"Hahaha, just as I wanted!"
Maegor's expression brimmed with arrogance, his eyes full of contempt as he looked down on the White Party.
"I've been wanting to deal with you kingdom scum for a long time!" he roared with laughter.
Rhaenys slammed the papal staff heavily against the ground. Her gaze was solemn as she declared loudly,
"In the name of the Pope of the Faith of the Seven, I accuse Maegor, second son of the Emperor, of illegally usurping the throne of Aenys—the Emperor's firstborn and savior of the realm. I order Maegor to immediately abdicate and return the crown to Aenys's eldest son!
"And I petition the Seven for leave to convene a Trial of the Seven, to see Maegor punished to the fullest for his treason!"
Visenya rose abruptly and strode toward Maegor, meeting Rhaenys head-on.
"Maegor is the rightful king!" she said firmly. "He carries the blood of the Conqueror—my brother, my husband, my beloved! He is the Targaryen heir personally appointed by the Emperor himself!
"If anyone dares to challenge his claim to the Iron Throne, step forward with proof—don't just spit empty words!"
The commander of the Holy Crusade, Ser Daemon Morrigen—called "the Pious"—was the first to stand at Pope Rhaenys's side. Chest out, he declared,
"I will stand with justice—"
Maegor cut him off by suddenly drawing Blackfyre, the dark blade pointing straight at Daemon.
"No need to waste breath," he sneered. "Settle it with steel."
Daemon's eyes were unwavering. "The gods will grant victory to those who uphold justice."
The Trial of the Seven had been declared so suddenly that Aegon hadn't even managed to speak.
From the viewing platform, Jaehaerys glanced his way and gave a faint shake of the head.
Aegon understood that the battle was now inevitable. A bitter weight settled in his chest—one of the bloodiest civil clashes in Targaryen history was about to begin.
Perhaps this is all my fault, he thought. I will end this madness.
...
Pope Rhaenys quickly named her champions: herself, Little Aegon—the leader of the Demon-Hunting Knights—Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Ser Daemon of the Holy Crusade, Ser Garibald "Sevenstar" of the Warrior's Sons, and Ser Harry "Death's Head" of the Starry Knights.
From that lineup alone, it was clear how much the White Party's power had swelled in the ten years since the Emperor's death.
The Holy Crusade had been recalled to Westeros, and with Rhaenys's blessing, both the Warrior's Sons and the Starry Knights had been restored.
Garibald "Sevenstar" drew his steel sword in one swift motion. Arrogance gleamed in his eyes as he fixed them on Maegor.
"By the old laws of Andalos," he said, "each side names seven champion knights. Can you even find six men willing to die beside you?"
Maegor threw back his head and laughed. "A jest! I am the supreme king of Westeros. At my word, seventy thousand warriors would take up arms and die for me!"
Turning to his own supporters, he bellowed, "Who will fight at my side and face our foes?"
A common soldier of the King's Guard—nicknamed "Bean" Dick—stepped forward without hesitation.
"I serve the king in life, and I will serve him in death! Your Grace, command me!"
The other guards and knights, unwilling to be outdone, shouted their own pledges, shoving forward with weapons raised. The square erupted in noise.
Maegor smiled at Bean Dick and shook his head. "Your loyalty is rare indeed. But this battle is perilous beyond measure—it is no place for ordinary men."
From the many volunteers, he chose four knights whose names would be etched into the annals of Westeros: Ser Rayford Rosby, Ser Guy Lothston, "Greedy" Guy, and Ser Lucifer Massey, Lord of Stonedance.
With King Maegor, Queen Visenya, and Prince Aegon the Dragonlord, the Red Party's seven champions were set.
The White Party's seven were equally destined for history.
...
"The Pious" Daemon led his companions in prayer, beseeching the Warrior to grant them unmatched strength and fill their arms with power.
When the prayer ended, the White Party stepped first into the center of Dragon Square.
Now, the seven champions of each side stood opposed—each among the deadliest fighters in Westeros, each one a supreme force among the Dragonkin.
The magic radiating from them was like an abyssal mountain—immense, crushing, unrelenting.
The rubble and dust left from the last battle hung suspended in the air under the pressure of their power, as though time itself had stopped. Bit by bit, the debris ground down to fine particles, then to ash.
From the stands above, all eyes were locked on the field below.
Smallfolk like Gawen had no choice but to retreat even farther from the field.
The demonic energy radiating from the dragon demons had a powerful corrosive effect on the minds of ordinary people—too much exposure could drive them into madness.
In the arena, the awakened dragon demon warriors began unleashing their true forms, preparing for a battle that promised to shake the heavens.
The most breathtaking sight was Pope Rhaenys.
A strange crown of living flesh slowly sprouted atop her head, its seven sharp points each gleaming with a blinding white light.
Almost simultaneously, high above the Sept of the Seven in King's Landing, the seven towering spires began to shine with the same white radiance. Filaments of crystal-like light drifted through the air toward the Red Keep, weaving through the sky until they linked perfectly with the flesh crown upon Rhaenys's head.
Within the city, more than a dozen septons were gathering the faithful, leading them into the Sept of the Seven for fervent prayer.
As the white light coiled around Rhaenys like a living serpent and completely enveloped her body, she began to rise from the ground, floating effortlessly into the air.
Beneath her flowing papal robes, something strange stirred—flesh rippled and shifted unnaturally before seven massive breasts pushed forward against the fabric.
Her nearly pure-white eyes gazed coldly down at the battlefield, radiating a presence that chilled the soul.
Seeing this, Daemon of the White Party, Garibald "Sevenstar," and Harry "Death's Head" began chanting the Song of the Mother in unison. Their voices rang clear and solemn, and with each verse their bodies continued to awaken, the power radiating from them growing stronger with every breath.
