The Battle of Red Grass

Chapter 12: The Battle of Red Grass

The Red Wastes were drowned in blood.

What had once been golden grasslands was now a battlefield of carnage and ruin. The Dothraki horde, believed to be unstoppable, lay shattered beneath the relentless assault of the Lost Legion. The screams of dying men and horses filled the air, mingling with the acrid scent of blood and dust. Severed limbs and broken weapons littered the plains, the once-proud Khalasar reduced to lifeless corpses beneath the setting sun.

But the battle was not yet over.

Aerion Starborn stood at the heart of the slaughter, his silver hair stained red, his blood-colored eyes ablaze with fury. Starfyre was an extension of his will, its midnight-black steel gleaming as it carved through flesh and bone with unnatural speed. His movements were precise, elegant—almost too perfect for a boy of his age.

Beside him, Clement Celtigar fought like a storm given form. The young heir of Claw Isle, barely eleven years old, wielded his longsword with an urgency born of survival. His violet eyes, so rare outside of Valyria, burned with the fire of a boy who had lost too much to ever be afraid again. They moved as one, a deadly pair, watching each other's backs as they carved their way through the remnants of the Dothraki.

A Bloodrider charged at Clement, his Arakh flashing in the sun. The curve of the blade was perfect for taking a head from its shoulders, and Clement was not quick enough to dodge.

But Aerion was.

In a blur of motion, he stepped in, catching the Dothraki's strike on his blade. The force of the blow sent sparks flying as steel scraped against steel. With a practiced twist of his wrist, Aerion knocked the Arakh aside and, in one fluid motion, drove Starfyre deep into the man's chest. The Bloodrider gasped, blood spilling from his lips before he crumpled to the ground.

Clement exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Seven save me, you're quick."

Aerion smirked. "You can thank me later."

There was no time for celebration.

Another rider came shrieking toward them, his horse kicking up dirt as he swung his arakh high. Clement barely had time to react before Aerion shoved him aside. The blade whistled through the air where his friend's head had been just moments before.

They rolled apart, then rose as one.

Clement slashed his sword across a rider's side, spilling his guts onto the trampled grass. Aerion was a blur of movement, slashing another rider's throat open with a single, effortless strike. The blood sprayed like mist in the air.

They fought like two dragons unleashed, their bond forged in the fires of battle. And the Dothraki fell before them.

On the other side of the battlefield, Barristan Selmy cut down another rider with a clean, efficient stroke. His movements were precise, methodical, but even he was beginning to tire. The battle had raged for hours, and his armor, though masterfully crafted, was heavy with sweat and blood.

As he turned to face another foe, a sudden impact knocked his sword from his grip. A dying Dothraki, his body riddled with arrows, had used his last breath to throw his arakh, striking the blade from Barristan's hand. It landed several paces away, half-buried in the dirt, too far to retrieve before the next attack came.

And the next attack came in the form of Khal Jaro.

The warlord sat astride a monstrous black stallion, his great arakh glistening with blood. He sneered down at the knight, his teeth bared like a wolf sizing up an old hound.

Barristan had no weapon.

Jaro saw this and grinned, spurring his horse forward.

But before the killing blow could be struck, a figure dashed across the battlefield.

A soldier, no older than fourteen.

He had black hair, tangled and matted with dirt, his face streaked with sweat and blood. He was one of the younger fighters in the Lost Legion, not yet a man grown, but already hardened by war. And in his hands was a sword—his sword.

He could have run. He could have saved himself.

Instead, he risked everything.

With fearless determination, he sprinted toward Barristan, dodging trampling horses and the wild swings of enemy blades.

Jaro's arakh was nearly upon the knight—

The boy threw his sword.

Barristan caught it in one fluid motion.

With a single, precise thrust, he drove the steel through Jaro's chest.

The warlord gasped, his lips parting in shock. His arakh slipped from his fingers, and he slumped forward in his saddle, his body sliding lifelessly to the ground.

The soldier who had saved Barristan stood panting, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. He had risked his life without hesitation, and for that, he had changed the tide of the duel.

Barristan turned to him and gave a single nod of respect. No words needed to be spoken. The boy had proven himself greater than most men.

The Dothraki saw their leader fall.

And at last, the battle was won.

As the sun bled into the horizon, the survivors gathered in the heart of the battlefield.

The Lost Legion stood victorious, their ranks bloodied but their reputation greater than ever. The corpses of the Dothraki littered the plains, their once-mighty khalasar reduced to scattered bones and dying embers.

And at the center of it all stood Aerion Targaryen.

Only eleven years old, yet baptized in blood.

That night, as the fires of the Legion flickered against the darkened sky, Barristan Selmy stood before him, Starfyre in hand. Around them, the men gathered in solemn silence—Narion Qoherys, Monford Velaryon, Aurane Waters, Thoros of Myr, Clement Celtigar. Even the young soldier who had risked his life stood among them, watching with quiet pride.

Aerion knelt.

And Barristan spoke.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."

Aerion met his gaze, his young face hardened beyond his years.

"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."

The wind whispered through the camp.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

Aerion thought of the Dothraki, of the blood, of the children left behind by war.

"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."

He would protect his people. Always.

"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong of arm and true of heart."

Aerion's fingers curled into fists.

"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek wisdom and guidance."

He had seen visions in his dreams. Signs. Omens. He would not ignore them.

"In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death with a steady heart."

Death had been his companion on the battlefield.

And he had not flinched.

Barristan tapped Starfyre to each of his shoulders, then raised the sword high.

"Rise, Ser Aerion Targaryen, knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aerion rose, his blood-red eyes gleaming in the firelight.

The men cheered, their voices echoing into the night.

A dragon had been reborn in exile.

And Westeros would one day tremble at his return.