Chapter 7: A Shadow in the Capital - 276 AC

Chapter 7: A Shadow in the Capital - 276 AC

The dawn of my sixteenth year was a quiet affair, marked by little more than a nod from my father and an extra helping of bacon at the morning meal. Yet, in the eyes of the realm, it was a profound threshold. I was a man. I could hold land, sign contracts, and be held accountable for my actions without the shield of juvenility. The weight of this new status was a familiar one. In my past life, I had shouldered the burden of leadership at a young age, though the circumstances had been vastly different. The transition felt less like a coming-of-age and more like the removal of a final, irksome restraint. The pretense of being a mere boy was now officially over.

The tannery, my justification for remaining at Stone's End, had exceeded even my own optimistic projections. The finished leather was a thing of beauty and utility, supple yet strong, with a deep, rich colour that made the crudely cured hides of our neighbours look like discarded scraps. We had a product, a unique and valuable commodity that would be our key to unlocking the gates of the capital.

The day the first shipment was loaded for King's Landing was a momentous one. The vessel, a fast trading galley named the Sea Serpent—a small vanity I had allowed myself—was laden with carefully wrapped bundles of our finest leather. Rhys was not aboard. His journey had been made weeks earlier on an unassuming merchant cog, his arrival in the capital as quiet and anonymous as a falling leaf. My spymaster was now in position, a single, vital node in a web that was about to stretch into the most dangerous city in the world.

Our first communication via the obsidian discs had been a tentative, surreal experience. The connection was not like speaking. It was a raw transfer of thought, a blending of consciousness that was both intimate and deeply unnerving. I had to build mental walls, to filter my own vast and dangerous knowledge lest the sheer scope of it overwhelm him. His thoughts, in turn, came through as a torrent of sensory data: the stench of the city, a wall of human waste and unwashed bodies that he said was palpable even miles out at sea; the deafening noise, a constant roar of shouting vendors, crying children, and the rumble of a hundred thousand lives crammed together; the oppressive sense of being watched, of countless eyes in every alley and on every rooftop.

"It's a cesspool, my lord," his thoughts echoed in my mind, tinged with a weary disgust. "But it's a rich one. Gold flows through the gutters here. And secrets are cheaper than bread."

His first task had been to secure a location. He found a small, defensible shop in the Street of Steel, a place known for its smiths and armourers. It was a masterstroke of strategic thinking on his part. The location was respectable, and the clientele—knights, lords, and wealthy merchants seeking fine steel—would also be in the market for high-quality leather for scabbards, saddles, and armour strapping. It was the perfect listening post.

With our beachhead established, I turned my attention to another pressing matter: security. Our victory over House Estermont had been one of cunning and intelligence, but it had revealed a fundamental weakness. We were a house of merchants, not warriors. Our wealth was a lure, and the sea was full of sharks. Relying on hired reavers like Salladhor Saan was a fool's game, a short-term solution that had already proven dangerously unstable.

I approached my father with a new proposal, one that appealed directly to his martial sensibilities.

"Father," I began, as we stood on the battlements overlooking our bustling harbour, "our wealth is growing, but so are our vulnerabilities. The Sea Serpent is only one ship. Our trade partners sail these waters at our invitation. An attack on one of them is an attack on us. It is a matter of honour, and of business, that we ensure their safety."

Lord Valerius grunted, his eyes scanning the horizon. "The king's peace is supposed to hold on the seas."

"The king's peace is a fine notion in the throne room," I countered gently. "It is a far more fragile thing in the Stepstones or the pirate dens of the Basilisk Isles. Lord Steffon's fleet is powerful, but it is spread thin. We cannot rely on Storm's End to protect our day-to-day commerce. We need our own teeth."

I unrolled a new set of plans. Not for a tannery this time, but for a ship. A new class of vessel, based on the swift, elegant lines of the Summer Islander galleys but reinforced with the sturdier construction of Westerosi warships. It would be designed for speed and maneuverability, not for pitched battles. A patrol ship, a commerce raider, an interceptor. It would be armed with scorpions and a crew of trained marines, men loyal to House Thorne alone.

"We will build three," I explained. "The Thorneguard. They will patrol our shipping lanes, offer protection to our merchant partners for a modest fee, and serve as a clear message to any would-be pirates that Stone's End is not a soft target."

My father studied the drawings, his old warrior's spirit rekindling in his eyes. This was something he understood. Ships, weapons, strategy. It was a language he spoke far more fluently than that of tariffs and trade balances. He saw the necessity, the wisdom in it. He saw a way to turn our mercantile wealth into tangible, military strength.

"A fleet of our own," he mused, a slow smile spreading across his face. "House Thorne will have a fleet." He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Do it."

The project would be a massive drain on our resources, but it was a necessary investment. It was the next logical step in the evolution of my family, the mafia family. First, you secure the territory. Then you secure the supply lines. Then, you project power.

As expected, with my sixteenth nameday came the renewed pressure of a betrothal. My father, having yielded on the matter of fostering, was determined to see me wed. To him, it was the final piece of the puzzle, a strategic alliance that would cement our newfound status.

"Lady Anya Dondarrion is a fine match," he said one evening, listing off potential brides. "Blackhaven is a strong seat, and the Marcher Lords are a power to be reckoned with."

"A power that would seek to absorb us," I countered smoothly. "The Dondarrions are proud. They would see a marriage to House Thorne as an act of condescension. We would gain a powerful ally, but we would lose our independence."

