Chapter 2: The Unseen Chain
The days following his calculated seduction of Lyra Vaerion were a masterclass in Sal Moretti's – now Valerius's – self-control. Back in the stygian hell of the geothermal mines, he resumed the persona of Davos: quiet, observant, efficient enough to avoid the lash, but never so remarkable as to draw undue attention. The memory of Lyra's yielding softness, the scent of her fear and burgeoning desire, the rain-lashed intimacy of the groundskeeper's hut – these were locked away, compartmentalized into the section of his mind labeled 'Strategic Assets'. Sentiment was a currency he could not afford.
He worked with a grim determination, his body aching, his lungs perpetually burning from the sulfurous air. Each swing of the pickaxe, each perilous climb along crumbling rock faces, was a penance for his current weakness, a reminder of the climb ahead. He focused on the subtle enhancements his soul-merging had granted him. His senses remained sharper than a normal human's; he could hear the faint groans of stressed rock formations long before others, smell the subtle shifts in gaseous compositions that heralded danger, and his night vision in the flickering lamplight was uncanny. These were small advantages, but in the mines, small advantages meant survival.
His primary concern was Lyra. He had no way to directly monitor her, and any attempt to do so would be suicidal. The Vaerion estate, modest as it was for a Dragonlord family, was still leagues above his station. He was a speck of dust, easily crushed. So, he listened. Slaves transported goods, slaves gossiped, and sometimes, rarely, news from the 'upper world' trickled down. He paid particular attention to any mentions of the lesser families residing on the volcano's flanks, any whispers about the Vaerions.
Weeks crawled by, turning into a month, then two. The rhythm of the mine was a brutal metronome: dig, haul, eat gruel, sleep, repeat. Several slaves near him perished – one from a rockfall he'd silently anticipated but couldn't warn against without revealing his prescience, another from the bloody cough that claimed so many. Each death was a stark reminder of his own body's fragility. The boy Davos was not strong. Valerius, the soul within, was an iron will trapped in brittle clay.
His mind was his true weapon. During the grueling hours of labor, and in the brief, restless periods of sleep, he strategized. He thought about Valyrian society, its hierarchies, its magic. He knew, from his Game of Thrones lore and the burgeoning innate knowledge that came with Davos's absorbed Valyrian heritage, that blood was paramount. Dragonlords, even minor ones, guarded their lineage jealously. An illegitimate child born to a daughter of the house by a slave… such a thing would be an unprecedented scandal, likely resulting in the infant's swift, silent disposal and Lyra's ruin, if not death.
This was his greatest fear. His meticulously planted seed could be uprooted before it even sprouted.
He needed Lyra to be clever, or desperate enough to find a solution. His manipulation of her had been designed to make her feel complicit, to bind her to him with a shared secret. He hoped her loneliness and her romanticized view of their encounters would give her the motivation to protect their child. He had presented himself not as a calculating opportunist, but as a kindred spirit, a tragic, poetic soul. Would that be enough?
Sometimes, in the dead of night, the sheer audacity of his plan, the razor's edge upon which it rested, would cause a cold sweat to break out on his skin. He was Sal Moretti, a man who controlled outcomes, who left nothing to chance. Now, he was utterly dependent on the actions of a naive, emotionally volatile young woman he barely knew, in a world whose rules he was still learning. It was maddening.
His only solace was the subtle, yet constant, thrum of power within his soul. The absorption of Davos's essence had been like adding a single drop of potent liqueur to a fine wine – it hadn't drastically changed the volume, but it had deepened the complexity, added new notes to the flavor. He felt his will becoming more focused, his mental acuity sharper. He experimented, in tiny ways, with influencing the world around him. Not true magic, not yet. But he could sometimes 'nudge' loose pebbles into falling, or 'encourage' a flickering lamp to burn brighter for a moment, simply by concentrating his intent. These were parlor tricks, perhaps, but they hinted at a potential that was slowly awakening. The magic of Old Valyria, he suspected, was not just about grand incantations and dragonfire; it was also about the power of the will, the blood, the soul. And his soul was growing.
Around the third month after his encounter with Lyra, he finally heard something. Two slaves, new arrivals from a nearby agricultural estate that sometimes serviced the lesser Dragonlord holdings, were talking.
"…heard the Vaerion girl, Lyra, has been unwell. Confined to her chambers mostly."
"The pale one with the sad eyes? Pity. Too much mountain air, probably. Or maybe brooding over that ridiculous betrothal to her wart-nosed cousin, Maegor."
Valerius kept his face impassive, his pickaxe falling in a steady rhythm, but his senses went on high alert. Unwell. Confined to her chambers. Classic early pregnancy symptoms, easily disguised as a common ailment. Or, perhaps, morning sickness too severe to hide. His heart, the cold, calculating organ of Sal Moretti, gave an uncharacteristic thump. It's working.
