The Red Keep loomed majestically atop the summit of Aegon's Hill.
This castle, which had witnessed the rise and fall of the Targaryen Dynasty, swayed slightly in the aftershocks of the tremors, dust falling like the final gasps of a dying giant.
Before the castle's main entrance, broad stone steps stretched upward, leading to the heavy oak doors studded with bronze nails.
At this moment, the stone steps were a mess, covered in dust, rubble, and decorative fragments fallen from the walls.
Aegon stepped onto the highest stone step.
He removed his hideous dragon-winged helm, revealing a handsome face, his long silver hair whipping in the gale that carried the scent of dust and char.
A suit of pitch-black valyrian steel armor clung to his body, outlining his tall and powerful frame; the armor was dark, yet it shimmered with a cold, restrained luster under the bleak sky, much like his gaze.
Behind his shoulders, a red cloak snapped fiercely in the wind.
He came to a halt and looked up at the castle before him.
The dark red walls stood in silence, their tower spires piercing the grey sky.
This was his birthplace, the starting point of all his pain, his wandering, and his obsession with revenge.
Fragments of memory regarding his family, fire, the usurped throne, and his slaughtered kin should have come surging back at this moment.
But that thought only flickered in the depths of his violet eyes, like a pebble cast into a deep pool, stirring an imperceptible ripple before sinking into total silence.
In the end, only an unfathomable coldness and indifference remained, like the surface of a frozen lake.
The past was gone.
This place would be where he settled all old scores and brought everything to an end.
Behind him stood a suffocatingly silent military formation.
Black banners with three-headed red dragons flew high at the very front of the array, making a sound like tearing cloth in the gale.
Centered around these, countless banners spread out in succession, the black and red colors like spreading fire and shadows, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Tens of thousands of troops stood in strict formation, silent as the grave. The warriors of the Ash Company were clad in plate armor, like a moving forest of steel, their murderous aura thick enough to be tangible; the elites of the Bloodsworn wore scarlet cloaks, like silently burning flames, scorching and lethal.
Countless spears stood straight and tall, their tips reflecting the piercing cold light of the sky, converging into a scalp-tingling metallic glare.
This vast, deathly silent, and poised army seemed to weigh down the entire Red Keep with its sheer mass and killing intent, making it gasp for breath.
The tightly closed, heavy gates of the Red Keep were like a final, fragile, and stubborn barrier, attempting to use oak and bronze to withstand the storm that had already swept through the city and crushed everything in its path.
Aegon scanned the doors indifferently, his voice calm yet possessing an undeniable penetration that reached the ears of every Soldier:
"Open the gates."
There were no roars, no challenges, only three simple words, yet they contained an irresistible will.
As his voice fell, a squad of burly elites already on standby, clad in fine black plate armor, stepped forward without a word.
Their steps were heavy and unified, their footfalls striking the stone steps with a dull echo.
Over a dozen men lined both sides of the gates, their large hands in heavy gauntlets grasping the massive bronze rings and bracing against the hinges and edges.
Without a chant, at the lead man's low grunt, everyone exerted force simultaneously.
Creeeeeak—!!!
The piercing, heavy sound of friction echoed across the plaza, penetrating the doors and stabbing into the depths of the Red Keep, tearing through the heart-pounding silence both inside and out.
The main gates of the Red Keep, which required the combined effort of several men to move, slowly opened inward amidst the screeching sound, unstoppable.
Inside the hall was a silence deeper than a grave.
Joffrey sat slumped on the cold stone floor, his body trembling uncontrollably, the sound of his teeth chattering exceptionally clear in the stillness.
He was gripped by boundless fear, not even daring to breathe heavily, as if the slightest exertion would draw the gaze of the terrifying existence outside the gates.
The cold pressure seeping in from the cracks of the doors, the stone walls, and from all directions was so heavy it made his chest tighten, his heart filled with an overflowing dread.
Just as he was nearly driven mad by fear, the ear-piercing sound of the gates opening was like a rusty nail scraping over bone, making his entire body stiffen.
He looked up as if struck by lightning, his bloodshot eyes staring in terror at the gates.
Blinding light poured into the dim Throne Room through the slowly widening gap like a bursting dam.
The light was so intense that Joffrey's vision momentarily went white; he could barely open his eyes. He instinctively raised a hand to shield them, his fingers trembling violently.
As the white light faded and his vision refocused, the scene outside instantly froze his blood, and his heart seemed to stop beating.
He saw the banners.
The black banners with three-headed red dragons flying all over the sky were like a churning sea of wrath, or like burning black flames, dancing wildly in the gale. The sound of their snapping merged into a deafening roar, battering his eardrums and his crumbling nerves.
Beneath the sea of banners was an army.
A boundless, silent, and murderous army.
Black armor and red cloaks, their metallic cold light merging into a tide of death.
Spears stood like a forest, their tips like stars, silently pointing toward the sky and toward him. The dark mass of the military formation stretched from the doorway to the end of his vision, as if filling the entire hill, the entire world.
