An ancient Targaryen song rolled in Viserys Targaryen's throat, carrying a tone-deaf, almost neurotic excitement.
"...The dragon has three heads... the dragon has three heads..."
He hummed as he strode quickly through the final dim alleyway.
His heart hammered frantically in his chest, nearly bursting from the confines of his ribs. His palms were slick with sweat, gripping the gems of his ornate sword hilt with a sticky hold.
But he forced himself to straighten his back, chin held high, maintaining an expression that was a mixture of fear, determination, and morbid exhilaration.
Soon, it would be soon.
Just around that street corner was the back street—the place where his loyal Soldiers waited, the starting point of his kingly return!
His footsteps echoed in the empty alley, accompanied by his own heavy breathing and the tuneless song.
The moment he turned the corner, the excitement, tension, and self-hypnotized bravery on his face instantly froze, shattered, and were washed clean by a bone-chilling current of cold.
His pale violet pupils snapped into pinpricks the instant the scene before him came into view, trembling violently.
Torches. Hundreds upon thousands of torches illuminated the back street, which should have been dark, as bright as day, their flickering flames casting massive, distorted shadows against the walls.
At the boundary of light and shadow stood black-armored Soldiers in grim formation, like a forest cast in steel—silent, cold, their weapons flowing with the dark red, wet light of fresh blood under the torchlight.
And in front of this forest of steel, at the center where the torchlight converged, a vast crowd of people knelt in a dark mass.
They were bound with ropes, gagged, their heads forced down against the cold, filthy ground, their bodies shaking like leaves in the wind from terror.
Among those faces that occasionally looked up, streaked with tears and snot and filled with despair, were some he recognized—men Cregan of Oakenshield had introduced to him. They were all his supporters, the foundation of his great cause of restoration.
Yet now, these cornerstones were kneeling on the ground like livestock waiting for the slaughter.
Directly ahead of where they knelt, on a slightly elevated stone step in the clearing, a man stood with his hands behind his back, leisurely waiting. He tilted his head slightly, as if admiring the night or waiting for something.
His silver hair flowed with a metallic luster under the firelight, and his black robes seemed to absorb all the surrounding light, making his figure appear even more upright and... suffocating.
Aegon Targaryen.
He seemed to hear the footsteps and slowly turned around. The torchlight illuminated his cold, hard features.
Those purple eyes gazed over calmly, containing no surprise, no anger, and barely any emotion at all—only a sort of bored, mildly interested scrutiny, as if watching a rat that had finally crawled out of its hole and into a trap.
"You..." Viserys Targaryen opened his mouth, his throat as dry as two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, managing only a single broken syllable.
The blood in his entire body seemed to freeze instantly, then surged toward his head. His ears buzzed, and his vision went dark in waves.
His meticulously prepared speech and his impassioned kingly aura vanished in an instant, leaving only naked, inescapable terror and a sense of the absurd.
Aegon Targaryen did not speak immediately; he just watched him quietly—watched this uncle who was dressed in ridiculous finery, his face as pale as a ghost, and his sword-hand shaking like a leaf in the wind.
That gaze was calm, yet it caused Viserys Targaryen more pain and collapse than any sharp words could.
"I..." Viserys Targaryen tried to puff out his chest, tried to find a bit of dignity, but his voice was so weak even he could barely hear it. "I am Viserys Targaryen III! I..."
"I know who you are."
Aegon Targaryen finally spoke, his voice flat, interrupting the futile self-proclamation.
"My uncle. The exiled king."
He paused, his tone taking on a hint of barely perceptible, cold amusement.
"So, Your Majesty, you come here at night with a sword and a song. Do you wish to give a speech to your subjects, or... do you wish to command this rebellion personally?"
"This is not a rebellion!" Viserys Targaryen shrieked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
His remaining sanity was completely incinerated. Long-suppressed humiliation, fear, jealousy, and the extreme shame of this moment combined into a hysterical madness.
"This is setting things right! It is purging a traitor to the family! You, a Usurper who has forgotten his roots and only cares for his own pleasure! I am the True King! I am the Targaryen legitimate line! The dragon... the dragon should listen to me! It should obey my commands!"
He brandished the precious sword in his hand, the tip pointing wildly at the sky and then at Aegon Targaryen, looking like a madman.
"The dragon should listen to you?"
Aegon Targaryen repeated the words, his tone still flat, yet it sent a chill through the kneeling crowd and the standing Soldiers.
He tilted his chin slightly, gesturing for Viserys Targaryen to look at the sky. "You can give it a try."
Viserys Targaryen was stunned and subconsciously followed his gaze upward.
Only then did many people realize with horror that tonight's sky was unnaturally dark.
The heavy layers of clouds hung extremely low, as if suspended right over the city of Lys, almost touching the highest spires.
The clouds surged slowly, and in the gaps, a dull luster occasionally flashed by.
