Game of Thrones: Killing to the top

As the tension hung in the air, Aegon's gaze shifted.

To her.

Daenerys Targaryen.

She was smaller than he had imagined, barely a woman grown. Her silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, her violet eyes wide as they stared at him.

She was watching him, her lips slightly parted, as if she was seeing a ghost from the past.

And then, she rose from her seat.

The wedding guests murmured as Daenerys took a hesitant step forward. Her breath was unsteady, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Aegon remained silent, his gaze meeting hers.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly, she asked:

"Are you truly… my brother's son?"

Aegon tilted his head.

"Would it change anything if I wasn't?"

Daenerys did not answer.

Because the truth was she already knew the answer.

She had never met her eldest brother, only heard stories. But something in the way Aegon spoke, in the way he carried himself, reminded her of the tales she had been told.

He is not like Viserys.

He is something else entirely.

A conqueror. A dragon reborn.

And for the first time since the wedding began, Daenerys felt something she had never felt before.

Not fear.

Not submission.

But hope.

Aegon watched her closely, seeing the shift in her expression, the thoughts racing behind her violet eyes.

Then, he looked at Khal Drogo.

"You have something that belongs to me."

Drogo's brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing.

"She is my wife," he said, his voice deep and unshaken.

Aegon smirked.

"We shall see."

The challenge had been spoken.

The air grew thick with anticipation.

And as the dragons roared above, the wedding guests knew this was only the beginning.

The tension was suffocating.

Aegon dismounted his horse, his violet eyes gleaming with something cold, something deadly. Khal Drogo did the same, stepping forward with the swagger of a man who had never known defeat.

The wedding guests watched with bated breath some eager to see the foreign prince slaughtered, others simply curious.

The Dothraki warriors on both sides remained still, their black eyes glinting in the firelight.

Two Khalasars, one moment, one fight that would decide everything.

And then, Aegon smirked.

"Are you sure you wish to do this, Drogo?" His voice was calm, mocking. "You may be strong, but you are not me."

Drogo let out a dark chuckle, gripping his arakh tightly.

"You are nothing but a boy with pretty eyes, a foreigner who thinks he is Dothraki." Drogo sneered. "You ride a beast in the sky, but you do not have the strength to face me like a true warrior."

Aegon's smirk widened.

"You will regret those words."

The crowd roared as the two approached each other, circling like wolves.

And then.

The fight began.

Drogo lunged first, his arakh swinging through the air with terrifying speed.

But Aegon was faster.

He sidestepped effortlessly, his body moving with a grace Drogo had never seen before.

The Khalasars watched in awe, their eyes widening as Aegon ducked, weaved, and countered every move with ease.

Is he toying with him?

Aegon smirked, his movements smooth, his posture relaxed.

"Is this all the mighty Khal Drogo has to offer?" he mocked.

Drogo roared in fury, attacking again slashing, stabbing, swinging.

But Aegon moved like water, flowing through every strike, every attempt laughably predictable.

And then he struck back.

A punch to the ribs so fast Drogo barely saw it.

A kick to the knee sent the great Khal stumbling.

A slash across the chest cut through his leather armor.

Drogo gritted his teeth, staggering back.

The guests stared in shock.

Khal Drogo is struggling.

He is losing.

And Aegon… was smiling.

"This is disappointing," he sighed. "I expected more."

Drogo snarled, blood dripping from his chest, his fury reaching new heights.

"I will cut your heart out, boy!"

Aegon chuckled.

"Then try."

Drogo charged one final time, arakh raised high.

But Aegon—he had enough of playing.

In a blur of motion, he sidestepped, grabbed Drogo's wrist, and—SNAP!

The Khal roared in agony as Aegon broke his arm with terrifying ease.

The arakh clattered to the ground.

Before Drogo could react, Aegon grabbed him by the throat lifting him off his feet as if he were nothing.

The entire wedding party fell silent.

The mighty Khal Drogo, the most feared Dothraki warlord, was helpless in Aegon's grasp.

"You were never my equal," Aegon said coldly.

And then he plunged his arakh straight into Drogo's heart.

The Khal gasped, his eyes wide with shock.

Blood spilled from his lips.

The great Khal Drogo, undefeated in battle, fell limp in Aegon's grip.

(Ding!!! one Khal killed + 10 points)

And then Aegon did something that none would ever forget.

Aegon released Drogo's body, letting it crash to the dirt.

Silence gripped the crowd.

Then, his hands began to glow.

At first, it was faint—a flicker of orange light, like embers in the wind.

But then—the fire grew.

Gasps erupted from the guests as flames danced across Aegon's fingers, licking up his arms, burning as bright as dragonfire.

What is this sorcery?!

Then—he touched Drogo's corpse.

And in an instant—the Khal burst into flames.

Screams rippled through the crowd.

Some fell to their knees, others stumbled back in horror.

This was not normal fire.

This was something ancient, something divine.

The flames roared, devouring Drogo's body, turning him to ash in moments.

Aegon watched in silence, his violet eyes glowing in the firelight.

Then, he turned to the stunned Dothraki, to the horrified guests, to Viserys and Daenerys.

And he spoke.

"The old ways are dead." His voice was calm, but it carried across the plains like a storm. "The age of the Stallion is over."

The flames behind him flared, casting his shadow long.

"Now comes the age of the Dragon."

And as the fire devoured the last of Khal Drogo, the world finally understood.

Aegon Targaryen was not just a man.

He was a god reborn in fire and blood.