The Great Sept of Baelor was nothing but a field of ruins.
The once-towering sept of the Seven had long since collapsed in the gale winds whipped up by dragon wings.
Broken columns and shattered statues had been cleared away, leaving only an open space that was nearly desolate.
The wind howled across this clearing, carrying a low whimper.
This was originally a forbidden area that the commoners of King's Landing avoided, simply because that Three-headed Dragon was perched here.
Its body surpassed any legend, so massive that there was no place to hold it; only this leveled field of temple ruins could barely accommodate its resting form.
At this moment, it lay in the center of the ruins.
Pale gold scales covered its mountain-like body, and its three heads hung lazily to the ground. Its vertical pupils were tightly closed, but the cold light that occasionally leaked from the slits was still daunting.
The dragon's shadow blotted out the sky, covering almost half of the ruins. An invisible pressure, as heavy as substance, weighed down on the entire world, plunging everything into a dead silence.
Those commoners who usually dared not approach even half a step were ordered today to be led to the periphery of the ruins to quietly "observe the ceremony."
No one dared to speak loudly, and no one dared to move at will. Fear was written on every face as they gazed from afar at the massive pale gold shadow in the center of the ruins, their breathing kept extremely light.
In the dead silence, the metallic sound of armor clashing drew closer from afar.
A squad of black-armored Soldiers escorted a wretched figure, slowly walking toward the ruins.
Jaime Lannister's steps were heavy and sluggish.
The empty sleeve of his right arm swayed gently in the wind. The wound had long since gone numb, the pain suppressed by a deeper gloom in his heart.
The prisoner's garb he had just changed into was covered in dust and dried bloodstains, and his golden hair was messily plastered against his temples.
Even as a prisoner, his back remained as straight as possible, holding onto the last bit of Lannister pride.
Before even reaching the edge of the ruins, he saw a massive pale gold shadow that blotted out the sky lying across the open, rocky ground.
The cold light of the scales pierced his eyes from a distance. Just a single glance at that mountain-like dragon body sent a world-destroying sense of oppression crashing straight into his heart, making the blood in his body nearly stagnate.
As he was escorted toward the center of the ruins, the dragon's pressure grew heavier and heavier, so thick it made one gasp for breath.
Jaime's expression became increasingly solemn, his heart churning with uncontrollable shock.
In his life, he had only heard of dragons in ancient texts, murals, and Old Nan's stories.
Since the last Targaryen dragon died, this continent had not seen a true dragon for nearly two hundred years.
He never thought that he would one day see a living dragon with his own eyes, much less such a three-headed beast that far surpassed legend and was so ferociously daunting.
It wasn't until he was escorted to the center of the ruins, facing that complete dragon body that made the ground tremble slightly with every breath, that the shock from the depths of his soul reached its peak.
The giant beast hadn't moved once from beginning to end, as if he were merely an ant at an elephant's feet, unable to attract the slightest attention.
The surrounding commoners were as quiet as cicadas in winter, instinctively lowering their heads, their bodies trembling slightly.
In the entire ruins, only the slow and long breathing of the Three-headed Dragon remained, like muffled thunder rolling across the earth.
The dead silence was shattered by a burst of clear and steady hoofbeats.
A cavalry unit carrying the Targaryen black banner with a three-headed red dragon marched slowly from the direction of the Red Keep.
Their armor was orderly, and their banners unfurled in the wind, flamboyant and majestic.
At the front of the line, a figure rode a white horse alone.
Jaime's gaze locked onto him instantly.
The man wore pitch-black valyrian steel armor and a deep red cloak over his shoulders, with the Targaryen Three-headed Dragon sigil embroidered in gold thread appearing and disappearing in the wind.
He wore no helmet, his silvery-bright long hair brushed by the wind, and his eyes were a pure and cold Targaryen purple, resting calmly on Jaime, without a ripple, yet carrying a natural pressure that made one bow their head.
Aegon Targaryen.
Aegon dismounted and walked slowly toward Jaime.
His steps were steady, each one seeming to tread on the hearts of the crowd.
He came to a halt three steps in front of Jaime, his purple eyes scanning the one-armed prisoner before him without a hint of superfluous emotion.
Jaime was the first to recover, suppressing the extreme shock of the dragon in his heart. He looked up to meet Aegon's gaze and asked with a raspy yet stubborn voice the doubt that had been weighing on him for a long time:
"You have such a dragon... By riding it here, you could have swept everything away. We would have had no power to resist at all."
"Why then did you start this continuous war and allow countless deaths and injuries?"
Hearing this, Aegon's tone was indifferent, yet carried an unquestionable power:
"I could indeed have swept everything away with the dragon, turning all rebels into ashes."
"But if the order of the world were decided by a single dragon alone, then what use would there be for the Soldiers who bleed under my command, or the royal power I hold in my hands?"
He paused, a cold sharp light flashing in his purple eyes:
"A King should control the overall situation and set the pattern, rather than personally wielding a sword to slaughter every rebel."
Jaime's brow furrowed tightly, followed by a surge of irony:
"King? Your 'way of a king' is to send the head of her child to a helpless mother and wantonly destroy her mind?"
"Is this the Targaryen way? Not a shred of knightly honor, not a shred of royal decency!"
As these words fell, the indifference in Aegon's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a bone-chilling coldness.
His purple eyes were as cold as a frozen lake, and his words were like a hammer to Jaime's heart:
"Honor?"
"When the Lannister army broke into the Red Keep and Tywin unleashed his troops to slaughter the Targaryen royal family, did you ever speak of honor?"
