Chapter 1: Echoes in the Blood
The oppressive, geothermal heat of Valyria was a familiar blanket, yet today it felt alien, clinging to Aerion Vaelaros's skin like a shroud. He was twelve years of age, a scion of a respectable, if not paramount, Dragonlord family. He lay on obsidian sand, the beach shimmering under the twin suns of a Valyrian dawn, the distant roars of dragons a guttural symphony. Moments ago, he had been Aerion, son of Maelys Vaelaros and Lyra Stark, a boy with eyes too green for a true Valyrian, a boy whose Valyrian father often despaired at his quiet, observant nature rather than the fiery arrogance of his peers.
Then, the deluge.
It wasn't a physical wave that struck him, but a tsunami of consciousness, an unbearable torrent of memories, power, and an ancient, terrifying intellect. Two lifetimes, sharp and brutal, slammed into his nascent mind. One was a maelstrom of ambition, of dark rituals performed in shadowed crypts, of soaring power and the bone-chilling terror of a rebounding curse that had snuffed him out at the peak of his hubris. He felt the phantom sensation of his own disembodiment, the gnawing rage, the years spent as less than a ghost. Voldemort. The name seared through him, not as a title of fear, but as an identity, a raw, undeniable part of this new, horrifying whole. He felt the familiar, intoxicating thrum of Dark Magic, the knowledge of Horcruxes – a path he now viscerally understood he would never tread again, for its ultimate failure was a wound freshly carved into this reborn soul. The arrogance, the belief in his own untouchability – that had been his undoing. A lesson etched in the agony of his previous demise, a lesson he now knew would define his every future action.
The second stream was ancient, vast, and imbued with a different kind of power. It was the patient wisdom of centuries, the meticulous art of alchemy, the profound understanding of life and its extension. Nicolas Flamel. The name resonated with a quiet strength, a counterpoint to Voldemort's fury. He felt the weight of ages, the pursuit of knowledge not for dominion but for understanding, the subtle, intricate dance of creation and preservation. The Philosopher's Stone – not a legend, but a tangible reality, its secrets laid bare in his mind. He understood the Elixir of Life, not as a desperate grasp for immortality, but as a tool, a means to an end.
Aerion, the Valyrian boy, was gone, subsumed. In his place, a new consciousness flickered, gasping for purchase – a terrifying amalgamation. The boy's body convulsed on the hot sand, green eyes wide with an ancient terror and a dawning, predatory awareness.
Too bold. Too audacious. Voldemort's final thought, his deepest regret, echoed with chilling clarity. Never again.
The caution was a physical ache, a knot of dread in his young chest. This world, this Valyria, was a crucible of power, yes, but also of immense danger. He could feel it in the air, thick with magic and the ever-present threat of dragonfire, of rivalries that burned hotter than any forge. His greensight, a latent gift from his Stark mother's blood, had always given him unsettling flashes, whispers of a fiery doom that awaited this magnificent, arrogant city. Now, that whisper felt like a scream.
With a monumental effort of will, born from Voldemort's iron self-discipline and Flamel's practiced calm, he began to sift through the chaos. His Valyrian memories were still there, overlaid by the colossal weight of his past lives. He was Aerion Vaelaros. His father, Maelys, was a stern man, proud of his lineage, possessor of a mid-sized, bronze-scaled dragon named Ignis. His mother, Lyra Stark, was an enigma in Valyria – a woman from the savage North of Westeros, captured in a daring coastal raid by his grandfather decades ago. Her strange beauty and the nascent, misunderstood magic in her bloodline (what the Valyrians dismissed as barbarian superstition but what he now recognized as the roots of warging and greensight) had intrigued his grandfather enough to make her a concubine, and later, his father had, in a moment of uncharacteristic sentimentality or perhaps a calculated move for unique blood traits, taken her as a secondary wife. She had gifted Aerion her Northern looks – the dark hair that warred with Valyrian silver-gold, leaving it a complex shade of ash brown, and her startlingly green eyes, so unlike the lilac or purple hues of his peers. These eyes, he now understood, were not just a mark of his mixed heritage but a conduit for a potent form of magic.
