The courtyard was dead silent.
The gurgling of the fountain now sounded exceptionally harsh, accentuating the heavy silence that almost crushed everyone's chests.
Viserys's mouth hung open, his eyes wide, purple pupils trembling wildly in their sockets, his gaze darting between several points.
The silver-haired, purple-eyed young man before him, the slowly shifting pale golden shadow above his head, and the empty space in the center of the courtyard where only wisps of smoke lingered.
Moments ago, one of the most powerful Magisters of Pentos had stood there.
"You..."
Viserys's voice squeezed out of his throat, dry and hoarse, like two rusty iron plates grating against each other.
"You said... you are Aegon?"
He gasped, his chest heaving violently, trying to regain some semblance of a 'king's' demeanor from his collapsed state.
He clutched the edge of the table, his nails digging into the wood grain, his knuckles white from the effort.
"Rhaegar's son?"
His voice suddenly rose, distorted by excitement and disbelief:
"That infant's head was smashed against the walls of the Red Keep by Gregor Clegane himself! His brains splattered everywhere! Tywin Lannister personally announced it to the Seven Kingdoms, as a token of his allegiance to the Usurper."
"What kind of ghost conjured by witchcraft are you?! Or another imposter trying to deceive with silver hair and purple eyes?!"
"Proof...!" he roared.
"Show me the proof!!"
Aegon listened quietly to the hysterical questioning.
His face was devoid of any expression, neither the anger of being offended nor the eagerness to prove his innocence.
Only a deep, pond-like calm.
Even when Viserys mentioned the'smashed head,' not a single ripple appeared in his violet eyes.
Only when Viserys finished roaring, his chest heaving and panting as he glared at him, did Aegon slightly tilt his head.
"Proof?"
He repeated the word, his tone as flat as if discussing the weather.
Then, his gaze swept over Viserys's face, flushed red with agitation, and then over the surrounding Pentos servants and guests, who were silent as cicadas, wishing they could shrink into the cracks in the ground.
"The merchants at the docks, the Fleets in the Port, everyone in this city who just witnessed the dragon's might... they can all be proof."
He paused, his voice still steady, but it caused the temperature in the courtyard to plummet:
"Tywin Lannister will soon pay the price for his actions."
"I assure you, Uncle."
The address "Uncle" made Viserys tremble all over.
But Aegon no longer looked at him; his gaze turned to Daenerys Targaryen.
She had remained standing there, before the massive bronze brazier, no more than three inches from its scorching edge.
The heat had reddened her cheeks, and her silver-gold hair was gently stirred by the rising steam.
But she was oblivious.
From the moment she heard the name "Aegon Targaryen," her gaze had not left his face.
Her purple eyes were wide open, reflecting the flickering torchlight in the courtyard, and also the figure in black with silver hair.
Tears welled up silently, streaming down her pale cheeks, leaving clear wet streaks.
She didn't wipe them away, just looked at him with a gaze that blended extreme shock, deep confusion, a faint yet stubborn need for confirmation, and... a sense of grievance and hope, like a drowning person finally seeing driftwood, which she herself didn't fully comprehend.
Aegon looked into her eyes, at the complex emotions churning within, almost overflowing.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded slightly at her.
It was an extremely subtle movement, but in Daenerys's focused gaze at that moment, it was incredibly clear.
Daenerys's breath hitched, and more tears welled up, but this time, they seemed to carry something else.
Something that had been frozen for too long, suddenly beginning to melt.
Just then, Aegon moved.
He slowly unfastened the sword from his waist belt.
Aegon held the middle of the scabbard, extending it flat before him, allowing all the torchlight in the courtyard to fall upon it.
"Do you recognize it?"
His voice rang out calmly.
Viserys's eyes were fixed on that section of the scabbard, looking at the seven-pointed star on the hilt, his lips beginning to tremble uncontrollably.
Of course, he recognized it... no, he knew of this sword.
From stories passed down through generations of his family, from descriptions in faded paintings.
"Black... Blackfyre?" His voice trembled almost beyond recognition.
"A valyrian steel sword... Blackfyre? This is impossible... it should have been lost in the rebellion long ago..."
"Harry Strickland, the former Captain-General of the Golden Company, the last loyal follower of the Blackfyre line."
Aegon's voice was devoid of inflection, as if stating a historical fact unrelated to himself.
"He, and his family, secretly guarded this sword for over twenty years."
"Until recently, at a banquet prepared specifically for 'Aegon Targaryen,' he presented this sword to pledge the Blackfyre line's fealty and support 'Aegon Targaryen' in reclaiming the iron throne."
The color drained from Viserys's face instantly, and his body swayed.
Blackfyre... pledging allegiance to Aegon? This... "However..."
Aegon's tone suddenly turned cold, like the sharpest icicle in winter.
