The smoke from the burning barrier was a memory, but the story of the slaughter at the crossing spread faster than any fire. It traveled on the tongues of merchants and the whispers of refugees, a grim and thrilling tale that preceded Aaryan's party like an outrider. By the time they passed through the market town of Sow's Horn, the smallfolk weren't just staring; they were bowing their heads, their eyes a mixture of fear and a desperate, half-forgotten reverence. They were not bowing to him, Aaryan knew, but to the ghost of his house—the memory of a time when the lion's roar meant swift, brutal order. He was simply the vessel for that memory.
His men rode with a new swagger. The five Essosi, already confident in their abilities, now carried the added weight of their master's reputation. They were no longer just mercenaries; they were the talons of the new lion.
As they crossed the border from the Crownlands into the Westerlands, the landscape began to change. The fields were better tended, the villages more intact. The scars of war were less apparent here. The west had been drained of its men and its gold for the southern campaigns, but it had been spared the ravages of invading armies. It had simply… decayed. A once-strong body left to wither from neglect.
Aaryan had no intention of riding straight for Casterly Rock. A king does not enter his own castle until he knows the state of his lands. A detour was in order. He steered his party south, towards the fortress of Crakehall. Towards the first dog in the yard.
The castle of House Crakehall was a stout, formidable fortress, its towers thick and its walls broad. The banner of the brindled boar flew proudly from its battlements. It was a picture of strength and prosperity. As they were welcomed into the courtyard—word of their approach having been sent ahead—Aaryan noted the number of men-at-arms, the quality of their steel, the well-fed state of the horses in the stable. Lord Stafford Crakehall had done very well for himself in the absence of a true warden.
Stafford himself met them at the entrance to the keep. He was a bull of a man, with a thick neck and a beard the color of rust. His smile was wide but did not reach his shrewd, piggy eyes.
"Lord Aaryan!" he boomed, his voice filling the courtyard. "Welcome to Crakehall! We had heard whispers of your return. A pleasant surprise, a most pleasant surprise!"
"Lord Crakehall," Aaryan said, dismounting and offering a polite nod. "You are kind to receive us on such short notice."
"Nonsense! Any cousin of our Lord Hand is welcome at my hearth. Come, you must be weary from the road. We'll have wine, and a proper boar hunt in the morning!"
The Great Hall of Crakehall was filled with the lord's household knights and family. A feast had been hastily prepared. Aaryan endured the pleasantries, the endless questions about Essos, the feigned condolences for his family. He ate sparingly and drank less, his senses alive, his mind a quiet ledger recording every detail. He noted which knights were the most boastful, which of Stafford's sons looked at him with envy, and how Stafford himself, despite his booming hospitality, watched him with a constant, calculating gaze.
Finally, after the main course had been cleared, Stafford leaned forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I heard of some trouble on the Kingswood Road. Some Stokeworth men getting above their station."
Aaryan met his gaze, taking a slow sip of wine. "A minor bit of roadside sanitation. Nothing more."
"Some would call it bold," Stafford pressed. "To dispense the King's justice without the King's leave. The Hand… he is a proponent of laws and processes, is he not?"
The test. Aaryan smiled. "The Hand is in King's Landing, my lord. We were on the King's Road. Law is a fine thing, but it is of little use when it is a hundred leagues away. I saw an injustice, and I corrected it. Is that not what a Warden of the West is supposed to do? Or has the role changed since my grandfather's day?"
The subtle barb hit its mark. By invoking the memory of Tywin Lannister, he had elevated the comparison, reminding Stafford of the old hierarchy. The Lord of Crakehall's smile tightened.
"Of course not," Stafford grumbled. "It is good to see a Lannister with some… spine… again. The west has been adrift. The Rock has been silent for too long."
"A silence I intend to rectify," Aaryan said smoothly. "Which is why I am here. To ask the loyal vassals of my house to aid me in restoring our lands to their proper glory."
Stafford grunted. "Glory is expensive. The wars drained us. My coffers are not as deep as they once were."
"And yet, you have a fine new tapestry on your wall," Aaryan observed, gesturing with his goblet to a massive weaving depicting the Crakehall boar goring a stag. "And I hear you recently acquired the lands of House Ferren after their unfortunate bankruptcy. Your fortunes, it would seem, are not as depleted as the rest of the west."
The hall grew quiet. Aaryan's statement was delivered with the casual air of a man making polite conversation, but everyone present understood its true nature. It was a display of knowledge. A warning. I see you. I know what you have been doing.
Lord Crakehall's face hardened, the false bonhomie vanishing completely. He stared at Aaryan, the powerful lord of his own domain being challenged in his own hall by this young, unnerving upstart. Aaryan simply held his gaze, a placid smile on his face, his bright blue eyes giving away nothing. It was the lord of the keep who finally looked away.
Stafford let out a short, sharp laugh, though it held no humor. "You have your father's eyes, but your grandfather's tongue. Very well, Lord Aaryan. You have my support. House Crakehall will answer when you call."
"I never doubted it for a moment," Aaryan said. "Now, about that boar hunt…"
Later that evening, as he stood on the balcony of his guest chambers looking out over the dark, rolling hills of the Westerlands, one of his Essosi mercenaries, a scarred veteran named Kaelen, appeared at his side.
"The men are nervous, my lord," Kaelen murmured. "This lord, Crakehall. He has power here."
"He has a large castle and a full belly," Aaryan corrected, his gaze distant. "He mistakes that for power. He is a boar. Strong, loud, and dangerous if you stand directly in front of him. But boars are predictable. They charge at the first thing that threatens them. They are easily led into a trap."
He had seen everything he needed to see. Stafford Crakehall's ambition was a leash Aaryan could pull whenever he pleased. The man's greed made him transparent. The first dog in the yard had barked loudly, but had been brought to heel with a single, quiet command.
One down. Dozens to go.
He turned from the balcony, a new sense of purpose settling over him. The road to Casterly Rock was now clear. It was time to go home and wake the ghosts.