The Dragon’s Heir

Chapter 8: The Dragon's Heir

286 AC - Volantis

Prince Aerion Targaryen

Three years had passed since the Targaryen fleet had sailed across the Narrow Sea, fleeing the destruction of Dragonstone. Now, in the heart of Volantis, the last of House Targaryen's bloodline grew in both strength and wisdom.

Aerion Targaryen, now six years old, had become a striking child, his beauty surpassing even that of his forebears. His silver-gold hair shimmered like molten moonlight, and his red eyes, deep and intense, seemed to hold an understanding beyond his years. There was a quiet dignity about him, a presence that drew the eyes of nobles and commoners alike. Though he was but a boy, people spoke of him in hushed whispers—the last dragon, the prince reborn, the one who might yet reclaim the destiny of his house.

Yet, for all his gifts, Aerion struggled. Words did not come to him as easily as they should. While he spoke High Valyrian fluently, as if it were his mother's tongue, he often faltered when trying to read or write in the Common Tongue or Low Valyrian. The letters twisted before his eyes, their meanings slipping through his grasp like sand through his fingers. It frustrated him greatly, for he knew a prince should be learned. He wished to read the histories of his ancestors, to understand the world around him, but the struggle left him feeling inadequate.

"Again," Maester Marwyn would say, his voice a deep, patient rumble as he guided Aerion's hand over the parchment. "Do not rush. The words are like dragons, my prince. They will not be tamed in a single day."

Aerion bit his lip, trying to focus, but the words still danced before him, refusing to bend to his will.

Marwyn was different from the Maesters Aerion had heard of in Westeros. He did not scoff at the idea of dragons or magic. Instead, he embraced it. He told Aerion stories of Old Valyria, of the great sorcerers who had tamed dragons with spells and steel, of the lost arts that had once made the Targaryens more than just kings, but something greater.

"House Targaryen is the last remnant of a shattered empire," Marwyn told him one evening as they sat by the fire. "You are more than a prince, Aerion. You are a legacy of power—one the world has nearly forgotten."

Aerion sat up straighter, his small fingers clutching the book Marwyn had given him. "The House of the Dragon," he murmured.

Marwyn nodded. "And you must never forget that."

The stories of his ancestors filled Aerion with pride. He imagined Daemon Targaryen soaring upon Caraxes, Aegon the Conqueror bringing Westeros to heel beneath Balerion's shadow, and Daeron the Young Dragon riding south to claim Dorne. He longed to be like them, to prove himself worthy of their blood.

But the world around him did not make it easy.

Everyone wanted something from him.

Kinvara, the High Priestess of R'hllor, would often visit him, draped in her flowing crimson robes, her golden eyes gleaming like molten fire. She spoke to him in soothing tones, calling him Azor Ahai reborn, the savior the flames had promised. She told him that his birth had been written in prophecy, that he was destined to wield a burning sword and lead the world against the darkness.

"You were born beneath the bleeding star, Prince Aerion," she whispered one night, her voice rich with conviction. "The flames showed me your mother's sacrifice, the night she brought you into this world. She gave herself to the fire, so that you might live. R'hllor's light shines upon you."

Aerion frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "But Ser Guncer says the Seven watch over me."

Kinvara's lips curled into a knowing smile. "And yet, the Seven did not see your coming. Only the flames revealed your birth. Only the flames tell of your future."

Ser Guncer Sunglass, ever the staunch Westerosi knight, was just as determined.

"You are of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror," he reminded Aerion often. "Your ancestors knelt before the Seven, prayed to them in their great Sept in King's Landing. The Seven are the gods of Westeros, and if you are to return as king, you must honor them."

"But R'hllor has power," Aerion argued one day. "Kinvara says fire is the truth."

Guncer scowled. "Fire is a tool, not a god. The Seven are not as loud as the Red God, but they are just, and they are patient. A king must rule wisely, not be led by whispers in the flames."

Aerion did not know what to believe.

