kingdoms forged alliances with their Braavosi rivals. Their common enemy was the fragile peace King Bran represented. Their common goal was chaos.
A full-scale invasion? It was possible. The Ironborn fleet ferrying a Volantene army to the shores of the Reach or the Stormlands, while Dorne opened a second front in the south. It was a strategy that could shatter the Six Kingdoms before they had even learned to stand.
Aaryan knew he could not fight this war with the Warden's Men and a handful of spies. The currency of this new conflict was not steel, but influence on a global scale. He needed a new weapon, one that fought not with armies, but with contracts and ledgers.
He spent the next hour drafting a letter, his quill scratching a deliberate, careful path across the parchment. It was addressed to the Keyholders of the Iron Bank of Braavos. He did not speak of war or treason. He wrote as the Master of Coin. He opened by detailing the city's remarkable economic recovery, citing the increased guild profits and the corresponding rise in Crown tax revenue. He outlined, in brief, the success of his Bank of the Rock.
Then came the proposal, a move of breathtaking audacity. He proposed that the Crown begin repaying its monumental debt to the Iron Bank ahead of schedule. It would be a small, symbolic payment, but it was a gesture of stability and intent that he knew the bankers of Braavos would find irresistible.
Finally, buried beneath the financial projections, was the true purpose of the letter. "In the interest of securing the Crown's long-term financial stability," he wrote, "I am conducting a risk assessment of our major trading partners and rivals. Any information the Iron Bank might possess regarding unusual capital flows, new shipping consortiums, or unexpected military expenditures related to the activities of Volantis or the Principality of Dorne would be most valuable in protecting our mutual interests."
He was not asking them to be his spies. He was inviting them, as a fellow financial institution, to share market intelligence. He was turning the world's most powerful bank into his unwitting intelligence agency.
With the raven sent on its long flight to Braavos, Aaryan turned to the other great power that haunted the realm: the last dragon. He needed to know if Drogon was a piece he could play, or one that would be played against him. He sought an audience with the King.
He found Bran in the throne room. The Iron Throne was gone, leaving a scarred, empty space on the dais. Bran sat in his chair before the great, shattered window, looking out over the city.
"Your Grace," Aaryan began, his voice respectful but direct. "The world is not at peace. Enemies conspire against us. The realm's armies are scattered, its fleets are a shadow. I must ask. Where is Daenerys Targaryen's dragon?"
Bran did not turn. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "He is east," the King said, his voice a whisper of wind through the broken window. "In the lands of his birth, where the mountains smoke and the earth is cracked. He sleeps beneath a fiery mountain, and in his dreams, he remembers the taste of ash."
The message was clear. Drogon was alive, likely in the ruins of Valyria itself. But he was a force of nature, a living embodiment of grief and destruction, not a loyal beast waiting for a summons. He was not a sword to be wielded. He was a volcano that might, one day, erupt.
Aaryan returned his focus to the home front. He had won control over his new Investigative branch of the City Watch. Now he would blood them. He gave Symon, who was now his de facto chief of staff, his orders.
"There is a grain merchant in the city," Aaryan said, consulting a report from his auditors. "His name is Tregar. He has been using his royal contract to hoard grain, creating artificial shortages to drive up the price of bread in the poorest districts. He is a leech on the belly of this city."
"What would you have me do, my lord?" Symon asked.
"I want the Investigators to descend on his warehouses. I want every stolen sack of grain seized and redistributed, for free, to the bakeries in Flea Bottom. I want Tregar arrested and brought before the council in chains. Make a public spectacle of it. I want every citizen of King's Landing to see that the King's Justice has returned, and that it serves them, not the wealthy."
It was a masterful political stroke. He was testing his new force, solving a real problem, and cementing his reputation as the champion of the common man, all in a single, decisive action.
Days later, as the city buzzed with the news of the corrupt merchant's downfall and the free bread in the poor quarters, Aaryan sat in his solar, reviewing the fruits of his labor. His economic machine was humming. His political power was growing. His enemies were plotting, but he was now beginning to see the shape of their designs.
A page entered, his face pale with nervousness. "My lord. A message from the Hand."
Aaryan took the scroll. It was a single line of Tyrion's familiar script.
A ship has arrived from Braavos. A representative of the Iron Bank is here to see you. His name is Tycho Nestoris.
Aaryan looked up from the parchment, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He had thrown a baited line across the Narrow Sea, hoping for a nibble. He had not expected to summon a leviathan.
Tycho Nestoris was not just a banker; he was the face of the Iron Bank, a man who could make or break kingdoms with a stroke of his quill. His gambit had worked faster and more directly than he had ever imagined.
The great game had just arrived at his doorstep.