297 AC
The screams of the dying mingled with the crackling roar of flames as the Dothraki khalasar burned. The once-proud warriors, who had never known fear, now fled in every direction, their braids whipping in the wind as they scrambled to escape the wrath of the dragon. The sky was a canvas of smoke and fire, painting the endless grasslands in hues of orange and crimson.
At the heart of the chaos stood Aemon Targaryen, his black hair whipping around his face, his eyes ablaze with fury. Ancalagon loomed behind him, a monstrous shadow against the inferno, his wings spread wide as he unleashed another torrent of fire upon the fleeing khalasar.
But Aemon's gaze was fixed on one man—Khal Drogo.
The Challenge
Drogo stood tall amidst the carnage, his arakh gleaming in the firelight. The blood of his men stained his chest, but his eyes burned with defiance. He was a khal, undefeated and unbroken, and he would not bow—not even to a dragonlord.
Aemon stepped forward, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. "Drogo! Face me, or watch your khalasar burn to ash!"
Drogo's lips curled into a snarl. He spat at the ground, his voice a guttural growl. "You are no khal. You hide behind your beast."
Aemon's eyes narrowed. He raised a hand, signaling Ancalagon to halt. The dragon growled low in its throat but obeyed, retreating to the shadows with a rumble that shook the earth.
"I don't need a dragon to end you," Aemon said, drawing his darksister. The blade gleamed in the firelight, its edge sharp enough to cut through the tension that hung in the air.
The Dothraki who remained formed a loose circle around them, their faces pale with fear and awe. They had never seen a man challenge a khal without a khalasar of his own.
But Aemon was no ordinary man.
The Duel
Drogo lunged first, his arakh slicing through the air with lethal precision. Aemon sidestepped, his movements fluid and precise, his blade flashing as he deflected the blow. The clash of metal rang out, sharp and jarring against the backdrop of crackling flames.
They circled each other, two predators sizing up their prey. Drogo's muscles rippled with every movement, his eyes burning with the promise of violence. But Aemon was calm, his breath steady, his focus unyielding.
Drogo struck again, his arakh aiming for Aemon's neck. But Aemon ducked low, his sword slicing across Drogo's thigh. The khal snarled in pain, but he didn't falter. He swung his arakh in a wide arc, forcing Aemon to retreat.
The duel was brutal, each blow a testament to their strength and skill. Drogo fought with the ferocity of a wild beast, his movements raw and unrestrained. Aemon, in contrast, was a master of precision, his strikes calculated and deadly.
But it wasn't just a battle of strength. It was a battle of wills.
As they fought, Aemon felt a surge of emotion rise within him—not just anger, but sorrow. He thought of Daenerys, a young girl torn from her family, sold like chattel to a man who saw her as nothing more than a prize. He thought of Viserys, a brother lost to betrayal and greed.
This was more than a duel. It was personal now.
The Death of a Khal
Drogo roared, charging at Aemon with a final, desperate fury. But Aemon was ready. He sidestepped the khal's wild swing and drove his sword deep into Drogo's side. The khal gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he staggered back, clutching at the wound.
Aemon didn't give him a chance to recover. He followed through with a swift, precise strike, slicing Drogo's arakh from his hand and driving his blade through the khal's heart.
Drogo's body went rigid, his eyes locking onto Aemon's with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Then, slowly, he crumpled to the ground, the life draining from his eyes as the firelight flickered over his fallen form.
For a moment, the world was silent.
Then, Ancalagon roared, a triumphant cry that echoed across the burning plains.
The Aftermath
Aemon stood over Drogo's body, his chest heaving with the weight of the battle. The remaining Dothraki watched in stunned silence, their fear palpable. They had witnessed the death of their khal, felled not by another warrior, but by a dragonlord.
But Aemon's victory brought him no joy.
He turned, his gaze searching the crowd until it fell on Daenerys. She stood at the edge of the circle, her violet eyes wide with shock and something else—recognition.
Aemon sheathed his sword and approached her, his heart pounding in his chest. "You're safe now," he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion.
Daenerys stared at him, her lips trembling. "Who… who are you?"
"I am Aemon Targaryen," he replied, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside him. "Son of Rhaegar. Your nephew."
Tears welled in Daenerys's eyes as the truth settled over her. She had lost everything—her brother, her freedom—but in the ashes of her old life, a new hope flickered.
Aemon extended his hand. "Come with me, Daenerys. We will reclaim what was stolen from our family. Together."
Daenerys hesitated for a moment, then placed her hand in his, her grip firm despite the tears on her cheeks.
And as Ancalagon roared once more, the two Targaryens stood side by side, their shadows stretching long against the flames, bound by blood and destiny.