Chapter 25: The Merger of Houses

Chapter 25: The Merger of Houses

286 AC, Month of the Harvest Moon

The arrival of the Hightower fleet was a spectacle of power designed to awe and impress. Three great dromonds and a dozen sleek, swan-prowed galleys, their white sails emblazoned with the silver-and-black banner of the Hightower of Oldtown, sailed into the harbour of Blackport like a procession of gods. The people of Alaric's new city, who had grown accustomed to the sight of his own black-sailed, pragmatic trading cogs, lined the quays to stare at the vision of southern wealth and ancient prestige.

Alaric stood on the main dock to receive them. He was not alone. Behind him, in two silent, perfect ranks, stood a full cohort of the Onyx Legion. Their black plate was polished to a mirror shine, their serpentine helms hid their faces, and the afternoon sun glinted off the points of their spears. It was a stark, menacing display of his own, different kind of power. Not the power of ancient lineage and inherited wealth, but the power of disciplined steel and earned fear. It was a silent, clear message: this new land had a new, formidable master.

At the head of the Hightower delegation was Ser Baelor Brightsmile, looking even more resplendent than he had in King's Landing. But all eyes were on the lady who stood beside him, her face partially veiled by a fine Myrish lace. Lynesse Hightower.

As she stepped onto the dock and her veil was drawn back, Alaric made a cold, swift assessment. The histories, for once, had not exaggerated. She was beautiful, with the classic Valyrian look of her ancient Andal ancestry: a cascade of silver-gold hair, skin the colour of cream, and eyes of a startling, cornflower blue. She was dressed in a gown of sea-green silk that must have cost more than the entire yearly income of a lesser lord. She carried herself with the ingrained pride of a woman who had never known anything but admiration and privilege. She was a premium asset, a flawless piece of political and dynastic currency.

"My Lord Alaric," she said, her voice a pleasant, musical soprano, as she performed a perfect, graceful curtsy. "I am honoured by your welcome."

"The honour is all mine, Lady Lynesse," Alaric replied, his voice a model of courtly grace. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, a flawless performance of a young lord enchanted by his bride's beauty. His touch was firm, cool, and brief. "Welcome to Blackport. I trust your journey was pleasant."

Their first meeting was a masterpiece of public courtesy and private calculation. He saw in her eyes a flicker of apprehension mixed with curiosity as she took in his own youthful but unnervingly intense face, the heavy maester's chain around his neck, and the silent, menacing soldiers standing at his back. She had been sold, in a sense, to this strange, powerful upstart from a minor house, and she was now assessing the terms of her new reality.

He, in turn, was assessing her. She was nervous but composed. Proud but not arrogant. Her gaze took in the soaring, unfinished walls of his fortress and the bustling, orderly city with a flicker of genuine surprise and perhaps even admiration. She had likely expected a crude, northern keep. He had presented her with a burgeoning metropolis that promised a life of even greater luxury than the one she had left behind. The first part of his investment in her contentment was already paying dividends.

The week of festivities leading up to the wedding was a grand, complex operation managed by Alaric with the same precision he applied to a military campaign. The great lords of the realm were in attendance. Jon Arryn, acting as the King's representative. Hoster Tully. Jason Mallister. And, of course, Alaric's own family, brought from Raventree Hall to play their necessary, if awkward, role.

The contrast between the Blackwoods of Raventree and the Blackwood of Serpent's Head was a source of constant, whispered gossip among the assembled nobles. Lord Theron, Alaric's father, looked utterly lost amidst the grandeur, a simple country lord adrift in a sea of power politics. He spent most of his time speaking of harvests and hounds, subjects that made the southern lords smile with polite condescension. Alaric's mother, Lady Elara, tried to bridge the gap. She met with Lynesse and presented her with a small, beautifully embroidered cloak clasp, a blackwood serpent coiled around a silver trout.

"It is a small thing, my lady," Elara said, her voice earnest and kind. "But it has been passed down in our family. A welcome to our House."

Lynesse accepted the gift with perfect grace, but Alaric saw the quick, almost imperceptible glance she gave to her own ladies-in-waiting, a silent acknowledgment of the rustic simplicity of her new husband's kin.

Torrhen, Alaric's older brother, now a Tribune in the Onyx Legion, was a more disruptive presence. He drank heavily, his resentment at being eclipsed by his younger brother simmering just beneath the surface. He was a fine knight, but he was a blunt instrument in a world of sharp political minds, and Alaric had to instruct Ser Damon to keep a subtle but firm watch on him, to ensure his drunken boasts or sullen silences did not cause a diplomatic incident.

The only member of his family with whom Alaric had a meaningful, if tense, conversation was Martyn. His maester brother, before his departure for Dorne, had come to the wedding out of a sense of familial duty. They met one evening in the vast, still-unfinished library of the Serpent's Head Keep.

"It is a fortress fit for a king," Martyn said quietly, looking at the towering shelves waiting to be filled. "You have achieved everything you set out to do."

"I have achieved the foundation," Alaric corrected. "The work is far from over."

"And what is the work, Alaric?" Martyn asked, his sad, intelligent eyes meeting his brother's. "Is it just this? The acquisition of power, the building of walls, the buying of a beautiful, high-born wife as if she were a prize mare?"

"A prize mare is a valuable asset, brother," Alaric replied coolly. "As is a Hightower bride. Do not mistake my lack of sentiment for a lack of purpose. My purpose is to build something that will endure. A house so strong, so wealthy, so powerful, that it will never again be at the mercy of fools, madmen, or the whims of fate. Is that not a worthy goal?"

