Author's Note: Six-Eyed Vixen here with another new chapter. Hope y'all enjoy reading this.;)
The humid Pentos air clung to Daenerys like a second skin, a stark contrast to the cool Braavosi breezes of her childhood memories. The lavish merchant city, a kaleidoscope of sights and smells, felt like a gilded cage, its beauty a cruel mockery of their precarious situation. Months had bled into one another, each sunrise bringing a gnawing uncertainty about the future.
Viserys, her older brother, had aged a decade in those months. His once proud demeanor had curdled into a bitter resentment, his lilac eyes perpetually clouded with a brooding anger. Today, however, a flicker of something akin to excitement danced in their depths. He held aloft a shimmering gown, the fabric catching the afternoon sunlight and transforming into a cascade of emerald fire.
"A gift from Illyrio," he announced, his voice strained with a forced cheer. "Touch it, Daenerys. Feel the princess you were meant to be."
Dany hesitantly reached out, the cool silk whispering against her fingertips like a forgotten dream. Fear, sharp and metallic, pricked at her thirteen-year-old heart. The gown was so soft, so foreign, a glaring reminder of the life they'd lost, a life as distant as the stars that twinkled faintly in the relentlessly blue Pentos sky. "Is it truly mine?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Viserys' smile faltered, the fleeting flicker of excitement replaced by a brittle tension. "A token for tonight's performance," he snapped. "Illyrio wants a princess, not a stable girl."
Pentos, once a symbol of hope after their harrowing escape from Westeros, had become a gilded cage. Illyrio Mopatis, the self-proclaimed Prince of Pentos, had offered them sanctuary, a roof over their heads and a semblance of comfort. But their freedom came at a heavy price, a price that sat heavy in Dany's gut, a knot of unease that tightened with every passing day.
"Why such extravagant gifts, brother?" she pressed, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What does Illyrio expect in return?"
Viserys' gaunt frame tensed, his once proud posture collapsing under the weight of their exile. His lilac eyes, usually filled with a simmering resentment, flickered with a dangerous glint that sent a shiver down Dany's spine. "Friendship," he spat, the word laced with a bitterness that seemed to poison the very air. "Friendship the Dragon King won't forget."
Dany wasn't naive. Illyrio, the Spice Lord as he was known, dealt in more than just saffron and sapphires. Whispers in the bustling Pentos markets spoke of darker trades, of alliances as shifting as the desert sands that bordered the easternmost reaches of Essos.
Viserys' voice dropped to a harsh command, shattering the fragile hope that had bloomed in Dany's chest. "Wash off the stable stink," he ordered, his nostrils flaring in disgust. "Khal Drogo's a thousand-horse stallion, and tonight, he seeks a different kind of mount."
He circled her like a predator stalking its prey, his gaze lingering on her developing figure with an unsettling intensity. "Stand tall, sister," he finally said, his voice low and menacing. "Show them the woman you've become." His touch, a fleeting brush on her chest, sent a jolt of pain through her worn tunic, a stark reminder of his volatile temper.
"Don't disappoint me, Daenerys," he hissed, his voice laced with a barely contained threat. "You wouldn't want to wake the dragon, would you?"
The pain in her nipple, a cruel pinch through the worn fabric, was a chilling reminder of the precarious balance they walked. Dany swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing back the tears that welled up in her eyes. "No," she whispered, the word a fragile shield against the storm brewing in his eyes.
The gown, a suffocating emerald shroud, clung to Dany's trembling form. Every rustle of silk seemed to echo in the tense silence that had descended upon the opulent chamber. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a stark counterpoint to the measured tread of footsteps approaching from the hallway.
The heavy oak doors groaned open, revealing a group of figures bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. A young man with Valyrian features entered the room with an air of quiet command, locked eyes with her.
A pang of something akin to kinship washed over her – the same amethyst eyes as her own, the same regal set to his jawline, a faint echo of her brother, yet different.
"Who are you?" Viserys' voice, laced with suspicion, shattered the fragile silence. He stood rigidly in front of Dany, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger strapped to his hip.
The taller Targaryen stepped forward, his voice a steady rumble. "Viserys Targaryen, I presume? I am Aegon Targaryen, son of your elder brother; Rhaegar Targaryen, and this is my sister, Rhaenys Targaryen."