Now, the stakes rose exponentially. Her family would notice soon, if they hadn't already. How would they react? Lord Vaerion, from Lyra's descriptions, was a proud, cold man, obsessed with status. Lady Vaerion was a nonentity. The betrothal to the cousin, Maegor, was key. Such alliances were vital for minor families struggling to maintain their foothold. A pregnancy by an unknown father – or worse, a suspected unsuitable father – could shatter everything.
Valerius redoubled his efforts to be the model slave in his own sphere, while simultaneously trying to get any assignment that might take him, however briefly, closer to the surface, closer to potential news. He volunteered for the most dangerous tasks if they offered a change of scenery, using his uncanny senses to survive them. He once spent three days clearing a blocked air vent that snaked torturously upwards, emerging into the open air for a few precious hours under heavy guard. From that vantage point, he could just make out the distant smudge of the Vaerion estate against the dark green of the cultivated slopes. It was like gazing at a fortress that held his entire future captive.
During that brief exposure to the outer world, he felt a new sensation. The ambient magic of Valyria, thick and potent in the air, resonated with something deep inside him. It was like a blind man suddenly sensing the warmth of the sun. He couldn't grasp it, couldn't wield it, but he could feel it, and it yearned for him as much as he yearned for it. This taste of raw power, so different from the stifling oppression of the mines, renewed his determination. He would not fail.
The fourth and fifth months passed in a torment of uncertainty. Lyra would be showing by now, her condition undeniable. What was happening up there? Was she safe? Was the child safe? He had nightmares of her being dragged away, of a tiny, unmourned bundle being buried in the night. He, Sal Moretti, who had ordered the deaths of men without a flicker of emotion, found himself consumed by a chilling anxiety for this unborn child – not for the child itself, but for what it represented: his only lifeline, his path to power.
Then, another snippet of gossip, more detailed this time, from a chattier slave who occasionally delivered provisions to the Vaerion kitchens.
"That Lord Vaerion is in a rage, they say. Locked himself away for days. And the Lady Lyra… well, the story is she had a 'sudden illness' and then a 'miraculous recovery,' but she's grown… plump. And the wedding to Maegor has been hastily moved up. Very hastily."
Valerius processed this. A 'sudden illness' followed by a 'miraculous recovery' and a conveniently plump physique. A classic cover-up. They were going to pass the child off as Maegor's, conceived prematurely after a quick, quiet wedding. It was a desperate move, one that would leave a cloud of suspicion, but for a minor family with limited options, it was probably the only way to salvage the situation and the alliance.
Clever girl, he thought, a grudging respect for Lyra surfacing. Or perhaps her father, for all his coldness, was pragmatic enough to choose controlled scandal over utter ruin. Maegor, the 'wart-nosed cousin', must have been either incredibly stupid or handsomely compensated to go along with it.
A wave of relief washed over Valerius, so profound it almost buckled his knees. The child would live. It would be raised as a Vaerion, with a legitimate name and a place, however humble, within the Dragonlord hierarchy. His bloodline was secured, at least for now.
The news of the hasty wedding galvanized him. The birth would be roughly four to five months away, assuming a full-term pregnancy. He had to survive until then. He also needed to be prepared for his own death. As Davos, he was a dead end. His purpose in this body was nearing its completion. He needed to ensure that when he died, his soul would find its anchor in his child.
He began to subtly neglect his own physical well-being. Not enough to appear suicidal or to invite immediate punishment, but he pushed himself harder, ate less of the already meager rations, took more risks in the most unstable sections of the mine. He wanted to weaken Davos's body, to make it a less tenacious vessel when the time came for his soul to depart. He needed to die, ideally, around the time of the child's birth.
The final months were a blur of exhaustion, pain, and unwavering focus. He felt Davos's body deteriorating. The lung sickness, always a threat, took deeper root, his cough becoming more violent, sometimes flecked with blood. The overseers, seeing him weaken, worked him harder, eager to extract the last ounces of labor before he inevitably collapsed. This suited Valerius perfectly.
He also intensified his mental exercises, focusing his will, picturing his soul as a homing beacon, attuning itself to the unique signature of his own blood, now mingled with Lyra's, growing within her womb. He didn't know the mechanics of this reincarnation ability, only that it was intrinsic to his new existence. He had to trust his instincts, his very essence, to guide him.
One day, a new overseer, crueler and more impatient than the last, was assigned to their section. This man, Voltan, took an immediate dislike to the visibly weakening Davos. The beatings became more frequent, more brutal. Valerius endured them, his mind detached, viewing the suffering of Davos's body as a necessary stage. Each blow, each starvation pang, was severing another thread connecting him to this temporary shell.
He estimated Lyra was in her ninth month. Any day now. The thought was a burning coal in his chest.
The end came during a shift in a newly opened tunnel, dangerously hot and volatile. Voltan was driving them mercilessly. Davos, weak and wracked by coughing fits, stumbled, dropping a heavy basket of ore.
"Useless scum!" Voltan roared, his face contorted with fury. The whip cracked, not once, but multiple times, across Davos's already ravaged back.
