Chapter 10: The Pivot to War
Chapter 10: The Pivot to War
281 AC, Month of the Setting Sun
The raven's scroll felt as heavy as a tablet of stone in Alaric's hand. Pate's neat script, usually a source of dry satisfaction, now seemed to mock him with its innocent excitement. A Great Tourney at Harrenhal... The King himself may attend...
Alaric stood in the silence of his study, the sounds of Pentos—the distant clang of a smith's hammer, the cry of a spice merchant—fading into an irrelevant hum. The map of the known world on his wall seemed to shrink until only one landmass mattered, a jagged, familiar continent across the Narrow Sea. Westeros.
Harrenhal. The name was a thunderclap in the quiet library of his memory. It was not just a tourney. It was the nexus, the focal point where all the simmering resentments, the secret passions, and the political ambitions of a generation would converge and ignite. It was the beginning of the end of the Targaryen dynasty. It was the spark that would light the wildfire of Robert's Rebellion.
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He spent the next three days locked in his study. Nervo was instructed that he was not to be disturbed for any reason. Food and water were left at his door. Ser Damon's Stormcrows established a hard perimeter around the residence, their grim presence discouraging any unwanted visitors.
Inside, Alaric and Prometheus waged a war of pure analysis. He paced before his great map, his mind a torrent of names, dates, and battlefields resurrected from his past life's reading. The Battle of the Bells. The Siege of Storm's End. The Trident. He dissected each engagement, each political manoeuvre.
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The plan was audacious, bordering on insane. He was a twelve-year-old boy, an exile in a foreign city, planning to build a private military-industrial complex to shatter and reshape the political future of a continent. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated exhilaration. This was the game he was born to play.
He emerged from his study on the fourth day, his eyes burning with a new, terrifying intensity. He summoned his lieutenants.
His first meeting was with Magister Presto. He met him not in the gaudy splendour of the Magister's manse, but in his own starkly functional study. It was a deliberate power play, forcing the Magister onto his turf.
"Magister," Alaric began, forgoing the usual pleasantries. "Our partnership has been profitable, but small-minded. We have been picking up the scraps from the tables of the great guilds. I propose we stop picking up scraps, and start building tables of our own."
Presto, fanning himself with a silk fan despite the coolness of the room, raised a plucked eyebrow. "A bold sentiment, my young friend. What did you have in mind?"
"Shipping," Alaric said. "Pentos lives and dies by its port, yet the shipping industry is fractured, controlled by a hundred different captains and minor consortiums. It's inefficient. I propose we establish our own shipping line. The Pentos Sea Lines. We will buy our own ships, starting with three fast trading galleys. We will use my... analytical methods... to guarantee delivery times, to avoid storms and pirates that cripple our rivals. We will offer lower insurance rates, faster passage. Within two years, we will dominate the trade routes to the other Free Cities and the Westerosi coast."
Presto's fan stopped moving. The scale of the proposal was immense. "Ships... are expensive, Alaric. And the Guild of Spicers, the Weavers... they will not take kindly to a new rival of such ambition."
"The guilds are slow, fat, and complacent," Alaric countered, his voice cutting. "We will be fast, lean, and ruthless. As for the expense," he slid a piece of parchment across the desk. It was a detailed projection of the potential profits, complete with shipping routes, cargo estimates, and timelines. The numbers were staggering. "You have the political connections to smooth the way with the Prince and the other Magisters. I have the capital to begin, and the method to ensure success. Are you a merchant, Presto, or are you just a man who owns a nice garden?"
The veiled insult hit its mark. Presto looked at the numbers, at the cold, predatory ambition in the boy's eyes, and felt a thrill of fear and greed. This boy was not just a partner; he was a force of nature, and it was better to be swept along by the tidal wave than to be drowned by it.
"I will need to speak to my bankers," Presto said, his voice a little shaky. "But... the logic of your proposal is... compelling."
The engine was being forged.
His next meeting was with Ser Damon Flowers. He found the sellsword captain in the courtyard of the warehouse, overseeing a brutal training session. His twenty Stormcrows, stripped to the waist and sweating under the Pentoshi sun, moved with a newfound discipline.
"Ser Damon," Alaric called out. The knight barked an order, and the men stood down, panting, their eyes on Alaric with a mixture of respect and fear. "A word."
In the cool of the armoury, surrounded by racks of newly purchased steel, Alaric laid out his second proposal. "The Stormcrows are an adequate security force," he began. "But I no longer require adequate. I require the foundation of a legion."
