The Dragon Comes Home

Chapter 13: The Dragon Comes Home

The fires burned bright in the camp of the Lost Legion.

Thirteen thousand men, hardened by war, gathered around roaring flames, drinking, feasting, and singing of their victory over Khal Jaro's horde. Lamb roasted on spits, barrels of Myrish wine were cracked open, and the smell of spiced Volantene dishes filled the air.

At the center of it all, Ser Aerion Targaryen, only nine years old, but already a warrior in the eyes of his men, sat beside his sworn brother in battle, Ser Clement Celtigar.

Monford Velaryon stood, raising his cup high.

"To victory!" he bellowed, his white-gold hair shining in the firelight.

"To the Dragon Prince!" came Aurane Waters' voice.

A chorus of agreement followed, cups banging against the wooden tables in rhythm.

Aerion grinned, lifting his own cup—filled with strong wine Ser Clement had "borrowed" for them both. Barristan Selmy, ever the watchful knight, gave him a pointed glare.

"You're nine."

Aerion took a small sip anyway. "And victorious."

Aurane laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let the boy celebrate, Ser Barristan! He bled for his first battle. First blood deserves first wine!"

Barristan sighed, muttering something about Targaryens and their fondness for drinking too young.

Beside Aerion, Ser Clement Celtigar smirked. "Do you think I should drink more now that I'm a knight?"

Monford, overhearing this, grinned wickedly. "A knight? You? You think I knighted you because you were worthy?"

Clement blinked. "That's usually how it works."

Monford snorted. "I only did it so I wouldn't have to hear you whine about it any longer."

The table roared with laughter, and Clement crossed his arms, pretending to be offended.

"Well, Seahorse, you may have made me a knight, but I will never call you 'Ser' because that would mean I respect you."

Aurane nearly choked on his wine. Monford was like a older brother to Clement ans somtimes even a fatherfigure, and Aurane always enjoyed their liddle brotherly fights.

Barristan, ever the old knight, shook his head at them. "If you lot are what the next generation of Westerosi knights will look like, the realm is truly doomed."

Across the table, Thoros of Myr was already deep into his twelfth cup of wine, his red robes stained with drink. His bald head shone in the firelight, and he waved his cup in the air wildly.

"A toast!" he bellowed, nearly falling over. "To the Lord of Light, who saw us victorious!"

Aerion, amused, raised a brow. "I thought you were afraid of the Lord of Light, Thoros?"

The drunken priest blinked, then leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially. "I fear him... because he actually listens. That's the problem, young prince. Gods shouldn't listen too closely. They might not like what they hear."

Aurane snorted. "You're so drunk, Thoros, that actually sounded profound."

Thoros waved him off. "I'm always profound when I'm drunk. It's only when I'm sober that I start sounding like a fool!"

---

The Skull Knight Speaks

At another table, Naeron Qoherys, the Skull Knight, sat quietly, watching the celebration with his piercing violet eyes. His jet-black hair fell over his shoulders, and his armor, still stained with the blood of the Dothraki, gleamed under the firelight.

Aerion approached him, cup in hand. "You're not drinking?"

Naeron smirked. "I drink when there's something to drown out. This… this is a moment to savor."

Aerion nodded. "We did well."

Naeron studied him. "You did well. You fight beyond your years, but war is more than just a sword in hand. It's about knowing when to strike and when to wait."

Aerion met his gaze. "And do you think we should wait?"

Naeron's smile was sharp. "For now."

As the men drank deeper into the night, Aerion stood.

The camp fell silent as the young prince tried to walk toward the fire, his walkline a little bit offy thanks to the wine, his blood-red eyes burning in the flickering light.

And then—he sang.

The Dragon Comes Home (A Song of the Lost Legion)

"Far from the land where dragons soared,

The swords were lost, their hearts were torn.

Steel and fire, ash and bone,

The lost ones march, to find their home."

"They crossed the sands, they braved the sea,

Fought for coin, but not for peace.

Under foreign suns, in lands unknown,

The dragon calls, the lost have grown."

"The dragon comes home, hear the steel ring!

The dragon comes home, let the lost ones sing!

Blades in hand, through fire and stone,

The dragon calls, and we march home!"

The moment the song ended, the camp erupted in cheers.

"The Dragon Company!" one voice shouted.

