Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, woke with a hangover that had become as much a part of his routine as his crown. The sun filtered through the heavy curtains of his chambers, but even the light felt like an insult—too bright, too intrusive. He groaned as he rolled over, feeling the weight of his life pressing down on his chest like the thick furs draped over him. His head throbbed from the wine of the previous night, his mouth dry as a desert, and his stomach roiling from the excess of food and drink. His nights always ended this way now, but it wasn't always like this.

Once, Robert had been a man of action. He'd fought wars, swung his war hammer with the strength of ten men, and loved with a passion that made him feel like he could conquer the world. But now? Now, he was king. The Iron Throne, a seat he had never truly wanted, had robbed him of everything he once loved—his freedom, his joy, and worst of all, Lyanna Stark. Everything he had ever done, every battle he had fought, had been for her, for the woman who had filled his heart with fire. But she was gone. She was dead, buried beneath the cold stones of Winterfell, and all he had left of her was a ghost in his memory.

The Targaryens had fallen, Rhaegar had died, yet nothing felt like a victory. What was the point of all of it, when Lyanna was still dead? When Ned, his brother in everything but blood, had returned to the North and left him alone to rule a kingdom he had never wanted? Ned had a family now, responsibilities in the North, and Robert had the Iron Throne—a gilded cage that smothered him with its responsibilities. He didn't belong here, surrounded by courtiers and sycophants, by Varys the spider and Littlefinger with his smirks. Only Jon Arryn, his foster father, truly remained close to him, the one man who had tried to guide him through the labyrinth of kingship. But even then Jon's disappointment had become a fixture in Robert's life, as constant as the weight of the crown.

Robert sat up with a grunt, throwing the furs aside. A servant, skittish as a rabbit, appeared with a cup of watered wine. He waved the boy away and reached for the strong stuff, pouring himself a flagon of Arbor gold. It burned his throat on the way down, but it numbed the sharp edges of his thoughts, softened the bitter taste of reality.

He hated this place—King's Landing, with its stench of sewage, its tangled politics, and its endless reminders that he was king, not the man he once was. He missed the freedom of Storm's End, of the Eyrie, the camaraderie and the joy of the battlefield. There, he had been Robert Baratheon, the Stormlord, a man with a purpose. Now, he was just a king, and what was a king but a puppet with a crown?

The day wore on, dragging him into a council meeting he had no desire to attend. He wouldn't have gone if it wasn't for Jon, if he wasn't one of the last people he wished to disappoint further. Jon Arryn had insisted, his voice tired but stern. "You are the king, Robert. You must act like it. The realm needs you to be a great king the way I know you are, not a man lost in drink and whores."

Jon was the only one who still spoke to him like that, as if he were still the Robert of old, as if there was something great in him yet. And so, here he was, sitting at the head of the Small Council, half-listening as Varys droned on about how the bounty on the head of the surviving Rhaegar's spawn had sent mercenaries into a frenzy. Good, he thought to himself. He just wishes it would have been him with his loyal hammer that would take the life of the son of the rapist, of the son of the one who took wild and beautiful Lyanna from him.

His mind continued to wonder, as it often did these days. He wished for a flagon of wine, a plump wench to warm his lap, anything to make him forget this accursed chair and the cold duty that came with it. Gods, how he hated it.

His thoughts drifted to Lyanna again, as they always did. She would have despised this life too, he thought. She had been wild, untamable, not made for courtly intrigues and silken lies. She had been a wolf, fierce and free, and the gods had taken her from him, leaving him with nothing but ashes. They were perfect for each other and Rhaegar had to ruin it all.

Fucking Targaryens, may they all die.

The crown was a mockery, a burden he had never wanted. He had fought for her, for Ned, not for this, not for a throne, not to marry Cersei and have blonde-haired-haired green-eyed children.

Sometimes, he would imagine it, Lyanna still there, children with dark hair with either blue or grey eyes, children as wild, as beautiful, as strong as the two of them.

"Your Grace," came the soft, oily voice of Varys, cutting through his thoughts. "There is something you must see."

Robert's eyes flicked up, his irritation barely hidden. "What is it now, spider?"

Varys glided forward, holding a parchment sealed with a wax mark that Robert did not recognize. "A letter, Your Grace, an important one. Its contents… well, I believe it would be best if you read it yourself."

Robert took the letter from Varys's hand, eyeing it suspiciously. His instinct was to ignore it, to toss it aside and go back to his drink, but something in Varys's tone unsettled him. The other members of the Small Council—Renly, Petyr Baelish, Stannis, and Jon Arryn—looked on with varying degrees of interest. Jon leaned forward, concern etched on his face.

"Robert," Jon began, "perhaps I should—"

"I'll read it," Robert snapped, breaking the seal with a sharp tug. He scanned the letter, the words seeming to burn themselves into his brain. As he read, his hands tightened on the parchment, crumpling the edges. His breath quickened, rage boiling up inside him like magma threatening to erupt.

A bastard… Targaryen bastards. The words echoed in his mind, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. His wife, Cersei, a bastard of Aerys? He had married a Targaryen, the very bloodline he had sworn to destroy. If the letter was true, it would meant that he had married Rhaegar's bastard sister, that he had married one of Aerys' spawn. The thought was unthinkable, a betrayal so deep that it felt like a dagger to the heart.

