Chapter 12: The Price of a Crown

Chapter 12: The Price of a Crown

King's Landing was a city holding its breath, choking on the smoke of its own violation. Only weeks had passed since the Sack, since the crimson Lannister tide had washed over the capital, leaving a wrack line of corpses and broken loyalties. The sweet, cloying smell of death still clung to the stones of Flea Bottom, a phantom that the sea-breeze off Blackwater Bay could not banish. The fires were out, but the city was still burning with a low, feverish hum of fear and uncertainty.

In the Red Keep, the deer-crested banners of House Baratheon now hung beside the direwolf of Stark and the falcon of Arryn. They were stark, simple symbols of a new order, yet they seemed alien against the dragon motifs that coiled and snarled from every wall and archway. The Targaryen dynasty had been scrubbed away in blood, but its ghost remained, a silent, reproachful witness to the victors.

The Iron Throne room was the epicenter of this new, raw-edged world. Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, sat upon the monstrous chair of swords not with the serene majesty of a lifelong monarch, but with the restless energy of a caged lion. His black beard was unkempt, his eyes were bloodshot, and a goblet of wine was never far from his hand. The war was won, but the victory felt hollow, soured by the news that the dragon he truly wanted to kill, Rhaegar, was already dead, and by the grisly 'gifts' Tywin Lannister had laid at his feet: the small, broken bodies of Elia Martell's children, wrapped in crimson cloaks.

Beside the throne stood his anchors to reality. Jon Arryn, his face a roadmap of weary lines, was already drowning in the endless, thankless task of forging a government. He was the Hand of the King, and the hand felt a tremor of exhaustion that had nothing to do with age. Eddard Stark stood on the other side, his northern granite face a mask of quiet disgust. He had fought a war for justice, to avenge his murdered father and brother, and had found himself wading through the butchery of a city and the murder of children. The chill of the North seemed to cling to him, a silent judgment on the southern heat of politics and ambition.

It was into this cauldron of simmering rage, weary pragmatism, and honorable discontent that the 'Whisper' sailed. The ship, sleek and black and utterly alien, caused a panic in the battered royal fleet. Its strange design, its silent speed, its stark banner of a bisected eye—it was the ship of the ghost-lord of the Stepstones, the new master of Dragonstone. A raven had already arrived from Lord Rowan, confirming the Unseen's fulfillment of their pirate-hunting contract, but rumor and fact had become a tangled, fearsome knot.

The envoy from Lord Valerius was a man named Kaelen. He was one of the originals, a former street rat from Myr whom Valerius had taught to read, to fight, and to command. He walked into the Throne Room flanked by four massive Baratheon guards, yet he seemed to be the one in control. He was dressed in the simple black uniform of the Unseen, his face calm, his eyes missing nothing. He moved with a quiet confidence that was more unsettling than any swagger.

He stopped before the Iron Throne and gave a short, respectful bow. "Your Grace," he said, his voice clear and steady. "I am Kaelen of the Unseen Guild. I bring a message from my lord, Valerius of House Volpe, Lord of the Stepstones and Dragonstone."

Robert Baratheon's hand tightened around his wine goblet, his knuckles white. "Lord of Dragonstone?" he boomed, his voice a thunderclap of fury. "Dragonstone belongs to the Iron Throne! Not to some Essosi pirate who—"

"Robert," Jon Arryn said, his voice quiet but firm. "Let the man speak."

Robert grunted, slumping back into his throne, his eyes burning with suspicion.

"My lord has taken Dragonstone," Kaelen stated simply, as if discussing a change in the weather. "He has cleansed the Stepstones of pirates, making the Narrow Sea safe for your merchants. He comes not as an enemy, but as a neighbor. A powerful neighbor who wishes to establish a lasting peace with the new crown."

"Peace?" Robert scoffed. "What peace can there be with a pirate king?"

"A profitable one, Your Grace," Kaelen replied smoothly. "During the capture of Dragonstone, my lord came into possession of certain… assets. Assets he believes belong under the purview of the King's Justice."