There were no battle cries, no clamor, only the absolute silence of an impending storm and approaching death. This silence was more chilling than any shout.
And at the very front of all the banners and Soldiers, outside the wide-open gates, stood a figure backlit by the sun.
Black armor, silver hair, his figure as straight as a spear.
Light flooded in from behind him, casting a cold silhouette; his face was hidden in shadow, save for those violet eyes. Even from a distance, Joffrey could clearly feel the indifference within them, like ancient ice.
The man stood quietly, looking down from above like a god atop the clouds, gazing at the vermin shivering beneath a stone.
Behind and to the side of the black-armored figure, a even more massive and terrifying shadow crouched on the ground.
Pale gold scales shimmered with an inhuman luster in the light. Three hideous heads were lowered, and six molten gold vertical pupils, like six cold suns, stared indifferently into the hall.
Its mere presence radiated an aura of world-destroying destruction, causing the very air to solidify.
Joffrey's throat felt as if it were being squeezed tight by a cold hand; it was dry and constricted, unable to make any sound.
His legs went weak uncontrollably; if not for leaning against a stone pillar, he would have collapsed. The boundless army before him, the god-like figure at the door, that giant beast whose mere existence made his soul tremble... all of it sent a chill deep into his bones, and his blood seemed to freeze.
No! He was the King! He was the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! He couldn't be afraid! He couldn't show weakness before rebels!
A surge of rage, mixed with extreme fear and twisted pride, slithered up his heart like a dying venomous snake.
Joffrey used all his strength to push himself up, still leaning heavily against the stone pillar—his final support.
His face was pale and his lips trembled, but he forced his chest out and stiffened his neck, screaming at the figure at the door in a shrill, shaking voice that he tried his best to make sound majestic, reciting that long list of titles he believed were supreme, hoping to intimidate the opponent with his status:
"I... I am Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon, the First of His Name! King of the andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!!"
"You... how dare you trespass into the Red Keep? This is treason! A capital offense! My grandfather... my grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister's army is in The Riverlands! He will surely march east and tear all you rebels to pieces! Not one will be spared!"
He stared fixedly at Aegon standing against the light, trying to see fear or hesitation on the other's face, wanting to use the military might of the Westerlands and Tywin's fearsome reputation to force him back.
Yet he knew himself how weak this bluster was. The tangible pressure washing over him had already turned his knees to jelly; the only thing keeping him upright was a final bit of mad vanity and fear.
Aegon looked at him.
Looking at this "King," pale-faced, blustering, and barely able to stand without the support of a stone pillar.
Looking at this clown who had ordered the head of Eddard Stark to be cut off, who had personally dragged the Seven Kingdoms into the fires of war, and who mistook tyranny for majesty.
There was no surging killing intent in his eyes, no pent-up anger, not even much hatred. There was only a high-level indifference and disdain, as if looking at a maggot in a puddle.
He spoke slowly, his voice not loud, yet it clearly pierced the air like a cold iron hammer, striking Joffrey's heart word by word, as well as the souls of every survivor in the Throne Room:
"King of the Seven Kingdoms?"
Aegon tilted his head slightly, as if examining a ridiculous object, and then spat out words enough to tear away all of Joffrey's pretenses and pride in a tone so calm it was almost a statement of fact:
"I only see a bastard who hasn't grown up, throwing a tantrum in the mire of power."
These words were like a thunderclap, like a red-hot iron, searing Joffrey's most sensitive and fragile nerves.
The word "bastard" completely set him off.
Joffrey's face instantly flushed red, then turned an ashen green from extreme rage and humiliation, his features twisting into something both hideous and pathetic.
Like a stray cat whose tail had been stepped on, like a madman whose facade had been pierced, he screamed in rage, his voice so shrill it nearly tore his throat:
"I am the King! Is the lawful, only, and true master of the iron throne! What are you?! A fraud calling himself a Targaryen who popped out of nowhere! A bastard! How dare you speak to me like this—! You are not worthy!!!"
He roared hysterically, his limbs flailing wildly as if he were about to pounce and tear Aegon apart, yet his feet remained nailed to the spot, and he even involuntarily backed away, pressing tightly against the stone pillar.
He appeared to be in a towering rage, but the trembling in his voice betrayed him; his eyes darted around in panic, not daring to truly meet Aegon's cold gaze.
Clearly shaking with anger, his reason nearly incinerated by rage, yet his physical instinct kept him from taking even half a step forward. He only stood there in impotent rage, like a spoiled child who had his toy taken away—only daring to cry out but not to act.
Aegon merely watched his performance with indifference, as if watching an absurd farce, his expression unchanging, his violet eyes devoid of any ripple.
Only when Joffrey's incoherent, foul-mouthed roaring ceased, leaving him gasping for breath, did Aegon speak again, his tone flat as if commenting on an irrelevant past event:
"I heard it was you who personally ordered Eddard Stark's head to be cut off."