"What of the Tarths?" he suggested. "The Evenstar's daughter is said to be… large… but Tarth is rich in sapphires and sits astride a vital trade route."

"And a marriage to Brienne of Tarth would make us beholden to Lord Selwyn," I replied, feigning deep consideration. "He is a good man, but his focus is on the east, on the threat from pirates. Our interests lie in the west, in the markets of Westeros. We need a partner, not a patron."

I had to control the narrative, to steer him away from powerful, established houses and towards one that suited my own clandestine purposes. My network had already been at work. Rhys, before his departure, had gathered information on dozens of minor houses, their lineages, their wealth, their secrets.

"I have been thinking, Father," I said, adopting a tone of humble suggestion. "Perhaps we are looking in the wrong places. We do not need a great and powerful ally. We have our own power, our own wealth. What we need is a house with… potential. A house with resources that are currently untapped, a house that would see an alliance with us not as a stepping stone, but as a lifeline."

I presented him with my choice: House Penrose of the Parchments. They were an old and respected house, but their lands were modest, their wealth depleted. They had one significant, overlooked asset: their lands contained large deposits of high-quality silica sand, the primary ingredient for glassmaking. Myrish glass was one of the most valuable commodities in the world, its secrets jealously guarded. But I knew those secrets. I knew the chemistry, the techniques.

"Lord Ronnel Penrose has three daughters," I explained. "The eldest, Elara, is said to be of a quiet and gentle disposition. She is of an age with me. A marriage to her would give us access to their lands, to the resources we need to start a glassworks. We would not be gaining an overlord, but a junior partner. We would be lifting them up, ensuring their loyalty for a generation."

My father was intrigued. The idea of creating another lucrative industry, of further cementing our economic dominance, was a powerful lure. He agreed to open negotiations, to send a raven to the Parchments. I had turned a political obligation into a corporate acquisition. My future wife was not to be a partner in life, but a key asset in my portfolio. The coldness of the thought was a familiar comfort.

Meanwhile, in King's Landing, Rhys was making progress. Using the untraceable funds I supplied, he had purchased the shop, hired a pair of local boys as assistants, and began to sell our leather. The quality of the product spoke for itself, and soon, he had a steady stream of customers, including armourers from the city's finest forges and stewards from several noble households.

He was also beginning to cultivate his first intelligence asset.

"His name is Symon," Rhys's thoughts came through one night, clear and sharp across the hundreds of miles that separated us. The communication was becoming easier, more natural, as if we were learning the unique cadence of each other's minds. "A scribe at the Royal Guild of Chandlers. He's a bitter little man. Ambitious, but passed over for promotion. He complains that the Guildmaster gives all the best assignments to his nephews. And he has a fondness for cheap wine."

"What kind of access does he have?" I projected.

"Shipping manifests. Tax ledgers. He sees what comes in and what goes out. He knows which houses are importing luxury goods they can't afford, and which ones are being squeezed by the King's new tariffs."

"He is perfect," I replied, a thrill running through me. This was the beginning. "Approach him carefully. Befriend him. Buy him his wine. Listen to his grievances. Do not ask for anything at first. Simply become his confidant. When the time is right, we will make him our first whisper in the capital."

I pushed my own magic further, not in creating new artifacts, but in refining what I had. The scrying crystal was a powerful tool, but it was blunt. It required a massive amount of energy, and the souls I used left a lingering, emotional residue that was becoming increasingly distracting. I began to practice a form of magical filtration, learning to isolate the specific "frequency" of a soul, to burn away the emotions and memories, leaving only pure, untainted energy. It was a harrowing process, like performing surgery on a ghost. It required me to delve deep into the essence of what had once been a person, to feel their life's joys and sorrows, and then to systematically unmake it. Each time I did it, I felt a small piece of my own humanity chip away, replaced by the cold, efficient machinery of the Serpent.

The first tangible piece of intelligence from our new asset arrived a month later. It was a small thing, a piece of information that would have been meaningless to anyone else.

"Symon was complaining again," Rhys reported. "The King's tax collectors have been especially hard on the merchants from Duskendale. He saw a royal ledger. Lord Darklyn has formally protested the new duties three times. All three petitions have been denied by the Hand, Lord Tywin."

There it was. The first tremor before the earthquake. The Defiance of Duskendale was not just a future event in a history book anymore. It was happening, now, in real-time. The pieces were moving, and I had a front-row seat.

"This is good, Rhys," I sent back, my mind racing. "Your man, Symon, is now our most valuable asset. Protect him. Double his supply of wine. I want to know everything that happens concerning House Darklyn. Every ship, every tax, every whisper. We are no longer just listening. We are watching."

That night, I did not stand on the battlements. I stood in my laboratory, the heart of my power. In my hand, I held the obsidian disc, a cold, dark mirror that connected me to the heart of the realm. On the workbench lay the scrying crystal, dormant for now, its power being conserved for a more critical moment. The ring on my finger pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm, a silent chorus of the damned who fueled my ascent.

I was sixteen years old. I was the lord of a thriving port, the commander of a nascent fleet, the head of a clandestine intelligence network, and a sorcerer of growing power. I was engaged in corporate espionage, political manipulation, and was about to become betrothed to a woman I had never met for the sole purpose of acquiring her family's assets.

The boy, Lysander Thorne, was well and truly dead. He had died not in a single, violent act, but in a thousand small, cold, calculated decisions. He had been consumed by the Serpent. And now, a shadow from Stone's End was falling over the capital. The game was truly beginning. And I had just made my first move.