The name, whispered in hushed tones by the servants, hung heavy in the air. Aegon, the heir who died in his crib, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Dany felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. Could it be true? Were these visions conjured by her fear, or were they truly her kin, risen from the ashes?
Viserys scoffed, a humorless bark that sent shivers down Dany's spine. "Dead men don't sire children, pretenders. This is some elaborate ploy by Illyrio, no doubt. What game are you playing?"
Aegon's face remained impassive, but a flicker of something akin to pity crossed his eyes as he met Viserys' gaze. "We come not as players in your games, uncle", Aegon took a step forward. "We are here for Daenerys," he declared, his voice ringing with quiet determination. "We cannot, in good conscience, stand by and see her sold into a barbarian horde."
Viserys' face contorted with fury. "Sold? This is a marriage pact, fool! A chance for House Targaryen to reclaim its rightful glory!"
"Glory built on a child's sacrifice?" Rhaenys chimed in, her voice sharp as a whip. "Is that the legacy you wish to leave behind, Uncle?"
The word "uncle" hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the fractured family ties. Dany felt a flicker of something stir within her, a strange mixture of curiosity and a nascent sense of defiance. These strangers, these supposed kin, were challenging the narrative Viserys had woven for years.
The tension in the opulent chamber threatened to crack the very walls. Dany, the emerald shroud suffocating her every breath, watched the scene unfold with a mix of terror and blossoming defiance. The arrival of these supposed Targaryen kin, this Aegon who shattered the carefully constructed narrative of her childhood, had thrown everything into disarray.
Viserys, his face a mask of fury, drew his ornate blade, the polished steel glinting in the dying sunlight. "Leave this place at once," he snarled, his voice strained with a desperation that tugged at a forgotten corner of Dany's heart. "Or face the wrath of the Dragon King!"
A humorless snort escaped Jon Connington, the weathered knight flanking Aegon. "The Dragon King," he echoed, the words dripping with a cold, practiced sarcasm that made Dany flinch. "A title lost with a babe in a crib, wouldn't you say, Prince Viserys?"
'Prince?' Dany thought, the word souring on her tongue. It was a clear jab, meant to twist the knife in Viserys' already heavily wounded pride. Who was this man? He served Aegon, that much was clear. Yet, his words towards Viserys dripped with calculated cruelty. A sliver of unease wormed its way into Dany – was he friend or foe, or something far more dangerous?
Viserys bristled at the pointed barb, his fury flaring hotter. He lunged forward, the ornate blade flashing through the air. Before the steel could connect, however, a blur of black and gold intercepted it. Rolly Duckfield stood between Viserys and the Targaryen siblings, his viperish grin splitting his face.
"Now, now, now," Rolly drawled, his voice laced with amusement. "Let's not stain these fine Pentoshi silks with Targaryen blood, shall we? Besides, violence is such a crude way to settle matters of family... or is it politics?"
Viserys sputtered, his rage momentarily checked by Rolly's unexpected intervention. Dany, her eyes darting between the figures, felt a flicker of gratitude for the knight's arrival. At least someone in this room seemed to possess a semblance of reason, however twisted it might be.
Aegon stepped forward, his voice a steady counterpoint to the rising tension. "We understand your position, Uncle Viserys," he began, his tone measured. "You seek to restore our family's glory. However, the path you walk is paved with the suffering of an innocent child. Is that truly the legacy you wish to leave behind?"
Viserys opened his mouth to retort, his face twisted in a fresh wave of anger. But before any words could escape his lips, Rhaenys, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce intelligence that mirrored Dany's own, cut him off.
"Uncle," she said, her voice sharp as a whip, "I will speak plainly, we offer you an alternative. An alliance, not a transaction. Join us in our fight to reclaim the Iron Throne, not for glory built on a child's sacrifice, but for a Targaryen dynasty that rules with justice and strength."
The words hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the clatter of steel moments before. Dany felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest, a flicker of hope she hadn't dared allow herself to feel in years. Could there truly be another way? Could she escape the barbaric fate Viserys had planned for her?
Viserys, however, remained unconvinced. He scoffed, a derisive sound that echoed through the chamber. "Alliances? You, a bunch of beggars masquerading as royalty, propose an alliance with the rightful heir?"
