Jon Clinton stood frozen in place, his eyes vacant.
It was as if his soul had been drawn out by those few short sentences, leaving only a shell filled with the ashes of twenty years of belief.
His mouth was open, yet he could make no sound; the hand resting on his sword hilt dropped limply, his fingertips cold.
Aegon watched his near-collapse, his face still devoid of expression.
He no longer pressed forward but took a step back, slightly tilting his head to look at the sky above the garden, fragmented by vines and the tree canopy.
In a voice that was almost a whisper to himself, yet clear enough for Jon Clinton to hear, he said:
"Then let me show you what a Targaryen is."
The moment the words fell.
A low, thick hum came from high above, like an ancient resonance.
The sound was not like a beast's roar or a clap of thunder, but like countless metal sheets vibrating at a low frequency—heavy and majestic, making the very air tremble.
Then, the shadow descended.
The sunlight that had been drenching the garden was suddenly and without warning obscured.
It was not dark clouds blocking the sun, but some incredibly massive entity spanning across the heavens.
The light dimmed abruptly, and the afternoon garden instantly fell into a twilight-like gloom.
Jon Clinton looked up at the sky blankly, almost by instinct.
In the next moment, his pupils dilated to their limit.
The clouds were stirred and pushed aside by an invisible force as a massive, pale gold silhouette that covered nearly half the sky slowly descended.
It did not have the swiftness of a bird of prey's strike; instead, it was like a mountain moving from the high heavens, descending upon the mortal world with an unstoppable force, carrying a heavy pressure that seemed to make the earth groan slightly.
"Sha... sha sha..."
That was the tooth-aching, subtle sound of giant scales rubbing against the air, converging into a low sound like the ocean tide.
The creature slowly folded its massive wings, which were large enough to shroud the entire courtyard, and the resulting wind pressure turned into a silent gale that slammed downward!
The flowers and trees in the garden bent violently, dust flew, and the graying hair at Jon Clinton's temples was whipped back fiercely as his robes clung to his body, flapping loudly.
It landed in the open space of the garden, its height so great that the two men in the garden had to look up with great effort.
On its long, sinuous necks, three heads covered in hideous bone armor lowered slowly, one after another, like living gallows.
Six vertical pupils, like molten gold, were cold and indifferent, precisely locking onto the human by the stone pavilion who was as small as an insect.
Jon Clinton.
The dragon's mouths slightly opened, and deep within its throats, a destructive golden light could be seen quietly flowing and gathering, as if it could erupt at any moment to turn everything into nothingness.
A dragon.
A real, living dragon that only existed in epics and nightmares.
And, it was a three-headed dragon.
Jon Clinton's body swayed uncontrollably, his knees turning weak.
It wasn't just simple fear, though fear had instantly soaked through his limbs like ice water.
It was a more complex, more absolute shock.
It was the shock of a forgotten legend descending once again.
It was the roar of a fragile world, carefully constructed over twenty years with lies and self-deception, shattering like glass before an undeniable, living legend.
The dragon... has returned.
Once again mastered by a Targaryen.
This is... the true dragon.
All the elaborate schemes, all the self-comforting lies, and the blood and hope poured into that blue-haired boy.
In the shadow cast by this pale gold, mountain-like behemoth, they all turned into the most ridiculous, most fragile bubbles under the sun.
With a gentle touch, they completely burst, leaving not a single trace behind.
Aegon stood in the suffocatingly massive shadow cast by Ghidorah, his figure appearing increasingly upright and increasingly distant.
He spoke, his voice calm, passing through the residual wind of the dragon's wings to reach Jon's ears clearly:
"Jon Clinton, I give you a choice."
Jon's glazed eyes moved with difficulty from the terrifying dragon heads to Aegon in the shadows.
"Return to the front courtyard and leave with the boy you have raised for twenty years."
"I will let you go across the Narrow Sea to tell the whole world that you found the true dragon but chose the fake."
Aegon's tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather.
