Chapter 33: The Serpent Prepares to Shed His Skin
Chapter 33: The Serpent Prepares to Shed His Skin
295 AC, Month of the Setting Sun
Six years of the King's Peace had been more profitable for Alaric Blackwood than any war. The Long Summer had yielded bountiful harvests, his trade fleet had multiplied his fortune, and the city of Blackport was now a jewel of the southern coast, a testament to what a domain could become when ruled by ruthless logic instead of sentimental tradition. The Serpent's Head Keep was complete, a fortress of black stone and formidable engineering that loomed over the sea, a physical manifestation of his power.
His dynasty was secure. His wife, Lady Lynesse, had proven to be the perfect asset. Beautiful, graceful, and placated by a life of unimaginable luxury, she was the flawless mistress of his household and the respected Lady of the Blackwater March. More importantly, she had fulfilled her primary function twice over. His son and heir, Tyber, was a boy of eight, strong, intelligent, and with an unnerving intensity in his blue-violet eyes that hinted at the potent legacy flowing in his veins. His daughter, Cassia, at six, was whip-smart and possessed a quiet, watchful demeanor far beyond her years. The subtle dragon-blood infusions had been a success, marking his children as the prototypes of a new, superior lineage.
Yet, amidst this perfect, orderly empire of his own making, Alaric felt a familiar, gnawing impatience. He was the Lord Paramount of a great province, one of the most powerful men in Westeros. But this power, built on gold and steel, felt… mundane. It was the power of mortals. His true ambition, the one that burned in him in the solitude of his sanctum, was for a power that could command the very fabric of the world.
His magical research had hit a wall. He had dissected the theories of the Gessos Fragments. He had confirmed the synergistic power of blood, obsidian, and Valyrian steel. He had even achieved stable, long-distance scrying. But these were parlour tricks compared to the world-shaping sorcery of Old Valyria. His single dragon egg was a battery, but it was finite, and he was drawing only sparks from its vast, dormant potential. The texts hinted at greater rituals, at the forging of magical artifacts, at the binding of elemental forces. But the instructions were fragmented, the required reagents unlisted. He was a master craftsman who had perfected the use of his existing tools, but he knew, with a certainty that was almost a physical ache, that he needed a new and better workshop. He needed to return to Essos.
He convened his inner council in the Chamber of Accounts. Ser Damon Flowers, Lord Commander of the Onyx Legion, stood by the great map, his hand resting on the pommel of Red Rain, his presence a silent promise of violence. Lord Treasurer Nervo sat at the table, his ledgers open, his mind a razor-sharp instrument of commerce.
"Gentlemen," Alaric began, his voice calm and measured. "Blackwood Analytical Services has reached a point of market saturation in Westeros. Our growth is steady, but it is linear. To achieve the next level of exponential expansion, we must move from reacting to the markets of the Free Cities to actively shaping them."
Nervo looked up, his eyes alight with interest. "A new Essosi venture, my lord?"
"A grand tour," Alaric corrected. "I will personally lead a diplomatic and commercial delegation to Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, and Volantis. I will meet with the Magisters and Archons. I will use the full weight of our economic power and my political connections here at court to forge exclusive trade agreements. We will cut out the middlemen, build our own trading posts, and establish a network that will make House Blackwood the undisputed master of trade on the Narrow Sea. This journey will be an investment in our future, one that I project will triple our net profits within five years."
He presented it as a purely commercial enterprise, a language Nervo understood and admired. He then turned his gaze to his commander.
"Ser Damon, I will require an honour guard. A full cohort of the legion, one hundred of our finest. This is not merely for my protection. Essos is a land that respects only strength. The presence of the Onyx Legion, in their full regalia, will be a statement. It will remind the Magisters that they are not dealing with a common merchant, but with a great power of Westeros. It will also serve as an invaluable training exercise, giving our men experience operating in foreign lands."
Damon's grim face broke into a rare, wolfish grin. The long years of peace had made his men restless. The chance for a "tour" of the fabled, dangerous cities of Essos was a welcome prospect. "They will be ready, my lord. The First Cohort will make the peacocks of Pentos choke on their wine."
The public pretext was established. It was sound, logical, and profitable—a perfect mask for his true intentions.
That night, in the humming silence of his sanctum, he consulted with his true chief advisor.
