Chapter: The Death of Aragon Pendragon

There was an explosive rush resounding throughout the castle as a gigantic beast hover above a lone figure. His posture straight and dignified, looking outwards the massive city like a sovereign overseeing his subjects. His pale face void of emotion and filled with mercilessness, he is young yet his eyes reflected a glint of intelligence an old man should only have. His aura is calm yet cynical making him look a little crazed.

The massive creature above him issued a roar before soaring through the heavens, a beast that is not afraid to kill and burn everything down with just a single command from him. It is savage, vicious and mighty. It is his beast. His Dragon. It is his child.

"You are in the presence of King Aragon of House Pendragon, First of His name, the Conqueror, the Enslaver, King of the Nine Seas, Supreme Emperor of the Nine Kingdoms and the Lord of Dragons". The Hand of the King proclaimed, attracting the attention of the youth standing on the balcony of his castle. He wears a long golden robe carefully crafted to befit his status; his long black hair perfectly styled to accommodate the glorious crown on top of his head, an elegant crown forged by the hardest metal and filled with most precious gems that found only in the depths of Agartha. He is Aragon Pendragon, the current Emperor of the Nine Kingdoms of Agartha.

Aragon glanced at his Right Hand, a thin man called Grandmaster Henry, the Hand of the King he chose for its cleverness and loyalty, then finally King Aragon turned his apathetic eyes to the man who just entered; it is a huge man in his 40s, his tired face did not conceal the brute attitude he has. Harold Cliff, the Ruler of the West, the fourth Kingdom of Agartha.

The wind is strongly howling causing High Lord Harold's long black robes to flutter yet he remains unmoved, adding to the unyielding aura he emits.

"Bend the knee," King Aragon simply ordered. His face as calm as the sea yet his voice resounded like an unstoppable thunderstorm. A prideful man like Harold Cliff cannot accept such order. How dare a mere 18-year-old kid try to order him! It is simply outrageous!

"I shall not!" Harold's face showed disgust and hatred. "You dare call yourself a King?!"

"You have gone mad! What is there to rule? Ha-ha! Truly a King! A King of the Ashes!" what Harold Cliff bellowed was nothing but simply the truth. Although he is a ruthless man, he could never do what lies before them.

What King Aragon has been looking at was not a bustling city but ruins. A once majestic kingdom is now in wreckage, the towering wall that protected the Imperial Palace for thousands of years now lay waste, houses burnt into nothingness, the ground painted pitch black and all lives lost. Strong millions of armies, fleet and weapons all burnt. The trees, shrubs and animals are gone. Smoke rose up until the heavens, like a mournful ghost begging for release.

As for the common folk, there is no way for them to escape even the elderly and children had given no mercy; the raging fires from the mouth of the dragon consumed them all. Not even a bone left, there is no one. There is nothing.

The deserted balcony slowly started to fill with people. They are the remaining survivors of the tragedy, their blood burns with angst and arrogance. These people are the High Lords of each of the Nine Kingdoms by sacrificing their own men, their safety was guaranteed. They had first plan to besiege the Imperial Palace to snatch the Dragon Throne from Aragon, traveling through the nine seas with millions of strong men. It is not the first time they had done this; the Pendragon was the True Royal Family of Agartha but was betrayed by them and annihilated in a single night, living no one behind except the 10-year-old Aragon. He is the youth they exiled after they raped his sister and killed his parents, right in front of him. They believed that the boy back then would be unable to survive and die a miserable death. But the kid they thought had already died, suddenly emerged out of nowhere riding a fully-grown dragon and hundreds of battalion. Pressured them and then left them with no way out but to concede the throne. Them, being a greedy High Lords, plotted behind Aragon's back. Sentenced him undeserving of the title, Emperor of the Nine Kingdoms that lead the people of Agartha to forsake him. And now this young man stands in front of them, uncaring and cold, but who would have thought that this young tired King to suddenly became lunatic and burned everything into ashes, spread unending chaos of fire and dying the skies black.

Everything is over. The deed is done, the doers undone. There is no longer room for regret for they know deep inside them, they are the catalyst that ignited this disaster. Now the Imperial Palace of the Nine Kingdoms of Agartha is no more.

"You are now surrounded, surrender and face your crimes"

Amongst the High Lords is a common looking man, he wears worn clothes yet exude an attractive manliness. He stares at King Aragon with pain and uneasiness, a feeling of hopelessness yet still full of worry. He is Rhaegar, the man who accompanied Aragon through thick and thin, faced a thousand swords to protect him and the man Aragon loves. His Lover.

Seeing the look of his beloved, the coldness in Aragon's eyes slightly flicker then he slowly closed them. When he finally reopened his eyes, tiredness was the only thing that reflects through them. He offered a weak smile to Castor and turned his head back to look at the ruined Imperial Palace. His Hand of the King started to move towards him but with a flick of his hands, Grandmaster Henry stopped and closed his eyes. Suddenly Aragon felt arms wrap around him, holding him tight. The arms that gave him strength, the arms that held him throughout the coldness of the world, the arms of the person Aragon will only love. As he was submerged in the feeling of warm embrace, a trembling voice fluttered through his ears.

"Forgive me, my love" then a knife, which Aragon had gifted to Rhaegar, drove deep into his chest puncturing his heart. As Aragon look up the sky he smiled, he remembers what he said to Rhaegar back before all of this happen if ever the time has come where Aragon's demons consume him, the one who should end him is Rhaegar.

A pain-filled roar broke the silence by Aragon's dragon, its whimpers echoed throughout the skies as if it can also feel the blade ripping its own heart.

A single tear slowly run down on Aragon's face as he let go of his last breath. Finally he can rest,

"Thank you."

The Mad Emperor is dead.

-----

Agartha - a continent consisted of nine Kingdoms under the jurisdiction of Imperial Palace.

Hand of the King - adviser or the 'right hand' of a King