The stone steps of the Red Keep were long and cold, the chill seeping through the soles of the feet straight into the marrow. Jon Connington walked at the front, his pace steady.
More than twenty people followed behind him in sequence, though their footsteps were heavy and hesitant.
These were small lords and landed knights of the Stormlands; their heads were bowed, their faces filled with panic and unease, like lambs being driven to the slaughterhouse.
The sight at the entrance at the top of the stairs suddenly gripped everyone's hearts.
Three corpses.
Fresh, warm bodies lay across the cold floor, the heavy scent of blood mixing with the dampness of the stone steps and rushing into their nostrils.
The most conspicuous was the one in the middle.
Even with the head separated from the body, that luxurious robe embroidered with a roaring lion and a crowned stag still proclaimed the former nobility of its owner.
Now the gold thread was stained dark and dull by dark red blood, and the severed neck was gruesome...
That was Joffrey Baratheon, the king who had sat upon the iron throne not long ago, the bloodline the Lannisters held in their hands; at this moment, he was like slaughtered livestock, his head nowhere to be found, his remains discarded outside the door to be trampled upon.
The two bodies beside him were equally terrifying.
Those maester's robes, that gold-cloaked armor—one could tell at a glance they were Grand Maester Pycelle and the Commander of the City Watch, Janos Slynt, both high-ranking officials of the old dynasty who had just been executed.
Even the King, the Grand Maester, and the Commander of the City Watch had met such an end, discarded like trash...
The chill did not come from the stone steps, but surged frantically from the depths of their hearts, instantly freezing their blood.
They kept their heads down, not daring to look again, even lightening their breathing as if taking one more breath of death would cause them to rot along with it.
Their already heavy steps felt even more like they were filled with lead, each step feeling like treading on a blade. They followed Jon Connington closely, not daring to fall behind or speak, the turmoil in their hearts colder and more rugged than the stone steps of the Red Keep.
They shouldn't have come here.
That tragic naval battle at The Gullet, where Stannis's Stormlands Fleet was annihilated and sunk, had long since become their midnight nightmare.
Powerful high nobles had either been buried at the bottom of the sea or defected to the Tyrells of Highgarden.
But for these small families whose lands were tucked away in the eastern Stormlands, adjacent to the Narrow Sea and the Dornish Marches, their ancestral estates were everything.
Abandon their lands and move the whole clan to Highgarden? It was simply unrealistic. Highgarden was too busy with its own affairs to care for their meager holdings.
When Jon Connington's army, flying the banner of the true dragon, landed at Shipbreaker Bay, they had no way to retreat.
With low walls, empty forces, and a shortage of grain, they had no choice but to open the gates and swear fealty. They had thought it would be nothing more than changing banners and bowing to a new master to preserve their families, titles, and lands.
But while heading north to King's Landing and passing through the Kingswood, news spread like wildfire through the ranks: Prince Aegon, who rode a giant dragon, had announced at Dragonstone that he intended to abolish the thousand-year-old feudal system of Westeros and shatter noble privileges.
It was like a bolt of lightning.
Panic and despair tightly gripped everyone, gnawing at their hearts day and night.
Everything they relied on for survival—control over their lands, legal authority, hereditary titles—was exactly what His Highness intended to destroy.
But what could they do? Jon's army was right beside them, monitoring them; to flee was to be surrounded by enemies, and how could resistance stand against a dragon that blotted out the sky?
Moving forward, they were driven like they were under an invisible whip, marching numbly until they were beneath the walls of King's Landing.
Until they saw with their own eyes the three-headed golden dragon perched in the sky, its dragon breath melting gold and breaking iron, the towering city walls melting and collapsing in the golden light.
The tide of destruction shattered their last shred of hope. Before such transcendent power, all schemes, struggles, and noble glory were as small as dust.
Even knowing this Targaryen might uproot the old nobility, they could only harden their hearts and follow Jon into the blood-scented Red Keep, hoping to find a sliver of life under the pressure of their new master.
Passing through the corridors, the heavy doors pushed open silently. Inside the Throne Room, the cool light of the sky fell from the high windows, perfectly illuminating the jagged iron throne at the end of the hall.
Aegon sat upon it, his posture upright, his purple eyes lowered as he looked down indifferently at the crowd below.
There was no need to deliberately display majesty; that silence of sitting at the peak of power, holding the power of life and death, was more suffocating than the three corpses outside the door.
With just one look, all the small nobles hurriedly averted their eyes and bowed deeply, their backs curving into humble arcs, as even a glance from the corner of their eyes became a transgression.
The hall was deathly silent, leaving only the sound of their heartbeats like drumming.
