Hal understood immediately.
He beckoned with a gloved hand. Several soldiers of the personal guard stepped forward, hauling bundles of heavy wooden clubs and canisters filled with long and short straws.
"Form groups of ten!" Hal barked, his voice cutting through the wind.
"Those who draw the short straw die. Those who live will be escorted to Maegor's Holdfast, where you will build roads for the Realm for three years to atone for your treason!"
An uproar erupted among the captives. Groups of ten? Drawing straws for their lives? It was a cruelty beyond reckoning, yet no one dared resist.
The personal guard immediately began herding them into groups, forcing them to draw.
Screams, shrieks, and desperate pleas for mercy merged into a deafening wall of sound.
One man attempted to flee and was shot dead by a crossbow bolt before he could take three steps.
Others knelt in the mud, kowtowing for mercy, only to be dragged up by the scruff of their necks and forced to pull a straw.
When the drawing was complete, the captives were divided into two crowds.
Those holding the long straws collapsed to the ground, panting heavily, weeping in disbelief that they had survived.
The condemned, those holding the short straws, reacted with wild wails, piercing shrieks, or a deathly, hollow silence as they awaited the final judgment of fate.
When all the groups had been separated, Hal walked to the edge of the slope and looked down.
"Throw the clubs down," he commanded.
The soldiers tossed the bundles of rough-hewn wooden clubs before the shivering survivors.
The men stared at the heavy wood, failing to fully grasp what was required of them.
"What are you waiting for?" Hal's voice was as cold as forged iron.
"The remaining nine of you in each group, pick them up! Use the clubs to personally beat the condemned to death!"
A deathly stillness fell over the field, shattered moments later by agonizing cries of despair.
"No! I can't! He's from my village!"
"We're friends! We grew up together!"
"I beg of you! Just kill me! Don't make me die like this!"
But those who had drawn the long straws had no choice.
Pushed forward at spearpoint, they were forced to take up the clubs and face the comrades, neighbors, and friends they had stood beside just hours before.
The first strike fell. It was the sickening sound of hard wood meeting a skull, a dull, wet thud, followed by a scream and the collapse of a body.
Then came the second, the third, the fourth...
The metallic scent of blood began to permeate the damp air.
Morghul thrashed his massive body in excitement. He watched the men being beaten to death, thick saliva pooling on the ground beneath his maw.
He loved fresh flesh and the satisfying crunch of a good chew.
However, in his eyes, these men were being beaten too brutally; the meat was being turned into a mangled, pulpy mess, which was a true shame.
Finally, the last man fell. The survivors threw down their blood-soaked clubs, their bodies trembling violently.
Some had hands slick with gore, some had blood splattered across their faces, and others stood motionless, staring blankly as if their very souls had been stripped away.
Hal waved a dismissive hand. "Escort them away."
The surviving captives were led off in chains.
They would be sent to Maegor's Holdfast to serve three years of grueling hard labor, building roads, digging mines, and performing the filthiest tasks of the realm.
If they survived the three years, perhaps they would find freedom.
Morghul finally received his meal. He lunged toward the corpses, opening his blood-stained jaws, preparing to roast them.
But he quickly paused in disdain; these bodies were too mutilated, lacking the satisfaction of a proper tear and bite.
He let out a dissatisfied hiss, but eventually lowered his great head and began to eat. It was better than nothing.
The surrounding soldiers swiftly withdrew.
No one wanted to watch a dragon feed; the sickening sound of crunching bone and the gruesome imagery were enough to induce nightmares for weeks.
On the slope, only Aemond, Hal, and the feeding black dragon remained.
Crunch. Snap. Crackle.
It was the sound of human bones being pulverized. Hal stood beside Aemond, his expression entirely unchanged. He was used to it.
Ever since the Youth Guard was forged, he had grown accustomed to such brutality.
Decimation was merely one of the rules. Summary execution for desertion, collective punishment; these were the ironclad laws Aemond had established with his own hands. These were the rules that made the entire Youth Guard tremble with fear and obey without question.
