Chapter 1: The Shadow of the Dragon, The Whispers of the Old Gods
The birthing chamber was a symphony of controlled chaos, a stark contrast to the opulent, obsidian-laced architecture of the Valyrian manse. Torches flickered, casting dancing shadows on walls carved with intricate glyphs that pulsed with a faint, inner light – a testament to the dragonlords' mastery over fire and stone. The air was thick with the scent of blood, herbs, and the faint, metallic tang of magic.
Lyra Stark, a woman whose Northern blood ran as strong as the winter winds, clenched her teeth, her knuckles white as she gripped the silken sheets. Her silver-blonde hair, a legacy of her brief, politically charged marriage to the Valyrian dragonlord Rhaegar Xantys, was plastered to her sweat-slicked brow. Her grey eyes, usually as sharp and clear as a winter sky, were clouded with pain, but beneath it, an iron will shimmered. She was a wolf in a den of dragons, a stranger in a land of fire and sorcery, and now, she was bringing a child of two worlds into its heart.
The Maester, a Valyrian with eyes that seemed to hold the heat of the Fourteen Flames, murmured incantations in High Valyrian, his hands glowing with a soft, orange light as he guided the babe. Rhaegar, her husband, was absent. A summons from the Freehold Conclave had torn him away days ago, leaving Lyra to face this ordeal with only her Valyrian handmaidens and the Maester, none of whom truly understood the fierce, protective solitude of her Northern spirit.
With a final, guttural cry that echoed the howls of direwolves in the distant Wolfswood, the child was born. A boy.
The Maester cleaned him, his movements practiced and efficient. "A strong lad, Lady Lyra. He has the Xantys look about him."
Lyra, exhausted but resolute, reached for her son. As he was placed in her arms, her breath hitched. He was small, yet there was an undeniable presence about him. His hair was a shock of dark brown, almost black, a stark contrast to the silver-gold common amongst Valyrians and even the Targaryens, who shared distant Xantys blood. But it was his eyes that captivated her. They were a deep, unsettling brown, almost black in the torchlight, and they were open, unnervingly aware. There was an intelligence there, a focus that seemed far too profound for a newborn.
"Sōsuke," she whispered, the name a secret comfort, a whisper from a life she thought she'd left behind, a name that felt…right. In the Common Tongue of Westeros, it held no particular meaning, but to Lyra, it carried the weight of a different world, a different understanding. She'd heard it in dreams, whispered on the winds of her own strange, fleeting visions – visions that had always set her apart, even in the pragmatic North.
As the days turned into weeks, Sōsuke – or rather, Aemond Xantys as he was formally named in the Valyrian tradition, a name Lyra found herself resisting internally – grew with an unnerving alacrity. Not physically, though he was healthy and strong, but in his awareness. His dark eyes seemed to absorb everything, to see through things. He rarely cried, a fact that both relieved and unsettled Lyra. Instead, he would watch, silent and contemplative, his gaze lingering on the flickering flames of the braziers, the intricate patterns of the tapestries, the faces of the servants.
Lyra, ostracized by much of Valyrian high society for her foreign blood and perceived "coldness," found solace in her son. She spoke to him in the Common Tongue, telling him tales of Winterfell, of the honor of the Starks, of the Old Gods and the weirwood trees whose carved faces wept blood-red sap. She knew the Valyrians, with their dragons and fire magic, scoffed at such "primitive" beliefs. But Lyra clung to them, a lifeline to her identity.
One sweltering Valyrian afternoon, as Lyra hummed an old Northern lullaby to a two-month-old Aemond, a strange sensation prickled at the back of her neck. The room, usually filled with the distant roar of dragons and the murmur of the city, fell silent. Aemond, cradled in her arms, suddenly tensed. His eyes, usually fixed on her face, darted towards the window, a window that overlooked the sprawling Xantys dragon pens.
Then, Lyra saw it too. Not with her eyes, but in her mind. A flash of searing heat, the stench of sulfur, the sound of rock grinding and shattering. A wave of terror, not her own, washed over her. It was raw, primal, the fear of a colossal beast.
