The reek of King's Landing was a complex perfume, one part salt and fish, one part sawdust and sweat, and a stubborn, lingering base note of old ash. Aaryan Lannister breathed it in as he stepped onto the docks, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. This was the jewel of the Seven Kingdoms? It looked like a dog's breakfast.
Rebuilding was underway, but it was a clumsy, desperate affair. Timbers of mismatched wood patched the quays. Beggars with missing limbs and haunted eyes watched his fine Essosi boots with a pathetic sort of hunger. And the guards… the guards were the greatest insult. Men in the boiled leather of the North, wearing the snarling direwolf of House Stark, directed traffic on the docks of the capital. It was an occupation, plain and simple, dressed up as peacekeeping. Aaryan's gaze swept over them, his mind effortlessly cataloging their worn-out equipment, their lax postures. These were not conquerors. They were tired, homesick boys playing at being wardens.
"Lord Aaryan?"
The man addressing him wore the livery of the Hand of the King. He was young, nervous, and clearly intimidated by Aaryan's presence.
"I am," Aaryan said, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the dockside noise.
"The Hand awaits you. If you'll follow me."
The walk to the Red Keep was an education in failure. The city was a wound that had been stitched shut by a drunken tailor. The rubble had been cleared into neat piles, but the scars remained. Entire streets were still hollowed-out husks. The closer they got to the Hill of Aegon, the more apparent the dragon's fury became. Buildings were melted, their stones warped into grotesque, flowing shapes like cooled wax. He glanced towards the distant, skeletal ruin of the Dragonpit, then to the shell of the Great Sept of Baelor. Monuments to hubris and fools.
His guide droned on about the rebuilding efforts, about King Brandon's wisdom, about the Queen in the North's generosity. Aaryan didn't listen to the words, only the tone—the desperate, forced optimism of a man trying to convince himself as much as his audience. This entire city, this entire kingdom, was running on a fool's hope. It was a structure with a rotten foundation, waiting for a firm kick.
The Tower of the Hand was just as he'd expected: functional, austere, and drowning in paperwork. Maps and ledgers were piled on every available surface. It was the room of a bureaucrat, not a lion.
And there, behind a large oak desk, sat his cousin.
Tyrion Lannister looked older. The years since the wars had carved new lines onto his face, and his mismatched eyes held a weariness so profound it seemed to have settled into his bones. He forced a smile as Aaryan entered.
"Cousin," Tyrion said, his voice raspy. He gestured to a chair. "Welcome home. I trust your journey was pleasant?"
"As pleasant as any journey across the Narrow Sea can be," Aaryan replied, sinking gracefully into the chair. He let his gaze drift around the room. "You've been busy."
"Cleaning up the world is a messier business than breaking it," Tyrion said, a familiar flicker of wit in his eyes. He poured two goblets of Dornish red. "I was sorry to hear of your father's passing. And your brothers. The Whispering Wood… that was a long time ago."
Aaryan accepted the goblet, his expression a perfect mask of solemn remembrance. "War is a hungry beast. It eats good men and bad alike." He took a sip. "As it ate our brother. And our sister."
The words hung in the air. Tyrion's hand tightened on his goblet. "Yes. It did."
"And now you serve the brother of the woman who watched our sister die," Aaryan stated, not as an accusation, but as a simple, curious fact.
Tyrion met his gaze, his eyes sharp. "I serve the King. I serve the realm. The time for Stark and Lannister is over."
"Is it?" Aaryan smiled, a disarming, handsome thing. "I see their wolves on every street corner. I have yet to see a single lion." He leaned forward. "Why am I here, Tyrion?"
Tyrion sighed, the fight going out of him. He looked less like the Hand of the King and more like a man holding a thousand threads, knowing any one of them could snap. "The Westerlands are bleeding. The lesser lords are at each other's throats over lands and titles that mean nothing. Casterly Rock… the Rock is empty, Aaryan. A golden shell. It needs a Lannister. It needs a warden. I need someone I can trust to bring our house back from the brink. To be the Warden of the West."
Aaryan swirled his wine, his crystalline eyes fixed on his cousin. He saw it all: the desperation, the isolation, the crushing weight of a kingdom on a dwarf's shoulders. Tyrion didn't want a cousin. He wanted a tool.
"A tempting offer," Aaryan said softly. "To be given the keys to a hollowed-out castle and a bankrupt domain."
