Chapter 7: Echoes of a Frozen Future
Sixteen years. The number was a brand on Aerion's awareness, a relentless countdown to the day Valyria would become a crucible of fire and death, and hopefully, the forge for his Philosopher's Stone's ultimate apotheosis. He was twenty-four now, his Valyrian features honed by an inner intensity that made him seem older, his green Stark eyes holding depths that few dared to probe. The recent vision of a future, far more chilling than even Valyria's demise – a world cloaked in an endless winter, stalked by an ancient, icy evil – had added a new, somber layer to his already complex motivations.
The two dragon eggs acquired from the failing Belaerys-allied house had hatched, adding to his clandestine draconic family. The sapphire-blue egg had yielded a sleek, intelligent female with scales like multifaceted gemstones and eyes the color of a twilight sea. Her affinity for water was apparent from the start; she loved the subterranean pools Aerion had created in the lair and could manipulate water with surprising dexterity even as a hatchling, shaping small whirlpools or jets. Aerion named her Marina, envisioning her as a guardian of Skagos's shores and waterways.
The mottled bronze egg hatched a robust male, built like a scaled battering ram, with eyes like polished bronze. He was earthy, stoic, and possessed immense physical strength even at a young age, his claws already capable of scoring deep gouges in basalt. Aerion named him Terrax, foreseeing his role in shaping and defending the very foundations of their future sanctuary. With Marina and Terrax, his hidden dragon count rose to seven: Veridian, Umbrax, Ignis Regis, Caelus, Glacies, and the two new additions. Each represented a vital thread in the tapestry of power he was weaving.
The Long Night vision had profoundly unsettled him. It was one thing to prepare for the destruction of a corrupt and arrogant civilization like Valyria; it was another entirely to foresee a potential extinction-level event for the entire world, an event that could threaten even his meticulously planned immortal dynasty. Voldemort's core instinct was self-preservation above all, but the entity Aerion had become, shaped also by Flamel's centuries of wisdom and his own Stark heritage connected to the North, recognized that a world overrun by an ultimate darkness offered no true sanctuary, even on a hidden island.
His research shifted subtly. While Valyrian texts were almost entirely self-absorbed, focused on their own fiery supremacy, he began to search for mentions of ancient, world-threatening winters or shadowy northern deities in the fragments of Ghiscari lore he possessed, or in the tales his mother, Lyra, had told him of the Stark kings and the terrors beyond the Wall. These were previously just folklore to him; now, they carried a chilling resonance. He found little of substance – Valyria had systematically erased or ignored the histories of those it conquered or deemed inferior. But the lack of information was, in itself, telling. This future threat was ancient, alien to Valyrian understanding, and therefore, perhaps, even more dangerous.
The Skagos sanctuary plans were re-evaluated. It was no longer just a haven for his lineage; it needed to be a fortress capable of withstanding a siege of unimaginable proportions, a repository of knowledge that could survive a global cataclysm. He directed his animated constructs, still toiling silently in the Skagosi mountains, to excavate deeper, to create vaults sealed with Umbral Steel and layers of complex, self-repairing wards. He envisioned libraries that would house not just Valyrian and Harry Potter world magic, but any scrap of knowledge he could gather about the ancient world, its forgotten powers, and its primordial threats. Glacies, with his affinity for cold and his ability to sense magical energies, became crucial in surveying Skagos. Through the white dragon's senses, Aerion explored subterranean cave systems, identified veins of rare ores, and located pockets of intense, cold elemental magic that he theorized could be harnessed for the sanctuary's defenses or power needs.
His work on the 'spiritual accumulator' intensified, driven by a new urgency. If the world faced a future Long Night, then an immensely empowered Philosopher's Stone would be more vital than ever, not just for immortality, but for the sheer magical power it could grant – power to shape reality, to fuel defenses on an unprecedented scale, perhaps even to combat the very essence of the encroaching darkness. He finalized the design of the runic anchors: obsidian and Umbral Steel spires, intricately carved with glyphs of attraction, condensation, and transference, designed to be driven deep into Valyria's geothermal hotspots. He began to secretly manufacture them in his lair, each one a masterpiece of fused magic, humming with contained power. The Elder Wand was almost constantly in his hand during these months, its power flowing through him as he meticulously crafted each component. The thought of planting these anchors across Valyria, in the heart of his people's doomed homeland, was a grim task, but one he approached with cold resolve.
Valyria, oblivious, continued its decadent slide towards oblivion. The fragile truce between the Targaryens and Belaerys shattered again, this time over a perceived slight at a state banquet. Dragonfire once more lit the skies over outlying districts. The authority of the Conclave was a joke. Aerion used the chaos to his advantage. House Vaelaros, under Maelys's increasingly desperate attempts at neutrality, remained relatively unscathed, but Aerion subtly guided his father to make alliances with other, similarly pragmatic lesser houses, creating a small bloc that could weather the immediate storms while the giants tore each other apart. This also provided Aerion with a wider, albeit still indirect, sphere of influence and access to resources.
Loremaster Lyraenys remained his most persistent, immediate threat. Her sharp eyes missed little, and her network of ancient connections was formidable. She had taken to observing Veridian and Umbrax with an almost clinical intensity whenever they flew, and Aerion had caught her attempting to scry the deeper sections of the Vaelaros estate on more than one occasion, her efforts always failing against his superior wards.
One afternoon, she confronted him directly in the Vaelaros gardens, her frail form belying the iron in her gaze. "The earth groans, Aerion Vaelaros. The fires below grow restless. And you… you gather shadows around you like a king collecting tribute."
"The earth has always groaned in Valyria, Loremaster," Aerion replied, his voice calm. "And shadows offer respite from the glare of a sun that burns too hot. I merely seek balance."
