Chapter 9 The First Battle of the Dragon Scions
The desert sun beat down on the dunes like a hammer on an anvil. Heat shimmered across the horizon, bending the air, distorting the shapes of the approaching army.
Aelor stood atop a dune, the Red Death crouched behind him like a living fortress, Tessarion perched on a rock nearby, wings twitching with excitement. The wind carried the scent of dust, sweat, and fear.
For two weeks, scouts had brought the same message:
Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor were marching.
But they weren't sending their best.
They weren't sending their pit champions.
They weren't sending their elite sellswords.
They weren't sending their prized slave legions.
They were sending the desperate.
Men who needed coin so badly they'd take any contract.
Men who had lost everything and hoped to buy a new life.
Men who knew they were marching to their deaths…
but marched anyway because they had nothing left.
Behind them came slave soldiers barely trained, poorly armed, pushed forward by fear of their masters.
Aelor's scouts estimated 700,000 in total.
A force meant to overwhelm by numbers, not skill.
Aelor had 800,000.
This would be the Dragon Scions' first true test
The Army Assembles
Jackal, his Hand, approached with a smirk.
"My king," he said, "the enemy mercenaries look like they were scraped off the bottom of a tavern floor. Half of them don't even have boots."
Aelor didn't look away from the horizon. "Desperation makes men dangerous."
Jackal shrugged. "Or sloppy."
The fallen Westerosi noble now Aelor's general stepped forward.
"They're not sending their elites," he said. "This is a probe. They want to see if your army is real or just a story."
Aelor's scarlet eyes narrowed. "Then we will show them."
Behind him, the Dragon Scions formed their lines:
- Vaelor Maegyr, calm and steady
- Seris Velthar, inspecting shields and spears
- Rhaekor Saan, positioning scouts
- Lynor Vhal, preparing the heavy infantry
- Miraella Qhor, tending to the wounded before the battle even began
- Tessaro Velys, distributing weapons and rations
The rest of the army freedmen, volunteers, former slaves, young men and women seeking purpose stood ready behind them.
Aelor walked down the dune, the Red Death following like a shadow.
He raised his voice.
"You stand here today because you chose something better. Not chains. Not fear. Not the life the slavers forced on you."
The army listened.
"You chose freedom. You chose strength. You chose a future."
A ripple of pride moved through the ranks.
"And today," Aelor said, drawing the Artblade, "you show the world that you are not slaves. You are soldiers."
The Red Death roared.
Tessarion screeched.
The army erupted in cheers.
The Enemy Arrives
The enemy army crested the dunes a chaotic mass of mismatched armor, dented shields, and terrified faces. Their commanders shouted orders, but the lines wavered even before the first clash.
Aelor watched them with cold calculation.
"These men fight for coin," he said. "We fight for purpose."
Vaelor Maegyr raised his sword.
"Dragon Scions advance!"
The First Clash
The first wave of Meereenese spearmen charged, but their formation broke the moment they hit the Scions' shield wall. The Scions pushed forward with disciplined precision, spears thrusting, shields locking.
Aelor joined the front line.
He moved like a storm — the Artblade slicing through shields, armor, and bone. His strikes were clean, efficient, deadly. He parried a spear, stepped inside the man's guard, and drove his blade through his chest.
Another mercenary swung wildly at him. Aelor ducked, slashed the man's leg, then finished him with a thrust to the throat.
The freedmen fought beside him men who had once been beaten, starved, and chained. Now they fought with a fury the slavers had never seen.
Aelor blocked a sword, twisted, and slammed his elbow into the attacker's jaw. The man fell, and Aelor drove his blade into his heart.
Blood sprayed across the sand.
The enemy line buckled.
The Battle Expands
Yunkai's slave soldiers were pushed forward next terrified, shaking, some crying. Their masters whipped them from behind, forcing them into the fight.
Aelor saw the fear in their eyes.
"Break their chains!" he shouted.
His army surged forward.
The freedmen clashed with the slave soldiers but instead of killing them, many shouted:
"Fight with us!"
"Throw down your weapons!"
"You don't have to die for them!"
Some slaves dropped their spears and fled.
Some joined Aelor's army mid‑battle.
Some fought back against their masters.
Chaos erupted.
Astapor's mercenaries tried to flank, but Rhaekor Saan's scouts cut them off, driving them back into the main melee.
The battlefield became a storm of dust, screams, and steel.
Aelor Takes the Sky
Aelor whistled sharply.
The Red Death swooped down, landing beside him with a thunderous impact. Tessarion fluttered onto her back, chirping excitedly.
Aelor mounted.
"Dracarys."
The Red Death unleashed a torrent of scarlet flame, melting entire lines of enemy soldiers. Tessarion followed, darting through the air like a green arrow, igniting supply wagons and scattering cavalry.
The enemy army broke.
The mercenaries fled first dropping weapons, abandoning shields, running for their lives.
The slave soldiers threw down their spears.
The slaver commanders tried to retreat, but the Red Death cut off their escape with a wall of fire.
Within an hour, the battle was over.
Aftermath
Jackal approached, wiping blood from his blade.
"My king," he said, "the enemy is routed. The survivors are begging to surrender."
The Westerosi general bowed. "Your army held. The Dragon Scions fought like veterans."
Aelor looked over the battlefield — the broken chains, the abandoned weapons, the bodies of men who had marched to their deaths for a handful of gold.
"This was only a test," he said quietly. "And we passed."
He turned toward the horizon.
"Now," he said, "we march on Meereen."
The Red Death roared.
Tessarion echoed with a high‑pitched screech.
The army cheered.
Aelor Drakarys had won his first true battle.
And the slaver cities trembled.