The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Lyra breathless, her heart pounding. She looked down at Aemond. His tiny hand was outstretched, fingers splayed, as if reaching for something only he could see. His dark eyes were wide, but not with fear. There was something else there, a flicker of… understanding?
"Aemond?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The infant's gaze slowly returned to hers. A faint smile, a chillingly intelligent smile for one so young, touched his lips.
It was then that Lyra knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that her son was no ordinary child. The greensight, the rare and often misunderstood gift of prophetic visions that ran sporadically through the bloodlines of the First Men, was strong in him. Stronger than she had ever experienced.
But there was something more, something… alien.
Unseen by Lyra, nestled against the infant Aemond's chest, beneath his swaddling clothes, lay a small, orb-like object. It was no bigger than a pigeon's egg, smooth and dark, pulsing with a faint, internal light that was visible only to Aemond's unique perception. This was the Hōgyoku, the wish-granting, power-amplifying artifact that had been the linchpin of Aizen Sōsuke's previous existence. How it had followed him through death and rebirth, across dimensions, was a mystery even to the nascent consciousness stirring within the infant. But it was there, a silent, potent companion, already subtly intertwining its power with the boy's burgeoning abilities.
Aemond, or rather, the soul of Aizen Sōsuke within him, was slowly awakening. The transition had been disorienting, a kaleidoscope of fragmented memories, sensations, and the raw, overwhelming experience of infancy. He was a prisoner in a tiny, helpless body, his vast intellect and experience struggling against the limitations of a developing brain and an uncooperative physique.
Yet, even in this state, his core nature remained. The ambition, the strategic mind, the desire for transcendence – they were all there, dormant but potent.
His mother, this Lyra Stark, was an anomaly. Her thoughts, when he could brush against them, were a strange mix of fierce maternal love, a deep-seated loneliness, and a connection to something ancient and elemental – this "greensight." It was through her, through the innate, primitive magic of this world, that his own unique senses were beginning to focus.
The Hōgyoku was the key. Even in its current, seemingly subdued state, it was working, reacting to the raw magical energies of this new world, and to the latent potential within Aemond. It amplified his nascent greensight, not just allowing him glimpses of possible futures, but giving those glimpses a terrifying clarity, a depth of understanding that went beyond mere precognition. He didn't just see events; he saw the currents beneath them, the motivations, the desires, the fears that shaped them.
The vision Lyra had experienced, the terror of the dragon, had been a ripple from his own amplified perception. He had seen more than just the beast's fear. He had seen its imminent demise – a training accident, a moment of carelessness from its rider, a snapped chain. And more importantly, he had felt the release of its life force, a potent surge of spiritual energy.
The Hōgyoku had resonated with it, a faint, hungry hum that only he could perceive.
Souls… The thought, unbidden, surfaced in his mind with a clarity that was startling. The foundation of power. The fuel for evolution.
Valyria. He was in Valyria. The name echoed with power, with fire, with dragons, and with an impending, cataclysmic Doom. He knew this, not from any memory of this current life, but from the Hōgyoku. It was feeding him information, siphoned from the ambient magical currents, from the collective unconscious of this world, perhaps even from the very fabric of causality it was beginning to subtly manipulate.
Thirty years. Thirty years until the Doom of Valyria. A cataclysm of unparalleled destruction, a feast of souls unlike any he could have imagined.
A slow, cold purpose began to crystallize within the infant's mind, a plan so vast, so audacious, it would make his previous ambitions seem like child's play. He was Aizen Sōsuke. He had once sought to stand atop the heavens of Soul Society. Now, in this new world, teeming with a different kind of power, he would not just stand atop its heavens. He would become its god.
The Doom would be his first grand harvest.
His father, Rhaegar Xantys, returned a week later. He was a man cast in the Valyrian mold: tall, with the characteristic silver-gold hair and piercing violet eyes that seemed to smolder with an inner fire. He was powerful, arrogant, and deeply enmeshed in the intricate, often lethal, politics of the Dragon Lords.
