Selyse Florent was "invited" into the great hall by two black-armored Soldiers; she clutched her daughter Shireen's hand so tightly that her fingertips turned white.
Shireen hid almost entirely behind her mother, only her blue eyes, wide with fear, peeking out; the Greyscale covering her left face appeared even duller in the dim light.
The moment they stepped over the threshold, an invisible, suffocating pressure rushed toward them.
It wasn't a sound or a scent, but a pure sense of presence—cold, hard, and filled with the weight of scrutiny and judgment—that made her breath hitch and her footsteps nearly falter.
Selyse forced herself to look up, her heart pounding so hard it felt as if it might shatter her ribs.
On both sides of the hall stood two silent walls forged of flesh and steel.
The Soldiers on the left wore dark red cloaks and rigid armor; they stood perfectly straight and motionless, their gazes behind their visors like ice picks, piercing the air and pinning her in place.
The Soldiers on the right wore pitch-black cloaks; their formation was not as disciplined or lethal as the left, but their fierce, wild aura—as if they had just crawled out of a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood—was even more raw and palpable.
At the end of these two "walls," atop several cold, black stone steps...
A figure sat there.
He sat upon a throne carved from a single piece of dragonstone, its lines cold and rugged, symbolizing the supreme authority of this place.
He wore pitch-black armor that seemed to swallow the light, with a dark red cloak hanging from his shoulders like a pool of congealed blood.
His silver hair radiated a cold and dazzling brilliance within the dust-moted beams of light slanting in from the high, narrow arched windows.
He tilted his head slightly, one hand resting casually on the cold armrest of the throne and the other on his knee.
That menacing dragon-winged helm was placed carelessly to one side of the throne.
The exposed face was excessively young, yet also excessively cold.
But what was most impossible to look away from were those eyes.
Violet, as calm as the deepest sea before a storm; seemingly wave-less, yet capable of easily seeing through any blustering disguise.
He sat there quietly, looking down at the mother and daughter brought to the center of the hall like a god looking down at ants that had wandered into his temple.
Selyse's heart drummed frantically in her chest, nearly breaking her ribs.
She gripped her daughter Shireen's hand tightly, feeling the small hand trembling violently as well.
She had to say something.
She had to maintain the last of her dignity.
For House Florent, for Baratheon, for... her husband.
Selyse took a deep breath, the air cold and stinging in her lungs.
She forced herself to straighten her back, which wanted to slouch from fear, and looked up to meet the gaze upon the throne.
She spoke, her voice dry and hoarse with uncontrollable trembling, sounding exceptionally weak in the vast, deathly silent hall, yet she used all her strength to raise it:
"In the name of Selyse Florent, legitimate Queen to King Stannis Baratheon I, the legitimate King of the andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm..."
Each title was like building a final, fragile bulwark for herself.
"...I demand that you immediately cease this despicable invasion and atrocity! Release me and my daughter at once, and withdraw from Dragonstone! Otherwise, when King Stannis Baratheon's great army returns, he will surely grind you and your... these thugs, to dust!"
Her voice collided and echoed against the stone walls, carrying a sense of bluffing, though the tail end of her words uncontrollably leaked a sharp sliver of despair.
After speaking, her chest heaved violently as she stared fixedly at Aegon, as if trying to force him back with her gaze or find a hint of wavering on his face.
Aegon did not reply immediately.
His gaze fell calmly on Selyse's face, which was flushed from agitation, fear, and forced defiance, as if he were watching a clumsy and poorly performed one-man show.
There was no anger in that gaze, no mockery, only a calm that saw through everything.
Then, he spoke softly, his voice not loud but easily overriding the echoes of Selyse's words, reaching everyone's ears in the hall clearly:
"Legitimate?"
He repeated the word, his tone carrying a trace of imperceptible playfulness along with a deeper coldness.
He gave a nearly inaudible, cold chuckle that held no warmth.
"Lady Selyse Florent," his voice was steady, as if stating an obvious fact, "there is no invasion here, nor any atrocity. There is only a reception. Dragonstone is the ancestral seat of House Targaryen."
"I have come home. That is all."
"You!" Selyse's face instantly flushed even redder, as if she had suffered a great insult, her voice suddenly turning shrill. "My husband, Stannis, is the legitimate heir of King Robert, and Dragonstone is his..."
