Game of Thrones: Killing to the top

"War is a cycle that never truly ends. As long as humanity endures, so too will conflict—shifting from battlefield to battlefield, from generation to generation. Only those who have passed beyond this world are free from its grasp, for the living will always find themselves caught in its shadow."

 Aegon Targaryen to *************

Two weeks had passed since Aegon's first conquest. In that time, his khalasar had swelled to 3,500 riders. He had encountered and crushed two smaller Dothraki groups, each numbering around 600 riders. Victory had been swift. The survivors had bent the knee, and the dead had fed the grass.

Now, standing atop a small ridge, Aegon gazed out at his warriors as they prepared to move once more.

The morning sun cast long shadows over the endless sea of grass. Horses snorted, riders checked their weapons, and the smell of sweat, blood, and leather filled the air.

Their next target was different.

Aegon's purple eyes darkened as he looked at the map before him. This was no scattered khalasar or weakened group.

This time, they would be marching toward a true warband of the Great Grass Sea.

A khalasar of 5,000 riders.

Aegon's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

The battle ahead would be unlike the ones before. Numbers mattered in war. He could not simply rely on brute force and expect to emerge victorious.

He would need to break them.

To shatter their will.

To make them see him as more than just another khal seeking power.

Beside him, his newly acquired bloodrider, a broad-shouldered Dothraki named Jacko, watched him carefully. Jako was once a warrior of Khal Hozar, the last warband they had crushed. Now, he rode under Aegon.

Jako's respect had been won through blood, but Aegon knew that the Dothraki valued victory over words. If he lost a battle, if he showed weakness, then they would abandon him without hesitation.

"The riders are ready, Khal," Jacko said, his voice rough, his Dothraki accent thick.

Aegon turned his gaze toward the vast horizon. Somewhere beyond that sea of grass, 5,000 warriors rode under another khal.

The thought sent a thrill through his blood.

His hand clenched, his heart steady.

He would crush them.

He would take their warriors, their strength, and he would continue to grow.

Westeros was a long way away, but his army was beginning to take shape.

"Then we ride," Aegon commanded.

And with that, 3,500 Dothraki thundered across the plains, riding toward their next conquest.

The thunder of hooves shook the earth as two khalasars collided in a storm of blood and steel.

Aegon led the charge, his silver hair streaming behind him, his purple eyes cold and unyielding. His sword, drenched in the lifeblood of fallen warriors, cut through the chaos as he carved a path toward the enemy khal, beside him Jacko killed anyone who approached and Aegon missed.

But this battle was different.

The sheer weight of numbers began to press against his forces.

five thousand against three thousand five hundred 

The enemy khalasar had the advantage in both numbers and experience. They had warred against other Dothraki many times, while Aegon was still learning to command an army.

And now, in the heart of the battlefield, he could feel the cracks forming.

Aegon parried a wickedly curved arakh aimed at his throat and twisted his blade in a brutal counterattack, slicing open the rider's chest. Blood sprayed, and the man toppled from his saddle.

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

In a flash of movement, another rider bore down on him. Aegon barely had time to dodge as an arakh whistled past his face, slicing a few strands of his silver hair.

He growled, twisting his body to slam his sword into the attacker's side, sending the Dothraki tumbling off his horse.

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

The battle raged around him.

His men fought fiercely, but he could hear the shouts of the wounded, the screams of those being cut down.

The enemy's numbers were pushing them back.

Aegon wheeled his horse around and surveyed the battlefield. He could see pockets of his forces being isolated and overwhelmed by groups of enemy riders. His warriors were valiantly holding their ground, but they were being slowly encircled.

This wasn't a skirmish.

This was war.

And war had never been Aegon's strength.

He gritted his teeth. If he did nothing, this battle would slip through his fingers.

For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt the true weight of command.

This was no one-on-one duel. No straightforward fight where his strength alone could turn the tide. This was a battle of numbers, positioning, and tactics.

And he was lacking in all three.

His bloodriders fought viciously beside him, their roars echoing through the battlefield, but even they could not match the sheer size of the opposing force.

Then he saw it a gap in their formation.

Aegon's mind sharpened. An opening. A risk. A gamble.

If he could push through the center, if he could slay the opposing Khal, then the battle might still be his.

His grip on his sword tightened.

He had no choice.

Raising his weapon high, Aegon let out a feral war cry, signaling his warriors to follow.

If they were to survive, they had to break through.

And Aegon would lead the charge himself.

The battlefield was filled with the thunder of hooves and the roar of steel as Aegon drove his horse forward, his eyes locked on his true target, the Khal.

The enemy leader sat atop his black stallion, his braid long and thick, a sign of many victories. His three bloodriders flanked him, their arakhs gleaming in the sunlight, their faces twisted in bloodlust.

Aegon knew the truth of the Dothraki.

A Khal's strength is his own. His warriors fought for him, not for honor or banners. If he fell, their will would be broken but even then, victory was not guaranteed.

Aegon looked around and noticed he was separated from his Warriors and Jacko.

Aegon gritted his teeth. He had to kill them all.

The Khal let out a booming laugh, raising his arakh high. "You are no Khal, silver-haired boy! You are a dead man riding!"

Aegon said nothing. He kicked his horse forward, arakh in one hand, sword in the other.