The sword, blackfyre, lay horizontally across the raised palms of Harry Strickland.
The simple, ancient scabbard shimmered with a dark luster in the flickering firelight of the tent, like a fierce beast that had slept for a hundred years, waiting to be awakened.
"Your Grace."
Harry Strickland looked up, his face flushed with excitement, every wrinkle filled with piety and fanaticism, his voice trembling slightly from the effort.
"May this sword... help you recast the glory of the True Dragon and reclaim the iron throne!"
Dead silence filled the tent.
The eyes of fifty or sixty Golden Company officers were fixed, as if drawn by a magnet, on that sword and the figure before it, who remained shrouded in a black hood.
Many exchanged looks of doubt and calculation.
His Grace's face... was completely hidden. This was unconventional, and even more so, it lacked the openness expected of a king about to receive the loyalty of thousands.
But Lord Griffin stood quietly to the side, his expression calm. As the former commander's most capable deputy, had he not left so suddenly, the position of commander would have been his. His prestige was enough to suppress the surging doubts.
Aegon bowed his head slightly, the shadow of the hood hiding his entire face completely. Only a few strands of silver-white hair slipped from the side of his neck, appearing blindingly white under the firelight.
He slowly raised his right hand.
He wore a black leather glove.
His fingers were long, and his movements were steady without a hint of trembling, hovering an inch above the scabbard.
Then, he stopped.
Time seemed to be stretched by an invisible hand.
The crackle of burning torches, the suppressed breathing of the crowd, and even the faint neighing of horses from the distant camp were all amplified at this moment, filling the suffocating silence.
Beads of sweat broke out on Harry's forehead, and his raised arms began to feel numb.
A flicker of unease crossed his mind as well. Why had His Grace not shown his face yet?
At such a momentous occasion, before his core loyalists... had Lord Griffin not reminded His Grace of the stakes involved?
But seeing Jon's calm face nearby, he suppressed his unease once more.
He did not dare move, only looking up at the shadow under the hood with eyes so burning they almost brimmed with tears, urging softly but clearly:
"Your Grace... please, lower your hood... and draw the holy sword with your true face to receive our fealty."
The words "true face" were like a needle, gently pricking the tense membrane within the tent.
Jon Clinton stood half a step behind Aegon, eyes downcast and expressionless, but his knuckles tightened slightly behind his back.
Aegon's hovering hand finally descended.
His fingers closed, firmly gripping the middle of the scabbard.
The sensation came through the leather—cold and heavy. The leather wrapping the scabbard had been rubbed for a hundred years, its edges worn to reveal the harder material beneath, carrying the unique coarseness of time.
With a slight flick of his wrist, he lifted the sword from Harry's trembling hands.
blackfyre lay across his black-gloved palms. The dark blade rested quietly in the firelight, the dull ruby at the pommel looking like a drop of dried blood.
A suppressed sigh of relief echoed in the tent, only to be replaced by deeper anticipation.
A smile of near-ecstasy bloomed on Harry's face. He remained kneeling, his head held higher, preparing for the proclamation that would surely ring through the camp to announce the coming of a new era once the "New Lord" accepted the holy sword.
Aegon's downcast gaze rose from the sword.
His left hand still supported the scabbard, while his free right hand reached up—not to draw the sword, but toward the back edge of his hood.
His fingers hooked the heavy fabric, and then, slowly, he pulled it back.
It was like a curtain being drawn back.
Long hair, silver-white like moonlight and cold as frost and snow, was the first to break free from the hood's confinement.
One strand, then two, then more and more flowed down, cascading over his shoulders, reflecting a fluid, almost unreal luster in the firelight.
He tilted his face up slightly.
With that movement, the hood slipped completely behind his shoulders.
A young, handsome face, yet shrouded in an unbreakable layer of icy coldness, was exposed without reservation to every gaze in the tent.
A high bridge of the nose, thin lips pressed tight, and a sharply defined jawline.
And... those raised, violet eyes, calm and waveless, yet seeming to absorb all light and sound.
"Hiss..."
An uncontrollable, collective gasp rang out in the tent!
Countless gazes scanned Aegon's face frantically, then snapped toward Harry Strickland, who was still kneeling on the ground.
Then they turned back to Aegon's face, filled with shock, confusion, disbelief, and a rapidly spreading, icy unease.
This face... this silver hair... these eyes... were completely different from the "Blue-haired Prince" they had met once in Pentos years ago and whose image they had maintained through portraits and descriptions!
The ecstasy on Harry's face froze, as if instantly turned to ice.
His pupils shrank, his mouth opened unconsciously, and he stared up at the cold, strange face looking down at him, his mind a total blank.
Aegon's gaze calmly swept across every transformed face in the tent, finally landing back on Harry's face, which was frozen in shock and confusion.
He spoke.
His voice was not loud, but it possessed a metallic quality and an icy penetration that clearly sliced through the stagnant air in the tent:
"Harry Strickland."
He addressed him by name, without a title.
Harry's body trembled, as if stung by the voice.
Aegon slightly raised the sword, blackfyre, in his hands, letting the firelight dance upon its dark scabbard.
Then, he continued, every word plain yet seemingly carrying the weight of a century, slowly pressing down on the hearts of every listener:
"This sword you have offered..."
He paused, a faint, almost pitying mockery flickering deep within his violet eyes.
"...should indeed return to the hands of its true master."
"True master"?