Joffrey was taken aback, not expecting the other to suddenly mention this. Then, a surge of twisted pride and lingering brutality rushed to his head; he tilted his chin up, though his voice was still shaking:
"So... so what if I did? That northern traitor deserved to die! I—"
Aegon interrupted him, his voice betraying no emotion, yet it caused the latter half of Joffrey's sentence to stick in his throat:
"You did well to cut it off."
Joffrey was stunned again, his pupils shrinking slightly, somewhat confused. A flicker of absurd hope even flashed through his mind... Did this Targaryen agree with his actions?
But Aegon's next words instantly snuffed out his rising hope and all his bluster, freezing them into ice:
"An ill-timed head fell, causing the North to drift away, The Riverlands to be engulfed in flames, the Seven Kingdoms to fall into chaos, the people to suffer, and blood to flow like a river."
Aegon's tone was as flat as if he were discussing the weather.
"All that trouble, exhausting the people and draining the treasury, so many deaths—all for your spur-of-the-moment 'majesty'."
"Joffrey Baratheon," he said, using the full name for the first time with undisguised mockery, "I suppose that counts as one of your few accomplishments."
This was no praise.
This was the most stinging and thorough sarcasm, stripping away all his cruelty, stupidity, and self-importance, exposing them to everyone.
The color drained from Joffrey's face instantly, leaving him even paler than before.
He opened his mouth but couldn't make a sound, only strange rasping noises coming from his throat. Extreme humiliation, the fear of being seen through, and a premonition of his impending fate mixed together, nearly driving him insane.
He wanted to curse, to argue, to roar, but all his words were blocked in his chest, turning into cold despair.
Seeing his frantic state, terrified to the extreme yet still clinging to his ridiculous dignity, Aegon found it utterly tedious, not even worth another look.
He looked away as if Joffrey were already a piece of filth not worth his attention. In a tone as flat as if he were ordering a servant to dispose of trash, he delivered the final, irrevocable judgment:
"Take him out."
"Behead him."
These five short words, clear and calm without any emotional fluctuation, were more powerful than any thunderous roar. They instantly exploded in every corner of the Throne Room, cutting off all the chaotic thoughts, lingering rage, and pathetic excuses in Joffrey's mind.
The expression on Joffrey's face froze; first came stunned disbelief, as if he hadn't heard clearly or couldn't understand the meaning of those words.
Then, the stunned disbelief was completely swallowed by a tsunami of extreme terror.
"No—!!!"
A shrill, inhuman scream, mixed with despair, collapse, and a deathbed struggle, erupted from his throat, piercing the silence of the Throne Room.
"I am the King! I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! Joffrey the First! You can't do this to me! You can't—!! My grandfather is Tywin Lannister! The armies of the West will not let you get away with this!"
"Mother! Mother, save me!!!"
He roared incoherently, tears and snot flowing down his face. He struggled desperately with his hands and feet, stumbling backward as if trying to shrink into the stone pillar, into the very walls.
But all resistance was futile.
Two expressionless elites of the Ash Company standing nearby stepped forward. Their movements were swift and rough, their arms like iron pincers as they firmly grabbed his flailing arms on both sides.
Joffrey's pathetic strength was not worth mentioning before these battle-hardened warriors.
He was like a picked-up chick, his feet kicking the ground in vain as he was forcibly dragged away from the stone pillar he leaned on, toward the gates flooded with cold light.
Aegon never looked at him again.
Amidst Joffrey's shrill cries, screams, and desperate pleas for mercy, Aegon lifted his foot and stepped into the Red Keep Throne Room.
Valyrian Steel boots stepped on the cold, smooth obsidian floor, making a steady, clear sound like a hammer striking everyone's heart, carrying an aura that crushed and dominated everything.
He walked past the kneeling, trembling courtiers and guards, past the tapestries bearing the tattered sigils of Baratheon and Lannister, paying no mind to the dusty, magnificent furnishings on either side.
Reaching the center of the hall, he paused slightly.
Without turning around, his back to the wide-open gates and the struggling, wailing Joffrey being dragged away, Aegon's cold voice rang out again, like an ice pick driving into the ears of every survivor:
"Remember to send his head to Cersei."
As his words settled, he did not linger. He resumed his steady and firm pace, walking slowly toward the end of the hall, toward that hideous and twisted iron throne forged from countless swords.
Outside the hall, Joffrey's distorted cries, screams, desperate curses, and pleas for mercy, mixed with the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of the Soldiers, carried clearly into the hall. They echoed beneath the soaring dome, shrill and piercing, like a final elegy for the old era.
Then, at the moment all the sounds reached their climax...
A short, heavy, dull thud of a sharp weapon severing flesh and bone was heard.
All the cries, screams, and curses... stopped abruptly.
A complete, absolute silence once again enveloped the Red Keep, inside and out. Only the sound of the wind remained, moaning as it passed through the wide-open gates and the ruined castle.
Aegon's footsteps did not pause for a moment.
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