Chapter 1: A Reckoning of Souls and Sorcery
The transition was not one of gentle awakening, but a violent wrenching, a撕裂 (sī liè - tearing) of consciousness from the cold, indifferent void into a cacophony of sensation. One moment, there was only the echoing regret of a death born from hubris, a chilling realization of mortality that had come far too late. The next, there was the sticky warmth of blood, the jarring impact of a fall, and the primal scream that clawed its way from a throat not yet accustomed to sound.
He lay there, a newborn babe, amidst the opulent silks and furs of a Valyrian noble's birthing chamber. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and birthing herbs, a stark contrast to the sterile emptiness he had just departed. His mind, however, was anything but infantile. It was a maelstrom, a chaotic fusion of three distinct, yet terrifyingly powerful, personas.
There was the dominant echo, the chilling intellect and boundless ambition of Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord who had once brought magical Britain to its knees. The raw, searing memory of his own audacious folly, his belief in his own invincibility that had led to his ultimate demise at the hands of a mere boy, was a freshly bleeding wound. The shame and fury of it were potent, but beneath them lay a newfound, ice-cold caution. Never again would he underestimate an opponent. Never again would he allow pride to cloud his judgment. He had registered that lesson in the very fabric of his being, a brand upon his soul more permanent than any Dark Mark.
Woven into this dark tapestry was the ancient, vast knowledge of Nicolas Flamel, the alchemist who had cheated death for centuries. The intricate secrets of transmutation, the delicate art of brewing the Elixir of Life, the profound understanding of both benevolent and malevolent magic – it was all there, a library of arcane wisdom now at his disposal. Flamel's weariness, his eventual acceptance of mortality, was a faint counterpoint to Voldemort's burning desire to conquer it, yet the combined knowledge offered a path to an existence far more enduring and subtle than Voldemort, in his arrogance, had ever conceived.
And then there was the nascent consciousness of the infant himself – Aelyx Velaryon, a name that resonated with the ancient power of the Dragonlords of Valyria. Fragments of this new life, primal instincts and a bewildering flood of alien sensations, fought for purchase amidst the overwhelming weight of the two elder souls. His father, a proud dragonlord of House Velaryon, a family of significant standing though not amongst the forty most powerful, his mother… a whisper of the North, a Stark, a lineage that carried its own ancient, wild magic. This last fact sent a peculiar tremor through the amalgamated consciousness – a flicker of greensight, a faint, unsettling awareness of a future draped in ice and fire.
His tiny fists clenched. The helplessness of infancy was a galling prison, yet it was also a shield. No one would suspect the mind that churned within this fragile vessel. He had time. Time to plan. Time to adapt. Time to ensure that this life would not end in a blaze of self-inflicted destruction.
The immediate priority was survival, not just of the body, but of the incredible, impossible arsenal he now possessed. With a monumental effort of will, Voldemort's practiced Occlumency slammed down, shielding the turbulent thoughts, partitioning the vast magical knowledge from the prying, if unintentional, probes of this world's magic users – should any exist with such subtle arts. He could already feel the ambient magic of this place, wilder, more elemental than the structured currents of his previous world. It thrummed with a raw, volcanic energy, the lifeblood of the Valyrian peninsula.
His gaze, unfocused as a newborn's should be, swept the room. He registered the relieved, exhausted face of his mother, Lyra Stark, her dark hair plastered to her sweat-slicked brow, her grey eyes, so out of place in this Valyrian setting, holding a fierce, protective love. He felt a pang, an alien emotion that was neither Voldemort's cold possessiveness nor Flamel's gentle affection, but something new, something rooted in this infant form. It was… unsettling. He would need to dissect that later.
His father, Aerion Velaryon, a man with the classic silver-gold hair and violet eyes of Valyria, was beaming, his relief palpable. He spoke in High Valyrian, the words flowing like molten silver, a language Voldemort's mind, with its prodigious capacity for languages, began to absorb and catalogue with astonishing speed.
