Chapter 14: A Gift of Stone and Fire

Chapter 14: A Gift of Stone and Fire

Six years passed. In Westeros, the reign of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, settled into a kind of bloated, uneasy peace. The Usurper's crown sat heavy on his head, and he sought solace in wine, women, and hunts, leaving the tedious business of ruling to the weary Jon Arryn. In the Red Keep, a boy named Viserys Targaryen lived in splendid isolation, his claim to the throne fading from memory, his mind slowly unraveling in a cage of silk and sorrow. The world had moved on.

But on Dragonstone, the world was moving forward. Under the rule of Lord Valerius, the Dominion of the Isles—a kingdom forged from the pirate dens of the Stepstones and the ancient seat of the dragons—did not settle. It grew. It innovated. It thrived.

The port at Aegis Point was now the busiest and safest in the Narrow Sea. The Unseen fleet, led by the steam-and-water-powered 'Leviathan', was the undisputed master of the waves. Master Valerius's forges, fueled by the geothermal heat of the Dragonmont, now produced repeating arbalests and plate armor of a quality that made even the master smiths of Qohor question their craft. Corvin's ledgers overflowed with the profits of trade and tolls, a treasury that could rival the Iron Bank. And Jax's legions, now five thousand strong, were the most disciplined and lethal fighting force in the known world, every soldier trained in the rudimentary arts of battlefield awareness that Valerius called 'Focus.'

Valerius himself had changed. At twenty-six, the last vestiges of youth had fallen away, leaving a man who moved with the serene, dangerous grace of a stalking tiger. He was a lord, a general, an inventor, a statesman. But his most important, and most secret, role was that of a mentor.

His student was a girl of six, with hair of spun silver and eyes the colour of a twilight sky.

"This is where Aegon the Conqueror planned his invasion," Valerius said, his voice a low, calm rumble. He stood with Daenerys in the Chamber of the Painted Table. She was small for her age, but her posture was straight, her gaze preternaturally focused as she stared at the massive, carved map of Westeros.

"He had three dragons," she said, her small voice clear and precise. She did not sound like a typical child. Her education, personally overseen by Valerius and Lyra, had been… specialized. "Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. He conquered six of the Seven Kingdoms. Dorne resisted."

"Why did Dorne resist, Daenerys?" Valerius asked. It was their daily ritual, a lesson in power, history, and strategy disguised as a conversation.

She looked up at him, her violet eyes serious. "Because they did not fight like the others. They did not meet him in open battle where his dragons were strongest. They hid in the mountains and the deserts. They refused to give him a target. They waged a war of whispers and shadows."

"Exactly," Valerius said, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Aegon had the ultimate power, but the Dornishmen understood a fundamental truth: power is useless if you cannot bring it to bear on your enemy. Never forget that lesson. The clever snake can bite the heel of the mighty dragon, and the venom will do its work all the same."

He was her entire world. He was the one who had saved her from the storm, the lord who had given her a safe and beautiful home. He was her teacher, the source of all knowledge, the calm centre of her universe. She adored him with the simple, absolute devotion of a child for the god of her small world. He, in turn, treated her with a focused, proprietary care. He was not raising a daughter; he was forging a queen.

It was after one such lesson, watching her trace the outline of Dorne with a small, curious finger, that a new phase of his grand plan began to crystallize. He had the army, the fleet, the wealth, and the legitimacy. He had the blood of Old Valyria sleeping in a hidden chamber. But the blood needed a catalyst. It was time to acquire her birthright.

He summoned Lyra to his solar. The room was stark, dominated by maps and bookshelves. Lyra, now a woman of striking, severe beauty, was the head of his intelligence network, a spymaster whose agents were sprinkled through every court and counting house in the Free Cities.

"Tell me about Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos," Valerius said without preamble.

Lyra's eyes, sharp and analytical, met his. She knew this was no idle query. "Illyrio Mopatis," she began, her voice a low murmur. "The cheese-monger who became a prince. Obscenely wealthy. Immense political influence in Pentos, and his reach extends to Lys and Myr. He is known for his friendship with Lord Varys, the King's Spider. They came up together in the gutters of Myr, some say."

"A powerful man," Valerius noted. "A man with expensive and… esoteric tastes."

"Indeed," Lyra confirmed. "He deals in spices, gems, slaves… and secrets. His manse in Pentos is a fortress, guarded by a cohort of Unsullied he purchased years ago. They are fanatically loyal. His vaults are said to be impenetrable."

"But what is in those vaults, Lyra?" Valerius pressed gently. "Beyond the gold and jewels. What are the whispers? What is his most prized, most secret possession?"

Lyra was silent for a moment, her gaze unfaltering. She knew exactly what he was asking for. Her network was the best in the world.

"There are whispers," she said softly. "So faint they are almost myths. They say that years ago, after the Tragedy at Summerhall, a Braavosi captain brought something back from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. Something ancient. He sold them to Illyrio for a price that could have bought a small fleet. Three stones. Petrified. The last dragon eggs in the world."

Valerius felt a cold, thrilling certainty settle over him. His book knowledge was now confirmed by real-world intelligence. The path was clear.

"I want them," Valerius said. The words were simple, but they held the weight of an imperial command.

The next day, he gathered his inner circle in the war room. When he announced his intention, the reaction was one of stunned disbelief.

"Steal from Illyrio Mopatis?" Jax growled, shaking his head. "My lord, with all due respect, have you gone mad? We are finally at peace. Our coffers are full. Why risk a war with the Magisters of Pentos for three worthless stones?"

"They are not worthless, Jax," Valerius said calmly. "They are the future."

