The deadlock was forcibly broken by Tyrion's cold calculations and Cersei's obsession with Joffrey, at the cost of the Queen Regent herself entering a dangerous place.
Petyr Baelish rose slowly, his posture as elegant as an actor taking a final bow, a gentle and harmless smile still on his face, his voice clear and earnest as he broke the heavy silence:
"Since Her Majesty the Queen Regent is personally going to Raventree Hall to preside over the negotiations, the stability of the rear in King's Landing is particularly important. We must ensure that while the Queen Regent is maneuvering at the front, there are no fires in the rear, and that we do not fail due to the movements of wavering forces."
His gaze swept across the crowd, falling on the grim-faced Cersei and the calm Tyrion, as he continued:
"The Vale. The Eyrie stands high and is easy to defend, and the Knights of the Vale are brave; they are a force that cannot be ignored. Since Jon Arryn passed away and Lady Lysa returned to the city with her son, the Vale has been nearly isolated, its attitude ambiguous. Now that the situation is critical, we must strive for every force that can be won over."
He stepped forward, his right hand over his chest, humble yet firm:
"I am willing to go to the Vale personally. With the past friendship between Lady Lysa Arryn and me, I will attempt to persuade her and the lords of the Vale. Let them understand that only by standing side by side with the iron throne and the Lannister-Baratheon royal family can the peace of the Seven Kingdoms and the Vale be protected."
"If successful, it can add a barrier to the east of King's Landing and give the Queen Regent more confidence in Raventree Hall."
No one objected. Varys nodded with a smile, Pycelle grunted in agreement, and the other ministers were happy to see someone take on this troublesome task.
Tyrion glanced at Petyr and nodded without speaking.
Cersei gave a cold snort, which counted as tacit consent. Everyone knew that the old friendship between Petyr and Lysa Tully was extraordinary.
The plan was thus finalized.
Cersei led the courtiers and guards to Raventree Hall to preside over the trial of the Mountain and to stall negotiations with Aegon Targaryen.
Petyr Baelish was sent on a secret mission to the Vale to win support.
The meeting adjourned in an oppressive and eerie atmosphere.
The heavy oak doors opened and closed, and the sound of footsteps gradually faded in the empty corridor.
The cloisters of the Red Keep were swallowed by evening shadows.
At a secluded corner, Petyr stopped, leaning against the cold stone wall with his hands in his sleeves, looking deep into the corridor as if waiting.
His usual gentle smile faded, leaving only an unfathomable calm, with an occasional needle-like sharpness flashing in his eyes.
Soon, a light and hesitant sound of footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.
Sansa Stark approached, her dark grey dress slightly disheveled at the hem, her face as pale as paper, and her once azure eyes filled with panic and unease.
Lately, she had been waking up from nightmares every night, with the sound of distant dragon roars and the crackling of flames seemingly in her ears.
During the day, the Red Keep was also shrouded in fear; servants whispered, knights looked solemn, and even Joffrey became increasingly irritable. She was like a startled bird, jumping at the slightest sound.
Seeing Petyr in the shadows, her footsteps faltered, her fingers tightened around her skirt, and she intended to lower her head and walk past quickly.
"Sansa," Petyr spoke, his voice not loud but clear.
He stepped out of the shadows, the dim light of the wall lamp reflecting his concerned face, his tone as gentle as gauze, "You look terrible. What are you worried about now?"
Sansa forced a weak smile: "No, nothing, Lord Petyr. It's just... I didn't sleep well last night."
"Is that so?" Petyr stepped a few paces closer, the faint and expensive scent of his perfume clearly discernible.
He leaned in slightly, gazing into her eyes, his voice even lower, carrying an all-knowing pity, "Child, do not deceive yourself. Everyone in this castle knows that King's Landing is in imminent danger. The Lannisters can barely save themselves; this city is already a paper boat floating on a powder keg."
Sansa shuddered, her blue eyes widening in terror as her last bit of hope was punctured.
She opened her mouth but could not make a sound.
