Chapter 6: The Price of Prophecy

Chapter 6: The Price of Prophecy

259 AC, 5th Moon

The river of gold was silent. It flowed not into the meager coffers of House Pyralis, which remained, for all public purposes, modestly solvent, but into a new vault carved deep beneath the Foundry. Here, in the cold, still earth, the true wealth of Valerius's enterprise accumulated. Crates of Pentoshi gold coins, chests of Myrish silver, and a growing collection of gemstones acquired through discreet, third-party transactions. It was the treasury of a nation, hidden beneath the foundations of a house that the world considered little more than a footnote.

Valerius stood before a massive slate board in a chamber he called the 'Strategy Room.' The board was covered in a complex web of names, locations, and numbers, a detailed map of the political and economic landscape of the known world, updated weekly with intelligence gathered by his network. His primary agent, Kaelo Voronnis, was proving to be an invaluable, if unwitting, asset. The steel ingots and untempered armor plates from Pyralis Point, laundered through shell corporations in Pentos and Myr, were arming both sides of the escalating conflict in the Disputed Lands. The profits were obscene.

His reports from Kaelo, cross-referenced with whispers from sailors in his own port, painted a clear picture. The Band of Nine was consolidating its power in the Stepstones, and Maelys the Monstrous, the last Blackfyre pretender, was at its head. The Free Cities were in a panic, and their panic was his profit. His steel, lauded for its impossible strength and lightness, was now the most sought-after military commodity in Essos. He had become the world's preeminent arms dealer, and no one even knew his name.

He was tracing a shipping route from Tyrosh to the Stepstones when the door to the Foundry's upper level opened. It was Trystan, his face pale, his breathing ragged. The young man, now twenty years old, was the de facto Chief Operating Officer of Pyralis Point. He managed the surface world with a quiet, ruthless efficiency that mirrored his lord's own. To see him rattled was unusual.

"My lord," Trystan said, his voice tight. "A raven. From the Citadel."

Valerius turned from the board, his expression unreadable. He felt a cold, familiar thrill, the same sensation he used to get just before a hostile takeover was announced. He had been waiting for this. "The date?"

"The twenty-first day of the fifth moon, my lord. The news… it is grave."

Valerius ascended the hidden staircase back into the keep's cellar, his movements unhurried. He emerged into the mundane world of stone and timber, the dutiful lord returning to his post. Maester Kaelan was waiting in the solar, the raven's scroll clutched in his trembling hand. The old man's face was ashen.

"My lord," Kaelan whispered, his voice cracking. "A tragedy. Unspeakable."

Valerius took the scroll, his face a carefully constructed mask of concern. He read the message, his eyes scanning the maester's neat script. He let his expression shift from concern to shock, then to profound, soul-deep horror. He allowed his hand to tremble slightly as he set the scroll down. He looked at Kaelan, his own grey eyes wide with perfectly feigned disbelief.

"Summerhall," Valerius breathed. "All of them?"

"King Aegon, the Fifth of His Name," Kaelan recited, his voice hollow with grief. "His eldest son, Prince Duncan the Small. And the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall. All… consumed by fire. An attempt to hatch the last dragon eggs, they say. Madness." 

Valerius sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands in a flawless portrayal of a man overwhelmed by sorrow. "The gods are cruel," he murmured, his voice muffled.

Inside, his mind was a whirlwind of cold, hard calculation. It had happened. Exactly on schedule. The Targaryen dynasty, in its desperate, nostalgic obsession with a power it no longer understood, had immolated itself. King Aegon V, the reformer, the man who had tried to build a better world for the smallfolk, was dead. His heir was dead. The legendary hedge knight who had been his friend was dead. It was a catastrophic failure of leadership, a fatal miscalculation of risk. And it was the single greatest political opportunity of the century.

"Ring the bells, Maester," Valerius said, looking up, his eyes shining with unshed, imaginary tears. "A week of mourning. No work in the fields or on the boats. The people must be allowed to grieve their king."

"At once, my lord. You are… you are a good man," Kaelan said, his own eyes welling up with genuine emotion. He bowed and shuffled out of the room to carry out the orders.

The moment the door closed, Valerius's grief vanished. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the grey sea. The king is dead. Long live the king. Jaehaerys II, Aegon's second son, would now be king. A man known to be of frail health, a bookish scholar, not a warrior. The realm, already restive under Aegon's reforms, would be thrown into a period of profound instability. The great lords, who had chafed under Aegon's attempts to curtail their power, would see this as a moment of weakness, a chance to claw back their "gods-given rights." 

The market was about to become very, very volatile. And he was perfectly positioned to profit from it.

