Chapter 5: The Price of Power - 274 AC

Chapter 5: The Price of Power - 274 AC

The year 274 AC settled upon Stone's End like a fine layer of sea salt, clinging to everything, a constant, sharp reminder of the ocean that was both our lifeblood and our isolation. At fourteen, I was a creature of sharp angles and ill-fitting doublets, my body a battleground of adolescent awkwardness that stood in stark, almost comical, contrast to the cold, ancient predator residing in my mind. The changes were a persistent, low-grade annoyance. A voice that chose the most inopportune moments to crack, limbs that felt both too long and too clumsy, and the first faint shadow of a beard on my chin that Maester Arion eyed with a sort of grandfatherly pride. I endured it all with the stoic patience of a man who had weathered far worse storms.

The port was no longer a project; it was a living, breathing entity. The trickle of ships had become a steady current, a vibrant, chaotic flow of commerce that had transformed our once-somnolent keep into a bustling nexus of trade. The air, once clean and tasting only of brine, was now a thick Gumbo of smells: pitch and tar from the shipwrights, sawdust from the new lumber mill, the heady aroma of wine from the Arbor and spices from the East, all mingling with the less pleasant but equally vital smells of sweat, fish, and humanity. Our coffers were overflowing, and the name Thorne, once a mere whisper on the winds of the Stormlands, was now spoken with a grudging respect in the taverns of Sunspear and the counting houses of Pentos.

But prosperity, as I knew better than anyone, is a magnet for predators. It paints a target on your back. And the larger the target, the more skilled the archer it attracts.

The first arrow came from the west, from the heart of the Stormlands itself. Lord Eldon Estermont, a man whose island fortress was a day's sail from our own, was a lord of the old school. He believed power grew from the tip of a sword, not the hull of a merchant ship. He saw our burgeoning wealth not as a sign of progress, but as an affront to the established order, a disruption to the food chain in which he and his ancient house sat comfortably above us.

His envoy was not a smooth-tongued courtier like Ser Ryam Redwyne. He was a knight, Ser Gerold Estermont, the lord's own nephew, a man with a jaw like a block of granite and eyes as cold and grey as a winter sea. He arrived unannounced, his war galley, the Green Turtle, dropping anchor in our harbour like a declaration of war. He did not request a meeting; he demanded one.

We met in the great hall, the newly hung banners of House Thorne – a silver lighthouse on a field of stormy grey – looking down upon us. Ser Gerold dispensed with pleasantries.

"Lord Valerius, Lord Lysander," he began, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the stones, "my uncle, Lord Eldon, has watched your… enterprise… with great interest. He is concerned. The sea is a dangerous place. Pirates, storms… It would be a tragedy for such a prosperous venture to fall victim to misfortune."

My father, ever the stoic lord, bristled at the thinly veiled threat. "We are grateful for Lord Estermont's concern, Ser Gerold, but we are quite capable of managing our own affairs."

Ser Gerold's lips twisted into a smirk that was anything but friendly. "Are you? A few local toughs and a handful of household guards? My uncle believes that true security requires… a stronger hand. He is prepared to offer you the protection of House Estermont. His fleet will patrol these waters, his men will guard your port."

"And what would this… protection… cost us?" I asked, my voice calm and even, cutting through the rising tension in the room.

Ser Gerold's gaze shifted to me, his eyes narrowing. He was assessing me, the boy-genius he had heard tales of. "A tithe," he said, the word landing like a stone. "A modest tax. Twenty percent of all port revenues. A small price to pay for the peace of mind that comes with the friendship of Greenstone."

It was extortion, pure and simple, dressed in the threadbare robes of feudal obligation. My father's hand went to the pommel of his sword, his face a thundercloud of fury. To yield was to show weakness, to invite further predation. To refuse was to invite open conflict with a house far older and more powerful than our own.

But this was my game. I had played it on a much grander stage, against men who would have made Lord Eldon look like a common street thug.

"Twenty percent is a steep price for friendship, Ser Gerold," I said, allowing a thoughtful, almost academic, frown to cross my face. "Especially a friendship we have not sought. However, we appreciate Lord Estermont's… generous offer. We will, of course, need time to consider its merits. Please, extend our hospitality to your men. Rest, resupply. We will give you our answer in three days' time."

Ser Gerold, confident in his position of power, agreed. He saw my request for time as a sign of weakness, a prelude to capitulation. He was wrong. It was a declaration of a different kind of war.

That night, in the hidden sea cave that served as my laboratory and war room, I met with Rhys. The salt-strewn floor was littered with scrolls, maps, and the tools of my more esoteric craft. The air hummed with the latent energy of the ring, a power that felt both limitless and deeply corrupting.

"Estermont has taken the bait," I said, my voice echoing in the cavern. "He thinks he has us cornered."

Rhys, his face grim in the flickering torchlight, nodded. "His men are carousing in the taverns, boasting of how their lord will soon be the master of Stone's End. Bronn and his boys are keeping an eye on them, but the mood in the port is tense."

"Let them boast," I replied, a cold smile touching my lips. "Pride is a vulnerability, and I intend to exploit it. I need information, Rhys. Everything you can find on Lord Eldon Estermont. His finances, his allies, his enemies. His secrets."

I also had another, more delicate task for him. "And I need you to find me a man. A ship captain. A man with a fast ship, a loose conscience, and a thirst for gold."

For the next two days, Rhys's network, the silent, invisible web I had woven across the Stormlands, went to work. Whispers were bought, secrets were traded, debts were called in. Information began to trickle in, painting a picture of a man whose pride and ambition far outstripped his resources. Lord Eldon was land-rich but coin-poor. He had a powerful fleet, but maintaining it was a constant drain on his treasury. He was in debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos, a debt that was coming due sooner than he would like.

