The Throne Room of Dragonstone was vast and cold, its vaulted ceiling constructed of black stone. The flickering torchlight on the walls cast long, solitary shadows of Aegon and Oberyn.
Maester Pycelle held a parchment sealed with the golden lion of Lannister in wax, standing at the foot of the dais with his head bowed, his expression tinged with caution.
"Read it."
A voice rang out from the throne, piercing through the empty hall.
Aegon Targaryen sat upon the black stone throne, his violet eyes beneath silver hair calm and undisturbed, as if listening to an inconsequential rumor.
Pycelle took a deep breath, struggling to steady his voice as he read word for word:
"To His Highness Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone..."
"Tyrion Lannister, hand of the king and Acting Hand, sends his greetings to Your Highness."
"In the name of Joffrey Baratheon, the First of His Name, lawful King of the andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, we congratulate Your Highness on your return to Dragonstone and your defeat of Stannis's rebellious Fleet."
"Having heard that Your Highness comes across the sea with the noble intent of seeking justice for House Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell, we are deeply moved by Your Highness's filial devotion."
"However, concerning the tragedy of Princess Elia, accounts vary and the truth remains obscured. Rumors suggest that following the Battle of the Trident and the Fall of King's Landing, Ser Gregor Clegane was allegedly involved in atrocities against Princess Elia Martell and her young children within the Red Keep."
"Faced with such wickedness, the Small Council cannot remain indifferent. His Grace the King believes this matter concerns the bloodline of the former royal house and is of such a heinous nature that it must be thoroughly investigated and a just verdict rendered according to the laws of the kingdom and the will of the gods."
"Should the investigation prove the rumors true and Ser Clegane guilty of these crimes, the King and the Small Council will not allow such a villain to go unpunished, lest the royal reputation be tarnished. King Joffrey shall uphold justice and impose severe punishment to set the record straight."
"To this end, with the King's permission, the Small Council has resolved to hold a public trial at Raventree Hall. Witnesses shall be summoned and all charges against Ser Gregor Clegane thoroughly examined, seeking the full truth to comfort the departed."
"To ensure the fairness of the trial and the safety of all parties, Lord Leyne of Raventree Hall is willing to pledge his family honor and the neutrality of his lands as a guarantee."
"Lord Leyne promises to provide bread and salt for you and your retinue within the castle of Raventree Hall, offering hospitality and protection according to the ancient and sacred guest right of Westeros."
"Under this law, your personal safety in Raventree Hall shall be guarded; any violation of guest right is detested by gods and men alike."
"Therefore, we earnestly request that Your Highness, Aegon Targaryen, come to Raventree Hall. As a victim and a witness, attend the trial, hear the testimony, oversee the proceedings, and witness justice being served to settle this blood feud."
"This act will not only seek justice for Princess Elia but also demonstrate the legitimacy of Your Highness's return and your kingly bearing in respecting the law and keeping oaths."
Pycelle's voice trailed off, the last syllable dissipating among the stone walls. The parchment trembled slightly in his hands.
He bowed his head deeply, not daring to look at the young Dragon King on the throne, much less at the prince of dorne.
The air stagnated, leaving only the crackling of torches and the ceaseless wail of the sea breeze rushing through the gaps in the high windows, like a ghost's sigh.
Oberyn Martell stood below the side of the throne, his posture still maintaining that slightly languid elegance characteristic of the prince of dorne.
However, the moment the name Gregor Clegane reached his ears, his fingertips hanging at his side snapped shut.
His long fingers tightly gripped the hilt of the poisoned dagger hidden in his sleeve, his knuckles turning white.
The habitual smile of mixed flippancy and mockery on his face melted away instantly, like thin ice under the sun.
He did not roar, he did not shout, he did not even breathe heavily; he just stood there silently, his deep red robes as still as a clot of dried blood in the torchlight.
Those dark brown eyes, like the Dornish desert, suddenly sank into a lightless, cold, and poisonous pool.
All levity, probing, and nonchalance faded away, leaving only the venomous malice accumulated over seventeen years seeping from his entire being.
It was the hatred of a brother for his sister's tragic death. It was the toxic fire forged from every day and night of the past seventeen years, scorched by the flames of revenge and gnawed by a sense of powerlessness.
A deathly silence spread, more suffocating than any roar.
After a long time, Oberyn let out a low sneer from his throat.
There was no trace of the Red Viper's usual flippancy in that laugh, only bone-chilling contempt and deep-seated malice.
"Bread..." he spoke slowly, his voice raspy and coarse, "and salt?"
He paused, his tongue seemingly tasting that nauseating hypocrisy.
