Chapter 12: The Serpent Crosses the Sea

Chapter 12: The Serpent Crosses the Sea

282 AC, Month of the Wolf's Rage

The executions of Lord Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon, were not just a political blunder by a mad king; they were a declaration. The old rules of honour and allegiance were dead, burned away in the fires that consumed the Lord of Winterfell. A new game had begun, one to be played with steel and terror. For Alaric, listening to the frantic contents of Pate's scroll in the safety of his Pentoshi residence, it was the final, irrevocable starting gun. The time for preparation was over. The time for intervention was at hand.

His first move was not to mobilize his army, but to gracefully dismantle his empire. His power in Pentos was built on a foundation of partnerships and profitable ventures, assets that were now anchors holding him to a continent that no longer mattered. He had to liquidate, to convert the sprawling, static enterprise of Blackwood Analytical Services into the cold, liquid, and brutally mobile power of gold.

His meeting with Magister Presto was a masterclass in manipulation, a final performance for his first patron. He met the Magister in Presto's own sun-drenched gardens, a deliberate show of respect to soothe the man's ego before he severed their connection.

"My friend!" Presto boomed, his blue-dyed beard quivering with bonhomie. "I have been hearing the most remarkable tales! A Myrish military outpost, vanished in a single night! The Onyx Legion, they are calling your men. A name that inspires... creativity in the bards."

"A name that inspires timely payments from our Lyseni associates," Alaric corrected smoothly, accepting a cup of chilled pomegranate wine from a silver-collared slave. "And it is on the subject of profits that I have come to speak with you, Magister."

He laid out his proposition with chilling simplicity. "There is a civil war brewing in my homeland of Westeros," he began, framing the truth in the colours of commerce. "Wars are destructive, but they are also… an emerging market. An entire continent's economy is about to be restructured. Ports will be blockaded, supply lines shattered, old monopolies broken. A man with ships, grain, and weapons-grade steel can become a king."

Presto's jovial expression tightened, his shrewd merchant's mind instantly grasping the implications. "You intend to return?"

"I intend to profit," Alaric said. "But my current assets are tied to Pentos. The Pentos Sea Lines, our joint venture, is profitable, but its ships are needed for a new purpose. My warehouses, my networks... they are all focused on Essos. I need to pivot."

He made his offer. "I am selling my controlling interest in all our joint ventures. The shipping line, the trade agreements, the market analyses. I will sell it all to you, Magister. At a price that is, frankly, a fraction of its future worth. You will become the sole proprietor of the most dynamic commercial enterprise in Pentos. In return, I require immediate payment in gold and letters of credit drawn upon the Iron Bank."

He was offering Presto the keys to the kingdom he had built, a turnkey empire. Presto was stunned by the audacity of it. He had thought their partnership would last for years, a slow and steady accumulation of wealth. This boy, his brilliant, terrifying young partner, was cashing out, moving on to a game of infinitely higher stakes.

"You would give all this up?" Presto asked, his voice a whisper.

"I am not giving it up, Magister. I am trading it," Alaric said. "I am trading a profitable enterprise for the chance to acquire a kingdom. I believe it to be a sound investment."

The deal was done within the hour. Presto, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the gift being laid at his feet, could not refuse. Alaric walked away from the meeting with a chest of gold bullion and bank drafts worth a staggering two hundred thousand dragons. He had stripped his Essosi operation for parts, leaving Presto with a powerful but rudderless ship, while he himself now possessed the fuel for a war.

The next conversation was with his own people. He gathered Nervo and his two junior factors in his study. The men were flushed with the success of their recent market plays, imagining themselves on the cusp of becoming merchant princes. Alaric was about to shatter their illusions.

"Blackwood Analytical Services is being dissolved," he announced without preamble. The stunned silence was absolute.

"M-master?" Nervo stammered, his face paling. "Dissolved? But... we are the most profitable new house in the city!"

"Our purpose was never to be a trading house in Pentos," Alaric said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Our purpose was to forge the capital and the tools for my true work, which lies in Westeros. That work is about to begin. You now have a choice."

He looked at each of them in turn. "I will give each of you a severance of one thousand golden dragons. You can take it and live out your days as wealthy men in this city. Or... you can come with me. The work will be harder, the risks infinitely greater. I will not be trading in silks and spices, but in armies and kingdoms. The rewards, however, will be commensurate with those risks. I am not offering you a position. I am offering you a chance to be the founding administrators of a new noble house. Your payment will not be in gold, but in land, titles, and power beyond anything you can imagine here."

The two junior factors, men of commerce at heart, looked at each other, their faces a mixture of fear and confusion. They took the gold. Alaric dismissed them without a second thought. They were tools whose purpose had been served.

Nervo, however, stood his ground. He had seen his master save a vineyard with a whisper and predict a war with a ledger. He was bound by something more than loyalty; he was bound by awe. "My life was worth nothing before you found me, Master Alaric," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "It is yours to command. I will follow you to the Seven Hells if I must."

Alaric gave a rare, thin smile. "The Seven Kingdoms will suffice for now. You have your orders. Liquidate our remaining physical assets. Convert everything to durable goods: grain, salted meat, iron, steel, medical supplies. Charter every available transport ship in the harbour. We are moving our entire operation."

