Okay, Chapter 4 is on its way. We'll see Rhaelor Vaerion enter formal education, begin his magical training, and continue to subtly weave his influence through the Vaerion household, all while harboring the ancient soul and grand ambitions of Valerius.
Chapter 4: The Scholar of Whispers and Flames
The transition from prodigious toddler to young scholar was, for Valerius inhabiting Rhaelor's body, a welcome shift. While the physical limitations of early childhood had been galling, the onset of formal education around his seventh year provided him with the structured environment he craved to legitimately pursue knowledge and, more importantly, the rudiments of Valyrian magic.
Lord Aerion Vaerion, increasingly convinced that his grandson was a rare prodigy – perhaps even a throwback to more potent ancestors – spared no reasonable expense on tutors. These were not the premier magisters who served the Forty Families in Valyria's gleaming heart, but they were competent scholars and practitioners from lesser Dragonlord lines, men and women whose own ambitions had perhaps been curtailed, now earning their keep by instructing the scions of families like the Vaerions.
Rhaelor's primary tutor was a man named Malarys, a gaunt individual with eyes that seemed to absorb light, a distant cousin of some other minor house. Malarys was a specialist in Valyrian history, lineage law, and, crucially, the foundational principles of glyphic magic and elemental affinities – areas where the Vaerions, with their volcanic lands, had historically held some minor renown.
Valerius, as Rhaelor, approached these lessons with a deceptive eagerness. He feigned the initial struggles of a gifted child, quickly "grasping" concepts that he, with his adult intellect and already awakened inner senses, had often intuited weeks before Malarys even introduced them. He learned to ask the "right" insightful questions, the kind that made Malarys pause and reassess his own understanding, marking Rhaelor as exceptionally astute rather than unnaturally knowledgeable.
"The glyphs are not mere symbols, young Rhaelor," Malarys would intone, his voice dry as old parchment, as they sat in the Vaerion library – a dusty, scroll-filled chamber that was Rhaelor's favorite room. "They are conduits. Each stroke, each curve, resonates with the fundamental energies of creation. To master them is to learn the very language of power."
Valerius already knew this, on a deeper level than Malarys could comprehend. His soul, strengthened by the absorption of Davos and the original Rhaelor, hummed in recognition when he practiced the intricate Valyrian characters. While other children might struggle with the sheer memorization and precise thaumaturgic intent required, Rhaelor found the glyphs almost speaking to him. He could feel the subtle currents of magic eager to be shaped by them.
His first practical successes came with fire. Given the Vaerion estate's geothermal activity and their lineage's supposed historical connection to minor flame-related sorceries, this was the expected starting point. Malarys instructed him in focusing his will, drawing upon the ambient heat and the spark of his own Valyrian blood, to ignite a candle.
Most initiates, Malarys explained, took weeks, even months, to achieve a flicker. Rhaelor, on his third attempt, made the candle flame leap a foot high, burning with an unnatural intensity that momentarily singed Malarys's eyebrows and left the tutor staring, speechless.
Rhaelor immediately affected a look of startled surprise, as if he'd scared himself. "Did I… did I do that, Master Malarys?"
Malarys, after a moment, coughed, a strange gleam in his eye. "Indeed, Rhaelor. Impressive. Perhaps… too impressive. Control is as vital as power. Remember that."
Valerius mentally filed away Malarys's reaction: surprise, a hint of fear, and now, heightened caution. He would need to be more careful in displaying the true extent of his rapidly developing abilities. He practiced control relentlessly, learning to summon not just a roaring flame but a tiny, precise pinpoint of heat, to make it dance, to extinguish it with a mere thought. He found that his soul-force acted as an amplifier, allowing him to achieve results with far less effort than Malarys seemed to expect.
Lord Aerion took immense pride in Rhaelor's progress. He would often sit in on the lessons, his stern face betraying a hint of satisfaction as his grandson mastered concepts that had taken Aerion himself years to grasp in his youth. The old lord began to confide in Rhaelor, speaking to him less as a child and more as a future peer, a potential successor who might actually restore some of the Vaerions' faded luster.
