"Your Highness," Willem said in a low voice, "but this… wouldn't it be a bit too—"
"Too what? Too cruel?" Aemond smiled.
He stood up and walked to the edge of the high platform, looking down toward Dragonstone.
Black smoke rose from several points in the castle, and the sounds of killing had already weakened.
"These Velaryons are hounds," Aemond said with his back to Willem. "A naval house of Driftmark for hundreds of years—pride carved into their bones."
"They surrendered because they feared being burned to death by me, not because of loyalty."
"If you want them to truly obey, fear alone isn't enough—you must also make their hands stained with blood, the blood of their own."
"And the families of those deserters are just right."
Willem fell silent. He understood.
"Are you afraid of me, Willem?" Aemond suddenly asked.
Willem's whole body stiffened.
"Speak the truth." Aemond turned around, violet eyes appearing especially deep against his pale face.
"…I am," Willem admitted honestly. "Not only me—every soldier in the Crownlands fears you."
"But…" He paused, gathering his courage. "But we also submit to you, Your Highness. You may… your methods may be harsh, but you have always shared with us."
"The spoils from conquered lands—you distribute them fairly. Compensation for the fallen—you never delay. Rewards for those with merit—you grant them without hesitation."
"We fear you, but we are also willing to follow you. Because with you, we can win—and victory brings benefits."
Aemond nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.
At that moment, footsteps came from below.
A squad of soldiers escorted a man over. The man wore damaged armor, his face smeared with soot, but his back remained straight—it was Robb Kance, the castellan of Dragonstone, appointed by Princess Rhaenyra as acting lord of the island.
Robb was forced to his knees before Aemond.
Five men wearing Velaryon armor stood behind him. These five were special—they all wore closed helmets.
They were the "overseers" arranged by Aemond, specifically tasked with supervising the surrendered Velaryon troops in the siege.
These five were the Silent Five of House Velaryon.
Now, they held Robb down, awaiting judgment.
Robb raised his head. The old knight was over fifty this year, having served House Targaryen for thirty years—first under Viserys I, then loyal to Princess Rhaenyra.
A scar lay across his face, left from his youth during the Stepstones pirate wars.
Now he looked at Aemond, his gaze calm—no anger, no disdain, no unwillingness, only a kind of acceptance.
"I have nothing to say." Robb shook his head, his voice hoarse but clear.
"We each serve our own master. I only ask for a swift end."
After speaking, he lifted his chin, exposing his neck.
Aemond stepped closer, moving behind Robb.
A soldier handed over a sword—not Blackfyre, but an ordinary knight's longsword.
Aemond took it.
"To die with honor is to die as one should, Ser," he said.
Then he swung.
The sword was fast. The blade precisely cut through the gap in the neck bones. Robb's head rolled away, his body collapsing forward as blood spurted from the severed neck.
The head rolled a few turns on the ground before stopping face-up.
The eyes were still open—but the life had already gone from them.
Aemond returned the sword to the soldier, then glanced at the five silent Velaryons.
"Pack it up. Send it to King's Landing. Inform the Red Keep—Dragonstone has fallen."
A soldier stepped forward, placing the head into a prepared wooden box and closing the lid.
Only then did Aemond look toward the five tongueless men.
They knelt before him at the same time.
"You have done well," Aemond said. "Three days of siege—your supervision has merit."
"Among the five of you, I will choose one. He will become the new head of House Velaryon—once I formally bestow it."
The five kowtowed, their foreheads touching the ground.
"And one more thing," Aemond continued. "The remaining eight hundred surrendered Velaryon troops will be under your command from now on."
"But before that, they must complete one final task."
He paused, ensuring all five were listening.
"I've reviewed the list. The families of those deserters—about four hundred people."
"You will take these eight hundred men back to Driftmark and carry out the executions."
"Every man must take part. Every hand must be stained with blood. Do you understand?"
"As for those killed, their property will be divided among you as a reward."
The five lifted their heads.
Behind their visors, their expressions could not be seen, but Aemond could feel their hesitation.
Hesitation at the meaning behind this order.
This was a pledge of allegiance.
In the end, the five nodded.
Aemond waved his hand. They stood, silently withdrawing.
Willem watched their retreating figures and suddenly said in a low voice, "Your Highness… those five… do you truly trust them?"
"Trust?" Aemond smiled faintly. "I trust no one."
"But once they've killed their own kin with their own hands and seized the ancestral holdings of Driftmark, there is no turning back."
"Other than following me, what choice do they have?"
He returned to the platform, sat down again, and continued cutting the now cooling roast lamb.
"Human nature is like this, Willem. Betrayal has only zero times—or countless times."
"Once you cross that line, there's no going back."
"They will be more loyal than anyone, because aside from me, the entire world will be their enemy."
Willem remained silent.
At that moment, dozens of accompanying dragon guards came running from the direction of Dragonstone, each carrying a dragon egg in their arms.
