Chapter 7: A Hostile Takeover

Chapter 7: A Hostile Takeover

262 AC, 9th Moon

The world had burned, and Valerius had sold the fireproof bricks. The War of the Ninepenny Kings had been a glorious, bloody, and exquisitely profitable affair. From the safety of his hidden harbor, he had funneled thousands of tons of his superior steel into the meat grinder of the Stepstones. The ingots, laundered through Kaelo Voronnis's shell companies in Pentos and Myr, had been forged into swords and armor for both the Band of Nine and the armies of the Free Cities sent to oppose them. He had armed both sides, fueled the conflict with anonymous precision, and reaped a fortune that now dwarfed the treasuries of the Great Houses. 

Now, in the quiet aftermath, the political landscape of Westeros had been irrevocably altered. The brief, troubled reign of Jaehaerys II was over, and his son, Aerys II, now sat the Iron Throne. Aerys was young, charming, and ambitious, but Valerius's foreknowledge painted a darker picture of paranoia and madness to come. More immediately significant was the man Aerys had named as his Hand: Tywin Lannister. The Young Lion had brutally extinguished the rebellious Houses Reyne and Tarbeck a year prior, setting a new standard for ruthless efficiency in the Westerlands. 

Valerius stood before the grand slate map in his Strategy Room, the polished stone cool beneath his fingertips. He had followed these events not as a loyal subject, but as a market analyst watching a competitor's aggressive new product launch. Tywin's extermination of his vassals was a powerful statement, but Valerius saw it as crude, a brute-force solution that generated fear but also wasted resources and created lasting enmity. It was the work of a predator, yes, but an unsophisticated one. A true master of the game didn't need to slaughter his rivals; he simply acquired their assets and absorbed them into his own portfolio.

"The war is over, the succession is settled, and the great lords are licking their wounds or jockeying for position at the new court," Valerius said, his voice echoing slightly in the stone chamber. Trystan stood beside him, no longer a boy but a man of twenty-two, his eyes sharp with the cold, analytical light his lord had instilled in him. "The market is stabilizing. It is the perfect time for an acquisition."

He tapped a point on the map at the northern tip of Massey's Hook. "Sharp Point. The seat of House Bar Emmon."

Trystan's gaze followed his lord's finger. "They are sworn to Dragonstone, my lord. Like us. Their lands are poor, their men few."

"Their lands are undeveloped, not poor," Valerius corrected gently. "They sit on the same iron and silver deposits we do. Their port is small but strategically located at the mouth of the Gullet. And their lord is a liability." He turned to Trystan. "Lord Duram Bar Emmon is a boy of seventeen, fat, feeble, and possessing the strategic acumen of a startled sheep. His house is in debt, his people are unproductive, and his keep is in disrepair. He is a mismanaged asset, ripe for a takeover."

This was the next phase of his plan. He had consolidated his own territory, established a global revenue stream, and built a formidable security force. Now, he would expand. Not through conquest, which was loud and invited scrutiny, but through economic absorption. He would make House Pyralis the sole corporate entity of Massey's Hook.

"I will be paying Lord Bar Emmon a visit," Valerius announced. "A friendly neighbor, offering aid and counsel. Trystan, you will prepare a trade proposal. We will offer to manage their fishing fleet and agricultural production, guaranteeing them a 50% increase in yields in the first year in exchange for a modest management fee. Also, prepare a portfolio on our advanced well-drilling and irrigation techniques. We will offer to modernize their infrastructure… for a price."

"He will see it as a lifeline," Trystan said, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

"Precisely," Valerius replied. "He will see it as a lifeline. I will ensure he sees it as nothing else."

The journey to Sharp Point was a calculated display of humble power. Valerius rode with an escort of only ten Serpentsguard, including Ser Gregor. But their armor, a dark, slate-grey plate of interlocking scales, was unlike anything seen in Westeros. It did not shine; it seemed to absorb the light. Their movements were silent and fluid, and they rode with a discipline that spoke of endless training. They were not a lord's honor guard; they were a special operations team.

Sharp Point was a grim, salt-streaked tower perched on a windswept cliff, looking more like a forgotten watchtower than the seat of a noble house. As they approached, Valerius's keen eyes took in the signs of decay: fields choked with weeds, a village of sagging hovels, and a fishing fleet of leaky, ill-maintained boats. It was a failing enterprise, bleeding cash and morale.

They were met by a slovenly Master-at-Arms who led them into a cramped, smoky great hall. Lord Duram Bar Emmon sat on a high-backed chair that was too small for his considerable girth, his fine velvets stained with food. He was, as Valerius had assessed, a boy playing at being a lord, his face soft and petulant, his eyes holding a mixture of arrogance and deep-seated insecurity.

