The sun rose over the Dothraki camp, casting a golden glow over the battlefield now littered with the bodies of the fallen. The scent of death still clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Aegon stood amidst the carnage, his blade still stained with the blood of his enemies. The battle had been won, but victory always came with a cost. The Dothraki had lost warriors, their screams of the dead still echoing in the wind.
Aegon took a slow breath, his muscles aching from the fight. He turned to Daenerys, who stood near the fire, her face unreadable. She had changed—something had hardened in her since the battle. There was no fear in her eyes anymore, only quiet determination.
Word had already spread like wildfire. The last Targaryens had survived the onslaught. Ghost had won. Aegon Targaryen had stood against Robert Baratheon's forces and crushed them. And now, that news had reached King's Landing.
The Red Keep - Robert's End
The halls of the Red Keep trembled with fury. Robert Baratheon, a man once feared across Westeros, now lay in his chambers, his body broken, his wounds infected from his hunting accident, and his rage consuming him.
His trembling fingers gripped a goblet of wine, spilling drops of crimson onto his tunic. His face was red with fury, veins bulging from his forehead as his advisors stood around him, too afraid to speak.
"That bastard won!" he roared, slamming the goblet down, shattering it into shards. "Rhaegar's whelp—the last fucking Targaryen—killed my men! He still lives!"
He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his gut. The wounds from his hunting accident had worsened. The boar had gored him deep, and now, the infection was setting in. Yet, even with death creeping upon him, it was not his wounds that killed him—it was his fury.
He turned his bloodshot eyes to his advisors, spittle flying from his lips. "Ned Stark... that traitorous son of a whore... he knew! He fucking knew!"
His body convulsed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He clutched his chest, the weight of his own rage crushing him. He wanted more time, wanted one last chance to put a sword through Aegon Targaryen's heart—but the gods were cruel.
With one final growl, a strangled breath escaped his lips, and King Robert Baratheon slumped forward.
The Usurper was dead.
And now... Joffrey Baratheon was King.
King Joffrey's First Decree
Days passed, and the streets of King's Landing ran red with blood.
Joffrey Baratheon wasted no time. His first act as King was vengeance. His father's rage had been passed down to him, but without the strength to wield it like a man. Instead, he ruled with cruelty, a twisted smile on his boyish face as he gave his first orders.
"Kill every bastard child of my father."
His voice rang through the throne room as he lounged upon the Iron Throne, his golden curls shining under the torchlight. His mother, Cersei, watched with a pleased smile, but even she was unsettled by the boy's eagerness for blood.
The city watch, the gold cloaks, were sent into the streets, hunting down Robert's bastards—helpless children born of whores, screaming as they were ripped from their mother's arms and slaughtered in the streets.
But that was not all.
Ned Stark was to die.
The man who had kept Rhaegar's son hidden, who had betrayed the throne—his execution was to be made a spectacle. Joffrey declared that in a few days, Ned Stark's head would roll.
Dothraki Camp - The Fool's Last Mistake
While King's Landing drowned in blood, the Dothraki celebrated their victory over the mercenaries. Fires roared, mead flowed freely, and the warriors laughed and drank deep into the night. But amidst the celebration, a familiar voice rang out—a voice that made Aegon's blood boil.
"You see, my dear savages!" Viserys Targaryen's voice slurred as he staggered into the firelight, two whores hanging from his arms, their painted faces laughing at his drunken boasts. "Your Khal should bow before me! I am the true King! The Dragon!"
Aegon turned sharply, his fists clenching.
Viserys.
The coward. The man who abandoned Daenerys before the battle, who fled to a whorehouse while they fought for their lives. And now, he returned—drunk, arrogant, and spewing the same pathetic delusions of grandeur.
Daenerys stood beside Aegon, her face unreadable as she watched her brother stumble toward Drogo. The Dothraki stopped their revelry, all eyes turning to the fool who dared to insult their Khal.
"You dare—" Viserys pointed a shaking hand at Drogo, his words slurred. "You dare not bow before your King?"
Drogo said nothing. His dark eyes stared at Viserys like he was nothing more than a worm beneath his feet.
Aegon stepped forward, but before he could even speak, Daenerys raised her hand.
"Enough," she said, her voice calm but sharp.
Viserys turned to her, confusion flickering across his face. "Daenerys, sweet sister, tell these dogs who I am! I am your king! They should kneel before me! And you—" His gaze flicked to Aegon, his lip curling. "You should kneel before me, bastard."
Aegon's jaw tensed, his fingers itching to reach for his sword. He wanted to be the one to cut Viserys down. But then, Daenerys spoke again.
"You are no king, brother."
Viserys blinked. "What?"
Her voice was cold now. Stronger than Aegon had ever heard it before. "You abandoned me. You left me to die. You are weak, a coward, and a fool."
Viserys' expression twisted in anger, but before he could retort, Drogo finally stood. The great Khal walked toward Viserys, his massive form towering over the drunken fool.
Daenerys lifted her chin. "A true king does not beg."
Viserys' eyes widened as he saw the golden pot of molten gold that Drogo's men had prepared. Realization dawned on him, fear finally piercing through his drunken haze.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "Please. Dany, please, I am your brother, I am your king! You can't—"
But his words were cut short as the molten gold was poured over his head.
His screams were horrific, echoing through the night as the liquid fire engulfed him. He thrashed, clawing at his face, but it was no use. His body convulsed before crumbling to the ground—silent.
The Dothraki murmured among themselves, pleased. "A crown for a king," one of them chuckled.
Aegon watched, his lips curling into a smirk. He had wanted to kill Viserys himself, but watching Daenerys grow cold enough to do it had been... satisfying.
He looked at her, truly looked at her.
His little aunt was no longer just a timid girl.
She was becoming something more.