Slowly, painstakingly, he sat up. His small hands clenched, feeling the unfamiliar youthfulness, the unblemished skin. Then, a new sensation. A subtle, intrinsic connection, a resonance deep within his soul. He focused, drawing upon the ingrained magical senses of Voldemort.
There.
Beside him, half-buried in the black sand as if it had materialized from the very ether, lay a simple, unassuming wooden trunk. It was small, no larger than a child's travel chest, yet it pulsed with an impossible power. His trunk. The magically extended one from his life as Tom Riddle, then Voldemort. And within it…
He reached out a trembling hand, his mind reeling. As his fingers brushed the wood, a wave of confirmation washed over him. The Deathly Hallows. The Elder Wand, not in its familiar yew wood, but perhaps reformed, adapted, yet undeniably there, thrumming with lethal obedience. The Resurrection Stone, cold and silent, embedded in a simple ring. The Cloak of Invisibility, folded, its power a silken whisper against his mind. And nestled amongst them, radiating a gentle warmth that belied its world-altering potential, was the Philosopher's Stone – Flamel's masterpiece, now his own, bound to his very essence.
They were not mere objects; they were extensions of his soul, carried across the veil of death and rebirth. The sheer impossibility of it was staggering, yet the certainty was absolute. He was not just reborn with knowledge; he was reborn equipped.
A harsh laugh, half-sob, escaped his young lips. The irony was bitter. In his previous life, he had hunted these Hallows, coveted the Stone. Now, they were his from the outset, in a world that knew nothing of their significance.
Caution, the voice of Voldemort hissed, laced with the memory of agony. Secrecy.
Flamel's wisdom echoed in agreement. Understand. Adapt. Protect.
His first instinct, Voldemort's instinct, was to dominate, to seize control. But the memory of his failure was a potent leash. No, this time would be different. No grand pronouncements, no gathering of marked followers in obvious displays of power. This world was already teetering on a precipice he could dimly perceive through the chaotic whispers of his nascent greensight – a future of fire and ruin for this Valyrian hubris.
His ambition now was not to rule the world, but to survive it, and to ensure that his line, the one he would now meticulously cultivate, would endure. A hidden sanctuary, a dynasty of wizards, not just Dragonlords. The magic of his old world, the potent, versatile sorcery that Voldemort had mastered and Flamel had refined, would be their true legacy, their shield against the tides of this new, brutal reality. Dragons would be their instruments, their guardians, but magic would be their soul.
He rose, dusting the obsidian sand from his simple tunic. He needed to return to his family's manse, to appear normal, or as normal as the quiet, green-eyed Aerion ever was. His mind, however, was a whirlwind of calculations.
Valyria. A civilization powered by fire magic, blood magic, and dragons. Rich in arcane lore, undoubtedly. He would devour it. Flamel's thirst for knowledge merged with Voldemort's hunger for power, refined into a laser focus: acquire all magical understanding this world offered. Books, scrolls, artifacts, rituals – everything.
His Stark heritage, the greensight and the nascent ability to warg, was another unexpected gift. He had felt the pull towards animals before, a faint whisper of shared consciousness with the hunting hawks his father kept. Now, amplified by Voldemort's formidable Legilimency and Occlumency, these abilities would become potent tools. He could see futures, perhaps even influence the minds of beasts, and with practice, men. The greensight would be his compass, warning him of dangers, guiding his long-term plans.
Dragon eggs. Valyria's wealth was built on them, their power maintained by them. Dragonlords were notoriously jealous of their bloodlines and their beasts. But he would acquire them. Many of them. His descendants would be dragon riders, yes, but they would also be wizards of a caliber this world had never seen. Each dragon hatched would be bound to his blood, his magic, creating an unbreakable chain. He envisioned a hidden council, a secret power, his immortal descendants riding immortal dragons, their magic a silent, unassailable shield.
