Chapter 1: The Whispering Twin
The first sensation Vaelyx Targaryen registered in his new existence was a suffocating pressure, a shared warmth, and then a jarring, cold separation. He emerged into the world moments after his brother, Aerys, his cries not of infant distress, but a silent, primal scream of outraged intellect trapped within a helpless form. The memories, a maelstrom of dark magic, serpentine ambition, and a violent, ignominious end, crashed against the nascent consciousness of the babe, threatening to shatter it. Yet, amidst the chaos, the core of Tom Riddle – Lord Voldemort – a being defined by an indomitable will to survive and conquer, asserted itself.
He was Vaelyx Targaryen, second son of Prince Jaehaerys, himself second son to King Aegon V, the Unlikely. A mouthful, and a position of frustrating obscurity for a soul that had once commanded legions of dark creatures and brought a magical nation to its knees. His twin, Aerys, was already wailing, a robust, demanding sound that drew the immediate coos and attentions of the midwives and his mother, Princess Shaera. Vaelyx, by contrast, conserved his energy, his infant eyes, already an unnervingly pale lilac, taking in the blurry shapes and sounds with an unnatural focus.
Interesting, a part of his mind, the Voldemort part, observed with cold detachment, even as the infant Vaelyx felt the instinctual urge for warmth and sustenance. Born second. Always the shadow. A familiar position, though the last time, I carved my own light from the darkness.
His early years were an exercise in meticulous observation and ruthless self-control. While Aerys was prone to tantrums, flights of fancy, and an early, unsettling arrogance, Vaelyx was the quiet twin, the one who watched. He learned the cadence of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue by listening, his mind, already possessing the framework of Voldemort's vast intellect, absorbing language at a terrifying rate. He tracked the movements of servants, the hushed conversations of courtiers, the subtle shifts in power within the Red Keep. His psychopathy, a chilling void where empathy should have resided, made him a perfect spy; he felt no attachment, only a clinical interest in the patterns of human behavior, their weaknesses, their desires.
The memories of Voldemort were a double-edged sword. They provided knowledge of magic far beyond anything this world could conceive, an understanding of power, manipulation, and cruelty that was unparalleled. But they also brought the phantom pains of his past defeats, the burning agony of his Horcruxes being destroyed, the bitter taste of mortality forced upon him. He learned to wall off these intrusive echoes, compartmentalizing them, drawing on the strategic brilliance and magical theory while suppressing the raw, uncontrolled fury that had often been Voldemort's undoing. He would be more cunning this time, more patient. He had an entire lifetime, a fresh start, and knowledge of the future of this world, gleaned from the obsessive Game of Thrones fan whose body and lineage he'd apparently usurped along with Voldemort's soul.
His "reincarnation benefits," as the intrusive fan-memory termed them, were almost laughably potent in this medieval setting. A simple, unassuming yew wand, 13 ½ inches, phoenix feather core, was currently transfigured into a smooth, grey river stone, tucked away amongst his few infant playthings. He'd found it nestled beside him in the cradle, a silent, familiar comfort. Newt Scamander's suitcase, a battered leather case that looked utterly unremarkable, had been presented as a "gift from a distant Essosi relative" shortly after his birth – a convenient narrative he suspected some higher power had arranged. He hadn't dared open it yet, not truly, but he could feel the hum of its unique enchantments, the impossible space it contained. It was his greatest secret, his future arsenal.
By the age of three, when most children were still grappling with basic concepts, Vaelyx was performing rudimentary wandless magic in the dead of night, cloaked in the silence of his chamber. A whispered Wingardium Leviosa (the incantation purely for focus, as Voldemort had long since mastered non-verbal casting) would see his wooden blocks stack themselves into impossible towers. A silent Incendio would light a candlewick from across the room, the flame extinguished just as quickly. He practiced Legilimency constantly, starting with the castle cats, then the hounds, then the more simple-minded servants. It was a delicate art; he didn't want to be discovered, to have some maester or Septon declare him possessed or an abomination. His caution was paramount.
His grandfather, King Aegon V, was a man obsessed with dragons, with restoring the glory of House Targaryen. Vaelyx listened to the tales, to the desperate plans, his infant mind already cross-referencing this with the fan's knowledge of the impending Tragedy of Summerhall. Fools, he'd think, watching the earnest King discuss prophecies and ancient rituals. Fire and blood. They have the words, but they've forgotten the meaning, forgotten the control.
Jaehaerys, his father, was a more pragmatic man, but still caught in the Targaryen mystique. His mother, Shaera, was kind, but her affections were clearly weighted towards Aerys, the boisterous firstborn. Vaelyx didn't mind. Their neglect was his shield. Aerys, even as a child, showed signs of the madness that would later consume him. He was quick to anger, cruel to animals if he thought no one watched (Vaelyx always watched), and possessed a volatile energy that made even seasoned courtiers wary.