"The object of his desired fealty and the recipient of this sword was not me."
He paused, letting the weight of that statement press heavily on Viserys's suddenly taut heartstrings.
"But a blue-haired boy."
Viserys's pupils contracted to pinpricks.
"A perfect fake..." Aegon's gaze swept over the scorched empty space in the center of the courtyard. "...who received continuous gold funding from Illyrio Mopatis, the Magister of Pentos, for over a decade, and was meticulously trained and educated in history, martial arts, statecraft, and all knowledge that 'Aegon Targaryen' should possess."
Viserys froze completely, his mouth open, but no sound came out.
Illyrio... the Magister who always smiled at him, provided him with lodging and money, but never truly gave him an army?
The blue-haired boy... the fake... fragmented clues, vague promises, Illyrio's occasional meaningful glances... at this moment, strung together by Aegon's cold words into a clear, malicious, bone-chilling chain.
He was not the core of the plan.
Never had been.
He, Viserys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, from beginning to end, was merely a pawn.
A miserable discarded piece, intentionally placed in plain sight to attract the enemy's attention!
All the mockery, all the cold treatment, all the wandering... were part of the plan!
It was to cover up the 'genuine article' who was in the shadows, enjoying the best resources and receiving the most elite education!
A torrent of furious betrayal, extreme shame from being manipulated, and bone-deep coldness instantly swept through Viserys.
His face turned from white to green, then flushed red, his fingers digging into the table edge, almost tearing off splinters.
Viserys stared intensely at the Blackfyre, which symbolized the supreme authority of the Targaryens.
In that instant, the overwhelming rage and chilling coldness were replaced by a sudden surge of fervent ecstasy and a stroke of luck!
Yes! It must be so!
This powerful nephew, this Aegon who rides dragons, he has exposed this terrible conspiracy, he has found the true sword, he has defeated those traitors and deceivers!"
"Now, he presents this legendary sword, why is he standing before me? To offer it to me!"
"To offer it to me, Viserys Targaryen, the true and only King of the Seven Kingdoms! He acknowledges my legitimate claim!"
"He will use this sword to pledge his allegiance to me! All those conspiracies and betrayals will be crushed before the return of the true dragon! And I, Viserys, will be the one to ultimately receive all the spoils of victory!
Ecstasy clouded his mind, drowning out the last shred of reason.
A sickly flush instantly erupted on his face, and he struggled to stand from his chair, trying to straighten his habitually hunched back, chin raised, attempting to strike the supreme posture of a king accepting tribute from his subjects.
He reached out, with a trembling eagerness born of excitement, to grasp the hilt, the Blackfyre that symbolized the supreme power and legitimacy he was about to regain.
His movement was so natural, as if Aegon was holding the sword specifically to hand it to him.
Just as his fingertips were about to touch the cold scabbard... Aegon's hand, holding the scabbard, withdrew with extreme steadiness and naturalness.
His gaze briefly swept over the hand frozen in mid-air, slightly trembling, as if it were an irrelevant piece of clutter, then moved away.
He merely raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, very slightly.
"As for how I survived, how I learned my identity, and how I found the dragons..."
Aegon's voice sounded again, calm and unruffled, as if the extremely embarrassing scene just now had never happened.
"That is my story; you only need to know that I am not here to dispute bloodlines."
He lifted his eyes, his gaze like ice and fire, piercing through Viserys's embarrassment, vexation, and the lingering fury, directly into the deepest panic and weakness in his eyes.
"I am here to end the exile."
These words were like a basin of ice water mixed with charcoal, poured over Viserys's head once more.
End the exile! Yes!
He suddenly broke free from embarrassment and anger, as greater greed and ambition coiled around him like poisonous vines, temporarily overriding all other emotions.
"End the exile... Yes! Yes!"
Viserys's voice again became sharp and trembling with excitement; he automatically ignored the previous humiliation, as if it were just a small, insignificant misunderstanding.
He waved his arms, his eyes once again burning with a nearly crazed, fervent flame:
"We have dragons! You have dragons! And three cities! Armies! Fleets! What are we waiting for?"
"Aegon, my good nephew! We will immediately raise a great army and cross the sea to conquer the West! Fight our way back to King's Landing! Drag Robert Baratheon, that Usurper, from the iron throne!"
"And those traitors, the Lannisters, the Starks, the Arryns... kill them all! Burn them all with dragonfire!"
He paced excitedly, issuing commands in the manner of a king, his voice particularly jarring in the silent courtyard:
"I will be crowned in King's Landing! In the Great Sept of Baelor! And then I will name you Prince! No, Hand of the King! Yes, Hand of the King!"
"Together, we uncle and nephew, will surely usher in the most glorious era of the Targaryens! Let those lowly lords kneel and tremble before the true dragon once more!"
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