Chapter 20: The Bill Comes Due

Chapter 20: The Bill Comes Due

283 AC, Month of the Wolf's Tail

The Red Keep was a wounded beast. Its halls, though cleared of the worst of the carnage from the Sack, still smelled faintly of blood, ash, and fear. The beautiful Targaryen tapestries had been torn from the walls, replaced by the triumphant banners of the rebellion. It was a place of victory, but it was a grim, uneasy victory, haunted by the ghosts of a murdered royal family and the shadow of a long and bloody war.

In the midst of this nascent, chaotic court, Alaric Blackwood was an island of unnerving calm and order. While the other lords jockeyed for position, angling for royal appointments and royal favour, Alaric consolidated his power. His Onyx Legion, a force of silent, black-clad professionals, did not celebrate in the city's taverns. They took control of the city's key infrastructure with quiet, ruthless efficiency. They guarded the granaries, patrolled the docks, and secured the city gates. The people of King's Landing, terrified and starving after the Sack, quickly learned that the soldiers with the serpent crest were not there to loot or rape; they were there to enforce order and, most importantly, to oversee the distribution of food from the fleet of ships Alaric had waiting in the bay.

He was feeding the capital. This single fact gave him more real power than any lord's title or ancient lineage. The smallfolk, who cared nothing for the squabbles of kings, saw him as their saviour. The other lords, who knew their own authority rested on the stability of the city, saw him as a necessary, and therefore dangerous, power.

Robert Baratheon, his great wound from the Trident now mostly healed, had arrived in the capital and been acclaimed as King. But Robert was a warrior, not a ruler. He was interested in the fruits of victory—the wine, the women, the adulation—not the tedious business of forging a new kingdom. The real power resided with his new Hand, the man who had guided the rebellion from the start: the wise, cautious Lord Jon Arryn. And so it was in the Small Council chamber, a room still bearing the faint scent of the Mad King's paranoia, that the future of the Seven Kingdoms, and Alaric's place in it, would be decided.

Alaric had bided his time. He had let the lords settle in. He had let the city become utterly dependent on his grain. He had let his power become an undeniable fact before he sought to have it formally recognized. He had already stated his terms months ago. Now, he came to settle the bill.

He was summoned to the Small Council chamber on a grey, overcast afternoon. He entered alone, Ser Damon and his guards waiting outside. He wore a simple, impeccably tailored doublet of black velvet, his only adornment the heavy, multi-linked maester's chain that rested on his shoulders. It was a deliberate choice, a symbol of the intellectual power that had won them the war.

The men at the table were the new gods of Westeros. King Robert Baratheon sat at its head, looking restless and out of place. Jon Arryn, his face weary with the immense burden of his office, sat at his right hand. A grim-faced Eddard Stark sat to his left. Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Jason Mallister were also present, representing the Riverlands. The only empty seat was for the Master of Ships, a position soon to be filled by Robert's dour brother, Stannis.

"Lord Blackwood," Robert boomed, his voice filling the room. "The boy hero! Come, sit! Have some wine! We were just deciding what to do with the last of the Targaryen loyalists."

Alaric took his seat, politely declining the wine. "Your Grace," he began, his voice calm and measured, cutting through Robert's boisterousness. "Before you forge the new kingdom, there is the matter of the old debts. We made an agreement, my lords. A lordship worthy of the service rendered. I have come to present my claim."

A tense silence fell over the room. This was the moment they had all been anticipating and dreading.

"Aye, we did," Robert said with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "And by the Gods, you earned it! The Trident was your victory as much as mine. Name your castle, boy! Some rich keep in the Reach? The lands of some dead Targaryen lickspittle? It is yours."

"My ambitions are… somewhat larger than a single keep, Your Grace," Alaric said smoothly.

He unrolled a large, detailed map on the table. It was a map of the Crownlands. "The Targaryens built their power by surrounding the capital with lords sworn directly to the Iron Throne, beholden to no Great House. It was a sound strategy, but their loyalty was to a name, not a principle. Many of those houses—Massey, Bar Emmon, Sunglass, Velaryon—remained loyal to Aerys to the bitter end. Their lands and titles are now forfeit."

Jon Arryn leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He knew this was no simple request for land. "What is it you are proposing, Lord Alaric?"

Alaric used a silver pointer to draw a wide arc on the map, a coastal territory that stretched from the kingswood south of the capital all the way down to the northern border of the Stormlands. It encompassed the lands of a dozen attainted lesser lords. It controlled the entire southern sea approach to Blackwater Bay.

"I do not ask for a single keep," Alaric stated. "I ask for the creation of a new, unified province. These disparate lands, currently leaderless and chaotic, are a dagger pointed at the heart of your new capital. Dorne is an enemy to the south. The Tyrells are unreliable. This coastline is the kingdom's soft underbelly. I propose to make it a shield."

