Tyrion steadied himself, his nails digging into his palms, forcing himself to suppress the instinctive shudder that seeped from his bones when facing a celestial behemoth.
He took another half-step forward and looked up, attempting to reclaim even a sliver of the right to speak, his voice sounding exceptionally thin amidst the dragon's low breathing.
"Your Highness," he began, his gaze meeting Aegon's cold purple eyes, "you may question the sincerity of the iron throne, but you cannot ignore the laws that have been passed down in Westeros for a thousand years..."
"Regarding the events of seventeen years ago, though there is a sea of blood and deep hatred, any judgment of guilt requires evidence. Witnesses, testimonies, and due process—not a single one can be omitted."
"Today, the nobility and the commoners are gathered in Duskendale precisely to clarify all the accusations of that year, to bring the truth to light, to let justice..."
"Truth?"
Aegon suddenly looked up.
In that instant, within those violet eyes, it was as if a fire frozen for seventeen years had suddenly exploded, churning with a fury that could almost entomb the soul in ice.
His voice remained low, even softer than before, yet it was like a red-hot thin blade slicing across ice, easily cutting through the hypocritical veil of "laws" and "procedures" that Tyrion had painstakingly maintained.
"When you brutally murdered my mother all those years ago, did you ask for evidence?"
"When you grabbed a nursing infant by the ankles and smashed him against a stone wall until his brains splattered, did you talk about procedure?"
"When you stepped over the blood of Elia, Rhaenys, and that infant to climb onto the iron throne, sitting comfortably for seventeen years, treating the Red Keep as your home and the Seven Kingdoms as your backyard... did you ever ask for justice?"
He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping across Cersei's face, filled with fear and inexplicable emotions, then over Tyrion's small body straining to remain calm, before finally fixing back onto Tyrion's eyes. That look was as cold as the eternal ice in the deepest reaches of the Narrow Sea.
"Now that the dragon has come, its wings covering your sky and its claws hanging over your heads, you finally remember... ah, there are laws! There is evidence! And the sacred, inviolable statutes of the Seven Kingdoms!"
He shook his head gently. There was no trembling of anger in that movement, only a bone-deep, icy contempt.
"It truly is... a nauseatingly disgusting irony."
Standing to the side, Oberyn leaned against a pillar at the edge of the high platform with his arms crossed. Hearing this, he let out a sneer, the corners of his lips curling into a cold, serpent-like arc of delight. He added a slow, sharp remark, his voice not loud but perfectly clear:
"A Lannister's conscience has always followed the temperature of dragonfire. When the dragon isn't singeing their eyebrows, they can pretend not to see Elia's blood or Rhaenys's life; they can even treat it as idle gossip and something to wash down their wine."
"Now that a true dragon has returned with fire, they hurriedly pick up the tattered banner of justice from the gutter, pat off the dust, and try to use it as a shield to block arrows, a protective talisman for their lives."
He clicked his tongue twice and shook his head. "A pity the banner is too ragged and the shield too thin to mask the indelible stench upon you. It's quite laughable."
Tyrion's expression shifted under Aegon's questioning and Oberyn's mockery, but he knew he could not back down now.
He took a deep breath. His chest ached from tension and the oppressive dragon's might, yet he still forced himself to speak, trying to pull the conversation back to the safe track he had prepared.
"Your Highness, we are not trying to avoid the past, nor are we denying that a tragedy occurred. We are here today precisely to face it, in the manner of the realm, openly and fairly..."
"Trying to stall for time?" Aegon coldly cut him off, his tone not a question but a frigid statement of fact.
Before the words had even faded...
As if in sync with its master's will, or perhaps provoked by the incessant chattering of the ants below, Ghidorah—like a pale gold mountain range at the edge of the town—suddenly raised its most majestic and formidable central head high!
Roar————!!!!
A terrifying, sky-shattering roar that defied description suddenly exploded!
The sound was like a physical shockwave! A roar of pure power and dragon's might! The gale seemed to be seized by an invisible giant hand and then slammed violently into the ground, swirling upward!
The stone slabs of the plaza, already riddled with cracks, vibrated and hummed violently! Debris and dust fell from the distant city walls that had not yet completely collapsed!
Across the entire plaza, everyone—whether it was Cersei, Tyrion, the knights and nobles behind them, or even the dense crowd of commoners—instantly turned as pale as the dead!
The commoners closer to the dragon were knocked to the ground by the terrifying soundwaves and pressure, prostrating and trembling, losing control of their bowels.
Fully armed Soldiers felt their legs go weak, their weapons slipping from their hands as they knelt. Even their breathing was forcefully cut off by the destructive will contained in that roar; their eyes bulged as if their hearts might explode the next second.
The dragon's might was like the sky collapsing or the sea overturning, crushing down purely and overbearingly, stripping all creatures of their courage to resist and leaving only the most primal, boundless fear of a superior predator.
