Game of Thrones: Reign of the Dragonking

Chapter 113: Bastard Vs Trueborns

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The wind screamed past Aegon’s ears, a relentless assault that tore at his fine clothes and threatened to rip him from his precarious perch. 

He was trying to leave Pentos, making his way to Westeros above the Narrow Sea, an endless expanse of black water swallowing the moonlight. He clung desperately to the ridges along Rhaegal’s back, knuckles white, legs clamped tight against the dragon's shuddering green scales. 

The beast beneath him bucked and cried out, unused to such frantic urging, unfamiliar with the raw terror that fueled its rider.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up Aegon’s throat. Pentos was a rapidly shrinking smear of light behind them, a haven brutally ripped away. 

Just moments ago, it had seemed secure, the perfect launching point orchestrated by Varys and Illyrio. Now? Now it was the source of the nightmare pursuing him.

Two dragons.

The thought sent a fresh wave of terror through him. Not just stories, not just whispers from Varys’s network, but real. One was massive, black as coal with flashes of terrifying red. The other… the other was gold. 

A living legend made manifest, the dragon of the madman’s son who now sat the Iron Throne. Viserys Targaryen.

Aegon squeezed his eyes shut, the memory of the escape playing behind his eyelids. The distant, earth-shaking roars echoing over Pentos. 

The sudden chaos in Illyrio’s opulent mansion. 

The look on the Magister's face – not just fear, but a desperate urgency Aegon had never seen before. “Go! Now! Take Rhaegal and fly east! Don’t stop!” 

Illyrio had shoved him towards the hidden passage, his bulk trembling. “We will follow with Strickland and the others!”

But had they? Aegon risked a glance back, his stomach twisting. 

Where was Illyrio? Where were Connington’s stern reassurances, Strickland’s gruff commands? 

Had they managed to escape the chaos unleashed by the dragons? 

Worry, sharp and painful, gnawed at him. Illyrio, who had kept him safe, who'd guided him, believed in him…

Illyrio, his father, who named him Aegon Targaryen the VI as per his late mother's wish. The Blackfyre woman wanted her son to have the Iron Throne—and Illyrio wanted to make sure his wife's last wish would come true.

Aegon wanted the same. He wanted his family's generational goal to come true.

He pushed the thoughts away, forcing Rhaegal faster, leaning low over the dragon’s neck. 

"Fly, damn you, fly!" he screamed into the wind, though the words were likely swallowed by the gale. 

Rhaegal shrieked again, a strained, unhappy sound. 

This wasn't the majestic soaring Jon Connington had envisioned during their clandestine training sessions. This was a panicked flight for survival.

All the years of preparation – the lessons in history, statecraft, warfare; Varys's intricate webs of whispers and worldly manipulation; his father's vast wealth poured into the Golden Company; Connington's relentless drilling… 

It all felt terrifyingly fragile now, balanced on the back of a stolen, panicked dragon. 

The weight of their hopes, their sacrifices, pressed down on him, heavier than any crown.

I am Aegon Targaryen, he told himself, repeating the mantra that had been ingrained in him since childhood. He wasn't the son of Rhaeger, but that was indeed his name. The Sixth of His Name. The rightful King, as my bloodline was created for. It is my duty. My birthright. 

He pictured the Iron Throne, the adoration of the smallfolk, the restoration of his House.

But the fear was a tangible thing, a cold serpent coiling in his gut. 

The riders hunting him weren’t mere enemies; they were Targaryens. His kin… the trueborn, unlike a bastard family like his. 

Yet they pursued him like hounds chasing a fox. What mercy could he expect from the man who supposedly fed his own mother to his dragon, or the sister who unleashed Unsullied upon Astapor?

He dared another glance over his shoulder. 

His heart plummeted. 

Two shapes, silhouetted against the moon-drenched clouds, were gaining. They were immense, far larger than Rhaegal, their wingbeats powerful and relentless. One dark, one shimmering gold. Closer now. Too close.

The last vestiges of his carefully constructed royal facade crumbled. He was just a boy, terrified and alone, riding a stolen dragon across a dark sea, hunted by monsters of his own bloodline.

“Fuck.”

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The night air was cold and sharp against my face even through the ambient heat radiating from Viserion's scales.

Below, the Narrow Sea was a churning void, waves cresting like jagged black teeth in the sparse moonlight. Ahead, a smaller, frantic silhouette rode. Rhaegal, green scales barely discernible against the darkness, flew with none of the grace a dragon should possess.

It wasn't his fault, but his rider's.

Amateur, I scoffed inwardly, watching the rider clinging desperately to Rhaegal's back. Aegon, the supposed Sixth of His Name, rode like a terrified sack of grain about to tumble off. 

Rhaegal seemed to feel it too, his movements jerky, hesitant, bucking slightly against the clumsy commands digging into his flanks. 

A dragon knows its rider, feels their confidence, their fear. I recalled.

Right now, Rhaegal felt nothing but panic, mirroring the pretender clinging to him. 

Beside me, Drogon kept pace, a shadow darker than the night itself. Daenerys called out, her voice strained against the wind's howl. "Viserys! Be careful! Don't hurt my baby!"

Her misplaced maternal instincts were cute, but I hoped it wouldn't be a liability.

"Rhaegal will be fine, Dany!" I shouted back. I was sure that my voice, amplified by my superhuman body, was loud enough that she could hear clearly. "You just focus on keeping up!" 

I didn't need her sentimentality clouding this. Aegon was a loose end, a Blackfyre pawn propped up by Varys and Illyrio, designed specifically to usurp my claim, our claim. 

