Chapter 18: The Forging of an Ageless Serpent
The return from the blighted shores of Valyria was a journey through a waking nightmare, yet for King Baelon I Targaryen, it was a triumphant procession towards his ultimate apotheosis. The Smoking Sea, with its poisoned breath and tormented spirits, had yielded its most precious secret: the Eyes of the Caldera, three pulsating crystals that thrummed with the raw, untamed heart of the Fourteen Flames. His magically shielded ship, guided by his unwavering will and the unseen power of Umbraxys, cut through the ash-choked waves, leaving the ruins of the fallen empire to its eternal desolation. He carried its fire within his hands, a fire he would soon weave into the very fabric of his being.
Rejoining the elaborate charade of his royal progress required meticulous stagecraft. At a secluded coastal castle in the Stormlands, the King 'miraculously' recovered from his grave illness, his return to health attributed by the cowed Maesters to his indomitable Targaryen spirit and the blessings of the (non-existent, in his view) gods. He made a few public appearances, his demeanor as cold and commanding as ever, his gaze perhaps a fraction more intense, a detail lost on most but noted with a flicker of unease by the more astute observers in his retinue. Then, pleading the need for a lengthy convalescence and to oversee the continued construction of his Obsidian Citadel, he cut short the progress and returned to King's Landing, his true prize safely concealed.
Larys Strong was the first to offer a full accounting of the realm's state. "Your Grace's 'illness' caused a ripple of… anticipatory silence," the Master of Whisperers reported, his clubfoot tapping softly in the King's solar, now increasingly dominated by blueprints for the rising black towers of the Citadel. "The realm holds its breath, wondering what new decree or display of… royal vigor… will follow your recovery."
Larys confirmed that Daemon Targaryen's demise at the hands of Aemond in the Stepstones was now widely known, a brutal saga whispered in taverns and courts alike. Prince Aemond, Warden of the Narrow Sea, ruled his new domain with Vhagar's terrifying efficiency, his loyalty to Baelon – or rather, to the unbreakable magical vow that bound him – seemingly absolute, though his methods were sowing a mixture of fear and simmering resentment amongst the Free Cities. Princess Rhaenyra, Larys noted, had sent formal condolences on the 'loss' of her uncle Daemon, reaffirming her fealty with what seemed like genuine relief, perhaps seeing the removal of one unpredictable Targaryen warlord as a stabilizing factor. Lord Corlys Velaryon, however, remained grimly watchful, his ambitions for his own house and Rhaenyra's Velaryon-named (if not Velaryon-sired) sons undoubtedly undiminished.
Within Maegor's Holdfast, Queen Dowager Alicent had retreated further into a world of prayer books and bitter recriminations, while Aegon, her firstborn, continued his descent into wine-sodden apathy, a broken toy of his mother's and grandfather's ambitions. Helaena, Larys reported with a faint smile, had been particularly vocal in her cryptic pronouncements, speaking of "a king who sups with shadows and drinks the fire of stars," and of "a reign that will outlast the mountains." Voldemort found her mad insights… amusingly accurate.
The Obsidian Citadel's construction proceeded with unnatural speed, fueled by Baelon's precise designs, Pate's efficient marshaling of resources, and the terrified diligence of the workers. Its black walls, infused with powdered dragonglass and consecrated with Valyrian rituals Baelon conducted under the cloak of night, already radiated an aura of ancient power and subtle dread. It was to be more than a fortress; it was to be his laboratory, his library of forbidden lore, his sanctuary, and the very heart of his future, eternal empire.
With the three ingredients finally assembled – the Tear of a Shadow-Cat, cold and sorrowful; the Heart of a Firewyrm, still pulsing with captured geothermal fury; and the Eyes of the Caldera, blazing with the primal fire of Valyria's birth – Baelon knew the time was nigh. He sealed himself within the deepest chamber of Umbraxys's sub-dimensional lair, the true Heart of Valyria he had recreated beneath the Red Keep. The air here hummed with immense, controlled power, the Valyrian glyphs on the obsidian walls glowing with a steady, internal light. Umbraxys, now a creature of breathtaking, terrifying scale, coiled around the perimeter of the ritual circle, its molten gold eyes fixed on its master, their minds linked in a silent, unbreakable bond.
This was not a crude Horcrux ritual, dependent on the violent tearing of the soul. This was Valyrian blood sorcery at its most profound, a reforging of the self, a binding of the life-force to eternal, elemental energies, a harmonization with the primal song of creation and unmaking. The texts he had deciphered, both from the hidden chamber and those scrolls he had 'acquired' during his Valyrian sojourn, spoke of it as the 'Rite of the Undying Flame,' a path to agelessness and vastly amplified power, reserved for only the greatest of Dragonlords.
He began the incantations, his voice resonating in the ancient, guttural cadences of High Valyrian, words that had not been spoken in millennia, words that made the very stones of the chamber tremble. The Tear of the Shadow-Cat was placed upon a sigil of binding, its sorrowful magic acting as an anchor, a tether to the mortal plane even as he sought to transcend its limitations. The Heart of the Firewyrm was laid upon a rune of vitality, its captured life-force a wellspring of enduring energy. And the Eyes of the Caldera, he held them himself, their fiery power coursing into him, threatening to consume him.
