The study in the Red Keep was silent as an abyss, save for the soft, rustling sound of a quill sweeping across parchment—precise and steady, like an overture woven by power.
Aegon wore a simple black outfit, his silver hair tied loosely behind his head. He wore neither his iconic valyrian steel armor nor any ornaments that would flaunt his status.
Yet, even with such minimalist attire, set against his upright posture and lowered profile, he still carried an inherent, chilling majesty that was calm yet soul-crushing.
He leaned over the long table, his pen stroke steady as the ink spread. He was not reviewing government affairs, but outlining a completely new order of power, his strokes decisive and devoid of the slightest restlessness.
"The power of the old feudal lords, divided into three."
He murmured to himself, his voice as flat as if stating an established fact: "Military Warden, Civil Governor, and Honorary Titles. The separation of the three powers, checking and balancing each other, directly under the King."
The prototype under his pen was already an iron law sufficient to shake the thousand-year tradition of Westeros.
In his eyes, the upcoming Great Council was merely a ceremony to announce this order to the world.
Bang—the door to the study was pushed open from the outside, the force lacking its usual restraint. Rapid, slightly chaotic footsteps suddenly broke the silence of the room.
Margaery Tyrell appeared in the doorway.
Her light green skirt was stained with dust and somewhat disheveled. She was breathing slightly hard, her chest heaving gently from her rapid walk. On that face, usually kept elegant and composed, there was now only urgency, and even a hint of imperceptible panic.
Her eyes were fixed tightly on Aegon behind the long table, filled with an urgency that was almost overflowing:
Her gaze locked firmly onto the person behind the table, her voice taut:
"Your Highness the Prince."
Aegon's pen tip paused slightly, leaving a faint ink mark, but he did not look up. His gaze remained on the new policy on the parchment, as if the world outside collapsing was not as important as the order on the paper before him.
Margaery disregarded etiquette, her speech fast and clear:
"A septon of the Seven, calling himself the High Sparrow, is inciting a riot under the guise of distributing bread and appeasing the people. He has coerced a large number of commoners and is charging toward the Red Keep! When I arrived, the crowd had already rushed through the outer streets and was only two lanes away from the Red Keep plaza. The situation is critical!"
She was concise, pointing out the agitator, defining the event, and indicating the approaching threat.
As her voice fell, the study suddenly fell into a deathly silence, with only the faint noise from the distance outside the window, like the muffled sound of an approaching rainstorm.
Aegon slowly raised his eyes.
His violet eyes were like two pools of deep winter cold springs—indifferent, clear, and reflecting not a hint of disturbance.
There was no surprise, no anger, and not even a shred of the urgency or panic that should accompany a "critical situation."
He just looked quietly at Margaery, who was still catching her breath at the door, with those eyes that were so calm they made one's heart run cold.
He gently set down his pen and rose calmly. The black clothing accentuated his tall and straight figure. His fingertips brushed unintentionally against the scabbard of "Dark Sister" at his waist, his posture relaxed yet like a blade sheathed.
"Lead the way."
The two words were light, yet carried an indisputable decisiveness.
Margaery's heart tightened suddenly.
She had anticipated his anger, his coldness, or even a storm-like reaction, but she had never expected this... a near-void-like calmness and an extreme, concise decisiveness.
She dared not delay for even a second, not even having time to catch her breath, and immediately turned around: "Yes, Your Highness the Prince!"
Outside the Red Keep, the plaza was submerged by a crushing crowd. Roars and wails mixed together, surging toward the city gate like murky waves.
The heavy-armored knights of the Bloodsworn led by Henry were like a black iron forest growing out of the ground.
They stood silently in a tight formation. Their heavy plate armor gleamed with a dark luster under the gloomy sky. Tower shields stood erect, spears lined up like a forest, and the sharp tips pointed obliquely at the restless crowd.
There were no shouts, no intimidation, only a rock-like silence and steel-like discipline.
