The North, Frosthold Keep, 289 AC, Ninth Moon
The raven arrived in the dead of night, its wings heavy with exhaustion from the long flight. Maester Thalric wasted no time in bringing the message directly to Lord Tharren's chambers, knowing that news delivered at such an hour could only mean one thing—war.
Aerian was summoned along with his father, and within the hour, the council chamber was filled with the key members of House Aurelius. Torches flickered against the stone walls as Tharren broke the seal and read the message aloud, his face growing darker with each word.
"From Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North," Tharren began, his voice steady but grave. "Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands and the North. His reavers have already begun raiding our western coasts. The Lannisters report attacks on Lannisport; their fleet has been burned in the harbor. King Robert calls his banners. All lords are to prepare for war."
A heavy silence fell over the chamber. Sir Lancelot was the first to speak, his voice calm but edged with anticipation. "It seems the Ironborn have forgotten the lessons of the past. They need to be reminded why they kneel."
"How soon before we march?" asked Sir Gawain, his hand already resting on the pommel of his sword.
Tharren looked to his son, who had been standing quietly by the window, his expression thoughtful. "Aerian, what do you think?"
All eyes turned to the young lord. At thirteen, Aerian had already proven himself a capable strategist during the council meetings, and his father had learned to trust his judgment. Aerian stepped forward, his dark eyes reflecting the torchlight.
"The Ironborn are bold, but they're making a critical mistake," Aerian began, his voice carrying the authority of someone far older. "They've struck at Lannisport, yes, but that was a surprise attack. Once the realm mobilizes, they'll be fighting on multiple fronts: the Westerlands, the North, and likely the Reach if they raid the coastal towns. Balon is a capable commander, but he's overextended himself."
"What do you propose?" Tharren asked, leaning forward.
"We should send our forces, but not just to follow Lord Stark's commands blindly," Aerian said, moving to the large map of Westeros spread across the table. "The Ironborn are strongest at sea, but weakest on land. If we can draw them into a land battle, particularly on the islands themselves, we can crush them decisively."
He pointed to the Iron Islands on the map. "I propose we commit one thousand of our knights and fifteen hundred soldiers to Lord Stark's host. But we should also prepare a secondary force—five hundred men under the command of Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain—to join with whatever naval force the crown assembles. When they assault the Iron Islands directly, we'll be there to make our mark."
Sir Kay, another of the Round Table knights, nodded approvingly. "A sound strategy. We showed our strength in the rebellion. This will remind the realm that House Aurelius is not to be taken lightly."
Tharren studied the map, then looked at his son with pride. "Very well. We'll do as you suggest. Sir Lancelot, begin preparations immediately. I want our men ready to march within a fortnight."
"Yes, my lord," Lancelot replied, bowing before leaving the chamber with several other knights to carry out the orders.
As the council dispersed, Aerian remained behind with his father. Tharren poured two cups of wine, handing one to his son, a gesture that acknowledged Aerian's growing role in the house's affairs.
"You have your mother's mind for strategy," Tharren said with a slight smile. "But tell me truly, son. You seem confident this rebellion will be crushed quickly. Why?"
Aerian took a sip of the wine, choosing his words carefully. He couldn't reveal his foreknowledge directly, but he could guide his father's thinking. "The Ironborn are fierce warriors, Father, but they lack the resources for a prolonged war. They have no allies, no trade to sustain them, and they've just made enemies of the three wealthiest kingdoms in Westeros: the North, the Westerlands, and the Crown. Balon Greyjoy is fighting for pride, not survival. That makes him predictable."
Tharren nodded slowly. "And dangerous. A man with nothing to lose will fight harder than one with everything to gain."
"True," Aerian conceded. "Which is why we need to strike hard and fast. Show them that their 'Old Way' has no place in this era. Break them so thoroughly that they won't dare rise again for generations."
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The following weeks were a flurry of activity at Frosthold Keep. The courtyard rang with the sounds of steel being sharpened, armor being fitted, and horses being prepared for the long march south. The soldiers of House Aurelius moved with practiced efficiency, their training evident in every movement.
Aerian spent his days overseeing the preparations, ensuring that every detail was attended to. The new steel weapons and armor that had become the hallmark of Aurelius' forces gleamed in the pale northern sunlight. Each soldier was equipped with supplies for a month-long campaign, and the supply wagons were loaded with enough provisions to sustain the army even if they were cut off from resupply.
One afternoon, as Aerian was inspecting a group of archers in the training yard, he was approached by Princess Elia. The Dornish princess had been making preparations of her own; her departure for Dorne was scheduled for the following month, once the roads were clear and safe from any potential Ironborn raids.
