King's Landing, the Red Keep.
The atmosphere was as oppressive as a swamp before a rainstorm.
The banners that should have been flying high hung limply, and the stained glass of the dome cast distorted patches of light under the thin daylight, adding a touch of eeriness.
The atmosphere at the long table was even colder and heavier than the hall itself.
A series of thunderous news items had completely stunned King's Landing, which was already tense due to the approach of Renly's army.
Renly's sudden death and Stannis's absorption of his army should have been a moment of respite, even worth celebrating.
But the news that followed turned this "respite" into a deeper suffocation... Dragonstone had fallen, the Targaryen had returned, bringing dragons and a Fleet.
"My lords, please forgive my... weariness." The Master of Whisperers, The Spider Varys, was wearing his usual soft silk robes.
His chubby face wore its usual inscrutable worry, and his voice was as soft as a sigh:
"My little birds keep bringing back news from across the Narrow Sea about a silver-haired prince, the Triarchy, the Golden Company's defection, and even... dragons. I once placed them on the Small Council table, one after another."
He looked around at everyone, his sweet voice tinged with helplessness:
"But they were either dismissed as tall tales from overseas or viewed as a minor itch."
"Now, the itch has become a festering sore, and the tall tale has become a nightmare at our gates. Dragonstone, right at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, under our very noses, has raised the three-headed dragon banner. And we were just shivering because of the late Renly."
He spread his hands, his expression its usual mix of innocence and regret.
"Now is not the time for blame, Lord Varys."
The Master of Coin, Littlefinger Petyr Baelish, interrupted him with a professional fake smile on his face.
"The problem is that Dragonstone is too close to King's Landing. Once their Fleet blockades Blackwater Bay, our maritime supplies will be cut off. The Riverlands is either following Stannis or can barely protect itself, and The Riverlands is a hunting ground for the Stark and Lord Tywin."
"King's Landing will soon become an isolated island supported only by the The Crownlands' farmland, provided those farmers don't flee under the shadow of dragons."
The Master of Coin's words sliced open the cruelest reality, bloody and raw.
Tyrion Lannister scanned the faces at the long table with his mismatched eyes.
Queen Regent Cersei's face showed unconcealed irritability and arrogance; Varys's depth beneath his hollow mask; Petyr's shrewdness, appearing to worry for the realm while actually calculating something; Grand Maester Pycelle, drowsy as if he might breathe his last at any moment.
He cleared his throat, the sound particularly abrupt in the empty hall.
"Perhaps," Tyrion said slowly, "we could try to... communicate with Stannis Baratheon for the time being, and set aside some minor grudges."
"After all, if Lord Varys's intelligence is correct... a Dragon King returning from across the Narrow Sea with an invincible Fleet, a massive army, and a dragon with three heads, then this Targaryen is our greatest enemy at the moment."
"Stannis just lost Dragonstone, and his wife and daughter have been captured; he should be more anxious than we are to deal with this uninvited guest."
"Communicate?"
Cersei Lannister snapped her head around, her golden curls tossing with the movement. She looked at Tyrion, her green eyes burning with unconcealed loathing and mockery.
"Send an envoy to bow to that stubborn, rigid, self-righteous stone that is Stannis? Tyrion, my dear brother, has your dwarf head, filled with whores and wine, been squeezed too long by a clown's hat in the circus?"
"Stannis would like nothing more than to hang us all from the Red Keep walls! He would listen to your 'communication'? He'll only use his rigid legal codes to judge us all guilty of treason and then burn us!"
Her voice was shrill, echoing off the stone walls.
"I mean, temporarily lowering our stance to seek a... tacit understanding, or at least a temporary truce, to concentrate our forces against the threat from the east..." Tyrion tried to explain, his tone as steady as possible.
"Shut up! You base, deformed monster!"
Cersei stood up abruptly, her gown knocking over the chair behind her with a harsh scraping sound.
She pointed at Tyrion's nose from above, every word like a poisoned icicle:
"My son, Joffrey, is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms! The legitimate ruler of the andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men!"
"Bow to that usurper Stannis? Never! Absolutely never!"
Her chest heaved violently, her face flushed with anger and a certain paranoid pride.
"Stannis's Dragonstone was taken by that Targaryen remnant, and his wife and children are in someone else's hands! Right now, the one who should be most anxious, jumping like an ant on a hot pan, is Stannis!"
"We only need to sit here, build the walls higher, dig the moat deeper, and watch! Watch them fight like dogs, watch that wild dragon from nowhere fight to the death with that stinking stone Stannis, until both sides are ruined!"
She looked around at everyone, her gaze finally pinning on Tyrion, full of command and dismissal:
"And you, dwarf, the only thing you should do is crawl off your chair and go stay with those mud-legged peasants and stonemasons. Use that pathetic little cleverness you learned from jugglers to make the walls of King's Landing thicker!"
"Instead of using that ugly, stupid big head of yours to voice these cowardly, ridiculous, and useless opinions here!"
She took a deep breath, as if she had exhausted all her patience and decency:
"That's it! Meeting adjourned!"
