Cersei and Tyrion were bound tightly with coarse, stiff ropes and dragged roughly off the platform by grim-faced soldiers, like two bundles of livestock awaiting slaughter.
Cersei had long since lost the seductive poise she had deliberately assumed moments before. Her sumptuous skirts trailed through dust and blood, and her disheveled golden hair clung to her deathly pale cheeks.
She no longer struggled. Her empty eyes stared ahead, as though her soul had been drained away.
Tyrion's small body was dragged along by force. He kept his eyes closed and said nothing, his face expressionless. Only his lips, pressed into a rigid line, betrayed the deathly stillness within him.
Aegon stood motionless.
Thick beads of blood slowly gathered along the edges of his two Valyrian steel swords, then fell, blooming into tiny, glaring dark red patterns on the ground.
The soft patter rang out with unnerving clarity in the deathly silence.
He raised his eyes, his gaze as cold as a blade, and fixed it directly on Earl Rykker, who stood beside the platform, already terrified out of his wits and on the verge of collapse.
Not long ago, the lord of Duskendale had held out bread and salt, pledging his family's honor and his lands' neutrality in an attempt to use the ancient guest right to preserve a fragile peace and his own safety.
Now his face was bloodless. His legs shook like withered leaves in an autumn wind, and he could barely remain standing. Only his attendants' support kept him from falling to his knees on the spot.
Under Aegon's utterly cold gaze, Earl Rykker felt as though his heart would leap out of his throat.
Clinging to the last wavering shred of his dignity as a lord, he staggered half a step forward and bowed deeply. His