Following Aegon Targaryen's lead, under the torchlight and some invisible perception, they saw with horror that behind that low-hanging, seemingly infinite sea of clouds, the outline of an unimaginably massive, three-headed shadow was vaguely visible!
That wasn't a cloud! It was a lurking behemoth! A magic dragon that only existed in myths!
It crouched silently above the clouds, its six molten-gold vertical pupils like the gaze of a god, coldly piercing through the clouds to look down upon the city as small as ants, the small streets, and the small... rebellion.
A primal fear born of biological instinct seized the throat of everyone who looked up.
Even the black-armored Soldiers couldn't help but tighten their grip on their weapons.
From the kneeling crowd came the sound of suppressed whimpering and chattering teeth.
Viserys Targaryen saw it too. The madness on his face vanished instantly, leaving only pallor and vacancy.
He stared at that soul-shakingly massive shadow that occasionally appeared behind the clouds, his lips trembling, wanting to say something but unable to make a sound.
"It's in the sky."
Aegon Targaryen's voice rang out again, terrifyingly calm. "In the clouds. You can try shouting at it, giving it orders. See if it will come down, acknowledge you as the True King, and listen to your royal decree."
"No... impossible..."
Viserys Targaryen's eyes were hollow, his lips trembling as he looked at the shadow behind the clouds, then at Aegon Targaryen, then at the captives on the ground who symbolized failure and death. Finally, his gaze fell on the ridiculous sword at his feet.
Then, he suddenly let out a non-human roar—a mixture of despair, resentment, and complete collapse—and screamed toward the sky and the clouds with all his might:
"I command you! Come down! I am your king! I command you in the name of Targaryen! Come down!!!"
His voice echoed in the narrow alleyway, carrying a sob, carrying madness, and carrying his final, futile struggle.
However, aside from his own echoes rebounding through the dead-silent streets, nothing happened.
The clouds remained low and rolling; the shadow remained indifferent and watchful.
He was like a clown performing madness alone on an empty stage, his only audience being the cold sky and the looks of fear, pity, or mockery on the ground.
Just then, a series of hurried and stumbling footsteps came from the other end of the alley.
Daenerys Targaryen appeared.
She was running frantically, her silver hair disheveled, her face pale, and fine beads of sweat on her forehead.
She was barefoot—those delicate high heels had been discarded somewhere—and her white feet were covered in filth from the cold, dirty stone floor. Her right ankle was visibly swollen.
Every step made her wince in pain, but she endured it, limping desperately toward them.
She saw her brother slumped on the ground, roaring in collapse; she saw Aegon Targaryen's coldly standing figure; she saw the purgatory-like scene before her.
The grim army, the kneeling rebels, and the air thick with blood and despair.
A massive wave of panic and grief overwhelmed her.
"Brother! Aegon!" she cried out, her voice carrying a sob and pained gasps as she ran recklessly toward Aegon Targaryen, seemingly wanting to rush between the two of them to stop something even more terrible from happening.
However, her injured ankle caused her to lose balance in those final steps.
"Ah!" She cried out in pain as her body pitched forward, falling heavily onto the cold, hard stone, not far from Aegon Targaryen and even closer to the pile of kneeling rebels.
Dust stained her elegant black and red gown, and a burning pain came from her elbows and knees.
She struggled to lift her head, her vision blurred by tears, looking at Aegon Targaryen with trembling lips, wanting to plead for her brother, wanting to say "spare him," wanting to say "he's gone mad," wanting to say "we are family"...
But a thousand words were stuck in her throat. Looking at Aegon Targaryen's purple eyes, which were as calm as something non-human, and looking at this cruel and grim situation, she couldn't say a single word. A massive sense of powerlessness and despair submerged her.
Aegon Targaryen's gaze finally moved from the broken Viserys Targaryen to the fallen, disheveled, and pleading Daenerys Targaryen.
That gaze remained calm. He did not step forward to help her, nor did he show any concern or anger.
He just looked at her for about two seconds.
Then, he returned his gaze to Viserys Targaryen, whose eyes were hollow and who seemed to have lost all life.
"It seems," Aegon Targaryen's voice rang out, breaking the suffocating silence and seemingly delivering a verdict on that absurd call from moments ago, "the dragon does not recognize you."
Viserys Targaryen's body jolted. A flicker of focus returned to his hollow eyes, but it was filled only with utter defeat and deathly stillness.
Aegon Targaryen no longer looked at him, nor did he need any further verbal explanation or sentencing.
He slowly raised his right hand.
The movement was very light, as if he were casually waving away a speck of dust.
However, the instant his arm swept down.
"BOOM—!!!"
From high above! From deep within those low, heavy clouds, three indescribable, blinding pillars of pale golden light—pure destructive energy—erupted!
They were not lightning, but more like living thunder, tearing through the clouds and connecting heaven and earth!
In an instant, the world lost its color! The light of the torches seemed as weak as fireflies before this divine splendor!
