Two days.
Rook's Rest had held out for a mere two days.
Aemond Targaryen stood upon the high ridge outside the walls, overlooking the smoldering castle.
The banners of House Staunton had vanished from the battlements, replaced by the Royal Standard, the golden dragon on a black field, snapping fiercely in the evening wind.
Atop the ridge, Aemond stood with the black dragon, Morghul, resting heavily behind him, the beast's head still bearing the fresh, jagged scars of battle.
Arrayed below were the commanders and soldiers who had broken the castle: the vanguard under Gwayne Hightower, the Royal Army led by Ser William Darklyn, the levies summoned from across the Crownlands, and Aemond's personal guard.
His personal guard stood at the very front, clad in pristine white, with surcoats bearing the three-headed dragon.
"Rook's Rest has fallen." Aemond's voice was not a shout, yet it carried with piercing clarity across the field.
"The rebel leader, Lord Staunton, has been captured. Every man who fought in this battle shall receive his due reward."
A low, rumbling cheer rose from the ranks. Aemond raised a single hand, and the noise instantly subsided.
He began the roll call for honors: a knight who fought with valor was awarded gold and promoted to castellan of a local holdfast; the first man to scale the walls was granted a minor estate and elevated in rank; a foot soldier who slew three enemies received a heavy purse of silver.
Those called stepped forward one by one, dropping to a single knee to accept their honors, their faces flushed with pride and the lingering adrenaline of battle.
Halfway through the distribution, Hal walked to Aemond's side and murmured a few words. Aemond's gaze shifted toward a small figure in the crowd.
It was a boy, looking no more than thirteen or fourteen, his silver hair standing out starkly against the grime of the common soldiers.
He wore tattered boiled leather stained with blood and ash, his face smudged with dirt, but his blue eyes were startlingly bright and alert.
"Who is that boy?" Aemond asked.
"A Velaryon bastard," Hal answered in a hushed tone.
"Goes by the name Alyn of Hull. He joined the assault with the Velaryon surrender-levies. During the siege, while scaling the walls, he ambushed and stabbed a fully armed knight to death with nothing but a dagger."
Aemond raised an eyebrow.
'Alyn 'Oakenfist'? Interesting.'
"Bring him here."
Hal beckoned the boy forward. The youth faltered for only a heartbeat before hurrying to the front of the ranks, dropping smoothly to one knee before the Prince.
His movements were precise, the unmistakable result of formal martial training, a rarity for a lowborn bastard.
"Lord Regent," the boy's voice was nervous but steady.
"My name is Alyn of Hull. I am a bastard. I wish to serve you, to serve His Majesty Aegon, and to serve the Realm."
Aemond said nothing, merely observing him.
In the story, Alyn and his brother Addam were known to be the "seeds" of the Sea Snake.
But in those bright blue eyes, Aemond saw something sharper: ambition.
A raw, burgeoning hunger that the boy was desperately trying to suppress, yet could not entirely hide.
"Is your father Corlys?"
The question fell like a heavy stone into a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the assembly.
The surrounding generals and nobles exchanged incredulous looks.
'Corlys Velaryon? The traitor? How did his bastard dare show his face here?'
Alyn's expression shifted slightly, but he quickly regained his composure.
He knew this was a lethal question; one wrong syllable could cost him his head.
"Lord Regent, my father is not Corlys." Alyn looked up, meeting Aemond's gaze without flinching.
"I swear to you and the Seven, my father was Laethan Velaryon. He died over ten years ago; he was the youngest brother of Lord Corlys Velaryon."
Aemond pondered this for a moment. "Who is your mother?"
"Marilda," Alyn said, lowering his head.
"She is... she is the daughter of a shipwright from High Tide."
Aemond stared silently at the boy.
Alyn of Hull, the future "Oakenfist".
The man who would rise from bastardy to rule House Velaryon, marry Daemon's daughter, Baela, and drag a shattered house back to prominence, cementing himself as one of the most famous mariners in Westeros's history.
Yet, after his era, House Velaryon would produce no more titans, slowly fading into obscurity.
Lord Corlys had chosen a bastard to inherit his legacy precisely because he recognized this boy's sheer, undeniable capability.
"I hear from Hal that you declined the standard reward for this battle," Aemond noted.
Alyn looked up, hesitated, and then gathered his courage.
"Lord Regent, I do not need coin or land. I ask only one thing of you."
"Speak."
"I beg you to pardon my mother," Alyn said, his voice trembling slightly.
"She is being held at the Dragonmont, forced into hard labor along with the other migrants displaced from High Tide. She is just a common woman who never participated in any rebellion. I beg you to pardon her and grant her freedom."
Aemond cast a sidelong glance at Hal, who gave a confirming nod.
"I will send word to Dragonstone immediately."
Alyn's eyes lit up, and he bowed his head deeply to the dirt.
"Thank you, Lord Regent! Thank you!"
"I am told you are a squire?" Aemond asked.
"I am," Alyn replied.
"Though the knight I served died a few days ago..."
"Then from this day on, you shall serve by my side."
Alyn was dazed for a moment. The surrounding crowd found it equally unbelievable.
A thirteen-year-old bastard, who had just used a dagger to ambush and kill a knight in the chaos of a siege, was being personally appointed by the Prince Regent to be his own squire? It was an unfathomable stroke of fortune.
Alyn bowed deeply once more, his voice ringing with unsuppressable joy.
"I thank the Lord Regent for this honor! I swear by my life and the Seven, I shall never betray you!"
Aemond looked down at him.
"Rise. Go wash yourself and find clean clothes. Do not look like a beggar if you are to be my squire."
Alyn stood and quickly followed an attendant toward the camp. His steps were light, as if he still couldn't fully believe what had just transpired.
Hal watched the boy's retreating and whispered, "My Lord, what is so special about that boy?"
Aemond didn't answer directly. "You will find out soon enough."
The distribution of rewards continued. The final group to step forward was the Velaryon surrender-levies.
Over five hundred men had marched, all looking dejected and careful not to meet the eyes of the royal troops.
These were the surrendered forces Aemond had absorbed after the fall of High Tide, led by the five Velaryon knights known collectively as the "Silent Five."
In this assault on Rook's Rest, Aemond had placed them squarely in the vanguard, declaring it an opportunity to wash away the stain of their treason with blood.
They had indeed atoned; of the five hundred who charged the walls, fewer than three hundred had survived the meat grinder.
The "Silent Five" stood at the head of their battered survivors, caked in blood, both their enemies' and their own.
They said nothing, standing in grim silence as they awaited Aemond's judgment.
Aemond looked over their thinned ranks and spoke slowly.
"You performed well."
The five knights looked up, a flicker of complex emotion cutting through the exhaustion in their eyes.
They were deeply conflicted, unsure if fighting for the Greens was truly right or wrong, but they had crossed a threshold from which there was no return.
"From this day forward, you are no longer surrender-levies," Aemond declared.
"You are now sworn men of the Royal Army, equal to all others. Your pay, your rations, and your rewards shall be the same as any other man's."
Aemond paused, letting his voice carry over the exhausted ranks.
"The past is wiped clean."
Behind the knights, the three hundred survivors knelt as one, their voices hoarse but resounding in unison: "We live and die for the Lord Regent!"
The Silent Five exchanged a heavy look before dropping to one knee together.
The Velaryon tribal army, which had once proudly numbered a thousand, was now reduced to a mere three hundred souls.
If they continued to be used as siege fodder, the branch kin of their ancient house would be utterly extinguished.
Aemond's pardon was their only salvation.
Aemond gave a terse nod and signaled for the Velaryon troops to withdraw.
-----
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