The room also contained several servants, their movements hushed and deferential. And then, with a subtle shift in perception, he felt them. Not with his eyes, but with an extension of his soul. Bound. Loyal. Waiting.
The house-elves.
Deep within the recesses of his mind, he knew they were secure. Before the final, fatal confrontation with Potter, in a moment of uncharacteristic foresight spurred by a nagging premonition, Voldemort had ensured the survival of a sliver of his power, a contingency. He had performed a complex piece of soul magic, binding the ten loyal house-elves – Mipsy, Tibbit, Kreely, Gorok, Fimble, Winky (a different, more fiercely loyal Winky than the one who had served Crouch), Barnaby, Elara, Pip, and Grumbles – not to a place, but to his very essence. Should he fall, they were to transport his most precious possessions to a secure location he had prepared, a hidden vault outside the reach of his enemies. And now, impossibly, they were here, anchored to his soul in this new world.
And with them… the trunk. Not just any trunk, but a marvel of spatial manipulation, its interior a veritable labyrinth of expanded chambers. Voldemort, for all his disdain for 'lesser' beings, had appreciated the utility of house-elf magic and the unique properties of magically expanded spaces.
Within that trunk, nestled safely, were treasures that would make kings and sorcerers alike weep with envy. The Philosopher's Stone, Flamel's masterpiece, radiating a gentle warmth that promised life and limitless wealth. The Deathly Hallows – the Elder Wand, currently a mere concept as he lacked the physical means to wield it, but its power resonated within him, a familiar thrumming hum; the Resurrection Stone, a cold, mournful weight, its allure a dangerous siren song he knew to resist; and the Cloak of Invisibility, a whisper of shadow and silence. And, perhaps most astonishingly, two Phoenix eggs, vibrant crimson and gold, pulsing with nascent life, a gift Flamel had procured centuries ago, hoping to study their regenerative properties. Voldemort had coveted them for their potential in dark rituals; Flamel had simply cherished their beauty and rarity. Now, they were Aelyx's.
A wave of profound satisfaction, cold and sharp, cut through him. Voldemort's caution was paramount, but his ambition, though redirected, was not extinguished. It had simply found a new, more refined focus. Not world domination – that path was littered with fools and ended in oblivion. No, his ambition now was singular, absolute: the creation of an inviolable sanctuary, a hidden dynasty of magical might, populated by his descendants, all inheritors of the unique magical legacy he now embodied. They would be wizards and witches of a new line, their blood carrying the potent blend of Voldemort's dark power, Flamel's ancient wisdom, and perhaps, even the wild magic of this new world. They would be dragon riders, for this was Valyria, the heartland of dragons, and he, Aelyx Velaryon, was born to it.
The thought of dragons sent another shiver through him, this one of avaricious excitement. Dragon eggs. He would acquire them. As many as he could. By purchase, by stealth, by any means necessary. The Doom of Valyria, a cataclysm he knew was looming some two decades in the future from the fragmented historical knowledge Flamel possessed of various worlds (though Valyria itself was a shocking, exhilarating discovery), would be a tragedy for this arrogant empire, but an opportunity for him. An opportunity to gather power, to gather souls.
The Philosopher's Stone. Flamel had used it modestly, extending his life and that of his wife, Perenelle. Voldemort, with his fragmented soul, had craved it for a true, unbreakable immortality. Now, Aelyx Velaryon, with a whole soul (albeit one bearing the indelible imprints of others), saw its true potential. The Stone thrived on powerful emotions, on life force, on souls. The destruction of an entire civilization, the sheer psychic anguish and death… it would be a feast. He could strengthen the Stone beyond anything Flamel had ever imagined, making its Elixir potent enough to grant true, unending life not just to himself and his core family, but to their dragons as well. Immortal dragon-riding wizards, hidden from the squabbles of petty kings and lords. A legacy to last eons.
His mother cooed, her finger gently tracing his cheek. He forced a gurgle, a reflexive infant response. The deception had begun.
