Hall understood immediately.
He beckoned with a hand, and several soldiers from the Royal Guard stepped forward carrying a bundle of wooden clubs and another bundle of short sticks.
"Ten men per group," Hall announced loudly. "Whoever draws the short stick dies."
"The survivors will be taken to Dragon's Roost and spend three years building roads for the kingdom as atonement!"
An uproar exploded among the prisoners.
Ten men per group, and whoever drew the short stick would die—what kind of cruel punishment was this?
But no one dared resist.
The Royal Guard soldiers had already begun dividing them into groups of ten, forcing them to draw lots.
Screams, sobs, and pleas for mercy filled the air. Some tried to flee and were shot on the spot.
Others dropped to their knees, kowtowing and begging for mercy, only to be dragged up and forced to draw.
After the drawing, the prisoners were split into two groups. Those who had drawn the long sticks collapsed to the ground, gasping heavily, unable to believe they had survived. Those who had drawn the short sticks either cried, screamed, or stood there in silence, waiting for the final judgment of fate.
Once every group had finished drawing, Hall walked to the edge of the slope and looked down.
"Throw the clubs down," he ordered.
The Royal Guard soldiers tossed the bundle of wooden clubs in front of the prisoners who had drawn the short sticks.
The condemned stared blankly at the clubs, not understanding what they were for.
"What are you all standing around for?" Hall's voice was as cold as iron. "The remaining nine will do it themselves! Take the clubs in your hands and beat them to death yourselves!"
Silence fell.
Then came an even more desperate wave of wailing.
"No! I can't do it! He's from my village!"
"We're friends! We grew up together!"
"Please! Just kill me directly! Don't make me die like this!"
But those who had drawn the long sticks had no choice.
They were shoved forward, forced to pick up the clubs, forced to face the comrades, fellow villagers, and friends who had been standing beside them only moments ago.
The first man struck.
A single blow smashed into someone's head. A dull crack, then a scream, then the sound of a body hitting the ground.
Then came the second.
The third.
The fourth...
The smell of blood spread through the air.
Lothorne writhed excitedly, drool pouring from its jaws as it watched the prisoners being beaten to death.
It liked fresh meat. It liked the chewy texture of flesh still warm with life.
But these people were smashing them too badly, turning perfectly good bodies into mangled pulp. What a waste.
At last, the final prisoner collapsed.
The survivors threw down their clubs, trembling from head to toe. Some had blood all over their hands. Some had blood splattered across their faces. Others simply stood there motionless, as though their minds had gone blank.
Hall waved a hand. "Take them away."
The surviving prisoners were escorted off.
They would be sent to Dragon's Roost, where they would spend three years performing hard labor—building roads, mining, and doing every filthy, exhausting job imaginable.
If they were still alive after three years, perhaps they might earn their freedom.
Lothorne had finally gotten its lunch.
It pounced on the corpses, opening its enormous maw, preparing to roast them.
But before long, it stopped in disgust. The bodies had been smashed too badly. There was none of the satisfaction of tearing flesh apart with its teeth.
It let out an irritated roar, but eventually lowered its head and continued eating anyway.
Better than nothing.
The surrounding soldiers all retreated.
No one wanted to watch a dragon feed. The crunching sound of bones being chewed apart and the sight of blood everywhere were enough to give a man nightmares for days.
On the slope, only Aemond, Hall, and the black dragon feeding below remained.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The sound of bones being crushed echoed continuously.
Hall stood beside Aemond, his expression unchanged.
He was already used to it.
Ever since the youth army was first formed, he had grown accustomed to all of this.
Decimation was only one of the rules.
Execution for desertion. Collective punishment. The rules Aemond had personally established.
Those were the things the entire youth army truly feared.
Aemond looked into the distance, his face utterly expressionless.
"Next," he said slowly, "you, Gwayne, and Will are to lead the royal army in the assault on Maidenpool."
