Dragon.
A terrifying symbol that once represented Valyrian supremacy, yet had long since perished with the Doom, swallowed by the Smoke Sea and flames.
And now, it stood here, upon the ruins of the Magister of Lys's banquet hall.
Not the faded majesty of a mural, nor the exaggerated chants of a bard.
It was a living, breathing Dragon, its scales shimmering with a pale golden, cold luster under the remaining firelight and shattered crystal chandeliers.
And, it had three heads.
Time in the banquet hall seemed to be paused by an invisible hand.
No gasps, no screams, not even an instinctive flight.
Everyone, from the high-ranking nobles to the trembling captives, and even the Magister's guards, froze in place.
They wanted to run, but their legs felt like they were filled with lead, nailed to the ornate carpet.
They wanted to scream, but their throats felt constricted by an icy hand, only able to produce hoarse, gasping sounds.
They could only stare with eyes wide with extreme terror, every muscle in their bodies trembling uncontrollably, like herbivores caught by a predator, unable to react except to await the inevitable end.
Dorian Antalion, the Magister of Lys, who just moments ago held the power of life and death, deciding the fate of an ancient family with a casual word.
Now, his face was ashen as a corpse, his pupils dilated, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind, even his most basic thoughts seemingly halted.
His entire perception was consumed by the three hideous dragon heads looking down at them like ants.
Ghidorah's massive body occupied half of the collapsed banquet hall.
Its three bone-armored heads slowly turned, six molten-gold vertical pupils coldly scanning the tiny, fragile, fear-emitting creatures below, like a butcher examining lambs to be slaughtered.
Aegon sat on Ghidorah's back, looking down from a god-like perspective at the well-dressed, yet now disheveled and pathetic 'ants' in the hall.
It was somewhat beyond his expectation.
He had originally only intended to decapitate the Magister, but unexpectedly encountered such a grand gathering.
Judging by their attire, it seemed that the brains and hearts of all the powerful nobles in Rhis City-State had gathered here tonight.
This saved him the trouble of individually dealing with, or even purging them, later.
Aegon's lips, beneath the monstrous dragon-wing helmet, curved into a cold and dangerous arc.
"Who is the Magister of Lys?"
His voice, though not loud, carried a metallic chill and an undeniable penetrative force through his faceplate, clearly overriding the occasional falling debris and suppressed sobs in the ruins.
His gaze, like a solid ice pick, instantly locked onto the few figures in the center of the banquet hall who were most lavishly dressed and now most distraught.
There were similar figures he had glimpsed from afar in the stands of the tourney.
Hearing this human question from the dragon's back, the surviving nobles' reason, almost crushed by the dragon's might, barely managed to return a sliver.
They laboriously, bit by bit, shifted their gaze from the soul-freezing terror of the three-headed golden dragon, horrified to discover.
On the back of that monstrous beast, there was actually... a person sitting!
Clad in armor as black as night, a crimson cape fluttered fiercely in the incoming night wind, and a few strands of dazzling silver-white hair escaped from the gaps in his helmet and gorget.
In the pervasive smoke and residual light, it was blindingly white.
Black armor. Silver hair. Dragon rider.
These elements, like a red-hot branding iron, seared deeply into the hearts of every noble in Lys.
This place was once the earliest colony of the Valyrian Freehold, and deep within their family histories, more or less, were engraved fragmented memories and ingrained reverence for that era.
A title long since sealed by the passage of time, carrying the weight of blood and fire, crashed into their minds—
Dragon King.
This place had even been a favorite holiday retreat for the Dragon Kings.
But all that glory and terror had long since turned into legend with the roar of the Fourteen Fire Peaks and the fall of Valyria.
Hundreds of years later, a Dragon King, riding an unprecedented three-headed golden dragon, bringing overwhelming power and destructive thunder, once again... arrived in Lys!
"Aaah—! Run! Run away!"
On the periphery, a few Magister's guards, clad in fine plate armor and lucky enough not to be hit by falling rocks, finally succumbed to this extreme fear, their last shred of discipline crumbling.
