Chapter 5: Ice and Fire, Stone and Soul
The passage of another two years found Aerion Vaelaros on the cusp of his twenty-third year. The Doom of Valyria was now a chilling seventeen years away, a silent metronome counting down in the depths of his ancient consciousness. Outwardly, he was the picture of a successful young Dragonlord: master of the formidable Veridian and the unnervingly efficient Umbrax, a respected voice in the lesser councils, his quiet demeanor often mistaken for thoughtful wisdom rather than the cold, calculating intellect that constantly whirred beneath. His true power, however, lay hidden deep beneath the Vaelaros estate, in the ever-expanding, magically-sealed warren where his three secret dragons thrived.
Ignis Regis, the red-gold male, was a creature of magnificent, terrifying beauty. He embodied the quintessential Valyrian dragon spirit – proud, fiery, and possessing a roar that could shake the very foundations of their volcanic lair. Aerion trained him for raw power, for devastating aerial assaults, honing his natural aggression into a focused weapon. His scales shimmered like a king's treasure, and his golden eyes burned with an insatiable fire. He was the brute force of Aerion's hidden arsenal.
Caelus, the stormy grey-blue female, was speed and agility incarnate. Her slender, whip-like body and powerful wings allowed for breathtaking aerial acrobatics. Her fire was a brilliant, almost blue-white, and she possessed an uncanny ability to manipulate air currents, creating miniature squalls or updrafts to aid her flight. Aerion trained her for reconnaissance, swift strikes, and aerial superiority, often pitting her in complex mock dogfights against Veridian or Umbrax, pushing her to the limits of her agility.
But it was Glacies, the white enigma, who captivated Aerion's deepest interest and pushed the boundaries of his understanding of dragonkind. Glacies grew at a slower, more deliberate pace than his siblings, his slender, almost serpentine form covered in scales that felt like polished marble, cool to the touch. His feathered wings, a stark deviation from any known draconic lineage, allowed for utterly silent flight, a disconcerting ability for a creature of his eventual size. He exuded an aura of palpable cold, and his sapphire eyes held an intelligence that was ancient, patient, and utterly alien.
Glacies's breath weapon was not fire, but a blast of concentrated, supernatural cold that could flash-freeze molten rock or encase a target in jagged spears of ice tougher than steel. Aerion, drawing upon Voldemort's understanding of elemental magic and Flamel's alchemical mastery of temperatures, worked tirelessly with Glacies to refine this unique ability. He discovered Glacies had an innate connection to ice and cold, able to draw moisture from the air to create shields of frost or blizzards in confined spaces. The dragon seemed to thrive in the coolest sections of the lair, those Aerion had magically chilled further, near where he experimented with his own cryomantic spells.
"You are an anomaly, my silent friend," Aerion would often murmur to Glacies, stroking the dragon's cool, smooth snout as it observed him with those unnerving sapphire eyes. "A creature of winter born in a land of eternal fire. Perhaps you are a reflection of my own divided soul." Glacies would merely blink slowly, a puff of chilled air escaping his nostrils. Aerion suspected this dragon would have a unique affinity for the cold magic he had sensed on Skagos.
His research into Valyrian steel continued in fits and starts. He had managed, through painstaking analysis of microscopic fragments and dangerous interrogations of ancient, bound fire elementals (a practice Voldemort had excelled in), to decipher some of the core principles. It was indeed a fusion of rare ores, dragonfire of specific intensity, and, crucially, blood magic – not just any blood, but the blood of Dragonlords, imbued with their innate connection to fire and magic, and often, the life-force of sacrifices. He had yet to replicate it perfectly; the precise rituals were lost or deliberately obscured. However, he had succeeded in creating a new alloy: infusing quenched steel with the essence of his own blood, dragonfire from Veridian, and powdered gemstones transmuted by the Philosopher's Stone, then subjecting it to complex runic enchantments under the focused beam of the Elder Wand. The result was a metal almost as light as Valyrian steel, incredibly durable, with a faint green shimmer and a remarkable ability to channel magical energy. He named it 'Nocturne Steel' for its dark lustre and the secrecy of its creation. He began to forge small quantities of it, shaping them into tools, weapon components, and structural supports for his Skagos project.