While Rhys was gathering intelligence, I was engaged in my own, more arcane, form of preparation. The confrontation with Estermont had given me a new sense of urgency. I needed more than just wealth and a network of spies. I needed power, true power, the kind that could level the playing field, that could turn a minor lord into a kingmaker.

My research had moved beyond the simple enchantment of daggers. I was now attempting to create a scrying tool, a device that would allow me to see beyond the confines of my own senses, to spy on my enemies from a distance. The theory, gleaned from fragmented Valyrian texts and my own understanding of magical principles, was sound. It required a perfect crystal, a significant expenditure of magical energy, and a… focal point. A connection to the person or place I wished to observe.

I had the crystal, a flawless sphere of quartz I had acquired from the Pentoshi merchant. I had the energy, the roiling sea of souls trapped within my ring. What I lacked was the focal point. But Ser Gerold, in his arrogance, had provided me with one. He had left behind a leather gauntlet in the great hall, a small, insignificant oversight that would prove to be his undoing.

The ritual was a draining, perilous affair. For hours, I sat in the heart of my laboratory, the crystal sphere cradled in my hands, the gauntlet placed before me. I drew upon the power of the ring, the chorus of disembodied souls a deafening roar in my mind. I could feel their sorrow, their anger, their love, their hate, a chaotic torrent of emotion that threatened to overwhelm me. I pushed it all aside, focusing my will, my intent, on a single purpose: to see.

As I poured the energy into the crystal, it began to glow, the same cold, silver light as my enchanted dagger, but brighter, more intense. The air in the cave grew thick, heavy, charged with an almost unbearable pressure. The whispers of the souls grew louder, more insistent. One voice, a young woman's, full of a desperate, pleading sorrow, broke through the cacophony. He's dying, it seemed to cry out, the old fisherman, his heart…

I felt a pang, a moment of genuine hesitation. I knew the man, old Willem, who had lived his whole life in the village. His death would mean a fresh, potent soul for the ring. But it also felt… ghoulish. Predatory.

The Serpent stirred within me. Sentiment is a weakness, it hissed. Power has a price. Are you willing to pay it?

I hardened my heart. I pushed the woman's voice away, focusing on the task at hand. The crystal flared, and an image began to form within its depths. At first, it was cloudy, indistinct, but then it sharpened, clarified, and I found myself looking at a richly appointed chamber, a room I knew instinctively was in the castle of Greenstone. Lord Eldon Estermont sat at a large, oaken desk, his face a mask of frustration as he stared at a pile of scrolls. I could not hear his words, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the desperation in his eyes. I had him.

The next day, as Rhys brought me news of a reaver captain from the Stepstones who was willing to do my bidding for the right price, I knew my plan was complete.

On the third day, I summoned Ser Gerold back to the great hall. He swaggered in, a confident smirk on his face, expecting our surrender. My father stood beside me, his expression grim, his hand once again on his sword.

"Ser Gerold," I began, my voice clear and steady, "we have considered your lord's… generous offer. And we must respectfully decline."

The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a look of disbelief, then anger. "You would defy the will of Lord Estermont? You are fools. He will crush you."

"I think not," I replied, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because you are going to return to your uncle, and you are going to tell him that his… offer… is no longer on the table. Instead, you are going to propose a new arrangement. A partnership. House Thorne will provide House Estermont with a loan, a generous loan, at a very reasonable rate of interest. Enough to satisfy his… creditors… in Braavos. In return, House Estermont will recognize our sovereignty, our sole control over this port and its revenues. And his fleet will, from time to time, assist our merchant ships, protecting them from… pirates."

Ser Gerold stared at me as if I had gone mad. "You would dare… You know nothing of my uncle's affairs."

"Don't I?" I said, my voice soft, almost gentle. I proceeded to tell him, in excruciating detail, the exact amount of his uncle's debt to the Iron Bank, the names of his other creditors, the secret deals he had made to try and stay afloat. I even described the contents of a letter he had written to his estranged brother in the Reach, begging for a loan.

The blood drained from Ser Gerold's face. He looked at me with a new, and terrified, respect. He did not know how I knew these things. He only knew that I did. To him, it must have seemed like black magic, a devilry beyond his comprehension.

"And there is one more thing," I said, my voice hardening. "If your uncle is not… receptive… to this new arrangement, you can inform him that a certain reaver captain from the Stepstones, a man by the name of Salladhor Saan, has been contracted to raid the shipping lanes around Greenstone. A man like that, with a fast ship and a taste for plunder, could cause a great deal of… disruption."

Ser Gerold left Stone's End a much humbled man. He had come as a wolf, and he was leaving as a messenger boy. I had not met his threat with swords or steel, but with information and a whisper of violence. I had turned his strength into a weakness, his pride into a lever. It was a victory, a significant one, but it had come at a price.

That night, as I stood on the battlements, the ring felt heavier on my finger. The soul of old Willem, the fisherman, was a new, and sorrowful, addition to the chorus in my mind. I had made a choice. I had sacrificed an innocent man for the sake of my ambition. The line between the man I was and the monster I was becoming was beginning to blur.

This is the price of power, the Serpent whispered in my mind, its voice no longer a separate entity, but a part of me, a part that was growing stronger with each passing day. To win the game, you must be willing to sacrifice the pawns. And in this world, everyone is a pawn.

I looked out at the sea, at the dark, churning water that stretched to the horizon. The tide was rising, and the game was becoming more dangerous, more deadly. I had won this round, but I knew that there would be others. The lords of Westeros were not so easily cowed. And the game of thrones was not for the faint of heart. I had paid the price. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that I would pay it again. And again. The Serpent had shed its skin, and the creature that was emerging was something new, something that this world was not prepared for. And I, Lysander Thorne, was ready to unleash it.