Chapter 3: Shadows, Whispers, and a Sanctuary's Dawn
The hatching of Umbrax sent ripples through the Vaelaros household and beyond. To coax life from an egg long considered petrified was a feat that bordered on the miraculous, even by Valyrian standards. Whispers followed Aerion now, no longer just of his Stark-green eyes or his quiet intensity, but of a potent, uncanny affinity with dragonkind, perhaps even a touch of what the more superstitious Valyrians called 'deep magic'. Maelys Vaelaros found himself observing his son with a disquieting mix of paternal pride and an almost primal apprehension. Aerion was exceeding all expectations, but in a way that felt alien to the straightforward, fiery traditions of their bloodline.
For Aerion, Umbrax was another carefully cultivated asset, a different instrument in his growing orchestra of power. If Veridian was the embodiment of jade brilliance and regal command, Umbrax, from his first shaky steps, was a creature of shadow and silence. His scales, the color of volcanic glass with faint flickers of deep crimson like embers within, allowed him to blend seamlessly into the dimly lit caverns of their expanded lair. He grew rapidly, though not with Veridian's sheer explosive vitality. His was a more insidious growth, a coiling strength. His fire, when it came, was not the bright orange torrent of most young dragons, but a concentrated jet of near-black flame that burned with an unnerving intensity, leaving behind vitrified rock rather than mere scorch marks.
Aerion's training methods for Umbrax were unorthodox. While Veridian soared in the open sky, a queen surveying her domain, Umbrax learned to navigate the labyrinthine tunnels Aerion had subtly expanded beneath the Vaelaros estate using focused bursts of his unique fire and Veridian's brute strength, sometimes even spells of stone-shaping Aerion cast when no eyes were upon them. Aerion used his warging ability, now considerably refined, to share Umbrax's senses, guiding him through pitch-black passages, teaching him to hunt the giant cave lizards and monstrous insects that lurked in the depths. He fostered Umbrax's natural stealth, his ability to move like a whisper despite his growing bulk. Veridian, now a magnificent beast easily capable of carrying Aerion into battle should he wish, often watched these sessions with her intelligent golden eyes, a silent, powerful guardian. She seemed to understand that Umbrax was different, and her interactions with the younger dragon were surprisingly gentle, almost instructive.
"He is a creature of the deep places," Aerion explained to his father, who had come to observe one of their subterranean training sessions, his face illuminated by the eerie glow of Umbrax's controlled flame. "Valyria has its roots in fire and shadow. He will know both."
Maelys merely grunted, though his gaze lingered on the way Umbrax responded to Aerion's soft-spoken Valyrian commands, commands often augmented by unspoken mental nudges that only the dragons perceived. "Two dragons before your twentieth year. Your grandfather would have been… impressed. And wary."
Aerion spent his days outwardly fulfilling the duties of a Dragonlord's heir, attending council meetings with his father, participating in the ceremonial flights that demonstrated Valyrian power, and engaging in the complex social dances of the elite. His reputation as 'Aerion the Uncanny' or sometimes 'Aerion Green-Eyes' was solidifying. He was known for his sharp intellect, his quiet confidence, and the almost preternatural bond he shared with his two disparate dragons. Other young Dragonlords, initially dismissive, now treated him with a cautious respect, some even seeking his counsel on matters of dragonlore, which he dispensed with carefully measured wisdom.
But his true life unfolded in the secrecy of his warded chambers and the ever-expanding lair he now considered his private sanctum. The Elder Wand, still disguised, became an indispensable tool for his more ambitious magical workings. He delved into the most obscure Valyrian texts he could acquire, often 'borrowing' them from other households during nocturnal visits under his Cloak of Invisibility. He learned of ancient pacts, of blood sacrifices that fueled the Fourteen Flames, of the very geological instability upon which Valyria's power was so precariously built. Voldemort's mind thrilled at the scale of it, the sheer audacity of a civilization built atop a slumbering titan of fire, while Flamel's meticulous intellect cataloged the warning signs, the resonant frequencies of impending doom.
He began to experiment with merging Valyrian blood magic with the more structured enchantments of the Harry Potter world. He found that Valyrian rituals for imbuing objects with power could be vastly amplified and controlled using specific charms and runes. He started crafting small artifacts – communication amulets that worked over short distances, wards that reacted to specific magical signatures, even a prototype of a self-heating cauldron for potion-making, using Flamel's alchemical knowledge and Valyrian fire-resistant materials. These were all kept hidden, of course, tools for his future.