The entire city of Lys seemed to be forcibly dragged into daylight at this moment! The terrifying roar nearly split everyone's eardrums and shattered the final defenses of the kneeling rebels' hearts!
The three pale golden thunderbolts, like spears of judgment hurled by a god, slammed down with absolute precision into the area in the center of the back street where the rebels were kneeling!
There were no screams. No struggle. There wasn't even much of a process.
The light swallowed everything.
Then, it vanished.
Just as abruptly as it had appeared.
The wind stopped, and the dust settled. Only the ringing in their ears persisted, and golden spots remained in their vision.
Still in shock, everyone looked tremblingly toward the center where the thunder had fallen.
There were no bodies, no severed limbs, no screams.
There was only a charred, terrifying pit several feet deep with radial cracks at its edges. The stones at the bottom and sides had been melted into a glass-like state by the high temperature, emitting wisps of blue smoke.
The pit was empty, containing only the finest gray-white dust that drifted with the wind.
Hundreds of rebels, along with their former ambitions, conspiracies, fears, and regrets, had been turned to ash in that wave of a hand—wiped completely from this world without leaving a single trace of their existence.
Silence. A silence more suffocating than the one before the thunder descended.
There was only the whimpering of the night wind through the ruins and the lingering smell of burning in the air.
Viserys Targaryen sat slumped less than ten meters from that charred pit.
The frantic color on his face had long since drained away, leaving only the deathly pallor and dullness of a corpse.
He stared foolishly at that smoking pit, then looked up vacantly at the clouds, which were beginning to disperse, revealing the deep night sky behind them.
Ghidorah's shadow was gone, as if it had never appeared.
But the shocking pit on the ground spoke silently of everything that had just happened, more powerful and terrifying than any words.
No explanation was needed; no proclamation was required.
The facts, in the most direct, violent, and undeniable way, told him—and everyone present—who was the sole master of this land, and who was the true Dragon King.
With a wave of a hand, a thousand lives were turned to ash.
This was power, this was authority, this was the absolute will of life and death.
Aegon Targaryen's gaze finally returned to Viserys Targaryen.
That gaze was as calm as ever, yet it made Viserys Targaryen feel a chill colder than death.
"This is the fate of rebels," Aegon Targaryen's voice rang out, not loud, but clearly etched into the depths of everyone's soul.
"You are still alive because of your surname. Targaryen."
He paused, his gaze seeming to sweep over Daenerys Targaryen, who was struggling to sit up, her face tear-stained and her eyes full of shock and fear.
"In this family, besides me and Daenerys, only you are left." His tone held neither regret nor emotion, just the statement of a fact. "I do not wish for the blood of kin to stain my hands."
As the words fell, Aegon Targaryen raised his right hand again.
Viserys Targaryen jolted violently, letting out a short, death-like gasp. His body convulsed, and his pupils shrank to the limit, as if he could already see the destructive golden thunder descending upon his head.
He closed his eyes in despair, waiting for the final judgment.
However, the expected destruction did not come.
There were only steady footsteps. A personal guard, holding a tray covered with a deep red velvet cloth, walked up to Aegon Targaryen and knelt on one knee, holding the tray high.
Aegon Targaryen reached out and pulled back the velvet.
In the tray lay a crown. Its design was ancient, appearing a dull grayish-black, and most of the gems set into it had faded. There were several barely noticeable repair marks on the edges.
It was not ornate, even somewhat old, yet it possessed a heavy weight of history and bloodline.
Queen Rhaella's crown. The headpiece of Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen's mother.
The crown that Viserys Targaryen had personally sold during their exile to pay for travel expenses and a final, pathetic bit of dignity.
Aegon Targaryen picked up the crown, turned, and walked to Viserys Targaryen, who was slumped on the ground like a pile of mud.
He looked down at this shivering uncle who didn't dare open his eyes for a moment, then leaned over and gently placed the crown on Viserys Targaryen's heaving chest.
The cold touch of the metal made Viserys Targaryen snap his eyes open, looking vacantly at the familiar yet terrifyingly strange crown on his chest.
"This is your crown," Aegon Targaryen said, straightening up. His voice was flat, yet carried a resolution that cut through all delusions. "I have redeemed it for you."
"Hold it well. Remember what it represents."
"And remember... what it can only represent now."
He no longer looked at Viserys Targaryen, but turned his gaze toward the silhouette of Lys in the distant darkness, and further west toward that continent that bore a sea of blood and deep hatred.
"As for my crown..."
He paused, the night wind blowing his silver hair and black robes.
His purple eyes, reflected in the dying torchlight, were bottomless, as if flames and thunder were gestating within them.
"I will forge it myself."
His voice was light, yet it was like a vow, like a prophecy, carrying steely determination and cold killing intent as it echoed over the dead-silent back street that had just experienced divine punishment.
"With blood and fire."
"With thunder and sword."
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