THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

The Dragons Have Awoken

The day of the trial dawned grey and heavy, as though the skies themselves mourned the innocence lost in the shadows of the Red Keep. A thin mist curled around the towering spires of King's Landing, and a cold wind howled through the narrow alleys, carrying with it a storm of fury. Bells tolled low and ominous from the Sept of Baelor, their echoes reaching every corner of the capital. Today was the day justice would be served-or desecrated.

The Great Courtyard of the Red Keep had been transformed. Wooden stands, draped in crimson and gold, encircled a large, raised stone platform built at the very heart of the court. Soldiers lined the perimeter, their polished armor catching the wan morning light, spears glinting menacingly, as though even they were prepared to strike at a moment's notice. The banners of House Targaryen, sewn in silken black and red, fluttered in the wind like fire-breathing beasts waiting for carnage.

A throng of commoners had gathered beyond the royal barricades-mothers, blacksmiths, merchants, and fishwives-elbowing for a glimpse of the proceedings. Their eyes were red with grief, their fists clenched in righteous anger. Some clutched wooden tokens with the names "Aemond" and "Alysanne" carved into them, pressed close to their hearts like holy relics. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders, eyes wide with awe and dread.

For the first time in a century, the crown had allowed the people to bear witness to justice-real, unsanitized, public justice. Whispers buzzed through the crowd like bees in a disturbed hive. Many had come not just to witness the trial, but to see blood spilled.

The High Dais was a brutal, ancient thing-carved stone, darkened by centuries of forgotten trials and public reckoning. On the left stood the Royal Family: Queen Alicent in mourning grey and gold, her expression carved from ice, with Aemond seated beside her, his eye patched in black velvet and his chin raised in defiance. Beside him sat young Alysanne, clutching her mother's hand with pale fingers and haunted eyes. Aegon stood behind them, silent, fists clenched, a protective shadow over his siblings.

Across the platform stood the accused: Rabastan Machaelis, bound in heavy chains, flanked by two gold cloaks. His once-proud cloak was torn, his face bruised from confinement. Still, he held his chin up, arrogance barely concealed under a veneer of civility. Behind him, Rhaenyra stood with her children-tense, proud, but pale. She avoided Alicent's gaze, her eyes fixed on her father, who sat at the center of the court on the Throne of Justice.

King Viserys looked older than he ever had, skin pale, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and torn loyalties. The crown upon his head weighed heavier today. Beside him stood Daemon, sword at his hip, expression unreadable. The black of his attire was fitting-a harbinger of the storm to come. If usually people shivred at his glance today he looked like death personified.

The Master of Laws stepped forward and raised his voice, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. "By the will of His Grace, King Viserys of House Targaryen, Protector of the Realm, we gather under the light of the Seven to commence the trial of Rabastan Machaelis, Knight of Dragonstone and Master-at-Arms to Princess Rhaenyra, on charges of grievous assault, endangerment of royal blood, and treachery against the Crown."

The words rang through the courtyard like a sword's edge. The crowd went deathly still. Somewhere in the back, a woman let out a soft sob. The atmosphere was taut with rage, grief, and vengeance-like a bowstring stretched too far.

Alicent rose from her seat slowly, regal and wrathful. Her voice, when it came, was calm, but every syllable held the weight of a mother's broken heart and a queen's righteous fury.

"Let the realm bear witness," she said. "Let truth stand unshaken, and let justice be done-even if the heavens must fall."

And so, the trial began.