The Dragonpit, Morning.
Morning light broke over the Dragonpit of King's Landing, where the massed Royal Army had finally extinguished the fires.
The area was swarming with guards and soldiers.
Outside the ruins, Vermax lay paralyzed.
His skeleton was shattered, and Vhagar's grip had utterly pulverized his wings.
Despite the horrific trauma, the dark green dragon's life force remained stubbornly persistent.
He used the only part of him that could still move, his neck, to writhe toward Aemond like a maggot, attempting to spit a final spark of flame.
But Morghul descended from the sky, pinning Vermax's neck to the stones with a massive claw.
The small green dragon let out a helpless, gurgling sound; the fire died in his throat.
"No... Vermax," wept Jacaerys, held firmly by guards.
He watched his companion's humiliation with a look of absolute, hollow despair.
Aemond watched the scene with detached eyes. He hadn't ordered the immediate execution of the dragon; he was almost impressed by the creature's tenacity.
Despite being a flightless, broken heap, it still tried to fight.
Aemond looked at Jacaerys and sighed.
"What a pity... for a dragon to follow a bastard."
"You base, usurping cur!" Jacaerys roared.
Aemond turned to him with a thin smile.
"I will not have the name of Targaryen inherited by a Strong boy."
Jacaerys erupted into a string of curses until a guard delivered several heavy blows to his stomach, leaving him dazed and gasping.
Helaena rushed toward them from the rear.
"Aemond?"
"The Princess is tired," Aemond said, his voice flat as he looked at Tyra among the crowd.
"Take her back to the Red Keep to rest."
Terra nodded and stepped forward, pulling Helaena away.
"Princess, please... do not make this harder than it needs to be."
Helaena tried to call out to Aemond again, but he only offered her a cold glance.
She finally sighed, knowing she could not stop what was coming, and allowed herself to be led away.
Aemond turned back to Jacaerys. He signaled a guard, who splashed a bucket of icy water over the prisoner to wake him.
Aemond knelt, grabbing Jacaerys by the hair and forcing his head up so their eyes, one violet, one dark and bloodshot, met.
"Run," Aemond said. His voice was quiet, yet it pierced through the fading sound of the wind and rain with terrifying clarity.
Jacaerys spat in his face. Aemond didn't flinch; he wiped the spittle away, watching the impotent rage of the loser.
"Keep running. Just like your mother, who knows only how to compromise and flee. Other than creating chaos and leaving a trail of messes, what are you people capable of?"
"Aemond!" Jacaerys hissed, his remaining eye bulging.
"You usurping bastard! You took my eye! You took my betrothed! You took my dragon! You took everything that was rightfully mine! And now you slaughter my brothers? You, kinslaying monster!"
"Kinslaying?" Aemond repeated the word, his lips curling upward.
"Jacaerys Strong, what right does a bastard have to talk of kinslaying to me? I do not feel that killing three Strongs constitutes the death of kin. I have never considered you family."
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze landing on Jacaerys's scarred eye socket.
"Your eye was a just punishment from the Gods for your mother's debauchery and the impurity of your blood. And remember, it was your own brother, Lucerys, who struck the blow."
He glanced at Vermax, pinned under Morghul's claw.
"And dragons? When did the dragons of House Targaryen become the property of bastards to claim? That they responded to you was a mistake of the blood, and correcting mistakes is the birthright of a true Targaryen."
Aemond paused, a look of mocking pity in his eye.
"You never owned anything, Jacaerys. You are a mere byproduct of Rhaenyra's sin. You weren't even supposed to exist."
Every word was a poison needle, driven deep into the rawest parts of Jacaerys's soul. The boy began to shake violently.
"I AM A TARGARYEN!" he shrieked, his voice cracking.
"My mother is Rhaenyra Targaryen! The lawful Heir to the Iron Throne! I have the blood of the Conqueror and the Old King! Vermax chose me! The dragon recognized me! Can you deny the resonance of the blood?"
"The dragons are occasionally misled by the proximity of sin," Aemond replied with cold finality.
"It is my responsibility to purge the error and return the bloodline to purity and order." He leaned in closer, a movement that caused Vhagar to let out a low, oppressive growl.
"Tonight, Jacaerys Strong, you crossed every line. You infiltrated the capital, conspired with traitors, burned the Dragonpit, and slaughtered loyal guards. You are guilty of treason, arson, murder, and dragon-theft. Any one of those warrants the ultimate price."
"Law? Order? Hahaha!" Jacaerys let out a series of frantic, tragic laughs.
"Your 'law' is the theft of my mother's birthright! Your 'order' is the conspiracy of usurpers! I did nothing wrong! I only took back what was stolen!"
