Tyrion raised his eyes, his gaze falling upon Oberyn Martell's face, which wore a casual smile. His voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly through the stagnant air of the square, reaching everyone's ears.
"May I ask your name, my lord from Dorne?"
"And why has His Grace, Aegon Targaryen, not come in person?"
Oberyn slowly lifted his eyelids, the smile at the corners of his lips deepening. It seemed mocking, playful, yet also hid a deathly stillness like the calm before a storm.
At the very moment his lips twitched...
The entire sky was suddenly and completely swallowed by a colossal shadow that blotted out the sun.
The heavens seemed to invert, and all light was extinguished.
A peerless, violent hurricane descended from the sky, as if with purpose, ruthlessly crushing the section of the city wall bristling with the gold-and-red banners of House Lannister.
Stone bricks shattered, flagpoles snapped, and the banners bearing the lion crest were torn to shreds inch by inch under the wind pressure.
In but an instant, that entire section of the wall, along with all symbols of the Lannisters, was reduced to powder.
The earth shook violently.
The high platform and the square hummed in unison; even the stone slabs were trembling.
The spectating crowd immediately erupted in cries of alarm. Some lost their footing and stumbled. Panic was about to surge like a wave, but it was sternly cut off by the spears of the grim, black-armored Soldiers, who shouted for order.
The chaos had barely begun before it was forcibly snuffed out.
Cersei sat upon the throne, her fingertips still clutching a carved silver cup.
As the violent tremors struck, the wine in the cup splashed out, and scarlet stains instantly splattered across her luxurious crimson gown, looking garish and pathetic.
She instinctively let out a low cry and stood up abruptly.
But in the next instant, her gaze was pinned firmly by the giant shadow outside the city, unable to move even a fraction.
Pale gold, like a mountain.
Cersei's pupils quivered violently, and even the powder on her face could not hide the sudden draining of color from her skin.
She remained frozen in a half-standing posture before the throne. All her arrogance, ruthlessness, and majesty shattered completely in the face of that cataclysmic behemoth.
Tyrion also stumbled back half a step. He hurriedly grabbed the edge of the throne to steady himself, his mismatched eyes wide as he stared outside the city. A chill originating from his very marrow shot straight to his head.
A long, pale-gold dragon neck, like a celestial pillar, slowly lowered. It bypassed the broken walls and ruins, reaching directly into the center of the square.
Broad, smooth dragon scales fanned out in layers, stretching from the clouds down to the high platform, turning into a golden staircase descending from the heavens.
Atop the dragon's head, a black-and-red figure slowly appeared.
He walked with a composed gait and an upright posture, descending the dragon's neck step by step, elegant and steady.
His black-and-red cloak billowed in the gale like a burning flame. Every step he took felt like a heavy hammer striking the hearts of everyone present.
The moment his boots lightly touched the stone bricks of the high platform...
Ghidorah's three heads rose in unison, and a roar shook the heavens and the earth.
Aegon looked up, his indifferent gaze sweeping over the frozen Cersei and Tyrion, who was clutching the throne, before finally landing on the throne that had been left vacant for him.
He did not approach the bread and salt, nor did he accept any protection.
He didn't need it.
Under the trembling gazes of the masses, he walked forward slowly and turned to take his seat.
His posture was as steady as a mountain, his black-and-red cloak draping over the side of the chair. He was as composed as if he were merely attending an ordinary banquet.
On the other side of the platform, Cersei remained frozen. With wine staining her dress, her crown askew, and her golden hair disheveled, the once-lofty Queen Mother was left with nothing but embarrassment and daze.
The glory of the Lannisters was fragile and powerless before a true dragon.
Oberyn Martell let out a soft chuckle, clear as a blade, piercing the dead silence:
"A Dragon Rider, naturally, arrives on a dragon."
"Did you truly think he would walk into the trap you've laid on foot?"
In the square, the multitude held their breath.
Commoners prostrated themselves on the ground, Soldiers stood with bated breath, and even the wind seemed to have stalled under the dragon's majesty.
Everyone's eyes were fixed either on the pale-gold, three-headed behemoth outside the city or on the young figure sitting like a god in the center of the platform.
Shock, awe, and fear flooded every corner like an invisible tide.
Tyrion Lannister stood frozen for several long breaths before he managed to suppress the stormy waves surging in his chest.
He slowly averted his trembling gaze from Ghidorah's mountain-like body.