"The Dragon Company!" came another.

Soon, the entire company was chanting, stomping their feet, banging their cups—a sound so loud, it felt as if the very earth trembled beneath them.

Aerion laughed, lifting his cup, his blood-red eyes shining.

Barristan, watching from a distance, shook his head.

"Rhaegar sang too, but never like this," he muttered.

Aurane grinned beside him. "That's because Rhaegar was a poet, and Aerion is a conqueror."

And that night, the Lost Legion was lost no longer.

They were no longer just sellswords.

They were his.

The Dragon Company had been born.

As the fires of celebration burned deep into the night, Ser Barristan Selmy moved quietly through the camp. The sounds of laughter and revelry filled the air, but his mind was elsewhere.

The boy.

The young soldier who had risked his life to throw him a sword in the midst of battle. The act had been reckless, selfless, and far beyond what most seasoned warriors would dare. Barristan had seen knights hesitate in moments like that, but the boy had not. He had moved without fear, without hesitation.

And now, Barristan meant to find him.

He asked among the men, but few knew much about the lad. He was not highborn, nor was he a man of rank. A recruit, they said. A young sellsword who had joined the company only a year ago. No name, no family—just another orphan of war, swallowed by the endless conflicts of Essos.

But Barristan Selmy was not a man who forgot his debts.

After an hour of searching, he found the boy near the edge of the camp, tending to his sword. He sat alone, methodically cleaning the blade he had thrown away during the battle. His black hair was still matted with sweat and dirt, his face smudged with dried blood.

Barristan approached, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt. The boy looked up, his dark eyes filled with quiet caution.

"You fight well," Barristan said.

The boy wiped the blade with a rag, nodding but saying nothing.

Barristan studied him for a moment, then spoke again. "You saved my life today."

The boy hesitated, then shrugged. "Seemed the right thing to do."

Barristan huffed a quiet laugh. "Not many would have done it. You could have died."

The boy met his gaze. "So could you, Ser."

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just truth.

Barristan nodded, then slowly unsheathed his own sword. The boy tensed, but the old knight simply turned the blade and planted the tip into the dirt.

"Kneel."

The boy blinked, startled. "Ser?"

"You heard me," Barristan said. "Kneel."

The lad hesitated, then slowly rose to his feet. He looked around, as if expecting this to be some kind of jest, but the old knight's face was stern. Cautiously, the boy knelt, his hands resting on his thighs.

Barristan raised the sword.

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

The blade touched the boy's right shoulder.

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

The left shoulder.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent."

The boy's breath caught. His fingers curled into fists.

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

Barristan studied him, searching his face for hesitation, for doubt—but he found none.

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

The words hung in the air.

Barristan lifted the blade and met the boy's gaze.

"Rise, Ser Robin."

The boy—now a knight—rose to his feet.

For a long moment, he stood in silence, as if unsure whether this was truly happening.

Then, finally, Barristan asked, "Your full name, lad. Tell me."

The boy swallowed. His hands trembled slightly as he clenched them at his sides.

"Robin Darklyn," he said. His voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of a name long thought lost. "Son of Denys Darklyn and Sarela of Myr."

Barristan felt his breath hitch.

Denys Darklyn.

A name from the past. A name buried beneath the ruins of Duskendale, lost in the ashes of Aerys' madness.

Robin continued, his voice steady but filled with something deeper. "I was saved the night House Darklyn fell. A knight took me from the castle, put me on a ship to Myr, where my mother's kin lived. I never knew his name."

He looked up, meeting Barristan's gaze.

"But I know now. It was you, Ser Barristan. You saved me from Aerys' wrath."

The old knight was silent.

Memories of that night came rushing back. The smoke. The fire. The blood. The moment he had chosen to save a single child from the ruin of his house. He had not known if the boy had survived.

Until now.

Robin squared his shoulders. "I joined the Lost Legion because I heard you were here. I wanted to be worthy of the man who saved me. I wanted to fight beside you."

Barristan exhaled, then placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You already have."

Robin's lips parted slightly, but he said nothing.

The two stood there for a long time, the crackling of the distant fires the only sound between them.

At last, Barristan gave a small nod. "Come. You have earned your place among us."

And together, the old knight and the last Darklyn walked back toward the firelight.