Sunlight pours in from the narrow stained glass windows high up, illuminating the long table in Small Council hall half brightly and half darkly.
Those light spots that were cut into pieces fell on the dark oak table, on the spread parchment and copper ink bottles, and on the faces of everyone sitting around the table, cutting their expressions into half faces of alternating light and dark.
The air was as thick as frozen grease, and every breath carried a sticky, chest-suffocating feeling.
Sitting on both sides of the long table were all the members of Small Council - Master of Coin Lyman Bisbury lowered his head, his eyes fixed on the account book spread out in front of him, his fingers rubbing back and forth on the edge of the account page, as if he wanted to read some kind of information from those dense numbers that would allow him to temporarily disappear from this table.
Master of Laws Jasper Wilder's sitting posture was stiffer than usual, his back straight, his hands folded on the table, his knuckles slightly white from exertion, as if he was using all his strength to maintain a decent posture that would not let anyone see that he was shaking at the moment.
Master of Ships Tyland·Lannister is the calmest of all, but his hand holding the teacup is more steady than usual, to an unnatural degree, as if he is deliberately controlling the water in the cup to prevent any ripples from appearing.
Redd is sitting on the right side of the long table, separated from Viserys by two chairs and a gap cut into pieces by light.
Today he wore a black, neatly cut leather armor, with a sword hanging on his waist. The scabbard was made of dark leather. There were no gems or decorations on the gauntlet, but it was more eye-catching than any decoration.
He did not hide anything by folding his hands on the table or holding a glass of water like other ministers. His hands hung down by his sides and he leaned back in his chair. His posture was as relaxed as if he was looking at a map that he had read many times in his study.
But his gaze made the relaxed posture no longer relaxed. The gaze was like a knife being pushed out slowly, sliding out of the scabbard inch by inch, leaving an invisible, cold, sharp edge in the air.
All the ministers present held their breath.
Kingsguard at the other end of the long table has already stood in a semi-arc shape. The three closest to them each put their hands on the hilts of their swords, their knuckles turning slightly white, and their eyes moved back and forth between Redd and Viserys.
Captain Kingsguard - a middle-aged man with a scar on his face - took half a step forward and stood on the right side of Viserys. The Longsword sword blade at his waist had been partially unsheathed, revealing a narrow and sharp silver line that glowed coldly under the candlelight.
He stood there without speaking, but his gesture itself was a sentence, saying "If the situation continues to get worse, I will not sit idly by and do nothing."
Redd did not glance at those Kingsguard.
When he spoke, his voice was not loud, but it was clearly transmitted to every corner of the conference hall, as if a gap had been opened in the solid air.
His words were very brief, but the content was so heavy that the people on the table who were still pretending to look through the documents stopped at the same time. After a moment of pause, several eyes looked up from everywhere at the same time and fell on his face, as if to confirm whether they heard correctly.
Iron Throne, either Rhaenyra comes to sit, or Jaehaerys II comes to sit. Except for the mother and son, no one else can get involved.
When Redd finished saying this, Viserys's fingers suddenly tightened on the edge of the armrest. The movement was short and violent, like a bow string that was stretched to the limit and made a thin sound that no one else could hear before it was released.
Most of the smile on his face faded the moment he heard these words, and the remaining small part was frozen at the edge of his mouth, like a fallen leaf frozen on the ice. It still maintained a certain shape, but it had lost all its warmth and elasticity.
His eyes first fell on Redd's face, then moved to the unsheathed sword at his waist, and then moved back to Redd's eyes.
"Redd," Viserys's voice was squeezed out from the depths of his throat, with a suppressed anger and a hissing air flow like red-hot iron pressed against ice, "Do you know what you are talking about?"
The voice was half a tone higher than usual, as if something was forcefully pushing up from his chest, with a tremor that even he himself was not fully aware of.
When he stood up, his movements were too large. The chair behind him was pushed away by his calves and fell backwards. The back of the chair hit the marble floor with a sharp sound, like a broken bone.
No one looked at the fallen chair. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the rapidly tightening air between Redd and Viserys.
Kingsguard Captain saw the king stand up and took a step forward at the same time. The sword blade slipped another two inches from the sheath, and the silver metal flickered in the candlelight.
The other two iron guards behind him also adjusted their positions, and the three formed a loose triangle formation, cutting the straight line between Viserys and Redd into two sections.
The entire movement is well-trained, like a process that has been practiced countless times.
Redd didn't move. He didn't even change his sitting position, still leaning on the back of the chair, his hands hanging by his sides, and his eyes slowly swept over Viserys's face.
When he spoke the next sentence, his tone was so calm that it sent chills down one's spine, as if he was stating a verdict that had no room for negotiation and had already been written on paper.
"You heard what I said clearly." Redd said, "Iron Throne does not belong to Aegon, does not belong to Aemon's morality, and does not belong to anyone except my son. This matter is not negotiable."
His right hand raised up the moment he finished speaking, holding the hilt of the sword at his waist.
The movement was very slow, so slow that everyone present could see clearly the entire process of tightening his fingers - from the time when the fingertips were attached to the leather of the sword hilt, to when the five fingers tightened and tightened in sequence, the muscles of the wrist bulged slightly, and the lines of the entire arm changed from loose to tight.
The sword made an extremely subtle hiss in the scabbard, like a sound that would occur when metal rubs against leather. Then it slid out of the scabbard, revealing a dark blade that would not reflect light in the candlelight.
Valyrian steel.
There is no one who does not know that kind of metal. In the entire Westeros, there are only a handful of weapons forged with Valyrian steel. Each one has a name, and each one is written in the family's genealogy, like a piece of history forged into a sharp blade.