Aegon's voice, like an invisible cold current, instantly swept through the entire Throne Room, causing the air to freeze abruptly.
The carefully maintained humility and expectation on Monstford Velaryon's face froze in an instant.
The surrounding vassals looked up in shock, their gazes shifting rapidly from confusion to disbelief, finally settling into a deep, bone-chilling fear.
They had imagined various reactions from their new lord... perhaps gentle reassurance, a stern reprimand, an opportunity to demand a substantial loyalty contribution, or even punishment for certain less-than-compliant families.
But they never imagined that someone would so calmly and naturally tear to shreds the ancient systems and privileges they had followed for generations and regarded as natural, doing so with a few words as if tearing up a piece of old parchment.
Aegon sat atop the massive black stone throne, his figure appearing exceptionally clear and sharp against the heavy shadows cast by the throne itself, like a blade quietly suspended at the mouth of its sheath after being drawn.
"From the moment I stepped onto Dragonstone."
He spoke again, his voice steady and not intentionally raised, yet it strangely reached everyone's ears clearly in the hall, which was so silent a needle drop could be heard.
"Since I annihilated Stannis Baratheon's Fleet outside Dragonstone, since I sat upon this black stone throne belonging to House Targaryen..."
His gaze slowly swept across every panicked face below.
"Dragonstone, and all the islands, territories, and waters under its jurisdiction—everything—is already mine."
"Your Fleets, your Ports, your castles, your Soldiers, your taxes, and the smallfolk under your rule..."
He paused, letting the final words strike like ice picks:
"There are no exceptions."
"Your Grace!" Monstford's voice sounded as if it were forced out of a strangled throat, dry and hoarse.
He still tried to grasp at the last straw—noble dignity, the bond of blood, and the logic that had operated for hundreds of years.
"House Velaryon has served the true dragon for generations; our blood is closely linked to the Targaryens, and there has never been betrayal! How can you... how can you treat your most loyal kin and right hand so tyrannically? You are cutting off your own limbs and chilling the hearts of all loyal subjects!"
"Never?"
Aegon repeated those two words, his tone so flat it lacked any fluctuation, yet it caused the hearts of everyone below to tighten suddenly, as if seized by an invisible iron hand.
These two words were as light as a breath, yet at this moment, they fell with the weight of a death knell before a final judgment.
"When the fires of the usurper's War were ignited..."
Aegon's voice rose again, no longer stating the present situation but turning to a page of history that many had deliberately forgotten or blurred.
"Queen Rhaella was trapped on Dragonstone, carrying the unborn Daenerys in her womb, and Viserys was still just an innocent child. The Targaryen Dynasty collapsed amidst betrayal and war; King's Landing fell, Visenya's Hill was ablaze, and the steps of the Red Keep were drenched in royal blood."
His gaze was like tempered ice, pinned firmly to Monstford's paper-white face, each word clear and distinct:
"At that time, Dragonstone became the final foothold of the Targaryens, the only remaining sanctuary for the Targaryen bloodline. And Driftmark..."
He slightly raised a hand, pointing toward the sea outside the hall.
"Was right at hand."
"In your shipyards lay hundreds of warships; on your docks gathered experienced rowers and sailors; your seahorse banners could still command the attention of many powers in the Narrow Sea."
"You possessed the power, you were the closest in distance, and the nearest in blood."
His voice lowered slightly, carrying a piercing chill like a deep-sea current:
"Yet when the last royal Fleet collapsed under the pincer attack of storms and rebels, when Dragonstone became a lonely boat tossing in the gale, when the Queen and two young royal bloodlines hung by a thread, their lives in constant peril..."
Aegon leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp as a knife, cutting through all hypocritical veneer:
"Where were your ships?"
"Where were your oars?"
"And where was the loyalty you speak of, passed down through generations, the pride engraved in your family trees and oaths?"
He did not need Monstford to answer.
The answer was already written in the dust of that deliberately downplayed history, written on the panic-stricken faces of these maritime nobles.
"You sent not a single ship, nor a single Soldier. The Ports of Driftmark remained closed, the sails of Claw Isle were furled, and you watched coldly from the sidelines."
"You sat by as Dragonstone struggled in isolation, as Queen Rhaella suffered to death in fear, illness, and despair, and as the Targaryen bloodline was carried onto a battered merchant ship by a few loyal subordinates to flee into the perilous Narrow Sea, beginning a life of exile that lasted over a decade."
Finally, his tone was tinged with a trace of cold, undisguised mockery:
"Once Robert Baratheon sat securely upon that iron throne stained with the blood of my kin, you immediately and pragmatically bowed your heads in submission."
