The voice continued, as steady and unhurried footsteps approached:
"Not to mention, whether my aunt is willing to marry should be decided by family discussion, not haggled over in a market."
The footsteps tapped out a rhythmic light sound on the flagstone courtyard floor, each step feeling as though it were thumping against the hearts of everyone present.
The owner of the voice finally stepped out from the shadows of the cloister.
The light of the sky and the courtyard torches fell upon him simultaneously.
His silver hair flowed like moonlight, gleaming with a cold luster in the flickering torchlight.
His violet eyes swept calmly across the scene, lingering for a moment on Daenerys before coming to rest on Illyrio's face at the head of the table.
He wore a suit of deep black finery, sharply tailored.
That face was young and handsome, with features as clearly defined as if carved from stone.
The combination of silver hair and violet eyes might not be rare in Essos, but paired with that innate majesty... the open courtyard fell into a dead silence.
Even the babbling water of the fountain sounded exceptionally piercing.
For the first time, the habitual, warm smile on Illyrio's fat face froze completely.
His fingers gripping the back of the chair trembled slightly, and an absurd thought grew wildly in his heart... No, it's impossible.
But he forcibly suppressed the confusion and squeezed out a smile: "And who might this excellency be...?"
The newcomer did not answer immediately.
His gaze turned to the golden crown on the ground, then slowly lifted, scanning the entire area.
The hands of the three Dothraki messengers moved almost simultaneously toward the arakhs at their waists—the instinctive alertness of warriors facing an unknown threat.
Their eyes grew sharp and their muscles tensed, like beasts scenting blood.
The newcomer finally spoke, his voice not loud, yet every word reached everyone's ears with clarity:
"Aegon Targaryen."
He paused, then continued, each title striking the silent courtyard like a heavy stone monument:
"Son of Rhaegar and Elia."
"Lord of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh."
"Dragon Prince."
"And," his gaze fell back onto Daenerys, a faint, almost imperceptible softness flickering in its depths, "the nephew of this princess."
Dead silence.
Then came the sound of collective gasps.
The wine cup in Viserys's hand fell onto the table with a clatter, splashing deep red wine all over his hand, but he was completely oblivious.
He just stared fixedly at Aegon's face, his lips moving unconsciously, yet unable to make a sound.
Daenerys stood before the brazier, only three inches away from the scalding bronze edge.
The heat flushed her cheeks red, but she remained motionless, her purple eyes wide, reflecting the silver-haired, violet-eyed figure.
Conflicting realizations crashed within her mind, and then, she saw Aegon move.
He walked toward the golden crown that had rolled onto the ground.
His steps were steady, the hem of his black clothes brushing the flagstone floor without a sound.
He stopped before the crown, bent down, and picked it up.
The crown was stained with some dust.
He gently rubbed the golden leaves with the pad of his thumb, brushing away the dust with a meticulousness as if he were cleaning an heirloom treasure.
Then he turned and walked toward Daenerys.
In the courtyard, everyone's eyes followed his movement. The hands of the Dothraki messengers remained on their sword hilts, their gazes wary.
Viserys's mouth hung open, and Illyrio's face turned from stiff to deathly pale.
Aegon walked up to Daenerys.
He was more than a head taller than she was.
A shadow fell over her, bringing with it a faint, fresh scent like that after a thunderstorm, and an indescribable... warmth?
Daenerys wasn't sure. Her senses were overwhelmed by chaos.
She looked up at him.
The heat from the brazier came from behind her, but at this moment, all her attention was focused on the face before her.
The deep black finery.
Silver hair flowing with a moonlit luster in the courtyard lights.
Then, her gaze crashed into those eyes.
Violet.
Deeper than her own purple, like a midnight sea, with a power surging beneath the calm surface that she could not fully comprehend.
But in the depths of that profound purple, there was an indescribable sense of familiarity... Wait.
Daenerys's breath suddenly hitched.