He looked directly at Jon Arryn. "I claim these lands. All of them. To be forged into a single, great fiefdom. Let us call it the Blackwater March. I will be its Lord Paramount, and I will hold it directly from the Iron Throne. The lesser lords within its borders who surrendered will swear their oaths to me. I will build a new castle, a fortress worthy of guarding the king's peace, at this location," he tapped a rocky, defensible peninsula on the coast, "which shall be called Serpent's Head. I will personally fund the rebuilding of the royal fleet, which will be anchored in its harbour. I will make this region, this Blackwater March, the unbreachable southern shield of your new dynasty."

The sheer, breathtaking audacity of the demand stunned the room into silence. He was not asking for a lordship. He was asking for a kingdom. He was asking to be made a new Great Lord, a Lord Paramount, with a domain carved from the crown's own lands, on the very doorstep of the capital.

"This is... unprecedented," Lord Tully sputtered, his face flushing. "You ask for the power of a Lannister or a Tyrell!"

"My contributions to this war were also unprecedented, Lord Tully," Alaric replied without heat. He began to calmly, methodically, list them. "My intelligence saved Lord Robert's life at Stoney Sept. My strategy won the Battle of the Bells. My 'Bridge of Boats' fed your armies when they would have starved. My economic warfare crippled the crown's ability to hire mercenaries. My legion broke the royalist line at the Trident. And my grain is, at this very moment, the only thing preventing riots and starvation in this city."

He let his gaze sweep across their faces. "I delivered a kingdom to you, my lords. I believe a province is a fair price."

"It is too much power for one man," Jon Arryn said, his voice grave. "Especially one so young. To create a new Great House... it would upset the balance of the entire realm."

This was the true heart of their opposition. It was not about the land; it was about power.

Alaric had anticipated this. Now, he applied the pressure. "Lord Arryn, you speak of balance. Let us speak of reality. The reality is that my Onyx Legion is currently the only disciplined army south of the Neck. The reality is that my ships control the flow of food into this city. The reality is that my 'business partners' in the Free Cities, and indeed the Iron Bank itself, are watching to see if this new regime honours its agreements. To deny my claim, which is based on a witnessed oath made by this council, would send a message to the world that King Robert's word is worthless. It would be a... destabilizing beginning for your reign."

It was a threat, wrapped in the language of pragmatic counsel. A silken glove on an iron fist. He was reminding them that he was not a supplicant. He was a power in his own right, and he could be a friend or a foe.

Ned Stark, who had been silent throughout, finally spoke. His voice was heavy with a troubled conscience. "We gave our word," he said simply. "Lord Alaric's service was greater than any of ours. The price is high, but the debt is real. An oath must be honoured."

Seeing his opening, Alaric immediately offered the concession he had prepared. "I understand your concerns about the treasury, Lord Hand. This will be a costly war to pay for. Therefore, I will make this offer. I will personally fund the entire construction of the fortress at Serpent's Head and the rebuilding of the first ten warships of the royal fleet. It will cost the crown nothing. Furthermore, for the first twenty years, I will tithe twenty percent of all revenues from the Blackwater March directly to the royal treasury to help pay down the kingdom's debts."

He had backed them into a corner. He was asking for immense power, but he was also offering to solve their biggest problems: security and debt. He was making them an offer that was fiscally and strategically impossible to refuse.

Robert Baratheon, who had been watching the exchange with a hunter's shrewdness, finally made his decision. He cared little for the political balance, but he understood strength, and he understood debts.

"Enough," the King roared, slamming his fist on the table. The wine cups jumped. "The boy is right. He won the damn war for us! We gave our word! Give him his bloody province!" He pointed a thick finger at Alaric. "You get your Blackwater March, Lord Alaric. You build your castle. You build my fleet. And you guard my back from any Dornish vipers or flowery Tyrell fools who get any ideas. The matter is settled."

It was done. With the King's decree, it was law.

Jon Arryn looked weary, as if he had just been forced to swallow a bitter but necessary medicine. Ned Stark looked grim, as if he had just witnessed a man sell his soul for a kingdom and wasn't sure who had gotten the better deal.

Alaric simply inclined his head. "Your Grace is wise and generous. I will be the most loyal servant of your new kingdom."

He left the Small Council chamber, the master of a new domain. He had done it. He had achieved the impossible. In less than two years, he had gone from a landless third son to a Lord Paramount, one of the great powers of the realm.

He met Ser Damon in the hall. The sellsword captain had been listening at the door. "My Lord Paramount," Damon said, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. "It has a nice ring to it."

"It is merely a title, Ser Damon," Alaric said, his mind already moving on to the next phase. "The real work begins now. We have a province to tame, a fortress to build, and a dynasty to begin."

That evening, he stood on a balcony of the Red Keep, looking south over the dark expanse of the kingswood and the glittering black water of the bay. His lands. His future. He had played the game of thrones and had won a prize greater than the Iron Throne itself. He had won a foundation, a secure, independent power base from which he could weather any storm, manipulate any king, and build a future of his own design.

He was Alaric of House Blackwood, Lord of Serpent's Head and Lord Paramount of the Blackwater March. He was fourteen years old. And he was just getting started.