[8] Who Am I? I am the Conqueror.

Chapter 8: Who Am I? I am the Conqueror.

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“The Second Sons,” Kinvara greeted the Second Sons with a smile. “Your reputation exceeds you.”

“Of course,” Mero smirked, raising a cup at her.

“I didn’t mean that as a compliment,” Kinvara’s smile widened. “I was greeted with disrespectful whistles when I was entering the camp. Quite a treatment you show to a potential patron. The strict reputation of your discipline seems to be outdated.” She finished, and Mero’s expression fell. He lowered his cup and scowled.

“I’ve also heard they are easy to betray their customers if their enemies propose a heavier pouch,” I added, watching the man clench his jaws.

“Is this true, Mero?” Prince Oberyn, lying on his slide on the tall touch, frowned as he looked at Mero. “If so, I’ll be disappointed. I made you the vice leader before I left and was incredibly delighted when I heard you became the leader a few years ago. And you’re doing these things?”

“He’s lying, Prince. Despite his words, see they’ve come to us for a job,” Prendahl na Ghezn chimed in, coming to his leader’s rescue, which made me laugh. “Touché, eh?”

“Huh?” I was surprised this illiterate fool knew what touché meant. Must be local to where he was from. I shook my head, “No, that’s not why I laughed. I laughed because we’re not here to hire you as a customer.”

Kinvara smiled beside me while Daario Naharis blinked. He’d been eyeing Kinvara all this time, but my words caught his attention. He asked, “Why then?”

I took in their expressions. Mero sipped wine, glaring at me. Prendahl did the same. I eyed Prince Oberyn and then spoke, “I’m here to challenge your leader, Mero, in a duel,” I said, hopping off my horse. “I fear he doesn’t deserve to lead you anymore.”

A dozen Second Sons took a step forward, weapons raised, but Prince Oberyn raised a hand. They halted on their spot while the Prince beamed at me. Mero was laughing, as was Prendahl. Daario just smiled, just like the prince.

“You are an interesting man,” Oberyn said, leaning to the side to kiss his paramour. “Barging into the Second Sons’ camp and challenging its leader. What is your name, warrior? For such a brave man, I think I’ll recognize you.”

“You can call me Vis for now,” I said, eyeing Mero, who stopped laughing to pour a glass of ale down his throat. “I’ll reveal my identity properly after defeating that drunken fool.”

Prendahl growled, “You don’t get the balls to reveal your name and yet insult our leader? You’re not even showing respect to Prince Oberyn here,” he said, trying to shift the animosity toward Oberyn. Did he hope I would get humbled by the man?

Annoying bastard. I’ll kill him too.

“True. You should bow,” Ellaria Sand said in place of her lover. “You stand before a Prince, you realize?”

“I do, and no, I won’t bow,” I looked at her. “I recall bowing is only needed when the person in front of me is higher-ranked than mine,” I said, and Prince Oberyn frowned in response. He didn’t seem to take it to heart, however, but rather seemed more curious about me. Just as I had hoped.

“What do you say, Mero?” Prince Oberyn looked at Mero. “You have a challenger. As per the Second Sons’ rules, you have to take up his challenge.”

Mero licked his lips and smiled. “Prince Oberyn, as true as that rule is, I’m the leader now. So I decide the rules,” he said, and Oberyn frowned.

He didn’t like that.

From the way his eyes darkened, I guessed that Mero would have been in for a good beating if I wasn’t here. His next words thankfully saved him.

“But fine,” Mero said, standing up. “He’s got an annoying face, I’d love to cut that in two. And then take that woman,” he smirked at Kinvara, who smiled back. “You smirking bitch. Take your clothes off and come sit on my lap... and I may let you live.”

Kinvara giggled, finding it far too amusing, which the fool somehow took for flirting as he smiled. He then turned to me, “As for your desire to take over the Second Sons, you fool. It’s never going to happen, even if you somehow trick me into losing. The Second Sons don’t have such a stupid rule that we’d go under anyone who defeats our leader, no… We have the rule of killing any bastard that hurts our leader. So good luck on leaving this camp alive, even if you win—by the luck of some god!”

He burst out laughing and grabbed his weapon mid-air, which a minion had thrown. It was a massive, curved sword, which seemed to be modeled after the scimitars and other curved swords typical in Essos.

Mero walked over and stood before me, smirking, scimitar glinting in his hand as if it had already tasted blood. Kinvara and our guards had dismounted by then and were moving away to clear space for our fight. The man eyed Kinvara again and then laughed at my face.

His confidence was as thick as the stench of ale around him, eyes narrowed, daring me to make the first move.

