The Small Council Chamber.
However, Ser Erwin Redwyne immediately thought of another issue and asked cautiously,
"But Your Grace, even if we suppress the Velaryon fleet remaining at High Tide, if we are to land and occupy both islands, we will need a sufficient number of landing troops..."
Aemond glanced at Ser William Darklyn, the commander of the Royal Army.
"The Royal Army will spearhead the landing operations."
All eyes turned to William; he stood and offered a sharp nod to the Prince.
Aemond then turned back to Lord Tyland Lannister, the Hand.
"Lord Tyland, in the King's name, conscript all naval forces under the Iron Islands, Lannisport in the West, and the Redwyne fleet of the Reach. Order them to assemble immediately and await further instructions in Oldtown. Tell them the time has come to fulfill their duties as vassals."
Tyland Lannister furrowed his brow and spoke slowly.
"Your Grace... conscripting the vassal navies takes time. The Iron Islands are far from Oldtown; the Greyjoys may not be quick to obey. Furthermore, mobilizing this scale of provisions, supplies, and bounties will make the cost astronomical. The treasury might..."
"Do not worry about the treasury," Aemond interrupted again, looking toward the single empty chair.
"Lord Lyman will solve that. Ah, he has finally arrived."
He paused, his violet eye turning cold as it rested on the Master of Coin's seat.
"As for the expenses, the Crown will bear them."
Creak.
At that moment, the doors to the council chamber were pushed open.
Lord Lyman Beesbury had finally arrived. The old Earl of Honeyholt was over sixty years old, his hair entirely white, his back slightly hunched.
A veteran of Viserys I's court, he hobbled in with his cane, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on Aemond.
"I heard," the old Earl began, his voice trembling with suppressed rage, "that last night, Your Grace, you slaughtered three sons of Princess Rhaenyra?"
Aemond turned to face him, his expression remaining calm.
"Lord Lyman, you arrive at the perfect time. We were discussing the military budget."
"Military budget?"
Lord Lyman walked to his seat but did not sit. He braced himself on his cane, staring at Aemond.
"What budget? For a war that should never have happened?"
"Your Grace, your actions last night have pushed the Kingdom to civil war! And now you wish to discuss funds? You should be discussing how to apologize to Princess Rhaenyra and how to avoid more bloodshed!"
The air in the room solidified. Queen Alicent closed her eyes.
She knew what was coming; she knew her son too well, and she knew the stubbornness of Lyman Beesbury.
Aemond did not grow angry. He even smiled.
"Lord Lyman, perhaps you didn't hear me correctly. It was three bastards who infiltrated the Dragonpit to steal dragons, committed arson, and murdered guards. They were killed in the act. It was the end they deserved."
"Bastards?" Lord Lyman raised his voice, his cane thumping heavily against the floor.
"They were the sons of Princess Rhaenyra! They were the King's grandsons!"
"Even if... even if they were guilty, they should have been judged and sentenced by His Majesty and the Small Council! Not executed by your hand! Furthermore, you killed Joffrey, that child was only ten!"
"A ten-year-old thief is still a thief," Aemond's voice turned chillingly cold.
"As for a trial? They were caught in the act of stealing dragons with undeniable evidence. What trial is required?"
Lord Lyman remained unrelenting.
"But I heard the ones fighting were Jacaerys and Lucerys. Joffrey was but an accomplice; his crime did not warrant death."
"He participated in the arson," Aemond interrupted, his tone becoming impatient.
"One-third of the Dragonpit was burned, fifty Dragonkeepers and guards are dead, and many more are wounded. Lord Lyman, under the laws of the Realm, how many times over is such a crime worth the death penalty?"
"Then it should have been judged by the Master of Laws! Decided by the Queen Regent! Not a private execution!"
The old Earl's face turned bright red.
"Your Grace, this is a transgression! An abuse of power! You bypassed the King, bypassed the Council, and committed a slaughter that will spark a civil war. Do you know what that is called? It is called treason! Furthermore, kinslayers are accursed, Your Grace."
The last sentence rang out with absolute conviction.
Everyone in the room held their breath. Lord Tyland lowered his head, pretending nothing was happening. Grand Maester Orwyle began to sweat.
Larys Strong's smile became meaningful. Ser Criston Cole tightened his grip on his sword.
Aemond was silent for several seconds. Then, he let out a soft sigh.
"Lord Lyman... you have served the Kingdom for twenty years with great merit. I respect you." He paused.
"But you are now too old, too old to see the reality of the situation."
Lord Lyman glared at him. "You!"
"What the Kingdom needs now is not cowardly compromise or useless moralizing. It needs an iron fist and decisive action. It needs to show all enemies that to cross us is a path to death."
"Rhaenyra? She is a Princess of the Realm! Your sister!"
"From the moment she allowed her sons to steal dragons, she ceased to be either," Aemond said, staring at him coldly.
"She is the enemy. An enemy to all Targaryens."
He took a step forward. "Lord Lyman, I ask you one more time: how much can the treasury provide for this war?"
The old Earl shook with fury.
"I will not give you a single copper! Not unless King Viserys himself commands it! I want to see the King! I want!"
His words stopped abruptly. Because Hal moved.
The Captain of the Guard, who had been standing silently behind Aemond, lunged forward.
A massive hand grabbed Lord Lyman's thinning white hair.
"What are you doing?! Release me!"
"Ugh!"
The Earl's protest became a muffled groan.
Hal gripped his head and, without a hint of hesitation, slammed it into the thick oak table.
CRACK.
The first blow, the sound of the frontal bone shattering.
CRACK.
The second blow, the bridge of the nose collapsed, blood spraying across the polished wood.
CRACK.
The third blow, the back of the head was hit with a sound like a melon dropped on a stone.
Then Hal let go. The body of Lord Lyman Beesbury slid limp to the floor, his face unrecognizable, blood pooling from his shattered skull.
A deathly silence fell over the chamber.
Queen Alicent covered her mouth. Prince Aegon stood up, his chair falling backward with a harsh screech.
He was pale as a ghost, staring at the pool of blood and the old servant who, seconds ago, had been speaking with such conviction. His stomach churned.
Lord Tyland's lips were pressed into a thin line. Grand Maester Orwyle looked faint.
Ser Erwin Redwyne watched in silence.
Jasper Wylde closed his eyes. William Darklyn remained composed.
Only Larys Strong, the cripple, allowed his smile to broaden.
-----
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