The Throne Room was so silent that one could hear the faint crackle of burning candles and the distant, faint roar of the never-ending waves.
Oberyn stood beneath the cold black stone steps, neither kneeling according to etiquette nor showing any flattery or eagerness.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze like a polished steel blade—sharp, cold, and filled with a complex scrutiny directed straight at the silver-haired youth upon the throne.
He spoke first, breaking the silence.
His voice was not high and his tone was light, yet between the lines lay the inherent sting of a poisonous snake.
"That face of yours," Oberyn narrowed his eyes slightly, as if examining an old object that was both familiar and loathsome to his core, his tone unashamedly critical, "is truly hard to ignore."
He paused, his tongue seemingly tasting a bitter name as he slowly spat out:
"You look exactly like Rhaegar. So much so that when I first saw you, I could hardly control the urge to smash this face with a heavy fist."
These words were spoken with unusual calm, without shouting or excitement, yet they were like a block of eternal ice, causing a chill to surge through the hall.
The Bloodsworn knights standing on either side tensed imperceptibly for a moment, their hands instinctively moving to their sword hilts.
Though they were loyal to Aegon, the Dornish Prince's undisguised malice and threat toward the Prince's biological father still touched their most sensitive nerves.
Aegon sat high above, shrouded in the shifting shadows of the throne itself and the glow of the niche fires.
Hearing Oberyn's words, which could be considered extremely offensive, his fingertips merely paused on the cold armrest before he slowly raised an eyebrow.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
His father in this life.
The 'Silver Prince' who had been placed on a pedestal in the legends of Westeros and the songs of the bards.
Unrivaled in the Seven Kingdoms in both poetry and swordplay, his melancholy gaze broke the hearts of countless maidens, and his noble character made knights willing to die for him.
It was as if he were the final and most perfect incarnation of House Targaryen's glory, the most lamentable protagonist in a tragic destiny.
But in Aegon's eyes, those names and halos praised by the world were worthless.
At the Tourney at Harrenhal, Rhaegar had already married Elia Martell of Dorne and had both a son and a daughter.
Yet, in public, he presented the crown of the 'Queen of Love and Beauty' to Lyanna Stark, who was already the betrothed of Robert Baratheon.
This act was a public humiliation of his wife and a severe provocation to Dorne, the North, and the Stormlands, laying the most direct fuse for all future tragedies.
Later, he even eloped secretly with Lyanna, completely abandoning his duties as a prince, husband, and father, placing his wife, children, family, and kingdom in peril.
His self-indulgence was like a spark that ignited the already piled-high dry wood.
The tyranny of the Mad King, the dissatisfaction of the nobles, and the fury of the Starks and Baratheons eventually exploded into the War of the Usurper, setting the Seven Kingdoms ablaze and causing the Targaryen Dynasty to collapse entirely.
As the commander of the army at the Battle of the Trident, he ignored the overall situation to personally lead a charge and died in single combat.
With the commander fallen, the Royalist Army collapsed instantly, completely ending the dynasty's last hope for a comeback.
In Aegon's view, the source of all these disasters was not some great love or hidden hardship; to a large extent, it stemmed from Rhaegar's obsession with prophecy, his self-indulgence in the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' destiny, and an irresponsible madness immersed in a tragic hero narrative.
How was this something a normal prince, a qualified heir, or a responsible husband and father should do?
Aegon's evaluation of this person in his heart was indifferent and clear:
A lunatic.
A pair of lunatics.
Rhaegar Targaryen and the Mad King Aerys were essentially no different; they were simply mad in different ways.
One was mad in the open, cruel and bloodthirsty, finding joy in wildfire and torture.
The other was mad in dreams and prophecies, obsessively self-destructive, casting aside all real-world responsibilities for an illusory destiny.
This father and son, one after the other—one igniting the gunpowder with tyranny, the other dropping the spark with self-indulgence—eventually joined forces to drag the three-hundred-year iron throne and dynasty into an irredeemable sea of fire, also causing the deaths of his mother Elia and sister Rhaenys.
Silence spread through the hall.
This silence was neither anger nor embarrassment, but a kind of indifference toward a distant and pathetic history.
Aegon spoke slowly, his voice steady as a deep pool, without a hint of emotion:
"I will not become Rhaegar."
Six simple words. There was no impassioned vow or angry rebuttal, yet they were as heavy as boulders, crashing onto the cold stone floor with unquestionable weight.
Oberyn's eyebrows twitched imperceptibly, a flash of surprise crossing his eyes.
The scene he had expected did not occur: there was no youthful, hot-headed rebuttal, no urgent defense to distance himself from that failed father, and no sign of being hurt or alienated by his biting remarks.
The youth on the throne simply looked at him with those overly calm purple eyes, as if stating an innate truth that required no proof.
Aegon did not give him extra time to think, looking him straight in the eye with a tone that was light yet carried the force of a king:
"You crossed the Narrow Sea to come to this blockaded Dragonstone in person; it cannot be merely to comment on my face's resemblance to Rhaegar's."
"Speak, Oberyn Martell, of your intent."
Oberyn sneered, the smile still holding a sting, though the coldness in his eyes softened slightly.