With that, she looked at no one else. She picked up her skirts and held her head high, like a lioness defending her territory and refusing to admit defeat, walking quickly toward the side door of the throne room. The sound of her high heels clicking on the stone floor left a trail of angry echoes in the hall.
The meeting ended with the Queen Regent's unilateral rant and departure.
An awkward silence fell over the long table.
Grand Maester Pycelle seemed to have been startled awake by Cersei's scream. He blinked vacantly, then stood up tremulously, muttering something no one could hear, and slipped out another side door with his cane.
Petyr Baelish was the second to rise.
He elegantly adjusted his perfectly neat collar and cuffs, that inscrutable smile returning to his face.
"It seems I'll have to find a solution to the financial problems myself."
"I've heard that the Iron Bank of Braavos has been almost emptied by our 'Narrow Sea Dragon King.' Now, getting a single copper from them is harder than squeezing oil from a stone."
"Excuse me, everyone. I'm going to see if I can melt down the gold plates in the privy for some grain."
He gave a slight nod and walked away with a brisk pace, as if the heated argument just now was merely an inconsequential afternoon play.
Only Varys and Tyrion remained at the long table.
The portly Master of Whisperers stood up slowly and walked to Tyrion's side, a heavy scent of perfume emanating from him.
He leaned down and spoke in that characteristic whisper, full of sympathy and hidden meaning:
"Our Queen Regent is as... vibrant and resolute as ever, isn't she, Lord Tyrion?"
Tyrion Lannister did not answer immediately.
He remained seated in the chair that was too large for him, his short fingers interlaced over his stomach.
"Vibrant? Resolute? Perhaps," he said flatly. "Dwarves are naturally disliked; even the truths we speak are treated like circus tricks. I'm used to it."
Varys straightened up, the expression on his round face inscrutable.
"I, for one, think your view just now was... quite insightful. That returning Dragon King is indeed a danger, the greatest and most unknown we have ever faced."
"He has not only dragons, Soldiers, and ships, but more importantly, he has a claim. That's much more troublesome than that stone, Stannis."
"What's the use of being insightful?"
Tyrion finally turned his head to look at Varys, his mismatched, differently colored eyes filled with weariness and a faint, undetectable sharpness.
AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite
"Her Majesty the Queen Regent has issued her decree: repair the walls, watch the show. The only thing we can do is pray that Stannis and that wild dragon fight long enough and viciously enough, and pray that my father can extricate himself from the mess at Harrenhal and return before King's Landing becomes a grave scorched by dragonfire."
He paused, leaned forward, and lowered his voice further, carrying a tone of almost cold pragmatism:
"Varys, you manage intelligence, and you also manage quite a few... old things in the Red Keep. During the time of the Mad King Aerys, what was the specific quantity, storage location, and how much of that wildfire stored in the city is still stable and usable?"
"If that dragon truly flies over King's Landing, perhaps we can only count on those things to buy us, to buy this city, a little more time, or... to create a sufficiently spectacular funeral."
Varys looked at him quietly for a few seconds, and then, a standard, flawless, and slightly mysterious smile appeared on that round face.
"Wildfire... ah, those beautiful and dangerous little things. Regarding them, there are indeed some... dusty records. I will go check, my lord. For the... safety of King's Landing."
The two men ceased their conversation and, one after the other, walked out of the empty, cold, and seemingly still echoing with Cersei's screams, hall.
The door closed heavily behind them, temporarily sealing away the restless arguments and useless schemes.
...
Dragonstone, Stone Drum Tower, Painted Table Chamber
This place was older, rougher, and emptier than the throne room in King's Landing.
A massive stone table occupied most of the hall, with the detailed landscape of Westeros carved onto its surface—mountains, rivers, forests, castles—all rendered in minute detail.
This was the famous "Painted Table," where Aegon the Conqueror once planned his great conquest.
Aegon stood alone before the Painted Table.
He had changed out of his armor, wearing only simple black casual clothes, his silver hair unstyled, draped loosely.
He leaned over slightly, his fingers hovering above the table, slowly tracing across the miniature landscape of all of Westeros.
From the Red Mountains of Dorne to the snowy plains of the North, from the rugged gold mines of the Westerlands to the interwoven water networks of The Riverlands, and finally, stopping at King's Landing, stopping at that point marked by a black wooden block.
It was here.
It was before this very table.
His ancestor, Aegon I, had also gazed upon this continent in this same way, then, riding a great dragon, led his forces west, forging a dynasty that would last for nearly three hundred years with blood and fire.
History seemed like a cycle.
Only this time, the returning Dragon King did not carry the ambition of expanding territory, but the flames to incinerate enemies and the blood debt to wash away shame.
He slowly straightened up.
The significance of Dragonstone was far more than just a castle.
It was the ancient source of Targaryen power, the starting point of the path of conquest, and the symbol of the dragon race.
Perhaps he could trigger a system check-in here...
With a slight movement of his mind, the system interface unfolded silently.
Sure enough, the cursor representing the available check-in location was flickering with a soft and clear light on the mark of Dragonstone.
Following the system's guidance, he left the Painted Table chamber and climbed up along the spiraling stone stairs towards the highest point of the Stone Drum Tower.
