Chapter 11: Foundations of Power - 280 AC

Chapter 11: Foundations of Power - 280 AC

The sea itself seemed to pay fealty to us in the year 280 AC. Our slice of the Narrow Sea, once a lawless stretch of water frequented by pirates and smugglers, was now the most secure shipping lane south of the Gullet. The reason for this newfound peace was demonstrated one bright, windswept morning. The Vigilance, on routine patrol, intercepted a nest of pirates from the Stepstones preying on a Tyroshi merchant galley bound for our port.

From the cliffs of Stone's End, I watched the engagement through a Myrish spyglass. It was not a battle; it was a clinical dissection. The pirate ship, a clumsy, lumbering vessel, was outmaneuvered with contemptuous ease by the swifter Vigilance. My marines, led by Captain Davos, did not engage in a chaotic boarding action. They used their discipline. A volley from the ship's scorpions shattered the pirate's rudder, crippling it. Then, as the Vigilance circled like a shark, squads of my archers, drilled to perfection, rained down arrows with terrifying precision, sweeping the enemy deck clear of defenders. The boarding party that followed met almost no resistance.

It was a swift, brutal, and overwhelmingly effective display of the principles I had drilled into them. We had suffered two minor injuries. The pirates had been annihilated. The Tyroshi merchant, overflowing with gratitude, paid a handsome 'rescue' fee and spread the tale of the Thorneguard's efficiency in every port he visited. The value of that advertisement was worth more than the fee itself. The victory provided the perfect political capital for the next, and most ambitious, phase of my plan.

Stone's End was a keep built for a forgotten age. It was strong, yes, but it was a simple, brutish kind of strong. It was a fortress designed to withstand a feudal levy, not a determined, well-equipped foe. My wealth, my industries, my very life were all secured behind those aging walls. It was an unacceptable vulnerability. I was a king building an empire from a wooden shack. It was time to build a palace. A fortress. The Serpent's Nest.

I summoned my father and Ser Malcom Flowers to the solar, which now served as my war room and corporate headquarters. Unfurled across the great oak table was a series of schematics that made Ser Malcom's jaw go slack and my father's eyes widen in disbelief.

"This… Lysander, this is not a castle," Lord Valerius said, his voice a hushed whisper of awe. "This is a city."

"It is a statement, Father," I replied, my voice calm and steady. "It is a declaration that House Thorne is no longer a minor house clinging to a rock. It is a power in its own right. A power that intends to endure."

The plans were unlike anything seen in Westeros. I had abandoned the traditional square keep and curtain wall design. My design was a nested series of concentric defenses, inspired by the great castles of my old world. But the true innovation was in the outer wall. Instead of a flat, vulnerable line, it was a complex, geometric shape—a star fort.

"These angled walls, these bastions," I explained, tracing the lines with my finger, "are designed to eliminate all blind spots. Each bastion provides a devastating field of overlapping fire for the one next to it. An attacking army will find no safe place to shelter at the base of our walls. They will be under constant fire from scorpions and archers from at least two directions at all times."

I showed them the plans for the gatehouse, a multi-stage death trap with three portcullises, murder holes, and dedicated archery galleries. I laid out the designs for massive underground cisterns and granaries, capable of sustaining the fortress through a siege lasting for years. I even included a network of secret passages within the walls, allowing my troops to move from one section to another, unseen, to counter any breach.

"It will take a decade to build," Ser Malcom murmured, his old soldier's mind slowly grasping the sheer defensive superiority of the design. "And a mountain of gold."

"We have the gold," I said simply. "And I intend to see it completed in five." The wealth from the port, the distillery, and our other ventures was staggering. I was prepared to pour every last copper of it into this project. This fortress would be my legacy, my shield, and the ultimate symbol of my power.

My father, convinced by the sheer audacity and strategic genius of the plan, gave his full-throated approval. Soon, Stone's End was transformed into a massive construction site. I brought in thousands of laborers, quarrymen, and masons from across the Stormlands and the Free Cities, paying them wages that were unheard of. The project itself became another economic engine, stimulating the local economy and making me the single largest employer in the region.

While the physical foundations of my power were being laid, I moved to expand the foundations of my intelligence network. Lannisport had been a success. The Weary Traveler was thriving, and the whispers gathered by Jonos and Brella were proving invaluable. It was time to light another beacon.

"Oldtown," I projected to Rhys one night. The connection was effortless now, a simple extension of my will. "It is the second heart of the kingdom. The Citadel controls knowledge, and the Starry Sept controls the soul of the commons. We must have a presence there."

Rhys, ever the pragmatist, agreed. "It will be more difficult than Lannisport. The Citadel's reach is long, and the Faith is suspicious of outsiders. But the city is rich, and the acolytes are always poor."

We selected another pair of Duskendale survivors, a former Septon's clerk and his wife, to make the journey. They were quiet, pious-seeming folk whose outward demeanor masked a deep well of bitterness. They were perfect. I spent another night in my laboratory, the screams of the dead a familiar symphony as I forged another enchanted foundation stone, another 'cone of silence' that would give my agents a priceless advantage. The magic was becoming easier, more routine. I was growing numb to the cost, a fact that I acknowledged with a cold, detached clarity.

My courtship with Lady Elara Penrose continued its strange, professional trajectory. My letters were not filled with the flowery prose of a suitor, but with detailed questions about mineralogy and logistics. I sent her the plans for the new fortress, not for her approval, but for her analysis.

