Chapter 8: The Duskendale Dividend - 277 AC

Chapter 8: The Duskendale Dividend - 277 AC

The year 277 AC began with the clang of hammers on copper. Not the rhythmic, predictable work of the blacksmiths forging swords and armour, but a new, strange music echoing from a specially constructed workshop near the port. Here, under my direct and often frustratingly pedantic supervision, a team of the finest coppersmiths I could hire were engaged in a task that baffled them. They were building a machine from my drawings, a bulbous copper pot connected to a tapering neck and a long, elegant arm of coiled tubing, all designed to sit atop a meticulously constructed brick furnace. They called it 'Lord Lysander's Folly'. I called it a pot still.

At seventeen, I had fully settled into my own skin. The awkwardness of youth had been hammered out, replaced by a lean, wiry strength. I carried myself with an unshakeable confidence that men twice my age found unsettling. They saw a lord, a prodigy, a businessman of uncanny talent. They did not see the Serpent looking out through my eyes, watching the world with the cold, patient appraisal of a predator studying its hunting ground.

The distillery was my latest obsession, a perfect synthesis of my past life's knowledge and my present life's resources. Westeros had wine and ale in abundance, but their spirits were crude, harsh concoctions. They had no concept of fractional distillation, of aging, of the subtle chemistry that could transform simple grain and water into liquid gold. I intended to introduce them to the pleasures of whiskey, the clean fire of vodka, and the myriad other spirits that would not only fill my coffers but also serve as a potent tool of social influence. A man who develops a taste for Thorne's Gold Reserve is a man whose loyalties can, with time, be purchased.

"No, no, Master Cole," I said, my voice sharp with impatience as I pointed to a seam on the still's neck. "The seal must be perfect. Airtight. The spirit is a vapour, a ghost. Any leak, and we lose the best part of it to the heavens."

Master Cole, a stout man with arms like oak boughs and a perpetually soot-stained face, wiped a sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "My lord, I've been smithing copper since before you were born. I've made breastplates that can turn a lance. This seal will hold."

"A breastplate has to stop a solid piece of steel, Cole," I countered, my tone softening slightly. I had learned that the best way to manage skilled craftsmen was a precise blend of exacting standards and genuine respect for their craft. "This has to contain something far more elusive. Trust my design. The integrity of that single seam is the difference between a fine spirit and boiled grain water."

While I was preoccupied with the birth of a new industry, the political world of Westeros was developing a fever. My web in King's Landing, once a single, tentative thread, was growing stronger. Rhys had proven to be even more adept than I had hoped. He had established the leather shop, "The Gilded Hide," as a premier destination for the city's elite. He moved through the capital with a quiet confidence, his common appearance a perfect camouflage, allowing him to overhear conversations and cultivate sources in a way a highborn lord never could. Our obsidian disc, my arcane telephone, was our most vital secret, a weapon more powerful than any sword.

The focus of our intelligence gathering remained fixed on one place: Duskendale. Symon, our bitter little scribe, had become an invaluable asset. Fueled by cheap wine and a growing sense of self-importance, he fed us a steady stream of information, his thoughts filtering through to me via Rhys each night.

"Another merchant from Duskendale has been turned away," Rhys reported one evening, his mental voice a low hum against the background chatter of the souls in my ring. "Lord Darklyn is refusing to pay the new port duties. He calls them unjust. He's sent a third raven to the King."

"And the Hand's response?" I projected back, sitting in the quiet solitude of my laboratory.

"Silence. Symon says Lord Tywin believes in letting a rebellious lord stew in his own pride. He thinks Lord Denys will blink first."

I knew better. Tywin's strategy was sound, but it didn't account for the variable that warped every political calculation in the realm: the King himself. Aerys was not a man to be managed. He was a wildfire, waiting for a spark. And Lord Darklyn, in his righteous indignation, was about to provide it.

The spark came a month later. The news hit King's Landing like a thunderclap, and Rhys's report was frantic.

"He's done it, my lord! Lord Darklyn has done it! He's arrested the royal tax collector. He's holding him hostage until the King personally comes to hear his grievances. The city is in an uproar."

This was it. The point of no return. I felt a cold thrill, the same feeling I used to get before a major hostile takeover. Chaos was a ladder, and I was about to start climbing.

"Deploy the Thorneguard," I commanded my father that same day, presenting him with a map of the shipping lanes around Blackwater Bay. "Captain Davos," I addressed the man I had put in command of my small fleet, a shrewd, capable sailor from the Stormlands, "your orders are to patrol the waters leading to Duskendale. You are not to engage any royal ships. Your mission is 'pirate suppression'. You will find many merchants whose path to the capital is now… uncertain. Offer them protection. Offer them safe escort. To Stone's End."

My father, seeing only a prudent move to protect trade, agreed immediately. Captain Davos, a man who understood the unspoken meaning behind a lord's command, simply nodded, a gleam in his eye. He knew he was not just hunting pirates; he was scavenging.

While my ships moved to capitalize on the coming storm, I received a raven from the Parchments. Lord Ronnel Penrose formally accepted my proposal of marriage to his daughter, Elara. The betrothal was official. The contracts were being drawn up. My glassworks now had its source of silica, and I had a future bride, a girl I had never met, whose primary value to me was in the sand her father owned. It was a cold, loveless arrangement, and it suited me perfectly.

