A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 13: The Dragon Comes Home

The fires burned bright in the camp of the Lost Legion.

Thirteen thousand men, hardened by war, gathered around roaring flames, drinking, feasting, and singing of their victory over Khal Jaro's horde. Lamb roasted on spits, barrels of Myrish wine were cracked open, and the smell of spiced Volantene dishes filled the air.

At the center of it all, Ser Aerion Targaryen, only nine years old, but already a warrior in the eyes of his men, sat beside his sworn brother in battle, Ser Clement Celtigar.

Monford Velaryon stood, raising his cup high.

"To victory!" he bellowed, his white-gold hair shining in the firelight.

"To the Dragon Prince!" came Aurane Waters' voice.

A chorus of agreement followed, cups banging against the wooden tables in rhythm.

Aerion grinned, lifting his own cup—filled with strong wine Ser Clement had "borrowed" for them both. Barristan Selmy, ever the watchful knight, gave him a pointed glare.

"You're nine."

Aerion took a small sip anyway. "And victorious."

Aurane laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let the boy celebrate, Ser Barristan! He bled for his first battle. First blood deserves first wine!"

Barristan sighed, muttering something about Targaryens and their fondness for drinking too young.

Beside Aerion, Ser Clement Celtigar smirked. "Do you think I should drink more now that I'm a knight?"

Monford, overhearing this, grinned wickedly. "A knight? You? You think I knighted you because you were worthy?"

Clement blinked. "That's usually how it works."

Monford snorted. "I only did it so I wouldn't have to hear you whine about it any longer."

The table roared with laughter, and Clement crossed his arms, pretending to be offended.

"Well, Seahorse, you may have made me a knight, but I will never call you 'Ser' because that would mean I respect you."

Aurane nearly choked on his wine. Monford was like a older brother to Clement ans somtimes even a fatherfigure, and Aurane always enjoyed their liddle brotherly fights.

Barristan, ever the old knight, shook his head at them. "If you lot are what the next generation of Westerosi knights will look like, the realm is truly doomed."

Across the table, Thoros of Myr was already deep into his twelfth cup of wine, his red robes stained with drink. His bald head shone in the firelight, and he waved his cup in the air wildly.

"A toast!" he bellowed, nearly falling over. "To the Lord of Light, who saw us victorious!"

Aerion, amused, raised a brow. "I thought you were afraid of the Lord of Light, Thoros?"

The drunken priest blinked, then leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially. "I fear him... because he actually listens. That's the problem, young prince. Gods shouldn't listen too closely. They might not like what they hear."

Aurane snorted. "You're so drunk, Thoros, that actually sounded profound."

Thoros waved him off. "I'm always profound when I'm drunk. It's only when I'm sober that I start sounding like a fool!"

---

The Skull Knight Speaks

At another table, Naeron Qoherys, the Skull Knight, sat quietly, watching the celebration with his piercing violet eyes. His jet-black hair fell over his shoulders, and his armor, still stained with the blood of the Dothraki, gleamed under the firelight.

Aerion approached him, cup in hand. "You're not drinking?"

Naeron smirked. "I drink when there's something to drown out. This… this is a moment to savor."

Aerion nodded. "We did well."

Naeron studied him. "You did well. You fight beyond your years, but war is more than just a sword in hand. It's about knowing when to strike and when to wait."

Aerion met his gaze. "And do you think we should wait?"

Naeron's smile was sharp. "For now."

As the men drank deeper into the night, Aerion stood.

The camp fell silent as the young prince tried to walk toward the fire, his walkline a little bit offy thanks to the wine, his blood-red eyes burning in the flickering light.

And then—he sang.

The Dragon Comes Home (A Song of the Lost Legion)

"Far from the land where dragons soared,

The swords were lost, their hearts were torn.

Steel and fire, ash and bone,

The lost ones march, to find their home."

"They crossed the sands, they braved the sea,

Fought for coin, but not for peace.

Under foreign suns, in lands unknown,

The dragon calls, the lost have grown."

"The dragon comes home, hear the steel ring!

The dragon comes home, let the lost ones sing!

Blades in hand, through fire and stone,

The dragon calls, and we march home!"

The moment the song ended, the camp erupted in cheers.

"The Dragon Company!" one voice shouted.

"The Dragon Company!" came another.

Soon, the entire company was chanting, stomping their feet, banging their cups—a sound so loud, it felt as if the very earth trembled beneath them.

Aerion laughed, lifting his cup, his blood-red eyes shining.

Barristan, watching from a distance, shook his head.

"Rhaegar sang too, but never like this," he muttered.

Aurane grinned beside him. "That's because Rhaegar was a poet, and Aerion is a conqueror."

And that night, the Lost Legion was lost no longer.

They were no longer just sellswords.

They were his.

The Dragon Company had been born.