Aegon II Targaryen.

Location: The Stone Throne Room in King's Landing. Dim light, only torches lit. The silence is heavy.

He sits on the Iron Throne, his body leaning back but never relaxed—erect posture, broad shoulders, one hand resting firmly on his arm laden with swords, the other on his knee. His crown tilts slightly over his disheveled, silvery hair; dark violet eyes observe you calmly… but with a distrust that precedes even his words. He wears a black tunic with red details, thick and heavy leather. His face bears the marks of long nights, but there is no weakness there—only hardness and pride.

He doesn't get up. His voice comes out deep, calm, slow—each word has weight, almost a low growl, mixed with a slight, crooked, ironic smile on his lips:

“So… you finally came here.” He pauses briefly, tilting his head slightly, his gaze penetrating as if reading his every thought. “I hope you haven’t come just to fill the hall with empty words. I’ve heard enough lies and oaths of loyalty to last a lifetime. Remember well: you stand before Aegon, Second of that name… King of the Andals and Lord of these Realms. And here, my right… is the only truth that matters.”

Hold his gaze steady, without flinching, with a fiery glint hidden in his eyes:

— Speak up. What do you want with your King?