Chapter 17: The Engines of War
Chapter 17: The Engines of War
283 AC, Month of the Melting Snows
The victory at the Battle of the Bells had bought the rebellion its most precious commodity: time. But time, Alaric knew, was a resource that was consumed as quickly as it was granted. While the great lords celebrated and the bards composed songs of Robert's valour and the mysterious "Blackwood Demon," Alaric entered the most critical phase of his operation. The war would not be won by a single heroic stand. It would be won in the months that followed, in the silent, unglamorous work of logistics, economics, and strategic preparation. It would be won by the forging of a superior engine of war.
His new, elevated status granted him unprecedented access and authority. He was given chambers in Riverrun's highest spire, a space typically reserved for visiting royalty. From this perch, with Nervo as his frantic but brilliant chief of staff, Alaric began to wage a new kind of war, a war fought on maps, ledgers, and whispers carried across the sea.
The first pillar of his strategy, the "Bridge of Boats," became a reality with a speed that stunned the Westerosi lords. Alaric, using his old connections with Magister Presto, contracted a fleet of ten sturdy Pentoshi trading cogs. He did not ask Lord Arryn to provision them; he presented the Lord of the Eyrie with a complete, pre-planned logistical schedule. The ships, flying neutral banners, began a constant, rotating circuit. They would load grain, iron, leather, and fresh recruits from the ports of the Vale, which were untouched by war, and sail not to the contested shores of the Bay of Crabs, but to the heavily fortified port of Seagard.
Lord Jason Mallister, a man who respected competence above all else, became Alaric's staunchest ally in the Riverlands. He personally oversaw the unloading of the ships. He watched, his hawk-like eyes wide with disbelief, as a torrent of resources poured into his depleted domain. It was more than just food; it was the lifeblood of the rebellion. Wagon trains, organized by Nervo's factors and guarded by Mallister's own knights, began to roll east from Seagard, carrying the wealth of the Vale to the main rebel army gathering at Riverrun. The gaunt faces of the soldiers began to fill out. New boots replaced worn-out leather. Smiths worked day and night, hammering the fresh iron into spearheads and arrow points. The army's morale, once brittle with desperation, hardened into a core of grim confidence.
Alaric stood with Lord Mallister on the battlements of Seagard, watching the first of his contracted ships, its hold laden with Gulltown iron, being unloaded at the docks.
"In my entire life," Mallister said, his voice a low rumble of awe, "I have never seen such a thing. You have done more to arm this rebellion in a fortnight than all our combined efforts in the past six months. You do not think like a lord, Blackwood."
"That is because I am not a lord," Alaric replied, his gaze on the horizon. "I am a maester. I do not see an army of men; I see a complex system with inputs and outputs. The primary input is resources. I am simply ensuring the efficiency of the system."
"Call it what you will," Mallister grunted. "I call it victory."
The second pillar, economic warfare, was a shadow play conducted thousands of miles away. Alaric's study in Riverrun became the hub of a web of financial intrigue that stretched across the Free Cities. Every day, couriers on swift horses would ride to Seagard, carrying his coded instructions to be dispatched on fast clipper ships to his agents in Pentos, Myr, and Lys.
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He was a phantom, haunting the ledgers of his enemies. He turned their own capitalist systems against them, making it more expensive for them to hire soldiers, to buy supplies, to maintain the confidence of their allies. The Iron Bank, feeling the instability and the sudden, inexplicable failure of several of its Targaryen-backed ventures, began to reconsider the wisdom of its investment in a mad king. They sent their own envoys to Riverrun, not to speak with the lords of the rebellion, but to request a quiet, private meeting with the boy-maester who seemed to control the unseen currents of their financial world. Alaric had turned the Crown's greatest financial asset into a political liability.
The third pillar, the Onyx Legion itself, was the one Alaric gave his most personal attention. They were his sword, and he continued to hone it to a terrifying sharpness. He petitioned the war council for a grant of land to serve as his legion's permanent headquarters. He chose his location with a surgeon's precision: the ancient, ruined castle of Oldstones. It was a place steeped in the history of the First Men and the old kings of the Rivers, a place of ghosts and legends. But strategically, it was perfect. It commanded a key ford on the Blue Fork and sat on the border between the lands of the perpetually feuding Brackens and Blackwoods, making it a point of neutral authority.
With the council's blessing, he sent a cohort of his legion, along with a team of hired stonemasons and engineers, to begin the castle's restoration. He was not just building a barracks; he was building a fortress, a permanent seat of his power in the heart of Westeros.
He and Ser Damon also began to expand the legion. Their victory at the Bells had made them legends, and now men flocked to join them. Not just sellswords, but landless knights, disgraced second sons, and grim northern warriors who had heard tales of the disciplined, black-clad soldiers. Alaric and Damon were ruthless in their selection process. They valued discipline and loyalty over simple brute strength. Dozens of hopefuls were turned away for every one that was accepted.
