A/N:I have been working on a Hamilton fix-it since I listened to the soundtrack last year. I read the whole Temeraire series last spring, but this sprung to mind this summer when I read League of Dragons.

Because what is the one rule in aerial corps? No dueling. What did Hamilton (and his son) die of? Dueling.
So here we are.
I have some thirteen thousand words written, but it's still very fractured, but I'm pleased with the beginning, so I figured I could start posting.
BTW, Temeraire characters will appear way later in the story, since it starts in 1772.

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Caribbean was, in many ways, a paradise. In others, it was hell.

For Alexander Hamilton, it was many things. Home, hell, hard school of life. Somewhere to get as far away from as possible. He had little luck in this endeavor for the first fifteen years of his life, but after the hurricane of 1772, when he was fifteen, two things happened, that swept him away from the place of his birth and to the midst of the American Revolution.

The first thing was that his friend Hugh Knox urged him to publish his experiences with the hurricane in the Royal Danish-American Gazette.

The second was finding a dragon egg washed on the shore during the hurricane.

That the egg was still intact was as close to a miracle as anything Hamilton had seen. From his reading (one of the books his mother owned, and his cousin saved for him, was on dragons) he must have known how fragile dragon eggs were until they were a week or two from hatching. When he found it, it was slightly elastic, meaning it would hatch in less than six months.

Hamilton had no idea what publishing his perspective of the hurricane would bring, but he knew that if he were a dragon captain, no one would keep him on St. Croix. Of course, that fall was when he left for America, and Elizabethtown Academy in preparation of college.

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August 31st, 1772

Alexander's eyes swept over the chaos and destruction of the harbor. There was nothing left standing that wasn't made of stone, like the Christiansted castle, though parts of the roof had caved in. The Beekman and Cruger's headquarters were in smithereens. One of the warehouses had survived partly, but there was little hope anything inside had survived the flood of sea water that was even now slowly trickling out. There were ships in the harbor, now wrecks lying on their side.

There were bodies in all sorts of places, black and white, slave and master. The storm hadn't cared who it was throwing around. It probably hadn't even noticed it was throwing around anyone.

He knew he should have felt horror at the sight in front of him, but he was just numb. This was the fourth time in five years his life had been ripped away from him. Every other time he'd managed to build it up again: after his father left, mother had picked herself up and founded a general goods store; after mother died and any possible inheritance had been given to her legitimate son, Alexander and James had been taken in by cousin Peter and they'd found jobs; after cousin Peter's suicide, James had found an apprenticeship and Alexander had been taken in by the Stevenses, all the while continuing his work at Beekman and Cruger's. But how was he supposed to pick up after this?

Slowly Alexander turned away and started walking. It wouldn't matter where he walked, it was an island and he'd end up where he started eventually. He should have started giving instructions to the few employees he had under him, as well as the slaves of the company, but in that moment he really couldn't have cared less if he'd tried. With his luck, the Stevenses would be dead. Lucky Ned was safe in New York, though he would weep bitter tears if he heard of his family's demise. Would he have cared if it was Alexander? Would Ned have cried for him? Would his father and brother have cried for him? Was his brother even alive?

Would his death matter to anyone? Would anyone remember him a year after his death? Would he have a legacy? What even would be his legacy? So far, the only marks he'd left in his life had been to an accounting book in Beekman and Cruger's office. And the few poems Hugh Knox had encouraged him to publish in the Royal Danish-American Gazette, but that was it.

That was the moment, on the walk after the hurricane, when Alexander realized he wanted more for himself. Much more. He wanted his name to be known centuries after he'd died. No longer would it be enough to have his name known for the duration of his life, but he wanted to be remembered like Hercules or Julius Caesar or Richard the Lionheart. A legend.

Easiest way to achieve that would be in a war, he'd already known that. He'd wished for a war for the last three years. It's a good thing modern warfare was less dependent on a man's physical ability than his mental prowess, because Alexander wasn't tall or particularly muscled. Once he had the name recognition, and if he survived the war, he could… become a tradesman. Begin his own company. Everything else would need an education he isn't likely to get, no matter how good the Stevenses are to him.

Something purple caught his attention from the corner of his eye, and Alexander turned to look.

A sphere – an egg. Much larger than any of the bird eggs he had ever seen. Only one thing lays eggs that large – dragons.

Being a dragon captain would mean the instant rank of Captain in any army. But a dragon would also eat more meat than he could afford for years. But armies feed their dragons the same way they do their horses. And does it have to be meat? Why not fish? Or beans or wheat?

How does one harness a dragon anyway? How quickly do they grow? When do they learn to talk or fly? Would this one breathe fire or spit acid? Would it have spikes or ridges? Would it be long or stout? What color would it be?

Alexander approached the egg, looking around to see if some dragon was around, protecting the egg, but as no mother or father dragon appeared, he knelt by the egg. He ran a palm gently over the shell, testing its hardness. It was firm but gave away if he put even the slightest pressure on it, a little like just washed bed sheets billowing in wind.

The egg was too large for him to carry safely by himself, and he wouldn't know where to hide it yet anyway. Fine china was always packed in hay for the voyages, so maybe Alexander could utilize a similar setup? Then have two of the employees or slaves carry it for him?

He took a quick look around. He was some distance from Christiansted, but that meant little, as others might want a walk, so he'd have to hide the egg very close to where it was at the moment. The edge of the forest was a little uphill, but if the egg was there, among the fallen palm trees, the tide at least wouldn't take away the egg or its camouflage.

His course of action decided, Alexander checked if there were any stones around the egg, before starting to gently roll the egg towards the tree line. A few times he had to avert a rock or piece of driftwood, but he made it to the copse of trees without much trouble. There he maneuvered the egg to the safe wedge between two fallen trunks, careful not to push it. After, he gathered leaves and grass and uprooted bushes to camouflage the egg. He walked around to try to catch a glimpse of the egg from any and every corner, and when he did, he rectified the flaw in the egg's hiding place. In the end, it looked like the hurricane had accidentally blown everything to the wedge between the trees, a complete accident, and not something that would hide something as invaluable as a dragon egg.

Alexander returned briskly back to Christiansted as the sun was already setting, mind whirling with plans.

He would not be confined to St. Croix and the West Indies for the rest of his life.