The air in the Red Keep was thick with the stench of death, heavy and oppressive. King Robert Baratheon, once a man of fire and fury, now lay on his deathbed, a broken, bloated shadow of his former self. His chest heaved with labored breaths, his large form barely able to move beneath the heavy layers of bedding. The once-great king, who had struck fear into the hearts of men, was now consumed by the same disease that had slowly crippled his kingdom: betrayal.
His mind raced as the words from his advisers reached him. They were whispers at first, faint rumors carried on the wind from distant lands. Rhaegar's son was alive. The boy, the bastard of the Targaryen line, the one whom he thought had died with his father, had somehow survived.
Aegon Targaryen.
The name burned like fire in Robert's veins, each letter igniting the embers of rage and betrayal he had carried for years. That boy was his enemy. The child of the man who had taken his crown, the son of the prince who had dared to challenge his reign, and now the bastard was living.
Robert's eyes widened with fury. He had never forgiven the Targaryens for their bloodstained legacy, for the loss of his beloved Lyanna, and for the war that had cost him his youth, his friends, and his peace. The very thought that the bloodline of his enemies still lived, that the child of his greatest adversary was still out there, breathing—was more than Robert could stomach.
Ned Stark. Robert's old friend, his brother-in-arms, had betrayed him. Ned had known. And worse, Ned had kept the secret. Robert's fists clenched, trembling with rage as the pain of his past flooded him once again.
"Bring him to me," Robert grunted, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Ned Stark. Bring him to me, and I will make him pay for this treachery."
His breath hitched with the effort it took to speak, but the fire still burned in his chest.
Word spread quickly throughout the kingdom: Robert Baratheon, king of the Seven Kingdoms, had declared war. His target was not just Aegon Targaryen, but all of the Targaryens. The last remnants of the cursed family must be wiped from existence. Robert could not abide the thought that his line was still in danger, that the dream of the Targaryen return was not dead. He could not allow a single spark of that dragonblood to survive.
In the shadowy corners of King's Landing, a figure cloaked in dark leather sat at a table, his hand tracing the edge of a dagger as he listened intently to the news. He was a man of few words, a man of shadows, trained by the most deadly of organizations. His name was Cassian Vorel, and he was the one who had brought Jon Snow to the Faceless Assassins.
Cassian's face remained impassive as he heard the order from the king. Robert had sent mercenaries, the last of the gold-for-hire soldiers who roamed the continent, to hunt down the Targaryens. But they would not be enough. No, Robert's plan was more precise. He had sent the last of the Faceless Assassins, and Cassian was to lead them.
The same man who had trained Jon Snow. The one who had turned a boy into a weapon.
Cassian's mind was already working through the details. Aegon Targaryen—or Ghost as he was known—had made a name for himself in the underworld. The boy had become a legend in his own right. The Faceless Assassins had always been one step ahead, but now they would face the full might of Robert Baratheon's wrath. There was no escape.
"Your orders are clear, Cassian," a voice echoed from the darkness. It was the voice of Robert's advisor, a man long trusted by the king, a man who had once stood by Robert's side in the early days of his rebellion. "Find the boy. Kill him. And when you bring him to Robert, make sure he is broken. The Targaryen bloodline must die."
Cassian didn't respond immediately. He took his time, savoring the silence before standing to leave. He had always known that Jon Snow, now Aegon Targaryen, was no ordinary boy. His strength, his skill, and his will were unmatched. But Cassian had made him what he was. And now, he would have to face the consequences of his own creation.
Meanwhile, on the eastern shores of Essos, the Dothraki Khalasar encamped under the moonlight, the flickering flames casting long shadows on the dusty ground. Daenerys Targaryen, now a woman bound by both marriage and destiny, sat by a fire, her face pale but resolute.
Aegon stood in the shadows, watching her as she talked softly to Drogo. He could feel the weight of her future, the pressure of being a Targaryen, the last hope of a dynasty once great.
But the world was changing. Robert Baratheon's war had begun. He would hunt the last of the Targaryens down.
As the sound of Dothraki drums echoed across the camp, Aegon's thoughts turned inward. Robert had declared war on his family, on him. There would be no more running. Aegon Targaryen was not a boy anymore. He was a king, born of fire and blood.
And it was time to make his claim.