"The political fallout would be catastrophic," Corvin added, his face a mask of anxiety. "Illyrio is a cornerstone of Pentoshi society. An attack on him is an attack on the city. Our trade agreements, our supply lines…"

"This will not be an attack," Valerius interrupted. "It will be a ghost operation. Illyrio will not know who to blame. He may suspect, but he will have no proof. He will be left with nothing but a mystery."

"His manse is impregnable," Lyra stated, playing devil's advocate, testing the plan's viability. "The walls are thick, the gates are bronze. The Unsullied guards do not sleep, they do not accept bribes. They feel no fear. And his vaults are said to be warded by spells from Asshai."

Valerius listened to all their valid, logical concerns. Then, he explained. He did not tell them the source of his knowledge, but he laid out his belief, stated as unshakable fact.

"These are not stones," he said, his voice dropping, drawing them in. "They are sleeping fires. They are the legacy of Daenerys's house. I believe that her blood, the blood of the dragon, can wake them. Think of it. Not just an army, not just a fleet, but the ultimate weapon of conquest, the same power that forged the Seven Kingdoms in the first place. Fire made flesh." He looked directly at Jax. "Would you call that a worthless stone?"

He then turned to Lyra. "I will not go through the walls, or the gates, or the guards." He placed his hand on the stone map table. "I will go through the foundation."

The plan he outlined was simple in its concept, and terrifying in its execution. He would not send a team. He would go himself. An army was a sledgehammer; this required a surgeon's scalpel. His only companions would be Lyra and Roric, the two people who had been with him from the very beginning, who understood his capabilities better than anyone.

They sailed for Pentos not on the 'Leviathan', but on a nondescript trading cog, disguised as a Myrish merchant and his aides. They took a small house in the city, and for a week, they simply observed. Lyra's agents provided them with the detailed layout of Illyrio's manse, down to the patrol routes of the Unsullied and the location of the great vault in the cellar.

On the night of a new moon, they made their move. Dressed in black silks that blended with the deep shadows of the city, they slipped through the alleys towards Illyrio's estate. The manse was a palace, its high walls patrolled by the stoic, spear-wielding Unsullied.

They did not approach the manse itself, but an abandoned wine seller's shop that shared a foundation wall with Illyrio's cellar. Inside the dusty, forgotten shop, Valerius knelt and placed his hands on the stone floor. He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the earth beneath him. He felt the solid bedrock, the foundations of the buildings, the network of pipes and cisterns. He found the vault, a massive cube of reinforced granite deep beneath Illyrio's home.

He began his work. He didn't break the stone; he persuaded it. With a steady, focused application of his earthbending, he caused the stone and earth directly beneath the vault to flow, to part like water. He created a narrow, stable tunnel, the walls packed hard as iron, leading from the wine cellar directly to the floor of the vault. It was silent, precise, and utterly impossible.

He, Lyra, and Roric moved through the tunnel, emerging through a section of floor that resealed itself behind them. They were inside the most secure vault in Pentos. The air was cool and still, smelling of dust and immense wealth. Chests of gold coins were stacked to the ceiling, alongside racks of priceless silks and caskets of gemstones that glittered in the light of the single, small flame Valerius conjured in his palm.

But they ignored the treasure. In the center of the room, on a large velvet pedestal, sat three stones.

They were beautiful, mesmerizing. One was a deep green, with flecks of bronze that shimmered like a serpent's scales. Another was the colour of pale cream, streaked with veins of pure gold. And the last was as black as a midnight sea, yet alive with swirls of scarlet and red, like embers glowing deep within. They were warm to the touch, a faint, living heat that pulsed against the skin. Valerius reached out, and as his fingers brushed the surface of the black egg, he felt a faint, thrumming resonance, a connection that hummed in his very bones. These were the keys.

They placed the eggs carefully into a padded satchel. Before they left, Valerius paused. With a small, cruel smile, he used his firebending to trace his sigil—the bisected eye—as a faint scorch mark on the velvet of the empty pedestal. A calling card. A whisper in the dark.

They left as they came. The tunnel sealed behind them, leaving no trace of their passage. The next morning, Magister Illyrio Mopatis would discover that his priceless, irreplaceable treasures had vanished from an untouched, sealed vault, leaving only a mysterious symbol behind. The mystery would drive him to paranoia, and the legend of the Unseen would gain another layer of supernatural dread.

Back on Dragonstone, the victory felt more profound than any battle. Valerius summoned the young Daenerys to his solar. He had the three eggs laid out on a black silk cloth on his desk.

Daenerys stopped when she saw them, her violet eyes widening with a child's pure wonder. She walked forward slowly, as if in a trance.

"What are they?" she whispered, her voice filled with awe.

"They are a story," Valerius said softly. "A story of our House. Your House. They say that long ago, they held the heat of the sun, and the fury of the sky."

"They're beautiful," she said, her small hand reaching out tentatively towards the cream-and-gold egg.

"They are yours, Daenerys," Valerius told her. "They are your birthright. A gift, from me to you. And a promise."

As her fingers made contact with the surface of the egg, Valerius, watching with his Haki-honed senses, felt it. A tiny, almost imperceptible pulse of energy flowed from the child into the stone. The egg, which had been merely warm to his touch, seemed to sigh with a faint, inner heat. The connection was real.

Daenerys looked up at him, a radiant smile on her face. "It's warm. It feels… alive."

Valerius looked down at the child and the three stone eggs. He had secured the future. He held the blood of the dragon and the womb of the dragon in his fortress. One day, this girl would be his Queen, and these stones would be his ultimate weapons. The game for the Iron Throne was a long one, and he had just placed a piece on the board that his rivals could not even comprehend. The age of men was ending. The age of dragons, his dragons, was about to begin.