Chapter 3: The Dragon in the Cradle
The first year of Rhaelor Vaerion's life was, for the ancient soul of Sal Moretti inhabiting him, an exercise in supreme, mind-numbing torture and unparalleled opportunity. The helplessness was absolute. He, who had commanded legions of men and brought nations to heel with a whispered word, was now a prisoner of flaccid limbs, uncoordinated muscles, and a bladder with no respect for decorum. He screamed when he needed sustenance, shat without warning, and drooled copiously. It was a humiliating existence, yet Valerius endured it with the same cold pragmatism he'd applied to surviving the Valyrian mines.
His senses, amplified by the absorption of not one but two souls (Davos's and the original Rhaelor's), were a chaotic symphony. Every touch was magnified, every sound sharp and piercing, every sight a kaleidoscope of overwhelming light and color. The ambient magic of Valyria, which he had only faintly sensed as Davos, now washed over him constantly, a tangible presence he could almost taste. It was in the stone of the Vaerion manor, in the blood of its inhabitants, in the very air he breathed. This constant immersion, he realized, was subtly shaping his new body, making it more receptive to the energies that defined this world.
Lyra, his mother, was his lifeline. Her devotion was fierce, almost desperate. She had risked everything for him, and now saw in him the justification for her transgression, the embodiment of a secret, cherished romance – a narrative Valerius was happy for her to maintain. He learned to manipulate her with the instinctive cunning of a seasoned con artist. A well-timed gurgle, a carefully focused gaze from his violet Vaerion eyes (a trait he noted with grim satisfaction), a tiny hand clinging to her finger – these were his tools. He needed her unwavering protection, and he cultivated it relentlessly. He would gaze into her eyes, projecting an image of innocent, dependent love, all while his mind cataloged her expressions, her tones, her every vulnerability.
Maegor Vaerion, Lyra's cousin and Rhaelor's putative father, was a sullen, lumpish man. Valerius sensed a simmering resentment beneath Maegor's grudging acceptance of his role. He mostly ignored Rhaelor, interacting with him only when Lyra or Lord Aerion, Lyra's father, were present. Valerius filed this away: Maegor was weak, easily cowed by Lyra's father, and likely nursing a bruised pride. Not a threat, but also not an ally. He was a placeholder, a necessary part of the facade.
Lord Aerion Vaerion, Rhaelor's maternal grandfather (and publicly, for a time, his supposed father until the hastily arranged marriage made Maegor the official sire), was a more complex figure. He was a stern, aging man with eyes that still held the distant fire of Dragonlord ambition, though Valerius suspected the Vaerion dragons, if they'd ever truly had any of significance, were long gone. Lord Aerion treated Rhaelor with a curious mixture of detached interest and a kind of grim possessiveness. This child, born under a cloud of scandal but successfully passed off as legitimate, represented both a near-disaster and a potential continuation of a fading line. Valerius understood: Aerion was assessing him, weighing his worth.
Lady Valaena, Lyra's mother and Rhaelor's grandmother, was a gentle, faded woman, often lost in melancholy reveries. She showed Rhaelor a timid affection but was largely a peripheral figure in the household's power dynamics.
Valerius spent his first year observing, absorbing, analyzing. The Vaerion estate was modest, as he'd guessed. It clung to the slopes of a lesser peak in the Fourteen Flames, its lands producing specialized volcanic grapes for potent wines and some alchemically significant mineral earths. They had a household of perhaps thirty slaves, a few aging tutors, and a handful of guards. Their wealth was sufficient for comfort, but not for influence in the grander Valyrian sphere. They were, Valerius surmised, like many lesser branches of the great Dragonlord families – living on past glories and the lingering magic in their blood, always aspiring, always precarious.
Learning to control his infant body was a slow, infuriating process. His adult mind raged against the limitations. But he approached it with strategic patience. He focused his will, trying to accelerate his motor skills. He crawled earlier than most, walked with a determined, if wobbly, gait sooner than expected. His first words were not the usual "mama" or "papa." He listened intently to the High Valyrian spoken around him, his inherited linguistic knowledge from Davos now fully integrated and amplified.