He represented chaos, another claimant in a realm already fractured. Worse, he had one of our dragons. That could not stand.

"Viserion," I commanded, my voice low but sharp, linked directly to her mind. "A warning shot. To his left. Herd him away from the sea."

He wasn't too far into the waters, so we could bring him back into the land of Pentos.

Golden fire erupted from Viserion's throat, a controlled burst that streaked past Rhaegal's port wing, close enough to singe the air. 

The green dragon shrieked, veering sharply right, nearly unseating Aegon. 

The boy flailed, yanking desperately on the horns he used for control. Rhaegal responded with a panicked dive, wings tucking awkwardly.

Pathetic. Aegon lacked the instinct, the connection. 

He was forcing the dragon, not guiding it. Rhaegal wasn't truly bonded to him; he was merely tolerating the rider out of confusion or perhaps some lingering Targaryen scent Aegon carried.

"Another," I ordered Viserion. "Right flank this time."

Again, golden flame illuminated the night, forcing Rhaegal back towards Pentos, away from any potential safe fall into the sea. Aegon cried out, pulling Rhaegal into another clumsy, dangerous maneuver. 

He was losing control, fear overriding any training Connington might have drilled into him. Good. Fear was a tool, and I was about to hammer it home.

It was time for the master stroke, the psychological blow. 

Reaching into the intangible space of my Inventory, my fingers closed around cold, clammy flesh and coarse hair. I withdrew the object, the weight familiar now.

“Oi, you!” Banking Viserion closer, matching Rhaegal's erratic altitude, I brought my prize into the moonlight. The severed head of Illyrio Mopatis, eyes wide in a permanent mask of shocked betrayal, beard stained dark. 

Aegon glanced sideways, his face pale and strained in the dim light. 

His eyes locked onto the head. There was a silent moment, but then recognition dawned, followed by sheer, unadulterated horror.

"Looking for your father, pretender?" I roared, amplifying my voice again, letting it cut through the wind and the dragons' cries. "He sends his regards!"

A sound tore from Aegon's throat, not quite a word, more like the shriek of a wounded animal. Grief, rage, terror – a volatile cocktail exploded within him. Gone was the fear, replaced by suicidal fury. He kicked Rhaegal savagely, screaming incoherently, pulling the dragon's head around to face us.

"You bastard! I'll kill you!"

Rhaegal screamed too, perhaps sensing the shift in his rider, perhaps recognizing Viserion as kin, but obeyed the furious command. He surged forward, green scales blurring, charging directly at us.

“Bastard? Me? Funny.” I laughed as I prepared Viserion, muscles coiling beneath me, ready to meet the charge with overwhelming fire. Let him come.

But then— "Brother, please stop! You’re just hurting Rhaegal!"

Drogon surged forward, impossibly fast, cutting directly across Viserion's path. A plume of orange-black fire erupted from his jaws, not aimed at us, but before us, a wall of heat and flame that forced Viserion to instinctively veer sharply to starboard, breaking her attack posture. 

Viserion let out a low, guttural growl, annoyed at the interruption and Drogon's proximity.

I glared at Daenerys astride her black beast, fury momentarily eclipsing my focus. Her interference! Now! Over the dragon?

I had brought her and Drogon along with me so that she could watch the fate of pretenders, fate of my challengers. I wasn't even looking forward to her help, but at the very least, I wasn't expecting her to become a hassle.

Was Rhaegal dying that she had to fucking intervene?! Stupid bitch. 

I had to teach her a lesson for this. Later.

"Stay out of this, Daenerys!" I snarled, though the wind likely stole the words.

The brief interruption, however, was all the opening Aegon needed. He could have increased his distance greatly right then. But blinded by rage, he didn't use it to escape. 

He continued his mad charge, Rhaegal now aimed slightly off-course due to Viserion's forced evasion. His flank was completely exposed.

My anger at Daenerys vanished, replaced by cold, predatory calculation. The fool had sealed his own fate.

"Viserion! Rider only! Precise burn!"

No widespread blast this time. Viserion responded instantly, unleashing a thin, concentrated beam of pure golden energy, hotter than the heart of a forge. 

There was no dramatic wait for this.

It struck Aegon squarely in the chest.

There wasn't even time for a full scream as his chest lit up like molten rock. A choked gasp followed, instantly consumed by the inferno. His clothes, his flesh, vaporized in a microsecond. 

The burning figure detached from Rhaegal's back, a human torch plummeting towards the dark, rocky hills bordering the coastline below.

I watched the flaming body fall, end over end, until it hit the rocks. There was no solid thud, more of a wet splash, an obscene burst of liquid and steam as the superheated remains impacted. 

Nothing left but a stain on the ancient stones.

Rhaegal shrieked again, a sound of pure distress and confusion, circling riderless above the spot where his tormentor had met his end. He looked lost, a child suddenly abandoned.

Viserion banked smoothly, turning towards the now-subdued green dragon. Drogon hovered nearby, Daenerys sitting stiffly atop him, her face pale and unreadable in the moonlight. 

Stunned silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by Rhaegal's mournful cries and the rush of the wind.

I looked out over the dark sea, then back at the circling green dragon. 

It took a moment for it to settle. That the situation was dealt with. A chilling calm settled over me, the adrenaline fading, leaving only the cold certainty of victory.

"...So falls the false dragon.”

My voice, amplified once more, echoed across the water, a declaration for my sister, for the circling dragon, for the ghosts of pretenders past and future.

“Let all pretenders take note—there is only one King, one conqueror. And the rest is ash and bone."

The reign of I, Viserys Targaryen, was just solidified once again.

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