Chapter 45: The Lion's Fall

Chapter 45: The Lion's Fall

300 AC, Month of the Bleeding Sun

The death of King Joffrey was a stone dropped into the stagnant pond of the Lannister-Tyrell court, and the ripples spread with a speed and violence that delighted Alaric to his core. From the pristine, orderly fortress of Serpent's Head, he watched the chaos in his scrying bowl with the keen interest of a speculator watching a predictable but spectacular market crash. Tyrion Lannister's arrest, the elevation of the pliable Tommen to the throne, and the tightening of Tywin Lannister's iron grip on power—it all unfolded exactly as the histories had been written.

Alaric had no interest in the fate of the Imp. Tyrion's plight was merely a symptom of the deeper disease afflicting House Lannister: a rot of arrogance, familial hatred, and impending financial ruin. While the great houses reacted to the crisis, Alaric acted upon the opportunity it created. The Tyrells, he knew, were the key. They were now bound to the Iron Throne through Margaery's betrothal to the new boy-king, but their alliance with the Lannisters was a partnership of convenience, not conviction. Olenna Tyrell, the shrewd old Queen of Thorns, would be looking to hedge her bets.

As he anticipated, an envoy from Highgarden soon arrived at his gates. It was not the oafish Mace Tyrell, but his second son, Ser Garlan the Gallant, a man known for his skill at arms and his courteous, intelligent nature. Alaric received him not on his intimidating throne, but in the sun-drenched grand library of the keep, positioning himself as a fellow man of culture and intellect.

"Lord Alaric," Garlan began, his admiration for the magnificent library evident in his eyes. "My grandmother, the Lady Olenna, and my father, Lord Mace, send their greetings. They wish to express their gratitude for the stability your domain provides, and for the vital role your grain shipments play in feeding the capital and, by extension, our own soldiers who help keep the peace."

"The prosperity of the realm is the foremost duty of any great house, Ser Garlan," Alaric replied smoothly, gesturing for him to take a seat. "My house is merely doing its part."

"Indeed," Garlan said, smiling. "My grandmother believes that houses with such compatible interests should work more closely together. She feels that the current trade agreements between the Reach and the Crownlands are… antiquated. She proposes a new pact, a direct partnership between House Tyrell and House Blackwood, to streamline the flow of goods. Wine from the Arbor, for instance, could find a much faster and more profitable path to the markets of Essos through your port at Blackport."

It was an olive branch, a feeler from one great power to another. The Tyrells were wary of being completely beholden to Tywin Lannister. They were diversifying their political portfolio, and Alaric, the realm's rising third power, was the most attractive new stock on the market.

Alaric played his part perfectly. He feigned thoughtful consideration. "An intriguing proposal. The Arbor's vintages are, of course, unparalleled. And my own trade fleet has the capacity to expand its operations."

They spent an hour discussing tariffs, shipping routes, and profit margins. It was a negotiation between two intelligent men, but only one of them knew the other's ultimate intentions. Alaric agreed to the pact, securing for himself a massive share of the lucrative wine trade, further cementing his economic dominance. He had forged a quiet, informal alliance with the Tyrells, a check against Lannister power that he could exploit when the time was right.

While his domain engaged in high politics, Alaric's own focus was on the drama unfolding in King's Landing. Tyrion's trial was a farce he watched with academic interest. He observed Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival, knowing the Red Viper's true purpose was vengeance, not justice. He scryed on the tense meetings between Oberyn and Tyrion, marvelling at the Dornishman's charisma and righteous fury, while also noting it as the fatal flaw that would lead to his doom.

The trial by combat was a masterclass in human fallibility. Alaric watched it in his sanctum, the images clear in his obsidian bowl. He saw the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane, a monster of a man whose unnatural resilience Prometheus flagged as being 'pharmacologically and/or necrotically enhanced.' He saw Oberyn's dazzling, deadly dance with the poisoned spear. And he saw the final, horrific conclusion: Oberyn's arrogant pride, his need for a confession, leading to his gruesome death.

Alaric felt no pity. He only felt a profound sense of confirmation. Honour, pride, passion—they were all weaknesses to be exploited. As he watched the Mountain crush Oberyn's skull, he instructed Prometheus to analyze the visible effects of the manticore venom on Ser Gregor, cataloging the data. Every tragedy was a learning opportunity.

The three pillars of his life continued their synchronous growth, each feeding the others.

His business empire, fueled by the new Tyrell alliance and the continued profits from the war, swelled to unprecedented size. His domain was an island of serene prosperity. His family, the core of his dynastic ambition, also flourished. Lynesse, insulated from the horrors of the world, was the perfect chatelaine, her court renowned for its elegance. She gave birth to his third child, a second son. Alaric named him Corvus, a name that evoked the ravens of his ancestral sigil and the dark, watchful intelligence he intended to nurture in the boy. With Tyber as his heir, Cassia as his arcane wildcard, and Corvus as the spare, his succession was now ironclad.