Cersei let out a short scream, springing up from the throne only to collapse back heavily as her legs gave out. She trembled violently, her meticulously styled hair falling into disarray.
Tyrion's face changed drastically. Despite his mental fortitude, facing the terrifying pressure of a mythical creature caused his soul to scatter; his mind went blank, leaving only icy despair.
He knew it was over.
Any scheme, any word, was as laughable as a snowflake in the sun before this absolute power and rage.
The next moment could be dragonfire consuming them, leaving not even bones.
The instinct for survival overrode everything. At the moment the dragon lowered its head, its golden eyes seemingly locking onto the high platform, and a destructive golden light faintly flickered deep in its throat—
Tyrion used every ounce of his strength to suddenly scream at the top of his lungs. His voice was raspy and distorted by extreme terror as he practically bellowed, throwing out the last card in his hand—the only one that might work:
"Your Highness—!!!"
"Your representative! Has already accepted the bread and salt of Duskendale!!"
He pointed at the forgotten tray on the ground containing the remnants of bread and salt, his fingers shaking from the effort, his voice echoing sharply in the aftermath of the dragon's roar:
"guest right! It is sacred and inviolable! By the gods! Witnessed by all of Westeros! Under this roof, on the land guaranteed by House Rykker, no one shall take up arms! No one shall harm a guest under protection! This is the iron law! The foundation!"
He stared fixedly at Aegon, his eyes bloodshot from strain and fear, every word squeezed out from his lungs:
"Those who violate it... shall be cursed by the gods! Never to be reborn! Unacceptable to everyone in the Seven Kingdoms! Scorned! Their names shall stink for eternity!!"
As these words, carrying the power of an ancient oath, fell, the atmosphere in the plaza—which had been silenced by the dragon's might—suddenly stalled.
It was as if a drowning man had caught the last straw. The knights, nobles, and Soldiers on the Lannister side, though still scared out of their wits, all showed a faint glimmer in their eyes—the instinctive reaction of seeing a sliver of hope in a desperate situation.
Even the shivering Cersei seemed to have a trace of strength injected by these words; she managed to stop trembling, her spine straightening by a microscopic margin, and a sickly, gambler-like hope resurfaced on her ashen face.
Tyrion himself seemed to have spent all his strength after shouting this. His heart pounded in his chest, his back was soaked in cold sweat, but deep in his eyes, a nearly imperceptible sense of certainty, like surviving a disaster, flickered.
It worked... at least for now.
They had won the gamble.
Even if the opponent was a true dragon holding world-ending power, as long as he still wanted to establish a foothold in Westeros, as long as he wanted even the superficial recognition of the nobility and commoners, he would never dare to defy the world by publicly trampling upon the most sacred guest right that had been maintained for thousands of years.
Once he used dragonfire or force to kill people here, in full view of everyone and after accepting bread and salt, he would no longer be the returning king or the hero of vengeance.
He would immediately become an oathbreaker, a blasphemer, a tyrant who trampled on every bottom line—someone more terrifying than the Mad King Aerys.
He would lose all potential allies, lose the legitimacy of his rule, and become the target of the entire Seven Kingdoms.
He could not afford to lose that title.
Therefore, they had won.
Using these ancient, fragile rules, they had temporarily bound the dragon's claws.
At this moment, everyone on the Lannister side—even some of the commoners and minor nobles who had been scared senseless—had the same thought:
Safe... temporarily safe.
No matter how angry Aegon was, he had to swallow this insult.
He could only follow the "rules" and wait for that "trial" that could be delayed indefinitely. And they had won time to breathe.
Upon the high platform, a deathly silence spread once more, broken only by the faint sound of crying and the wind in the distance.
The golden light deep in Ghidorah's throat gradually faded, but those six molten-gold dragon eyes still looked down coldly, bringing boundless pressure.
Aegon sat on the throne, his dark red cloak becoming still. There was no expression on his face as he simply watched Tyrion quietly.
He watched the forced relief and calculation of a desperate reversal in the other's eyes; he watched Cersei's stiff, re-straightened back; he watched the faint, rekindled light in the eyes of the Lannister crowd.
He was silent for a moment.
This silence was not long, lasting only a few breaths. But in this suffocating wait, the hearts of the Lannister party slowly, very slowly, began to descend from their throats.
Tyrion could even feel a trace of moist, warm sweat returning to his cold palms.
Perhaps... perhaps it really would work?
Then.
Aegon suddenly began to laugh, low and soft.
The laughter was very light, without any hint of rage, or even much emotional fluctuation.
It was indifferent—indifferent like clouds in the high sky passing over a mountain peak, or like a god looking down and glimpsing the ridiculous struggles of ants at his feet.
It wasn't the laughter of someone provoked, nor was it mocking laughter; it was a kind of... contempt that bordered on pity.
As if saying: Look at these poor creatures.