These eyes... where had she seen them before?
A memory suddenly surfaced: the clamor of the arena crowd, the bloody sands, and a Silver-haired Knight extending a blood-stained spear tip toward her, upon which hung a crown of love and beauty.
Those eyes had looked at her from behind the helmet's visor, saying calmly:
"Be brave."
Back then, the distance was too great and the light too dim; she only remembered a blurred silhouette and the silhouette of those violet eyes.
But now... at such close range.
The same silver hair, the same violet eyes, the same... calm certainty.
Aegon looked down at her, reached out, and gently placed the golden crown back onto her head.
His movement was steady.
His fingertips inadvertently brushed her silver hair, the touch slightly cool.
"The crown fell," he said, his voice audible only to the two of them. "I've picked it up for you."
At the very moment he spoke, Daenerys saw a minute, almost imperceptible upward curve at the corner of his mouth.
That curve... in the arena, when that Silver-haired Knight placed the crown on her head, there seemed to have been an identical curve at the corner of his mouth.
All the fragments crashed together in her mind.
The Silver-haired Knight of the arena... Rhaegar's son... my... nephew?
The chaotic realizations crashed against her thoughts like a tide.
Tears welled up without warning—not from sadness, but as if some ice that had been frozen for over a decade was melting into an uncontrollable torrent under the impact of the sudden truth.
She opened her mouth, wanting to say something.
Wanting to ask, "Is it you?"
Wanting to confirm if this was just another hallucination born of despair.
But Aegon had already withdrawn his hand and turned around.
He faced the entire assembly, his gaze finally landing on Illyrio's face.
"So," Aegon said, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather, "who can tell me how my aunt's marriage turned into an auction with a clearly marked price?"
Illyrio finally found his voice.
A smile was once again piled onto his fat face, but it was as stiff as a mask:
"Your... Your Highness! This is truly... a joyous occasion! The true dragon bloodlines reunited!"
"As for the princess's marriage, this is a covenant between His Majesty Viserys and Khal Drogo, for the great cause of restoring the Targaryen Dynasty..."
"Great cause?" Aegon interrupted him.
He took a step forward.
Just one step.
But Illyrio felt as if an invisible hand were choking his throat, and the rest of his words were stuck in his gullet.
"Trading the family's last female bloodline for a barbarian army..."
Aegon's voice remained calm, but every word was like a poisoned needle of ice.
"And you call this a great cause?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Viserys, who was still in shock and hadn't come to his senses, looking utterly lost.
Aegon looked back at Illyrio:
"Not to mention, some people sell the Targaryen bloodline while secretly cultivating fakes, attempting to replace the true dragon with an impostor just to control the chessboard from behind the scenes."
The color completely drained from Illyrio's face.
"I..." He opened his mouth.
The three Dothraki messengers in the courtyard finally fully reacted.
They didn't understand the complex Valyria dialogue, but from Aegon's tone, Illyrio's fear, Viserys's shock, and the posture of this suddenly appearing silver-haired man, they read the most crucial signal... the newcomer meant trouble.
"Hah!" the leading bloodrider suddenly roared in Dothraki, his voice as coarse as grinding sand.
He abruptly drew his arakh.
Moonlight flowed along the curved blade, reflecting his ferocious face.
The other two Dothraki messengers also drew their blades simultaneously, three arakhs raised in the courtyard, their tips pointed at Aegon.
Illyrio, as if grasping at a life-saving straw, hurriedly shouted in broken Dothraki mixed with Valyria: "Drogo! Khal! Friend! This person... enemy! Threat! Khal Drogo will not sit by..."
His words came to an abrupt halt.
Because Aegon didn't even look at the three dothraki with their swords drawn.
He simply looked up calmly toward the sky.
The sky above the courtyard had been clear and cloudless, with bright sunlight.
But now, a massive shadow with faint golden edges silently covered the entire firmament.