"He has the dragon's fire in him," some would whisper admiringly.
Vaelyx knew better. He has the fire, yes, but no control. He will burn himself and everything around him. This knowledge was a cold comfort, a future stepping stone.
One day, around the age of five, Vaelyx was in the Red Keep's library, ostensibly looking at illustrated histories, a favored pastime for the "studious" young prince. Maester Pycelle, even then a creature of habit and political maneuvering, was discussing the lineage of the Great Houses with a visiting lord. Vaelyx, hidden behind a towering shelf of scrolls, extended his senses, his Legilimency brushing against Pycelle's mind. It was like sifting through dusty, well-ordered archives, filled with sycophancy, a surprising depth of medical knowledge, and a keen awareness of every power play within the court. He learned of Pycelle's unwavering loyalty to House Lannister, a useful tidbit for the future.
His own magical development was proceeding apace. He could now cast minor confundus charms non-verbally, making servants forget why they'd entered a room, or causing Aerys to stumble during sword practice, much to his twin's vocal frustration and Vaelyx's hidden, cold amusement. The suitcase was his primary focus. Late at night, when the castle slept, he would drag the surprisingly light case from its hiding spot beneath a loose floorboard. With a whispered Parseltongue command – a thrilling, familiar sensation to feel the sibilant words form on his new tongue – the latches would click open.
The first time he'd fully entered, he'd been astounded. Voldemort had commanded vast, magically expanded spaces, but Scamander's case was an ecosystem, a portable world. He'd only explored the first few habitats then – a desert, a forest, a snowy tundra – marveling at the intricate charms that maintained them. It was here he truly practiced, deep within the soundproofed, magically sealed confines. He unleashed torrents of fire, practiced complex transfigurations, and even dared to conjure small, ephemeral snakes, testing his Parseltongue abilities. They obeyed him, their flickering tongues tasting the alien air of the suitcase's inner world, their unblinking eyes fixed on him with primal recognition. It was a heady feeling, a taste of his former power.
His wand, when he practiced with it inside the case, felt like an extension of his soul. The yew wood warmed to his touch, the phoenix feather core thrumming with potent magic. He could feel its connection to his previous wand, to Fawkes, to Dumbledore… a brief, unwelcome flicker of old animosities. He crushed the feeling. Dumbledore was dust in another universe. Here, he was Vaelyx Targaryen, and he would not be defeated.
The Tragedy of Summerhall. It was a fixed point in his future knowledge, a disaster that would wipe out his grandfather, his great-uncle Duncan the Small, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall. Most importantly, it would destroy the last clutch of Targaryen dragon eggs, the ones Aegon V was so desperately trying to hatch. Vaelyx knew the prophecy driving his grandfather: "When the dragon prince is born, the dragons will return." Aegon believed it referred to his line, perhaps Aerys or even Vaelyx himself.
The fan-memory was clear: seven dragon eggs, meticulously cared for, brought to Summerhall for the ritual. Seven eggs that would be consumed by wildfire.
Not if I can help it, Vaelyx schemed, his young mind already formulating a plan of audacious subtlety. He would need to be older, stronger in his magic, and have unrestricted access. But the seeds were sown. Those eggs would be his.
His relationship with Aerys was a careful dance. To the outside world, Vaelyx was the dutiful, quiet younger brother. He endured Aerys's casual cruelties, his boasts, his growing paranoia, with an expression of mild indifference or placid acceptance. Inside, he cataloged every slight, every weakness. Aerys was fascinated by fire, a trait Vaelyx noted with grim satisfaction. He was also terrified of perceived betrayal, quick to see enemies in shadows. Vaelyx made sure he was never perceived as a threat, always as a follower, a nonentity.
"You're boring, Vae," Aerys would often sneer, shoving him during their lessons. "Always with your nose in a book. Don't you want to be a knight? Don't you want to feel the fire of battle?"
"Perhaps one day, brother," Vaelyx would reply, his voice soft, his eyes downcast. Oh, I will feel fire, Aerys. And so will our enemies. But it will be my fire, not the uncontrolled blaze of a madman.
When Vaelyx was seven, King Aegon V, increasingly desperate, announced his intention to attempt the hatching ritual at Summerhall, the Targaryen pleasure castle in the Dornish Marches. The court buzzed with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Jaehaerys and Shaera were to attend, bringing their sons. This was it. Vaelyx felt a cold thrill. The dragon eggs would be moved, displayed, and then… lost.
