Chapter 27: Uncoiling the Serpent - 289 AC

Chapter 27: Uncoiling the Serpent - 289 AC

The peace of King Robert's reign, for all its boisterous feasting and hunting, was a thin crust of earth over a slumbering volcano. For five years I had watched that volcano, tracking its tremors, mapping its magma chambers, and patiently waiting for the inevitable eruption. In the early months of 289 AC, the ground began to shake.

I was in the solar with my son, Valerius. He was five years old now, a serious, solemn boy who possessed a frighteningly quick mind. The floor was our battlefield, a vast, painted map of the Iron Islands. We were re-enacting a hypothetical naval invasion. His small hands moved the carved pieces representing my Wolf-class ships with a careful deliberation that belied his age.

"You see, Valerius," I explained, pointing to the straits between Pyke and Harlaw, "the enemy's strength is their ferocity in boarding. They are wolves of the sea. But wolves are pack hunters. They are disorganised. You do not fight them head-on. You isolate one from the pack, you surround it with your own, more disciplined hunters, and you annihilate it. Then you move to the next. It is not a battle; it is an extermination."

Elara stood by the doorway, watching us. Her expression was, as always, one of calm, unreadable composure. She was now the undisputed master of my commercial empire, a woman whose name commanded more respect in the ledgers of the Iron Bank than most high lords. She understood the lessons I was teaching our son. She was a full partner in the forging of our dynasty.

It was into this scene of quiet, domestic ruthlessness that the world intruded. The obsidian disc in my pocket, dormant for so long, pulsed with a sudden, urgent summons from Rhys. I excused myself and went to my laboratory, the heart of my power.

The news from my spymaster was a cascade of grim, exhilarating confirmation.

"Kael reports from Seagard, my lord," Rhys's thoughts were sharp, honed by years of our secret communion. "It has happened. Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself. He has declared the Iron Islands an independent kingdom. The raven has flown to Riverrun. The rebellion has begun."

I felt a cold, clean thrill, the feeling of a predator whose long watch was finally over. The Kraken had risen.

"Maintain position," I sent back. "King's Landing will be in chaos. Keep your ears open. The true news will come from the west."

I immediately dispatched a coded message to Captain Davos, whose squadron of five Wolf-class ships was now on 'anti-piracy' patrol off the coast of the Westerlands, conveniently close to Fair Isle. My message was simple: "The tide has turned. Assume Condition Black. Await the signal."

The news that rocked the Seven Kingdoms came a week later. The Iron Fleet, under the command of Victarion and Euron Greyjoy, had descended upon Lannisport in a daring surprise attack. They had caught the Lannister fleet at anchor and had burned it to the waterline. The west coast was now open, undefended, and terrified.

The royal court exploded in a firestorm of rage and panic. King Robert, his peaceful reign shattered, called his banners. He was a man awoken from a drunken slumber, and he was filled with the furious energy of a cornered stag. Ravens flew to every corner of the realm, summoning the great lords to war.

I sent my own raven to the King immediately. It was a masterpiece of loyalist fervor and strategic positioning. I feigned shock and outrage at the Greyjoys' treachery. I pledged the full support of House Thorne—our army, our port, our vast stores of grain and steel—to the King's cause. And, most importantly, I informed him that my own 'merchant' fleet, by a stroke of fortune, was already operating in the waters off the western coast, dutifully fulfilling his own royal command to protect trade. I assured him they would do everything in their power to counter the rebel fleet and avenge the insult to House Lannister.

I was positioning myself not as a reactor, but as the realm's first responder.

The true command was not sent by raven. In my laboratory, I focused my will, pouring a measure of the power I had slowly harvested from the pirates into the scrying crystal. The milky sphere swirled, and an image formed: the pitching deck of the Shadowfin, my flagship, and the weathered face of Captain Davos.

"Davos," my voice was a thought whispered directly into his mind. "The signal is given. The Lannister fleet is ash. The Ironborn will be returning from Lannisport, arrogant with victory and heavy with plunder. They will be scattered, their discipline lax. You know your orders. Intercept and annihilate. Leave none to tell the tale."

Davos's face, even in the cloudy image of the scry, was a mask of grim determination. He simply nodded. The connection broke. The trap was sprung.

