Light.
Not the all-consuming golden thunder of his memory, but the pale afternoon light, carrying the briny scent of the sea.
It stung Stannis Baratheon's closed eyelids, dragging him back by force from a void of darkness and absolute silence.
There was no sharp pain, no warmth, only a heavy, omnipresent numbness.
He slowly opened his eyes and saw the low-hanging, leaden-gray sky, and the familiar cold grass of Dragonstone's eastern coast, interspersed with black gravel.
And further away, that familiar, towering, and steep Stone Drum Tower, built from pitch-black volcanic stone.
He wasn't dead.
This realization brought no sense of relief, only a deeper hollow and absurdity.
He moved his fingers, propped up his body, and sat up.
Then, he saw them.
A silent crowd, standing like a forest growing along the coast.
Black and dark red cloaks fluttered slightly in the sea breeze, their gazes calmly focused on him.
Behind them, on the distant low walls and towers, giant banners snapped in the sea wind.
A black field, embroidered with a bright red three-headed dragon.
Targaryen.
Beneath a massive black banner with a three-headed red dragon, a figure in black armor with silver hair stood facing the sea.
No introduction was needed; no announcement was required.
That face, vaguely similar to Prince Rhaegar's yet distinctly different, along with everything this scene portended, pointed unmistakably to one name.
Aegon Targaryen.
He pushed himself up from the ground with stiff hands, the sea breeze battering his damaged armor and his cloak stained with sea salt and soot.
He began to walk, somewhat stumbling but steady, toward that figure.
The Soldiers silently made way.
Stannis stopped ten paces behind Aegon. He did not look at Aegon, but followed his gaze out toward the sea ahead.
Then, he understood what Aegon was looking at.
And why he was still alive.
The sea.
The waters of The Gullet, which should have been a vast expanse of blue, were now almost entirely covered by an endless stretch of twisted wreckage.
Charred, broken keels thrust hideously out of the water, pointing toward the gloomy sky.
Broken planks, shredded sails, bloated corpses, scattered weapons, and various unidentifiable debris rose and fell slowly with the murky waves, colliding with one another.
The thick smoke had not yet fully dissipated, trailing wisps of grayish-black across the wreckage.
Further out, some shipwrecks that had not yet fully submerged were still burning, their flames appearing weak yet stubborn between the leaden-gray sea and sky.
This was his Fleet.
The massive Fleet he had brought, carrying his final hopes and responsibilities.
Now, they were no longer tools of war, but had transformed into a vast, silent maritime graveyard filled with the stench of death, filling every inch of the sea between Dragonstone and the horizon.
A few small boats from the Narrow Sea Fleet, flying the black banner with the red dragon, wove slowly through the wreckage like scavenging crows, salvaging what might still be of value, or perhaps merely tallying the scale of this destruction.
No need for another look. Stannis withdrew his gaze.
The heavy void in his heart seemed to be filled with something substantial by the sight before him—a cold, hard substance called the end.
"You could have let me die there," Stannis spoke, his voice raspy and dry, like the scraping of rusted iron.
Aegon slowly turned around.
His purple eyes looked at him calmly, without triumph or contempt, only a bottomless, almost inhuman serenity.
"Death is easy, Stannis Baratheon," Aegon's voice carried clearly through the waves and wind. "But a reckoning requires being alive to complete."
Just then, a squad of Soldiers approached, escorting two people.
Selyse Florent, her face as pale as paper, hair disheveled, her gaze vacant and her body trembling, had eyes that flashed with terror and despair when she saw Stannis.
Shireen, held by the hand by a Soldier, the greyscale on her face appearing even duller under the bleak sky. She bit her lower lip, her eyes brimming with tears, looking at her father in terror before quickly glancing at Aegon, her body shrinking back.
They were brought forward.
Aegon's gaze swept over the mother and daughter, lingering on Shireen for a moment before returning to Stannis's face.
His voice rang out, no longer addressed to an individual, but with the solemnity and coldness of a public sentencing, echoing between the sea breeze and the tides:
"Stannis Baratheon."
"Sixteen years ago, the Red Keep fell. My grandfather, Aerys II, died at the hands of his own Kingsguard. My grandmother, Queen Rhaella, died bleeding on her childbed. My father, Rhaegar Targaryen, had his chest crushed by Robert's warhammer at the Trident."
His voice was steady, yet every word was like a tempered iron nail driven into the cold air.
"That was not enough."
"On that same day, in the depths of the Red Keep, my six-year-old sister, Rhaenys, was dragged from under a bed. Because of her name, she was stabbed over fifty times."
"And I was grabbed by the ankles, held upside down, and slammed against a wall over and over again until they thought I was dead."
Aegon's gaze was like a blade of ice, piercing Stannis.
"After the tragedy, you gladly accepted the title of Lord of Dragonstone. You complacently enjoyed the spoils of war stained with the blood of my kin, sat in the high-backed chairs of the Small Council, and enjoyed the peace and power paved with Targaryen blood."
"Sixteen years. House Baratheon has sat upon an iron throne that never belonged to you, ruling the Seven Kingdoms as traitors and murderers."
"And today, you have led an army to the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, attempting to use sword and fire to maintain this stolen legitimacy built upon the bones of infants."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice suddenly rising with thunderous pressure and unquestionable judgment:
"Based on these blood debts and crimes, I, Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia, rightful heir to the iron throne, hereby sentence..."
"The name Baratheon, which flourished through betrayal and murder, shall today end through judgment."