The eggs were large, requiring both arms to hold. Their shells glowed with a silvery sheen under the sunlight, with faint spiral patterns like frozen moonlight.
"Your Highness!" The leading dragon guard knelt on one knee. "Found in the depths of the dragonpit—four in total. They should be… they should all be eggs laid by Silverwing."
Aemond's eyes lit up.
He set down the dagger and walked over.
The dragon guards carefully placed the eggs on the ground, which had been covered with blankets. Four silver dragon eggs were arranged side by side, each about the size of an adult's head. The shells were warm—not from sunlight, but from the residual heat of life within.
Silverwing's eggs.
He had ordered these dragon guards to search the dragonpit.
After all, Dreamfyre only had two eggs—and he had already hatched them and given them to his younger brother and sister.
Aemond waved his hand, dismissing everyone, including Willem.
Soon, only he and the three dragons remained on the hill—Lothorne, Sunfyre, Grey Ghost—and the four unhatched eggs.
He untied the bandage on his left hand and looked at the wound, sighing softly. He truly feared that one day he might bleed out.
Aemond frowned. In these past few days, he had lost too much blood—his wound was healing noticeably slower.
But he did not hesitate.
The first drop of blood fell onto the first dragon egg.
The droplet rolled across the silver shell. It did not slide off, but seemed to be absorbed, slowly seeping in, leaving behind a faint red trace.
The second. The third. The fourth.
Each egg received three drops—no more, no less.
Aemond worked with full focus.
When the last drop fell, all four dragon eggs trembled slightly at the same time.
Very slight—like the beating of a heart—but Aemond felt it. The silvery sheen on the shells seemed to grow brighter, the spiral patterns shimmering faintly in the sunlight.
It worked.
Aemond rewrapped the bandage, his movements somewhat weak.
The dizziness from blood loss returned, forcing him to brace himself against a nearby rock to steady himself.
Beside him, the three dragons reacted differently.
Grey Ghost merely lifted its eyelids, glanced at the eggs, then closed them again. It needed to digest Aemond's blood to better heal its own wounds.
Sunfyre tilted its head curiously, golden eyes fixed on the eggs, a low rumble in its throat as if puzzled.
The most agitated was Lothorne.
The black young dragon suddenly rose, wings spreading wide, letting out a sharp screech.
It rushed to the eggs, lowered its head to sniff the blood on their shells, then turned to look at Aemond—its golden eyes filled with fury and… jealousy? It shrieked again.
My blood! That is my blood! You gave it to them!
Aemond could sense Lothorne's dissatisfaction.
He sighed and reached out, pressing down on Lothorne's approaching jaw.
"Lothorne, be still. They need blood to hatch. Only once they hatch will they be our dragons."
Lothorne did not listen. It bumped Aemond's hand with its head—not hard, but enough to show its displeasure.
Dragon breath burst from its nostrils, the hot sulfurous air blowing Aemond's silver hair.
"Behave." Aemond's tone grew firmer.
Only then did Lothorne quiet down, though its eyes remained fixed on the eggs like rivals.
Aemond no longer paid it any mind.
He returned to his seat, looking at the four eggs, calculating in his heart.
Four eggs. If all hatched, that would be four new dragons.
Though it would take decades for them to reach maturity, even hatchlings were still dragons.
More importantly, these were eggs awakened entirely by his blood. The hatchlings within would be naturally close to him. Though they could not be ridden, it would be enough.
He would possess a dragon brood wholly loyal to him.
The thought brought a trace of color to his pale face.
But then the dizziness struck again. Aemond closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
No… if this blood loss continued, he would collapse before the dragons even hatched. He needed to find a way…
"Wuu! Wuu!!!"
The sound of horns suddenly came from the direction of the sea.
Not a battle horn, but a ceremonial call—three short blasts and one long, signaling the arrival of a distinguished visitor.
Aemond opened his eyes and looked toward the harbor.
Dragonstone's port had been half destroyed during the three-day siege—piers reduced to charred timber, warehouses left as ruins—but its basic function remained.
At that moment, a large ship was slowly docking. Not a warship, but a merchant vessel—massive, with three decks. The sails bore the banner of Braavos.
A row of people stood at the bow, dressed in luxurious silk robes, utterly out of place amidst the scorched ruins.
At last, they had arrived.
Aemond stood, straightening his robes.
"Willem," he called.
"At your service!" Willem had been waiting below the slope and quickly came up.
"Clean this place up."
"Secure the dragon eggs carefully. Send them to King's Landing, place them in the dragonpit, and assign guards."
"Leave the four dragons here. Feed them well and keep watch."
Aemond gave orders as he walked down.
"Set up a tent at the harbor—something proper. I will receive the guests there."
"Yes!" Willem accepted the command and left.
Aemond descended the small hill. Dozens of green-cloaked guards followed at his side as they headed toward the harbor.
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