«Your Highness,» William whispered, «but is this not… too much?»
«Too much?» Aemond smiled. «Too cruel, you mean?»
He rose and walked to the edge of the high platform. Below, the dragonhold lay wreathed in smoke. Black plumes rose from a dozen places within the walls; the sounds of battle had faded to near silence.
«These Velaryons are fierce dogs,» Aemond said. His back was to William. His voice drifted on the wind. «Driftmark has been a sea power for a hundred years. Pride is in their bones.»
«They surrendered because they feared being burned alive by me, not out of loyalty.»
«If you want them truly obedient, fear is not enough. You must put blood on their hands. Their ownblood.»
«The families of those deserters—that is the means.»
William was silent. He understood.
«Do you fear me, William?» Aemond asked suddenly.
William went still.
«Speak the truth.» Aemond turned. His violet eye was fixed on the knight's pale face.
«…I do,» William admitted. «Not only I—every soldier in the royal host fears you.»
He paused, gathering his courage.
«But we also admire you, Your Highness. You are… terrible, yes. But you share. You divide the spoils fairly. You give land to those who earn it. You have never cheated a fallen soldier's pension. You reward loyalty.»
«We fear you, but we follow you. Because you win. And winning is good.»
Aemond nodded. He seemed satisfied.
Footsteps came from below.
A troop of soldiers escorted a man up the slope. His armor was broken, his face smeared with soot—but his back was straight.
Ser Robert Quince. Defender of Dragonstone. The man Rhaenyra had left as castellan.
They forced him to his knees before Aemond.
Behind Robert stood five men in Velaryon armor. These five were different. They wore closed helms, their faces hidden.
The Watchers. Aemond's invention. Velaryon prisoners, given a choice: die, or serve. They had chosen to serve. For three days, they had led the assault on their own countrymen, driving the surrendered soldiers forward with whips and swords.
Now they guarded Robert, waiting for his hair to fall.
Robert looked up.
He was past fifty, this old knight. He had served the Targaryens for thirty years—first Viserys, then Rhaenyra. A scar ran across his face, a souvenir from the Stepstones, earned when he was young and strong.
His eyes were calm. No hate. No contempt. No regret.
Just… acceptance.
«I have nothing to say,» Robert said. His voice was hoarse, but clear. «Every man serves his master. My time is done.»
He lifted his chin. Bared his throat.
Aemond walked to him. A soldier handed him a sword—not Blackfyre, but a common longsword.
Aemond took it.
«The honor of a death befitting your station, ser,» he said.
Then he swung.
The blade was quick. It found the gap between the neck bones. Robert's head fell; his body pitched forward. Blood fountained from the severed throat.
The head rolled across the stone. Came to rest face-up.
The eyes were still open. But they saw nothing.
Aemond handed the sword back to the soldier. He glanced at the five silent Velaryons.
«Pack it. Send it to King's Landing. Tell the Red Keep that Dragonstone is taken.»
A soldier stepped forward, placed the head in a prepared wooden box, and closed the lid.
Aemond looked at the five.
They knelt as one. Foreheads to the ground.
«You have served well,» Aemond said. «Three days of siege, three days of driving the assault.»
«From among you, I will choose one to be the new head of House Velaryon—once I am confirmed as regent.»
The five bowed lower.
«Also,» Aemond continued, «the remaining eight hundred Velaryon prisoners will be placed under your command.»
«But first, they must complete one final task.»
He paused. Ensured they were listening.
«I have seen the lists. There are near four hundred family members of the deserters you helped me identify.»
«Take these eight hundred men to Driftmark. Execute them.»
«Every man must take part. Every man must have blood on his hands. Do you understand?»
«Those who die—their property will be divided among you as reward.»
The five raised their heads.
Behind their helms, Aemond could not see their eyes. But he felt their hesitation.
They are wondering if this is surrender.
At last, they nodded.
Aemond waved his hand. They rose and withdrew in silence.
William watched them go.
«Your Highness,» he murmured, «these five… do you truly trust them?»
«Trust?» Aemond smiled. «I trust no one.»
«But they have killed their own countrymen with their own hands. They have taken the spoils of Driftmark. They cannot go back.»
«What choice do they have but to follow me?»
He returned to the high platform, sat down, and resumed carving the mutton—now nearly cold.
«That is human nature, William. Betrayal has no return. Once you cross that line, the whole world becomes your enemy—except the man you crossed it for.»
«They will be more loyal than any. Because everyone else hates them.»
William said nothing.
At that moment, a troop of Dragonkeepers came running from the direction of the dragonhold.
