Chapter 25: Political Maneuvering - Part 1
POV: Corwyn Darke
King's Landing in the new year smelled marginally better than my first visit—cold weather reduced the rot, if not the crowds.
I entered the city with a smaller escort this time—Lord Rykker, four guards, and Maester Harlan carrying the documents that would complete my transformation from debtor to proper vassal. The streets parted for horses bearing noble colors, but the sidelong glances followed us with curiosity.
"Word travels. The minor lord who destroyed Darklyn, partnered with Velaryon, built an army from nothing."
The Red Keep loomed ahead, its towers catching the winter sun. A year ago, I'd approached these walls as a desperate petitioner seeking justice. Now I returned as something else entirely—a rising power paying tribute to the Crown.
[ 🏛️ LOCATION: KING'S LANDING ]
[ PURPOSE: COURT ATTENDANCE / DEBT PAYMENT ]
[ CURRENT CROWN DEBT: 1,500 GOLD ]
[ PAYMENT PREPARED: 1,000 GOLD ]
[ REMAINING AFTER PAYMENT: 500 GOLD ]
The formal audience took place in the throne room, King Viserys presiding over the New Year's procession of vassals offering tribute and petitions. I waited through three hours of tedious ceremony before my turn came.
"Lord Corwyn Darke of Duskhollow," the herald announced. "Bearing tribute to His Grace."
I approached the Iron Throne, feeling the weight of every eye in the chamber. The twisted mass of swords seemed to pulse with its own malevolent awareness—legends said kings who ruled poorly cut themselves on its edges. Viserys sat carefully, his hands away from the armrests.
"Lord Darke." The King's voice was tired but not unkind. "You've come a long way since our last meeting."
"Thanks to Your Grace's justice, which allowed me to rebuild what my enemies sought to destroy." I knelt, presenting the chest of gold. "One thousand dragons toward my family's debt to the Crown. The remaining five hundred will follow within the year."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled nobles. Most vassals delayed debt payments indefinitely, offered excuses, sought extensions. Actually paying was remarkable enough to draw attention.
"Rise, Lord Darke." Viserys gestured to a steward, who accepted the chest. "Your diligence is noted and appreciated. House Darke's loyalty does the realm credit."
[ 💰 PAYMENT COMPLETE ]
[ CROWN DEBT: 1,500 → 500 GOLD ]
[ CROWN FAVOR: +15% ]
[ REPUTATION: RELIABLE VASSAL ]
I bowed again and withdrew, feeling Otto Hightower's calculating gaze follow me across the chamber. The Hand missed nothing—he'd note my rising fortunes, calculate their implications, file the information away for future consideration.
"Let him calculate. Numbers favor those who actually produce rather than just scheme."
POV: Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen
The gardens were quieter in winter.
Rhaenyra walked the frost-touched paths alone, escaping another morning of tedious court ceremony. Her father meant well, but the endless parade of suitors and sycophants ground against her soul like sand in an oyster. Unlike oysters, she produced no pearls from the irritation—only frustration.
"Your Grace."
The voice was familiar. She turned to find Lord Corwyn Darke approaching along the path, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked different from their last meeting—better dressed, more confident, the slight hesitation of a newcomer to court replaced by the settled assurance of someone who'd found his footing.
"Lord Darke. I wondered if you'd seek me out."
"I wasn't seeking, Your Grace. Merely escaping." He gestured toward the Keep behind them. "Court ceremony is... extensive."
"You attended my father's audience. Paid a significant tribute, I heard."
"My family's debt. It felt appropriate to reduce it." He fell into step beside her, maintaining proper distance without excessive formality. "How have you been, Your Grace? Since we last spoke?"
The question caught her off guard. Most men asked about her marriage prospects, her father's health, her position on various political matters. None asked about her.
"Bored, mostly. Suffocated by expectations. Questioned constantly about when I'll provide the realm with heirs." She heard the bitterness in her own voice and moderated it. "The usual princess complaints."
"They don't sound usual to me." Lord Darke's tone was thoughtful rather than flattering. "They sound exhausting."
"You're not going to offer solutions? Most men do. 'Find a suitable husband, Your Grace. Embrace your duties, Your Grace. The realm needs stability, Your Grace.'"
"Would solutions help?"
"No."
"Then why would I offer them?" He stopped at a stone bench, brushing snow from the seat before gesturing for her to sit. "Sometimes people don't need problems solved. They need someone to acknowledge the problems exist."
