Chapter 4: Fire, Shadow, and the Dragon's Clutch
The three eggs in the Smoking Sea caldera became an obsession for Aerion. They represented not just an increase in his future draconic arsenal, but a tangible step towards the dynasty he envisioned. Stealing from a wild, unclaimed nest, however dangerous, carried far less political risk than attempting to acquire eggs from another Dragonlord family. The Doom was now a mere twenty years away; the time for audacious, yet meticulously planned, action was upon him. Aerion, now twenty-one, possessed the maturity, the power, and the draconic support to undertake such a venture.
His planning was exhaustive, a symphony of Voldemort's cunning, Flamel's patience, and Aerion's own burgeoning mastery of this world's unique magics. He spent weeks poring over ancient Valyrian sea charts, noting currents, prevailing winds, and, most importantly, areas of intense geothermal activity that might mask their passage or provide temporary refuge. He used his warged sea eagles for constant reconnaissance, mapping the desolate island in the Smoking Sea with an accuracy no Valyrian chart possessed, noting its treacherous volcanic vents, the sulphuric fogs, and the territorial, ill-tempered fire-wyrms – lesser, non-sentient cousins to dragons – that infested its lower slopes.
His primary challenge was transporting three large, fragile dragon eggs across hundreds of leagues of hostile sea and air. Veridian was powerful enough to carry one, perhaps two with difficulty, but not three, and certainly not while fending off potential threats. Umbrax, while strong and agile, was still significantly smaller than Veridian and better suited for stealth and focused attacks than heavy transport.
This was where Aerion's unique blend of magic came into play. Within the secure, warded depths of his lair, he began the intricate enchantment of a large, reinforced chest he had acquired. It was not simply a matter of an Undetectable Extension Charm, a staple from his past life. He wove Valyrian spells of fire resistance and structural integrity into the wood, runes of lightness and preservation, and then, using the Elder Wand to channel his will, he overlaid it all with a modified, vastly more powerful version of a stasis charm, designed to keep the eggs dormant and protected from turbulence. Finally, he inscribed nearly invisible Valyrian glyphs of unbreakability, fueled by a minuscule drop of his own blood – a touch of dark sacrifice to seal the enchantment. The chest became a marvel of fused magical traditions, light enough for Veridian to carry with relative ease, yet strong enough to withstand almost any conceivable shock.
The journey itself was planned for the cusp of the storm season, when Valyrian air patrols were less frequent and the turbulent skies would offer better cover. He briefed his dragons not with words, but with shared mental images, complex strategies impressed directly upon their consciousness. Veridian, his jade queen, understood her role as protector and primary transport. Umbrax, his shadow Striker, would be his scout, his outrider, his silent weapon.
On a moonless night, under the cloak of a magically summoned sea mist that clung to the Vaelaros estate's cliffside exit to the sea, they departed. Aerion rode Veridian, the enchanted chest securely strapped to her broad back. Umbrax flew ahead, a dark flicker against the darker sky, his senses, amplified by Aerion's warging link, probing the path. They flew low over the churning water of the Smoking Sea, the air thick with sulphur and the distant growl of volcanoes.
The journey took three days, a grueling test of endurance. They rested on desolate volcanic islets, Veridian's bulk often shielded within sea caves Aerion located using his greensight, while Umbrax perched like a gargoyle on high crags, ever watchful. Aerion used his own magic sparingly, conserving his energy for the inevitable confrontation. He sustained himself and, to a lesser extent, his dragons, with concentrated nutrient potions Flamel had perfected, alongside fresh fish snatched from the sea by Veridian.
The target island rose from the ocean like a jagged black tooth, wreathed in perpetual steam. As they approached the caldera, the air grew thick with the stench of brimstone and the aggressive shrieks of fire-wyrms. These were brutish creatures, territorial and fierce, but they were no match for true dragons under the command of a sorcerer.
"Umbrax, clear the lower slopes," Aerion projected, his voice a calm command in the minds of his dragons.
The shadow dragon peeled away, a silent dart of fury. He descended upon the fire-wyrms not with roars and widespread flame, but with targeted bursts of his intensely hot, black fire, disabling them with swift, precise strikes to their vulnerable wing joints or eyes. It was a brutal, efficient slaughter, conducted with chilling precision.