The final address was to the men who formed the sword of his new enterprise. He had Ser Damon Flowers assemble the Onyx Legion in the dusty courtyard of their barracks. One hundred and three men, a mix of grim-faced Westerosi exiles, impassive Unsullied, and hardened sellswords from a dozen different lands, stood in silent, disciplined ranks. They had been blooded in the Myrish raid, and it showed. The nervous energy of recruits had been replaced by the quiet, dangerous confidence of veteran killers.

Alaric stood before them, not on a raised platform, but on the ground, on their level. He wore simple, dark clothing, his only adornment the maester's chain that he had taken from its box and now wore coiled around his neck like a sleeping serpent of metal. Ser Damon stood beside him.

"Men of the Onyx Legion," Alaric's voice was not loud, but it carried in the silence, clear and sharp. "You were hired as mercenaries. You performed your first contract with skill and brutality. You were paid well. That contract is now over."

A low murmur rippled through the ranks.

"I am now offering you a new contract," he continued, his voice rising in intensity. "The last contract you will ever need to take. I am not a merchant. I am not some fat Magister paying you to guard his spice. I am Alaric Blackwood, son of Lord Theron Blackwood of the Riverlands. My homeland is at war. The king is a madman who burns men alive. The great houses have risen in rebellion against him. The entire continent is on fire."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "We are going to that fire. But we are not going as sellswords fighting for another man's coin. We are going as conquerors. I have the gold to triple your pay. I have the ships to carry you across the sea. I have the steel to make you the most feared fighting force on that continent. But I am offering you more than gold and steel."

He looked into the hard faces before him. "I am offering you a kingdom. The lands of the lords who back the Mad King will be forfeit. Their castles, their fields, their titles... all will be taken and given to those who help the rebels to victory. I am offering you a chance to shed your pasts. To stop being exiles, and sellswords, and slaves. I am offering you the chance to become lords. To win your own keeps, your own lands, your own names. You will be the fist of a new House. My House. You will fight for me, and in return, I will make you powerful."

The silence that followed was profound. These were men who had known nothing but hardship, who had fought and bled for scraps. He was offering them the dream that every soldier of fortune carries in his heart: a home, a name, a legacy.

Ser Damon Flowers, his cynical heart stirred by the sheer, magnificent audacity of the boy's ambition, drew his greatsword. The sound of the steel clearing the scabbard was sharp and final. He raised it in salute.

"For the Lord of the Onyx Legion!" he roared, his voice booming across the courtyard. "For land and lordship!"

One by one, then in a great, crashing wave, a hundred swords were drawn, a forest of steel rising into the Pentoshi sky. A deafening roar erupted from a hundred throats, a sound of pure, primal loyalty, not to a cause or a country, but to the promise of conquest and the cold-eyed boy who offered it to them.

The next few months were a logistical whirlwind. The port of Pentos buzzed with the activity of Alaric's enterprise. The Pentos Sea Lines, under his direction for one final set of voyages, along with a dozen other chartered vessels, began to assemble into a small, private fleet. Nervo, proving his worth a hundred times over, managed the immense task of procuring and loading the supplies. Tons of grain, barrels of salted fish, crates of Myrish wine, and, most importantly, ingot after ingot of high-quality steel were loaded into the holds of the ships.

Alaric, meanwhile, made his strategic decision. He knew the rebels would win. Joining them was the only path to power. But his entry had to be timed for maximum impact. He couldn't just land his forces randomly. He had to arrive like a saviour.

<> he analyzed with Prometheus. <>

His plan was simple. He would sail his fleet not to a major port, but to a series of secluded coves along the coast of the Cape of Eagles, north of Seagard. He would land his legion and his supplies, establish a secure beachhead, and then present himself to his liege lord, Hoster Tully, not as a long-lost boy, but as the Lord of a new power, come to save his homeland. He would arrive with a private army and enough food to feed Tully's armies for a month. An army and food. In a war, there were no more welcome gifts. It would make him indispensable.

Finally, the day of departure came. A fleet of fifteen ships, three of them sleek black galleys flying the new banner of the Onyx Legion—a coiled, snarling serpent of black on a field of grey—strained at their anchors. Horses, nearly two hundred of them, were safely stowed in the holds of the larger transports. The legionaries, in their terrifying black armour, stood on the decks, their faces set towards the west.

Alaric stood on the forecastle of his flagship, The Serpent's Kiss, beside Ser Damon. The city of Pentos, the place where he had forged his power, spread out behind them. He had arrived there a penniless boy with nothing but a head full of dangerous knowledge. He was leaving a warlord, a king in all but name, at the head of his own private army.

"All ships report ready, my lord," Ser Damon said, the title now feeling natural on his tongue.

Alaric looked west, across the vast, grey-blue expanse of the Narrow Sea. He could almost feel the turmoil of his homeland, the clash of steel, the cries of the dying. It was a symphony of chaos, and he was about to add his own instrument to the orchestra.

"Signal the fleet," Alaric commanded, his voice clear and sharp in the salt air. "Set a course for the Trident. We're going home."