Chapter 230 226: A Lannister Always Pays His Debts

Amidst the crowd of onlookers, an inconspicuous carriage was parked in a corner.

Margaery Tyrell watched everything happening on the distant ruins through a gap in the carriage window.

Her fingertips gripped the hem of her dress tightly as a storm of shock surged within her heart.

She had originally thought that what Aegon Targaryen relied upon was nothing more than that terrifying three-headed dragon, using dragonfire and dragon-might to crush everything in his path.

But only today did she truly see clearly that the dreadfulness of this young monarch went far beyond the power of a giant beast.

The army under his command was invincible, reclaiming The Crownlands at a frightening speed.

Those fortified castles were like paper before him; they couldn't even hold out for reinforcements before being breached in an instant.

He sat in King's Landing yet could remotely control the battlefield, easily defeating twenty thousand Lannister troops and capturing a figure like Jaime Lannister alive, subjecting him to a public trial, and then... beheading him without the slightest hesitation.

His ruthlessness and decisiveness far exceeded anyone she had ever met.

Margaery could almost foresee how that old lion would go mad when Tywin Lannister saw his son's head along with that broken family sword hilt.

A storm of blood and slaughter sweeping through Westeros was already close at hand.

Guards stepped forward, wrapping Jaime's head in cloth and carefully putting away the section of the Brightroar hilt.

Aegon lightly flicked Blackfyre in his hand; the smooth blade of the valyrian steel sword was not stained by a single drop of blood.

He ordered his attendants to store the blade of Brightroar, then without staying or paying any mind to the terrified or reverent gazes of those around him, he mounted his horse and led his party back to the Red Keep.

Oberyn Martell took one last look at the headless Lannister corpse, a flash of satisfaction crossing his eyes before he mounted his horse and followed the group.

The Red Keep, Throne Room.

Aegon sat back down on the iron throne, forged from countless swords, his posture straight and upright.

The cold blades of the throne glinted under the reflection of the hall's firelight.

"Has the supply Fleet from the Narrow Sea Realm arrived?" he asked, his voice echoing in the hollow hall.

In his previous correspondence with Luciana, the female Triarch had mentioned that the master smith he sought—one who possessed the skill to reforge Valyrian Steel—had been found.

He had been brought from Qohor to the Narrow Sea Realm and would arrive with the Fleet delivering supplies for the army.

Arriving along with him were provisions, armaments, and several thousand craftsmen.

Lord Jon Connington stood below the steps of the throne and bowed as he answered, "The supply Fleet arrived at King's Landing several days ago."

"All cargo and personnel have been unloaded, and the Fleet departed for Lys yesterday. I have properly settled all personnel, equipment, and provisions."

Aegon nodded. "Bring the master from Qohor here."

"Yes."

The order was quickly passed down.

Before long, guards led a man into the Throne Room.

The newcomer was an old man with a thick, white beard that almost covered half his face.

Though elderly, his physique was not thin but rather possessed the sturdiness of one who had spent years tempering metal.

He wore a dark robe in the Qohorik style.

Despite his efforts to maintain his composure, upon entering the majestic Throne Room and feeling the invisible pressure from the iron throne, the habitual arrogance of a master smith involuntarily lessened.

He bowed slightly and asked in the Common Tongue with a foreign accent:

"Noble Highness, for what forging matter have you summoned me?"

Aegon waved his hand.

A guard stepped forward, holding a long wooden box with both hands.

Upon opening it, inside was Brightroar, missing its hilt and consisting only of the blade.

Even though it was incomplete, the unique ripples of Valyrian Steel still flowed with a cold luster under the firelight.

The master smith's expression turned solemn. He took the wooden box with both hands, carefully examining the broken sword and tracing the patterns on the blade with his fingertips, his eyes showing the focus and wonder of a true craftsman.

"You possess the skill to reforge Valyrian Steel?" Aegon asked.

"Yes, Your Highness," the master looked up, his tone carrying the certainty of a master of his craft. "It is one of the secret techniques passed down in Qohor."

"But reforging Valyrian Steel is by no means an easy task. It involves complex steps and even... some special ancient rituals. The required conditions are extremely harsh and come with risks."

"Just do it," Aegon's tone brooked no argument. "Tell me, what do you need?"

The Qohorik master pondered for a moment and asked, "What style does Your Highness wish it to be reforged into?"

Aegon's gaze fell upon the dull blade, and a cold light seemed to flash in the depths of his violet eyes.

"Forge it into a hand-and-a-half sword. The crossguard and hilt..." He paused, clearly stating his requirement, "shall be carved in the shape of a dragon, with the dragon's wings as the handguard."

The master understood and bowed again. "As you command. I will list the necessary materials and facilities as soon as possible. But Your Highness, the reforging process takes time, and also... a bit of luck."

"Go."

The Qohorik master said no more, held the wooden box, and respectfully withdrew.

...

In the Westerlands, near Sarsfield.

Tents stretched out in rows, clustered beside the road leading to Casterly Rock.

The Lannister army was temporarily stationed here to rest.

The fatigue of a forced march hung over the camp. Soldiers gathered in small groups around campfires, talking in low voices; the atmosphere was somber.

Once they reached Casterly Rock tomorrow, this assembled army would disband, and the various lords would lead their Soldiers back to their respective fiefs.

This was supposed to be a brief respite in the interval of war.

But everything was shattered by a rider who fled in panic from the east.

The rider came from the army that Jaime Lannister had taken. He was covered in dust and blood, his face a pale mask of shock.

He brought a box wrapped in coarse cloth and a cold, broken object.

The news spread through the camp like Wildfire, and whispers turned into uneasy commotion.

Everyone's eyes involuntarily turned toward the largest, most solemn command tent in the center of the army.

Inside the command tent, the air was as frozen as a block of lead.

All the lords, knights, and attendants kept their heads down, not daring to breathe loudly.

Cold sweat dripped from the foreheads of some, yet no one dared raise a hand to wipe it away.

The oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on everyone's heart, making it almost impossible to breathe.

Tywin Lannister remained seated in the primary seat, his posture stiff and upright like cold, hard rock.

In his hand, he held that object—the hilt of Brightroar.

The ruby-encrusted lion roared, its exquisite craftsmanship speaking of the family's past glory; however, at this moment, it had been brutally severed from the blade, the cut jagged and hideous.

The cold touch of the metal transmitted through his palm, chilling him to his very core.

Before him sat a wooden box.

The box was not open, but everyone knew what was inside.

His son's head.

The head of the heir to Casterly Rock.

A few days ago, Jaime had stood before him, newly rescued from the Stark's cage. Though he was a mess, his gaze had remained sharp, carrying the pride and stubbornness a Lannister lion should have.

And now...

Tywin's jaw was clenched tight, the muscles of his cheeks tensed into sharp lines as if he were about to grind his teeth to dust.

In those green eyes that were always calm, wise, and profoundly inscrutable, there were no tears now, no breakdown, only a heavy, almost physical cold light churning silently in their deepest depths.

Time flowed slowly in the suffocating silence, each breath feeling incredibly long.

Finally, a voice came from the primary seat.

The voice was not loud, even somewhat raspy, but every word seemed to burst from his clenched teeth with the cold hardness of grinding steel and an suppressed, overwhelming hatred:

"A Lannister..."

He slowly raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the tent who sat with heads bowed and breath held, finally landing on the cold wooden box and the broken hilt.

"...always pays his debts."

The moment the words fell, the temperature in the command tent seemed to drop several degrees further.

That icy killing intent, like the bitterest winter wind, swept through every corner.

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