Driven by a blazing will to win, Jaehaerys charged forward like a maddened beast, dragging his Bronze sword behind him, sparks scattering in his wake.
With a sudden leap, he shot into the air like an arrow loosed from a bow, both hands raised high, gripping the blade.
In that instant, the flames on the sword seemed to break free of their bonds, erupting outward in a frenzy. The raging fire lit the night sky as bright as day, as though a blazing sun had exploded above.
Now wielding a colossal flaming blade more than five meters long, Jaehaerys roared and swung it down with all his might in a devastating strike.
Below, Aegon stood motionless, calm and composed.
He tilted his head back slightly, gazing up at the oncoming assault. His face showed no fear, not even the faintest flicker in his brow.
He gave a light swing of his Bronze sword, the blade angled downward, tracing a graceful arc before pointing obliquely at the ground.
"Swift Sword Form II—Blazing Storm." Aegon's voice rang out slowly, as invisible waves of magic essence rippled through the air.
At that moment, a deafening roar burst around him, like the furious bellow of a dragon, making eardrums ache with pain.
In an instant, flames engulfed the five-meter circle around Aegon. The sea of fire surged upward like crashing waves, rising into the sky and twisting into a colossal pillar of fire.
The firestorm writhed like a roaring dragon, clawing and lashing as it barreled straight toward Jaehaerys' descending strike. The heat warped the very air around it.
All Jaehaerys could see was blinding white light, stabbing into his eyes like blades.
Before he could react, an overwhelming shockwave and a tide of unbearable heat slammed into him.
His body was flung helplessly into the air like a leaf caught in a storm, hurled higher by the blast. The force tore the Bronze sword from his grip.
As it left his hand, its glow faded instantly. In the blink of an eye, it reverted to plain steel, its surface glowing red-hot like iron fresh from the forge.
"Brother!" Alysanne cried out in panic, her wide eyes filled with fear as she sprinted toward where Jaehaerys was falling.
Lord Rogar stood frozen, his mouth agape as he stared at Aegon's godlike yet demonic figure standing within the flames.
His mind churned in awe and disbelief: Was this truly within reach of a dragon's chosen? That Aegon had so easily overcome the dragonborn Jaehaerys was beyond imagining.
Queen Alyssa rushed to Jaehaerys' side in alarm.
When she saw he had not been gravely injured, her pounding heart eased. He had only been hurled back by the shockwave and searing flames, not struck down outright. Relief washed over her.
Aegon remained calm, waving his hand lightly as the Bronze magic upon Dark Sister faded away like smoke.
His gaze, sharp as fire, swept slowly over the lords who had once sworn to Jaehaerys.
One by one, under his piercing eyes, they faltered. None dared to meet his gaze, and all lowered their heads in silent submission.
Lord Rogar frowned, hesitation flickering across his face—but only for a moment. He then stepped forward firmly, dropping to one knee. The weight of his armored knee struck the ground with a heavy thud.
Lifting his head, he declared in a deep, resonant voice, "I pledge myself to Prince Aegon as king. We shall serve him faithfully as vassals!"
Seeing Lord Rogar, the mightiest among them, bend the knee, the other nobles no longer hesitated.
They stepped forward quickly, kneeling in unison before Aegon and crying aloud, "We offer our loyalty to Prince Aegon!"
"Our king!" The call spread, and soldiers and knights alike dropped to their knees in waves.
Jaehaerys, supported by his sister, struggled back to his feet.
Still unsteady, he began walking slowly toward Aegon. Just as he was about to lower himself to one knee, Aegon, seeing his wounded state, reached out a hand to steady him.
Jaehaerys only smiled and gently shook his head. He lifted an arm to stop Aegon from supporting him.
Then, slowly, he lowered himself onto one knee. His expression was solemn as he pledged, "I offer my loyalty to you, Prince Aegon, and vow to devote my strength to your cause."
Seeing her brother submit, Alysanne felt a stab of bitterness, but she knew the tide had already turned. Gritting her teeth, she reluctantly followed behind Jaehaerys, bending her knee as well.
Aegon looked over the nobles and knights now swearing fealty and spoke loudly, "I give you my solemn oath: if I fail to eradicate the Awakened, my claim to the throne shall be void.
When that day comes, any one of you shall have the right to strike me down by law, choose a new king, and protect the peace of Westeros!"
The camp fell utterly silent, all holding their breath as they listened.
This vow was not only Aegon's resolve, but also the fervent wish of countless knights and lords—to see Westeros restored to peace and prosperity.
Aegon paused, then his voice rang out with passion. "The Awakened and the demons are our common enemies—this is beyond doubt.
But now, the art of cultivating dragon kin has reached maturity.
So long as dragon kin remain unawakened, they shall share equal rights with all others in the new dynasty. They will never again suffer discrimination or injustice within the realm! Let us unite and forge a new era of glory for Westeros!"
His words struck deep into the hearts of the assembled nobles.
Many among them already possessed the means to create dragon kin. Compared to Jaehaerys' rigid and uncompromising stance, Aegon's vision appeared more moderate, more practical—and thus won their approval.
For his part, Jaehaerys had always stood firm in opposing dragon kin. He was convinced they carried a grave risk of awakening into man-eating demons, a danger that, if unleashed, would bring catastrophe upon Westeros.
But Aegon, seeing the hopeful expressions now spreading across the faces of his new vassals, knew that his first speech as king had already found its mark.
He had little history with these eastern lords. If he was to secure his rule, he needed tempered policies to win their allegiance.
