A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 12: The Battle of Red Grass

The Red Wastes were drowned in blood.

What had once been golden grasslands was now a battlefield of carnage and ruin. The Dothraki horde, once believed to be unstoppable, lay shattered. But even as the tide of war shifted, the Lost Legion still fought, cutting down the remaining screamers like wheat before the scythe.

Aerion Starborn stood at the heart of the carnage, his silver hair stained red, his blood-colored eyes ablaze with fury. Starfyre was an extension of his will, his strikes so quick and precise that they seemed almost unnatural.

Beside him, Clement Celtigar, the young heir of his house, fought with the ferocity of an older warrior.

They were brothers in war—moving as one, watching each other's backs, surviving together.

A Dothraki bloodrider charged, his arakh flashing. Clement turned, but too late—the curved blade was coming for his throat.

Aerion was faster.

In a blur of movement, he parried the strike just in time, his sword locking against the arakh. With a twist of his wrist, he sent the weapon flying, then drove Starfyre into the rider's chest.

The Dothraki gasped, blood spilling from his lips as he collapsed.

Clement, still catching his breath, grinned. "Seven save me, you're quick."

Aerion smirked. "You can thank me later."

But there was no time to rest.

More riders descended upon them, shrieking with fury. Clement reacted first, grabbing Aerion's shoulder and yanking him down just as an arakh flew over his head.

Aerion rolled, dodging the strike just in time.

Then, together, they rose as one—striking in unison.

Clement's sword bit deep into a rider's side, while Aerion slashed another across the throat, sending blood spraying across the battlefield.

They fought like two dragons unleashed, their bond forged in the fires of battle.

And the Dothraki fell before them.

As the battle raged on, Barristan Selmy—the King's Blade, the Bold One—stood face to face with Khal Jaro.

The Dothraki warlord sneered, gripping his great arakh, the last of his warriors still fighting behind him.

"Come, old man," he growled in Dothraki. "Die with a sword in your hand."

Barristan did not speak.

He simply charged.

Their weapons clashed, steel screaming against steel. Jaro was strong, his strikes wild and powerful, but Barristan was flawless—his technique honed by decades of battle.

The Khal swung for his head—Barristan ducked.

He tried to feint left—Barristan countered effortlessly.

Jaro roared and brought his arakh down in a vicious arc.

Barristan sidestepped, twisted his sword, and drove it deep into the Khal's heart.

Jaro gasped, his eyes wide. His arakh fell from his grip.

Then, with one last breath, he collapsed from his horse—lifeless.

The Dothraki saw their leader fall.

And at last, the battle was won.

As the sun set over the crimson-stained fields, the survivors gathered.

The Lost Legion stood victorious, their numbers reduced but their reputation greater than ever. The Dothraki dead littered the plains, their horses left riderless.

And at the center of it all stood Aerion Targaryen—only nine years old, yet baptized in blood, having fought and killed like a true warrior.

That night, Barristan Selmy stood before him, Starfyre in hand.

The flames of the Legion's camp flickered, casting shadows across the men who watched. Narion Qoherys, Monford Velaryon, Aurane Waters, Thoros of Myr, Clement Celtigar—all stood in solemn silence.

Aerion knelt.

And Barristan spoke.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."

Aerion met his gaze, his young face hardened beyond his years.

"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."

The wind whispered through the camp.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

Aerion thought of the Dothraki, the blood, the children left behind by war.

"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."

He would protect his people. Always.

"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong of arm and true of heart."

Aerion's fingers curled into fists.

"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek wisdom and guidance."

He had seen visions in his dreams. Signs. Omens. He would not ignore them.

"In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death with a steady heart."

Death had been his companion on the battlefield.

And he had not flinched.

Barristan tapped Starfyre to each of his shoulders, then raised the sword high.

"Rise, Ser Aerion Targaryen, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aerion rose, his blood-red eyes gleaming in the firelight.

The men cheered, their voices echoing into the night.

A dragon had been reborn in exile.

And Westeros would one day tremble at his return.