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In the days that followed, something changed in the khalasar.
At first, only a few slaves murmured. The old woman who had tended to Viserys could not hold her tongue; she spoke in every corner that the foreign prince carried life in his womb. To the others it seemed nothing but madness and delirium from a mouth too old.
But soon the rumor grew stronger, and the whispers spread like fire through dry straw.
“Another miracle... like the lilac-eyed khaleesi.”
“A man’s womb guarding a stallion.”
“Is it a blessing? Or another curse?”
The Dothraki women looked at Viserys differently now. Some even lowered their eyes in respect, murmuring prayers against ill omens, while others, bolder, followed him with curiosity, as if they saw in him a sacred relic. The men, on the other hand, laughed openly, calling him the plaything of the gods and of Drogo.
Viserys now felt every gaze like a blade against his skin. At times he filled with fury, calling them all ignorant savages. At others he trembled with fear, hiding inside the tent as if the gods themselves were punishing him.
But Drogo... now he was different.
The khal was not a man of many words, but his presence spoke for itself. He began appearing more often at the prince’s side, always imposing, like a silent guardian. One morning, during a meeting with his bloodriders, he spoke aloud for the entire camp to hear.
“The womb of zhavvorsa carries the child of my blood, the stallion who will mount the world.”
The silence that fell after his words was heavy. Some warriors lowered their eyes in reverence. Others clenched their fists, uneasy. But no one dared laugh anymore.
From that moment on, Viserys ceased to be merely “the foreign prince” or “the brother of the dead khaleesi.” He became something more.
The old women of the khalasar whispered that the gods were playing with the fate of men.
Viserys, for his part, felt the crushing weight of that attention worsening with each passing day.
At night, lying on furs, he would lay a hand over the womb that swelled slowly. The warmth within seemed more intense each day. And in his mind, one question consumed him... was he the father of a reborn dragon, or the bearer of a monster even more terrible than Daenerys’s son?
__________
Time passed, and the khalasar continued its relentless march across the sea of sand. The dry wind blew against the long lines of riders, and the sound of hooves and steel was like the constant beating of a wild heart. Viserys could no longer hide his pregnancy. His belly, once concealable beneath loose fabrics, was full and heavy, declaring to all the truth that already ran in whispers between the tents. The dragon was with child.
The handmaids helped him down from his horse and to walk, while Rhaego, that half-horse, half-human creature, did not leave his side, like a shadow.
But suddenly, without any warning, a battle erupted.
Drogo’s khalasar clashed against a rival group that had dared challenge their passage. Spears gleamed in the sun, war cries echoed across the field, and the sand turned red. The air grew thick with dust and the scent of blood.
Viserys did not fight, obviously. He remained protected in the rear, surrounded by a few handmaids and slaves who could hardly defend him. But he watched. He watched Drogo advance like an untamable shadow, cutting down enemies, throwing men from their horses. The prince’s heart pounded, not only with fear, but with something else... a feeling that that man, savage as he was, was his only shield against the world.
But when the dust settled and the fallen bodies appeared, Drogo was no longer there.
The bodies of enemies and companions lay across the same field, the cries of the wounded echoed, and the smell of death clung to the air. The bloodriders shouted for him, but there was no answer. Khal Drogo had simply disappeared.
Chaos took hold of the khalasar. Without their leader, the warriors faltered, and the surviving rivals retreated only to return with reinforcements. It was at that moment that Viserys’s fate narrowed like the edge of a sword.
It was in the middle of the night, not far from where the fighting had taken place. The khalasar decided to rest there and tend to some of the wounded.
Without ceremony, the canvas of Viserys’s tent was torn away in the middle of the night, and before him entered the leader of the enemy group. A large man, with deep scars across his face, eyes blazing with hatred and triumph. He advanced without hurry, teeth bared in a cruel smile.
“So it is true... the fire whore is carrying that worm’s child,” said Khal Ogord in his harsh tongue, which Viserys barely understood, but grasped the meaning through tone and familiar words.
