Accusation

At that moment, the Kingsguard slowly released the two men but remained on alert.

Daemon shook his arm, bent down to pick up Dark Sister, and sheathed the blade.

Throughout the process, he never once glanced at the Kingsguard, his gaze fixed solely on Aemond.

Seeing the situation under control, Viserys slumped back onto the Iron Throne.

Archmaester Meuros hurried forward, dabbing the King's mouth with a silk cloth, where blood had already seeped out.

"Your Majesty!" the old maester exclaimed. "Your hand..."

Viserys raised his right hand; the wound cut by the Iron Throne still oozed blood:

"Vaemond Velaryon... blasphemed the Crown Prince, slandered the royal family, defied the Iron Throne... unforgivable."

His gaze slowly shifted to Aemond, now filled only with disappointment.

"Aemond."

The Prince's name was rasped from the King's throat.

"Since you're so eager to spare his life... then you shall execute him with your own hands."

The nobles, silent in the hall for so long, burst into stifled gasps.

Lord Hand Otto spoke: "Your Majesty! This is not..."

"Silence!" Viserys cut him off sharply, his eyes still fixed on his Second Son.

"Aren't you the one who wants to uphold the law?"

"Aren't you the one who wants to follow my commands?"

"Fine. I now command you to execute this traitor."

After a pause, the King continued:

"It must be by your hand."

All eyes focused on Aemond.

He stood there, his black leather armor dusted from the earlier scuffle, silver hair slightly disheveled across his brow.

His violet eyes met his father's gaze without flinching, without even a ripple.

After a long moment, he gave a slight bow:

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

Ser Cole stepped forward, offering his own sword with both hands.

Aemond took the blade—a standard knight's greatsword, fine steel, the hilt wrapped in leather.

He turned and walked toward Vaemond.

The old man was pinned down by guards, kneeling on the red carpet in the center of the hall.

He looked up at the approaching Prince, his aged face showing no fear, only a settled calm.

"Thank you, Prince," Vaemond whispered, so only the two could hear. "Just now..."

Aemond did not reply.

He stopped behind the old man, gripped the sword with both hands, its tip pointing to the ground.

"Wait."

Aemond suddenly spoke.

Everyone froze. Viserys furrowed his brow.

Aemond looked at Vaemond:

"Ser, do you have any last words to say?"

He followed the ritual of execution, asking the question.

Vaemond, head lowered, opened his eyes and turned to give Aemond a deep look.

Then he suddenly smiled—a smile of release, of gratitude, and of sorrow.

He raised his voice so the entire hall could hear:

"Nobles of the Seven Kingdoms! Remember this day!"

"The one who kills me is not Aemond Targaryen!"

He looked up:

"It is the biased King on the Iron Throne!"

"It is that shameless Crown Prince!"

"I, Vaemond Velaryon, die today, but..."

His voice rang out like a final thunderclap through the dome:

"But the truth will not die!"

"The honor of House Velaryon will not die!"

"The lawful succession of the Seven Kingdoms will not die!"

"You can kill me today!"

"You can silence every mouth!"

"But you cannot blind the eyes of every lord in the Seven Kingdoms!

"You cannot silence the laws passed down for a thousand years!

"You cannot silence the justice watched over by the Seven..."

He drew a deep breath, his chest heaving high as he pulled the air before him into his lungs. He said no more.

Finally, he closed his eyes and lifted his head high:

"Prince, do it."

"Let me die like a knight."

Aemond gripped his sword with both hands and raised it above his head.

His gaze swept across the hall.

His father Viserys watched him with a face of iron.

His mother Alicent covered Helaena's eyes, her shoulders trembling violently.

Crown Princess Rhaenyra was expressionless.

Prince Consort Daemon wore a mocking smirk on his lips.

The Velaryon clansmen clenched their jaws; some closed their eyes, others glared wide with fury.

The nobles' expressions were a mixed tapestry.

Finally, his gaze fell back on Vaemond's face.

"In the name of His Majesty Viserys Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

"I pass sentence upon you."

He paused. "For the crimes of slander and gross disrespect, contempt for the Iron Throne..."

He drew a breath.

"Do it!!!"

Aemond's arm swung down.

The sword-light cut through the air like a flash of lightning.

"Shhk!"

The sound of the blade biting into flesh and bone was clean and crisp.

The head left the neck.

Then it fell, rolled, and came to a stop in a pool of blood.

Silver hair, face turned upward, eyes open.

The headless body stood rigid for two seconds, blood spurting from the neck cavity like a fountain, spraying a mist of crimson.

Only then did it pitch forward, crashing heavily onto the red carpet with a dull thud.

Blood gushed and spread into an ever-widening pool of dark red.

The entire throne room was dead silent.

Only the faint sound of flowing blood and the nobles' stifled gasps.

Aemond stood still, the longsword in his hand pointing downward, beads of blood sliding slowly along the blade, dripping into the pool and sending out ripples.

His face, his neck, his armor—all were covered in warm, sticky, scarlet blood.

A strand of silver hair, soaked through with blood, clung to his cheek.

But he did not wipe it away. He only slowly raised his head to look at the Iron Throne.

Those violet eyes, through the bloodstains, met Viserys's gaze calmly.

"Is that enough, Your Majesty?"

Viserys stared blankly at his Second Son.

For a long moment, he slowly nodded.

Then the King raised his bloodstained hand and pointed at the dozen or so Velaryon clansmen in the hall:

"Does anyone else... wish to question the Crown Prince? Slander the royal family?"

Silence.

A long, almost maddening silence.

Then, five men stepped out from the crowd.

No anger, no fear—only a martyr's calm. They pushed past kinsmen who tried to hold them back, walked to the edge of the pool of blood, and stood beside Ser Vaemond's headless corpse.

The foremost bowed deeply:

"Your Grace, every word Ser Vaemond spoke was true."

"We offer our lives to match his."

Viserys closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the spine of the Iron Throne, and murmured softly—like a confession, like resignation:

"Seven gods... what sin have I bred..."

When he opened his eyes again, only cold exhaustion remained:

"Cut out their tongues. All of them."

The captain of the guard bowed in acknowledgment and gestured.

Guards stepped forward and dragged the five toward the side of the hall. No one resisted. No one cried out.

"As for you." Viserys's gaze fell back on Aemond, heavy with complexity.

"Aemond Targaryen... defying a royal command, drawing steel in the throne room, turning blade against kin..."

He paused, as if searching for the right words.

At last, he waved a hand:

"Take him away. The Red Keep dungeons, solitary confinement. No visitors without my leave."

The guards stepped forward, hands on their sword hilts, hesitant—this was, after all, a prince.

But Aemond had already moved.

He tossed his bloodied longsword to the floor. The clatter rang sharp through the dead silence.

"I'll walk myself."

Then he turned, not even glancing at the guards, and strode straight for the hall's doors, leaving dark red footprints in the blood.

As he passed, the Crownlands nobles parted aside, watching the blood-soaked prince with complicated eyes.

Some in the crowd bowed their heads in respect. Others' gazes flickered with admiration.

"Prince..."

Prince Aemond had stood up for Ser Vaemond, who spoke the truth—at least he had given him a death befitting a noble.

Though none could question the King on the Iron Throne, they did not mind showing their respect.