The moment the words "trial by combat" fell, Duskendale's square fell into a near-vacuum silence.
The tremors brought by the dragon's might still echoed in the marrow of their bones; that soul-shattering roar from just now seemed to still be pressed against their ears.
Every single person on the Lannister side was prepared to be scorched to cinders by dragonfire or crushed into a pulp by the monster's claws.
Tyrion's heart sank to the very bottom, turning cold through and through.
guest right was useless, the law was useless; all calculations were as laughable as a child's sandcastle before that sky-blotting three-headed dragon and its master's absolute military might.
He thought that the Lannisters were finished today.
But in the next second, Aegon gave them an answer no one expected.
trial by combat.
Tyrion froze in place, his mismatched eyes widening suddenly, his eyeballs nearly bulging out of their sockets.
At first, he suspected his ears had been damaged by the dragon's roar—was he hallucinating from fear? Had he started hearing things out of sheer despair?
But when he saw the face of that silver-haired true dragon on the high platform, cold as a block of ice, and saw the heavy gravity settling in Oberyn's eyes beside him, that string which had long since snapped suddenly sprang back like crazy.
A path opens... where all hope seemed lost!
A true escape from a dead end!
A surge of scalding ecstasy, almost enough to overwhelm him, shot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, instantly shattering the meager calm he had been feigning.
He could barely control his facial muscles, trying with all his might to suppress the grin that almost reached his ears, struggling to maintain an outward appearance of composure.
trial by combat... Aegon actually gave up the chance to crush them with dragons and armies, choosing the most advantageous method for the Lannisters... a duel!
As long as they sent out the Mountain.
As long as they killed Aegon in the duel.
All blood debts, all troubles, all threats would vanish like smoke after a fair duel.
They could live. Not only could they live, they could turn the tables and eliminate the greatest threat!
Tyrion's fingers trembled uncontrollably—not from fear, but from an excitement so overwhelming it was bordering on a loss of control.
He looked up at Aegon, his eyes churning with disbelief and the relief of having caught a massive break.
This dragon king had actually handed the Lannisters a blade, a way out, with his own arrogance!
Cersei had not spoken from beginning to end.
She just stood there stiffly, her emerald eyes fixed unblinkingly on Aegon, all emotions hidden beneath that cold mask of a face, as hard as a poisoned steel needle.
Silver hair draped over his shoulders, his facial contours were deeply etched, the lines of his nose and chin looking exactly like the Rhaegar she had dreamed of her whole life but never had.
With every extra look, a flicker of unbidden, shameful agitation rose in her heart.
But when her gaze lingered between Aegon's brow and eyes, that slight hint of the Dornish princess Elia was like a red-hot dagger, suddenly piercing through all her messy thoughts and stabbing deep into her heart.
This was not Rhaegar.
This was a filthy bastard, defiled by that bitch Elia.
Rhaegar's queen should have been her.
The Lioness of Casterly Rock. The only woman worthy of Dragonstone, worthy of the iron throne.
But what right did Elia Martell have?
What right did she have to steal her place, to touch Rhaegar, to leave behind these features that made her want to vomit?
This face that looked so much like Rhaegar's became hideous because of that tiny shadow of Elia, making her want to tear it apart with her own hands.
Disgust, malice, jealousy, and resentment bit at each other like mad dogs in her chest, finally twisting into a bone-chilling intent to kill.
Since Aegon was seeking his own death, that was for the best.
Let the Mountain tear him to pieces.
Wipe away this stain.
Cleanse away the filth Elia left in Rhaegar's bloodline once and for all.
Tyrion quickly suppressed his ecstasy, his gaze darkening as he cast a sinister look toward the crowd of Soldiers.
Since Aegon himself said he would personally "settle the accounts," there was no need to pressure him further; they just had to thoroughly provoke him, lock in this "trial by combat," and ensure he couldn't back out.
In a low, raspy voice that only those nearby could barely hear, he gave his orders one word at a time:
"Gregor, go out. Roar out what you did in the Red Keep—the fiercer, the better. Provoke him so he has no face to turn back."
The next moment, the crowd parted slowly and fearfully, creating a path.
A massive shadow, as black as a mountain, stepped out one pace at a time.
His entire body was encased in terrifyingly heavy black iron plate armor, his helmet sealing off his entire face, leaving only a cold, gruesome slit for vision.
His size was inhuman, like a monster crawling out from underground; with every step, the ground seemed to vibrate slightly.
Just like his nickname...
A black, silent Mountain reeking of death.
He made no extra movements, merely raising an arm as thick as a small tree trunk, his heavy armor emitting a tooth-grinding screech as his thick finger pointed directly at Aegon on the high platform.
Then, that raspy, broken voice, like stones grinding bone shards, roared out with celestial violence in the silent square:
"It was me!"
"Back then in the Red Keep, it was me!"
"I grabbed you, little bastard, by the leg and smashed your head against the wall! Smashed it until your brains splattered out!"
"With your brains still on my hands, I fucked your mother Elia!"
"In the end, I split her in two with a single stroke!"
He suddenly lowered his voice, carrying a beast-like ferocity and the scent of blood:
"Today, you little bastard who slipped through the net actually dare to stand before me."
"Fine..."
"Then I'll kill you again!"
As the words hit the ground, the square remained silent for the duration of two heartbeats.
Immediately after, screams and terror exploded like a tsunami! Nobles lost their voices in fear, commoners shook like leaves in the wind, and even the Lannisters' own knights turned pale.
Oberyn Martell's face instantly turned to ice, and a viper-like killing intent exploded.
He stepped across, blocking Aegon, his hand already on the hilt of his dagger, as he spoke sharply:
"Your Highness—!"
He wanted to claim this duel, he wanted to take his revenge personally, he wanted to flay the Mountain alive, inch by inch.
But Aegon didn't let him finish.
Before Oberyn could utter a second word, Aegon had already raised his hand and pressed it onto his shoulder.
The force wasn't great, but it was as heavy as a mountain, brooking no resistance.
No explanation, no discussion, only an unquestionable will.
Oberyn's body stiffened; he was actually rendered unable to move by that single press.
Aegon didn't even look at him; from start to finish, his gaze was fixed on the Mountain like a nail.
The cold killing intent surrounding him almost condensed into visible frost.
The next second...
He whipped his crimson cloak back, and like a patch of blood-colored sunset, it drifted lightly onto the dust behind him.
Attendants on both sides stepped forward at the same time, each holding a sheathed longsword.
Two swords.
Two valyrian steel swords, in the fading sunset of Duskendale, simultaneously glinted with a cold, eerie light.
Aegon's fingers tightened, and he drew his arms back sharply.
"Clang—!!!"
Both swords were unsheathed at once!
The clear, ear-piercing ring of the blades tore through all the noise in the square, the sword-light splitting the dim air, the cold edge stinging people's eyes.
Not a single word of nonsense.
Not a hint of hesitation.
The tips of the two swords—
Straight, resolute, cold, and carrying seventeen years of accumulated blood vengeance, pointed steadily at the gruesome eye-slit in the Mountain's helmet.
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