He regarded Aemond with a critical eye. "He has your hair, Lyra," he commented, his tone neutral, almost dismissive. "Unusual. The Xantys line breeds true."
Lyra bristled. "He is my son. He is a Stark as much as he is a Xantys."
Rhaegar merely arched an eyebrow. "The Starks are a provincial house of little consequence, my dear. It is the Xantys blood, the blood of Old Valyria, that matters. He will ride a dragon. He will command fire. He will be a lord of the Freehold."
Aemond, held in his father's arms, looked up at the man. He felt the raw power radiating from Rhaegar, the casual cruelty, the ingrained belief in his own superiority. He saw the future flicker around him: Rhaegar, consumed by political maneuvering, making enemies, overreaching. He saw his eventual, violent end, years before the Doom, in a fiery confrontation with a rival dragonlord over a contested mining claim in the Slaver's Bay. A small, insignificant death, really. A wasted soul.
Aemond felt nothing. No attachment, no filial piety. Only calculation. Rhaegar Xantys was a pawn, a temporary shield, a source of resources and access to this Valyrian society. Nothing more.
As months turned into a year, Aemond's development continued to be… atypical. He spoke his first words far earlier than any child should, and not in the lilting Valyrian of his father's household, nor the harsher Common Tongue his mother favored.
One evening, as Lyra was showing him picture scrolls depicting Valyrian gods – terrifying, fiery beings with multiple eyes and wings of shadow – Aemond, barely nine months old, pointed a chubby finger at a depiction of Balerion, the Black Dread, in his prime.
"Kurohitsugi," he said, his infant voice surprisingly clear, the word precise, alien.
Lyra stared, her blood running cold. The word meant nothing to her, yet the way he said it, the faint resonance in the air, a subtle shift in the shadows around him… it was deeply unsettling.
The Hōgyoku pulsed faintly against his skin. It was teaching him, feeding him knowledge from his past life, merging it with the new. Kidō spells, the esoteric arts of the Shinigami, were re-emerging in his mind, the incantations bubbling to the surface. He couldn't use them, not yet. His infant body lacked the spiritual pressure, the reiryoku, to manifest them. But the knowledge was there.
His greensight, amplified and refined by the Hōgyoku, became his primary tool of observation and manipulation. He saw the intricate web of Valyrian politics, the shifting alliances, the hidden betrayals. He saw the arrogance, the complacency, the rot at the core of the Freehold's power. They played with forces they believed they controlled, blind to the abyss yawning beneath them.
He saw the Fourteen Flames, the volcanic mountain range that was the heart of Valyrian power, growing increasingly unstable. He saw the earth trembling, the magma churning, the pressure building. He saw the fear in the slaves who toiled deep within the mines, a fear ignored by their masters.
He also saw his mother's quiet strength, her resilience. Lyra, despite her isolation, carved out a small space for herself and her son. She taught him the stories of the First Men, of the Children of the Forest. She tried, in her own way, to instill in him a sense of honor, of duty, that was so alien to Valyrian culture.
Aemond listened, absorbed. He saw the value in her teachings, not for their moral content, but for their strategic implications. Understanding different belief systems, different codes of conduct, was crucial for manipulation. Her Northern heritage, her connection to the "Old Gods," was another facet of this world's magic, different from the fire and blood of Valyria, but potentially useful.
He learned to control his outward displays of precocity. After the "Kurohitsugi" incident, which Lyra had nervously dismissed as baby babble to a concerned Maester, Aemond became more careful. He played the part of a gifted, but not unnaturally so, child. He learned High Valyrian with astonishing speed, pleasing his father. He showed an early affinity for scrolls and maps, devouring information with an insatiable hunger.
His father, seeing this aptitude, began to envision Aemond as a scholar-lord, perhaps a master of Valyrian lore, a useful asset to the Xantys family's political ambitions. Rhaegar had other sons, older, more martially inclined, from a previous Valyrian wife. Aemond, with his strange Stark hair and quiet intensity, was an outlier, but potentially a valuable one.
