The victory at Widow's Cove was a silent thunderclap. It made no sound in the grand halls of the Red Keep, but its shockwave was felt keenly in the shadow courts of Sunspear and Pyke. For Aaryan, it was the successful conclusion of a surgical operation. Now came the delicate work of managing the aftermath.
A raven arrived from Casterly Rock bearing a thick, sealed scroll. It was the full confession of Vorian Sand, extracted with Kaelen's cold efficiency. Aaryan spent hours absorbing its contents. It was a blueprint for the dismemberment of Westeros. The Prince of Dorne had been promised the Stormlands and the Reach, a new southern empire to rival the North. The confession named two minor Stormlords who were sympathetic to the cause and detailed the routes by which Dornish agents were already smuggling gold to incite rebellion.
It was a weapon of immense power, a declaration of war he could unleash at any moment. But Aaryan knew a weapon held in reserve was infinitely more valuable than one fired. He sealed the confession and placed it in a locked chest. Its time would come.
First, he had to deal with the loose end of House Westerling. He summoned the lord to King's Landing. Lord Rolph Westerling arrived a week later, a man who looked ten years older than when Aaryan had last seen him, his face a mask of pale terror. He entered the solar and immediately fell to his knees.
"My lord," he stammered, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I… I am yours to command. My life is yours."
Aaryan let him kneel, the silence stretching until it became an agony. "You are a traitor, Lord Westerling," he said at last, his voice a quiet, conversational chill. "You conspired with enemies of the realm. I have your signed confession, and I have a Dornish agent in my dungeons who has sung of your every crime. I could have your head on a spike before the sun sets, and the King would thank me for it."
Westerling began to sob, a pathetic, broken sound.
"But," Aaryan continued, "your house has served mine for a thousand years. Your treason was born of fear, not ambition. You are a fool, Lord Rolph, not a monster." He walked around his desk and stood before the kneeling man. "Your life is forfeit. However, I am a merciful lord. You will abdicate your title and your lands in favor of your second son, Elys. He is a more sensible man than you. You will live out your days in quiet seclusion at the Crag, a guest in your own home. Your house will survive. In return, your son, the new Lord Westerling, will owe his title, his life, and his house's absolute, unwavering loyalty not to the Crown, not to Casterly Rock, but to me. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord," Westerling choked out, tears of terrified gratitude streaming down his face. "Thank you. Yes."
Aaryan had not just neutralized a threat. He had transformed a weak link into a chain, forging a powerful vassal state on the western coast whose loyalty was personal and absolute.
A few days later, a raven arrived bearing the seal of the Iron Bank. Aaryan broke it with a sense of keen anticipation. The message from Tycho Nestoris was not a long, rambling history. It was a dry, factual report, as if a risk assessment on a volatile asset.
It confirmed that Dragonbinders were a real, if rare, feature of the old Valyrian Freehold. It spoke of their use of blood magic, obsidian artifacts, and enchanted horns. Then, it came to the crucial point.
"Historical accounts from our assets in the Valyrian mines consistently note a key vulnerability," the report read. "The binding process requires immense focus and a prolonged ritualistic connection to the target creature. During this period, which can last for hours, the binder is physically incapacitated, their consciousness entirely devoted to the working. They are highly susceptible to conventional assault. Their power is in the ritual, not in personal combat."
Aaryan's heart beat a strong, steady rhythm. This was it. The key. The Dragonbinder was not an invincible wizard. He was a glass cannon. While performing his great and terrible magic, he was as vulnerable as a sleeping child. A single, well-placed arrow was all it would take to end the entire threat.
He had the key to victory. But his hunters were already gone, sailing into the east, beyond the reach of the fastest raven. The information was useless if he could not get it to them.
He stood before his great map of the world, a storm of frustration and calculation in his mind. He traced the likely route of the Shadow Chaser, across the Narrow Sea, past the Stepstones, into the vastness of the Essosi coast. He needed a way to project his will, his intelligence, across that distance. He needed a network that was not bound by the speed of a bird.
His eyes settled on the Free Cities. Pentos. Myr. Tyrosh. He had assets there from his old life. And he knew that the position of Master of Whisperers on the Small Council had remained conspicuously empty since the death of Varys. Tyrion, for all his cleverness, had failed to rebuild the Crown's international intelligence network.
An idea, bold and ambitious, took root in his mind. He would not just send a message. He would build the messenger.
He summoned Symon to the solar. His chief auditor, now confident and composed in his new role, stood before him.
"Symon," Aaryan said, his voice imbued with a new, grander purpose. "Your work in the city has been exemplary. But I have a new project for the Bank of the Rock, one of far greater scope."
He gestured to the map of Essos. "I want you to begin quietly acquiring assets in the Free Cities. I don't want land or property. I want agents. I want shipping manifests, dockside informants, and guild contacts. Start with Pentos. Use my bank's funds to buy the loyalty of ship captains and the silence of customs officials. I am fighting a global war with one hand tied behind my back. It is time the lions learned to roar across the Narrow Sea."
Symon's eyes widened at the scale of the command. He was being asked to build an international spy network from scratch. "Yes, my lord," he said, his voice steady.
Aaryan was no longer just defending the realm. He was going on the offensive, laying the first stones of a new foundation of power, one that would stretch across the known world.