"I came, first and foremost, to see for myself what kind of person the last bit of blood my sister Elia left in this cruel world has become."
His gaze swept over Aegon's features again; the soft curve similar to Elia's made his expression complex for a moment, but it was immediately covered by a cold hardness.
"Secondly... if necessary, to protect the only memory my sister left in this world. I just didn't expect that the person I have to protect would happen to have a face that makes me annoyed and want to punch it just by looking at it."
His words remained barbed, even bordering on rude, but the meaning revealed within them was clear.
The sting was real, and the hatred for Rhaegar was real, but the protection was also real, and the care for Elia's bloodline was even more so.
This was an extremely awkward and contradictory way of expression, yet it belonged to the Red Viper.
Aegon looked at him and was silent for a moment. He was not moved by the other's intent to protect, nor was he angered by the continued offense.
He simply replied in a manner that was neither heavy nor light, neither humble nor arrogant:
"A face is born, one has no choice in it. But a path is walked by oneself."
He paused, his purple eyes showing no emotional fluctuations, merely stating calmly:
"If you only look at the face, then there is no need for protection. If you are willing to look at other things, Dragonstone does not lack a guest room."
There was no weakness or flattery, nor was there a sharp counterattack.
He simply drew a clear line: my bloodline comes from both parents and cannot be changed; my path is decided by myself, and I do not need protection bestowed based on someone's ill-will toward my father.
If you accept it, stay and see; if not, the door is over there.
Oberyn was visibly taken aback, and then the corners of his lips, which always held a mocking curve, slowly curled into a deeper, more inscrutable smile.
That smile held fewer cold stings and more of a playful interest that had truly been piqued.
This kid... is quite interesting. Completely different from Rhaegar, that melancholic poet immersed in his own world.
He did not respond directly to Aegon's words, but his tense, aggressive posture seemed to relax imperceptibly.
Aegon no longer dwelled on appearances or old matters, his gaze slowly turning past the Dornish Prince to land on the elderly man who had remained silent with a bowed head.
From atop the throne, he examined him closely.
It was a weather-beaten face, with wrinkles like knife carvings and hair as white as snow; though it appeared disheveled, it did not diminish the back that was as straight as a spear.
The old man's figure remained tall and sturdy, carrying the hardness tempered by long years on the battlefield.
Though he looked slightly weary now and his clothes were old, that aura of having experienced a hundred battles, as calm as a mountain, could not be completely hidden.
To be able to fight for a long time under the spear of his uncle, the 'Red Viper' known for his cunning and ruthlessness, and even draw the intervention of the patrol Fleet... such skill, within the Seven Kingdoms and at this age, could be counted on one's fingers.
Aegon's fingertips tapped lightly on the armrest of the throne, an answer already forming in his heart.
It should be that legendary knight who left a profound mark on the White Book.
Seeing him staring for so long, Oberyn spoke first, his tone cold and blunt:
"Met him at sea. This old fellow was acting suspiciously, piloting a rickety boat and lingering in the waters off Dragonstone. I took him for an assassin sent from King's Landing with ill intent toward you, so I went over to give him a greeting."
Oberyn narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze sweeping over Barristan's snow-white hair, his tone carrying a natural sense of disdain and hostility.
"After crossing blades, I realized this was no ordinary rat. It is the very man who once guarded King Aerys, then turned to serve Robert Baratheon, willingly lending his strength to the usurper as the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard... Barristan Selmy, 'the Bold'."
He emphasized the words "former" and "usurper" with biting sarcasm.
"Oh?" At those words, Aegon's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Just as expected.
Barristan Selmy.
Amidst Oberyn's cold and hostile introduction, the Old Knight, who had remained silent until now, finally made a move.
He did not attempt to defend himself against the accusations and disdain in Oberyn's words.
He simply stepped forward slowly, with a heavy and profoundly solemn posture.
Then, under Aegon's calm gaze, Oberyn's cold and mocking eyes, and the wary stares of the Bloodsworn knights flanking them...
This former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the legendary white knight, dropped to one knee.
The black stone floor was cold and hard. He lifted his head, his gaze no longer evasive or downcast, but frank—even carrying a kind of resolve that bordered on atonement.
He looked directly at the youth upon the throne, a boy who was far too young yet already commanded a massive Fleet and presided over Dragonstone.
"Prince Aegon."
His voice was aged but exceptionally clear:
"I am Barristan Selmy."
He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, his words carrying the weight of a thousand pounds:
"Formerly the Lord Commander of King Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard."
A long silence followed.
The Old Knight closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, his azure eyes were filled with heavy shame and pain, yet he forced himself to continue:
"...And I was also a Kingsguard of the Targaryen Dynasty, a white knight to King Aerys II."
"At the Battle of the Trident, I was gravely wounded and fell unconscious. By the time I awoke, Prince Rhaegar was dead, and the Targaryen Dynasty... had already collapsed."
"King Robert pardoned me and commanded me to continue serving as a Kingsguard, until I was stripped of my white cloak by Joffrey and exiled from King's Landing."
He kept his head held high, his gaze as honest as a blade, neither explaining nor evading, laying his most unsightly past bare before Aegon.
