Chapter 14: A Seat at the Table

Chapter 14: A Seat at the Table

282 AC, Month of the Harvest Moon

The days that followed the departure of Ser Patrek Piper's patrol were a study in disciplined patience. To an outsider, the camp at Serpent's Tooth Cove might have seemed static, a strange Essosi fortress waiting for a tide that might never come. But within the timber palisades, a furious, quiet energy thrummed. Alaric had established a kingdom in miniature, and he ruled it with the absolute precision of a watchmaker.

Nervo, his face perpetually etched with a mixture of awe and anxiety, oversaw the vast logistical apparatus. His teams conducted a relentless inventory, their quills scratching on parchment as they catalogued every bushel of wheat, every side of bacon, every ingot of steel. Wagons, purchased from Pentoshi traders before they'd set sail, were assembled and greased, ready to move the mountain of supplies at a moment's notice.

Ser Damon Flowers, for his part, drove the Onyx Legion with a relentless, brutal passion. The black-armoured soldiers were not permitted a moment of idleness. They drilled on the stony beaches, their shield wall formations a terrifying spectacle of unity against the crashing grey waves. They practiced infiltration techniques in the dense woods, their movements as silent and deadly as the shadows from which they seemed to spawn. They were being honed, their combat experience from the Myrish raid being forged into an unbreakable professional ethos. They were Alaric's sword, and he was ensuring it was sharp enough to cut through kingdoms.

"They're a fine vintage, my lord," Ser Damon commented one afternoon, as he and Alaric watched a cohort practice shield-and-spear drills. The men moved as one, a human porcupine of wood and steel. "Better than any lord's household guard in Westeros. Better than the Golden Company, even. They just don't know it yet." The cynical sellsword had found his calling, not just as a captain, but as a general, and his loyalty to the boy who had given him that chance was now as hard as the plate he wore.

"They lack experience in the Westerosi way of war," Alaric observed, his eyes analytical. "Our fighting style is built for disciplined, close-quarter engagements. They need to be prepared for the chaotic charge of mounted knights. We must adapt."

"The lords will come," Damon grunted, changing the subject. "This Lord Tully of yours. You're certain?"

"He has no choice," Alaric said, his gaze distant. "Lord Connington is tightening the noose around Robert Baratheon. Lord Tully's forces are scattered, his people are starving. He is a proud man, but he is also a practical one. Pride does not win wars. Food does. Steel does. We have both. They will come."

He was right. Four days after Ser Patrek's departure, Alaric's scouts reported a body of riders approaching from the east. They were not a mere patrol. It was a formal delegation, riding under the trout banner of House Tully and the pink-and-white maiden of House Piper.

Alaric gave his orders. The Onyx Legion was to form up in two silent ranks, lining the path to his command tent, their serpentine helms and black plate a deeply intimidating honour guard. He instructed Nervo to have a meal prepared—not a feast, but a simple, hearty stew, fresh bread, and good, strong ale—a display of effortless abundance.

He waited in his command tent. It was a large, functional pavilion of grey canvas, devoid of any luxury. The floor was covered with simple reed matting. The furniture consisted of a single, massive table of plain wood, currently covered with a detailed map of the Riverlands, several chairs, and chests of scrolls and ledgers. It was the workspace of a serious, practical man of war, designed to impress not with wealth, but with stark efficiency. Ser Damon stood at his right, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his presence filling a quarter of the tent.

The delegation was led by two men. The first was Lord Clement Piper, a portly man in his fifties with a kind, worried face and a magnificent moustache. The second was a far more formidable figure: Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard. He was tall and lean, with a hawk-like nose and piercing grey eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He was known as a fierce warrior and one of Lord Tully's most capable and trusted bannermen. They were flanked by a dozen of their own knights, who looked with open astonishment at the silent, black-clad soldiers lining their path.

They entered the tent, their expressions a mixture of suspicion, curiosity, and poorly-concealed awe at the sheer discipline on display.

"Lord Piper, Lord Mallister," Alaric greeted them, his voice calm and even. He did not rise, but met their gazes as an equal. "Welcome to my camp. I am Alaric Blackwood."

Lord Piper, clearly flustered, cleared his throat. "Master Blackwood... or is it Lord Blackwood now? Ser Patrek's tale was... hard to credit."

"The titles can be decided when the war is won, my lord," Alaric replied. "For now, I am simply a loyal son of the Riverlands, returned to aid my homeland. Please," he gestured to the chairs. "You have ridden far."

As they sat, Nervo entered with two servants, who placed bowls of the hot, fragrant stew and tankards of ale before the lords. The aroma filled the tent. Alaric noted the way the knights in their retinue eyed the food with an almost painful longing.

Lord Mallister took a long, assessing look at Alaric, his grey eyes sweeping over the boy's face, the maester's chain, the quiet confidence of his posture. He ignored the food. "My scouts have confirmed your intelligence," he said, his voice a gravelly baritone. "Lord Connington is indeed moving on Stoney Sept. We have sent riders to warn Lord Robert and our own forces. Your information may have just saved the rebellion. We thank you for it. But it begs the question: how did a boy in Essos come by such knowledge?"

