Chapter 31: The Balance Sheet of War
Chapter 31: The Balance Sheet of War
290 AC, Month of the Wolf's Dawn
The Long Summer had begun. A proclamation from the Citadel, confirmed by the maesters in every keep across the land, declared the arrival of the longest, most prosperous summer in living memory. For the Seven Kingdoms, it was a blessing from the gods, a time to heal the wounds of two wars, to grow fat and happy under the reign of the jovial King Robert. The realm settled into a comfortable, peaceful stupor.
For Lord Alaric Blackwood, peace was simply a different kind of war, waged not with swords and ships, but with ledgers, contracts, and the silent, inexorable accumulation of power. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been a chaotic, bloody, and spectacularly profitable business venture. Now, in the quiet aftermath, it was time to audit the accounts.
He convened a meeting in the Chamber of Accounts within the Serpent's Head Keep. The chamber itself was a reflection of his mind: large, austere, and ruthlessly organized. One wall was covered by a vast, frighteningly detailed map of Westeros and the Free Cities, crisscrossed with lines representing trade routes, political alliances, and spheres of influence. The other walls were lined with shelves holding hundreds of identical, leather-bound ledgers, each one neatly labelled by Nervo's precise hand.
Nervo, now Lord Treasurer and Castellan of a domain that rivaled a kingdom, stood before Alaric, his face glowing with the pride of a man who had helped build an empire. Before him on the great teakwood table lay the final balance sheet of the war.
"The accounting is complete, my lord," Nervo began, his voice thrumming with suppressed excitement. "The results are... substantial."
"Quantify 'substantial,' Nervo," Alaric said, his voice calm. He sat at the head of the table, not on a throne, but on a simple, high-backed chair, his fingers steepled before him. He was twenty-one now, a man in full, his youthful features hardened into an expression of cold, implacable authority.
"The contracts for naval supplies—timber, iron, rope, and sailcloth—sold to the Iron Throne yielded a net profit of three hundred and twelve thousand golden dragons," Nervo announced, tapping the first column. "The charter of our trade fleet for the transportation of Lord Stark's army to the Iron Islands yielded a further seventy-eight thousand dragons."
He took a deep breath. "But the true masterstroke, my lord, was the reconstruction financing. Our agents have successfully extended lines of credit to seventeen lesser Ironborn houses for the rebuilding of their fleets and villages. The interest rates are... significant. The projected income from this debt service alone will be forty thousand dragons per year for the next twenty years. We have effectively turned a defeated enemy into a permanent, revenue-generating asset."
Alaric listened, his face impassive. This was the language he understood. He had not just won a war; he had executed a leveraged buyout of an entire region.
"Total liquid profit from the venture," Nervo concluded, his voice trembling slightly, "after all expenses, including bonuses for the Legion and the replacement of our own expended supplies, stands at five hundred and twenty-three thousand golden dragons."
The sum was staggering, enough to fund the royal court for a decade. Alaric had used the King's own war to amass a fortune that now rivaled that of the Lannisters, yet he had done it so cleverly that he was lauded as a patriot and a saviour.
"This is merely the financial accounting," Alaric stated. "The intangible assets are of far greater value. Analyze them."
Nervo, well-versed in his lord's way of thinking, flipped to a new page. "Intangible Asset Category One: Political Capital. Your reputation is now unparalleled. You are known as the Grand Strategist of the Rebellion and the Architect of Victory in the Greyjoy War. You have the public gratitude of the King, the deep respect of Lord Stark and Lord Arryn, and the fearful deference of the other great houses. Your influence on the Small Council, while unofficial, is immense. This asset is invaluable for future legislative and commercial maneuvering."
"Intangible Asset Category Two: Military Prestige," Nervo continued. "The Onyx Legion is now the most famous and feared fighting force in Westeros. Their performance at Pyke has become the stuff of legend. This prestige allows us to recruit the finest soldiers and acts as a significant deterrent to any potential rivals. The cost of maintaining the legion is high, but its value as a projection of our House's power is incalculable."
"And the final category," Alaric prompted.
"Intangible Asset Category Three: Legitimacy," Nervo said. "His Grace's royal decree formally recognizing our House's claim to the Valyrian steel swords Nightfall and Red Rain was a masterstroke, my lord. It has granted our new House a level of ancient prestige that gold cannot buy. We are no longer upstarts. We are now a House with treasured heirlooms, with a history forged in the King's own wars. We have become old blood, overnight."
Alaric gave a slow, satisfied nod. The venture had been a complete success on all fronts. He had achieved every objective.
His next meeting was with Ser Damon Flowers. The grizzled knight, now the formal Lord Commander of the Onyx Legion, met him in the armoury, a vast hall filled with the tools of war. The air smelled of steel and oil.
"The Legion is strong, my lord," Damon reported. "Casualties were light, and the men are flush with victory and bonuses. Their morale is unbreakable. Oldstones is nearly rebuilt. It will serve as a fine headquarters and training ground."
"Good," Alaric said, picking up a helmet from a workbench, its serpentine visor snarling at him. "The legion performed its function perfectly. But peace brings its own challenges. A standing army is expensive, and idle soldiers become restless."
"They are loyal to you, my lord. To the man," Damon insisted.
