A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 23: The Starborn's Strength

295 AC - Disputed Lands

The year was 295 AC, and the Dragon Company, now a force of 27,000 men, found themselves camped in the Disputed Lands. They had been settling into a period of uneasy calm, with few major contracts coming their way. Their reputation, though formidable, was overshadowed by the presence of the Golden Company, which had grown strong in the years since Aerion's last major battle. The two forces had steered clear of each other, knowing that a confrontation could prove disastrous for both, though no one knew for sure when the next fight would come.

For now, Aerion and his commanders spent their time training, drilling their men, and maintaining their impressive discipline. The majority of their force was made up of Valyrians, their bloodlines stretching back to the ancient Valyrian Freehold, and their soldiers were trained in the finest techniques of warfare. Their leadership came from the most experienced warriors, men who had been with the company since its inception, and Aerion himself, now barely a man at 15 years old, was revered as the greatest sword in all of Essos.

The Starborn, as they had come to call him, was a sight to behold. At six-foot-three, with a broad, commanding frame, Aerion was not bulky like the Baratheons, but his strength was palpable—his presence alone could make grown men tremble. His features, sharp and almost ethereal, came from the Targaryen bloodline, his blood-red eyes a rare and ominous trait that few could understand, though they were feared by many. His silver-gold hair, cut short for practicality but blowing back in the wind as he rode his stallion, Darys, gave him an air of myth and legend.

Aerion's voice was another weapon he wielded well, deep yet melodic, almost haunting, much like his late half-brother, Prince Rhaegar. He had shared Rhaegar's beauty, and while he was still young, it was clear that he would soon surpass even his brother's stature. Yet it was his skill with a sword that garnered him the most respect. Armed with his signature weapon, Starfyre, a blade crafted from the lava of Dragonmont itself—the very star that fell to earth the day he was born—Aerion's reputation as a swordsman was unrivaled. The hilt was crafted from Valyrian steel, decorated with a magical ruby from his mother and another to honor his late brother Rhaegar, whose spirit still guided him.

The midday sun blazed down upon the camp as the clang of swords rang out across the training grounds. Aerion, his sleek frame swaying gracefully as he moved, stood at the ready, facing his first opponent for the day: Ser Clement, his stalwart friend and captain. Though Clement had only one eye, his skill with a short axe was legendary. He was a master of close combat, and his speed and precision made him a fierce adversary.

Aerion, with his Starfyre, had no difficulty keeping up, but he couldn't help but admire Clement's craft. The two danced around each other in a rhythm that could only come from years of practice together. Aerion's strikes were swift and powerful, but Clement dodged and countered with ease, his one good eye sharp and calculating.

Aerion shifted his stance and lunged forward, a practiced strike aimed at Clement's side. Clement deflected the blow with his axe, then spun and struck toward Aerion's ribs. Aerion twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the strike, and, with a swift motion, brought his blade down to meet Clement's axe with a resounding clang.

The two broke apart for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, sweat glistening on their brows.

"You're growing faster than I'd like, Aerion," Clement teased, though his tone was respectful.

Aerion smirked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I'll always be faster, old friend."

Next, Monford Velaryon entered the arena, his rapier at the ready. Though he had lost a leg during the last battle, his swordsmanship was as precise as ever, and Aerion knew this would be a fight to test his technique.

The two clashed, Monford's footwork surprisingly agile, considering the loss of his leg. Aerion's strikes were strong and relentless, but Monford danced around them, parrying with the grace of a much younger man. Their blades met again and again, each strike ringing out, sending sparks into the air.

Aerion pressed the attack, but Monford was quick to turn his disadvantage into advantage. He lunged, attempting to slip past Aerion's defenses, but Aerion, with his youth and quick reflexes, managed to parry the strike and twist the blade from Monford's hand.

"You'll have to do better than that," Aerion said with a grin, helping Monford back to his feet.

Monford chuckled, despite his defeat. "You're the better swordsman, Aerion. But give me a few more years, and I'll have you, mark my words."

The last opponent of the day was Naeron Qoherys, who wielded twin blades with deadly precision. Aerion knew this would be his greatest test yet, as Naeron's hellebarde were a perfect counter to the single, shorter weapon he wielded. The two moved with the grace and power of dancers in a duel, their blades flashing in the sunlight.

Aerion struggled at first, the reach of Naeron's attacks overwhelming him, but as the fight wore on, Aerion's instincts kicked in. He used his reach to his advantage, forcing Naeron back with a series of well-placed strikes. Finally, with a quick movement, Aerion disarmed Naeron, sending his hellebarde flying through the air.

"I'm sorry, Naeron," Aerion said, his breath heavy, "but it seems you're outmatched."

Naeron, smiling despite the defeat, bowed his head. "You've become a true warrior, Aerion. It was an honor to spar with you."

That evening, after the match, the company gathered for dinner in their makeshift hall, where the mood was lighter despite the looming uncertainty of the future. Aerion, still in his training gear, sat at the head of the table, flanked by his closest allies.

The conversation turned to matters more serious than sparring.

"Still no word from Viserys or Daenerys," Clement said, his voice heavy with concern. "It's been three years, and we've heard nothing from them. Do you think they're lost?"

Aerion shook his head, his blood-red eyes gleaming with a mix of frustration and determination. "No. They're out there, somewhere. They'll return when the time is right. I trust my brother's judgment."

Clement nodded, but there was doubt in his expression.

As the night wore on, the talk turned to more lighthearted matters. Clement, ever the braggart, began to boast of his recent conquests with women. He had lost his eye, but it hadn't stopped him from attracting attention, and now he claimed to have bedded even more women than before.

"You know, the ladies love the scar," Clement said, raising his mug. "Once they see my missing eye, they're all over me. Can't resist a wounded hero, it seems."

Aerion chuckled, shaking his head. "I think they're more drawn to your charm than the eye patch, my friend."

Clement shot him a grin. "And what about you, my prince? I've heard stories of you and Lys. You're no virgin anymore, I hear."

Aerion took a sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair. "It was a woman of noble blood, not a slave." He gave Clement a teasing smile. "She was beautiful, though. Quite memorable."

The rest of the table laughed, and for a moment, Aerion felt the tension of the last few years slip away. But he knew that their time of peace was coming to an end. Soon, they would have to move, and the wars of the future would demand much from them all.