Essos Conquest 4

The silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring. Illyrio Mopatis, his fine silks sticking to his sweat-drenched skin, stood trembling upon the city walls of Pentos. Below him, Aegon Targaryen sat atop his black stallion, purple eyes gleaming with an almost amused expression.

Then, Aegon's lips curved into a slow, cruel smirk.

"Gold, ships, and food?" he mused, as if considering the offer.

The Dothraki around him remained deathly silent, watching their Khal. They knew that look.

"A tempting offer, Magister," Aegon continued, tilting his head, "but tell me… how much gold will it take to rebuild your city once I've burned it to the ground?"

A sharp silence.

Then—laughter.

The Dothraki erupted into roaring laughter, some gripping their stomachs, others slapping their saddles. Even Daenerys looked slightly startled before she masked it.

Illyrio paled further, his fat fingers gripping the stone of the battlements so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"P-Prince Aegon, please, there is no need for violence!" he stammered, his voice cracking slightly.

Aegon said nothing.

He simply raised his gaze to the sky.

"Igneel. Albion."

His voice rang out, cutting through the laughter.

The two dragons heard him.

A moment later, a deafening roar shook the very stones of the city walls. Igneel shot forward, his massive red form unfurling its great wings as he soared into the sky.

Illyrio's mouth went dry.

"N-No…" he whispered, his body trembling as he watched the red dragon take flight.

Igneel flew over Pentos, a living storm of wings and flame. Below, the people of the city merchants, nobles, slaves, and commoners alike looked up and screamed.

Then, Igneel reached the harbor.

And roared.

A long, guttural sound that shattered the peace and tension.

The waters churned from the force of his wingbeats as he opened his great maw and deep red fire erupted.

The flames engulfed the docks, turning wooden ships into blazing skeletons. The screams of sailors, dock workers, and fleeing citizens mixed with the crackling inferno.

Pentosi warships burned. Merchant vessels burned. Even the bodies of the dead burned.

The harbor was gone.

Soon the area was quickly covered in smoke and steam completely blocking the sight of Igneel but the loud constant flapping of his wings reminded the dead of his presence.

The light of the inferno reached the walls, painting Illyrio's horrified face in shades of orange and red.

Aegon still had not moved.

But now, a great shadow loomed over the city gate.

Albion.

The white dragon descended, her talons scraping across the stone, her pale blue eyes locking onto the massive gate that protected the city.

"Albion."

Aegon's voice was calm.

The dragon's chest expanded, its pale scales seeming to glow with inner heat. The Dothraki near the gate pulled back instinctively, their horses growing restless.

And then

Fire.

A stream of searing blue flames erupted from Albion's maw, striking the iron gates.

The metal screamed as it melted, the once-imposing barrier turning into a bubbling mass of molten slag. The guards above the gate recoiled, their faces drenched in sweat, their bodies frozen in terror.

In mere moments, the gates of Pentos were gone.

Illyrio could not move. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his massive body trembling uncontrollably.

Gods… what have I done?

His mind whirled in blind panic. He had always considered himself a man of influence, a man who could control kings and queens.

But Aegon was not a king to be controlled.

He is not a boy in need of guidance.

He is a conqueror.

A dragon in human skin.

The heat from the molten gates licked at his face, sweat dripping down his brow as he stared down at Aegon.

The young Targaryen prince met his gaze with an expression that was almost bored.

Then, he spoke.

"Your ships are gone."

Illyrio's lips quivered, but he did not speak.

"Your gates are open."

Aegon's purple eyes burned as he continued.

"Now tell me, Magister…"

The Dothraki began to move forward, their blades gleaming, their horses stamping in anticipation.

"How much gold do you think your life is worth?"

Illyrio collapsed to his knees.

And the city of Pentos trembled.

Illyrio Mopatis stared down through the rising smoke, his vision blurred with sweat and fear.

Below him, Aegon Targaryen sat tall in the saddle, his purple eyes shining through the haze. His lips curled into a cruel, knowing smile.

The boy, no, the dragon was enjoying this.

Illyrio swallowed thickly, his throat dry as sand. He had played his games for decades, pulling strings from the shadows, thinking he could make and unmake kings.

But now, he was the one dangling on the string.

Aegon turned away from Illyrio, his smirk fading as he raised his right hand in the air. The Dothraki fell silent, thousands of warriors hanging on his every word.

Then, his voice rang out, clear and sharp as a blade.

"Take the city."

A murmur rippled through the assembled horde, eager and bloodthirsty. But Aegon was not finished.

"Kill all who resist!" he commanded. "Any man who raises a weapon dies. Burn their strongholds, seize their gold."

Aegon's enhanced bloodriders Baqo, Jacko, Temul, and more exchanged glances before turning to their respective warbands, barking orders.

The Dothraki split into their designated groups, their braided hair swinging as they rode into the city, their curved arakh blades gleaming in the firelight.

Aegon continued, his voice cutting through the crackling flames.

"But hear me now!" he warned. "The common folk are not to be touched unless they interfere."

The Dothraki grumbled slightly, but none disobeyed. Aegon's rule had been clear from the beginning of conquest, not destruction.

"Go," Aegon commanded.

And like a great, unstoppable tide, his horde poured into Pentos.