In King's Landing, within the godswood of the Red Keep.
Sunlight spilled across the castle gardens, making the flowers and greenery appear especially vibrant.
Aemond stood in an open clearing, a longbow in his hands.
The bow was pure white, gleaming like ivory, though a closer look revealed strange dark patterns hidden within that sheen.
It was about four feet long. Whenever the string was drawn, it produced a low humming sound.
This was one of House Targaryen's treasured heirlooms.
A bow crafted from dragonbone.
Legend claimed that one of the Targaryen ancestors had personally used it to slay a rival dragon hatchling, though that was likely no more than a tale.
Aemond drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and pulled back the string.
The bow was incredibly stiff. An ordinary man would never have been able to draw it, but he did so with ease.
His eyes fixed on a target a hundred paces away, painted with the outline of a human figure.
Whoosh!
The arrow tore through the air and struck dead center.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Nine more arrows followed in rapid succession.
Every single one hit the bullseye.
Ten arrows stood neatly embedded in the target, forming a perfect circle.
"Excellent!" Lord Ormund Hightower applauded from the side. "Your Grace's marksmanship is unmatched!"
"With skill like that, there isn't a second archer in all Seven Kingdoms who could compare!"
Aemond lowered the bow and glanced at him with a faint smile.
"Archery is merely a minor art," he said. "Draw, release, and that's all there is to it."
He took another arrow and set it to the string.
Then he suddenly looked up at the sky.
High above, a hawk was circling.
Aemond narrowed his eye.
Whoosh!
The arrow shot skyward like a streak of light.
The hawk didn't even have time to react before the shaft pierced straight through it.
The bird dropped from the sky and crashed onto an open patch of ground near the Red Keep.
It twitched twice before falling still.
Alyn immediately led several men over to retrieve the Prince Regent's trophy.
The onlookers fell silent.
The smile froze on Lord Ormund's face.
He looked at the dead hawk, then at Aemond, and felt a chill run through him.
Hitting a target at a hundred paces ten times in a row was already extraordinary.
But casually shooting down a hawk in flight...
A short while later, Alyn returned carrying the dead bird.
Aemond handed the bow to him and walked over to the hawk.
He stood there looking down at it.
Sunlight bathed him as his silver hair drifted gently in the breeze. The reflection of the dead hawk lingered within his violet eye.
"It is like the Vale," Aemond suddenly said.
Lord Ormund blinked.
"Your Grace means...?"
Aemond lifted his head and looked at him.
"Those disloyal subjects in the Vale should end up just like this hawk."
Understanding dawned on Ormund at once.
"Your Grace speaks truly!"
"Lady Jeyne supports the pretender Queen Rhaenyra and seeks to oppose the Iron Throne by force."
"She's courting death."
Aemond let out a cold laugh.
"The knights of the Vale are well trained."
"A pity they choose to serve a pretender."
Beside him, Alyn quickly handed over a clean white cloth for him to wipe his hands.
"And the Riverlands?" Ormund asked cautiously.
Aemond wiped his hands and tossed the cloth back to Alyn.
"A pack of fence-sitters."
"When the royal host marches against them, not one of those traitors will escape."
"And the North..."
"The North?" Aemond cut him off, a cold smile curling his lips.
"Those First Men are barbarians at heart."
"They may have their reasons, but they have still risen in rebellion."
"I've heard they've slaughtered more than a dozen villages."
"The dead were all smallfolk of the Westerlands."
He looked at Ormund.
"Do you think the proud Lord Lannister..."
"...will simply let that go?"
Ormund frowned.
"Your Grace, speaking of Lord Jason, I was actually about to report something."
"According to the latest information, he did not follow your orders and march through Deep Den. Instead, he—"
"I know," Aemond said dismissively.
Ormund fell silent.
Aemond looked up at the sky.
Lothorne was circling overhead, letting out deep roars that echoed through the godswood.
"If he wants to die, then let him die," Aemond said.
Ormund's heartbeat skipped.
"Your Grace means...?"
"I've already given my instructions."
Aemond's voice remained calm.
"If a Lannister wishes to choose his own road, that is his freedom."
"If a Lannister wishes to play the lion, then let him."
"But a true dragon has no reason to care what a lion thinks."
After a moment of silence, Ormund asked carefully: "But Your Grace, what if Lord Jason truly is defeated by the Northerners? Then the armies of the Westerlands..."
"Then let them be defeated," Aemond interrupted.
"Only after defeat will they understand who can truly save them."
"Only after defeat will they learn to obey."
He brushed a bit of dust from his clothes and started walking toward the other side of the garden.
Ormund followed behind him, his thoughts in turmoil.
He had expected the Prince Regent to be furious.
To rage.
To order Jason Lannister punished.
But Aemond had done none of those things.
He was simply waiting.
Waiting for the Lannisters to smash themselves bloody against a wall and come crawling back to him for help.
Yet Ormund was more convinced than ever that such confidence could only mean one thing: the Blacks no longer had anyone capable of truly challenging Aemond.
Ever since Rhaenys's death, Aemond no longer seemed to regard the Blacks as a threat in dragon warfare.
On the other side of the garden, Queen Dowager Alicent was sitting with Helaena and Lady Margery.
Helaena's belly had grown quite large. Seated in a cushioned chair, she wore a gentle smile.
