Chapter 10: Seven Flames Ascendant
As the white egg with sapphire flecks trembled, its shell cracking under the pressure of ancient Valyrian magic, Vaelyx knew he was on the verge of commanding a force unlike any Westeros had ever seen. The power that pulsed through the cave, the raw, untamed energy of the land itself, was acting as a catalyst, forcing the final dragon eggs to hatch with a speed and intensity that even Voldemort's memories hadn't prepared him for. He needed to manage this influx of power, to assert his will over the final hatchlings, before the situation spiraled out of control.
He focused his mind, drawing on every ounce of his magical control, every iota of Voldemort's implacable will. The cave, already resonating with the presence of four young dragons, felt like it was about to burst with raw, elemental force. The white shell shattered, revealing a dragonet of almost ethereal beauty. Its scales were the colour of fresh snow, shimmering with an inner light, flecked with sapphire markings that pulsed with a soft, blue luminescence. Its eyes were like twin stars, distant and cold, yet burning with an intense, focused energy. It moved with a regal grace, its head held high, its gaze sweeping over the cave before fixing on Vaelyx.
Even as he spoke, the final egg, the deep stormy blue, began to crack. The cave shook, a low, mournful thrum filling the air. The blue shell shattered, and a dragonet emerged that was the embodiment of the turbulent sea. Its scales were the colour of a storm-tossed ocean, shifting between deep blues and blacks, with veins of crackling white energy that resembled lightning. Its eyes were like whirlpools, swirling with an ancient, fathomless power. It was the largest of the hatchlings, its limbs thick and powerful, its wings already spanning a formidable length. It let out a roar that was not a shriek or a bellow, but a deep, resonant boom that echoed through the caves, shaking the very stone.
With the hatching of Tempest, Vaelyx commanded a full flight of seven dragons, each a unique expression of elemental power, each a weapon of unimaginable potential. Vorlag, the obsidian shadow with his black-red fire. Veridian, the jade and bronze enigma with his green, magically potent flames. Ignis, the scarlet inferno, a force of pure destruction. Aurumel, the cream and gold beauty, radiating a strange, protective light. Argentus, the bronze and silver storm, crackling with blue-white lightning. Astra, the snow-white star, with her cold, focused energy. And Tempest, the stormy sea, a force of nature made flesh.
The cave, even magically expanded and reinforced, felt impossibly small, the air thick with their combined auras, a tangible sense of ancient, untamed power. Vaelyx was at the epicenter, a single human will struggling to control a force that could reshape continents.
He spent the next few days in a state of near-constant magical exertion. He expanded the suitcase's internal dimensions yet again, carving out separate territories for each dragon, their individual habitats reflecting their natures. The volcanic grotto became Vorlag and Ignis's domain, a hellish landscape of molten rock and perpetual fire. Veridian and Aurumel claimed a section of the suitcase that he transformed into a lush, magically lit jungle, filled with strange, bioluminescent flora. Argentus preferred a high, windswept plateau, where he could soar and unleash his lightning-like energy. Tempest claimed a vast, magically sustained ocean, complete with crashing waves and artificial storms.
Training the seven dragons was a monumental task. He used a combination of Parseltongue commands, Voldemort's techniques for controlling magical beasts, and the Valyrian dragon-bonding ritual he had deciphered from the scroll. The ritual, involving a carefully measured exchange of blood and magic, forged a deeper, more symbiotic connection than simple dominance. It was a risk, a permanent linking of his life force to these creatures, but it also granted him a level of control that was almost absolute.
He bonded with them one by one, starting with Vorlag, his first and most fiercely loyal, then working his way through the others, each bonding a searing, exhilarating experience. He learned to feel their thoughts, their emotions, their raw, elemental power. He could see through their eyes, sense the world around them, direct their actions with a thought. He was no longer just a master; he was a conduit, a vessel for their power.