He saw power in Kinvara's faith—the way fire answered her call, the way her visions seemed to pierce through time itself. But Guncer's words spoke of duty, of honor, of the legacy of his forebears. And then there was Marwyn, who did not concern himself with gods, only with knowledge.

Three paths. Three voices. All expecting something from him.

It weighed upon him more than he could express.

He was only six, and yet the world seemed to press its weight upon his small shoulders.

He saw the way people looked at him—the expectation in their eyes, the hope, the hunger. Kinvara saw a messiah. Guncer saw a king even though Viserys might be still out there. Marwyn saw the last link to a lost world of magic.

But what did he see?

Sometimes, when he was alone in the great temple of R'hllor, staring into the endless flames, he wondered. If he failed, would the fire consume him? If he was not the prince of prophecy, what would become of him?

He could not afford to fail. Not for Kinvara. Not for Guncer. Not for Marwyn.

And so, he trained. He studied, even when the words refused to obey him. He listened to their lessons, their warnings, their dreams of what he might become.

Because one day, he would have to choose.

And the world would be watching.

Aerion found Thoros of Myr sitting near the open balcony, the Volantene night warm and perfumed with the scents of foreign flowers and spiced wine. The red priest held a half-empty cup in one hand, staring at the dark sea beyond. His bald head gleamed in the moonlight, and his red robes hung loosely around his broad frame.

Aerion sat beside him, silent for a long moment. The firelight flickered in his violet eyes as he turned to the older man.

"Thoros," he said at last, voice quiet. "Tell me about my mother."

Thoros blinked, glancing at him. He had expected many things from the young prince—questions about war, about prophecy, about the flames. But not this.

Aerion did not meet his gaze. He swirled his wine absentmindedly, watching the way the liquid caught the light. "I know enough about my father. Lord Monford, Ser Barristan, and the Velaryons have told me his story a hundred times over. But my mother… no one speaks of her." He hesitated, then looked up, his blood-red eyes burning with something deeper. "Was she truly as devout as they say?"

Thoros exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Devout?" He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Your mother, my prince, was more than devout. She was fire itself."

Aerion's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Thoros took a sip of wine before continuing. "Most men worship their gods in words. Some in deeds. Your mother… she worshipped in purpose. She was the most zealous believer I had ever met. While I prayed in drunken stupors and preached with half-hearted sermons, she burned with true faith. She believed in R'hllor, not because she was told to, but because she saw the world as a battle between light and darkness, and she chose to fight for the light." He shook his head. "I envied her for that."

Aerion tilted his head. "Envied her?"

Thoros let out a low chuckle. "Aye. I wear these robes, I speak the words, I light the fires… but never have I had faith like hers. Unwavering. Unshakable. She gave herself to the Lord of Light with a certainty I could never match."

Aerion was quiet, digesting his words. "And yet… she left me."

Thoros looked at him then, truly looked at him. "Only because she had no choice. And if she did, Aerion, she would have chosen you over the fire."

Aerion's throat tightened. "How can you be so sure?"

Thoros placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Because for all her faith, all her fire, there was one moment where her devotion faltered. One moment where something mattered more than R'hllor's light." His grip tightened slightly. "The moment you were born."

Aerion said nothing. The weight of those words settled deep within him.

Thoros leaned back against the balcony railing, looking up at the stars. "I have seen many things in my life. I have seen warriors break and gods fall silent. I have seen men die in agony and others rise when they should have perished. But there is only one moment in my life that ever made me truly believe in something greater."

Aerion turned to him. "What was it?"

Thoros' lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "The night the red comet struck the sky… and you were born."

The words sent a shiver down Aerion's spine. He had heard it before—the whispers of the comet, the talk of prophecy—but hearing it from Thoros, a man who never spoke in riddles, carried a different weight.

Thoros exhaled, staring out at the dark sea. "I do not believe in gods, Aerion. Not as Kinvara does. Not as your mother did. Not as the Septons preach or the Red Priests chant. But I do believe in something." He tapped his fingers against the rim of his cup. "I believe in men. In their choices. In their will. I believe that some are born to carve their own destiny, gods be damned."

