A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bloody Tear

The Gardens of House Rogare

The gentle breeze carried the scent of salt and blooming jasmine as Aerion Targaryen sat on a marble bench, watching Laenor Velaryon chase a small, sleek black kitten through the gardens. The child laughed, clutching at the playful creature, which batted at his fingers with tiny paws.

"Balerion," Laenor giggled, lifting the kitten. "Just like the great dragon!"

Aerion smirked. "A great name for a great beast, little nephew."

The boy beamed, and nearby, Monford Velaryon, now a man weathered by battle, watched the scene with quiet unease. His leg, now replaced with a masterfully crafted brace of gold and steel, made him slower than before, but his mind remained as sharp as ever.

"Aerion," he said suddenly, his voice heavy. "Do you truly believe we will return home? To Driftmark… to Westeros?"

Aerion's gaze did not waver. "We will. It is our birthright. Our destiny. The dragons will return, and with them, fire and blood."

Monford sighed. "I do not doubt your will. But my son—" He glanced at Laenor, now attempting to place his kitten atop his curly silver hair. "I fear for what kind of world we are creating for him."

Aerion placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "A world where he does not have to live as an exile. I swear it."

The Harbor of Lys

Aerion and Aurane Velaryon strode through the bustling Lysene harbor, where their fleet lay anchored—160 ships, each a testament to their growing power.

Twenty carracks, five of which served as flagships, stood as floating fortresses. Sixty war galleys, sleek and deadly, formed the backbone of their navy. Fifty cogs and forty regular galleys completed the fleet, each manned by Driftmark's finest sailors.

Aurane, always at home near the sea, watched with satisfaction. "No navy in Essos rivals ours, save perhaps the Triarchs of Volantis," he mused. "Even the Ironborn would think twice before facing us at sea."

Aerion nodded but stopped abruptly as a familiar face emerged from the crowd. A woman with dark curls and emerald eyes. Zaela Ormollen… or was it Zaola? He had been drunk that night in Lys, and her name had been the least of his concerns.

She smirked. "Prince Aerion… It has been too long."

He approached warily. "Zaela."

"My father invites you to our estate. A feast in your honor."

Aerion raised an eyebrow. "If this is a scheme to trap me in marriage, you waste your time."

She chuckled. "No such thing. Come, and you will see."

The Estate of House Ormollen

That evening, Aerion arrived with Ser Barristan Selmy, Monford Velaryon, Lysarra Rogare, and the surviving members of House Rogare. The grand hall was filled with fine Lysene wines and exotic dishes, and despite his suspicions, Aerion allowed himself to enjoy the night.

Zaela sat beside him, whispering, "You seem distracted, Prince."

"I do not trust Lysene hospitality."

She leaned closer. "Perhaps later, I could change your mind?"

Aerion felt a faint heat rise in his cheeks but did not answer. The room was filled with laughter, and he let himself believe, for a moment, that the night was just another gathering of allies.

Then, Meriol Ormollen, Zaela's father, rose to make a toast.

"To unity. To a new era. To wealth… and a change of power."

Aerion frowned. Something was wrong.

A soldier burst into the hall, face pale with terror.

"FIRE! The docks! Our fleet burns!"

Aerion, Barristan, and the others rushed to the balcony, where a third of their fleet was ablaze, flames consuming the wood like a dragon's breath.

They turned, only to find House Ormollen's men drawing weapons.

Betrayal.

Zaela stood before him, pleading. "Aerion, listen—"

Aerion's instincts took over. He sliced his palm, letting the blood drip onto his blade. "Traitors!" he roared as his sword ignited in brilliant flame, followed by those of his men.

The Rogares fell first, crossbow bolts piercing their chests.

A battle erupted within the hall. Barristan cut through the Ormollen guards like a storm, but their forces were overwhelmed. Blood stained the marble floors.

Zaela grabbed Aerion's wrist. "Spare me!" she pleaded, tears in her eyes. "I bear your child!"

Aerion hesitated.

Then, she struck with a hidden dagger.

Time slowed.

Before the blade could pierce his heart, Monford Velaryon shoved Aerion aside, taking the knife meant for him.

Lysarra screamed as Monford fell, blood pouring from his chest.

Rage overtook Aerion. With a single strike, he severed Zaela's head.

Barristan and the remaining guards cut down the rest of House Ormollen. When the hall fell silent, only Aerion, Barristan, Lysarra, and a handful of survivors remained.

Aerion knelt beside Monford, who gasped for breath.

Lysarra cradled her husband's head, sobbing. "Stay with me!"

Monford smiled weakly. "Raise our son well… Lysarra."

He died in her arms.

Aerion stood, his face a mask of fury and sorrow. He looked at the burning harbor, the bodies of the Rogares, and the bloodied remains of the Ormollen family.

His voice was cold as steel.

"Curse House Ormollen. May their name be forgotten, their lands turned to ruin. They will never be remembered, save as traitors."

Lysarra, clutching her husband's lifeless hand, wept for him.

And Aerion, though he did not shed a tear, felt the fire within him burn hotter than ever before.