Aemond looked into the distance, his face devoid of emotion.
"Next," he spoke slowly, "you, Gwayne, and William shall lead the Royal Army to attack Maidenpool."
Hal faltered. "My Lord, what about His Majesty? Given his current condition, and his dragon..."
"I will leave Ser Criston Cole behind to guard the King," Aemond replied.
"I have already had men locate a hidden cave in the forest to conceal Aegon and his dragon. Once His Majesty's health has stabilized, he will be escorted safely back to King's Landing."
Hal nodded. The arrangement was logical. Aegon was gravely injured, and Sunfyre was near death; neither was fit for a march.
Recovering in a secluded cave was their best chance at survival.
"And you, My Lord?" Hal asked.
A dark smile touched the corner of Aemond's mouth.
"I am going to kill Daemon."
Hal was shocked. "My Lord! Daemon is on Dragonstone! That is the very heart of the Blacks' nest. If you go alone..."
"He will not stay on Dragonstone forever," Aemond interrupted smoothly.
"Silverwing has returned to Dragonstone. They will fly to attack the Hightower army next. He wants to kill Daeron."
Aemond gave a faint, ephemeral smile and continued, "I know my uncle. That is exactly what he will do."
Hal looked at Aemond in dawning realization. He understood now.
Aemond was using his own younger brother, Daeron, as bait to lure the prey out, letting Daeron and Tessarion march alongside the twenty-six thousand men of the Hightower host, exposed and waiting.
"Does Prince Daeron know?" Hal asked in a low voice.
Aemond did not answer. Hal did not ask again. He already knew the truth.
"How fares the personal guard?" Aemond asked, shifting the subject.
Hal collected his thoughts and answered formally, "Eight hundred men in total. I have also absorbed some exceptional veteran soldiers from the Royal Army."
Aemond shook his head. "Not enough. I grant you full authority to expand your numbers to two thousand."
Two thousand? Hal was surprised.
The current scale of the personal guard was already formidable, eight hundred hand-picked elites.
Expanding to two thousand was a massive undertaking.
"I do not want anyone who is just there to fill out the ranks," Aemond warned, his gaze deadly serious.
"You are my life's work. Just as you, Hal, you three have been my focus for all these years. This unit will receive the absolute best treatment in the future."
Hal nodded heavily. "My Lord, rest assured, I will see it done."
Aemond said no more. He had created this Youth Guard to build two elite institutions for House Targaryen, akin to the ancient Praetorian Guards.
One composed of noble sons, the other of commoners.
By their very nature, their differing statuses would put them at odds, yet both would be staunchly loyal to the Crown.
He did not want a situation where a single military unit became too powerful and unchecked.
This structure leaned heavily on a system of checks and balances, allowing them to restrain each other while flawlessly guarding the dragonlords.
Aemond turned and watched Morghul feeding in the distance. The black dragon had nearly finished with the mutilated corpses.
"Hal," he said suddenly.
"Yes, My Lord."
"Tell me, am I a monster?"
Hal froze, entirely unsure of how to answer. Aemond didn't wait for a reply, continuing as if speaking to himself.
"I have killed so many people. My hands are stained with so much blood."
He turned his head and looked directly at Hal.
"But I do not regret it. Do you know why, Hal? Because I never regret."
Hal was silent for a long moment before answering carefully, "My Lord, you are doing what must be done. Aside from you, no one else has the strength to do it."
Aemond smiled. There was a trace of profound bitterness in that smile, but also a sense of grim relief.
"There is no right or wrong in this world. There is only the stance one takes."
He turned and walked down the slope. Morghul raised his massive head, licked the gore from his dark snout, and followed obediently behind his rider.
Every heavy step the black dragon took made the earth tremble slightly.
Hal watched the Prince's silhouette, then the towering silhouette of the black dragon, and a profound thought suddenly welled up in his heart.
Perhaps the Prince Regent truly is a monster.
But without that monster, street orphans like them would have died in the stinking gutters of Flea Bottom long ago.
Or worse, lived out their days in meaningless, grinding misery.