No matter how the crowd in front charged, roared, or even threw stones, the black line did not move a hair, only the occasional dull clanking of armor from the impacts.
Under Aegon's military rule in King's Landing, from the city gates to the Red Keep, there was no defensive line that could be easily shaken by a rabble.
Aegon walked slowly out of the tall gate of the Red Keep and came to a slightly higher stone platform in front of the plaza.
He did not walk into the military formation but stood there alone. His black figure, set against the shadows of the massive castle, did not appear tall, yet it strangely gathered all eyes upon him.
The clamor of the crowd, the moment he appeared on the heights, showed a distinct and eerie stagnation.
As if brushed by an invisible cold current, the boiling sound wave suddenly dropped significantly.
Many faces, previously furious or excited, froze involuntarily the moment they looked up and saw that black figure, an instinctive shrinking flashing in their eyes.
Just then, a more violent pushing and shouting occurred at the back of the crowd, as if something had been forcibly "pushed" out of the human tide.
A few zealots and ignorant commoners were practically carrying and pushing someone, ushering a person to the very front of the crowd...
It was the High Sparrow, barefoot and in grey robes, though now his face was pale.
He had never intended to confront this dragon-riding Targaryen prince head-on; inciting the crowd was more to create momentum and leverage, placing himself in the position of a "representative of public opinion."
But now, he had been forcibly pushed to the very front by fanatical believers and out-of-control rioters, facing the Dragon King directly.
To retreat meant the surging crowd behind him and the "believers" who might instantly turn against him; to advance meant the unfathomable Dragon King and the stern iron armor before him.
Riding a tiger and unable to dismount, he could only brace himself, clutching the worn-edged Seven-Pointed Star in his hand.
The High Sparrow first tried his best to make a slightly bowing gesture toward Aegon on the stone steps, attempting to maintain a surface-level humility and respect for royal power.
The expression on his face was a mixture of forced piety, deliberate compassion, and a hint of panic that could not be completely concealed.
"Your Highness the Prince, please calm your anger." He spoke, his voice struggling to stay steady, even carrying a hint of compassionate trembling to ensure the surrounding crowd could hear clearly.
"Those gathered here are not rioters or mobs, but pitiful children who devoutly believe in the Seven. They have suffered from war and displacement, are hungry and cold, and have nowhere to vent their inner distress. They only yearn for the comfort of the divine and have gathered here spontaneously, merely wishing to seek peace of mind and guidance before the holy altar."
He cleverly swapped the concept of "mobs storming the Red Keep" with "believers seeking peace of mind," binding himself and everyone to the banner of the Seven to seize the high ground of morality and legitimacy.
Then, he raised his eyes and looked at Aegon. His voice was not loud, but clear enough, every word leading the topic toward divine power, quietly touching the most sensitive boundary of secular royal power:
"We septons have always walked the world in the name of the Seven, enlightening the people and soothing their pain."
"We ask for nothing else, only hoping Your Highness the Prince can promise to let the Church retain its basic duties of serving the gods, so that these helpless believers may have a place for devout prayer, and that confused souls may have a faith to rely upon."
He paused, observing Aegon's expressionless face, and continued in that tone of pleading for the people, his voice becoming more earnest, the underlying probing becoming more obvious:
"Your Highness holds royal power and rules the Seven Kingdoms. If you can demonstrate reverence for the Seven and maintain the Church's due status, the hearts of the people will be at peace, and King's Landing will naturally be stable... After all, all the people in this world are children at the knees of the Seven."
"Only by following the glorious guidance of the gods can we cleanse the filth and maintain inner peace, and only then can this world truly be secure."
These words were wrapped in a sugar coating of humility, but inside, they were needles hidden in silk.
It sounded like pleading for survival space, but in fact, it was implying: the Church's recognition and support are the keys to winning the hearts of the people; the prestige of divine power is, to some extent, higher than or at least parallel to royal power.
If you want to sit firmly on the iron throne, you need to respect our Church.
