"A weak king brings ruin faster than a thousand enemies. When a ruler falters, the vultures do not wait—they feast. A throne is not a seat for the timid, nor a prize for the unworthy; it is a burden that, if carried poorly, crushes both the king and his kingdom."
The night was supposed to be one of joy.
Instead, it was filled with screams.
Inside the large tent, the Khaleesi's cries echoed as she fought to bring their child into the world.
Sweat drenched her skin, her body trembling as the Dothraki midwives worked frantically around her.
Outside, Aegon paced, his fists clenched, his silver hair disheveled.
He had faced battle, had spilled rivers of blood, had conquered warriors by the thousands but none of that had prepared him for this.
A battle where he could do nothing.
Then, a sound pierced the air.
A cry.
Aegon's heart froze, then raced.
And then… silence.
He stepped into the tent, his eyes immediately falling on the small, blood-covered child in the midwife's hands.
His son.
The boy's lungs were strong, his wails filling the space with life.
But Aegon's gaze quickly moved past him to the woman lying still on the bed.
His Khaleesi.
Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale, her eyes unfocused as she weakly turned her head towards him.
The midwives worked desperately, but Aegon could see the truth in their eyes.
They could do nothing.
The bleeding wouldn't stop.
She was dying.
Aegon moved without thinking, taking the crying child from the midwife's arms and sitting beside her.
Her gaze flickered to the child, her lips quivering.
"Our… son…" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
Aegon looked down at the boy.
He had his silver hair, but his eyes…
They were hers.
He swallowed hard, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest.
She slowly lifted a weak hand, her fingers brushing against their son's soft cheek.
"I… I wanted… to see him ride a dragon…"
Aegon's jaw tightened.
She gave him a weak, tired smile, though her tears betrayed her pain.
"You… will raise him… to be strong?"
Aegon stared at her, feeling an unfamiliar tightness in his throat.
He was a killer, a conqueror, a man who had never cared for anything other than power.
Yet now, he felt…
Loss.
And it angered him.
Because there was nothing he could do.
She let out a shaky breath, her fingers weakly gripping his hand.
"Promise me…"
Aegon exhaled, forcing himself to nod.
"I promise."
Her fingers tightened for a brief moment—then went limp.
Her eyes remained on him, but the light in them had faded.
She was gone.
Silence filled the tent.
The midwives bowed their heads, whispering prayers to their gods.
Aegon simply stared.
He had never loved her at least that's what he believed.
She had been loyal, and in her own way, fierce.
And now, she was dead.
For the first time since his reincarnation, Aegon felt something he could not explain.
A strange, aching emptiness.
A pain that was not physical.
As he sat there, holding their newborn son in his arms, he felt something wet slide down his cheek.
A tear.
His first.
He wiped it away immediately, his face hardening.
This was a weakness.
Weakness he could not afford to show.
And yet, as he looked down at the child. His child he felt the weight of his promise settle onto his shoulders.
A promise he would not break.
He lifted the boy slightly, his violet eyes locking onto the child's.
"You will be strong," he murmured, voice firm.
"You will ride a dragon."
The baby let out a soft coo, unaware of the world he had been born into.
Unaware of the greatness and bloodshed that awaited him.
And as Aegon sat there, the fire flickering behind him, he made another silent vow.
His son would not suffer the fate of the weak.
The dawn broke over the Dothraki Sea in a muted display of grief and solemnity. The camp, once raucous with battle cries and the exuberance of conquest, now lay subdued.
The usual din of laughter and horse neighs had been replaced by quiet murmurs and the soft rustling of leather as warriors gathered in respectful clusters. Today, the air carried the weight of loss.
In the center of the encampment, a massive pyre had been erected. Large bundles of dried grass and wood were arranged meticulously, and intricately woven fabrics once the adornments of the fallen Khaleesi hung from the surrounding posts.
The Dothraki, who valued life and battle above all, now found themselves united in mourning the loss of one among them who had been more than a mere companion: she had been their Khaleesi.
Aegon stood apart from the crowd, his broad frame heavy with both physical pain and the deeper, more poignant ache of loss.
The night of her death had been etched into his memory in stark detail the raw agony of childbirth, the futile struggle against fate as she bled out on the bed, and the haunting final words that had escaped her lips.
Even now, as he surveyed the scene, a part of him still recoiled from the memory. He had never believed in sentiment or tenderness. He was a killer and a man who had ruled by fear and strength. And yet, the death of his Khaleesi had stirred something new within him a vulnerability he could not ignore.
The Dothraki warriors, hardened by countless battles, moved with ritualistic precision around the pyre.
Their voices rose in a low, mournful chant a language of grief passed down through generations. They circled the pyre, each taking a turn to offer silent prayers, some whispering words to the winds, others placing tokens of remembrance at the base of the burning wood.
As the pyre was set alight, flames leaped upward, consuming the fabric and wood, sending sparks dancing into the early morning sky.
It was then that one of his bloodrider approached him. His expression was guarded yet filled with empathy a rare sight among these hardened warriors. "Khal Aegon," the man said in measured tones, "she has given her life to birth our future. We honor her sacrifice." He bowed his head slightly in respect before returning to the circle of mourners.
Aegon's eyes, deep violet and hardened by countless battles, flickered with an emotion he had not expected: sorrow. He pressed a hand against his chest, where the memory of her touch still lingered like a ghost. For the first time in his relentless pursuit of power, he felt the weight of what it meant to lose someone who had been by his side as a lover.
In his two lives she was the first person Aegon had cared for and lost.