The first morning Aaryan spent as the acting Lord of Casterly Rock began in the cold dark before dawn. He rose from a cavernous, canopied bed that had likely belonged to his grandfather, the ancient mattress filled with down that had long since compacted. The air in the lord's chambers was stale with the scent of dust and disuse. He ignored the lavish, tarnished silver ewers and basins, washing his face with cold, bracing water directly from a pitcher. There was work to do.
He found Maester Gerold in the scriptorium, already awake, trimming a candle with trembling fingers. The old man looked as if he hadn't slept at all.
"My lord," Gerold said, startled. "You are awake early."
"The lions of the Rock were not known for their languor, Maester," Aaryan replied, his voice crisp in the quiet room. "I have my first commands for you. I trust your mind is still sharp?"
"It is all I have left, my lord."
"Good." Aaryan began to pace, his steps measured and deliberate. "First, the library. I want it opened. Every wing, every vault. I want every ledger, every letter, every maester's report, and every raven's scroll from the last fifty years unsealed and brought to the main reading room. The histories of our house are irrelevant to me. I want the histories of our vassals' debts, their grain harvests, their troop levies, their secret marriages, and their petty squabbles."
Gerold's eyes widened. "My lord, that is a lifetime of parchment. Much of it is sealed by Lord Tywin's own hand…"
"Then unseal it," Aaryan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you will need help. Send ravens to Lannisport. I want ten scribes with clean hands and sharp eyes. Send another to the Citadel in Oldtown. Offer a generous stipend for any acolytes willing to spend a year in service here. Their task is to build a new set of ledgers. I am not interested in gold, Maester. I am interested in facts. The library is now the most important mine in this mountain. I want you to excavate it."
Before the maester could fully process the monumental task, Aaryan moved to his second command. He found Kaelen in the empty barracks, methodically sharpening his sword. The Essosi mercenary looked up as he approached, his scarred face impassive.
"You have a new commission, Kaelen," Aaryan said. "You will take the other four men and ride for Lannisport. I am giving you a purse of five hundred golden dragons."
It was a significant sum, and Kaelen's eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. "What am I buying, my lord?"
"People," Aaryan said. "But not the common sort. I do not want sellswords looking for a payday. I want the hungry ones. Find me the third sons of landed knights with no inheritance and too much pride. Find me the merchants whose ships were burned in the Greyjoy raids and now languish on the docks. Find me the blacksmiths and stonemasons with skill in their hands but no lords to commission them. Find the brightest, sharpest, most ambitious men who have been left behind by this new, peaceful world. Don't offer them a soldier's wage. Offer them a purpose. A place in the household of the new Warden of the West. Tell them the lion is hiring, and he pays his debts in opportunity."
"How will I know the right men?" Kaelen asked.
"Look in their eyes," Aaryan replied. "The ones who are desperate are useless. The ones who are angry… they are the ones we want."
Kaelen nodded, a slow, grim understanding on his face. He was a product of that same anger, which is why Aaryan had chosen him in the first place.
Aaryan's third task he undertook himself. He returned to Tywin's solar, the seat of old power, and unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment. He ignored the imposing chair behind the desk, choosing instead to write while standing. Dipping a quill in a pot of ink, he began to draft a letter. His calligraphy was clean, precise, and devoid of flourish.
It was addressed to the Lords of the West. To Marbrand and Crakehall, to the Leffords and the Westerlings, to every banner that had ever answered the lion's call. He did not demand taxes. He did not summon them to renew their oaths. He informed them that as the acting Warden of the West, he was undertaking a Great Restoration of their lands. He wrote of the neglect their home had suffered while its sons fought and died in foreign wars.
Then came the summons, couched not as a command, but an invitation.
…and so I invite you, or your chosen heir, to Casterly Rock on the first full moon in two months' time. Come not to swear fealty, but to sit in council. Bring your wisdom, your grievances, and your ambitions. Together, we shall map the course of our future, repair what is broken, and forge a new era of prosperity for the Westerlands, one built not on the glories of the past, but on the opportunities of the present…
He laid down the quill, reading over the words. They were a perfect trap: appealing to their pride by asking their counsel, to their greed by promising prosperity, and to their curiosity by being utterly unlike any command a Lannister had ever given. They would come. If only to see what kind of strange, new lion had come to rule them.
By midday, the foundations of his new reign were laid. Ravens were taking flight from the Rock, carrying his invitation across the west. Kaelen and his men were riding towards the bustling port of Lannisport. And in the cavernous, dusty library, a bewildered Maester Gerold was staring at a mountain of sealed parchment, the first tremors of a new kind of power beginning to shake the foundations of the old.
Aaryan stood once more in Tywin's solar. He looked at the grand map of Westeros, a thing of faded ink and proud sigils. The West was a large piece of the puzzle, but it was still just a piece.
Maester Gerold entered the room, his breathing labored from the climb. "My lord, the letters have all been sent. Every lord vassal will have your invitation by week's end."
"Excellent," Aaryan said, his eyes still tracing the borders of kingdoms on the map. He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on the old man.
"Maester," he asked, his voice casual, "the Citadel's records are the most complete in the world, are they not?"
"Of course, my lord. Without question."
"And their archives would contain detailed manifests of all major shipping lanes, for every season, stretching back a century? From the Iron Bank of Braavos, the trading syndicates of Pentos, perhaps even the Spice Guilds of Qarth?"
Gerold blinked, confused by the abrupt and massive leap in subject. "I… I suppose so, my lord. Such an undertaking would be… immense."
"Good," Aaryan said, turning his full attention back to the map. His finger, which had been resting on Lannisport, began to slowly trace a path across the parchment, over the Sunset Sea, and then across the land, coming to rest on the fertile, wealthy, and now weakly held lands of the Reach. "Very good indeed."
The old maester stared, a cold dread seeping into his bones. He had thought his new lord was here to restore the Westerlands. He was only now beginning to understand that for Aaryan Lannister, the Westerlands were not the goal. They were merely the beginning.