Aegon stood in the suffocating shadow cast by King Ghidorah, looking at Jon Connington as he knelt on the ground.
The once high-spirited, loyal, and courageous Hand of the King now had gray at his temples, and his back had begun to stoop without his even noticing.
It was as though that silent act of kneeling had drained away the last breath of illusion that sustained his life.
But Aegon knew that all he had lost was a pillar built on shifting sand.
What would replace it would be something truly solid.
He did not speak at once. He simply watched in silence.
He watched Jon Connington's shoulders tremble uncontrollably, his graying hair stirring in the breeze.
The garden held only King Ghidorah's low, thunderous breathing and Jon's labored, stifled gasps.
A long time passed.
At last, Aegon spoke, his voice cutting clearly through the heavy silence:
"Rise, ser."
Jon Connington stiffened but did not move.
"I have accepted your loyalty," Aegon continued, his tone level but carrying the finality of an unquestionable judgment.
"But loyalty is not proved by kneeling."
Slowly, with immense difficulty, Jon raised his head.
Tear tracks still marked his face, mingled with dust, leaving him looking disheveled. But those eyes...
Those eyes, once filled with struggle, anguish, and despair, now resembled ashes washed by a downpour. Though hollow, they held a clarity approaching deathly stillness.
He looked at Aegon, opened his mouth, and rasped out a few words. "Your Highness... I..."
"The past ends here." Aegon cut him off, raising a hand in a gesture for him to rise.
"From this moment onward, you are my vassal, my general, and one of the cornerstones needed to restore order to my future kingdom."
"Remember your new station, Earl Clinton."
"Griffin's Roost awaits you. Westeros awaits you.