Chapter 21: An Empire of Ash and Bone - 282 AC

Chapter 21: An Empire of Ash and Bone - 282 AC

The fires of King's Landing had largely burned out by the time the banners of the North and the Vale appeared on the horizon, a vast, bristling forest of steel and righteous purpose. From my vantage point in the hills, I watched them approach, a grim sense of finality settling over me. The harvest was over. The accounting was about to begin.

"Signal the men," I said to Bronn, my voice flat. "It is time to greet our allies."

My two hundred Thorneguard soldiers, who had been resting in our hidden, secure camp, formed up with practiced, silent efficiency. They were clean, their gear was in order, their discipline absolute. When we merged with the vanguard of Eddard Stark's column, we were a striking and unsettling sight. The Northmen were grim-faced and weary from their long march, their armour dusty, their faces etched with the grim anticipation of a final, bloody battle. My men were an island of cold, coiled readiness in their midst. We looked not like soldiers who had raced to a crisis, but like executioners arriving for a scheduled appointment.

Lord Stark, riding at the head of his men, gave me a long, searching look. His honour was a palpable thing, a heavy cloak he wore even in the midst of war. He saw my clean uniform, my composed demeanor, and I could see the questions warring in his grey eyes.

"Lord Thorne," he greeted me, his voice a low rumble. "You made good time. What news from within?"

"The worst, Lord Stark," I replied, my own voice pitched to a tone of grave sorrow. "The city has fallen. The Lannisters hold the gates. I arrived only hours ago, too late to prevent the sack. The fighting was… extensive."

I let the last word hang in the air. I had offered my heroic report, my alibi, and now I would let the evidence of the city speak for itself. We rode into King's Landing together, and the true horror of Tywin Lannister's victory was laid bare.

The stench hit us first: a nauseating miasma of smoke, spilled wine, human waste, and the sweet, cloying smell of fresh blood. The city was a ruin. Bodies lay in the streets, the crimson smiles of Lannister butchery on their throats. Doors were smashed in, homes looted. The silence was punctuated by the sound of weeping and the distant, arrogant laughter of victorious soldiers. The Northmen grew ever grimmer, their hands tightening on their sword hilts. My men, by contrast, remained impassive, their eyes forward, their discipline a silent rebuke to the chaos around them.

Our destination was the Red Keep. And it was there, in the cavernous throne room, that the first act of the new era played out. The sight was precisely as the histories had described it. The great tapestries of the Targaryen dynasty were torn and trampled. The bodies of loyalist knights were strewn across the floor. And seated upon the Iron Throne, that monstrous chair of twisted blades, was Ser Jaime Lannister, his golden armour and white cloak pristine, his longsword laid across his lap. At the foot of the throne lay the crumpled, pathetic body of King Aerys II, a pool of blood congealing around him.

Eddard Stark stopped dead, his face a mask of cold fury. "Get up," he commanded, his voice echoing in the silent hall. "Get up from that chair. It is not for you."

Jaime Lannister gave a lazy, insolent smile, though I, with my magically-enhanced senses, could feel the tremor of exhaustion and trauma beneath the facade. He rose, and the story of his kingslaying, of Aerys's wildfire plot, came tumbling out. I stood in the background, a silent observer, watching the first cracks form in the foundation of the new regime. Ned saw a dishonourable oathbreaker. I saw a man who had made a difficult, necessary choice. A man, in his own way, like me.

The true crisis came with Robert's arrival two days later. He was still wounded, but his rage and triumph had swept him forward. He entered the throne room not as a conqueror, but as a king coming home. The reunion with Ned was heartfelt, but it was a fragile moment.

The breaking point came, as I knew it would, with the arrival of Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion did not come seeking forgiveness for his tardiness to the rebel cause. He came bearing gifts. He entered the throne room and laid two small, blanket-wrapped bundles at the foot of the throne.

When the blankets were pulled back, a collective gasp went through the hall. The bodies of Rhaegar's children, the infant Aegon and the little princess Rhaenys, lay there, broken and bloodied.

"I present them to you, Your Grace," Tywin said, his voice devoid of all emotion, "as a token of my fealty."

Robert looked at the small bodies, and I saw not a flicker of pity in his eyes. Only a grim satisfaction. "I see no dragon whelps," he grunted. "Only meat."

"Robert, no!" Ned Stark's voice was a cry of pure, agonized horror. "They were children. This… this is butchery."

"This is victory!" Robert roared, his face purpling with rage. "They were his! His get! Do you want them to grow up and rally armies against my son? Tywin did what had to be done!"

"There is no honour in this," Ned shot back, his hand on his sword. "This is not the cause I fought for."

He stormed from the throne room, the rift between the two friends now a gaping, unbridgeable chasm. The foundation of Robert's reign was built on this moment, on this pile of ash and bone, and I knew it would never be stable.

Later that day, after Ned had cooled his heels in the Tower of the Hand, I sought out Robert in his solar. He was drinking heavily, his mood black and stormy.

