Aegon Targaryen/The Sword of Justice

[How was he supposed to carry all of this across the seas and into the Dothraki desert?]

The question lingered in his mind. He couldn't just lift everything by hand. His gaze swept over the cavern until it settled on one of the massive dragon skulls. It was large enough to hold a significant amount of treasure, and with some effort, he could fashion a makeshift container.

Without wasting time, he gathered thick chains buried in the gold and secured them around the skull, turning it into an improvised carrier. He loaded it to the brim with gold and gemstones, ensuring every inch was used. The eggs, crowns, swords, and the enchanted mirrors he kept on his person. As for the suits of armor, he donned his own, feeling the weight settle across his body, while Daenerys' set was carefully placed atop the hoard he would carry.

With everything secured, he took one last look around the cavern, his eyes drifting toward the river of molten rock further in. He exhaled through his nose, a promise forming in his mind.

"I'll come back," he murmured. "And I'll find out what's hiding in that lava."

With that, he grasped the chains, wings unfurling as he braced himself. The weight was immense, and for a moment, he struggled against it, his muscles burning as he pulled. Then, with a sharp exhale, he launched into the air, gradually gaining altitude. The treasure-laden skull swung beneath him like a pendulum, but he adjusted, steadying his flight.

The night sky stretched wide above him, a vast expanse of stars and swirling clouds. Below, the smoking ruins of Valyria faded into the distance, swallowed by the darkness. Aegon beat his wings steadily, adjusting to the weight of the massive dragon skull swinging beneath him. The chains rattled against his grip, the sheer weight threatening to pull him down, but he powered through.

Hours passed. The ocean stretched endlessly below him, its surface rippling with silver light under the moon. The wind howled in his ears, a constant companion, as he navigated his way back toward Daenerys and her khalasar.

Despite the chill of the high-altitude winds, sweat clung to his skin. His muscles burned from the strain, his wings aching. He had never carried this much weight before, and the journey was testing his endurance. But he gritted his teeth and kept going.

As he flew, his mind drifted. The treasures he had found—gold, gems, the crowns, the eggs, and the enchanted mirrors—held the power to change everything. With this wealth, Daenerys wouldn't have to scavenge for resources or rely on the mercy of the Dothraki. She could fund armies, forge alliances, and carve her path to the throne.

And the mirrors… He glanced at one strapped to his side. If they truly allowed communication across vast distances, they could be invaluable.

As he thought about their possibilities,

The thought made him push harder.

By the time he spotted the first signs of the Dothraki encampment in the distance, dawn was creeping over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold. The khalasar was still waking, figures moving between the tents. He spotted Daenerys' tent near the heart of the camp, larger than the rest.

He adjusted his descent, angling toward the outskirts of the encampment where he wouldn't draw too much immediate attention. His wings beat heavily as he slowed, dust kicking up beneath him as he landed. The impact sent a jolt through his body, his legs trembling slightly from exhaustion.

The dragon skull thudded against the sand, a deep, hollow sound echoing from within. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he unfastened the chains.

A moment later, he heard footsteps—quick, light. He turned his head just as Daenerys emerged, with Jorah and her men following, her silver hair catching the morning light. Her violet eyes widened as she took in the sight of him—his dirt-streaked face, his worn expression, and the sheer amount of treasure lying at his feet.

A slow smile touched Aegon's lips.

"I found something," he said, voice rough from the long flight. "Thought you might like it."Daenerys stepped closer, her eyes darting between the mountain of gold, the dragon skull, and Aegon himself. She barely seemed to breathe, stunned into silence. Jorah, standing beside her, looked equally shaken. The Dothraki murmured among themselves, their eyes wide with awe.

Aegon rolled his shoulders, loosening the ache that had settled deep into his muscles. He unfastened the armor meant for Daenerys and stepped forward, offering it to her. "This belonged to a Valyrian ruler," he said. "It's yours now."

She hesitated only a moment before reaching out, running her fingers over the dark steel. The engravings shimmered in the morning light, with intricate patterns of dragons and fire coiling along the metal.

"Aegon…" she finally whispered, meeting his gaze. "Where did you find all of this?"

He smirked, exhaustion pulling at the edges of his expression. "Valyria still has secrets."

Jorah took a wary step forward, his eyes narrowing at the treasure hoard. "And dangers," he muttered. "You flew into the ruins alone?"

