Aegon stood in the suffocatingly massive shadow cast by Ghidorah, looking down at Jon Clinton kneeling on the ground.
This once high-spirited, loyal, and brave Hand of the King now had graying hair at his temples, and his back had unknowingly become slightly hunched.
It was as if that silent kneel had drained the last bit of false air that supported his life.
But Aegon knew that what was drained away was only a pillar built on quicksand.
What was to be filled in next would be something truly solid.
He did not speak immediately, but simply watched in silence.
He watched as Jon Clinton's shoulders trembled uncontrollably and his gray-white hair fluttered in the breeze.
In the garden, only Ghidorah's low, thunder-like breathing and Jon's suppressed, heavy gasping remained.
A long time passed.
Aegon finally spoke, his voice clearly piercing through the heavy silence:
"Rise, Ser."
Jon Clinton's body stiffened for a moment, and he did not move.
"Your loyalty, I have received," Aegon continued, his tone flat yet carrying an unquestionable finality.
"But loyalty is not something that is knelt out."
Jon slowly and with extreme difficulty raised his head.
The tear stains on his face were not yet dry, mixed with dust, making him look somewhat wretched, but those eyes...
Those eyes, which had once been full of struggle, pain, and despair, were now like ashes washed by a rainstorm; though empty, they had settled into a kind of deathly soberness.
He looked at Aegon, opened his mouth, and hoarsely squeezed out a few words: "Your Highness... I..."
"What happened in the past ends here," Aegon interrupted him, raising his hand in a slight gesture of support.
"From this moment on, you are my vassal, my general, and one of the cornerstones needed to return my future kingdom to order."
"Remember your new identity, Earl Clinton."
"Eagles Nest is waiting for you, Westeros is waiting for you, and before the iron throne, a true loyalist is also needed."
Eagles Nest... Earl... these words, like cold nectar after a long drought, brought a sting but also real hope, watering Jon Clinton's parched and cracked heart.
His Adam's apple bobbed, and finally, pushing off the ground with his hands, he used all his strength to slowly stand up.
His knees were somewhat weak from the long kneeling and the emotional shock; he swayed for a moment before managing to stand firm, his back straining to straighten as he tried to regain some of his former poise.
Though he still looked old and weary.
"Thank you... Your Highness," his voice remained hoarse, but it held a trace of hard-maintained stability.
Aegon nodded, not surprised by his state. The collapse and reconstruction of belief takes time.
"Now," Aegon changed the subject, his violet eyes looking directly at Jon, "let us go see the boy you raised for twenty years."
"And let me see what this 'Bale' is truly made of."
Jon's body tensed imperceptibly for an instant, and an indescribable flicker of pain crossed his face.
But he with difficulty swallowed all his emotions, lowered his gaze, and said hoarsely: "Yes, Your Highness."
His steps were somewhat unsteady, but he still moved forward, silently following behind Aegon toward the front courtyard of the Governors Mansion.
Every step felt like walking on the path to the grave of the past.
The two passed through the silent garden and returned to the front courtyard of the Governors Mansion.
The Bloodsworn soldiers guarding the colonnade saw Aegon and immediately straightened their backs, their right fists heavily striking the armor on their left chests with a synchronized, dull thud, as they shouted in unison:
"Your Highness the Prince!"
The shout was not loud, but it carried a blood-and-iron killing intent and absolute respect, echoing in the courtyard.
The sound startled the Lysene nobles who were talking in the assembly hall.
Several nobles who had just been eagerly conversing around Xiao Griffin had their expressions change instantly upon hearing this title and the commotion.
They almost immediately dropped everything, and without even a word of excuse, they abandoned Xiao Griffin and, along with the other nobles, flocked out of the hall.
They stood respectfully on either side, their eager gazes cast toward the source of the sound, as if welcoming the arrival of some truly great figure.
The proper smile on Xiao Griffin's face stiffened slightly, and his brow furrowed beneath his blue hair.
Prince? A Prince of Lys?
Wasn't that the title that was supposed to be granted to him only after the negotiations and cooperation with Governor Dorian?
How could it... already be placed on someone else's head?
A sense of foreboding, like a cold snake, quietly crawled up his spine.
He and the guard captain, a middle-aged Knight with a cold, hard face wearing half-plate armor, quickly exchanged a look.
The guard captain's hand had already silently moved to the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the surrounding nobles whose attitudes had suddenly shifted.
"Let's go out and see," Xiao Griffin said in a low voice, maintaining a steady tone.
He led his guards toward the outside of the banquet hall.
As soon as he stepped out, the scene before him made him pause.
