Game of Thrones: Killing to the top

"You shall be rewarded for having the courage to raise against your king. Dragonfire shall burn you to ash and cleanse this land of your filth."

 Aegon Targaryen to ***************

Four-chapter release.

Aegon stood over Bharso's corpse, his blade still dripping with the slain Khal's blood.

The air was thick with tension.

Though the two thousand warriors seemed to agree to follow him, he knew what was to come.

And the first to rebel were standing right before him.

Khal Bharso's three bloodriders appeared.

They stood stiff and seething, their hands gripping their arakhs, their eyes burning with hatred.

"You are not our Khal."

The voice came from Harrok, the most senior of Bharso's bloodriders. A scarred, vicious warrior, his arakh had taken the heads of dozens of challengers.

His two companions, Rokarro and Horqo, flanked him, their rage barely contained.

"You are nothing," Harrok snarled, spitting at Aegon's feet. "You think killing Bharso makes you Khal? You are no horselord. You are no brother of the stallion."

Aegon met his gaze, unshaken.

"If you wish to follow him into the grave," he said coldly, "step forward."

The three bloodriders did not hesitate.

They attacked.

Harrok moved first, his massive arakh flashing in the moonlight as he aimed to split Aegon's skull in two.

Aegon ducked under the swing, his own blade lashing out in a brutal counterattack a deep gash tore through Harrok's side, blood spraying into the night air.

But the other two were already upon him.

Rokarro came from the left, his arakh spinning in a deadly arc. Horqo lunged from the right, dagger in hand, aiming for Aegon's ribs.

Aegon twisted, moving with deadly precision.

His sword flashed once, twice and Rokarro's hand went flying, severed cleanly at the wrist.

The Dothraki warrior howled in agony, stumbling back as blood poured from the stump.

Horqo was faster his dagger sank deep into Aegon's side, cutting into his flesh.

Aegon gritted his teeth against the pain, his grip tightening around his sword.

With a snarl, he slammed his elbow into Qhono's face, the force shattering the warrior's nose and sending him reeling.

Harrok, despite his wound, roared in fury and came again, swinging wildly.

But rage made him sloppy.

Aegon sidestepped, his blade slashing upward in a brutal arc.

Steel met flesh.

Harrok's head flew from his shoulders, tumbling into the dirt.

(Ding! One Dothraki warrior killed +9 points.)

The camp fell silent as his headless body collapsed.

Horqo, dazed and bleeding, looked up just in time to see Aegon's sword drive through his chest.

(Ding! One Dothraki warrior killed +9 points.)

Rokarro, still clutching his severed wrist, tried to flee but Aegon was already on him.

One clean strike and his throat was opened.

(Ding! One Dothraki warrior killed +9 points.)

The last of Bharso's bloodriders fell, their corpses staining the earth red.

Aegon stood breathing heavily, blood dripping from his sword and his side.

His eyes burned as he looked at the gathered warriors, daring them to challenge him next.

None did.

The Dothraki respected strength above all else.

Killing a Khal was one thing but to slay his three strongest warriors in single combat.

That was undeniable power.

One by one, the warriors began to chant.

"Khal Aegon."

The chant grew louder, spreading through the camp.

"Khal Aegon!"

They pounded their fists against their chests, their voices rising into the night.

They had accepted him.

For now.

Aegon watched them, his expression unreadable. He knew this was only the beginning.

The Dothraki followed him but they did not yet believe in him.

Not truly.

For them to be his warriors in heart and soul, they needed more than just a duel in the night.

They needed a war. A great conquest. A battle so fierce that no one could ever doubt his strength again.

And Aegon would give it to them.

His wound throbbed, but he ignored the pain.

He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the cheers like steel.

"Tomorrow, we ride," he declared.

The Dothraki roared in approval.

For Khal Aegon, the true conquest had just begun.

He needed the Dothraki to trust and be loyal to him for the system to recognize their kills and give him kill points from them.

The night was quiet.

Aegon sat within the former Khal's tent, its large space now his by right. The scent of sweat, blood, and leather lingered in the air.

His wound burned.

The dagger Qhono had driven into his side had cut deep, and though he had washed it and wrapped it in cloth, the pain remained.

But he was no stranger to pain.

His mind was already elsewhere on the power that awaited him.

The Primary Blood Awakening.

"System begin the primary blood awakening."

(Deducting four hundred points to carry out blood awakening.)

Aegon felt his body locked up.

His veins burned as if molten fire was coursing through them.

Aegon gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists. His muscles tensed, every fiber of his being screaming in torment.

Then came the true agony.

It was as if his bones were breaking and reshaping, stretching and reforging themselves under some unseen force. His spine cracked, his limbs twitched uncontrollably, and his heart pounded like a war drum.

Aegon let out a guttural snarl, his vision flashing red as his blood burned from the inside out.

The power of his bloodline was being awakened.

The change felt both excruciating and exhilarating.

His hair, once dark, turned silver, the color of old Valyria. But at its roots, a deep black strand remained, a stubborn reminder of the Stark blood still within him.

His eyes became a vibrant purple, shining like amethysts in the dim tent.

His bones thickened, his muscles became denser, and his body taller.

Aegon rose to his feet, feeling the power surging through his veins, but before he could fully grasp his increased strength, a strange sensation overtook him.

A pull.

A deep, irresistible force, as if something was calling to him.

His head snapped toward the three dragon eggs, still wrapped securely in his belongings.

But now, they were different.

They hummed not with sound, but with something felt, not heard.