His warging ability extended further. He could now slip into the minds of the great sea eagles that nested on the coastal cliffs, using them to scout the Valyrian peninsula and the surrounding seas for leagues. Through their keen eyes, he observed the shipping lanes, the patrols of other Dragonlords, the wild, untamed islands that dotted the Smoking Sea. He was searching, always searching, for anything that might be useful: rumors of other lost dragon eggs, hidden coves suitable for secret landings, or unusual magical signatures.
His greensight remained his most cryptic and vital guide. The visions of the Doom were a constant, a horrifying tapestry of fire and annihilation. But other images flickered through: a hidden bay on the northern coast of Skagos, a peculiar ring of standing stones on one of its desolate moors that hummed with ancient, cold magic, the faces of children yet unborn who would share his green eyes and his unique magical heritage. These visions fueled his meticulous planning for the sanctuary.
Skagos. It was no longer a vague notion but a concrete destination. He learned all he could about it from Valyrian charts and traders' dismissive tales. A land of harsh winters, stone-fanged mountains, and fiercely independent, savage inhabitants. The Valyrians considered it beneath notice, a primitive backwater. To Aerion, it sounded like paradise – remote, defensible, and rich in the kind of raw, untamed magic that Voldemort had always known how to harness. He began to compile lists: flora and fauna he would need to introduce (magical and mundane), architectural designs for a hidden stronghold fused into the mountainside, defensive wards that would make it invisible and impregnable. He even began to collect seeds – not just from Valyria, but also remembering the contents of his magically extended trunk, which held a small, precious collection of magical plant seeds from the grounds of Hogwarts and Flamel's own gardens. These he kept carefully preserved, hoping to cultivate them in his future haven.
The Philosopher's Stone continued its silent work. Aerion used its transmutative properties not just for gold, but for creating perfect, untraceable gems which he traded for rare spell components, ancient maps, and sometimes, information. He was building a network, not of followers, but of assets: a disgruntled Loremaster with access to forbidden scrolls, a skilled shipwright with a gambling problem, a sharp-eared slave girl in a rival Dragonlord's household. He never revealed his true power, only offering 'good fortune' or 'wise investments' that always paid off, earning their gratitude and loyalty.
One evening, his father summoned him to his private study. Maelys Vaelaros looked older, the lines on his face deeper.
"Aerion," he began, his voice heavy. "There is talk in the Conclave. The disputes between House Belaerys and House Targaryen grow more heated. They squabble over mining rights in the northern range, but it is pride, always pride. Some fear it will lead to open conflict."
Aerion listened impassively. Such internal strife was common in Valyria, the arrogance of the Dragonlords often leading to petty wars. Usually, they were short and brutal, a rebalancing of power.
"These are dangerous times to show division," Maelys continued, eyeing his son. "Your… unique successes have drawn attention. Some see strength in House Vaelaros. Others see… an unpredictable element."
"And what do you see, Father?" Aerion asked, his voice neutral.
Maelys sighed, a rare display of weariness. "I see a son who commands two dragons with an ease I have never witnessed. A son whose counsel is sought by those twice his age. But I also see a son who keeps his own counsel too well. Valyria demands loyalty, Aerion. Unquestioning loyalty to the whole, to the blood of the Freehold."
A loyalty to a corpse, though it doesn't yet know it's dead, Aerion thought. Aloud, he said, "My loyalty is to the strength and continuation of House Vaelaros, Father. And a strong Vaelaros contributes to a strong Valyria." A carefully crafted, ambiguous truth.
Maelys nodded slowly. "See that it remains so. Some wonder if your Stark blood makes you… detached from our core."
"My Stark blood gives me a different perspective, perhaps," Aerion allowed. "But my heart is Valyrian. My dragons are Valyrian fire." Another carefully constructed lie. His heart was his own, forged in two lifetimes of ambition and survival.
The encounter solidified Aerion's resolve to accelerate certain preparations. The political climate was deteriorating, the arrogance of the Dragonlords blinding them to the true dangers that lay beneath their feet, within the very volcanoes that fueled their power. His greensight showed him flashes of these disputes escalating, further weakening Valyria from within before the final, cataclysmic blow.
He focused on a new project: creating a series of powerful, undetectable portkeys. Not the crude, often unreliable devices sometimes used in Valyria, but stable, precise artifacts based on Voldemort's advanced understanding of apparition and spatial manipulation, empowered by the Elder Wand. He needed a way to transport not just himself and his dragons, but potentially vast quantities of resources – texts, artifacts, seeds, even a core group of loyal, skilled individuals if he found any truly worthy – to Skagos when the time came. He experimented in the deepest, most heavily warded sections of his lair, using inert objects first, then small animals, sending them to precise, predetermined (and magically surveyed via warged eagles) locations on desolate nearby islands, then retrieving them. The energy drain was immense, even with the Elder Wand, but the results were promising.