The preparations for his sanctuary on Skagos were no longer mere plans but active, ongoing operations. The long-range portkey, a smooth piece of Skagosi weirwood, now pulsed with carefully controlled power in his lair. Through it, Aerion began to transport foundational elements. Shielded constructs, animated by his magic and resembling crude golems of stone and Nocturne Steel, were sent through, tasked with excavating the heart of a remote mountain in the hidden bay his greensight had shown him. He monitored their progress through the eyes of warged arctic wolves and snow owls, issuing new commands mentally across the vast distance. It was slow, laborious work, controlling them with such precision from afar, but the initial chambers of his future stronghold were beginning to take shape, carved into the living rock, shielded by the mountain's bulk and the island's natural desolation. He also sent seeds of hardy, magically-infused plants, designed to thrive in the harsh Skagosi climate and provide future resources.
Valyria itself simmered with increasing unrest. The feud between House Belaerys and House Targaryen had escalated into a shadow war of sabotage and assassination attempts, poisoning the political atmosphere. Other Dragonlord families were drawn into the conflict, choosing sides or attempting to profit from the chaos. Maelys Vaelaros struggled to maintain neutrality, his face growing ever more careworn.
Aerion watched these developments with cold detachment, a chess master observing pawns. The infighting served his purposes, distracting the powerful from his own subtle machinations. He even played a hand, anonymously leaking information through his network that implicated a third, overly ambitious house in an attack orchestrated by the Targaryens, thereby turning two potential threats against each other and further muddying the waters. His actions were always deniable, untraceable, whispers in a storm of Valyrian arrogance.
His public persona was carefully maintained. He was Aerion Vaelaros, the somewhat eccentric master of Veridian and Umbrax, a young man whose quiet nature belied a sharp mind and an uncanny connection to his dragons. He participated in the required Valyrian rituals, flew Veridian in ceremonial formations that showcased the Freehold's might, and even offered surprisingly insightful (though always cautious) counsel on dragon breeding and lore when asked. Few suspected the depths of power he concealed, or the five apex predators that now answered his silent call.
However, not all were oblivious. An old, cunning Loremaster named Lyraenys, whose family had served House Vaelaros for generations but who also had connections across Valyria, began to watch Aerion with eyes that held a little too much understanding. She was ancient, her skin like wrinkled parchment, but her mind remained razor-sharp.
"You delve into mysteries best left undisturbed, young Aerion," she rasped one day, after finding him in a restricted section of the Vaelaros archives, supposedly researching lineage charts but with a tome on ancient Valyrian soul-binding half-hidden beneath. "The old magic has a hunger. And your dragons… they are not like others."
Aerion met her gaze calmly, his Occlumency shields impeccable. "All knowledge has value, Loremaster. And all dragons are unique, are they not? Is that not the beauty of their fire?"
Lyraenys merely hummed, a dry, rustling sound. "Some fires burn too brightly, child. And attract things from the shadows." Her warning hung in the air, but Aerion knew she had no proof, only suspicion. He would need to be even more careful around her.
The network he had cultivated was proving invaluable. His agents – the indebted merchant, the disillusioned scholar, the quietly ambitious freedman – brought him information, artifacts, and sometimes, opportunities. Through one such contact, he acquired a set of ancient obsidian tools, purportedly used by the earliest Valyrian blood mages. They thrummed with a dark, residual power that Voldemort's senses recognized and Flamel's knowledge helped to analyze. These would be useful in his deeper explorations of soul magic, particularly concerning the Philosopher's Stone and its future empowerment.