Each carried a dragon's egg.
The eggs were large—needing both arms to hold. Their shells gleamed silver in the sun, spiral lines etched into the surface like frozen moonlight.
«Your Highness!» The lead Dragonkeeper knelt. «Four eggs in total, found in the deepest caverns. They must be… Silverwing's clutch.»
Aemond's eye kindled.
He set down his dagger. Rose. Approached.
The Dragonkeepers laid the eggs carefully on the ground. Four silver eggs, each the size of a man's head, lined up in a row. The shells were warm—not from fire, but from the life within.
Silverwing's eggs.
He had ordered the Dragonkeepers to search the dragonhold thoroughly. He knew that Silverwing had laid two eggs before—both had hatched, given to his younger siblings.
Now, four more.
Mine.
He gestured for everyone to leave—William, the soldiers, the Dragonkeepers. All of them.
Soon, only Aemond remained on the hill. Him, and the four dragons. Lothron, Sunfyre, Grey Ghost. And the four eggs.
He unwrapped his bandaged left arm. Looked at the wound. Sighed.
I am losing too much blood, he thought. My wounds heal slowly. If this continues, I will collapse before the eggs hatch.
But he did not hesitate.
The first drop of blood fell on the first egg.
It rolled down the silver shell—but did not drip off. Instead, it seeped inward, as if absorbed, leaving only a faint reddish stain on the surface.
The second. The third. The fourth.
Each egg received three drops. No more. No less.
Aemond performed the rite with utter concentration.
When he finished the last egg, all four trembled slightly.
It was barely perceptible—a shiver, like a heartbeat. But Aemond felt it. The silver gleam on the shells seemed brighter; the spiral lines pulsedin the sunlight.
He rewrapped his bandages. His movements were weak.
The dizziness from blood loss washed over him again. He had to brace himself against a rock to stand.
Around him, the dragons reacted.
Grey Ghost merely lifted his eyelids, glanced at the eggs, and closed them again. He was digesting Aemond's blood, letting it heal his wounds.
Sunfyre tilted his head curiously. His golden eyes fixed on the eggs; a rumbling sound came from his throat—puzzlement, perhaps.
Lothron was the most agitated.
The young black dragon lunged to his feet. His wings snapped open; he hissed, sharp and furious. He rushed to the eggs, lowered his head, sniffed at the blood on the shells—then turned to Aemond and screamed.
My blood! That is MY blood! You gave it to THEM!
Aemond felt Lothron's jealousy like a physical thing. He sighed, reached out, and took the dragon's snapping jaws in his hands.
«Lothron. Calm. They need blood to hatch. Hatchlings are our dragons.»
Lothron did not listen. He shoved Aemond's hand away with his head—not hard, but enough to express displeasure. Dragon breath huffed from his nostrils, a hot gust of sulfur that whipped Aemond's silver hair.
«Be still,» Aemond said, his voice sharp.
Lothron fell silent at last. But his golden eyes remained fixed on the eggs—watching them as a rival.
Aemond ignored him.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the four eggs.
Four eggs. If all hatch—four new dragons.
It will be decades before they are grown. But even hatchlings are dragons.
And these four were woken by my blood alone. The dragons inside will be bound to me. Not controllable, perhaps—but close.
A host of dragons, loyal only to me.
The thought brought a faint flush of color to his pale cheeks.
Then the dizziness returned. Aemond closed his eyes. Drew a deep breath.
No. If I keep losing blood like this, I will fall before they hatch. I must find another way—
OOOOOOH.OOOOOOH.
A horn sounded from the sea.
Not a war-horn. A ceremonial call—three short blasts, one long. The signal for a visitor of noble rank.
Aemond opened his eyes. Looked toward the harbor.
Most of Dragonstone's port had been burned during the three-day siege. The piers were charred skeletons; the warehouses were rubble. But the harbor itself was still usable.
A great ship was docking.
Not a warship—a merchantman. But vast, three-decked, the sails embroidered with the seal of Braavos. On its prow stood a line of men in rich silks, looking utterly out of place against the smoke and ruin.
Finally, Aemond thought.
He rose. Adjusted his cloak.
«William,» he called.
«Your Highness!» William had been waiting at the foot of the slope. He ran up.
«Clear this place. Take the eggs to King's Landing. Put them in the dragonpit. Post guards.»
«The dragons stay here. Feed them. Watch them.»
He began to descend.
«Set up a pavilion in the harbor. I will receive our guests in proper style.»
«Yes, Your Highness!»
William ran to obey.
Aemond walked down the hill toward the harbor, a dozen green guards falling in behind him.