The Soldier he encountered along the way saluted silently, watching him disappear at the end of the stairs.
At the end of the stairs was an inconspicuous, iron-clad small wooden door. He pushed it open.
The daylight suddenly brightened, and the sea breeze with a salty, fishy scent rushed in.
This was not the top of the tower, but an open-air platform surrounded by tall, black stone walls.
It was planted with hardy plants and various exotic flowers and grasses.
This was "Aegon's Garden," the place where, according to legend, Aegon the Conqueror would often come to contemplate, overlook his Fleet, and gaze in the direction of Westeros while planning his crossing.
The crenellations at the edge of the platform were dilapidated, and the strong wind whistled through without obstruction.
Standing here, one could overlook the entire black building complex of Dragonstone, see the bay where his own Fleet was anchored in the distance, and see further east, that vast, boundless Narrow Sea that separated two worlds.
Aegon walked to the center of the garden and confirmed the check-in.
[Special location detected: dragonstone · Aegon's Garden. Check in?]
"Yes."
[Check-in successful. Reward obtained: Legendary swordsmanship—the essence of the swordsmanship of the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne.]
A stream of information, as crisp as a spring but as vast as the sea, instantly flooded into Aegon's mind.
It was not a simple manual of moves, but a deeper understanding of the sword, a perfect coordination of footwork, breathing, force application, and timing, and a combat intuition for making the most precise and lethal choices in the blink of an eye.
Especially the essence of the technique regarding wielding different weapons in both hands, making them like extensions of the body, integrating offense and defense, and being unpredictable, which seemed tailor-made for him.
Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, the glory of the former Kingsguard, the creator of legends.
His swordsmanship was hailed as the peak of his time, exquisite and peerless, and could be called art.
Aegon closed his eyes and quietly contemplated for a moment.
Then, he opened his eyes, his right hand pressing onto the hilt of blackfyre at his waist, while his left hand reached toward dark sisters.
"Clang—" "Clang—"
Two clear dragon-like hums rang out almost simultaneously, still distinct amidst the howling sea breeze.
blackfyre was ancient and heavy, while dark sisters was light and slender; the two valyrian steel sword were unsheathed in his hands.
There was no fixed starting stance, no rehearsed routine.
Aegon's feet moved slightly, and his body naturally began to move along with the influx of swordsmanship essence.
blackfyre carved a steady and fierce arc, while dark sisters followed like a shadow, pointing, thrusting, lifting, wiping, as nimble as a viper flicking its tongue.
The twin swords were sometimes like a violent storm, weaving into a lethal steel tempest; sometimes one attacking and one defending, in perfect harmony; and sometimes suddenly separating, launching combined attacks from unimaginable angles.
His footsteps beat out a dense, uniquely rhythmic sound on the rough stone floor, mixing with the screech of the sword blades cutting through the air and the roar of the sea breeze.
His movements became faster and faster, more and more fluid; blackfyre and dark sisters seemed to come alive, no longer just two swords, but extensions of his arms, the embodiment of his will.
In that sword light, there was both the domineering and fierce nature inherited from Maegor Targaryen, and now, it was infused with the peak essence, elegance, and lethal beauty of Arthur Dayne's technique.
However, as the sword dance became more urgent, Aegon frowned slightly.
A subtle, yet real sense of discordance faintly emerged in certain moments of sword transition and force transmission.
blackfyre was a standard heavy hand-and-a-half sword; its length, weight, and center of gravity were all optimized for two-handed or one-handed gripping, hacking, and thrusting, steady and full of power.
While dark sisters was a typical lady's rapier, or rather a variant of a hand-and-a-half sword leaning towards a rapier, lighter, more nimble, and with a narrower blade, suitable for quick thrusts and parries.
But when coordinating with blackfyre for certain moves that required both swords to exert force simultaneously or clash head-on, its thinner blade and different center of gravity brought a hint of indescribable sluggishness.
It was not that the swords were bad, nor that the technique was unrefined.
It was just that these two legendary swords were not originally forged for "dual wielding."
They each had their own glorious history and most suitable masters; forcing them to work together ultimately could not achieve the perfect state of being as fluid as an arm moving a finger, or a seamless whole.
The sword light suddenly retracted.
Aegon stopped his movements, breathing slightly, with fine beads of sweat seeping from his forehead, which were immediately dried by the sea breeze.
He looked down at the two valyrian steel sword resting quietly in his hands.
The black "blackfyre" was as deep as an ancient pool, while the dark "dark sisters" flowed with a more restrained, eerie light.
Both were peerless weapons, both carrying history and power.
But perhaps what he needed was not two ready-made legends.
But rather... a brand new one, forged entirely according to his own characteristics and combat habits... a valyrian steel sword that belonged solely to him, Aegon Targaryen.
Once this thought arose, it was like wildfire, quietly ignited in his heart.
He sheathed his swords, the sound of metal friction almost inaudible in the wind.
He raised his head, his gaze once again cast to the west, toward the vast and chaotic land of Westeros.
The forging of Valyrian Steel had been lost, with only some master smiths in Qohor mastering the method of reforging.
And he happened to have an extra valyrian steel sword in his hand... the Lannister's lightbringer.
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