They let out inhuman screams, dropped their weapons, and turned to scramble desperately towards the side door, which had not yet been completely blocked.
This collapse was like a stone thrown into a still lake, instantly stirring ripples of survival instinct among the silent nobles.
A commotion reappeared; some instinctively moved their feet, desperately trying to get away from the terror at the center.
Aegon's brow furrowed slightly under his helmet.
Ghidorah, in telepathic communication with him, slowly turned its left head, its molten-gold eyes locking onto the fleeing guards and the agitated crowd.
The dragon's mouth opened and closed, and deep within its maw, a golden glow instantly ignited, rapidly expanding!
"Roar—!"
Not a breath, but another golden lightning bolt, as thick as a barrel and composed purely of destructive energy, surged from the dragon's mouth like a whip of divine punishment, sweeping horizontally across the chaotic area!
"Sizzle—!!!"
The light flashed and vanished.
There was no deafening explosion, only a grating sound of annihilation.
Where the lightning passed, the fleeing guards, the hiding nobles, the luxurious robes, the sturdy armor, even the marble floor and the remaining decorative columns... everything instantly carbonized, disintegrated, and vanished, leaving only a scorched trench several feet wide, its edges shimmering with a dark red molten glow, and a pervasive, acrid smell of burning.
"Rumble—!"
The main structure of the banquet hall, already weakened by the residual dragon lightning, finally let out its last groan of protest under this renewed impact.
More of the dome and load-bearing walls collapsed with a crash, huge stones, bricks, and wood mixed with crystal shards raining down!
"Ah—!"
"Help!"
Screams rose one after another; many nobles who were too slow to dodge, or were already petrified with fear, were struck, their bones broken, some even buried directly under the rubble, their voices instantly extinguished.
Smoke and dust filled the air again.
However, this time, no surviving noble dared to make the slightest move.
All those still alive, regardless of status or injury, fell to their knees towards the pale golden giant dragon and the black-armored knight on its back.
They endured the excruciating pain of broken bones and the urge to cough, pressing their foreheads firmly against the cold, dirty ground, mixed with blood and dust.
Their bodies trembled like autumn leaves in a gale, and with distorted, tearful voices, they scrambled to shout and beg for mercy:
"Dragon King, spare us! Have mercy!"
"It has nothing to do with us! It was all Dorian!"
"We pledge allegiance! We pledge allegiance to you! Great Dragon King!"
"..."
"Who is the Magister?"
Aegon spoke again, his voice still calm, yet more intimidating than any thunder.
This time, there was no hesitation.
Countless trembling fingers pointed in unison at a pale-faced figure in the crowd trying to shrink into a corner.
It was indeed Dorian Antalion, who had tried to hide in the chaos but ultimately in vain.
The cold arc on Aegon's lips deepened slightly.
He said no more, placed a hand on the hilt of his dark sisterss at his waist, and dismounted from Ghidorah's back.
"Tap...tap...tap..."
The Valyrian Steel boots made crisp crunching sounds as they stepped over the broken rubble, like a death knell in the silent, desolate ruins of the hall, where only suppressed sobs could be heard.
As he passed, the kneeling nobles buried their heads even lower, not daring to breathe, some of the more timid even losing control of their bladders.
Ghidorah's long, monstrous necks lowered, its three heads, like living execution stands, slowly swept over the heads of these nobles, their cold breath exhaling on their necks, bringing shivers that reached the depths of their souls.
Aegon's steps stopped before Dorian, who was trembling like a sieve, trying to retreat but with nowhere to go.
"Come... come on... guards..." Dorian's face was ashen, his lips trembling. He tried to call out in vain, but his tongue seemed tied. "You... you can't... I... I am the Magister of Lys... I..."
What greeted him was Aegon's drawing of his sword.
"Clang—!"
The soft hum of dark sisterss being drawn, at this moment, was more terrifying than a dragon's roar.
The unique dull gray and dark ripples of the blade seemed to absorb all the surrounding light.
"You can't—!!!" Dorian let out a desperate roar like a dying beast, instinctively raising his arms to futilely block in front of him.