He did not provoke directly, but under the pretext of being "coerced by public opinion," he brought the Church's political demands to the table, using the restless crowd behind him as leverage to force Aegon to respond on the spot.
Aegon listened quietly. In the depths of his violet eyes, there were no ripples, only a coldness of insight.
All the twists, calculations, soft coercion, and the ambition to use divine power to check royal power in the High Sparrow's words were, in his eyes, as clear as sunlight shining on ice.
Silence spread across the plaza, with only the sound of the wind and the restless rustling of the crowd. This silence was more unsettling than any scolding.
A moment later, the corners of Aegon's mouth slowly and slightly curved into an arc.
That was not a gentle smile, nor a symbol of tolerance. It was a very faint, very cold arc, as if it had condensed the deepest mockery and indifference.
It was the kind of almost pitying mockery that a beast shows when looking down at the insects that play tricks and think themselves clever before its claws and fangs.
He no longer looked at the High Sparrow's face, which was struggling to maintain composure, and couldn't be bothered to respond to those barbed remarks.
He just slowly raised his right hand, and then, toward the empty space beside him, waved it gently.
The movement was casual and understated.
As if he were merely brushing away a breeze.
ROAR—!!!
The next instant, the heaven and earth changed color.
A roar shook the heaven and earth, not coming from the distance, but tearing through the clouds out of thin air, crushing all other sounds!
A massive shadow, like a portent of the apocalypse, suddenly appeared from behind the clouds and then dived down at a speed that made hearts stop!
Wings that blotted out the sky unfolded. The tips of the wings seemed to slowly graze the roof of a tall residential house at the edge of the plaza, and that sturdy house built of bluestone, like blocks stacked by a child, shattered and collapsed with a boom upon the slightest contact!
And the towering towers of the Red Keep, against the backdrop of this ancient beast, actually appeared low and fragile!
Three dragon heads lowered, and six molten-gold vertical pupils looked down indifferently. A cold breath swept over the crowd; it was not fire, but it was more soul-shattering than fire.
That was an absolute crushing at the level of life, an instinctive fear from the depths of the soul toward an existence at the top of the food chain!
The crowd, which had just been crowded, restless, and deafeningly noisy, was as if struck by an invisible giant hammer.
People in droves, whether they had been fanatical or confused, angry or blindly following, now had weak legs, their knees uncontrollably hitting the ground, making a dull "thud" sound.
They knelt paralyzed on the ground, their heads pressed firmly against the cold, rough flagstones, their bodies trembling violently like leaves in the wind, even their teeth chattering.
Extreme fear gripped their throats, preventing even a whimper. The entire square instantly transformed from a boiling volcano into a deathly silent ice cellar, leaving only uncontrollable trembling and a suffocating sense of impending death.
The feigned compassion and composure on the face of the High Sparrow shattered and disintegrated the moment Ghidorah appeared and the dragon's might descended.
The color drained from his face instantly, leaving it as pale as a corpse. His legs went weak, and had he not struggled to hold himself up, he would have collapsed on the spot.
He could no longer hold the Seven-Pointed Star in his hand, and it fell to the dusty ground with a "clatter."
The bone-chilling, extreme fear, like the most venomous vine, instantly coiled tight around his heart, almost crushing it to pieces.
The cruel images of Aegon riding the demonic dragon to incinerate the Stannis Fleet and sweep away the rebels in King's Landing, and the miserable ends of those who dared to provoke his bottom line, flooded into his mind uncontrollably.
But he had been driven to a dead end; behind him was a crowd that was terrified but still capable of tearing him apart, and ahead of him was the cold Prince and the world-ending demonic dragon.
With no way to retreat, he could only rely on the last shred of superstition regarding the "Faith of the Seven" brand, squeeze the last bit of air from his lungs, and with a voice that had completely distorted and gone hoarse, he hysterically shouted his final—and what he believed to be his most powerful—"weapon" toward the black figure on the stone steps:
"Your Highness the Prince! You cannot! We are the servants of the Seven, the messengers of the gods on earth! If you harm the messengers of the gods, it is a blasphemy against the Seven, and you will surely face divine retribution! The gods are watching, and they will not forgive you..."
