A cold glint flashed in Viserys's eyes, his killing intent almost solidifying. Yet, the smile on his face deepened—it was the icy smile of a hunter watching his prey walk into a trap.
"You want my niece, Rhaenys? Interesting. I agree."
His voice was terrifyingly calm. "As long as you can prove you are worthy of her, worthy of the name Targaryen. We can discuss everything once you walk out of the Dragonfire."
His final tone was frighteningly gentle. "Now, let us see if your grand words are as hot as the Dragonfire."
He gave no one a chance to back out, ordering those outside the door, "Prepare the grounds. We meet at the training field outside the castle in a quarter of an hour."
Having spoken, he turned and left the Council Hall, leaving behind only Aegon, whose face had turned pale again, and Clinton, whose eyes had dimmed.
The training field outside Dragonwing Fortress was cleared, surrounded by solemn Unsullied soldiers, the atmosphere heavy. Ghidorah poked its head out curiously from outside the field, looking in.
Ashara stayed inside the castle with Daenerys and Rhaenys. Hearing the noise outside, they didn't know exactly what was happening, only that Viserys was performing a "dangerous ritual."
Viserys shed his outer robe, wearing only a close-fitting undergarment, and walked to the center of the field. Blackflame answered the call, descending from the sky. Its massive body brought intense pressure, freezing Clinton and the others who were seeing it for the first time. Its dark red dragon eyes looked at its master, and a low roar escaped its throat.
"Blackflame, aim at me. Dracarys (Dragonfire)." Viserys commanded in Valyrian, his voice calm.
Blackflame tilted its head in confusion, but under Viserys's will, it opened its mouth nonetheless.
"Boom!"
A thick, searing stream of dark red Dragonfire erupted, instantly engulfing Viserys's figure.
Several stifled gasps came from the sidelines. Clinton and Aegon's faces grew even paler, especially Aegon; his body began to tremble uncontrollably, his previous courage rapidly fading before the Dragonfire. The heat of the fire could be felt from far away, melting and crystallizing even the sand and stones on the ground.
The flame lasted for approximately five breaths.
Then, Blackflame closed its mouth, and the fire dissipated.
Viserys's figure still stood in place, his silver hair fluttering in the heatwave, completely unharmed. Only his clothes were burned away, revealing his strong, perfect physique. His expression was calm, as if only a warm breeze had passed by.
"true dragon do not fear fire." He turned, taking his outer garment from an Unsullied, his voice echoing across the field. "Your turn, Young Griff. Let us see if what Varys and Illyrio entrusted to Lord Clinton is truly Rhaegar's bloodline."
Hearing Viserys's words, Aegon's legs went soft, and he nearly collapsed onto the ground. He saw Viserys standing unharmed, then looked at the scorched ground still radiating high heat, and Blackflame's cold, dark red dragon eyes. Fear completely seized him.
He wanted to run, he wanted to scream "No." Forget the dyed hair disguise, forget the carefully fabricated identity and mission—all he wanted now was to say screw it. But everyone around was staring at him, Viserys with his mocking gaze, and his own recent boasting and the absurd demand he made for Rhaenys, tightening his throat.
"I... I don't..." His voice was low and incoherent. He didn't know what to say, and cold sweat soaked his back.
"Where is your courage now? Where is the pride you claimed as the legitimate heir?"
Viserys began to approach steadily. "Or are you finally willing to admit you are a liar, a counterfeit whose hair and eyes were merely dyed? You don't even have the courage to stand before the Dragonfire, yet you dare covet my niece and my kingdom? How dare you!"
"I—I am not a liar." Aegon screamed, stung by the words "counterfeit." His remaining pride and hatred for Viserys's contempt plunged him into a state of frantic collapse. "I am Aegon Targaryen. I am a True Dragon. Burn me. Burn me!"
He violently pushed away Clinton, who was trying to restrain him, and lunged toward the center of the field as if to prove himself, shrieking at Blackflame, "I am a Targaryen. Dracarys."
At Viserys's unspoken demand, Blackflame unleashed another stream of Dragonfire, completely engulfing the screaming Aegon.
Clinton stretched out his hand, grasping futilely forward, watching the back of the figure he had guarded for years and poured countless efforts and complex emotions into. He knew everything was over. Not just this test, but all the persistence and faith he had held onto for years.
This time, there was no miracle.
After the flames, only a pile of charred remains was left on the spot, and the air was filled with the stench of burning flesh.
Viserys glanced indifferently at the pile of remains, then turned toward Clinton, who looked as if all life had been drained from him.
"It seems that what Varys and Illyrio entrusted to you was neither Aegon nor a True Dragon. He was merely a pathetic puppet nurtured by lies and ambition. Perhaps even Varys and the others were fooled by a more clever deception, or perhaps they knew he was a fake from the start, merely a tool to achieve certain goals." Viserys's voice was not loud, but it struck Clinton's heart like a heavy hammer.
Clinton stared blankly at the pile of charcoal. All his persistence, all his hope, all his forbearance and sacrifice had been reduced to nothing in that single blast of Dragonfire.
The "Young Lord" he had fought for decades to protect, even going so far as to hide his identity, turned out to be a complete fraud? What did Varys and Illyrio take him for? What did they take Rhaegar's bloodline for?
The rage of being fooled and the disillusionment with the future overwhelmed him.
However, deep down, there was still a stinging feeling—an undeniable affection forged over ten years of constant companionship, even if the object was a counterfeit. He looked at the pile of charcoal, his stomach churning, feeling both relief and a hint of sorrow.
"What do you plan to do, Lord Clinton?" Viserys asked. "Seek revenge for him? Go find Varys and Illyrio for an explanation? Or find a secluded corner, end your remaining life, and take this lie to the grave?"
Clinton slowly raised his head, looking at Viserys, his eyes filled with deep exhaustion and confusion. "I don't know. Everything is meaningless now, Your Majesty. I watched him grow up, taught him to read, taught him swordsmanship... I thought I was guarding Rhaegar's last bloodline; I thought I was atoning for my sins. But now everything is smoke and mirrors. I am just a joke on someone else's chessboard."
His voice was filled with pain and self-doubt.
"Meaningless?"
Viserys walked up to him, his voice suddenly turning severe. "Who says it's meaningless! Rhaegar died, killed at The Trident, his chest smashed by Robert Baratheon's warhammer. Princess Elia and Little Aegon died in The Red Keep in King's Landing, brutally murdered by Lannister lackeys. Does your exile and your struggle under a false name all these years become a joke just because one puppet died? Does it make those true blood feuds forgivable?"
Clinton's body trembled violently, and a flicker of focus returned to his scattered gaze.
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