"Lord Aerian," Elia greeted him with a warm smile. "Might I have a word?"
"Of course, Princess," Aerian replied, gesturing for the archers to continue their practice. He led Elia to a quieter corner of the yard, where Kael lay basking in a patch of sunlight. The great white tiger raised his head briefly to acknowledge them before settling back down.
"I wanted to thank you again," Elia began, her voice soft with emotion. "Not just for saving me and my children, but for everything you've done for us these past six years. We've found peace here, something I never thought we'd have again."
Aerian inclined his head respectfully. "You owe me no thanks, Princess. You and your children have brought honor to our house with your presence."
Elia smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "I will be leaving soon, returning to Dorne with Rhaenys and Aegon. My brothers have been patient, but they wish to see us home. However, before I go, I wanted to speak to you about the betrothal."
Aerian's expression remained neutral, though he had been expecting this conversation. "What about it?"
"Arianne is eager to meet you," Elia said carefully. "My letters have told her much about the young lord who saved her aunt and cousins. She's... spirited, much like her uncle Oberyn. I think you two would get along well."
"I'm sure we would," Aerian replied diplomatically. "Though I must admit, a marriage alliance with Dorne is more about politics than personal compatibility."
Elia laughed softly. "Spoken like a true lord. But I hope you'll give her a chance, Aerian. She's more than just a political piece—she's intelligent, passionate, and strong-willed. Dorne is a land of different customs from the North, but I believe those differences could complement each other well."
Aerian considered her words. In truth, he knew what Arianne Martell was like from the books—ambitious, sensual, and rebellious. Those traits could be assets or liabilities depending on how they were managed. For now, the betrothal made strategic sense. What would happen in the future depended on many factors he couldn't yet control.
"I will keep an open mind, Princess," Aerian said finally. "For now, we have a war to win. Once the Ironborn are dealt with and you've returned safely to Dorne, we can discuss the details of the arrangement."
Elia nodded, seeming satisfied with his answer. "That's all I ask. May the gods watch over you and your men in the battles to come."
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Two weeks later, the host of House Aurelius assembled in the courtyard, banners bearing the sigil of the two white tigers and the silver sword fluttering in the cold wind. Tharren sat astride his horse, Frostclaw prowling nearby, while Aerian stood beside them with Kael at his side.
The army was an impressive sight, over two thousand five hundred men, all equipped with the finest weapons and armor. The Knights of the Round Table rode at the front, their presence alone enough to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies.
Tharren addressed the assembled soldiers, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Men of House Aurelius! We march to war once more, not for conquest or glory, but to defend our lands and our people from those who would take what is ours. The Ironborn have forgotten their place; we will remind them!"
A roar of approval rose from the soldiers, their fists pounding against their shields in a thunderous rhythm.
"We fight for the North! We fight for House Aurelius! And we will show the realm that the white tigers bow to no one!"
The roar grew louder, and Aerian felt a surge of pride as he watched his father command the loyalty and respect of their men. This was what power looked like, not just gold or land, but the willingness of thousands to follow you into battle.
As the army began to march out of Frosthold, Aerian turned to his mother and sister, who had come to see them off. Lilliana embraced her husband tightly, whispering something in his ear that made him smile. Loreth clung to Aerian's leg, her eyes wide with worry.
"You'll come back, won't you?" she asked, her voice small.
Aerian knelt down and hugged his little sister. "Of course I will, snowflake. And when I do, I'll bring you a gift from the Iron Islands."
Loreth managed a weak smile, though tears glistened in her eyes. Aerian stood and kissed his mother's cheek. "Take care of them, Mother. We'll be back before you know it."
Lilliana nodded, her face composed despite the worry in her eyes. "Be safe, my son. And watch over your father."
Aerian mounted his horse, Kael falling into step beside him as they joined the column of soldiers marching south. The gates of Frosthold closed behind them, and the army set out on the long road to war.
As they rode, Aerian's mind was already racing ahead, planning and calculating. The Greyjoy Rebellion would be a short conflict, but it was an opportunity, an opportunity to further cement House Aurelius's reputation, to forge new alliances, and to position themselves for the greater challenges that lay ahead.
'Let the Kraken rise,' Aerian thought to himself, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 'We'll cut off its tentacles and send it back to the depths where it belongs.'
Behind them, Frosthold Keep grew smaller in the distance, but the spirit of House Aurelius marched forward, ready to face whatever the Ironborn could throw at them.