The prince felt his heart stop for an instant. He tried to rise, but the weight of his belly made him stumble backward. Rhaego rose quickly at his side, like an animal ready to attack, but the enemy paid him no mind.
The man approached until his shadow covered the Targaryen’s. A thick hand seized Viserys by the throat and lifted him brutally into the air. Strong fingers crushed his windpipe as the prince struggled in vain, feeling like a fish out of water. His vision blurred, eyes watering.
‘So this is how I die... suffocated like a dog... without crown, without fire, without dragons...’ Viserys thought.
The prince believed his end had come. But instead of death, the enemy threw him violently to the ground. The impact tore a groan of pain from him, and instinctively he brought his hands to his belly, protecting it.
The handmaids ran desperately, screaming and pulling him away, trying to lift him with trembling hands.
The enemy leader laughed loudly, spitting on the ground beside him.
“Let that rotten womb be your punishment instead of death.” And then he turned, leaving the tent filled with broken crying and the women’s sobs.
Viserys remained seated on the ground, his throat burning from the pressure and his hands still pressed against his belly. His lilac eyes were wide, filled with tears and fury.
And deep in his mind, a horrible certainty formed... Drogo was no longer there to protect him.
This time, he would have to survive alone.
___________
Drogo’s absence became a weight as real as the child growing inside Viserys. Days passed, and none of the bloodriders brought news. Some said the khal had been killed in battle, others believed the gods had taken him to test his strength in another world. But in the silence of the nights, doubt gnawed like poison... would Drogo ever truly return?
Meanwhile, the khalasar weakened with each passing day. Without a leader, the warriors grew rebellious and murmured among themselves; some threatened to break away and seek another khal, others planned to claim the title in blood. The balance Drogo had maintained shattered before Viserys’s eyes.
The prince, however, was no longer the same fragile and hysterical man as before. His heavy belly, surprisingly, was also his strength. In the superstitious gaze of the women and the reverent whispers of the elders, he made his decision.
One morning, Viserys asked the handmaids to dress him in the finest garments he possessed, light fabrics that left his round belly exposed, cinched with golden bands. Around his neck he hung chains that once belonged to Daenerys, and he let his silver hair fall loose, cascading like light over his shoulders. Rhaego remained at his side, restless, like a guardian beast.
Then he ordered that all be brought to the center of the camp.
When he stepped from the tent, dozens of eyes turned toward him. There were muffled laughs among some warriors, but also reverent silence among the women. Viserys walked slowly, supported by two handmaids, to a comfortable chair.
He drew a deep breath. His hand, almost instinctively, rested upon his swollen belly.
“Drogo may have disappeared... but his blood lives on here!” he began, his voice trembling, yet growing steadier with each word.
He lifted his head, letting the sun gild his hair and pale skin. The murmurs grew louder.
“I am fire and blood! And within my womb I carry the stallion who will mount the world and rule Westeros!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the air.
Viserys then rose and stepped forward, lilac eyes gleaming.
“Whoever follows me follows Drogo’s blood. Whoever betrays me will face the dragon’s fire.”
A deep silence fell over the khalasar. The flames of the bonfires seemed to dance higher, as if answering his declaration. Rhaego, crouched at his uncle’s feet, let out a low growl that echoed like a supernatural confirmation.
And in that instant, for the first time in his life, Viserys was certain he did not need a crown to command.
The khalasar now belonged to him.
When night fell over the desert, a damp mantle of stars and silence forming above, Viserys could not sleep at all. The weight in his belly kept him awake, along with the worry born of Drogo’s absence.
He sent a servant to summon the bloodriders one by one. Men with marked faces, braids shorter than the khal’s, but eyes accustomed to blood and steel. They entered the tent with rough steps.
Viserys stood, the lantern casting long shadows that trembled with his breathing. The garments he wore shimmered with the chains inherited from Daenerys; his hands trembled, not from weakness, but from concentrated anger. Without ceremony, he slapped Haggo, another slap for Qotho, a third for Cohollo not hard, but to mark the beginning of something that needed to be heard clearly.
