Chapter 16: The Old Man and the Serpent

Chapter 16: The Old Man and the Serpent

282 AC, Month of the Hunter's Moon

The journey from the ashes of Stoney Sept to the high, sandstone walls of Riverrun was a triumphal procession. The Onyx Legion, no longer a mysterious foreign entity, marched through the heart of the Riverlands as saviours. The smallfolk, who had once fled from their dark armour, now emerged from their hovels to stare in silent wonder. Rebel patrols, once suspicious, now offered salutes. News of the Battle of the Bells had spread like wildfire, and the name Blackwood was now spoken with the same awe and reverence as Stark or Baratheon.

Alaric rode at the head of his column, a still, dark figure on a black courser. He observed the signs of his growing fame with a cool, detached satisfaction. Fame was a currency, a tool to be used. The adulation of the common man was fickle, but for now, it was useful. It built a legend, and legends were the foundation of power.

Riverrun was a fortress born of the water that gave it its name. Its triangular battlements rose seamlessly from the point where the Red Fork of the Trident met the Tumblestone River, a vision of red-gold stone and fluttering banners. The trout of House Tully flew proudly from the highest tower, but below it flew the direwolf of Stark, the falcon of Arryn, and the stag of Baratheon. It was the heart of the rebellion, a bastion of hope in a war-torn land.

Alaric's reception was a world away from the wary standoff at Serpent's Tooth Cove. He was met at the gate by Ser Brynden Tully, the famed "Blackfish," his face a mask of grim approval. He was escorted through the bustling castle courtyard, where knights and lords paused to stare at the boy-maester who had turned the tide of the war. He was no longer an outsider petitioning for entry; he was a conquering hero, arriving to claim his seat at the table.

But the great lords of Westeros, Alaric knew, were masters of a subtle and ancient game. They would not allow a new piece on the board to move with unchecked freedom. They would seek to define him, to control him, to place him within their familiar hierarchy. He had expected the test of battle. Now came the test of politics, which was infinitely more dangerous.

The test began sooner than he expected. He was led not to the Great Hall for the war council, but to the private solar of Lord Hoster Tully. The Lord of Riverrun was a big man, his beard a fiery red streaked with grey, his blue eyes shrewd and assessing. He was in his sickbed, propped up by pillows, a blanket across his lap, but his presence still filled the room with an aura of command. Standing beside the bed, looking uncomfortable and out of place in his simple woollen doublet, was a man Alaric had not seen in three years.

His father. Lord Theron Blackwood.

Lord Theron's face was a mixture of emotions: shock, pride, confusion, and a deep, paternal fear. He looked older, the lines of worry on his face etched deeper by the war that now raged across his lands.

It was a trap, of course. A polite, elegant, and perfectly crafted political trap.

"Alaric," Lord Hoster Tully began, his voice a gravelly boom that had lost none of its authority. "Welcome to Riverrun. You have done my house, and the cause of the Seven Kingdoms, a service that will be sung of for a thousand years." He gestured a hand towards Lord Theron. "Your father rode here with all haste when he heard the news of your return. A father's heart is a proud one."

"Father," Alaric said, his voice perfectly even. He inclined his head in a gesture of filial respect, his face an impassive mask. He had gamed this scenario with Prometheus a dozen times. The appeal to family, to duty, to the natural order of things. It was the most logical move on Hoster's part.

"My boy... my son," Theron stammered, taking a hesitant step forward. He looked from Alaric's cold, familiar eyes to the maester's chain coiled around his neck, to the palpable aura of power that surrounded him. This was his son, yet he was a stranger, a creature of terrifying competence far removed from the precocious boy he had sent to the Citadel. "Your mother and I... we thought you were dead. The things we hear... an army... a battle... I cannot..."

"Lord Theron speaks of a father's pride, Alaric," Hoster Tully interjected smoothly, taking control of the conversation. "You have returned to us a great man, a commander of renown. But you are still a son of House Blackwood. Your strength, your legion, your great fortune... they are a blessing upon your family. It is a son's duty, and his honour, to place that strength in the service of his father, and through him, his liege lord. Your father and I have agreed. Your forces will be formally folded into the army of the Riverlands. Lord Theron will, of course, grant you field command, but you will hold your rank and title under the authority of your own House, and of House Tully."

