Dothraki Adventures 31

In the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, the small council had gathered. The air was thick with tension as King Robert Baratheon paced back and forth, his heavy footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

His face was red with rage, his hands clenched into tight fists.

"A Targaryen boy is alive?! A son of that silver-haired bastard?!" he spat.

Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, sat with a calm but concerned expression.

"It would seem so, Your Grace."

Robert slammed his fist against the table, causing the goblets of wine to shake.

"That bitch! That whore Lyanna!" His voice boomed, but it was laced with something more than rage. Something deeper.

Pain.

Lord Stannis Baratheon, standing as rigid as ever, spoke in his usual cold tone.

"Three dragons, Your Grace. If the reports are true, then this Aegon Targaryen has done what no man has done in over a century."

"Drogon's balls, Stannis!" Robert threw up his hands, his fury spilling over. "A dragonlord with a Dothraki horde? Do you know what this means?!"

Varys, the Master of Whisperers, observed the scene silently before speaking in his usual soft voice.

"It means, Your Grace, that Aegon Targaryen is no longer a boy hiding in exile.

The hall fell into a heavy silence. Robert's expression hardened as he slammed his fist on the table. "Dragons! We've only heard tales since the fall of the Dragonlords. Now they return to burn our lands?"

Robert's face reddened. "So the blood of Targaryens runs anew, and with it comes death. What do we know of this Aegon? Is he truly of Rhaegar's line, or a pretender cloaked in old magic?"

Stannis, his tone grim and measured, added, "If he is indeed Rhaegar's son, then his claim to the throne, bolstered by dragons and a fearsome army, may well disrupt the balance of power. And with Daenerys' brother gone, the last vestige of her line may be lost forever."

Littlefinger, leaning in with a calculating smirk, whispered, "Let us hope the realm is prepared for the storm that approaches. For if Aegon's dragons truly darken our skies, we may find ourselves on the brink of fire and blood."

Varys's eyes shone with a secret sorrow as he murmured, "Westeros has always feared the return of dragons. Now we must decide: will we fight this new force or try to bend it to our will?"

In the sun-drenched splendor of Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell sat in quiet deliberation, his eyes narrowed as he read yet another report. The words spoke of a new Dragonlord in Essos, a conqueror who had tamed dragons and built an army from the Dothraki.

"Oberyn," Doran said quietly to his cousin, who sat nearby with an unreadable expression, "if this Aegon is truly of Rhaegar's blood, then his rise is no mere happenstance. It is a portent. And with the return of dragons, things are looking up for the Targaryens."

Oberyn's voice was soft but laced with steel. "Perhaps it is time, then, for us to reconsider our allegiances. A power that can command dragons, if harnessed, might serve Dorne well in the turbulent years to come."

Doran only nodded. In Dorne, they had learned that survival often meant aligning with forces stronger than oneself, even if that meant striking uneasy bargains with the very enemies they once despised.

Different reactions spread out throughout Westeros.

But with Aegon, things went on as usual, he had gotten the outcome he wanted.

The first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson as Aegon stirred from his sleep. The air inside his tent was cool, but outside, the warmth of the rising sun was already beginning to touch the vast Dothraki Sea. His body, hardened by battles and the awakening of his blood, felt refreshed despite the weight of the plans he had made the night before.

Slipping on a loose tunic and riding leathers, he stepped outside, his keen eyes scanning the encampment. Warriors were already awake, sharpening their blades, tending to their horses, and speaking in hushed tones. His presence did not go unnoticed; many of his warriors turned to watch him, some bowing their heads in silent respect, others murmuring the title that had taken root among them: Dragonlord.

But Aegon's thoughts were elsewhere. His dragons.

He made his way to the far side of the camp, where the three beasts had claimed a section of land for themselves. Their size had become nothing short of monstrous. Bahamut, Igneel, and Albion loomed over the landscape, their massive wings folded against their bodies, their scales glistening in the early morning light. As he approached, Igneel, the fiery red dragon, lifted his great head and let out a low, rumbling growl, his golden eyes meeting Aegon's with what almost seemed like understanding.

They know I am coming.

Aegon smirked as he drew near, his hands brushing along Igneel's thick neck. The dragon let out a huff of warm air, his scales heating beneath Aegon's touch.

"Soon," Aegon murmured to them, his voice deep and promising. "Soon, you will burn everything in your path to your heart's content."

At his words, Bahamut, the largest of the three, let out a low, bone-rattling growl, his deep black scales shimmering with an almost liquid darkness. Albion, his pale, ghostly counterpart, merely stared at Aegon with an unsettling intelligence in her icy violet eyes.

Aegon ran his hands over their scales, feeling the raw power thrumming beneath them. The connection between them had only deepened with time, something beyond mere master and beast. They were bonded. He could feel it in his very blood.

With a smirk, he stepped back and patted Igneel's massive side before moving to the dragon's wing.

"Let's fly."

The red dragon responded immediately, lowering himself as Aegon grasped one of the spines along his back and pulled himself up. The massive beast shifted, adjusting to his rider's weight, before spreading his colossal wings.

The sound was deafening, the rush of air as Bahamut and Albion followed suit, their wings stirring up dust and sending a powerful gust through the encampment. The Dothraki who were awake stopped what they were doing, watching in awe and fear.

Aegon tightened his grip on the thick, ridged scales of Igneel's neck. His heartbeat quickened, but there was no fear, only exhilaration.

"Fly," he whispered.

With a mighty roar, Igneel kicked off the ground, his enormous wings beating down in powerful strokes. The force of it sent a shockwave of dust and wind cascading through the camp as he lifted into the sky. Bahamut and Albion followed, their enormous forms taking to the heavens as if they had been born for this moment.

The wind rushed past Aegon's face, his silver hair whipping behind him as he soared higher and higher. The ground below shrank rapidly, the vast Dothraki Sea stretching endlessly in all directions. He could hear the deep thrumming of the dragons' wings, could feel the raw power beneath him. This was true freedom.

From within the camp, Daenerys emerges from her tent.

Her silver hair, so similar to his own, caught the morning light as she stepped barefoot into the cool grass. She had been woken by the sudden commotion, the sound of massive wings cutting through the air. As she lifted her gaze, her violet eyes widened.

There he was.

Aegon, high above the camp, astride his dragon, his cloak billowing in the wind, his form silhouetted against the morning sun. He looked… otherworldly. Like a figure from the old tales of Valyria, a legend brought to life. The sight sent a shiver through her.