"Aegon Targaryen is coming," Petyr's whispers were like heavy hammer blows, "The true dragon who returned from the Valyrian Ruins and the Narrow Sea, bringing dragons, a Fleet, and sixteen years of fire and vengeance."
"The walls of the Red Keep cannot stop him, the Lannister army cannot stop him, and by the time Lord Tywin arrives, I'm afraid..."
He paused for a moment, allowing the terrible images to take shape in Sansa's mind.
"This city will soon turn into a sea of fire, just as Aegon I burned Harrenhal and Maegor massacred the Faith Militant... perhaps even worse."
"This time, the Dragon King's wrath is aimed at everyone who participated in the usurpation and massacre. And your fiancé is the Baratheon king, and your protector is a Lannister."
Sansa's heart constricted, nearly stopping.
The Dragon King, Aegon Targaryen—these distant words from Winterfell stories had now become a blade hanging over her head, falling rapidly.
She seemed to see the shadow of a giant black dragon sweeping over King's Landing, golden dragonfire pouring down, devouring the city and its towers; Joffrey, Cersei, and she herself were all turned to charcoal in the sea of fire.
She feared Aegon Targaryen, and she feared staying by the Lannisters' side even more, becoming the first pawn to be sacrificed.
She had seen Joffrey's cruelty and dared not imagine her fate after the situation collapsed.
"I will not stay here to wait for death." Petyr looked at the fear in her eyes, his tone gentle but decisive, "King's Landing is already a dead end. I am going to the Vale; The Eyrie has natural defenses and is the safest place in Westeros right now, and the only place that can protect you from being torn apart by the storm."
He slowly reached out his hand, palm up, in a gesture that was both an invitation and a pull, his eyes as deep as the Narrow Sea at dusk:
"Come with me, Sansa. I will take you away from this tomb that is about to burn, away from those who see you as a bargaining chip."
"We will go to the Vale and wait for the storm to pass. I swear in the name of your mother, Catelyn, that I will protect you."
Sansa froze in place, her fingertips cold, her blood seemingly solidified.
She looked at the man before her who always helped her and claimed to be an old friend of her mother, then looked toward the high towers of the Red Keep at the end of the corridor, with only a few words crashing wildly in her mind.
Dragon King. Fire. Destruction.
Escape. The Vale. Survival...
She said nothing, her throat seemingly blocked.
But her trembling shoulders, pale cheeks, and the tears in her eyes—a mix of fear and a faint glimmer of hope—had already betrayed her inner struggle and her impulse to survive.
Petyr waited quietly, his outstretched hand steady and patient, his gentle smile in the dim light both trustworthy and unfathomable.
...
Dragonstone, Stone Drum Tower, Chamber of the Painted Table.
The hall's vaulted ceiling was high, with shadows intertwining hideously in the firelight.
In the center was the massive stone map table, carved by order of the Conqueror and depicting the entire landscape of Westeros, like the spine of a sleeping giant beast.
The flickering firelight flowed over the mountains, rivers, and castle markers, stretching Aegon's leaning shadow long and solitary.
Aegon's slender finger rested steadily on the dark green area of the Kingswood on the map:
"The latest military intelligence from Jon Clinton." His voice was young but steady, "The entire Stormlands have basically submitted; scattered resistance is not worth worrying about. The main force of the Golden Company is advancing at full speed to the northwest, having already entered the heart of the Kingswood, meeting no decent resistance along the way. In ten days at most, the vanguard can arrive at the gates of King's Landing, completing the encirclement by land."
He straightened up, his silver hair glinting coldly in the firelight, his purple eyes looking at the red dot marking King's Landing.
Oberyn Martell stood by his side, boredly playing with a poisoned short dagger that gleamed with a faint blue light; the dagger spun nimbly at his fingertips like a live snake.
His brown eyes, like the Dornish desert, fell on Aegon with a mix of mockery, scrutiny, and an imperceptible complexity.
Since setting foot on Dragonstone, he had hardly left Aegon's side, as if he had naturally taken on the responsibility of a guardian, yet his words never hid their sharp provocation.
