## Chapter 3: The Price of Power
## Chapter 3: The Price of Power
**253 AC, Month 5**
The solar of Cragmoor Keep was a sanctuary of order amid the chaos of ambition. Edric Cragmoor sat at his oaken desk, a ledger spread before him like a battlefield map, its pages dense with figures: profits from his gold trade, yields from his mines, and the growing wealth that elevated House Cragmoor above its modest origins. Torchlight flickered across his sharp features, casting shadows that danced with his thoughts. He was no longer the boy who'd clawed his way into this world; he was a predator, and the Westerlands were his hunting ground.
His gaze shifted to a weathered map on the wall, its ink faded but its meaning clear. The domains of rival houses sprawled across the parchment, and to the west lay the lands of House Farwynd—minor, unassuming, yet rich with silver and copper mines. Lord Harlan Farwynd was an old man, his vigor drowned in wine and complacency, his mines a glittering prize ripe for the taking.
Edric's fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the desk. "Conquest is loud and costly," he murmured to himself, a lesson from a past life echoing in his mind. "Better to make them give it willingly." His earth-bending powers were his trump card, a secret weapon that could turn fortune into misfortune with a thought. He could sabotage Farwynd's mines—small, insidious disruptions—and then offer to buy them at a pittance, cloaking his greed in generosity.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing. The trick was balance: too much damage, and Farwynd might abandon the mines; too little, and he'd cling to them. "A series of accidents," Edric decided. "Tremors to spook the miners, floods to halt production. They'll whisper of curses before long."
Closing his eyes, he reached out with his bending, sensing the distant earth beneath Farwynd's lands. The mines pulsed like a heartbeat, their tunnels threading through stone. He could feel weak seams, underground streams straining against their bounds. A nudge here, a shift there, and chaos would bloom—all unseen, all untraceable.
But first, he needed a closer look. A visit to Farwynd Hall, disguised as neighborly courtesy, would let him map his target. He summoned a servant with a sharp command: "Prepare my horse and a small retinue. We ride for Farwynd Hall at dawn."
---
Two days later, Edric's party clattered through the gates of Farwynd Hall, a squat stone keep perched on a windswept hill. Lord Harlan greeted him in the courtyard, his doublet straining over a generous belly, his grin broad but tinged with fatigue.
"Lord Cragmoor!" Harlan bellowed, clapping Edric's shoulder with a meaty hand. "A rare pleasure! Come, we'll feast tonight—my cooks have outdone themselves."
Edric's smile was a blade sheathed in silk. "I'm honored, my lord. And while I'm here, I'd love to see your mines. Their reputation precedes them."
Harlan's joviality faltered, a shadow crossing his face. "Aye, they're a marvel—or were. Lately, it's been cave-ins and flooding. Nothing dire, mind you, but it's a thorn in my side."
Edric tilted his head, feigning sympathy. "Troubling news. Perhaps I can help. My own mines have prospered with new techniques."
Harlan's eyes lit up. "You're a good lad, Edric. We'll ride out tomorrow."
The feast that night was a riot of excess—roast boar, spiced wine, and raucous laughter filling the hall. Edric played his part, trading jests with Harlan's bannermen and noting the nervous glances of Lysa Farwynd, Harlan's daughter. Her betrothal to Ser Jon Prester of House Prester was a potential snag—stronger allies could embolden Harlan. "One step at a time," Edric thought, sipping his wine.
The next morning, they toured the mines. Edric strode beside Harlan through damp tunnels, the air heavy with dust and the clang of pickaxes. His senses thrummed, mapping the earth's secrets: a fracture in the ceiling, a stream pressing against its banks. As Harlan grumbled about recent troubles, Edric subtly flexed his will, widening a crack to let water trickle into a side passage. It was a whisper of sabotage, unnoticed but potent.
---
Over the following weeks, Edric struck from the shadows. Under moonless skies, he rode to the border of Farwynd's lands, kneeling to press his hands to the earth. With each visit, he unleashed small calamities: a tremor to collapse an empty tunnel, a redirected stream to flood a shaft. The miners grew jittery, tales of ill omens spreading like wildfire. Production dwindled, and Harlan's wealth bled away.
Edric bided his time, a spider awaiting its prey. When reports confirmed the mines' decline, he sent a raven to Farwynd Hall, offering to buy the beleaguered operation "as a favor." Harlan's reply was prompt, tinged with desperation: a meeting was set.
