Chapter 5: The Arms Deal

Chapter 5: The Arms Deal

258 AC, 3rd Moon

Four years. In the world of high-stakes finance from which he'd been violently ejected, four years was an eternity, a full market cycle of boom and bust. Here, in the sluggish, feudal world of Westeros, it was but the blink of an eye. For Valerius, it had been a period of ruthlessly efficient, vertically integrated growth. The public face of House Pyralis was one of quiet, miraculous prosperity. The fields of Massey's Hook, once stony and fallow, were now unnaturally green, their yields consistently triple that of any other land in the Crownlands. The fishing fleet, using nets and hooks of his superior steel, brought in catches that filled the storehouses and the pockets of his smallfolk. The village was no longer a collection of hovels but a town of sturdy stone houses, its people healthy, well-fed, and fiercely, fanatically loyal to the quiet, reclusive young lord who had, in their eyes, been blessed by the Seven. 

The true engine of this prosperity hummed deep beneath the earth. The Foundry was no longer a simple forge; it was a sophisticated manufacturing plant. The production of high-grade steel and refined silver was a constant, automated process, managed by Valerius in the dead of night. His "academy" had borne fruit; Trystan and the other four youths were now his junior executives, overseeing the surface-level logistics of agriculture, trade, and local security with a grasp of numbers and efficiency that would baffle a maester of the Citadel. They didn't need to know how the steel was made, only how to account for every ingot and calculate the profit margin on every shipment.

His public persona was meticulously maintained. He was Lord Pyralis, the odd, scholarly recluse who had never quite recovered from his childhood fever, a lord who preferred books to swords and whose only notable achievements were a bizarre change to his house sigil and an uncanny luck with harvests. He paid his taxes to the Iron Throne promptly, and his tithes to the Starry Sept were always generous. He was a non-entity, a rounding error in the great game of thrones, and that was his most valuable asset.

The arrival of Kaelo Voronnis's cog, the Silken Star, was now a biannual event, a cornerstone of Valerius's foreign trade policy. But this time, the Pentoshi merchant did not come with the easy confidence of a man trading in grain and tools. He came with the nervous energy of a predator who has stumbled upon a much larger, more dangerous species of prey.

They met in the stone office overlooking the hidden harbor. Kaelo's fine silks seemed damp with sweat, despite the cool sea breeze. His two guards stood stiffly by the door, their eyes wide and wary, as if they sensed the unseen power that permeated the very rock of this place.

"Lord Pyralis," Kaelo began, his voice a little too loud. "Your port is a sanctuary in a world gone mad."

"Trouble in the Free Cities, Master Voronnis?" Valerius asked, his voice calm. He gestured for the merchant to sit, projecting an aura of serene detachment. He had already learned much from his own network of informants—fishermen and sailors paid in pure Pyralis silver—but he wanted to hear Kaelo's assessment. 

"Trouble is an understatement, my lord. It is a feast for crows." Kaelo leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The so-called 'Band of Nine,' a pack of pirates, sellswords, and pretenders, have taken Tyrosh. They style themselves kings and lords. Maelys Blackfyre, the last of that wretched line, is with them. They have seized the Stepstones, and every merchant ship that passes must pay their toll or burn. The trade routes are bleeding."

Valerius nodded slowly. This was consistent with his foreknowledge. The War of the Ninepenny Kings was brewing, a storm that would soon break upon the shores of Westeros itself. Chaos was a ladder, but it was also a market opportunity.

"A lamentable state of affairs," Valerius said, his expression one of mild concern.

"Lamentable for some. Profitable for others." Kaelo's eyes glinted with a mixture of fear and greed. "The Magisters of Myr and Lys are arming. They will not suffer a pirate king on their doorstep for long. They are paying any price for steel. Not for plows, my lord." He paused, letting the weight of his words fill the room. "For swords. For armor. For war."

This was the escalation Valerius had been anticipating. The transition from a diversified industrial manufacturer to a defense contractor. He performed a swift, internal risk assessment, his mind a cold engine of calculation.

Opportunity: Arms dealing was exponentially more profitable than selling agricultural tools. It would accelerate his wealth accumulation by an order of magnitude. Supplying arms to the Free Cities would also allow him to field-test his military designs and gain invaluable data on their performance in actual combat. Furthermore, fanning the flames of a conflict in Essos would keep the great powers there distracted and internally focused, preventing them from taking too close an interest in the strange, productive anomaly that was Massey's Hook.

Risk: The risk of discovery was significantly higher. Selling grain was commerce. Selling arms was treason. If the Iron Throne discovered he was supplying foreign powers, even powers not directly hostile to Westeros, they would be forced to act. The name Pyralis would be extinguished, its lord's head placed on a spike above the Red Keep.

He looked at Kaelo, the merchant's face slick with avarice. The man was a tool, a cutout. Useful, but ultimately expendable. The decision was obvious. The potential rewards dwarfed the risks, provided the operation was structured correctly.

"My house is a house of peace, Master Voronnis," Valerius said softly, a hint of disappointment in his tone. "We forge plows to feed the hungry, not swords to kill them."

