Roads to Power

289AC

The silence in Tywin's solar was a living thing, coiled and tense, waiting for its chance to strike. Tywin's pale green eyes bore into Damien, the golden lion of House Lannister poised to pounce. Tyrion's smirk lingered like a specter on the edges of the room, his wine-dark eyes flicking between the two men with palpable amusement.

Damien let the moment stretch, allowing the tension to thicken like smoke in the air. He stood tall, his crimson cloak pooling around his boots, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the Valyrian steel sword at his hip. It was a statement as much as a weapon, and he wielded it now as deftly as he would in battle.

"Summoned," Damien repeated, his voice low and measured, the faintest edge of amusement curling his words. "A curious term, my lord. It suggests obedience. And while I am many things, obedient has never been one of them."

Tywin's expression did not shift, but his presence loomed larger. "And yet, here you stand."

Damien inclined his head, conceding the point. "Here I stand, indeed. To what do I owe the honor?"

Tywin's gaze flicked to the sword, its black-and-silver pommel glinting in the firelight. "You know why. That blade belongs to a house that understands its value."

Damien's lips quirked in a faint smile. "Value is a curious thing, wouldn't you agree? It shifts depending on perspective. To some, this blade is priceless. To others, it's merely a relic. And to me…" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "To me, it's opportunity."

Tyrion chuckled softly, raising his goblet. "Well said, Lord Darke. Rarely have I seen anyone outmaneuver Father so elegantly and with so few words."

Tywin ignored his son, his focus unbroken. "Opportunity, you say. Then, let us dispense with riddles. Name your price."

Damien's eyes narrowed slightly, his calculating mind racing through the possibilities. Tywin Lannister was not a man to be trifled with, nor was he. The stakes of this negotiation were clear, and the weight of Lannisport's gold was a heavy counterbalance to the blade at his hip.

"My price," Damien began, his tone contemplative, "is not merely gold, though I suspect you've already prepared a generous offer. No, my needs are more… practical."

Tywin's brow arched a silent prompt to continue. Damien stepped closer, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he gestured lightly with one hand.

"You see, my lord, I've already taken measures regarding this blade. I've sent a missive to Tobo Mott, the finest smith in King's Landing, who has been instructed to melt it down and reforge it into two arming swords. A decision born of necessity, I assure you. One blade, however magnificent, cannot serve two. And House Darke's strength lies in its unity after-all."

For the first time, Tywin's expression betrayed a flicker of irritation. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his fingers steepling before him. "You'd destroy such craftsmanship? A Valyrian steel longsword—a rarity beyond measure—reduced to arming swords?"

Damien met his gaze unflinchingly. "Two arming swords, to be precise, and of Practicality, my lord. The needs of a house outweigh the sentiment of a single blade. If you wish to negotiate for it in its current form, I am willing to listen. But understand: you negotiate for the blade as it is now, not what it might become."

Tywin's silence was deafening. Tyrion's smirk widened, his fingers tapping a light rhythm against his goblet.

"Two million gold dragons," Damien said, the words hanging like a gauntlet thrown at Tywin's feet. "That is the fixed price for the 1 of the arming blades—a reflection of the craftsmanship and material alone."

Tywin's brows drew together in a faint frown. "Two million, while steep, I find it reasonable, yet I suspect you haven't finished your terms."

Damien's smile returned, sharp and wolfish. "Perceptive as ever, my lord. Gold, while essential, is not my only request. House Darke has needs that extend beyond mere coin. We require raw materials, such as steel, timber, stone, and ships, to ensure trade. My demands are simple.

The lion did not roar, but his presence grew heavier. Tywin leaned forward slightly, his steely gaze unyielding. "You demand much. Do not mistake my interest in this blade for weakness."

Damien stepped closer still, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "And do not mistake my demands for arrogance. I know your house, Tywin Lannister. I know the strain of rebuilding Lannisport after the rebellion, as well as the gold spent to gild this tourney. A tourney meant to display your power, your wealth. Tell me, my lord, how far will your purse stretch before it begins to fray?"

The room fell silent, the tension crackling like a storm about to break. Tyrion raised his goblet in mock salute, his grin unabashed. "A masterstroke, Lord Darke. I'd wager you'd give Varys himself a run for his coin."

Tywin's gaze did not waver. "You've made your point. Now hear mine."

Damien inclined his head, a silent gesture of acknowledgment. Tywin's voice was a blade, cutting through the air with precision.

"You are correct that Lannisport has its needs, and House Lannister its burdens. But do not think that I will bend to demands dressed as negotiations. Your price is high, and your requests are… ambitious."

Damien allowed a faint chuckle. "Ambition, my lord, is the foundation of greatness. Surely you understand that better than most."

Tywin's eyes narrowed, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he shifted tactics, his tone cooling. "Two million gold dragons. The raw materials you've listed. However, as for our ships, those are not on the table to barter due to the need for them to clear out any residual effects of the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Damien considered this, his mind weighing the offer. It was generous—far more than he had expected Tywin to concede so quickly. Yet he knew better than to appear too eager. He folded his arms across his chest, his gaze steady.

"Acceptable," he said at last, though his tone suggested he was granting a favor rather than making a compromise. "But understand this: the arming sword will remain mine until the terms are fulfilled in full."

Tywin's expression did not change, but Damien caught the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes. "Done."

The lion and the wolf exchanged a single nod, the unspoken weight of their agreement settling over the room. Tyrion raised his goblet once more, his laughter soft but genuine.

"Well," Tyrion said, his voice breaking the silence. "If this is the sort of discourse we can expect, I suggest you join us more often, Lord Darke. You make court politics almost bearable."

Damien allowed himself a faint smile as he turned toward the door. "Perhaps one day, Lord Tyrion. For now, I have Tourney to participate in."

Damien felt the faint tug of satisfaction as the door closed behind him. The lion had roared, but he had not been cowed. The Valyrian steel sword still hung at his hip, its weight a reminder of the price he had extracted from one of the most powerful men in Westeros.

The ripples, he thought as he descended the stairs, are always there. What they would bring, only time would tell.