Chapter 296: One Battle to Decide the Fate of the Realm

Chapter 296: Chapter 281: One Battle to Decide the Fate of the Realm

The waves of Blackwater Bay gently lapped against the shore, churning up fine, white foam.

Ghidorah lay quietly at the junction of the mudflats and the sea, its three heads bowed, six vertical pupils half-open and half-closed.

The Red Keep could not contain it, and King’s Landing could hardly provide a place where it could fully stretch out.

The ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, where it had briefly perched before, were now undergoing extensive construction to be rebuilt into a magnificent cathedral dedicated to the “Dragon God,” so it was naturally inconvenient to go there again.

Aegon had considered the abandoned Dragonpit ruins on Rhaenys’s Hill, but those were meant for ordinary dragons.

A new one had to be built, a place worthy of it and symbolic of a new era.

At this moment, Aegon stood under the jaw of Ghidorah’s central head, holding a piece of tanned leather in his hand, gently wiping its pale gold scales.

His movements were meticulous and focused.

Ghidorah lowered its neck in cooperation, a low resonance vibrating from its throat.

An attendant hurried over from the direction of the Red Keep but was stopped by the guards.

Aegon did not turn back; he merely raised his hand and waved.

The guards let him pass, and the attendant approached, kneeling on one knee:

“Your Grace, Lord Jon Connington is waiting in the Red Keep’s study, saying he has an urgent matter to report in person.”

The action in Aegon’s hand paused slightly.

He nodded and patted the scales on Ghidorah’s lower jaw.

The dragon lifted its head, nuzzling his palm. Then, its wings slowly unfurled, and its mountain-like body silently lifted off the ground, ascending toward the sky.

Aegon turned and walked toward the Red Keep.

Inside the study, the candles had already been lit.

Jon Connington stood before a map of Westeros, holding a letter in his hand.

Hearing footsteps, he immediately turned and bowed.

“Your Grace.”

Aegon walked behind the desk and sat down: “What is so urgent?”

Jon stepped forward a few paces and presented the letter with both hands.

The edges of the envelope were stained with blackened blood.

The wax seal on the flap had shattered, but the original pattern could still be vaguely discerned… a roaring lion with its head held high.

“This was sent back with urgency from The Riverlands. Our outpost stationed on the upper reaches of the Green Fork shot down a raven flying to The Vale.”

“When inspecting the letter it was carrying, we found this.” He pointed to the blood-stained letter.

“The officer in charge of the interception believed the contents were of great importance and dared not act on his own, so he immediately sent someone to King’s Landing with the utmost speed.”

Aegon understood.

The Targaryen line was practically isolated in Westeros; there were no secret letters from allies that needed to be sent via raven.

Before leaving The Riverlands, he had given orders to all garrison legions to monitor and intercept ravens flying through the air.

Since they had none of their own, the messages these ravens carried could only be from the enemy.

If it was the enemy’s, naturally, it had to be shot down and examined.

He took the blood-stained letter and unfolded it.

His gaze swept over the handwriting.

The content concerned Tywin’s promises to Littlefinger in The Vale, his intentions to link the Westerlands, the North, and the Iron Islands, with the ultimate goal—uniting the strength of all four to crusade against the Targaryen line.

The corners of Aegon’s mouth curled upward almost imperceptibly.

He placed the letter back on the desk.

Jon observed his expression and asked in a low voice: “Your Grace, Tywin Lannister’s actions this time are significant. If we really let him facilitate an alliance of all four, while they are not to be feared, it will inevitably lead to more trouble.”

“Should we preemptively strike?”

Aegon raised a hand.

“No need. On the contrary, I am hoping that old lion Tywin will unite these forces. The tighter they unite and the more momentum they build, the better.”

He leaned back: “Do you remember why we returned that card, Tommen, to Tywin?”

Jon’s eyes flashed: “Your Grace means…”

“Tommen is the last legitimate banner of the Baratheon dynasty, the only tool Tywin can currently use to command the lords.”

“I left this card for him precisely because I anticipated that, given his character, he would certainly make full use of it. He will use the King’s name to rope in every force he can.”

He looked at the secret letter on the table: “Now it seems this old fellow is doing quite well, even more efficiently than I imagined.”

Jon understood: “Your Grace intends to accomplish everything in one battle?”

“Correct. Scattered across the Seven Kingdoms, attacking castle by castle—how much time would that take? How many troops? Sporadic resistance and assassinations would never cease.”

He stood up and walked to the map, his gaze sweeping over the Westerlands, the North, The Vale, and the Iron Islands, finally landing on The Riverlands.

“But now, Tywin is helping me gather them together. Bringing their most elite armies and all their wishful thinking into one place.”

His finger tapped lightly on the map.

“Then, I only need to go once. Let Ghidorah go once.”

“Let the entire Westeros see clearly what the consequences of resistance are. One battle to destroy all their allied armies and crush their final illusions.”

“By then, the survivors will be terrified, and the observers will be paralyzed with fear. When the army goes to take over each region, it will be like the autumn wind sweeping away fallen leaves.”

The study was silent.

Aegon walked back to the desk, his gaze falling once again on the secret letter.

He took a blank sheet of paper and an envelope, carefully refolded the blood-stained letter along its original creases, and placed it into a brand-new envelope.

“Someone come in.”

An attendant entered in response.

“Go and fetch the captured Lannister family seal.”

The attendant acknowledged the order and left.

Not long after, he returned holding a small box.

Aegon opened it; inside was a golden seal engraved with a roaring lion, obtained from the Red Keep when King’s Landing was taken.

He lit the candlestick, took a small piece of wax, and slowly roasted it over the flame.

The melted, viscous wax was poured evenly onto the envelope’s flap.

Once the wax had slightly solidified, he picked up the cold lion seal and pressed it down firmly.

Under the candlelight, a brand-new lion crest stood out, almost identical to the original mark.

Aegon examined it, a cold curve appearing at the corner of his lips, and handed the letter to Jon.

“Send it back as is. Arrange reliable men to ensure this letter reaches The Vale, The Eyrie, and the hands of Petyr Baelish, following its original path.”

“Ravens all look about the same; how would the recipient in The Vale know that this secret letter from Tywin was invited down as a guest while flying over the Green Fork, and… has already passed through my hands?”

Jon took a deep breath, took the letter with both hands, and bowed deeply: “As you command, Your Grace.”

He turned and strode out. The study returned to silence.

Aegon walked to the window and pushed it open. The night breeze poured in, carrying the briny scent of Blackwater Bay.

He looked toward the pitch-black night sky; in the distance, a massive, pale gold silhouette could be vaguely seen, gliding leisurely between the clouds and the stars.

The first battle is the decisive battle; one battle to decide the fate of the realm.

Aegon shook his head with a faint smile, pulling back his wandering thoughts.

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