The return to Essos was met with silence, the air heavy with loss.
Drogo was dead.
Daenerys stood before the pyre, her face hollow, her silver hair streaked with sweat and soot. The great Khal had fallen, his warriors scattered, his army reduced to whispers in the wind. The stallion who would mount the world had been unseated.
And worst of all—Daenerys had sacrificed everything.
Her unborn child—gone. The blood magic had failed her, leaving only a cold husk of a man who could not speak, could not fight, could not love. And so, she had ended his suffering, smothering the great Khal with her own hands.
But as the flames engulfed his body, something else was born.
Three dragons.
Aegon arrived at the camp in time to witness it—the rebirth of fire. The creatures shrieked into the night, their eyes burning with an ancient power long thought dead.
Westeros could now be his.
The thought unsettled him. He could take the throne with dragonfire, but what if Daenerys refused to share her power? What if she stood in his way?
Would he kill her?
He clenched his fists. Not unless he had to.
Preparing for War
The following days were filled with preparation. Aegon trained harder than ever, pushing his body to its limits, testing the strength of the Witcher serum. He could fight for days without rest, heal from wounds faster than any man should, and sense the presence of others before they even knew he was there.
But he was not invincible. He needed more than just raw strength—he needed an army.
He turned to Ned.
"I need you," Aegon said, standing beside the Stark lord as they overlooked the remnants of Daenerys's forces. "Be her Hand. Guide her. Make sure she doesn't become a tyrant like her father."
Ned frowned. "She is not her father."
"No," Aegon admitted. "But she has dragons now. That changes everything."
Ned studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I will do what must be done."
Arya's Request
Meanwhile, Arya had been watching Aegon closely.
"You fight like a ghost," she said one evening, her small hands gripping a dagger. "Teach me."
Aegon smirked. "Are you sure? My training is not for the weak."
Arya lifted her chin. "I don't want to be weak."
He saw himself in her—angry, lost, searching for something to hold onto. She had been forced to watch her father nearly die, had been hunted, had seen the cruelty of the world firsthand.
"Fine," he said. "But if you train with me, you'll learn the way of the assassin. The way of the Faceless Men."
Arya's grin was sharp as a blade. "Good."
The War of the Five Kings
But while Aegon prepared in Essos, Westeros burned.
Stannis Baratheon had declared himself king. Aegon's fury knew no bounds.
Another pretender. Another man who thought himself worthy of the Iron Throne.
"This war is chaos," Ned muttered as the news spread. "The North has risen with Robb. Renly gathers his banners. The Greyjoys raid the coast. And Stannis moves for King's Landing."
Aegon exhaled sharply. "I need an army."
He looked at Daenerys, at the dragons perched on her shoulders. She had power. But could she wield it? Could she conquer without becoming the monster their father had been?
Or would Aegon have to take it from her?
One way or another, Westeros would be his.