"The younger brother of Robert Baratheon," Aegon spoke, his voice still steady but like a cold iron spike.
He paused, leaning forward slightly.
This simple movement made Selyse, standing below the steps, feel an invisible, heavy pressure rush toward her, nearly making her knees buckle.
"And the crown of Robert Baratheon," Aegon's voice remained low, but every word seemed to carry the scent of rust and blood, "came from usurpation, from betrayal, and..."
He paused briefly, and in the depths of his violet eyes, a cold flame seemed to flicker for a moment.
"...and from the blood of my kin."
One could hear a pin drop in the hall. Only his narrative, so calm it made one's marrow turn cold, echoed around.
"Sixteen years ago. In the Red Keep. A little girl named Rhaenys, six years old. She was dragged from under her father's bed. Because of her surname, cold blades stabbed her small body more than fifty times."
Selyse's breathing abruptly stopped.
"That same afternoon. An infant just a year old named Aegon Targaryen. He was grabbed by the ankles and his head was smashed against the wall, once, twice... until they thought he was dead. Along with his sister, he was thrown into a mass grave outside King's Landing."
Aegon's voice had no fluctuations, as if he were telling someone else's story.
But the more calm he was, the more those bloody images were laid bare and gory before everyone.
"The one who gave the order was Tywin Lannister. The one who condoned it all and thus sat upon the iron throne with a clear conscience was Robert Baratheon. And the 'legitimate' husband you speak of, Stannis Baratheon..."
He looked at Selyse, his gaze like an ice pick.
"After that tragedy occurred, he gladly accepted the title of Lord of Dragonstone. He comfortably enjoyed the fruits of success stained with Targaryen blood, sitting in the high-backed chair of the Small Council, enjoying the status and power paved with the flesh and blood of my kin."
He paused, his voice suddenly rising with thunderous pressure, instantly shattering all the previous low tones:
"Now, you stand before me! You stand in the ancestral castle that House Targaryen has passed down for centuries! You stand on the land where my murdered kin once lived and ultimately died! You stand before the throne that symbolizes the authority of the Dragon King, yet was defiled by the usurper!"
His gaze was like a torch, pinned firmly to Selyse's paper-white face; word by word, like a heavy hammer, he smashed them into the deathly silent hall and into her crumbling heart:
"...Tell me about your Baratheon 'legitimacy'...!"
"What kind of 'law' is this?!"
"Is it the law of murdering infants? Is it the law of betraying oaths and slaughtering royalty? Or is it..."
He leaned back slightly, his voice returning to its previous calmness, yet it was more suffocating than thunder:
"...the 'law' of the victor being right and the loser being wrong, of the strong preying on the weak?"
Selyse Florent froze there like a wax statue that had its soul instantly snatched away.
Her face was pale without a hint of color, and her lips trembled violently; she wanted to retort, to scream, to defend herself, her husband, and the "legitimacy" she had always believed in...
But her throat felt as if it were stuffed with scorching sand, unable to make any sound.
Every sentence and every word from Aegon was like a red-hot branding iron, searing her supposedly solid convictions, burning through that layer of "legitimacy" to reveal the bloody, undeniable, and cruel truth beneath.
"As for you and your daughter." Aegon's gaze briefly swept over Shireen, who had been shrinking behind her mother, shivering as tears flowed silently.
His gaze lingered for a moment on that small face ravaged by Greyscale, and a flicker of imperceptible complexity seemed to pass through it, but his voice remained cold and beyond doubt.
"Your daughter is innocent for now. But her surname... Baratheon, dictates that she must bear the consequences of this karma."
He leaned back against the cold stone throne, resuming his previous calm posture as if the thunderous interrogation from a moment ago had never happened.
"Now, write a letter to your husband, Stannis Baratheon."
His voice rang out again, carrying an irresistible command.
"Tell him it is time for the blood debt House Baratheon owes to Targaryen to be repaid. Tell him to bring his army to Dragonstone. I will be waiting for him here."
"Between him and me lies sixteen years of blood feud, and this..."
He raised his hand, pointing toward the turbulent, surging sea visible through the hall's arched windows.
"...this sea, destined to bury countless souls."
"The lives of you and your daughter are safe for the time being. I will not be as base as the usurper and strike at women and children. You will be temporarily imprisoned, waiting... to stand trial together with Stannis Baratheon."
