A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 22: The Dragon's Flame

The morning fog had not yet lifted as the funeral pyres of the fallen Dragon Company soldiers burned in the distance. Aerion stood alone, his gaze heavy as he watched the flames lick at the sky. The cries of the grieving families, the low murmurs of sorrow, echoed across the camp. It was a quiet, somber day, one where the weight of loss was felt in the hearts of every soldier who had fought alongside the men now lost to the flames.

Today, the men of the Dragon Company honored their fallen comrades. Thoros of Myr, the bold and fierce warrior who had stood by Aerion's side for so long, was among the dead, and his pyre was the largest. Aerion had never been one to show much emotion, but the loss of Thoros had struck him hard. He had been more than just a soldier. He had been a brother, a friend. A man who would have followed him into the depths of hell without hesitation.

As the pyres burned, Naeron Qoherys, his loyal friend and commander, stood beside him, his hand resting on Aerion's shoulder. Clement, too, was there, though his face was more stoic, his one good eye reflecting the grief he felt.

"The dead are honored," Naeron said quietly, "but we must live for those who remain."

Aerion nodded, the weight of leadership pressing down on him. The losses had been heavy, but they would not define them. The Dragon Company would continue, and they would rebuild—stronger, fiercer, and more determined than ever.

As the pyres burned out, the camp slowly came to life again. The men needed something to shake off the sorrow and the weight of the battle. Aerion, ever the strategist, saw an opportunity to do just that. He gathered his commanders and, much to their surprise, issued a challenge.

"I need to feel the fire in my veins," Aerion said to Barristan Selmy, his eyes glinting with the familiar hunger for combat. "Come, Ser Barristan, spar with me."

Ser Barristan, though recovering from the battle, never hesitated to accept the challenge. His reputation as one of the finest knights in the realm was well known, and even Aerion had the utmost respect for the seasoned knight.

The two squared off in the center of the camp, their swords gleaming in the sunlight. Aerion's movements were swift, fluid—his sword dancing in the air as he attacked with precision. Barristan met him with equal skill, his defense solid, his counters sharp.

The two exchanged blows, the clashing of steel filling the air. Aerion, youthful and fierce, pushed Barristan to the limit, but the older knight's experience shone through. With each passing moment, the fight became a test of endurance, each blow heavier than the last.

Aerion's breath grew labored, sweat beading on his brow. He struck Barristan with a force that sent the knight reeling, but Barristan recovered instantly, striking back with a forceful swing. Aerion dodged, but his foot caught on a rock, and he stumbled. Barristan took advantage, pressing forward and landing a strike to Aerion's side.

"Yield," Barristan said, his voice firm but filled with respect.

Aerion's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he nodded. "You've bested me this time, Ser Barristan."

Barristan gave a small smile. "The prince grows stronger with every fight. But remember, Aerion, strength alone will not win battles. It is the mind that must guide the hand."

Aerion nodded in agreement, though his pride stung from the loss. He could accept it. Barristan was a master of the sword, and Aerion had much yet to learn.

The Dragon's Egg

Later that evening, after the sparring match, Aerion found himself alone at the edge of the camp. He walked to a secluded area, where the egg lay on a pedestal. The crimson scales of the egg gleamed in the firelight, still warm to the touch.

He reached out and placed his hand gently on the egg. A rush of warmth flooded his body, almost like the pulse of a heartbeat beneath the hard shell. The egg's warmth was comforting, but there was something more—a sense of power, of ancient magic, that seemed to hum in the air around it.

Aerion's heart quickened, and he could feel something stirring deep within him. The egg felt alive, its heat resonating with a call he couldn't explain.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, his hand resting on the egg, feeling the connection between himself and whatever dragon might one day hatch from it. It was as if the Targaryen blood within him was drawn to it, to the fire and fury that lived within his veins.

He smiled softly, a spark of something fierce and powerful lighting within his chest. "One day, you'll fly," he whispered to the egg. "And I will be there, beside you."

The Feast

That night, the camp came alive with the sounds of celebration. The men who had survived, their wounds tended to and their spirits lifted, gathered around large fires for a feast. The wives of the soldiers, children, and other camp followers had joined them, and the mood was a strange mixture of joy and sorrow.

Monford Velaryon and his wife, Lysarra Rogare, were in attendance, with Lysarra now heavily pregnant—her swollen belly a constant reminder that life, though fragile, continued. She was a beacon of hope for the future, just as the egg Aerion had claimed was a symbol of the Targaryen legacy reborn.

The atmosphere was lively, though there was a solemn undertone. The men toasted to their fallen brothers and the many who had fought for a better future. Clement raised his cup and offered a quiet toast to Thoros, his one eye glistening with unshed tears.

"To Thoros, who gave his life for the cause," Clement said, his voice thick with emotion. "And to all the brothers who've died."

The group cheered and drank, their voices rising in unison. The mood, despite the weight of their grief, was lightened by the laughter and stories that filled the air. Aurane, who did not fight much off the sea, laughed along. His voice rang out as he joked with the men.

"I spent more time with the ship's crew than any of you," he said with a wink. "But I've still seen more bloodshed than I care for."

Lysarra, ever the gracious hostess, leaned toward Monford, who was still recovering from the loss of his leg, and whispered, "We must keep moving forward, my love. This child... our child... will be born into a world of warriors."

Monford smiled gently, his face marked with pain and weariness, but also with a quiet resolve. "Our legacy will live on through them, Lysarra."

As the night drew on and the fires burned low, Aerion found himself deep in thought. He sat beside Barristan, his gaze distant as he considered the future.

Ser Barristan, ever the loyal knight, watched the prince carefully. "What do we do now, my prince?" he asked, his voice filled with respect and curiosity.

Aerion looked at him, a fierce fire burning in his eyes. "We rebuild, Ser Barristan. We rebuild an army unlike any the world has ever seen." His words were sharp, filled with the certainty that only Aerion could convey. "The Three Daughters are our next stop. We'll recruit more men, and we'll spend the 41 million honors we now have. With that money, we'll build an army strong enough to crush any foe."

Barristan nodded, impressed by the prince's resolve. "And then?"

Aerion's eyes hardened, and a sly grin spread across his face. "Then, we march on Westeros." His voice was low, but filled with the promise of vengeance. "We'll take the Iron Throne. We'll set the rightful king on the throne... A Targaryen king."