Her reply, penned in a neat, precise hand, astounded me. She had no comment on the military design, but she included a detailed addendum to my plans for the underground cisterns. "Lord Lysander," she wrote, "Your design is sound, but it does not account for the natural aquifer that runs beneath the headland. I have consulted the oldest geological surveys in our archives. By sinking a primary well at this specific location, you could tap directly into the aquifer, ensuring a virtually limitless supply of fresh water, even if the surface reservoirs are compromised. It would also significantly reduce the cost and time of excavation."

She had included a diagram, a cross-section of the rock strata that was as accurate as anything a modern geologist could have produced. I stared at the letter for a long time. This was no ordinary highborn lady, content with needlepoint and gossip. She had a mind. A sharp, analytical, practical mind. My decision to engage her as an intellectual peer was paying dividends I hadn't even anticipated. My arranged marriage was looking more and more like the most brilliant merger of my career.

I sent a raven back immediately, adopting her proposed changes and expressing my "deepest admiration for her foresight." I also suggested we set a date for the wedding: the spring of the following year, 281 AC. It would be a grand celebration, a feast to mark the completion of the first phase of our fortress and the official union of our two houses.

However, my growing power was beginning to cause friction. My Thorneguard ships, in their zealous 'suppression' of piracy, had established a de facto control zone around my trade routes. I offered 'escort services' to merchants for a fee, and those who declined often found their journey… difficult. It was a classic protection racket, and it was inevitable that someone would complain.

The complaint came from Lord Wylde of the Rainwood, a portly, pompous man whose own small port had seen a sharp decline in traffic since the rise of Stone's End. He sent a raven to Storm's End, accusing me of piracy, extortion, and acting above my station. A summons duly arrived. Lord Steffon Baratheon, my liege lord, requested the presence of Lord Valerius and myself at his court to answer for these grave charges.

My father was furious. "This is an insult! Wylde is a fool and a coward, blaming us for his own incompetence."

"Of course he is," I said calmly, already preparing my strategy. "But he is also a bannerman of Lord Steffon. This is not a battle to be fought with swords, Father. It is a performance."

We arrived at Storm's End two weeks later. The great hall was filled with the lords of the Stormlands, all of them eager to see the upstart Lord of Stone's End taken down a peg. Lord Wylde stood before Lord Steffon's throne, his face flushed with self-righteous indignation as he laid out his accusations.

When he was finished, Lord Steffon turned his stern gaze upon me. "Lord Lysander, you have heard the charges. What say you?"

I stepped forward, bowing respectfully. I did not act like a cornered animal. I acted like a man who had been unjustly maligned.

"My lord Baratheon, I thank you for the opportunity to address these… misunderstandings," I began, my voice clear and carrying across the hall. "Lord Wylde accuses us of piracy. Here," I produced a thick, leather-bound ledger and handed it to the court maester, "are the logs from my captains. They detail every pirate vessel we have engaged, the ships we have saved, and the cargo we have recovered. You will note that three of those rescued vessels belonged to Lord Wylde's own trading partners, saved from reavers while his own ships huddled in port."

A murmur went through the crowd.

"He accuses us of extortion," I continued, my voice taking on a tone of pained reason. "We call it a shared security cost. Patrolling the seas is an expensive endeavor, my lord. We have offered a service that benefits all who trade in these waters. Those who contribute to the cost receive a guarantee of protection. Is it extortion to ask a man to pay for the watchman who guards his house?"

I let that sink in before delivering the final, decisive blow. "Lord Wylde claims my actions have harmed his port. I claim they have enriched the entire region. Since the Thorneguard began its patrols and our port has guaranteed safe passage, maritime trade in the southern Stormlands has increased by forty percent." I produced another ledger. "These are the tax revenues, my lord. Not just for Stone's End, but for all the surrounding lands. Your own coffers have grown fuller thanks to the peace we have forged. We have not stolen Lord Wylde's slice of the pie. We have baked a much larger pie for everyone."

I finished by turning to Lord Wylde with an expression of magnanimous pity. "I understand Lord Wylde's frustration. It is difficult to adapt to a changing world. Perhaps if his lordship invested less in grievances and more in deepening his harbour, he too could share more fully in this new prosperity."

The hall was silent. I had not only refuted his charges, I had used impeccable logic and documented evidence to make him look like a foolish, incompetent whiner.

Lord Steffon Baratheon, a man who appreciated results above all else, looked from my detailed ledgers to Lord Wylde's sputtering, red face. His verdict was swift.

"Lord Wylde," he said, his voice booming with finality, "your complaint is dismissed. Lord Lysander has acted in a manner that has brought security and wealth to my lands. I would suggest you take his counsel to heart." He then looked at me, a long, appraising look. It was a look of pure respect. "Carry on, Lord Thorne."

We had won. I had faced down my first significant political challenge and turned it into a resounding victory. I had received the tacit endorsement of my liege lord to continue my operations.

Returning to Stone's End, I stood on the cliffs and watched the setting sun glint off the rising walls of my fortress. The outer bastions were taking shape, their angled faces looking like something from another world, an alien geometry of power and death. My foundations were now laid. Physical, in the stone and mortar of the fortress that would be my unbreachable lair. Economic, in the industries and trade that fueled my rise. Clandestine, in the network of taverns that was stretching its tendrils into the heartlands of my rivals. Military, in the disciplined soldiers and sailors who served me with unwavering loyalty.

The monologue in my head was a cold, quiet litany of progress. They see a castle, an army, a fleet. They see the parts, but they cannot comprehend the whole. They cannot see the system. A self-sustaining, self-reinforcing engine of power that will be ready when the world they know begins to tear itself apart. The Tourney at Harrenhal is next year. The Great Gathering. I will go. I will walk among the lions and dragons and wolves. They will see a minor lord from the Stormlands, the master of an odd-looking castle. They will not see the Serpent. They will not see the king of this new age. But they will. In time, they all will.