Aegon rode without rest, without hesitation.
The fire in his blood pushed him forward, burning away the fatigue in his limbs. This was not Aegon Targaryen riding through the barren lands of Essos.
This was Ghost.
And he was hunting.
The Temple of Eternal Flame
The temple stood atop a lonely cliff, its black stone walls reflecting the light of the ever-burning pyres. The air smelled of incense and charred wood, and whispers of ancient power drifted through the halls like forgotten prayers.
Aegon stepped inside, his boots echoing against the marble floor.
A priestess stood at the heart of the temple, her presence commanding yet serene.
She was beautiful, but not in a delicate way—there was a sharpness to her, an intensity. Her hair fell like a curtain of midnight silk, and her golden eyes burned like twin suns.
She turned to him, as if she had been expecting him.
"You come seeking truth, Aegon Targaryen."
His body tensed.
"Who are you?"
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the air near his chest as if she could feel the fire in his soul.
"I am Sylvaerys, High Priestess of the Eternal Flame. The Lord of Light has shown me your path."
Aegon clenched his fists. "Then tell me. I saw things—visions. The Doom of Valyria. Dragons falling. A war of ice and fire. And something else. Something worse."
Sylvaerys reached for his hands, and the moment their skin touched—
The temple vanished.
Aegon's mind was pulled into the abyss of time.
Visions of Fire and Ice
He saw them. The White Walkers. Their ice-blue eyes burned through the frozen wasteland. They moved like death incarnate, an army of shadows and silence.
He saw the Prince Who Was Promised, a warrior wreathed in flame, standing alone against the storm. His sword burned with the fire of the gods.
Then the vision shifted—and he saw them.
The Wild Hunt.
They were not of this world. They were conquerors of realms, their armor forged from the bones of the fallen, their eyes glowing with an eerie, ghostly light.
They rode through the skies on beasts that defied reason, their weapons dripping with the blood of civilizations that had long ceased to exist.
And now, they had come for him.
For his blood.
For the last of the Targaryens.
The vision shattered like glass.
Aegon gasped, his body trembling as he returned to the temple. Sylvaerys still held his hands, her expression grim.
"Now you see, Aegon."
His breathing was ragged. "Tell me what it means."
She exhaled softly. "The White Walkers have returned, and Azor Ahai must rise again to face them. But there is another war beyond the Wall—a war against something even older than the Night King. The Wild Hunt are the true enemy."
Aegon's jaw tightened.
"The Wild Hunt is real."
"They are more than real." Her eyes burned brighter. "They do not just conquer worlds, Aegon. They devour them. The last time they rode, they brought ruin to civilizations now lost to history. They seek the power of fire and ice—the power that runs through your veins. That is why they took Daenerys. That is why they seek the North."
Aegon's rage simmered beneath his skin.
"Where are they?"
Sylvaerys hesitated. "The Apostles are their harbingers. If you wish to stop the Hunt, you must find the Apostles first."
She turned, walking toward the great flame at the temple's center. "Come closer. I will show you."
Aegon stepped forward, and as he did, the flames roared to life.
A city emerged from the fire—dark towers piercing the sky, surrounded by blackened ruins.
"This is where they are." Sylvaerys' voice was barely a whisper.
Aegon memorized every detail.
"Go." She placed a hand over his heart. "But beware, Ghost. You may not be the only hunter in this war."
Aegon turned, his eyes burning with vengeance.
He had his next destination.
And the Apostles would soon learn fear.