Chapter 14: The Call to Carnage - 282 AC

Chapter 14: The Call to Carnage - 282 AC

The year 282 AC began with the quiet, industrious hum of an empire in the making. The great, angled bastions of my fortress clawed at the sky, already casting long, intimidating shadows across the port below. In a newly constructed wing of the castle, the Penrose-Thorne Glassworks was taking shape, its furnaces built to my precise, alien specifications under the shrewd and capable eye of my wife, Elara. Our ships, the swift hunters of the Thorneguard, kept our sea-lanes clear, their presence a constant and profitable deterrent. Thorne's Gold was aging in a thousand barrels, and my secret granaries were filled to bursting with the wealth of the Reach. It was a year of peace, of meticulous planning, of quiet, consolidated power.

And I, the architect of it all, was bored.

Peace is the season for planting, for building, for growing strong. But the Serpent is a creature of opportunity, and opportunity thrives not in the placid fields of peace, but in the churning, bloody soil of chaos. I had built my fortress, honed my army, and filled my coffers. I was waiting. I knew the spark was coming. I simply didn't realize how quickly it would ignite the world.

The first rumor arrived on a trading galley from King's Landing, a whisper of scandal that set the port's taverns ablaze with gossip: Prince Rhaegar, the silver prince, had vanished. And with him, Lyanna Stark, the wild beauty of the North and the betrothed of my own liege lord's son, Robert Baratheon. The smallfolk spoke of it as a great romance, a love that defied kingdoms. I heard the story and tasted only the ash of an impending war.

The true news, the hard, sharp steel of fact, came via my obsidian link to Rhys. His thoughts were a frantic, staccato burst of information that cut through the tranquility of my solar like a thrown dagger.

"He came, my lord. Brandon Stark. He rode into the Red Keep with his companions, screaming for Rhaegar to come out and die." A pause, laced with the second-hand terror of the capital. "Aerys had him arrested. For plotting to murder the crown prince."

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. The first fool had walked into the trap.

The next report came a day later, even more dire. "The King has summoned Lord Rickard Stark to answer for his son's crimes. He's riding south. The city is holding its breath."

I convened an immediate council. My father, Ser Malcom, Elara. I laid out the bare facts, omitting my supernatural source. "The political situation in the capital is… unstable," I said, my voice a model of understatement. "Brandon and Rickard Stark are in the King's custody. Whatever happens next, the consequences will be felt throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Malcom, I want the garrison on high alert. Father, secure the port. Elara, halt all non-essential expenditures at the glassworks. We are moving onto a war footing."

They obeyed without question. The machine I had built responded to my touch with smooth, quiet efficiency.

The final, terrible confirmation came from Rhys that night. His thoughts were fragmented, shaken by the sheer, grotesque horror of what he had witnessed from afar.

"Executed… my lord, gods be good, he executed them both. He cooked Rickard Stark in his own armour while Brandon strangled himself trying to reach a sword to save him. The King… he's not just mad, he's a monster. And now… now he has sent a raven to the Eyrie. He has demanded that Jon Arryn deliver the heads of his wards. Lord Stark and Lord Robert."

The spark had met the wildfire. The world was now ablaze.

In the solar, the mood was grim. Lord Valerius, his face a mask of cold fury, slammed his fist on the oaken table. "This is an outrage! An abomination against gods and men! To cook a high lord in his own steel… This is not justice. This is madness."

"It is a declaration of war," Ser Malcom said, his veteran's eyes distant and hard. "Jon Arryn will not surrender those boys. He will call his banners. And Robert is our future liege lord. We will be called as well."

My father looked at me, his eyes blazing with the righteous fire of a man of honour. "We will answer the call, Lysander. We will stand with Lord Robert. We will see this mad king pulled from his throne."

They both looked at me, expecting me to concur, to join in their outrage, to speak of honour and duty. But in that moment, the lord of Stone's End, the dutiful son, the industrious builder, was gone. Only the Serpent remained. And the Serpent was not thinking of honour. It was not thinking of justice. It was thinking of the unprecedented opportunity that was about to unfold.

It was in a later, private monologue, standing on the balcony of my fortress and looking out at the dark, churning sea, that I confronted the sheer, beautiful, terrible logic of my own ambition.

They see a war for the soul of the kingdom. A rebellion against a tyrant. A righteous cause. They see honour, and glory, and the clash of armies. I see a harvest. The greatest harvest of souls this world has seen in a hundred years. Summerhall. Ashford. The Battle of the Bells. The Trident. Thousands upon thousands of men, knights and lords and common foot soldiers, all marching to their deaths. Their souls, potent with fear and rage and courage, all released in great, concentrated bursts. The power I could gain… it's incalculable. Enough to fuel enchantments I can barely conceive of. Enough to make my fortress truly impregnable, to make my soldiers into something more than human, to perhaps even unlock the secrets of life and death itself. It is a prize of god-like proportions.

But the risk… the risk was absolute. War is chaos. A stray arrow, a collapsing wall, a simple slip of a horse, and my grand reincarnation would end in a muddy, ignominious death. My cautious nature screamed at me to stay here, to barricade myself in my unbreachable nest and simply profit from the chaos from afar.

But the Serpent, its hunger whetted by the taste of power I had already acquired, whispered a different counsel. To gain the ultimate prize, you must take the ultimate risk. You have the knowledge. You know where the battles will be fought. You know who will win. You don't have to be a hero on the front lines. You simply have to be… present. Within ten kilometres of the slaughter. A vulture, circling the battlefield.

