Chapter 25: Sowing the Iron Wind - 286 AC

Chapter 25: Sowing the Iron Wind - 286 AC

The peace that followed Robert's Rebellion was a thick, heavy blanket, smothering the embers of the old war. For most of the Seven Kingdoms, it was a time for healing, for celebrating the new King, for forgetting. But peace, for a man like me, is merely a different kind of war. It is a war of preparation, of quiet consolidation, of sowing the seeds for a future harvest in the fertile ground of your rivals' complacency.

By the year 286 AC, my son, Valerius, was a sturdy toddler of two, his world the rising, unbreachable walls of Aethelgard. My wife, Elara, was the undisputed mistress of a commercial empire of glass and spirits that was the envy of the Free Cities. My father, Lord Valerius, was a contented grandfather, the proud patriarch of a House whose name was now spoken with the same weight as Redwyne or Hightower. And I, at twenty-six, was the silent, unseen engine behind it all, my mind fixed not on the placid present, but on the next great storm I knew was gathering in the west.

My greatest source of power, the ring, was quiet. The divine, terrible energy of the rebellion, spent in the forging of my fortress, was gone. The roaring ocean of souls had been poured into the foundation stones, leaving an unnerving silence in my mind. The ring was a dormant volcano, its power immense but latent, now part of the living stone of my home. It was a vulnerability. To be without a ready source of liquid magical capital was a state I could not long abide. The peace was a famine for a man who fed on death.

The Greyjoy Rebellion was three years away. Balon Greyjoy, nursing his grievances on the bleak shores of Pyke, was already dreaming of fire and salt, of paying the iron price. He would declare himself King of the Iron Islands, and his longships would burn the western coast. Robert's great fleet, led by his brother Stannis, would smash the Iron Fleet, and the armies of the realm would besiege and conquer the isles. It would be a short, brutal, and wonderfully bloody affair. It would be the next great harvest. And I had three years to prepare.

My preparations began in the shipyards of Aethelgard, which now rivaled any in the Stormlands. I summoned my master shipwright, a grizzled Tyroshi named Mero who had a genius for hull design. I laid out a new set of plans before him.

"Master Mero," I said, pointing to the schematics. "The Thorne Corporation is expanding its trade routes to the far side of the continent. We will be sailing around the coast of Dorne, to Lannisport, and perhaps even further north. The seas are… unpredictable. We require a new class of vessel."

Mero studied the drawings, his brow furrowed. "My lord, this is… unusual. The deep keel, the narrow beam… she would be fast, faster than any trading galley I have ever seen. But the cargo hold is… inefficiently placed. And these reinforced cross-beams, this extra-thick planking along the waterline… it is over-engineered. It is wasteful."

"It is for stability in the rough seas off the western coast," I lied smoothly. "And for security. A fast ship can outrun pirates. A strong ship can survive a brush with them. We are building heavy merchantmen, Mero. Capable of long, unsupported voyages and defending themselves if necessary."

He saw a strange but lucrative commission. I saw a warship disguised as a cog. The ships of my new 'Wolf' class were designed with my foreknowledge in mind. They would be faster and more maneuverable than the Ironborn longships. Their reinforced hulls could withstand ramming. And their spacious decks, ostensibly for carrying luxury goods, were perfectly designed to hold a full complement of my Thorneguard archers and marines, turning each vessel into a floating fortress. We would build ten of them. A new fleet, forged under the cover of commerce.

While the shipyards hammered away, I turned my attention to the slow, grim task of refilling my ring. The great harvests of the war were over, but death is a constant, quiet trickle in any kingdom. My Lighthouse Network of taverns was my new tool.

In a telepathic conference with Rhys, my voice a silent thought across the hundreds of miles to King's Landing, I gave him his new directives.

"The incidental mortality rates around our establishments in the cities," I began, the thought cold and precise. "Lannisport, Oldtown, the capital itself… they are high."

"The city guard is corrupt or indifferent, my lord," Rhys replied. "Brawls, stabbings in the night… they are a daily occurrence, especially in the dockside taverns."

"Our establishments are to be beacons of order," I said, my meaning clear in the subtext. "Within their walls, our patrons are to be safe. Bronn's men will see to that. But the alleys outside our walls… are not our concern. Do not interfere. Do not report them. Simply let the city's natural rhythms take their course." I was instructing him to turn a blind eye, to allow the festering violence of the cities to become a small but steady source of income for my ring.

I also gave a new, standing order to the captains of my Thorneguard patrol ships. "The Stepstones are a nest of pirates," I told Captain Davos. "They are a constant threat to trade. You are authorized to conduct… aggressive anti-piracy operations in that region. Show no quarter. I want the pirate scourge in our waters eradicated."

The first of these operations took place a month later. The Vigilance hunted down a notorious pirate galley and destroyed it utterly. As the last of the pirate crew was put to the sword far out at sea, I, sitting in my solar at Aethelgard, felt the rush. It was not the tidal wave of a battle, but a sharp, satisfying surge of a few dozen violent souls pouring into the cold, empty vessel of my ring. It was a start. The slow harvest had begun.

My intelligence network also needed to be re-tasked for the coming conflict. I knew the war would be fought on the waves and on the western shores. I needed eyes there.

"Rhys," I commanded. "We are opening a new Weary Traveler. In the town of Seagard."