"Besieging the city?" Oberyn sneered, tucking the short dagger into his sleeve, his tone light and sharp, "A smooth journey all the way; the lords of the Stormlands must have been scared out of their wits by your Fleet and dragons, kneeling faster than a rattlesnake burrowing into the sand."
He took two steps forward, closer to the map table, his gaze sidelong at Aegon, every word like a poisonous needle:
"However, nephew, there is something I have been holding in for several days. Why do you keep that old thing Barristan Selmy around? And even let him wander about in the Stone Drum Tower?"
His tone was overflowing with irony:
"That old man served the Mad King Aerys, and once the dynasty collapsed, he turned to Robert Baratheon, donning the White Cloak of the usurper. When Robert died, he served Joffrey until he was kicked out... changing masters three times, finding a new backer every time."
"This 'loyalty' is truly admirable."
Oberyn leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered with malicious concern:
"By keeping such a fence-sitter who could turn coat at any moment by your side, aren't you afraid he'll take your life as a true dragon with that sword while you're fast asleep? When that happens, your grand ambitions will become a joke."
Aegon slowly raised his eyes, calmly meeting Oberyn's provocative gaze, his purple eyes showing neither anger nor defense, but like a deep pool, with unshakable ice at the bottom.
"Barristan Selmy," Aegon's tone was steady, "is now just an ordinary guard with no authority on my Dragonstone. I have not asked him to swear a new oath, I have not given him military power, and I have not let him participate in confidential matters. He is here just as a living bystander who needs to witness certain things with his own eyes."
He paused slightly, his tone carrying a hint of coldness as he countered:
"Instead of the Prince worrying about an insignificant old man by my side, you would do better to worry about when the army of Dorne will cross the sea, rather than sending only yourself to Dragonstone to tell me what to do."
Oberyn's brows shot up, his brown eyes flashing with sharpness.
Aegon's words were sharp, pointing out both the embarrassment of him being alone without troops and the ambiguous attitude of Dorne.
"I do not need anyone's protection, Uncle." Aegon continued, his tone carrying the confidence of absolute strength, "And I certainly do not rely on suspicion to gain a sense of security."
"With my current skills, I fear no danger from the shadows. Anyone who wants to assassinate me will only find they chose the wrong target and underestimated the cost."
As he spoke, he moved his wrist slightly, his knuckles making a few soft cracking sounds.
That was the instinctive mark of the violent combat intuition sleeping in his blood, perfectly fused with Arthur Dayne's peak swordsmanship.
Jaime Lannister once said that the sword of the morning could hold his prick with one hand and cut down a dozen knights with the other.
Now, he had long reached such a realm, and even surpassed it.
His gaze fell on the "Red Viper" before him, known for his treacherous ruthlessness, poison, and spear techniques; a faint trace of battle intent rippled in the depths of his purple eyes. This was an excellent whetstone.
Oberyn keenly captured the glimmer in Aegon's eyes and the confidence in his words, and he suddenly laughed, his smile full of provocative playfulness:
"Oh? Quite the boast. But skills... are not proven with words, nephew."
"They are honed through life-and-death struggles. I admit your Fleet and dragons are frightening, but personal prowess..."
Aegon looked directly at him, calm and unruffled, his battle intent no longer hidden:
"It seems the Prince does not believe it."
Oberyn's smile grew even wider, carrying the danger of a venomous snake: "Seeing is believing. I trust empty words the least."
"Then let us have a contest." Aegon issued the invitation directly, steady and brooking no refusal.
A sharp light flashed in Oberyn's eyes, and he answered curtly: "As you wish. I would like to see just how much the returned true dragon is worth."
The two spoke no more and moved to the wide stone terrace connected to the outside of the Chamber of the Painted Table.
This place had once been where the Lords of Dragonstone practiced martial arts and looked out at the sea; the ground was level, and the sea breeze howled, blowing the torches into a violent sway, with light and shadow dancing wildly.
