## Chapter 2: The Golden Veins
## Chapter 2: The Golden Veins
**253 AC, Month 3**
The flickering light of a single candle cast long shadows across the stone walls of Cragmoor Keep's solar. Edric Cragmoor sat alone, a map of the Westerlands unrolled before him, its edges curling from frequent use. His fingers, calloused yet precise, traced the inked borders of neighboring territories: House Redwyne to the south, House Brax to the east, and House Lefford to the north. Each name represented wealth—gold mines that had enriched their lords for generations. And each, Edric knew, was vulnerable to a man with his gifts.
It had been a year since he'd claimed lordship over Cragmoor, transforming it from a crumbling holdfast into a thriving seat of power. His iron mines churned out ore, his fields yielded grain, and his guard stood ready with polished steel. Yet, for Edric, this was merely the foundation. True power required wealth—vast, unassailable wealth—to fund the army, fortifications, and secrets he intended to build. Conquest was a fool's game, loud and bloody; theft, however, was silent, elegant, and entirely within his grasp.
He leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. "Why fight for gold when I can take it?" he murmured, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "They'll never see me coming."
Edric closed his eyes, pressing his palms to the cool stone floor. His earth bending stirred, a subtle vibration rippling through his senses as he connected to the land beyond Cragmoor's walls. He extended his awareness, feeling the dense layers of rock and soil, searching for the heavy pulse of gold. It was a skill he'd refined over months, a quiet communion with the earth that revealed its hidden treasures.
There—beneath the Redwyne hills, a thick vein of gold pulsed like a buried heartbeat. Another, sharper and nearer, lay under Brax's domain. A third, untapped and deep, rested near the Lefford mines. Edric's smile widened, predatory and sharp. "Mine for the taking."
But stealing gold from beneath the noses of other lords demanded more than raw power. It required subtlety, a thief's patience, and a predator's cunning. He couldn't tear the earth apart; that would leave scars and questions. Instead, he needed a method to extract the gold invisibly, leaving his victims to blame fate or misfortune.
In the silence of his solar, an idea took root—a technique he'd toyed with in secret. What if he could liquefy the gold with his metal bending, turning solid ore into a molten stream that flowed through the earth like water? He could guide it to his own vaults, solidify it, and leave no trace. It was ambitious, untested on this scale, but if he succeeded, the Westerlands' wealth would be his without a single sword drawn.
Edric stood, rolling the map with a decisive snap. "Let's see how far my power can stretch."
---
### The Plan Takes Shape
Two nights later, Edric rode out from Cragmoor under a moonless sky, his cloak blending with the darkness. He'd told his men it was a routine patrol for bandits—a lie they accepted without question. With him rode a small escort of four guards, loyal but uncurious, whom he dismissed to set up camp in a shadowed valley near the Redwyne border. As they slept, Edric slipped away, his boots silent on the rocky ground.
He found a hidden nook among the boulders, knelt, and pressed his hands to the earth. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his bending, seeking the gold vein he'd sensed days before. It greeted him like an old friend—a dense, shimmering presence buried deep beneath the Redwyne mines. He exhaled slowly, centering himself, then focused his will on the metal.
*Bend,* he commanded silently. *Flow.*
The gold resisted at first, its solid form unyielding. Edric pushed harder, envisioning it softening, its crystalline structure melting under his influence. Sweat beaded on his brow as he strained, his mind locked in a silent battle with the earth. Then, slowly, it gave way—a faint tremor in his senses as the gold began to liquefy, pooling into a molten thread within the rock.
He guided it upward, threading it through layers of stone and soil, careful to keep the flow small and controlled. Too much, too fast, and the ground might shift, alerting the Redwynes. After an hour of grueling effort, a thin stream of liquid gold broke the surface near his knees, gleaming faintly in the starlight. Edric shaped a shallow basin in the dirt with a flick of his wrist, letting the gold collect, then willed it to solidify into a rough ingot.
He repeated the process twice more, each extraction a test of endurance and precision. By dawn, three ingots lay hidden in his cloak, their weight a quiet triumph. It wasn't a fortune—not yet—but it was proof. The method worked.
As he returned to camp, slipping the gold into his saddlebags, Edric's mind raced with plans. He would strike again, targeting Brax and Lefford next, always varying his approach. Small thefts, spread across months, would keep suspicion at bay. The gold would flow to Cragmoor, a secret river of wealth, and he would wield it to forge an unassailable future.
---
### A Game of Trust and Triumph
Over the following weeks, Edric refined his craft. He ventured out under different pretexts—hunting trips, border inspections—each time returning with more gold. From Brax, he siphoned a vein near their eastern quarries, the liquid metal snaking through the earth to a hidden cache. From Lefford, he tapped an untapped deposit, its purity a delight to his senses. The ingots piled up in a concealed vault beneath Cragmoor Keep, accessible only through a trapdoor he'd shaped with his bending.
Yet, even as his wealth grew, Edric remained cautious. He knew the risks: a sudden drop in a lord's gold yield could spark questions, and questions could lead to him. To counter this, he spread rumors through his smallfolk—tales of cursed mines and gold-eating spirits—hoping to muddy the waters if suspicion arose.
