The streets of King's Landing stank of sweat, shit, and fear. Crowds had gathered at the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, their murmurs hushed by the presence of Lannister guards surrounding the execution platform. The air was thick with dread.
Eddard Stark knelt before the chopping block, his weathered face streaked with sweat and exhaustion. He had been broken but not bent, his honor intact even as the sword of the executioner loomed above him.
At Joffrey's side, Sansa Stark wept, her pleas falling on deaf ears. The boy king, golden-haired and smirking, basked in the moment, reveling in his cruelty.
"Bring me his head," Joffrey declared, his voice sharp with arrogance.
The executioner raised his blade. The crowd gasped—
Then the world erupted in blood and steel.
The Ghost Unleashed
A shadow moved through the guards like death incarnate. One moment, the executioner's sword gleamed in the sun—the next, his head was flying through the air, his body crumpling lifeless to the ground.
Gasps and screams rang out as a lone figure stood upon the execution platform, blade dripping with blood.
Aegon Targaryen.
Sansa's sobs turned to stunned silence. Ned's weary eyes widened. The people whispered in confusion, disbelief—and hope.
Aegon stood tall, his black cloak billowing in the wind, his silver-streaked curls catching the light. His golden eyes burned with fury as he turned to face Joffrey.
"I am Aegon of House Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," he declared, his voice ringing across the square. "And you, Joffrey, are nothing but a bastard. A pretender. A spoiled little boy playing at being king."
Murmurs spread like wildfire. The truth had been spoken.
Ned Stark, still on his knees, nodded. "It's true," he rasped. "He is the son of Rhaegar. The last dragon."
Joffrey's smirk twisted into a mask of rage. "Lies! Guards, kill him!"
The Butchering of the Gold Cloaks
The first wave of Lannister guards lunged forward, and Aegon became Ghost.
His blade flashed, severing throats, opening bellies. Blood painted the execution stage red as limbs were torn from bodies, screams swallowed by the wet sounds of flesh being ripped apart.
Aegon danced between them, a blur of death. A dagger to the gut. A sword through the skull. A throat ripped open with his bare hands. He did not fight—he slaughtered.
The people of King's Landing watched in horror, many covering their mouths to keep from retching. They had heard of Ghost, the faceless assassin, the butcher of men. Now, they saw him with their own eyes.
The last of the guards fell, twitching in a pool of his own entrails.
Aegon lifted his gaze to Joffrey, the boy king trembling behind his mother.
"You should have run when you had the chance," Aegon murmured.
But Joffrey had always been a coward. He turned and fled.
Screams rang out as he yanked Sansa by the wrist, dragging her toward the Red Keep.
Aegon cursed, ready to chase him, but a small, sharp voice cut through the chaos—
"Aegon!"
He turned. Arya.
She had been hiding in the crowd, her face smudged with dirt, a dagger clenched in her tiny fist. She stared up at him, fierce, wild—a Stark through and through.
Ned pulled himself to his feet, gripping Aegon's arm. "We have to go. More guards will come."
Aegon took one last look at the Red Keep, where Joffrey had disappeared with Sansa. His fists clenched.
This was not over.
The Legend Spreads
By nightfall, the city was in chaos.
The streets buzzed with the news—Aegon Targaryen lived. Ghost had bathed the execution stage in blood. The rightful heir had returned.
And worse—whispers of his past crimes spread like wildfire.
The butcher of the Faceless Order. The assassin who had killed kings, lords, and warriors alike. The man who had laid with whores and drank with monsters, leaving death in his wake.
The people feared him.
The people respected him.
And as Aegon slipped into the darkness with Ned and Arya at his side, he knew one thing for certain—
The war for the Iron Throne had begun.