Aegon swung his arm, the sword light like a fleeting cold lightning bolt in the night sky.
"Swoosh—hum..."
The muffled thud of the blade cutting into flesh and bone mingled with the unique clear vibration of Valyrian Steel.
Dorian's voice ceased abruptly.
His raised arms, along with the part above his neck, were severed by a smooth, mirror-like diagonal cut.
"Thud."
The head, along with a small portion of the shoulder, rolled to the ground, and the headless body swayed before falling backward.
Blood spurted from the cavity like a fountain, staining the nearby ground and splashing over the faces of several kneeling nobles nearby, causing them to bite their lips hard to suppress screams.
Aegon bent down and, with his left hand, grabbed the head with disheveled hair, wide-open eyes, and an expression frozen in extreme fear and pain, lifting it up.
Broken blood vessels were still dripping warm blood.
He glanced at the face that once dominated Lys, now rapidly losing its vitality, and a hint of undisguised disdain bloomed on his lips beneath the helmet.
Power is the most unshakable cornerstone of strategy.
He turned, holding the dripping head in his left hand and the dark sisterss, radiant yet menacing, in his right, and began to walk back the way he came.
As he passed, the kneeling nobles parted like a tide split by a sharp blade, trembling and clearing a path, having lost even the courage to steal a glance.
As he passed the Hain Family captives, past the silver-haired woman who was helplessly kneeling, bound by crude ropes.
Aegon's steps did not falter in the slightest; he merely made a seemingly casual downward slash with the dark sisterss he was holding.
"Rip."
The tough ropes snapped in response.
The hem of his dark red cape gently brushed against Luciana's pale, blood-stained cheek as he walked.
Luciana's body trembled violently, her pale purple eyes fixed on the black-armored back that was so close, yet indifferently walking away.
She had recognized the voice the first time it spoke, but she couldn't believe it, nor could she connect the silent, stubborn playmate who used to follow her in childhood... with this bloodthirsty Dragon King, who now commanded a terrifying giant dragon.
A massive wave of absurdity, shock, terror, and a hint of post-disaster tremor that she herself couldn't understand, overwhelmed her, almost causing her to lose her mind.
She looked at the black-armored back so close to her, her throat dry, and with all her strength, she squeezed out a few almost inaudible syllables from her trembling lips, tinged with childhood memories:
"Lot... Lotte... Ge..."
Before she could finish, she choked back the words. She suddenly realized how inappropriate, even... presumptuous, that address was in the current situation.
Aegon's steps paused almost imperceptibly.
He did not turn back, only slightly tilted his head, his cold gaze peering from the slit in his helmet, falling upon her face.
There was no ripple of long-lost reunion in that gaze, no pity, only a bottomless calm and majesty.
"My name is Aegon."
He spoke, his voice passing through the faceplate, clearly reaching Luciana, and every noble nearby who was straining to listen.
"Aegon Targaryen."
Having said that, he no longer lingered, striding towards Ghidorah, who was waiting at the edge of the ruins.
The pale golden giant dragon obediently lowered its body.
Just then, from outside the hall, came the neat and heavy sounds of clashing iron armor and footsteps—the Bloodsworn elite, who had arrived as planned to completely secure the Magister's mansion area.
Aegon mounted the dragon, holding Dorian's head in one hand, and briefly ordered the Bloodsworn soldiers who were quickly securing the scene and surrounding the remaining nobles and guards:
"Guard this place. No one is allowed in or out. Those who act rashly will be executed without mercy."
The order was concise and bloody.
Then, he lightly patted the dragon's neck.
Ghidorah's three heads rose, emitting a low dragon's roar, and its enormous pale golden wing membranes, large enough to obscure the stars and moon, suddenly spread wide and flapped forcefully!
"Boom—!!!"
The violent airflow stirred up the dust and blood from the ruins, sending everyone staggering and unable to open their eyes.
Luciana knelt blankly in place, looking up.
Her pale purple pupils were completely filled by the rapidly departing pale golden dragon silhouette, and the black-armored, silver-haired figure on its back, like a god or demon.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898