"No…" Robert muttered, his voice hoarse. "No, it can't be."

Jon Arryn was at his side now, his hand on Robert's shoulder. His voice wasn't as assured as it always seemed to be. It seemed that Jon had read the letter and was as shocked as him "Robert, listen to me. This letter could be a lie, a trick to sow discord. We must not act rashly."

But Robert barely heard him. The rage was too strong, the possible betrayal too great. His mind was a storm, swirling with memories of Rhaegar, of the Targaryens, of the war he had fought to rid the world of their kind. And now… now he had possibly been deceived, made a fool of, forced to lie in bed with the very thing he hated most.

He shoved Jon's hand away and stood abruptly, the chair screeching as it was pushed back. "Where is she?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Where is Cersei?"

Jon tried to stop him, but Robert was already moving, his heavy footfalls echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Behind him, he could hear the hurried steps of the Kingsguard, the murmurs of the council members, but he didn't care. His thoughts were consumed by one thing: Cersei had to answer for this. She had to deny it, to tell him that the letter was a lie.

But deep down, a terrible dread gnawed at him, whispering that the letter was the truth. He tried to crush it. He failed.

He reached Cersei's chambers, not bothering to knock as he threw open the doors with a force that rattled them on their hinges. What he saw on the other side made his blood freeze.

Cersei was there, her back to him, lips locked with Jaime's. Her twin. Her dress was loose, falling from her shoulders, her golden hair tangled in her brother's hands. They pulled apart at the sound of the door crashing open, but the damage was done. The sight of them—his wife, his queen, and his Kingslayer brother—confirmed every dark suspicion that had crept into his mind.

The world around Robert seemed to fall away, leaving only the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He stood frozen, staring at the scene before him, unable to move or speak. The betrayal was too much, too deep. He felt himself stop breathing. He felt as if the world itself had stopped. The letter had been true.

Lyanna was dead. The Targaryens were dead. And now, everything he had fought for, everything he had built, had been for nothing.

His voice, when it came, before the hatred, the anger, the urge to kill, the familiar fury that had made him known as the demon of the trident drowned reason was little more than a whisper.

"Gods… why?"

scene*

Yunal had always known peace. His world was small, yet it was filled with warmth, with the tenderness of the land and the people who called it home. His village, a collection of simple mud-brick huts, lay nestled in the golden plains of Lhazar. The wind would whisper through the tall grasses, carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and the sound of bleating sheep. The sun, warm and kind, would rise every morning, and Yunal would wake to its gentle embrace, knowing nothing but the simplicity and joy of his life.

At twelve name days, he felt as though he had everything he could ever want. His days began with the soft light filtering through the cracks of his family's home. He'd rise with a stretch, feeling the cool earth beneath his feet, and join his parents and siblings to begin the day. His father would already be up, tending to the sheep in the fields, while his mother prepared breakfast, humming softly under her breath. His grandfather would sit by the door, carving little wooden figures, always ready to tell Yunal another story of the Great Shepherd and the harmony that bound all men.

Yunal loved those mornings. He loved the way the light would dance on the horizon, casting long shadows that flickered like spirits of old. He loved the rhythm of his family, the gentle movements of life lived in balance with the world around them. He would help his mother with the chores, fetching water from the nearby stream, and then he would run off to play with the other children of the village, their laughter echoing across the plains. They would chase each other through the tall grasses, pretending to be great warriors or shepherds guiding their flocks through perilous lands. And in those moments, Yunal was happy.

He had wished that it would stay like this forever.

But wishes, like the wind, are fleeting.

The darkness came on a night much like any other. Yunal had been asleep, curled beneath a blanket in his family's hut, his dreams filled with images of endless fields and the laughter of his friends. But then came the screams—horrible, blood-curdling screams that tore through the night like a blade through flesh. He woke with a start, heart pounding in his chest, and saw his mother and father already on their feet, their faces painted with dread.

Yunal's heart raced, the innocence of his childhood cracking as fear seeped into his bones. His mother grabbed him, pulling him close as they listened to the chaos erupting outside. The peaceful village, their haven, was being torn apart. Fires blazed against the night sky, casting everything in a hellish glow. The sounds of hooves thundered through the village, and with it came the unmistakable cries of pain and terror.

"The Dothraki," his father whispered, his voice trembling. "The monsters."

Yunal had heard the stories of the Dothraki, whispered in hushed tones by the elders of the village. Men on horseback, monsters in human form who thrived on death and destruction, who tore through villages like a storm, leaving nothing but ashes and corpses in their wake, who only seemed to be able to do the contrary of the Great Shepherd's teachings. Yunal had never believed such evil could exist. Not here. Not in their peaceful land.

But now, he could see the terror in his father's eyes, and Yunal knew the stories were true.

They ran. His father pulled Yunal by the arm, his mother clutching his younger sister close to her chest, and his older sister, Lani, running just behind. The world outside was chaos—homes they had known their whole lives were burning, the scent of blood thick in the air. Villagers screamed for mercy, but the Dothraki gave none. They cut through the people like they were nothing, like they were less than the sheep they herded.