"It's a start," Tyrion pressed. "It's our home."
Before Aaryan could reply, there was a knock. A page announced that the Small Council was gathering.
"Come," Tyrion said, standing. "Let me introduce you to the new rulers of the world."
The Small Council chamber was a study in contrasts. Ser Brienne of Tarth, the new Lord Commander, stood stiffly by the door, her armor polished but her face etched with a permanent sort of discomfort, a woman never quite at ease. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Master of Ships, had the earnest, weathered face of a man who couldn't believe his own station. Samwell Tarly, the Grand Maester, shuffled parchments with pudgy fingers. And lounging in his seat with the casual arrogance of a man who'd won a prize he never expected was Bronn, the Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin, a cutthroat in silk.
Aaryan's entrance caused a polite stir.
"My lords, Lady Brienne," Tyrion announced. "May I present my cousin, Aaryan Lannister."
Aaryan gave a charming, sweeping bow. "An honor."
His gaze met Bronn's first. "Lord Bronn. A pleasure to meet the man who turned a sword and a sharp tongue into the finest castle in the Reach. A lesson for us all, truly."
Bronn grunted, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Watch yourself, Lannister. Flattery like that will cost you."
"Lady Brienne," Aaryan said, turning to her. His smile softened. "The tales of your loyalty are told even in Essos. Such unwavering devotion. It's a rare and beautiful thing in this world." The compliment was delivered so perfectly that Brienne could only flush and nod, missing the subtle condescension entirely. He gave Davos a polite nod and Samwell a glance so fleeting it was a dismissal.
The meeting began. The topic was a familiar one: grain. The Riverlands were starving, and Lord Edmure Tully was petitioning the crown for aid.
"The royal granaries are still too low," Samwell fretted. "We cannot spare enough to make a difference."
"We must," Davos insisted. "These are the king's people. We cannot let them starve."
"My granaries in the Reach are for the people of the Reach," Bronn said flatly. "My first duty is to them. You want Highgarden's wheat, you can pay for it."
The bickering continued, a circular debate of morality versus practicality. Aaryan remained silent, watching, his expression one of polite interest. Finally, Tyrion, looking exasperated, turned to him. "Cousin, you've been quiet. Do you have any thoughts?"
Aaryan leaned forward slightly, drawing the council's attention. His voice, when it came, was calm and reasonable.
"You're all debating the wrong problem," he said simply. "The problem isn't the grain. It's the expectation. Lord Davos, if you send grain to Lord Tully today, three more starving lords will send ravens tomorrow. You will be bled dry by spring, and you will have shown every lord in Westeros that the crown is a soft touch."
He turned his gaze to Bronn. "And you, Lord Bronn, are right to protect your assets, but hoarding your supplies makes you a target. It breeds resentment. Resentment leads to rebellion."
He let his words sink in before delivering the solution. "Forget the grain. Send a hundred knights under the King's banner to the Riverlands. Not as aid, but as a police force. Have them secure the King's Road and hang a dozen hoarders and black-market sellers in the public square of every major town. Strength. Order. That is what the smallfolk truly crave. When the lords see that the crown provides justice, not charity, they will manage their own damn larders. You cannot be their shield, my lords. But you can be their sword."
Silence fell over the room. Davos looked horrified. Samwell looked pale. Bronn, however, looked at Aaryan with a newfound, calculating respect. Tyrion's face was grim. He had summoned a Lannister to help him, and for the first time, he seemed to realize he may have gotten far more than he bargained for.
That night, Aaryan stood on a high battlement of the Red Keep, the cool wind whipping at his golden hair. Below, King's Landing was a scattering of lights against a vast darkness, a flickering candle in a crypt.
He had given Tyrion his answer. He would accept. He would go to Casterly Rock. He would be the Warden of the West. He would play the loyal kinsman.
He looked out at the broken city, at the kingdom ruled by a strange boy-god, a council of survivors, and a queen of a frozen wasteland. They had fought their great war, bled the continent white, and for what? A fragile patchwork of compromises. A government of the weary, for the weary. They thought they had secured peace.
They had only created a vacuum.
A small, cold smile touched his lips.
And a vacuum is a beautiful thing, Aaryan Lannister thought, the city lights reflected in his impossibly blue eyes. It begs to be filled.