In an instant, the quick-witted Ulf understood Hugh's meaning.
He raised his head and looked at everyone present, a mad light blazing in his eyes.
"The Volantenes said so! The Blacks are no longer of use! Queen Rhaenys and the Red Queen Meleys are dead! How much longer can Queen Rhaenyra hold out? Following her leads only to death! But Volantis is different! They have hundreds of thousands of soldiers, wealth, and half the eastern continent! If you take refuge with them, you can become a noble, have power, and enjoy glory and riches!"
The more he spoke, the more excited he became. He stood and pointed at the officers present. "You too! You are all bastards too! What has the queen given you? A few dozen silver coins a month? What kind of life is that? Take refuge with Volantis! They said that if you take refuge with them, every bastard can become a noble of the Black Wall! A real noble! No longer the type of bastard looked down upon by others!"
Dead silence fell over the banquet hall.
Ser Simon's face went pale. Enraged, he gripped his sword hilt; his knuckles cracked audibly. The bastard officers loyal to Rhaenyra grew angry one by one, eager to rush forward and tear Ulf apart. There were also some bastard officers who watched Ulf speak in silence. Hugh and those who followed him carefully observed the expressions of everyone present.
"You... you..." Simon was so angry he could not speak.
Hugh sighed and shook his head. "Ulf, Ulf, I wanted to give you a chance to confess and repent. I did not expect you to remain unrepentant, and dare to confuse the public."
He turned to Simon. "Ser, this man cannot be kept. Let me do it. After all, he is from our guard."
Simon, still burning with rage, nodded.
Hugh approached Ulf and placed his hand on his sword hilt. Ulf looked at him; a silent understanding flickered in his eyes, one that only they two could share.
Then Hugh drew his sword.
The blade flashed.
But the blade did not cut Ulf.
It struck Simon Velaryon behind him.
Ser Simon's eyes went wide. Before he could react, the Valyrian steel sword had already pierced his chest. All he saw was that it was an exquisite sword with a rippled pattern characteristic of Valyrian steel.
A bastard? How could a bastard possess a Valyrian steel sword?
Blood gushed out, splattering Hugh's face. Simon looked at the sword in his chest, his eyes full of disbelief.
"You..."
Hugh twisted the blade; it moved inside him. Simon's body convulsed several times before going limp.
At that moment, chaos erupted throughout the hall.
The bastards who followed Hugh, men in chainmail beneath their robes, began drawing their swords and cutting down the Velaryon officers beside them. All these officers had come to the banquet unarmored; caught off guard, they fell one by one.
"What are you doing!" "Traitor!" "Ah!"
Cries, curses, and the sound of swords piercing flesh mingled together. Blood sprayed, staining the roast suckling pig on the long table, the colored tiles on the floor, and the still-twitching corpses.
A young bastard officer loyal to Rhaenyra was cut in the neck; blood spurted more than a foot. He clutched his neck, making clucking sounds, his eyes full of grief and reluctance. He tried to rise, but another sword thrust through and pierced his heart.
"Hugh... you... you traitor..." He fell to the ground, dead.
Another officer was surrounded by three bastards and stabbed with seven or eight bloody holes. He fell into a pool of blood, still cursing. "Hugh! You will burn in the seven hells! The queen will not let you go! The prince will not let you go!"
Hugh ignored them.
He walked to Simon's body, seized his silver hair, and abruptly cut off his head. He held the bloody head high; Simon's blue eyes were still open, as if dead but still watching.
"These men betrayed Queen Rhaenyra!" Hugh roared. "They tried to kill Prince Lucerys! Their crimes deserve death!"
The killing continued in the hall.
Some of the bastard officers loyal to Rhaenyra tried to resist, but they were unarmed and were cut down alive. Some tried to flee, but the door was blocked; there was no escape. Hugh's men showed no mercy—sword after sword.
A few minutes later, silence fell over the banquet hall.
More than twenty corpses lay on the ground; blood flowed in streams, meandering across the floor. The air was thick with the strong smell of blood, sickening.
Hugh held Simon's head and surveyed the banquet hall.
Only one man remained alive besides his own bastard sons—the deputy commander of the Velaryon garrison, Amon Celtigar.
Amon was a fat man of about forty, with two mustaches, wearing a splendid satin robe. He was a younger brother of the Celtigar lord's family, and had attained his position through nepotism. He usually knew how to eat, drink, and be merry, but possessed no real ability. Now he cowered in a chair, trembling all over; his pants were already wet from his terror-soaked urine.
"This... what... what..." he stammered, his eyes wide as he looked at the corpses on the ground and the head in Hugh's hand, still dripping blood.
"You... you killed Ser Simon... you... you..."
Hugh approached him with the head and looked down at him.
Blood dripped from the head onto Amon's robe and his fat thighs. Amon screamed and nearly fainted.
Hugh extended his bloody hand and patted Amon's fat face.
Pat, pat, pat.
With each pat, Amon's body convulsed.
"Lord Amon," Hugh said with a smile. "Ser Simon and these officers conspired with the Volantenes to betray the queen and the prince. I have executed them."
Amon stared at him in horror, his lips trembling, unable to speak.
"Now," Hugh said, "I need your support."
Amon was stunned, then finally understood!
This was a coup! That bastard Hugh had staged a coup!
"You... you..." He was already terrified; he wanted to say something, but could not utter a word.
Hugh's face darkened. "What? Is Lord Amon also wanting to be a traitor?"
He paused, leaned close to Amon's ear, and lowered his voice.
"I heard that your family was also brought from Westeros to settle here. You have a good pair of children and a beautiful wife... Tsk tsk, what a pity. If you insist on supporting a traitor..."
Amon's face changed completely.
He thought of his wife—the daughter of a minor noble, gentle and virtuous, just over thirty. He thought of his son—eight years old, clever and bright, the apple of his eye. He thought of his daughter—six years old, his little girl, who pestered him all day to tell her stories.
If they all were to die...
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