As they ran, Yunal saw his grandfather, the man who had shared with him the wisdom of their people, lying on the ground. He watched, frozen in horror, as a Dothraki blade sliced through the old man's neck, the tales of the Great Shepherd silenced forever in a gurgle of blood. Yunal wanted to scream, wanted to run to him, but his father pulled him forward, his voice sharp with fear.

"Don't look, Yunal. We must keep moving."

But how could he not look? The man who had once sat by the fire, carving wooden figures and speaking of peace, of the great Shepherd, of how all men whether they knew it or not were of his flock lay motionless in the dirt, his life snuffed out like it was nothing.

Arrows rained from the sky, darkening the heavens like a storm of death. Yunal heard the thud of them piercing flesh and turned just in time to see his father and mother fall. His mother's scream was cut short, an arrow lodged deep in her chest, her eyes wide with shock. His father stumbled, blood pouring from his side, before collapsing beside her. Yunal froze, the world spinning around him, his vision blurring with tears.

"Run!" Lani's voice broke through the horror, and Yunal felt her hand grab his, pulling him forward, away from the bodies of their parents.

They ran, the world a blur of fire and death. They reached the edge of the village, where the plains stretched out endlessly before them, a promise of safety, of escape. For a moment, Yunal thought they had made it. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

But then came the sound of arrows again, the hiss of death in the air.

Pain exploded in his side, and Yunal fell to the ground, his breath stolen by the shock of it. Blood poured from the wound, staining the earth beneath him. He gasped, his vision swimming, and turned to his sister, praying, hoping that she had escaped.

But she hadn't.

Lani lay on the ground beside him, her eyes open but unseeing, arrows jutting from her neck and back. Her blood pooled around her, mixing with his own, and Yunal felt something break inside him. The pain of the arrow in his side was nothing compared to the anguish of seeing his sister, the girl who had always protected him, who had always been there, lying dead beside him.

He tried to reach for her, tried to call her name, but his voice failed him. He prayed for this nightmare to end, he prayed to the great shepherd and was unanswered. His body felt heavy, too heavy, and his vision began to fade. The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was the Dothraki—men on horseback, their faces twisted into smiles of cruel delight. They were happy, Yunal realized with a sickening jolt. They were happy to destroy, happy to take everything from him and no god cared enough to stop them.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

But death did not bring peace. No, what awaited him on the other side was a darkness so deep, so consuming, that it devoured everything he was. There was no rest, no release. Only pain—maddening, all-consuming pain that tore at his soul, shredding his mind until he was nothing but agony.

The darkness was alive, twisting around him, squeezing him until he couldn't breathe, until he couldn't think. His mind was a storm, a cacophony of screams and torment that echoed endlessly in the void. Time ceased to exist. Reason slipped away. There was only the pain, the unrelenting torment that clawed at him, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

He screamed, but there was no sound. He wept, but there were no tears. He was nothing. He was lost.

And then, through the darkness, came light.

It was gentle at first, a soft glow that cut through the void like a blade of mercy. But then it grew, brighter and brighter, until it burned away the darkness, until it consumed the torment, cleansing it with its warmth. Yunal felt himself pulled toward it, drawn into its embrace, and as the light wrapped around him, the pain began to fade.

The light took shape, and before him stood a boy—a boy with silver hair that shimmered like moonlight, with eyes the color of amethysts, glowing with a power and grace that Yunal had never seen. He was beautiful, perfect, like a god in human form.

Yunal felt the boy's care, felt his love wash over him like a balm, soothing the wounds of his soul. He no longer felt the pain. He no longer felt the torment. All he felt was peace, peace and awe as he gazed up at the boy.

How could such a perfect being look at him, broken and lost as he was, with such kindness? How could such a being of light see him as something worthy?

Maybe the tales of his grandfather weren't just tales. Maybe the Great Shepherd truly existed, and maybe this boy—this god—was his messenger or the god himself.

As Yunal's thoughts began to fade, as he drifted deeper into the light, he smiled. For the first time since the darkness had claimed him, he felt hope.

And then there was nothing but light.

scene*

Grey Worm stood on the crest of the dune, his dark eyes cast toward the distant horizon. The sun had long been blotted out by a thick veil of clouds that swirled like a maelstrom above them. Yet, even with the sky tearing asunder, the winds howling as if carrying the cries of the damned, and the earth beneath him trembling in agony, he felt no fear. He felt only the light.

Aegor's light.

The divine child, the god who had freed them from their chains, had gone to face a darkness that no mortal could withstand. Yet Grey Worm and the others—Aegor's army stood still, waiting, knowing with certainty that he would return. For Aegor had promised them a new world, a kinder world where no man, woman, or child would suffer beneath the yoke of another. A world where everyone would be free.

Grey Worm's faith had once been nothing. He had been an Unsullied, a soldier stripped of belief, emotion, and hope. But Aegor—Aegor had taught him that faith had value. That sometimes, faith was all that was needed for the impossible to be made real. Aegor was proof of that. A slave, like Grey Worm, reborn as a god—not to rule or oppress, but to guide and protect. To care for those who had nothing. It was a faith that Grey Worm had never thought he could ever have. Yet it now filled him completely.

He had seen it in the eyes of the others too—the men and women who stood with him, their gazes fixed on the heavens, waiting. There was no doubt in their eyes. No hesitation. Only faith. They knew Aegor would return. They all knew he would win. He had promised them freedom, and he had never broken his word. He had taught them to believe, and now that belief was their strength. Grey Worm knew, with every fiber of his being, that Aegor would not fall here. Not now.