The seven eggs were legendary, each a unique jewel of whorls and scales, ranging in color from sunstone orange to jade green, obsidian black to blood red. They were kept in a warmed chamber in the Red Keep, occasionally handled by the King and his maesters. Vaelyx had only glimpsed them from afar. Now, he needed to get closer.
He began spending more time around the royal apartments, using his small stature and practiced invisibility to his advantage. He learned the guards' routines, the servants' pathways. He used faint Confundus Charms to make people overlook him, to forget seeing him in corridors he shouldn't have been in. His Legilimency became sharper, more focused. He needed to know where the eggs would be stored at Summerhall, how they would be transported.
The fan-memory was surprisingly detailed on the layout of Summerhall, a place he'd never been. It also knew the method of destruction: wildfire. The irony was not lost on him. The substance Aerys would later become so obsessed with would be the doom of their grandfather's dreams.
His plan was audacious, requiring a level of Transfiguration far beyond what any maester would deem possible, certainly for a child. But Vaelyx was no mere child. He had the memories and skills of one of the most powerful dark wizards in history. He began practicing, inside his suitcase, transforming common stones into intricate, egg-shaped sculptures. At first, they were crude, but slowly, meticulously, he refined the technique. He had to replicate not just the look, but the feel, the weight, even the faint magical aura if possible – though he doubted anyone in this world could truly sense that from an unhatched egg.
The week before their departure for Summerhall, Vaelyx feigned a mild illness. Nothing serious, just enough to keep him confined to his chambers, to allow him uninterrupted periods. Maester Pycelle clucked over him, prescribing bland broths and rest. Vaelyx endured it, his mind racing.
Under the cover of darkness, two nights before they were set to leave, he made his move. His wand, disguised as a plain wooden dowel he sometimes whittled, was in his hand. He slipped from his room, a diminutive shadow in the vast, sleeping castle. Navigating the familiar corridors was easy. The guards outside the egg chamber were new, brought in for added security. A precisely aimed, non-verbal Confundus on each, suggesting they patrol opposite ends of the corridor, gave him the window he needed.
The door was locked, of course. A silent Alohomora, a spell Voldemort had scorned for its simplicity but found situationally useful, clicked the tumblers. He slipped inside.
The chamber was warm, braziers glowing softly. And there they were. Seven magnificent dragon eggs, nestled on velvet cushions, radiating a faint, ancient promise. Even to his magically attuned senses, dulled as they were by the lack of ambient magic in this world compared to his last, they felt potent. For a moment, a flicker of something akin to dragon-fever, the Targaryen obsession, touched him. He ruthlessly suppressed it. These were tools, weapons for his ascent.
Working quickly, his heart a cold, steady beat, he took out seven carefully selected stones from a pouch at his belt. One by one, he focused his will, channeling Voldemort's mastery of Transfiguration. The grey stone in his hand shimmered, colors swirling across its surface, its texture changing, reforming, hardening into a perfect, inert replica of the blood-red egg before him. He repeated the process, flawlessly, for each egg. He didn't dare try to imbue them with a false warmth; that might be detectable. Their coolness would be attributed to the journey, perhaps.
The real eggs, cool and surprisingly heavy, were carefully placed into a specially prepared, cushioned compartment deep within Newt Scamander's suitcase, which he'd brought shrunken in his pocket and enlarged within the chamber. It was a tight fit, but they were secure. He then placed his seven perfect fakes onto the velvet cushions. They looked identical. To any mundane inspection, they were flawless.
He relocked the door, slipped back through the castle, the precious suitcase once again shrunken and concealed. Back in his room, he allowed himself a small, cold smile. Phase one of his grand design was complete. Summerhall would burn. The Targaryen hope for dragons would seemingly die. And no one would ever suspect that the quiet, unassuming younger prince, Vaelyx, now possessed the means to truly bring back fire and blood to Westeros, on his own terms. His terms.
The next day, feigning recovery, he joined his family. Aerys shot him a suspicious glance. "Thought you were dying, little brother," he said, a hint of a sneer in his voice.
"I am much improved, Aerys," Vaelyx replied, his voice impeccably mild. Not dying. Just beginning to live.
The journey to Summerhall was filled with a grim sense of anticipation for Vaelyx. He watched his grandfather, Aegon V, his face alight with a desperate hope. He watched his father, Jaehaerys, trying to temper the King's enthusiasm with pragmatism. He watched the courtiers, their faces reflecting a mixture of sycophancy and fear.
He knew what was coming. And as the pleasure castle of Summerhall loomed into view, a beautiful structure doomed to be a pyre, Vaelyx Targaryen, the serpent in their midst, felt only the icy calm of a predator whose trap was perfectly set. The future of dragons, and indeed the future of Westeros, was now nestled safely in a battered leather suitcase, waiting for its true master to call it forth. The world would burn, eventually. But this time, he would control the flames.