---
But plans, like stone, could crack unexpectedly. On a night thick with shadows, Edric slipped from Cragmoor Keep, his cloak merging with the darkness. He rode alone to Farwynd's border, dismounting to kneel by a rocky outcrop. His hands sank into the soil, and he summoned a tremor, a faint shudder that toppled a disused tunnel.
As the earth settled, a twig snapped behind him. Edric spun, dagger drawn, to find Roderick—a young guard from his keep—frozen in the starlight, his face a mask of shock.
"My lord," Roderick stammered, hands raised. "I—I followed you. I saw you leave alone and thought you might be in danger."
Edric's pulse raced. Roderick had witnessed the bending; the tremor's timing was too precise to dismiss. Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Killing him would be swift, but bodies raised questions, and Edric prized control over chaos.
He sheathed his blade, stepping closer. "What did you see, Roderick?"
The guard swallowed hard. "You moved the earth, my lord. Without tools or men. It's… unnatural."
Edric studied him, then gambled on trust. "It's a gift," he said, voice low and firm. "One I use to strengthen House Cragmoor. It's a secret that could destroy us—or elevate us. Tell me, Roderick, where does your loyalty lie?"
Roderick's eyes widened, then steadied. "With you, my lord. I swear it on my life."
Edric gripped his shoulder, a bond forged in the night. "Then you're more than a guard now. Help me, and you'll share in the rewards."
Roderick nodded, awe mingling with resolve. "I'm yours."
---
With Roderick bound to his cause, Edric pressed his advantage. The meeting with Lord Harlan came a week later at Farwynd Hall. They sat in Harlan's solar, a fire casting long shadows. The old lord's hands trembled as he poured wine, his voice heavy.
"The mines are cursed, Edric," Harlan said, slumping in his chair. "Cave-ins, floods—I've tried everything. Maesters, prayers, even a woods witch. Nothing works."
Edric leaned forward, his tone warm with false pity. "I feel for you, my lord. Mines can turn fickle. I've faced similar woes, but I've learned to tame them."
Harlan rubbed his temples. "You're kinder than I deserve. If you still want the mines, they're yours—for a price."
Edric hid his triumph. "Two thousand gold dragons. It's less than their peak value, but with the risks…"
"Done," Harlan said, waving a hand. "Better coin than collapse."
They shook hands, the deal sealed. Riding back to Cragmoor, Edric let satisfaction settle in his bones. The mines were his, their riches soon to flow into his coffers. And Roderick—loyal, silent Roderick—was a new piece on his board.
---
The next month was a flurry of calculated labor. Edric and Roderick ventured into the mines under cover of night, the guard standing watch as Edric worked his bending. Stone parted at his command, floods receded, and tunnels stabilized. The earth sang to him, obedient and vast. By the time the miners returned, the mines hummed with life, silver and copper pouring forth.
Edric rewarded Roderick with a captaincy over his personal guard, a role the young man embraced with fervor. The wealth of House Cragmoor swelled, its name whispered with growing respect—and wariness—across the Westerlands.
At a feast celebrating the mines' revival, Edric sat beside his mother, Lady Eleanor, her silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. She watched him, pride warring with unease.
"You've done wonders, my son," she said softly. "But power breeds foes. The lords talk of your rise—some admire, others mistrust."
Edric swirled his wine, scanning the hall. "Let them talk. I'll build a legacy they can't touch."
Her hand brushed his arm. "And marriage? Lysa Farwynd's betrothal to Ser Prester dissolved—some scandal, I hear. She'd make a fine match."
Edric's lips twitched. He'd seeded those rumors, a quiet nudge to weaken Harlan's ties. "Perhaps," he said aloud. "But marriage is a card I'll play when it suits me."
Lady Eleanor sighed, relenting. Edric's thoughts drifted to the future—mines were a foundation, but greater prizes loomed: trade routes, alliances, chaos to exploit.
Later, he stood on the battlements with Roderick, the night air sharp against their faces. The mines glittered faintly in the distance, a testament to their shared secret.
"What's next, my lord?" Roderick asked, his voice eager.
Edric's smile was a blade's edge, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "An army to match our wealth. And perhaps the sea—the Ironborn stir, and trouble is a merchant's friend."
Roderick nodded, his loyalty a mirror to Edric's ambition. Together, they would carve House Cragmoor into a force to rival the mightiest houses, one silent step at a time.