His education of his children continued. Tyber, now ten, was a prodigy of strategy. One evening, Alaric set a complex military problem before him on the cyvasse board, one based on the Battle of the Blackwater.

"Stannis lost because he committed his entire force to a single naval assault, leaving himself vulnerable to a land-based pincer movement," Tyber analyzed, his voice as unnervingly calm as his father's. "He should have landed a portion of his army south of the city to attack from two directions at once. He put all his assets into one high-risk investment and was wiped out by an unforeseen market event."

Alaric felt a surge of cold, proprietary pride. He had not just raised an heir. He had created his own successor, a mind forged in the same fire of ruthless, economic logic.

But it was his secret, magical work that truly consumed him. The chaos in King's Landing provided the perfect cover for the next phase of his grand plan: the Dragonstone Project. With Lord Stannis defeated and brooding on his island, and the new Hand, Lord Tywin, distracted by the trial and the Tyrells, no one was paying attention to a minor geological survey.

Alaric's handpicked team, led by his loyal Myrish engineer Petyr, landed on the bleak, volcanic island. Their public mission was to source volcanic stone for the new fleet's ballast. Their real mission was to find and access a major geothermal vent in the side of the Dragonmont, a place where the planet's own internal fire burned close to the surface.

After two months of discreet work, they succeeded. They established a small, hidden forge, deep within a lava tube, shielded by magic and clever engineering. It was not dragonfire, but it was the closest thing a man could achieve in this age: the raw, untamed heat of the world's core.

Now, he could begin his ultimate experiment. He did not yet have the knowledge to forge a new Valyrian steel sword from scratch. But he believed he could reforge it, or create a new, lesser artifact by combining the essential elements. His goal was to create a personal item, an amulet or a ring, that would act as a permanent magical amplifier, focusing his own power and enhancing his senses.

He remained at Serpent's Head, but he directed the work from afar through scrying and coded messages. He had the team take a tiny amount of steel dust filed from Red Rain. This, along with a shard of Dragonstone obsidian and a vial of his own blood, would be the components. The ritual was complex, a synthesis of Valyrian metallurgy from the Citadel texts and blood magic from the Gessos Fragments.

While his men prepared the forge on Dragonstone, Alaric watched the final act of the Lannister tragedy play out in his scrying bowl. He saw Jaime, torn between love and duty, free his brother Tyrion from the black cells. He saw Tyrion, instead of escaping, make his vengeful detour through the Tower of the Hand. He watched, with the clinical interest of a scientist observing rats in a maze, as Tyrion murdered the woman he loved, Shae, and then took up a crossbow.

The final scene was one of dark, pathetic irony. Alaric floated, an invisible ghost, in the privy of the Hand of the King. He saw Lord Tywin Lannister, the great Lion, the most powerful man in Westeros, sitting exposed and vulnerable. He witnessed the tense, hateful exchange between father and son. And he watched as Tyrion raised the crossbow and fired, killing his own father in the most undignified manner imaginable.

Alaric felt a profound, exhilarating sense of victory. Tywin Lannister was dead. His greatest rival, the one man whose strategic mind he respected, the pillar that held the entire Lannister empire together, was gone. The lion was decapitated, leaving the kingdom in the hands of a hysterical queen, a disgraced Kingslayer, and the bumbling, well-meaning Ser Kevan. The carefully constructed Lannister-Tyrell alliance would now fracture. The Seven Kingdoms were about to descend into a new, even more profound level of chaos.

He pulled his consciousness back to his sanctum in Serpent's Head. The scrying bowl went dark. The world outside was about to shatter, but here, in the heart of his power, all was calm.

A raven arrived, its message forwarded from his Volantene office. It was from his team on Dragonstone. The geothermal forge was ready. The experiment could begin.

Another raven came, this one from King's Landing, its seal broken in haste by his agents. Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, was dead, murdered in the night. The capital was in chaos.

Alaric stood in the centre of his vault. In his mind, he held the news of his rival's demise. On his desk, lay the plans for his arcane forge. And in his blood, he felt the thrumming power of the dragon, waiting to be fully unleashed.

He picked up a small, perfectly cut piece of obsidian. It was time to give the instructions for his forging ritual. He had just witnessed the end of the age of the Lions. Now, with the knowledge of the Citadel, the wealth of a kingdom, the magic of Valyria, and a mind unburdened by honour or sentiment, the age of the Serpent was truly about to begin. The world was a wreck, and he was the only one with a map and the tools to rebuild it in his own image.