The sun vanished; the blue sky vanished.
Only that shadow remained, slowly pressing down, blotting out the sun and moon, shrouding the entire courtyard in a sudden, suffocating gloom and pressure.
It was as if noon had suddenly turned into dusk.
Illyrio's mouth was still open, but he could no longer make any sound.
His fat body began to tremble violently, his pupils shrinking to the size of pinheads.
Aegon's gaze fell back on him.
"Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos."
His voice turned abruptly cold, like winter iron: "Colluding with the Usurper, selling royal blood, and conspiring to subvert the Targaryen—the evidence of your crimes is conclusive."
He raised his hand, not even looking at Illyrio, and simply made a very light gesture toward the sky.
"Now, in the name of a Targaryen Prince, I sentence you to... death."
Illyrio finally realized what was about to happen.
His fat body erupted with surprising speed as he tried to hide under the table, tried to call for guards, tried to beg for mercy... but it was too late.
Above the firmament, at the center of that faint golden shadow, a point of blinding golden light suddenly ignited.
There was no thunder, no warning.
A golden lightning bolt, thin as a hair yet condensed to a piercing brilliance, fell straight down.
There was no explosion. No fire. Not even a scream.
Illyrio's entire person, along with his brocade robes and the gemstone rings on his fingers, instantly turned into countless glittering points of light, like morning dew evaporated by the sun, vanishing silently into the air.
Silence.
An absolute, marrow-freezing silence.
Even the three Dothraki messengers were frozen in place, their raised arakhs halted in mid-air.
They looked up at the shadow covering the sky, and at the golden light slowly receding at its center, feeling for the first time in their lives a fear that transcended a warrior's understanding.
Aegon finally turned his head to look at them.
His gaze was calm and rippleless, slowly sweeping over the three arakhs pointed at him before landing on the face of the leading Dothraki bloodrider.
He did not speak.
But that calm stare made the three battle-hardened Dothraki warriors feel a pressure heavier than facing ten thousand men and horses.
It wasn't bloodlust, nor was it enmity, but a kind of... looking down.
As if a human were looking down at the posturing ants at their feet.
The hand of the dothraki messenger holding the arakh was trembling violently; his muscles were instinctively fighting the pressure that stemmed from the gap in the level of their existence.
He tried to tighten his grip on the hilt, but his fingers would not obey.
Aegon slowly raised his right hand, extended his index finger, and pointed toward the sky.
Then, using simple words that everyone could understand, he said word by word:
"The dragon is here."
"Go back and tell your Khal."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the three arakhs frozen in mid-air:
"If he comes with enmity..."
Above the firmament, within that shadow, three pairs of massive, molten-gold vertical pupils slowly opened.
They looked down coldly, and in the depths of the pupils, liquid fire seemed to be slowly swirling.
"Let your Khal see for himself..."
Aegon's voice remained calm, but every word was like a heavy hammer striking everyone's heart.
"...whether the Dothraki Grass Sea can withstand the dragon's wrath."
"Clang."
The leading bloodrider's arakh slipped from his hand and fell onto the flagstone floor, letting out a crisp clatter.
He didn't go to pick it up.
He just slowly and stiffly dropped to one knee.
It wasn't submission, but the instinctive awe and etiquette of a Dothraki warrior facing a divine scourge.
The other two messengers also knelt down after him.
Only then did Viserys finally break free from the extreme shock.
He slumped in the seat of honor, his robes soaked with wine, the empty wine cup having rolled onto the floor at some unknown point.
His thoughts had been tossing wildly like fallen leaves swept by a gale during that brief moment... his initial anger hadn't even fully risen before it was shattered by the impact of the silver hair and violet eyes of the person before him.
Targaryen? Rhaegar's son?! This realization exploded like a thunderclap.
Immediately following it was a surge of near-manic joy... My nephew! Alive! And there are dragons! There are three cities! The iron throne is within reach!
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