The jump in sheer destructive capability was staggering. This completely changed the board. Dae wasn't just a sneaky infiltrator or a quiet torturer anymore. With an aura that could rot a mortal's willpower from a mile away and fire that bypassed physical armor to directly scorch the soul, the Lesser Devil was practically a one-man army.
Alaric wouldn't even need to march his Vanguard west to deal with the Lannisters. Dae could just hijack the Iron Fleet, sail right into the harbor at Lannisport, and break the minds of Tywin's garrison before burning the golden city to ash all on his own.
Alaric closed his eyes, preparing to push his consciousness through the psychic link to give the devil his new marching orders. But the very second the mental bridge connected, a wave of loud, vibrating energy violently crashed into his mind.
—Glory to the Sovereign of Ash! Dae's new, booming voice echoed inside Alaric's skull, practically vibrating with unholy, fanatical ecstasy. Praise be to the Monarch of the Abyss! The Unbroken Will that remakes the flesh, the Dark Sun that burns the weak, the Architect of Agony—!
He winced, rubbing his temples. The devil was completely losing his mind over the surge of new power and had apparently decided to spend the last few minutes inventing a whole litany of over-the-top, religious honorifics to shout into the link.
My Lord, I shall build a throne of Kraken bones for you! I shall paint the western shores red in the name of the—!
"Alright, that's enough," Alaric grumbled to himself.
He shook his head and forcefully snapped the mental link shut like a heavy iron door. The booming, demonic chanting instantly vanished from his mind, cutting off Dae mid-prayer and leaving the command tent completely quiet once again.
He let out a long breath and swiped the System screen away. He would let the devil cool off and terrorize his prisoners for a few hours before dealing with him again.
Alaric let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. The quiet of the tent was a relief after the noise in his head. He walked over to the heavy wooden map table and pushed a few scattered troop reports to the side.
Before he could even think about calling for some food, the familiar, sharp chime of the System rang in his ears.
A new blue box snapped into existence right over the table.
[NEW QUEST GENERATED]
[Target: The Priestess of R'hllor]
[Objective: Capture Melisandre of Asshai alive and detain her for interrogation.]
[Reward: 1,000 MP]
Alaric stared at the screen. One thousand points. A few months ago, he would have jumped at the chance to earn that much. Now, with nearly forty thousand points sitting in his bank, it felt like pocket change.
He almost swiped the screen away to ignore it, but the objective made him pause.
Melisandre of Asshai.
Alaric opened his inventory with a quick thought. The twisted dark dagger materialized in his hand, and he dropped it onto the table. It hit the wood with a dull, heavy thud.
Cersei had no idea what this thing actually was. She didn't know who Qyburn's "contact" was or where the magic came from. But Melisandre was a Red Priestess and a Shadowbinder from the far East. She dealt in blood magic and shadows. She was the one who sent a shadow to assassinate Renly Baratheon just a few weeks ago.
If anyone in Westeros knew what kind of cursed magic could wake a dead dragon, it was her.
"Right," Alaric muttered, staring at the pitch-black blade. "If she didn't send the shadow assassin to Winterfell herself, she definitely knows who did."
He grabbed the dagger, tossing it back into his System inventory so it vanished into thin air. He swiped the blue quest screen away and walked quickly to the entrance of the tent.
He pushed the canvas flap aside. "Guard."
One of the Blood Knights turned, but Alaric waved him off. "Not you. Get me one of the Tyrell scout commanders. Right now."
The giant knight gave a stiff nod and marched off into the busy camp.
Alaric didn't have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, a lean, nervous-looking man wearing the green and gold colors of House Tyrell hurried up to the tent. He dropped to one knee immediately in the dirt.
"Your Grace," the commander said, keeping his head down.
"Get up," Alaric said flatly. "I need an update on Stannis Baratheon."
The commander stood up quickly, brushing dust from his knee. "Stannis, Your Grace? Well... after Lord Renly was murdered, most of the Stormlands lords bent the knee to him. Our outriders reported that his host left Storm's End a few days ago."
"Where is his army now?" Alaric asked.
"Marching north, Your Grace," the commander answered. "He loaded part of his force onto his fleet, but his main host is taking the Kingsroad. They are heading straight for King's Landing. At their current pace, they should reach the Blackwater Rush by the end of the week."
...
The golden light of the setting sun bled through the heavy canvas of the command tent, casting long, shifting shadows across the room.
Outside, the loud, chaotic noise of the Tyrell camp was slowly shifting into the steady, muted hum of the evening watch. Campfires were being lit, and the smell of roasting meat drifted through the air.
Alaric sat in his heavy wooden chair, staring blankly at a large map of the Crownlands spread out across his table. He wasn't really seeing the map. His mind was miles away, running through the logistics of capturing a blood-magic priestess out of the center of a marching army.
Stannis Baratheon was a rigid, brilliant tactical commander. He wouldn't leave Melisandre unguarded.
A direct strike with his Blood Knights or Gargoyles would scatter Stannis's host easily, but it would also cause too much chaos. Melisandre could slip away in the confusion, or worse, get crushed under a stray boulder. Alaric needed a scalpel, not a warhammer.
The heavy canvas flap at the entrance suddenly pushed open, accompanied by the sound of light, melodic laughter.
Margaery walked in first, looking completely unfazed by a long day of managing stubborn lords. Roslin followed close behind, looking a bit tired but sporting a warm, genuine smile. Finally, Sansa stepped through, dropping the tent flap closed and cutting off the noise of the camp.
Alaric didn't move. He kept his elbows resting on the armrests, his eyes still fixed on the map, running numbers and MP costs in his head.
Sansa noticed his intense focus immediately. She walked around the large map table, her dark skirts brushing against the rug.
She stepped right up to the side of his chair, leaned down, and reached out, pinching his cheek between her thumb and forefinger with a firm, playful pull.