Chapter 5: First Blood, First Flame
The villa of Magister Vorro, Khalbo's bitter rival, stood on a low hill overlooking the turquoise expanse of the Bay of Pentos. It was a monument to old money and paranoia, surrounded by high walls patrolled by well-armed guards. Retrieving Magister Khalbo's "stolen" obsidian locket – rumored to hold compromising letters rather than any intrinsic value – and leaving no witnesses was the Serpent's Scale Company's most audacious contract yet. For Vaelyx, it was a calculated risk, a necessary blooding for his burgeoning enterprise and a resonant statement to the Pentoshi elite.
The planning phase was an exercise in Voldemort's meticulousness. Lyra, the Tyroshi scout, spent two nights mapping the villa's patrol routes, entry points, and the likely location of Vorro's private study, her movements as silent as a falling shadow. Malakai, the Lysene scribe, procured surprisingly accurate, albeit outdated, architectural plans of the villa from a disgruntled former stonemason, and even managed to acquire a sample of the livery worn by Vorro's household guards. Vaelyx himself, under the guise of Valerius, made a carefully casual pass by the villa's main gates, his Legilimency subtly brushing against the minds of the gate guards, gleaning impressions of their alertness, their numbers, and their fear of their master.
"Tonight, we strike," Vaelyx announced to his core lieutenants – Kaelen, Lyra, Boros, and Malakai – in the dim, lantern-lit confines of their warehouse headquarters. A detailed sand table mockup of the villa lay between them. "Lyra, you and I will disable the outer sentries and secure entry through the servants' passage. Kaelen, Boros, you lead the primary assault team. Your objective is Magister Vorro's study. Secure the locket. Malakai, you will coordinate our withdrawal and ensure our tracks are covered. The Magister was explicit: no witnesses. That includes household staff and any guards who offer resistance." He let his gaze linger on each of them, his pale lilac eyes holding an icy resolve. "Understood?"
Nods of grim understanding were his reply. Kaelen's hand rested on the pommel of his longsword. Boros hefted his great axe, a savage grin briefly touching his lips. Lyra simply nodded, her dark eyes glinting.
Under the cloak of a moonless night, the operation unfolded with terrifying precision. Vaelyx and Lyra, clad in dark, non-reflective clothing, moved like wraiths. Two guards patrolling the outer wall collapsed silently, thin trickles of blood at their throats from Lyra's expertly thrown knives. Vaelyx, with a non-verbal Alohomora and a whispered Parseltongue command to the ancient locking mechanism (a surprisingly common feature in older Pentoshi architecture, a relic of Valyrian influence), opened a rusted side gate.
Inside, the villa was a labyrinth of darkened corridors and opulent chambers. Vaelyx used subtle Confundus Charms to misdirect a sleepy kitchen servant and to make a pair of guards patrolling an inner courtyard suddenly remember an urgent, forgotten duty elsewhere. Kaelen and Boros, followed by a dozen of their most hardened men, stormed the central wing. The sounds of struggle were brief, brutal, and expertly muffled by strategically cast Silencing Charms from Vaelyx, who shadowed their advance.
He found Magister Vorro in his bedchamber, roused by the commotion, reaching for a gilded dagger. Vaelyx was faster. A flick of his disguised wand-hand, and Vorro froze, his eyes wide with terror, bound by an invisible force. Vaelyx's Legilimency tore through the man's panicked thoughts, locating the obsidian locket in a hidden safe behind a tapestry.
While Kaelen's men efficiently dispatched the remaining household guards and servants – their methods grim but swift – Vaelyx retrieved the locket. He spared a moment to look at Vorro, whose mind was a screaming chaos of fear and outrage. Inconsequential, Vaelyx thought, before nodding to Boros, who stepped forward, axe raised. Vaelyx turned away, not needing to witness the inevitable.
The withdrawal was as disciplined as the entry. Malakai's preparations ensured that any traces of their presence were minimal, easily attributed to common thieves if not for the chilling thoroughness of the slaughter. By dawn, the Serpent's Scale Company had vanished back into the anonymity of Pentos, leaving behind a silent, blood-soaked villa.
Magister Khalbo was ecstatic. He paid the exorbitant fee without a murmur, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph as he fondled the obsidian locket. He also promised future, equally lucrative, considerations. The men of the Serpent's Scale were shaken but also exhilarated. They had faced death and delivered it, and their leader, Valerius, had guided them with an almost supernatural calm and foresight. Their loyalty, already bought with good pay and respect, was now cemented with a shared, dark secret and the undeniable taste of victory.
For Vaelyx, the true prize awaited him not in Khalbo's coffers, but within his suitcase. The obsidian egg with the crimson veins was now in constant, shuddering motion. Fine cracks spiderwebbed its surface, and an intense, almost unbearable heat radiated from it, a dry, primal heat that spoke of ancient power. He spent every available moment in the volcanic grotto, his senses heightened, waiting. Voldemort's memories offered parallels with the hatching of basilisks, but this felt older, more elemental. He'd continued the small animal sacrifices, channeling the fleeting life energies into the egg, whispering encouragements in Parseltongue.
