Chapter 6: Twin Flames and Smoking Seas
The aftermath of the Vorro contract settled upon the Serpent's Scale Company like a mantle of dark renown. In the shadowed alleys and opulent manses of Pentos, the name "Valerius" was now whispered with a mixture of fear and grudging admiration. Magister Khalbo, emboldened by his rival's demise, became a vocal, if somewhat unsavory, advocate for their services. Other Magisters, initially wary, began to see the utility in a sellsword captain who delivered results with such finality. Contracts flowed, each more lucrative and demanding than the last.
For Vaelyx, this growing notoriety was a double-edged sword, providing resources and influence while simultaneously drawing unwanted scrutiny. His true focus, however, remained locked within the battered leather confines of Newt Scamander's suitcase, where events of far greater significance were unfolding.
The jade green egg, which had been tapping and cracking with increasing urgency, finally gave way during a humid Pentoshi night, as Vaelyx meticulously reviewed intelligence reports from Lyra on a troublesome pirate band preying on Illyrio's shipping lanes. A sharp, resonant crack, like splitting timber, drew his immediate attention. He sealed his mundane chamber and descended into the suitcase's volcanic grotto.
Vorlag, the obsidian hatchling, now the size of a small wolf and already possessing a fiercely territorial nature, was perched on a rocky outcrop, his crimson-veined scales shimmering in the magical luminescence. He watched the pulsating jade egg with an unnerving stillness, smoke curling from his nostrils.
The green shell splintered further, revealing a flash of emerald scales. With a series of determined thrusts, a second dragonet emerged, sleeker and more gracile than Vorlag. Its scales were a vibrant jade, dappled with flecks of ancient bronze that caught the light like scattered coins. Its eyes were molten gold, intelligent and intensely curious. It surveyed its surroundings, then fixed its gaze on Vaelyx, letting out a melodious, flute-like chirp, a stark contrast to Vorlag's guttural hisses.
He reached out to the jade hatchling. It cocked its head, then tentatively nudged his hand, its scales surprisingly cool compared to Vorlag's constant heat. Vaelyx decided on the name Veridian, for its striking colour. Veridian seemed less overtly aggressive than Vorlag, more inquisitive, its head constantly swiveling, taking in every detail of its new world.
Vorlag let out a rumbling growl and took a step towards Veridian, wings half-unfurled. Veridian, though smaller, hissed back, a surprisingly sharp sound, and a tiny puff of pale green smoke, smelling faintly of ozone, escaped its snout.
The two dragonets eyed each other warily, but the immediate tension subsided under his forceful command. Managing two distinct draconic personalities, Vaelyx realized, would be a far greater challenge than one.
The logistical demands escalated exponentially. Two growing dragons consumed prodigious amounts of meat. Malakai, under Vaelyx's carefully worded instructions, began arranging discreet, bulk purchases of livestock – goats, pigs, occasionally even a lame horse – ostensibly for the company's mess, but in reality, destined for the ever-hungry maws within the suitcase. Vaelyx expanded one of the suitcase's internal habitats into a grim, magically sustained charnel farm, ensuring a constant, if gruesome, supply.
Space also became an issue. The volcanic grotto, once spacious, now felt cramped. Vaelyx spent days magically excavating and expanding it, carving out separate nesting areas for Vorlag and Veridian, reinforcing the containment charms to withstand their growing strength and increasingly potent, albeit still small, bursts of flame. Vorlag's fire was a concentrated jet of black-red flame, hot enough to melt stone. Veridian's was a wider, almost ethereal pale green fire that seemed to burn with a different, perhaps more magical, intensity.
The noise – screeches, hisses, the thud of powerful young bodies – and the increasingly acrid, sulphurous smell, required constant magical suppression. Vaelyx layered Silencing Charms and scent-masking enchantments around the suitcase, a constant drain on his magical reserves, making him more reliant on his wand (still disguised as his satchel handle) for precise energy conservation during his nocturnal work.
Despite these challenges, Vaelyx thrived on the complexity. He began their training in earnest, using a combination of Parseltongue-like mental commands, Voldemort's techniques for controlling magical beasts, and sheer force of will. He taught them basic commands: stay, come, restrain fire. It was a battle of wills, particularly with the fiercely independent Vorlag, but Vaelyx's psychopathic patience and unyielding dominance gradually asserted control. These were not pets; they were his future war machines, his ultimate claim to power.
Outside the suitcase, the Serpent's Scale Company solidified its grip on Pentos's mercenary trade. Illyrio Mopatis, true to his word, began channeling more significant contracts their way. They guarded his spice caravans through the perilous Khyzai Pass, "pacified" unruly tribesmen in the Velvet Hills who were disrupting his slaving operations, and even undertook a daring raid into the Disputed Lands to retrieve a valuable Valyrian steel dagger Illyrio coveted. Each success brought more gold, more recruits, and more fear.