"You gladly accepted the usurper's titles and reassurances, comfortably enjoying the power he bestowed and guarding the lands he 'granted' you."
"You threw the blood covenant that House Targaryen maintained for a millennium—the ancient tenets of being of the same root and each other's arms—into the deep sea that you are so proud of, yet which also witnessed your silence, like useless trash."
He leaned back against the throne, and his final sentence was as light as a sigh, yet as heavy as a mountain:
"Is this what you call... never betraying?"
Monstford Velaryon turned deathly pale, his body swaying imperceptibly as if all the strength supporting him had been drained in an instant.
His lips quivered violently, wanting to argue, wanting to say 'the situation was stronger than the man at the time,' wanting to say 'preserving the family was also a responsibility,' wanting to say 'we didn't actively serve the Baratheons later'—
...but all the words were stuck in his throat. Under Aegon's cold, calm gaze and in the face of those naked, irrefutable facts, they seemed so pale, so ridiculous, so... base.
Any verbal decoration, under absolute power and a gaze that pierced through history, was like snow under the sun, rapidly melting to reveal the cold rock beneath named 'betrayal.'
Aegon no longer looked at him, as if he were already a thing of the past.
His gaze swept over the vassal representatives below again; some had collapsed on the floor, some were trembling like leaves in the wind, and some had dull eyes as if their souls had left their bodies.
Despair, like the pitch-black seawater outside the window, rose silently, submerging them and all the old glory and privileges they represented.
"Betrayal," Aegon's voice rang out again, cold and without a trace of warmth, like a final judgment falling, "comes with a price."
"From this moment forth..."
His proclamation was clear, cold, and unquestionable, like the enactment of a new law:
"Under the jurisdiction of Dragonstone, all vassal privileges are hereby abolished."
"The right to maintain private armies: abolished."
"The right to levy taxes independently: abolished."
"The right to judicial autonomy within territories: abolished."
"All Fleets, Ports, sea defenses, major routes, territorial mines, and important financial resources are hereby brought under direct royal control, to be managed by officials appointed by the King."
As the words fell, the dead silence turned into a complete vacuum.
Someone made a gurgling sound in their throat and fainted outright.
Someone's legs gave way, and they knelt on the ground, unable to stand.
Even more people stood there as if their spines had been removed, the last light in their eyes extinguished.
Everything that hundreds of years and over a dozen generations had regarded as the foundation of their houses and their very livelihoods...
The power to conscript, tax, judge, maintain private Soldiers, and control routes and wealth was uprooted and ground into dust in those few calm sentences.
This was not punishing a single house; this was completely severing their roots as lords.
"You may keep your family names and continue to reside in your ancestral castles. Furthermore, if you prove capable and loyal, you may still obtain positions within the unified royal bureaucracy to participate in local governance."
His tone was flat, as if stating an inconsequential supplementary clause:
"But from this day forward, you are no longer masters of a region, no longer independent lords."
"Your Soldiers are the King's Soldiers. They follow only the King's orders, are paid by the King, and are deployed by the King."
"Your ships are the King's ships. They sail only the seas designated by the King and perform tasks assigned by the King."
"The smallfolk under your rule are first and foremost the King's subjects, and only then your tenant farmers or laborers."
"All your security, status, and wealth are grants under the royal authority. The King may bestow them, and may also reclaim them at any time according to the law and necessity."
He looked up and gave a faint instruction to the Bloodsworn knights standing by the throne, who remained as silent as iron statues:
"Take them down."
"Give them three days. Return to your respective territories, inventory your assets, create detailed registers, disarm all private Soldiers, and stand by to await the full takeover by royal officials."
"If you choose to submit, you must act strictly according to the new system, cooperate with the handover, and there must be no concealment, obstruction, or feigned compliance."
He paused, and deep within his purple eyes, a flash of pale gold lightning seemed to pass. His voice remained steady, yet it caused any remaining warmth to completely vanish from the hall:
"Or..."
"Destruction."
There was no roar, no threatening bellow.
But these two simple words were more terrifying than any bloody intimidation.
Because they came from a man who had just proven with facts that he possessed the power to destroy, and whose will was like iron, never to be trifled with.
The Soldiers stepped forward in silence, their movements standardized and without crude shoving, but that businesslike, cold manner—as if treating objects—brought a more piercing chill and a total collapse of dignity to these once high-and-mighty nobles than any direct insult.
They were like husks with their souls removed, silently led out of the hall with unsteady steps and empty eyes.