"Blood debt," Aemond nodded slowly.
"You are right. Blood requires repayment in kind. From the debt your eye at High Tide to the guards who died in your fire tonight. And most importantly..."
He pointed directly at Jacaerys.
"The filthy Strong blood that pollutes the Targaryen line. Your very existence is a desecration. Therefore, I sentence you to death."
"Come then, Aemond!" Jacaerys felt a sudden, twisted surge of courage.
"Let us duel!"
He had already decided that, even if he couldn't win, he would leave a mark on Aemond.
"A knight? A duel? One-on-one?" Aemond laughed at the pathetic sight.
"Strong, you truly are a comedian."
Aemond released his hair and stood up. He glanced at the guards.
"Release him. Give him a sword."
The guards let go. A standard steel longsword was tossed at Jacaerys's feet.
The sword was heavy, and Jacaerys was so spent he could barely grip the hilt.
Aemond, meanwhile, took Blackfyre from Hal's hands.
The Valyrian steel blade glinted with a dark, smoky luster in the morning light, its ripples shifting like a living thing.
Aemond didn't even take a combat stance.
"Come, Aemond!"
Jacaerys gathered every ounce of his remaining strength and hatred. He charged, a wild, clumsy overhead swing fueled by pure desperation.
He wanted to die taking a piece of Aemond with him.
The moment the blade was about to fall, Aemond moved.
It wasn't a large dodge, nor a clash of steel. He slid half a step to the left, a ghostly, fluid movement. Jacaerys's strike hit nothing but air.
The momentum sent the boy stumbling forward.
Aemond didn't strike yet. He waited for Jacaerys to regain his footing and turn back.
Then, he swung Blackfyre.
The movement was casual.
Shing!
The top half of Jacaerys's steel sword went spinning into the air, landing with a clatter on the stones.
The break was as smooth as a mirror. Jacaerys stared at the broken hilt in his hand, his mind unable to process the speed.
Aemond didn't give him time. The second strike followed instantly.
The edge of Blackfyre slid into Jacaerys's left shoulder, slicing through bone and muscle with effortless ease.
Squelch.
Jacaerys froze. His eye went wide. Then, his upper torso slowly began to slide away from his lower half along a perfect diagonal line.
Blood fountained out, soaking the rubble.
"Ah... ugh..."
The agony of being bisected finally hit. Jacaerys collapsed, his internal organs spilling onto the ground.
He clawed at the dirt, trying to crawl toward Aemond, his eyes filled with a broken, frantic madness.
Aemond lowered his sword, watching the droplets of blood slide off the perfect Valyrian edge.
He walked over to the dying boy and looked down at the face twisted in pain.
There was no joy in Aemond's eyes, only a cold indifference.
"All those years of planning... all that talk..." Aemond whispered.
"And this is the best you could do? Your revenge, Strong, is as disappointing as your blood."
"I... I curse you... Aemond! You... you will die a dog's death!!" Jacaerys wheezed, his final breath spent on a jagged curse.
Aemond didn't respond. He didn't even blink. He flipped his wrist, and Blackfyre fell vertically.
Crack.
The sound was sharp and clean. The screaming and the cursing stopped instantly.
Jacaerys Strong's head rolled to the side, his expression frozen in a mask of eternal malice.
Aemond flicked the sword to clear the stray blood, though Valyrian steel rarely held any, and sheathed it. He didn't look at the corpse a second time.
A moment later, Hal arrived. He and his men had recovered the head of Tyraxes and the remains of Joffrey from the bay.
Hal glanced at the two-piece corpse on the ground and bowed.
"Prince, shall we mount the heads of these... bastards on the walls of the Red Keep? And the dragon's head as well?"
"No," Aemond said, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage.
"Mount the two Strongs. That is enough."
"Take the dragon's head to the vaults of the Red Keep and bury it with honor."
Dragons were the symbol of Targaryen rule.
He wasn't foolish enough to parade a dead dragon's head as a trophy; he would not teach the world that dragons could be killed.
"And Vermax?" asked Rosso, looking at the dark green hatchling whimpering under Morghul's weight. The dragon was still stubbornly alive.
Aemond looked back at the broken creature writhing like a worm.
"Keep it alive. Perhaps... it will have some use later."
He looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped, and the sun was turning King's Landing and the Blackwater Bay into a sheet of gold.
The air was fresh, smelling of wet earth and the faint, lingering scent of copper.
The war had finally arrived, triggered by an act of desperation.
Viserys, I was still alive, yet in a single night, Aemond had extinguished three of Rhaenyra's sons.
He could imagine the madness and fury that would consume the woman once she heard the news.
Let her come.
-----
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