He brought up the Seven, brought up the faith, and brought up the illusory yet heavy-as-a-mountain divine punishment and retribution in the hearts of the people.
He believed that the supreme power in this world, aside from dragons, must be the gods.
He thought this would at least make the cold Dragon King hesitant, at least... dare not lay a hand on the "messengers of the gods."
However, his response from above the stone steps was a short, clear, and undisguised sneer of disdain and contempt from Aegon.
The laughter was not loud, but it was like an ice pick, piercing through all the delusional fantasies about divine power.
Aegon did not even look at the trembling commoners kneeling on the ground; his gaze, carrying an indifference that pierced through all pretenses, paused slightly on the pale golden giant shadow...
That was the extension of his will, the manifestation of his power, the "miracle" he believed in, one that was visible and controllable.
Then, that gaze slowly fell, locking back onto the High Sparrow below, whose face was ashen and who was trembling like chaff in a sieve.
In his violet eyes, there was no reverence for the gods, only a cold, almost cruel clarity.
"The gods?"
He spoke, his voice clear and sharp, not loud, yet strangely overpowering the wind and the lingering whimpers of fear, every word distinct, like ice beads striking a jade plate, echoing in the deathly silent square:
"A ridiculous excuse."
Five words, said lightly.
Yet it was as if an invisible giant hand had ripped, with a tear, the cloak of divine power that the High Sparrow, the Church, and they relied on for survival and expansion, exposing the pale, powerless, and fawning essence beneath.
As the words fell, Aegon offered no further opportunity for defense or performance.
The last trace of almost playful indifference in his eyes vanished, replaced by a pure, unquestionable resolve.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling calmly upon the steady figure in the black military formation.
"Henry."
The voice was steady, yet carried the chill of iron and blood.
"All the fanatics of the Seven who, in the name of divine power, incite riots, gather crowds to coerce, and usurp royal authority."
His gaze swept over the High Sparrow and the core members of the Church behind him, who were ashen-faced and had been pushed to the front by the believers.
"Including this so-called 'High Sparrow'..."
"Hang them all. Leave none behind."
The order was clear, cold, and left no room for negotiation. It was as if he were not sentencing a group of living people, but rather a pile of trash that needed to be cleaned up.
"Disperse the commoners immediately. Anyone who dares to linger here for a moment—"
He paused and spat out the last four words:
"Shall be treated as accomplices."
"By your command!" Henry's voice was as deep as a bell, without the slightest hesitation. He waved his hand sharply.
The Bloodsworn acted immediately, dragging the limp High Sparrow and the others out roughly.
The Soldiers, having long been prepared, quickly erected rough wooden scaffolds and threw up heavy nooses. The entire process was suffocatingly fast.
When the High Sparrow was dragged to the gallows and the rough noose tightened around his neck, the last glimmer of light in his eyes extinguished, leaving only boundless, hollow despair.
He finally understood completely that in the face of absolute, overwhelming power, and in the face of a monarch who despised all old rules and believed only in the authority in his own hands and the demonic dragon beneath him, so-called faith, so-called divine power, and so-called public sentiment... were nothing but fragile bubbles under the sun, bursting at the slightest touch.
Royal authority was now the only and supreme truth in Westeros.
The dull sound of the nooses tightening and the sight of the bodies swaying slightly in the air caused the remaining crowd below to let out suppressed, terrified whimpers, scrambling and crawling backward as they scattered, vanishing into the streets and alleys as quickly as a receding tide.
Soon, only the standing black-armored Soldiers remained in the square, along with the scent of blood and death permeating the air, and the silently swaying corpses.
Margaery stood slightly behind Aegon. From the shock of the three-headed demonic dragon tearing through the clouds to descend, to the absurdity of the High Sparrow hysterically invoking divine power, and then to Aegon's disdainful tearing away of the cloak of divine power and his cold order for execution...
