Chapter 29: The Serpent's Claim

Chapter 29: The Serpent's Claim

289 AC, Month of the Maiden

The invasion of the Iron Islands was a brutal, grinding affair. The Ironborn, though their fleet was shattered, fought with a savage tenacity, defending their bleak, windswept home with axes and fire. King Robert, in his element, led the charge, his great hammer crushing skulls and fortifications with equal glee. Eddard Stark, stoic and grim, commanded the main army, his northern soldiers clashing against the Ironborn reavers.

Alaric, however, fought a different war. While the king and the Warden of the North were concerned with the taking of keeps and the breaking of rebel lords, Alaric was concerned with the acquisition of assets. He had discharged his duty to the crown by transporting the army and leading his legion in the initial assaults. But his true focus was on the hidden prizes of the islands, the long-term gains that would outlast the glory of any battlefield.

His primary target was Old Wyk, the most ancient and sacred of the Iron Islands. It was here, according to legend, that the Grey King had first risen from the sea. It was here that the kingsmoot, the Ironborn's barbaric method of choosing their rulers, was held. And it was here, Alaric knew from his past life, that the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Greyjoy, Sea Snake, was kept.

He petitioned King Robert for the honour of leading the assault on Old Wyk. "Your Grace," he said, his voice calm amidst the chaos of the war camp. "Old Wyk is the heart of their faith, the source of their strength. To take it will be a blow to their morale greater than the fall of any castle. Allow me to lead the assault. My legion is best suited for a swift, decisive strike."

Robert, flushed with victory and eager for the final, symbolic conquest, granted his request. "Take it, boy! Show those squid-fuckers what happens when they cross the Iron Throne!"

Alaric's true motives, of course, were far from Robert's understanding. He wanted the sword. But he also wanted something else, something even more valuable. Old Wyk was steeped in the ancient, bloody faith of the Drowned God. It was a place where magic lingered in the very stones, a place where the barrier between worlds was thin. It was a place of power.

He landed on Old Wyk with a force that was terrifying in its precision. The Onyx Legion, five hundred strong, was his hammer. But he also brought his own scholars and alchemists, men who were as skilled in the arcane as they were in the art of war.

The Ironborn fought with their usual ferocity, but they were no match for the legion's disciplined steel. The fighting was brutal and swift. Alaric, clad in black plate, fought at the forefront, Nightfall a blur of dark steel in his hand. He was a force of nature, a young god of war.

The main settlement on Old Wyk was a collection of rough longhalls clustered around the ancient kingsmoot circle. The Ironborn had fortified it, turning it into a bloody maze of traps and ambushes. Alaric's legion cleared it house by house, leaving a trail of dead in their wake.

His true objective, however, was not the settlement. It was a structure known as Nagga's Hill, a low, rocky mound said to be the burial place of the Grey King's dragon wife, Nagga. It was a place of dark, ancient power.

Alaric left the fighting to Ser Damon and his legionaries. He led his alchemists and scholars up the hill, to the mouth of a dark, gaping cave. The air around it hummed with a strange, low energy.

"The readings are off the charts, my lord," one of his alchemists, a gaunt Myrish man named Lysaro, said, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. "This place... it is a nexus. A place where the veil is thin."

"Then we will part the veil," Alaric said, his voice cold and commanding. "Prepare the ritual."

While the legion fought below, Alaric performed a dark, ancient rite on Nagga's Hill. He used blood, not from Ironborn reavers this time, but from a creature far older and more powerful. He had brought a dragon egg with him, a fossilized relic he had purchased from a Volantene merchant.

He smashed the egg against the mouth of the cave, the ancient blood within it releasing a wave of raw, untamed energy. The air crackled. The ground shook. Lysaro and the other alchemists chanted in High Valyrian, their voices trembling but firm.

Alaric, his eyes closed, reached out with his mind, guided by the power of the blood and the ancient stones. He sought not a vision, but a connection. He sought to touch the raw, elemental force that lingered in this place.

The power he felt was like nothing he had ever encountered. It was cold, hungry, and ancient. It spoke of the sea, of storms, of the deep, unknowable darkness beneath the waves. It was a power that could drown the world.

He drew back from the brink, his mind reeling. He had touched something vast and terrible. He had learned that the legends were true. Magic lingered in the blood and the stones of this world. And some places were doorways to something far greater.

He left the cave, his face a mask of cold triumph. The fighting below was almost over. The Ironborn were broken. Ser Damon approached him, his armour stained with blood, Sea Snake in his hand.

"The sword is yours, my lord," Damon said, offering the weapon. "And the island is yours. What are your orders?"

Alaric took the sword, its hilt carved in the shape of a coiled sea serpent. It was a magnificent weapon, its steel as dark and hungry as the power he had just touched.

"We will leave a token force to hold the island," Alaric said. "The rest of the legion will return to the mainland. There are other prizes to be claimed."

He knew, from his past life, that another Valyrian steel sword was to be found on the Iron Islands: Red Rain, the ancestral blade of House Drumm. It had been stolen from House Reyne centuries ago, and he intended to reclaim it.

The assault on House Drumm's seat of Old Wyk was even more brutal than the first. The Onyx Legion, driven by the promise of plunder and the presence of their lord, fought like demons. They stormed the castle, their black armour a tide of death against the wild Ironborn.

Alaric, Sea Snake in his hand, led the charge. He was a whirlwind of black steel and cold fury. He cut down reavers and shield maidens alike, his face as impassive as a statue. He was a force of nature, a god of war unleashed.

He found Lord Drumm in the castle's great hall, a giant of a man wielding a massive axe. Their duel was a clash of titans. Drumm fought with the desperate strength of a cornered beast, but Alaric was a master. He parried the axe blows with Sea Snake, his movements precise and deadly. He disarmed the Ironborn lord, then ran him through, his Valyrian steel blade piercing the man's heart.

He took Red Rain from the fallen lord's hand. Its steel was a deep crimson, as if it had been forged in blood. It was a weapon of terrible beauty.

He had achieved his objective. He now possessed four Valyrian steel blades: Nightfall, Sea Snake, the dagger he had taken at Fair Isle, and now Red Rain. He had armed his house with weapons of legend, securing their place in the annals of Westeros.

But the Iron Islands had given him more than just steel. They had given him a glimpse into the dark heart of magic. He had touched a power that could shake the world.

As he sailed back to the mainland, the captured swords laid out before him, Alaric felt a cold, exhilarating thrill. He had conquered the Ironborn. He had enriched his house. He had expanded his knowledge of the arcane. His plans were proceeding perfectly.

The war would soon be over. The Iron Islands would bend the knee. And he, with his wealth, his power, and his growing mastery of magic, would be ready for the next, far greater game.