Ned Stark, who had been silent until now, shifted his weight. His gaze was fixed on the envoy, cold and searching.

Jon Arryn leaned forward. "What assets, Master Kaelen?"

Kaelen met the Hand's gaze directly. "We have secured the person of Viserys Targaryen."

The name dropped into the hall like a stone, sending ripples of shock through the assembled courtiers. Robert Baratheon surged to his feet, his face turning a deep, apoplectic purple. The wine goblet flew from his hand and shattered against the stone floor.

"THE DRAGONSPAWN!" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "HE'S ALIVE?! I'll kill him myself! I'll crush his skull with my own warhammer! Jon, gather the fleet! We sail for Dragonstone at once!"

"Your Grace, there is no need," Kaelen said, his voice never rising, yet it cut through the King's rage. "My lord has no love for the dragons. He offers to deliver Prince Viserys to you. Alive."

Robert froze mid-rant, his heavy breathing the only sound in the hall. The offer was so unexpected it short-circuited his fury. "He… offers?"

"He does," Kaelen confirmed. "As a gesture of goodwill. A foundation for a lasting treaty between the Iron Throne and the Dominion of the Isles."

"A treaty?" Jon Arryn's sharp mind was already working, seeing the shape of the game. "And what are the terms of this… proposed treaty?"

"The terms are simple," Kaelen said. "Lord Valerius will deliver Viserys Targaryen to your custody. In return, the Crown will issue a royal decree, signed and sealed, officially recognizing Lord Valerius and his heirs as the rightful, autonomous rulers of the Stepstones, and ceding to him the castle and island of Dragonstone in perpetuity. He asks for nothing more than what he already holds."

He paused, letting the audacity of the offer settle. "He also brings sad news. Queen Rhaella went into labor during a great storm that battered the island upon our arrival. She gave birth to a daughter, but the effort, combined with her grief, was too much for her. She passed soon after." He lowered his head in a show of feigned respect. "The infant princess, born frail and premature, did not survive the night. Both were given a respectful burial in the Sept of Dragonstone. Viserys is the last of them."

Ned Stark's jaw tightened. The image of a grieving mother dying, her last child lost with her, was a bitter one. It felt like the gods were finally, cruelly, closing the book on the Targaryens.

"He wants us to trade a boy's life for two kingdoms," Ned said, his voice low and laced with distaste. It was not a question.

"We would be trading a traitor's life for peace, Lord Stark," Jon Arryn corrected him gently, his eyes on the King.

Robert was breathing heavily, his mind slowly catching up. The hatred that had fueled his entire rebellion was focused on the name 'Targaryen'. The thought of getting his hands on the last male heir, the boy who now called himself king, was an intoxicating one.

"Give him whatever he wants," Robert grunted, waving a dismissive hand. "Dragonstone, the damn rocks, I don't care. Just bring me the boy. I want to look him in his purple eyes as I sentence him to the block."

"Your Grace," Jon Arryn said quickly, stepping forward. "Perhaps we should discuss this with the envoy in private." He shot a meaningful look at Kaelen.

Kaelen was escorted to a comfortable chamber to await the council's decision, leaving the three great lords alone before the Iron Throne.

"It is a trap, surely," Ned Stark said the moment the envoy was gone. "This Lord Valerius… he is an unknown. An Essosi mercenary who commands a powerful fleet and an army of shadows. We cannot simply trust him."

"Trust has nothing to do with it, Ned," Jon Arryn said wearily, rubbing his temples. "It is a matter of pragmatism. Think of the cost of taking Dragonstone by force. Stannis would have to besiege it for a year, mayhap more. It would cost thousands of lives, a fortune in gold. This Valerius has handed it to us on a platter. He has done the dirty work, and now he offers us the prize we all want—the end of the Targaryen claim—in exchange for land he already possesses."

"It is not his to possess!" Robert bellowed. "Dragonstone is mine by right of conquest!"