His quest for dragon eggs had not ceased. The success with Umbrax had, if anything, made him more determined. He now had two dragons bound to his will, his magic subtly altering their very nature, making them more intelligent, more attuned to him than any normal Valyrian dragon. He envisioned a legion of such creatures. He followed a faint rumor, gleaned from a drunken merchant captain indebted to him, of a volcanic island far to the south, in the Smoking Sea, an island shunned even by Valyrians, where a clutch of wild dragon eggs were said to lie in a geothermal vent, abandoned after a rogue dragon was killed by a rival.
This was too risky for a direct visit, even for him. Instead, he employed his most advanced warging. He found a powerful, old sea eagle, one with exceptional stamina. For days, he projected his consciousness into the bird, guiding it south, over boiling seas and islands shrouded in volcanic smog. The journey was arduous, testing the limits of his mental endurance. But finally, through the eagle's eyes, he saw it: a jagged, black island, wreathed in steam, and in a deep caldera, nestled amongst shimmering heat haze, three eggs. They were large, the color of obsidian and blood.
He couldn't retrieve them as an eagle. But he now knew their location. He began to formulate a plan, one that would require meticulous timing, powerful magic, and perhaps, the first true field test of his Valyria-adapted spellcraft and his dragons working in concert under his direct mental command. This would be a long-term project, requiring him to establish a temporary, hidden base closer to the target.
One night, as he meditated before the Philosopher's Stone, its gentle warmth pulsing against his senses, he confronted the darkest aspect of his plan. The Doom of Valyria would unleash an unimaginable wave of death, a torrent of souls ripped from their bodies. Voldemort's essence within him thrilled at the prospect: such raw power could elevate the Stone to godlike potential. Flamel's more humane consciousness recoiled, yet the pragmatic entity that Aerion had become saw it as an unavoidable, almost natural consequence. These souls would be lost anyway, dissipated into the ether. Why not harness that energy for a defined purpose – the eternal protection and prosperity of his own lineage, a new kind of magical dynasty that would preserve knowledge and power that might otherwise be lost?
He wasn't causing the Doom; he was merely preparing to be its most astute scavenger. It was a cold, ruthless calculation, but one that settled in his mind with a chilling sense of inevitability. The Elixir derived from such an empowered Stone would grant not just immortality, but enhanced magical potency, vitality, perhaps even a resistance to the more corrosive aspects of dark magic he knew so well. His descendants would be true lords of magic, their lives spanning millennia, their wisdom and power growing with each passing age, their dragons their eternal companions. This was a legacy worth any price, especially a price paid by an arrogant civilization already condemning itself.
He pictured his hidden council on Skagos: men and women of his blood, their eyes glowing with intelligence and arcane power, their dragons, Veridian's and Umbrax's descendants among them, coiled on obsidian cliffs under a sky filled with the aurora. They would be scholars, mages, warriors, guardians of forgotten lore and creators of new wonders, forever shielded from the petty squabbles of the mundane world. This vision, more than any lust for power Voldemort might have once held, more than any quiet scholarly pursuit Flamel had cherished, became Aerion's driving force.
The years continued to slip by. Aerion was now nineteen, a young man on the cusp of his majority by Valyrian law. Veridian was a colossal beast, her jade scales like armored plates, her intelligence a constant source of wonder and subtle fear to outsiders. Umbrax, though smaller, was a creature of deadly efficiency, his shadow-like movements and intense black fire making him a formidable presence. Aerion had even, on one daring occasion under the cover of a magically induced fog, flown Umbrax near the coast of Westeros, scouting the lands north of the Wall through his dragon's eyes, confirming the desolate, frozen nature of the lands beyond, and the strategic value of Skagos's isolation.
He had found a way to subtly draw upon the ambient magical energy of Valyria's geothermal vents to recharge some of his minor enchanted items, a technique Flamel would have admired for its elegance and Voldemort for its resourcefulness. His network of informants was growing, his hidden wealth accumulating. He had even acquired, through a very discreet and costly transaction, fragments of scrolls purported to be from the lost libraries of the Ghiscari Empire, detailing their ancient sorceries.
The countdown continued. Twenty-two years until the Doom. Aerion felt a grim satisfaction. His pieces were moving into place. Valyria, in its splendor and arrogance, remained oblivious to the abyss yawning at its feet, and to the silent, watchful presence of the young Dragonlord in its midst who planned to inherit its ashes and build a new world from its ruins. He was Aerion Vaelaros, the Last True Sorcerer of Valyria, though none knew it but him, and his age was just beginning.