Jon_Coat

In a realm torn apart by war and betrayal, Aerion Targaryen, the Starborn rises from the shadows, a child of fire and blood. Born of the Mad King Aerys and the mysterious sorceress Melisandre, his fate is bound to the flames of destiny. With ancient powers stirring and enemies on all sides, he must carve his path through a world that fears and hungers for dragons. As alliances shift and kingdoms burn, Aerion will either forge a new ers or be consumed by the storm.

This is a Fanfiction of A game of Thrones, the rights of everything except Aerion Targaryen belongs to George R.R. Martin and HBO.

A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 43 – The Price of Victory

The stench of blood and fire still lingered over the battlefield as Aerion Targaryen gathered his council inside his command tent. The red dragon of House Targaryen hung behind him, its three heads illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

Around the wooden war table sat his most trusted men—Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Clement Celtigar, Monterys Velaryon, Guncer Sunglass, and Naeron Qoherys, along with other captains of the Dragon Company. Their faces were grim, their armor still stained with the blood of the fallen.

The battle had been won, but the weight of the dead hung heavy upon them.

Aerion's gaze swept over his men, seeing the exhaustion in their eyes. Thirty-seven thousand men had gone into battle. Only twenty-six thousand remained.

Monterys Velaryon spoke first, his voice laced with anger. "Twelve thousand cavalry rode out, only three thousand survived. The Dothraki were too many, too skilled on horseback."

Ser Clement Celtigar clenched his fist. "We knew the price would be high, but the cost… Gods." He exhaled sharply.

Naeron Qoherys leaned forward. "We need time to recover. These men are strong, but they are not unbreakable."

Ser Barristan, ever the voice of wisdom, nodded. "We fought like dragons, but even dragons can be wounded. We must return to camp and let the men rest. Rebuild our strength."

Aerion silently agreed, but another thought weighed on his mind.

The Vanishing of Daenerys Targaryen

"And what of my sister?" Aerion asked, his voice colder now. "Have the scouts found any sign of Daenerys?"

Naeron shook his head. "No trace of her, my prince."

One of the Dothraki women they had captured had spoken of Daenerys fleeing the horde before the battle. Khal Drogo had wanted to imprison or even kill her. Why, none of them knew.

Aerion's jaw tightened. His sister was alone in the world, hunted, abandoned. The thought of her suffering made his blood boil.

The same Dothraki prisoners spoke of Viserys Targaryen.

He had last been seen in Pentos, but after that, he had vanished. No one knew whether he was dead or in hiding.

Aerion exhaled sharply, leaning over the table. "So Viserys sells our sister to a savage, and when things turn against him, he runs like a craven?"

Ser Barristan, ever loyal to the Targaryen name, looked troubled. "He is still of our blood."

Aerion met his eyes. "And what if he is like our father?"

The Mad King. The shadow over their House.

Many of Aerion's men had started calling him king, even though he had never claimed the throne. He had been raised to be a warrior, not a ruler—but he was also a dragon, and dragons were not made to follow cowards.

"I will not name myself king," Aerion said finally. "Not yet. But if Viserys proves himself to be another Aerys, if he is unfit to rule, then I will not let Westeros fall into ruin again. I will take the throne."

That night, they gathered the dead. Thousands of bodies were burned in great pyres, their armor and swords collected for the survivors. The fires raged high into the night, illuminating the battlefield where so many had fought and died.

Aerion stood before his men, his black armor still caked in blood, his silver-gold hair flowing in the wind. He looked over the faces of the soldiers who had survived—their eyes filled with sorrow, but also fierce loyalty.

As the flames crackled and the ashes of the fallen rose into the sky, the men of the Dragon Company began to chant his name.

"Blood Dragon! Crimson Dragon! Our King!"

He simply stood there, staring into the fire.

When the funeral ended, the army gathered their weapons and armor and began the march back to their camp near Braavos.

It was time to return home, if only for a short while.