Alicent sat beside her, holding her hand and speaking softly.
Lady Margery sat nearby with Lyonel in her arms.
A respectful smile rested on her face, but a trace of worry remained hidden in her eyes.
Aemond walked over. Helaena looked up at him and smiled.
"Finished with your work?"
Aemond nodded. Sitting down beside her, he gently rested a hand on her stomach.
Her belly was round and full, sheltering two little lives within.
"How are you feeling today?" he asked.
"Very well," Helaena replied. "I can tell both of them are healthy."
A warm smile appeared on Aemond's face as he looked at her.
Alicent watched him, watched the tenderness between him and Helaena, and felt a complicated emotion rise in her heart.
This son of hers had now become the pillar of the entire family.
"Aemond," she said softly, "have you thought of names for the children yet?"
Aemond considered it for a moment.
"If it's a boy and a girl, the boy will be named Aegon and the girl Visenya."
"And if they're both boys..."
He paused and glanced at Helaena.
Helaena smiled.
"If they're both girls, then you can choose."
Aemond laughed as well.
"...Let's leave that until the time comes."
Lady Margery sat quietly nearby, watching the scene with lowered eyes. Her feelings were mixed.
This Prince Regent...
A kinslayer.
A cold and ruthless man.
Yet before his wife, he seemed like an entirely different person.
Perhaps this was another side of him.
Capable of tenderness.
Capable of cruelty.
Capable of love.
Capable of killing.
That was the most frightening kind of person.
...
King's Landing — Flea Bottom.
Dusk gradually settled over the city.
The streets of Flea Bottom were littered with garbage and foul water, the air thick with a pungent stench.
Beggars huddled in corners.
Whores stood in doorways calling for customers.
Thieves slipped through the crowds.
This was the filthiest and most chaotic part of King's Landing, a gathering place for the city's poor.
Yet today, inside a large building on Ragman's Lane in Flea Bottom—
A crowd had gathered around a crude wooden platform.
An old man stood atop it.
He wore ragged robes. His hair and beard were a tangled mess, his face deeply lined with wrinkles, yet his amber eyes burned with startling intensity.
He was the Shepherd.
No one knew his real name.
No one knew where he had come from.
All anyone knew was that a year ago he had suddenly appeared in Flea Bottom and begun preaching in the streets, claiming to speak on behalf of the Seven.
Some of what he said sounded like the ramblings of a madman.
Yet for some reason, his words always managed to touch the hearts of the poor.
"Brothers and sisters!" the Shepherd shouted in a hoarse but powerful voice.
"Do you know?"
"The Seven are watching us!"
"They have seen our suffering, our hunger, our tears!"
A wave of quiet sobbing rose from the crowd.
"And what about those who live in the Red Keep?" the Shepherd continued.
"Those Targaryens! Do they care about us?"
"No! They spend their lives flying in the sky!"
"They are forever above us!"
"Forever looking down on us!"
"They know nothing of the lives we live!"
"They don't give us food!" a gaunt man shouted.
"That's right!" The Shepherd pointed at him.
"These Targaryens are invaders!"
"They are neither First Men, nor Andals, nor Rhoynar!"
"They are outsiders!"
"Valyrians!"
"These Targaryens!"
"They do not follow the laws of the Seven!"
"Murder! Kinslaying! Ince—"
He abruptly stopped himself.
"They ride dragons and place themselves above all others!"
"They see themselves as gods!"
"Always looking down on everyone beneath them!"
"They are devourers!"
"Just like their monstrous dragons!"
"They have never cared for ants like us..."
Among the crowd, a man in black robes watched silently.
Krytt.
Wrapped in a dark cloak that revealed only his eyes, he observed the mad old preacher on the platform and the fanatical crowd below.
His emotions were complicated.
The Shepherd truly had some skill.
He could completely captivate the poor.
Some of what he said was madness.
But some of it...
Struck directly at the heart.
King's Landing was beginning to starve.
And hunger was the finest fuel of all.
Give people enough fuel, and even the most rational person could become a madman.
Krytt quietly slipped away from the crowd and entered a dark alley.
Several men were waiting there, all of them his subordinates.
"My lord," one of them said in a low voice, "that old fool is getting more and more extreme. Should we..."
Krytt shook his head.
"No."
"Let them continue."
The man looked at him in confusion.
"But my lord, what if they truly rise in rebellion?"
"It doesn't matter," Krytt replied.
The man froze.
"Let them believe victory is already within their grasp..."
He left the sentence unfinished.
Krytt let out a sigh and turned, disappearing into the darkness.
He thought of those fanatical faces.
The poor shouting slogans.
The mad old preacher.
He could not help but shake his head.
They were facing enemies who had been prepared for this all along.
What the Prince Regent wanted was not merely a purge...
It was a massacre.
In the distance, from a window high in the sept overlooking Flea Bottom, Septon Owen stood watching the district below.
"Septon Owen," one of the younger septons beside him asked cautiously, "that Shepherd... isn't he taking things too far?"
"He's twisting the teachings of the Seven. He's a madman. We should—"
Septon Owen smiled faintly and cut him off.
"Mad?"
"The madder he becomes, the better."
The younger septon looked at him in confusion.
Gazing toward the distant firelight, Owen murmured: "Only a madman can fight another madman."
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