A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 35 – The Red Dragon Rises

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POV: Aerion Targaryen – The Eastern Coast of Essos, South of Braavos

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the camp, reflecting off the dark steel armor of his soldiers. The banners of red dragons rippled in the breeze, standing tall among the sea of silver and gold-haired warriors.

Aerion Targaryen stepped out of his tent, his blood-red eyes piercing the horizon.

He was seventeen, but there was nothing boyish left in him.

Standing at 6'3", his body was forged in battle, his muscles lean but powerful, his features chiseled as if carved from Valyrian stone. His hair, a perfect mix of silver and gold, glimmered under the sun, and his voice, once softer, had deepened into something commanding—something that demanded obedience.

His army had grown strong, not just in numbers but in purpose.

They had set camp on the eastern coast of Essos, just south of Braavos, their banners flying proudly near the dark waters of the Narrow Sea. This was their last stop before their inevitable march to war.

Behind him, his best friend Clement Celtigar was kneeling beside young Lord Laenor Velaryon, telling him stories of his father, Monford Velaryon.

Nearby, Naeron Qoherys, his trusted general, was drilling the army—an army of 37,000 Valyrian exiles, each one honed to the peak of discipline and strength.

And within the camp, life flourished.

The Lyseni women—those they had rescued from the slaver raids—had found husbands among his soldiers. Nearly every tent had become a home, and many of his men had wives and children now.

This was no ordinary mercenary band.

This was a people reborn.

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The Army of the Dragon

Aerion stepped forward, watching as his soldiers trained under the harsh eye of Ser Barristan Selmy.

The army was divided into three main forces:

12,000 cavalry, riders trained to strike fast and hard, their Valyrian steel-tipped lances gleaming under the sun.

10,000 archers, masters of the famed Summer Islander bows, their arrows capable of piercing even the strongest plate.

15,000 infantry, trained with dark steel swords, spears, and hammers, their armor forged by the great Tobho Mott himself.

They wore blackened plate with chainmail beneath, their helms shaped in the form of dragon's heads, their visors a single T-shaped opening. Each soldier carried a primary weapon—a sword, hammer, spear, or bow—and a secondary blade, be it a dagger or a short sword.

And they were ruthless.

Aerion himself trained harder than anyone.

Unlike before, he no longer dueled Ser Barristan alone—instead, he was forced to fight multiple warriors at once.

Five, sometimes seven men came at him in the training yard.

Each one a skilled fighter.

And yet, he still stood victorious.

Every time.

His speed, his reflexes, his sheer instinct in battle was beyond even the best of his men.

If Aerion was to reclaim the Iron Throne, he needed the strongest army Westeros had ever seen—and he had forged it himself.

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The Dragon Fleet

By the bay, Aurane Waters, his naval commander, inspected the mighty fleet.

Their ships numbered only 130, but they were the best in the world.

They had 30 flagships, each crafted in Braavos from the strongest timber, with triremes and ballistae to shatter enemy vessels.

The crown jewel was the Sea Snake—the Velaryon flagship, named after Corlys Velaryon, the greatest sailor in history.

The second flagship, Red Claw, bore the Celtigar sigil.

And the third, Sea Dragon, was Aerion's personal warship, a beast of black and crimson, its figurehead carved into the form of a roaring dragon.

The marines aboard the fleet, numbering in the thousands, were primarily Velaryon and Celtigar men, their armor lighter, dyed in red and blue, moving with the grace of the sea.

The finest smiths in the world had outfitted his army.

Tobho Mott, the greatest blacksmith alive, personally oversaw the forging of their armor and weapons.

Aerion had spared no expense in preparing for war.

And it had cost him dearly.

The treasury, once overflowing, had dwindled to nine million gold dragons—a fortune, yet far less than before.

But gold could be earned again.

Power, once lost, was harder to regain.

And Aerion did not intend to lose.

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A Council of War

Inside the command tent, his closest advisors gathered around the war table, maps of Westeros and Essos spread before them.

Naeron Qoherys stood at his right, arms crossed.

Clement Celtigar leaned over the map, his brows furrowed.

Ser Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight, stood calm but watchful.

Aurane Waters, the rogue admiral, poured a glass of summerwine, smirking.

They were about to discuss the invasion of Westeros—when the tent flaps burst open.

A soldier, panting and dust-covered, fell to his knees.

"Prince Aerion!" he gasped. "We have urgent news!"

Aerion's red eyes locked onto him, burning like ember and blood.

"Speak."

The soldier swallowed hard.

"Khal Drogo was seen in Pentos. He left shortly after."

The tent fell silent

Ser Barristan's expression darkened.

Naeron frowned. "What would the Dothraki want in Pentos?"

Aerion exhaled slowly.

"The rumors were true."

The others looked at him, waiting.

"Viserys betrayed us," Aerion said, his voice cold. "He sold Daenerys to a Dothraki savage. And when I sent messengers to treat with him, he had them killed."

Naeron clenched his fists.

Ser Barristan's jaw tightened, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

Clement looked between them, uncertain. "And Khal Drogo? You think he marches west?"

Aerion shook his head. "No. He is too far. We will never reach him in time."

He turned to his council.

"But I will march east regardless."

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The March Begins

The next morning, the banners were raised.

The Golden Company, the Company of the Dragon, the exiled sons of Valyria—

They marched east.

Aerion Targaryen rode at the head of the column, his blood-red eyes set upon the horizon, where his sister was lost to a savage land.

He would find her.

He would reclaim his House's honor.