Jon Connington took a step forward, his right hand over his chest as he bowed, his steady voice breaking the stagnation: "Your Highness, the lords and knights of the Stormlands who have submitted have all arrived for their audience."
As the words fell, the echoes beneath the dome dissipated, replaced by an even heavier silence.
There was no response.
Aegon remained seated, motionless, his indifferent gaze like icy water, slowly scanning every bowed head, as if counting them, or inspecting livestock waiting to be slaughtered.
No praise, no reprimand, only a bottomless indifference.
Time was stretched infinitely in the silence, every breath feeling like a year. Unease and panic expanded frantically, squeezing their chests.
They had thought they would face questioning or sentencing, but this long silence was more torturous than the blade of an axe.
Was His Highness going to execute them all, or did he simply not care? The fear of the unknown was the sharpest of all.
Finally, someone could no longer bear the suffocating pressure.
In the crowd, a middle-aged man dressed in a deep green velvet robe took a difficult step forward. He suppressed his trembling and bowed deeply toward the throne, his voice shaking but striving for stability:
"The House Caron of Nightsong pays respects to the noble Highness."
The hall remained deathly silent.
The purple eyes on the throne shifted slightly, falling upon the middle-aged man who was the first to speak.
This subtle change was caught by the people on the verge of collapse, like a glimmer of light in the darkness.
Seeing that the Karen had not provoked anger, their taut heartstrings loosened slightly, and their survival instinct drove them to step forward half a pace, bowing in imitation, as trembling voices of fealty rose one after another:
"House Bolling, landed knights, pay respects to Your Highness."
"Hatis Family, landed knights, greetings to the true dragon Highness."
"House Gower, Lord of Gallowsgrey, at Your Highness's command."
"House Rogers, Lord of Amberly, for an audience with the Targaryen!"
The names of the families, carrying reverence and humility, echoed in the empty hall.
They were like drowning men grasping at straws, desperately calling out their names, attempting to prove their value and praying for mercy from the cold deity on the throne.
As the last tremor of a voice fell, the hall returned to an ultimate silence, even their breathing becoming nearly inaudible.
Aegon sat throughout, as if he were one with the iron throne.
He looked down from above, his gaze scanning the bowed backs below, his purple eyes emotionless, as if he were appraising goods to be priced or prisoners to be judged.
He weighed them in silence, applying the final layers of pressure.
After a long time, the suffocating silence was finally broken.
A low, cold voice came from the iron throne; it wasn't loud, but every word was like an ice bead hitting the floor, clearly penetrating the entire hall with a bone-chilling coldness:
"You?"
He paused, his gaze like a blade sweeping across the bowed necks of the crowd, word by word, slow and heart-piercing:
"Lords of the Stormlands, you are quite skilled at... picking sides."
"During the War of the Usurper, you followed Robert in his uprising, driving the Targaryens from the throne and calling yourselves heroes of the new reign. When Robert died, you ignored the law and supported Renly as king; when did you ever have a shred of legitimacy?"
"When Renly died suddenly, you turned to swear fealty to Stannis, becoming his loyal subjects. Now that Stannis is defeated and dead, and you have nowhere left to go, you appear... once again before me."
He leaned forward slightly, his shadow looming over the people in the front row.
"So," Aegon's voice carried a cold mockery, like an ice pick piercing their eardrums, "you come before me to express what?"
"Is it to confess your crimes,"
"Or to beg for a way to live?"
The last few words exploded like thunder, shattering everyone's psychological defenses.
All the small nobles below instantly turned pale, their bodies trembling violently, their knees weakening until they almost collapsed to the ground.
They buried their heads deep, their backs curved to the limit, their breathing rapid and difficult, as the shadow of death tightly throttled their throats.
Aegon's words stripped away their fickle, opportunistic nature, each word like a branding iron on their faces. In the face of ironclad evidence, any defense was pale and powerless.
The middle-aged man from the House Caron who had spoken first felt his legs go weak, and he nearly fell to the floor.
Beside him, Jon Connington's heart was jolted with shock.
He knew the plight of these people well; seeing Aegon's words were sharp and left no room for maneuver, he subconsciously took half a step forward, wanting to speak and mediate... not out of sympathy, but to stabilize the newly occupied territory.
But as soon as he moved, the indifferent gaze from the iron throne swept over.
There was no anger or warning, just a flat glance, yet it carried absolute pressure. The words at the tip of Jon Connington's tongue froze instantly, as he understood the command for silence in that gaze.
He immediately stopped, swallowed his words, bowed his head, and stepped back in respectful silence.
In the hall, only the uncontrollable slight tremors of the Stormlands nobles remained, along with the desperate silence that filled the air.
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