[ 💬 RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPMENT ]
[ PRINCESS RHAENYRA ]
[ PREVIOUS: 15% (ACQUAINTANCE) ]
[ CURRENT: 35% (FRIENDLY) ]
[ INTERACTION QUALITY: GENUINE ]
Rhaenyra studied him as she sat. Twenty-one now, still young but no longer the desperate youth who'd faced the Small Council. His eyes held experience—battles fought, crises survived, challenges overcome. Yet he looked at her without hunger or calculation.
"You're unusual, Lord Darke."
"So I've been told."
"Most men want something from me. Power. Connection. The chance to father future kings." She let the words hang, watching his reaction.
"I have power—modest but growing. Connection serves me better through commerce than marriage. And future kings..." He shook his head slightly. "That's a responsibility I wouldn't wish on anyone, Your Grace. The Iron Throne is a burden, not a prize."
Something eased in Rhaenyra's chest. For the first time in months, she found herself relaxing in someone's presence.
"Tell me about your harbor," she said. "I've heard rumors. Velaryon investment, trade routes, merchant interest."
"What would you like to know?"
"Everything. Tell me about building something rather than inheriting it."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The conversation lasted two hours.
I told her about the harbor—the vision, the challenges, the slow transformation of a fishing cove into a commercial port. About the agricultural reforms that had fed a growing population. About the mines that funded military expansion. About the hundred small decisions that accumulated into something larger.
She listened with genuine interest, asking questions that revealed sharp intelligence beneath the princess's polish. How did I motivate workers? What happened when plans failed? How did I balance competing demands?
"She's not looking for escape fantasies. She's looking for how things actually work."
"You make it sound simple," Rhaenyra said finally. "Build things. Treat people fairly. Plan ahead."
"The principles are simple. The execution is brutally hard." I leaned back on the bench, feeling the cold stone through my cloak. "I've lost sleep over decisions that seemed obvious in hindsight. Made mistakes that cost lives. Succeeded through luck as much as skill."
"But you succeeded."
"So far. Tomorrow could bring disaster. Next year could see everything I've built destroyed." I met her eyes. "Success isn't permanent, Your Grace. It's a process, not a destination."
Something flickered in her expression—recognition, maybe, or the shadow of her own anxieties about the future.
"I should return," she said, rising. "Father will notice my absence."
"Of course." I stood, offering a proper bow. "Thank you for the conversation, Your Grace. It's... refreshing to speak with someone genuinely curious about the world."
"Likewise, Lord Darke." A slight smile crossed her face. "Perhaps we'll speak again before you leave court."
"I would like that."
She departed toward the Keep, her silver-gold hair catching the winter light. I watched her go, calculating implications that the System couldn't quantify.
"The heir to the Iron Throne considers me a friend. That's either an asset or a target, depending on how things develop."
For now, it felt like simply... friendship. Rare and valuable in its own right.
POV: Maester Harlan
The merchant meetings consumed Lord Corwyn's evenings.
Harlan accompanied him to taverns and trading houses across King's Landing, watching his lord transform political capital into commercial opportunity. Each conversation was carefully prepared—research on the merchant's interests, knowledge of their routes and cargoes, specific proposals tailored to mutual benefit.
"The Duskhollow route saves you two days on the northern passage," Lord Corwyn explained to a Pentoshi trader. "That's two days' wages saved, two days' food, two days closer to market before your competitors."
"And your docking fees?"
"Competitive with Blackwater Bay. Better facilities. Protected waters—we eliminated a pirate nest just last month." Lord Corwyn produced a document. "Here are our standard terms. Review them, visit our harbor when it opens in spring. See for yourself whether we deliver what we promise."
[ 📋 MERCHANT CONTACTS ESTABLISHED ]
[ NEW COMMITMENTS: 5 TRADING HOUSES ]
[ PROJECTED ADDITIONAL TRAFFIC: +30% ]
[ NETWORK EXPANSION: ONGOING ]
The Pentoshi took the document, his skepticism visibly softening. "You're not like most Westerosi lords. They demand tribute, expect service. You... negotiate."
"I believe in mutual profit." Lord Corwyn raised his cup. "Your success becomes my success. That's how lasting relationships work."
Harlan made notes as the conversation continued, documenting terms and contacts for later reference. His lord's approach was unconventional—treating merchants as partners rather than subjects—but the results were undeniable.
"He builds alliances everywhere he goes. Economic, political, personal. Each one strengthens the whole."
By the end of the two-week visit, Lord Corwyn had secured preliminary agreements with eight merchant houses, deepened relationships with key political figures, and reduced Crown debt to a manageable five hundred gold.
The return journey to Duskhollow was almost triumphant.
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