The hatching began during a lull in their operations, a few days after the Vorro contract. A sharp crack echoed through the grotto, louder than before. Vaelyx watched, motionless, as a section of the shell bulged outwards, then shattered. A tiny, black, reptilian snout poked through, nostrils flaring, followed by a disproportionately large, golden eye, slitted like a cat's, that fixed directly on him.
More shell fragments fell away, and with a final, convulsive effort, the creature wriggled free. It was small, no larger than a housecat, its scales the colour of polished obsidian, shot through with the same crimson vein-like markings that had adorned its egg. Its wings, disproportionately large for its body, were furled tightly against its sides. It let out a high-pitched, screeching cry, a sound that resonated deep within Vaelyx's chest, stirring something ancient and possessive.
The hatchling stumbled on unsteady legs, then looked at Vaelyx, its golden eyes filled with a raw, primal intelligence.
Vaelyx felt a cold, fierce triumph surge through him, a sensation far more potent than any joy.
The hatchling let out a puff of black smoke, tinged with a spark of red ember, and nudged its head against his outstretched hand. Its scales were hot to the touch, like heated stone. He named it Vorlag, a corruption of an old Valyrian word for "first shadow" or "harbinger."
Feeding Vorlag was an immediate challenge. Vaelyx had prepared. Chunks of charred meat, sourced from animals within the suitcase's other habitats, were devoured with ravenous hunger. The dragon grew visibly, even within the first few days, its obsidian scales taking on a deeper lustre. Its presence also seemed to affect the other six eggs; the jade green one began to tap insistently, and the blood-red egg now pulsed with a steady, rhythmic warmth.
The news of the slaughter at Magister Vorro's villa, coupled with the undeniable efficiency of the Serpent's Scale, sent ripples of fear and respect throughout Pentos. And, as Vaelyx had anticipated, it brought him to the attention of one of the city's most influential and enigmatic figures: Magister Illyrio Mopatis.
The invitation arrived on scented parchment, delivered by a eunuch whose eyes held no emotion. Magister Illyrio requested the pleasure of Valerius's company for a private dinner.
Illyrio's manse was a sprawling palace of perfumed gardens, tinkling fountains, and endless corridors lined with Myrish carpets and gaudy treasures. The Magister himself was a mountain of a man, his corpulence barely contained by flowing silks of saffron and violet. His fingers, laden with rings, toyed with a forked, yellow beard. Despite his bulk, his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and missed nothing.
"Valerius," Illyrio rumbled, his voice surprisingly smooth as he gestured Vaelyx to a cushioned seat. Slaves, male and female, moved silently, offering wine and sweetmeats. "Your Serpent's Scale Company has made quite the… impression on our fair city."
"We aim to provide a reliable service, Magister," Vaelyx replied, his demeanor calm and respectful, though his Occlumency shields were firmly in place, and his Legilimency subtly probed the edges of Illyrio's mind. The Magister's thoughts were a labyrinth of schemes, ambitions, and a surprising sentimentality for lost glories, particularly those of House Targaryen. Interesting.
"Reliable, yes. And thorough," Illyrio chuckled, his chins wobbling. "Magister Khalbo sings your praises. Magister Vorro, alas, sings no more." He leaned forward, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I have need of men like you, Valerius. Men who understand that power is often… untidy. I have ventures, far-reaching ventures, that require a delicate but firm hand."
The conversation that followed was a masterclass in veiled proposals and careful deflections. Illyrio spoke of lucrative opportunities in the Disputed Lands, of rivals who needed to be… persuaded, of artifacts that needed to be acquired. He hinted at connections that spanned the Free Cities, reaching even into the Dothraki Sea. He was testing Vaelyx, trying to ascertain the depth of his ambition, the limits of his ruthlessness.
Vaelyx, in turn, projected an image of pragmatic competence. He spoke of his company's capabilities, his commitment to fulfilling contracts, his desire for growth and influence. He expressed interest in Illyrio's proposals but committed to nothing specific, letting the Magister believe he was being courted.
"You have Valyrian blood, do you not, Valerius?" Illyrio asked casually at one point, his eyes sharp.
"My ancestors were from Lys, a long time ago," Vaelyx replied smoothly, offering a partial truth. "The old blood runs thin, but the heritage is there."
"Indeed," Illyrio murmured, a knowing look in his eyes. "Some believe the dragons will one day return to those of the old blood."
As Vaelyx departed Illyrio's manse, he knew a dangerous but potentially fruitful alliance had been initiated. Illyrio was a powerful piece on the Essosi gameboard, one Vaelyx could use, but also one he would need to watch carefully.
Back in the sanctuary of his suitcase, Vorlag had grown perceptibly. The dragon was now the size of a small dog, its obsidian scales hard and sharp, its crimson markings glowing like embers. It greeted Vaelyx with an eager hiss, demanding food and attention. The demands of a growing dragon, even a single one, were immense. Keeping it secret while managing his company and navigating the treacherous politics of Pentos would be a constant, delicate balancing act.
The jade green egg was now cracking rapidly. Soon, Vorlag would have a sibling.
Vaelyx looked at his first dragon, a creature of shadow and nascent fire, a living weapon forged from his will and ancient magic. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but for the first time in this new life, he felt the stirrings of true power, a power that would one day see him seated upon the Iron Throne, with a flight of dragons at his command. The Serpent of Pentos was beginning to uncoil, and its scales were already stained with blood and touched by flame.