"guest right?" He tilted his head, his lips curling into a cold arc. "guest right guaranteed by Lannister credit... which is cheaper and more fraudulent than a rotten fish soaking in the harbor of King's Landing?"
He looked up at Aegon on the throne, toxic fire churning in his eyes:
"You don't have to go, Aegon." His voice wasn't loud, but it was decisive and carried an unquestionable weight. "I will go to Raventree Hall as your envoy and as the brother of Elia Martell."
"Elia was my sister. Her blood, her tears, her final fear and despair... I know them better than anyone."
"This blood feud should be settled by my own hands. With a poisoned spear, with a dagger, with anything I can find, I will pay it back inch by inch to that criminal and the master behind him."
His tone was calm, but beneath it was boiling lava.
"There is no need for my nephew, the returned true dragon of Targaryen, to step into a trap carefully laid by the Lannisters, reeking of conspiracy."
"They do not deserve to have you set foot on that land tainted by their lies and betrayal, not even a single step."
Aegon looked at him.
He saw the pain and fury nearly overflowing from Oberyn's eyes, his fingers trembling from extreme restraint, and the protective instinct of shared blood in his words.
A tiny spark flickered deep in Aegon's violet eyes—a touch of emotion for this heavy familial bond.
But deeper still was a will as immovable as the bedrock of Dragonstone.
He slowly and firmly shook his head.
"Uncle."
His voice was young, yet as steady as cold iron from the deep sea.
"Elia Martell is not just your sister."
His gaze seemed to pierce through the stone walls, crossing seventeen years of bloody mist to look upon a figure that existed only in nightmares.
"She is my mother."
"The blood that flowed in the Red Keep back then was Targaryen blood and Martell blood, but ultimately..." His voice remained calm, yet beneath it, the earth seemed to shift and magma flowed.
"That is a debt a son must personally collect from the murderers of his mother and sister."
"No one can do it for me."
He looked back at Oberyn, his violet eyes sharp and bright:
"I will claim this revenge myself. I will take it back tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold. No one can take my place, not even you, Uncle."
Oberyn's Adam's apple bobbed violently as he forced down the surging bitterness and heat.
He looked at the young true dragon before him, whose will was as hard as rock, and finally stopped arguing.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, all intense emotions were frozen and settled, leaving only a deathly cold resolve that synchronized with Aegon's will.
And in the depths of Aegon's heart, a cold sneer had already begun to churn like an abyss undercurrent.
guest right? Ancient and sacred laws? Honor guaranteed by House Rykker?
What a colossal joke.
He knew better than anyone that at this moment, Tywin Lannister was likely plotting with Walder Frey for a Red Wedding—a massacre in the name of a marriage.
That old lion would not hesitate to trample guest right into a pool of blood and tear oaths and honor to shreds.
Yet now, the Lannisters dared to use the same set of hypocritical rules to bind him, a true dragon returned from blood and fire?
Laughable. Pitiful. Despicable.
The Lannisters' calculations were shrewd, but in his eyes, they were as clear as dust motes in the sunlight: use the Mountain as bait, use the trial to stall for time, and use guest right as a cage to trap him in Raventree Hall.
Meanwhile, they could take the opportunity to mobilize troops, reinforce city defenses, contact allies, and plot more conspiracies.
Unfortunately, they were wrong from the very beginning.
Aegon was no knight of Westeros.
He did not believe in the hypocritical honor used by nobles to sugarcoat plunder, nor did he fear the laws easily subverted by the strong.
He certainly would not have his hands tied or the fires of revenge suppressed by a symbolic piece of bread and a handful of salt.
A true dragon is born to stand above rules.
His law is the fire that burns away corruption; his honor is the death wails of his enemies.
His guest right is given only to those who deserve it, not to a pack of jackals in human skin.
Aegon slowly raised his eyes, his gaze piercing through the black stone walls to look toward the opposite shore, toward that land shrouded in dark clouds.
"Pass down my orders."
His voice echoed in the Throne Room, not loud, but possessing a penetrating power and an irresistible majesty, like the eternal tides of Dragonstone.
"Ready the Fleet, all forces on standby. In three days, we set sail for Raventree Hall."
He paused, each word clear:
"We are not going to negotiate, nor to accept their ridiculous trial, and certainly not to follow the hypocritical rules they have long since torn to pieces."
The sea breeze swirled in from the high windows, tossing his silver hair and dark red cloak. His voice mingled with the sound of the wind, like an ancient prophecy or the horn of doom:
"I am going... for revenge."
"In the way they fear most, in the very center of the trap they think is safe, I will collect the blood debt that has been owed for seventeen years."
"As for the bread and salt..."
The corners of Aegon's mouth curled very slowly into a cold, heartless arc.
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