Game of Thrones: Killing to the top

"A kingdom can be rebuilt, a throne reclaimed—but the ones we lose to war and time never return. A crown weighs heaviest not in battle, but in the silence left by those who are gone."

 Aegon Targaryen to *****************

The battle had ended.

The air still smelled of death.

The grass was soaked in blood, and the cries of the wounded echoed under the open sky. But Aegon's victory was absolute.

His numbers had grown.

His forces had swelled to 2,700 strong after absorbing the remnants of Khal Saran's khalasar. Yet, not all accepted him so easily.

Two men still stood in defiance.

The two bloodriders of Khal Saran as Aegon had come to know was his name knelt before Aegon, their wrists bound in leather.

Bloodriders were more than warriors they were sworn brothers to their Khal.

Their loyalty did not break with death. It ended only with their own.

They had fought viciously after Saran fell, but the overwhelming force of Aegon's men had finally subdued them. Now, they glared at him, hatred burning in their eyes.

One of them, a scarred warrior with deep brown skin and braids adorned with gold, spat on the ground at Aegon's feet.

"You are no Khal," he growled in Dothraki. "You are a foreigner. Kill us, and be done with it."

Aegon met his gaze, his own violet eyes cold and unflinching.

"I am your Khal."

The second bloodrider, a younger man with a jagged scar across his face, let out a bitter laugh. "You think killing Saran makes you our Khal? You do not ride like us, you do not think like us. You will never be one of us."

Aegon smirked.

"You misunderstand me," he said, stepping forward. "I do not seek to be one of you. I seek to command you. And those who do not submit..."

With one swift motion, Aegon drew his dagger and slashed open the first bloodrider's throat.

The warrior gurgled, eyes wide in shock, before collapsing into the dirt.

(Ding!! one Dothraki warrior killed +9 points)

The second bloodrider snarled in fury, but before he could react, Aegon drove his blade into the man's chest, twisting it deep.

The bloodrider gasped, choking on his own blood as his body slumped forward, lifeless.

(Ding!! one Dothraki warrior killed +9 points)

Aegon wiped his dagger clean against the dead man's tunic and turned to face the gathered Dothraki.

"This is the price of defiance," he said, his voice carrying across the camp. "I have no use for those who cling to a dead man's name."

The warriors remained silent, but Aegon could see the subtle shifts in their expressions, the way their hands rested on their weapons a little less tensely.

Fear was useful, but fear alone did not hold men for long.

They needed something more.

That night, the fires burned high in celebration.

Victory had been won. Khal Saran was dead, his khalasar now part of Aegon's.

The Dothraki drank, tore into roasted meat, and sang songs of battle and blood.

Among Aegon's own men, there was a mixture of triumph and mourning.

Fifty warriors had fallen in the fight.

Their bodies had been burned upon funeral pyres, their names spoken so they would not be forgotten.

Another hundred lay wounded, some too injured to ride for weeks, and were being tended to by the Dothraki women.

Aegon sat near the central fire, drinking sparingly as he observed his warriors.

The newly absorbed Dothraki warriors watched him from a distance, studying him, judging him.

He knew what they were thinking.

They had accepted him because they had no choice.

But true loyalty? That would only come with more victories.

Aegon turned his gaze toward the dark horizon.

This was only the first step.

Tomorrow, the next conquest would begin.

The night was alive with the crackling of fires and the distant laughter of warriors. The Dothraki celebrated their victory, feasting and drinking beneath the open sky. But within the confines of his tent, Aegon sat in silence.

His eyes were sharp, his expression unreadable, but his thoughts were storming like a raging sea.

The battle had gone as he had planned brutal, swift, decisive. He had cut down Khal Saran and taken his place. His numbers had grown, and with every conquest, his legend among the Dothraki would spread.

But was that enough?

Aegon leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he ran a hand through his silver hair. His new appearance had only made his presence more striking, more otherworldly, yet even with his growing strength, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

Conquering a khalasar was one thing. Conquering Westeros was another.

Dothraki won battles through sheer speed and brutality, charging headlong into their enemies with relentless ferocity. That worked against scattered foes, against the unprepared.

But Westeros?

Westeros had fortresses, and castles with high walls and thick gates. It had trained armies, disciplined formations, and powerful lords who commanded thousands. A head-on charge would not be enough to bring the Seven Kingdoms to their knees.

His strength was in killing. In single combat, in bloodshed, in dominance. But leading an entire army?

Aegon clenched his jaw.

He was not blind to his weaknesses.

He had never commanded troops in a large-scale war. He had no knowledge of siege warfare, naval battles, or prolonged campaigns. He could not rely on his instincts alone.

For the first time since his reincarnation, uncertainty crept into his mind.

He had killed, he had conquered, but was that truly enough?

Would he simply throw his men at Westeros' armies and hope that sheer might would win the day?

No. That would be foolish.

Aegon exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment.

He needed a plan. A true plan.

Aegon was not afraid of learning. He had already mastered the Dothraki tongue using the system. If knowledge was what he lacked, then he would acquire it.

Perhaps there were captains, strategists, or warriors within the Free Cities who had fought wars before. Men who understood siegecraft, formations, and tactics.

Perhaps he needed to recruit advisors, just as Aegon the Conqueror had relied on Orys Baratheon, Visenya, and Rhaenys.

Aegon opened his eyes.

The nervousness remained, but now it burned alongside something far greater determination.

He was not some warlord playing at power.

He was Aegon Targaryen.

And he would forge himself into the leader he needed to be.

No matter what it took.