The firelight still burned low in the throne room of Dragonstone.
Outside, the waves broke endlessly against the black cliffs.
Inside, Jon-Aegon stood over the map table, fingers steepled, thoughts turning toward Bravos.
Gold
Power in numbers, but power also in coin. Wars are not won by banners alone. They are won with ships paid, swords hired, mouths fed, and for that, he needed the Iron Bank. The Warp was always there now, just beneath his skin. Not wild. Not loud. But patient. Controlled. Obedient to his will. He reached across the void. Not as a man begging. As a force.
A quiet suggestion in the dark corners of the Iron Bank's chambers. A whisper behind the ears of gold-counting old men.
"Invest in certainty. Invest in fire. A new king is rising, and he will remember who helped him first."
The messages came in layered thoughts, not words. A dragon's shadow flickering across a vault door. A memory of coins burning in the sun. The feeling of profit. The scent of survival. Across the sea, quills scratched. Sealed chests were loaded onto sleek black ships. They would sail beneath false flags, but their destination was clear.
Dragonstone.
Jon stepped back from the table. The mental effort cost him nothing. Not anymore. He had learned to bend the Warp like a blade. Subtle. Controlled. Sharp only when needed. He turned toward the doors, expecting silence. Instead, he heard it. Boots on stone, Fast. Light. Familiar.
Ghost growled low, then froze. Not in warning. In recognition. Then she stepped into the throne room.
Arya.
She was unchanged, yet entirely different. Leaner. Sharper. Eyes like storm steel. She wore no dress, no jewels—just dark leather and blades hidden in folds. The assassin. The wolf. The girl who had walked through death and returned without fear. Jon's breath caught. For the first time in years, his voice broke with warmth. "Arya?" She smirked. "Who else?"
Jon stepped down from the throne. They stood before each other—not as king and subject, not as lord and rogue—but as siblings. Bound not by blood alone, but by pain, by exile, by truths no one else could understand. He embraced her. She didn't resist." I heard the whispers," she said."A dragon is flying over the sea. Ships gathering at Skagos. Someone with silver hair."
She looked up at him, " your not him anymore." "No," Jon said quietly. "I'm not. I'm Aegon now. But I remember Jon. You remind me." "I'm glad you came."
He smiled, faintly. "
They spent hours walking the castle together. Old stone, familiar shadows. They passed empty halls, whispered of ghosts and children once lost. Arya asked nothing of the throne, only of him. He told her everything. He told her everything. The guilt.The exile.The change. Arya listened in silence. When he finished, she only said, "She made her choice. You made yours." Then, "You carry it well.
They sat on the battlements as the sun sank. The sky burned red behind Drogon's silhouette, perched like a god above the cliffs. Jon turned to her."I need you, Arya. Not as a Stark. Not even as a sister. I need your skills. Your silence.Your judgment." He looked down. "I want you to be my Shadow. To walk where I cannot. To strike what I must not.
Arya was quiet. Then, "Your shadow?" "And more," Jon said. "In time. When the world is reshaped. When all the blood's been spilled and buried—You will be something more. name feared in silence. A blade unseen. Something only you could ever be." Arya stood. She drew the blade. Needle. She knelt on one knee.
"Aegon of House Targaryen," she said. "I swear myself to your cause, your banner, and your will. I will be your shadow." She rose. And added: "But not just your shadow. When the time comes, I will be more." Jon met her eyes emotion passed. Something old and strong settled between them.
That night, they sat together in the solar, the room dimly lit by flickering candlelight. Arya rested her hands on the table, her gaze fixed intently on Jon's elbows as he leaned forward. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken thoughts.
That night, they sat together in the solar, the room dimly lit by flickering candlelight. Arya rested her hands on the table, her gaze fixed intently on Jon's elbows as he leaned forward. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, Arya broke the quiet. "So… who will be the queen?" she asked, voice calm but probing. Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. "I've been thinking about that. The only real option… would be Sansa. But I don't trust her."
Arya hummed thoughtfully. Then she spoke again. "How about me?" Jon's eyes shot up in surprise, nearly stumbling over his words. "W-what? You?" She smirked and shrugged. "What? Didn't Targaryens almost always marry their cousins or sisters?" He nodded slowly, still a bit shocked. "Yeah… but—" Arya cut him off with a sly grin. "But what? You'd rather marry someone you can't trust, plus the north would further support you, and if you manage to find dragon eggs, the Dragon riding will only be kept in House Targaryen. We don't want a repeat of what happened in the Dance of the Dragons, do we ?"
Jon's gaze met hers, and he nodded
That Early morning, Dragonstone moved like a waking beast.
Coffers opened.
Shipwrights forged.
Letters flew to the Vale, the Reach, the Stormlands.
And in the heart of the castle, Dragon and a wolf stood over a map of fire and blood.
Arya pointed to the Vale.
Jon marked the Stormlands.
Together, they drew the first lines of conquest.
Together, they cast the first shadow over the realm.