The wind screamed louder, the ground beneath them cracked, and the sky turned pitch-black. But through the darkness, Grey Worm saw it—Aegor's light. It was faint, a distant glimmer in the storm of shadows, but it was there. It was always there. It was all he needed to know that everything would be alright.

And then it came—like a new star being born in the heavens. At the horizon, far beyond their sight, a light brighter than any sun flared to life. It grew, pulsating, until it filled the sky, banishing the darkness in an instant. The earth beneath Grey Worm stilled, the winds died, and for a moment, the world was consumed in the blinding radiance of Aegor's light.

Grey Worm shielded his eyes, but even through the brilliance, he felt no fear, no pain. Only warmth. Only peace.

When the light faded, he blinked and opened his eyes to a sight that took his breath away.

No longer did he stand in the barren desert, the desolate wasteland that had been their battlefield. Around him, the earth had transformed. Green fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, flowers of every imaginable color blooming in the soft grass. The sky, once choked by storm clouds, was now a peaceful expanse of blue, dotted with white, gentle clouds.

It was paradise.

Grey Worm felt his heart swell with something he was still not used to after all those years of servitude—happiness.

And then, in the distance, he saw him.

Aegor.

The boy who had once been a slave, now walking toward them as if he carried the light of the heavens itself. His silver hair shimmered like the stars, his purple eyes glowing with a radiance that was almost too pure to look at. His divine armor, which had shone like gold in battle, was gone, replaced by the simple clothes he had worn when they had first walked in the desert following him. His wings, which had once spread behind him like the wings of a dragon, were nowhere to be seen.

Yet there was no doubt in Grey Worm's heart that this was Aegor. His god. His savior.

Behind Aegor, thousands—no, tens of thousands—of people followed. Men, women, and children, their eyes wide with wonder and awe. They looked Lhazareen. They looked at Aegor the way sheep looked at a kind shepherd, following him without hesitation, without fear. They acted as if they had been saved from a great evil, as if they were the ones who had been spared from darkness due to Aegor's light, and they moved as if they knew, deep in their hearts, that Aegor would never lead them astray.

Grey Worm's legs moved before his mind caught up. He began walking, then running, toward Aegor, and behind him, the rest of Aegor's army followed. He could hear their footsteps, the whispers of his fellow soldiers, but his focus remained entirely on Aegor.

When he reached him, the boy smiled—a soft, radiant smile that made Grey Worm's heart ache with emotion. For a moment, Grey Worm stood in front of the god who had saved him, lost in the presence of the one who had given him something he had never thought he could have.

"You won," Grey Worm said, his voice thick with a feeling he wouldn't himself recognize.

Aegor's smile widened, the light in his eyes dancing like the stars. "Did you ever doubt me?" he asked, his voice as soft and kind as the first time he had spoken to him, as kind as when he went to fight against the dragon.

Grey Worm shook his head and smiled. It was an awkward one, the smile of something that truly didn't know how to but that wasn't less genuine. It was a real, human smile. He reached out and gently ruffled Aegor's silver hair, the way a father might do for a beloved child. "Never," he said quietly.

Behind him, the others began to cheer. The sound of their voices rose in a wave, calling Aegor's name, shouting their joy to the heavens. But Grey Worm barely heard them. His entire world was focused on the boy before him, the boy who had changed everything.

Aegor looked up at him, his purple eyes shining, and in that moment, Grey Worm's conviction about the world Aegor had said he would create, that the world they all dreamed of—the world of freedom, of peace, of kindness—it would be within their reach. They had all suffered. They had all bled. But they had not done so in vain. Aegor had led them, and they had followed, because they believed in him and in return, they were given victory.

And as Grey Worm watched the boy smile, brighter than the sun, he knew that their faith had never been misplaced.

The world was still. The earth was at peace. And, Grey Worm felt truly free.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the cheering, to the sound of Aegor's laughter, and once again in in his life, he allowed himself to continue to hope.

He allowed himself to continue to believe.

scene*

Was there anything more life-changing, more undoing, more endearing than sons?

Jon Arryn's pale eyes rested on the parchment before him, but his thoughts had already wandered far from the ink. Blood. Names. They weren't what truly made family. Family wasn't bound by the simple happenstance of shared blood. Sometimes, it was the ones who didn't share that bond who truly became yours. His lips curved in a rueful smile at the thought, old memories flooding his mind. He, Jon Arryn, had three sons. The world may think otherwise, but it was false. He knew it as truth in his heart, a truth as real as the mountains of the Vale that he loved so dearly. Robin Arryn, Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon—three sons, though only one bore his name.

It was because of them that he was in King's Landing. He had never wanted this city, its stench of rot barely hidden beneath the scent of perfume, the labyrinth of power games played in every corridor. No, he had wanted the Vale, his home, where the air was crisp, and the mountains stood sentinel. But the Vale was far behind him, a dream out of reach. His place was here now, because of his sons.

The world called it Robert's Rebellion, but Jon knew better. It was he who had struck the first blow against the Targaryen dynasty. He, Jon Arryn, who had called his banners when Aerys Targaryen demanded the heads of his foster sons. He had lost Egbert, his nephew and heir, to the Mad King's cruelty. He would lose no more. The day Aerys asked for the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon was the day Jon Arryn stood up and said, "Enough."