"It is a goal," Martyn conceded. "But it is a goal without a heart. Be careful, brother. When you build a fortress to keep the world out, you may find you have also built a prison for yourself."

Alaric had no response. Martyn's words were based on a moral calculus that he had long ago discarded as inefficient.

The wedding ceremony itself was a grand affair, held in the newly built Sept of the Sea Star in Blackport. Alaric stood at the altar, a figure of dark, imposing stillness in a doublet of black velvet stitched with silver thread. When Lynesse walked down the aisle on the arm of her brother Baelor, a gasp went through the assembled congregation. She was a vision of southern beauty, a perfect maiden bride.

Alaric performed his role flawlessly. He spoke the vows in a clear, steady voice, his words about love and honour a contractual recitation. When the moment came to replace her maiden's cloak with the cloak of his house, he draped the heavy black velvet, emblazoned with the coiled silver serpent, over her shoulders. The act was symbolic, a public declaration of ownership. She was now a Blackwood. She was now his.

The feast that followed was a display of wealth so extravagant it made even the Lannister-funded royal wedding seem modest. Alaric spared no expense, serving seventy-seven courses, with singers, jesters, and mummers to entertain the guests. He moved through the hall with his new bride on his arm, the perfect image of a proud, young husband. He conversed with Jon Arryn about the Iron Bank's new lending policies. He discussed fleet dispositions with the future Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon, who had made a rare appearance from Dragonstone. He endured King Robert's drunken, back-slapping congratulations. He was performing the role of Lord Alaric Blackwood, and he was doing it perfectly.

The crude, boisterous bedding ceremony was an ancient tradition he viewed with clinical disdain. It was an inefficient, barbaric spectacle. But it was a political necessity, a public confirmation of the consummation. He endured the jeers and the grabbing hands as he and Lynesse were carried to their bedchamber.

When the door was finally barred and they were alone, the public performance ended. The room was a sea of silk sheets and scented candles. Lynesse stood by the fire, nervous and uncertain, a young woman alone with a man who was now her husband, but who was still a stranger.

Alaric did not approach her with the fumbling nervousness of a boy or the lustful passion of a man. He approached her as he would a new partner in a critical enterprise.

"Lady Lynesse," he began, his voice quiet but firm, stripping away the courtly façade. He sat in a chair, creating a space between them, turning the bedchamber into a boardroom. "Let us speak plainly. We are now bound by law and faith. It is best we understand the terms of our partnership from the outset."

Lynesse looked at him, her blue eyes wide with surprise and confusion. This was not how she had imagined her wedding night.

"You are a Hightower of Oldtown," Alaric continued. "You are accustomed to a life of beauty, comfort, and culture. As you can see, I have taken great pains to provide that for you here. This castle, this city... it will be the jewel of the Seven Kingdoms. You will have gowns from Lys, jewels from Myr, spices from the east. Your every material desire will be met. Your status as my wife, the Lady of the Blackwater March, will be second to none."

He paused, letting his offer sink in. "In return, I require three things from you. The first is absolute loyalty. Your ambitions are now my ambitions. The prosperity of House Blackwood is now your only concern. The second is heirs. You will provide me with strong, healthy sons to continue my line. The third is discretion. My work often involves matters that are not fit for a lady's ears. I will not trouble you with them, and you, in turn, will not pry. You will be the perfect lady of my castle, the mother of my children, and the public face of my House. If you perform these duties well, your life will be one of unceasing comfort and pleasure."

It was the coldest, most passionless, and most honest speech a bride had ever heard on her wedding night. He was not offering her love or his heart. He was offering her a contract, a gilded cage of unparalleled luxury in exchange for her womb and her loyalty.

Lynesse stared at him, her romantic notions of marriage shattering against the cold, hard reality of the man she had wed. He was not a knight from a song. He was a king from a ledger. But she was also a Hightower, a woman of a pragmatic house. She looked around the magnificent room, at the wealth and power it represented, and she understood. She had been traded from one powerful house to another. And her new master, for all his coldness, was offering her exactly the life of prestige and luxury she had always craved.

"I understand, my lord," she whispered, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. It was a tear for the girlhood dreams she was leaving behind. She gave him a small, determined nod. "I will be a good wife."

"I have no doubt," Alaric said.

He then approached the consummation of their marriage not as an act of passion, but as the final, necessary seal on their contract. It was a physical transaction, performed with a detached proficiency that was neither cruel nor kind. It was simply… efficient. He was there to sire an heir, to complete the merger of their houses.

Afterward, as Lynesse slept a deep, exhausted sleep, Alaric rose. The mundane world, the world of politics and dynasties, had been dealt with. His duty was done.

He did not stay in the wedding bed. He walked, silent as a shadow, through his sleeping castle, down the hidden staircase, and into the cold, silent darkness of his sanctum. The air here was different, charged with potential, free of the cloying scents of perfume and politics.

He stood before the black granite altar, upon which rested the Valyrian text Pate had sent him, the Gessos Fragments. He opened it, his eyes scanning the intricate, dangerous script. The text spoke of blood and shadow, of life-force as a currency, of rituals that could bind the wills of men and shape the substance of reality.

He had fulfilled his public duty. He had acquired his broodmare and planted the seed of his dynasty. But this, this was his true thirst. The pursuit of a power beyond gold and steel. The power to command the fundamental forces of the world. The mundane celebrations in the castle above were a distant echo. His real wedding night was here, in the darkness, in a silent communion with the promise of blood and magic. The merger of houses was complete. Now, the real work could resume.