“I want you to find Drogo alive! So listen to me carefully,” he said, his voice slicing the air like a battle command.
The men stepped back for a moment, surprised by the gesture and tone.
“I will not raise this damned child alone, you useless men. I want Drogo back alive and breathing.” The sentence was delivered without mercy.
Qotho, ever the most provocative, let out a dry laugh that died in his throat when the prince passed close to him and gripped his braid with a firmness that belied his fragile appearance.
Cohollo, who until then had been silent, stepped forward. His eyes were cold as polished stone.
“And if we do not find him?” the man asked quietly.
“Then you will bring me the damned man who killed him, and his head will be placed on a stake to prove that there is still order in this wretched place,” Viserys repeated without hesitation.
A murmur of tension spread. The word “vengeance” among the Dothraki worked like a rope that bound men together.
Cohollo bowed his head first, his expression softening for a moment into something that could pass for respect.
“Then we will go. We will find Drogo. If he lives, we will bring him. If not, we will drag the one who took his life by the braids to zhavvorsa,” he said, voice serious and direct.
Qotho clenched his fists, but nodded. Haggo remained still for several seconds more, then gave a curt nod, raising a hand to touch his own braid as if making a vow.
Viserys watched them. He did not smile, but beneath the effort and pride, there was relief. For now at least, he had reliable men.
Before they left, the prince lifted his gaze one last time, observing everything with precision.
The three men left the tent with heavy steps, their shadows stretching as outside the night swallowed them and the smoke of the bonfires greeted them.
Minutes later, Viserys heard the sound of hooves fade into the wind. Each of Drogo’s bloodriders departed carrying with him the command of a strange man who, by necessity, now ruled them.
Viserys remained alone, the lantern casting a yellow circle over his womb. Rhaego slept curled atop the bed. The prince walked to the furs and lay down beside his nephew, soon closing his eyes and sleeping.
Outside, beneath the open sky, three shadows rode to find their true leader.
____________
And just as expected, the men of Khal Drogo fulfilled their task.
On a cool afternoon, the air filled with relief when Drogo’s bloodriders returned, their braids long and their bodies covered in blood and dirt.
No one quite knew what to say when they saw their leader being supported by his brothers. Drogo had returned alive, but the price was written upon his face. Where his eye had once been was a deep hollow beside a scar that crossed from cheekbone to ear. Even in that condition, his face was the same as ever... firm, martial, unshakable.
Viserys walked slowly through the crowd, observing his wounded husband. The prince’s chest tightened in an indescribable way relief bordering on anger, gratitude, and something he himself would be ashamed to name. His hands trembled, and his heavy belly seemed to pull him downward, and for a moment he wanted only to cry.
But instead, he walked with firm steps that surprised everyone. He advanced quickly toward Drogo, fists clenched, platinum lashes trembling. The khal was set at his feet and the bloodriders stood behind their leader, lowering their heads in reverence and guilt. Haggo, Qotho, and Cohollo had fresh blood on their hands, eyes filled with dust and guilt. Drogo leaned on one knee, breathing through his open mouth, and when he lifted his face to meet Viserys’s gaze, the light struck the hollow of his missing eye.
Viserys was not thinking of anything when he bared his teeth and struck a blow against the man’s chest.
The impact made the khal bend not from pain, but from surprise. Drogo’s hand went to his own chest, feeling the sting. A guttural sound escaped his throat... not of weeping, not of anger, but a primitive sound that said more than words.
“This is for leaving me alone with your child in my belly, you foolish savage!” Viserys spat, the words trembling between anger and relief. His lilac eyes burned, and behind the tears he refused to shed, there was wounded pride and fear of carrying everything alone.
The bloodriders exchanged quick glances. Haggo tightened his grip on his spear. Qotho breathed noisily, ready to intervene, but Cohollo raised a hand a sign that the prince’s fury, for now, would be tolerated.