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His journey would not just be a trade mission. It would be a hunt for grimoires, for artifacts, and for men and women with unique magical properties in their very veins.
With his own plans in motion, he turned his attention to securing his home front. Leaving his domain for what could be a year or more was a calculated risk.
He found Lynesse in the gardens, supervising the planting of new rose bushes from Highgarden. She was twenty-five now, a woman in her full, radiant prime. She had performed her role as his lady wife with flawless grace, and the court at Blackport revolved around her.
"My love," he said, approaching her. "I have decided to undertake a great journey to the east. A matter of trade and diplomacy that will secure our son's inheritance for all time."
Her smile faltered. "Essos? For how long, my lord?"
"A year. Perhaps longer," he said, watching her reaction carefully. He saw the flicker of fear and loneliness in her eyes. It was time to manage the asset. "It is a tedious necessity. But it will not be a hardship for you. While I am gone, I am naming you Regent of the Blackwater March. You will rule in my stead, with Lord Nervo to advise you on matters of commerce and a full cohort of the Legion to ensure your safety and enforce your will. No one will dare question your authority."
He was giving her a crown to distract her from his absence. He then presented her with a gift, a small, velvet-lined box. Inside was a necklace of breathtaking beauty. A great, tear-shaped ruby, as red as blood, hung from a chain of intricately worked Valyrian steel. It was a piece he had commissioned in secret, using a fraction of the metal dust from the dagger he had captured.
"A bauble to remember me by," he said. The ruby was simply a stone, but the Valyrian steel chain was a subtle ward, humming with a protective energy only he could sense. It would guard her from harm, a practical security measure disguised as a romantic gesture.
Lynesse's eyes filled with tears, this time of gratitude. Her husband was cold and distant, but he was powerful, and he was, in his own way, generous. He gave her power and jewels when what she may have craved was warmth, but she was a practical woman. She had made her bargain. "I will rule in your name with honour, my lord," she promised. "And I will await your safe return."
His final preparations involved his children. Tyber was now a boy of six, sharp and serious, already learning his letters from Maester Helliwise. Cassia was four, a quiet, unnervingly observant girl. Alaric had continued the infusions, performing the delicate blood rituals on their namedays, using a microscopic amount of the dragon egg's essence conducted through his Valyrian steel dagger.
The results were subtle, but undeniable to his enhanced senses. They were healthier, stronger, and learned faster than other children. There was an intensity in their gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible violet tint to their blue eyes in certain lights. They were the first generation of his new race, the prototypes of his ambition. This journey to Essos was for them, to acquire the knowledge needed to perfect the process, to ensure the next infusion—his own—would be a success.
He sent a final raven to the Citadel, to his man, Pate. The Serpent travels east, the coded message read. Follow the old currents. Any records in your archives of Marwyn the Mage's travels that intersect with the ruins of the Rhoynar or the trading posts near the Bones mountains are now of primary importance. I am particularly interested in any mention of 'stone eggs' or Valyrian blood-cults.
The day of departure arrived. The Onyx Fleet, three great warships and six smaller, faster galleys, waited in the harbour, their black sails a stark contrast to the bright morning sun. Ser Damon stood on the deck of the flagship, his fifty handpicked legionaries a silent testament to their lord's power. Nervo stood on the dock, a stack of ledgers and trade agreements already prepared for the journey.
Alaric stood at the top of the gangplank. He looked at the family he had created. Lynesse, his beautiful consort, holding the hand of his daughter, Cassia. Beside them stood Tyber, his heir, looking up at him with his father's serious expression. They were the perfect image of a noble family. They were the perfect cover for the man who stood before them.
He embraced none of them. He simply looked at his son and said, "You are the heir to this House, Tyber. Protect it." He then nodded to his wife. "My lady."
He turned and walked up the gangplank without looking back. He was shedding his skin once more, leaving the role of Westerosi lord behind to become an explorer in the dark, chaotic world of Essosi magic. He stood on the quarterdeck of The Serpent's Kiss as it pulled away from the harbour, his city shrinking in the distance.
His gaze was fixed on the eastern horizon. He was leaving his perfect, orderly world behind to plunge into chaos. But chaos, for Alaric, was not something to be feared. It was a resource, rich with opportunity. And he was the most ruthless and efficient predator the world had ever known. The hunt was on.