He saw the nobles of Lys standing neatly on both sides of the courtyard passage, bowing slightly in a posture of unprecedented respect, even carrying a hint of hard-to-conceal fear.
Their gazes were all focused on the other end of the passage.
There, two people were walking toward them at an unhurried pace.
The one in the lead wore simple black casual clothes, his figure as straight as a spear.
Most striking was that long hair, like molten pure silver, shining almost blindingly in the sunlight, and... even from a distance, those violet eyes could be clearly seen.
Xiao Griffin's gaze instantly froze, and his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by an invisible hand.
Silver hair... violet eyes... his gaze stiffly moved to the person behind him.
Following half a step behind the silver-haired youth was a man with graying hair at his temples and a haggard face, yet who was straining to keep his back straight.
It was none other than Jon Clinton.
Xiao Griffin's pupils contracted slightly, filled with incomprehension and confusion.
Lord Griffin?
Hadn't he gone to see the injured Governor Dorian?
How could he... be together with this silver-haired youth?
According to intelligence, Governor Dorian was a proper and somewhat portly middle-aged noble.
The silver-haired youth before him, regardless of age or temperament... was definitely not Dorian.
Who was he? The "Your Highness the Prince" whom the Lysene nobles respected and feared... could it be him?
Countless questions and cold conjectures crashed wildly in his mind, but he forced them down, his face quickly recovering its usual gentle and composed demeanor.
He could not panic; at least until he understood the situation, he could not lose his footing.
The distance between the two sides grew closer and closer.
Xiao Griffin could see the silver-haired youth's face more clearly.
Young, handsome, but with a layer of unmelting coldness gathered between his brows; his violet eyes were deep, and when his gaze swept over, it was calm and waveless, yet seemed capable of piercing through all disguises to reach the deepest part of one's heart.
That gaze lingered on his face for an instant.
Xiao Griffin felt a sudden, inexplicable palpitation, but he still maintained a posture that was neither humble nor arrogant.
When the other party reached a few steps away, he stopped at the right moment, bowed slightly, and spoke in an impeccable, clear, and steady voice, though his gaze was directed at Jon Clinton:
"Lord Griffin, you've returned. This is...?"
His inquiry was proper, carrying the respect due to an elder, as well as a perfectly measured hint of confusion.
Jon Clinton's body trembled almost imperceptibly.
He raised his eyes and looked at Xiao Griffin, at this "child" into whom he had poured twenty years of effort and all his hope and guilt.
In those eyes that were usually steady and firm, there was now an indescribable pain, struggle, and... a kind of almost desperate gloom.
He opened his mouth, his throat feeling as if it were blocked by sand and gravel, and the voice he produced was dry and hoarse, as if it were not his own:
"Child... this is..."
He paused, as if using all his strength to squeeze out from between his teeth the name he had taught the boy before him for twenty years, but which he now had to personally return to another person:
"Aegon Targaryen."
A deathly silence fell over the courtyard.
Only the slight wail of the wind passing through the colonnade remained.
The expression on Xiao Griffin's face froze.
The guards behind him widened their eyes in an instant, looking at Jon Clinton in disbelief.
Then they snapped their gazes toward the silver-haired youth, their hands instinctively tightening around their weapons, yet they dared not act rashly due to Jon's prestige and the eerie atmosphere.
Jon Clinton seemed not to see their reaction; he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke again.
His voice was still hoarse, but it carried the resolve of completing some cruel ritual, as he completed the full, heavy title word by word:
"True son of the Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaegar Targaryen, and the Princess of Dorne, Elia Martell; the legitimate heir to the Westeros iron throne."
Every word was like a heavy hammer, smashing hard against Xiao Griffin's heart, smashing against the entire world he had constructed over twenty years.
Xiao Griffin's pupils vibrated violently, shrinking to the size of pinpoints.
The last trace of color drained completely from his face, and his lips trembled uncontrollably.
He stared fixedly at Jon Clinton, as if trying to find even a hint of a joke or coercion on that familiar yet now utterly strange face.
"Gr... Lord Griffin..." His voice lost all its stability, becoming sharp and broken.
"What are you saying? Am I not... am I not right here? He is Aegon Targaryen... then I am..."
The three words "Who am I" were not yet fully spoken.
Aegon, who had been standing silently in front as if he were merely an observer, finally spoke.
His voice was not high, but calm and cold, without any intentional emphasis, yet it was like a sword forged from a thousand years of ice.
It cut through the air with absolute precision, and also sliced open the most fragile, most untouchable layer of disguise in Xiao Griffin's heart.
"Blackfyre."
Two simple words.
Yet they seemed to carry a temperature that annihilated everything, instantly freezing all of Xiao Griffin's blood.
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