"Death comes for all kings and beggars alike. The only difference is whether one meets it with a crown on their head and a sword in their hand, or on their knees, begging for mercy that will never come."
Aegon Targaryen to ******************
Aegon moved away from the pyre to a quiet corner of the camp, where his tent lay modestly pitched. Inside, the atmosphere was subdued.
The gentle flicker of oil lamps illuminated his features, revealing the battle scars and fresh wounds he had sustained in his last encounter. His breath came slowly as he settled on a rough-hewn mat. He reached for the small bundle cradled in a worn leather pouch the child born that fateful night.
The infant was swaddled in soft cloth, the marks of his birth faint but visible against his delicate skin. Aegon unwrapped the cloth carefully, his large, calloused fingers gentle as he lifted the child to his arms.
The baby's eyes blinked open for a moment, revealing a bright spark of life even in the dim light of the tent. In that instant, Aegon felt a stirring in his heart a blend of cold resolve and an unfamiliar tenderness.
"I name you Maegor," he declared softly, as if the words themselves carried a weight of destiny. "You shall be my legacy. You will ride a dragon and carry the blood of kings into the future."
As the baby whimpered, reaching up with tiny hands, Aegon cradled him against his chest. In the quiet stillness of the tent, the only sound was the gentle rhythm of the infant's breathing, a sound that resonated like a promise of renewal.
The Dothraki had witnessed many deaths and celebrated countless battles, but this was different a moment of fragile hope amid the relentless tide of war.
Aegon's mind churned with conflicting emotions. The loss of his Khaleesi had left an ache that no victory on the battlefield could soothe.
He had always prided himself on his ability to control his emotions, to channel pain and anger into the forge of conquest.
But now, with Maegor in his arms, he felt the first true pang of regret, the first glimpse of vulnerability. It was as though her death had not only taken her from him but had also unlocked a part of him that he had long tried to suppress.
He thought back to their final moments together her soft voice, the tenderness in her eyes as she clutched his hand, and the whispered promises they had exchanged. The memory was bittersweet.
Outside, the camp was slowly stirring back to life. The warriors resumed their tasks, the previous mourning giving way to the pragmatic needs of a khalasar on the march. Yet, even in the midst of war preparations, there was an undercurrent of reverence for the fallen Khaleesi.
Some approached Aegon in hushed tones, offering condolences in the rough Dothraki language, their voices tinged with both respect and uncertainty about what the future might hold under his rule.
Aegon, still holding Maegor close, addressed them with a calm authority that belied the turmoil in his heart. "We will continue our march. Our destiny is not to wallow in sorrow but to seize what is rightfully ours. Let my Khaleesi's death be a reminder: that our strength lies not only in bloodshed but in the legacy we forge." His voice was resolute, though the softness in his eyes betrayed the grief he felt.
At that moment, Aegon made a silent vow. He would not allow his personal loss to derail his ambitions. Maegor would be raised to understand that true power came at a cost a cost he himself had paid with both blood and tears.
And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows over the camp, Aegon felt the first true stirrings of a future defined not solely by conquest, but by the birth of a dynasty.
For the first time, his thoughts turned to the challenges ahead: the need to consolidate his forces, to instill in his warriors not just fear, but unwavering loyalty, and to prepare for the battles yet to come battles that would shape the future of Essos and, eventually, Westeros. His mind, now clear and resolute, embraced both the hard lessons of the past and the uncertain promise of tomorrow.
Inside his tent, Aegon cradled Maegor as if the child were the very embodiment of hope a hope that would one day rise from the ashes of his Khaleesi's death. In that quiet space, amidst the lingering scent of smoke and mourning, a new chapter in Aegon's life began.
He had lost a woman who had been his companion. He had felt for the first time the sting of genuine loss. Yet, in that loss, a seed of something far greater had been sown.
The legacy of a Dragonlord would not be defined solely by the conquests on the battlefield, but also by the blood that would one day ride upon dragonback a legacy that began with the birth of Maegor.