A dangerous glint flickered in Aegon's eyes, a fleeting glimpse of the dragon beneath the carefully constructed facade. Jon Connington, sensing the shift in his ward's mood, placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
"We may not have your grand pronouncements, Prince," Jon interjected, his voice gruff but respectful. "But we have something far more valuable – a growing army, loyal allies, and a strategic plan to reclaim what is rightfully ours."
He swept the room with a steely gaze, his eyes finally settling on Dany. "And perhaps," he added, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "we have a way to ensure your sister's safety and happiness, something your current path seems to lack."
Dany's heart pounded in her chest. The weight of their words settled on her like a tangible force. Was it truly possible? Could these strangers, these supposed kin, offer her a future beyond the Dothraki horde that awaited her? As she met Aegon's gaze, a silent plea formed in her purple eyes – a plea for a life of her own choosing, a life where she wasn't just a pawn in her brother's desperate game.
Suddenly, the chamber doors burst open with a bang, shattering the fragile tension. Illyrio Mopatis, the corpulent Prince of Pentos, waddled in, his face creased with a mixture of annoyance and something akin to surprise. The sight that greeted him, however, caused his annoyance to melt away, replaced by a wave of genuine shock that morphed into unconcealed joy.
This truly was a joyous occasion!
Aegon and Rhaenys, however, remained stoic, their expressions offering no warmth to greet their former caretaker. Illyrio, ever the astute businessman, noted the subtle shift in their demeanor and the way Aegon held himself with an air of quiet authority. It seemed the test Varys had devised – a cruel test that forced Aegon to choose between his aunt and an army – had been passed with flying colors.
Oh dear~!
"Aegon," Illyrio boomed, his voice tinged with forced cheer. "Rhaenys. What a delightful surprise! It brings back such warm memories to see you both standing in this very room after all these years." He extended his pudgy arms in a welcoming gesture, only to be met with the sharp glint of steel. Rhaenys, her dark eyes flashing with a fierceness that mirrored Aegon's, had drawn her sword, its tip stopping mere inches from Illyrio's jeweled chest.
Uh-oh, someone was upset…
"Enough of this theatricality, Illyrio," she snapped, her voice laced with a dangerous edge. "We both know why we're here. Don't waste our time with false pleasantries."
Illyrio's smile faltered, a flicker of unease crossing his features. He cast a wary glance at Viserys, whose face contorted into a fresh wave of fury at being addressed as a mere "presence" in his own supposed court.
"Why did you sell out Daenerys to that savage barbarian, Illyrio?" Rhaenys continued, her voice rising with each scathing word. "We considered you an ally, someone who would protect our remaining family. Yet, you readily bartered our sister's hand to this false king, this pretender to the Iron Throne!"
Illyrio winced at the double dose of barbs – one aimed at his questionable loyalty, the other a subtle jab at Viserys' dwindling claim to the Iron Throne. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he straightened his ornate robes, composing himself to address the volatile situation.
"My princes," he began, his voice a measured rasp that contrasted sharply with Rhaenys' fiery outburst. "Daenerys Targaryen was not sold, but placed. Allow me to elucidate." He gestured vaguely around the opulent chamber, a silent plea for their patience.
"You, Aegon, were a mere babe when loyal retainers whisked you away from the clutches of those who sought your demise. Your safety, your very survival, was paramount. However, your aunt, Daenerys, remained exposed. Viserys, bless his heart, is simply…" He trailed off, searching for the most diplomatic way to phrase his next words.
"Unfit to lead?" Rhaenys supplied, her tone laced with a biting sarcasm.
Illyrio winced again. "Precisely," he admitted. "He clings to the grandeur of a lost crown, yet possesses none of the temperament or the skills that are truly required to rule. The Dothraki," he continued, his jeweled fingers plucking a plump fig from a nearby platter, "are a near unstoppable and formidable force, a potential storm that could have engulfed your entire claim. Khal Drogo, their warlord, is a warrior unmatched in this age. By placing Daenerys at his side, I hoped to try to temper that storm, perhaps even bend it to serve our cause."
He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Aegon's face. "Perhaps it was not the path you would have chosen, but trust that every step, however painful, was taken with the singular goal of ensuring the survival of House Targaryen, my prince."
