Chapter 7: The Forging of a Legion

Chapter 7: The Forging of a Legion

The voyage back to Myr was a study in contrasts. On deck, the crew of the 'Whisper' went about their duties with practiced ease, their quiet competence a testament to the Unseen's discipline. But in the captain's cabin, a storm of revolutionary ideas was brewing. The air crackled with the energy of Valerius's ambition, his detailed account of Westeros's political fragility laid bare on a sea-chart weighted down with daggers.

"The Tourney at Harrenhal was not a celebration; it was a schism," Valerius explained, his voice low and intense. He gestured to the map, where he had placed carved wooden figures representing the key players. A wolf for Stark, a stag for Baratheon, a lion for Lannister, and a three-headed dragon for the Targaryens. "Rhaegar's crowning of Lyanna Stark was the public severing of an already frayed rope. The Great Houses are bound by marriage pacts and alliances that are now in direct conflict. The Starks are insulted, the Baratheons enraged, the Martells, whose Princess Elia was slighted, are humiliated. And Tywin Lannister sits and waits, ready to throw his gold and spears behind whoever emerges strongest."

His inner circle—Lyra, Jax, Silas, and Corvin—listened, their expressions ranging from awe to deep-seated concern.

"So we offer our services to the highest bidder?" Corvin, the quartermaster, asked, his practical mind already calculating the logistics of a war-time supply chain. "The Lannisters have the deepest pockets."

"No," Valerius said, his voice cutting. The word hung in the air, sharp and final. "We will not be for sale. Why work for a king when you can create one? Or better yet, replace one."

A heavy silence descended upon the cabin. Silas, the quiet Summer Islander, raised his head, his dark eyes fixed on Valerius. "You mean to intervene directly. To choose a side."

"I mean to be a side," Valerius corrected him. "The Great Houses of Westeros will bleed each other white. Their armies are large and formidable, but they are conventional. They fight with steel, wood, and courage. We have other means. We have discipline born of Haki, operatives who can walk unseen, and a commander who can level a fortress with his bare hands. They will fight a war of battles. We will fight a war of strategy, sabotage, and surgical strikes. We will not be a piece on the board; we will be the hand that moves the pieces."

Jax let out a low whistle, a grin stretching across his weathered face. "You want to play kingmaker."

"Kingmaker is a temporary role," Valerius countered, his glowing eyes reflecting the candlelight. "I have no interest in placing a crown on another man's head. I am interested in the vacuum that will be created when the Targaryen dynasty falls. In that chaos, a new power, one with a loyal army, a full treasury, and a safe harbor at its back, can claim whatever it has the strength to hold."

Lyra, ever the voice of caution, finally spoke. "Valerius, this is madness. We have, what, fifty elite operatives? A hundred recruits? Westeros has hundreds of thousands of soldiers. The Lannisters alone can field sixty thousand men. We would be a drop of water in a raging sea."

"Then we will become a tidal wave," he replied, his confidence absolute. "You are thinking in terms of numbers. I am thinking in terms of leverage. We will not meet them on an open field. We will strike their supply lines, assassinate their generals, steal their war plans, and turn their allies against them. But you are right about one thing, Lyra. We are not strong enough. Not yet."

The moment they docked in Myr, a new era for the Unseen began. It was a period of explosive, meticulously planned growth. Valerius emptied a third of their treasury, the vast sum acquired from contracts and the Tyroshi Archon, into a single purpose: building an army.

He put Jax in charge of recruitment. "I don't want the dregs from other mercenary companies," Valerius instructed him. "I want disciplined men. Failed city watchmen who were dismissed for being too honest. Farmers who lost their land and know the meaning of hard work. Pit fighters from Meereen who are tired of fighting for another man's pleasure. Find me men with iron in their spirits, and we will give them swords of true steel."

Jax established a recruitment camp in the dusty hills outside Myr, a place that quickly became known as 'The Forge.' The training there was unlike any other. Jax and Roric drilled the men in conventional warfare—shield walls, archery, spear formations. But woven into every lesson was the Unseen's unique philosophy. New recruits were forced into the same sensory deprivation and mental focus exercises that Valerius's core agents had endured. He wanted to awaken a rudimentary form of Observation Haki in every single soldier, giving them an edge in battlefield awareness that no other army could match.