The thought of the Doom, and the souls it would unleash, was never far from his mind. He began to conceptualize a device, or rather a complex ritual matrix, that could act as a colossal spiritual accumulator. Drawing on Voldemort's understanding of soul-fragmentation and Flamel's knowledge of alchemical condensers and spiritual matrices, he envisioned a vast, invisible net of magical energy he could cast over a significant portion of Valyria in its final moments. This net, anchored by powerful runic arrays he would need to secretly place, would not steal souls in the crude manner of a Dementor, but rather gather the massive explosive release of spiritual energy, the echoes and imprints of countless lives extinguished simultaneously, and channel this raw power into the Philosopher's Stone, amplifying its core beyond all known limits.
The morality of it was a distant, academic concern. The souls were already forfeit to the cataclysm. He was merely repurposing wasted energy. The Flamel aspect of his consciousness, while perhaps initially disturbed by the sheer scale of it, was ultimately swayed by the pragmatic argument: such power, in his cautious and intelligent hands, could ensure the eternal survival and enlightenment of his own lineage, preserving knowledge and magic that would otherwise be lost. Voldemort, of course, felt no compunction whatsoever, only a grim satisfaction at the prospect of such ultimate power. Aerion, the synthesis, saw it as a necessary, albeit monumental, step in his grand design.
He began scouting, using Veridian and Umbrax under the cover of storms or deep night, for the optimal locations to place the anchors for his spiritual accumulator. These would need to be sites of significant geothermal energy, which he could subtly tap to power the arrays, and also locations that would likely be at the epicenter of destruction. It was a ghoulish task, planning around the future graves of millions, but he undertook it with his usual meticulous efficiency.
The Hallows remained his constant, silent companions. The Cloak of Invisibility was his key to Valyria's secrets. The Elder Wand, still disguised, was the engine behind his most potent enchantments, its power flowing obediently to his will. The Resurrection Stone, nestled in its ring within his trunk, remained untouched. The temptation to summon shades from his past lives, to consult with the historical Voldemort or Flamel, flickered occasionally. But he resisted. The risk of psychological contamination, of reawakening dormant weaknesses or regrets, was too great. His current amalgamated consciousness was strong, focused. He would not jeopardize it. The Stone's true power, he felt, might lie elsewhere, perhaps in understanding the nature of souls themselves, a study for a future, more secure age.
His thoughts often drifted to his future lineage. They would be born into a sanctuary of magic and knowledge, far from the decadent, self-destructive Valyrian empire and the often barbaric feudalism of Westeros. They would inherit his Stark gifts of greensight and warging, amplified by their Valyrian blood and the Harry Potter magic that was now intrinsically part of his soul, ready to be passed down. He envisioned a rigorous education, blending arcane theory with practical application, ethics shaped not by conventional morality but by the guiding principle of their lineage's eternal preservation and advancement. They would be scholars, warriors, explorers of magic's deepest secrets, each a Dragonlord, each an immortal, forming a council of unparalleled power and wisdom, forever hidden, forever sovereign.
One cool evening, as Aerion was in his hidden lair, observing Glacies trace patterns of frost on the obsidian floor, a particularly vivid greensight vision struck him. It was not of the Doom this time, but of Skagos. He saw his mountain stronghold, complete, its hidden entrances sealed by powerful magic, its inner chambers lit by cool, ever-burning enchanted flames. He saw dragons – descendants of his own five – soaring through crisp, clear skies, their scales shimmering in the pale northern light. And he saw children, his descendants, their eyes holding his own green hue, or perhaps the sapphire of Glacies, their laughter echoing in halls carved from living rock, their hands crackling with innate magical power. The vision was so clear, so filled with a sense of peace and enduring strength, that it left him with a profound sense of destiny.
This was his true ambition. Not empire, not conquest, but this: an eternal haven, a dynasty of philosopher-kings and queens of magic, shielded from the ravages of time and the follies of the lesser world.
The Doom would come. Valyria would burn. But Aerion Vaelaros, and all that he was building, would endure. He looked at Glacies, whose sapphire eyes seemed to reflect his own unwavering resolve. The path was dark, fraught with peril and morally grey choices, but the destination, he was now utterly convinced, was worth any sacrifice. The age of Valyria was ending; the age of Aerion was dawning in the shadows.