"Damn him," Robert muttered, staring into his cup. "Damn his honour. It will be the death of us all."

"Lord Stark is a good man," I said quietly, pouring myself a glass of Arbor gold. "His honour is his strength. But it is not always a useful tool for ruling a kingdom."

Robert looked at me, his eyes searching for judgment. I offered none.

"What Tywin Lannister did was… distasteful," I continued, choosing my words with the care of a surgeon. "But was it necessary? Aerys and Rhaegar are dead. But the Targaryen name still has power. A boy with a claim, fostered in Dorne or across the Narrow Sea, could become the focal point for a new rebellion in a decade's time." I took a sip of wine. "Lord Tywin did not just kill two children. He secured your throne for your future children. He did the butcher's work so that you would not have to. It was not honourable. But it was, perhaps, the act of a true and loyal servant."

I was not condoning the act. I was reframing it. I was giving Robert the political justification he needed to accept Tywin's bloody offering, to soothe his own conscience, and to further isolate Ned's 'impractical' honour. I was pushing the wedge deeper into the crack, securing my own position as the King's pragmatic, clear-eyed advisor. Robert clapped my shoulder, his mood lifting slightly. He needed my brand of cold logic now more than ever.

In the days that followed, the business of a new kingdom began. Robert, now styling himself King, began granting titles and lands to his loyal followers. Jon Arryn was named Hand of the King. Hoster Tully's daughters would be married to Ned Stark and Jon Arryn, securing the alliance. When my turn came, I was summoned to the throne room.

"Lord Lysander Thorne," Robert boomed, his voice echoing in the hall. "You saved my army. You saved my life. You fed us, you guided us, and your counsel has been worth more than a thousand knights. Name your reward. The lordship of Dragonstone? Master of Coin?"

The assembled lords leaned forward, eager to see what the powerful upstart would claim. I bowed my head in a show of humility.

"Your Grace," I said, my voice ringing with sincerity. "I am a builder, not a great lord. My only wish is to continue to serve the realm by creating the prosperity that will secure your reign. I ask for no lands, no great titles." The surprise in the room was palpable. "I ask only for Royal Charters for my humble business ventures. A charter for the Thorne Corporation, to manage my family's trade. Grant us relief from certain tariffs, so that we may bring goods to your people at a lower cost. And grant us the royal contract to rebuild and manage the port of King's Landing, so that the gateway to your capital may once again be a beacon of commerce and order."

It was a masterful stroke. To the court, it seemed a modest, almost selfless request. They saw a man turning down power for… business. Robert, who loathed such details, granted it with a wave of his hand, happy to be rid of the problem of rebuilding the port. He had no idea that he had just handed me the keys to his kingdom's economy. Control the port of the capital, and you control its lifeblood.

My final meeting before my departure was with Tywin Lannister. We met in his commandeered manse, a place of opulent austerity. We shared a glass of my Thorne's Gold, which I had sent for.

"A bold request, Lord Thorne," Tywin said, his pale green eyes appraising me over the rim of his cup. "To refuse a lordship for a trade contract."

"Each man has his own talents, Lord Lannister," I replied smoothly. "Mine are for creating wealth. I believe that best serves the King."

"Indeed," he said. The conversation was a dance of shadows, a negotiation where nothing was explicitly stated but everything was understood. He was acknowledging my new power, the influence I held with the new King. I was acknowledging his ruthlessness and the indispensable role he had played in securing the throne. We were two predators who had just finished feeding on the same kill, and we were now establishing the boundaries of our new territories. We parted with a mutual, unspoken, and deeply dangerous respect.

Before leaving the city, I met Rhys in the flesh. The Gilded Hide had survived the sack, protected by its location and, I suspect, some well-placed bribes from Rhys. We walked through the still-recovering streets, the ghosts of the dead a constant hum in my senses.

"The network will now shift its focus," I told him, my voice low. "The war is over. The new war, the war of whispers and gold, has begun. I want a 'Weary Traveler' tavern in every major city in Westeros within five years. Lannisport and Oldtown are just the beginning. The gold from Harrenhal will fund it. My new control over this port will provide the perfect cover for moving men and materials. Your role is no longer just intelligence gathering, Rhys. You are to be the master builder of my invisible empire."

I left him with a chest of gold and a new set of directives. My work in King's Landing was done.

As I stood on the deck of the Vigilance, preparing to sail back to Stone's End, I looked back at the Red Keep. The new banner of the Baratheon stag, black on a field of gold, now flew from its highest tower.

My final monologue of the war was one of quiet, absolute certainty. They fought a rebellion and won a crown. They sit in a hall of ash and bone, calling it peace. They believe the game is over. But a true empire is not built on iron thrones or ancient titles. It is built on the foundations I have laid. On controlling the flow of goods, the flow of information, and the flow of secrets. Robert may be King, but the Thorne Corporation will be the true power in his realm. I came to this war to harvest souls and gain power. I leave with something far greater: the keys to an entire kingdom, freely given. The war for the throne is over. The war for the world has just begun.