"The Baratheon bloodline shall, from this day forth, be completely severed from Westeros."
"Everything you stole—castles, power, so-called legitimacy—shall vanish like foam upon the sea."
His cold gaze swept over Stannis and the trembling Selyse.
"Stannis Baratheon, Selyse Florent, I sentence you to death."
"No—!!!" Selyse let out a shrill scream, struggling frantically, tears and snot streaming down her face as she looked at Stannis. "No! Please! We are royalty... You can't! Stannis! Save me! Save Shireen! I beg you!"
Shireen erupted into heart-wrenching wails.
Stannis did not look at his wife, nor his daughter. He continued to look at Aegon, the last glimmer of light in his deep-set blue eyes completely extinguished, leaving only cold, heavy ashes.
He knew this was the end.
Everything he had clung to, relied upon, and fought and sacrificed for throughout his life—the law, duty, the iron throne, his house.
In the face of these bloody accusations and absolute destruction, it was all crushed to powder, revealing the absurd and nihilistic nature beneath.
Aegon's gaze skipped over the broken Selyse and the weeping Shireen, finally returning to Stannis. His tone softened slightly, yet it held a more calculated coldness:
"As for Shireen Baratheon..."
He paused, looking at the unfortunate greyscale on the girl's face and her terrified blue eyes.
The greyscale made it impossible for her to pose a future threat; she was young and clearly had not been completely tainted by her parents' fanaticism.
More importantly, her being alive as a "former Baratheon pardoned and warded by the Targaryens" held potential value for future efforts to appease, divide, or even assimilate the still-scheming nobility of the Stormlands.
She was a banner, a pawn, a living symbol demonstrating the victor's "magnanimity" and control.
Her life was spared because of her utility.
"...is young and has already been punished by disease. I spare her life. She is stripped of the name Baratheon and shall be raised under the guardianship of Dragonstone."
The sentencing was over. The sea wind howled, sweeping across the deathly silent beach.
Stannis was silent for a moment.
Then, he looked at Aegon and spoke hoarsely, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Before I accept your judgment... I request one thing."
Aegon looked at him, not responding, waiting for him to continue.
"Let me... send my wife on her way," Stannis said, each word sounding as if carved from cold stone.
"By my own hand. This is... the final duty a husband can perform for her."
Aegon's purple eyes stared at Stannis, scrutinizing the dead ashes in his gaze.
A few seconds later, he gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
"You may."
Stannis raised his hand and gripped the hilt of the plain, old sword at his waist, decorated with the crowned stag of Baratheon.
Clang—
A faint but clear sound of metal scraping.
He unsheathed his sword.
The blade, stained with soot and blood, reflected the gloomy sky and his own hollow face.
Holding the sword, he turned to face Selyse, who was slumped on the ground, weeping almost to the point of fainting.
"No... no... Stannis, don't..."
Seeing the sword in his hand and the deathly calm on his face, Selyse was incoherent with terror, scrambling backward on all fours.
"I am your queen... I am a Florent... You can't..."
Stannis did not speak.
There was no expression on his face—no pain, no struggle, no love, and no hate.
Only the desolate calm of performing a final task. He took a step forward, his movements stiff but steady.
"I am sending you on your way," he said hoarsely, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.
Selyse let out a desperate, inhuman wail and closed her eyes.
The blade flashed down. Clean and swift.
The screaming stopped abruptly.
All fell into silence, save for the sound of the waves and Shireen's sharper, almost breathless wailing.
Stannis loosened his grip.
The blood-stained longsword fell onto the black gravel with a clatter.
Without even glancing at his fallen wife, he slowly turned back to face Aegon.
Blood was splattered across his face, but he didn't care. He brushed non-existent dust from his hands, though it was meaningless.
Then, he straightened his back, lifted his head, and looked at Aegon, his eyes as still as an ancient well.
"Now," he said, his voice regaining a strange calm, "do what you must..."
He said no more, only turning slightly to expose his neck and closing his eyes.
It was as if he were not walking toward death, but completing a long-agreed-upon ritual.
Aegon watched him in silence.
Then, he raised his hand and gripped the hilt of Blackfyre at his waist.
He did not draw it immediately, but turned his head first and whispered an order to a nearby officer.
The officer signaled immediately, and two Soldiers stepped forward, carefully but firmly leading the wailing and struggling Shireen away from the beach, shielding her eyes.
Then, Aegon looked back at the calmly waiting Stannis Baratheon.
Clang—
The sound of the valyrian steel sword Blackfyre clearing its scabbard was far clearer and longer than Stannis's sword just now, carrying an ancient chill.
Aegon held the sword and walked up to Stannis.
He said nothing, only raising the sword.
Stannis remained with his eyes closed, back straight, his expression calm, as if he had merged with this cold coast and the black rocks that buried everything he had.
The blade fell.
Swift, precise, and with the majesty of an ending.
There was no extra sound, no struggle.
Stannis Baratheon's body jerked slightly, then he pitched forward, falling onto the black gravel of Dragonstone, not far from where his wife had just died.
The sea wind continued to howl, sweeping past the silent Soldiers, the snapping Targaryen banners, and the silent graveyard of wreckage out on the sea.
Aegon sheathed his sword with a faint scraping sound.
He took one last look at the bodies of the former king and queen on the ground, then turned and walked toward the Stone Drum Tower without looking back.
His dark red cloak billowed behind him, brushing across the cold ground.
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