Chapter 24: Smoke and Mirrors - 285 AC

Chapter 24: Smoke and Mirrors - 285 AC

The year leading up to the Royal Progress was the most intensely productive period of my new life. The King's impending visit was not a threat to be weathered, but a performance to be staged, and I was the director, producer, and lead actor. Every aspect of Stone's End, which I had officially renamed 'Aethelgard'—an ancient name meaning 'Noble Fortress' that sounded both respectable and anciently powerful—was to be scrutinized by the most powerful and suspicious people in the realm. The facade had to be flawless.

The logistics of hosting the entire royal court—an entourage of thousands including lords, ladies, knights, servants, and hangers-on—was a challenge that would have bankrupted a lesser house. For me, it was simply a large-scale management problem. I treated it as such. A temporary town of elegant timber-framed guest houses was constructed outside the castle walls, complete with its own sanitation system—a series of deep latrines and drainage channels that was a marvel of engineering in itself—and a marketplace. It was a Potemkin village of comfort and order.

My father, Lord Valerius, was placed in charge of the official reception and protocol, his natural dignity and old-world honour providing a perfect, respectable face for House Thorne. Elara, my brilliant wife, managed the procurement, her agents sourcing the finest foods, wines, and materials from across the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities with a ruthless efficiency that would have made a Pentoshi magister blush. She was not just my wife; she was the COO of our burgeoning empire, and this visit was to be her coming-out party as the most capable chatelaine in the realm.

Of course, a royal visit required a tourney. Robert would demand it. I designed the grandest tourney the Stormlands had ever seen. The lists were perfectly manicured, the pavilions for the great lords were opulent, and the prizes were staggering. The winner of the joust would receive a purse of ten thousand golden dragons and a suit of plate armour inlaid with sapphires from our trade with Tarth. It was a prize designed to attract every knight of any renown, turning my home into a temporary center of the Westerosi universe. It was also an unparalleled intelligence-gathering opportunity.

I briefed Rhys via our obsidian disc, our conversations now quick and ruthlessly efficient. "The tourney is our focus. Every knight, every lord, every squire will be talking. They will be betting. I want our agents from the Lighthouse Network, posing as merchants and bookmakers, to record not just the gossip, but the patterns. Who backs which knight? Who bets recklessly? Who has an uncanny eye for a winner? Information is the prize, not the gold." This time, our own betting would be minimal, a few public wagers for show. Our true purpose was to listen.

The most crucial preparation, however, was in security and control. My fortress, Aethelgard, was now a living magical artifact. Its secrets were my most valuable possession. I designed a "Grand Tour" route for the royal party, a carefully curated path that would showcase the fortress's might and splendor while keeping them far from its true secrets—my laboratory, the central nexus chamber, the deeper vaults of my strategic hoard. The Thorneguard, now five hundred strong and the most disciplined force south of the Neck, were drilled not just in combat, but in courtesy and crowd control. They would be polite, implacable guides, their presence a constant reminder of my authority within my own walls.

The Royal Procession arrived in the summer of 285 AC, a great, glittering serpent of banners and steel that snaked its way down the new, wide road I had built to my gates. King Robert was at its head, larger than life, his black beard already showing hints of grey, his laughter as loud as a thunderclap. Beside him rode Queen Cersei, a vision of golden beauty and bored disdain, and behind them, the entire viper's nest of the court.

Robert's first sight of Aethelgard rendered him speechless. He reined in his horse, his mouth agape, staring up at the impossible angles of the star-pointed bastions and the soaring height of the Serpent's Eye lighthouse tower.

"By the seven hells, Thorne," he finally roared, his voice filled with genuine awe. "The tales did not do it justice. You did not build a castle. you built a bloody mountain."

The visit began with the tourney, a magnificent spectacle of martial prowess. The jousting was fierce, the melee a chaotic storm of blunted steel. My agents moved through the crowds, their ears open. They brought me reports of Lord Renly Baratheon's keen eye for politics, of Ser Loras Tyrell's dazzling but reckless skill, of the quiet, dangerous competence of the Dornish knights who had come with Prince Oberyn Martell.

I made a point of engaging the spiders. Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger, now Master of Coin thanks to Jon Arryn, approached me with a sly, knowing smile.

"An impressive enterprise, Lord Thorne," he said, gesturing to the flawlessly organized tourney grounds. "It must be a considerable challenge to manage the accounts for such a venture."

"Accounts are merely numbers, Lord Baelish," I replied, my expression one of bland sincerity. "One need only ensure the columns for income are taller than the columns for expenditure. It is a simple matter of diligence." I then subjected him to a ten-minute, mind-numbingly detailed monologue on the economics of the Stormlands wool trade. His eyes glazed over. I had discovered the best defense against a clever man: weaponized boredom.

