Roads to Power

289 AC

The Journey to Lannisport

The voyage westward carried a strange stillness, as though the sea itself conspired to grant him time to think. The salt-crusted deck of the DarkSpire shifted beneath Damien's boots, and he felt the faint tug of the ship's rhythm in his bones. Overhead, gulls cried, their shrill voices clashing with the low hiss of the waves lapping against the hull. The air was thick with the scent of brine and old wood.

Damien stood at the prow, the wind tugging at his crimson cloak. Pyke was behind him now, the memories of its blood-soaked stones lingering like a specter. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the sea breeze on his face, and exhaled slowly.

The war there was over. At least for now. But war had a way of staying with you—etched into your skin, woven into your thoughts. It doesn't end just because the swords are sheathed. He pressed his gloved hand against the rail, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened.

Ahead, somewhere beyond the rolling waves, lay Lannisport. A place of gold and glory. A city that sparkled with wealth and whispered of power. Damien's lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.

The tourney, called by Tywin Lannister, was ostensibly a celebration of peace. Yet Damien knew better. Peace was just a word men used to gild the edges of ambition. This was a declaration—a reminder that House Lannister stood untouchable, unbowed. As if Tywin needed to prove it.

For Damien, the event carried its own set of promises and perils. There were trade deals to secure, allegiances to read, and unspoken opportunities to grasp. Yet his thoughts wandered to something else—something far less tangible.

Jorah Mormont's name surfaced unbidden in his mind. The exiled lord of Bear Island, brought low by love and ambition. Damien leaned on the rail, gazing into the sea's shifting depths. Lynesse Hightower… he thought, her name heavy in his mind. The woman whose beauty had ensnared Jorah, driving him to ruin.

What if things had been different? Damien wondered, his brow furrowing. What if Jorah had married another? Or if Lynesse's gaze had landed on someone else? He imagined a Bear Island free of debt, unshadowed by disgrace. Would Jorah still have crossed the Narrow Sea? Would Daenerys Targaryen have gained such a loyal sword?

He shook his head, as though to scatter the thoughts like dry leaves. "The ripples," he muttered under his breath. "They're always there." Every choice, every moment, sent them outward, unseen but felt.

For a fleeting moment, Damien let himself dwell on the question that haunted him most: what ripples had his own life sent into the world? What had his choices changed, for better or worse?

Lannisport

Lannisport unfolded before them like a painting brought to life, all vibrant golds and rich reds. The harbor bristled with ships, their sails snapping in the wind, their banners a patchwork of sigils and colors. As Damien's vessel docked, he caught the hum of the city—a living, breathing thing. Voices shouted orders, ropes creaked, and the tang of smoke and spice hung in the air.

The DarkSpire was given a prime berth, and as Damien disembarked with his retinue, he felt the weight of eyes on him. Crimson cloaks and polished armor marked them as men of House Darke, and curiosity followed in their wake.

The streets of Lannisport teemed with life. Merchants hawked wares with voices worn rough from shouting, children darted between stalls, and blacksmiths worked furiously to mend or craft armor in time for the tourney. The air buzzed with anticipation, yet Damien could sense the undercurrent of tension.

He passed a scorched building, its charred timbers propped up by fresh wood. A reminder of the rebellion. The Westerlands had fared better than most in the wake of the Greyjoy uprising, but scars lingered in stone as well as flesh.

At the gates of the grand hall, a steward awaited them. The man bowed low, his movements precise. "Lord Darke," he said, his voice crisp. "And your esteemed company. Lord Tywin bids you welcome. He awaits you in the solar."

The walk to the solar was swift and quiet, Damien's boots echoing on the stone floors. He caught the faint murmur of servants as they passed, the occasional clink of a goblet being set down. The hall bore the unmistakable stamp of Tywin Lannister: austere yet undeniably grand.

When they reached the solar, the steward stepped aside, bowing once more. Damien entered to find Tywin seated at the head of the chamber. The golden lion of Lannister stared down from banners on the walls, and the air felt heavier in Tywin's presence. Beside him stood Tyrion, goblet in hand, his sharp eyes alight with mischief.

"Lord Darke," Tywin said, rising to his feet. His voice was calm but edged with steel. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

Damien inclined his head. "It was, my lord. Uneventful… but enlightening. The sea reminds us how small we are in the face of greater forces."

Tyrion let out a soft chuckle, swirling his wine. "Philosophy from a man of action. How refreshing."

"Rare, but not unwelcome," Tywin said, his sharp gaze never leaving Damien. "Let us dispense with pleasantries. You know why I summoned you."

Damien's eyes flicked toward the Valyrian steel sword at his hip, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He raised a brow, letting the silence hang for a beat. "Summoned, you say?" His tone was light, but the weight of Tywin's words pressed against him like a looming shadow.

Behind the mask of calm, Damien's thoughts churned. Why now? Why me? Hundreds of possibilities unraveled in his mind. This meeting was not without reason, and gods be dammed whatever Tywin wanted, it would not be without cost.