Chapter 13: The King's Gambit
Chapter 13: The King's Gambit
277 AC, 2nd Moon
King's Landing was a city choking on its own ambition. The stench of its half-million souls rose in a miasma that clung to the damp sea air, a stark contrast to the clean, orderly efficiency of Pyralis Point. Trystan, now a man of twenty-seven and Valerius's most trusted envoy, rode through the city's gates with a small, disciplined escort of ten Serpentsguard. Their slate-grey armor, devoid of ornamentation, and their silent, watchful demeanor drew curious and fearful glances from the gold cloaks of the City Watch. They were an anomaly in a city that ran on noise, corruption, and ostentatious displays of power.
The Red Keep was a viper's nest. Trystan could feel it the moment he entered the throne room to present himself. King Aerys II Targaryen was on the Iron Throne, looking every bit the young, handsome monarch, but his eyes held a restless, agitated quality. Beside him, on the Hand's seat, sat Lord Tywin Lannister. The contrast was absolute. Where the King was all nervous energy and flamboyant gestures, the Hand was a study in granite stillness. His presence seemed to suck the very warmth from the air. It was clear to Trystan, who had been trained by Valerius to read power dynamics as a merchant reads a ledger, who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms.
Trystan's request for a private audience was granted, not by the King, but by a curt nod from the Hand. The meeting took place later that day in the Tower of the Hand, a fortress within a fortress. The room was opulent but severe, dominated by a large table of polished oak. Lord Tywin did not offer wine or pleasantries. He stood by a window overlooking the city, his hands clasped behind his back, forcing Trystan to address his back. It was a classic power play, designed to intimidate.
"You are Lord Pyralis's man," Tywin stated, his voice a low baritone. It was not a question.
"I have the honor of serving him, my lord Hand," Trystan replied, his voice steady. He had been drilled for this moment, taught to project calm confidence without a hint of arrogance.
"Your lord has seen some… unusual fortune in recent years," Tywin said, turning slowly. His pale green eyes, flecked with gold, were chips of ice. They held no warmth, only a piercing, analytical light. "My auditors sent a most… comprehensive report. Six volumes. I read them. All of them."
"My lord is a diligent man," Trystan said simply.
"He is," Tywin agreed, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "He is also either the luckiest man in Westeros, or he is something else entirely. Now, you have come all this way to bring me a gift. Explain."
Trystan did not falter. He laid out the proposal exactly as Valerius had instructed. He spoke of his lord's deep respect for the Hand's service to the realm. He spoke of a desire to contribute to the strength and prosperity of the Westerlands, the bedrock of the kingdom's power. He presented schematics, drafted by Maester Arlan, of a new form of water pump, an invention based on "rediscovered Valyrian principles," capable of draining flooded chambers at a miraculous rate. He offered a dozen of these machines as a tribute, a gift from a loyal vassal to the Hand of the King.
He never once mentioned the failing gold mines of Casterly Rock. He didn't have to. The offer was a surgical strike aimed at the heart of Tywin's deepest secret.
Tywin Lannister listened in absolute silence, his expression unreadable. When Trystan finished, the Hand walked to the table and studied the schematics. The designs were elegant, brilliant, and utterly beyond the capabilities of any smith in the Seven Kingdoms.
"A gift," Tywin said, the words laced with cold irony. "Your lord is generous. He asks for nothing in return?"
"He asks only for the honor of serving the realm, my lord Hand. By serving you."
Tywin stared at Trystan for a long, unnerving moment, his gaze searching for any flicker of deceit. He found none. He found only the quiet, unshakeable confidence of a man who knows he holds the superior position. "Tell your lord I will take his generous offer under advisement. You are dismissed."
The news broke a fortnight later, spreading through King's Landing like wildfire. Lord Denys Darklyn of Duskendale, in a fit of pique over a tax dispute, had imprisoned the King. Aerys, against the express counsel of his Hand, had ridden to Duskendale with only a token guard to "deal with the matter personally" and had walked directly into a trap.
Valerius received the news at Pyralis Point with feigned shock and private, triumphant satisfaction. His forecast had been perfect. The market was reacting exactly as he had predicted.
"Fools," he said to his inner circle, gathered in the Strategy Room. He pointed to Duskendale on the map. "Lord Darklyn is a fool for believing he could challenge the Iron Throne and win. King Aerys is a fool for walking into such an obvious trap, driven by his desperate need to appear stronger than his Hand. And now, Lord Tywin is trapped by their foolishness."
He explained the situation with the cold clarity of a case study. "Tywin cannot storm the castle, for the Darklyns hold the King's life in their hands. He cannot offer terms, for that would be a sign of weakness that would invite a dozen similar rebellions. He is paralyzed. The great Lord Tywin, the man who destroyed the Reynes and the Tarbecks, is reduced to a siege, waiting, while the realm watches his authority bleed away with every passing day."
Maester Arlan, now a full partner in these strategic discussions, looked at Valerius with awe. "You foresaw this, my lord."
"I foresaw a collision of arrogance and incompetence," Valerius corrected. "The outcome was inevitable. And now," he smiled, "Lord Tywin is in need of a win. He is in need of a demonstration of power, of a solution that no one else can provide. He needs our pumps more than ever."
In his command tent outside the besieged walls of Duskendale, Tywin Lannister was a caged lion. For six months, the siege dragged on. The stalemate was a constant, festering humiliation. Every morning he awoke to the sight of the defiant banners of House Darklyn, a testament to his powerlessness. His relationship with Aerys, already frayed, had been shattered by the King's reckless pride.
He thought often of the offer from the strange Lord of the Hook. The schematics for the water pumps were burned into his memory. They represented an impossible technology, a solution to the secret shame of his house—the flooded mines that had rendered the Lannisters rich in name only. The offer was an insult, a clear message that this minor lord knew his deepest vulnerability. But it was also a lifeline.
In the midst of this political and military quagmire, the offer from Pyralis Point began to look less like an insult and more like an opportunity. It was a demonstration of a different kind of power—not of armies and swords, but of intellect and innovation. It was a power he could use.
On the first day of the seventh month of the siege, a raven flew from the Hand's command tent. It was bound for Pyralis Point.
When the scroll arrived, bearing the golden lion of Lannister, Valerius broke the seal with steady hands. The message was brief and devoid of pleasantry. It was a command, not a request.
Lord Pyralis,
Your tribute is accepted. Have one of your devices and a team of your technicians prepared for transport to Lannisport. My brother, Ser Kevan, will oversee the arrangements.
Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King
Valerius handed the scroll to Trystan. "Phase one is complete."
He had done it. He had leveraged a predictable political crisis to force the hand of the most powerful man in Westeros. He had inserted his proprietary technology into the heart of the Lannister power structure. Tywin Lannister now owed him. The Hand of the King was now dependent on a resource that only Valerius could supply. He was no longer just a wealthy arms dealer operating in the shadows. He was a strategic partner to the de facto ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
He walked to the great map on the wall. With a piece of charcoal, he drew a thin, sharp line from Pyralis Point all the way across the continent to Casterly Rock. The serpent's coils were spreading. The game had changed. While the lords of Westeros were focused on the drama at Duskendale, the real power was shifting, silently and irrevocably, in a transaction of steel and secrets that no one else even knew had taken place.