At this moment, the Kingsguard slowly released the two men, though they remained on guard.
Daemon shook out his arm, bent down to pick up Dark Sister, and sheathed the sword.
Throughout the entire process, he did not spare the Kingsguard a single glance; his gaze remained fixed on Aemond.
Seeing the situation brought under control, Viserys slumped back onto the Iron Throne.
Grand Maester Mellos hurried forward, using a silk cloth to wipe the corner of the king's mouth, where blood had already seeped out.
"Your Grace!" the old maester cried. "Your hand…"
Viserys raised his right hand. The wound cut by the Iron Throne was still bleeding: "Vaemond Velaryon… defiled the heir, slandered the royal house, and showed contempt for the Iron Throne… his crimes are unforgivable."
His gaze slowly shifted to Aemond. There was only disappointment in his eyes.
"Aemond."
The prince's name was rasped out by the king.
"Since you are so eager to preserve his life… then you shall execute him with your own hand."
The nobles, who had long held their silence, erupted in stifled gasps.
Otto spoke up. "Your Grace! This cannot—"
"Silence!" Viserys cut him off sharply, his eyes still fixed on his second son.
"Did you not claim to uphold the law?"
"Did you not insist on acting according to my command?"
"Very well. I now command you to execute this traitor."
After a moment of silence, the king continued: "It must be done by your own hand."
All eyes turned to Aemond.
He stood there, black leather armor dusted with the grit raised in the clash moments before, his silver hair somewhat disheveled across his brow.
His violet eyes met his father's gaze without the slightest avoidance, without even a ripple of emotion.
After a long moment, he bowed slightly.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Criston stepped forward and presented his sword with both hands.
Aemond accepted it. It was a standard knight's greatsword, well-forged steel, the hilt wrapped in leather.
He turned and walked toward Vaemond.
The old man had been forced down by the guards and now knelt upon the red carpet in the center of the hall.
He lifted his head and looked at the approaching prince. There was no fear upon his aged face, only a calm that came when all was settled.
"Thank you, Prince," Vaemond murmured as he closed his eyes, so softly that only the two of them could hear. "Just now…"
Aemond did not reply.
He stopped behind the old man, gripping the sword in both hands, its tip resting upon the floor.
"Wait."
Aemond suddenly spoke.
Everyone started. Viserys frowned.
Aemond looked at Vaemond.
"Ser, have you any last words?"
He followed the custom of execution and asked the question.
Vaemond, who had lowered his head, opened his eyes and turned to look deeply at Aemond.
Suddenly he smiled. In that smile there was relief, gratitude, and sorrow.
He raised his voice so that the entire hall could hear: "Nobles of the Seven Kingdoms! Remember this day!"
"It is not Aemond Targaryen who kills me!"
He lifted his head and looked toward:
"It is the biased king upon the Iron Throne!"
"It is that shameless heir!"
"I, Vaemond Velaryon, though I die today…"
His voice rang beneath the vault like a final thunderclap: "But the truth will not die!"
"The honor of House Velaryon will not die!"
"The lawful succession of the Seven Kingdoms will not die!"
"You may kill me today!"
"You may silence every tongue!"
"But you cannot blind the eyes of all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"You cannot silence the laws handed down for a thousand years!"
"You cannot silence the justice watched over by the Seven…"
He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising high as he filled his lungs with air, and said no more.
At last, he closed his eyes and lifted his head proudly.
"Prince, do it."
"Let me die as a knight."
Aemond gripped the sword with both hands and raised it above his head.
His gaze swept across the hall.
His father, Viserys, watched him with a face ashen and rigid.
His mother, Alicent, covered Helaena's eyes, her shoulders trembling violently.
The heir, Rhaenyra, was expressionless.
Daemon wore a mocking smile at the corner of his mouth.
The Velaryon kin clenched their teeth; some closed their eyes, others glared in fury.
The nobles bore varied expressions.
At last, his gaze fell back upon Vaemond's face.
"In the name of His Grace Viserys I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
"I execute you."
He paused. "For slander, for great disrespect, and for contempt of the Iron Throne…"
He drew a breath.
"Do it!!!"
Aemond's arm came down.
The flash of steel cut through the air like lightning.
Shhk!
The sound of the blade slicing through flesh and bone was clean and sharp.
The head parted from the neck.
It fell to the floor, rolled, and came to rest in a pool of blood.
Silver hair. Face upward. Eyes open.
The headless body stood rigid in place for two seconds. Blood burst from the severed neck like a fountain, spraying a red mist.
Only then did it topple forward, crashing heavily onto the red carpet with a dull thud.
Blood flowed in steady streams, spreading into a widening pool of dark red.
The entire throne room fell into deathly silence.
Only the faint sound of blood flowing, and the nobles' restrained gasps.
Aemond stood where he was, the tip of the longsword resting upon the floor. Blood beaded along the edge, sliding slowly down the blade and dripping into the pool, sending out small ripples.
His face, his neck, his armor—were covered in warm, sticky, scarlet blood.
A strand of silver hair, soaked through with blood, clung to his cheek.
Yet he did not wipe it away. He only slowly lifted his head and looked toward the Iron Throne.
Those violet eyes, peering through the blood, met Viserys's gaze in calm.
"Is it enough, Your Grace?"
Viserys stared blankly at his second son.
After a long while, he slowly nodded.
Then the king raised his bloodstained hand and pointed toward the dozen or so Velaryon kin within the hall: "Who else… would question the heir? Slander the royal house?"
Silence.
A long silence—so long it was nearly maddening.
Then five men stepped out from the crowd.
There was no anger, no fear—only a martyr's calm. They pushed aside kin who tried to stop them, walked to the edge of the pool of blood, and took their place beside Vaemond's headless corpse.
The foremost among them bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, every word Ser Vaemond spoke was true."
"We are willing to accompany him in death."
Viserys closed his eyes and leaned back against the throne, murmuring softly, as if in confession, as if in helplessness:
"Seven gods… what sin have we wrought…"
When he opened his eyes again, only cold weariness remained.
"Tear out their tongues. All of them."
The captain of the guards bowed to receive the order and gestured with his hand.
The guards stepped forward and dragged the five men toward the side of the hall. No one resisted. No one cried out.
"As for you." Viserys's gaze fell once more upon Aemond, his expression complicated.
"Aemond Targaryen… you defied a royal command, drew steel within the throne room, and turned your blade against your own kin…"
He paused, as though searching for the proper words.
At last, he waved his hand.
"Take him away. To the Red Keep dungeons. He is to be held alone. Until I give command, none are to visit him."
The guards stepped forward, hands upon their sword hilts, hesitant—for the man before them was a prince.
But Aemond had already moved.
With a casual motion, he flung the bloodied longsword to the floor. The sharp clang rang harshly in the dead silence.
"I will walk myself."
Then he turned, not sparing the guards a glance, and strode toward the hall doors, his steps leaving dark red footprints in the pool of blood.
As he passed, the Crownlands nobles stepped aside one after another, their gazes fixed upon the blood-soaked prince with complex expressions.
Some lowered their heads in respect. In others' eyes, admiration flickered.
"Prince…"
Aemond had spoken for Vaemond, who had spoken the truth, and at least granted him the death befitting a noble.
Though none could question the king upon the Iron Throne, they did not begrudge showing their respect.
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