One day, when Aemond was three, Lyra took him to the small, hidden godswood she had cultivated in a secluded corner of the Xantys estate. It was a pitiful imitation of the vast forests of the North, with a single, pale-barked weirwood sapling she had somehow managed to acquire and nurture in the volcanic soil. Its carved face was crude, the red sap barely trickling from its eyes.
"This is a heart tree, Sōsuke," she said, using his secret name, as she always did when they were alone here. "The Old Gods watch through these trees. They see everything. They remember."
Aemond looked at the tree. His greensight, or whatever it had become under the Hōgyoku's influence, flared. He didn't see gods. He saw a network of energy, ancient, deeply rooted in the planet itself, a consciousness of sorts, but impersonal, vast, and largely indifferent. He saw memories, not just of this small, sad tree, but of all weirwoods, a collective, timeless consciousness.
And he saw something else. He saw how his own greensight connected to this network, how it was a branch of this ancient magic. The Starks, the First Men, they were unknowingly tapping into something far older, far more profound than they realized.
"Do they speak to you, Mother?" he asked, his voice that of a curious child.
Lyra smiled sadly. "Sometimes. In whispers. In dreams. They show me… glimpses. Of what might be." She hesitated. "I saw the Doom, Sōsuke. Years ago, before I even met your father. I saw fire and ruin, the end of all this." She gestured vaguely at the opulent city beyond their walls. "No one believes me."
Aemond reached out and touched the cool bark of the weirwood. "I believe you, Mother."
His Hōgyoku-enhanced vision showed him her future with stark clarity. She would not survive the Doom. She would try to flee, to take him with her, but it would be too late. Her attempts to warn others would be met with scorn and disbelief. Her Northern practicality, her connection to a different kind of magic, made her an outsider, a Cassandra figure.
A flicker of something, an unfamiliar emotion, stirred within him. It wasn't love, not in the conventional sense. It was… appreciation. Lyra Stark was a unique individual. Her resilience, her adherence to her own code in the face of overwhelming societal pressure, was remarkable. Her greensight, however unrefined, was genuine. She was, in her own way, strong.
But her strength would not save her. And he would not intervene. Her death, like the deaths of millions in the coming Doom, was a necessary event. A source of souls.
He needed to prepare. The Hōgyoku was slowly, subtly altering his infant physiology, preparing it for the immense power he intended to absorb. He could feel it, a faint thrumming in his very cells, a restructuring at a level beyond the mundane. He needed knowledge, not just of Valyrian magic, but of deeper, more fundamental forces.
He began to spend hours in the Xantys library, a vast repository of scrolls and codices. The Maesters, impressed by his thirst for knowledge and his father's patronage, allowed him access to even the restricted sections, believing him to be a harmless, precocious child.
He devoured texts on Valyrian history, dragonlore, blood magic, fire sorcery, the properties of Valyrian steel, the construction of their fused-stone fortresses. He learned of the shadowbinders of Asshai, of the warlocks of Qarth, of the strange, potent magics that lay hidden in the far corners of this world.
His greensight allowed him to see the flaws in the Valyrian understanding of their own magic. They were arrogant, believing themselves masters of forces they only partially comprehended. Their blood magic, while potent, was crude, relying on sacrifice and domination rather than true understanding. Their fire magic was powerful but volatile, a reflection of their own impulsive natures.
He saw the interconnectedness of all things, the way spiritual energy – souls – flowed and coalesced. He saw how emotions – fear, despair, hatred, love – could amplify this energy. War, conflict, catastrophe… these were crucibles that forged potent spiritual power.
The Doom of Valyria would be the ultimate crucible.
And he, Aemond Xantys, the reborn Aizen Sōsuke, would be there to collect the spoils.
He would need a dragon. Not just any dragon, but one that could serve his purposes, one that could be a symbol, a weapon, and a tool. His greensight showed him the dragon hatcheries, the wild dragons of the Fourteen Flames, the bonds between rider and beast.