He divided them into specialized legions. The First Legion, 'The Sentinels,' were the heavy infantry, masters of the shield and spear. The Second, 'The Spectres,' were archers and skirmishers, trained in stealth and guerrilla tactics. And the Third, a small, elite unit called 'The Tempest,' were the ones who showed an affinity for the elements. Valerius found a handful of men and women who had a latent, untrained spark of bending ability—a boy who could make a candle flame dance, a girl who could draw moisture from the air. He began their training personally, teaching them to weaponize their gifts, to become his combat mages.

While Jax forged soldiers, Valerius sought out a different kind of weapon-smith. His inquiries led him to a reclusive genius in Pentos, a man named Master Valerius. The irony of the shared name was not lost on him. Valerius was a disgraced former apprentice of the Citadel, a man whose radical ideas about engineering and physics had seen him cast out. He believed in harnessing the elements, in machines that could think, in concepts the Maesters had deemed heretical.

Valerius found him in a cluttered workshop filled with strange clockwork devices and bizarre anatomical charts. The man was old, with wild white hair and eyes that burned with a feverish intelligence.

"They called me a madman," Valerius told Valerius after listening to the old engineer's bitter tirade against the Citadel. "They said my designs were impossible."

"The line between genius and madness is drawn by the ignorant," Valerius replied smoothly. "I have not come to judge your designs, Master Valerius. I have come to fund them."

He laid a schematic on the workbench, a design from the recesses of Nino Volpe's memory, a piece of fiction he now intended to make real. It was a warship, but unlike any seen in this world. It featured a reinforced iron prow for ramming, paddle wheels housed in armored casings along the sides, and a strange, open platform at the stern.

"The paddle wheels…" Master Valerius murmured, his eyes wide. "They could be turned by a team of strong men, yes, but the speed would be limited…"

"They will not be turned by men," Valerius explained. "Imagine a small team of men who can command the water, pushing it against the paddles with relentless force. Imagine a hull designed not just to withstand cannon fire, but to have its defensive integrity enhanced by a man who can command the very earth minerals woven into its structure."

He then showed him designs for repeating ballistae, for trebuchets that used concussive air blasts to launch projectiles further and faster, for grenades filled with flammable material that could be ignited by a firebender on command.

Master Valerius looked at the young man before him as if seeing a messiah. "You… you see it too," he whispered. "The world is not just steel and stone. It is a machine. A series of interlocking energies."

"I see a world that is about to burn," Valerius said. "And I intend to be the one holding the fire hose. I will give you unlimited resources, Master Valerius. I want you to build me a fleet and an arsenal that will make the might of Old Valyria look like a child's toy."

With his army being forged and his arsenal being designed, Valerius turned to the final piece of his preparatory puzzle: politics. He sailed to Tyrosh on the 'Bastion,' not as a mercenary, but as the commander of a growing military power. He was granted an immediate audience with Archon Kelrys.

The meeting took place in the Archon's private garden, a lush oasis of green overlooking the chaotic, colorful city.

"Lord Valerius," Kelrys began, his tone one of respectful peerage. "Your fame spreads. They say you are building an army to rival the Golden Company."

"Fame is often exaggerated, Archon," Valerius said with a slight smile. "I am merely a businessman securing his investments. And my largest investment, at present, is the stability of this region."

"A stability that is threatened," Kelrys acknowledged, his face growing grim. "The news from Westeros is troubling. A civil war seems inevitable. Such conflicts have a nasty habit of spilling over into our trade lanes. Piracy will flourish."

"Precisely," Valerius seized the opening. "Your fleets will be vulnerable. The fleets of Lys and Myr will be vulnerable. You and your rivals will be too busy watching each other to effectively police the Narrow Sea. But my fleet… my fleet will be dedicated to that single purpose."

He laid out his proposal. It was not a request for a contract. It was an offer of alliance. The Unseen would act as the unofficial guardians of the Narrow Sea, protecting Tyroshi trade interests from pirates and opportunistic rivals during the Westerosi war. In exchange, Tyrosh would provide the Unseen with safe harbor, access to its markets for supplies, and, most importantly, political non-interference. It would become their forward operating base.

"You ask me to harbor a foreign army," Kelrys said, his eyes narrowed. "An army whose ultimate purpose is a mystery."

