The campfire crackled loudly as Aegon—Jon Snow—watched Viserys with a growing sense of distaste. The days that had passed since he revealed himself to his long-lost family had been filled with questions and doubts, but what bothered him most was not the secrecy or the time wasted, but the hollow man standing before him—the once-proud king-in-exile who now was little more than a shadow of the throne he believed to be his.
Viserys's eyes, wild with hope and greed, turned to Aegon, desperation clinging to his every movement. "Prove it," he demanded, his voice trembling slightly. "You are my brother's son? How do I know you are who you say you are?"
Aegon's gaze hardened. He had been patient enough, and now the time had come to show Viserys what kind of man he had become—what kind of man he was born to be.
Aegon stepped forward, his presence commanding and confident, and before Viserys could react, he placed a hand on his uncle's forehead. For a long moment, Viserys froze in surprise, but then his breath hitched, and his eyes widened in horror.
Visions surged through Viserys's mind like a floodgate opened by Aegon's touch. The swirling memories were sharp, vivid—too real to be mere dreams. Viserys saw Rhaegar Targaryen, his brother, holding a newborn babe in his arms, a child with dark hair and purple eyes, swaddled in the warmth of the Targaryen family's fire. He saw Lyanna Stark, her face sweet and full of love as she cradled the baby, whispering his name as a lullaby. Viserys saw Aegon as a child—his mother's arms around him, his father's protective gaze above him—and then the scene shifted, to bloodshed and the Fall of the Targaryens.
Viserys's breath quickened as the memories overwhelmed him, his knees buckling beneath him as he fell to the ground in disbelief. He had seen it all. It was the truth.
"You are Aegon…," he whispered, his voice cracked with emotion, trembling as tears began to well in his eyes. "My brother's son… My nephew…"
Aegon withdrew his hand, his expression unreadable. He had shown Viserys the truth of his heritage, but there was still a part of him—deep inside—that wondered if Viserys could truly accept it. The mad king's blood ran in his veins, but Aegon had never been a man to wear a crown simply because it was his birthright.
"It's time to leave, Uncle," Aegon said coldly. "The Dothraki are waiting."
The ride to the Dothraki camp was long, the days blending into each other as the harsh winds of the Eastern desert whipped through their clothing. Daenerys Targaryen, the child queen, the last of his bloodline, was just ahead, in a world far from the one Aegon had known. She had been married to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army, and her fate was tied to the Dothraki—the blood of the dragons waiting to be awakened.
When they arrived at the vast Dothraki camp, the sight before them was one that stirred something deep within Aegon—a primal recognition of power, of conquest, of destiny.
But as they approached, his attention was drawn to the three dragon eggs that lay in Daenerys's possession. They were no ordinary eggs—he could feel the heat of them from across the camp, like tiny embers waiting to ignite into full flame. The power they contained was immense, overwhelming. Dragons.
Aegon couldn't help but feel a sense of awe, tempered by the realization that Daenerys was the key to the return of the dragons. She had no idea yet how important she was, how much the survival of her bloodline—and the Targaryen legacy—depended on her. But Aegon had no time to explain it to her. There were greater things at stake now. Robert Baratheon's rule was fragile, and he would take the throne back no matter the cost. The dragons were their only hope of winning the war.
But there was something else—something more complicated, something he tried not to think about.
Viserys, as always, was complaining, his voice an endless whine as he trudged behind his nephew. "This is beneath me," he muttered, his fine clothes already covered in the dirt of the Dothraki lands. "I am the rightful king of Westeros, not some wandering beggar. These savages should bow to me."
Aegon rolled his eyes, biting back the anger that was beginning to rise in his chest. His uncle was a fool—whiny, cowardly, and so full of himself that he could hardly see the reality of their situation. Aegon had never been like this. He understood what needed to be done.
But Viserys, as always, was too busy dreaming of a crown that he did not deserve.
"I should be the one to marry Daenerys," Viserys continued, his tone growing more desperate. "I am her brother, her rightful king. She is mine, by blood and by right."
Aegon suppressed a sneer. His uncle's obsession with his sister was both disturbing and infuriating. Viserys believed that marrying Daenerys would solidify his claim to the throne, but he failed to understand the power of what he was dealing with. The Dothraki and Drogo were not to be trifled with, and Daenerys herself was no longer a frightened girl. She was the key to the return of the dragons, and she needed protection—not to be claimed by the likes of Viserys, whose own ambitions blinded him to everything else.
As Aegon observed Daenerys, he could sense the kindness in her, the gentleness that made her different from the others of her family. She was timid, yes, but there was strength in her. It was not yet fully realized, but it was there. Aegon felt a deep respect for her—something he had not expected. There was also something else, a flicker of attraction, but he kept it buried deep within him, locked away. His bloodline ran hot with desire, but he knew better than to let such feelings show.
He had seen the way his uncle looked at her, and it made him sick. Daenerys was not an object to be claimed; she was a force to be reckoned with. She was the key to their family's future—and Aegon knew better than anyone that the future of the Targaryen name would not be decided by some whiny, drunken king-in-exile.
Viserys had begun boasting again, drunkenly bragging about his future rule while he lay with whores and drowned his frustration in wine. He did not care for the suffering of his people or the war they would soon face. His mind was filled with fantasies of power, while Aegon's thoughts turned cold and sharp. He had no patience for his uncle's indulgences. If he was to restore the Targaryen dynasty, he would have to leave behind the weakness that Viserys represented.
Aegon knew the path he had to take. He would use Daenerys as his ally, but he would never let himself be ruled by her charm, nor her beauty. They had to move quickly. The Lannisters were powerful, and Robert's hold on the throne was weakening by the day.
And when the time came, Aegon would be the one to take his birthright. The throne of the Seven Kingdoms would be his.