Chapter 24: The Serpent’s Sanctum
Chapter 24: The Serpent's Sanctum
286 AC, Month of the First Flower
The Seven Kingdoms were at peace, a condition Alaric Blackwood viewed with the cautious eye of a businessman watching a stable but potentially volatile market. Peace was profitable. It allowed the uninterrupted flow of trade, the collection of taxes, and the systematic growth of his power. His domain, the Blackwater March, was a testament to this philosophy. In three short years, he had transformed it from a collection of war-torn backwaters into the most dynamic and orderly province in the south. Blackport was now a thriving city, its harbour a forest of masts, its warehouses full, its streets safe under the watchful eyes of the Onyx Legion.
The Serpent's Head Keep, his great fortress, was nearing completion. It was a masterpiece of military engineering, a symphony of black stone, overlapping fields of fire, and concentric walls that humbled the proudest castles of Westeros. But Alaric had devoted as much attention to its interior as to its exterior defenses. The residential wings, prepared for the imminent arrival of his bride, were a calculated study in sophisticated opulence.
He walked through the apartments that would soon belong to Lady Lynesse Hightower, his face an impassive mask, his mind a cold ledger of accounts. He had spared no expense. Floors of polished Myrish marble were strewn with brightly coloured carpets from the eastern markets. The walls were hung with shimmering silks from Lys, depicting pastoral, romantic scenes he knew would appeal to a noble lady's sensibilities. He had commissioned a personal library for her, filled not with the dry histories and ledgers he favoured, but with volumes of poetry, chivalric romances, and songs of the Seven Kingdoms. He had even designed a private garden, enclosed within the castle walls, where rare, fragrant flowers from the Summer Isles bloomed in defiance of the Westerosi climate, sustained by a complex, hidden system of heated pipes.
"The total expenditure for my lady's apartments and personal effects comes to thirty-seven thousand golden dragons, my lord," Nervo reported, trotting beside him, a thick ledger clutched in his hands. Nervo, now Lord Treasurer of the Blackwater March, was a man transformed. The weary, beaten-down factor was gone, replaced by a confident, impeccably dressed administrator who wielded his abacus like a weapon. "And the budget for the wedding festivities themselves is projected to exceed that."
"It is not an expense, Nervo. It is an investment," Alaric said coolly, running a hand over a tapestry depicting Florian the Fool serenading Jonquil. "It is an investment in contentment. A contented wife is a productive asset and a minimal liability. She will produce heirs, manage the household with placid efficiency, and not trouble herself with matters of state. The cost of ensuring that contentment is negligible compared to the cost of a discontented, scheming partner."
He was building a beautiful cage, a luxurious prison of comfort and pleasure designed to satisfy every material want his future bride could possibly have, thereby ensuring she never developed any inconvenient ambitions of her own. He knew Lynesse's character from the histories of his past life. She was a flower that craved the sun of luxury. He would give her a private, eternal summer.
But this grand, public display of mundane power, the building of cities and the management of a dynasty, was only a mask. It was the respectable, sunlit portion of his life. His true work, his ultimate ambition, lay far beneath the polished marble floors and scented gardens, in the cold, silent darkness at the very heart of his fortress.
Deep in the bedrock of the peninsula, accessible only by a hidden staircase in his private study, Alaric had constructed his true sanctum. It was a secret known only to him and, by necessity, to the handful of mute stonecutters he had brought from Myr and sent back on a fast ship with enough gold to disappear forever. The sanctum was a vault of grey, sound-dampening stone, warded with every protective rune he had gleaned from the forbidden texts of the Citadel. It was a laboratory for the acquisition of real power.
The central chamber was an observatory, its ceiling a great, vaulted dome of polished obsidian that, through a complex series of lenses and mirrors Alaric had designed, functioned as a massive scrying bowl, reflecting the star-fields with impossible clarity. Adjoining chambers held an alchemical laboratory, a library containing his personal, handwritten copies of the most dangerous books from the Citadel, and a silent, stark room with a single, black granite altar at its centre.
Here, in the utter silence, Alaric's true thirst reawakened. He had conquered the worlds of politics and commerce through intellect and foresight. But he knew, from the books he had read, that the ultimate forces that would shape the future of this world were not human. The Others in the North, the dragons in the East—they were creatures of magic. To truly master this world, to secure his dynasty against any possible threat, he needed to master the fundamental forces that underpinned its reality. He needed to master magic.
<
His research had led him to a chilling but logical conclusion. The potency of the fuel was proportional to the "power" of the source. The blood of a common animal might power a simple warding spell. The blood of a man might achieve more. The blood of a king, or one with the blood of Old Valyria, was said to power wonders. This was a line he had not yet had to cross. But his ruthlessness was a tool he kept sharpened, ready for any necessity. For now, he could experiment on himself. His Blackwood blood was ancient, touched by the power of the First Men and the Children of the Forest. It was not Valyrian, but it had its own deep, terrestrial power.
He was deep in these dangerous thoughts when a raven arrived from the Citadel. It was from Pate, his loyal, unwitting agent. The message, as always, was coded within a seemingly innocuous treatise on shipping manifests. Alaric decoded it with Prometheus's help in minutes.
The message contained two pieces of explosive information. The first was that Pate, at great personal risk, had managed to copy a forbidden text Alaric had long sought: the Gessos Fragments, rumoured to contain the practical methodologies of Valyrian blood mages. The copy was on its way to him via a trusted merchant captain.