"Lord Pyralis," Duram said, his voice a high-pitched whine. He did not rise. "An unexpected visit. We see little of you on this end of the Hook." 

Valerius offered a slight, disarming bow, the picture of a polite, deferential neighbor. "Lord Bar Emmon. Forgive my intrusion. I was inspecting my own southern lands and felt it remiss not to pay my respects to my closest neighbor." His gaze swept the hall, taking in the threadbare banners and the sullen faces of the household retainers. "These are troubled times. It is wise for men of the Hook to stand together."

Duram puffed out his chest. "House Bar Emmon has stood strong for a thousand years. We need no help."

"Of course not," Valerius said smoothly, his tone placating. "Indeed, it is I who have come to admire your strength. Your house has a proud history. I have read of your ancestor, Togarion the Terrible, who carved a kingdom from this very rock."

The flattery landed perfectly. Duram's suspicious expression softened. He knew little of his own house's history, but he liked the sound of it.

"I have been… fortunate, these past few years," Valerius continued, adopting a humble tone. "The Seven have blessed my lands. My harvests are strong, my people content. And yet, I look at my ledgers and I see a house that is an island. We are prosperous, yes, but isolated. Our strength is our own, but it is not shared." He leaned forward, his expression one of earnest sincerity, the kind he used to win over a skeptical board. "My lord, our two houses are the pillars of this peninsula. If one pillar is stronger than the other, the roof is unstable. I wish to propose… a partnership."

He laid out the proposal Trystan had prepared. He spoke not of takeovers or acquisitions, but of mutual prosperity, of shared resources, of an alliance that would make Massey's Hook the most prosperous corner of the Crownlands. He offered to apply his "unique" agricultural and logistical methods to the Bar Emmon lands, promising returns that sounded fantastical to the young lord. He offered to lend his engineers to repair the crumbling seawall of Sharp Point and deepen its harbor.

"And what do you ask in return for this… generosity?" Duram asked, his eyes narrowed with a suspicion born of incompetence, not intelligence.

"A simple alliance, my lord," Valerius said. "A treaty of mutual defense and economic cooperation. Your house is ancient and respected. Mine is new and, I confess, lacks the political standing your name carries. Together, we would be a force to be reckoned with. All I ask is that you allow my people to manage the implementation of these improvements, and a small percentage of the increased profits to cover my costs. You retain your lordship, your titles, your authority. You simply become richer and more powerful under my guidance."

It was a masterstroke of manipulation. He was offering to take on all of Duram's responsibilities, solve all of his problems, and make him wealthy, all while asking for nothing that sounded like a concession of power. He was selling servitude and calling it a promotion.

They spoke for two hours. Valerius answered every question with patient, irrefutable logic, presenting charts and figures that demonstrated the undeniable benefits of his proposal. By the end, Lord Duram Bar Emmon was not just convinced; he was ecstatic. He saw Valerius not as a threat, but as a savior, a brilliant financial wizard who would magically solve all his problems.

They signed the agreement that afternoon. It was a lengthy, complex document drafted by Valerius himself, full of clauses and sub-clauses that gave him effective control over every aspect of the Bar Emmon economy and military. Lord Duram signed it without reading past the first page.

As Valerius rode away from Sharp Point, the setting sun at his back, he felt the cold, clean satisfaction of a perfectly executed deal. He had not fired a single arrow or drawn a single sword, yet he had conquered a lordship as surely as Aegon had conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Within a month, his "advisors" would be running Sharp Point. Trystan's brother, Bryen, would be managing the finances. A lieutenant from the Serpentsguard would be retraining the household guard. The Bar Emmon lands would become a subsidiary of Pyralis Inc.

He thought of Tywin Lannister and the rains weeping over the empty halls of Castamere. Fear was a powerful tool, but it was a blunt instrument. It inspired obedience, but never innovation, never true loyalty. The people of House Bar Emmon would not fear him. They would see their lives improve, their bellies fill, their homes become sturdy. They would come to see Lord Pyralis as a benefactor, a miracle worker, just as his own people did. Their loyalty would be transferred to him, not out of terror, but out of enlightened self-interest.

He had secured his base of operations. The entire peninsula of Massey's Hook was now his private fiefdom, a laboratory for his new world order, hidden in plain sight. He had acquired new assets, a second port, and neutralized a potential future annoyance. It was a clean, bloodless, and immensely profitable acquisition.

The great lords could play their game of thrones, with its pageantry and its pointless wars. He was playing a different game, a longer game. And he was winning.