Aegon swallowed hard, unable to hide his shock.
He had never imagined Rhaenys's power was tied to mental force—and that through resonance, her flesh crown could receive such power from far away.
The sheer weight of magical energy and spiritual force pouring from her alone was like a mountain pressing down on the Red Party.
But the Red Party did not yield.
The magic surrounding Empress Visenya suddenly deepened into a blood-red hue. Layers of thick crimson mist swirled around her like tightly clustered petals, quickly cocooning her form until they swelled into a massive bud.
When the spiral-shaped bud expanded to over three meters, it began to rotate slowly. Translucent orange-red petals unfurled one by one, scattering outward in drifting arcs.
At their heart, Visenya's half-bare body came into view. Her armor had been forced away by her fuller form, now barely concealing what it could.
She rose with slow, deliberate grace, and from her back unfurled a pair of five-meter-long wings of scarlet flesh. With a single beat, they lifted her high into the air.
A sudden motion—one wing lashed outward, extending a whip-like tentacle toward the edge of the field.
On the viewing platform, a blackwood sword case shattered under its strike, revealing a grotesque spine sword within. The tentacle coiled around it, drew it back, and delivered it into Visenya's grasp.
The moment she took hold of the blade, her arm darkened to a deep violet—but she did not falter from the bone poison that would cripple most wielders.
Her skin began peeling away in strips, and each time the Plague Sword corroded a piece of her flesh, she tore it off and cast it aside, barely keeping herself whole enough to wield it.
Now, with the two-meter-long Plague Sword in hand, Visenya faced Pope Rhaenys—who shone with blinding white light from her surging spiritual power. The air between them was taut as a drawn bowstring.
...
One by one, more warriors revealed their awakened forms.
Little Aegon's frame swelled into a three-meter giant, his body sheathed in cast-iron spikes, with more jutting from his back like a porcupine's quills.
Maegor's body ran with molten gold as bright as sunlight on steel. It gathered into his hands, hardening into a golden warhammer with a head more than half a meter wide. Gold seeped from his heart and even his eyes and mouth, making him seem a living statue of raw power.
On the dais, the septons of the Seven Gods stared in horror.
The dreamlike yet terrifying transformations of the warriors gathered for this Trial of the Seven were beyond anything mortal minds could conceive.
One septon, trembling, shouted again, "The trial begins!!"
At once, both sides surged into motion.
High above, Rhaenys curled in upon herself, the white light sealing her within a radiant sphere. Slowly, a seven-pointed star took form upon its surface.
Then she burst forth from the sphere, her hand sweeping forward.
The orb—seething with deadly magic—shot toward the Red Party like a comet torn free from its orbit, its very presence promising annihilation.
"How could she unleash such a devastating attack right from the start?!"
Aegon's mouth fell open as he stared in shock at the terrifying strike.
Before the full-moon-like seven-pointed star could crash into the Red Party's formation, Empress Visenya beat her twisted crimson wings and shot forward like a streak of red lightning.
Gripping the Plague Sword in both hands, she brought it down in a savage slash. In that instant, the ribs along the sword seemed to come alive, surging outward in a frenzy of growth. They tangled together, sprouting more and more branching spines until—
—in the blink of an eye, a massive net had formed, wrapping tightly around the glowing sphere.
The Plague Sword's immense pull began drawing the star inward. Within just a few breaths, the sphere had shrunk to nothing, vanishing completely.
...
On the ground, the warriors of the Trial of the Seven locked into one-on-one duels.
Among the White Party, two dragonborn had yet to awaken—Jaehaerys and Alysanne.
Right now, Alysanne, steel sword in hand, was engaged in what looked like a fierce, evenly matched fight against Aegon. Blades flashed, sparks flew, and to any onlooker, they seemed locked in deadly struggle.
But in truth, they were trading rehearsed blows—a choreographed dance rather than a true duel. Jaehaerys had long since allied with Aegon. There was no chance they would fight each other for real.
The fiercest battle on the field belonged to Maegor and Little Aegon.
Each swing of Maegor's massive golden warhammer burst with a blinding, searing glow of molten gold, the sheer force seeming to set the very air ablaze.
Little Aegon, hopelessly outmatched, dared not meet those crushing blows head-on. Instead, he kept darting back, putting distance between them.
From his mouth and palms, he fired spiraled iron spikes—arrows of steel whistling toward Maegor, meant to slow his relentless advance and sap his strength.
But for now, Little Aegon was simply running for his life.
He prayed his grandmother, Rhaenys, would bring down Empress Visenya quickly enough to turn the tide.
After all, Pope Rhaenys now fought with the immense spiritual blessing of the Sept of the Seven.
At the pinnacle of each tower of the Sept lay a human pillar—buried deep, its body parasitized by Rhaenys's flesh. These living conduits absorbed the faith-born spiritual energy of praying believers.
Through resonance, that energy linked across vast distances, flowing straight into Rhaenys herself.
It was this unique method—her own creation—that gave the White Party the courage to challenge the Black Party in a battle to the death.
Pope Rhaenys slowly raised her arms. Before her seven great breasts, smaller white spheres began to form, glowing like moons.
With a sweeping motion, she sent them hurtling forth like comets, each blazing with deadly spiritual and magical force, all aimed at the charging Visenya.
Though blind, Empress Visenya did not need her eyes. Her magical perception locked unerringly onto Rhaenys's position.
Her form blurred as she moved, the Plague Sword flicking and weaving like the horns of a gazelle.
In an instant, several of the blazing "comets" shattered under her strikes.
Now, she was close enough to reach Pope Rhaenys with a single step.
...
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