"Then, you can watch the Golden Company die for that imposter, and watch the Seven Kingdoms laugh at the last of the Clinton family as a fool blinded by lies for twenty years."
He paused for a moment, letting the next words drive into Jon Clinton's heart like cold iron nails:
"Clinton will forever be written in the history books with the name of a traitor."
The word "traitor" echoed coldly in the deathly silent garden; Aegon caressed the crossguard of dark sisters at his waist, a subtle cold light flashing in his purple eyes.
Jon's body trembled violently, as if he had been struck hard by those words.
"Or," Aegon continued, his voice still devoid of emotion, "kneel."
"Not to me."
"Kneel to the bloodline you once swore fealty to, kneel to the truth you have failed for nearly twenty years."
He took a small step forward, out of the deepest shadow of the dragon's wings, so Jon could see his eyes more clearly.
"Swear fealty to me, the true son of Rhaegar, and I will lead you back to Westeros."
"And Eagles Nest... will fly the Clinton banner once more."
"And you, Jon Clinton, will personally plant it back upon the walls of your homeland."
Jon's breathing suddenly became rapid, a raspy sound coming from his throat.
Eagles Nest... personally planting the banner... this was the deepest obsession that had gnawed at his heart every late night during his years of exile.
"As for that boy..." Aegon's voice softened slightly, yet it carried a colder, condescending mercy.
"He will live."
"You can send him to the Citadel to become a Maester."
"Or you can send him to some corner of the Free Cities to live in anonymity; you could even give him a small piece of unclaimed land to spend the rest of his life in peace under another name."
He looked at Jon's eyes, which were suddenly raised and filled with disbelief and struggle, and added flatly:
"I will not kill him."
"Because I do not need to."
Aegon said finally, his gaze sweeping over Jon's pale face toward the direction of the Governors Mansion's banquet hall, his tone carrying a faint, almost pitying indifference:
"Truly, why care about the life or death of a counterfeit?"
A long, deathly silence fell over the garden.
Only the slow, heavy breathing of Ghidorah rolled through the air like muffled thunder.
Jon Clinton stood frozen in place, as if he had turned into a stone statue.
Only those eyes were trembling violently, betraying the struggle within.
His gaze turned uncontrollably and with great difficulty toward the main building of the Governors Mansion.
There was "Xiao Griffin," whom he had taught for twenty years and in whom he had placed all his hope and guilt.
Then, his gaze was pulled back irresistibly, fixed on the pale gold, soul-shaking dragon before him.
And on the silver-haired, purple-eyed youth standing in the dragon's shadow, who was terrifyingly calm.
Finally, his gaze settled on Aegon's face.
That young face, yet one that bore an unquestionable majesty.
Struggle... pain... despair... in the end, it all turned into a void of gray ash.
A drop of turbid liquid finally rolled from his bloodshot eyes, tracing a path down his weathered cheek.
Those were not tears of sadness, but a physiological reaction of near-collapse after the twenty-year burden had come crashing down and his beliefs had been utterly shattered.
He closed his eyes and took a deep, trembling breath, as if using up all his strength.
Then, he opened his eyes.
In the depths of his eyes, there was no more struggle, no more confusion, only a deathly clarity.
It was the sobriety of facing the cruel truth after all dreams had been broken, and the resolution of completely burying his entire past self.
Slowly, he moved.
His movements were stiff and slow, as if every step carried a weight of a thousand pounds.
He turned toward Aegon and released the sword hilt he had been subconsciously gripping; the sword seemed so ridiculous and powerless at this moment.
Then, he dropped to one knee.
His knee, covered by an old leather boot, struck the cold pebble ground of the garden heavily and solidly.
It made a dull "thud."
Like a mountain collapsing, or... like the dust finally settling.
He bowed his head, his graying hair falling to hide all his expressions.
He knelt there, in the shadow cast by the dragon, before the true Targaryen bloodline.
He did not say a word.
Yet he had already said everything.
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