The situation in Duskendale escalated just as the histories foretold. The reports from Rhys were a real-time chronicle of a king's folly.

"Tywin is assembling an army. He means to lay siege, to surround the city and force Lord Denys out. But the King… my lord, the King is furious. He sees it as a personal insult. He says the Hand is trying to steal his glory."

And then, the critical report. The one that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

"Aerys is going himself. He's taking only a small retinue, with Ser Gwayne Gaunt of the Kingsguard. He means to face Lord Denys alone. Tywin is beside himself with rage, but the King will not be denied."

I closed my eyes, picturing the scene. The utter, catastrophic arrogance of it. Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, walking willingly into a trap laid by a minor lord. I almost felt a flicker of pity for Tywin Lannister, a man of immense talent and discipline shackled to a madman. Almost.

The result was inevitable. King Aerys was taken captive. Lord Darklyn, who had only intended to force a negotiation, was now a kingslayer in all but name, his defiance having spiraled into high treason. The six-month siege began.

For half a year, the realm held its breath. The great army of the Hand surrounded Duskendale, but with the King inside, Tywin could do nothing but wait. It was a stalemate that bled the crown's coffers and made a mockery of Targaryen authority. For me, it was a golden age. Our port was flooded. Merchants who would have once sailed for Duskendale or even King's Landing now sought refuge and opportunity at Stone's End. Our warehouses were filled to bursting. Our coffers swelled beyond my most optimistic projections. The Duskendale crisis was the single most profitable event in the history of House Thorne.

I used the time, and the wealth, productively. The first pot still was completed and, after several failed attempts, we produced our first successful batch of distilled spirit. It was a raw, fiery, clear liquid—essentially a crude grain vodka or a white dog whiskey. Maester Arion, after sniffing it suspiciously, declared it to be a potent antiseptic and little else. But I knew what it was. It was potential. I set it aside in one of the newly-made, heavily charred oak barrels, to let time and wood work their magic.

I also used the crisis for a darker purpose. The siege, though largely static, was not without bloodshed. Skirmishes along the perimeter, failed sorties from the city, diseases in the camps—all of it produced a steady trickle of deaths. The souls that flowed into my ring were potent, filled with the violence and discipline of trained soldiers. I used this dark harvest to power my scrying crystal, not for broad searches, but for targeted, lightning-fast glimpses into the Red Keep. I watched Tywin Lannister in his solar, his face a mask of cold fury. I saw the frustration, the meticulous planning, the sheer force of will that held the realm together while its king was a prisoner. I was studying my future rival, learning his tells, his habits, his temperament.

Then came the end. As always, the news came from Rhys.

"It's over, my lord! Ser Barristan Selmy… the stories are already spreading like wildfire. They say he scaled the walls of the Dun Fort alone, like a ghost in the night. He killed Ser Symon Hollard, the master-at-arms, fought his way to the dungeons, and rescued the King. Aerys is free."

The relief in the capital was quickly replaced by a chilling terror. The King, once freed, unleashed the full, horrific force of his paranoia and rage.

"He's destroyed them," Rhys's thoughts were grim, shaken. "House Darklyn and House Hollard. Root and stem. Lord Denys was beheaded. His wife, the Lady Serala, had her tongue and womanly parts torn out before being burned alive. Their children… all of them… executed. He's leaving nothing but ghosts and scorched earth."

As Rhys sent his report, I felt it. It was not a trickle. It was a tidal wave. A torrent of souls, hundreds of them at once, ripped from their bodies in a storm of vengeful violence. The soul of Lord Denys, a supernova of defiant pride and terror. The souls of his knights, his family, his servants. It slammed into my ring with the force of a physical blow, a chaotic, screaming choir of the damned. The power was immense, intoxicating, and utterly horrifying. I staggered in my laboratory, clutching my hand, my mind reeling from the sheer psychic impact. I had my dividend.

In the silent aftermath, as the realm shuddered at the King's brutality, I gave Rhys his new orders.

"The King has created a power vacuum in Duskendale," I projected, my own thoughts cold and clear despite the storm raging in my ring. "He has also created a new class of refugee: the dispossessed. Find any surviving members of the Darklyn or Hollard households. Cousins, retainers, servants who escaped the purge. They have lost everything. They are desperate. They will be loyal to anyone who offers them a future. Recruit them. They will be the foundation of our network in the Crownlands."

I walked from my laboratory to the distillery. The workshop was quiet now, the coppersmiths having been paid handsomely and sent on their way. The first barrel of what I hoped would one day be Thorne's Gold lay silent in the corner. I took a small vial of the raw, clear spirit we had produced and poured a measure. I raised the cup, the liquid inside seeming to tremble in the low light.

It was the taste of the future. A future built on modern knowledge, on a resource no one else possessed. A future paid for by the follies of proud lords and mad kings. I thought of the screaming souls now trapped in my ring, a grim and terrible harvest. They were the true cost of this spirit, the silent partners in my enterprise.

"To Duskendale," I whispered to the empty room, and drank. The spirit burned a fiery path down my throat. "The first of many dividends." The game had changed. The pieces had been violently swept from the board, and in the ensuing chaos, I had advanced my own position immeasurably. The Serpent was no longer just watching. It was feeding.