Hall froze for a moment. "My prince, then what about His Majesty? In his current condition, and with his dragon…"
"I'll leave Ser Criston behind to care for the king," Aemond said. "I've already had a cave prepared deep in the forest. Aegon and his dragon will be hidden there."
"Once His Majesty recovers, I'll have men escort him back to King's Landing."
Hall nodded. The arrangement was reasonable.
Aegon's injuries had yet to heal, and Sunfyre was on the brink of death as well. Neither was fit to continue marching with the army.
Recovering in a secure cave was the best possible option.
"Then what about you, my prince?" he asked.
A faint smile appeared on Aemond's lips.
"I'm going to kill Daemon."
Hall's face changed drastically. "My prince! Daemon is on Dragonstone! That's the Blacks' stronghold. If you go there alone—"
"He won't remain on Dragonstone forever," Aemond interrupted him.
"Silverwing has already returned to Dragonstone."
"They'll move to attack the Hightower host."
"He wants to kill Daeron."
That faint smile lingered on Aemond's face as he continued.
"I know my uncle."
"He'll do it…"
"T-This…" Hall stared at Aemond in shock.
He understood now.
Aemond was using his own younger brother, Daeron, as bait.
Daeron would march alongside Tessarion and Ormund Hightower's twenty-six-thousand-man army.
"Does Prince Daeron know?" Hall asked quietly.
Aemond did not answer.
Hall asked no further questions.
He already knew the answer.
"How is the Royal Guard now?" Aemond suddenly changed the subject.
Hall steadied himself and answered seriously. "Eight hundred men in total at present. I've also absorbed some outstanding soldiers from the royal army."
Aemond shook his head. "Still not enough. I'm granting you full authority to expand it to two thousand men."
Two thousand?
Hall was somewhat stunned.
The Royal Guard was already sizeable as it was—eight hundred elite soldiers, every one of them carefully selected.
To expand it to two thousand…
"I don't want worthless men padding the numbers," Aemond said as he looked at him, his gaze utterly serious.
"All of you are my life's work."
"You too, Hall. You three are all the result of years of effort."
"And this force will receive the finest treatment in the future as well."
Hall nodded heavily. "My prince, rest assured. I'll handle it properly."
Aemond said nothing further.
The reason he had founded this youth army in the first place was to create two forces for House Targaryen similar to the Praetorian Guard.
One composed of noble-born sons.
One composed of common-born men.
Because of their status, the two sides would naturally stand in opposition to each other.
Yet both would remain staunch royalists.
He had no desire to see something like the Roman Praetorian Guard growing powerful enough to dominate the throne alone.
This military structure was also closer to the model of the Northern and Southern Armies—mutual restraint between the two sides while simultaneously serving as the shield protecting House Targaryen.
Aemond turned around and looked toward Lothorne in the distance.
The black dragon had nearly finished devouring several of the corpses.
"Hall," he suddenly said.
"Yes, my prince."
"Tell me… do you think I'm a monster?"
Hall froze, unsure how to answer.
Aemond did not wait for a reply and continued speaking to himself.
"I've killed so many people."
"My hands are stained with all this blood."
He turned his head and looked at Hall.
"But I don't regret it."
"Do you know that, Hall? I've never regretted it."
Hall was silent for a long moment before finally saying, "My prince, you did what had to be done."
"Other than you… no one could have done it."
Aemond smiled.
There was bitterness in that smile, but also a trace of relief.
"There is no right or wrong. Only sides."
He turned and began walking down the slope.
Lothorne lifted its head, licked the blood from the corners of its mouth, and followed behind him.
With every step the black dragon took, the ground trembled faintly.
Hall watched Aemond's retreating figure, watched the silhouette of the black dragon beside him, and suddenly a thought rose in his mind.
Perhaps the Prince Regent truly was a monster.
But without that monster, orphans like them would have died long ago in the stinking gutters of Flea Bottom.
Or spent their lives drifting through existence like the living dead.
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