"Our blood, Rhaelor," Aerion said one evening, as they looked out over the smoky valley from a high balcony, "it thins with each generation further removed from the dragons of old. But sometimes, a spark reignites. I see such a spark in you." He placed a heavy hand on Rhaelor's shoulder. "You must nurture it. This world respects only strength. The strength of dragons, the strength of magic, the strength of will."
Valerius met his grandfather's gaze, his young face a perfect mask of solemn understanding. My will is stronger than you can possibly imagine, old man, he thought. And it will not be Valyria I serve, but my own apotheosis.
His relationship with Lyra evolved. As he grew, her maternal adoration was subtly transformed by him into a deep, almost worshipful belief in his destiny. He shared carefully selected "insights" and "prophetic dreams" with her – vague enough to be interpreted in multiple ways, but always hinting at a grand future. Lyra, starved for meaning in her own constrained life, clung to these pronouncements, seeing her son as a messianic figure, the fulfillment of all her unvoiced hopes. Her loyalty became absolute, a powerful shield Valerius knew he could rely upon. Maegor, his supposed father, faded further into the background, a resentful shadow outshone by his "son." He and Lyra had no other children; Valerius suspected Lyra ensured this, wanting no rivals for her prodigious firstborn.
Beyond fire, Rhaelor excelled in the subtle arts of warding and sensing. Malarys taught him how to feel the existing protective wards around the estate, to understand their structure. Within months, Rhaelor could not only sense them but could identify minute flaws, areas where the ancient magic had frayed. He even began to experiment, in secret, with strengthening them or adding his own tiny, almost undetectable layers, weaving his own growing power into the fabric of his family's defenses. His soul-sight allowed him to perceive the flow of magical energies, the auras of living beings, the lingering imprints of powerful emotions or events on locations. This gave him an uncanny ability to read people and situations, an extension of the street smarts Sal Moretti had honed over a lifetime, now augmented by genuine magical perception.
He devoured the contents of the Vaerion library. He read histories of the Valyrian Freehold, the endless political maneuverings of the Forty Families, the complex laws governing everything from property rights to magical duels. He studied genealogies, tracing the bloodlines, noting the alliances and rivalries that had shaped the empire for millennia. He was Sal Moretti preparing for a takeover, only this time the organization was an entire civilization, and his timeline was vastly extended.
He also learned about the Doom of Old Ghis, the Rhoynish Wars, the Valyrian expansion. He saw patterns of conquest, assimilation, and collapse that resonated with his past life's understanding of power dynamics. Valyria, for all its might, was not immune to the cycles of history. The Game of Thrones lore he vaguely remembered from his past life hinted at a cataclysmic Doom. He didn't know its cause or its exact timing beyond the initial 4000-year marker, but he knew it was an eventuality. This knowledge lent a chilling urgency to his long-term plans. He needed to build a foundation that could survive even the fall of an empire.
Around the age of ten, an opportunity arose that allowed Valerius to test his growing influence and gain a wider perspective. Lord Aerion was summoned to a regional conclave of minor Dragonlord families from their volcanic prefecture. These gatherings were ostensibly for discussing shared agricultural and mining concerns, but were also hotbeds of local politicking and alliance-building. Aerion, to the surprise of many and the barely concealed displeasure of Maegor, decided to take Rhaelor with him, presenting him as his prodigious heir.
The conclave was held in a larger, more prosperous estate belonging to House Veltaris, a family known for their skill in obsidian crafting and a somewhat more potent strain of fire magic than the Vaerions. For Valerius, it was a revelation. He met other Dragonlord scions his age, most of them arrogant and puffed up with their lineage, but a few with keen eyes and sharp minds. He observed them carefully, cataloging their strengths, weaknesses, and potential future relevance.
He made a particular impression on Lord Veltaris himself, a shrewd, powerfully built man with eyes like burning coals. During a demonstration of elemental control by the younger attendees, Rhaelor, under Lord Aerion's proud gaze, performed a display of fire manipulation that was not only powerful but displayed a finesse and control that far outstripped his peers. He didn't just create fire; he sculpted it, making it dance in complex patterns, then extinguishing it with a precise thought, leaving no trace of smoke.
Later, Lord Veltaris engaged Rhaelor in a conversation about ancient Valyrian history, a subject Rhaelor, thanks to his relentless studies, was remarkably well-versed in.
