At last, 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 it.
He never even glanced at the Kingsguard. His eyes stayed fixed on Aemond throughout.
Seeing that the situation was under control, Viserys slumped back onto the Iron Throne.
Archmaester Meuros hurried forward and dabbed at the blood seeping from the corner of the king's mouth with a silk handkerchief.
"Your Majesty!" the old maester cried. "Your hand..."
Viserys raised his right hand. The wound from the Iron Throne was still bleeding.
"Vaemond Velaryon... for defiling the Crown Prince, slandering the royal family, and showing contempt for the Iron Throne... there can be no forgiveness."
His gaze slowly shifted to Aemond. Now there was nothing in it but disappointment.
"Aemond."
The king rasped out his son's name.
"Since you're so determined to spare his life... then you will execute him yourself."
The nobles, who had been silent for so long, burst into muffled cries of shock.
Lord Hand Otto spoke up. "Your Majesty! This is—"
"Silence!" Viserys snapped, his eyes still fixed on his second son.
"Didn't you want to uphold the law?"
"Didn't you want to follow my commands?"
"Very well. I now command you to execute this traitor."
After a moment's silence, the king continued:
"It must be by your own hand."
Every eye in the hall turned to Aemond.
He stood there, dust from the struggle clinging to his black leather armor, his silver hair falling in disarray across his brow.
His violet eyes met his father's without the slightest evasion, without even a flicker of emotion.
After a long moment, he bowed slightly.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
Ser Cole stepped forward and offered his own sword in both hands.
Aemond took it. It was a standard knight's greatsword, made of fine steel, its hilt wrapped in leather.
He turned and walked toward Vaemond.
The old man had been forced to his knees by the guards on the red carpet in the center of the hall.
He raised his head as the prince approached. There was no fear in his aged face, only the calm of a man who had made peace with his fate.
"Thank you, Prince," Vaemond murmured with his eyes closed, so softly that only the two of them could hear. "For earlier..."
Aemond did not answer.
He stopped behind the old man, gripping the sword in both hands, its tip pointed at the floor.
"Wait."
Aemond suddenly spoke.
Everyone froze. Viserys frowned.
Aemond looked at Vaemond.
"Ser, do you have any last words?"
He asked according to the custom for executions.
Vaemond, head bowed, opened his eyes and turned to look deeply at Aemond.
Then he smiled. The expression held relief, gratitude, and sorrow.
He raised his voice so the entire hall could hear:
"Nobles of the Seven Kingdoms! Remember this day!"
"It was not Aemond Targaryen who killed me!"
He looked up at the throne.
"It was that biased king on the Iron Throne!"
"It was that shameless Crown Prince!"
"Though I, Vaemond Velaryon, may die today..."
His final words rang through the hall like a clap of thunder:
"But the truth will not die!"
"The honor of House Velaryon will not die!"
"The laws of the Seven Kingdoms will not die!"
"You may kill me today!"
"You may silence everyone!"
"But you cannot blind all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms!"
"You cannot silence the laws handed down for a thousand years!"
"You cannot silence justice beneath the gaze of the Seven..."
He drew a deep breath, his chest swelling as he filled his lungs with the air before him. Then he said no more.
At last, he closed his eyes and raised his head high.
"Prince, do it."
"Let me die like a knight."
Aemond gripped the sword in both hands and raised it above his head.
His eyes swept across the hall.
His father, Viserys, watched him with a face like stone.
His mother, Alicent, covered Helaena's eyes, her shoulders shaking violently.
The Crown Prince, Rhaenyra, wore an expressionless face.
Prince Daemon had a mocking smile on his lips.
The Velaryon clansmen gritted their teeth. Some closed their eyes; others glared furiously.
The nobles wore a range of expressions.
At last, Aemond's gaze returned to Vaemond.
"By the name of His Majesty Viserys Targaryen the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm..."
"I sentence you to death."
He paused. "For slander and treason, and contempt for the Iron Throne..."
He drew a breath.
"Do it!!!"
Aemond's arm swung down.
The blade flashed like lightning.
"Shhk!"
The blade sliced through flesh and bone with a clean, decisive sound.
The head left the neck.
It fell, rolled, and came to rest in a pool of blood.
Silver hair, face turned upward, eyes open.
The headless body stood rigid for two seconds as blood gushed from the neck like a fountain, spraying a mist of red.
Then it pitched forward, crashing heavily onto the red carpet with a dull thud.
Blood flowed freely, spreading into a dark red pool that grew by the moment.
The entire Throne Room fell deathly silent.
Only the faint trickle of blood and the nobles' stifled gasps broke the silence.
Aemond stood where he was, the tip of his sword lowered toward the floor. Beads of blood slid down the blade and dripped into the pool, sending out ripples.
His face, neck, and armor were drenched in warm, viscous scarlet blood.
A strand of silver hair was soaked through, plastered to his cheek.
But he did not wipe it away. He merely raised his head and looked toward the Iron Throne.
Through the blood, his violet eyes met Viserys's calmly.
"Is that enough, Your Majesty?"
Viserys stared blankly at his second son.
After a long moment, he slowly nodded.
Then the king raised his bloodied hand and pointed at the dozen or so Velaryon clansmen in the hall.
"Is anyone else... going to challenge the Crown Prince? Slander the royal family?"
Silence.
A long, maddening silence.
Then five men stepped out from the crowd.
There was no anger, no fear, only the solemn calm of martyrs. They pushed past their clansmen, who tried to stop them, and walked to the edge of the pool, taking their places beside Vaemond's headless body.
The man at the front bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty, every word Ser Vaemond spoke was true."
"We are willing to share his fate."
Viserys closed his eyes and leaned back against the throne, murmuring softly, as if in confession, or helplessness:
"Seven gods... What sins have I committed to deserve this..."
When he opened his eyes again, only cold exhaustion remained.
"Cut out their tongues. All of them."
The captain of the guards bowed in acknowledgment and gestured.
The guards stepped forward and dragged the five men toward the side of the hall. None resisted. None cried out.
"And as for you." Viserys's gaze returned to Aemond, his expression complicated.
"Aemond Targaryen... you defied a royal command, drew your sword in the Throne Room, and turned your blade against your own kin..."
He paused, as if searching for the right words.
At last, he waved a hand.
"Take him away. To the Red Keep dungeons, in solitary confinement. No one is to visit him without my permission."
The guards approached, hands on their sword hilts, hesitant. The man before them was a prince, after all.
But Aemond had already moved.
He tossed the bloodstained sword to the floor. It clanged sharply, the sound especially jarring in the silence.
"I can walk by myself."
Then he turned and strode toward the hall doors without looking at the guards, leaving dark red footprints in the blood.
As he passed, the Crownlands nobles stepped aside, watching the prince covered in blood with complicated expressions.
Some lowered their heads in respect; admiration flickered in others' eyes.
"Prince..."
Prince Aemond had stood up for Vaemond, who had spoken the truth, and at least granted him the death of a nobleman.
They could not question the king on the Iron Throne, but they did not mind showing their respect.
Before you continue