Aegon listened intently, his expression unreadable. However, a flicker of something akin to understanding crossed his features as Illyrio spoke of the precarious position they were all in. Yet, Rhaenys remained unconvinced.
"Acquiring Dothraki muscle is hardly a fair trade for our aunt's freedom, Illyrio," she countered, her voice unwavering. "And believe me, I can see the guilt gnawing at you. So here's what you're going to do. You will go to Khal Drogo and declare the marriage pact null and void. Daenerys will not be bartered like some chattel!" she told him.
A palpable tension filled the room. Illyrio's face paled considerably at the thought of confronting the fearsome Dothraki warlord. "I'm afraid that's not possible, my princess," he stammered, his voice laced with a newfound desperation. "The Dothraki are not a people of honor, yes," Illyrio finished, his voice strained. "They only deal in gifts, and one doesn't simply take back a gift given, especially not a bride already gifted. To renege on such a pact would be an insult of the highest order, one that could lead to a bloody war with the entire Dothraki horde. Pentos would be the first to crumble under their wrath."
A vicious smile, devoid of humor, stretched across Viserys' face. He saw an opportunity to exploit the situation, a chance to regain some semblance of control. "See, Rhaenys? This is the folly of your little rebellion. You endanger not just Daenerys, but all of Pentos!" he sneered in a way that sounded like he was being cordial; but in truth was anything but, "Do you truly wish to endanger so many innocent lives all for one person already offered in marriage; to a Horse lord no less?" he questioned her.
Dany, however, felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Illyrio's words confirmed her worst fear – she was a pawn in a larger game, a game where her happiness mattered little. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the image of the siblings before her.
Aegon remained both stoic in his resolve and impassive in his choice. He studied Illyrio for a long moment, his gaze as sharp as a Valyrian steel sword. "There must be another way," he finally declared, his voice firm yet laced with a hint of desperation.
"Perhaps," Illyrio conceded, a sliver of hope flickering in his eyes. "There is a Dothraki tradition – a challenge. If a worthy challenger defeats Khal Drogo in single combat, he can claim anything the warlord possesses, including… a bride."
A dangerous glint sparked in Aegon's amethyst eyes, a reflection of the fury simmering beneath his carefully composed exterior. "Then a challenge it shall be," he declared, his voice ringing with newfound purpose. "I will fight Drogo for Daenerys' freedom. If I win, she returns to Pentos, a free woman."
A collective gasp filled the room. Viserys sputtered, his face contorted in a mixture of disbelief and outrage. "You? Fight Drogo? The first undefeated Khal in three hundred years? You're a fool, then! You'll be ridden down like a common stable boy!"
Dany, however, felt a flicker of something akin to hope ignite within her. This stranger, this supposed nephew, was willing to risk his life for her, to grant her a future beyond the Dothraki horde.
Illyrio looked at Rhaenys to see her reaction, who noticed it and yet with her gaze unwavering, placed a hand on Aegon's shoulder. "You were trained by the finest, brother," she said with conviction. "Your skill speaks for itself. You perfected your agility and deadliness. You are no stranger to combat, Aegon. You are a dragon, and dragons do not shy away from challenges."
Aegon nodded in agreement to her, "And it is for that reason I will succeed where others have failed, by iron and fire, and through fire and blood." he said seriously.
A tense silence descended upon the room. Illyrio mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief, his eyes darting between the siblings. Viserys continued to bluster, his threats empty and impotent.
A fragile hope blossomed in Dany's chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this unexpected turn of events could lead to a future she had never dared to dream of. A future where she wasn't just a pawn, but a Targaryen, a dragon ready to take flight.
Aegon paced the opulent chamber like a caged dragon, the polished marble floor reflecting the energy crackling around him. News of his challenge had reached Khal Drogo with astonishing speed, and now, the entire court of Pentos awaited the Dothraki warlord's response. The air hung heavy with anticipation, thick enough to choke on.
Viserys, ever the opportunist, preened in a corner, a smug smile plastered on his face. "A foolish notion, this challenge of yours, of all the incompetent thoughts to have run through that head of yours, this is surely the most ludicrous of them," he sneered. "Drogo is undefeated. You'll be another bell on his braid for all to see."
Aegon ignored him, his focus solely on the upcoming challenge. He closed his eyes, seeking solace in the familiar warmth spreading through his abdomen. It wasn't just butterflies; it was Kurama, the Nine-Tailed Fox, his loyal – well, mostly loyal – companion.