The Philosopher's Stone. It could create limitless gold. Wealth was power, a means to an end. It could also produce the Elixir of Life. Immortality, true immortality, not the fragmented existence of Horcruxes. For himself, for his chosen descendants, and perhaps even for their dragons, extending their already long lives to match their riders. This was the foundation of his sanctuary.
His immediate task was to master his new form, to integrate the overwhelming memories and powers without betraying himself. He needed to be Aerion Vaelaros, but a version of Aerion who would slowly, carefully, begin to exhibit extraordinary talents – talents that could be attributed to his mixed blood, perhaps, or simply to a precocious genius.
Walking back towards the Vaelaros estate, a sprawling complex of fused black stone shot through with veins of glowing red, Aerion felt the first stirrings of a plan. His father, Maelys, was a traditionalist, obsessed with Valyrian purity despite his own unconventional marriage. He would be difficult. His mother, Lyra, was his anchor to the Stark magic, though she herself likely didn't understand its full potential. She was often melancholic, an outsider in a land of fire, her quiet strength a stark contrast to Valyrian flamboyance. Perhaps she could be an unwitting ally, or at least a source of the lore of her people.
As he entered the courtyard, a young slave girl, no older than himself, bowed her head, her eyes downcast. He felt a flicker of Voldemort's disdain for such subservience, but it was immediately suppressed. Such displays were a part of this world's fabric. To change it now would be to draw attention.
"Young Master Aerion," she murmured. "Your father asks for you. He is in the dragon kennels."
The dragon kennels. Not true kennels, but vast, cavernous enclosures carved into the volcanic rock beneath their estate, where Ignis, his father's dragon, laired, and where the family's two unhatched eggs were kept under geothermal heat, their stony surfaces shimmering with latent magic.
Dragons. A predatory gleam touched Aerion's green eyes, a hint of Voldemort's avarice mixed with a newfound appreciation for these magnificent beasts. They were power incarnate, and they would be his.
His father, Maelys Vaelaros, stood with his back to him, observing one of the eggs. It was a large thing, the color of sunset, streaked with gold. Maelys was tall and wiry, his silver-gold hair tied back in a severe knot, his face harsh, a map of Valyrian pride and subtle disappointment whenever he looked at his son.
"Aerion," Maelys said, without turning. His voice was deep, carrying the resonance of one used to commanding dragons. "You were out beyond the perimeter again. I've told you of the dangers."
"I was merely on the shore, Father," Aerion replied, his voice carefully neutral, the voice of the boy he had been. Inside, Voldemort bristled at being spoken to in such a manner, while Flamel counseled patience.
Maelys finally turned, his pale lilac eyes narrowing as they swept over Aerion. "Your mother's blood runs strong in you. You wander, you watch. A Vaelaros should be eager for the fire, for the sky." He gestured to the egg. "This clutch is from Ignis and Syraxys from House Belaerys. Strong blood. One of these will be yours, if you prove worthy."
If I prove worthy? Voldemort scoffed internally. He had commanded the Basilisk of Salazar Slytherin. He had bent magic to his will in ways these Valyrians, with their reliance on brute dragon power, could scarcely imagine. But outwardly, Aerion merely nodded. "I hope to be, Father."
"Hmph." Maelys seemed unconvinced. "Your cousin, Vaella, claimed her hatchling last month. A fiery little beast. She has the spirit."
Vaella. A typical, arrogant Valyrian girl, all fire and fury, with little substance. Aerion felt a surge of contempt, quickly masked. He needed to appear diligent, perhaps even a little more assertive, but not alarmingly so.
"I have been studying the dragonlore texts you gave me, Father," Aerion said, a statement that was, for the boy he had been, mostly true. Now, with Flamel's encyclopedic mind and Voldemort's rapid assimilation skills, those texts would yield far more.
Maelys raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise. "Have you? Good. Knowledge is essential. But knowledge without action is worthless. You will begin training with the weaponry masters next week. A Dragonlord must also be a warrior."
