Chapter 11: A Crown of Salt and Ash

Chapter 11: A Crown of Salt and Ash

The Chamber of the Painted Table, once a place of legendary conquest, had become a crucible of impossible decisions. The news of Rhaegar's death at the Trident was still echoing in the vast, circular room when the revelation of the Queen's presence on the island landed like a thunderclap. Valerius stood motionless, his mind, the ruthless supercomputer of Nino Volpe, processing the variables with lightning speed. The war was over. The game, however, had just begun, and he was holding all the best pieces.

"Secure the Royal Apartments," he commanded, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. He turned to Lyra. "Take your ten best. No one enters, no one leaves. Not a servant, not a knight, not a rat. The Queen and Prince are to be treated with absolute courtesy. They are our guests. But they are also our prisoners. Their existence is now the most important secret in the world."

Lyra nodded, her face grim, and swept from the room, her hand already gesturing to her most trusted agents.

Valerius, flanked by Jax, walked towards the Sea Dragon Tower. The air in the fortress was thick with the smell of old stone, salt, and the lingering ozone of his own power. Unseen soldiers, their black armor a stark contrast to the Targaryen dragon motifs, patrolled the halls with silent efficiency. They were an occupying force, and the castle itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what its new master would do.

He found the Royal Apartments sealed by Lyra's agents. She met him at the door. "They are inside. The old knight, Darry, is with them. He refuses to leave their side."

"Let him stay," Valerius said. "His presence will keep them calm."

He entered the chambers. The rooms were opulent, decorated with rich Myrish carpets and intricate tapestries depicting Targaryen history. But the wealth could not mask the cloying scent of fear. Ser Willem Darry, the old castellan, stood protectively before a large, canopied bed. On the bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows, was Queen Rhaella. She was pale and drawn, her silver-gold hair lank with sweat, her hands trembling where they clutched the fine silks. But it was her eyes that captured Valerius. They were the deep purple of amethysts, and they held the terror of a hunted animal, but also a flicker of unbroken, defiant pride.

Hiding behind the bed, clutching his mother's robes, was Prince Viserys. He was a boy of eight, small and thin, with the same silver-gold hair and violet eyes. But where his mother's eyes held pride, his held a petulant, terrified rage. He glared at Valerius with a venom that was entirely out of place on such a young face. Valerius's book knowledge solidified into harsh reality. There stands the Beggar King. Arrogant, cruel, and weak. A true dragon in spirit, but not in substance. He was a liability.

Valerius gave a slight, formal bow. "Your Grace," he said, his voice calm and even, addressing the Queen. "I am Valerius, Lord of this island. You and your son will not be harmed. You have my word."

"The word of a usurper and a pirate?" Viserys spat, his voice a high-pitched sneer. "You dare address my mother, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Viserys, hush!" Rhaella commanded, her voice weak but sharp. She turned her gaze back to Valerius. "What do you want from us, Lord Valerius?"

"For now, your comfort and safety," he replied smoothly. "The world outside these walls is… chaotic. This is perhaps the safest place in Westeros for you at this moment." He looked from the defiant Queen to the snarling Prince. "Rest, Your Grace. We will speak again when you are stronger."

He left without another word, the boy's hateful glare following him out the door. The pieces were just as he remembered from the books, but holding them in his hand, feeling their weight, was another matter entirely.

He convened his council at the Painted Table. The mood was tense. They had conquered a legendary fortress, but they had also inherited the two most dangerous people in the world.

"We kill them," Jax said bluntly, slamming a gauntleted fist on the carved surface of Dorne. "Clean and quick. A tragic accident. No one outside this castle knows for sure that they're here. We dump the bodies in the sea and deny everything."

"We can't," Corvin countered, his face pale. "The value they represent as hostages is immeasurable. Robert Baratheon would pay a king's ransom for them."

"And what's to stop him from paying us, then slitting our throats the moment he has them?" Jax shot back. "We can't hold them forever. Keeping them here is like sleeping with a dagger at your own throat."

"Jax is right about the danger," Lyra interjected, her voice measured. "Every day they live, they are a reason for someone to attack us. The rebels will want to extinguish the Targaryen line for good. The loyalists, what's left of them, might see us as a rallying point they'll try to 'liberate'. We're caught in the middle."

Valerius let them debate, watching their faces, gauging their fears. They were thinking like mercenaries and governors, seeing only the immediate risk and reward. They were not seeing the grand design.

"You all speak sense," he said, his voice quieting the room. "Viserys Targaryen is indeed a dagger at our throat. He has the name, the claim, and the incipient madness of his father. He is a rallying cry for doomed loyalists and a target for paranoid usurpers. He is a festering wound." He paused, letting his gaze drift across the Painted Table. "But a wound can be useful, if you know how to leverage the poison."

Before he could elaborate, a guard burst into the room, his face slick with rain. "My Lord! A storm, it's… it's unnatural! And the Queen… the Maester says her time is come!"

Valerius moved to the high arched window. The sky, clear an hour ago, was now a roiling cauldron of black and purple clouds. Wind howled around the Sea Dragon Tower, and rain lashed against the ancient stone. He could feel the raw power of the storm, a wild, chaotic symphony of air and water. He smiled grimly. The stage was setting itself perfectly. Reaching out with his senses, he did not calm the storm. He fed it. He pulled at the pressure systems, whipped the winds into a greater frenzy, and drew more moisture from the sea to feed the deluge. The storm that would give the Dragon Queen her name would be a thing of legend, a tempest so fierce it would seem the gods themselves were trying to smash Dragonstone back into the sea. It would also ensure no ship could approach or leave the island for days, giving him the isolation he needed.