The Targaryens, closer to gods than men, had ruled for centuries, but even gods could bleed. He had not realized then what the fall of the dragonlords would mean. Replacing the Targaryens was necessary to keep the Seven Kingdoms from splintering into chaos, but in doing so, Robert had paid the price. He had watched as his foster son lost more than just a war—he had lost his parents to Aerys's ambitions, and the woman he loved, Lyanna Stark, to Rhaegar's abduction. The Robert he had raised, the one who dreamed of freedom and glory, had been forged into something harder, something darker. The boy who had loved the clash of swords and the thrill of battle was now a king who drowned his sorrows in wine and women.

Jon had known Robert better than anyone. He had raised him from a boy into a man, and like any parent, he understood his son's heart. Robert had never wanted to be king. He preferred tourneys to councils, feasts to ruling, the wild joy of battle over the burden of a crown. Jon had seen it in his eyes the day the crown was placed on his brow—something had broken in him. Robert had become a man wearing chains he couldn't see, but that weighed down every step he took. Jon could have returned to the Vale then, could have finished his days in peace. But how could he? To leave Robert in this viper's nest, with the likes of Tywin Lannister watching from the shadows, would have been a betrayal. So he stayed, cursing Aerys Targaryen, whose madness had stolen their future.

If not for Aerys, Ned would have been free to marry Ashara Dayne, the woman he had loved, rather than Catelyn Tully. Ned had been forced into a marriage of duty, just as Robert had been thrust into kingship. If not for Aerys, Ned would not have had to bear the burden of a bastard son, born out of guilt and honor. If not for Aerys, Robert would not have become what he was now, a shadow of the man he had been. Jon had thought they were free from the Mad King's shadow, but how wrong he had been.

A dark chuckle escaped him, bitter as poison. No, they were not free at all. He had read the letter over Robert's shoulder, a missive filled with dangerous whispers—Cersei Lannister, a bastard of Aerys Targaryen, conceived in secret upon Lady Joanna Lannister. He had dismissed it at first as nonsense, a ploy to weaken Robert's rule or to enrage him, for everyone knew Robert's hatred of the Targaryens burned hotter than the summer sun. Yet when Robert stormed toward his queen's chambers in a rage, Jon had followed, fearing what might happen.

What they found... Jon's hand shook as he recalled the sight. Cersei Lannister, locked in an embrace with her twin brother, Jaime, in a way no siblings should ever be. Her gown was loose, her lips too close to his. It was the way lovers should be, not kin. He had felt as though the world had spun off its axis in that moment, his mind reeling as Robert lunged toward them, the demon of the Trident reborn, the same man who had shattered Rhaegar's chest with a hammer. Robert had almost killed them both with his bare hands.

Jon had been forced to intervene, to beg his son to see reason. For a moment, he thought Robert might strike him in his fury, but then the king's rage turned into something else—hurt, raw and deep. But Robert had listened, had taken Jon's words to heart. Cersei was imprisoned in her chambers, Jaime Lannister thrown into the black cells by the Kingsguard, their disgust evident on their faces. That had been enough to give Jon pause, enough to make him wonder if there was more truth to the letter than he had first believed.

What if Cersei and Jaime were indeed bastards of Aerys Targaryen, born of the Mad King's cruelty? If so, it would mean the Baratheon dynasty was built on a lie, and Westeros could not afford to fracture now. Rumors of the letter had already spread, whispers traveling faster than ravens. Varys had confirmed it—copies had been sent to lords and ladies across the realm. Soon enough, Tywin Lannister would hear of it, and Jon knew the man would not take kindly to being branded a cuckold. The Lannister pride was a dangerous thing to wound.

But it wasn't just Tywin who worried Jon. It was Robert. The king was drowning himself in wine and whores, but once his rage returned—and it would—it would be fierce, unforgiving. What would Robert do to his children? Would he disown them, declare them bastards? Jon shuddered at the thought, though a part of him wondered if it would be the right thing.

Jon traced a finger over the worn page of an old book, a tome on the great houses of Westeros. Steffon Baratheon, son of Ormund Baratheon and Rhaelle Targaryen, had black hair and blue eyes. Steffon and Cassana Estermont, with her light brown hair and green eyes, had produced three sons—Robert, Stannis, and Renly—all with the unmistakable Baratheon look: blue eyes and dark hair. Even Jocelyn Baratheon, daughter of Alissa Velaryon, had inherited her Baratheon father's black hair and eyes. The only exception had been her purple eyes, a mark of her Velaryon blood, but even she had borne the signature Baratheon traits.

So why, of all people, did Robert have no legitimate children who looked like him?

Jon's thoughts wandered to Robert's bastards. He had made inquiries, discreetly. Every one of them had the Baratheon look, black of hair, and more than a few with Robert's striking blue eyes. The thought gnawed at him, something dark and terrible taking root in his mind. What if Robert's children were not his?

He looked again at the Lannister children. He saw no trace of Robert in them. He saw only Cersei, and—gods help him—Jaime Lannister. Jon gasped, his heart hammering in his chest. If Robert's children were not his, if they were bastards... the implications were too terrible to consider.