Over the next few years, Aelyx was the model Valyrian scion, at least outwardly. He learned High Valyrian with astonishing speed, his first words clear and precise, much to the delight of his father. He was a quiet, observant child, his violet eyes, a shade deeper than his father's, missing nothing. The Stark grey from his mother was recessive, it seemed, in this Valyrian heritage, though he felt the Northern bloodline stir within him at odd moments.
The greensight was a disorienting, fragmented tapestry of potential futures. Whispers of ice, of a long night, of blue-eyed horrors from the uttermost north. Images of fire, of dragons dancing a deadly ballet of destruction, of a golden king brought low. He learned to navigate these fleeting glimpses, to sift the probable from the merely possible. It was a powerful tool, one that reinforced his innate caution. The future was not fixed; it was a river with many currents, and he, with his foreknowledge, could navigate it, perhaps even divert its course where it concerned his own carefully laid plans.
The warging ability came later, a subtle connection to the creatures around him. It started with the household pets, the graceful, six-limbed firewyrms that were common in Valyrian homes, their inner flames a source of warmth and light. He could feel their simple thoughts, their primal urges. It was a nascent power, one he knew he must cultivate in secret. Warging into a dragon… the thought was intoxicating.
His thirst for knowledge was insatiable. Valyrian education was rigorous, focusing on history, lineage, rhetoric, and the control of dragons – a privilege for those of high birth. He absorbed it all, but his true interest lay in the hidden, the forbidden. Valyria was a crucible of magic, much of it blood magic, fire magic, sorcery tied to the Fourteen Flames, the colossal volcanoes that ringed the peninsula. He heard whispers of ancient texts, of grimoires locked away in the deepest vaults of the great families, of rituals that could reshape reality.
Voldemort's cunning was invaluable. Aelyx learned to feign disinterest in the more esoteric arts when in the presence of his tutors, asking just enough questions to seem curious but not overly ambitious. He cultivated an image of a dutiful, intelligent, but ultimately conventional young nobleman. His true studies happened in the dead of night, within the shielded confines of his mind, poring over the vast library of Voldemort and Flamel.
He practiced Occlumency relentlessly, building impenetrable walls around his thoughts. Legilimency, too, he honed, subtly brushing against the minds of servants, tutors, even his parents, gleaning information, assessing threats, learning the delicate dance of Valyrian politics – a viper's nest of shifting alliances and deadly rivalries.
His house-elves were his invisible hands. Under the strictest mental commands, shielded by his own formidable Occlumency so no stray thoughts of their true nature could be intercepted, they began their work. Mipsy, with her knack for organization, cataloged every book, every scroll in the Velaryon family library, creating mental summaries for Aelyx. Tibbit, nimble and silent, began to explore the city of Valyria itself, mapping its secret passages, its hidden places, always under the magical effect of appearing as a common Valyrian street urchin if ever glimpsed, a glamour Aelyx wove with Flamel's subtle art and Voldemort's power.
The Philosopher's Stone remained hidden, deep within the magically expanded trunk, itself concealed in a secret compartment within Aelyx's chambers, a space only he and his house-elves could access. He did not yet dare to use it for transmutation. Gold was plentiful in Valyria, and any unusual influx might attract unwanted attention. For now, its primary purpose was the slow, steady production of the Elixir of Life. He took a minuscule drop each day, not enough for true immortality yet, but sufficient to enhance his vitality, his mental acuity, and to accelerate his body's growth subtly, making him appear robust and healthy.
The phoenix eggs were a source of constant fascination. He could feel their life force, a pure, cleansing fire. He knew they would hatch when the time was right, when he was ready. Their tears, he recalled, had potent healing properties, a useful counter to any dark magic he might encounter or, indeed, employ.
His first true foray into acquiring what he desired came at the age of seven. His father, Aerion, was a traditional Valyrian, proud of his lineage and his family's modest clutch of three dragons – not the largest beasts, but respectable. One of them, a bronze female named Veridian, had recently laid a clutch of three eggs. Such eggs were beyond precious, the future of any Dragonlord house.
Aelyx knew stealing an egg from his own father was out of the question, too risky, too disruptive to his carefully constructed persona. But it solidified his resolve. He needed more. He needed his own.
