Chapter 38: The Predator's Return
Chapter 38: The Predator's Return
298 AC, Month of the Sun's Dawn
The journey home across the Narrow Sea was a period of profound and subtle transformation. The world, which Alaric had always viewed as a complex but ultimately mechanical system of cause and effect, now revealed itself to have a deeper, hidden dimension. The power he had forcibly integrated into his own being, the dormant fire of a long-dead dragon, had changed his perception of reality.
He would stand on the deck of The Serpent's Kiss, the salt spray on his face, and it was no longer just wind and water. He could feel the immense, ancient life-force of the ocean beneath him, a slow, deep, and powerful consciousness entirely alien to man. He could sense the shoals of fish moving in the depths, not as distinct creatures, but as a single, flowing current of life. The Valyrian steel sword at his hip, Nightfall, no longer felt like an inanimate object; it hummed with a low, resonant energy that vibrated in tune with the thrumming in his own blood. He was more aware, more connected to the fundamental energies of the world, and it made him feel more detached from the petty concerns of the men who served him.
His strategic sessions with his lieutenants took on a new quality. He briefed Ser Damon and Nervo not just on the political landscape of King's Landing, but on the very nature of the men they would face.
"Lord Eddard Stark, the new Hand," he explained, his voice calm as he paced his great cabin, "is a man of absolute, inflexible honour. This is not a virtue; it is a critical design flaw. It makes him predictable. He will always choose the path he believes is 'right', even if it is strategically disastrous. He cannot lie, he cannot dissemble. You will deal with him honestly and directly, but you will never reveal our true motives."
"And the Lannisters?" Ser Damon grunted.
"The Lannisters are the opposite. They are a corporation masquerading as a family. Lord Tywin is the CEO, concerned only with the bottom line: the power and prestige of his house. Cersei is a narcissist obsessed with maintaining her own status. Jaime is a man of immense talent shackled by his emotional attachments. And Tyrion," Alaric allowed himself a rare, thin smile, "is their most underestimated asset. He is the only one with a truly strategic mind, but he is crippled by the contempt of his own family."
He was giving his men a psychological dossier of the game's main players, intelligence gleaned not from spies, but from the pages of a book in a life long past. He was arming them with the ultimate weapon: perfect foresight.
When the Onyx Fleet sailed into the harbour of Blackport, it was a quiet, professional arrival. There was no grand fanfare. This was not a triumphant return from war; it was a CEO returning to his corporate headquarters. The city Alaric had left a year prior was now even more prosperous, a well-oiled machine of commerce and order. The Serpent's Head Keep was now fully complete, a black stone titan that dominated the coastline, a fortress that made even Dragonstone look quaint.
His family was waiting for him on the docks. Lynesse was a vision of southern beauty and grace, the perfect image of a great lady. She had played her part as Regent with flawless competence. She greeted him with a public display of wifely relief that he knew was part of the performance they had perfected. He, in turn, presented her with a casket of jewels from the east that would make Queen Cersei herself burn with envy, a public declaration of his wealth and her value.
But his true focus was on his children. Tyber, now a strong and confident boy of eight, stood with a straight back and looked at him with an unnerving, analytical intelligence. Cassia, six, was quieter, her strange, violet-flecked eyes seeming to see more than a child should. When he drew close to them, Alaric felt it for the first time—a faint, resonant hum in his own blood, answering a similar hum in theirs. It was the echo of the dragon magic, a shared connection that set the three of them apart from every other human on the planet. He placed a hand on each of their heads, a gesture that looked like a father's blessing but was, in fact, a magical and genetic assessment. The experiments were a success. The dynasty was not just secured; it was enhanced.
Alaric did not rush to King's Landing. The news of his return spread quickly, and the capital buzzed with anticipation. But Alaric's first move was one of calculated patience. He sent a raven to the new Hand, Lord Stark. The message was a model of political savvy. He offered his deepest condolences for the loss of their mutual friend, Jon Arryn. He congratulated Ned on his appointment. And then he respectfully declined to come to court immediately.
My Lord Hand, he wrote. While my heart yearns to aid you in these difficult times, my duty as Lord Paramount requires me to first ensure the security of my own domain. The Blackwater March is the southern shield of the Crown. With the court in a state of transition, I must ensure my province is a bedrock of stability. My legion, my fleet, and my granaries are, as always, at the service of the Iron Throne. I will come to King's Landing when I am satisfied that my own house is in perfect order, so that I may serve you with my full attention.
It was a flawless excuse. He appeared the responsible, dutiful lord, while in reality, he was deliberately avoiding the viper's nest of the capital. He knew Ned Stark was walking into a trap, and he had no intention of joining him. He would let the gears of the plot grind forward on their own, while he watched safely from his fortress.
