Chapter 15: The Hunt Begins

The Arrival of the Striga

The night was thick with the scent of blood and burning flesh. The wind carried a foul stench—something twisted, something wrong.

Aegon Targaryen, the feared assassin once called Ghost, stood at the center of the Dothraki camp, gripping his blades tightly. The dying embers of the campfires flickered, illuminating the nightmarish figures that emerged from the shadows.

Striga.

Twenty of them, their deformed bodies twitching unnaturally, claws dripping with the flesh of the first Dothraki they had slaughtered. Their eyes burned like hot coals in sunken sockets, their mouths filled with jagged fangs.

Aegon didn't hesitate. He knew this was no ordinary enemy.

"Run!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Daenerys, Ned, Arya, and Ser Jorah barely had time to react. The moment of hesitation could have cost them their lives.

"Go! Now!" Aegon bellowed again, this time laced with command.

Jorah grabbed Daenerys by the arm, leading her toward the horses. Ned pulled Arya close as they mounted and galloped into the night. They would live. That was all that mattered.

Now, it was his fight.

Aegon vs. the Striga

The Striga rushed him, howling like demons loosed from the seven hells.

Aegon moved like a shadow, faster than the human eye could track. His blade sang through the air, slashing through the first creature's throat. Hot, blackened blood sprayed across his face.

Another lunged—he sidestepped, twisting his body mid-air, bringing his dagger down into its skull.

Another. Then another.

Bodies fell at his feet, limbs severed, entrails spilling onto the ground.

But they kept coming.

Too many.

Clawed hands ripped into his flesh. Teeth gnashed against his shoulder.

A Striga slashed across his face—a searing pain tore through his left eye. Blood gushed down his cheek, half-blinding him. His body ached. His muscles burned.

For the first time since taking the Witcher Serum, he felt truly overwhelmed.

But with pain came power.

His body regenerated. His rage ignited.

"Burn, you filth."

He raised his hand—fire erupted from his palm. The flames curled and crackled, licking the night air before engulfing the Striga in a roaring inferno.

They shrieked and writhed, their flesh boiling away, turning to charred husks.

Yet, even as they fell, exhaustion seeped into his bones.

This fight had drained him.

The Apostles Appear

Before he could catch his breath, two figures stepped into the battlefield.

The Apostles.

Draped in black and crimson, their faces hidden by eerie masks, they radiated something… otherworldly.

One of them spoke, their voice unnatural, like whispers of the damned.

"You fight well, Blood of the Dragon. But you are ours. You and the girl."

Aegon clenched his fists, blood dripping from his wounds. "You want Daenerys? You'll have to carve through my corpse first."

The Apostle chuckled. "Are you so sure she is safe?"

Aegon's heart pounded.

Then, far from the battlefield, a piercing scream shattered the night.

Daenerys.

Daenerys & The Spider Monster

Daenerys, Ned, Arya, and Jorah had ridden deep into the desert, the hooves of their horses kicking up sand in the moonlight.

Then—the earth trembled.

A monstrous shadow loomed ahead, blocking their path.

A giant spider, grotesque and black as night, its many eyes gleaming with a sick hunger.

The horses screamed in terror, rearing up. Arya fell, rolling through the dirt. Jorah barely managed to pull Daenerys to safety as massive fangs snapped where she had just stood.

Ned Stark drew his sword. "Get the princess out of here!"

The spider shrieked—a sound not of this world.