Pycelle's hunched body shuddered violently under that cold gaze, as if pierced by an invisible icicle.
His white beard trembled incessantly, and the color drained completely from his already pale old face, leaving it a deathly ashen gray.
He clearly felt the chill in that gaze... it wasn't a general pressure, but a precise declaration of death aimed squarely at his physical shell, which had lived for over eighty years and witnessed the change of several dynasties.
He looked up tremulously, his clouded old eyes meeting the deep violet eyes on the throne.
In just an instant, he felt as if struck by lightning and hurriedly lowered his eyes, yet he didn't dare to look away completely, his posture both ridiculous and pathetic.
His lips quivered for a long time before finally squeezing out a dry, raspy voice full of flattery and a desperate desire to survive:
"Your... Your Highness... This old servant... this old servant Pycelle, Grand Maester of the Red Keep, belonging to The Citadel..." He was incoherent, his voice breaking from fear as he desperately tried to grasp at a life-saving straw.
"I wear the Maester's chain around my neck, each link representing a field of knowledge... This old servant is proficient in medicine and pharmacology, able to diagnose and treat the Royal Family... I am also well-versed in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, the laws of the realm, astrology, genealogy, etiquette, and protocols... I can also answer Your Highness's questions, tend to the ravens, and handle documents..."
He tried his best to straighten his back, which had been bent by years and flattery, attempting to squeeze out some dignity befitting a Grand Maester. He even ignored decorum, shuffling forward two steps on his knees across the cold floor, as humble as a mud worm, his voice becoming increasingly piteous:
"This old servant swears in the name of The Citadel and guarantees by the links around my neck! I am willing to serve Your Highness for the rest of my life, even if it means my death! Your Highness has just arrived in King's Landing and matters are complicated; you need the assistance of someone like me who is familiar with the old systems!"
"I beg Your Highness for mercy... give this old servant a chance to show loyalty and atone for my sins. This old servant will do his utmost to serve the true dragon and dare not be the least bit negligent!"
He knew clearly in his heart that it was he who had advised the Mad King to open the gates of the Red Keep and welcome in Tywin Lannister's army.
That night, the lions tore away the last of the dragon's dignity, and blood stained the stone steps of the Red Keep.
How could the true dragon who had returned before him ever forget this debt of blood and betrayal?
But he was greedy for life and afraid of death, unable to give up the honor and comfort of being Grand Maester. He could only gamble that Aegon's foundation was not yet stable and needed people, gambling that his knowledge and chain could buy him a way to live.
He thought that since Aegon had just taken the iron throne and everything was waiting to be rebuilt, he would surely keep a few old dogs familiar with the old system.
He forgot that Aegon's hatred was never about his uselessness.
Aegon sat atop the iron throne forged of sharp blades, quietly listening to the old man at his feet repeatedly pleading for mercy based on his "usefulness." The corner of his mouth curled into a very faint arc—not a smile, but an icicle frozen with contempt and mockery.
He spoke, his voice clear and cold like melting snow, yet chilling to the bone, each word striking Pycelle's heart:
"Loyalty?"
A single rhetorical question made Pycelle shake violently, as if he had fallen into an ice cellar.
"When you advised the Mad King to open the gates of the Red Keep and welcome Tywin Lannister into the city," Aegon's pace was steady, each word like a knife, "did you ever think of loyalty to Targaryen?"
Pycelle opened his mouth, making a strange rattling sound in his throat, unable to utter a single word of defense.
That secret advice that decided the fate of the dynasty was a sin he could never wash away. Before the true dragon, any sophistry was pale and powerless.
"You watched as Lannister Soldiers burned, killed, and looted in King's Landing. You watched as the women and children of the Royal Family were harmed. You watched as Targaryen blood flowed like a river and the dynasty collapsed," Aegon's tone was calm, his violet eyes a void of coldness. "Did you ever feel even a fraction of the guilt that a Maester's chain should carry?"
"Your Highness, spare me! Your Highness, spare my life!" Pycelle broke down completely, ignoring all dignity as he slammed his head against the ground. His forehead struck the obsidian floor heavily, leaving bloody marks after just a few hits.
He wailed, his voice distorted, "This old servant was deceived by Duke Tywin back then! I was tricked by his flowery words! This old servant was dull and confused! I never thought of betraying Targaryen... I beg Your Highness for mercy, for the sake of my old age, leave me my life!"
"Deceived?"
Aegon's eyes suddenly turned cold—not with fire, but with a deeper, more absolute chill. The air in the Throne Room seemed to solidify and sink, pressing down until the backs of all those kneeling grew stiff.
"You were never deceived, Pycelle." His voice was calm, yet heavy as a thousand pounds. "You are simply a thorough, sycophantic coward."
"Your whole life has been spent flattering the strong. When the Mad King was powerful, you were his Maester. When Tywin's army was at the gates, you handed over the keys, willing to be a pawn, personally pushing open the final door for the destruction of Targaryen."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing through Pycelle's tear-streaked facade like a physical object:
"Grand Maester? A man of The Citadel?"
"You are not worthy."