Drogo regained his breath slowly. Instead of pushing Viserys away, he placed his fingers upon his wife’s belly. Then, with the calm of one who had learned to measure words after pain, Drogo spoke in a hoarse, low voice, each syllable heavy.
“I returned... I took the blow so that you could continue.”
He touched the scar near the missing eye, as if recalling where the price had been paid.
Viserys gasped, fists still clenched. He wanted to ask a thousand things... but the words stuck when he saw, on the khal’s face, not wounded pride, but a small, crooked smile that seemed to accept the damage as part of fate.
Drogo inclined his head, as if weighing Viserys’s pain against his own. His fingers were still stained with others’ blood.
“I will protect our child... whoever touches you will die by my hands,” he said in his cutting tongue.
Viserys exhaled. He knew it was no empty promise. In Drogo’s voice there was a dangerous sincerity. A khal’s promise was not measured in diplomacy, but in steel and death and Drogo, even with one eye less, spoke with the authority of one who had already given his life to keep the khalasar united.
Viserys looked at him. Something within him shifted it was not tenderness nor love, but respect. The prince answered with a calm gesture, placing his hand atop Drogo’s.
“Do not dare do something reckless and disappear again,” Viserys said seriously. Then he pressed both hands against his own belly, forgetting the dark hand that still rested there.
Around them, people murmured. Some bowed their heads in respect, others watched without looking away.
Haggo approached with hesitant steps and touched Drogo’s shoulder, while Qotho wiped blood from his own face with the back of his hand, expression tight. Cohollo simply watched, waiting for the next move.
Drogo looked at Viserys for a long second. The gaze, even with only one eye, was deep and dangerous.
When the tension eased, Viserys stepped back and sat upon a bench. He was exhausted after feeling so many emotions that left him trembling. Drogo was lifted and carried by his brothers to his tent while being watched by the entire khalasar.
Drogo was treated in his private tent. His wounds, covered in foul-smelling ointments by the healers, had closed into thick scabs. His body, once bent by pain, rose again with that rough strength that had always both frightened and fascinated the khalasar. But the void of the lost eye remained, reminding all that no man leaves the will of the gods unscarred.
Viserys entered the tent without announcing himself, simply pushing aside the heavy entrance cloth. The smell of smoke, oil, and dried blood struck him. Drogo sat there, bare from the waist up, broad chest marked by new and old scars alike, like a map of wars.
The prince let his gaze wander over each mark, but it was on the face that he lingered. A long silence formed, until his lips curved into a crooked smile.
“Welcome back, Aemond Targaryen,” he said, with a joke that made sense only to himself.
Drogo frowned, confused, not recognizing the name. His single eye stared with animal intensity, as if trying to understand the reason for the laughter.
Viserys merely huffed, as one who does not expect to be understood. He walked to the side of the bed of furs and let himself fall there, his heavy belly forcing him to adjust carefully. Without asking permission, he leaned against the khal’s leg, resting his head on the rough, warm skin.
For a moment, Drogo did not move. Then he relaxed an arm around him a heavy gesture, wordless, but firm.
Silence enveloped them. Outside, the khalasar stirred with its own troubles.
Viserys sighed, closing his eyes. For the first time in many days, he did not feel alone.
__________
Weeks passed in the khalasar. Drogo recovered completely and brought yet another victory to his people. On that glorious day, the rival group was destroyed, and the leader Ogord was captured and dragged by horses to the camp.
Viserys waited by the central bonfire, wrapped in an aura of dangerous calm. The firelight reflected in his silver hair and pale skin, almost translucent beneath the heat. The round belly, covered only by a strip of dark cloth, rose and fell with each slow breath. At his side was Rhaego.
When Drogo appeared bringing the captive khal, the air seemed to stir. The man looked more savage than ever; one of his eyes was missing, and the one that remained sparked beneath the firelight. His bloodriders followed close behind like shadows. The captured man was thrown to the ground before the prince, coughing blood and sand.