For a time, it seemed his caution was enough. Then, in the fourth month of 253 AC, a messenger arrived with news that chilled his blood.
"Lord Redwyne's gold output has fallen," Harrold, his steward, reported, his voice trembling slightly. "He's brought in a maester from the Citadel—Cedric, they call him. A scholar of rocks and metals. He's poking around the mines, asking questions."
Edric's fingers stilled on the arm of his chair, his mind whirring. "A maester," he said softly. "How inconvenient."
He dismissed Harrold with a wave, then summoned Ser Gareth, his master-at-arms, to the great hall. The grizzled knight entered, his armor clanking faintly.
"You've heard of the Redwyne trouble?" Edric asked.
"Aye, my lord," Gareth replied. "They're blaming bad luck, but this maester might think otherwise."
Edric nodded, his expression unreadable. "There's a band of outlaws in the eastern hills—raiders who've plagued the roads. I want you to pay them a visit."
Gareth's brow furrowed. "To kill them?"
"No," Edric said, his voice smooth as silk. "To frame them. Take a sack of tools—picks, shovels, a few scraps of gold—and plant them near their camp. Make it look like they've been digging into the Redwyne mines."
The knight hesitated. "They're not miners, my lord. No one'll believe—"
"They don't need to," Edric cut in. "They need to suspect. Redwyne will leap at an enemy he can fight, and this maester will follow the trail I've laid. Do it tonight."
Gareth bowed, his reluctance clear but unspoken. "As you wish, my lord."
---
### Shadows of Suspicion
The ruse succeeded beyond Edric's hopes. Within days, Lord Redwyne's men descended on the bandit camp, finding the planted evidence amid the squalor. A brief, bloody skirmish followed, leaving the outlaws dead and their lair in ashes. Maester Cedric examined the tools, declared the theft solved, and Redwyne crowed of his triumph to the other lords. The matter faded into tavern gossip, and Edric's secret remained safe.
Emboldened, he intensified his efforts. Night after night, he knelt in hidden places, bending gold from beneath his neighbors' lands. The strain was immense—his head throbbed after each session, his muscles ached from the effort—but the reward was worth it. His vault grew heavy with ingots, a fortune that rivaled the richest houses in the Westerlands.
Yet, gold in a vault was a means, not an end. To wield it without scrutiny, he needed a mask—a legitimate source of wealth that would explain his prosperity. He turned to trade, a pursuit that echoed his past life as a cunning businessman.
In Lannisport, he met Luthor, a merchant with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. They sat in Edric's solar, a fire warming the chill air.
"You want to trade across the Narrow Sea?" Luthor asked, sipping wine. "Risky, but profitable."
"Risk is nothing without reward," Edric replied. "I have gold to invest—more than enough. Ships, crews, goods from Essos—I want it all under my banner, but quietly. No one needs to know the full extent of my involvement."
Luthor grinned. "A silent partner, eh? I can manage that. Pentos has silks, Myr has glass, Tyrosh has dyes—all begging for Westerosi coin. Give me the gold, and I'll triple it in a year."
Edric slid a heavy pouch across the table, its contents clinking softly. "Start with this. Hire men you trust, buy two ships, and report to me monthly. Succeed, and you'll have a share. Fail, and I'll find someone else."
They clasped hands, the deal struck. Soon, the Cragmoor Trading Company emerged, its vessels cutting through the waves to bring back treasures that turned Edric's stolen gold into a river of legitimate profit.
---
### The Price of Ambition
By year's end, Edric's transformation was undeniable. Cragmoor Keep boasted new walls of dressed stone, its towers rising higher than ever. His guard swelled, their armor gleaming with Essosi steel he'd forged himself, bending the metal into perfect forms. His trading ventures flourished, and whispers of his success spread through the Westerlands.
But whispers brought danger. Smallfolk spoke of Cragmoor's "miraculous" rise, some calling it sorcery, others luck. Lesser lords eyed him with envy, and even the Lannisters took note. During a visit to Casterly Rock, Lord Tytos welcomed him with open arms, accepting gifts of silk and spice, but young Tywin—sharp-eyed and silent—watched him with a gaze that pierced like a blade.
"You've prospered quickly, Lord Cragmoor," Tywin said as they stood on the battlements, the sea roaring below. "Few manage that without cost."
Edric met his stare, unflinching. "Every gain has its price, but I pay it willingly. You'll learn that too, I wager."
Tywin's expression didn't change, but his silence spoke volumes. Edric left Casterly Rock with a promise of friendship—and a resolve to watch the boy closely.
Back at Cragmoor, he turned inward, training his bending to new heights. He mastered shaping metal into intricate forms, hid secrets in his walls, and even tested blood bending in the dead of night, though its power unnerved him. Each skill was a weapon, a shield against the threats he knew would come.
Standing atop his keep one evening, Edric gazed across his lands, the wind tugging at his cloak. His vault brimmed with gold, his influence stretched far, yet he felt no satisfaction—only hunger. "This is but the start," he whispered. "The game is long, and I will win it."