The Coronation of the Crimson Dragon

Chapter 67: The Coronation of the Crimson Dragon

299 AC – Dragonstone

The black walls of Dragonstone bore silent witness to the moment history was made. The torches burned red in their sconces, their flames flickering like restless spirits as the assembled lords, knights, and sworn swords stood before the raised dais. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, smoke curling into the vaulted ceilings, mingling with the salt air that seeped in through the cracks in the ancient stone.

At the center of it all, Aerion Targaryen knelt, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword—Starfyre, forged from a meteor that had fallen from the heavens. The blade gleamed in the dim light, dark and star-kissed, veins of crimson running through the celestial steel. His silver-gold hair shone like the metal of his crown-to-be, and his red eyes burned with an intensity that set him apart from all who stood in the chamber.

Before him stood Ezzelyno, the red priest who had abandoned pure zealotry for reason. He was clad in robes of deep crimson, though they bore not only the sigil of the Lord of Light but also the symbols of the Seven, now part of the Faith of the Nine. His voice was deep and steady as he spoke, the flames behind him casting a halo of light around his shaved head.

"On this day, before gods and men, before the flames that show us truth and the winds that whisper of fate, we gather to witness the crowning of Aerion Targaryen—Starborn, Blood Prince, the Crimson Dragon, rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

A hush fell over the chamber. The lords of the Crownlands, the exiled knights, and the commanders of the Targaryen fleet watched in solemn reverence. Ser Barristan Selmy, clad in his newly forged white armor, stood as a towering figure of loyalty. Ser Aurane Waters, his light hair unbound, rested his hand on the pommel of his sword Seafoam which he wielded until Laenor was of age, his keen eyes watching as the ceremony unfolded. His ever stoic Commander of the army Naeron Qoherys was even seen with an impressed smile on his lips. Lord Clement Celtigar, Aerion's closest companion, stood at the head of the gathered lords, while beside him, Lady Lysarra Velaryon held the hand of her young son, Laenor Velaryon, the seven-year-old heir of Driftmark and Ser Guncer Sunglass watched with newfound zealotry of the Faith of the Nine.

The lords of House Massey, Farring, Crab, and Bar Emmon stood in solemn devotion, their banners hanging behind them. Each had pledged themselves to Aerion, kneeling in turn, their oaths sworn upon Starfyre itself.

Ezzelyno lifted the crown—a band of Valyrian steel, dark and gleaming, adorned with rubies shaped like dragon eyes and small carved dragons that coiled around its surface. A crown forged in exile, for a king who would reclaim his throne by fire and blood.

"Do you, Aerion of House Targaryen, take this crown as your own, swearing to rule with strength, wisdom, and justice, to defend the realm from all who would see it torn asunder?"

Aerion lifted his gaze, his violet eyes unblinking. "I do."

"Do you swear to uphold the Faith of the Nine, to honor the gods both old and new, to wield the fire of R'hllor and the wisdom of the Seven as one?"

"I do."

Ezzelyno placed the crown upon Aerion's head. The weight of it settled against his brow—not just the metal, but the weight of duty, of history, of destiny.

"Then rise, Aerion of House Targaryen, **King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, rightful ruler of the First Men, the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the Valyrians. By fire and faith, by sword and sky, let your reign begin.""

Aerion stood.

The entire court bent the knee before him. The banners of the Targaryens hung high above them, the three-headed dragon stretching its wings as though it, too, recognized its master. The only sound was the howling wind outside—until Aerion spoke.

He took a slow breath, turning to look upon his sworn vassals, his knights, his friends.

"Today, you kneel not before a man, but before a cause. Before a legacy. Before the fire that was nearly extinguished but now burns anew."

His voice rang through the hall, filled with the conviction of his ancestors.

"The Usurper is long dead, but his bastards and lickspittles still sit upon the throne that is mine by right. They call themselves kings, yet they bicker and tear the realm apart while the people starve. They have no right to rule—no claim, no strength, no destiny. Only stolen crowns and empty thrones."

He let the words settle before continuing.

"I will not march for conquest alone—I will march for justice. I will march for vengeance, for those who were slaughtered by false kings and broken oaths. I will not be another pretender, another weakling who clings to power for power's sake. I am a dragon, and I will take what is mine."

A fire burned behind his words, the passion of his Valyrian blood igniting as he spoke.

"We will sail upon black waves, march with fire in our hands, and remind the realm why they once feared the name Targaryen. No more exile. No more hiding in the shadows of lesser men. Westeros is broken, and I will forge it anew in dragonfire and steel."

The assembled lords roared their approval, the sound echoing through the black walls of Dragonstone.

Then, as if summoned by his words, a deafening screech filled the chamber.

From above, a shape dropped from the rafters, its crimson scales shimmering in the firelight. The small dragon spread its lava-colored wings, releasing a stream of golden fire into the air before landing beside its master.

Aerion turned, a faint smile playing on his lips as he beheld his dragon, Maelos. Though still small—barely the size of a large hound—there was something fierce in the way the dragon held itself, as if it already knew it was destined to be a creature of legend.

"Fire and blood," Aerion said softly, placing his hand on Maelos's head.

The dragon's eyes gleamed like molten rubies, and it let out another screech, this time directed towards the gathered lords. A declaration. A promise.

The Crimson Dragon had been crowned.

And soon, the world would burn.