Roads to Power

289 AC

(Damien)

The white raven perched on my shoulder, its black eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence. It tilted its head, studying me as though it understood the weight of my thoughts. Unlike the black ravens of the maesters, white ravens were rarer and larger, with minds that seemed almost too sharp for mere beasts. Mine was more than a mere messenger, though; it was a companion, a familiar bound to me by threads of fate I scarcely understood.

The wolfhound paced beside me, its muscles taut beneath its sleek coat. The beast moved with a quiet grace, every step purposeful. A hunter by nature, it had been bred for the chase, capable of taking down wolves—or worse. It gave no more than a passing glance to the smallfolk who crossed our path, though its ears twitched at every sudden sound.

The streets of Lannisport bustled with life as I made my way through the crowds. Merchants cried out their wares, offering everything from gilded trinkets to salted fish, while children darted between stalls, their laughter piercing through the clamor. Above it all rose the scent of the city: a mix of salt from the sea, smoke from the forges, and the ever-present tang of unwashed bodies.

With a thought, I sharpened my senses, and the world shifted. The hum of the crowd became a symphony of distinct voices, each word clear and sharp. I could smell the leather of a cobbler's wares, the iron tang of freshly forged weapons, and the faint, sour stench of fear wafting from a beggar who stumbled too close to my wolfhound.

"You have nothing to fear," I muttered, though the words were for myself as much as for the beggar.

The raven croaked in response, its voice harsh and guttural. It was no true word, but the sound held an edge of meaning—a reminder, perhaps, of the melee that awaited me. I had no time for distractions.

I returned to my quarters, a modest room in one of Lannisport's finer inns. The melee would begin in a few hours, and I needed to prepare. My armor awaited me, polished to a gleaming black that drank in the light. My sigil, a black ram on a silver field, adorned the shield propped against the wall.

The composite bow I had recently acquired rested nearby, its craftsmanship flawless. I had taken to practicing with it in recent days, though I cursed myself for not dedicating more time to such skills in the past. The bow was a weapon of precision, suited to the keen eyesight my bond with the raven afforded me. With it, I could strike targets from distances most men would consider impossible.

"You're not Barristan Selmy," I murmured as I adjusted the bowstring. "But you don't need to be."

Strength and skill were vital, yes, but they were not the only tools at a man's disposal. A sharp mind, a steady hand, and an understanding of the game's rules—these could carry a man farther than a sword ever could. As long as I remained grounded, I would not become a pawn in another man's story.

The raven croaked again, this time softer, almost approving. The wolfhound stretched out by the fire, its eyes half-closed but its ears still alert. Even in rest, it was a predator.

General

In the Westerlands, the golden hills surrounding Lannisport seemed to glow under the midday sun. The city itself was alive with activity, its streets crowded with nobles, knights, and common folk who had come to witness the grand event. The banners of House Lannister fluttered from every tower, their golden lions seeming to roar against the bright blue sky.

The Tourney of Lannisport was a celebration of triumph—a reminder of the realm's unity in the wake of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Balon Greyjoy's uprising had tested the strength of King Robert's reign, but it had ended in fire and blood. The Ironborn fleet had been burned, their warriors slain, and their rebellion crushed.

(Emmon Pov)

Emmon leaned forward in his seat, his face alight with excitement. His wife, ever the pragmatist, sat beside him, her expression one of mild disdain.

"The melee is next," Emmon said, his voice barely above a whisper, though the excitement in his tone was unmistakable. "They say Damien Darke will be fighting. Imagine it! The witch of the Crownlands, here in the flesh."

Genna sighed, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd. "And you'll make a spectacle of yourself, no doubt. Try to act your station, Emmon. This is not some mummer's farce."

Damien Darke had indeed drawn the attention of many. Once a relatively obscure figure, his exploits during the rebellion had elevated him to near-mythic status. Whispers of his cunning in battle and his rumored mastery of strange powers had spread across the Seven Kingdoms. Some likened him to Corlys Velaryon, the legendary Sea Snake, while others spoke of him in hushed tones, calling him a witch, a shadowbinder, or worse.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, AFTER THE ARCHERY CONTEST, WE HAVE THE MELEE!" the announcer's voice boomed across the grounds.

The crowd erupted into cheers as knights and men-at-arms began to assemble on the field. The melee was a spectacle unlike any other—a chaotic clash of steel and flesh where only the strongest, smartest, or luckiest survived.

Among the combatants, one shield stood out. Black as night, it bore the sigil of a ram, its horns curling inward like the blades of a scythe.

From the throng of warriors emerged Damien Darke, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. He moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his every step measured and deliberate. The crowd fell silent as he strode onto the field, their eyes fixed on him as though drawn by some unseen force.

Damien glanced briefly at the royal box, his expression unreadable, before turning his gaze to Emmon and Genna Frey, who sat nearby. "I think I truly now understand Robert's frustration surrounded by Lannisters." Emmon smiled broadly, his excitement plain to see.

"Have some composure, you dunderhead," Genna hissed under her breath, her tone sharp enough to cut. "You make yourself a target. Remember where we are—impressions are everything. You are the Lord of the Riverlands, not some swooning maid."

Emmon straightened in his seat, though the flush of embarrassment crept up his neck.

On the field, the melee began. Swords clashed, shields splintered, and the air filled with the roar of the crowd. Damien moved through the chaos with a predator's grace, his sword striking with deadly precision. He fought not like a man, but like a force of nature—unyielding, unrelenting.

From the stands, Tywin Lannister watched in silence, his cold eyes fixed on the field. His thoughts remained his own, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.