But Elwyn then thought of another problem and asked cautiously, "But Your Highness, even if we suppress the fleet left behind at Driftmark, if we are to land and occupy the two islands, we will still need a sufficient number of landing troops…"
Aemond glanced at Ser Willem, commander of the royal army.
"The landing operation will be led mainly by the royal army."
Everyone looked toward Willem. He stood up and nodded to the prince.
Then he turned to Tyland.
"Lord Tyland, in the name of the king, summon the naval forces of the Iron Islands, Lannisport of the Westerlands, and the Redwyne fleet of the Arbor in the Reach."
"Order them to assemble at once and proceed to Oldtown to await orders."
"Tell them that the time has come to fulfill their duties as bannermen."
Tyland frowned and spoke slowly.
"Your Highness."
"To summon the fleets of the bannermen… that will require time."
"The Iron Islands lie far from Oldtown. The Greyjoys may not obey readily."
"Moreover, such a large-scale levy—food, supplies, bounties… the expense will be astronomical. The royal treasury may…"
"There is no need to worry about the treasury," Aemond interrupted again, turning his head toward the empty seat. "Lord Lyman will handle it."
"Oh, he has not arrived yet."
He paused, his gaze settling on the seat of the master of coin, his purple eyes growing cold.
"As for the cost, the crown will bear it."
Just then, the door of the council chamber was pushed open.
Lyman Beesbury finally arrived.
The old lord from Honeyholt in the Reach was already over sixty years old. His hair was completely white, and his back slightly stooped.
He was an old servant of King Viserys I. Leaning on a cane, he slowly walked in, his gaze sweeping across everyone in the chamber before finally settling on Aemond.
"I have heard," the old lord said, that last night, Your Highness, you killed the three sons of Princess Rhaenyra?"
Aemond turned to face him, the same calm expression still on his face.
"Lord Lyman, you have come at the right time. We were discussing the matter of military expenses."
"Military expenses?" Lyman walked to his seat but did not sit down. He rested both hands on his cane and stared at Aemond. "What military expenses?"
"For a war that should never have happened?"
"Your Highness, what you did last night has already pushed the realm into civil war!"
"And now you still want to discuss military expenses? What you should be discussing is how to make amends to Princess Rhaenyra, and how to avoid more bloodshed!"
The air in the council chamber froze.
Alicent closed her eyes.
She knew what was going to happen. She knew her son too well, and she knew this old stubborn fool, Lyman, too well.
Aemond did not grow angry.
He even smiled.
"Lord Lyman, perhaps you did not hear clearly what I said just now."
He spoke gently.
"It was three bastards who sneaked into the Dragonpit to steal Targaryen dragons, set fires, and kill people, and were then slain on the spot."
"That was the fate they deserved."
"Bastards?" Lyman raised his voice, striking his cane heavily against the floor. "Whatever else they may be, they are still the sons of Princess Rhaenyra!"
"They are His Grace's grandsons!"
"Even if... even if they were guilty, they should have been tried and convicted by His Grace the King and by the small council!"
"Not executed by you on your own authority! And what is more, you killed Joffrey as well. That child was only ten!"
"A ten-year-old thief is still a thief." Aemond's voice turned cold.
"As for a trial? They were caught in the act while stealing dragons. The evidence was conclusive. What trial was still needed?"
Lyman refused to let it go. "But I heard that the ones who killed were Jacaerys and Lucerys, while Joffrey was only an accomplice. His crime did not warrant death."
"He took part in the arson." Aemond cut him off, his tone beginning to grow impatient.
"A third of the entire Dragonpit was burned down. More than fifty dragonkeepers and guards died, and many more were wounded."
"Lord Lyman, under the laws of the realm, how many deaths would such crimes merit?"
"Even so, he should have been tried by the Master of Laws! And judged by the Queen Regent! Not punished by you on your own authority!" The old lord's face had gone red.
"Your Highness, this is usurpation! This is an abuse of private punishment!"
"You have bypassed His Grace, bypassed the small council, and made this killing on your own, a killing that has provoked a civil war."
"Do you know what that is called? It is treason!"
"And kinslayers are shameful, Your Highness."
He delivered the last sentence with ringing force.
Everyone in the council chamber held their breath.
Tyland lowered his head, pretending that nothing had happened.
Grand Maester Orwyle had begun to sweat across his brow.
Larys Strong's smile turned meaningful.
Ser Cole's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
Aemond was silent for several seconds.
Then he let out a soft sigh.
"Lord Lyman..."
"You have served the realm for twenty years. Your labors and merits are great, and I respect you."
He paused.
"But you are too old now—so old that you can no longer see the situation clearly."
Lyman glared at him. "You!"
"What the realm needs now is not cowardly compromise, nor useless moral preaching."
"What it needs is an iron hand, decisive decisions, and to make every enemy understand that opposing us leads only to death."
"Enemy? Princess Rhaenyra is a princess of the realm! She is your sister!"
"From the moment she allowed her sons to steal dragons, she ceased to be one." Aemond stared at him coldly, speaking each word with deliberate clarity.
"She is an enemy—an enemy of all Targaryens."
He took a step forward.
"Lord Lyman, I will ask you once more. How much money can the treasury provide to support the war?"
The old lord trembled with rage. "I will not give you a single coin!"
"Unless His Grace King Viserys gives the order in person! I want to see His Grace! I want—!"
His words came to an abrupt halt.
Because Hall moved.
The captain of the household guard, who had been standing silently behind Aemond all this time, rushed forward.
Hall's large hand seized Lyman's white hair.
"What are you doing! Let go of me!"
"Ugh!"
The old lord's protest turned into a muffled groan.
Grabbing his head, Hall slammed it hard, without hesitation, against the heavy oak table.
Bang!
The first blow—the sound of the frontal bone cracking.
Bang!
The second—the bridge of the nose collapsing, blood spraying.
Bang!
The third—the back of the skull striking, the dull sound like a watermelon smashed on the ground.
Then Hall released his hand.
The corpse of Lyman Beesbury slid limply to the floor. His face was no longer recognizable, and blood poured from the shattered skull.
Deathly silence filled the council chamber.
Alicent covered her mouth.
Aegon stood up abruptly, his chair toppling backward with a harsh scraping sound.
His face was pale as he stared at the pool of blood on the floor, at the old servant who had been speaking passionately only seconds ago. His stomach churned, and he nearly vomited.
Tyland pressed his lips together.
Grand Maester Orwyle had gone pale.
Elwyn Redwyne watched in silence.
Jasper Wylde closed his eyes.
Willem Darklyn remained composed.
Only Larys Strong—the cripple—had a smile that grew even more pronounced.
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