Next, Lord Staunton was brought forward, dragged by the arms between two armored knights.
He was forced to his knees, his hands bound tightly behind his back, his thinning hair disheveled, and his face smeared with blood and ash.
Yet his eyes still burned with an unyielding, furious fire as he stared fixedly at Aemond standing upon the high slope.
Morghul let out a low rumble, a sound carrying a distinct, guttural hunger. The black dragon watched the kneeling captives, seemingly contemplating whether to crunch them in his great jaws or roast them before feasting.
The prisoners trembled; some collapsed completely into the dirt, their breeches soaked with urine.
"Kinslayer!" Lord Staunton suddenly roared.
"You are unworthy of the Iron Throne! You have usurped Queen Rhaenyra's seat!"
Aemond descended from the slope, walking toward him one slow, deliberate step at a time.
"Rhaenyra is the legitimate heir! The successor personally designated by His Majesty Viserys I!" Staunton continued to bellow, his voice cracking with defiance.
"You traitors! You usurpers! You will all burn in the Seven Hells!"
Aemond reached him and came to a halt. Lord Staunton jerked his head up and spat directly at his face.
Anticipating the move, Aemond tilted his head slightly, letting the bloody spittle fly harmlessly past his cheek.
Enraged by the insult, one of the escorting knights smashed a gauntleted fist squarely into Staunton's face.
The blow was brutally heavy. Several of Staunton's teeth were sent flying, and thick blood immediately streamed from the corner of his mouth.
"You traitorous cur!" the knight cursed.
"How dare you disrespect the Prince Regent!"
Staunton hung his head, panting heavily, muttering something incoherent through the blood.
With several teeth missing, his speech whistled, but the sheer vitriol of his curses remained clear.
Aemond looked down at him expressionlessly.
Then, he reached out, grabbed a harsh handful of the Lord's hair, and forced his head up.
"You intend to kill my entire family?" Staunton stared at him with absolute loathing, blood pooling in his mouth.
"You ignore the ancient laws of the nobility?"
A smile appeared on Aemond's face.
It was a terrifyingly gentle smile, one that sent a sudden, paralyzing chill crawling up the spines of everyone present.
"Rules?" Aemond said softly.
"Lord Staunton, you wish to speak to me of rules?"
He tightened his grip on Staunton's hair and dragged him to the very edge of the slope, forcing his battered face toward the surrendered captives, the standing nobles, and the dense ranks of soldiers below.
"Do you see these people?" Aemond asked.
"Their rules are set by the Iron Throne. And the Iron Throne's rules are set by me. My rules are the only rules; what you say counts for nothing."
He turned his head toward the Crownlands' lords standing nearby.
These nobles had followed him to war: Lords, landed knights, and men-at-arms.
At this moment, they all kept their heads bowed, not a single one daring to meet Aemond's violet eye.
"Am I correct?" Aemond asked them.
The first to react was the sycophantic Lord Rosby, a man in his fifties with greying hair but a meticulously groomed appearance.
He hurriedly raised his head, a fawning smile plastered across his face.
"Yes! The Prince Regent's rules are the only rules."
The others snapped out of their terrified daze, instantly joining the chorus:
"The Prince Regent is wise!"
"What right does a traitor have to speak of rules?!"
"Staunton's treason is absolute; he deserves ten thousand deaths!"
Staunton looked at the nobles who, only years ago, had feasted at his table and called him brother.
He struggled to stand but was pinned down ruthlessly by the two knights.
"You turncoats!" he roared through a mouthful of blood.
"Traitors! How will you ever face Her Grace Rhaenyra?!"
Lord Rosby stepped forward, his expression shifting to one of solemn, manufactured righteousness.
"We face the late King Viserys I! He designated his eldest son, Aegon, as King! You are the traitor, Staunton, and you are the one who deserves death!"
Finished with his performance, he turned back to Aemond, his face melting into a servile smile once again.
