A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 62: The Faith of Nine

298 AC - Dragonstone

The waves crashed against the blackened shores of Dragonstone, their endless fury a distant roar beyond the thick walls of the fortress. The storm had passed hours ago, but the air still carried the scent of salt and rain, and the wind whispered through the cracks of the ancient stone like a ghost of the past.

Prince Aerion Targaryen sat cross-legged on the floor of his chambers—the same room where Aegon the Conqueror had once dreamed of an empire. The hearth burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls, illuminating the dragon that lay curled before him.

Maelos.

That was the name he had chosen.

The dragon was unlike any of his ancestors' great beasts. Crimson red, with scales that gleamed like fresh-spilled blood, he bore a crown of jagged spikes around his head, sharp and wicked as a king's iron crown. His body was sleek and powerful, and though his wings were still growing, they already stretched wide, the membrane dark as dried fire. But his hind legs were what made him different—thin, webbed fins stretched along his calves, reminiscent of the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.

Aerion reached out, running his fingers along the dragon's scales, feeling the heat that radiated from within. Maelos let out a low, satisfied growl, his forked tongue flickering out like a snake tasting the air.

"You're a hungry thing, aren't you?" Aerion murmured.

Maelos tilted his head, blinking those molten eyes, as if understanding him. Aerion pulled a hunk of raw meat from the bowl beside him and held it out. The dragon snapped it up in one swift motion, tearing through flesh and bone with ease.

Aerion watched him feed, a small smile playing at his lips. The name had come to him suddenly, as if whispered by fate itself. Maelos, a tribute to Meleys, the Red Queen of old. A dragon fast, powerful, and deadly.

And just like his namesake, Maelos would one day strike terror into his enemies.

A knock came at the door.

Aerion exhaled, already knowing who it was. He rose from the floor, brushing dust from his tunic. "Enter."

The door creaked open, and Ser Barristan Selmy stepped inside.

Even now, after all that had transpired, the old knight still had not grown used to the presence of a dragon. His blue eyes flickered to Maelos, and though his face remained impassive, Aerion did not miss the subtle stiffness in his stance. He had fought against dragons before. He had killed a dragon before. And yet now, he stood in service to one.

"What is to be done, Your Grace?" Barristan asked.

Aerion turned back to his dragon, stroking the ridges of his crown. "Nothing. Not yet."

Barristan frowned. "The war rages in Westeros. The Lannister boy sits the throne in King's Landing, Stannis is back at Storms End with fire in his wake, and the North has crowned a Stark which happened to be married to halve the Reach. Every day we wait, they carve the realm between them."

"I know," Aerion said. "And I have thought long on it. But I will not order an invasion. Not yet."

The knight's brow furrowed. "You mean to wait? The longer we delay, the harder it will be to press your claim. The Golden Company is still in Volantis, and they have refused us. We have no allies across the Narrow Sea."

Aerion sighed, his fingers tightening against the dragon's scales. "You think I do not know that? You think I do not dream of burning the usurper's hold to the ground? But I have learned something, Ser Barristan. Something that I did not understand before."

He turned to face the old knight fully. "No matter what happens—whether I win or lose—I will lose people. War takes from us. I have lost too many already."

Barristan studied him carefully.

Aerion's voice dropped lower. "Thoros is dead. Monford is dead. Even Kinvara… she died for me. How many more must die before I learn the lesson that was right before me all along?"

Barristan exhaled, his expression softening, if only slightly. "War has always been this way, Your Grace. And the Iron Throne is not won with kind words."

"I know," Aerion said. "And that is why I will not take the throne for Viserys. Not anymore."

Barristan stiffened at that. "My prince—"

"No," Aerion cut him off. "Not prince. Not anymore." His violet eyes burned as he took a step closer. "I will take the throne for myself. I will not be a puppet king to Viserys, nor will I be the champion of a dying claim. I am Aerion Targaryen, and I will take the throne for me. I will crush my enemies. I will bring ruin to the usurpers. And I will break the Faith that betrayed my house."

For a long moment, there was only silence. The only sound was the distant rumble of the waves against the cliffs, the soft crackling of the fire.

Barristan's jaw tightened. "And how do you mean to rule, then?"

Aerion turned away, staring out of the window, his gaze fixed upon the storm-dark sky. "When Kinvara sacrificed herself, I realized something. R'hllor is real." His fingers curled against the stone. "But so are the Seven."

Barristan frowned, confused. "You believe in both?"

"I believe in all of them," Aerion said. "And if they exist, then why must we fight over which is true?" He turned back to Barristan, his voice laced with quiet intensity. "I will create something new. A faith not bound by old hatreds or petty squabbles. Not the Faith of the Seven, nor the Lord of Light alone."

Barristan studied him warily. "Then what?"

Aerion's lips curled into something like a smile.

"The Faith of the Nine."

Barristan remained silent, waiting for him to explain.

Aerion walked to the fire, watching the embers glow. "The Seven represent aspects of life—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, the Stranger. But they are incomplete." He gestured to the flames. "The Red Priests say that R'hllor is the god of fire, of life, and warmth. He is the Sun."

Barristan's brows drew together. "And the ninth?"

Aerion looked to Maelos, who let out a soft growl. "The Dragon."

He turned back to Barristan, his voice resolute. "The Dragon is not a god, but a force—a symbol of the power that shapes the world. The fire of R'hllor, the will of men, the fate of kings. It is the gift of Valyria, the legacy of my house. It is what made Aegon great, and what will make me greater."

Barristan considered his words, and for the first time, a hint of something unreadable passed across his face. Finally, he exhaled. "You speak like a king."

Aerion met his gaze. "Because I will be one."