Aegon Reborn: The Last Targaryen

The sea had been cruel. For weeks, the ship fought against violent storms, its crew cursing the unnatural winds. Yet, despite the hardship, Jon never let the egg out of his sight. Each night, the whispers returned—soft, distant echoes in a language he barely understood.

But now, at last, land lay ahead.

Jon stood at the bow as the ship approached the great port city of Pentos. Towering domes and spires stretched toward the sky, banners of wealthy merchant lords fluttering above bustling docks. Unlike the cold and desolation of the North, Pentos was alive—filled with people from every corner of the world.

A man approached, his thick beard streaked with gray. The ship's captain, Moreo, had been reluctant to take Jon aboard but never refused good coin.

"This is where you leave us, Snow," Moreo muttered. "We sail no further."

Jon gave a nod. He had no intention of staying aboard any longer than necessary.

As the ship docked, Jon adjusted the pack on his back. The weight of the dragon egg felt heavier now, as if it knew it was closer to its true home.

Ghost moved beside him, silent as a shadow. Few dared to meet the direwolf's gaze.

The moment Jon stepped onto the docks, the air changed. A feeling stirred deep within him—familiar yet distant. It was not the wind, nor the heat of the southern sun. It was something else.

Something watching.

Jon moved carefully through the streets, avoiding unnecessary attention. He needed information, a place to stay, and most importantly—someone who understood dragons.

Pentos was a city ruled by its wealthiest magisters, but Jon had no desire to deal with politics. Instead, he sought out the ones who truly controlled the streets—the merchants, the spies, the sellswords who traded in knowledge.

In a dimly lit tavern, he finally found what he was looking for.

An older man, dressed in faded silks, leaned against the bar. His eyes were sharp, watching everything. He was speaking to another patron in hushed tones, but Jon caught one word that made him freeze.

"Targaryen."

Jon approached cautiously, keeping his voice low. "You know that name?"

The man turned, studying Jon with an amused smirk. "Aye. Who doesn't? The Dragonlords may be gone, but their name still stirs whispers in the right places."

Jon met his gaze. "I need someone who understands dragons."

The man raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I'd know such a thing?"

Jon slowly unfastened his pack, just enough to reveal the edge of the egg beneath the furs. The man's breath caught, his eyes widening.

For the first time, he looked at Jon not as a stranger, but as something more.

"The last time I saw an egg like that," the man murmured, "it belonged to Daenerys Stormborn."

Jon tensed at the name. Daenerys. His queen. His greatest sin. His deepest regret.

The man leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You're not the only one looking for dragonfire, Snow."

Jon's grip tightened on the table.

Somewhere in the Free Cities, the legacy of the Targaryens was stirring. And Jon Snow was about to walk straight into it.