Chapter 15: The Harrenhal Dividend

Chapter 15: The Harrenhal Dividend

281 AC, 2nd Moon

The gold of the Westerlands now flowed east, not in the tax carts of the Iron Throne, but in the silent, swift hulls of the Serpent Fleet. The Goldenflow project had been a resounding success, a masterclass in technological blackmail. Lord Tywin Lannister, the great lion of the Rock, was now Valerius's most important client. The Pyralis water pumps, serviced exclusively by Maester Arlan's discreet "technicians" on biannual visits, were the only things keeping the Lannister gold mines from drowning. In return for this service, a steady stream of bullion was transferred to shell corporations Valerius had established in the Free Cities, a quiet, untraceable payment for a debt the Hand of the King could never publicly acknowledge.

Valerius stood on the obsidian-flecked sands of his hidden harbor, watching as the Sea Serpent's sister ship, the Viper, was loaded with steel ingots bound for a Myrish arms consortium. His fleet now numbered twelve vessels, each a masterpiece of advanced engineering that could outrun and outlast any ship in the royal fleet. He had achieved logistical supremacy. His control over the means of production was now matched by his control over the means of distribution. The Pyralis corporate enterprise was a closed system, a self-sustaining economic powerhouse operating entirely in the shadows of the Seven Kingdoms.

His personal life was managed with the same ruthless efficiency. His wife, Lyra, remained a quiet, decorative fixture in his household, a mother to his heir and a manager of domestic trifles. She had learned not to intrude upon his work, to exist in the gilded cage he had built for her. Their interactions were brief, formal, and devoid of affection. She was a successfully integrated asset, performing her function as expected.

His son, Corvus, was a different matter. He was the future of the dynasty, the heir to the empire, and his education was Valerius's most critical long-term project. At nine years old, Corvus was no longer playing cyvasse. He was studying maps, learning logistics, and absorbing the cold, hard principles of power.

"There are two types of power, Corvus," Valerius said, standing with his son before the great map in the Strategy Room. "The first is the power of the sword, the power of the dragon. It is loud, it is dramatic, and it inspires fear. It is the power of Aerys Targaryen and Tywin Lannister. It is the power of fools."

He tapped the map over the Westerlands. "The second is the power of the ledger. The power of the supply chain. It is the power to control the resources that others need to wield their swords and feed their dragons. It is quiet, it is invisible, and it is absolute. Lord Tywin believes he is the most powerful man in the realm, yet he cannot pay his armies without the gold our pumps allow him to extract. He is my vassal, and he doesn't even know it."

Corvus listened, his young face serious, his grey eyes absorbing every word. "So we do not need a dragon?"

"A dragon is a weapon," Valerius replied. "We are building the armory. We will sell weapons to all sides, and we will always own the forge. Never forget that."

The political climate in King's Landing had deteriorated into a state of toxic paralysis, just as Valerius's foreknowledge had indicated. King Aerys, his sanity shattered by the Defiance of Duskendale, had retreated into a cocoon of paranoia and delusion. He had not left the Red Keep in four years, his hair and nails growing to grotesque lengths. His court was a nest of sycophants and schemers, with Varys the Spider whispering poison in his ear, feeding his suspicions of his own son, Rhaegar. 

Lord Tywin, though still Hand, was Hand in name only. The King thwarted his every move, reversing his edicts and mocking him openly. The functional governance of the Seven Kingdoms had ground to a halt, paralyzed by the mutual hatred of the two men who were supposed to lead it. 

Valerius monitored this slow-motion collapse with the detached interest of a vulture watching two wolves fight over a carcass. He knew the breaking point was near. It arrived, as expected, in the form of a raven bearing news of a great tourney.

"Lord Walter Whent announces a tourney at Harrenhal," Maester Arlan reported, reading the scroll in the solar. "To celebrate his maiden daughter's name day. The prizes are… magnificent. Three times what Lord Tywin offered at the Lannisport tourney." 

Valerius smiled. It was a cold, predatory expression. "Lord Whent is a man of modest means. He cannot afford such prizes. This is not his tourney." 

"Whose, then, my lord?" Arlan asked, his scientific curiosity piqued.

"It belongs to the man who needs to gather the great lords of the realm away from the paranoid gaze of the King," Valerius explained. "It belongs to the man who believes he needs to build a coalition to deal with his father's madness. This is Prince Rhaegar's tourney." 

He knew, with the chilling certainty of a man reading a history book, that this event would be the fulcrum upon which the future of the realm would turn. It was here that the alliances would be tested, the battle lines drawn. It was here that Rhaegar Targaryen, in a fit of prophetic obsession and romantic folly, would light the fuse of his own family's destruction by crowning Lyanna Stark the queen of love and beauty. 

"Will you attend, my lord?" Trystan asked.

"I will not," Valerius said firmly. "A gathering of peacocks and fools, preening for prizes and plotting in tents. It is a chaotic, unpredictable environment, and my presence would draw unnecessary attention. We do not participate in such games. We observe them. We profit from them."

He turned to his inner circle. "This tourney is the single greatest intelligence-gathering opportunity of the decade. I want to know everything. Who speaks to whom. What alliances are forged. What grievances are aired. I want a full accounting of every tilt, every melee, every drunken boast in every tavern."

He assigned the roles with swift precision. Trystan would go, not as a representative of House Pyralis, but disguised as a merchant's factor, his guards dressed as common sellswords. His job was to observe the high lords, to gauge the strength of Rhaegar's faction versus the King's. Maester Arlan would send two of his most trusted acolytes, men whose loyalty was now to Pyralis, not the Citadel, to mingle with the other maesters and servants, gathering information from the ground level. A dozen more agents, drawn from the crews of his ships and the smallfolk of his lands, would spread out among the camps, listening, watching.

"And what of the King?" Arlan asked. "Surely he will not attend."

"He will," Valerius stated with absolute confidence. "Varys will convince him that Rhaegar is using this tourney to plot his overthrow. Aerys, in his madness, will not be able to resist the urge to appear, to confront his son, to remind the realm that he is still the King. His presence will turn a political gathering into a powder keg." 

His prediction was confirmed a week later. A royal decree announced that King Aerys II would honor Lord Whent's tourney with his presence. The game was set.

On the eve of the tourney's start, Valerius stood alone in the Strategy Room. His agents were in place at Harrenhal. The web of information was being woven. He looked at the great map, at the piece representing the ancient, cursed castle by the Gods Eye. He saw it not as a place of celebration, but as a financial event, a market correction waiting to happen.

The tourney at Harrenhal would yield a significant dividend. It would shatter the uneasy peace of the realm. It would alienate the Starks, the Baratheons, and the Tullys from the crown. It would result in Tywin Lannister's final, bitter departure from court when Aerys named his son Jaime to the Kingsguard, a move Valerius knew was coming. It would set the stage for Robert's Rebellion, a war that would bleed the great houses of their wealth and manpower.

And he would be ready. While they fought their pointless, bloody war for a chair of swords, he would be consolidating his power, expanding his fleet, and perfecting his technology. When the dust settled and a new, bankrupt king sat on the Iron Throne, Valerius would be the one they would all have to turn to. Not as a lord, but as a banker. As a creditor. As the true power behind the throne.

He picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a circle around Harrenhal. He did not write the names of knights or ladies. He wrote a single word: Liquidation. The assets of the Targaryen dynasty were about to be stripped, and he was perfectly positioned for a hostile takeover.