Cersei and Tyrion were tightly bound with coarse ropes, like two bundles of livestock awaiting slaughter, and were roughly dragged off the high platform by Soldiers with cold expressions.
Cersei no longer maintained the charming pose she had deliberately struck moments before; her magnificent gown dragged through dust and blood, and her golden hair clung messily to her pale cheeks.
She ceased struggling, her eyes gazing hollowly ahead, as if her soul had been completely drained away.
Tyrion's small frame was forcibly dragged along; he kept his eyes closed and said nothing, his face devoid of expression, save for his lips, which were pressed into a rigid line, betraying the deathly silence within his heart.
Aegon stood still in place.
On the blades of the two valyrian steel sword, viscous beads of blood slowly gathered and dripped, blooming into small, striking, dark red patterns on the ground.
The soft, rhythmic tapping sound was heart-stoppingly clear in the deathly silence.
He raised his eyes, his gaze cold as a blade, and cast it directly toward Lord Leyne, who stood to one side of the high platform, already terrified out of his wits and nearly collapsing.
This lord of Duskendale had, not long ago, held bread and salt in his hands, using his family honor and the neutrality of his lands as a guarantee, attempting to use the ancient guest right to maintain a fragile peace and his own safety.
At this moment, however, he was drained of all color, his legs trembling like leaves in an autumn wind; he could barely stand, and were it not for the support of his attendants, he would have collapsed on the spot.
Under Aegon's cold, emotionless gaze, Lord Leyne felt as if his heart were about to leap out of his throat.
He mustered the last shred of his crumbling lordly dignity, stumbled half a step forward, and bowed deeply, his voice trembling and out of tune, mixed with a sob and bone-chilling fear:
"Your, Your Highness... your grievances with the Lannister have been settled. Gregor Clegane is dead, and Queen Regent Cersei and Hand of the King Tyrion have also been brought to justice."
"Duskendale has absolutely no intention of being your enemy. Could you... please show mercy and depart with your army? My House Rykker will surely remember your grace, and we will never dare to be enemies with the Targaryen again..."
His words were intermittent and full of begging, seeking only to send away this god of plague as quickly as possible to preserve his castle and his life.
Aegon let out a low scoff; the laughter emanated from beneath his helmet, dull and cold, devoid of any warmth, carrying only bone-chilling indifference and contempt for the struggles of an ant.
"Did you think," he said slowly, his voice carrying the cold, metallic texture through his visor, "that I led my Fleet across the Narrow Sea, descended here riding a dragon, and mobilized a great army to surround King's Landing... just to take a fleeting look at your Duskendale and then leave?"
Before more fear and confusion could surface on Lord Leyne's pale face, Aegon's voice suddenly deepened, every word clear, cold, and overbearing, like a heavy hammer striking an anvil, declaring an unchangeable fact:
"From this day forth, Duskendale, along with its lands, castle, Port, taxes, subjects... everything, belongs entirely to me, to the Targaryen."
"This place shall serve as the outpost and foundation for our army's advance on King's Landing."
Lord Leyne's face turned deathly gray in an instant, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks, as if he were being strangled by an invisible hand, a suffocating sensation crashing down upon him like a mountain.
He jerked his head up, staring at Aegon in disbelief, his eyes filled with extreme panic, absurdity, and the despair of a desperate situation. His hereditary fief, his family foundation, centuries of heritage—how could it be stripped away with a single sentence?
"Impossible!!" A shrill roar broke through the shackles of his timidity, mixed with fear and unwillingness, bursting from his throat.
"This is the hereditary fief of House Rykker! It is a legitimate territory granted by the iron throne and witnessed by the gods! You have no right to do this! This is naked plunder! This is trampling upon the thousand-year legal tradition of Westeros!"
As if clutching at a final straw, he pointed to the tray on the ground containing the remaining bread and salt, his voice sharp:
"Furthermore, your representative, Prince Oberyn, has already accepted the bread and salt of Duskendale! You have also set foot here! The guest right is sacred and inviolable!"
"How can you accept my hospitality and protection, only to turn around and seize my foundation! This is oath-breaking! This is blasphemy! You will surely be forsaken by the gods and rejected by the world...!"
"No right?"
Aegon repeated these two words, his tone flat, yet carrying a chill that made the soul tremble.
He took a step forward, his armor emitting a cold, hard clatter in the silence. His gaze, like cold iron, was nailed straight onto Lord Leyne.
Lord Leyne felt a cold, heavy pressure descend upon him; the slaughter he had just witnessed, the shadow of the dragon outside the city, the undried blood on the other's twin swords, and that frigid aura of one who had been through mountains of corpses and seas of blood, instantly crushed his remaining courage.
