Tom did not sleep.
He sat in Aren's manor kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of broth, eyes darting at every sound.
Like a hunted animal.
Aren recognized the look.
It had once been his.
"You're safe here," Aren said.
"For now," Lysa added.
Tom nodded.
Did not believe them.
By morning, Rowan knew.
He always did.
Aren was summoned before noon.
No ceremony.
No delay.
"Petyr is dead," Rowan said flatly.
"Yes," Aren replied.
"You killed him without trial."
"He tried to kill me."
Rowan exhaled slowly.
"Justice and survival rarely agree."
Aren placed a list on the table.
Names.
Dates.
Ships.
Routes.
Draven's network.
"All from one frightened boy," Rowan said.
"And blood," Aren answered.
Rowan studied it.
Then nodded.
"This saves lives."
Orders followed.
Arrests.
Raids.
Seizures.
Quiet.
Efficient.
By nightfall, five nobles were imprisoned.
Two officers vanished.
A priest fled.
Publicly, Rowan praised "swift justice."
Privately, he warned Aren.
"You're becoming a symbol," he said. "People follow symbols."
"Is that bad?"
"For kings," Rowan replied, "it's dangerous."
Tom was placed under Aren's protection.
A page.
A messenger.
A shadow.
Grateful.
Loyal.
Fragile.
Lysa trained him lightly.
How to run.
How to hide.
How to lie.
"Never be brave," she told him. "Be alive."
Weeks passed.
Draven's supply ships were captured.
Plans collapsed.
The invasion stalled.
For now.
Aren's name spread.
In camps.
In courts.
In taverns.
Not as spy.
Not as lord.
As something else.
A leader.
One evening, Caelis warned him.
"Some soldiers swear by you, not the princes."
Aren frowned.
"I never asked for that."
"No one ever does," Caelis replied.
Aren stared into the fire that night.
Loyalty was a chain.
Once enough people held it…
They could pull him anywhere.