"I know," Barristan's voice lowered, carrying a profound sorrow, "that any explanation before you would be nothing more than a pale and hollow excuse."
"I betrayed my oaths to House Targaryen and defiled the white cloak of the Kingsguard. I failed the trust of King Aerys, the kindness of Queen Rhaella, and even more so... Princess Elia and her children."
"The one I have failed most of all is you, Prince Aegon."
"I have no right to stand before you, much less to set foot upon this Dragonstone. This was once the cradle of the true dragon, and I am a shameful oathbreaker."
His tone shifted, carrying the anxieties he had witnessed firsthand during his days drifting at sea:
"However, Your Highness, I have lingered and watched outside Dragonstone for several days, witnessing everything that has happened here. You have abolished the privileges of the hereditary nobility and reclaimed their fiefs and military power; the lords who have ruled here for generations are filled with resentment, living in constant dread."
"I even saw with my own eyes, on a small island to the northeast, an elderly lord who—before your Fleet's takeover personnel arrived—set fire to his own castle to prove his resolve and preserve his family's honor, perishing in the flames with his wife, children, and grandchildren... the entire family immolating themselves."
The Old Knight's voice trembled slightly with heavy emotion—not out of fear, but a deep foresight and pity for the impending disaster.
"Your Highness, I know that the Seven Kingdoms owe House Targaryen far too much. Your anger and your vengeance are both destined and justified."
"If you were to march your armies west to reclaim the iron throne and wash away your humiliation with the blood of your enemies, I... I might not have much to say."
He looked up, his eyes burning bright, as if summoning the last of his courage to speak unpleasant but loyal truths:
"But I must tell you the truth, swearing by everything I have seen, heard, and experienced in this life..."
"The War of the Usurper did not arise without cause, nor was Targaryen entirely innocent. The madness and wildfire of Aerys's later years left the entire kingdom living in fear."
"In the eyes of the commoners, the rebels of that time were once the hope that would end tyranny."
"Even within the usurper's camp, not everyone was a base and shameless scoundrel."
"After the Tragedy at the Red Keep, Lord Eddard Stark and Stannis Baratheon both adamantly demanded that Tywin Lannister be brought to trial to seek justice for the women and children within the Red Keep!"
"It was only... only suppressed by King Robert, who was eager to stabilize the situation after his victory and was on the verge of a marriage alliance with House Lannister."
Barristan's pace quickened, as if he wanted to lay everything out before his courage failed:
"These truths may be harsh, they may make you angry, but Your Highness, you must hear them! You must know that your enemies are not all monsters, and your family... was not entirely an innocent victim. History is not black and white."
His gaze locked tightly onto Aegon's, containing an old man's heaviest admonition to a young monarch:
"The nobility system has lasted for a thousand years and is deeply rooted. To uproot it in such a violent manner will only drive all the nobility to a dead end, forcing them to unite in resistance. Westeros will be engulfed in war once more, corpses will litter the land, and the common folk will be scattered as refugees."
Barristan's voice rose with agitation, then dissolved into deep exhaustion and sorrow:
"I am not afraid to die, Your Highness. I have lived too long and seen too much death."
"What I fear... is that you will be blinded by hatred and anger, tempted by extreme power, and set upon another path... one so similar to the one your grandfather took."
"I fear that you will become the next... 'Mad King' consumed by power and hatred."
These final words seemed to drain him of all his strength.
He no longer looked at Aegon. Instead, he slowly lowered his head and unbuckled the longsword from his waist—a blade that looked ordinary but had accompanied him for most of his life, held by hands calloused from defending the kingdom and trembling from broken oaths.
He held the longsword up with both hands, the hilt facing Aegon on the throne and the tip pointed at his own heart.
Then, he bowed his head deeply and closed his eyes. In a posture of one offering his neck for the blade, waiting quietly for judgment, he spoke his final words, his voice calm and resolute:
"I, Barristan Selmy, come here today not to beg for a chance to serve, not out of a greedy desire to cling to life, and certainly not to seek some office under your command to wash away my infamy."
"I have come only to confess my sins. To bear the guilt of my broken oaths."
"To use this head of mine—already covered in dust, yet still wishing to do one last thing for this land and for the future..."
"...To advise you."
"If my death can buy you a moment of clarity, if it can stop more blood from flowing, if it can prevent Westeros from falling into a deeper abyss..."
"Then please, take it."
As his voice faded, a deathly silence fell over the Throne Room.
Only Barristan Selmy's hands, holding up the longsword, remained as steady as a rock; only his graying hair fluttered slightly in the sea breeze seeping through the gaps in the doors.
He knelt there like an ancient, cracked stone statue awaiting final judgment.
Oberyn stood with his arms crossed, watching coldly. The mocking curve remained on his lips, but a complex emotion flickered deep within his eyes.
All eyes were now focused on the throne, on the young king with silver hair and purple eyes.
Aegon slowly stood up from the black stone throne.
His shadow lengthened in the firelight. His purple eyes looked down at the Old Knight kneeling and offering his sword. His face was expressionless, like a bottomless ancient pool.
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