Viserys raised the amber-colored turtle shell high above his head.
So far, aside from summoning this ghost fleet, Garin had not displayed any other power. Viserys had no idea how strong this shroud-wrapped king truly was.
As he drew closer to Garin's flagship, he realized that the deck was completely empty.
When Garin saw the turtle shell in Viserys's hand, a rope ladder was suddenly lowered from the ship.
The ladder, as thick as a wrist, dropped just far enough to reach the water.
Two fist-sized knots at its end brushed the surface, sending ripples spreading outward.
Viserys tucked the turtle shell into his chest and slung the Prince's Spear across his back.
At this moment, he regarded both items as his lifelines.
Even though his gloves spared him from directly touching the soaked ladder, the sensation still seeped through the leather.
Soft and swollen, like flesh that had rotted after long immersion.
Arthur, who remained on the boat, worried that the waterlogged ladder might snap at any moment. He kept one arm half-raised, ready to catch Viserys if he fell.
After a minute or two, Viserys stepped onto the empty deck.
He looked up.
Garin, his face ashen, was staring straight at him.
They stood less than three meters apart, Garin's eyes locked onto Viserys's silver hair.
"So you are still a descendant of the Dragonlords. I will put you in a golden cage. Say what you want to say—quickly."
Viserys's heart tightened.
At the same moment, the sound of rigging creaking filled the air, and a golden cage tangled with seaweed was hoisted up beside the mast.
Truly, trees felled by ancestors left their descendants exposed to the sun.
Viserys remembered that the war between the Valyrians and the Rhoynar had been called the Spice War.
Beyond competing for spice routes, it had also been driven by Valyria's hunger for slaves.
Thus the two sides colluded—Volantis bullying smaller powers to fabricate a casus belli, then Valyria sending dragons to wage war on the Rhoynar.
"You are Prince Garin, aren't you?" Viserys asked.
Garin did not answer, which was answer enough.
"You should know that Valyria has already fallen," Viserys continued.
Then he asked, "Prince Garin, if you kill me, will you let my men leave?"
He neither begged nor bargained.
Instead, he accepted that he would enter the golden cage and made his condition.
Viserys's words clearly caught the prince—who had fermented in hatred for over a thousand years—off guard.
Garin had not expected this young descendant of dragonlords to make such a request.
Only then did he truly notice how young Viserys was—absurdly young. One might have thought him a child who had run away from home.
"You are really willing to die for them?" Garin asked.
"That depends on what you think my life is worth compared to theirs."
Though Viserys carried Rhoynar blood as well, House Targaryen still regarded itself as Valyria's heir.
There was no point in soft words now.
The situation was clear: until he defeated this so-called Prince Garin, Garin would not listen.
As he spoke, Viserys quietly sensed the strength of Garin's magic.
Ever since learning of divine sparks and divine seats, he had pondered one question. Could his own advantage seize such things as well?
After all, a divine spark and a divine seat were like a person's essence—condensed from life and time.
It would not be easy, but there was no harm in trying.
The reason he dared take this risk was that his youth and appearance were deceptive. He wondered if he could catch this monster off guard.
He pitied the Rhoynar's suffering, but he also needed to live.
He had to get the fleet to Gohor. Otherwise, it was only a matter of dying sooner or later.
"That is more than enough," Garin said.
He did not believe the young man would truly trade his life for his followers.
"Then lower your cage," Viserys said calmly.
It seemed Garin could not sense the presence of the Prince's Spear.
That gave Viserys even more confidence in a sudden strike.
Garin stared at him for a long moment, still unwilling to believe the boy would walk calmly toward death.
"Whether you truly wish to die or are merely acting, once you enter, the truth will be clear."
The faint confusion in Garin's eyes hardened once more.
He stepped aside, gesturing for Viserys to enter the cage.
Viserys measured the distance between them with his gaze. When they were less than three steps apart, Viserys suddenly spun around.
He tore the Prince's Spear from his back, lunged forward, and thrust the nearly invisible weapon out.
The spear pierced straight into Garin's chest.
In that instant, Garin realized what weapon Viserys was using.
He had never imagined a child would dare attack him—nor that the Prince's Spear would be wielded by a Valyrian.
Viserys drove his fire magic into the spear.
Flames erupted along its length and spread rapidly across Garin's body. Yet Garin, who had once annihilated enemies with curses, would not submit so easily.
He opened his mouth wide, eyes bulging, as if roaring in fury.
But no sound emerged.
Instead, gray mist poured from his mouth and eyes. The mist surged toward Viserys like a monstrous serpent.
Fish on the deck that touched the gray fog had their scales twist and warp.
Moments later, the lively fish turned into rough stone, like relics weathered for a thousand years.
Only their eyes still rolled in despair.
The gray fog quickly engulfed Viserys, but Garin was not satisfied.
The living-dead stone men hanging from the masts also opened their mouths, spewing gray mist toward him.
More than a dozen torrents of fog, dense as a sandstorm, converged, nearly burying him completely.
The disturbance on the deck soon caught Arthur's attention below.
He tried to climb up, only to find that the rope ladder had vanished at some point. That, however, could not stop a true Kingsguard knight.
Arthur grabbed a rope and tied it to his greatsword.
With a powerful throw, he hurled the sword toward the grotesque dragon-headed ram.
Driven by momentum, the sword snagged firmly on the prow. Arthur tugged to confirm it held, then began climbing upward with all his strength.
On the deck above, the gray fog—now thicker than a sandstorm—slowly began to settle.
Before long, a humanoid "statue," clutching its head in a defensive posture, emerged from the mist.
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