Aegon Targaryen/The Sword of Justice

The memory came unbidden, sharp and vivid, like a blade slicing through his thoughts.

It started with the cacophony of war—the deafening roar of artillery, the dull thud of boots on churned-up soil, and the staccato bark of gunfire. Aegon remembered the weight of his rifle, the grime that clung to every part of him, the way his breath came in ragged gasps as he and his squad pushed forward...…..

"Move! Move!" someone shouted, their voice barely cutting through the chaos.

They were pinned down in the ruins of a nameless town. Walls reduced to rubble loomed on either side, offering scant cover from the relentless barrage. Aegon crouched low, heart pounding, his senses on high alert. His teammates were scattered around him, shouts mixing with the guttural cries of the wounded.

"Incoming!"

The warning barely registered before the world erupted.

The blast tore through the space next to him, a pressure wave slamming into his side like a freight train. Aegon felt himself lifted off his feet, weightless for a brief, terrifying moment before he hit the ground hard. The impact stole the air from his lungs, and his vision blurred as dust and debris rained down around him.

Everything went quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that meant peace, but the oppressive silence that came with ears ringing after an explosion.

He blinked up at the sky, gray and choked with smoke, his body refusing to respond as he tried to move.

The ground beneath him was cold, damp with blood and dirt. His rifle was gone, lost somewhere in the chaos, and the taste of copper filled his mouth.

Aegon wasn't sure how long he lay there—seconds? Minutes? Time lost meaning. All he could do was stare upward, his mind a storm of fear and confusion.

And then…

The world shifted.

The smoke above him thinned, parting like curtains, revealing a light so bright it should have blinded him. Yet with the pain, there was also warmth—an overwhelming sense of light that wrapped around him like a blanket.

The light coalesced, forming a figure that defied description. Human, but not. Ethereal, but solid. Its voice, when it came, was not spoken but felt, resonating deep within his chest.

"You have done well, child of Earth."

Aegon's breath hitched. "What… what is this?"

"You stand at the edge of two worlds," the figure said, its tone neither harsh nor kind, but steady, unwavering. "Your time there has ended, but your journey has not."

He wanted to argue, to ask what the hell was going on, but the words caught in his throat.

"You have been chosen," the figure continued. "For your heart, for your will, for your belief in something greater."

"Chosen?" Aegon's voice was hoarse, his body trembling as he tried to push himself up. "Chosen for what?"

The figure didn't answer directly. Instead, it extended a hand, and in its palm was a spark—a tiny, golden light that pulsed with life.

"The world you go to is broken, as all worlds are. You will bring hope, strength, and My will. You will lead them to their Father. You will bring faith."

He stared at the light, his breath shallow. "I'm no saint. I'm just a soldier."

"You will be more… you will be My will on Arda," the figure said. "You will be the bridge between despair and belief, between weakness and strength. You will bring balance to the lives of those less fortunate. You will teach them about their Creator."

The light surged, enveloping him in its glow, and for the briefest moment, everything was silent and still. No war. No pain. Just an endless sea of light…

When Aegon opened his eyes again, he wasn't on the battlefield.

The desert stretched out around him, vast and endless. The sun beat down mercilessly, and his body felt… different. Stronger. He raised a hand to shield his face and froze at the sight of the dark, feathered wings that unfurled at his back.

And he knew, without fully understanding, what he had to do.

He recognized the gifts God had blessed him with, the purpose they served. He knew how to use them.

..................….The dream lingered in Aegon's mind like smoke, the edges of the memory sharp yet fleeting as he blinked himself awake. The soft light of dawn was beginning to creep across the horizon, painting the desert in hues of gold and amber.

He sat up, his wings shifting slightly as they adjusted to his movements.

The camp was quiet, the soft murmurs of the khalasar preparing for another day barely audible over the gentle crackling of a distant fire.

Across the camp, Daenerys stood near her dragons. Even in the pale morning light, she commanded an aura of strength. Her silver hair shimmered, and her eyes reflected the determination that had carried her through countless trials.

