Next, Lord Staunton was dragged up by two knights.
They forced him to his knees, his hands bound behind his back, his hair disheveled, his face smeared with blood and grime.
Yet his eyes still burned with fury as he stared fixedly at Aemond standing atop the slope.
Lothorne let out a low growl, the sound carrying an unmistakable hunger.
The dragon stared at the kneeling captives, seemingly considering whether to chew them apart alive or roast them first before eating them.
The prisoners trembled violently. Some collapsed outright, pissing themselves where they sat.
"Kinslayer!" Lord Staunton suddenly roared.
"You are unworthy of the Iron Throne! You usurped Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen's crown!"
Aemond walked down from the slope, step by step toward him.
"Rhaenyra is the rightful heir! King Viserys I Targaryen personally named her his successor!" Lord Staunton kept roaring. "You traitors! You usurpers! You'll all burn in hell for this!"
Aemond stopped in front of him.
Lord Staunton suddenly raised his head and spat at his face.
But Aemond had expected it. He tilted his head aside and avoided it.
The knights holding Staunton flew into a rage. One of them slammed a fist into his face.
The punch was vicious. Several of Staunton's teeth flew out as blood streamed down the corner of his mouth.
"You traitorous bastard!" the knight cursed. "How dare you disrespect the Prince Regent!"
Staunton lowered his head, breathing heavily, mumbling something through bloodied lips.
Several of his teeth were gone, his words leaking air as he spoke, but it was still obvious he was cursing them.
Aemond watched him expressionlessly, then reached out, grabbed his hair, and forced his head back up.
"You want to slaughter my entire family?" Staunton glared at him hatefully through a mouthful of blood. "You ignore every rule between nobles!"
A smile appeared on Aemond's face.
It was a gentle smile, yet for some reason, everyone present felt a chill crawl up their spines.
"Rules?" Aemond said softly. "Lord Staunton, you want to lecture me about rules?"
Grabbing Staunton by the hair, he dragged him to the edge of the slope and forced him to face the surrendered prisoners, the assembled nobles, and the soldiers standing in formation below.
"Do you see these people?" Aemond said. "Their rules were made by the Iron Throne."
"And the Iron Throne's rules are made by me."
"My rules are the rules. Yours do not matter."
He turned his head and looked toward the Crownlands nobles standing nearby.
These nobles had all followed him to war—lords, landed knights, and sworn knights alike.
At this moment, every one of them had their heads lowered, not daring to meet Aemond's eyes.
"Am I wrong?" Aemond asked.
The first to react was the same lord who had been currying favor earlier—Lord Rosby, a man in his fifties with graying hair but a well-maintained appearance.
He hurriedly raised his head, plastering a flattering smile across his face.
"Yes, Your Grace. The Prince Regent's rules are the only rules that matter."
The others snapped awake as if from a dream and hurriedly echoed him.
"The Prince Regent speaks truly!"
"What right does a traitor have to talk about rules?!"
"Staunton committed treason! He deserves death!"
Staunton stared at the nobles who had been calling him brother just a few years ago.
He struggled to rise, but the two knights forced him back down.
"You spineless weathercocks!" he roared. "Traitors! Have you no loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra?!"
Lord Rosby stepped forward, his expression solemn and righteous.
"We are loyal to the late King Viserys I!"
"He already named his eldest son, Aegon II Targaryen, as king! You are the traitor! You are the one who deserves death!"
After saying that, he turned toward Aemond again, immediately piling the smile back onto his face.
"Your Grace, Lord Staunton's crimes are monstrous. His noble title should be stripped, and his entire family executed as a warning to all others."
Aemond looked at him, a trace of amusement flashing through his eyes.
"Oh? Then I'll leave it to you to handle. Him, and his entire family."
Lord Rosby's smile froze.
"Th-this…" he stammered. "Your Grace, I…"
"What?" Aemond's voice remained gentle. "Do you not wish to do it, or are you unable to do it?"
Cold sweat beaded across Lord Rosby's forehead. He looked into Aemond's violet eyes, into the bottomless indifference hidden within them.
The Prince Regent was not discussing this with him, nor was he testing him.
This was an order—one he had no choice but to carry out.
Could he do it? Of course he could.
The entire Staunton family had already been captured. Killing them would take nothing more than a wave of the hand.
But did he dare?
If he killed Staunton and exterminated his whole family, what would that mean among the nobility?
It would mean House Rosby becoming the target of everyone's contempt. He would forever be known as the despicable cur who would do anything to curry favor with the Prince Regent.
But if he refused…
He glanced toward the two dragons atop the slope. Vhagar was staring at him, and within those enormous dragon eyes, he could see his own reflection.
"I can do it." Lord Rosby lowered his head, his voice bitter. "Your Grace, I can do it."
Aemond nodded in satisfaction.
"Very good. Then you will personally deal with their family."
"Take them back to King's Landing, and in the end… you will carry it out yourself."
Lord Rosby's heart sank to the bottom.
Take them back to King's Landing, and personally execute them.
That meant everyone would know it was he who killed the entire Staunton family.
His reputation was finished.
"I recall that Rook's Rest has nine manors in total," Aemond suddenly said.
Lord Rosby looked up, confusion flashing through his eyes.
"You've done well. You can help shoulder my burdens," Aemond said. "I'll grant you three of them."
Lord Rosby froze.
A single manor was enough to support at least one knight.
Three manors meant he could leave an inheritance for his second or youngest son.
In Westeros, the eldest son inherited everything. Once younger sons came of age, becoming a hired knight was already considered a decent outcome.
Three manors were enough for his other sons to become landed knights, perhaps even marry into respectable families.
He raised his head and looked at Aemond, his eyes filled with complicated emotions.
"Thank you, Your Grace." He bowed deeply.
Aemond did not look at him again and instead turned toward the other nobles.
As his gaze swept across them, every noble lowered their head. Not one dared meet his eyes.
Staunton was dragged away. His curses grew more distant until they finally vanished into the wind.
Next came the surrendered soldiers.
More than five hundred captives from Rook's Rest were herded beneath the slope, packed tightly together.
They stared at the black dragon atop the hill, at Lothorne's drooling maw, and trembled uncontrollably.
Lothorne let out an excited roar. The dragon lowered its body, bringing its head close to the prisoners and exhaling a blast of scorching breath.
The captives screamed and tried to retreat, but there were people packed behind them as well. There was nowhere to run.
"Mercy, Prince!"
"We were forced into this!"
"We never wanted to stand against the realm!"
Crying, screaming, and desperate pleas filled the air.
Aemond stood atop the slope, expressionless as he watched it all.
Hall walked to his side and asked quietly, "My prince, what should be done with these men?"
Aemond was silent for a moment before slowly speaking.
"You followed traitors and took up arms against the realm."
"If I simply let you go, I would be betraying the soldiers who died for me."
The prisoners' wailing grew even louder.
"How about this," Aemond said, his voice carrying clearly across the entire field. "I won't make things difficult for you. We'll do a decimation by eleven."
A decimation by eleven?
The prisoners looked at one another in confusion, not understanding what he meant.
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