Joffrey's wailing came to an abrupt halt.
After a short, muffled thud, the Throne Room fell into a deathly silence, the air becoming so thick it seemed to solidify.
Only the wind whistled through the broken window frames high above, weaving through the pillars and shadows with faint whimpers that made the silence feel even heavier.
Aegon stepped forward slowly.
His valyrian steel armor boots stepped onto the cold floor, every stride steady and clear, echoing through the cavernous hall with a slow rhythm like the drumbeats of an ancient ritual, pounding against the backs of everyone kneeling.
He was clad in pitch-black armor that seemed to swallow all light; only the occasional slant of daylight hit the plates, flashing with a cold metallic luster before vanishing back into the darkness.
He walked across the long carpet, stepping without hesitation onto the fallen tapestries embroidered with the golden lion and the crowned stag.
On both sides, courtiers, guards, and attendants knelt in a dense mass, their heads buried deep, nearly touching the floor.
Luxurious robes and polished breastplates trembled slightly in the silence; no one dared look up, and no one dared breathe loudly.
Aegon looked straight ahead.
His gaze pierced through the air, past the prostrate crowd, past the flickering candlelight and floating dust, landing directly at the end of the hall upon that hideous, twisted shadow forged from countless sharp swords.
The iron throne.
He finally stood before it.
At such close range, he could clearly see the mottled rust, the aged dark red stains, and the unfiled sharp edges of the blades that composed the throne.
It was never a comfortable seat, but a mountain of weapons symbolizing conquest and bloodshed—tall, jagged, and hiding danger at every turn.
Aegon the Conqueror had forged it from the swords of his enemies to warn kings that they should never sit easily; over the centuries, it had indeed devoured much Targaryen flesh and madness.
Aegon raised his hand, his fingertips slowly brushing over a rusted armrest formed by several twisted, interlocking longswords.
It felt icy and coarse, carrying the unique hardness of metal and the weight of history.
There was no excitement, no sentimentality, and not even much of the self-satisfaction expected of a conqueror.
Standing before the throne that had caused countless heroes, villains, conspirators, and ambitious men of Westeros to bleed, his heart held only a near-void calm.
It was like seeing a familiar old object, nothing more.
He turned slowly, looking toward the open gates of the Red Keep, past the silent ranks of the black-armored army in the square, to the pale gold behemoth coiled quietly outside.
Ghidorah's three heads were lowered, its six molten-gold vertical pupils half-closed as if dozing, yet its entire being radiated a suffocating aura of destruction more chilling than any roar.
After possessing such power...
Aegon withdrew his gaze and refocused it on the cold, hideous iron throne before him, whose symbolic meaning far outweighed its practical use.
What does it amount to?
Merely a somewhat special trophy, a gaudy toy symbolizing power in the hands of a child.
True power never belonged to a chair forged of iron, but to the strength that could crush it or uphold it.
Strength is the ultimate and truest form of power.
Ghidorah's breath could melt steel, its claws could tear down castles; its very existence was a walking divine punishment in the mortal world, the ultimate answer transcending mundane political schemes and the clashing of armies.
This iron throne, along with the legalities of the Seven Kingdoms, the fealty of the nobility, and the long, bloody history it carried, was as light as an autumn leaf in the face of absolute power.
Aegon turned again to face the throne.
Then, he sat.
His movements were steady, even somewhat slow.
His black valyrian steel armor met the jagged sword-throne with a faint metallic rasp. He did not lean fully against the sharp backrest, maintaining a restrained and majestic posture as if he could rise at any moment.
His body receded into the shadows beneath him, yet half of it was illuminated by the light pouring from the stained-glass windows.
Light and shadow intersected on his form, outlining a cold, intimidating silhouette like a statue of a warrior from legend, seated upon a divine throne of blades.
In the kneeling crowd, someone unable to suppress their fear and curiosity stole a quick glance from the corner of their eye.
Just one look.
They saw the black figure seated upon the iron throne in the daylight, saw those calm purple eyes that seemed capable of judging all things, and saw the inhuman majesty that merged him with the hideous throne.
A chill instantly shot from their tailbone through their entire body; the voyeur shuddered violently as if pricked by an ice needle and hurriedly buried their head even lower, forehead pressed hard against the ground, not daring to look up again, their uncontrollable trembling revealing the extreme terror in their heart.
Just then—
[Designated check-in location detected: iron throne. Check-in conditions met...]
A cold, emotionless voice suddenly rang out with absolute clarity deep within Aegon's mind.
[Check-in successful. Drawing reward...]