"And he is offering you a way to formalize that right without spilling another drop of your soldiers' blood," Jon reasoned. "He controls the Narrow Sea, Robert. All of our trade with the Free Cities must pass his islands. Do you want to start a new war with a naval power before the embers of this one are even cold? He is offering peace. A clean end to it all. We should accept."

"And what of the boy?" Ned asked, his voice tight. "You would truly have him executed? He is only a child."

Robert turned on him, his eyes blazing. "A child? He is a dragonspawn! The seed of the man who burned your father alive! The brother of the man who stole your sister! He would grow up to be another Aerys, another Rhaegar! I will not suffer his kind to live. I will stamp them out, root and stem!"

Ned fell silent, his heart heavy. He saw the abyss of hatred in his friend's eyes and knew there was no reasoning with it. This was the price of Robert's crown, a price to be paid in the blood of the vanquished, even the children.

"Jon is right," Ned finally conceded, his voice filled with a profound weariness. "From a strategic standpoint, the offer is sound. We must accept."

An agreement was drafted. A royal decree was written, granting Valerius of House Volpe titles, lands, and autonomy. The wording was careful, recognizing him as a Lord Paramount of the Isles, a vassal in name but a king in practice. In return, Viserys Targaryen was to be handed over.

Back on Dragonstone, Valerius received the news with a cold, quiet satisfaction. The first, and perhaps most difficult, phase of his plan was a success. He had purchased a legitimate kingdom with the life of a single, useless boy.

He went to see Viserys one last time. The boy was being held in a comfortable, airy room, but the windows were barred and two imposing Unseen guards stood at his door. Valerius entered alone.

Viserys, who had been throwing a silver plate of food against the wall, spun around, his face a mask of rage. "You! My servants will tell my armies, and they will come for you! They will burn you alive!"

Valerius simply looked at him, his gaze analytical. He felt no anger, no pity. He was observing a specimen. A failed experiment of history. He saw the twitch in the boy's eye, the way his hands trembled with impotent fury. The madness was already there, a seed planted in fertile ground.

"Your armies are gone, Viserys," Valerius said, his voice soft. "Your brother is dead. Your House is dead. You are the last."

"I am the King!" Viserys shrieked. "I am the blood of the dragon!"

"You are a passenger," Valerius replied, his voice still quiet, but now laced with an edge of absolute authority that made the boy flinch. "And you are about to go on a trip. To meet the new king. He is very eager to make your acquaintance."

He left the boy to his hysterics. He walked through the dark, ancient halls to a different part of the castle. He entered the hidden nursery. The room was warm, quiet, and peaceful. Lyra was there, overseeing the mute nursemaid.

Valerius approached the cradle. Daenerys was asleep, her tiny face serene, her breathing even. A small, perfect thing, oblivious to the storm of her birth and the ashes of her dynasty. He looked at her, and the cold calculation in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. Viserys was the past, a tool to be used and discarded. This… this was the future. This was the dragon he would nurture, the queen he would shape, the weapon he would one day unleash upon the world.

He reached down and brushed a finger against her soft cheek. She stirred but did not wake.

A few days later, the royal fleet arrived, led by Stannis Baratheon himself. The exchange was made on the docks of Dragonstone. Viserys, dressed in black velvet, was marched between two lines of Unseen soldiers. He tried to look regal and defiant, but his terror was a palpable thing. He was handed over to Ser Barristan Selmy, who looked upon the boy with sad, conflicted eyes.

In return, Stannis presented Valerius with the royal decree, sealed with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Valerius accepted the scroll, his expression unreadable.

As the Baratheon fleet sailed away, carrying the last public Targaryen to his doom, Valerius stood on the battlements of his new castle. He held the decree in his hand. He was Lord Valerius, ruler of the Stepstones and Dragonstone, a recognized power in the new world order. He had turned chaos into a ladder, and he had just set his foot on the first rung. The lords of Westeros thought the game was over. They had no idea it had just truly begun.