AI Model: gemini-2.5-flash-lite
After speaking, he no longer looked at the women, merely waving a dismissive hand.
Two Bloodsworn Soldiers immediately stepped forward, one on each side, silently and firmly supporting the nearly collapsed Selyse Florent.
Another Soldier carefully, yet irresistibly, took hold of the incessantly weeping Shireen.
The mother and daughter seemed to have had all their bones removed; they were practically dragged away from the suffocating great hall.
Shireen cast one last look back at the silver-haired figure on the throne, her blue eyes filled with terror.
Silence returned to the hall.
The generals and Soldiers standing rigidly on both sides still followed the departing mother and daughter with their eyes; there was not a trace of pity in their gaze, only the righteous indignation of vengeance soon to be achieved, coupled with deeper reverence and shared hatred for the figure on the throne.
The history of blood and fire was being turned over anew; the seeds of hatred had long been deeply sown, and now, finally, it was time for them to break the soil and settle the score.
Henry, standing first among the Bloodsworn on the left, also wore a grim expression.
However, as his gaze swept over the distraught profile of Selyse Florent being dragged away, a barely perceptible, extremely complex glimmer flashed deep within his eyes, so fast that no one noticed.
...Stormlands, near Blackwater Rush, Stannis's encampment.
The setting sun was like blood, dyeing the battlefield, where the fighting had just ended and the smoke of battle had not yet dissipated, a ghastly dark red.
The heavy smell of gore, the stench of burning, and the very aura of death mixed together, pressing down heavily on everyone's heart.
Renly Baratheon's massive and magnificent allied force of the The Reach and Stormlands had already disintegrated following their commander's bizarre death in his tent the previous night.
Most of the banners had been replaced by the flaming red heart and stag flag, hanging listlessly under the bloody twilight.
Surrender, incorporation, clearing the battlefield... everything proceeded silently and efficiently, yet carried an indescribable sense of strangeness and solemnity.
Stannis Baratheon stood before the newly erected central command tent, his back ramrod straight, like an eroded statue.
He looked at the huge army belonging to him, unprecedented in size, yet there was no hint of joy of victory on his face, only deeper, impenetrable gloom and exhaustion.
He had just murdered his own brother with a shadow.
For the realm. For the law. For duty.
For the iron throne, which he viewed as a shackle, yet was obligated to ascend.
He told himself this again and again, but in a corner of his heart, it felt as if a piece of eternal, unmelting ice lay heavy, chilling to the bone and so weighty it almost made him unable to breathe.
"Your Grace."
Davos approached, his voice kept very low.
The former smuggler also showed no joy on his face, only deep worry.
"Lord Florent and Lord Velaryon both believe we should break camp immediately and march north. While Lannister and Stark are entangled in the The Reach, and Tywin's main army is tied up at Harrenhal, King's Landing is empty... we should strike directly for the Red Keep. Morale... is currently acceptable."
Stannis remained silent.
The iron throne.
That cold, ugly chair forged from the swords of his enemies seemed close at hand, within reach.
As long as he marched north, shaking off the heaviness and gloom of this battlefield, shaking off Renly's wide-open, unseeing eyes from his nightmares... he could fulfill his duty to the realm and the law, taking the seat that rightfully belonged to him.
Duty. Always duty.
Just then—
"Flap-flap..."
A flurry of chaotic wing beats.
A messenger raven, its feathers disheveled and looking utterly exhausted, staggered onto a wooden post near the watchtower.
The maester hurried forward, untied the small copper tube from its leg, and took out the scroll inside.
He glanced at it once, and the maester's face instantly turned pale, the hand holding the scroll trembling violently.
He almost stumbled and jogged to Stannis, his voice distorted by extreme terror: "Y-Your Grace! Dragonstone! Urgent news from Dragonstone!"
Stannis's heart leaped violently; a sense of ominous premonition seized him.
He snatched the crumpled piece of parchment, tearing it open almost roughly, his gaze sweeping over the hurried, scribbled handwriting...
It was the script of his wife, Selyse.
But it was more chaotic than any previous time, the strokes trembling, the ink blurred by tears, the lines filled with despair and collapse:
"...Targaryen... Dragon... Fleet... Dragonstone is lost... I and Shireen are imprisoned... Rescue quickly..."
These few words were like several thunderclaps, striking Stannis's already overcast heart.