One evening, when he was perhaps eighteen months old, Lyra was patiently trying to coax him to say "Mama." Maegor was glowering nearby, and Lord Aerion was observing with his usual hawk-like intensity.
Valerius, tired of the charade, looked directly at Lord Aerion and said, with surprising clarity for his age, "Valonqar." Grandfather.
A stunned silence fell upon the room. Lyra gasped. Maegor scowled. Lord Aerion's eyebrows shot up, a flicker of something unreadable – surprise? Pleasure? – in his old eyes.
"Valonqar," Valerius repeated, then turned to Lyra and said, "Muña." Mother. He deliberately ignored Maegor.
From that day on, Lord Aerion took a more direct interest in the boy. Valerius had marked himself as intelligent, perhaps even prodigious. He had also, subtly, aligned himself with the true power in the household.
As he grew into toddlerhood, Valerius carefully cultivated this image of a precocious child. He learned to speak High Valyrian with an eerie fluency, quickly mastering its complex grammar and nuances. He absorbed information like a sponge. He would sit for hours, seemingly engrossed in picture scrolls meant for older children, his mind actually dissecting the Valyrian myths, histories, and genealogies they depicted. He asked pointed questions, questions that hinted at an intellect far beyond his years, but always framed with a child's innocent curiosity.
His burgeoning magical senses were his most valuable secret asset. He could feel the ebb and flow of magical energies within the estate. He sensed the faint protective wards woven into the manor's foundations, the lingering enchantments on old family heirlooms, the subtle differences in the life-force of the slaves versus his Dragonlord relatives. He realized that the Vaerion blood, while diluted, still carried a distinct magical signature, a resonance that his own soul, now thoroughly fused with it, amplified.
He discovered he had an innate affinity for glyphs and runes. While his tutors, later, would struggle to teach him basic Valyrian script, Valerius found himself understanding the deeper meanings behind the symbols of power he saw inscribed on certain artifacts or mentioned in scrolls. It was as if the magic itself spoke to him through them. He practiced tracing these glyphs in secret, with a charred stick on a hidden slate, feeling a faint thrum of power respond to his touch, his focused will.
His relationship with Lyra deepened, but it was a carefully managed affair on his part. He knew her love was his primary shield. He would feign childish nightmares to crawl into her bed, not for comfort, but to listen to her unconscious murmurs, to gauge her moods, to subtly reinforce her belief in his specialness. He "confided" in her with carefully constructed childish observations that were designed to make her feel like his sole confidante, strengthening their bond.
"Mother," he once said, around the age of four, his small face serious as he looked up at her from a scroll depicting the Doom of Old Ghis, "why do empires fall?"
Lyra, startled by the question, stroked his silver-gold hair (another Vaerion trait he was pleased to possess). "Many reasons, my little dragon. Pride, enemies, sometimes the gods themselves grow displeased."
"Can we stop an empire from falling?" he pressed, his violet eyes wide.
"Perhaps," she sighed, "if its people are wise and strong. But Valyria will never fall, Rhaelor. We have the dragons, the magic. We are eternal."
Valerius noted her conviction, the ingrained Valyrian arrogance. You are wrong, Mother, he thought. Everything falls. But I will build something that endures, even if I have to build it on the ashes of your world.
By the age of five, Rhaelor was a recognized prodigy within the Vaerion household. He could read and write High Valyrian fluently, had a grasp of basic mathematics and history that astounded his tutors, and displayed an unnerving understanding of household politics. He used this to his advantage. He learned which servants were loyal, which were discontented, which were ambitious. He would "accidentally" leave a dropped coin where a particularly impoverished but kind-hearted slave might find it, or "innocently" repeat a piece of gossip that might benefit an ally or subtly undermine a household rival of his grandfather. He was weaving the first, almost invisible threads of his network.
Lord Aerion began to personally oversee aspects of Rhaelor's education. He saw in the boy a spark of the old Vaerion ambition, a keen intellect that might, just might, elevate the family's flagging fortunes.
"You have a quick mind, boy," Aerion said one day, after Rhaelor had correctly identified several complex dynastic lineages of the major Dragonlord families. They were in Aerion's study, a room filled with ancient scrolls and dusty artifacts. "But a quick mind alone is not enough. Valyria respects power. Magical power, political power, the power of dragons."
