The dying sun was like congealed blood splashed across Duskendale's square, staining everything a red so dark it was almost black.
The Mountain stood in the center of the open ground, a black colossus cast from pig iron and malice.
His heavy armor was suffocatingly thick, every plate steeped in years of bloodstains, gleaming oily and sinister beneath the setting sun.
He loomed like a mountain wall, silent and deathly still, his mere presence crushing the breath from those around him.
He was the most terrifying instrument of slaughter in Westeros. Tales told of him tearing living men apart, crushing heavy armor with brute strength, and cleaving armored warhorses in a single stroke. Countless knights felt their courage fail and their legs weaken at his name.
Now he was still as a deep well, with only two bloodthirsty eyes showing through the slit in his helmet-the most primal, savage instinct to kill.
He slowly raised his enormous sword, broad as a door, its thick, heavy blade capable of shattering bones with a single blow.
Both hands gripped the hilt. Knotted muscles bulged taut through the gaps in his armor, veins writhing like black snakes.
Then he moved.
One step, then another, bearing down on Aegon. The earth seemed to groan and tremble beneath his feet. Each footfall struck everyone's hearts like a heavy hammer, leaving faces pale and throats tight.
On the dais, Tyrion held his breath and watched intently, afraid to blink. The common folk were already shaking like leaves.
No one believed Aegon could survive. This was the Mountain, a savage beast in human form.
Aegon stood unmoved.
The fierce Dragonwing Helmet covered his face, leaving only a hard, cold jaw exposed, as though carved from ice.
His hands hung at his sides, holding Blackfyre and Dark Sister.