The fires burned high into the violet dusk as the Dothraki wedding surged around them—laughter, shouting, the metallic clang of blades, the clatter of hoofbeats. Viserys stood at the edge of it all, watching, listening, calculating.
Three men had already died.
The air stank of sweat, blood, and roasted meat. He couldn't tell if the pounding in his head was from the rhythmic drumming or the nerves seizing his gut.
This was how it had happened in the show. Daenerys Targaryen, given away like a trinket. Drogo watching her like a lion eyeing a lamb.
The eggs were placed into her arms—red, green, black—priceless artifacts from a dead world, handled with no understanding of their true significance. Viserys barely glanced at them.
Then came Ser Jorah, looming like a beaten dog.
"I am Ser Jorah Mormont, my lady," he said, bowing. "I bring books, in your language, that you may learn of your new home."
Daenerys smiled faintly and thanked him. Her voice was meek, but genuine.
Viserys, standing a few feet away, turned toward Illyrio, who was gnawing on a greasy leg of lamb.
"They worship strength above all else, don't they?" Viserys asked quietly.
Illyrio glanced at him, licking oil from his fingers. "The Dothraki respect strength, yes. Weak men do not lead khalasars. The strong take what they want. That is their way."
"And three men must die at the wedding to satisfy their gods?"
"Indeed."
Viserys turned back toward the bonfire-lit ceremony. Drogo remained seated on his horsehide throne, eyes half-lidded, content. He hadn't moved once. He hadn't even looked at Daenerys since their arrival.
Viserys's voice dropped into something colder. "You think I'm going to let my sister be taken by that brute tonight?"
Illyrio tensed. His lips curled into a diplomatic smile. "She is your path to Westeros, my prince. Drogo has ten thousand riders. With them, you could—"
Viserys cut him off with a glance.
"You think I'm giving her away?" he said. "That was never the plan. I just wanted them all here, gathered, watching—so they can see their stallion torn apart by a dragon."
He said it smoothly, like a man laying out a plan, but truthfully, it was improv. There was no great design. There was only one thing that felt real:
He didn't want to watch that girl be broken.
He barely knew her. But she'd clung to his words like a lifeline. Looked at him with hope. Something he hadn't seen in years. And in his mind, the scene from the show played out again—Daenerys weeping as Drogo took her.
The old Viserys didn't care.
But he did.
He opened the system interface with a thought.
[New Quest Acquired]
Quest: Blood for Fire
Objective: Kill Khal Drogo before the consummation.
Reward: +5 Stat Cap, 15,000 DP, Legendary Weapon: Blackfyre Greatsword
Failure: Daenerys will be broken. You remain the Beggar King.
Viserys swallowed. His hand drifted toward the hilt of the short blade tucked under his tunic.
"Don't," came a soft voice behind him.
He turned. Daenerys stood close, her face pale, hair shimmering silver in the firelight. Her violet eyes were wide with fear.
"You're going to challenge him," she whispered.
Viserys said nothing.
"You'll die," she said. "You can't fight him. He's a Khal. You don't even have a horse."
He looked at her. Really looked.
"You don't want to go with him, do you?"
Her lips trembled. "He scares me."
"You're scared of everything," Viserys said, not unkindly.
"I'm not ready for this," she whispered. "I'm not ready to be a queen. I'm not ready to be… a wife."
Viserys felt something shift in his chest. Guilt? Anger? Whatever it was, it burned clean.
"I'm going to stop him."
She grabbed his arm. "Please. Don't. You'll only make it worse."
He gave her a thin smile. "Maybe. But maybe I won't."
Then he stepped away.
⸻
The Dothraki grew quiet as Viserys strode into the heart of the celebration. The music faded. The dancers stilled. Khal Drogo finally lifted his head.
Viserys stopped ten feet from him.
"I am Viserys Targaryen," he said, loud and clear. "Son of the last dragon. You think to take my sister as your prize, but she is of royal blood. You are not fit to touch her."
Drogo rose slowly, like a storm building on the horizon. His face betrayed no emotion.
"I challenge you," Viserys said. "Single combat."
There were gasps. Laughter. Murmurs in Dothraki.
Drogo grinned. A cruel, amused smile.
"You die," he said simply.
Then he moved.
⸻
The fight began instantly, and it was ugly.
Drogo didn't draw his arakh. He charged with bare fists, slamming into Viserys like a hammer. Viserys dodged the first swing, but the second caught him in the ribs and sent him sprawling into the dust.
Pain bloomed across his side. He struggled to breathe.
He rolled just in time as Drogo stomped where his head had been.
Viserys slashed upward, nicking Drogo's leg. A shallow cut.
Drogo grunted, then kicked him in the chest. The wind fled his lungs. He hit the ground hard, coughing, seeing stars.
The crowd roared.
He staggered to his feet, lip bleeding, sword shaking in his grip.
Drogo picked up an arakh.
"This is how you die, little prince," the Khal growled in broken Common.
Viserys blocked the next blow—but barely. Sparks flew. His arms screamed. Drogo pressed forward, relentless, raining blows like a thunder god.
He was losing. Badly.
I can't win this.
He had one chance.
He whispered it. One word.
"Summon."
The air behind him rippled. With a sudden hiss of red light, two Praetorian Guards emerged from nothing. Roman armor. Emotionless eyes. They didn't hesitate.
One caught Drogo's next swing with his shield. The other drove a gladius into Drogo's exposed side.
Drogo roared, stumbling.
Viserys struck.
His blade pierced Drogo's chest—deep. Straight through the ribs.
Drogo's breath hitched. Blood spilled from his mouth. His knees gave.
He collapsed, coughing once. Then went still.
Dead.
⸻
Silence.
The Dothraki stared, first at Drogo's body, then at the strange armored men behind Viserys.
Someone screamed.
Then, chaos.
Some began drawing blades. Others backed away in fear. A few shouted in Dothraki, gesturing wildly. This was no honorable duel. It was foreign magic. Witchcraft. Cowardice.
Illyrio was already shouting something in Valyrian to the nearest Dothraki bloodrider, trying to defuse the situation.
Viserys turned, breathing heavily. The system chimed in his mind.
Quest Completed: Blood for Fire
Reward: +15,000 DP, Stat Cap Increased to 50, Legendary Weapon: Blackfyre Greatsword
New Title: Oath-Breaker
Dothraki reputation severely damaged. Feared but not respected.
Daenerys Relationship: Deepened – Trust +1 / Fear +1
He looked toward her.
Daenerys stood frozen in the firelight. Her eyes locked with his. She wasn't crying. Not yet.
He stepped toward her, wiping the blood from his blade.
"I did it for you," he said, his voice low.
"You killed him," she whispered.
"To protect you."
"That's not how the Dothraki see it."
"I don't care how they see it," Viserys muttered. "They aren't the ones I'm trying to save."
Behind him, the bloodriders were shouting, weapons raised.
Viserys turned and raised his hand.
"Praetorians. Defensive stance."
The guards moved immediately, forming a barrier.
The Dothraki held back—for now.
But the message was clear.
This wasn't over.