Alaric had prepared for this. "My organization, Blackwood Analytical Services, is not a traditional trading house, Lord Mallister. We trade in information. I have a network of informants in King's Landing and across the Narrow Sea. News of the royalist movements reached me before I set sail. I chose to act on it." It was a lie, but a plausible one, rooted in the esoteric reputation he was building.

"An impressive network," Mallister conceded, though his eyes remained skeptical. "As is this," he gestured vaguely at the camp around them. "An army. Clad in steel I've never seen before. Wielding strange swords. And loyal to a boy-maester who vanished years ago. You must understand our... hesitation."

"I understand completely," Alaric said. "Which is why I will not ask for your trust. I will earn it. As a gesture of my commitment to Lord Tully and the rebel cause, I am placing a gift at your disposal." He slid a piece of parchment across the table. "This is a writ for five thousand bushels of wheat, a thousand sides of salted bacon, and five hundred suits of standard mail and steel longswords from my stores. They are yours to distribute to your men as you see fit. No charge. No obligation."

Lord Piper's eyes bulged. It was a king's ransom in supplies, a treasure beyond imagining for their beleaguered army. "By the Seven..." he breathed.

Mallister's expression remained hard, but a flicker of something—respect, perhaps—entered his eyes. This was not the act of a Targaryen agent. This was a move of profound strategic value.

"A most generous gift," Mallister said slowly. "And your... legion? What is your price for their service?"

"The Onyx Legion is not a common sellsword company to be hired for a monthly wage," Alaric stated. "They are my personal force, and they will serve where I command. I offer their service to the rebellion under two conditions. First, that they operate as an independent unit, under my strategic advisement and the field command of Ser Damon Flowers. We will coordinate with your high command, but we will not be broken up and distributed among your armies."

"You wish to run your own war," Mallister noted, his tone sharp.

"I wish to apply my forces where they will be most effective," Alaric corrected. "A surgeon's scalpel is not used as a butcher's cleaver. My legion is a scalpel. They are best used for surgical strikes, flanking manoeuvres, and tasks that require elite discipline, not for holding a battle line. That is a task for your own brave, but more conventional, soldiers."

The subtle flattery was not lost on the lords.

"And the second condition?" Lord Piper asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"The second condition," Alaric said, his voice dropping, his eyes locking with Mallister's, "is my price. When the war is won, and King Robert sits the Iron Throne, I will petition him for a reward commensurate with my service. A lordship. The specifics of which we can discuss when our victory is assured. The greater the victory I help you achieve, the greater the reward I shall expect."

It was a brilliant, open-ended contract. He was binding his potential reward to his performance, daring them to use him to his fullest potential.

Lord Mallister sat back, steepling his fingers. He looked at the confident boy, the silent giant of a knight beside him, and thought of the starving, weary men under his own command. He thought of the grim news from the front, of Robert Baratheon fleeing for his life. And he thought of the five thousand bushels of wheat waiting just outside this tent.

"Lord Tully, Lord Arryn, and Lord Stark hold the high command," Mallister said finally. "The decision to accept such a... unique alliance... rests with them. But I will take your proposal to them. I will tell them what I have seen here. I will tell them that I believe your offer is made in good faith." He paused, picking up a piece of the fresh bread and examining it. "And I will advise them, in the strongest possible terms, that we are in no position to refuse it."

He then looked at the map on the table. "You have given us vital intelligence on Stoney Sept. What would your counsel be now, Master Blackwood?"

The question was a concession. It was an acknowledgement of Alaric as a strategist, a peer at the table of war.

Alaric stood and leaned over the map, his presence suddenly dominating the tent. "Lord Connington believes he has Robert cornered and alone. He is arrogant. He will move his own command into Stoney Sept ahead of his main host, eager to claim the glory of capturing Lord Robert for himself. This is his mistake. Robert is not alone. Lord Stark's van is closer than Connington thinks, and Lord Tully has forces he can muster. You must let Connington walk into the town. Let him believe his trap is set."

He pointed a finger at the map, at the winding streets of the town. "The battle will be fought here. Not in the fields, but in the streets, the alleys, the houses. It will be a bloody, confusing melee. A battle of bells and whispers. The side that controls the flow of the battle, that knows when and where to commit its reserves, will be the victor."

He then looked up at Mallister. "My legion is at your disposal for this engagement. We can secure a bridge, hold a flank, or act as a mobile reserve to plug any gap in your line. Tell me where you need a rock to break the royalist wave, and I will place it there."

The lords of the Riverlands left an hour later, their retinue laden with as much food as their horses could carry. They had arrived suspicious and uncertain. They left with a formal proposal, a strategic plan, and a sense of dawning hope. They had found a strange and terrifying new ally.

Alaric watched them go, his face an impassive mask.

"They bought it," Ser Damon said, a note of wonder in his voice. "The whole story."

"They bought what they needed to believe, Ser Damon," Alaric said, turning back to the map. "They needed a saviour, and I have provided one. Now, the real work begins."

He picked up a newly carved onyx token, larger than the others, a great serpent coiled to strike. He placed it on the map, next to the cluster of buildings that represented Stoney Sept. His piece was on the board. The lords of Westeros now knew of him. Soon, the entire realm would. The scholar from the Citadel was gone, the Pentoshi merchant was a memory. In their place stood a warlord, a kingmaker, ready to claim his price in the fires of his homeland's rebirth.