If you had the power to put the world on its knees… what would you have done with it?"
The madman's voice tore through the square like a rusted blade, sharp and unrelenting, followed by a laugh so hollow it made the air feel thin. It echoed again and again as though the stones themselves were mocking the crowd. His hair hung in tangled clumps, his face smeared with dirt and dried blood, yet his eyes—wide, burning, alive—held no fear. Only madness… or perhaps something far worse.
Aevora, a thirteen-year-old boy whose hands still bore the softness of youth, watched as two soldiers forced the man forward. They wore crimson uniforms, their coats buttoned tight to their throats, polished boots sinking into mud darkened by countless executions before this one. Their grips were iron, practiced, merciless. They shoved the man down onto the executioner's block, splinters biting into his cheek as his laughter dissolved into low, breathless muttering.
"For the crimes of genocide," an officer announced, his voice cold and rehearsed as he unfurled a parchment scroll. "Treason. Exploitation. Robbery. And regicide." He paused, letting each word sink into the eager crowd. "This man is hereby sentenced to death."
Aevora frowned. He didn't understand how a man who screamed riddles at the sky and laughed at his own voice could have committed such monstrous acts. The man seemed broken—his mind shattered long before his body was to follow. Yet Aevora was only the son of a peasant, and peasants did not question the justice of kings. They watched. They endured. They survived.
He stood beside his father, clutching the rough fabric of the man's cloak. His father's face was still, carved from stone, yet something in his eyes unsettled Aevora. While the crowd buzzed with anticipation—smiles wide, breaths shallow, bodies leaning forward—his father looked… sorrowful. As though he were attending a funeral rather than a spectacle.
Then the executioner stepped forward.
He was enormous—a hulking mass of muscle wrapped in black leather, veins bulging beneath scarred skin. A dark mask concealed his face, stripping him of humanity, making him less a man and more a living instrument of death. A massive axe rested casually on his shoulder, its blade nicked and stained from countless lives ended in its arc.
"By order of the throne," the officer continued, his voice unwavering, "you are to be beheaded. Let this serve as a warning to all who would dare commit such atrocious crimes."
The executioner lifted the axe. The metal caught the light for a brief, terrible moment. Then came the nod.
The axe fell.
The sound was sickening—a dull, wet crack followed by a sudden, heavy silence. The head rolled free, stopping just short of Aevora's feet. Blood spilled across the platform, steaming faintly in the cold air.
Cheers erupted.
The officer lifted the severed head high, presenting it to the crowd like a trophy. Aevora stared into the dead man's eyes. They were glassy now, empty—but for a fleeting instant, Aevora swore they were looking straight at him.
A chill crept down his spine.
He felt no joy. No triumph. Only fear—not of the man who had died, but of the people who celebrated it. Of a world where death was entertainment and cruelty was justice.
The stench of blood and iron thickened the air as more prisoners were dragged forward—ragged men and women, some sobbing, some numb, others already broken. Criminals, they said. Low lives. Some would die. Others would be branded and sent to rot in chains. The crowd roared its approval.
Aevora couldn't bear it any longer.
He turned away and buried his face in his father's cloak, his voice trembling.
"Please, Father… let's leave."
He looked up.
Tears streaked down his father's weathered face, silent and unashamed.
"Yes," his father said quietly, gripping Aevora's shoulder as he pulled him through the jeering masses. "Let's go."
They left behind the square of screaming sadists and spilled blood—but the echoes followed them.
The tides are changing, old friend.
If we do not act now, there will be no second chance to rule.
I know you have sworn yourself to a different life,
but we need you.
The plan is already in motion.
We would welcome your blade once more…
but we will understand if you choose not to come.
Aemond read the note again. And again.
The fire crackled softly beside him, sparks drifting upward into the dark canopy of the forest. Shadows danced across his hardened features as memories he had long buried clawed their way back to the surface. He had left little Aevora in the capital—far from this cursed path, far from the blood and betrayal that once defined him. Or so he hoped.
If all went well, he would return. He would raise his son. Teach him to live clean, free of crowns and conspiracies.
If not… Aevora was at least in capable hands.
Aemond folded the note slowly and stared into the flames. Faces appeared there—friends lost, enemies slain, promises broken. The past he had tried so desperately to outrun had finally caught up.
He exhaled, the sound heavy and weary.
"This plan had better succeed," he murmured, eyes hardening as the fire reflected within them.
"Because if it fails… I will kill them all. Friend or not."
The embers flared brighter, as if in agreement.