He turned to Aerion then, his fire-bright eyes meeting the prince's. "And I believe you are one of them."

Aerion swallowed, the weight of the conversation pressing upon him. He had come looking for answers, but Thoros had only given him more questions.

He looked back out at the sea, his thoughts tangled like the waves below.

For the first time in his young life, Aerion wondered if he was meant to follow prophecy… or to forge something greater.

While Aerion was growing in knowledge and strength, life in Volantis had its own stories to tell. Monford Velaryon and Aurane Waters, now seasoned young leaders, had taken a position of command of the Lost Legion, a group of Valyrian descendants who had come together to serve as mercenaries. Their ranks had swelled to over 11,000 soldiers, all eager for coin and adventure. The Lost Legion had been dispatched to various parts of the Free Cities, and their growing reputation had earned them both wealth and infamy.

Though Aerion had not yet learned the full weight of his family's obligations, he knew that the Lost Legion played a significant role in the fate of his house. When the time came, Aerion would be expected to make decisions that could either restore House Targaryen or further plunge it into ruin. But for now, his focus was on his training, his understanding of both the sword and the mysteries of the world.

287 AC

Prince Aerion Targaryen

One morning, as the sun rose over the rooftops of Volantis, Aerion stood in the training yard, preparing for his daily lessons. Ser Barristan had made it clear that Aerion's training should continue without distraction, but this day would prove to be different. A visitor had arrived—Clement Celtigar, the young heir of House Celtigar, was his closest friend.

At nine years old, Clement had become a young man before his time. His once-lively features were now marked by the tragedy that had befallen his family, losing his father, Adrian Celtigar, in the great storm of 284. His face bore the solemn weight of loss, yet there was an undeniable fire in his violet eyes—a fierce determination that only strengthened as time passed. His hair, dark and stormy like the seas, was streaked with strands of silver, an oddity for one so young.

Clement's grief had aged him, but his spirit remained unbroken. He was a boy of strength and loyalty, with a sharp wit and a knack for finding humor even in the darkest of days.

Today, like every other day, Clement stood by Aerion's side. Despite their differences—Aerion's grace and fluidity with the sword and Clement's raw strength and clumsiness—they were the best of friends. Their bond was forged not only through battle and sparring but also through shared laughter and the mutual understanding of the burdens they carried.

As the two stood at the center of the yard, Aerion flashed a mischievous grin.

"Ready to lose again, Clem?" Aerion teased, holding his sword in an elegant stance.

Clement scowled, his purple eyes narrowing with mock intensity. "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you?" He swung his sword in a quick, wide arc, his grey hair falling into his face. "One day, you'll regret underestimating me, my prince."

Aerion laughed lightly, his own purple eyes sparkling with amusement. "If I don't dodge fast enough, I'll be underestimating you. That's what I was taught. To not be slow like some people I know." He gave Clement a playful shove.

Clement rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. "Oh, you want to talk about slow? I'd like to see you try to outrun me when I'm not giving you a head start!"

"Let's see if your strength can help you out of this," Aerion challenged, twisting his body in a swift pirouette before springing forward, aiming for Clement's exposed side.

The clash of their blades rang out as Clement grunted, his sword raised to block the attack. "You know, Monford would have been better at this than me," Clement joked, huffing as he parried Aerion's strike. "Not that he'd ever admit it, the stubborn fool. He always insists he can best me."

Aerion's lips quirked upward in amusement. "Monford?" he said, his voice teasing. "He's too busy being lord of Driftmark now to bother with us. You should see how he walks around like he owns the place."

"Don't forget the sword he carries," Clement added with a sly grin, "I think he uses it to open doors now."

Aerion snorted. "He'd probably break the door down before using it for anything practical."

Clement shook his head, clearly fond of his old friend. "It's ridiculous. He still acts like an older brother to us. I swear, he's more protective than Ser Barristan sometimes."