He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. If he had learned that Robin, his only trueborn son, was not his... it would have broken him. He thanked the gods that Lysa was a dutiful wife, that this was not a fear he had to face.

But what now? Jon stared at the ceiling, wondering if things could possibly get worse. In his heart, he knew the answer.

scene*

Was there anything worse than having everything and losing everything? Viserys Targaryen asked himself, a question that had come to haunt him for as long as he could remember. He'd had it all once—everything that mattered. Once, he was Viserys of House Targaryen, prince of all Westeros, heir to the Iron Throne. His mother had been loving, soft, and gentle in a way he still ached for, even if her face blurred in his mind as the years passed. His brother, Rhaegar, was more than a brother—he had been a beacon of light, a warrior, and a man of great honor. Rhaegar had been everything that Viserys wanted to be. He had a best friend in his niece, Rhaenys, who followed him around the Red Keep like a shadow, giggling as they played. She had been his joy, and her little brother, Aegon, though but a babe, had been someone he adored in his own quiet way. And his father… his father was a king. A kingly father, mad or not, who ruled a kingdom that stretched from the North to Dorne. He had been a Targaryen, born with blood that could unite the realm, his house proud and ancient.

Now, there was nothing. All of it, swept away like dust in the wind.

His brother Rhaegar had fallen first, at the hands of the usurpers. Dead, they said. His chest caved in by Robert Baratheon's war hammer at the Trident. Viserys had not seen the body but could picture it all too well. Rhaegar, with his silver hair matted in blood, his armor twisted and broken, lifeless and cold. His father had followed next, stabbed in the back by Jaime Lannister. One of the Kingsguard, someone who was supposed to die for the king, had instead been the cause of his death. A golden lion had sunk its teeth into the last Targaryen king. The thought of Jaime still made Viserys clench his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they drew blood.

But it was Rhaenys that made his throat tighten and his eyes sting with the threat of tears. His sweet niece, his best friend, had been butchered, stabbed at least half a hundred times. A little girl no older than four, her life snuffed out in a torrent of violence and cruelty. Her brother, Aegon, a mere babe, his head bashed against a wall. Viserys had heard the stories—how their bodies had been presented before Robert Baratheon, how the usurper had laughed, had been joyful in their deaths. Elia Martell, Rhaegar's wife, had not fared better. She had been raped, killed, her blood staining the halls of the Red Keep.

His father, dead. His brother, dead. His niece, his nephew, his sister-in-law, all dead. Viserys had been left with nothing. Except Daenerys.

His mother had been pregnant with her at the time, heavy with child as the storm clouds gathered over their house. Daenerys, his last remaining family. Daenerys, who had survived the birth that had taken their mother's life. It had been too much—too much for his mother to bear. The complications of childbirth, the stress of seeing her dynasty crumble, knowing that enemies surrounded them on all sides… It had killed her, and Daenerys had lived. Viserys had been just seven years old when it all happened, a child still reeling from the loss of everything he had ever known. He was the legitimate king of Westeros, but Westeros wanted nothing of him. Westeros had only ever taken from him and his family, taken and taken until there was nothing left.

They had fled to Essos after that. Fleeing in disgrace, escaping to a foreign land where no one cared that he was a Targaryen. For a time, it had been bearable. Ser Willem Darry had taken care of them, had given them shelter, food, and a semblance of stability. But even that hadn't lasted. Ser Willem had fallen ill, and when he died, everything fell apart. The servants had stolen what little they had left, taking their money and jewels, leaving Viserys and Daenerys impoverished and alone.

Soon after, they had been thrown out of the house in Braavos. He could still remember that day—the cold, the rain, the feeling of the world collapsing around him once more. It had only been him and Daenerys then. Two penniless orphans in a city that cared nothing for them. The last remnants of House Targaryen, reduced to begging in the streets.

Life in the streets had been nothing but merciless. Viserys had still been a child, but that didn't matter. The world wasn't kind to children, especially not children of fallen kings. They had to survive somehow. He had sold the remaining possessions that hadn't been stolen, and when that wasn't enough, he had become a beggar. Viserys Targaryen, the rightful king of Westeros, had begged for scraps of bread, for coins, for anything that could keep him and Daenerys alive. He had endured the mockery, the cruelty of strangers, the beatings that left him bloody and bruised. They had looked at him as if he were worse than dog dung, as if his very existence was a sin that needed to be stamped out. Sometimes, their disgust turned to violence. They would beat him, kick him, spit on him, and he could still remember the taste of blood in his mouth, the way it made him feel as if his life meant nothing.

There had been nights when he cried himself to sleep, when he wanted to give up, to stop fighting, to let the world swallow him whole. But he couldn't. He couldn't because of Daenerys. Daenerys, the sister he hated and loved in equal measure. Daenerys, who had taken their mother from him, who had been the cause of their mother's death. Daenerys, who was the only family he had left. Daenerys, who depended on him for everything. He had sold his mother's crown, the last thing he had of her, to feed Daenerys. There were weeks when he didn't eat so that she could. There were times when he had to kill to protect her.

She was his everything, and she was the reason he had to endure. She was the reason he couldn't give up. But he wasn't perfect. He knew that. He had given everything for her, but sometimes the way she looked at him—like he was a monster, like he was a disappointment—it cut deeper than any blade. How could she not see that everything he did was for them? For her?