While Umbrax created a perimeter, Veridian, with Aerion on her back, descended carefully into the caldera. The heat was intense, the ground trembling with subterranean forces. And there they were: three magnificent eggs, larger than any he had seen before, nestled in a bed of glowing embers. One was a deep, volcanic red, shot through with veins of gold that pulsed with an inner light. Another was the color of a stormy sea, swirling greys and blues with flecks of silver like lightning. The third was a startling, pure white, like polished marble, radiating a palpable coldness despite the geothermal heat.
Aerion dismounted, the ground hot even through his thick dragonhide boots. He approached the eggs, his senses tingling. These were not just any dragon eggs; they felt ancient, immensely powerful. The Valyrian blood in him sang at their proximity, but the Voldemort/Flamel consciousness recognized something more: a raw, primal magic, barely contained within their shells.
Using heavily enchanted gauntlets, he carefully lifted each egg, one by one, and placed them within the prepared chest. The white egg felt strangely cold, almost burning to the touch with its unnatural chill, a stark contrast to the fiery heat of the others.
As he sealed the chest, a colossal shadow fell over the caldera. A monstrous fire-wyrm matriarch, far larger and more ancient than the others, had emerged from a lava tube, its eyes burning with incandescent rage at the intrusion and the fate of its kin. It dwarfed even Veridian, its scales like obsidian armor, its maw lined with teeth like volcanic shards.
"Veridian! Umbrax! To me!" Aerion's command was instantaneous.
Veridian roared, a challenge that shook the caldera walls, positioning herself between Aerion and the matriarch, the precious chest shielded behind her. Umbrax, having dealt with the lesser threats, arrowed down from above, a streak of black fire aimed at the matriarch's exposed neck.
The battle was furious. The matriarch was a force of nature, spewing torrents of molten rock and snapping with bone-crushing force. But Aerion's dragons were not mere beasts. They fought with intelligence, with coordinated tactics he directed through their mental link. Veridian met the matriarch's brute force with her own, her jade scales deflecting gouts of lava, her powerful jaws seeking purchase. Umbrax was a phantom, harrying the larger creature's flanks, his precise black fire finding chinks in its armor, his movements too swift for the matriarch to counter effectively.
Aerion himself was not idle. Perched on a ledge, the Elder Wand now undisguised in his hand, he unleashed a barrage of spells. Not the easily recognizable curses of his past, but potent concussive blasts, explosive charms that sent shards of rock flying, and severing curses aimed at the matriarch's wing tendons. He wove shields around his dragons, deflected streams of lava with powerful Protego Maxima variants, his green eyes blazing with focused power. This was a raw, elemental battle, magic against primal fury.
Finally, with a concerted blast of black fire from Umbrax that struck its eyes and a devastating neck bite from Veridian, the matriarch shrieked, a sound that was abruptly cut short as its massive head lolled. It crashed to the caldera floor, shaking the island to its core.
Silence descended, broken only by the panting of his dragons and the hiss of steam. Aerion stood, his chest heaving, the thrill of battle – a sensation Voldemort had always relished – coursing through him, yet tempered by Flamel's calm assessment of their status. His dragons were injured, burns and gashes marring their scales, but their wounds were not life-threatening. He himself was exhausted but unharmed.
"Well done, my loyal friends," he whispered, stroking Veridian's bloodied snout, then offering a rare gesture of praise to Umbrax. He quickly administered healing salves he had prepared – potent concoctions of Valyrian herbs and Flamel's alchemical restoratives – to their worst injuries.
The return journey was tense but uneventful. They pushed hard, eager to leave the dangers of the Smoking Sea behind. When they finally slipped back into the hidden sea cave beneath the Vaelaros estate, Aerion felt a profound sense of accomplishment. He had faced a significant trial and emerged victorious, his assets increased, his power proven, at least to himself.
The hatching of the three new eggs, conducted in the utmost secrecy of his deepest lair, was an event of singular importance. He named them with care. The red and gold egg yielded a magnificent male with scales like cooling lava and eyes of molten gold, whom he named Ignis Regis, or 'King's Fire', for his regal bearing and fiery spirit. The stormy grey-blue egg hatched a sleek, fast female with silver eyes like crackling lightning; she became Caelus, 'Sky' or 'Heaven'.
