Game of Thrones: Killing to the top

The Dothraki Sea stretched endlessly, golden grass swaying beneath the warm midday sun. Within the heart of the great encampment, whispers spread like wildfire.

"Aegon the Dragonlord."

"A dragon in human skin."

Their Khal had done what no man had ever done before. He had tamed the three great beasts of fire that now soared over their camp, their massive wings casting shadows that made even the bravest warriors glance skyward with a mixture of awe and fear.

Inside Aegon's tent, the atmosphere was unusually quiet. The great warlord, Aegon Targaryen, stood near a wooden cradle, gazing down at his infant son, Maegor.

The babe was wrapped in soft fur, his tiny face peaceful as he slept. But even now, Aegon could see the traces of his Valyrian heritage. His silver-gold hair was already growing thick, and though his eyes remained closed, Aegon knew that when they opened, they would shine a deep violet, just like his own.

Aegon reached down, gently scooping the baby into his arms. Strong. Sturdy. A son of dragons.

Outside, the camp buzzed with activity as he stepped into the sunlight, Maegor cradled against his chest. Word had spread that Khal Aegon was introducing his son to the dragons, and the Dothraki gathered in hushed reverence, eager to witness the moment.

The three massive beasts stood in the distance, their immense forms resting in the open field. Bahamut, the black dragon, lay stretched out, his golden eyes gleaming with intelligence. Igneel, the red dragon, lay curled up beside him, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Albion, the white dragon, sat upright, her piercing gaze scanning the approaching figures.

Aegon walked forward, unafraid. The Dothraki murmured behind him, nervous yet captivated.

Aegon stopped a few paces away. He tightened his hold on Maegor before speaking, his voice strong and firm.

"Look upon him. He is the blood of my blood… my son… a dragon like us." Aegon spoke in high Valyrian learned through the knowledge given to him from the blood magic and sacrificial magic used in old Valyria as the rituals and spells were recorded and done in high Valyrian.

The dragons stirred, their immense heads turning toward him. For a moment, the world stood still.

Then, Bahamut, the largest of the three, lowered his head, his golden eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air. He rumbled lowly, exhaling a stream of smoke.

Igneel lifted his head next, his fiery gaze locking onto the infant. He let out a snort, flaring his nostrils before settling again.

Albion tilted her head, her icy-white scales glistening under the sun. She was the last to move, stepping forward slowly before brushing her massive snout against Maegor's tiny form.

The camp gasped.

Aegon watched her withdraw and smiled the three dragons had different personalities with Albion being the most curious, Bahamut was like a grumpy old man, and Igneel wanted all the attention but acted a little indifferent.

The event spread like wildfire.

The Dothraki whispered in their tents, their voices hushed yet filled with conviction.

"His blood is fire and magic."

"He is the Dragonlord, a dragon in human skin."

Aegon did not address these whispers. He did not need to.

Instead, he spent more time with his dragons, bonding with them, training with them, and pushing the limits of their power. He learned their mannerisms, their moods, and their strengths. Each day, they grew stronger together.

But there was one thing left to do.

He had to fly.

Aegon stood before Bahamut, the largest of his dragons, the black-scaled behemoth who towered over the camp like a god of old. The beast watched him closely, waiting.

Aegon had ridden horses, had led countless battles, but this… this was different.

This was what it meant to be Valyrian.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, placing a hand on Bahamut's neck. The dragon rumbled, his golden eyes glinting with understanding. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Bahamut lowered his wing an invitation.

Aegon smirked.

Without hesitation, he grabbed hold, climbing onto the dragon's broad back, using the ridges of his spine as handholds. He positioned himself between the great wing joints, feeling the powerful muscles tense beneath him.

The Dothraki gasped. No one had ever seen such a thing.

Aegon gripped the dragon's scales tightly. "Fly, Bahamut."

And with a mighty roar, Bahamut spread his wings.

The wind rushed around them. Dust swirled. The dragon's wings beat against the earth, sending powerful gusts across the camp. And then they were airborne.

Aegon's stomach lurched as Bahamut shot into the sky, the force pressing him down against the dragon's back. The ground shrunk beneath them, the vast sea of golden grass stretching endlessly below.

Higher. Faster.

The wind roared in his ears, and the sky opened up before him, endless and free. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever known no battlefield, no warhorse, no bloodshed could compare.

This was power. This was freedom.

This was what it meant to be a dragonlord.

Bahamut let out a thunderous roar, the sound shaking the heavens as the other two dragons, Igneel and Albion, took to the skies, following their brother.

From below, the Dothraki knelt, watching in silence.

Aegon smirked as he soared through the sky, his hands gripping tightly to Bahamut's scales. He looked down at the encampment, at the people who now whispered his name with awe and fear.

He was no mere Khal.

He was Aegon Targaryen, the Dragonlord.