The North's reply arrived not as a raven, but as a full-fledged envoy. A month after his delegation had departed for Winterfell, they returned, accompanied by Ser Wylis Manderly of White Harbor. He was a portly, shrewd man with the calculating eyes of a merchant and the proud bearing of a northern lord. It was a sign that Queen Sansa was taking his proposal very seriously.
Aaryan met him not in the ceremonial formality of the Red Keep, but in the functional, business-like offices of the Bank of the Rock. He wanted to frame this not as a meeting of politicians, but of partners.
"Lord Aaryan," Ser Wylis began, forgoing the usual pleasantries. "The Queen in the North is… intrigued by your offer. It is generous. So generous, in fact, that she wishes to understand the price."
"The price, Ser Wylis, is prosperity," Aaryan replied, gesturing to a chart on his wall that detailed the explosive growth of King's Landing's guild outputs. "The North is strong, but it is isolated. The South is rebuilding, but it is hungry for resources. I am not offering a gift. I am proposing a synergy, a partnership that makes both our nations stronger and less dependent on the whims of others."
Wylis was practical, and Aaryan spoke his language: logistics, profit margins, and security. But the northern lord was still cautious. "An alliance with a southern lord is a risky venture. Our Queen values her kingdom's independence above all else."
This was the crux of it. Aaryan knew he needed a final, irresistible offer that addressed the North's greatest vulnerability. "I understand," he said. "Which is why I am prepared to add a final term to our agreement." He looked the northerner in the eye. "The Bank of the Rock, in partnership with the Lord of Highgarden, will underwrite a ten-year contract guaranteeing the North a fixed, favorable price on grain from the Reach. Enough to fill your storehouses for the next decade. Your people will never have to fear a long winter or a failed harvest again. That is the security I am offering. True independence is not just a crown. It is a full belly."
Ser Wylis Manderly stared at him, his shrewd mind processing the monumental scale of what was being offered. It was a masterstroke. It was an offer that secured the North's future, and one his Queen could not possibly refuse. "On behalf of Queen Sansa Stark," the Manderly envoy said slowly, "I believe we have the foundations of an alliance."
With the North now being drawn into his economic orbit, Aaryan's attention turned to the disquieting silence from the east. It had been months since the Shadow Chaser had sailed. His fledgling network in Pentos had gathered only whispers of increased Volantene naval patrols and strange, unnatural storms plaguing the Smoking Sea. For a man accustomed to absolute control, this lack of information, this gaping unknown at the heart of his grandest ambition, was a unique form of torment.
His enemies at court had not been idle, and they saw a vulnerability in the King's "gift" of Harrenhal. At a feast, a smirking Lord Hayford—the very man Aaryan had humbled—asked loudly when Lord Aaryan intended to take up residence in his grand new seat. The question was a public barb, a reminder of the cursed, costly ruin he was now shackled to.
Aaryan simply smiled. The next day, he made a public announcement before the Small Council.
"My lords," he declared, "I wish to formally thank His Grace for the great honor he has bestowed upon me. The castle of Harrenhal is a symbol of our history." He paused. "A symbol of the folly of pride and the ruin of conquest. Such a monument should not belong to one man. It should serve all men."
He laid out his plan. "The fertile lands of Harrenhal will be transformed into a new breadbasket for the Riverlands. A farming collective, funded by my bank, will work the land, and the great castle itself will be repurposed. Its massive kitchens will become granaries to store the harvest. Its strong walls will protect the people's food. Harrenhal will no longer be a place of fear. It will be a place of sustenance."
He had done it again. He had taken the King's gilded cage and reforged it into a populist monument, a project that would increase his economic power in the Riverlands while making him a beloved hero to the smallfolk. He had turned the curse into a blessing, leaving his political opponents speechless.
He felt a surge of triumph that evening, a sense that all his plans, all his intricate designs, were falling perfectly into place. He had secured the North and defanged the King's trap. He was winning.
The knock on his solar door was frantic. It was Symon, his face pale. Behind him stood a man cloaked in the rags of a Pentoshi sailor, his face dripping with sea-spray and etched with fear. He was one of Symon's first overseas recruits, having arrived on the fastest ship he could charter.
"My lord," the agent gasped, his voice raspy. "News from the east."
The man spoke of a Volantene warship, a tiger-striped behemoth, that had limped back into a private port near Pentos a week ago. It was grievously damaged, its hull scorched as if by a great fire, its sails in tatters. The surviving crew were whisked away into seclusion, but not before the dockside spies of Pentos heard their terrified, feverish whispers. They spoke of fire raining from the sky, of a great, winged shadow that blotted out the sun over the Smoking Sea, and of a roar that had boiled the water around their ship.
The agent reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, heavy bundle wrapped in oilcloth. "One of the sailors died of his burns before they could silence him," he whispered. "I took this from his body."
He placed the object on Aaryan's desk. Aaryan unwrapped it slowly.
It was a piece of dragonscale, the size of a grown man's hand. It shimmered like polished obsidian, its surface a matrix of perfect, sharp-edged patterns. It was still warm to the touch, radiating a faint, ancient heat.
Aaryan stared at it, the blood draining from his face.
The silence from the east had been broken. The dragon had been found.
The race had just reached its next, terrifying stage, and he had no way of knowing if his hunters had met with victory, or if they had been the first to be consumed by the fire.