"This whole thing is a farce, Naruto," rumbled Kurama's voice in his mind, tinged with amusement. "This Drogo wouldn't last five seconds against you. You could probably sneeze him off his horse."
Aegon snorted internally. "It's not about the fight, Kurama. It's about rescuing Dany and proving myself to these people."
"Proving yourself to a bunch of self-important exiles? Sounds like a waste of your time, brat."
"Maybe," Aegon conceded. "But it's the only way forward right now. Besides, a little challenge never hurts anyone, right?"
Kurama scoffed. "Challenge? You're a god amongst mortals, kit. This is like a housecat facing off against a lion."
"Don't underestimate the housecat, Kurama," Aegon countered playfully.
The chamber doors burst open with a bang, shattering the tense silence. A Dothraki slave, his face stoic and features harsh, entered with an air of barely contained fury.
"Great Khal Drogo the Stallion demands an audience!" One slave boomed, his voice echoing in the opulent chamber.
Aegon suppressed a smirk. It seemed that the great Khal Drogo wasn't about to wait for pleasantries.
Perfect.
He straightened his tunic, a sigil of a three headed dragon glinting on his chest, and strode towards the Dothraki warrior. "I am Aegon Targaryen," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of his lineage. "And I am the one who challenges the great Khal Drogo for Daenerys Targaryen's freedom."
The warrior's eyes narrowed, taking in Aegon's youthful appearance. A flicker of doubt crossed his features, quickly replaced by a sneer. He barked something in Dothraki, and moments later, a commotion filled the hallway outside.
"Seems the big guy wants to see the challenger," Kurama quipped. "Don't disappoint him, kit. Make it quick and painless."
Aegon stepped out into the scorching Pentoshi sun, the heat a stark contrast to the cool conditioned comfort of the chamber. A vast open courtyard stretched before him, its center cleared for the upcoming duel. In the distance, a group of Dothraki warriors parted, revealing a mounted figure clad in black leather.
Even from afar, Aegon could sense the raw power emanating from the figure. Khal Drogo, the undefeated warlord, exuded a primal savagery that sent shivers down the spines of the onlookers.
Drogo dismounted with a fluid grace that belied his imposing size. He towered over Aegon, his arakh glinting wickedly in the harsh sunlight. A guttural growl escaped his throat, a challenge more than a greeting.
Aegon ignored it all. He focused on the task at hand, on winning his freedom for Dany, on proving himself to his newfound family. He strode towards the stables, his steps purposeful. A magnificent silver stallion, its coat gleaming in the sunlight, whinnied in greeting. This was Silverwind, a gift from Illyrio, a beast as swift and powerful as any Dothraki steed. Aegon mounted with practiced ease, the familiar feel of leather beneath his hands a comfort.
Across the courtyard, Drogo mirrored his movements. He swung himself onto a massive black stallion, its eyes burning with a feral intelligence. The two figures, mounted on their respective steeds, were a stark contrast – Aegon, both young and untested, yet radiating a quiet confidence, and Drogo, a seasoned warrior, his presence a storm cloud of raw power.
"...Let the challenge begin!" he declared, his voice ringing out across the courtyard.
The air crackled with anticipation. The Dothraki crowd roared their approval, their guttural shouts a rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding of Aegon's heart. He gripped the reins, feeling Silverwind shift beneath him, a powerful engine of muscle and spirit.
Across the dusty expanse, Drogo raised his arakh, the curved blade catching the sunlight and glinting menacingly. Aegon, however, remained unfazed. He unsheathed Nightsbane, a sword made out of obsidian called frozen fire by Illyrio who gifted it to him. The obsidian blade, lighter than it appeared, felt like an extension of his arm.
"Alright, brat, showtime," rumbled Kurama in his mind. A hint of excitement, almost playful, colored the fox's voice. Aegon couldn't help but grin – even a millennia-old demon couldn't resist a good fight.
The Dothraki raised their arakhs in unison, their guttural war cry shaking the very foundations of the palace. A signal. Drogo surged forward, his black stallion a blur of dark fur and pounding hooves. Aegon, however, didn't meet him head-on. He spurred Silverwind, the silver stallion responding with a burst of speed that seemed to defy physics.