Valerius, even through the haze of pain, felt a strange calmness. This was it. He could feel the threads fraying.
He staggered, fell to his knees. Voltan kicked him savagely in the ribs. A sharp, searing pain, a crack.
Yes, thought Valerius. Now.
He didn't fight back. He didn't plead. He simply looked up at Voltan, a flicker of something ancient and cold in his eyes – the gaze of Sal Moretti, the predator. It was so out of place in the dying slave boy's face that Voltan actually recoiled for a second, a flicker of unease in his piggish eyes.
Then, the rage returned. "Die then, you worthless cur!" He brought the heavy, metal-banded butt of his whip down on Davos's head.
There was a sickening crunch, a flash of blinding light, then… darkness.
But not oblivion.
Valerius felt his soul, his essence, being pulled, stretched, as if drawn through an infinitely fine sieve. The darkness was not empty; it was filled with a roaring, rushing sensation, like a cosmic wind. He was adrift, but not lost. There was a beacon, a faint, insistent call, the resonance of his own blood, his own life force, magnified by the nascent spark of the new life it had created.
He surged towards it, an act of pure will.
The world resolved itself not into sight, but into sensation. Warmth. Pressure. A rhythmic, muffled beating that was both around him and within him. Confusion. He was small, impossibly small, contained. He could feel another presence, faint, fragile, unformed – the original soul of the infant.
The predatory instinct, the one he'd first felt with Davos, returned with overwhelming force. This was the moment of transference, of strengthening. He was Sal Moretti, Valerius, the devourer. He reached out with his will, his soul-self, and enveloped the tiny, flickering spark of the newborn.
There was no struggle, no resistance. Just a sigh, a whisper of fading light, like a candle flame snuffed out by a sudden gust. And then, an incandescent surge of energy flooded Valerius's being. It was far more potent than what he had gained from Davos. This was a fresh soul, untouched, brimming with potential life force, and it was his own blood.
The infant body convulsed. A tiny, protesting cry tore from its lungs – his lungs.
He was… in.
The sensations were overwhelming. The blinding light as his eyelids were forced open by rough hands. The cold air on his wet skin. The cacophony of new sounds – harsh Valyrian voices, a woman's exhausted sobbing, his own shrill wails. He was helpless, utterly dependent, a prisoner in an infant's body. But he was alive. Reborn.
"A boy, my lady," a gruff voice announced. A midwife, by the sound of her. "Small, but healthy. He has your eyes, a touch of the Vaerion violet."
Then Lyra's voice, weak, trembling, but with an undertone of fierce relief. "My son… my son."
Valerius, now inhabiting the body of this newborn, felt a strange mix of triumph and profound vulnerability. He had done it. He was inside the Vaerion family, a recognized, if hastily legitimized, member. His bloodline was established. But he was also a baby. His vast intellect, his ruthless cunning, his lifetime of experience, were all trapped, for now, behind a wall of infant helplessness.
He could feel the changes in his soul already. The merging with this new, pure life force had amplified him. The faint magical senses he'd begun to develop in Davos's body were now clearer, more defined, even through the fog of infancy. He could feel the ambient magic of the room, the life energies of the people around him, the unique signature of Lyra's blood, so close to his own. His soul felt… younger, yet more potent, like an ancient tree that had sprouted a vigorous new branch.
The midwife cleaned him, swaddled him tightly, and handed him to Lyra. He felt the warmth of her body, heard the frantic thumping of her heart. Her tears fell on his face.
"He will be named Rhaelor," Lyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion and exhaustion. "Rhaelor Vaerion. After my grandfather, who once dreamt of dragons."
Rhaelor Vaerion, Valerius thought, the name echoing in the vast chambers of his mind. It was a good name. A strong name. A Dragonlord name, however minor the current bearers.
He focused on the woman holding him. Lyra. His mother. The naive girl he had tricked and used. He felt no remorse, only a cold, calculating assessment. She was now his most vital protector. Her love for her son, Rhaelor, would be his shield until he could begin to assert his own will, his own power.
The future stretched before him, a vast, uncharted territory. Years of infancy, of childhood, of learning to control this new body, this new life. Years of subtle manipulation, of gathering knowledge, of preparing for the next phase of his ascent.
As he suckled weakly at Lyra's breast, a primal instinct overriding his revulsion at the helplessness, Valerius looked out at the world through Rhaelor's violet eyes. The game was longer, the stakes higher than he could ever have imagined as Sal Moretti. But the potential reward – true power, true immortality, perhaps even the godhood the ancient Valyrians had only grasped at – was now one step closer.
He had taken his first life, his first soul as part of this cycle, beyond Davos. The chain of descent had begun, and he, Valerius, was its first, unbreakable link. He would nurture this family, this bloodline, from within, guiding its destiny, strengthening its magic, generation by generation, until he was ready to claim his ultimate prize. The fires of the Fourteen Flames burned bright, but in the soul of this newborn infant, a different, colder, and infinitely more patient fire had just been kindled. And Valyria would, one day, feel its heat.