In an instant, the cunning Ulf understood Hugh's intent.
He raised his head and looked at the assembled crowd, a flicker of frenzied, desperate light in his eyes.
"The Volantenes have said it!"
"The Blacks are finished!"
"Princess Rhaenys and the Red Queen, Meleys, are both dead! How much longer can Queen Rhaenyra hold out?"
"Following her leads only to a dead end! But Volantis is different! They have hundreds of thousands of troops, they have wealth, they control half of the Eastern continent!"
He grew more agitated as he spoke, scrambling to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at the gathered officers.
"You too! You are all bastards!"
"What has the Queen given you? A few dozen silver coins a month? Is that what you're risking your lives for?"
"Join Volantis! They said it, as long as we defect, every bastard can become a Black Wall noble! True nobility! No longer the kind of bastards everyone looks down upon!"
A deathly silence fell over the banquet hall. Ser Simon's face turned ashen with rage; he gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles popped in the quiet room.
The bastard officers fiercely loyal to Rhaenyra stared with wide, furious eyes, looking as though they wanted nothing more than to rush forward and tear Ulf to pieces.
A few other bastard officers remained conspicuously silent, simply watching Ulf's performance.
Hugh and his co-conspirators carefully observed the expressions of every man in the room, silently marking their targets.
"You... you," Simon choked out, so blinded by anger he was momentarily speechless.
Hugh let out a heavy, theatrical sigh and shook his head.
"Ulf, oh Ulf. I wanted to give you a chance to confess and repent. I never expected that even at death's door, you would dare to spread such seditious lies."
He turned to Simon.
"Ser, this man cannot be allowed to live. Let me do the deed, as he is one of my own Guard."
Fuming, Ser Simon gave a curt nod.
Hugh walked up to Ulf, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt.
Ulf looked up at him, a fleeting flash of understanding passing between them.
Then, Hugh drew his sword. A dark arc of steel followed.
But the lethal blade did not strike Ulf. It swung violently toward the man behind him: Ser Simon Velaryon.
Ser Simon's eyes widened, but before he could even flinch, the Valyrian steel blade plunged effortlessly through his chest.
His final, fading sight was the exquisite treasure of a sword, dark, somber, and shimmering with the distinct, rippled patterns of Old Valyria.
'A bastard? How does a bastard have a Valyrian steel sword?'
Blood erupted, spraying hot and thick across Hugh's face.
"You..."
Simon looked down at the dark steel buried in his chest, his eyes wide with absolute disbelief.
"You..."
Hugh gave the hilt a violent, tearing twist, the razor-sharp blade churning through organs and bone.
Simon's body convulsed violently before slumping heavily to the floor.
In that instant, absolute chaos erupted in the hall.
The bastards secretly aligned with Hugh, those who had worn chainmail concealed beneath their feasting robes, all drew their swords and turned on the Velaryon officers seated beside them.
These loyal men had come to a banquet; they were unarmored, deep in their cups, and caught completely off guard.
They were butchered where they sat.
"What are you doing?!" "Traitors!" "AAAH!"
Screams, frantic curses, and the sickening sound of steel biting into flesh merged into a deafening cacophony.
Blood splattered in every direction, staining the honey-glazed hams, the colored Myrish tiles on the floor, and the twitching corpses of the betrayed.
A young bastard officer loyal to Rhaenyra was slashed across the neck, a crimson spray painting the wall.
He clutched his throat, letting out a wet, gurgling sound, his eyes filled with uncomprehending betrayal.
He struggled to stand, but a second brutal thrust pierced his heart.
"Hugh... you... " You traitor..." he gasped, collapsing to the floor, his eyes refusing to close in death.
Another officer was surrounded by three of Hugh's men and stabbed a dozen times. Lying in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood, he cursed with his dying breath:
"Hugh! You will burn in the Seven Hells! The Queen won't let you go! The Prince will have your head!"
Hugh ignored the dying curses.
He walked calmly over to Simon's corpse, grabbed a handful of the man's silver hair, and with a single, powerful stroke of his Valyrian blade, severed the head entirely.
He held the dripping trophy high; the dead blue eyes remained frozen wide, staring into the void in perpetual shock.
"These men betrayed Queen Rhaenyra!" Hugh roared over the slaughter, crafting his treasonous lie on the spot.
"They plotted to harm Prince Lucerys! Their deaths are the price of their crimes!"
The massacre continued until the hall ran red.
Some of the loyalist bastard officers desperately tried to fight back, but unarmed, they were quickly hacked to pieces.
Others tried to flee, only to find the heavy oak doors barred from the inside. Hugh's men showed no mercy, mercilessly striking them down one by one.
Minutes later, a heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the hall.
Over twenty corpses littered the floor, their blood forming dark, thick streams that snaked across the Myrish tiles.
The air grew heavy with the nauseating, metallic stench of iron and death.
Hugh, still clutching Simon's severed head by the hair, scanned the carnage.
The only man left breathing, aside from his own mutineers, was the deputy commander of the Velaryon garrison: Aemon Celtigar.
Aemon was a stout, soft man in his forties with a thin, trembling mustache, draped in a magnificent silk robe.
The younger brother of Lord Celtigar, he had secured his military position purely through nepotism.
Ordinarily, he cared only for rich food and fine wine, possessing zero martial ability.
Now, he cowered in his heavy oak chair, trembling so violently that a dark, wet stain had spread across his silk breeches; he had literally soiled himself in sheer terror.
"This... what is... what..." he stammered incoherently, his eyes bulging from their sockets as he stared at the carpet of mutilated corpses and the bleeding head dangling from Hugh's grip.
"You... you murdered Ser Simon. You... you..."
Hugh walked slowly toward him, looking down at the quivering, fat nobleman.
Hot blood from Simon's severed neck dripped directly onto Aemon's pristine robe and soaked into his fleshy thigh.
Aemon let out a pathetic, high-pitched shriek, teetering on the edge of a dead faint.
Hugh extended a gore-stained hand and gently patted Aemon's fleshy cheek.
Splat. Splat. Splat. With every wet pat, Aemon's entire body jerked in horror.
"Lord Aemon," Hugh said, flashing a dark, blood-speckled grin.
"Ser Simon and these officers conspired with the Volantenes to betray the Queen and the Prince. I have executed them for their treason."
Aemon stared up at Hugh's smiling, blood-splattered face, and felt a freezing terror pierce his heart.
"Now," Hugh whispered.
"I need your absolute support."
Through the blinding fog of his terror, the truth finally pierced Aemon's mind.
This was a coup! The bastard Hugh was seizing Tyrosh!
"You... you..." He was utterly paralyzed by fear, his throat seizing up.
Hugh's smile vanished, his face darkening into a scowl.
"What? Does Lord Aemon also wish to be counted among the traitors?" He leaned in close to Aemon's trembling ear, dropping his voice to a lethal whisper.
"I heard that your family moved from Westeros to settle here in Tyrosh. You have a fine pair of children and a very beautiful wife."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. It would be a terrible shame. If you, My Lord, decide to stand firmly with the traitors..."
Aemon's face was drained of all remaining color.
He thought of his wife, the gentle and virtuous daughter of a minor noble, barely in her thirties.
He thought of his eight-year-old son, a clever boy who was the absolute apple of his eye.
He thought of his six-year-old daughter, his precious treasure, who begged him for stories every single day.
If they all died...