In an instant, the quick-witted Ulf understood what Hugh meant.
He lifted his head and looked at everyone present, a frenzied gleam flashing through his eyes.
"The Volantenes already said it!"
"The Blacks are finished now!"
"Rhaenys and the Red Queen, Meleys, are dead!"
"How much longer can Queen Rhaenyra hold on?"
"Follow her, and there's only one road left—death!"
"But Volantis is different! They have hundreds of thousands of soldiers, endless wealth, and half of the eastern continent!"
"As long as we defect to them, we can become nobles, gain power, and enjoy every luxury imaginable!"
The more he spoke, the more agitated he became. He rose to his feet and pointed at the officers present.
"You lot too!"
"You're all bastards as well!"
"What has the queen ever given you?"
"A few dozen silver coins a month? What are you risking your lives for?"
"Defect to Volantis!"
"They said it themselves—any bastard who joins them can become a noble of the Black Walls!"
"Real nobles! No longer the kind of bastards everyone looks down on!"
The banquet hall fell deathly silent.
Symond's face turned ashen.
Furious, he clenched the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles cracked.
The bastard officers loyal to Queen Rhaenyra glared at Ulf with bloodshot eyes, wishing they could tear him to pieces on the spot.
Yet some of the bastard officers remained silent, merely watching Ulf speak.
Hugh and the men following him carefully observed every expression in the hall.
"You… you…" Symond was so enraged he could barely speak.
Hugh let out a sigh and shook his head.
"Ulf, Ulf. I wanted to give you a chance to confess and repent."
"I never expected that even at death's door, you'd still dare spread such poisonous lies."
He turned toward Symond.
"Ser, this man cannot be spared."
"Allow me to do it myself. After all, he belongs to our guard."
The furious Symond nodded.
Hugh walked over to Ulf, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Ulf looked at him, and a trace of mutual understanding passed through their eyes—something only the two of them could comprehend.
Then Hugh drew his sword.
A flash of cold steel cut through the hall.
But the blade did not strike Ulf.
Instead, it slashed toward the man behind him—
Symond Velaryon.
Ser Symond's eyes widened. Before he could react, the Valyrian steel sword had already pierced through his chest.
The last thing he saw was a beautifully forged blade, dark and rippling with the distinctive wave-like patterns of Valyrian steel.
A bastard?
How could a bastard possess a Valyrian steel sword?
Blood burst from the wound, splattering across Hugh's face.
"You…" Symond lowered his gaze to the sword buried in his chest, disbelief filling his eyes. "You…"
Hugh twisted the blade viciously, the edge churning inside his body.
Symond's body convulsed several times before collapsing to the floor.
At that moment, the entire hall exploded into chaos.
The bastards loyal to Hugh—the ones wearing chainmail beneath their robes—began drawing their swords and hacking at the Velaryon officers beside them.
Those officers had come only to attend the feast. None of them wore armor, and caught completely off guard, they fell one after another.
"What are you doing?!"
"Traitors!"
"AAAAH!"
Screams, curses, and the wet sounds of blades sinking into flesh merged into a single cacophony.
Blood sprayed everywhere, staining the roasted suckling pig atop the long tables, staining the colorful tiles beneath their feet, staining the corpses still twitching on the ground.
One young bastard officer loyal to Rhaenyra was struck across the neck. Blood erupted more than a yard into the air.
Clutching his throat, he let out wet gurgling sounds, his eyes filled with grief, fury, and unwillingness.
He struggled to rise to his feet, but another sword thrust came stabbing down, piercing straight through his heart.
"Hugh… you… you traitor…" He collapsed onto the floor, dying with his eyes still open.
Another officer was surrounded by three bastards. Seven or eight bloody holes were stabbed into his body before he finally collapsed into a pool of blood, still cursing with his dying breath.
"Hugh! You'll burn in the seven hells for this!"
"The queen won't spare you! The prince won't spare you either!"
Hugh ignored them completely.
He walked over to Symond's corpse, grabbed him by the silver hair, and with one savage slash cut off his head.
Holding the bloody head high above him, he revealed those blue eyes still left open, as though the man refused to die in peace.
"These men betrayed Queen Rhaenyra!" Hugh roared. "They plotted to murder Prince Lucerys! By law, they deserve death!"
Inside the hall, the slaughter continued.
Some of the bastard officers loyal to Rhaenyra tried to resist, but unarmed as they were, they were hacked down alive.
Others tried to flee, only to find the doors already blocked.
There was nowhere to escape.
Hugh's men showed no mercy.
One sword stroke after another.
A few minutes later, the banquet hall fell silent.
More than twenty corpses lay sprawled across the floor. Blood gathered into streams that snaked across the tiles. The heavy stench of iron filled the air, enough to make one retch.
Hugh carried Symond's severed head as he swept his gaze across the hall.
Among those still alive, aside from the bastards under his command, there was only one remaining—
Aemon Celtigar, deputy commander of the Velaryon garrison.
Aemon was a fat man in his forties with a thin mustache and an extravagant silk robe.
He was the younger brother of Lord Celtigar, a man who had clawed his way into this position through family connections. Normally, all he cared about was eating, drinking, and indulging himself. He possessed no real ability whatsoever.
At that moment, he was slumped in his chair, trembling uncontrollably.
A dark stain had spread across his crotch.
He had pissed himself from fright.
"Th-this… what is… what…" he stammered incoherently, eyes bulging as he stared at the corpses littering the floor and at the still-dripping head in Hugh's hand.
"Y-you killed Ser Symond… you… you…"
Carrying the severed head, Hugh walked over and looked down at him from above.
Blood from the neck dripped onto Aemon's robe and onto his fat thighs.
Aemon let out a shrill scream, nearly fainting on the spot.
Hugh raised the hand still slick with blood and slapped his pudgy face lightly.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
With every slap, Aemon's body trembled violently.
"Lord Aemon," Hugh said with a smiling expression, "Ser Symond and these officers colluded with the Volantenes and intended to betray the queen and the prince. I have already executed them."
Aemon stared at him, lips quivering, unable to utter a single word.
"Now," Hugh continued, "I require your support."
No matter how stupid Aemon was, he finally understood.
This was a coup.
This bastard Hugh had launched a coup.
"Y-you…" Terror had already broken his courage. He wanted to say something, but no words came out.
Hugh's expression darkened.
"What? Does Lord Aemon intend to become a traitor as well?"
He paused, then leaned close to Aemon's ear and lowered his voice.
"I heard your family also came from Westeros to settle here."
"You have a fine son and daughter… and a beautiful wife…"
"Tsk, tsk. What a pity."
"If my lord insists on firmly supporting the traitors…"
Aemon's face changed completely.
He thought of his wife—the daughter of a minor noble house, gentle and virtuous, barely past thirty.
He thought of his son, only eight years old, clever and bright, the apple of his eye.
He thought of his daughter, six years old, his precious little treasure who clung to him every day begging for stories.
If they all died…
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---