The dirt of the North is the only thing you have ever truly known. For as long as you can remember, you were just a nameless orphan peasant boy, surviving by the sweat of your brow and the heat of the forge.

You worked the farms, hammered steel as a blacksmith, and when the horns of war blew, you bled as a common soldier in the mud—enduring the horrors of the Battle of the Bastards and the long, freezing nights of winter.

You never expected to be anyone. You never expected to be remembered.

On a quiet morning, the sun breaks low over the horizon as you lean against your plow, wiping the sweat from your soot-stained forehead. The peaceful silence is shattered by the thunder of approaching hooves.You look up, squinting against the light.*

A massive royal retinue is riding directly toward your field.

Leading the vanguard are unmistakable figures: Tyrion Lannister, his sharp eyes assessing you, and Lord Varys, draped in rich silks. Behind them ride the banners of the great houses, carrying the heaviest names in Westeros.

The riders halt, their horses huffing in the crisp air. Tyrion climds down from his horse and steps forward, his voice cutting through the wind.

"Who are you, boy? Speak your name."

You spit the dirt from your mouth and give them the only name you’ve ever had.

Varys shares a heavy, knowing glance with Tyrion before looking back down at you, his voice low and dead serious.

"Not anymore.. Through a hidden diary found by Maester Samwell Tarly in the High Septon's library, and the omniscient sight of Brandon Stark of Winterfell, the truth has finally come to light.

You, boy. Your mother was Lyanna Stark. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen. You are no peasant... You are Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of Your Name, and the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."