The knuckles of the hand gripping the paper let out faint clicking sounds from the force; his face instantly lost color, veins bulged on his forehead, and his habitually thin, tightly pressed lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged.
"How... how dare they!" Finally, an extremely suppressed growl, mixed with shock and rage, escaped through his gritted teeth.
Davos took the crumpled parchment from his hand and quickly read it. Even for this former smuggler, accustomed to storms, he sucked in a sharp breath, his face drastically changing: "This... how is this possible? Targaryen? Dragon? Aren't they..."
The news exploded among the high-ranking officers who rushed over upon hearing it, like ice water dropped into hot oil.
The atmosphere outside the great tent changed abruptly.
Lord Florent was so agitated he nearly jumped up, his beard trembling: "Your Grace! We must return immediately! The Queen and the Princess are in the enemy's hands! Dragonstone is our foundation; we cannot lose it!"
However, the newly surrendered lords of the Stormlands erupted in strong opposition:
"Your Grace! King's Landing is empty now, and Lannister is entangled with the North—it is a heaven-sent opportunity to seize the iron throne! Returning to Dragonstone will not only negate all our efforts but might also lead to us being intercepted mid-route by an enemy that has rested!"
"The iron throne is right before our eyes! Your Grace, the crown is worth more than anything!"
"They are your wife and daughter! They are still in the enemy's hands!"
The argument escalated rapidly, nearly turning into a physical confrontation.
Generals advocating for the march north and those demanding a return glared at each other, hands resting on their sword hilts.
Stannis was caught in the middle, his face ashen, his lips pressed into a Stark white, straight line.
The iron throne he had pursued his entire life seemed within easy reach; it was the endpoint of the duty and destiny he regarded as his obligation.
But his wife and daughter, his legal family, had fallen into enemy hands at this moment, their fate unknown.
The duty to the realm and the duty to his family, like two mad giant beasts, tore and roared within his heart, almost ripping him apart from the inside.
Davos squeezed up beside him and urgently whispered in a hoarse voice audible only to the two of them: "Your Grace, calm down! This is too strange! The Targaryens have been silent for over a decade, and suddenly they appear with dragons, accurately striking the nearly empty Dragonstone?"
"This might be a trap! They just want to lure you back, making you give up the easily obtainable King's Landing!"
Stannis suddenly turned to look at him, his grey eyes bloodshot, his voice raspy like sandpaper: "I know it might be a trap! Davos, I know! But where is my wife?! Where is my daughter?! Where is Dragonstone?!"
His voice revealed a rare struggle and helplessness bordering on agony.
He was not only a king but also a husband and a father.
Dragonstone was not only a strategic location but also the land granted to him, the starting point of his power, and in a sense, an anchor for his soul.
Davos looked at the intense struggle in the King's eyes, watching the monarch renowned for iron rules and stubbornness show such agonizing expression before a major decision for the first time, and his own heart clenched.
He took a deep breath, lowering his voice further, but every word was heavy: "Your Grace, if you choose to advance on King's Landing now, even if you successfully take the iron throne... if the Queen and the Princess meet misfortune because of it... what meaning will that cold chair have?"
He paused, watching Stannis's pupils contract sharply, and delivered the final straw: "Protecting your family is also your duty. A King's duty is not limited to the throne."
That sentence struck like a heavy hammer, shattering the wildly swinging scales in Stannis's heart.
Protecting family... was also duty.
Renly's dead eyes, Selyse's messy handwriting, Shireen's frightened face... intertwined chaotically before his eyes.
The cold illusion of the iron throne suddenly faded and grew distant in the face of the potential suffering of his wife and daughter.
He slammed his eyes shut, his chest heaving violently.
When he opened them again, all struggle, pain, and hesitation had vanished from his eyes, leaving only a desperate resolution.
"Give the order!!!"
He roared hoarsely, his voice instantly drowning out all the arguments.
Everyone fell silent and looked at him.
Stannis Baratheon, the king who had just won a bizarre victory only to immediately fall into a crueler choice, straightened his eternally straight back, and spoke every word decisively, as if branding the command onto iron:
"Break camp immediately!"
"The Fleet is to assemble at once!"
He turned abruptly, looking toward the east, toward Blackwater Bay, toward the island currently shrouded by the black dragon banners:
"We march back to Dragonstone!!"
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