There it was. The gilded cage. They were trying to put him back in his box. To make him a vassal, his army just another asset on Lord Tully's ledger. They were using his own father as the lock and the key.

Alaric let the silence hang for a moment, his gaze shifting from Hoster's shrewd eyes to his father's hopeful, pleading face. He felt a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—for the simple, honourable man who was being used as a pawn in a game he did not understand. Alaric crushed the feeling.

"My Lord Tully," he began, his voice soft but resonant with an unshakeable authority that made both older men straighten up. "I am, and will always be, a proud son of House Blackwood. I am, and will always be, a loyal son of the Riverlands."

He turned his gaze fully on his father. "Father, I am overjoyed to see you safe and well. When this war is done, I will see to it that Raventree Hall is rebuilt to be the strongest keep in the northern riverlands, and that our family's coffers overflow for a hundred generations. My love and my duty to our family are absolute."

He then turned back to Hoster Tully, and the warmth vanished from his voice, replaced by the chill of polished steel. "But let us not confuse filial piety with feudal law, my lord. The Onyx Legion was not raised on Blackwood lands. It was not paid for with Tully gold. Its men have sworn their oaths to me, and to me alone. The ships that carry my supplies were bought with my fortune. The strategies that win my battles are forged in my mind."

He took a step closer to the bed, his youthful presence suddenly seeming to loom over the powerful lord. "I have come here as an ally to House Tully and the rebellion, not as a vassal returning to his leash. My legion is an independent power, allied to your cause. Its service is my gift. But its command is mine. To suggest otherwise is to mistake the nature of the power I am offering you. I will not have my army squandered as fodder in a frontal assault, nor my strategies second-guessed by cautious lords who do not understand the new art of war I practice. We will fight together. We will win together. But we will do so as partners."

He had not raised his voice. He had not been disrespectful. But he had utterly dismantled Hoster's gambit. He had acknowledged his father, professed his loyalty, and then drawn a clear, uncrossable line in the sand. He was an allied king, not a bannerman.

Hoster Tully stared at him, his face unreadable. He had dealt with proud lords and rebellious vassals his entire life, but he had never encountered anything like this. The boy spoke with the absolute authority of a Targaryen prince from the days of old. He had tried to put a bridle on a wolf, only to discover it was a dragon in disguise.

"A partnership, then," Hoster finally said, his voice a low rumble. A faint, grudging respect entered his eyes. "A partnership it shall be. We are glad for your sword, Lord Blackwood. In whatever capacity you offer it."

The political battle had been won.

The Great War Council was held in the Great Hall of Riverrun, a vast, timber-raftered chamber now filled with the collected might of the rebellion. Robert Baratheon, his arm still in a sling but his voice as loud and boisterous as ever, presided from the high table. Beside him sat the quiet, grim-faced Eddard Stark and the wise, aging Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie. The hall was a sea of lesser lords and knights, their faces a mixture of newfound hope and the grim reality of the war to come.

Alaric's entrance, with Ser Damon at his back, caused a hush to fall over the assembly. He took his place at the high table, a position of honour that had been deliberately set for him. He was the hero of the hour, the boy-wonder who had saved them at Stoney Sept.

The council began with reports from the various fronts. The news was good, but sobering. Their victory at the Bells had been decisive, forcing the royalist army to retreat and regroup. Lord Connington had been stripped of his title as Hand and exiled in disgrace. But the main Targaryen host, including ten thousand Dornishmen under the command of Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, was marching north. And Prince Rhaegar had finally emerged, gathering a new army at King's Landing. The final, decisive battle was coming.

"We have the momentum," Robert Baratheon declared, slamming his good fist on the table. "We need to march on King's Landing and pull the Mad King down from his cursed throne!"

"A march on the capital would be a long and bloody siege, Robert," Jon Arryn cautioned, his voice calm and reasonable. "And Rhaegar's army would be free to strike at our rear. We must face Prince Rhaegar in the field first. We must break his host before we can even think of the throne."

