Raventree Hall was stained a dark red by the last embers of the setting sun, like congealed, blackening blood.
The wind rolled in from Blackwater Bay, carrying salt and damp cold, like an invisible giant hand sweeping over the city walls, pulling the dense flags atop the battlements straight until they snapped with a deafening roar, as if ten thousand horses were shouting silently.
The entire wall was completely submerged in a sea of banners.
On one side was the gold-and-red lion, baring its claws and fangs in the deepening twilight; on the other was the three-headed red dragon on a black field, churning silently under the blood-colored canopy of the sky.
Two colors, two symbols, stood in a divided confrontation on the narrow wall, as if the wounds of this land were silently bleeding.
Tyrion had carefully selected the square.
It was wide and unobstructed, large enough to accommodate nearly all the commoners of Raventree Hall, as well as the Lannister and Raventree Hall Soldiers who had been mobilized from nearby and mingled into the crowd.
The more people there were, the more eyes there were, and the more that newly returned "true dragon" would have to be wary, not daring to easily tear off the mask—especially after they had already offered the seemingly sacred fig leaf of "bread and salt."
Tyrion stood on a temporary high platform, his small frame wrapped in the magnificent robes of the hand of the king. He narrowed his mismatched eyes, which were now as sharp as knives, and gazed at the churning black-and-red dragon banners atop the wall, his gaze tightening slightly.
Those banners were hung by his order, as a show of "solemnity" and "respect for the Targaryen bloodline."
But he knew very well that these banners did not come from Dragonstone, but from The Riverlands, from the secret vaults of Castle Darry.
The Targaryen Dynasty had fallen seventeen years ago, and the iron throne had already changed masters twice.
Yet there were still families willing to risk the destruction of their entire house to carefully clean and properly preserve the dragon banners of the previous dynasty, hiding them in deep cellars, quietly waiting for the return of the legendary true dragon.
This was not just a few pieces of old cloth, nor simple nostalgia. This was an obsession that had never died, nor even cooled. It was a complex memory and expectation of the dragon family's rule, buried deep beneath the Seven Kingdoms.
This discovery chilled Tyrion to the bone more than any troop movement.
It silently revealed a fact he had long realized but was unwilling to dwell on: the foundation of the iron throne was far less stable than it appeared on the surface.
In the center of the high platform, two equally tall, high-backed chairs draped in magnificent brocade were set opposite each other, their symbolic meaning self-evident.
Cersei Lannister sat in the chair on the west side. She wore her most expensive deep red velvet gown and her crown, her golden hair styled meticulously. Her face was thick with powder, an attempt to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the fine lines born of days of anxiety and anger.
Her back was ramrod straight, her chin slightly raised, maintaining the last of the Queen Mother's crumbling dignity, but her jeweled hand resting on the armrest had white knuckles from the force of her grip.
Her gaze was fixed on the square's entrance, a mixture of fear, hatred, and a slim hope she was unwilling to admit to herself.
Hope that the bastard wouldn't come, or, hope that if he did, he would fall into the trap the Dwarf had so carefully laid.
Tyrion stood a step behind her at her side.
The Dwarf's body seemed even smaller under the large Hand's robes, but he stood there like a nail driven into a wooden board, his eyes scanning the entire scene, his brain working rapidly to calculate every possibility.
Opposite him, the throne belonging to Aegon Targaryen sat empty, quietly waiting for a master destined not to be peaceful.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic sound of footsteps, like muffled thunder rolling across the ground, came from the direction of the square's entrance. It drew closer, every step treading on the stone road and on the hearts of every onlooker.
They were here.
A contingent of grimly armored Soldiers, marching in a formation so precise it was heart-stopping, entered the square from the entrance.
They were clad in dark armor, with the black-and-red three-headed dragon sigil on their chests. They held spears and wore swords at their waists, their black-and-red cloaks trailing behind them. Their steps were nearly identical, heavy and steady.
The sound of iron boots striking the stone converged into a low roar, drowning out the wind and the whispers of the crowd.
They quickly split into two lines below the platform, like two suddenly rising walls of black-and-red steel, instantly separating the central open space from the crowded onlookers all around.