The decision solidified in my mind, cold and hard as Valyrian steel. I would go. Not for Robert, not for honour, but for the dark, secret harvest that only I could reap.

I announced my intention to lead the Thorne contingent personally at the next council. My father was immediately opposed.

"No! Absolutely not," he declared, his face pale with alarm. "You are my son, my only son. Your place is here, to lead our house, to protect our people. I will lead our men. It is my duty."

"Your duty is to ensure the survival and prosperity of this house, Father," I countered gently, but with an immovable resolve. "And that is why I must go. This will be a war of logistics as much as battles. Robert's army will need to be fed, supplied, paid. My skills are uniquely suited to that task. I can keep the army in the field. I can be of more use in Robert's command tent than anyone else in the Stormlands." I played my final card. "And my presence there, at the heart of the rebellion, will cement the name of House Thorne as one of the principal players in the new order that will follow. This is not about seeking glory. It is a strategic investment in our future."

My logic, as always, was unassailable. He eventually, reluctantly, agreed.

The weeks that followed were a blur of frenetic, focused activity. I was a whirlwind, putting my house in order for a long absence. The most important conversation was with Elara. I took her to my solar, the heart of my commercial empire, and laid everything before her. The ledgers for the port, the production schedules for the distillery, the accounts for the Gilded Hide in King's Landing, and the development plans for the glassworks.

"I will be gone for some time," I told her, my tone devoid of sentiment. "A year, perhaps longer. While I am gone, you will rule here. Not as a regent, but as the acting head of the house. You have full authority. You will manage our businesses, you will oversee the construction, you will command the respect of our people. I am entrusting the future of this house to you, Elara. Do not fail me."

She met my gaze, her grey eyes clear and unwavering. There was no fear, no hesitation. There was only a quiet, formidable competence. "The House will prosper, my lord," she said simply. It was a promise, and I knew she would keep it.

My father and Ser Malcom were given joint command of the fortress's defense, with our household guard and the second wave of trainees as their garrison. The elite, the first two hundred men of my 'new model' army, the true Thorneguard, would march with me.

My final preparation was a magical one. I needed a personal shield, something more reliable than luck. In my laboratory, I took the breastplate of my own suit of exquisitely crafted plate armour. It was a masterpiece of the smith's art, but I would make it a work of sorcery. I drew upon my reserve of souls, not the chaotic torrent of the commons, but the potent, disciplined essences of the knights who had fallen at Duskendale. The ritual was draining, a week-long ordeal that left me pale and exhausted. I wove their defiant spirits into the steel, creating a ward of deflection, a subtle enchantment that wouldn't stop a direct blow from a warhammer, but might turn a sword thrust at the last moment, or cause a fatal arrow to veer off by a mere inch. It was an investment of power, a gamble to ensure my survival so I could reap a far greater return.

Then the call came. A raven from Storm's End, its message stark and simple: Robert Baratheon, now Lord of Storm's End following his parents' death, had called his banners.

We were one of the first to arrive. I marched my two hundred Thorneguard into the camps assembling around the great fortress. They were a sight to behold. In their uniform steel and dark grey livery, marching in disciplined ranks, they were a stark contrast to the boisterous, disorganized levies of the other lords. We did not come empty-handed. Behind my column of soldiers was a train of twenty wagons, a 'gift' to the war effort from the bountiful stores of House Thorne. It was filled with grain, salted meat, bandages, and ten barrels of my raw, high-proof spirit for the maesters to use in cleaning wounds.

I presented myself to Robert in his command tent. He was no longer the boisterous boy I had met at the tourney. He was a giant of a man, his face a mask of cold, vengeful fury, his grief a palpable force in the tent. But when he saw my soldiers and the manifest for my supply wagons, his eyes lit with a spark of grudging respect.

"Thorne," he growled, his voice like the rumble of an avalanche. "You've come. And you've brought more than just swords."

"A rebellion cannot march on an empty stomach, my lord," I said respectfully. "My men and my resources are at your command. My talents, however, are not with a sword, but with a ledger. I believe I can be of most service ensuring your army remains the best-supplied force in the field."

Robert, a great warrior but no great administrator, saw the value in my offer immediately. "Done," he boomed. "You'll be my quartermaster. See to it my men don't starve while I'm killing Targaryens."

I had done it. I had secured the perfect position. I was essential to the war effort, privy to the high command, and my duties would require me to be near the main army at all times. Near the battles. Near the harvest.

That night, I stood on a hill overlooking the vast encampment of the Stormlands army. Thousands of campfires twinkled in the darkness like fallen stars. The air was filled with the sounds of men preparing for war—the sharpening of steel, the nervous laughter, the boastful songs. I felt the immense, kinetic potential of it all, the life force of thousands of men, all gathered in one place, ready to be extinguished.

The ring on my finger was no longer just a tool or a weapon. It was a part of me. And in the face of this monumental gathering of souls, it felt… alive. It felt… hungry.

My monologue was the quiet, chilling whisper of a vulture settling on a branch, overlooking a dying herd. They sing of glory and dream of honor. They speak of liberating the realm from a tyrant. A worthy cause, perhaps. But their cause is not my cause. My cause is power. Raw, absolute, and eternal. They are the fuel. I am the fire. Let them have their war. Let them have their songs. I will have their souls.

The call to carnage had been answered. And the Serpent, coiled and ready, was eager for the feast to begin.