[Congratulations, you have obtained: Elden Ring World · Faith of the Ancient Dragons]
[Worldview discrepancy detected. Performing adaptation adjustments...]
[Adjustments complete. Converted into a faith magic system adapted to this world. The source of power is bound to the contracted creature, Ghidorah, and deeply fused with the host's true dragon bloodline.]
The moment the voice faded, an invisible ripple spread through his consciousness.
Aegon's brow furrowed slightly.
An entity that was foreign yet strangely familiar quietly seeped into the depths of his consciousness.
It wasn't a surging infusion of energy, nor a complete inheritance of knowledge; it was more like a secret channel being connected, a key held in his hand.
It extended along his bloodline and soul, with the other end firmly tied to the behemoth of destruction outside the Red Keep... Ghidorah.
He "heard" it.
It wasn't a sound in his ears, but a resonance deep within his bones and blood. The faint hum of thunder vibrated within him, connecting with the behemoth's ancient, vast aura—one of both destruction and rebirth—forming a profound and tight bond.
Faith of the Ancient Dragons... Elden Ring...
Fragments of memories from his past life blurred into view.
That was a power system from a high-difficulty game world created by a certain old man in his previous life, concerning ancient dragons, lightning, and immortality.
Specific details had long since faded during years of struggle and plotting, leaving only vague concepts.
He focused his mind to sense this sudden connection within him.
He soon understood its structure.
This Faith of the Ancient Dragons had been modified by the system to fully integrate with the rules of this world. It didn't grant him a brand-new independent power, but rather established a channel, a ritual.
Like the faiths of the lord of light, the Seven, and the old gods on the continent, believers draw power from the object of their faith through prayer and ritual.
And here, the "deity" was Ghidorah. He, Aegon, was the Dragon God's sole and highest Chosen, the core of the faith and the medium for its power.
He could use his will and rituals to draw upon a trace of Ghidorah's primordial golden lightning. The source of power remained Ghidorah; it was simply manifested through his hands.
Aegon's brow furrowed deeper.
At first glance, this reward seemed somewhat redundant.
He was already connected to Ghidorah's mind and shared its senses. If he needed to face an enemy, a single thought would let Ghidorah's breath incinerate cities and split the earth, which was direct and efficient.
Why go through the trouble of drawing a power that was not even one ten-millionth of the behemoth's own strength?
It seemed like just changing Ghidorah's direct action into him borrowing power—form over utility.
But that thought only flashed by for an instant.
Deeper considerations surfaced in his mind like an undercurrent.
Faith.
This continent was already filled with faiths. The lord of light, the drowned god, the Many-Faced God, the Black Goat... Faith weaves through the hearts of men and can bring about so-called miracles; invisibly, it is sharper than swords and stronger than castles.
He, Aegon, the survivor of the Targaryens, returning astride an unprecedented three-headed demonic dragon, was himself a walking miracle, more impactful than any doctrine.
Why not go with the flow?
Enshrine Ghidorah as the Supreme Dragon God, with himself, Aegon, as the Dragon God's sole agent in the mortal world, the God-chosen King.
Using this localized Faith of the Ancient Dragons, he could guide and condense people's fear of dragons, their awe of power, their longing for legitimacy, and their thirst for survival into a brand-new, unified faith.
Let the golden lightning be both destruction and divine punishment, as well as divine grace—the most irrefutable holy symbol of the new faith.
By then, what he held in his hands would not just be dragons and armies.
But also an invisible power of faith that could sweep across the Seven Kingdoms and permeate souls. It would be a bond firmer than laws and oaths, a banner more fervent than flags and slogans.
But all of this was too far off.
Establishing a faith required miracles, doctrines, priests, and even more so, the passage of time and the accumulation of events; it was too early to contemplate now.
Aegon took a light breath, so faint it was nearly imperceptible. He suppressed all thoughts of the system, faith, and power into the depths of his heart. His violet eyes returned to a cold silence, like a frozen lake without a ripple.
The slight aura leaking from his body was completely retracted, and he returned to his majestic state, seated upon the throne and looking down with indifference.
He slowly raised his eyes.
His gaze calmly swept over the crowd in the hall who still knelt, not daring to move, past the trembling bodies and panicked faces beneath the fine clothes.
Finally, that cold gaze landed like a spear of judgment precisely on the old man at the very front of the crowd, wearing the robes of a Grand Maester, with white hair and beard, hunched over as if wishing to shrink into the floor.
Pycelle.
The moment their eyes met, a trace of bone-chillingly cold light flickered in the depths of Aegon's eyes.
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