“Spear,” I clapped my hands, keeping my palms closed as I slowly withdrew them. A spear formed between them as if I was doing a magic trick. Mero was blinking rapidly at the sight, probably wondering if he was seeing things.

I gripped my spear and eyed him with a provocative smirk. He scoffed, “Tricks.” He said so but still didn’t attack first. I tightened my grip on the spear, feeling its weight become an extension of me, every breath slipping me deeper into the familiar rhythm of the Lightning Dance.

I’d practiced it for a long time, and thanks to the System, each of its moves had become second nature, a current running through my veins. I could trust it.

Mero sneered, shifting his stance. “Let’s see what you got, coward,” he taunted, lifting the scimitar high as if his raw strength alone would crush me. I didn’t answer. Let him swing. Let him think he had the advantage.

He charged, boots slamming against the ground, sword raised in a wild arc. I could see every movement, slow as if he moved through water. A slight twist of my body and his blade whooshed past, close enough to feel the breeze but never close enough to land.

Mero staggered, furious, catching himself just in time to shoot me a look of pure hatred. “You slippery snake!” he spat, roaring as he lunged again, even faster this time.

But that was the beauty of the Lightning Dance. My spear moved with me, a natural rhythm flowing through the air in perfect, quiet arcs. I didn’t just dodge his attacks. No, I drifted, letting each movement fall into the next.

Mero’s blade cut into nothing, slicing the air, and I felt him grow more annoyed with each miss. That was making him more reckless, as I messed with him with taunting steps right out of his reach.

His face twisted, frustration burning behind his gaze, and I could practically feel the rage boiling off him. Each failed strike made him angrier, his slashes more frantic, but I stayed just a breath away. Techniques or whatever, my stats were likely to double his. It gave me an unmistakable edge that he couldn’t overcome with his experience.

A whistle came flying, “A drink to your great spearmanship!” Prince Oberyn said, raising a cup, drinking in my stead. I just laughed, which annoyed Mero more.

I remained in control, calm, every dodge a piece of the dance, and he was the fool stomping on his own feet, getting tangled in his fury.

The crowd was silent, watching and waiting for the results. I could feel their eyes on me, feel the tension thick in the air. Mero lunged again, his movements sloppy, and I knew this was it—the perfect moment.

I let my body fall into the final rhythm, feet shifting, spear slicing through the air with deadly precision. One swift, sharp thrust, and my spear found its mark, sliding right between Mero’s ribs. Blood splashed.

His eyes went wide, the sneer frozen on his face, replaced by a look of stunned horror. His grip on the scimitar loosened, fingers twitching as he tried to hold on to the last shreds of his strength.

For just a second, he slumped against the spear, weight heavy, and I held it firm, watching him. He was already gone, the life draining from him in a silent gasp.

[You’ve killed a human.]

[You’ve received experience points.]

I pulled the spear free, stepping back as he collapsed at my feet. Silence blanketed the camp briefly, every mercenary’s gaze flicking between Mero’s body and me, something like awe dawning in their eyes.

The dance was over. And I was the one left standing.

“...Everyone!”

Not for long, unfortunately.

“Kill that bastard!” Prendahl shouted, and the stunned Second Sons roared in response. A wave of sharks seemed to close upon me, but I didn’t react.

Someone else did. “Nobody will attack him,” Daario Naharis said, raising a sword, “Anyone who goes against that order, I’ll kill them myself. Stormcrows!” A squad, loyal to Daario rather than the Second Sons’ name, turned to their brothers, weapons held high.

“Daario, what is the meaning of this?!” Prendahl unsheathed his weapon and growled, and in response, Daario shrugged.

“You can kill him. But let’s wait a minute, can’t we?” He looked at me. “He’s yet to reveal his identity. Such a fine fighter should at least get to introduce himself before death.”

“I agree,” Prince Oberyn nodded. “Speak, warrior, what is your full name?” His man’s gaze turned sharp as he looked at me. He must have gotten really curious when I said we were equal earlier.

The silence around us was thick and charged, every eye fixed on me like they were staring down the edge of a blade. I didn’t need to say a word—just let the tension build, heavy as the air before a storm.

Slowly, I lifted a hand, reaching up to my hair, fingers slipping between the strands. Then, in one clean motion, I pulled. The black wig peeled away, tossed to the ground with a casual flick. The silver hair of House Targaryen fell around my shoulders, glinting under the flickering light.

I ran a hand through it, letting it settle, my gaze daring them to question it.

From across the tent, Prince Oberyn stirred, sitting up on his couch. He had a stunned look—one that spoke of ghosts and memories unburied. His mouth parted, a whisper slipping out before he even seemed to realize it. “Rhaegar...?”