His legs could no longer support him, and with a "thud," he fell heavily to his knees, his knees hitting the stone slabs with a dull sound.
He trembled violently all over, cold sweat soaking his clothes, his teeth chattering uncontrollably; he had lost even the courage to look up and meet Aegon's eyes, and could only grovel on the ground like a fledgling bird being watched by a falcon.
Aegon looked down from above, his dragon-winged helmet slightly lowered, his cold gaze seemingly able to pierce through armor and stab into the depths of Lord Leyne's trembling soul.
His voice was flat, but every word was as heavy as a thousand jun, smashing onto the deathly silent square, and also shattering the last shred of hope in the hearts of Lord Leyne and all the watching nobles:
"Before the true dragon, strength is the only authority. So-called legal tradition, so-called grace, are nothing but history written by the victors, fairy tales used by the weak to deceive themselves."
"guest right?" He shook his head slightly, his movement full of disdain, "It is merely a fragile shackle that you weak ones use to bind yourselves and beg for the mercy of the strong."
"You use it to protect yourselves, and also to restrain those who dare to break the game. Unfortunately..."
He paused, his voice suddenly as sharp as a drawn valyrian steel sword:
"I am not here to play this hypocritical game with you. I am Targaryen; I return from blood and fire. From this day forth..."
His gaze swept over the groveling Lord Leyne, swept over the pale-faced nobles and Soldiers of Duskendale below the high platform, and swept toward the terrified commoners in the distance; his voice, like a final judgment, clearly reached the ears of everyone:
"I, Aegon Targaryen, am the law."
Lord Leyne's face was deathly gray, his lips trembling violently, but he could not utter another word of protest.
All courage, persistence, legal principles, and traditions seemed pale and ridiculous under the cold gaze of the three-headed dragon that cast a mountain-like shadow outside the town, and before this true dragon who regarded the thousand-year rites and laws of the Seven Kingdoms as nothing and believed only in absolute strength.
Resistance was nothing short of a moth flying into a flame; it would only drag the entire Duskendale and House Rykker to be ground into dust together.
He bowed his head deeply in despair, pressing his forehead against the cold, dirty stone slabs, his body trembling uncontrollably from fear and total submission.
Duskendale, this mighty town that House Rykker had managed for centuries, changed hands with a single declaration.
Aegon could not be bothered to look at him again, as if he had merely disposed of a trivial matter.
He turned and faced the Ash Company officers and Soldiers standing solemnly below the high platform, who had just witnessed the bloody trial and the change of power, his voice crisp and decisive, without any hesitation:
"Pass the order: The Ash Company is to immediately occupy the Duskendale castle and main camps. Take over the city defense, warehouses, and armories; inventory the provisions, ordnance, and horses. The original garrison of Duskendale is to be disarmed, gathered, and held for screening and disposal."
"The Bloodsworn are to maintain order within the town, impose an early curfew; those who wield weapons without authorization, spread rumors, or loot during the chaos are to be executed immediately without pardon."
"The logistics officer is to tally the provisions and plan supply routes. The scout unit is to extend thirty miles outward and monitor all movements in the direction of the Crownlands."
One order after another was clearly issued, and Duskendale, having just experienced a drastic change, was quickly brought under the control of the war machine under Aegon's command.
The massive main force of the army moved into the fortified town in an orderly fashion, provisions and supplies were stockpiled, and the defense system was rebuilt.
Duskendale, from a neutral territory of House Rykker, instantly transformed into a forward fortress and offensive springboard for Aegon Targaryen's sword pointed at King's Landing.
On the high ground outside the town, Ghidorah folded its sky-covering giant wings, like a loyal guardian deity, and also like a terrifying deterrent, resting quietly.
Aegon stood on the highest terrace of the castle, gazing into the distance at the faint sails in Blackwater Bay, and further west, in the direction of where the iron throne lay beneath the twilight haze.
The evening breeze stirred his dark red cloak, making it flap loudly.
He issued the final order in a deep voice; it was not loud, but it carried a metallic clang, piercing through the thickening twilight and reaching the ears of the standing generals:
"All troops, prepare."
"Target..."
He raised his hand, pointing straight to the west, where King's Landing lay.
"King's Landing."
A Personal Guard stepped forward quickly, knelt on one knee, his voice suppressing excitement: "Your Highness, Lord Jon Connington has sent a fast rider with military intelligence. The Stormlands army has moved north at full speed, has not encountered strong resistance, and has now entered the heart of Kingswood."
"The vanguard scouts report that within three days at the latest, the advance force can reach the southern suburbs of King's Landing and complete the land encirclement of the capital."
Aegon nodded slightly, his expression indiscernible beneath the dragon-winged helmet, save for a flash of cold, sharp light that vanished deep within his purple eyes.