There was a pause from Rhys, the mental equivalent of a raised eyebrow. "Seagard, my lord? It is a grim, windswept town. Its only purpose is to watch the sea for longships."

"Precisely," I affirmed. "Its lord, Jason Mallister, is one of the most capable men in the Riverlands. The town is the shield against the Ironborn. I want to know everything that happens there. I want to know the mood of the ironborn before they even hoist their sails. I want to know the strength of the western lords. Our agent there will not be a merchant. He will be a veteran of the war, a man looking for a quiet life, a man who can listen to the tales of sailors and soldiers and discern the truth from the tavern boasts."

While my great machine of war and espionage ground forward, my domestic life took on a new dimension. My son, Valerius, was now a person, a small boy with a fierce curiosity and my own unnerving, analytical eyes. I began his education. While other lords' sons were given wooden swords and toy knights, Valerius's toys were different. I had the craftsmen of Aethelgard create a set of exquisitely carved blocks. Some were shaped like the angled bastions of our fortress. Others were perfect miniatures of my new Wolf-class ships.

One afternoon, Elara found us in the solar. I was on the floor with Valerius, arranging the blocks not in a castle, but in a tactical diagram of the Battle of the Bells.

"The spearmen hold the narrow street here," I was explaining to the two-year-old, pointing with my finger. "Forcing the enemy into a kill zone for the archers in the windows here and here."

Valerius, with a solemn look of concentration, took a block shaped like a cavalryman and tried to push it through the line of spears. I gently corrected him. "No, son. Never a frontal assault against a prepared position. You use your cavalry to flank. Like this."

Elara watched us, an unreadable expression on her face. "He is only two, Lysander."

"And at two, a Tully learns his rivers and a Stark learns his snows," I replied, not looking up. "A Thorne will learn the principles of leverage and overwhelming force. It is his birthright."

Later that evening, our conversation turned from our son's unconventional education to my own. My father, Lord Valerius, had approached me, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Lysander, I have seen the ledgers from the shipyard," he said, his voice heavy. "Ten of these new 'heavy merchantmen'. The cost is… astronomical. This is not a trading fleet you are building. You are building a royal navy. A fleet to challenge the Redwynes, or the Lannisters themselves. Why? The war is over. Who do you intend to fight?"

I had to sell the lie, even to him. I sat with him in the solar that night, my carefully prepared financial projections spread before me. "Father," I said, my tone patient and reasonable. "Our ventures are now global. We are shipping glass to Pentos, whiskey to Lys, leather to Volantis. The profits are immense, but so are the risks. The Stepstones are lawless. The Basilisk Isles are worse. To hire sell-sail companies to protect every shipment would eat into our profits by a third. To rely on the King's fleet is to rely on Robert's whims."

I pointed to the schematics of the Wolf-class ships. "These vessels are the solution. They are self-sufficient. They are fast enough to outrun any pirate, and strong enough to fight them off if they are cornered. They do not need escorts. By building our own secure transport fleet, we are cutting out the middlemen, increasing our profit margins, and ensuring the security of our own supply lines. It is not a war fleet, Father. It is a bold business investment. The most profitable one we will ever make."

He was a man of honour and duty, not of economics. He could not refute my numbers. He saw the logic, even if his warrior's intuition told him these ships were meant for more than just carrying cargo. He relented, placated by the sheer, overwhelming force of my financial reasoning.

The climax of that year of preparation came with the launching of the first of the new ships. I named her the Shadowfin. She was a beast, half again as large as the Vigilance, her timbers of dark, almost black, Rainwood oak. Her lines were sleek and predatory. To the cheering crowds, she was a magnificent trading galleon, the flagship of the new Thorne Corporation Merchant Marine.

I conducted a private inspection with Captain Davos, my loyal fleet commander, before her maiden voyage. I showed him the truth.

"The main cargo hold," I said, tapping a section of the deck, "is braced to support the weight of a dozen heavy scorpions. These decorative panels along the gunwale," I pried one open, "conceal weapon ports, perfectly positioned for our archers to fire from cover. And the forward hold, which we will fill with trade goods for now, is designed to be quickly converted into a barracks for a hundred marines."

Davos ran a hand over the reinforced railing, a look of dawning comprehension on his weathered face. "My lord… she's a wolf in a sheep's fleece."

"Precisely," I said, a cold smile on my face. "She is a merchantman today, Davos. Her holds will be filled with my whiskey and my wife's glass. But when the time comes, when the squids in the west decide to stir the waters, she and her nine sisters will be the finest wolves in any king's fleet."

That night, I stood on the deck of the Shadowfin as she rode at anchor in my heavily fortified port. The ring on my finger held a faint, but growing, warmth. The slow, steady harvest from the Stepstones was a constant, comforting trickle. It was nothing compared to the deluge of the war, but it was a start. It was a promise.

My monologue was one of patient, absolute certainty. The king grows fat in his capital, the lions lick their wounds in their rock, and the wolves brood in their winter snows. They are all reacting to the last war. I alone am preparing for the next one. They see peace. I see a caesura, a brief pause in the symphony of violence that is the history of this world. And in this pause, I build. I build ships of war under the guise of commerce. I establish listening posts under the guise of taverns. I sow the seeds of a future conflict, cultivating it, nurturing it, so that when it finally blooms, the harvest will be mine alone.

The Kraken slept in his cold, damp halls, dreaming of salt and iron. But the Serpent was awake. And it was sowing the wind that would become his storm.