"Loyalty is a resource that must be cultivated," Alaric countered. "They will continue their training. But they will also work. The legionaries will be my engineers, my foremen. They will oversee the construction of roads, bridges, and aqueducts throughout the March. They will bring order and discipline not just to the battlefield, but to the work of building a nation. An army that builds the land it protects develops a different, deeper kind of loyalty."
He was turning his army into a corps of engineers, a tool for consolidation and development. It was a Roman concept, utterly alien to the feudal lords of Westeros, and it would make his domain the most advanced and well-maintained in the kingdom.
The most important accounting, however, was in the realm of family. The war had won him glory, but it was a glory he intended to be the foundation for his dynasty. He held a formal ceremony in the newly completed Great Hall of Serpent's Head Keep.
The hall was a marvel of his own design, a vast space of black marble and dark weirwood, its high ceiling supported by arches that created a sense of immense, intimidating scale. At the head of the hall, on a simple but beautifully carved weirwood throne, sat Alaric. Beside him, looking every inch the great lady in a gown of silver silk, was Lynesse. And on a cushion at her feet played their son, Tyber, a healthy, curious two-year-old.
Alaric had his family from Raventree Hall brought from their chambers. Lord Theron, Lady Elara, and Ser Torrhen stood before him, their expressions a mixture of pride and profound disorientation.
Before the assembled knights and household, Alaric rose. "Today, we consecrate the legacy of our House," he announced, his voice echoing in the hall. Two of his squires brought forth two velvet-wrapped bundles.
"In the war against the Kraken, the men of the Onyx Legion fought with unparalleled courage," he declared. "For their service, King Robert has seen fit to grant our house the spoils of their valour."
He unwrapped the first bundle, revealing the dark, smoky steel of Nightfall. "This blade, the Valyrian steel sword of House Harlaw, shall be the sword of the Lord of Serpent's Head. It shall pass from me to my son, Tyber, and to his firstborn son, for all time. It shall be the symbol of our authority."
He then unwrapped the second bundle, revealing the crimson-hued blade of Red Rain. "This sword, the ancient blade of House Reyne, shall be the sword of the high commander of the Onyx Legion. It shall be a symbol of the bond between our House and the men who serve as its shield."
He formally presented the sword to a stunned Ser Damon Flowers, who accepted it with a reverence he had never shown for any god.
It was a brilliant piece of theatre. He had taken swords won by a mercenary army and, with a few words and a royal decree, had transformed them into sacred relics, the foundations of a new tradition. He was manufacturing legitimacy.
Later that evening, in their private chambers, Lynesse watched as he personally placed Nightfall above the great stone hearth.
"It is a beautiful, terrible thing," she said, her voice soft. She had blossomed in her role as a great lady. The security and luxury Alaric provided had made her confident and serene. She ran his household with flawless efficiency and was a doting mother to their son. She was the perfect asset.
"It is a necessary tool of our station, my love," he replied, using the endearment that was part of their contract.
"The war is over," she said, coming to stand beside him. "The kingdom is at peace. Will we finally have a time for our own family? Tyber needs his father. And," she added, a hint of hope in her voice, "a brother or sister."
Alaric looked from the dark, rippling steel of the sword to his beautiful wife. She had performed her duties perfectly. It was time to continue securing the dynasty.
"You are right," he said. "The succession must be secured beyond a single heir. We will begin trying for another child immediately."
It was a business decision, a strategic imperative, but he delivered the line with a manufactured warmth that made her smile.
But when his wife and son were asleep, when the duties of the lord and husband were done, Alaric would descend to his sanctum. Here, the true accounting took place. He laid the spoils of the Iron Islands out on the granite altar: the vials of blood, the strange idols, and most importantly, the Valyrian steel dagger he had also claimed.
He had been using his own blood for his experiments, but Marwyn's note and the Gessos Fragments were clear: the potency of a sacrifice was key. The blood of the Drowned Men had been a revelation, providing the power for his scrying of Pyke. But he was a cautious man. Human sacrifice was a messy, risky variable. He needed to understand the principles more deeply.
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He began a new series of experiments. He used a jeweller's file to scrape a tiny, almost invisible amount of dust from the dagger's hilt. He mixed this dust with a complex alchemical solution and a single drop of his own blood. He was not trying to scry or to move objects. He was trying to measure the raw output.
When the drop of blood hit the solution containing the Valyrian steel dust, the reaction was not the slow, hungry glow of obsidian. It was a flash, a miniature bolt of lightning that cracked in the vial, leaving behind the smell of ozone and the distinct feeling of static electricity in the air.
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Alaric stared at the cracked vial, his heart hammering in his chest, not with fear, but with the ecstatic thrill of discovery. He had been thinking of blood as the fuel and steel as the engine. He was wrong. The steel was a fuel of its own, a condensed, solidified form of magical potential that, when ignited by the right catalyst, could unleash unimaginable power.
Dragonfire and blood magic. That was the secret of Valyria. And he now held four pieces of it in his hands.
He looked at the swords on his wall, at the family he was building, at the domain he ruled. They were all part of the same grand balance sheet. The gold from the war would fund the research. The legitimacy of his family would provide the cover. The power he gained in his sanctum would protect them all and ensure his dynasty's eternal reign. Everything was connected. Everything was proceeding. The world thought he was a lord, a businessman, a warrior. They were all wrong. He was a scientist, on the verge of rediscovering the formula for godhood.