The massive beast stood silently outside the city, its drooping wings still blotting out half the sky. The high walls of Duskendale, of which they were so proud, were nothing more than a slightly protruding brick before it, lacking even the qualification to block its view.
He took a deep breath, forcing his stiff neck to turn toward the young monarch who had just arrived on the platform.
Black armor, a billowing red cloak, hair as silver-white as moonlight, and a pair of violet eyes as indifferent as ice.
On that young and handsome face, there was no anger, no mockery, not even a ripple of emotion—only a detachment that looked down upon all living things.
That was the look of a true dragon.
Tyrion's Adam's apple bobbed slightly. He finally took half a step forward and bowed slightly. His voice still carried a hint of unavoidable dryness and tremor, yet he maintained the final dignity and etiquette of the hand of the king.
"Prince Aegon Targaryen."
He spoke with the most standard courtesy, his tone steady and measured. "I am Tyrion Lannister, hand of the king. On behalf of the iron throne, I am here to welcome Your Highness."
He looked up slightly, his gaze calm, carrying neither provocation nor submission.
"Regarding the events in King's Landing seventeen years ago, rumors have spread across the Seven Kingdoms, and popular grievances have been surging. The Baratheon royal family has also long heard of these matters."
Tyrion slowly turned his body and gestured with his hand toward the Mountain, who stood like an iron tower behind him, under heavy guard.
Gregor Clegane.
"The purpose of gathering everyone's attention today and setting up this venue is precisely to conduct a public investigation into Gregor Clegane, to clarify all the allegations and rumors from back then, and to give the Seven Kingdoms a clear and manifest truth."
He paused, his tone neither high nor low, just right for the entire assembly to hear clearly.
"By doing so, we aim to settle the people's hearts, uphold the law, and respond to the intent Your Highness brings upon your return."
As Tyrion's voice fell, a deathly silence reigned over the platform.
Aegon Targaryen sat upon the throne, silver hair draping over his shoulders, his violet eyes as cold as ice. He had not spoken a word from beginning to end.
He only needed to sit there to be the sole center of the entire square.
Oberyn Martell slowly stepped forward, a lazy yet dangerous smile curling his lips.
His tone was light and slow, carrying a Dornish casualness, yet every word was like a poisoned blade, reaching every corner of the square clearly:
"Uphold justice?"
"Seventeen years..."
"When Elia was weeping blood in agony within the Red Keep, when her children died amidst screams, where was your justice?"
"When all of Westeros turned a blind eye to that atrocity, where was your righteousness?"
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over Cersei's pale face before falling back onto Tyrion. His smile was bone-chillingly cold:
"Now that dragon wings once again shroud this land, you suddenly remember the word 'justice'."
"This justice, delayed by a full seventeen years... is simply too ridiculous, and far too late."
Oberyn gave a soft sneer, his voice not loud but carrying a contempt that pierced through everything:
"A Lannister never grows a conscience out of thin air."
"You are simply... finally feeling fear."
"At the time, forced by circumstances..." Tyrion's brow furrowed slightly as he took half a step forward, about to argue and attempt to salvage the situation.
But just as his lips moved, the figure sitting upon the throne finally made a move.
Aegon Targaryen slowly lifted his eyelids.
Those violet eyes—indifferent, cold, and carrying a majesty that looked down upon all creation—lightly fell upon Tyrion.
With just one look, all of the Lannister's words froze in his throat.
He did not raise his voice, showed no anger, and was not impassioned.
He simply spoke in a calm tone that naturally carried the majesty of a dragon.
His voice was not loud, yet it spread clearly to every corner, like thunder rolling through the depths of one's heart:
"Seventeen years is enough time for lies to pile up like mountains, enough for murderers to enjoy their glory, and enough for you to think that blood debts can be buried by time."
He tilted his chin slightly, his gaze sweeping over Cersei and Tyrion before finally landing on the Mountain, who stood like a mass of stone.
Word by word, cold to the marrow:
"I did not come to Duskendale today to hear you talk about 'justice' or 'the law'."
"I came for one thing only."
"To claim for my mother, Princess Elia, what she is owed... blood and fire."
As his words fell, Ghidorah outside the city seemed to sense them.
A low dragon roar that shook the city walls echoed from afar.
In Aegon's violet eyes, there was not a single ripple, only an eternal indifference and majesty:
"Investigation? Trial?"
"There is no need."
"I am the trial."
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