Damon leaned against a weapons rack, crossing his thick arms. "Legion? That's a big word, master."
"It is a word for a big idea," Alaric said. "I am giving you a new contract. I am tripling your company's pay. I want you to recruit. I want you to find me a hundred men. Not the drunken dregs of the Free Cities, but disciplined, experienced fighters. Disgraced knights from Westeros, Unsullied who have bought their freedom, pit-fighters from Meereen who are tired of dying for another man's pleasure. I want killers. But I want disciplined killers."
He unrolled a series of drawings on a workbench. They depicted a new suit of armour and a set of weapons. The armour was a form of articulated plate, made of blackened steel, offering more protection than standard mail but more flexibility than a full suit of Westerosi plate. The helmet was enclosed, its visor shaped into a snarling, serpentine face. The primary weapon was not a longsword, but a shorter, thicker blade, designed for stabbing and thrusting in the press of a shield wall, much like a gladius. It was complemented by a heavy, rectangular shield and weighted throwing spears. It was a synthesis of the best military technology from his old world and this one.
"This is the gear they will wear," Alaric said. "I will pay for the finest steel, the best smiths. And you will train them. Not in the sloppy melees of Westerosi tourneys, but in the disciplined formations of the old Ghiscari legions. They will be a shield wall that cannot be broken, a phalanx that grinds its enemies to dust. They will no longer be the Stormcrows. They will be the First Cohort of the Onyx Legion."
Damon stared at the drawings, his calloused fingers tracing the lines of the intimidating helmet. He had been a soldier for hire his entire life, fighting for petty lords and rich merchants with no more vision than their next purse of gold. This boy, this strange, cold child, was talking about forging a real army. An army that could make history. He was being offered the chance to be a true general, a commander whose name would be spoken with fear and respect.
"It will take time," Damon said, his voice a low growl of suppressed excitement. "And a river of gold."
"I have both," Alaric stated. "But the time is shorter than you think. I want the first cohort trained and equipped within the year. Can you do it?"
Damon looked from the drawings to Alaric's unwavering gaze. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "For that kind of coin, and that kind of steel? Master, for you, I'll forge an army that could conquer the Seven Hells."
The sword was being sharpened.
The final pillar, logistics, was built in the shadows. Through a series of shell corporations established by Nervo and shell-of-shell corporations established by Magister Presto's contacts in Myr and Tyrosh, Alaric began to buy assets. He didn't buy land or castles. He bought things no one paid attention to: grain silos in the fertile lands of the Coasts of Essos, warehouses in the ports of Lys and Braavos, and controlling interests in small, independent caravan companies. He who controlled the movement of food and material controlled the veins of any kingdom, any army. When war came, armies starved, cities rioted, and the man who could deliver a thousand bushels of wheat was more powerful than a man who could deliver ten thousand swords.
The months that followed were a blur of relentless, controlled growth. The first ship of the Pentos Sea Lines, a sleek black galley named The Golden Scale, was launched to great fanfare, with Magister Presto presiding over the ceremony. Ser Damon's recruitment drive brought in a flood of hard men from across the known world, all drawn by the promise of gold and glory, and they were forged into a disciplined unit under the knight's brutal training regimen. Blackwood Analytical Services became a quiet powerhouse in the city, its profits multiplying as Alaric's network grew.
Alaric himself remained in the shadows, the spider at the center of the web. He was now thirteen years old, on the cusp of manhood, but he carried himself with the gravitas of a man of sixty. He was consumed by his work, driven by the ticking clock that was the coming war in Westeros.
The news he had been waiting for, the true confirmation that the game was on, arrived not by raven, but by a whisper from one of his dockside informants. A merchant ship had arrived from Dragonstone, its crew speaking of strange happenings at court. The Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, had not been seen in weeks. More disturbing, Lord Rickard Stark's fiery young daughter, Lyanna, who had been betrothed to Robert Baratheon, had also vanished from the Riverlands.
Alaric stood on the balcony of his residence that night, looking west across the dark, glittering expanse of the Narrow Sea. There was no land to be seen, only the vast, empty horizon. But he could feel it. He could feel the tectonic plates of his homeland shifting, grinding against each other, preparing to unleash an earthquake that would shatter a dynasty and forge a new world.
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The cool night air felt electric on his skin. He was ready. His engine of wealth was humming. His sword was being forged. His logistical network was spreading its tendrils across the continent. Everything he had done since waking up in this world as a helpless babe had led to this moment.
"It begins," he whispered to the darkness. And for the first time, he allowed himself a genuine, predatory smile. The chaos was coming. And he was ready to climb.