Drogo roared in surprise as Aegon effortlessly maneuvered around him. The Dothraki warlord swung his arakh wildly, the heavy blade whistling through the air. Aegon easily predicted Drogo's every move. He weaved and dodged, a whirlwind of silver and black against the dusty backdrop.
The crowd watched in stunned silence. The Dothraki, expecting a brutal clash of steel, witnessed instead a dance of unmatched agility. Aegon, fueled by chakra – the life energy he had mastered in his previous life – moved with an otherworldly grace, his movements blurring at the edges.
"See, brat? I told you this wouldn't even be a challenge," Kurama boasted, a hint of pride in his voice.
Aegon ignored him, focusing solely on the task at hand. He knew this display of power was necessary. He needed to establish dominance, to make a statement. He wouldn't just win; he would win with absolute, undeniable superiority.
Seeing his initial attack fail, a primal rage contorted Drogo's face. He bellowed a challenge in Dothraki, his voice thick with fury. This time, he aimed for a sweeping horizontal strike, the arakh singing a deadly song through the air.
Aegon, however, anticipated the move. He leaned back just as the blade passed harmlessly over his head. In that split second, with a speed that left even the most seasoned warriors aghast, Aegon lunged forward. Nightsbane, a streak of obsidian lightning, met Drogo's arakh with a deafening clang.
The impact sent tremors through the ground. The Dothraki warlord's eyes widened in shock as the supposedly lighter dragonglass sword sliced through his arakh like a hot knife through butter. The severed blade clattered to the ground, a useless hunk of metal.
Silence descended upon the courtyard. Even the Dothraki, their bloodlust momentarily sated by the sheer unexpectedness of the display, fell eerily quiet. Aegon, Nightsbane held aloft, stared down at Drogo, his face a mask of cool indifference.
"Do you yield, Khal Drogo?" he boomed, his voice echoing in the sudden stillness.
Drogo, his face a mask of disbelief and simmering rage, remained frozen for a heartbeat. Then, with a guttural roar that seemed to tear from his very soul, he lunged at Aegon, his bare hands reaching for the Targaryen prince's throat.
It was a foolish, desperate move. Aegon, with a flick of his wrist, disarmed Drogo once more. Nightsbane, a blur of obsidian, pressed against the Dothraki warlord's throat, a single, chilling touch away from ending the fight.
The courtyard held its breath. The Dothraki warriors, their initial shock giving way to a grudging respect, began to murmur amongst themselves.
"That's it, kit. Finish him," Kurama urged, a hint of bloodlust creeping into his voice.
Aegon, however, hesitated. Killing Drogo was never his intention. He simply wanted to prove his point, to demonstrate his strength and secure Dany's freedom. He lowered Nightsbane ever so slightly.
"You have lost, Khal Drogo," he declared, his voice ringing with quiet authority. "As per the challenge, Daenerys Targaryen is free to go."
Aegon's voice hung heavy in the air, the weight of his victory pressing down on the assembled crowd. Drogo, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and grudging respect, remained frozen, Nightsbane a hair's breadth from his throat.
A tense silence stretched on, broken only by the rasping breaths of the onlookers. Finally, with a guttural growl that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, Drogo reached up and grasped his arakh's hilt, still lying useless on the dusty ground. With a single, powerful motion, he snapped the blade in two, the sound echoing through the courtyard like a death knell.
Then, with a swift movement that surprised everyone, Drogo raised a hand to his head. He grasped a single, thick braid adorned with intricate silver beads and, without a hint of hesitation, yanked it free. The braid tumbled to the ground, a silent symbol of his defeat. In a voice hoarse with barely controlled fury, he threw the braid at Aegon's feet.
"Daenerys Targaryen is free," he growled, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "She may go with you, Targaryen prince."
A ripple of surprise passed through the Dothraki crowd. This wasn't just a defeat; it was a complete humiliation. A Khal who loses a challenge loses face, and a Khal who loses face loses his position. A murmur began to rise, growing louder with each passing second.
"A Khal who falls from his horse during a challenge," a Dothraki warrior bellowed, his voice resonating across the courtyard, "is no Khal!"
The crowd erupted in agreement. Drogo, their undefeated warlord, had been bested not just in combat, but in leadership. He had failed to ride his own horse in the heat of battle, a cardinal sin for any Dothraki. The whispers became a roar, a tide of dissent that threatened to engulf Drogo.