When he was five, his father, pleased with his scholarly progress and perhaps eager to instill some Valyrian martial pride in his "Stark-haired" son, took him to the Xantys dragon pens. The air thrummed with heat and the reptilian scent of the great beasts. Dragons of all sizes and colors lounged in volcanic caverns, their scales glittering like jewels, their roars shaking the very foundations of the earth.
Rhaegar presented him to a clutch of newly hatched dragons. Small, fierce, hissing creatures, their eyes like molten gold. "Choose one, Aemond," Rhaegar said, a rare hint of paternal pride in his voice. "The bond you forge now will last a lifetime."
Aemond looked at the hatchlings. He saw their potential, their power, their inherent savagery. But he also saw their limitations. They were beasts, however magnificent. Their loyalty was to their rider, their power tied to Valyrian blood magic.
His gaze drifted past them, towards a darker, more secluded cavern. The dragon keepers tried to steer him away. "Not that one, my Lord Aemond. He is… volatile. Untamable. From a wild clutch found near the heart of the Fourteen Flames. He has already killed two handlers."
Curiosity, or something akin to it, drew Aemond forward. Lyra, who had accompanied them, watched with a knot of anxiety in her stomach.
From the shadows of the cavern, two eyes like burning emeralds fixed on him. A low growl, like the grinding of tectonic plates, rumbled forth. This dragon was larger than the hatchlings, though still young, perhaps a year or two old. Its scales were the color of night, with streaks of vivid, sickly green that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural light. It was lean, almost gaunt, but its power was undeniable, a coiled serpent of contained fury.
Rhaegar frowned. "This is Vhagarion, named in jest after the Conqueror's beast for his ill temper. He is too wild. Choose another."
But Aemond was captivated. His greensight, or rather, his Hōgyoku-enhanced perception, saw something in this dragon that the others lacked. It wasn't just raw power. There was a spark of something else, a nascent intelligence, a profound resentment, a connection to the very volcanic instability that would eventually consume Valyria. This dragon was an outsider, like him. It was touched by the shadow of the Doom.
And, most importantly, he saw that its spiritual energy was… different. More chaotic, more potent, less constrained by the traditional Valyrian bonds.
"This one," Aemond said, his voice calm, resolute.
The dragon keepers gasped. Rhaegar looked annoyed. "Aemond, be reasonable. This beast is dangerous."
"All dragons are dangerous, Father," Aemond replied, his dark eyes meeting Rhaegar's violet ones. "Power that is not dangerous is not power at all."
It was a sentiment that resonated with the core of Valyrian philosophy, and Rhaegar found himself momentarily taken aback by the boy's audacity.
Aemond stepped closer to the cavern, ignoring Lyra's soft gasp of warning. The green-black dragon, Vhagarion, lowered its head, smoke curling from its nostrils, its emerald eyes never leaving Aemond.
He didn't try to touch it. He didn't murmur Valyrian commands. He simply stood there, meeting its gaze, and projected a single, clear thought, amplified by the Hōgyoku: You are different. So am I. We will watch this world burn together.
The dragon's growl softened, replaced by a curious, guttural hiss. It tilted its head, its intelligent eyes studying the small boy before it. For a long moment, neither moved. Then, Vhagarion let out a short, sharp exhalation of smoke and took a hesitant step forward, out of the shadows.
It did not bow. It did not submit. But it acknowledged him.
Lyra felt a shiver run down her spine. The connection between her son and this terrifying, wild dragon was palpable, an eerie, silent understanding that transcended the normal bonds of dragon and rider. She saw a flash of green fire, of dark wings against a blood-red sky, of her son's pale face, his dark eyes burning with an unholy light.
The Doom was coming. And her son, her Sōsuke, would not be a victim. He would be… something else. Something terrifying.
Over the next few years, Aemond's bond with Vhagarion deepened, though it was unlike any other in Valyria. He didn't "tame" the dragon in the traditional sense. Theirs was a partnership of convenience, of shared otherness. Vhagarion remained wild, unpredictable to others, but to Aemond, he was a kindred spirit, a reflection of the simmering chaos he intended to unleash and then master.