Jaehaerys frowned, his gaze steady on Aegon as he spoke gravely. "Aegon, do you not fear that this path threatens the survival of all mankind?
If dragon kin grow unchecked and awaken together, Westeros would plunge into a disaster far greater than anything we have faced.
When that time comes, how could we possibly stand against it?"
Aegon smiled faintly, reaching down to help Jaehaerys rise. Then, with a gesture of his hand, he called to the others in a clear voice, "My lords, be at ease—rise."
When they had all stood, his face grew serious as he addressed them.
"Have you noticed a defining trait of the Seeds of Life?
The stronger the dragonborn from whom the flesh is taken, the higher the chance of awakening.
But weaker dragon kin—so long as they do not deliberately pursue awakening—may never become demons in their lifetime.
The proof is clear: even unawakened dragonborn lose their human sense of taste. Dragon kin, however, retain a normal appetite for food.
And the flesh of the Awakened cannot be preserved. Dragon kin can only be bred by grafting the flesh of earlier dragon kin. With each generation, their strength diminishes, and the chance of awakening grows ever smaller.
After enough generations, even if they desired it, dragon kin would no longer be capable of awakening.
At that point, even if all of Westeros were filled with them, they would pose no threat to humanity's survival."
The nobles exchanged low murmurs, discussing Aegon's reasoning among themselves. The more they considered it, the more plausible his vision of the future seemed.
"Prince Aegon speaks wisely. Long have I worried over the matter of dragon kin. But after hearing your analysis, I see now they are a force we can tame and control." Lord Rogar inclined his head slightly, his tone full of agreement.
In truth, Rogar held no opposition to Aegon's claim to the throne.
It had been he who first proposed trial by combat, and Aegon had won. That victory, Rogar thought, must have left a favorable impression on the young king.
Jaehaerys opened his mouth to argue again, but felt his sister tug softly at his sleeve.
Turning, he saw Alysanne shake her head. With a weary sigh, Jaehaerys relented, accepting Aegon's decision to allow dragon kin.
...
Night fell, and bonfires blazed across the camp.
Aegon held a great celebration, drawing together the nobles of the Targaryen host. Amidst the flames and laughter, they began to grow familiar with their new king.
At dawn, sunlight spilled across the encampment.
The army formed ranks once more and set out, marching in a vast column toward King's Landing.
...
Within the solemn throne room of King's Landing, Maegor sat upon the Iron Throne, his hands slowly caressing its cold, unyielding armrests.
The Iron Throne had been a gift at his birth from the late king, and from childhood it had become his most treasured possession.
Even as a boy, Maegor had been enthralled by the strange wonder of the Iron Chair outside the Visenya Palace. Time and again, he would sneak off alone, climb upon it, and amuse himself atop its jagged surface.
The attendants who saw this were always filled with dread, fearing the young prince would be cut to ribbons on its cruel blades.
Yet, miraculously, from his earliest years until manhood, not once did its sharp edges ever draw a drop of his blood.
To others, the Iron Throne was a menace of blades and thorns. But in Maegor's heart, it was a sanctuary—the warmest refuge he knew, a place where his restless spirit found solace.
Whenever turmoil clouded his mind, he would drift back to the throne, lower himself onto it, and sit in silence.
In those still moments, his thoughts cleared, and the beast within him—savage, violent, ever straining against its chains—would at last be subdued.
But since the death of Queen Visenya, that beast had grown fiercer, harder to master.
During court sessions or even sword practice, Maegor would suddenly lose all reason, falling into moments of madness.
And when awareness returned, the aftermath was always the same: a hall strewn with blood, severed limbs scattered across the floor, the reek of gore choking the air.
These fits of frenzy seemed tied to the same horrific hunger that haunted the dragonborn—the urge to devour flesh. Maegor himself could feel it: when starvation pressed too hard, his mind slipped into the same madness.
Now, with his mother gone, no one remained who could draw him back from the brink.
His only balm was the throne his father had left him. At times, he would sit upon it an entire day, losing himself in the faint peace the Iron Throne alone could bring.
...
At dawn the next day, sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Hall of Conquest.
There, Maegor convened his court to plan strategy against Aegon's advancing host.
By now, Aegon's forces nearly matched those of the Crown in number. And through his strength, charisma, and policies, he had won wide support among the realm.
By contrast, Maegor found himself hemmed in on all sides, the focus of anger and betrayal, his position growing ever more desperate.
On the steps of the throne, Tyanna stood with a grave expression, reading her reports word by word:
"At Sow's Horn, a gathering of the poor erupted into riot. The situation is out of control. Heavy casualties. The Crownlands beg immediate military aid."
"Crisis at Grassy Vale. Lord Bar Emmon's main host was crushed in the second battle, the defensive line has collapsed. Reinforcements urgently required."
"Lord Rolinford's forces advanced recklessly and blundered into an ambush outside Antlers. They are retreating under pressure. Lord Bywater has marched with men to relieve them."
Each report fell like a boulder on the hearts of those assembled—urgent pleas and dire crises from across the realm.
Maegor's face twisted with strain, his brow furrowing deep into a dark knot. His breathing turned ragged, chest rising and falling heavily. His hands gripped the Iron Throne's armrests so tightly the metal groaned beneath his strength.
A servant hurried forward, offering a bowl of poppy wine.
Maegor seized it, tilted his head back, and drank in great gulps. At last, his trembling eased, his breath steadied.
Yet silence hung thick in the hall, heavy as death.
Many had already lost their will to fight.
For Aegon's rebellion was not raised in greed, but against the rule of the flesh-eaters. And the men assembled here were all human—how many would still fight for the Awakened Maegor?