Redd's eyes moved away from the corpse and fell on the black-robed leader on the stairs.
The two people's eyes met in the air.
Redd's expression did not change at all.
Calm and indifferent, as if looking at a prisoner who has been sentenced to death and is just waiting for execution.
There is no pride of the victor, no arrogance of the conqueror, or even curiosity about the enemy.
That kind of calmness made the black-robed leader's heart sink - he couldn't see anything in those eyes. No anger, no hatred, no pity, no interest.
Nothing.
It's like being watched by a ferocious beast. The ferocious beast is not judging whether you are an enemy or a friend, or weighing whether to kill you. It is just waiting for the most convenient time to bite you.
"Who are you?" Redd spoke. The voice was not loud, but it was heard very clearly in the empty foyer. Every word seemed to be fished out of ice water, bone-chillingly cold.
The black-robed leader was silent for a moment.
His lips opened and closed slightly, as if he was considering how to answer this question.
His name? His identity? His origin? What significance does this information have in front of Redd?
A name can't change anything.
An identity cannot save his life.
His men were dead, his weapons were destroyed, and his mission - if there was any mission at all - had been evaporated in King Ghidorah's first attack.
But he answered anyway.
"A bachelor." His voice was hoarse but steady, "Without a name. The bachelor who left Citadel does not need a name."
Only he himself knows how much of his answer is true or false.
Citadel's maesters will indeed give up their family names when wearing the necklace, but their names - the names given by their parents and accompanying them through their childhood and adolescence - have not really disappeared, but have been buried under the black robes and are no longer used.
When he said "no name", he was not stating the facts, but stating his position.
He is not standing here as a specific person, he is as a representative of scholars, as a representative of those people in black robes, as a symbol of something beyond personal life and death.
Redd's mouth corners raised slightly.
The smile was so faint that it was almost invisible, but the black-robed leader caught it.
There was no kindness in that smile, not even ridicule, just a clear "I knew it all along".
"Citadel." Redd repeated the word, as if savoring its flavor, "You hid it deeply enough."
The black-robed leader did not answer.
"Fireguns, artillery, these things," Redd glanced at the ruins of the destroyed weapons on the ground, at the small cannon with a deformed barrel that was pressed down by gravel, and at the lead bullets and gunpowder scattered on the ground, "can't be made in a day or two.
How long have you been preparing for? Five years? Ten years? Or did you start preparing hundreds of years ago?"
The black-robed leader still didn't answer. But his silence was an answer in itself.
Redd nodded, as if he got the answer he wanted.
He took two steps forward, getting closer to the stairs.
Dawg Lars nervously grasped the hilt of his sword from behind and wanted to follow, but was stopped in place by a look from Redd.
"All your men are dead." Redd said, his tone as calm as if he was saying that the weather is nice today, "Seven or eighty-eight of the governor's men are dead.
Your artillery is useless and your musket is gone.
You are alone, standing among a pile of corpses, with nothing in your hands."
He paused and his eyes fell on the face of the black-robed leader.
"What are you waiting for?"
The black-robed leader's pupils shrank slightly.
Redd saw through him.
It wasn't that he saw through his plan, it wasn't that he saw through the black iron box on his waist, but he saw through his mentality.
A person who still stands still in a certain death situation has either given up or is still waiting for an opportunity.
And Redd is telling him--I know you are waiting for the opportunity.
I also know that you have no chance. But I will give you a chance to speak. Tell me, what do you want to say?
The black-robed leader's hand moved slowly.
The movement was so slow that none of the soldiers present noticed it.
His hands moved from his side to his waist, and his fingers rested on the lock of the black iron box.
The box is very small, so small that it can be completely covered by a loose black robe.
Inside was the smaller blunderbuss and the polished and poisoned silver bullet.
His hand did not open the lock, but just rested on it, as if feeling the existence of the weapon, as if confirming that it was still there.
"What do you want to know?" He finally spoke, his voice hoarse than before, as if his throat was filled with dust, "My life is here. You can kill me if you want."
But I won't tell you what you want to know."
This is the truth. At least it seems to him to be the truth.
As long as he doesn't speak, or if he dies, Citadel can put this matter away completely.
The muskets and artillery were made by the Lys people themselves - who knows?
Lys is Free Cities, anything can be bought and anything can be made.
Those men in black robes are mercenaries hired by the Lys people themselves - what the mercenaries wear is their own business, what does it have to do with Citadel?
Daemon can talk nonsense? Can Menander talk nonsense? How convincing can the testimony of two dying men be?
As long as he dies, Citadel will have a thousand ways to explain this matter.
Every statement is well-founded, has witnesses and evidence, and can withstand scrutiny.
Citadel stayed in that white ivory tower for a thousand years, accumulating not only knowledge, but also wisdom - an ancient, almost decadent wisdom that can make oneself invincible in any situation.
The only thing he worries about is not his own life or death, nor Citadel's excuse, but -
Redd is this person.
He doesn't do things according to routine.
He doesn't follow the rules.
He has no respect for the rules of the game that are agreed upon and accepted by everyone.
Other conquerors would appease the conquered nobles, he would massacre them.
Other rulers would care about their reputation, but he didn't.
Other Dragon King would hesitate, weigh and calculate in front of Iron Throne, but he - the leader in black robe has no doubt - if he wants to sit on Iron Throne,
He would fly directly into King's Landing's Red Keep on a dragon, burn everyone in front of him to ashes, and then sit down.
Several Free Cities in the East serve as a warning.
Myr, Tyrosh, Lys--No, Lys is going through. Volantis...
When the name Volantis came to the mind of the black-robed leader, the hairs on his back stood up.
Volantis. That was once the most powerful, richest, and proudest city in Free Cities.