He began to subtly influence his father, using carefully worded questions, feigning a child's innocent curiosity about the wider world, about the lesser dragonlord families, about those who might be… less fortunate, perhaps willing to part with an egg for the right price. Voldemort's persuasive abilities, honed over decades of manipulating followers and foes alike, were now cloaked in childish innocence.
"Father," he asked one evening, as Aerion was recounting tales of the Valyrian Freehold's grandeur, "are all Dragonlords as… as magnificent as House Velaryon?"
Aerion chuckled, ruffling Aelyx's silver-gold hair. "We hold our own, my son. But there are families, newer or less favored by fortune, who struggle. Dragon breeding is a costly affair. Sometimes, clutches are small, or eggs fail to hatch."
"Could someone… buy a dragon egg, Father?" Aelyx pressed, his violet eyes wide.
Aerion frowned slightly. "It is not… common. An egg is a House's future. To sell one is a sign of desperation. Or, perhaps, a strategic alliance. Why do you ask such questions, Aelyx?"
"I dream of dragons, Father," Aelyx said, injecting a wistful, childish longing into his voice. "So many dragons. More than we have."
His father smiled, a touch of pride in his eyes. "You have the fire in your blood, boy. Good. One day, you will claim your own mount. Perhaps Veridian's next clutch will hold a dragon for you."
Aelyx nodded, but his mind was already racing. Desperation. That was a key. He would find desperate Dragonlords. Or those foolish enough to be parted from their treasures. The Doom was still thirteen years away. Time enough to begin his collection.
He also began to subtly probe for information about Skagos. His Stark mother, Lyra, rarely spoke of her northern homeland. Her marriage to Aerion Velaryon had been a political arrangement, a rare and somewhat scandalous union between the icy North and fiery Valyria, meant to foster tentative trade links and an exchange of… curiosities. Lyra had been one such curiosity, her wild northern beauty and rumored connection to the old gods a source of exotic fascination for Aerion. For her part, she seemed to have embraced her new life, or at least resigned herself to it, though a deep melancholy often shadowed her grey eyes.
"Mother," Aelyx asked one day, finding her gazing out towards the smoking peaks of the Fourteen Flames, a distant, longing look on her face. "Tell me of your home. Of the North."
Lyra Stark started, her gaze returning to her son. A rare, soft smile touched her lips. "It is… different from Valyria, my little dragon. Cold, vast. Land of snow and ancient forests, of honor and hardship."
"Are there magics there, Mother? Like Valyria has?"
She hesitated. "The Old Gods of the Forest watch over us. Some are said to hear their whispers in the rustling leaves, to see through the eyes of the beasts. They call it the greensight, or… skinchanging. But it is a wild magic, not like the grand sorceries of your father's people."
Aelyx feigned childish awe. Greensight. Warging. He had felt their stirrings. His mother's blood was a potent inheritance indeed.
"Is there a place in the North… wilder than others? More… secluded?" he pressed gently.
Lyra looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "There are many such places. The lands beyond the Wall, they say. And islands… Skagos, for one. A harsh, stony place, rumored to be home to cannibals and unicorns. A place where even the Kings of Winter tread lightly."
Skagos. The name resonated. Remote. Feared. Perfect. It was a long-term plan, but the seed was sown. A future seat of power, far from the intrigues of the south, a place where his hidden dynasty could flourish. He would need a public face, of course. A noble house, sworn to House Stark, leveraging his maternal lineage. House… He would devise a name later, something that spoke of shadow and strength.
For now, Valyria was his stage. He was Aelyx Velaryon, a child of dragons, his mind a fortress of ancient knowledge and ruthless ambition. He walked a knife's edge, the innocence of youth his disguise, the wisdom of ages his guide, and the chilling memory of a past failure his constant, unwavering sentinel. The game had begun anew, and this time, he would not be outplayed. He would collect his pieces – dragons, magic, loyal followers – and build an empire that would never fall, hidden in plain sight, eternal and untouchable. The Doom would come, and he would be ready to reap its fiery harvest.