At that moment, the Kingsguard slowly released both men, though they remained alert, hands never straying far from their weapons.
Daemon shook out his arm, bent to retrieve Dark Sister, and slid the blade back into its scabbard.
Throughout the entire motion, he did not spare the Kingsguard a single glance—his eyes never left Aemond.
Seeing that the hall was finally under control, Viserys sank back into the Iron Throne.
"Vaemond Velaryon…" the king said heavily.
"Blasphemy against the heir to the Iron Throne. Slander of the royal house. Contempt for the Iron Throne itself. His crimes are unforgivable."
His gaze slowly shifted to Aemond.
There was only disappointment in it now.
"Aemond."
The prince's name rasped from the king's throat.
"Since you were so eager to spare his life… then you shall be the one to carry out his sentence with your own hands."
"You would not disobey my command, would you?"
Violet eyes met his father's gaze—steady, unflinching, without a trace of hesitation.
After a long moment, Aemond inclined his head.
"As you wish, Your Grace."
Ser Criston Cole stepped forward and offered a sword with both hands.
Aemond took it—a standard knight's longsword, finely forged steel, leather-wrapped grip.
He turned toward Vaemond.
The old man was being held down by guards, forced to his knees in the center of the hall.
He lifted his head and looked at the approaching prince.
There was no fear on his aged face—only a calm settled like dust.
"Thank you, Prince," Vaemond said quietly, so softly that only the two of them could hear.
"At least… for this."
Aemond did not reply.
He stepped three paces behind the old man and stopped, gripping the sword in both hands, its tip resting against the floor.
"Wait."
Aemond spoke suddenly.
A ripple of shock passed through the hall.
Viserys frowned.
Aemond looked down at Vaemond and spoke, following the formal rites of execution.
Vaemond slowly opened his eyes and studied the prince.
Then he smiled.
Relief. Gratitude. Sorrow.
Raising his voice so that the entire hall could hear, he declared:
"Lords of the Seven Kingdoms—remember this day!"
"It is not Aemond Targaryen who kills me!"
He turned his head toward the throne.
"It is the favoritism of the king upon the Iron Throne!"
"It is the shameless whore who dares call herself heir!"
"I, Vaemond Velaryon, may die today—"
"But Velaryon honor shall not die!"
"The laws of the Seven Kingdoms shall not die!"
"You may kill me today!"
"You may silence every mouth!"
He drew a deep breath, chest rising, filling his lungs with air one last time.
He said no more.
His gaze passed over the watching nobles.
Viserys stared at him, pale as bone.
Alicent covered Helaena's eyes, her shoulders shaking violently.
Aemond spoke.
"In the name of His Grace Viserys I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—"
"I sentence you to death."
A pause.
"Charges: slander, gross disrespect, and contempt for the Iron Throne."
He inhaled once.
"Carry it out."
Aemond's arm moved.
Steel flashed like lightning.
Thump.
The sound of blade biting through flesh and bone was clean and absolute.
The head separated from the neck.
It struck the floor, rolled once, and came to rest in a spreading pool of blood.
Silver hair.
Face up.
Eyes still open.
The headless body remained upright for two heartbeats—
Then blood erupted from the severed neck like a fountain, spraying a crimson mist several feet high.
The corpse pitched forward and collapsed onto the carpet with a dull, heavy sound.
Blood gurgled and spread, pooling outward in a widening dark-red stain.
The Throne Room fell into absolute silence.
Only the soft sound of blood flowing and the stifled breathing of nobles could be heard.
Aemond's face, neck, and armor were splashed with warm, sticky crimson.
A strand of silver hair clung to his cheek, soaked through with blood.
He did not wipe it away.
He slowly lifted his head and looked toward the Iron Throne.
"Is that sufficient, Your Grace?"
After a long moment, Viserys gave a slow nod.
"Is there anyone else," the king said hoarsely,
"who wishes to question the heir? To slander the royal house?"
Silence.
Then—
Without anger or fear, only the calm of martyrs, several Velaryons stepped forward.
They shoved aside kin who tried to restrain them, walked to the edge of the blood pool, and stood beside Vaemond's headless body.
Their leader bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, what Ser Vaemond spoke was the truth."
"We are willing to stake our lives upon it."
Viserys closed his eyes and leaned back against the throne, murmuring softly—half regret, half helplessness:
"Seven save me… what evil have you brought into this world…"
When he opened his eyes again, only cold exhaustion remained.
"And you."
His gaze fell upon Aemond once more, complicated and heavy.
"Aemond Targaryen… disobedience of royal command. Drawing steel in the Throne Room. Raising a blade against kin…"
He paused, searching for the words.
At last, he waved his hand.
"Confine him. The dungeons of the Red Keep. Solitary confinement. No visitors without my command."
A guard stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt—hesitating, for the man before him was still a prince.
Aemond casually dropped the blood-soaked longsword to the floor.
Clang.
The sound rang sharp in the dead silence.
"I will go on my own."
He turned away without another glance at the guards and walked straight toward the corridor doors, leaving dark crimson footprints across the blood-slick floor.
Wherever he passed, nobles stepped aside, staring at the bloodied prince with eyes full of conflicted awe and fear.
"Prince…"
Prince Aemond Targaryen had defended the man who spoke the truth—
and at the very least, had granted him the dignity of dying as a noble.