By early morning, before the Dragonpit of King's Landing, the fires had already been extinguished by the assembled army.
Heavy guards and royal troops surrounded the Dragonpit on all sides.
Outside the pit lay Vermax.
His bones had been completely shattered, his body paralyzed. His wings were folded tight against his broken frame, and yet—despite the severity of his wounds—the young dragon still clung stubbornly to life.
With what little strength remained, he writhed toward Aemond Targaryen like a wounded larva, his neck twisting as he struggled to breathe fire.
Then Lathron descended.
The black dragon seized Vermax's only remaining mobile portion—his neck—within his claws. The grip was merciless. Vermax could no longer resist, nor could he summon flame.
"No… Vermax…"
Jacaerys Velaryon, already restrained by guards, broke into helpless sobs.
Aemond merely watched, his expression cold and distant.
He did not order Lathron to kill the young dragon at once. Vermax's persistence was almost remarkable—his wings destroyed, his bones broken, yet his neck still moved.
Aemond glanced at Jacaerys and sighed faintly.
"A pity," he said calmly. "That I ever followed a bastard seed."
Jacaerys roared in fury. "You disgusting usurper!"
Aemond turned his head and smiled.
"I will never allow a bastard seed to inherit the name Targaryen, Strong."
Jacaerys spat at him. Spittle struck Aemond's cheek.
Aemond did not react.
A guard struck Jacaerys hard, once, then again, beating him into dazed silence.
"Aemond?"
Helaena Targaryen hurried forward through the crowd.
"The princess is tired," Aemond said without turning. "Escort Her Grace back to the Red Keep."
He cast a brief glance toward Tyra in the crowd.
Tyra nodded, stepped forward at once, and seized Helaena by the arm.
"Your Grace, do not make this difficult for us."
Helaena tried to call Aemond's name again, but his gaze—cold and unyielding—met hers.
At last, she sighed, knowing she could not stop this, and allowed herself to be led away.
Aemond approached Jacaerys, who now knelt half-conscious.
A bucket of cold water was poured over him.
Jacaerys gasped awake.
Aemond crouched, grabbed him by the hair, and forced his head up, calmly meeting his single remaining eye.
"Run," Aemond said quietly.
His voice was not loud, yet it cut through the lingering wind and rain with unsettling clarity, reaching Jacaerys' ears without obstruction.
Jacaerys spat again.
Aemond simply watched, observing the useless fury of a defeated man.
"Run some more," he continued evenly. "Like your mother—forever retreating, forever compromising. What else have you ever done, except sow chaos and leave ruin behind?"
"Aemond!"
Jacaerys lifted his head, staring at his enemy with his bloodshot right eye.
"You usurper! You took my eye! You stole my betrothal! You took my dragon! You took everything that should have been mine!"
"And now you won't even spare my younger brothers!"
"You bastard!"
"Kinslaying?" Aemond repeated softly. The corner of his mouth lifted.
"Jacaerys Strong, what right do you have to speak of kinslaying before me?"
"I never considered the killing of three Strongs to be kinslaying."
"And I have never regarded you as kin."
His gaze drifted to Jacaerys' ruined left eye socket.
"Your eye was the gods' fairest punishment—for your mother's indulgence and your impure blood. And it was taken by your own brother, Lucerys."
"And the dragon?" His eyes shifted to Vermax, still pinned beneath Lathron's claws.
"When did a dragon of House Targaryen become something a bastard might desire—let alone claim?"
"They may answer you," Aemond continued coldly, "but that is merely an error of bloodline. Correcting such errors is the innate duty of a true Targaryen."
"As for what you believe belongs to you…"
He paused. A flicker of mockery—almost pity—passed through his violet eyes.
"You have never possessed anything of your own, Jacaerys."
"You are nothing more than Rhaenyra's bastard—an unclean seed that should never have lived."
Each word struck like a poisoned needle, precise and merciless, piercing the rawest wound in Jacaerys' heart.
His body trembled violently.
"I am a Targaryen!" he screamed, his voice warped and breaking.
"My mother is Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!"
"The blood of Aegon the Conqueror and King Jaehaerys flows in me!"
"Vermax chose me! The dragon accepted me! Can blood resonance be denied?"
"You thief! You deny truth itself—how shameless!"
"Dragons," Aemond said firmly, "are sometimes deceived by sinful blood."
"And it is my responsibility to cleanse it. To correct what is wrong. To return the blood to purity and order."
He leaned forward slightly.
That subtle motion was enough for Vhagar to understand. The ancient dragon released a deep, oppressive growl that vibrated through the ground.
"And tonight, Jacaerys Strong, what you have done surpasses all measure."
"You infiltrated the city, conspired with traitors, burned the Dragonpit of House Targaryen, attacked loyal guards of the royal capital, and stained your hands with the blood of innocents."
"You even attempted to steal Targaryen dragons and undermine lawful order."
"Treason. Arson. Murder. Dragon theft."
"Any one of these crimes is enough to earn you the harshest punishment."
"Law?" Jacaerys laughed hoarsely, rain streaming down his twisted face.
"Order? Your legitimacy is nothing but the theft of my mother's inheritance!"
"Everything you command is stolen through conspiracy and violence!"
"I was right! Everything I did was reclaiming what you stole!"
"These blood debts—mine, and my brothers'—every one of them will be paid by you!"
Aemond nodded slowly.