"My purpose is clear," Valerius countered, his voice steady and confident. He leaned forward, his presence commanding. "I seek to profit from the chaos, just as you do. While the lions and wolves and dragons of Westeros are devouring each other, new powers will rise. I intend for my guild to be one of them. And a strong, independent Unseen, indebted to the wisdom and foresight of Archon Kelrys, would be a powerful friend to have in the world that comes after the war, would it not?"

He was offering Kelrys a low-risk, high-reward gamble. The Archon would gain a powerful protector for his shipping lanes and a potential kingmaking ally, all for the cost of simply letting Valerius use his ports. After a long, calculating silence, Kelrys agreed. The Tyroshi alliance was forged.

Valerius returned to Myr a de facto prince, the commander of a burgeoning army with the backing of a Free City. But with this new, overt power came a new strain on his oldest relationship. Ilyna could no longer be shielded from the truth. She saw the soldiers bearing his sigil in the streets, she heard the talk of his fleet, she felt the fear and reverence he now inspired.

She confronted him in their apartment, which now felt more like a general's quarters than a home. "They call you the Shadow Lord, Valerius," she said, her voice trembling. She held up a recruitment poster for the Unseen that one of her friends had shown her. "Is this what you meant by keeping us safe? By building an army?"

Valerius looked at his mother. The weariness in her eyes was a deeper wound than any blade could inflict. The lie, the comforting fiction he had maintained for years, had finally crumbled.

"Yes," he said softly, his voice devoid of its usual command. "It is."

"Why?" she pleaded. "Why this path? You are a lord now, wealthy, respected. We could live a peaceful life. Why must you chase these wars?"

How could he explain it to her? How could he describe the soul of Nino Volpe, a man who had climbed a mountain of corpses to rule a city of millions, now trapped in a world of swords and magic? How could he articulate the burning, insatiable need not just to survive, but to dominate?

"Because this world is ruled by wolves, Mother," he said, his voice imbued with a sad certainty. "And I have learned that there are only two choices: to be the wolf, or to be the sheep waiting for slaughter. I was a sheep once, in this life. I will not be one again. Everything I am building, this army, this fleet… it is a wall around you. A wall so high and so strong that no wolf will ever dare to climb it."

She looked at him, at the son she loved, and saw a stranger, a king, a monster robed in good intentions. She began to weep, not for their poverty, but for the soul she feared he was losing. Valerius felt a pang of something cold and sharp in his chest. It was the price of power. The first of many payments he would have to make.

A week later, the news arrived. It came on the wings of a panicked merchant ship fleeing from Westeros. Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell, had ridden to King's Landing demanding the return of his sister Lyanna and had been arrested for treason. His father, Lord Rickard Stark, was summoned to court to answer for his son. In a trial by combat orchestrated by the Mad King, Rickard Stark was cooked alive in his own armor while Brandon was forced to watch, strangling himself to death trying to reach a sword just beyond his grasp.

King Aerys had then demanded that Jon Arryn surrender his wards, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. The Lord of the Eyrie had refused. He had called his banners.

The war was on.

Valerius stood on the ramparts of his headquarters in Myr, looking out at the setting sun. The sky was the color of blood and bruises. Below him, in the courtyard of the Forge, his new army, two thousand strong, stood assembled. They were equipped with the first of Master Valerius's innovations. Their armor was lighter, their swords sharper, their discipline absolute. They were not a rabble of sellswords. They were a legion.

Lyra stood beside him. "The ravens have flown," she said quietly.

"Yes," Valerius replied, a grim smile on his lips. "The puppets have begun their dance."

He turned and addressed his soldiers, his voice amplified by a subtle trick of airbending, carrying to every corner of the courtyard.

"Soldiers of the Unseen! For years, we have been shadows. Today, we step into the light! Across the sea, a kingdom tears itself apart. The old powers are dying! They fight for honor, for vengeance, for a rusty iron chair. They fight for the past. We… we will fight for the future!"

"They call this the War of the Usurper," he roared, his voice now a clap of thunder. "Let them! While they are busy usurping each other, we will build a new world from the ashes of the old! We sail for Westeros not as mercenaries, but as architects of a new age! Sharpen your steel, ready the ships! We go now to carve our own kingdom from the heart of their war!"

A roar erupted from two thousand throats, a sound of disciplined fury, of loyalty, of a belief in the young Shadow Lord who stood before them. It was the sound of a new power, ready to be unleashed upon a world that had no idea it was coming. The game had begun, and Valerius had just made his opening move.