Chapter 26: The Growing Empire
Chapter 26: The Growing Empire
287 AC, Month of the Smith
The first year of Alaric's marriage was a masterclass in the art of managed expectations. He had purchased a Hightower bride, and he ensured his new asset was housed in a manner befitting her value. The residential wing of the Serpent's Head Keep was completed, a jewel of Myrish architecture and Lysene comfort set within the brutalist, black stone functionality of his fortress. Lynesse, Lady of Blackport, found herself living in a palace that rivalled the splendours of the Free Cities she had only dreamed of.
Her life was one of curated, effortless luxury. She had her own ladies-in-waiting, her own household staff, a personal guard of ten legionaries in polished, ceremonial plate. Alaric gifted her a string of Summer Isle pearls that had cost a fortune and a stable of silver-grey mares that were the envy of the court at King's Landing. He encouraged her to host gatherings, to patronize the arts, to become the social and cultural heart of their rapidly growing city. He gave her everything a high-born lady could desire: status, wealth, respect, and a domain to rule in her own, gentle way.
In return, he demanded only what was stipulated in their unspoken contract: loyalty and an heir. She was a beautiful, decorative, and efficient partner. Their conversations were always polite, often pleasant, but rarely deep. He would inquire after the running of the household; she would ask about the progress of the port. They were the perfect image of a powerful, modern couple, their union a merger of southern prestige and northern ambition.
It was in this first year that Lynesse proved her ultimate worth. She became pregnant. Alaric greeted the news not with the joyful exclamation of a prospective father, but with the quiet satisfaction of a CEO whose key project was proceeding on schedule. He monitored her health with the detached concern of a manager overseeing a critical asset. The finest maesters were consulted, her diet was strictly controlled, and she was shielded from any stress.
The birth of his son, in the spring of 287 AC, was the successful completion of the first phase of Project Dynasty. The child was healthy and strong, with Alaric's own dark hair but with the startling cornflower-blue eyes of his Hightower mother. The lords of the Blackwater March and a delegation from King's Landing gathered for the naming ceremony. They expected a traditional Westerosi name, perhaps Theron, after Alaric's father, or a nod to the Baratheon regime.
Alaric, holding the infant before the assembly, announced his name in a clear, firm voice. "He will be named Tyber. Tyber Blackwood. The first son of the new House Blackwood of Serpent's Head."
The name was alien, powerful, with echoes of the old empires of Essos and a hint of the tiger-emperors of a forgotten age. It was a statement. This was not a continuation of an old line, but the beginning of a new one.
His old family was a distant, well-managed subsidiary. He sent his father, Lord Theron, regular shipments of gold and building materials, transforming Raventree Hall from a drafty keep into a comfortable, wealthy country estate. He received reports on his brother, Torrhen, who was chafing under the iron discipline of the Onyx Legion but was slowly being forged from a brawling knight into a competent, if uninspired, officer. From Dorne, he received Martyn's meticulously coded messages. His gentle, maester brother was now his unwilling spymaster at the court of Starfall, his reports on Dornish politics and the lingering resentment over Elia's death providing Alaric with invaluable long-term strategic intelligence. He was managing his family as he managed all his assets: with distance, efficiency, and a complete lack of sentiment.
While his dynasty was taking root, his domain was flourishing. Blackport was now a true city, its population having swelled to over fifty thousand. The Free Port policy had made it the premier hub of trade on the eastern coast, siphoning commerce away from King's Landing and Duskendale. Guilds of weavers, smiths, and artisans, attracted by the low taxes and high security, had established themselves, creating a vibrant, productive economy.
Nervo, now a man of immense authority and confidence, managed the growing commercial empire with a master's touch. The Blackwood trade fleet, now numbering over thirty vessels, dominated the Narrow Sea routes. But Alaric's greatest enterprise was his most subtle one. For two years, acting on his future knowledge, he had been engaged in a massive, quiet stockpiling operation.
"The reports are confirmed, my lord," Nervo said during one of their weekly strategy meetings in Alaric's solar. "Your timber acquisitions in the North are complete. We now hold long-term contracts for nearly sixty percent of the surplus lumber from the Wolfswood and the lands around White Harbor. Our warehouses there are filled to bursting."
"And the iron?" Alaric asked, his eyes on a ledger.
"The same. Our agents in Lannisport and on the Iron Islands themselves have been buying up iron futures for a year. They believe a new boom in merchant shipbuilding is coming. They do not understand why we are content to simply hold the contracts and the raw materials."
"They will," Alaric said with a faint smile. He knew that in 289 AC, just two years away, Balon Greyjoy would crown himself king and burn the Lannister fleet at anchor. The demand for timber and iron to rebuild the royal and commercial fleets would be sudden, desperate, and absolute. The price would not just rise; it would multiply tenfold. He had cornered the market on the raw materials for a war that no one else knew was coming. It was the boldest and most patient financial play of his life.