The world called him the Beggar King. They looked at him and saw a jest, a boy who clung to dreams of a throne he would never sit on. He had begged for the support of magisters, wealthy men and women, triarchs, even slavers. He had done things no child, no king, no man should ever be forced to do, all in the hope of regaining their throne, of making Daenerys a queen. And yet, there were days when he couldn't help but hate her for it.

It had been in those desperate days that he had entered into talks with Illyrio Mopatis, a magister in Pentos. The talks had seemed promising. It was then that he had heard of the revolt in Astapor. A boy, they said, had risen from the dead to bring down the Good Masters. Viserys had dismissed it as nonsense at first. The fall of the Good Masters was believable, but a boy risen from the dead? It was the stuff of tavern tales. Still, something gnawed at him. The boy was said to be a pleasure slave, a former whore turned liberator. The usurper, Robert Baratheon, had put a ludicrous bounty on the boy's head, believing him to be Rhaegar's son, whisked away from the Red Keep all those years ago.

Could it be? Could this boy be Aegon, his nephew? The thought gripped him. Could there be another Targaryen in the world, another remnant of their family? The idea that they weren't alone, that there was someone else with Targaryen blood, was too powerful to ignore.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe the usurper had made an error. But if there was a chance—any chance—that they weren't alone, he had to see for himself. Viserys was a king, the rightful king of Westeros. But more than that, he had been a son, a brother, and if the gods were kind, he might still be an uncle.

Fate was shifting. The last remnants of the Targaryens would go to Astapor, not just for a throne, but for something far more precious—family

scene*

The world moved in cycles. Life itself was nothing but an endless loop of birth, growth, decay, and death, each phase feeding into the next. If there was one thing that life had taught me—one eternal truth that time had imprinted upon me—it was that change, in all its forms, was inevitable. It was the only constant, the only thing I could rely on in this shifting world. Even the strongest empires crumbled to dust, their glory forgotten, their power diminished. The dragon itself—the monstrosity that had devoured the souls of countless thousands—had learned this truth too late.

I could still recall the disdain in its voice, the casual arrogance with which it dismissed humanity. To it, humans were nothing more than insects to be crushed beneath its talons. We were weak, fragile, deserving of the suffering it had brought upon us, simply because we could not oppose its strength. It reveled in its power, believing that might made right. The souls it had consumed were, in its eyes, nothing more than the natural order of things. But that cruelty, that sense of superiority, had given me an idea—a way to punish it in a manner far more fitting than mere death.

Before I found myself in this body—before I awoke as a child slave—I had known of gods, of their hubris, of their punishments. My grandfather had filled my young mind with the myths of Greece, stories of Olympus and Tartarus, of Zeus's fury and Hades' unyielding grip on the underworld. I had learned to respect the lessons buried in those tales: that no one, no matter how powerful, was beyond punishment, that even gods could fall when they overstepped their bounds. It was from these stories that I took my cue. The dragon had seen itself as a god, above humanity, above justice. But like those ancient deities, it too could be brought low.

The dragon saw humanity as nothing but tools, toys to be discarded when broken. It took pride in its domination, its contempt for the weak, but I saw a far more fitting punishment. Its strength, its very essence, would be turned against it. I had taken the souls it had consumed—souls of the innocent, of the Lhazareen butchered by the Dothraki, of the slaves offered as sacrifices—and used them to fuel a miracle, a resurrection. I brought back those who had suffered unjustly, those who had known the whip, the sword, the flame, and gave them life anew. Even among the Dothraki, there had been innocents—children, women who had scorned the cruelty of their kin in silence. I resurrected them as well, giving them the chance to live free of the chains that had bound them.

But I did not stop there. No, the dragon's punishment needed to be complete. I could have killed it—could have erased its existence from the world—but that would have been too easy. Death was a release, an end to suffering. It deserved worse. So, I scattered its consciousness, broke its mind into a million pieces, and buried each fragment in the earth, in the plants, in the grass that now bloomed where the Dothraki Sea once stretched. It would watch—forever unable to act—as life thrived around it, as those it had sought to destroy flourished. Its essence, once so proud and mighty, was now nothing but a helpless observer, a powerless remnant of its former self. It could hate, it could seethe, but it could not touch the world it had once sought to control.

Some would call this vengeance, and perhaps it was. But justice and vengeance are not always so different. Justice demands balance, and what better balance than to force the dragon to witness the world it had tried to burn rise from its ashes, stronger than before? It would watch as the Dothraki, who had once ridden free across the endless grasslands, became nothing more than a memory, their empire erased, their lands transformed into a new Eden. A sea of green stretched before me, rivers and lakes winding through the landscape like veins of life. Flowers bloomed in every hue—vivid reds, deep purples, bright yellows, colors so brilliant they seemed to belong to another world. Each bloom carried meaning—rebirth, new beginnings, future joy. This land, once a desert of death, was now a paradise, a testament to what could be born from suffering.

The dragon had been reduced to nothing more than a silent witness to this transformation. Its ego, once vast and consuming, had been torn to shreds, leaving behind only a pathetic remnant, a dredge of what it once was. It could no longer influence, could no longer harm. Its punishment was to see its own legacy undone, to watch as the world thrived without it, despite it.

