ASOIAF- The sworn knight, killer of 100 men.

In Sunspear – Elia's Chambers

The sun had just begun to dip beneath the horizon when Elia entered the library, where the stone walls held the heat of the day. Rhaenys sat curled into the corner with her feet on the window sill, thumbing through an old book of Braavosi poetry. Aegon knelt across from her, polishing his sword with the precision of a boy becoming a man.

Michael leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching them in silence. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But he had paused when he heard them laughing.

Aegon looked up first. "You're supposed to be drilling with Uncle Arthur."

Michael stepped in. "I was. He accused me of being predictable, so I came here to prove him right."

Elia entered behind him with a basket of fresh figs and a faint smile.

"You brought gifts," Rhaenys teased. "You are predictable."

Michael handed the basket to her. "You say that now. Let's see what happens when I stop bringing fruit."

The room warmed with shared laughter.

Michael knelt beside Aegon and picked up the boy's blade. "You kept it oiled. Good. Blade's no use if it dies before the battle comes."

"I wanted it ready," Aegon said, eyes serious. "In case we ride for the North."

Michael didn't answer at first. He set the blade down gently.

"We'll ride when the gods say it's time. For now, you live. You learn. You listen to your mother."

Rhaenys glanced at him. "Do you listen to her?"

Michael raised a brow. "You think I have a choice?"

Elia chuckled and sat beside him, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. "You make it easier, at least."

For a moment, it felt like something out of time. Not a royal family. Just a family. Broken pieces trying to fit again in a world that never stopped moving.

Aegon looked at Michael, then his mother. "What happens if the North doesn't answer?"

Michael met the boy's gaze. "Then we wait. But you—you prepare. Because when they do answer, they'll be sending wolves. And wolves are loyal to death."

Rhaenys tilted her head. "You think we can trust them?"

Michael looked to Elia, then back at the children. "I trust Ned Stark. That's enough—for now."

In the Red Keep — Varys

The fire crackled inside the brazier as Varys stood over it, robe sleeves drawn high, a scroll held between two slender fingers.

The parchment bore a name that had not been spoken in King's Landing in ten years.

Aegon Targaryen.

Alive. Protected. Raised in Dorne under Martell eyes, guarded by men like Michael—the Butcher of the Red Keep—and the resurrected Arthur Dayne. Rhaenys, too. Even Elia, the woman everyone believed broken and dead.

It had taken two weeks for his little birds to whisper the truth. Another two for the intercepted raven meant for Petyr Baelish to reach him instead.

He had read the letters again and again. Michael's handwriting. Arthur Dayne's seal. Ned Stark's careful response.

Then he fed them all to flame.

Illyrio Mopatis would not be pleased. Nor would the council of shadowy Targaryen loyalists across the Narrow Sea. But Varys had made a choice—not a final one, but an important step.

He would not reveal the dragons yet.

Not the ones in Dorne.

Not the one across the sea.

He turned to a second scroll, older, frayed. It was in Valyrian, smuggled by a dying sailor from Lys. Its contents confirmed a wild rumor—Daenerys Stormborn lived.

And not just lived.

"She has dragons," he whispered, fingers trembling slightly.

In his private alcove, he set the letter beside a simple stone bowl filled with salt water and lemon.

A gift from Dorne, years ago. A memory.

So many dragons… too many claims. Too many fires.

He sat down slowly, hands folded in his lap.

"Not yet," he whispered into the fire. "Not yet. Let them grow. Let them believe in peace. And then… we will see who deserves a crown."

Across the Narrow Sea — Pentos

The wind swept across the terrace of Illyrio's manse.

Daenerys stood alone in the open courtyard, her silver hair blowing freely in the early morning breeze. Her dragon—Rhaegal—curled nearby, wings twitching as he dreamed. Drogon and Viserion were further out, circling the hillside like silent gods.

Behind her, Viserys brooded by the fountain, eyes narrowed, lips twisted into a grimace of jealousy and hunger.

Illyrio arrived with a letter in hand. He hesitated before approaching.

"Forgive the intrusion, princess."

Daenerys turned, calm but guarded. "You bring news."

"Yes," he said, handing her the scroll. "From the East. Not of Essos. Of Westeros."