For three days, I waited. In that time, I put my own house on a war footing. Elara, with chilling efficiency, began negotiating massive supply contracts with the Iron Throne. Jon Arryn, desperate for supplies for the great army that was now mustering, agreed to her exorbitant wartime prices without argument. The Thorne Corporation would be the sole supplier of whiskey, preserved rations, and high-quality medical supplies for the entire war effort. We would make a second fortune from this rebellion before a single major battle was fought.

On the third night, I felt it. From hundreds of miles away, through the esoteric connection of the ring, the harvest began. It was not the overwhelming, chaotic flood of a land battle. It was a series of sharp, distinct, and wonderfully clean surges of power. My Wolf-class ships had found their prey.

I returned to my scrying crystal, feeding it more power. The image that formed was one of fire and water, of splintered timber and the screams of dying men. My ships, faster, stronger, and better-led, were tearing through the returning Ironborn fleet like sharks through a school of fish. The battle was a series of brutal, one-sided ambushes. My archers, with their enchanted longbows, swept the decks of the longships from a safe distance. My marines, disciplined and ruthless, boarded the crippled vessels and put the crews to the sword.

The Ironborn, the terrors of the sea, were utterly outclassed. They had expected to fight merchant ships. They found themselves facing a pack of purpose-built wolves.

I watched, my face impassive, as a longship was rammed by the Shadowfin, its hull splintering. I watched as dozens of ironmen were cut down by my Thorneguard. And with every death, I felt a jolt of pure, refined energy pour into my ring. The souls were fierce, proud, and filled with a salty, defiant rage. It was a vintage of excellent quality. The emptiness in my ring, the source of my latent anxiety for years, was being filled at a spectacular rate. The warmth was returning, a comforting hum of power that was like coming home.

The battle lasted for an hour. When it was over, a significant portion of Victarion Greyjoy's victorious fleet was at the bottom of the sea, and my ring was pulsing with the life force of over a thousand drowned men.

The next morning, I sent my ravens.

The first was to King Robert, a detailed after-action report of the "Battle of the Fair Straits," as I had named it. I described how my 'merchant' fleet, while on patrol, had heroically engaged a large contingent of the rebel navy and, against all odds, had won a stunning victory, sinking over twenty longships and capturing a dozen more, along with several minor Ironborn captains. I presented it as a testament to the courage of the King's loyal servants.

The second raven was for Lord Tywin Lannister. It was delivered by a private courier. The message was simple, containing only a copy of my report to the King, and a small, heavy box. Inside the box, resting on a bed of black velvet, was the personal banner of a minor Ironborn lord whose ship had been captured, a snarling kraken on a field of grey. There was no letter, no explanation. None was needed. The message was clear: The House of Thorne has avenged the honor of the House of Lannister. You are in my debt.

The political fallout was immediate and immensely satisfying. I was hailed as a hero. The 'Victor of Fair Straits'. In a single stroke, I had become the realm's premier naval commander, my reputation eclipsing even that of Stannis Baratheon before he had even set sail. Robert was ecstatic. Tywin Lannister was silent, but I knew the Old Lion understood the game I was playing. I had earned his gratitude, his respect, and his deep, undying suspicion.

I stood before the great map in my solar, moving the marker for my western fleet. I placed a small, carved kraken piece next to it, and then tipped it over. My son, Valerius, watched me with wide, serious eyes.

"The Kraken thought the lion was sleeping, Valerius," I told him softly. "But he did not know there was a serpent waiting in the water. The first rule of power: never reveal your true strength until the moment you strike."

My monologue was a quiet celebration of a perfectly executed plan. Years. For five years I have prepared for this day. I built the ships, I trained the men, I positioned my assets. And when the moment came, the strike was flawless. They call me a hero, a loyal servant of the crown. Robert sees a brilliant commander. Tywin sees a dangerous rival. They see the results, the victory, the smoke. They cannot see the true prize. They cannot feel the warmth returning to my ring, the thousands of fierce, iron-hard souls that now swell my power. They fight for kingdoms, for vengeance, for honour. I fight for a power they cannot comprehend.

The great armies were still mustering. The Royal Fleet was still being assembled. The war had just begun, but I had already won the first, most important victory. I had demonstrated my power, secured my political position, and, most importantly, I had reaped the first fruits of a new and bountiful harvest. The Serpent had uncoiled, and its first bite was a lethal one. Now, it was time to join the main hunt, and prepare for the even greater slaughters to come at Pyke and the other Iron Islands. The ring on my finger was thirsty, and I intended to see it filled to the brim.