"When Gregor Clegane, in front of my mother Princess Elia Martell, smashed her infant child in swaddling clothes against a stone wall—when its head was crushed—did you ever think of the word 'honor'?"
"When Amory Lorch dragged Rhaenys from under the bed and stabbed her fifty times! Did you mention this ridiculous 'honor' then?"
He took half a step forward, his voice not loud, but it made the air in the entire ruins freeze:
"What Cersei endures is nothing more than blood for blood."
"You could let a helpless mother witness the tragic death of her young child."
"Then I shall send the head of the young lion to the lioness. I will let you Lannisters experience for yourselves that bone-corroding, heart-devouring taste."
This speech made Jaime's face turn suddenly pale.
His lips moved, but he was speechless for a moment.
Aegon stopped looking at him, his voice turning cold as it spread across the ruins, clearly reaching everyone's ears:
"Jaime Lannister. As a Targaryen Kingsguard, wearing the White Cloak, you betrayed your oath and personally murdered the King you swore to protect."
"Thereafter, you committed treason by joining the enemy and serving the usurper. Your actions are despicable, tainting the name of the White Cloak and disgracing knightly honor. You are beyond forgiveness."
"Today, in the name of House Targaryen and Aegon VI, I sentence you to death at the site of the former Great Sept of Baelor."
As the sentence fell, a storm surged in Jaime's heart.
He almost blurted out the secret he had kept for many years.
When he murdered the Mad King, it was never to save his own life.
It was because the Mad King had lost his mind and buried Wildfire all over King's Landing, intending to burn the entire city to the ground.
He had drawn his sword to slay the king in order to stop that catastrophe.
As long as he said those words, he would no longer have to bear the infamy.
The world would know his difficulties, and his honor and reputation would be completely different.
But the words reached his lips only to be swallowed back down.
An explanation? To explain his difficulties to an enemy?
He was Jaime Lannister.
He was the heir to Casterly Rock and a former white knight of the Kingsguard.
Even as a prisoner, he guarded his pride.
Regicide was regicide; oath-breaking was oath-breaking.
No matter the original intention, the result was already set.
To speak in defense would only make him seem cowardly and afraid of death, trying to whitewash himself to survive.
That would be the true humiliation, a despicable act he himself would despise.
Forget it.
He had carried the title of Kingslayer for so many years; there was no need to wash it clean now.
Jaime closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, all the struggle and resentment in his eyes had vanished, leaving only a calm acceptance of fate.
He straightened his neck, and even in this desperate situation, he did not bend his spine.
At that moment, Aegon turned and raised his hand.
A guard nearby bowed and presented a longsword.
The longsword was drawn halfway, its cold light flashing.
The unique ripples of Valyrian Steel were clearly visible.
Aegon gripped the hilt, held the sword across his chest, and looked calmly at Jaime. His voice was steady, yet carried the ultimate psychological blow:
"You should recognize this sword."
"The ancestral sword of the Lannisters, the valyrian steel sword 'Brightroar'. It was lost in the Valyrian Ruins, and your family searched for it for generations to no avail."
"Now, it is in my hands."
Jaime's pupils shrank: "So, you..."
Aegon did not wait for him to finish before speaking again, his voice freezing:
"Today, I shall use this Lannister ancestral sword to personally strike off your head."
"To sever the Lannister bloodline, to sever the Lannister heritage, and to sever the honor you have been proud of for hundreds of years."
Not far away, Oberyn Martell could no longer contain himself. The Red Viper's eyes were churning with deep-seated hatred for the Lannisters. He immediately stepped forward, reaching out to take the sword, and said in a heavy voice:
"Aegon, let me do it. This Lannister dog's life should be ended by my hand!"
Aegon, however, gently raised his hand and steadily blocked Oberyn. His purple eyes were firm, and his tone was unquestionable:
"This is a blood debt between Targaryen and Lannister. It is for my mother's revenge and my family's hatred. It should be settled by me personally."
Looking at the determination in his eyes, Oberyn finally stopped. He retreated to the side resentfully, but his gaze remained fixed on Jaime like a venomous snake.
Aegon gripped Brightroar and walked slowly toward Jaime. The cold light of the Valyrian Steel reflected on Jaime's calm face.
Jaime did not struggle, nor did he beg for mercy.
He just stood quietly, closing his eyes, waiting for the final moment to arrive.
The hand rose.
The sword fell.
There was no extra sound.
The sharp blade of Brightroar swept through, bringing a cold arc of light.
The 'Kingslayer' of a generation finally fell upon the rubble of the sept ruins.
Blood slowly spread out.
Aegon stood with the sword, his silver hair brushed by the wind, the killing intent around him not yet dissipated.
He slowly drew the other valyrian steel sword from his waist, 'Blackfyre'.
The edge lightly pressed against the crossguard where the hilt and blade of Brightroar met, and his wrist suddenly exerted force.
"Clang—!"
A crisp sound of snapping.
The ornate hilt of Brightroar, inlaid with rubies and carved with a lion, was completely disassembled and held in Aegon's hand.
The headless blade fell onto the rubble with a "clatter," its cold light dimming.
Although the blade of Brightroar was made of Valyrian Steel, it was not a single piece; the hilt consisted of a guard and grip decorated with gold.
Aegon looked down at Jaime's head on the ground.
Then he raised his hand and looked at the hilt of the Lannister ancestral sword in his hand.
His voice was cold and sharp as he commanded the guard beside him:
"Find a Lannister captive. Have him take this object and this head to Tywin Lannister."
"Tell Tywin..."
He paused, a chilling light in his purple eyes:
"The Lannister debt has only just begun."
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