"You have an old soul in young shoulders, boy," Veltaris remarked, stroking his pointed, fiery red beard. "And a mind that sees beyond the surface. House Vaerion is fortunate."
Valerius, with practiced humility, replied, "I only seek to learn, my lord, and to serve my family and the glory of Valyria."
But mostly myself, he added internally.
During the conclave, Rhaelor overheard whispers of increasing instability in some of the more distant Valyrian colonies, of slave revolts brutally suppressed, and of growing rivalries between some of the Archons of the Forty Families. The Freehold, for all its outward power, was not without its internal stresses. This information was gold to Valerius, painting a more complete picture of the world he intended to dominate.
He also used the opportunity to subtly expand his network. He identified a young, intelligent slave serving Lord Veltaris, a boy named Corlys who seemed to possess an unusual awareness. During a quiet moment, Rhaelor "accidentally" dropped a small, intricately carved obsidian bird near Corlys – a gift he'd received from Veltaris. When Corlys picked it up to return it, Rhaelor engaged him in a brief, seemingly innocuous conversation, praising his attentiveness. He planted a seed, a flicker of recognition, a potential future contact. Sal Moretti had always known the value of having eyes and ears in unexpected places.
Upon their return to the Vaerion estate, Lord Aerion's regard for Rhaelor had solidified into something approaching awe. He began to involve Rhaelor in the estate's actual management, discussing crop yields, slave allocations, and even minor trade negotiations. Rhaelor, drawing upon Sal Moretti's business acumen, offered surprisingly practical and effective advice, always careful to frame his suggestions as logical extensions of his grandfather's own stated goals. The Vaerion fortunes, slowly but demonstrably, continued to improve under this quiet, youthful guidance.
His magical training also delved into more esoteric areas. Malarys, recognizing his pupil's unique aptitude, cautiously introduced him to the basics of blood magic – not the dark sacrificial rites of Valyrian legend, but the subtler art of using one's own blood as a potent focus for will, to empower glyphs, to strengthen wards, or to divine truths.
Valerius felt a powerful, almost hungry resonance with this discipline. His very nature, his cycle of reincarnation through his bloodline and the devouring of souls, was a profound, albeit unconscious, form of blood magic. He learned to use minute drops of his own blood to infuse his written glyphs with far greater power, creating small enchanted objects with surprising efficacy. He crafted a personal warding amulet for Lyra, imbued with his protective intent and a spark of his own life force, which she wore constantly, feeling an inexplicable sense of peace and security from it. This also served his purposes, ensuring her well-being, as her life was still intrinsically valuable to his cover and stability.
As Rhaelor approached his twelfth year, he was no longer just a boy. He was a scholar, a nascent sorcerer, and the undisputed future of House Vaerion. His body was beginning the awkward transition into adolescence, but his mind remained ancient, cold, and calculating. He was playing the long game, patiently accumulating power, knowledge, and influence.
One evening, as he meditated in his chamber, focusing his will inward, he felt the familiar thrum of his soul-force, now a deep, resonant power. He reflected on the process of absorbing Davos and the infant Rhaelor. It wasn't just an addition of life force; it was an integration of knowledge, of innate abilities, even of residual memories and emotional imprints that he had to filter and categorize. Each soul he consumed was like adding a new layer to his being, a new ring to the age of an ancient tree. He began to theorize: could he guide this process more deliberately? Could he extract specific skills or knowledge more efficiently? Could he, perhaps, even choose which descendant to be reborn into, if multiple options existed when he died? The possibilities were tantalizing.
His gaze drifted to a detailed map of the Valyrian peninsula and its surrounding territories, a map he had painstakingly copied and annotated. His finger traced the outlines of the Fourteen Flames, the heart of the empire. The Vaerion estate was a tiny, insignificant speck on that map. But Valerius knew that from the smallest seeds, the greatest forests grew. And he, Rhaelor Vaerion, was planting his seeds carefully, watering them with patience and ruthlessness, preparing for a harvest that would span millennia. The path to godhood was long and arduous, but with each passing year, each new skill mastered, each soul fragment integrated, he felt himself drawing infinitesimally, yet inexorably, closer. The whispers of the future were growing louder, and they spoke his name: Valerius.