Chapter 3: The Serpent Coiled
The years following Summerhall bled into one another, each marked by the slow decay of King Jaehaerys II's spirit and the concurrent, ominous blossoming of Aerys's peculiar brand of madness. The Red Keep, once a symbol of Targaryen might, felt increasingly like a gilded cage presided over by a grieving monarch and his volatile heir. For Vaelyx, it was a crucible, a place to hone his deceptions and amass his hidden strengths, all while cultivating an image of harmless obscurity.
Jaehaerys II ruled with a gentle hand, but his heart was clearly not in it. The ghosts of Summerhall haunted his waking hours and his dreams. He made attempts to govern wisely, advised by a council that often seemed more interested in their own advancement than the realm's good. Lords whispered of his weakness, of the Targaryen line faltering. Vaelyx, moving like a phantom through the castle's libraries and quiet courtyards, absorbed these whispers, cataloging the shifting loyalties and growing discontents.
Aerys, his twin, was a festering wound in the court. His marriage to their sister, Rhaella, was a joyless affair, a dynastic necessity that seemed only to deepen Rhaella's inherent melancholy and fuel Aerys's paranoia. Vaelyx watched, with clinical detachment, as Rhaella suffered through difficult pregnancies, the first culminating in the birth of Rhaegar. Aerys, far from finding solace in fatherhood, saw enemies everywhere. He accused courtiers of plotting against him, flew into rages over perceived slights, and his fascination with fire became an open secret. Small, unexplained fires would break out in disused parts of the castle, and Aerys would always be found nearby, his eyes gleaming with an unnatural fervor. Tywin Lannister, a young, ruthlessly efficient lord from the Westerlands, was eventually appointed Hand of the King by Jaehaerys, a desperate attempt to bring order to the escalating chaos Aerys generated. The Lion and the erratic Dragon made for a tense pairing, their clashes becoming legendary within the court.
Vaelyx, the "Shadow Twin," played his part to perfection. He was the quiet scholar, the prince who preferred dusty tomes to tourney grounds, solitude to society. His tutors despaired of his lack of martial ambition but praised his intellect. He devoured texts on history, lineages, geography – particularly the sprawling, diverse continent of Essos. He learned of the Free Cities: the mercantile might of Pentos and Myr, the martial traditions of Tyrosh, the pleasure houses of Lys, the ancient grandeur of Volantis, and the formidable financial power of Braavos, the city of canals and faceless assassins. He feigned an academic interest, masking the predatory gleam in his eyes as he identified potential power bases, trade routes to exploit, and weaknesses to leverage.
"Young Prince Vaelyx has a scholar's soul," Grand Maester Pycelle would pronounce with a patronizing smile, a pronouncement Vaelyx had subtly encouraged with feigned inquiries about obscure Valyrian texts. Pycelle, ever the sycophant, saw Vaelyx as a non-threat, a harmless eccentric. It was precisely the perception Vaelyx cultivated.
His true studies took place within the impossible confines of Newt Scamander's suitcase. This was his sanctuary, his laboratory, his arsenal. The volcanic habitat he'd fashioned for the seven dragon eggs was now a marvel of controlled sorcery. Drawing on Voldemort's mastery of enchantments, he maintained a constant, searing heat, the air thick with the smell of sulphur and molten rock. The eggs themselves remained stubbornly inert, yet Vaelyx was patient. He knew, from fragmented Valyrian lore and Voldemort's extensive understanding of blood magic, that fire alone might not be enough. A catalyst, a sacrifice, a moment of immense magical confluence might be required. He wasn't ready for that yet. First, he needed to secure his own position, far from the prying eyes of Westeros.
He practiced the Dark Arts with chilling precision. He had no intention of splitting his soul again – the fan-memory's recollection of Voldemort's ultimate downfall due to his Horcruxes was a stark warning. But the principles behind such magic, the ability to imbue objects with power, to bind will to matter, were invaluable. He learned to create potent wards, compulsions that were nearly undetectable, and illusions that could fool the keenest eye. He perfected his Legilimency and Occlumency, his mind becoming an impenetrable fortress, his ability to read others a razor-sharp weapon. He even bred specialized magical serpents within one of the suitcase's many habitats, conversing with them in Parseltongue, keeping his unique linguistic skills honed. They were his silent confidants, his first true minions in this new world.
His financial preparations were equally meticulous. Voldemort had understood the power of wealth. Vaelyx, using his intellect and the occasional, untraceable Confundus Charm on a merchant or a royal treasurer's clerk, began to build a hidden fortune. A "forgotten" cache of ancient coins found in a disused cellar, a "wise" anonymous investment in a particularly successful trading venture that paid out through a carefully obscured intermediary – small, seemingly insignificant windfalls that, over years, accumulated into a substantial sum. He converted much of it into easily transportable diamonds and other precious gems, stored securely within a warded section of his suitcase.
He studied the sellsword companies of Essos: the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, the Company of the Cat. He learned of their leaders, their contracts, their reputations. His company, when he formed it, would be different. More disciplined, more ruthless, and with an unassailable advantage: his magic, and eventually, his dragons.
As Vaelyx approached his sixteenth nameday, the atmosphere in the Red Keep grew heavier. King Jaehaerys II's health was in visible decline. His cough worsened, his frame grew thinner, and the light in his eyes dimmed. Aerys, sensing his father's weakening grip, became bolder, his pronouncements more outlandish, his cruelty more overt. He once ordered a servant girl's tongue removed for allegedly "spreading lies" about him, an order Tywin Lannister managed to commute to banishment, further deepening Aerys's resentment of his Hand.