"You are right. Blood debts must indeed be repaid in blood."
"Beginning with Storm's End, where your brother blinded me in one eye."
"And continuing with the dragonkeepers, soldiers, and guards who died tonight because of your madness."
He paused.
"And most importantly…"
He raised his hand, pointing directly at Jacaerys.
"The filthy blood of House Strong polluting the line of House Targaryen."
"It should never have existed."
"Your life itself is the greatest blasphemy against Targaryen blood."
"Therefore, I sentence you to death—Jacaerys Strong."
"In the name of the Iron Throne and the laws of the Seven Kingdoms."
"In the name of blood purity and Targaryen duty."
"And in payment for every sin you ignited with your own hands this night."
"Come on, Aemond!" Jacaerys roared. Words were useless now, yet a twisted courage surged within him.
"Duel me!"
Even if he fell, he would make Aemond bleed.
"A duel? A knight's challenge? One-on-one?" Aemond smiled with disdain.
"Strong, you are truly ridiculous."
He released Jacaerys' hair and stood.
"Untie him," Aemond ordered calmly. "Give him a sword."
The guards obeyed.
A common steel sword was thrown at Jacaerys' feet.
It was heavy. Exhausted and broken, he could barely hold it steady.
Aemond, by contrast, held Blackfyre with both hands.
The Valyrian steel blade shimmered darkly in the growing morning light, subtle ripples moving across its surface like something alive—mirroring the cold violet in Aemond's eye.
He did not even take a stance.
"Come on!" Jacaerys screamed, gathering every last scrap of strength, hatred, and despair. He charged, sword raised, stumbling but relentless.
The strike was wild—raw force and fury, nothing more.
He meant to die together. If nothing else, he would leave a wound.
At the instant the crude blade was about to land—
Aemond moved.
No dramatic dodge. No clash of steel.
He slid half a step to the left—precise, ghostlike.
The blade cut nothing but air.
The momentum sent Jacaerys reeling forward, completely unbalanced.
Aemond did not even capitalize on it.
As Jacaerys barely recovered and turned back—
Blackfyre moved.
A whisper of motion.
Ah.
A soft sound.
The upper half of Jacaerys' sword flew skyward, tracing a dull arc before clattering onto the stone.
The break was smooth as glass.
Jacaerys stared blankly at the half-sword in his hand, unable to comprehend.
The second strike followed instantly.
Blackfyre passed cleanly from Jacaerys' left collarbone through his shoulder blade in a flawless diagonal cut.
Thump.
This time the sound was wet.
Jacaerys froze.
Then his upper body slid away from the lower half.
Blood did not spray—it poured, flooding the stone beneath him.
"Ah… ah…"
The pain finally reached him. He howled, inhuman, as his torso collapsed and his organs spilled onto the ground.
He clawed weakly at the earth, trying to crawl toward Aemond, his eye filled with madness and refusal.
Aemond lowered the blade. Blood ran down its perfect edge and dripped into the dust.
He stepped forward, stopping before Jacaerys' head.
He looked down.
There was no pleasure in his eyes. No excitement.
Only indifference.
"So many years I imagined this," he said quietly.
"And yet…"
"Such clumsy swordplay."
"Strong, your vengeance is as disappointing as your filthy blood."
"I curse—!" Jacaerys rasped, forcing out his last breath. "Damn you, Aemond—!"
Aemond did not reply.
Without a frown, he flicked his wrist.
Blackfyre fell.
Crack.
A clean sound.
All curses, screams, and resistance ended at once.
The head of Jacaerys Strong rolled aside, his face frozen forever in pain and hatred.
The body twitched twice—then lay still.
Aemond shook the blood from Blackfyre. The Valyrian steel was unblemished.
With a soft ring, the sword slid back into its sheath.
He did not look at the corpse again.
Turning, he walked toward the waiting crowd. Morning sunlight fell across the blood on his profile, deepening the violet of his eye.
The cold he radiated made every soldier instinctively lower their head.
Soon after, Hal hurried over.
They had recovered the dragon's head Tyraxes and half of Joffrey Velaryon's body from Blackwater Bay.
Joffrey was dead.
Hal glanced at the remains respectfully.
"Prince… shall the bastard's head be displayed upon the walls of the Red Keep?"
"And the dragon's head as well?"
"No," Aemond said, his gaze passing over the wreckage. "Only hang the two Strongs."
"Return the dragon's head to the Red Keep. Bury it beneath the cellars."
A dragon was the symbol of Targaryen rule. He would not cheapen victory by parading dragon remains.
Victory was natural.
Fear was unnecessary.
"And Vermax?" asked Captain Rosso of the Dragon Guard, glancing toward the wounded young dragon pinned beneath Lathron. The beast still whimpered softly.
Even now, Vermax endured.
Aemond looked back.
Broken wings. Crushed bones. Only the neck still struggled weakly beneath Lathron's claws.
"Keep him alive," Aemond said after a moment.
"He may yet be useful."
Then he looked to the sky.
The rain had ended. The clouds parted. Morning sun bathed King's Landing and Blackwater Bay in light.
The air was fresh—damp with rain, faintly scented with blood.
War had come suddenly.
Viserys I still lived.
And in a single night, three of Rhaenyra's sons were dead.
Aemond could already imagine the madness and fury that would consume her when she learned the truth.
Then—
Let her come.