Aerion inclined his head. "Yes, Father." He would learn their ways of fighting, of course. The Elder Wand, currently disguised within his trunk as a simple training rod of dark wood, was a far superior weapon, but knowledge of conventional arms had its uses.
His gaze drifted to the second egg, smaller, the color of jade and bronze. His greensight, faint but persistent, pulsed. He saw a flash: scales like polished jade, eyes like molten gold, a creature of immense power and loyalty, soaring through a sky thick with ash. Then, another flash: the same dragon, older, larger, coiled around a hidden mountain peak, guarding a secret sanctuary.
This egg. This one would be his. Not because his father deemed him worthy, but because he would make it so. He had the knowledge of bonding rituals from his Valyrian memories, but Voldemort's understanding of soul magic and Flamel's grasp of deep, elemental connections would allow him to forge a bond far more profound than any Valyrian had ever conceived.
"The jade one," Aerion said, his voice quiet but firm. "I feel a connection to it."
Maelys looked at him, then at the egg, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "The green. Like your eyes. An odd choice. It is the smaller of the two."
"Size is not the only measure of strength, Father," Aerion replied, the words carrying a subtle weight that he hoped his father would attribute to a sudden maturation.
Maelys grunted. "Perhaps your mother's strange blood has its own instincts. Very well. Focus your studies on that one. Learn its lineage, its potential. When it hatches, if it accepts you, you will begin your true journey as a Dragonlord." He paused. "And Aerion? Try to… emulate your cousins more. Show some fire. The other families watch. The Vaelaros name must command respect, not quiet peculiarity."
Respect through fear is more lasting, Voldemort mused. But quiet peculiarity can be a most effective cloak.
"I understand, Father," Aerion said.
Over the next few years, Aerion Vaelaros became a study in controlled transformation. The core of Voldemort and Flamel, a closely guarded secret, began to reshape the boy. He devoured knowledge with an unnatural appetite. Valyrian sorcery, blood magic, the lore of dragon-binding – he consumed it all, his mind, already sharp, now enhanced by two lifetimes of arcane pursuit. He filled notebooks with Valyrian script, his elegant handwriting a stark contrast to the dark theories and potent spell-craft he was secretly adapting from Voldemort's repertoire, translating ancient curses into High Valyrian, finding parallels in their blood rituals.
He practiced his Legilimency subtly, gleaning information from tutors, from rivals, even from his own father, always careful not to overtly intrude, but to skim the surface thoughts, the emotional currents. His Occlumency shields became impenetrable, a fortress built by Voldemort's paranoia and Flamel's meditative discipline, hiding the raging tempest of his true self behind a facade of quiet diligence and burgeoning intellect.
His Stark gifts blossomed in secret. He spent hours by the sea, not just idly watching, but reaching out with his mind. First to the crabs scuttling on the black sand, then to the sea birds, feeling their senses, a brief, exhilarating merging of consciousness. Warging. It was crude, untutored, but undeniably real. His greensight sharpened too. The visions of Valyria's doom became more frequent, more vivid – fire raining from the sky, the earth splitting, the sea boiling, a symphony of screams swallowed by a cataclysm of unparalleled destructive force. These visions solidified his resolve: escape, survival, and the creation of a hidden, untouchable future for his line.
He used the Cloak of Invisibility to explore the deeper, more forbidden sections of the Vaelaros library, and sometimes, daringly, to slip into the archives of other, more prominent Dragonlord families. He found texts on Valyrian steel forging, on the creation of fused stone structures, on the ancient history of their people and the source of their power, which many believed to be the Fourteen Flames, the volcanic mountain chain that dominated the peninsula. Voldemort's intellect recognized the patterns of powerful, primal magic at play, something far more volatile than the Valyrians themselves perhaps understood.
The Philosopher's Stone remained hidden, its existence known only to him. In the privacy of his chambers, secured by wards Voldemort had adapted from Hogwarts' most esoteric defenses, he conducted small experiments. A pebble turned to gold, then back again. He brewed a single, perfect drop of the Elixir of Life, feeling its vibrant energy, a confirmation of his ultimate security. This was not for consumption yet, but for study, for understanding its interaction with this new world's ambient magic.
