The Aftermath
The air reeked of death. The blood of the Striga had dried into dark, tar-like pools around the ruined battlefield. The corpses of the monstrous creatures lay twisted and broken, their unnatural forms contorted in death. The battle had been a slaughter—one man against an army of horrors.
Arya and Ser Jorah Mormont stood at the edge of the carnage, their faces pale.
Then, they found him.
Aegon lay motionless, surrounded by the shredded remains of his foes. His armor was in tatters, his body covered in wounds, dried blood coating his skin. His blade, Lightbringer, was still clutched in his hand, the once-fiery steel now dark and cold.
For a moment, Arya feared he was dead.
Then—he gasped.
His eyes fluttered open for a brief second, but exhaustion pulled him under once more.
"He's alive." Jorah exhaled in relief, kneeling beside him.
"Barely," Arya muttered, though she was relieved too. They had seen what Aegon was capable of—but even he had limits.
They had no choice but to carry him away, leaving behind the battlefield of carnage and horror.
Three Weeks Later
Aegon awoke to warm breath against his skin.
Something rough and wet dragged across his face.
His eyes snapped open. Three pairs of reptilian eyes stared back at him.
The dragons.
Rhaegal. Viserion. Drogon.
They had grown—their scales more defined, their bodies stronger. Though still far from fully grown, their presence was undeniable.
For a moment, Aegon just lay there, feeling the warmth of their bodies surrounding him.
Then, the memories came crashing back.
The battle. The apostles. The spider.
And Daenerys.
His body tensed, and he shot up from the bed. His head spun, but he ignored it. His wounds had healed—no scars remained.
Arya and Jorah rushed in at the sound of his movement.
"You're awake." Jorah sighed in relief.
Aegon turned to them, his expression dark and cold.
"Where is Ned?"
A heavy silence filled the room.
Arya's face fell. Jorah looked away.
Aegon's jaw clenched. "Tell me. Where is he?"
Arya swallowed hard. "He's… gone."
Aegon's heart stopped.
The words felt like a blade through his chest.
"That thing… that spider monster… it killed him," Jorah said softly. "He… he died trying to protect Daenerys."
Aegon's breath quickened. His fingers trembled.
Pain. Anguish.
He had known loss before. He had suffered at Winterfell, endured years of isolation and pain.
But this—this was different.
Ned Stark was the only father he had ever known.
And now, he was gone.
His hands balled into fists. His nails dug into his skin.
The blood in his veins burned like fire.
A sudden surge of power coursed through him—stronger than before. The visions he had seen in his battle flashed through his mind.
The Doom of Valyria. The Prince Who Was Promised. The Wild Hunt.
Everything made sense now.
He was Aegon Targaryen. The heir to the Iron Throne. The last hope of his bloodline.
He would not break.
He would not fall.
Instead, he would hunt them down.
The Apostles. The Wild Hunt. The creatures who had stolen Daenerys, the monsters who had killed Ned.
He would kill them all.
His golden eyes burned with vengeance.
"I will find them," he whispered. "I will save Daenerys. And I will destroy every last one of them."
Jorah and Arya exchanged glances.
There was no hesitation in his voice.
This was not just Aegon speaking.
This was the Ghost.
And the world would soon know his wrath.