Aerion nodded in agreement. "He's a good man. He'd do anything for us." The affection in Aerion's voice was clear. He and Monford had shared their childhood together, and even though Monford was now 18, a knight, and the Lord of Driftmark, their bond remained as strong as ever. It was Monford who had often taught them the more practical skills of warfare—how to handle a sword properly, how to read the signs of battle, and even how to laugh at the hardships life threw at them.

"You should see him when he's around the Lost Legion," Clement said, shaking his head in disbelief. "He's one of the youngest knights there, and the men follow him like he's their own lord. It's honestly impressive, though it's like he never left. Still acting like he's got two older brothers instead of just one."

"That's because he's always been the big brother," Aerion said quietly, a flicker of nostalgia in his eyes. "He never treats us like we're younger. Even when he's leading the Legion, he keeps checking in on us, making sure we're all right. Can't say I blame him, though. After all, we've got his back."

The two boys shared a long look, a silent understanding passing between them. Though Monford had become lord of Driftmark, he had never truly left them behind. He was still their friend, their brother—someone who would always stand by them, no matter the cost.

Clement sighed, his playful expression softening. "I suppose we should be happy for him. I don't know how he does it, but somehow he makes being Lord of Driftmark look easy."

Aerion's eyes sparkled with mischief again as he lowered his sword. "He probably has some secret, I'm sure of it. Maybe we'll sneak over to Driftmark and find out for ourselves."

"That's the most idiotic plan I've heard all day." Clement grinned. "But you know what? I might be in."

Ser Barristan, standing at the edge of the yard, smiled at the banter between the boys. It was a welcome change from the usual tension that came with the prince's training. He knew that Aerion and Clement were meant for greatness, but moments like this—when they laughed and joked as children should—reminded him that, despite the burdens they would one day bear, they were still young.

"Well done, both of you," Ser Barristan called out after Aerion had finally managed to land a light strike against Clement's sword arm, knocking it out of position. "You've both improved. Clement, you're strong—but you must learn to harness it. Aerion, you're quick, but don't forget to watch your back."

Breathing heavily, Clement offered a wry smile. "Always have to remind me, don't you?"

Aerion gave him a half-grin. "It's called 'experience,' Clem. You'll get there one day."

The two shared a quick, knowing look—one of those moments where words weren't needed. They were more than just sparring partners; they were brothers, bound by something deeper than blood.

As Clement wiped the sweat from his forehead, his grey hair falling loose from his makeshift braid, he gave Aerion a playful shove. "I bet Monford's got some new 'battle' stories to tell. You know, from all his 'adventures' with the Lost Legion."

Aerion chuckled, rolling his eyes. "I bet they're all about how he single-handedly saved a town from invaders."

Clement snorted. "Only because he took their horses for a 'faster escape,' right?"

"Exactly." Aerion laughed. "Then he'll probably claim he fought a dragon while he was at it."

Clement grinned, clearly enjoying the conversation. "Let's just hope he doesn't show up with a trophy dragon head. Then he'd never stop talking about it."

As the two boys continued to joke, their laughter filled the air, the weight of the world temporarily forgotten.

But the world around them was changing. It had to. And while they enjoyed their carefree moments, a storm of uncertainty loomed on the horizon, ready to shape the future of not just House Targaryen but the entire realm.

For Aerion, the pressure to live up to the legacy of his ancestors weighed on him more heavily with each passing day. There were those who believed in him—his allies, his mentors, his friends—but there were also those who expected more than just a child. Everyone wanted something from him, and that knowledge gnawed at him from the inside. He could feel it in the looks from the Red Priests who spoke of the Lord of Light, in the quiet suggestions of Ser Guncer who tried to guide him toward the Seven, and in the distant glances of the Lost Legion, waiting for him to embrace his destiny.

He had to live up to their expectations. He had to. If he failed, the last dragon would be nothing more than a fleeting memory.

As he looked at Clement, sharing another laugh over Monford's latest misfortune, Aerion knew one thing: he would not fail. Not while he had friends like these, not while his family's legacy lived in him. The weight of destiny was heavy, but he would carry it.

For he was Aerion Targaryen, the greatest hope of House Targaryen. The dragon's blood ran in his veins, and he would not let it go to waste.