His relationship with his mother, Lyra, deepened. He questioned her gently about her homeland, about the tales of the Old Gods, of greenseers and skinchangers. She spoke of them with a wistful longing, a homesickness that had never truly faded. From her, he learned the rudimentary foundations of these ancient Stark magics, which Voldemort's sophisticated understanding of magic quickly amplified and refined. She saw his interest as a connection to her heritage, a comfort in her alien surroundings, never suspecting the ancient, powerful mind that looked out from her son's green eyes.
The jade dragon egg became his focus. He spent hours with it in the geothermal hatchery, sometimes reading aloud from arcane texts, sometimes merely meditating beside it, subtly weaving tendrils of his magic, his will, around it. He wasn't just waiting for it to hatch; he was persuading it, shaping its nascent consciousness, forging a bond that would transcend the typical Valyrian master-dragon relationship. This would be a familiar, a partner, an extension of his own magical being.
His combat training progressed. He learned to wield the Valyrian short sword, the spear, the bow. He was agile, quick, his reflexes unnaturally fast. He allowed himself to excel, but not too much. He presented the image of a dedicated student, not a prodigy. The Elder Wand, disguised as his practice staff, hummed in his grip during private exercises, spells of immense power contained and controlled, never unleashed.
One day, when he was fifteen, a year before the traditional age for Valyrian youths to face the possibility of claiming a dragon, the jade egg stirred. Cracks appeared on its surface, a faint inner light pulsing. Maelys was summoned, along with a few senior family members. They watched with critical eyes.
Aerion approached the egg, his heart a cold, steady beat. This was a crucial moment. He knelt, placing his hand on the warm, vibrating shell. He sent a pulse of his will, not a command, but an invitation, a promise of shared power, of skies conquered together, of a bond that magic itself would sanctify.
The shell broke apart, and a creature of breathtaking beauty emerged. Its scales were the deepest jade, gleaming like polished gemstones, with streaks of burnished bronze along its wings and spine. Its eyes, when they blinked open, were not the usual reptilian slits, but intelligent orbs of molten gold, and they fixed on Aerion with an unnerving, profound recognition. It was small, no larger than a cat, but it radiated an aura of ancient power.
It uncoiled, stretched its delicate wings, and then, instead of the expected screech or snap, it let out a soft, crooning sound and took a clumsy step towards Aerion, nudging its head against his outstretched hand.
A collective gasp went through the assembled family members. Such immediate, gentle acceptance was rare. Usually, hatchlings were wild, fiery, needing to be dominated or at least cautiously appeased.
Maelys stared, his stern face unreadable. "It… accepts you."
Aerion felt a surge of triumph, cold and sharp. He gently stroked the hatchling's snout. "Her name," he said, his voice clear and resonant, "is Veridian."
He had his first dragon. He had his Hallows, his Stone, his knowledge. He had the nascent stirrings of Stark magic. And he had the chilling certainty of the Doom that was to come, now only twenty-eight years away by his internal, infallible calendar.
The game had begun. Not for the Iron Throne of a distant, barbarian land – a bauble of no consequence to him – but for the survival and supremacy of his own hidden future, a future where wizardry and dragonfire would merge into an unstoppable force, shielded from the tides of a world destined for chaos. He would be no one's pawn, no one's Dark Lord in the open. He would be a whisper in the shadows, a hidden king building an unseen empire of magic, while Valyria, in its magnificent arrogance, danced ever closer to the flames of its own destruction. And when it burned, he would be ready to sift through its ashes for anything of value, any soul he could gather to feed the growing power of his Stone.
The thought sent a shiver of cold satisfaction through him. Voldemort's ruthlessness was a tool, Flamel's patience a virtue, and Aerion Vaelaros would be their perfect, cautious, and utterly formidable instrument.