Later that day, Valerius convened his executive board in the Strategy Room. Trystan and the four other graduates of his 'academy' stood before him, their faces grim. They were no longer boys. They were his instruments of power, honed and sharpened by his teachings.

"The King is dead," Valerius began, his voice devoid of the emotion he had shown the maester. "His heir is dead. The realm is in turmoil. This presents both dangers and opportunities."

He turned to the slate board, erasing a section on grain futures. "Jaehaerys will be crowned. He is not his father. He is seen as weak. The lords will test him. There will be chaos. And in chaos, a prudent man can find wealth."

He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze sharp and penetrating. "Bryen, I want our grain surplus moved to our most secure, hidden storehouses. Double the guard. When the political situation worsens, food will be worth more than gold. We will control the supply."

He pointed to another, a strong, silent youth named Garth. "You will oversee the Foundry. I want production of military-grade steel tripled. Ingots only. No more finished tools for now. Raw materials for war will be in high demand. We will meet that demand."

To the other two, he assigned intelligence-gathering roles. One was to expand their network of informants in the ports of the Crownlands, listening for whispers of dissent among the lesser lords. The other was to monitor the trade caravans moving west, gathering information on the mood in the Westerlands and the Reach.

Finally, he turned to Trystan. "You will command the Serpentsguard. They are to be on high alert. Patrols will be doubled. Our borders are to be sealed to all but our own people and approved merchants. No one enters or leaves Massey's Hook without my express permission. This land is now a fortress."

"And what of the great houses, my lord?" Trystan asked, his voice steady. He was the only one who dared ask strategic questions.

"The great houses will posture," Valerius said, a flicker of contempt in his eyes. "Tywin Lannister will see this as a chance to further consolidate his power in the West, now that the King who interfered with his family's misrule is gone. The Baratheons, slighted by the broken betrothal, will be sullen and watchful. The Tullys and Tyrells, also denied their royal marriages, will offer condolences but feel no loyalty. They are all predictable. They will play their game of thrones. We will play our own." 

He dismissed them with a nod. They were efficient, loyal, and utterly dependent on him. They were the perfect corporate officers.

His next meeting was with Ser Gregor Stone. The old knight, his face etched with genuine sorrow, was overseeing the draping of black mourning banners from the keep's battlements.

"A dark day, my lord," Gregor said, his voice rough with emotion. "I served King Aegon in the last Blackfyre war. He was a good man. Too good for that throne, perhaps."

"He was," Valerius agreed, his tone somber. "And now his son must bear the burden. A heavy burden, for one so frail." He placed a hand on the old knight's shoulder, a gesture of shared grief. "We must show our loyalty, Ser Gregor. Now more than ever. The realm needs stability. It needs to see that the small houses, the loyal houses, stand with the new king."

"Aye, my lord. We will do our duty."

"I have already dispatched a raven to King's Landing," Valerius said, the lie coming as easily as breath. "I have offered our condolences to King Jaehaerys and pledged the full support of House Pyralis. I have also offered a gift. A shipment of five thousand bushels of grain from our surplus, to be distributed to the smallfolk of the capital. A gesture of goodwill, to ease the transition."

Ser Gregor's eyes widened. It was a gift of staggering generosity for a house as small as theirs. "My lord, that is… noble."

"It is our duty, Ser," Valerius said simply. "In dark times, we must all be a light for one another." He used his father's old words, twisting them to his own purpose. The gift was not noble; it was a strategic investment. It would cost him almost nothing, but it would buy him immense political capital. King Jaehaerys II, beset by resentful great lords, would remember the small, loyal House Pyralis that had offered aid when others were plotting. It would reinforce his image as a harmless, pious, and loyal subject. 

That night, Valerius stood alone on the highest tower of Pyralis Point. The mourning bells had fallen silent. The wind whipped his cloak around him. He looked west, toward the heart of the continent where the great game was being played.

He felt no pity for the dead king. Aegon V had been a fool. He had possessed a noble vision but had lacked the ruthlessness to implement it. He had tried to appeal to the better nature of men who had none. And in the end, he had turned to the very magic that had destroyed Old Valyria, hoping it would grant him the power he could not seize for himself. He had paid the price for his sentimentality. 

Valerius was a different kind of king. He was building his kingdom not on ideals or prophecies, but on the unshakeable foundations of economic power, technological superiority, and absolute control. The fire at Summerhall had not just killed a king; it had signaled the beginning of the end for the Targaryen dynasty. It had created a power vacuum. And Valerius, the serpent on the hook, knew that nature—and business—abhorred a vacuum. He would fill it. Not with fire and blood, but with something far more potent: gold and steel.