Kaelo's face fell. "My lord, the prices they are offering…"

"However," Valerius continued, letting the merchant hang for a moment. "My steel is my own. What other men choose to forge from it is a matter for their own conscience, and their own gods." He leaned forward, his grey eyes locking onto Kaelo's. "I will sell you ingots. Perfectly refined, unmarked steel of a quality that will make the smiths of Qohor weep with envy. I will also sell you plates of shaped, untempered steel, perfectly sized for breastplates, greaves, and helms. What you do with them once they are on your ship is your affair. You will not speak my name. You will not speak of this harbor. The steel will be of unknown Qohorik origin, a secret your employers will be happy to keep. Is that understood?"

Kaelo Voronnis felt a chill run down his spine. The shy, boy-lord was gone. In his place was something cold, hard, and infinitely more dangerous. This was not a negotiation. It was a directive. 

"Perfectly, my lord," Kaelo breathed, a smile returning to his face. "Perfectly."

Before committing his product to a foreign war, Valerius needed to conduct a domestic field test. He needed to confirm the superiority of his military assets and blood his new security force. For a year, his Master-at-Arms, Ser Gregor Stone, had been training a hand-picked unit of ten young men from the village, led by the intelligent Trystan. Valerius had named them the 'Serpentsguard.' They were armed and armored exclusively with products from the Foundry.

Their armor was a revolution. Instead of heavy, cumbersome plate, it was composed of smaller, interlocking plates of his superior steel, providing greater flexibility without sacrificing protection. It was a full half the weight of standard knightly plate. Their swords were masterpieces of metallurgy—light, perfectly balanced, and sharp enough to shave with.

The opportunity for a test case presented itself in the form of a persistent liability. A band of wreckers and pirates had long used the treacherous coves at the southern tip of the Hook as a base, preying on storm-tossed merchant ships. They were a minor nuisance, beneath the notice of the great lords, but they were a threat to Valerius's own shipping and an infestation on his land. He would liquidate them.

He announced a multi-day training patrol for the Serpentsguard, to be led by himself and Ser Gregor. The official purpose was to map the southern coastline. The true purpose was a hostile acquisition.

They found the pirate camp nestled in a rocky inlet. There were nearly forty of them, a rough collection of brutes armed with rusted axes and notched swords. They were drinking around a fire, their single, battered longship anchored in the cove.

When Valerius and his twelve men appeared on the ridge above the beach, the pirates roared with laughter. A dozen men, one a grey-haired knight and the other a slim boy-lord, facing forty hardened killers.

"Look what the tide washed in!" bellowed their leader, a giant of a man with a scarred face and a tangled red beard. "Come to give us your gold, little lord?"

Valerius smiled, a thin, cold expression that did not reach his eyes. "I've come to collect my taxes," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the sea air. He gave a single, sharp nod to Trystan.

What happened next would become a legend on Massey's Hook, a tale told in hushed, fearful whispers for a hundred years.

Valerius raised a hand, and a thick, unnatural fog rolled in from the sea, blanketing the cove in a disorienting grey shroud. The pirates' laughter died in their throats. Ser Gregor, his face grim, drew his sword. "For the Serpent!" he roared, a battle cry Valerius had personally approved.

The Serpentsguard charged down the slope. They moved with a speed and silence that was unnerving in their light armor. The pirates scrambled for their weapons, stumbling in the fog and on the suddenly slick, wet rocks beneath their feet.

The clash was not a battle; it was a slaughter. The pirates' heavy axes and swords glanced off the Serpentsguard's armor with useless shrieks of metal. The guards' own blades, by contrast, sheared through leather, mail, and flesh with contemptuous ease. Trystan fought with a cold, focused fury, his movements precise, his training taking over. He was no longer a boy who mended nets; he was a killer.

Valerius moved through the chaos like a ghost. He did not use overt displays of power. There were no fireballs, no lightning bolts. His intervention was far more subtle, and far more terrifying. A pirate swung an axe at him; Valerius flicked his wrist, and a gust of compressed air sent the man tumbling backward over the fire. Another lunged with a sword; Valerius met the blade not with his own, but with a focused thought, and the pirate's sword bent into a useless pretzel. He moved among them, a blur of grey cloth, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. Men fell, clutching their throats, their own blood suddenly choking them from within. Others screamed as the very air was forced from their lungs. To his own men, it looked like their lord possessed the skill of a hundred master swordsmen. To his enemies, it was as if they were fighting a vengeful god of wind and water.

In less than ten minutes, it was over. Thirty-eight pirates lay dead or dying on the beach. Two had been left alive, bound and trembling, for interrogation. The Serpentsguard stood in a circle, their armor barely scratched, their breathing heavy but their eyes wide with a mixture of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated awe for their lord. Ser Gregor stared at Valerius, the old knight's mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed. He had seen the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms fight, but he had never seen anything like this.

Valerius felt nothing. No exhilaration, no remorse. It was a successful field test. The hardware performed above expectations. The personnel were effective. The threat was neutralized.

"Secure their ship and any valuables," Valerius ordered, his voice perfectly level. "Trystan, find out who they sell their stolen goods to. I want names."

He turned and looked out at the sea, the fog receding as quickly as it had come. He had just committed his first act of mass violence in this world. It was efficient. It was profitable. And it was only the beginning. The public report would state that Ser Gregor's brilliantly trained guards had bravely overcome a pirate band in a hard-fought battle. Ser Gregor would be lauded as a hero. Lord Pyralis would remain the quiet, unassuming lord in his castle. But his men knew the truth. They had seen the serpent strike, and they now knew that its coils were wrapped not just around a hook of land, but around the very elements of the world itself.