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The Throne Room, Red Keep.
At that moment, the white-cloaked Kingsguard eased their grip on the two men, though they remained poised for trouble.
Daemon rolled his shoulder, bent to retrieve Dark Sister, and slid her home with a sharp hiss of steel.
Never once did he glance at the guards; his violet eyes stayed fixed on Aemond, glistening with a mix of mockery and malice.
Seeing the danger pass, Viserys slumped back onto the Iron Throne.
Grand Maester Mellos hurried forward, dabbing at the King's lips with a silken cloth. Blood already seeped through the fabric.
"Your Grace!" the old scholar gasped, looking down.
"Your hand…"
Viserys lifted his right hand. The gash the Throne had left, a deep slice across two fingers, still bled sluggishly.
The Iron Throne had cut him again.
"Vaemond Velaryon…" Viserys rasped, ignoring the pain.
"Profaned the Heir Apparent. Slandered the Crown. Defied the Iron Throne… his crimes are unforgivable."
Slowly, his gaze shifted to Aemond. There was nothing there now but cold disappointment.
"Aemond."
The name rasped from the King's throat like a curse.
"Since you were so eager to save his life… you shall be the one to end it."
A stifled cry rippled through the lords who had stood silent for so long.
Hand of the King Otto Hightower stepped forward.
"Your Grace, this is not, "
"Silence!" Viserys snapped, his eyes still locked on his second son.
"Did you not claim to uphold the law? To obey my commands? Then obey this: execute the traitor."
A pause; then the King added, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried across the hall.
"Your hand alone must do it."
Every gaze in the hall converged on Aemond.
He stood in dust-streaked black leather, strands of silver-gold hair fallen across his brow.
His violet eyes met his father's, unflinching, unclouded.
At last, he inclined his head.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Ser Criston Cole stepped forward and offered his own greatsword, hilt first.
Aemond took it. Fine castle-forged steel, leather-wrapped grip, the blade of a perfect knight.
It was heavy, but his grip was steady.
He turned toward Vaemond.
The old man knelt between two guards on the hall's crimson carpet.
He lifted his head as the Prince approached; there was no fear, only the calm of a settled score.
"Thank you, my Prince," Vaemond murmured, eyes closed, words meant for Aemond alone.
"Just now… you tried."
Aemond gave no answer. He halted behind the kneeling knight, placing two hands on the hilt, point lowered to the floor.
"Wait."
Aemond spoke suddenly.
All started; Viserys frowned.
Aemond looked down at Vaemond.
"Ser, have you any last words?"
He asked it as the rite demanded, granting the dignity the King sought to deny.
Vaemond opened his eyes, turned slightly, and met Aemond's gaze.
Then he smiled, a smile of release, gratitude, and sorrow.
He raised his voice for every ear in the hall:
"Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, remember this day!"
"It is not Aemond Targaryen who kills me!"
He lifted his eyes to the dais.
"It is the biased King upon the Iron Throne! It is the shameless Heir Apparent!"
"I, Vaemond Velaryon, die today…"
Like a final thunderclap, he cried:
"Yet truth shall not die! Velaryon honor shall not die! The rightful law of the Seven Kingdoms shall not die!"
"You may slay me! You may silence every tongue! But you cannot blind every noble in the realm! You cannot muffle laws a thousand years old! You cannot hide justice beneath the gaze of the Seven!"
He drew a great breath, chest swelling, and spoke no more.
At last, he closed his eyes, head held high.
"Prince, strike. Let me die a knight."
Aemond raised the sword above his head, both hands locked.
His gaze swept the hall.
King Viserys watched, face ashen. Queen Alicent shielded Helaena's eyes, her own shoulders shaking.
The Heir Apparent, Rhaenyra, showed nothing but cold resolve.
Prince Daemon wore a thin, mocking smile.
The Velaryon clansmen clenched their teeth; some shut their eyes, others glared with hatred.
The assembled lords wore every shade of dread.
Lastly, he looked down at Vaemond.
"By the right of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name…"
"I pronounce your sentence."
A pause.
"For slander, high treason, and contempt of the Iron Throne…"
He drew a breath.
"Do it!" Viserys shouted.
Aemond's arms slashed downward.
Schwing.
Steel flashed like lightning.
A wet, decisive crunch.
The head parted from the neck. It struck the carpet, rolled, and settled in a spreading pool.
Silver hair, face upturned, eyes open.
The headless trunk stood two heartbeats longer, blood fountaining in a crimson spray, then toppled forward with a sodden thud upon the rug.
Dark red widened in a silent tide.
The Throne Room stood frozen. Only the hush of blood and the stifled gasps of lords could be heard.
Aemond remained still, the sword point dripping, each drop rippling the pool at his feet.
Face, throat, and armor were streaked with thick, warm scarlet.
A strand of silver hair clung to his cheek, soaked through.
Without wiping it away, he lifted his gaze to the Iron Throne.
Through the mask of blood, violet eyes calmly met Viserys's own.
"Is it enough, Your Grace?"
Viserys stared at his second son. At length, he gave a slow, trembling nod.
Then the King raised his bloody hand toward the dozen Velaryon clansmen.
"Who else… would question the Heir Apparent? Defame the Crown?"
Silence.
A long, maddening hush.
Then five men stepped from the throng.
No fury, no dread, only the composure of martyrs.
They brushed past restraining kin and halted beside Vaemond's headless corpse.
The foremost bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, every word Ser Vaemond spoke was true. We stand ready to die with him."
Viserys closed his eyes and leaned back, murmuring as though in confession or despair.
"Seven save us… what evil have we wrought…"
When he opened them again, only cold exhaustion remained.
"Take their tongues. All of them."
The Captain of the Gold Cloaks bowed and signaled.
Guards dragged the five aside. No struggle, no cry. They accepted their fate as the "Silent Five."
"As for you." The King's gaze returned to Aemond, clouded and complex.
"Aemond Targaryen… you drew steel in the Throne Room, defied royal command, raised arms against kin…"
He paused, searching for words. At last, he waved a weary hand.
"Remove him. The Black Cells beneath the Red Keep. Alone. No visitor save by my leave."
Guards advanced, hands on hilts, hesitant, this was still a Prince, and one covered in the blood of a man he just executed.
Aemond moved first.
He flung the blood-slick greatsword down.
CLANG.
The sound rang through the hush.
"I will walk."
He turned and strode for the doors, never glancing at the guards, leaving dark red footprints across the carpet.
The Lords of the Crownlands parted, eyes following the blood-soaked Prince.
Some bowed their heads in respect; others watched with something like awe.
My Prince…
Prince Aemond had spoken for Vaemond, granting him the death befitting a knight.
Though none dared challenge the King upon the Iron Throne, they would not withhold their reverence for the Prince who stood for the truth.
'The seeds are sown. This is but small price to pay.'
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