"Lord Regent, this Staunton is a great criminal. His titles should be stripped, and his entire family executed as a bloody warning to others!"
Aemond looked at him, a dark flicker of amusement dancing in his eye.
"Oh? Then I shall leave it to you to handle. Him, and his whole family."
Rosby's smile froze instantly.
"T-this..." he stammered, the color draining from his face.
"Lord Regent, I..."
"What?" Aemond's voice remained deceptively gentle.
"Is it that you do not wish to do it, or that you cannot?"
Cold sweat beaded on Lord Rosby's forehead. He looked into Aemond's eye, peering into the bottomless indifference lurking within.
The Prince Regent was not making a suggestion, nor was he merely testing him. It was a decree, an order that had to be executed.
Could he do it? Of course. The Stauntons were already captive; killing them was as easy as a wave of the hand.
But did he dare? If he slaughtered Staunton and his entire family, what would that mean in noble circles?
It meant he, Rosby, would become a pariah, a man whispered about as a despicable butcher who would do anything to curry favor with a tyrant.
But if he refused...
He looked toward the two dragons resting upon the slope.
The ancient Vhagar was staring down at him, Rosby's own trembling, tiny reflection mirrored perfectly within her massive, reptilian pupils.
"I can do it," Lord Rosby lowered his head, his voice tasting like ash.
"Lord Regent, I can do it."
Aemond nodded with cold satisfaction. "Excellent. You shall personally deal with the family. Escort them back to King's Landing, and finally... You shall strike the blow yourself."
Rosby's heart sank into the abyss.
Escorted back to King's Landing, executed by his own hand, it meant every Lord in Westeros would know he was the one who ended the Staunton line.
His reputation was utterly finished.
"I recall Rook's Rest has nine agricultural manors in total," Aemond said suddenly.
Lord Rosby looked up, sheer confusion flickering in his eyes.
"You are a good man, sharing my burdens," Aemond continued smoothly.
"I grant you three of them."
Rosby was stunned. A single manor was enough to support a knight and his household.
Three manors meant he could leave a substantial inheritance for his second and youngest sons.
In Westeros, the eldest inherited everything; for younger sons to even become household knights was considered incredibly fortunate.
Three manors were enough to make his other sons landed knights, perhaps even securing them highly advantageous marriages.
He looked up at Aemond, his eyes full of complex, conflicting emotions.
"I thank the Lord Regent," he said, bowing deeply.
Aemond ignored him, turning instead to the other nobles.
As his gaze swept over them, they immediately bowed their heads, none daring to meet his eye.
Staunton was dragged away. His furious curses grew distant and finally vanished entirely into the wind.
Next were the surrendered soldiers. Over five hundred captives from the garrison of Rook's Rest were herded to the base of the slope, huddled tightly together like frightened sheep.
They looked up at the black dragon on the heights, staring at Morghul's salivating maw, their bodies shaking uncontrollably.
Morghul let out an excited roar. He lowered his massive body, bringing his snout terrifyingly close to the front lines of the captives and exhaling a blast of scorching, sulfurous heat.
The prisoners shrieked and scrambled back, but there was nowhere to go in the dense, crushing crowd.
"Prince, have mercy!" "We were forced!" "We never wanted to fight the Realm!"
Cries and desperate pleas for mercy merged into a deafening wall of sound. Aemond stood on the slope, watching it all with absolute expressionlessness.
Hal walked to his side and asked in a low voice, "My Lord, how shall we dispose of these men?"
Aemond was silent for a long moment, then spoke slowly, his voice carrying an icy finality.
"You followed a traitor and fought against the Realm. If I were to release you so easily, I would fail my own fallen soldiers."
The wailing below grew louder and more frantic.
"How about this?" Aemond's voice cut clearly across the field, silencing the weeping.
"I will not make it too difficult for you. We shall hold a Decimation."
Decimation? The mud-stained captives looked at one another in trembling confusion, entirely failing to understand the horrifying weight of the word.
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