With his public duties managed, he turned to the true work. His domain was put on a quiet but firm war footing. Nervo was tasked with discreetly buying up debt from lesser lords across the realm who had overextended themselves during the long summer. When the coming war brought famine and chaos, these debts would allow Alaric to seize their lands and assets legally. Ser Damon and the Onyx Legion began a new, intense training regimen, preparing for a new kind of war—not open battle, but riot control, counter-insurgency, and the brutal, methodical work of imposing order on a chaotic land. He was preparing not for the war itself, but for the power vacuum that would follow.
His family life was a matter of continued consolidation. He spent time with Tyber, not playing with him, but teaching him. Their games of cyvasse were lessons in strategy. Alaric would present his son with historical scenarios, asking him to solve complex logistical and political problems. Tyber's infused mind absorbed the lessons with uncanny speed. He was not raising a son; he was training his successor.
But it was in the sanctum, deep beneath the keep, that Alaric's true focus lay. His power was immense, but it was raw. He needed to refine it, to understand it. The two Valyrian steel swords, Nightfall and Red Rain, were now his primary tools of research.
He would spend his nights in the vault, the great swords laid out on the granite altar. He had confirmed that the steel was a magical amplifier. Now, he wanted to know why.
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He began a series of dangerous experiments. Using a drop of his own newly-changed blood, and the Valyrian dagger as a focus, he would attempt to "read" the swords. To commune with the magic trapped within them. The first time he tried it with Nightfall, the feedback was overwhelming. He was assaulted with a chaotic torrent of images: the roar of a great forge, the screams of a sacrifice, the searing heat of dragonfire, and the taste of blood and ash. It was the memory of the sword's own birth.
He spent weeks learning to filter these visions, to impose his will on the chaotic energies of the blades. Slowly, he gained control. He learned to use the swords as conduits, as powerful antennae for his own scrying. His previous visions had been like looking through a clouded glass. Now, with a sword as a focusing lens, the images were sharp, clear, and stable.
His first target was King's Landing. He needed real-time intelligence. He needed to watch the game unfold.
In his sanctum, with Nightfall laid across the obsidian scrying bowl, he closed his eyes and reached out. The power in his blood, amplified by the Valyrian steel, projected his consciousness across the leagues. The world dissolved, and then reformed.
He was floating like a ghost in the Small Council chamber of the Red Keep. He saw Ned Stark, his face a mask of grim frustration, arguing with Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger was all smiles and silken words, but Alaric could almost feel the web of lies and ambition that surrounded him like a foul odour. He listened as they discussed the crown's debts, Baelish casually mentioning loans and investments that Alaric knew were designed to weaken the throne and enrich himself.
He shifted his focus, a flicker of will. He was in the Queen's chambers. He saw Cersei with her brother Jaime. They were not arguing. Their conversation was low, intimate. He heard them speak of Ned Stark's investigation, of their children, of the risks they faced. He saw the look that passed between them—not just of siblings, but of conspirators and lovers. He was witnessing high treason, gathering evidence that could destroy a queen.
This was the ultimate power. Not armies, not gold, but perfect information. Varys had his little birds. Alaric had a god's-eye view. He could watch his enemies, learn their plans, anticipate their every move.
The weeks turned into a month. Alaric remained at Serpent's Head, a silent, watchful spider in the center of his web. He governed his province, he trained his son, he expanded his business empire, and every night, he watched the capital. He saw Ned Stark's honour leading him deeper and deeper into the trap. He saw the Lannisters closing the net. He saw the whole, rotten edifice of Robert's reign beginning to tremble.
A raven arrived from his brother Martyn in Dorne. The news was grim, but expected. Dorne was a cauldron of simmering rage. The death of Jon Arryn, whom they saw as Elia's protector, had reopened old wounds. Prince Doran Martell remained locked away in Sunspear, but his brother, the Red Viper, Prince Oberyn, was travelling the country, his whispers of vengeance finding fertile ground.
Alaric read the message and felt a cold surge of satisfaction. All the pieces were moving according to the script. The Starks and Lannisters were on a collision course. Dorne was a viper coiled to strike. The Vale was leaderless. The Tyrells were waiting to see which way the wind blew. The realm was a barrel of wildfire, and the fuse was burning short.
He stood on the highest tower of his keep, looking north towards the distant haze that was King's Landing. He had made his choice. He would not intervene. He would not save Eddard Stark. To save one good man would be to alter the timeline, to disrupt the predictable and profitable chaos that was about to unfold. Ned Stark's honour was a necessary sacrifice on the altar of Alaric's own ambition.
He was safe in his fortress, his armies ready, his granaries full, his family secure. He was not a participant in the coming game of thrones. He was an observer, a vulture, a future predator waiting for the lions, wolves, stags, and falcons to bleed each other white. Only then, when they were all weakened and broken, would the serpent strike and claim the spoils. The long summer was ending. A new season of blood and fire was about to begin, and he was the only man in the world who was truly ready for it.