The white egg was the last to hatch, and it did so with no warning, simply cracking open to reveal a dragon unlike any Aerion had ever seen or heard of. It was slender, almost ethereal, its scales a pure, unblemished white that seemed to absorb light, and its eyes were a startling, piercing sapphire blue, radiating an intense cold. When it tentatively unfurled its wings, they were feathered like a bird's, a trait unheard of in Valyrian dragons. It made no sound, merely observing him with an ancient, chilling intelligence. Aerion felt a profound connection to this one, a resonance that was different even from his bond with Veridian. He named it Glacies, 'Ice'. An ice dragon, born in fire. The irony was not lost on him.
With five dragons now bound to his soul, Aerion's vision for the future council took on a more tangible form. Veridian, Umbrax, Ignis Regis, Caelus, and the enigmatic Glacies. Each unique, each powerful. He began to subtly alter their diets, infusing their food with minuscule, carefully calibrated doses of the Elixir of Life, not enough to grant full immortality yet, but to enhance their vitality, their magical resonance, and to begin the slow process of aligning their lifespans with his own future longevity. He observed them closely, noting increased rates of healing, heightened intelligence, and a deeper attunement to his magic.
News of Aerion Vaelaros commanding five dragons, especially after the rumor of the "stone egg" Umbrax, would have been too much, too soon. The three new hatchlings remained his most guarded secret, known only to him, hidden in the deepest, most magically shielded part of his subterranean domain, a place no other soul in Valyria could reach.
Meanwhile, the political situation in Valyria continued to fray. The disputes between the great Dragonlord families became more open, more acrimonious. Maelys grew increasingly grim, attempting to steer House Vaelaros through the treacherous currents. Aerion attended the Conclave meetings with his father, a silent, observant presence. His reputation as "Aerion Green-Eyes," the quiet scholar with an uncanny knack for dragons and an unnervingly calm demeanor, often led others to underestimate him or, conversely, to seek his opinion as a neutral party. He played his role perfectly, offering bland, non-committal advice while his mind cataloged every weakness, every simmering resentment, every crack in the foundation of the Freehold. He even subtly fanned the flames of discord between two particularly arrogant and powerful rival houses through carefully planted rumors via his network, ensuring they were too busy with their own feuds to notice his quiet accumulation of power.
His preparations for Skagos intensified. Using the Elder Wand and a complex array of Valyrian focusing crystals and Harry Potter world runes, he successfully created his first long-range portkey – a simple, unassuming piece of carved weirwood he'd acquired from his mother, who had brought a small piece from her homeland. Its destination: the hidden bay on Skagos his greensight had revealed. He tested it with inanimate objects first, then with small, warded constructs containing samples of Valyrian plants and soil, monitoring their arrival and status through warged arctic foxes native to Skagos, whose minds he could now reach across vast distances, albeit with great effort. It was a slow, painstaking process, laying the magical groundwork for his sanctuary.
He also began a new line of magical research: attempting to replicate the properties of Valyrian steel. Not just to forge weapons, but to understand the blood magic and fire enchantments woven into its creation. Voldemort's knowledge of soul magic and Horcruxes, while a path he would never tread again for himself, gave him a unique insight into how life force and intent could be permanently bound to inanimate objects. He suspected Valyrian steel was more than just strong metal; it was a repository of captured energy, perhaps even faint echoes of the souls used in its forging. If he could understand it, he could potentially create his own magically imbued materials for his sanctuary, materials that would last for eternity.
His internal world was a complex landscape. The Voldemort persona, with its ruthlessness and ambition, was the engine driving his quest for power and security. The Flamel persona provided the wisdom, the patience, the alchemical knowledge, and a broader perspective on the meaning of eternity. Aerion himself was the crucible, the guiding intelligence forging these disparate elements into a singular, focused will. He was not Voldemort reborn to conquer, nor Flamel content with quiet scholarship. He was something new, something this world was utterly unprepared for. His goal was not domination, but the creation of an inviolable dynasty, a beacon of magical knowledge and power that would endure when all else turned to ash.
The Doom was nineteen years away. Nineteen years to complete his preparations, to secure his legacy. As he stood in his hidden lair, surrounded by his five young dragons, the ancient power of the Hallows within his soul-bound trunk, the Philosopher's Stone radiating its gentle promise, and the Elder Wand humming softly in his hand as he planned his next move, Aerion Vaelaros felt a cold, resolute certainty. He would not just survive Valyria's fall. He would be its apotheosis.