Duskendale applied pressure from the front, with the vanguard pointing directly at the Blackwater River and Mud Gate.
Clinton moved north from the Stormlands, swept through Kingswood, and arrived at the south of King's Landing.
The pincer movement from north and south had already been forged.
That capital of the Seven Kingdoms, standing on the north bank of the Blackwater River, surrounded by high walls and possessing the Red Keep, was now like a branding iron placed on an anvil, besieged by flames and iron pincers from all sides, already a turtle in a jar.
In just a few days, everything that happened in Duskendale was like a wild hurricane, and like a spark igniting a prairie, sweeping across the entire Crownlands at an alarming speed, then spreading to The Riverlands, the Vale, the Westerlands, The Reach... until every corner of Westeros.
In the trial by combat, Aegon, with overwhelming force, brutally and slowly killed Gregor Clegane.
Riding the three-headed dragon Ghidorah, he intimidated the entire scene with dragon might, ignored the guest right, and brazenly seized the hereditary Duskendale of House Rykker.
He openly declared that strength is authority and that he is the law, trampling underfoot the noble legal traditions, vassal rights, and sacred laws that had been passed down for a thousand years in Westeros.
One by one, these events violently impacted and overturned the understanding of order and the moral bottom line that the nobles and commoners of the Seven Kingdoms had relied on for centuries.
Panic spread like a plague.
The lords held emergency meetings in the secret chambers of their castles, their expressions grave, their voices low, filled with worry for the future and fear of the unknown.
This Targaryen was different from Aegon the Conqueror, different from King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and even different from the Mad King Aerys, who was known for his cruelty.
He was younger, more powerful, wielded giant dragons and a terrifying Fleet, acted without restraint, and despised all rules even more.
Commoners whispered to each other in the streets, taverns, and markets, their faces filled with awe and confusion.
The legend of the dragon's return had become reality, and it was far more terrifying than the legend.
That Dragon King arrived with dragons, bringing thunder and destruction, regarding nobles as grass, and seizing cities and lands as if reaching into a bag to take something.
The old lords became prisoners overnight, and hereditary castles changed hands.
The sky, it seemed, was truly about to change.
Thus, one by one, names that made people pale at the mention, filled with fear and slander, quietly circulated in the shadows of the Seven Kingdoms, in cautious whispers, like ominous ghosts attached to the dragon's shadow:
The Cruel Aegon.
The Blasphemous Aegon.
The Lawbreaker.
The Unbound Dragon King.
People whispered that this descendant of the Targaryen who returned from across the Narrow Sea, from the land where Valyria was destroyed, was more violent and unpredictable than the Mad King Aerys.
He was more arrogant, more unpredictable, and more terrifying than any Targaryen monarch in history.
What he brought was not a restoration of glory, but a reshaping with iron and blood; it was the death knell of the old world.
When the attendant carefully reported these derogatory titles, which were rapidly fermenting at the bottom and gradually seeping to the top, to him, Aegon was standing alone on a high hill to the west of Duskendale.
This place was less than a day's ride from King's Landing.
On the distant horizon, amidst the interweaving of twilight and night mist, the vast, blurred outline of King's Landing was vaguely visible.
Countless messy, low roofs were like gray waves, crowding around the taller shadow in the center of the city; that was the Red Keep, the fortress symbolizing the rule of Baratheon and Lannister, its spires like blood-stained spears, piercing the gloomy clouds.
That was the heart of the Lannister power in King's Landing, the place where Joffrey sat on the iron throne, and it was also the first and most symbolic peak he must trample on his path of revenge and conquest upon his return.
Aegon gazed quietly at the city shrouded in twilight and ominousness, his expression motionless beneath the dragon-winged helmet.
Those titles full of fear and slander reported by the attendant...
The Cruel, The Blasphemous, The Lawbreaker, The Unbound Dragon King—none seemed to stir even a ripple in his heart; there was no anger, nor disdain.
After a moment of silence, the corners of his lips, beneath the cold and ferocious faceplate, slowly curled into a faint, cold, and extremely cruel smile.
That smile carried no shred of humanity, only the indifference of looking down at ants struggling and waiting to be harvested, as well as a deeper omen of destruction.
He spoke softly, almost to himself; his voice was not loud, but it strangely pierced through the moaning of the evening breeze, echoing clearly over the empty hills, and also seeming to resound in the depths of every soul that trembled in fear at his name:
"Cruel?"
He paused, his gaze seeming to pierce through space, seeing those figures in King's Landing who were fearful, cursing, or making their final resistance.
Then, he continued in a tone so calm it chilled the bone marrow, every word like ice, smashing into the deepening night:
"Then I will let you see—properly—"
"What true cruelty is."
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