But while the sunlit world of his domain flourished, Alaric's true passion lay in the darkness beneath it. His nights belonged to the sanctum. The acquisition of the Gessos Fragments had been a monumental breakthrough. With Prometheus translating the arcane High Valyrian and cross-referencing the rituals with known alchemical and astronomical principles, Alaric began to understand the terrifyingly pragmatic nature of Valyrian magic.
It was a science, not a faith. A science of energy exchange, with blood as its primary conductor and catalyst.
He began to experiment. He was cautious, methodical, a researcher in a laboratory of horrors. He started with animals. He would perform a simple ritual described in the Fragments, using the blood of a chicken or a pig, and measure the output with instruments he had designed himself—aetheric resonators and life-force detectors that Prometheus helped him construct.
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He discovered that the potency of the blood was a factor. The blood of a predator, like a wolf, produced a greater effect than that of prey. But his true goal lay with the sleeping mountain of obsidian beneath Dragonstone. He knew that animal sacrifices would be like trying to power a forge with a single candle. Marwyn's note was clear: a worthy sacrifice. The thought was a cold, hard knot in his mind, a moral event horizon he had not yet crossed, but one he knew he would not shrink from if the prize was great enough.
His path to Dragonstone was a patient, political one. As the primary architect and funder of King Robert's new fleet, he had regular correspondence with its commander, Lord Stannis Baratheon. Stannis was a hard, joyless, but intensely practical man. Alaric played to that practicality.
He sent a formal proposal to the Lord of Dragonstone. <
It was a perfect pretext, wrapped in the unimpeachable logic of naval efficiency. Stannis, a man who cared for results above all else, could not possibly refuse such a sensible offer. The raven returned from Dragonstone two weeks later. Lord Stannis granted his permission. Alaric's survey team was welcome.
The "survey team," of course, consisted of a dozen of his most trusted Onyx Legionaries, men with combat engineering experience, led by a brilliant Myrish geologist who was secretly on Alaric's payroll. Their true mission was not to find ballast stone, but to map the obsidian deposits beneath the Dragonmont, to take core samples, and to measure their latent energy.
The night he received Stannis's acceptance, Alaric felt the thrill of a plan perfectly executed. He descended to his sanctum, his mind alight with possibility. He decided to attempt his most ambitious experiment yet. Not just awakening the stone, but using it.
On the black granite altar, he placed a small, perfectly polished obsidian sphere. Beside it lay a silver bowl containing the blood of a freshly killed shadow-cat, a vicious predator Ser Damon's men had hunted in the kingswood. According to the Gessos Fragments, the life-force of a powerful predator was a more potent fuel.
He began the ritual, his voice a low, resonant chant in High Valyrian. The words were not a prayer, but a series of commands, a linguistic key to unlock the potential energy of the blood. He anointed the obsidian sphere with the still-warm blood, feeling the familiar, cold leeching sensation, but this time it was stronger, more voracious.
The violet light that bloomed within the sphere was not faint and fleeting. It was a deep, vibrant, and steady glow.
<
He placed his hands on either side of the glowing sphere, closing his eyes. He did not try to see across the world. He focused on a smaller, closer target. He extended his consciousness, not with will alone, but guided by the energy now flowing from the sphere, using it as a psychic amplifier. He sought out his son, Tyber, sleeping in his nursery at the top of the keep.
For a moment, there was only darkness. Then, an image bloomed in his mind, hazy at first, then sharpening with incredible clarity. He was looking down at his own son. He could see the rise and fall of the boy's chest, the dark curl of his hair against the pillow, the way his small hand was curled into a fist. He could feel the warmth of the room, smell the scent of milk and baby powder. It was not a vision; it was a true, remote sensory experience. He was there.
He held the connection for a full minute before pulling back, his head throbbing with the effort. He was panting, sweat beading on his forehead, but a look of triumphant, terrifying elation was on his face.
It worked.
He had just performed his first successful act of scrying. A small feat, perhaps, but the implications were monumental. If he could see into his own castle with a small shard of obsidian and the blood of a cat, what could he see with the mountain beneath Dragonstone and a more… worthy… sacrifice? He could watch his enemies in their council chambers. He could witness battles from miles away. He could become a god of information, an omniscient observer in the game of thrones.
This was the true power he sought. A power that made kings and their armies seem like children playing with toys.
The dawn was breaking as he ascended from his sanctum. He walked to the window of his study and looked out over his city. The first rays of sun were glinting off the sea, where one of his ships was setting sail for the Vale. His son was sleeping peacefully in his nursery. His beautiful wife was still asleep in their bed. His empire was growing. His dynasty was secure.
And in the darkness beneath it all, the serpent was learning the secrets of the gods. Everything was proceeding according to plan.