Aegon rubbed his face, the weight of the dream still heavy on his shoulders.

It wasn't the first time he had relived that moment—the moment he was chosen. But something about last night had felt different, more vivid, as though the memory had been pulled from the depths of his soul to remind him of the burden he carried.

He rose, brushing sand from his clothes, and stretched his wings, the motion catching the attention of a few curious Dothraki nearby. They whispered among themselves, their gazes a mixture of awe and fear. Aegon didn't mind; he had grown used to it.

As he walked through the camp, he spotted Daenerys approaching. Her expression was as unreadable as always, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.

"You looked troubled last night," she said, her voice low, meant only for him.

"Dreams," Aegon replied, his tone nonchalant despite the gravity of the memory. "Memories of a life that feels like it belonged to someone else."

She studied him for a moment, her head tilting slightly. "The gods often speak in dreams, don't they?"

"He does," he said, meeting her gaze. "But this time, I feel compelled to listen and act."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "And what do your gods tell you, Aegon?"

"Gods? There is only one God, my queen, and His name is Yahweh—the I Am," he said, his voice steady. "Though He didn't think to leave a guidebook."

Daenerys chuckled softly, a rare sound that warmed the morning air. "Perhaps purpose isn't something given. Perhaps it's something we find along the way."

He considered her words as they fell into step together, heading toward the center of the camp where the khalasar gathered.

"Maybe," he said, glancing at her. "But it helps to have a reminder now and then."

She nodded, understanding flickering in her eyes. "We all need reminders."

The day stretched ahead, filled with the endless march through the Red Waste. As the camp broke and the khalasar began their journey, Aegon found himself falling into rhythm with the people around him.

He caught glimpses of their lives—the quiet determination in the faces of the women, the protective stances of the men, the wide-eyed curiosity of the children. They reminded him of why he was here, of the words the figure had spoken to him.

Hope. Strength. Faith.

The road ahead was uncertain, but Aegon knew one thing for sure. He wasn't just a soldier anymore. He was something more.

He needed to test his skills. He looked around the khalasar for Daenerys; he needed to tell her he was leaving.

"This desert sand," he muttered, kicking at the ground. "So rough on my legs… didn't even offer me sandals." Looking at what everyone else was wearing, it made sense—they were all in rags.

He scanned the camp until he spotted her with Jorah.

"My queen," he called out as she looked at him.

"I will be leaving. I will bring back supplies," he said.

"We'll need water and food before the week is out," Daenerys said, her voice carrying the weight of her responsibilities. "But the Red Waste holds no kindness for wanderers. Be cautious."

Jorah frowned, his gaze heavy with concern. "The nearest settlements are leagues away, and the roads may not be safe. Raiders, wild animals… or worse."

Aegon gave them a nod, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'll manage. The air's a little quieter up there," he said, glancing at his wings. "I'll return soon—with supplies and perhaps some news of what lies ahead…..".

"I'll be on my way, my queen."

Stretching his wings, he braced his feet and lifted off, tearing through the air. As he rose higher and higher, he broke through the clouds, the sun bathing his body in warmth. He felt alive and strong—he felt free.

Letting his weight shift, he allowed himself to dive, plummeting back toward the earth. As he approached the khalasar, he flared his wings, sending a powerful gust of wind that stirred the sand and startled the horses below.

He chuckled to himself, exhilarated by the thrill.

Soaring higher again, he twisted through the air, pulling tight loops and barrel rolls. The desert gave way to the shimmering blue of the ocean, and Aegon pushed himself faster, feeling the wind roar past his ears.

He reached the ocean in record time and plunged into the cool water, the salt cleansing the grit of the desert from his skin.

Beneath the surface, the world was quiet, serene. When he broke through the waves, he swam to shore, sprawling onto the warm sand, his wings spread wide.

For the first time in a long while, he felt truly at peace. The sun dried his skin as he stared up at the endless sky, the sound of the waves lulling him into calmness.

The words from his dream echoed in his mind.

Hope. Strength. Faith.

He would rest for a moment, then rise again.