There was a certain cruelty in this, I knew. It was a torture of its own kind, forcing the creature to witness the triumph of those it had scorned. But cruelty, in this case, was not without justice. I had seen in my past life that even the greatest monsters among men could change, could be redeemed. Perhaps, in time, even this broken remnant of the dragon could learn, could see the error of its ways. But if it did not—if it remained as hateful, as spiteful as it had been—then its suffering would be nothing more than what it deserved.

Yet, a part of me felt unsatisfied. The Dothraki were gone, their cruelty extinguished, but the world was still filled with slavers, with those who profited from the suffering of others. Could I truly stop here, knowing that so many still lived in chains? Was I not just as guilty as those who held the whip if I did nothing to stop them? My soldiers, the ones I had resurrected, would follow me without question. They had died for me once, believing in my dream, and they would do so again if I asked it of them. They believed in me as the faithful believe in their gods, and if I led them into the fires of hell itself, they would march willingly at my side.

Even the Lhazareen, peaceful by nature, would pick up blades if I asked it of them. I knew this without reading their minds, without needing to speak a word. They would follow me because they believed in the world I promised to create—a world where the weak were not subjugated but strengthened by the strong, where cruelty and power did not reign supreme, but dreams and will.

And if they did not come, I could go alone. In a way, I was already a god to the people of this world. If I wished it, I could make fire rain from the heavens, as the God of the Old Testament had done to Sodom and Gomorrah. I could summon terrors from the depths of nightmares, horrors that would slaughter everything in their path. I had fought the dragon, and though it had been stronger, older, more powerful than I, I had emerged victorious. That battle had changed me—my magic was stronger now, sharper, more potent. I could feel it coursing through me like a river, a force of nature that could reshape the world if I so desired.

This was not a question of whether I could win, but of how I would. Of how I should.

The dragon had not been entirely wrong. Power was what allowed me to turn the impossible into the inevitable. Power had allowed me to heal and feed the slaves I had freed, to turn odds that should have crushed me into odds that favored me. And it was power that would allow me to break the chains of every slave in this cursed land.

But power alone was not enough. I had promised myself, when I awoke in the body of that dead child, that I would not become like the monsters I fought. I would appeal to reason, to human common sense. And if that failed, I would appeal to their fear—the fear of what I could bring upon them if they refused to change. The slavers of Slaver's Bay, the merchants, the free men who profited from the suffering of others—they had heard of me by now. They knew that I had eradicated the Dothraki, something no one in Essos had ever achieved. Even if they did not believe in the magic they heard spoken of in whispers, they would believe in the facts. They would believe that I was capable of doing the impossible.

Change, real change, had always come through violence. It was a hard truth, one that I had learned long ago. History had shown me that the threat of violence, or violence itself, was often the only way to reshape society. But I did not want to kill more than was necessary. I had seen enough death, heard enough screams to last a thousand lifetimes. And more than that, I was tired—mentally, if not physically.

I missed Astapor. I missed Nileyah.

But before I returned to the city I had freed, I would send letters—letters to the slavers of Slaver's Bay, to the cities of Essos that still practiced the vile trade. I would offer them a choice. They could end their practices willingly, or they could face the consequences. I would return to Astapor with my soldiers, and we would celebrate our victory over the Dothraki. We would feast, we would rest, and then we would wait. If those cities chose to resist, if they chose to test my resolve, I would show them what a true monster looked like.

I would give them the chance to avoid bloodshed. But if they forced my hand, I would shatter their chains, their cities, their lives. And when I did, it would be without regret.

Let them think me a demon. Let them call me a monster. If that was the price of freeing the world, then so be it.

scene*

To the Cities of Essos that Trade in Flesh,

You have built your wealth on the broken backs of the enslaved, your power drawn from suffering and shackles. For too long, your walls have stood high, your markets filled with the voices of those you have bound, voices I can hear. That time has ended.

I am Aegor of Astapor. My name has reached your ears, and you know or will learn soon enough of what I did to the Dothraki. Now hear this: your trade in slaves is to end. Cease your wicked commerce, free those you have bound, or face the same fate as those who dared defy me before.

You are given one choice: break your chains, or I will break them for you. Burn your markets, release your captives, or prepare for the storm that comes. Your armies will crumble, your cities will fall, and you will know what it means to be powerless before the wrath of the free.

This is not a negotiation, nor a plea. It is your only warning.

Your time is running out.

Aegor of Astapor

A man who once was a slave


Sorry for not having posted for so long. I hope this is enough to be forgiven. I have a soft spot for Viserys. Maybe its because of the fanfics but I think that he is a misunderstood a lot, a prince becoming a beggar, a prince who had everything who lost it, who humiliated and sacrificed himself constantly for a sister he loved, for a sister he had to sell the last thing he had from his mother to take care of when he was a child himself. Also, y'all see why Aegor hadn't talked in the letter about the incest? Anyways, hope y'all like the chapter. Comment what you liked or didn't like, questions you could have and critics of how I could have done better to improve my writing.

PS: I got a with two more advanced chapters of this story (at least 11K words together). With less than five dollars you have access to everything I write. More than that I had planned a lot of other interesting things that soon will be on the . Don't hesitate to visit if you simply want to read more or support me.