These scenes, like heavy hammers, struck her perception again and again.
It left her limbs cold, her heart racing, and her unable to breathe. She finally realized one thing: the Prince sitting on the iron throne and riding the demonic dragon before her did not believe in the Old Gods, the Seven, or any illusory things.
He only believed in the authority he held in his hands, the world-destroying demonic dragon beneath him, and the rules and bottom lines he had set himself that could not be violated.
Any person or force that attempted to challenge, usurp, or use any pretext to touch his bottom line, no matter how deeply rooted or "sacred and inviolable" they appeared, ultimately had only one end: to be ruthlessly crushed.
Aegon no longer looked at the traces being quickly cleared from the square, and seemed to have forgotten the pale Margaery beside him.
He turned, took a step, and walked silently toward the open doorway of the Red Keep, his black back straight and his pace steady.
It was as if he hadn't just suppressed a riot that could have escalated into a catastrophe with iron-fisted means and publicly executed the leader of the Church, but had merely dealt with a few trivial, annoying matters.
Margaery subconsciously followed his footsteps. It was not until they were about to enter the shadow-covered corridor, far from the thick scent of blood and death in the square, that her consciousness seemed to slowly break free from the extreme shock and coldness.
Her chaotic heartbeat gradually calmed, but something deeper, mixed with lingering fear, realization, and complex emotions, pressed heavily in her heart.
She looked at the steady black back walking not far ahead. Her lips moved slightly, and finally, she softly asked the question that had been hovering in her heart, tinged with a late-coming trepidation and confusion, her voice sounding exceptionally clear in the empty corridor:
"I thought... with Your Highness the Prince's methods, you would execute everyone."
She was referring to the commoners who had been incited to storm the Red Keep.
According to her perception of Aegon as "cold" and "violent," and his previous ruthless style of dealing with enemies, every person gathered in the square today seemed likely to be swallowed by dragonfire.
Aegon's footsteps paused, almost imperceptibly.
He did not answer immediately, nor did he turn back. But that pause itself, in the silent corridor, was already a response.
A moment later, he slowly turned half of his face.
Light slanted in from the tall arched window, illuminating the sharp contours of his profile and that violet eye. There was no coldness or sharpness in his gaze, only a condescending indifference and cold pride.
As if he had heard an extremely naive, even somewhat ridiculous question.
"Thought I was a cold tyrant, a madman, a devil who only knows how to kill indiscriminately?"
Aegon's voice was calm, even carrying a faint, undisguised mockery—not directed at Margaery, but rather at some widely held, superficial imagination.
His gaze swept over Margaery's slightly pale face and turned toward the square outside the corridor, his tone as light as if stating the simplest of facts:
"Those people are just a bunch of incited fools, sheep blinded by empty slogans. Hunger, fear, blind obedience... nothing more."
He withdrew his gaze and looked forward into the deep corridor again, his voice clear, enunciating every word as if engraving an iron law:
"Killing them is meaningless. It would only dirty the blade, add unnecessary trouble, and create more pointless panic and hatred."
He paused slightly, and deep in his violet eyes, a faint light seemed to flash. His voice became even deeper, carrying an unquestionable, almost law-like certainty:
"I have my own principles in doing things."
"I do not show unprovoked mercy or overflow with sympathy; that is weakness, a root of disaster."
"And I am not unprovokedly cruel or wantonly murderous; that is stupidity, self-destruction."
He finally turned his head, his gaze like a cold blade, gently sweeping across Margaery's face, cold and firm:
"Above the bottom line, a chance for life may be granted."
"Below the bottom line, exterminate them all."
As the words fell, Aegon did not linger and walked straight into the deep shadows of the Red Keep, his figure slowly swallowed by the pillars, leaving only a cold, hard aftertaste in the corridor, deeply branded into Margaery's heart.
She finally understood.
This was not the cruelty of a Mad King, nor the weakness of a mediocre king.
This was the iron law of the Dragon King.
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