"There is no balance in hoarding power, child," Lyraenys countered, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I have seen the signs. The ancient pacts fray. The blood magic that sustains us grows thin and sour. And you… you have the scent of an ending about you, and a beginning too terrible to contemplate."
Aerion felt a flicker of Voldemort's impatience, the urge to silence her permanently. But Flamel's caution prevailed. A direct attack would draw unwanted attention. Instead, he chose a more insidious path. He had, through his network, discovered Lyraenys's lifelong, secret ambition: to find the lost 'Sunken Library of Lyksos,' a mythical repository of pre-Valyrian aquatic lore, supposedly swallowed by the Smoking Sea centuries ago.
Over the next few weeks, Aerion fabricated a series of 'ancient texts' and 'star charts,' subtly imbued with compulsion charms and illusions, all pointing to a plausible, albeit incredibly remote and dangerous, location for this library. He had these 'discoveries' fed to Lyraenys through a trusted, elderly scholar she occasionally consulted.
The bait was irresistible. Lyraenys, her scholarly passions ignited, her suspicions about Aerion momentarily overshadowed by the prospect of fulfilling her life's greatest dream, began to make preparations for a grand, final expedition. She quietly liquidated assets, called in old favors, and chartered a ship.
Aerion watched her departure with cold satisfaction. He had not harmed her, merely redirected her formidable intellect towards a harmless, if ultimately futile, obsession. She would likely perish in the Smoking Sea, or at best, spend her remaining years chasing a phantom. Valyria would lose a keen mind, but he would gain breathing room. It was a neat, efficient solution.
The logistical challenge of managing seven growing dragons, even in his magically expanded subterranean lair, was immense. Ignis Regis alone now consumed vast quantities of meat daily. Aerion had tackled this by creating magically sustained ecosystems in the deeper caverns – herds of specially bred, fast-reproducing cave lizards and giant insects, nourished by magically grown fungi and lichen. Waste disposal was handled by powerful incinerating spells and alchemical neutralizers. It was a complex, self-contained world, a microcosm of the control he sought to exert. He also began to train his dragons to hunt in the deep, inaccessible lava tubes that snaked beneath Valyria, preying on the fire-resistant creatures that dwelt there, thus supplementing their diet and honing their skills.
The public faces of his draconic power, Veridian and Umbrax, were now legends in their own right, though their full capabilities remained hidden. Veridian's intelligence and Umbrax's chilling efficiency had earned House Vaelaros a grudging respect that Maelys, in his naivety, attributed to a resurgence of their ancient bloodline's strength, rather than his son's singular genius. Aerion occasionally allowed them to be seen performing breathtaking aerial feats or 'assisting' in civic duties, like extinguishing a minor fire in the lower city with a precisely controlled downdraft from Veridian's wings, all carefully calculated to bolster his image as a responsible, powerful Dragonlord.
His work on Umbral Steel progressed. He forged a light, incredibly resilient suit of armor for himself, its surface a smoky grey that seemed to drink the light, enchanted with feather-light charms, temperature regulators, and potent deflection wards. He even began to design experimental barding for his dragons, not full plate, which would impede their flight, but strategically placed sections of Umbral Steel to protect vital areas, each piece custom-fitted and magically bonded.
The Philosopher's Stone continued its quiet work, transmuting common metals into the gold and rare elements he needed for his projects. He had also begun to experiment more with the Elixir of Life. He now took a single drop himself each month, not for immortality yet, but for the heightened senses, the enhanced magical flow, and the incredible mental clarity it provided. It felt like sharpening a blade to its keenest edge. His dragons, on their carefully managed regimen, were paragons of draconic vitality, their connection to him deepening with every passing day.
The Resurrection Stone still lay dormant in its leaden box. However, as Aerion delved deeper into the theories behind his spiritual accumulator, studying the nature of soul-energy and its echoes, he found himself increasingly drawn to the Stone's silent promise. He resisted the urge to use it to summon, but he began to meditate upon its energies, trying to understand its connection to the veil between life and death. Voldemort's past obsession with conquering death and Flamel's quest for understanding life's essence converged in this silent contemplation. He sensed that the Stone held keys not just to seeing the dead, but to understanding the very fabric of spiritual existence, a knowledge that might be crucial in a world threatened by the Long Night.
As his twenty-fifth year approached, and the Doom loomed only fifteen years away, Aerion stood one night on a hidden balcony overlooking his vast, torch-lit subterranean lair. Below, his seven dragons rested or moved with predatory grace. Veridian, a jade mountain. Umbrax, a coiled shadow. Ignis Regis, a slumbering volcano. Caelus, a storm contained. Glacies, an ethereal frost. And the two newest, Marina and Terrax, already showing the promise of their unique powers.
The weight of his knowledge, his secrets, and his immense, terrifying purpose was a constant companion. The vision of the Long Night had transformed his ambition from mere dynastic survival to something far grander, far more burdensome. He was no longer just ensuring his own immortality and that of his line; he was potentially forging the last bastion against a primordial darkness. The irony was not lost on him: he, a creature born of Voldemort's malevolent ambition and Flamel's detached wisdom, might become an unwilling savior.
He looked towards the direction of Skagos, hundreds of leagues away. His fortress there was growing, a silent testament to his will. Soon, he would begin the dangerous task of planting the runic anchors for his spiritual accumulator throughout Valyria. Each step was fraught with peril, each day a careful dance on the edge of discovery. But Aerion Vaelaros did not falter. His path was set, his resolve absolute. Valyria would fall. He would rise. And he would be ready for whatever horrors or wonders the long, dark future held in store. The echoes of that frozen future were a spur, driving him towards a destiny he was only beginning to comprehend.