At this very moment, Aemon collapsed with a heavy thud, his knees striking the floor as he kowtowed like a man possessed.
"No, no, no! I am loyal to the Queen!"
"I am loyal to the Prince!"
"Ser Simon and the others deserved to die! They deserved it!"
Seeing the man yield, a wave of relief washed over Hugh.
Without Aemon, this gamble would have been nearly impossible to execute.
He had absolutely no intention of following the original scheme to let the Volantene army into the city; he intended to seize it for himself.
He knew all too well that once the Volantenes breached the gates, he would be reduced to nothing.
Even the Principality of Myr, which they had promised would remain a phantom.
Only if he controlled Tyrosh himself...
Controlled Sara...
Controlled Vermithor...
Only then could he forge himself into a power that could never be ignored.
Hugh nodded with dark satisfaction, reaching down to personally haul the trembling man to his feet.
"Lord Aemon truly understands the greater good."
Aemon stood, his legs quaking and his breeches a soggy mess, though terror had stripped him of any shame.
Hugh surveyed the surviving bastards, about thirty men in total.
Half were his sworn confidants; the rest had just been forced into the slaughter at swordpoint.
These coerced men stood covered in the blood of their former comrades, their faces pallid masks of terror and bewilderment.
Hugh's gaze swept over them, his voice heavy with newfound authority.
"Clean up these bodies."
The bastards hesitated for a fraction of a second before scrambling to drag the corpses into the shadows.
Hugh turned his attention back to Aemon.
"Lord Aemon, I need you to do something."
"My Lord! Anything, just say it!" Aemon nodded frantically.
"Assemble the five hundred elite Velaryon troops," Hugh commanded.
"Have them gather at the training grounds, unarmored. Tell them... tell them Prince Lucerys appreciates their hard work and wishes to distribute a heavy bounty."
"Yes, yes, I'll go right now," Aemon stammered, nodding repeatedly.
"And," Hugh continued, "have the newly recruited Tyroshi levies fully armed and waiting in ambush around the perimeter. Once I give the order, those five hundred Velaryon men..."
He drew a finger slowly across his throat.
Aemon's face blanched anew, but he dared not utter a single word of protest, only nodding in desperate submission.
"Go." Hugh waved a dismissive hand, nodding to the six loyal bastards flanking him.
They immediately stepped forward to escort Aemon out.
Hugh turned back to the men clearing the dead.
A few who had not raised their blades during the slaughter stood huddled in the corner, their expressions a conflicted mess of guilt and fear.
They were not originally Hugh's men, and the brutal massacre had left them profoundly shaken.
"Come here," Hugh ordered.
The silent men approached with trembling steps.
Hugh looked them over and spoke with blunt edge.
"You didn't raise a single sword during the killing just now."
The men's expressions shifted nervously.
"I know exactly what you're thinking," Hugh said.
"You think I'm a traitor. A man of broken faith. You think I deserve to die. Right?"
No one dared to speak.
Hugh sneered.
"Do you know what would happen to us if I didn't act?"
He pointed a blood-stained finger at the corpses on the floor.
"These men died loyal to the Queen and the Prince. But what could the Queen and the Prince actually give them? When this war is over, they'll still be bastards."
"They'll still be looked down upon as gutter whelps. Didn't you see the way those pure-blooded Velaryons looked at us? That old man Simon spoke polite words, but did you not know the disgust festering in his heart?"
Hugh paused, his voice turning darkly persuasive.
"We work ourselves to the bone, fight for the Queen, bleed for her Prince, and what do we get in the end? Absolutely nothing! But if we take matters into our own hands, everything changes!"
"Tyrosh, six thousand troops, and two massive dragons will be firmly in our grasp! If we play our cards right, we become the masters of our own fate! We can force every highborn lord who ever looked down on us to kneel at our boots!"
He locked eyes with the hesitant bastards, his gaze as sharp as the Valyrian steel at his hip.
"Now, I am asking you one last time. Are you with me, or do you die with them?"
The bastards exchanged a terrified look before slowly dropping to their knees.
"We are ready to die for you, My Lord."
Hugh smiled with dark satisfaction.
Just then, a voice rang out, shattering the tension.
"Hugh, what do we do next?"
Hugh turned to see Ulf standing beside him, wearing a fawning, oblivious smile.
Hugh's own smile retracted slightly.
'Hugh?'
Ulf shifted uneasily beneath the cold stare and asked cautiously, "Hugh?"
Hugh stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly raised his hand and delivered a brutal backhand across his face.
Smack!
Ulf stumbled, clutching his stinging cheek in complete confusion.
"What... what did you just call me?" Hugh asked dangerously.
Ulf stammered, "Hugh?"
Another ruthless slap followed.
Smack!
"Say it again."
Ulf was on the verge of tears. Hugh had never treated him like this before.
Hugh stood tall, his expression swelling with arrogant pride.
"In the past, you called me by my name. But now! You dense bastard! What the hell should you be calling me?"
Ulf finally caught on.
A desperate spark of realization hit him, and he collapsed to his knees, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Your Majesty! King of Tyrosh!"
The surrounding bastards blinked in stunned surprise, then quickly followed suit, kneeling amidst the blood and shouting in unison:
"Your Majesty!"
"King of Tyrosh!"
"King Hugh!"
Hugh threw his head back and roared with laughter, his voice echoing through the blood-stained hall with an eerie, triumphant quality.
Near the doors, the departing Aemon was startled by the display.
Realizing the shifting winds, the fat lord quickly fell to his knees as well, his trembling voice joining the chorus.
"Long live King Hugh!"
Hugh laughed even louder, drinking in the adulation.
After Aemon was finally escorted out, Hugh ordered several heavy iron chests to be hauled into the room.
The lids were thrown back, revealing a mountain of gold coins.
The shimmering golden light reflected off the blood pooling across the banquet hall.
"This," Hugh declared, pointing a meaty finger at the gold, "is from the Volantenes. Once we control Tyrosh and join forces with Volantis, every last one of us can become a Black Wall noble. We will enjoy endless glory and wealth."
A greedy hunger lit up the eyes of every bastard in the room.
Hugh nodded with satisfaction and immediately began assigning the bloody work.
"Ulf, take a few loyal men and kill Nettles."
Ulf froze. "Nettles? That ugly girl?"
"Yes," Hugh said coldly.
"Kill her, and Sheepstealer becomes a riderless beast. If you can mount him, the dragon is yours."
Ulf's eyes instantly lit up like burning lamps.
"Really? Your Majesty? Is what you say true?"
Hugh patted his shoulder with a heavy hand.
"Ulf, when have I ever lied to you?"
Ulf trembled with sheer excitement. He desperately wanted to ride a dragon; he dreamed of the power every single night.
Now that the opportunity was laid right in front of him, how could he possibly let it pass?
"Rest easy, Your Majesty!"
He kowtowed heavily against the floor.
"I'm going right now!"
Grabbing several armed men, he hurried out into the night.
Hugh watched his retreating, a cold sneer touching his lips. Ulf was greedy, stupid, and utterly devoid of foresight.
Leaving the fool alive would undoubtedly invite disaster sooner or later, but he was a useful weapon for tonight.
Once the dust finally settled...
Hugh withdrew his gaze and turned to his remaining cutthroats.
"The rest of you, follow me into the castle. We must secure the Prince and the two Princesses."