Vaelyx knew his time was drawing near. He needed a plausible reason to depart, one that would not arouse suspicion. He decided on a multi-pronged approach. He began to speak more openly of his "scholarly pursuits," expressing a deep desire to study the ancient histories of Valyria in Volantis, or the complex trade mechanics of Braavos. Simultaneously, he subtly engineered a minor, but public, "disagreement" with Aerys.
It happened during a Small Council meeting Vaelyx was permitted to observe, a privilege granted to him as a prince, though one he rarely seemed to fully utilize. Aerys, in a fit of pique over a perceived slight from a minor Dornish lord, demanded that a punitive expedition be sent.
"We should burn his castle to the ground!" Aerys snarled, his eyes wide. "Teach him the meaning of disrespecting the dragon!"
Tywin Lannister countered with cold logic, pointing out the diplomatic and financial folly of such an action.
Vaelyx, who usually remained silent, chose this moment to speak, his voice soft but clear. "Brother," he began, "perhaps a strongly worded raven would suffice? Lord Tywin speaks wisely of the cost. Our resources are not infinite."
Aerys rounded on him, his face contorted with fury. "You dare question me, little brother? You, with your nose always buried in books, what do you know of strength? Of fire and blood?" He spat the words. "You are weak, like all scholars! You have no dragon in you!"
Vaelyx flinched, as if genuinely stung, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, Aerys. I spoke out of turn."
The incident was noted by all present. Aerys's disdain for his "bookish" twin, Vaelyx's apparent timidity. It was perfect.
A few weeks later, after ensuring Jaehaerys was in a relatively lucid and receptive mood, Vaelyx sought a private audience. He found his father frail and weary, staring out a window at the city below.
"Father," Vaelyx began, his voice carefully measured, tinged with a hint of sadness. "I have a request to make."
Jaehaerys turned, his eyes clouded with pain. "What is it, Vaelyx, my son?"
"For some years now," Vaelyx said, choosing his words with care, "my heart has yearned for knowledge that cannot be found within these walls, however vast our libraries. The Free Cities… they hold archives, wisdom from ages past. Volantis, in particular, is said to possess remnants of Valyrian lore that could enlighten us." He paused, then added, with a touch of feigned vulnerability, "And, if I am to be honest, Father, the court… Aerys… I fear I am not suited to it. My nature is too quiet, too contemplative. I believe a period of study abroad would not only benefit my mind but also… ease certain tensions."
Jaehaerys listened, a flicker of understanding, perhaps even relief, in his eyes. He knew Aerys's temperament. He knew Vaelyx was different.
"You wish to leave us, Vaelyx?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Only for a time, Father," Vaelyx assured him. "To learn, to grow. To perhaps find my own way, as Grandfather Aegon's brother, Maester Aemon, did. I would, of course, require your blessing, and perhaps some modest means to support my studies."
The King was silent for a long moment. Vaelyx held his breath, maintaining his carefully constructed mask of earnest scholarly ambition and filial piety.
Finally, Jaehaerys nodded slowly. "Perhaps you are right, son. This court is… no place for a gentle spirit right now. Aerys is… strong-willed." A gross understatement. "If knowledge is what you seek, then go. Go with my blessing. Learn all you can. Make us proud." He even promised a small stipend, enough to live comfortably, but not extravagantly. Vaelyx accepted with grateful humility, knowing his own hidden reserves far outstripped it.
When Aerys was informed, he merely scoffed. "Let the bookworm go dig in the dirt of Essos. He'll be no loss to Westeros. Perhaps he'll learn something useful for a change, though I doubt it." This open disdain was exactly what Vaelyx had hoped for. No one would suspect him of grand ambitions.
The final weeks were a whirl of discreet preparations. Vaelyx packed his few mundane belongings. His real treasures – the gold, the gems, his disguised wand (now transfigured into the handle of a simple scholar's satchel), and a few essential magical texts copied in miniature – were meticulously organized within the magically expanded depths of his suitcase. The seven dragon eggs, nestled in their volcanic nursery, were the most precious cargo of all. He could almost feel a faint thrumming from them now, a nascent warmth that was more than just the ambient heat. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking, Voldemort's ambition stirring within him.
On the day of his departure, he paid his respects to his family. Rhaella looked at him with a flicker of something unreadable in her sad eyes – envy, perhaps, or just pity for anyone connected to Aerys. Aerys himself barely acknowledged him, already ranting about a new perceived conspiracy among the City Watch.
King Jaehaerys II clasped his hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "Be safe, Vaelyx. Write to us. And remember, you are a Targaryen. Hold your head high."
"I will, Father," Vaelyx said, his voice conveying a perfect blend of sorrow and resolve.
As the ship pulled away from the docks of King's Landing, Vaelyx stood on the deck, watching the Red Keep recede. The imposing fortress, the seat of power his ancestors had built with fire and blood, the throne he would one day claim. He felt no sentimentality, no pang of regret. Only the cold, satisfying click of a carefully laid plan falling into place.
The wind whipped his silver-gold hair around his face. He was Vaelyx Targaryen, the Serpent Prince, and he was finally free to forge his own destiny in the lands of Essos. Westeros would forget him, the quiet prince who faded into obscurity.
And when he returned, it would be with fire, with blood, and with a power they could not imagine. The game was truly afoot.