The news spread like wildfire through the alleys, inns, and marketplaces of King's Landing. Whispers filled every corner, and men and women alike huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. Fear spread faster than the fires that had once ravaged the city.
Ghost—the name carried a weight, a terror that clung to the air like smoke. And now, the stories told of how he had slaughtered the entire order of the Faceless Assassins. They said it was like a scene from the Seven Hells themselves—blood spilled across the floor in torrents, bodies hacked to pieces, and screams that could be heard even beyond the walls of the House of Black and White. His rage had been like that of a beast unleashed, unstoppable, unrelenting. He was no longer just an assassin; he was a monster, a killing machine, a name that struck fear into the hearts of even the bravest men.
"The Faceless are all dead," one man whispered, his voice shaking with terror. "Ghost… He didn't leave a single one alive. Not a one."
"It was like the Hound gone mad, but worse," another muttered, "his blade was everywhere. No mercy. He turned the whole place into a slaughterhouse. I heard… I heard there was so much blood the floors were slick with it."
"Gods, if he's still alive, we're all doomed."
They called him a monster, a demon in human skin, and his name spread like a curse through the city. But none knew the truth of the man who had killed them all. No one knew that the monster who had ripped through the Faceless Assassins with cold precision was, in fact, Aegon Targaryen, the last of the dragonlords, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
Jon Snow—Ghost—had shed his name and his past. Now, he was Aegon Targaryen. And the world would tremble before him.
Jon stood on the edge of a ship, staring out at the sea that stretched endlessly before him. His heart was a cold stone in his chest. He had heard the rumors, the stories carried on the wind from the streets of King's Landing. The bloodshed at the House of Black and White had been far more brutal than he had ever imagined. The Faceless Assassins had trained him, molded him into the perfect weapon, and yet, now, he had become something more—a force of nature, a harbinger of death.
The King's Landing he had known was now a distant memory, and as he sailed south, Jon felt something stirring inside him. It was the pull of his heritage, of his bloodline—Targaryen blood that ran through him like fire. He was Aegon. He wasn't just some bastard born of a dying warlord. He was a king. And if he had to burn the world to the ground to claim his throne, so be it.
The winds picked up as the ship cut through the waves, its sails billowing in the harsh breeze. Jon—now Aegon—watched as the shoreline of Westeros grew closer. His path was set, and he had heard whispers of Daenerys Targaryen, the last living member of his bloodline, who had survived the fall of House Targaryen. She and her brother, Viserys, were exiles in the Free Cities, struggling to regain what had been taken from them.
Aegon knew what he had to do. He had to find them. He had to unite with them. They were his family—his true family. But in the deepest recesses of his heart, there was a fire that burned darker than love. It was a desire to restore House Targaryen—not just to see it survive but to make it rise again in all its fire and fury. The Iron Throne belonged to him. And he would tear down anyone who stood in his way.
That meant the Lannisters—the usurpers who had stolen his birthright—and Robert Baratheon, the false king who had thrown his father, Rhaegar Targaryen, into the flames of war. They would burn.
As he arrived in the bustling port city of Pentos, Aegon felt the weight of his decision settling deep within him. Daenerys and Viserys had been exiled across the Narrow Sea, their names lost to the winds of time. But the dragon's blood still ran in their veins. He had to find them. He had to unite with them. It was time to end the Lannister reign.
He walked through the foreign streets, past merchants and travelers, his face concealed beneath a hood. The familiar scent of the ocean mixed with the aroma of unfamiliar spices. The bustling life around him was a stark contrast to the silent, bloody world he had left behind. Here, he could still be Ghost, the faceless assassin. But soon, soon, Aegon would take his place. The name would burn on the lips of every soul in Westeros. Aegon Targaryen would reclaim his throne.
He made his way to the gates of the city, where news of a Targaryen exile had reached him. A caravan was making its way through the markets, and he could see the silken robes of Viserys Targaryen as he stepped off his horse, speaking to the few loyal men who accompanied him. His face was gaunt, his eyes wild with desperation, but Aegon could feel the same blood pulsing through his veins. The fire of a dragon burned in Viserys, though it was dimmed by years of exile and defeat.
Aegon approached, stepping into the light. His voice was calm, steady, when he spoke. "I am Aegon Targaryen. Your brother."
Viserys froze, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. It was as though the gods had answered his prayers. He stared at Aegon for a long moment, eyes searching for any sign of deception, before he collapsed to his knees in front of him, tears filling his eyes.
"Aegon…" Viserys whispered. "My brother… You've returned."
Daenerys, still a child in Viserys's arms, watched in silence, her lavender eyes shining with something akin to hope, though she did not yet understand the full weight of what had just transpired.
Aegon, now fully realizing the significance of this moment, stepped forward. He had found his family. But more than that, he had found the spark of a new beginning. A kingdom waiting to rise.
The Lannisters would not stand in his way. Robert Baratheon would not stand in his way.
His birthright would be restored, and the throne that was stolen from him would burn in the fires of his conquest. He would do whatever it took to claim it.
With his new family at his side, the dragons would return.