Monstford Velaryon was the last to be taken away. His magnificent deep-blue seahorse-patterned robe trailed on the cold black stone floor; the house crest that once symbolized glory and power now seemed only heavy, old, and utterly ridiculous.
The heavy doors slowly swung shut with a dull thud, completely cutting off the faint sound of despondent footsteps and suppressed sobbing from outside.
The Throne Room returned to emptiness.
Only the slight crackle of torches in their niches remained, along with the silent shadows cast by the dragon carvings that decorated the massive dome, and the never-ending wail of the sea breeze whistling through the gaps in the high windows.
Aegon still sat upon the throne, gazing at the closed doors with a deep look, as if he could pierce through the thick oak to see those despondent backs and the stormy waves soon to be stirred by this declaration further away.
He did this not merely because of the silent betrayal of House Velaryon and the others during the usurper's War.
That was merely the fuse, a ready-made reason to establish authority and make it irrefutable.
The fundamental reason lay in the nobles themselves, in the system they relied upon for survival.
Under feudalism, there is no true loyalty.
A lord is loyal first to his own house's interests, and only then to his liege.
So-called oaths and allegiance are as fragile as paper in the face of sufficiently large interests or threats.
"My vassal's vassal is not my vassal."
This ancient rule was the root of the kingdom's division, incessant civil wars, and the decline of royal power.
Every castle was a potential independent kingdom; every lord was a blade that might turn against its master.
They held private armies.
Those Soldiers ate the lord's grain and followed the family head's orders.
The King's decrees could not leave the Crownlands.
Keeping these nobles and their private armies was like burying countless blades around the newborn royal power that could backstab at any time.
They could flatter and follow when the true dragon was strong, watch coldly when the royal family was in trouble, and change sides without hesitation—or even stab from behind—when the dynasty was toppled.
Such loyalty was cheap and fickle, worth nothing.
Such nobles were but parasites on the kingdom's body, carving out regions and pursuing private gain.
Such a system had long since rotted from the roots, stagnated, and emitted the stale breath of death.
He returned to Westeros and crossed the Narrow Sea not to replicate Aegon I's conquest.
Not to simply restore a Targaryen Dynasty built on the same feudal basis, merely old wine in a new bottle, upon the ruins of the old dynasty.
He was here for a reckoning.
To settle all the blood debts owed.
To settle all the roots of division that led to betrayal and chaos.
To settle this thousands-of-years-old, corrupt, and backward old world order.
A thorough reckoning, without mercy, without compromise, and allowing no bargaining!
He returned not to conquer the Seven Kingdoms again, but to destroy!
If the old world is not burned to ashes, the seeds of a new world cannot take root and sprout.
If the old nobility's spines are not completely broken and they do not kneel before the new order, a brand-new, centralized, and efficiently operating kingdom system cannot be established.
He knew this would make an enemy of almost all traditional nobles in Westeros.
They would fear, they would resent, they would secretly conspire, and they might even openly rebel.
But so what?
He would use thunder, use sharp swords, and use powerful armies to grind all resistance—along with their cherished castles, sigils, ancient privileges, and ridiculous dignity—into the dust of history.
That was why the core of his army consisted of mercenaries, incorporated pirates and outlaws, and a personally forged, absolutely loyal inner circle.
From the beginning, he never intended to take the old path of relying on local nobles and engaging in balance and compromise.
Armies and loyalty were the cornerstones of the new order, not those fence-sitting vassals.
Even if this path was destined to make Westeros... flow with rivers of blood.
Even if it turned the narrative of the Dragon King's return from a glorious restoration into a bloody conquest.
He rose, left the cold black stone throne, and walked to the tall arched window.
The biting sea breeze hit his face, carrying the deep power and salty scent of the distant sea.
He looked west, his gaze seemingly piercing through the sea mist and distance to see the panic and arguments likely erupting in the Red Keep of King's Landing.
He saw the calculations and hesitations of the golden rose of Highgarden, saw the nobles, armies, and ambitions throughout the Seven Kingdoms that were about to be shaken and terrified by his declaration today in the Throne Room, and who might eventually unite.
"Come then."
He whispered soundlessly, his voice dissipating in the sea breeze, only his deep purple eyes reflecting the gloomy sky and surging dark blue seawater, burning with a calm yet fierce flame.
"Gather all your resentment, your fear, and that pitiful bit of strength you have."
"And then, I will use true thunder and fire..."
"To turn them, along with that old world you are desperately trying to maintain—the one that should have died long ago..."
"Together,"
"Into the ashes and dust of history."
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