Aegon only shrugged. "I found what we needed." His gaze flickered to the others. "With this, we're not just beggars in the desert anymore. We have wealth and power. And…" He pulled the second crown from his side and held it up. "We have symbols."

Daenerys stared at the crown—crafted in Valyrian steel, its dark metal shaped like dragon wings wrapping around a polished ruby at its center. A true king's crown.

Her fingers curled into her palms. "This changes everything."

Aegon nodded. "Yes. It does."

Before she could say more, he reached into his cloak and revealed the dragon eggs. Gasps rippled through the gathered Dothraki. Even Jorah's breath hitched.

Three more.

Daenerys' lips parted in disbelief as she took a step closer, reaching out but not touching them just yet. "You found… more?"

Aegon nodded. "In the depths of Valyria." He gestured toward the treasure. "And something else. Mirrors—old magic. If they work, they could let us speak across vast distances."

Jorah frowned, skeptical, but Daenerys looked at Aegon with something deeper than wonder—understanding.

She turned to the gathered Dothraki, lifting the armor in her hands, standing taller. The morning sun burned bright behind her, setting her silver hair aglow.

"This is a gift from the past," she declared in High Valyrian, her voice ringing clear. "A gift from the fire and blood of old Valyria itself. With this, we will carve our future."

Aegon watched as the Dothraki shifted, eyes gleaming with curiosity and greed. He knew what she was doing—framing this as destiny, as power given, not stolen.

And she was right.

This was only the beginning.

He exhaled, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "We have work to do," he muttered under his breath.

Daenerys turned to him, a slow smile playing on her lips. "Yes, we do."The Dothraki murmured among themselves, glancing between Daenerys, the gold, and Aegon. Some looked eager, others uncertain. To them, wealth was measured in horses and victories, not piles of metal. But even they could recognize power when they saw it.

Daenerys, still holding the Valyrian armor, turned to Jorah. "This is more than gold and steel," she said. "With this, we can buy ships, swords, and loyalty. We will not have to rely on the goodwill of others."

Jorah's expression remained guarded, but he nodded. "If we use it wisely."

Aegon smirked. "Wisely? I thought the plan was fire and blood."

Daenerys shot him a look, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Fire and blood require preparation."

Aegon chuckled, rolling his shoulders to shake off the remaining exhaustion. His wings still ached from the long flight, but he pushed it aside. There was more to do.

Stepping forward, he reached down and lifted one of the enchanted mirrors from the pile. The polished surface caught the morning light, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw something shift within it—like ripples on water.

"If this works," he said, turning the mirror to Daenerys, "we won't just have gold. We'll have something better—information. Communication."

She stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. "How do they work?"

Aegon glanced at the inscription on the stone tablet he had found with them. "It says, 'The power to be stronger than steel.'" He tapped the second pillar's text. "'A voice across fire and sky.' Sounds like magic to me."

Daenerys' fingers brushed over the surface of the mirror, her expression thoughtful. "If these truly let us speak over distances, we could coordinate armies and plan movements before our enemies even know we exist."

Jorah exhaled. "If they work."

Aegon grinned. "Only one way to find out."

He glanced around, looking for something reflective. His eyes landed on the second mirror, still within the treasure pile. He strode toward it, lifting it carefully. The weight was strange—not heavy, but solid, like holding something filled with energy.

He turned back to Daenerys. "Hold the first one."

She did.

Aegon held the second mirror in front of him, staring into its depths. He wasn't sure what to expect—flames? A whisper of power? But instead, his reflection stared back at him.

He frowned. Then, instinct guiding him, he spoke.

"Can you hear me?"

At first, nothing.

Then, the surface of the mirror rippled like disturbed water. A faint shimmer passed over it, and—

Daenerys gasped softly. "Aegon?"

Her voice echoed—not through the air, but from the mirror itself.

Jorah's hand went to his sword on instinct, and the Dothraki took a wary step back.

Aegon smirked. "Well, I'll be damned."

Daenerys looked down at the mirror she held, eyes wide with realization. "They work."

Aegon's grip tightened around his mirror. The possibilities spun through his mind. War was as much about strategy as it was about strength. With these, they could stay ahead of their enemies, anticipate threats, and strike before their foes even knew what was coming.

He looked at Daenerys, seeing the fire in her eyes.

"We're no longer just wanderers in the desert," she said, voice filled with quiet conviction.

Aegon nodded, his smirk turning sharp. "No. We're conquerors."