He made his way to the royal apartments. The air inside was thick with tension and the smell of blood. Maesters and midwives bustled about, their faces grim. Ser Willem Darry stood by the door, his face a mask of helpless anguish, praying to the Warrior.

The screams from within the birthing chamber were harrowing. Valerius stood outside, a silent, black-clad sentinel. He listened to the life of one age ending, and another beginning. The storm raged outside, a chorus to the Queen's agony. After an eternity of struggle, a final, gut-wrenching scream was followed by a new sound: the thin, wailing cry of a newborn infant.

A few moments later, a grim-faced Maester emerged, his robes spotted with blood. He bowed low before Valerius.

"My Lord," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "A girl. A healthy princess has been born." He hesitated. "But the Queen… Her Grace has lost too much blood. She is… gone."

Valerius nodded slowly, his face an unreadable mask. Rhaella Targaryen was dead. Just as the story foretold.

He entered the room. It was quiet now, save for the infant's cries and the soft weeping of the handmaidens. Queen Rhaella lay still upon the bed, her face peaceful in death, the lines of fear and pain finally erased. In the arms of a midwife, wrapped in a swatch of purple cloth, was a tiny, red-faced baby with a fuzz of silver-gold hair and eyes that, when they opened, were the same deep violet as her mother's.

Viserys was huddled in a corner, sobbing, his reign as the Beggar King having begun in a storm of grief and terror.

Valerius looked at the scene, at the dead Queen, the broken boy-king, and the newborn princess. The path forward was now crystal clear. He had all the pieces, and he knew exactly where they needed to go.

He gathered his council again that night, in the Chamber of the Painted Table. The storm still howled outside, a cloak for their conspiracy.

"The Queen is dead," he announced. "She died giving birth to a daughter."

"Seven Hells," Jax muttered. "So now there are two of them."

"No," Valerius said, his voice sharp and clear. "There is only one. And he is our key to legitimacy."

He laid out his plan, a masterpiece of ruthless pragmatism born from his foreknowledge of the world.

"Viserys Targaryen is our offering to the new king, Robert Baratheon. We will send an envoy to Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. We will state that we, the Lords of the Stepstones and Dragonstone, have captured the last male Targaryen heir. We will offer to turn him over to the King's Justice."

"In exchange for what?" Corvin asked, his eyes wide.

"In exchange for a royal decree," Valerius said, his voice like silk. "A decree, signed and sealed by King Robert himself, recognizing my lordship over these islands. He will legitimize my conquests. He will cede the Stepstones and Dragonstone to me and my heirs in perpetuity, in exchange for the boy who would be king. Robert's hatred for the Targaryens is all-consuming. To get his hands on the last male dragon, the one who calls himself King Viserys III, he would grant me a kingdom."

"And the girl?" Lyra asked softly, her gaze intense.

Valerius looked at her, and for the first time, he let his inner circle see the true, terrifying scope of his ambition.

"There is no girl," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The official record, the story we will give the world, is that Queen Rhaella's infant daughter was born weak and sickly. A tragic child of storm and sorrow, who died within hours of her mother. She will be buried beside the Queen in the crypts of this castle. Her existence will be a footnote in a history book, known to no one."

He let that sink in. He could see the dawning realization on their faces.

"In truth," he continued, "the princess will be raised here, in the deepest, most secure vaults of this fortress. She will be a secret. Our secret. Her name is Daenerys. She will be raised to know only what I want her to know, to believe only what I want her to believe. She will be loyal only to me."

"Why?" Jax asked, his voice rough with confusion. "Why keep her? What good is a secret princess?"

Valerius walked over to the Painted Table and placed his hand on the carved image of Dragonstone.

"Because, my friends, I have read the histories. The Targaryens were not just kings. They were dragonlords. That power did not die with the last dragon. It sleeps in their blood. This girl, Daenerys Stormborn, is the key. In the future, she will be the one to wake the dragons from stone. She is not a liability. She is our single greatest asset."

He turned to face them, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory light.

"Viserys is my key to legitimacy in the present. Daenerys is my key to absolute power in the future. I will raise her. I will groom her. And when she is a woman, and her dragons are grown, she will be my wife. A Queen with the blood of Old Valyria, a consort to the new Emperor of Westeros. Our children will be dragonriders. Her claim, my army, and her dragons will be the trifecta that allows us to not just conquer the Seven Kingdoms, but to hold them for a thousand years."

The room was utterly silent, the only sound the howling of the wind. They were no longer just his commanders; they were disciples hearing a new gospel of power. They were seeing the endgame of a plan so vast, so patient, so audacious, that it bordered on divinity.

The plan was set in motion immediately. A small, solemn funeral was held for Queen Rhaella and her 'deceased' daughter. A small casket was buried beside the Queen's. The maesters and handmaidens present were sworn to secrecy on pain of a death so horrible it would make them pray for the mercy of the Stranger.

Deep within the castle, in a set of refurbished, comfortable, and utterly inescapable rooms, a nursery was established. Lyra personally oversaw it, selecting a single, mute serving woman of unquestionable loyalty to be the child's nursemaid. The existence of Daenerys Targaryen was erased.

A week later, when the great storm finally broke, the 'Whisper' sailed for King's Landing. It carried Valerius's envoy, and a formal proposal for the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. The message offered peace, fealty to the new King, and the surrender of Viserys Targaryen, the last dragon, in exchange for a crown of salt and ash: the recognized lordship of the Stepstones and Dragonstone.

Valerius, Lord of two domains, stood on the highest balcony of the Sea Dragon Tower, looking out over the calm sea. In his arms, wrapped in black silk, he held the sleeping infant, Daenerys. He was not looking at a baby. He was looking at the future. At his Queen. At his dragons. At the world he was about to conquer.