"Do we have dragons, Grandfather?" Rhaelor asked, his expression one of carefully crafted boyish hope.
Aerion's face clouded. "Our line… our line once did. Ages ago. The annals are… unclear. But the blood remembers, boy. The blood remembers fire."
Yes, it does, Valerius thought. And my blood remembers more than just fire. It remembers survival, ruthlessness, and the slow, patient acquisition of power.
His magical development was slow but steady. He couldn't yet cast spells or perform overt acts of magic. His body was too young, his reserves of personal energy too small. But his control over his inner will was formidable. He learned to shield his thoughts, a crucial skill for a mind like his trapped in a transparent child. He practiced focusing his intent, trying to influence small things – the fall of dice, the direction a flying insect took. He was laying the foundations for true sorcery, strengthening the pathways through which power would eventually flow.
One day, a dispute arose between Maegor and one of the senior household guards over some missing wine stores. Maegor, blustering and insecure, accused the guard loudly in the main courtyard. The guard, a veteran named Cassian with a proud bearing, denied the accusation hotly. Lord Aerion was away, visiting a neighboring estate. The situation threatened to escalate.
Rhaelor, then aged six, watched from a balcony overlooking the courtyard. He saw the fear in the eyes of the other servants, the way Maegor puffed himself up, enjoying his temporary authority. He also saw the dangerous glint in Cassian's eye.
Quietly, Rhaelor slipped away. He went to the small room where Cassian sometimes rested. He knew Cassian had a young daughter who was often sick. Rhaelor took a small, intricately carved wooden bird – a toy he'd been "given" but had no sentimental attachment to – and a small pouch of silver coins he'd painstakingly saved from "gifts" from his grandmother. He left them on Cassian's cot.
Then, he found Lyra. "Mother," he said, his voice trembling slightly (a practiced effect), "Maegor is very angry with Cassian. Cassian looks… sad. I don't like it when people are angry."
Lyra, ever protective of her sensitive son, immediately went to intervene, her presence as Lord Aerion's daughter enough to cool Maegor's temper and force a more measured inquiry. The crisis was averted.
Later that day, Cassian found the items on his cot. He never knew for certain who left them, but Rhaelor, when he next saw the guard, gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. Cassian's gaze, when it met Rhaelor's, held a new depth of respect, and perhaps, gratitude. Valerius had gained a potential piece on the board, someone whose loyalty might be cultivated. It was a small move, but empires were built on such small, calculated moves.
His caution was paramount. He knew that being too overtly strange, too alien, could be dangerous even in a society that revered magic. Prodigies were one thing; unnatural entities were another. So, he learned to mask his true intelligence when necessary, to feign childish ignorance or distraction. He cultivated a reputation for being brilliant but occasionally whimsical, insightful but prone to moments of dreamy abstraction. It was a carefully constructed persona, designed to allow him maximum freedom to learn and observe without raising undue alarm.
He also began to subtly influence the Vaerion family's fortunes, in tiny, almost imperceptible ways. He would "accidentally" discover a forgotten scroll detailing a more efficient method for cultivating their volcanic grapes, or "innocently" suggest a trade route for their mineral earths that his grandfather hadn't considered. These were ideas gleaned from Sal Moretti's lifetime of business acumen, adapted to this new world. Lord Aerion, while never acknowledging the source directly, began to listen more intently to the boy's seemingly random observations. The Vaerion ledgers, slowly, began to look a little healthier.
Valerius knew this was just the beginning. His current body was still developing. His true magical education had yet to formally start, though he was, in essence, his own secret tutor. He was playing a game measured in decades, in centuries. Each life would be a new chapter, a new opportunity to accumulate power, knowledge, and soul-force.
His ultimate goal, godhood, was a distant star, but the path to it was becoming clearer. It was a path of patience, ruthlessness, and the relentless exploitation of every opportunity. He was Rhaelor Vaerion now, a child of a minor Dragonlord house. But within that child resided the ancient, calculating soul of Valerius, the undying aspirant. And he was learning, always learning, how to make this new world, this ancient Valyria, dance to his tune, even if, for now, he had to do it from the confines of a cradle, and then a nursery. The dragon was small, but it was growing, and its eyes held the cold fire of millennia.