Varys was a more subtle threat. I never spoke to the Spider directly, but I felt his presence, the light touch of his agents probing my household. I had already prepared for this. I had instructed Rhys to create a false trail of information, a series of disgruntled servants and 'leaked' ledgers that pointed to a simple, believable secret: that I was a brilliant but utterly mundane merchant lord, whose genius was for trade and industry, and whose only ambition was the accumulation of gold. I gave them a puzzle they could solve, a conclusion that was satisfying and entirely wrong.

The centerpiece of the visit was the ceremony in the new Grand Sept of Aethelgard, where Robert formally stood as godfather to my son, Valerius. The King, looking magnificent in his black and gold finery, held the boy, now a sturdy one-year-old, and made his vows. It was a moment of immense political theater, binding the wealthiest house in the realm to the Iron Throne. Queen Cersei watched the proceedings with a look of cold fury, her smile as thin and sharp as a razor. She saw my son, my heir, being blessed by her husband, and I knew she saw a future rival to her own golden-haired children.

The Grand Tour of the fortress was the climax of the visit. I led the party myself: Robert, Queen Cersei, Lord Stark, Lord Arryn, and, to my private satisfaction, Tywin Lannister, who had arrived with his own retinue.

I showed them the wonders of Aethelgard. The massive battlements, wide enough for a dozen men to march abreast. The interlocking fields of fire from the bastions. The great port, protected by a series of sea-gates and chain booms. The distillery, with its great copper stills, and the glassworks, where they marveled at panes of glass so clear they seemed like solid air.

"It is the work of a master engineer," Lord Arryn conceded, his respect evident.

"It is the work of a king," Robert boomed, clapping me on the shoulder.

Tywin Lannister remained silent throughout the tour, his pale green eyes missing nothing. He did not ask questions. He simply observed, his mind calculating, assessing. He saw the efficiency, the wealth, the sheer, undeniable power on display. When we stood on the highest battlement of the Serpent's Eye, looking down at the perfectly ordered town and the harbour filled with my ships, he finally spoke, his voice a low murmur meant only for me.

"You have built a kingdom here, Lord Thorne. Not just a castle."

"I have built a business, Lord Tywin," I corrected him gently. "One that serves the greater kingdom of His Grace, King Robert."

Our eyes met. There was no warmth, no friendship. There was only the cold, hard respect of two apex predators acknowledging each other's territory. He saw the smoke and mirrors, and I knew he suspected there was more behind the curtain. But he could not see what it was. The magical nature of my fortress was my ultimate secret, a truth so far beyond their reality that they could never conceive of it. They looked at the flawless stone and saw masterful masonry, not the bound spirits of a hundred thousand dead men.

The final night of the visit, Robert, deep in his cups on Thorne's Gold, cornered me in my solar. He slumped into a chair, his crown askew, his laughter gone, replaced by the great, aching melancholy that I knew was always lurking beneath the surface.

"It's all a lie, you know," he slurred, staring into the fire. "This kingship. The crown's so heavy, Thorne. And the debts… gods, the debts." He looked at me, his eyes filled with a desperate, drunken trust. "You're the only one who makes any sense. You build things. You make things work. Everyone else just wants. They want titles, lands, favours. You just… make gold."

"A strong kingdom needs a strong treasury, Your Grace," I said, refilling his cup.

"A strong kingdom needs a strong king," he muttered. "And I am not a strong king. I was a warrior." He sighed, a sound that seemed to shake the room. "Thank the gods I have you, Thorne. You and Jon. The only two honest men in this whole damned kingdom."

I had him. His complete and utter trust. He saw me as his loyal, competent, and honest friend. The performance was a resounding success.

The next day, the Royal Progress departed, a great, glittering serpent winding its way back north, leaving behind a profound sense of quiet and a great deal of mess. As I stood with Elara on the battlements of the Serpent's Eye, watching the last banner disappear, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment. The most powerful people in the world had come to my home, they had looked into the heart of my operation, and they had seen only the perfect facade I had constructed for them.

My monologue was one of quiet, supreme confidence. They came. The lion, the wolf, the falcon, and the stag. They walked the halls of my temple, they drank my wine, they marveled at my works. And they saw nothing. They believe I am a merchant prince, a genius of industry. A useful, wealthy subject. They cannot conceive of the truth. They cannot imagine the power that sleeps in the very stones beneath their feet. My ring is still silent, the great well of souls spent on this foundation. But it does not matter. The fortress itself is now my grimoire, my focus. The peace will last for a time. And in that time, I will perfect my industries, expand my network, and raise my son. I will let them play their game of thrones, with all its petty squabbles and fleeting victories. I am playing a longer, deeper game. A game of ages. And my opening move, the creation of this unbreachable, unknowable sanctuary, is complete. The stage is set. The smoke has cleared. And the serpent is safely hidden in its nest, watching the world, and waiting.