A murderous, cold, and unquestionable aura rushed toward them, causing the commoners in the front row to subconsciously retreat, huddling together.
The person leading them did not wear armor, but rather brightly colored, well-tailored Dornish-style clothing.
His posture was as upright as a poplar in the desert, with the deep features characteristic of a Dornishman. A faint, casual yet lethal smile played at the corners of his mouth, like a snake dozing in the sun but ready to strike with its fangs at any moment.
Tyrion's brow furrowed imperceptibly, the string in his heart tightening further.
Dornish clothing, Dornish bearing, yet commanding elite guards loyal to the Targaryens.
Aegon was the son of Elia Martell; he had half-Dornish blood flowing through him.
A cold and clear thought formed silently in his mind, weighing down heavily: Dorne might already be standing at Aegon Targaryen's side.
The dragon banners preserved from the old days, the army loyal to their former master, the public support of Dorne, the dragon of legend returned, and that Golden Company from the Eastern Continent with its formidable reputation currently rushing from the Stormlands... this was not a simple matter of seeking justice and revenge for kin.
This was a naked dynastic restoration, poised to strike and sweeping with it the ghosts of the past and the powers of the present.
Tyrion felt a chill crawl up his spine to the back of his neck.
Oberyn Martell walked slowly to the center of the platform, his boots making a slight sound on the wooden boards.
His manner was composed, as if he were not entering a venue carefully prepared by an enemy, but strolling through his own garden.
He even glanced with interest at the pale-faced Cersei on the platform, his gaze lingering for a moment on her tense face, the smile at the corner of his mouth deepening with undisguised mockery.
A servant of Raventree Hall, a young knight wearing a surcoat with the sigil of House Rykker, turned pale and stepped forward tremblingly, holding a tray covered with a white linen cloth.
On the tray sat a piece of coarse black bread and a small dish of pure white salt.
This was one of the oldest and most sacred rituals in Westeros.
To offer bread and salt meant granting protection to a guest; for the guest to accept meant that under the host's roof, both sides would lay down their weapons and coexist in peace. To violate this would bring the scorn of the world and the gods.
The young knight's throat bobbed, his voice trembling as he recited according to the ancient etiquette: "In the name of the gods, and by the honor of House Rykker, Raventree Hall offers bread and salt to our noble guest. May guest right protect..."
Oberyn raised his hand, signaling that he need not say more.
He reached out with those steady, long, well-maintained hands—hands that could spring a lethal poison blade in an instant—and pinched a piece of the coarse black bread.
His expression was calm and unruffled, showing neither the anger of being offended nor the relief of having obtained security. He was as calm as if he were tasting the most ordinary breakfast in Dorne.
Under the gaze of countless eyes, amidst Cersei's almost fire-spitting glare and Tyrion's deep, sea-like scrutiny, Oberyn brought the bread to his lips and took a small bite.
Then, he dipped his fingertip into the white salt, smeared it on the bread, and put it into his mouth again. He chewed very slowly and calmly, his Adam's apple moving as he swallowed it down.
Throughout the process, he looked at no one, focusing only on the bread and salt in his hand as if performing a solemn ceremony.
Then, he placed the remaining bread back on the tray and gave a slight nod to the young knight, who was nearly about to faint.
He had accepted.
The representative of Aegon Targaryen was now under the protection of guest right provided by the Lord of Raventree Hall.
At least in theory, under the watchful eyes of gods and men, his safety was guaranteed.
Any move against him here and now would be the most complete trampling of ancient and sacred laws, inviting the scorn of all nobles and the curse of the Seven.
Similarly, he could not take up arms again under the host's roof.
Tyrion watched this scene, his heart settling slightly, yet that unease surged even more violently like an underwater current.
Oberyn ate too calmly.
Too calm for a creditor who had come to collect a blood debt for his sister and nephew, too calm for an envoy stepping into enemy territory.
The more composed he was, the more Tyrion felt that this was a carefully rehearsed play.
The fact that the other side calmly accepted "protection" precisely showed that they either had nothing to fear or... simply didn't care about this so-called "protection."
After Oberyn put down the food and took a silk handkerchief from an attendant to wipe his hands, Tyrion took a deep breath and stepped forward.
He had to seize the initiative, even if only on the surface.
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