Aemond continued his studies, his intellect a gaping maw that consumed all knowledge. He delved into the forbidden arts, the texts on soul manipulation, on the transference of life energy, on the creation of artificial spirits – concepts that resonated deeply with his past life's research into Hollows and Arrancars. The Hōgyoku guided him, subtly illuminating passages, connecting disparate pieces of lore, awakening dormant memories of his own vast scientific and spiritual knowledge.
He learned of the Valyrian practice of binding lesser spirits to serve as sentinels or power sources, a crude but intriguing application of spiritual mechanics. He saw how their blood magic, while effective, created unstable, often self-destructive, concentrations of power.
His greensight showed him the growing unrest among the slave populations, the simmering resentment in the lesser Valyrian families, the increasing arrogance and paranoia of the great Dragon Lords. The Freehold was a magnificent edifice built on a crumbling foundation, its inhabitants too blinded by their own light to see the encroaching darkness.
He was ten years old when he first consciously used the Hōgyoku's power for a purpose beyond enhancing his senses or internal development. One of his father's political rivals, a particularly ambitious and cruel lord named Aurion Vaelaros, had begun to cast suspicious eyes on the Xantys family, and specifically on Lyra, whose foreignness made her an easy target for xenophobic accusations.
Aemond, through his greensight, saw Vaelaros plotting to accuse Lyra of practicing dark, foreign magics – a common enough charge in the increasingly paranoid atmosphere of Valyria. He saw her arrest, her sham trial, her execution. An inconvenience. Her death was foretold for the Doom, not before. Her premature demise would disrupt his carefully laid, albeit nascent, plans.
He needed Vaelaros removed, but not in a way that would draw attention to himself or his family.
One night, Aemond sat in his chambers, the Hōgyoku held loosely in his small hand. Vhagarion, now large enough to be a formidable presence, though not yet fully grown, lay curled around the private courtyard attached to Aemond's rooms, his emerald eyes watching his young master.
Aemond focused on Aurion Vaelaros. He envisioned the man's deepest fear, a secret terror of a particularly virulent form of grayscale that had claimed his younger sister. Aemond didn't need to cast a spell, not in the Valyrian sense. He simply… wished it. He poured his intent, his will, into the Hōgyoku, visualizing Vaelaros's fear manifesting, the dormant spores of the disease that were everywhere in Essos taking root in the man's magically-weakened constitution.
It was a subtle manipulation, a nudge to reality. The Hōgyoku pulsed warmly in his hand, a silent affirmation.
Within a week, Aurion Vaelaros fell ill. The Maesters were baffled. It was an aggressive, atypical form of grayscale, consuming him with terrifying speed. Whispers spread that it was a curse, a judgment for his hubris. Within a month, Lord Vaelaros was dead, his skin like cracked stone, his ambitions turned to ash.
No one suspected Aemond. He was just a child, a quiet, scholarly boy. Rhaegar Xantys, while relieved by his rival's demise, attributed it to the gods or some unknown enemy. Lyra, however, felt a cold dread. She had seen the look in Aemond's eyes when Vaelaros's illness was first announced – a distant, calculating look, devoid of any childish emotion.
She held him close that night, the scent of winter and weirwood clinging to her, a stark contrast to the sulfur and obsidian of their Valyrian home. "Sōsuke," she whispered, her voice strained, "what are you becoming?"
Aemond merely looked up at her, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. "I am becoming what this world requires, Mother."
The Hōgyoku, hidden beneath his tunic, thrummed softly, a promise of power, of transcendence, of a future painted in fire and shadow, a future where gods walked among the ruins of empires, and souls were the currency of ultimate power. The Doom was drawing nearer, and Aizen Sōsuke, reborn as Aemond Xantys, was ready to begin his ascension. The shadow of the dragon lord was long, but the whispers of a far more ancient, far more terrifying power were beginning to stir. Valyria would be his crucible, its destruction, his apotheosis.