Viserys lifted his chin, his gaze cold and curious.
“So you are the man who captured my husband?” he asked mockingly.
The rival leader spat on the ground. “I do not speak with whores. I fuck them instead,” the man snarled in a mix of Dothraki and the Common Tongue.
Viserys smiled, slow and dangerous.
Drogo stepped forward, already gripping his arakh. “I kill him,” he said shortly, ready to strike.
But Viserys raised a hand gently and stopped him. “No. He will die, yes, but not like that.” His voice came out soft as silk.
The khal frowned, confused. Seeing that he had his husband’s attention, the prince continued.
“I only need a little of his fire and his blood.”
Drogo hesitated, but Viserys’s gaze held that firmness mixed with confidence. Then, with a nod, he ordered his bloodriders to bind the man near the bonfire. The ropes tightened around his wrists and ankles.
He struggled, shouting insults.
“Valyrian whore! Freak of the gods!” Ogord bellowed, spitting on the ground.
Viserys only laughed. A clear sound, almost beautiful, but with an undercurrent of madness.
Then he turned to one of the handmaids and ordered,
“Bring me the eggs.”
The woman immediately ran off.
Drogo watched him, confused, arakh still in hand. “What eggs?” he asked, his tone low.
Viserys walked to him, his body moving with the weight and grace of something sacred. His hand rested on the khal’s chest as he looked into his eyes. “The ones that belonged to my sister. She kept them in her chamber like jewels, dreaming of bringing the dragons back.” He smiled, ironic.
Drogo stared at him, not understanding everything, but catching the amusement in his wife’s expression.
The handmaid returned, breathless, carrying a darkened wooden chest. When she opened it, the firelight reflected off the scales of three eggs... one dark green like a forest, another black as night and red as blood, and the third golden as gold.
A murmur spread through the camp. Many Dothraki had never seen the eggs before.
Viserys took the black egg into his hands, feeling its cold weight and the pattern of the scales beneath his fingers. “They have slept for too long,” he murmured to himself as he walked toward the man.
With difficulty, Viserys knelt and placed the three eggs around the captive in a perfect circle while the flames crackled, licking at the air. The prisoner screamed and kicked, sweat running down his dirty face.
“What are you doing, freak! Is this some kind of sorcery?” the man howled.
Viserys stepped back a few paces, his belly exposed to the light. Beneath the light fabric of his skirt, his womb seemed to glow. Across his chest, bindings concealed the recent swelling the uncomfortable reminder that his body was beginning to change.
He raised his hands.
“Fire and blood. That is how my family was born, and that is how we ruled.” His voice echoed.
Drogo watched in silence, fascinated and uneasy. The old women began murmuring prayers.
Viserys looked at his husband with a serene smile. “Now... give him the fire.”
Drogo did not hesitate any longer. He pulled a burning log from the bonfire and hurled it onto the prisoner’s body. The flames rose with a roar, swallowing the man as he screamed, cursed, and begged. The smell of smoke and char filled the air, thick and suffocating.
And in the midst of the fire, something happened.
The eggs’ scales began to pulse, reflecting the blaze as if they were breathing. The golden one shone brighter, the green shimmered, the black and red throbbed like a heart. The heat was overwhelming, and yet Viserys did not step back.
“Wake, little ones. The world awaits you,” Viserys whispered.
Drogo gripped the wife his shoulders, fearing he might fall. The heat surrounded him, but Viserys did not seem to feel pain. His lilac eyes burned.
And for a moment, beneath the roar of the fire and the prisoner’s fading screams, something different was heard a sound that seemed to come from within the flames. A crack. A hiss. And then, a sharp cry, small and fierce like the first breath of a god.
The elders laughed, the women screamed, and the warriors stepped back.
Drogo stared into the fire, and swore he saw, within the flames, three small figures moving.
Viserys simply smiled at the sight.