The second piece of news was even more significant.
Master Alaric, the decoded message read. A strange thing. The Mage has returned. Archmaester Marwyn appeared at the Citadel two nights past, as silent as a shadow. He spoke to no one. He went to the vault, to his private guestbook. He left a new entry and departed before dawn, sailing east again. I have copied it for you. It is all he wrote.
Below, Pate had transcribed the new message. It was short and cryptic.
The embers of Valyria are not all ash. Some lie sleeping in the stone. Where the dragon slept, the stone still dreams. But dreams are not woken by will alone. They must be fed. Fire cannot be born from nothing. It must be struck from the right stone, with the right steel, and kindled with a worthy sacrifice.
Alaric stood in his sanctum, the message burning in his mind. He and Prometheus immediately began to dissect it.
<<'The embers of Valyria... sleeping in the stone.' This confirms my hypothesis,>> Alaric thought, his mind racing. <
<<'Where the dragon slept, the stone still dreams,'>> Prometheus added, cross-referencing the phrase with a thousand different texts. <
<
He focused on the last, most ominous lines. <<'Fire cannot be born from nothing. It must be struck from the right stone, with the right steel, and kindled with a worthy sacrifice.'>>
<<'The right stone' is the obsidian,>> Prometheus analyzed. <<'The right steel' could be a metaphor, or it could refer to Valyrian steel, which is known to have magical properties. 'A worthy sacrifice'... this confirms the blood magic component. And the word 'worthy' implies a hierarchy of potency. A chicken's blood is not a worthy sacrifice to wake a dreaming dragon stone.>>
The puzzle pieces snapped into place, revealing a breathtaking, terrifying picture. Marwyn was telling him that the vast deposits of obsidian under Dragonstone were a potential source of immense magical power, but that unlocking it required a blood sacrifice of significant power.
Alaric's long-term goals, which had been theoretical, now crystallized into a concrete, multi-stage plan. He needed to gain access to Dragonstone. He needed to experiment with obsidian to understand its properties. And he needed to understand the precise nature of the 'sacrifice' required.
Dragonstone was currently held by Stannis Baratheon, the King's dour, inflexible brother. A direct approach was impossible. But Alaric was a master of the long game. Stannis was Master of Ships. Alaric was building the new Royal Fleet for him. This gave him a lever. He could, in the future, arrange for his ships to 'require' repairs or refitting at the Dragonstone shipyards. He could arrange for his 'geologists' to survey the island for new quarry sites for his construction projects. He could create a dozen different pretexts to get his men onto the island. The plan would take years, but he had time.
For now, he could begin his experiments on a smaller scale. He had already imported several large, unblemished blocks of obsidian from Essos, claiming they were for decorative inlays in his great hall. He had them brought to his sanctum.
The night before the Hightower fleet was due to arrive, Alaric stood before the black granite altar. Upon it lay a polished shard of obsidian, as dark and cold as a winter night. He was not attempting a grand ritual. This was a simple test of the fundamental principle.
He took a small, silver scalpel from his alchemical kit, its edge sharpened to a monomolecular thinness. He made a small, precise incision on the palm of his left hand. He squeezed, and a single, perfect droplet of dark red blood welled up. His blood. The blood of the ancient First Men, touched by the magic of the Children.
He let the drop fall onto the center of the obsidian shard.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the air in the sealed chamber grew cold. A low hum resonated from the granite altar. The obsidian, which had been utterly black, began to glow. It was not a bright light, but a faint, hungry, violet luminescence that seemed to emanate from deep within the stone. It pulsed in time with his own heartbeat. He could feel a faint, leeching sensation, as if the stone were tasting the life force in his blood, acknowledging its potential.
The glow lasted for only ten seconds, then faded, leaving the obsidian cold once more.
It was enough.
He had confirmed it. The theory was sound. Blood was the key. Obsidian was the lock. He now held the most fundamental secret of practical magic in his own hands.
He looked at the small, healing cut on his palm. A single drop of his blood had awakened the stone for a few seconds. What would be required to awaken the mountain of obsidian that lay sleeping beneath Dragonstone? The thought was a cold, exhilarating thrill.
He ascended the hidden staircase, leaving the silent darkness of his sanctum behind. He emerged into his study, the mundane world of politics and power. He could hear the sounds of the castle above, the final, frantic preparations for his bride's arrival. The contrast was dizzying.
He walked to his balcony and looked out at the sea. On the horizon, he saw them. A fleet of swan-prowed ships, their white sails emblazoned with the silver-and-black banner of the Hightower of Oldtown.
His bride was here. The mother of his heirs. The beautiful, high-born asset he had acquired to complete the public face of his dynasty. She was arriving to begin their life together, to be the lady of his great castle, to sleep in his bed.
But Alaric's mind was not on her. It was on the cold, dark stone in the vault below his feet, and the faint, violet glow he had coaxed from it with a single drop of his own blood. His public life, his lordship, his coming marriage—they were all just a mask, a resource-gathering operation for his true work. He would be a good husband, in his own efficient way. He would give his wife the life of luxury she craved. He would honour her, and he would use her to found his line. But his passion, his thirst, his ultimate ambition, lay in the darkness beneath her feet, in the pursuit of a power that could command not just men, but the very fabric of reality. The serpent had built his nest. Now, he would learn to wield his venom.