The color drained from Harry's face instantly, his lips began to quiver, and an absurd yet bone-chilling realization crashed into his mind.
No... impossible... Aegon, however, no longer looked at him.
His gaze passed over the sword in his hand, his voice echoing in the silent tent with a calm and cruel tone, as if recounting an epic:
"A hundred years ago, Aegon IV the Unworthy, on his deathbed, bestowed this Targaryen ancestral sword upon his bastard son."
"Little did he know, he had personally planted the seeds of a century of rebellion."
Aegon's fingertips, through the leather, gently brushed the deep wear on the scabbard.
"Daemon Blackfyre held it when he raised his banners on the Redgrass Field, leaving the ground covered in corpses."
"Five generations of blackfyres held it, living in exile, barely surviving."
"From the Redgrass Field to the Stepstones, from the Disputed Lands to the Free Cities... it has witnessed how the blackfyre line fell from ambitious contenders to rootless wanderers, living off the gold coins of merchants."
The last few words were spoken softly, yet they were like a whip, lashing the heart of every officer of the Blackfyre faction.
Aegon finally lowered his head again, his violet eyes like ice picks piercing Harry's eyes, which were trembling violently from fear and the collapse of his beliefs. Word by word, he delivered the final, ultimate judgment:
"And today..."
He paused for a moment, letting the dead silence of the room reach its peak.
"The last leader of the blackfyre remnants kneels here..."
"...and personally returns it to..."
He raised his eyes, his gaze like a cold tide sweeping through the room.
He uttered the final words, bringing a hundred years of wandering to a halt:
"...a Targaryen."
Silence.
A deathly silence.
Only the torches burned frantically, casting the distorted, swaying shadows of the crowd.
Harry Strickland knelt on the ground, his head tilted back, staring blankly at the Valyrian Steel sword in Aegon's hand, at the dull ruby on the scabbard.
It was as if he saw the ambitious hopes the blackfyre line had struggled for over a century collapse at this moment, turning into dust.
The one who offered the sword had become its gravedigger.
A hundred years of wandering, and the end was actually the beginning.
How ironic.
"You... you..."
A rattling sound came from Harry Strickland's throat. He suddenly turned to Jon Clinton, who had been standing silently by Aegon's side, his eyes erupting with a final, death-throes madness and questioning.
"Griffin! He... who is he?! What is going on?! You betrayed the Golden Company?! You betrayed Magister Illyrio's plan?! You..."
"There was no betrayal!"
"He is... the true Aegon Targaryen." Jon Clinton stepped forward half a pace, standing shoulder to shoulder with Aegon.
He interrupted Harry's incoherent roar, his voice raspy yet carrying a calm that followed a desperate resolution, reaching everyone's ears clearly.
He raised his eyes, his gaze slowly sweeping over the faces that were shocked, angry, or confused, finally landing on Harry's face.
Those eyes, which had seen so much of the world, were filled with pain, but also with an unquestionable determination.
"I raised that boy for over ten years."
"I watched him grow from an infant, taught him to read, taught him to hold a sword, taught him the history of the Targaryens, and taught him how to be a proper 'Aegon Targaryen'."
He paused, every word sounding as if it were carved out of his heart, dripping with blood:
"Until the true Aegon stood before me."
He turned his head to look at the silver-haired, violet-eyed youth standing as still as a mountain beside him. His voice carried a hint of a tremble, yet was exceptionally firm:
"Only then did I realize that everything I had done over the past decade..."
"...was to prepare for today, for the return of the true Targaryen bloodline."
"I, Jon Clinton, swear by the ancestral honor of House Clinton."
He suddenly raised his voice, speaking with absolute certainty:
"The one standing before you is the real Aegon Targaryen!"
"The son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, the rightful heir to the iron throne!"
"And you..." His gaze was like a knife, scraping over the pale faces of the officers of the Blackfyre faction, "...were loyal to a meticulously crafted fake!"
Silence.
A more complete, more suffocating silence than before, as if even the sound of the burning torches had been sucked away.
And then—
"Clang!"
The first sound of a blade being drawn was crisp and piercing, like a giant rock thrown into a still lake.
It was the officer with graying temples. His eyes were as red as blood, every muscle in his face was twitching, and he glared at Jon, squeezing two words through his teeth:
"Trai... tor..."
That word, "traitor," was like lighting a powder keg.
"Clang, clang, clang, clang—!!"
More sounds of swords being drawn exploded in succession!
The core officers of the Blackfyre faction—some with hideous expressions, some with madness in their eyes, and some with pale faces—all instinctively drew their weapons!
Cold killing intent, like a physical tide of frost, exploded, instantly drowning the entire tent and locking onto Aegon and Jon at the head of the table!
"Griffin! How dare you—!!"
"Kill them!!!"
"For blackfyre!!"
Roars, bellows, and the cold light of blades instantly turned the banquet, which had just been filled with loyalty and eagerness, into a slaughterhouse where danger lurked everywhere and everything was on the verge of exploding!
And just at the moment when the killing intent reached its peak and the first blade was about to be swung.
The wind outside the tent stopped without any warning.
It wasn't a natural stillness, but a... heart-palpitating silence, as if even the air had been solidified by some higher existence.
Immediately following, a low hum that almost exceeded the limits of the human ear, yet made the bones of the chest vibrate, came faintly from above the tent, from the night sky just inches away... no, it didn't come.
It descended.
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