But Elwyn paused, considering another matter, and asked cautiously, "Your Highness, even if we suppress the remaining fleet at Driftmark, if we intend to land and occupy the two islands, we will still need sufficient troops for an amphibious assault…"
Aemond's violet eyes turned to Ser Willem Dutt, commander of the royal army.
"The landing will be dominated by the royal army."
All eyes shifted to Willem, who rose and inclined his head in acknowledgment to the prince.
He then turned to the Master of Coin, Tyland Lannister.
"Lord Tyland, by the authority of the king, summon all naval forces under House Redwyne stationed at the Iron Islands, the western port of Lannisport, and the bend of the river at the island of the Arbor."
"Command them to gather immediately and make ready in the Old City."
"Tell them the time has come to fulfill their vassal obligations."
Tyland frowned, speaking slowly. "Your Highness… summoning the vassal fleet… it takes time."
"The Iron Islands are distant from the Old City, and House Greyjoy may not be eager to comply. Furthermore, a mobilization of this scale—food, supplies, rewards—the cost would be astronomical. The treasury may…"
"Do not concern yourself with the treasury," Aemond interrupted, turning to the empty seat. "Lord Lyman will see to that."
"Oh… he is not yet here."
He paused, his gaze dropping toward the empty chair, violet eyes cold and indifferent.
"As for expenses, the royal family will cover them."
At that moment, the conference room doors burst open.
Lord Lyman Beesbury had finally arrived.
The elderly lord of the Hive at the river bend was well past sixty, white-haired, slightly stooped, and leaning on a cane. He had been Master of Coin under Viserys I. Slowly, he entered, scanning the chamber until his eyes rested on Aemond.
"I have heard," the old lord said, voice trembling with age, "that last night, Your Highness… you killed three sons of Princess Rhaenyra?"
Aemond turned toward him, calm as ever. "Lord Lyman, you have arrived just in time. We are discussing military expenditures."
"Military expenditures?" Beesbury hobbled toward his seat but did not sit, gripping his cane. "What military expenditures?"
"For a war that ought not exist?"
"Your Highness, your actions last night have brought the realm to the brink of civil war!"
"And yet you speak of military costs? You should speak of how to atone to Princess Rhaenyra and prevent further bloodshed!"
The room froze.
Queen Alicent closed her eyes. She knew what was coming. She knew her son too well—and she knew the old, stubborn Beesbury all too well.
Aemond was not angry. He even smiled.
"Lord Lyman, perhaps you did not hear what I just said," he said softly.
"They were three wild heirs who infiltrated the dragonpit to steal Targaryen dragons, set fire to it, and were killed on the spot."
"The end they deserved."
"Wild heirs?" Beesbury raised his voice, his canes thudding against the floor. "No matter what you call them, they were still the sons of Princess Rhaenyra! The grandsons of Your Majesty! Even if… even if they were guilty, they should have been judged and sentenced by His Majesty the King and the Imperial Council! Not executed by your hand alone! And you killed Joffrey, a child of only ten years!"
"A ten-year-old thief is still a thief," Aemond's voice was icy.
"And trial? They were caught in the act, the evidence is clear—what trial is needed?"
Beesbury's face reddened. "But I have heard… Jacaerys and Rhaena Riz killed him, and Joffrey was merely an accomplice and did not die!"
"He was complicit in the arson," Aemond cut in, tone impatient.
"One-third of the dragonpit was destroyed, over fifty dragon guards and attendants killed, many more wounded."
"Lord Lyman, under the laws of the realm, how many times must such a crime be committed to merit death?"
"That too must be judged by the Master of Laws! Decided by the Queen Regent! Not carried out in secret!" The old lord's face darkened with rage.
"Your Highness, you have overstepped! This is vigilante justice!"
"You have defied His Majesty, defied the Imperial Council, and committed a murder that ignited civil war without authorization."
"You know what that is called? Treason!"
"Moreover, it is shameful to kill your own kin, Your Highness," he roared.
All in the chamber held their breath.
Tyland Lannister lowered his head, pretending nothing had happened.
Grand Maester Orwyle's brow glistened with sweat.
Larys Strong's crooked smile widened, more meaningful than ever.
Ser Criston Cole's hand gripped the hilt of his sword.
Aemond remained silent for several seconds. Then he exhaled softly.
"Lord Lyman, you have served the realm for twenty years, diligently, and I respect you."
He paused. "But you are too old, too blind to see the situation clearly."
Beesbury glared at him, lips trembling with fury. "You—"
"Now, the realm needs not timid compromise, nor useless moral sermons. It needs a steel wrist, decisive action, and a way to make every enemy understand there is only one dead-end: opposing us."
"Enemy? Princess Rhaenyra—the princess of the realm! She is your sister!"
"From the moment she indulged the son who stole a dragon, she was no longer herself," Aemond said evenly, word by word.
"She is an enemy. An enemy to all Targaryens."
He stepped forward.
"Lord Lyman, I ask you once more: how much gold can the treasury muster to support a war?"
The old lord trembled with rage. "I will not give you a single coin!"
"Unless His Majesty Viserys personally commands it. I wish to see Your Majesty! I demand…!"
His words were cut short.
Hal moved.
The commander of Aemond's personal guard, who had stood silently behind him, stepped forward.
Hal seized the old lord's white hair in his large hand.
"What are you doing? Let go of me!"
The protests of the old lord became muffled grumbling.
Without hesitation, Hal slammed his head against the heavy oak table.
BANG! The first impact—the sound of frontal bone cracking.
BANG! The second—the bridge of the nose collapsed, blood spraying.
BANG! The third struck the back of the skull, dull as a melon dropped to stone.
Then Hal released him.
Lord Lyman Beesbury's body slumped to the floor, lifeless, his face unrecognizable, blood gushing from the shattered skull.
A deathly silence fell across the chamber.
Queen Alicent covered her mouth.
Prince Aegon sprang to his feet, chair scraping behind him, a sharp shriek tearing through the air. Pale, he stared at the bloodied floor and the old master who had been speaking so freely only moments before, his belly heaving in near nausea.
Tyland Lannister's lips pressed tightly.
Grand Maester Orwyle went pale.
Ser Elwyn Redwyne watched silently.
Lord Jasper Wylde closed his eyes.
Ser Willem Dutt remained composed.
Only Larys Strong, the crooked man, smiled even wider.