Vaelyx, as Valerius, expanded his mercantile empire in parallel. With Malakai's astute management, they acquired shares in several trading cogs, establishing routes to Lys, Myr, and even distant Qarth. Knowledge gleaned from the fan-memory – of future famines in one region, or a sudden demand for a particular Essosi luxury in Westeros due to some royal wedding or decree – gave him an almost prophetic edge in the markets. His hidden fortune swelled.
The relationship with Illyrio deepened into a complex dance of mutual benefit and cautious distrust. They met regularly in Illyrio's perfumed manse, sharing wine and secrets – or at least, carefully curated versions thereof.
"Your Valerius is a man of remarkable talents, Magister," Illyrio said one evening, his eyes gleaming as he savored a roasted peacock. "He moves with the subtlety of a shadow and strikes with the force of a storm. Tell me, what drives such a man?"
Vaelyx, using Legilimency to navigate Illyrio's layered thoughts, knew the Magister was probing for his ultimate ambition, perhaps hoping to harness it for his own grand designs – designs that often involved the restoration of House Targaryen, though Illyrio seemed unaware he was speaking to one.
"I seek what all men seek, Magister," Vaelyx replied smoothly. "Security. Influence. A legacy that will endure." He allowed a hint of Valyrian pride to color his tone. "My ancestors were once great. Perhaps that greatness can be reclaimed, in time."
Illyrio smiled, a slow, knowing expression. "Greatness often requires… catalysts. Rare and powerful tools. You have heard the tales of Valyria, Valerius? Of the wonders and terrors that still lie amidst its smoking ruins?"
This was the opening Vaelyx had been waiting for. "The tales are common currency, Magister. Most dismiss them as fantasy."
"Not all of them," Illyrio said, leaning closer. "I have… interests. I have collected maps, charts, the ramblings of mad sailors who claim to have glimpsed its shores. Valyria is a tomb, yes, but also a treasure house. Dragon eggs, Valyrian steel, secrets of sorcery lost to the world…"
"A perilous venture," Vaelyx observed, feigning caution.
"Indeed. But for a man of your capabilities, with a company like the Serpent's Scale… the rewards could be limitless." Illyrio paused. "I might be persuaded to share my knowledge, to fund such an expedition, for a suitable share of any… acquisitions."
Vaelyx began to lay the groundwork for a Valyrian expedition. He tasked Malakai with discreetly seeking out any mariners in Pentos who had experience sailing near the Smoking Sea, and to acquire any legitimate (or convincingly forged) Valyrian charts that weren't already in Illyrio's possession. He also started identifying men within the Serpent's Scale – those with exceptional courage, loyalty, and perhaps a touch of recklessness – for what would undoubtedly be their most dangerous undertaking.
Kaelen, Boros, and Lyra remained his steadfast lieutenants. The bloody work they undertook for the company had hardened them further. Kaelen, the exiled knight, found a grim satisfaction in their success, a vindication against the Westerosi lords who had wronged him. Boros, the Norvoshi axeman, reveled in the combat and the coin. Lyra, the Tyroshi scout, remained an enigma, her loyalty seemingly absolute, her methods chillingly effective. Vaelyx, through regular, subtle Legilimency, ensured their continued devotion, swiftly and ruthlessly addressing any hint of dissent or personal ambition that might threaten his control.
One humid afternoon, a trading ship arrived from King's Landing, one of the vessels in which "Valerius" held a minor share. It brought goods, profits, and a single, sealed letter addressed in the shaky hand of his father, King Jaehaerys II. Vaelyx retreated to his private chamber before breaking the seal.
The letter was brief, filled with the weary platitudes of a dying king. Jaehaerys spoke of his failing health, of his pride in Vaelyx's "scholarly pursuits" (based on the few carefully crafted, innocuous letters Vaelyx had sent). He urged Vaelyx to remember his duty to his house, though what that duty entailed from afar, he did not specify. The most telling lines were about Aerys: "Your brother… his passions grow stronger. The Hand, Lord Tywin, does his best to guide him, but the Crown weighs heavily, and Aerys chafes under its burdens, and any restraint. Rhaegar is a fine lad, a solace in these trying times."
Vaelyx burned the letter. Jaehaerys was fading. Aerys was becoming more unstable. The timeline was progressing as the fan-memory had indicated. His time in Essos was foundational, but finite. The dragons within his suitcase were a constant, growing reminder of his ultimate destiny across the Narrow Sea.
Later that week, the blood-red egg, the one that had pulsed with steady warmth, began to crack. The age of dragons was truly dawning, not in the grand pronouncements of kings or the desperate rituals of Summerhall, but in the secret, magically expanded depths of a battered leather suitcase, nurtured by the will of a ruthless, reincarnated prince far from home. The Smoking Sea beckoned, with its promises of more eggs, lost magic, and the consolidation of a power that would one day set Westeros ablaze. Vaelyx, the Serpent of Pentos, with twin flames already at his command, was preparing to answer its call.