I did look similar to my late brother, yes. I kept the same hairstyle as him, and now that my cut-off hair had regrown, it looked just like his.

But no, I wasn’t him. I had my own name. I met his gaze, the weight of everything I was—of who I was—settling in my voice. “I am Viserys Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, blood of the Conqueror, and the last living dragon.”

That was all it took. The tension cracked like a whip through the air, and I watched as the truth settled over them, hard as iron and just as unforgiving. Their eyes tracked me like they were seeing something ancient. A memory of fear they’d thought buried.

Good. Let them see it. Let them feel it, the lethality of my lineage.

I took a step forward, my voice low but loud. “The Second Sons are full of nobles... yet lately they’ve learned to play at loyalty when the right purse calls. Is it because you’ve lost your nobility? I’m here to take you all—exiled sons of noble houses, cast-offs, forgotten—and give you the power that was stolen from you.”

They watched, their expressions shifting, breaking. I saw men who had long given up, faces once proud but hardened by years of war and service to the highest bidder. They didn’t need a speech about who they were. They needed a chance to become something else.

“Enough,” I continued, voice gaining an edge. “Why settle for scraps when we can take the whole feast? Robert Baratheon is dead! King Joffrey is a bastard. At times like this, my rightful claim to the throne is burning hotter than ever. Men, stand with me, and I’ll make you legends. You’ll be known not as exiles or second sons but as conquerors, feared across both Westeros and Essos. And beyond,” I turned to look at Prendahl and Daario. “Come, and your names shall be etched into history—not as pawns but as men who rose with fire and blood.”

The silence thickened, every word twisting deeper into them. The only sound was the slow, uncertain shuffling as some glanced at one another, the crack in their disbelief widening. Battle-hardened men, in the face of strong royal blood, hesitated to kneel.

A voice broke the quiet from somewhere in the crowd, rough and skeptical. “You’ll conquer the Iron Throne?” The man’s face twisted with disbelief, and he scoffed. “You and what army? Even if we follow, we’re just a thousand men!”

That seemed to strike doubt in the people who had started believing. Prince Oberyn was frowning, staring at me as if wondering what I’d respond with. I felt the smirk stretch over my lips as I raised my hand, holding his gaze. “What army?”

In one smooth motion, I clenched my fingers, tearing through the air. The crack was sharp and jagged—a rip in reality. The air around us quivered, and then it broke wide as Viserion burst forth, a force of heat and fury in golden scales. Her wings spread wide, her roar cutting through the night, a flash of fire painting the sky red.

Gasps, shouts—some staggered back, some fell to their knees, eyes wide and faces pale as they watched her rise, her scales glinting like molten gold.

A Dragon.

They were staring at Myth.

Viserion circled overhead, her wings cutting through the air with power that made the ground shudder. Every beat of her wings commanded awe and terror.

Prince Oberyn had shot up on his feet, his shock raw, eyes locked on the sky, lips parted as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He looked at me, face pale with shock, and then—then his lips widened ever so slowly. A grin broke over his face, wild and unrestrained, a glint of madness in his eye.

I didn’t lower my hand as I spoke, my voice loud, steady. “Allow me to apologize. I lied when I said I was the last living dragon,” I said, a smirk slipping into my voice. I looked at Prendahl, who’d annoyed me quite a bit earlier. I turned to Viserion, smiling. “Dracarys,” I commanded, and she breathed fire at Prendahl.

Too shocked to dodge, the man burnt off to crisps as he screamed. Daario had run off to the side, watching the scene with wide eyes. Everyone was watching the scene with similar gazes.

[Your dragon, Viserion, has killed a human.]

[You’ve received experience points.]

“With what army, you asked?” I faced the man who’d questioned me earlier. He fell back, unable to bear my gaze, and swallowed. “With my dragon, who will tower over the largest of castles in a year! With her, I have armies of hundreds of thousands in no time. But I need loyal men to make the first strike—and I want you to feel lucky that I’ve chosen you lots over any other option.”

The crowd stayed silent, awe and disbelief mixing in the air as Viserion roared, flame licking the night. Prince Oberyn’s wide grin grew wilder, something raw and reckless in his expression.

Kinvara stepped beside me, silent but her presence bright. Her hand slipped through my arm as she looked out at the crowd. The Second Sons stared at us, their faces shifting between fear, wonder, and something else—something fierce, something loyal.

In their eyes, I could see it. The spark of fire that had been waiting for someone to stoke it back to life. I had succeeded in my mission.

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Author Note: Last chapter of the week, next one comes out on Sunday!