Even with death at their doorstep, they still cling tightly to those long-rotted straws, thinking they can save their lives.
He spoke slowly, his voice as light as the last evening breeze in Duskendale, yet every word was like a cold iron nail, accurately hammered into the hearts of everyone present, shattering the pathetic hope they had just raised:
"Do you truly think..."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over Tyrion, over Cersei, and over everyone.
"...that I am afraid of this so-called guest right?"
"Afraid of those illusory curses from the gods?"
"Afraid of the public outcry you speak of?"
He leaned forward slightly—a subtle movement, but combined with the mountain-like shadow cast by Ghidorah and the silently radiating dragon's might, it felt as if the entire sky were pressing down.
The air became thick again, suffocating.
"If I truly wanted to act now," Aegon's voice remained calm, yet carried a coldness as if stating a fact, "the dragon would only need to exhale once, and this platform, this plaza, all of you..."
"Including those commoners huddled behind you, hoping to use numbers as a shield—in the blink of an eye, you would all become a pile of charred ash, indistinguishable from one another, blown into Blackwater Bay by the wind, with not a single scrap remaining."
He paused, looking at Tyrion's face, which had suddenly turned deathly pale with pupils constricted, and continued in that calm yet cruel tone:
"Rules? Laws? The gaze of the gods? Before absolute power, these things are worthless. They cannot protect anyone; they only make the deaths of the weak more ridiculous and desperate."
Tyrion felt cold all over, as if he had fallen into an ice cellar.
All his calculations, all his reliance, were torn to shreds before this naked declaration of overwhelming power.
He opened his mouth but could not make a sound.
Aegon looked at him, his eyes filled with nothing but complete, undisguised contempt, as if looking at an insect waving its antennae at a dragon's feet, thinking it could negotiate:
"I am not refraining from destroying this place, or from burning you to ash right now..."
"Not because I cannot."
"But because I disdain to."
He leaned back into the throne, his posture becoming distant and majestic once more:
"You use your set of hypocritical laws as a shield and those rules you yourselves tore apart long ago as a life-saving talisman, thinking this can bind a true dragon and force me to follow the boring script you've set."
"Fine." The corners of Aegon's mouth slowly curled into a cold arc devoid of any warmth—no mirth, only the indifference of one who controls everything. "Then today, I shall... show some respect for the rules you are so desperately trying to maintain."
"I will not use the dragon, nor will I use my army to crush you, nor will I violate your ridiculous guest right."
"I will use the very rules you trust and rely on most, thinking you can sleep soundly because of them..."
His gaze suddenly became sharp, like an unsheathed valyrian steel sword slashing toward the Lannisters:
"To personally grind you into the dust. I will let you die within the rules of the game you yourselves have set."
In his heart, a silent, cold laugh swept through like a cold tide. It wasn't that he was bound by rules, nor was it a superfluous act of mercy.
To burn everything away with a single fire or turn it to ash with a bolt of lightning would be far too easy for this group of murderers whose hands were stained with the blood of his mother and sister.
What he wanted was not a quick end.
He wanted them to fall, step by step, into the graves they had dug for themselves while fully conscious.
He wanted them to see with their own eyes how the "laws" and "rights" they relied on for survival and waved so desperately would turn around and become the strongest ropes to hang them.
He wanted the Lannisters, while their minds were clearest and their hope was being strangled inch by inch, to taste and savor the deepest fear, despair, and pain that Elia and Rhaenys had endured.
A blood debt must be repaid in the coldest way, drop by drop.
He slowly raised his right hand, the hem of his dark red cloak fluttering slightly without any wind.
His voice was no longer light; it suddenly rose, clear, majestic, and carrying an unquestionable authority that echoed through the deathly silent plaza, suppressing all whimpers and fears, reaching clearly into every cowering soul:
"I declare—"
His gaze, like an ice blade, locked onto the pale-faced Tyrion and then Cersei.
"In accordance with the ancient laws and customs of Westeros."
"Gregor Clegane, Cersei Lannister, Tyrion Lannister..."
Every name he spoke was like a heavy hammer striking the hearts of the corresponding people.
"You are suspected of participating in, masterminding, or covering up the murderous atrocities committed within the Red Keep seventeen years ago against Princess Elia Martell and Princess Rhaenys."
"The evidence is conclusive and undeniable."
"Now, by the right of the victim's blood relative and the sole legitimate heir of House Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen..."
He paused. One could hear a pin drop in the plaza, save for the dragon's low, thunderous breathing.
"I invoke a Trial by Combat!"
"A duel to the death to determine guilt!"
"And for your crimes, for the blood you owe..."
Aegon slowly stood up. He looked down at the ants below, his purple eyes reflecting the stunned faces of the Lannisters, his voice resolute and carrying the icy weight of a final judgment:
"I shall take the field myself..."
"To settle this account, point by point."
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