Hal understood.
He waved his hand, and several of the Boys' Army soldiers stepped forward, carrying bundles of long and short sticks.
"Ten men per group," Hal announced loudly. "Whoever draws the short stick dies. The survivors will be escorted to Moonspire and build roads for the Crown for three years to atone for their crimes!"
The prisoners were in turmoil. One in ten dying by lottery—was that merciful punishment? But no one dared resist. The Boys' Army soldiers had already begun dividing them into groups of ten and forcing them to draw lots.
Cries, wails, and pleas for mercy rang out. Some tried to flee and were killed on the spot. Some knelt on the ground, kowtowing and begging for mercy, only to be dragged away forcibly.
Those who drew lots divided into two groups: one group drew long sticks—they collapsed to the ground, gasping, unable to believe they had survived; the other group drew short sticks—some wept, some screamed, some stood in silence, awaiting the final judgment of fate.
When all the groups were assembled, Hal walked to the edge of the high slope and looked down.
"Drop the sticks," he said.
The Boys' Army soldiers tossed bundles of sticks before the groups that had drawn the short sticks. The groups looked at the sticks, not understanding what to do.
"What are you staring at?" Hal's voice was cold as iron. "Let the other nine of you do it! Use the wooden sticks in your hands to beat them to death with your own hands!"
Dead silence.
Then even more anguished wailing broke out.
"No! I can't! He's my fellow countryman! We're friends! Friends who grew up together! Please! Just kill me! Don't make me die like this!"
But those who drew long sticks had no choice.
They were pushed forward, forced to take wooden sticks and face their comrades-in-arms, their fellow villagers, their friends—those who had stood beside them until moments ago.
The first man did it.
A dull thud of a stick striking a head, then a scream, then the sound of a body falling to the ground.
Then came the second, the third, the fourth...
The smell of blood spread.
Lothron excitedly shifted his body, watching those being beaten to death, drooling. He loved fresh meat and blood, and the texture of chewing. But these people had been too badly beaten; what a pity that good meat had turned to pulp.
Finally, the last man fell.
Those who had drawn long sticks dropped their sticks and trembled. Some had blood on their hands, some on their faces, and some stood motionless, as if stunned.
Hal waved his hand. "Take them away."
The surviving prisoners were led away. They would be sent to Moonspire, to three years of hard labor—building roads, mining, doing all sorts of dirty work. If they survived three years, perhaps they would be freed.
---
Lothron finally got his meal.
He lunged at the corpses, opened his bloodstained mouth, and prepared to roast them. But he soon stopped in disgust—the corpses had been beaten so badly that there was no pleasure in biting them. He roared in dissatisfaction, but in the end lowered his head and continued eating.
Better than nothing.
The surrounding soldiers stepped back. No one wanted to watch a dragon eat; the sound of crunching bones and the bloody scene would give people nightmares for days.
On the high slope, only Aemond, Hal, and the black dragon remained.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The sound of bones being crushed.
Hal stood beside Aemond, his face unchanged. He was used to it. From the very beginning of the Boys' Army, he had been used to it. One-in-eleven was just one of the rules. Forming a team, sitting together—these rules were set by Aemond himself. This rule terrified the entire Boys' Army.
Aemond looked into the distance, his expression blank.
"Next," he said slowly. "You, Galwyn, William, and the others will lead the Royal Army to attack Tumbleton."
Hal was stunned for a moment. "My lord, what about His Grace? His Grace's current condition, and his dragon..."
"I will leave Ser Criston Cole to care for His Grace. I have sent men to find a cave in the forest to hide Aegon the Second and his dragon. When His Grace recovers, I will send someone to escort him back to King's Landing."
Hal nodded. The arrangement was reasonable. Aegon was grievously wounded and not healed; Sunfyre was also dying—neither fit to continue marching. It was best to stay in a safe cave to recover.
"And you, my lord?" he asked.
A smile appeared on Aemond's lips.
"I am going to kill Daemon."
Hal was stunned. "My lord! Daemon is on Dragonstone! That's the Blacks' stronghold—you're going alone..."
"He won't stay on Dragonstone forever," Aemond interrupted. "Silverwing has returned to Dragonstone. They will attack the Hightower army. He wants to kill Daeron."
Aemond smiled slightly and continued.
"I know my uncle. He will do it..."
Hal looked at Aemond in amazement. He understood. Aemond was using his brother Daeron as bait to set a trap... Let Daeron take Tessarion and go with the twenty-six thousand Hightower soldiers.
"So Prince Daeron knows?" Hal asked quietly.
Aemond did not answer.
Hal stopped asking. He knew the answer.
"How is the Boys' Army doing now?" Aemond changed the subject.
Hal gathered himself and answered seriously. "Currently eight hundred men. I've also taken in some good soldiers from the Crown's army."
Aemond shook his head. "Not enough. I give you the authority to increase the number to two thousand."
Two thousand? Hal was somewhat surprised. The current Boys' Army was not small—eight hundred men, all elites. Expanding to two thousand...
"I don't want men who are not up to standard," Aemond looked at him with a serious gaze. "You are my hard work. Like you, Hal—you three are my years of labor. This unit will also be the best equipped in the future."
Hal nodded heavily. "My lord, don't worry. I will do it."
Aemond was silent. He had created this Boys' Army to establish two praetorian-like forces for the Targaryens. One composed of noble children, one of commoners—the two sides naturally opposed each other due to their status. But they would also be steadfast royalists. He did not want to end up in a situation like the Roman Praetorian Guard, holding sole power. This military system was more inclined to a Northern and Southern Army system, allowing them to check each other and play a role in protecting the Targaryens.
Aemond turned and looked at Lothron eating in the distance. The black dragon had already consumed part of the corpses.
"Hal," he suddenly said.
"Yes."
"Do you think I'm a monster?"
Hal was stunned for a moment, not knowing how to answer.
Aemond didn't wait for an answer and continued speaking to himself. "I've killed so many people. My hands are stained with the blood of so many."
He turned his head and looked at Hal. "But I don't regret it. Do you know, Hal? I've never regretted it."
Hal was silent for a moment, then said, "My lord, what you are doing—it's what you have to do. No one else could..."
Aemond smiled. In that smile there was a hint of bitterness and a trace of relief.
"There is no right or wrong, only position."
He turned and walked down the slope.
Lothron raised his head, licked the blood from the corner of his mouth, and followed him. Lothron's every step made the ground tremble slightly.
Hal watched his back, watched the figure of the black dragon, and a thought suddenly flooded his heart.
Perhaps the Regent truly is a monster. But without this monster, those orphans would have died in the stinking gutters of Flea Bottom. Or lived in a daze.
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