The Valyrian scroll also detailed techniques for accelerating a dragon's growth and magical maturity. Using the geothermal vents abundant in the area, Vaelyx created a series of magically enhanced incubation chambers within the cave, where the young dragons could bask in the raw, volcanic energy of the land, their growth rates accelerating at an alarming pace. Within weeks, they had grown from hatchlings the size of dogs to formidable beasts the size of horses, their power increasing exponentially.
The cave system became his fortress, his sanctuary, his secret arsenal. He used ancient Valyrian runes, gleaned from the scroll and augmented by Voldemort's knowledge of warding, to create layers of impenetrable defenses, shielding the cave from both mundane and magical intrusion. He set up a system of magically linked mirrors and scrying pools, allowing him to monitor the surrounding coastline and the skies above. He was preparing for a long stay, a period of consolidation and preparation.
Outside the cave, the landscape of Valyria was a testament to the Doom. They explored the shattered ruins, each expedition more perilous than the last. They encountered more ash ghouls, twisted mockeries of life, and other, more disturbing creatures, things that seemed to have been born from the land's twisted magic. Lyra's stealth and Boros's strength proved invaluable, but it was Vaelyx's magic, now unleashed with far less restraint, that ensured their survival. He wielded Dark Curses with chilling precision, his wand a conduit for lethal force. He manipulated the very environment, conjuring walls of flame, calling down storms of obsidian shards, turning the land itself into a weapon.
They found more Valyrian artifacts: weapons of black steel that never dulled, scrolls detailing forgotten spells, and strange, pulsating crystals that seemed to contain trapped echoes of the Doom itself. Vaelyx carefully cataloged and stored these treasures, adding them to his growing arsenal.
One expedition led them to the ruins of a vast, obsidian fortress, perched atop a volcanic peak. Inside, they found a chamber filled with hundreds of dragon skulls, each larger than a warhorse, their empty sockets staring out over the desolation. The air in the chamber thrummed with a residual power, a sense of immense, ancient loss. Vaelyx felt a strange pang, a flicker of something that might have been sorrow, a ghost of the Targaryen connection to these magnificent beasts. He ruthlessly suppressed it. Sentimentality was a weakness.
In the heart of the fortress, they found a single, intact dragon horn, crafted from pure Valyrian steel, intricately carved with runes. It pulsed with a faint, blue light. Vaelyx recognized it from the fan-memory: Dragonbinder. A horn capable of controlling dragons, but said to drive its user mad. He took it, of course, but stored it with extreme caution, knowing its potential power and its inherent danger.
As his power grew, so did his ambition. He began to think beyond a simple return to Westeros, beyond merely reclaiming the Iron Throne. He envisioned a new Valyrian empire, forged in fire and blood, ruled by him and his dragons. He would scour Essos, uniting the Free Cities under his banner, then turn his gaze westward, bringing fire and blood to a Westeros that had forgotten the true power of the dragon.
Within the cave, his seven dragons were growing at an alarming rate. Vorlag and Ignis, now the size of small elephants, were constantly testing their strength, their battles shaking the very foundations of the cave. Veridian and Aurumel, while less overtly aggressive, possessed a subtle, almost unnerving power. Argentus, with his crackling blue-white energy, could unleash storms of lightning that could shatter stone. And Tempest, the largest and most powerful, could summon gusts of wind that could tear apart a ship, and unleash a roar that could shatter eardrums.
Vaelyx, linked to them through the Valyrian blood magic, could feel their power, their hunger, their growing impatience. They were ready. He was ready.
He looked at the map of Essos, spread out on a table carved from volcanic rock, his pale eyes burning with a cold, ruthless ambition. Pentos, his starting point, felt like a distant memory. The Free Cities, ripe for conquest, beckoned. The Dothraki Sea, a vast, untamed land, would be his proving ground.
He would begin his ascent, not as a forgotten prince, but as a dragonlord reborn, a force of nature given human form. The world would learn the true meaning of fire and blood, and the name Vaelyx Targaryen would be etched in legend, not as a shadow, but as a conqueror. The game of thrones was about to become a game of dragons, and he held all the winning cards.