Aegon watched the scene unfold with a calm detachment. He understood now the significance of Drogo's braid. It wasn't just a warrior's ornament – it was a symbol of his victories, a physical manifestation of his prowess. By severing his braid, Drogo had not only accepted defeat, but symbolically cast aside his claim to leadership.
Seeing the precarious position Drogo was in, a thought struck Aegon. He glanced at his own shoulder-length hair, a stark contrast to the Dothraki warriors' own heads. With a swift movement, he gathered a portion of his hair and deftly braided it, securing it with a clasp fashioned from a spare dagger sheath.
Silence fell again, the courtyard holding its breath as Aegon stood tall, the single braid a stark symbol against the Pentoshi opulence. Then, a Dothraki warrior, the same one who had challenged Drogo's leadership, let out a guttural laugh that echoed through the courtyard. Soon, the entire crowd joined in, their laughter a thunderous wave that shook the very foundations of the palace.
It wasn't mockery, Aegon realized. It was acceptance. He had not just defeated Drogo; he had shown respect for Dothraki traditions, a sign of understanding that resonated with the warrior people.
As the laughter subsided, the Dothraki warrior who had spoken before stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with newfound respect. "You, Targaryen prince," he boomed, his voice carrying over the stunned silence, "have proven your courage and your understanding of our ways. A Khal who falls may rise again, but a Khal who cannot ride is no Khal at all!"
He turned to face the other Dothraki warriors, his voice rising in a command. "We ride with the Dragon! We follow the one who commands our respect!"
A deafening roar of approval erupted from the crowd. The Dothraki warriors, their leader deposed, had found a new one. Not in Drogo, who skulked away in shame, but in Aegon Targaryen, the young prince with amethyst eyes and a single, defiant braid.
In the stunned silence that followed the Dothraki's roar, emotions flickered across the faces of Aegon's companions like windblown flames.
Rhaenys, ever the strategist, was the first to recover. A slow smile spread across her lips, the glint in her dark eyes mirroring Aegon's own newfound confidence. This wasn't just a victory; it was a coup. They had not only secured Dany's freedom, but potentially an entire Dothraki horde to their cause.
Dany, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief, watched Aegon dismount Silverwind. His hair, windswept from the fight, framed the single braid that now marked him as something more than just a Targaryen prince. He was a symbol, a beacon of hope for a people who had lost theirs.
Viserys, however, remained a storm cloud on the horizon. His face contorted in a grotesque mix of fury and envy. The crown he had so desperately craved now seemed further away than ever. The once-docile Dothraki who had been his bargaining chip now roared for another Targaryen, a younger, more powerful one.
Jon Connington, a weathered warrior with a lifetime of battles etched on his face, allowed himself a rare smile. His faith in Aegon, always strong, had been validated a thousandfold. He had seen the potential in the boy, the spark of greatness nurtured by countless training sessions and whispered tales of a Targaryen legacy. Today, that spark had erupted into a blazing inferno.
Rolly Duckfield, the gruff but kind Master-at-arms, thumped Aegon on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. "Well done, lad!" he boomed, his voice filled with a fatherly pride. "You fought like a true dragon!"
Illyrio Mopatis, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air, wobbled forward, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and newfound respect. He had gambled on Aegon, a gamble that could have spelled disaster. Now, he stood before a potential Dothraki khal, a force that could reshape the very destiny of Westeros.
Aegon, the weight of his victory settling on him, met their gazes one by one. He had won the fight, but the true battle for the Iron Throne had just begun. Yet, as he looked at the faces around him – his sister, his aunt, his guardian, his mentor, and the unlikely ally who had brought them all together – Aegon felt a surge of confidence. He wasn't alone.
He had a family, a purpose, and a Dothraki horde at his back. The road ahead would be long and perilous, but for the first time in his life, Aegon Targaryen, the Dragon Prince with a single, defiant braid, felt like he could truly take flight.
Naruto's finally got an army although the Dothraki's are gonna be a handful lmao.
This chapter finally shows how strong Naruto is so the few annoying people who've been crying about nerfing will finally shut up.
Also the feedback to this fic continues to be awesome.
This chapter was beta'd by Adventreader221.