"The links around your neck," Aegon's gaze swept over the string of metal rings, his eyes full of disdain, "have long been stained dirty by betrayal and flattery."
"You are nothing but a decrepit old man who betrayed his master for honor and fears death. Keeping you would only dirty the steps of the Red Keep and insult the iron throne."
Pycelle slumped to the ground, as if the bones in his body had been sucked dry. His face was ashen, and he didn't even have the strength to wail anymore.
Every word of Aegon's stripped away his decades-old cloak of a Grand Maester, revealing the rotten and unbearable true face within.
Aegon stopped looking at him, as if even one more glance would be filthy. He leaned back against the blade-covered backrest, his gaze indifferently sweeping over the Soldiers below as he gave a clear order:
"Someone."
"Drag Pycelle down."
"Behead him."
The command was concise, yet brook no argument.
Two black-armored Ash Company Soldiers stepped forward, their movements swift and rough, picking up the slumped Pycelle like they were dragging trash.
The old Maester let out a shrill wail, his white hair disheveled, his limbs struggling in vain:
"No—! Your Highness! Mercy! I am willing to hand over all the secrets of The Citadel... Spare me... Spare..."
The pleas for mercy and the sounds of dragging mixed together as they receded, cut off by the heavy doors, leaving only a wisp of despairing echo to reverberate in the silent hall.
In the kneeling crowd, Janos Slynt, Commander of the Gold Cloaks, buried his head even lower, almost embedding it into the floor tiles.
He was trembling all over, his knuckles white from clenching. Pycelle's end terrified him to his core, yet a sliver of base hope arose in his heart.
Seventeen years ago, he was just an unknown squad leader, not in the Red Keep. That catastrophe had nothing to do with him.
When the new master settled old scores, it surely wouldn't fall on his head; perhaps he could live.
Just as this sliver of hope appeared.
From atop the iron throne, the clear, cold voice rang out again, making him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cellar even more than when Pycelle was sentenced to death, as it precisely called out his name:
"Take the Commander of the Gold Cloaks, Janos Slynt, as well."
"Behead him."
Janos froze, as if struck on the head by a giant hammer, his hope instantly shattering.
The color drained from his face, replaced by fear and shock. He jerked his head up, his eyes bloodshot, staring fixedly at Aegon with his mouth wide open, wanting to ask why, wanting to defend himself, wanting to plead for mercy.
But all sound was blocked in his throat, leaving only rattling gasps.
He didn't understand; he clearly had nothing to do with what happened seventeen years ago!
Before he could react, two burly and fierce Ash Company Soldiers strode forward, their pincer-like hands gripping his arms and lifting him easily.
"No—!! Your Highness! I have performed services for King's Landing! I maintain order in the city! I..." Janos finally screamed out, his voice shrill and frantic as he desperately twisted his fat body, but he had no power to resist.
"I never betrayed Targaryen! Never! This is a mistake! A mistake—!!!"
His unwilling howls echoed in the hall before he was dragged out the door, the sound quickly becoming muffled.
From outside the door came a faint, abruptly ending thud, putting a bloody period to this reckoning.
Aegon sat atop the iron throne, remaining motionless from beginning to end, not even raising an eyebrow.
Executing two treacherous officials was to him no more than brushing a speck of dust off the throne.
His cold gaze swept over those kneeling below; wherever it landed, everyone's back grew cold, a chill piercing to the bone.
The Throne Room returned to a dead silence.
This silence was already different from before; it was no longer just confusion and pressure, but a fear soaked in blood.
Everyone knew clearly that this returned true dragon would not be fooled by words; old sins and current treachery would all be thoroughly settled before the iron throne.
A moment later, Jon Connington, clad in armor, came walking quickly, his expression steady but carrying a hint of fatigue.
He paused at the door, glancing at the fresh corpses outside the Throne Room, then swept his gaze over the people inside and Aegon on the throne. Complex emotions flashed in his eyes: awe, relief, and a slight sigh for the bloody end of the old era.
The emotion was gone in an instant. He walked quickly to the foot of the steps, bowed with his right hand over his chest, and reported in a steady voice:
"Your Highness, the situation in the city has been preliminarily controlled. The remnants of the Gold Cloaks have all been disarmed and are being held in the barracks."
"The city gates, main roads, Red Keep towers, and warehouses have all been taken over. Those who took advantage of the chaos to loot and cause trouble have been suppressed and arrested; the rioting has subsided."
"Additionally, people have been sent to rescue the commoners in collapsed buildings, and granaries have been opened to distribute food and set up relief points to soothe the people's hearts."
He was methodical, condensing the complex aftermath into a brief report.
Aegon's expression was indifferent, as if he were not hearing about the thrilling takeover of a capital city, but merely ordinary trifles. His eyes showed no ripples as he listened quietly, taking all this order as a matter of course.
Jon Connington was not surprised. He paused slightly and continued in a lowered voice:
"Your Highness, there is one more thing. The Stormlands nobles who came with our army are already waiting in the corridor outside the hall, requesting an audience."
Aegon lowered his eyes. After a brief silence, he spoke just one word, clear and cold, heavy as a thousand pounds:
"Granted."
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