She opened it slowly, and as her eyes moved, her lips parted slightly in shock.

"Aegon…?"

Viserys looked up. "What nonsense is this?"

But she read aloud.

"Elia Martell lives. The children live. Guarded in Dorne."

Silence.

Viserys laughed bitterly. "Lies. Elia was weak. Her children were crushed under the Mountain's boot. Everyone knows that."

Daenerys didn't answer. She stared out toward the horizon—toward a home she hadn't seen in seventeen years.

"They have a sworn sword," she whispered. "Michael… and Arthur Dayne."

Viserys paled at the second name.

"Dayne is dead."

"Perhaps not," she murmured. "Perhaps nothing we were told was true."

Illyrio watched her with growing interest.

She stood straighter now. Not a girl. A queen forming in real time.

"We should send a raven," she said.

Illyrio raised a brow. "To Dorne?"

She nodded. "If they have dragons of their own… I would speak to them. One day. Not now. But one day."

Back in Winterfell – That Same Night

Ned sat in his solar, reading Michael's letter again.

It was nearly midnight, and snow dusted the windows like powdered glass.

He looked up as Maester Luwin returned, bearing his reply scroll.

Ned dipped the quill.

"To Ser Michael," he began. "And to the blood of the dragon…"

The desert air was warm, even at night, but it did nothing to still Aegon's mind.

He tossed once, then again beneath the finely-woven Dornish sheets. He was seventeen now. A man by all rights. A future king by blood. But tonight, sleep did not grant him peace.

And when it did, it did not last.

The Dream

He stood on an endless plain of stone—dark, smooth, and perfectly flat. There were no stars. No sun. Only a dull blue light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Strange symbols danced before his eyes, floating in the air like glowing runes etched into glass. But they weren't runes. They were letters.

English.

He knew the word. He knew the language.

And yet… how?

Aegon turned slowly, his feet making no sound. He was barefoot. No sword. No armor. Just a plain shirt and trousers made of rough, unfamiliar cloth—cotton. Denim.

More words floated by. "Data." "System." "Protocol Override." "Access Denied."

They meant nothing.

They meant everything.

Suddenly the ground beneath his feet changed—stone turned to sand, then to metal, then to something he couldn't name at all. Images flashed before him: cities reaching toward the heavens, wagons that moved without horses, glowing windows filled with moving pictures, voices speaking through boxes…

And fire. So much fire.

A world burning in colors Westeros had never seen. Lights that screamed. Machines that bled. A woman's voice—mechanical, soft, and sad—echoed in his ears.

"This is not your world anymore, Aegon."

He turned.

And saw… himself.

But not as he was now.

Taller. Broader. Dressed in strange black armor with silver trim. His hair shorter, his jaw sharper. The same violet eyes, but colder. Older. Wiser. Behind him stood soldiers, banners, machines—things Aegon didn't understand.

"You will remember soon," the older version of him said. "Not now. Not all at once. But soon."

Aegon tried to speak. But no sound came. His lips moved—but nothing.

"Build," the other Aegon said. "Not for now. For what must come. A new realm. A better realm."

Then came the dragons. But they weren't the dragons of Valyria. They were made of metal. Their wings unfurled like living steel, their eyes glowed red, and their screeches sounded like horns twisted through storms.

Behind them… shadows.

Figures in cloaks. Faces he couldn't see. A woman holding a crown of black ice. A man with a sword that burned with no fire.

And one man without a face at all.

Aegon dropped to his knees. His head burned. The world split in half.

Waking

He jolted upright in bed, gasping for air. Sweat poured from his face, clinging to his chest like armor he couldn't remove.

The sun hadn't risen yet.

The room was still.

Just a dream.

Just a dream…

He stood slowly, walking to the water basin near the window. He splashed cold water onto his face, gripping the edges of the marble as though it might anchor him to reality.

But as he looked up into the polished steel mirror above it—he saw something behind his eyes.

Recognition.

Not understanding. Not clarity.

But something inside him whispered:

"That wasn't the first time. And it won't be the last."

Elsewhere in Sunspear…

Michael hadn't slept yet. He never did when the dreams were too loud.

But something told him—tonight wasn't just loud for him.