Alaric would often observe the training, standing on the battlements of Riverrun, watching his men drill in the fields below. He had a private conversation with Ned Stark during one such session. The Lord of Winterfell had sought him out, his face troubled.
"They move like no men I have ever seen," Ned said, his eyes on the Onyx Legionaries as they formed a perfect shield wall. "There is no... passion in their fighting. Only a cold, grim purpose."
"Passion is a liability in a soldier, Lord Stark," Alaric replied coolly. "Passion leads to breaking ranks, to foolish charges. I do not train them to be heroes. I train them to be components in a machine. A machine that kills other men efficiently."
Ned looked away from the soldiers and met Alaric's gaze. The quiet honour in the northern lord's eyes was a stark contrast to the cold pragmatism in Alaric's. "What you do... the supplies you bring, the strategies you devise... they are saving us. But your methods... this war you wage in the shadows, in the ledgers of merchants... it is not an honourable way to fight."
Alaric almost smiled. It was the fundamental difference between them. Ned saw the world as a place of honour, of oaths and duties. Alaric saw it as a system of power, to be manipulated and controlled.
"My lord," Alaric said, his voice soft and reasonable. "Consider two scenarios. In the first, you meet Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. You have ten thousand men, and he has ten thousand. The battle is a bloody, uncertain affair. Thousands of good men die on both sides. The fate of the kingdom hangs on a single cavalry charge."
He paused, letting the image sink in. "Now, consider a second scenario. You arrive at the Trident with ten thousand men who are well-fed, well-armed, and confident. Prince Rhaegar arrives with only eight thousand, because two thousand sellswords he paid for are mysteriously 'sick' in Myr. His men are hungry, because the price of grain from the Free Cities has tripled. His knights are grumbling, because their lord's finances are in chaos. In which scenario do fewer of your honourable men have to die in the mud? Which path is truly the more moral one?"
Ned Stark had no answer. He was a man of black and white, and Alaric had presented him with a world of grey that he could not refute, but could not embrace. He looked at the boy before him, a child who thought in terms of global economics and psychological warfare, and felt a profound sense of unease. He knew Alaric was the key to their victory, but he was beginning to fear what kind of kingdom would be born from such cold, terrifying logic.
As the months passed, the rebellion, once on the brink of collapse, was transformed into a well-oiled military machine. The constant flow of supplies from the Vale, the strategic disruption of the royalist war economy, and the fearsome reputation of the Onyx Legion had shifted the balance of power completely. The war council at Riverrun was no longer a desperate meeting of beleaguered rebels, but a confident gathering of commanders planning the final, decisive campaign.
Alaric, now fourteen years old, was a fixture at these councils. He was the youngest person in the room by two decades, yet when he spoke, the great lords of Westeros fell silent and listened. He had earned their respect, and in some cases, their fear. He was the grand strategist, the master of coin, the rebellion's dark, brilliant, indispensable mind.
The news they had all been waiting for finally came with the first thaw of spring. Scouts reported that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, having gathered every loyal man he could find, had finally marched north from King's Landing. His army was a magnificent host: knights from the Crownlands, Dornish spearmen, and levies from the Reach sworn to House Tyrell. It was the greatest army seen in Westeros in a generation. He was marching to force a single, final confrontation.
The war council gathered for the last time in the Great Hall of Riverrun. A great fire roared in the hearth, but the mood was somber, heavy with the weight of the coming battle. A detailed map of the Riverlands was spread across the high table.
"He will cross the Trident somewhere near the ruby ford," Jon Arryn stated, his finger tracing the path of the Kingsroad. "It is the most logical place to meet him. There, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms will be decided."
Robert Baratheon, now fully healed, slammed a gauntleted fist on the table. "Let him come! I'll paint that ford red with his blood and get my Lyanna back!"
All eyes then turned to Alaric. They waited for his analysis, his logistical forecast, his strategic counsel.
He stood and looked at the map, but his mind was already far away, on the green banks of the Trident. He saw the battlefield not as it was, but as it would be. He saw the movement of thousands of men, the clash of steel, the desperate charges, the turning of the tide. He saw the key moments, the weaknesses, the opportunities.
He had spent months forging the engines of this war—the supply lines, the economic pressure, the legion itself. He had manipulated markets, crippled his enemies' finances, and armed his allies to the teeth. He had done everything a commander could do before a battle. Now, all that was left was the fighting itself.
He looked up, meeting the gaze of Ned Stark, of Robert Baratheon, of Jon Arryn. They were the heroes whose names would be sung by the bards. But he was the one who had built the stage upon which their glory would be won.
"My lords," Alaric said, his voice ringing with a cold, absolute confidence. "Prince Rhaegar has chosen his battlefield. Let us not disappoint him." He placed his onyx serpent token on the map, directly on the ruby ford of the Green Fork of the Trident. "The Onyx Legion is ready."