This was when Alaric chose to speak. All eyes turned to him.

"Lord Arryn is correct," Alaric said, his voice cutting through the murmurs in the hall. "The war will be won or lost in one, decisive battle against Prince Rhaegar. But you are thinking of that battle only in terms of men and steel. You are overlooking your two greatest weaknesses: food and coin."

He had Nervo, who stood nervously at the back of the hall, bring forth a series of large, masterfully drawn charts. "My agents have conducted an analysis of the rebellion's logistical situation," he announced. "Lord Stark, your northern host is well-supplied for now, but your supply lines are stretched over hundreds of leagues. Lord Arryn, your Vale is rich, but the Bloody Gate is a bottleneck, and the King's Road is contested by royalist patrols. My Lords of the Riverlands, your lands are a wasteland, providing nothing. By my calculations, this army has enough food to fight for another month. After that, you will be starving."

A grim silence fell over the hall. He had just laid bare the ugly, unspoken truth that every lord there knew in his heart.

"Furthermore," Alaric continued, "the Iron Bank of Braavos continues to fund the Targaryen regime. Their loans allow the crown to hire sellswords from the Free Cities and to buy grain from Myr and Volantis. You are fighting not just the armies of Westeros, but the coffers of the world's greatest bank."

He let the weight of the problems settle on them before he offered the solution. "I propose a two-pronged strategy that has nothing to do with swords. First, logistics. My... former... shipping company, the Pentos Sea Lines, is now under the control of a friendly Magister. I can contract our entire fleet. We will establish a sea-lane, a 'bridge of boats,' from the ports of the Vale directly to Seagard," he nodded to Lord Mallister. "We will bypass the King's Road entirely, pouring the wealth and grain of the Vale directly onto the front lines. I will personally oversee it and fund the initial shipments."

He was offering to become their quartermaster, to solve their single greatest problem.

"Second, economic warfare," he said, turning to a new chart. "I still maintain a network of financial agents in the Free Cities. We can use my remaining capital to put pressure on the Iron Bank. We can short-sell the commodities that the Targaryen loyalists are exporting. We can buy up the contracts of the sellsword companies the crown is trying to hire, paying them to sit idle. We can make it prohibitively expensive for Aerys to continue funding his war. We will attack his treasury as you attack his armies."

The lords stared at him, dumbfounded. He was speaking a language of war none of them had ever conceived of. They understood charging a line of spearmen, but short-selling contracts? Using a fleet of merchant ships as a strategic weapon? It was the thinking of another world.

It was Eddard Stark who spoke first, his voice filled with a quiet awe. "This... this changes everything."

The council ended with the unanimous adoption of Alaric's proposals. He was granted sweeping authority over the rebellion's logistics and was asked to form a "council of coin" to advise the high command on economic matters. He had achieved in one meeting what he had planned to take a year to do. He was no longer just a field commander. He was a pillar of the entire rebellion, as vital as Robert's hammer or Ned's honour.

Later that evening, he had a final, brief meeting with his father in the castle's guest chambers. Lord Theron was a broken man, utterly lost in the new reality of his son's power.

"I... I don't understand, Alaric," he whispered. "What have you become?"

Alaric felt a sliver of pity. He placed a heavy purse of gold on the table between them. "I have become our House's future, father," he said, his voice softer now. "Go back to Raventree Hall. Use this gold to hire men, to fortify the walls. Stay out of the fighting. When I am done, the name Blackwood will be counted among the Great Houses. That is my promise to you."

He was dismissing his own father, his own lord, like a servant. Theron looked at the gold, then at his son's cold, determined face, and simply nodded, defeated.

Alaric returned to his own chambers, the finest in the castle aside from those of the great lords themselves. He stood before the hearth, watching the flames dance. He had faced the old guard of Westeros and had bent them to his will. He had survived their politics, neutralized his family's ability to control him, and woven himself into the very fabric of the rebellion.

He looked at the fire, and in his mind, he saw the battlefield to come. The Trident. He could see the dispositions, the flow of the battle, the key moment where it would be won or lost. And he could see his Onyx Legion, a black serpent, waiting in the reeds, ready to deliver the killing bite. The game was his to control.