The Young Prodigy

Chapter 10: The Young Prodigy

289 AC - Volantis

Aerion Targaryen, though only nine years old, had proven himself an extraordinary prodigy. His prowess with a sword had become legend, whispered about in the corridors of Volantis as the young prince trained in the art of war. His red eyes burned with the determination of one far older, and his silver-gold hair swayed as he moved with the speed and grace of a seasoned fighter.

He had already earned the respect of men much older than him, and yet, Aerion felt the weight of a question lingering over him—one that had been growing in his heart ever since the news of the Greyjoy rebellion had reached them. The time had come to take the next step, to leave the sanctuary of Volantis and learn war firsthand.

Inside the quarters of Ser Barristan Selmy, Aerion stood with his shoulders back, his hands folded behind his back as he faced the older knight. Barristan's eyes, filled with a quiet wisdom, scrutinized the young prince carefully.

"My Prince," Barristan said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of experience, "you are a gifted child, one of the most promising swordsmen I have ever trained. But war is not a game. You must understand that."

Aerion's gaze did not falter. His voice was calm and composed as he replied, "I do understand, Ser Barristan. But I also know that the time to learn has come. The Lost Legion is the best place for me to train. To learn the true ways of battle, to understand what it means to fight for something greater than myself. I want to go."

Barristan shook his head, his furrowed brow betraying his concern. "You're still a child. You've not seen the horrors of war. The Ironborn are not the kind of enemies you face in a sparring match. This is real, Aerion. People will die. Men will turn on each other for survival."

"I am not afraid," Aerion replied, his red eyes fierce with the resolve of someone much older. "I know the risks. I've seen what men are capable of. But I also know that I have a destiny, and if I am to fulfill it, I must prove myself. I cannot do that by staying behind while others fight. I am ready."

Barristan let out a slow, almost reluctant sigh. He had seen too many young men eager for battle, only to be broken by it. But Aerion was different. The boy's determination was unmatched, and his skill was beyond that of most seasoned fighters.

"You will be under Naeron Qoherys' command. The Lost Legion is a band of veteran warriors. They're not like the soldiers we've trained with, not in battle. Do you truly understand the risks of associating with such men?" Barristan's tone softened, as though trying to impart some semblance of caution to the boy.

"I understand, Ser Barristan," Aerion said, his voice unwavering. "But the Lost Legion are not just mercenaries. They are the last line of defense for those who cannot defend themselves. I've trained for this, and I am ready. Let me go, Ser Barristan. I need this."

Barristan's eyes softened, and he considered the boy before him. He had been in the presence of kings and princes, but there was something about Aerion that made him stand out even among the bravest men. He was still just a child, yet he was certain of his path in a way that few ever were.

"You have the heart of a knight, Aerion. But remember—war will change you. You must be ready for it." Barristan's words were heavy, but filled with a quiet respect. "Very well. You may join the Lost Legion. But know that you are not just representing your name—you are representing the blood of your father and the legacy of your House. Do not forget that."

Aerion's chest swelled with pride. "I won't forget, Ser Barristan. Thank you."

With Barristan's reluctant approval, Aerion was prepared for his journey. The Lost Legion was waiting, their numbers swelling to over 11,000 strong—a force to be reckoned with. Under the command of Naeron Qoherys, the men had become seasoned veterans, their mercenary ranks made up of the bravest and most ruthless soldiers in the known world. They had carved a name for themselves in blood and fire, a legion of exiles and killers, feared from Qarth to Lys. And now, they were looking at him.

As Aerion and his small retinue of Velaryons and trusted companions made their way through the vast camp, the sheer size and presence of the Lost Legion was impossible to ignore. Rows of tents stretched far into the distance, banners bearing the crimson sigil of the legion fluttering in the wind. Fires burned in iron braziers, illuminating the hard faces of warriors who had seen too much death to be moved by anything short of a god. And yet, as the young prince walked among them, something extraordinary happened.

The men, hardened veterans who had bowed to no king, no prince, no lord, all turned their heads in unison. Their conversations faltered, their hands stilled over their meals and sharpening stones. A ripple spread through the camp, like the shifting of the tide.

They were looking at him.

Aerion felt the weight of their stares, eyes filled with something he could not quite name—reverence, perhaps, or the quiet expectation of something greater. The weight of his ancestors bore down upon him in that moment, as if the ghosts of Valyria whispered in the wind. He had not asked for this. He was not a conqueror, nor a messiah. He was just a prince, a boy with dragon's blood in his veins, but no dragon at his side. What did they see in him that he could not?

He was no savior, no deliverer of men. And yet, the way they watched him, the way they bowed their heads in respect—it was as if they thought he was.

The Lost Legion had followed many leaders, but they had never followed a dragon. Not since the Doom had the sons of Valyria looked upon one of their own and seen the promise of fire and glory. And Aerion, despite himself, felt the unshakable truth of it: they wanted him to lead. Even if he did not yet know how.

Even Naeron Qoherys, the stoic and battle-scarred captain of the Lost Legion, had risen from his seat at the fire. He was a grim man, his face a map of old scars, his silver hair cropped short, his violet eyes sharp as a falcon's. He had led men into slaughter, had seen kings and warlords rise and fall, and yet, as Aerion approached, the captain bent his knee.

"Aerion Targaryen," Naeron said, his voice deep and unshaken, though there was something unreadable in his gaze. "The Dragon has come to us."

Aerion hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. The title felt wrong, too large for him. He was not a dragon, not yet. He had no wings, no fire. He had a sword, and he had his name, but that was all. And still, the men stared at him as if he was something more.

He lifted his chin, forcing the uncertainty from his face. If they wished to see a dragon, then he would not let them see doubt instead.

"I am here," he said, his voice clear, though the weight in his chest threatened to crush him. "I will fight beside you." He let his gaze sweep over the gathered warriors, men who had lived and bled for coin, for survival, for nothing greater than the next battle. "I will prove my worth, not as a prince, but as a warrior."

A hush fell over the camp, thick and expectant. Then, slowly, the men began to kneel, one by one, lowering their weapons in silent acknowledgment.

Aerion swallowed, his throat dry.

He had seen men kneel before his father, before his uncle. He had read of kings who had armies swear oaths of fealty, of dragons who had commanded the obedience of nations. But this felt different.

This was not duty. This was belief.

He felt as though he stood at the center of something far greater than himself, a force that he did not yet understand. It frightened him. It thrilled him. It bound him to them in ways he did not know how to explain.

Aerion did not know how to be what they wanted him to be. He was not the warrior-king they dreamed of, not the fire-made-flesh they whispered about in the dark. He was just a boy, standing before an army that thought he was more.

But if they saw a dragon in him, if they needed him to be their symbol of something greater—then he would try.

He could not afford to fail.

As the last of the warriors bent their heads, as the firelight flickered in their unreadable gazes, Aerion knew that he had taken a step toward something he could never walk back from.

The Lost Legion had accepted him. And now, whether he was ready or not, they were his.

As Aerion looked around at the men of the Lost Legion, he knew this was the beginning of a long and arduous journey. The path ahead was uncertain, but Aerion Targaryen would walk it with the same fire that had burned within him since birth.

The world would soon know the name Aerion Starborn. And it would not be long before the Dragon rose once again.