Attendants quickly brought two blunt wooden swords wrapped in thick leather; each held one and stood facing the other.
The sea breeze whipped Aegon's silver hair and also blew Oberyn's deep red robes; an invisible aura collided and condensed between the two.
At first, Oberyn still carried the nonchalance and scrutiny of a top-tier master, his form as fluid as a desert viper, his footwork treacherous, his wooden sword poking, stabbing, and flicking; his moves were not flamboyant but came from tricky angles, specifically targeting joints and vital points, fully displaying the Dornish style and the ruthlessness of a poisoner.
He was the most troublesome combat expert in Westeros, with countless famous generals defeated by his spear techniques and deadly poisons; naturally, his swordsmanship was not bad either.
But after only three moves, the flippancy on Oberyn's face vanished completely, replaced only by extreme solemnity and shock!
Aegon's sword was unimaginably fast—the ultimate speed of perfectly coordinated footwork, form, anticipation, and breathing.
Every parry was precisely timed at the weak point of Oberyn's sword momentum, every thrust blocked his path of evasion and counterattack, and the counterattacks were so steady they made one's heart palpitate, the force penetrating the tip of the sword, yet carrying a legendary elegance and deadly simplicity.
Without redundant flourishes or deliberate showmanship, every one of Aegon's strikes went straight for the most effective attack path, containing the lethality of a single killing blow.
It was a terrifying technique that simplified combat to the extreme while hiding infinite variations.
Oberyn grew more alarmed as the fight went on, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead—not from physical exhaustion, but from intense mental tension and the violent impact on his perception.
This style, this footwork, this rhythm and intuition precise to the smallest degree...
It was exactly like the man who fought top experts alone beneath the Tower of Joy and was recognized as the best in the world—the "sword of the morning," Arthur Dayne!
Yet it was different.
Dayne's sword was the solemnity of a knight; Aegon's sword was fiercer, more intense, more violent, and more relentless.
Dayne was the sharp blade in the holy light; he was the edge within the flames.
More than ten rounds passed in a mere moment, and Oberyn had been forced back step by step by Aegon's peerless and sharp sword momentum, left only with parrying and no power to fight back.
His wrist was numb from the impact, his breathing was ragged, his footwork was sluggish, and the signs of defeat were already apparent.
His heart was pounding wildly, filled with disbelief.
A youth, even if he had practiced the sword since his mother's womb, how could he reach such a realm?
This did not seem like hard practice, but more like an inheritance! But Arthur Dayne had long since died, and his techniques had never truly been passed down...
At the moment Oberyn's mind wavered and revealed a flaw, Aegon's purple eyes flashed, and the wooden sword shot out like a venomous dragon from its cave, piercing toward his throat's opening at a speed and angle far exceeding what had come before!
Oberyn's pupils constricted; by the time he wanted to parry or evade, it was already too late! He could even feel the wind from the tip of the wooden sword!
"Your Highness!"
A loud shout pierced the tension on the terrace as a Bloodsworn guard stepped forward and knelt on one knee:
"Maester Pycelle has received a raven from King's Landing, bringing a letter from the false king Joffrey."
The tip of the wooden sword stopped abruptly an inch from Oberyn's Adam's apple, steady as a rock.
Aegon slowly withdrew his sword, moving his gaze from Oberyn's shocked and unwilling face to the guard; the battle intent in his purple eyes receded like a tide, returning to a deep, bottomless calm, beneath which there seemed to be the faint sound of ice cracking.
"King's Landing?" His tone betrayed no joy or anger.
Oberyn took the opportunity to retreat, taking several deep breaths to steady his mind; the way he looked at Aegon had completely changed, with no more flippancy, only shock, complex evaluation, and a trace of wariness and faint recognition toward a strong individual.
Aegon tossed the wooden sword to an attendant and straightened his sleeves.
"Have Pycelle wait for me in the Throne Room with the letter," he ordered flatly, "I will be there shortly."
"Yes, Your Highness!" The guard took the order and withdrew.
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