Umbraxys let out a low, resonant hum, its own shadow-magic weaving into the ritual, stabilizing the volatile energies, acting as both a conduit and a shield for Baelon. The King's blood, willingly given, fed the runes, activating the ancient matrix. The chamber filled with an incandescent, multi-hued light – the violet sorrow of the Tear, the crimson fury of the Wyrm's Heart, the golden inferno of the Caldera's Eyes, all swirling around Baelon, intermingling with the black, consuming shadows of Umbraxys.
Pain, exquisite and terrifying, lanced through every fiber of his being. It felt as if his mortal flesh was being burned away, his spirit unraveled and rewoven on a cosmic loom. He saw visions: the birth of stars, the cooling of worlds, the rise and fall of empires that predated even Valyria. He felt the raw, untamed magic of the universe flowing through him, scouring him, reforging him. Lord Voldemort's soul, already ancient and steeped in darkness, embraced this agonizing transcendence, his indomitable will the crucible in which his new form was being forged. He was dying, and being reborn, not as a babe, but as something… other. Eternal.
The ritual lasted for what felt like an eternity, or perhaps only a heartbeat. When the blinding light finally receded, when the last echo of the Valyrian incantations faded into silence, King Baelon I Targaryen stood in the center of the ritual circle, a figure of terrible, awe-inspiring majesty.
He was unchanged, yet utterly transformed. His physical form retained its youth, but it now possessed an almost ethereal vitality, a subtle luminescence that seemed to emanate from within. His pale blue eyes, always intense, now blazed with the captured fire of the Valyrian crystals, flecked with gold and violet, windows to a soul that had touched the void and returned, master of its secrets. The faint scars that Voldemort's soul had carried from his previous life, echoes of his own foolish mistakes and the meddling of a certain Potter boy, were gone, not just from his skin, but from the very essence of his being. He felt… pristine. Ageless. His connection to his own magic, both the innate wizarding power and the Valyrian sorceries he had embraced, was amplified beyond measure. His senses were sharper, his mind clearer, his will an indomitable force capable of shaping reality itself.
Umbraxys, too, seemed altered, its shadowy form denser, its golden eyes burning with an even fiercer intelligence, its bond with Baelon now so profound they were almost two halves of a single, terrifying entity.
"You are… complete, Speaker," Umbraxys's voice resonated, tinged with something akin to awe. "The flame eternal burns within you."
Baelon raised his hands, feeling the thrum of illimitable power that now coursed through his veins. He had done it. He had conquered death, not by clinging to pathetic, fragmented pieces of soul, but by ascending, by becoming something more. The Iron Throne, Westeros, the very world – they were all just stepping stones on his path to true godhood.
When he finally emerged from his seclusion, days later, the court noticed a subtle shift. The King was still cold, still ruthless, but there was a new, almost terrifying serenity about him, a sense of ancient power held in perfect, chilling control. Larys Strong, presenting his reports, found his gaze drawn to the King's eyes, their fiery depths holding a wisdom and a warning that made even his cynical soul tremble.
"Your Grace appears… restored," Larys observed, his voice carefully neutral.
"I am… renewed, Lord Larys," Baelon replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "And I have found my long convalescence… most illuminating."
His first act upon his 'full recovery' was to summon the royal architects and stonemasons. The plans for the Obsidian Citadel were expanded, its towers to reach even higher, its foundations to delve even deeper, its wards to be woven with magics that would make it the most impregnable fortress the world had ever known, a beacon of his eternal reign.
He then issued a series of new decrees, their scope and ambition breathtaking. A complete codification of all laws of the Seven Kingdoms, to be personally reviewed and amended by the King, creating a single, unyielding legal framework for the entire realm. The establishment of a Royal Academy, to be housed within the Obsidian Citadel, dedicated not to the Seven-Pointed Star or the ramblings of Maesters, but to the recovery and study of Valyrian knowledge – history, sorcery, engineering – under his direct patronage and control. A census of unprecedented detail, cataloging not just every man, woman, and child, but every resource, every mine, every forest, every dragon, wild or tamed, across the Seven Kingdoms. Information, he knew, was power.
His gaze also turned outwards. With personal immortality now a certainty, the timeframe for his ambitions expanded to encompass centuries, millennia. Westeros was merely the beginning. The Free Cities, with their squabbling merchant princes and their lingering Valyrian heritage, would be brought to heel. The Summer Isles, Sothoryos, even the fabled lands beyond Asshai – all would eventually bow before the eternal Serpent King.
And the Song of Ice and Fire? The prophecy of a coming darkness? Baelon now considered it with a new perspective. If this 'Great Other' truly existed, it was merely another pretender to ultimate dominion, another force to be studied, understood, and, when the time was right, utterly vanquished or enslaved to his will. He would be the only god this world, or any other, would ever need.
King Baelon I Targaryen, Lord Voldemort reborn and now ageless, stood upon the precipice of a new epoch. The petty game of thrones was over. The grand, eternal game of gods had just begun. And he, with Umbraxys as his shadow and Valyrian fire as his soul, was ready to make his first move on a cosmic scale. The world would tremble, not just in fear, but in awe of its new, undying master.