"Are there any survivors?"
Aemond's face changed.
Grey Worm hesitated, then slowly shook his head.
Soldiers passed by like a comb through hair, let alone a group of desperate men.
"Have you found any trace of those Myrish mercenaries?"
Aemond's eyes were cold and exuded a low-pressure intensity.
It seemed that the destruction of the rebel army was urgent indeed.
Grey Worm empathized with him and said in a deep voice, "Ser Robb is tracking them. A large group of Myrish mercenaries raiding and looting will definitely leave clues."
"That's good," Aemond said and turned to leave. "At this point, let's eat first."
At dawn.
Aemond left the temporary residence and found Vermithor curled up against the wall like a mountain.
This old dragon had a bad temper but was lazy on weekdays. He flew wherever he wanted and lay down wherever he pleased. He always closed his eyes and dozed off.
A professional dragon handler was called to wake the old dragon and feed him fat goats.
"Roar!"
Vermithor's eyelids fluttered open, his bronze pupils gleaming like foil with a chilling glint.
The dragon swallowed over a dozen fat, robust goats, roasted by his flames, in small gulps into his bottomless maw.
Aemond scanned the charred ground, which held only a pool of black ash. It perfectly exemplified the saying, "Eat the goat and leave the bones."
"This creature," Aemond said, smiling as he rubbed the dragon's tough-scaled neck and admired its bronze-hued frame. Its scales had thickened with age.
After consuming the Blood Fruit and Firefly Fruit, the shimmering metallic sheen of its scales gradually gave way to a sense of age and antiquity. The cycle of life's evolution, returning to its roots.
"Roar!"
Vermithor feasted, shaking his massive body slightly as he casually shook his head a few times.
Aemond enjoyed petting the dragon until a harmless, powerful force pushed him back a few steps.
The old dragon had grown not only in strength but also in wisdom, almost imperceptibly. It was as if the years had endowed it with greater experience.
"When I've accumulated enough magical essence, I'll give you something delicious to try," Aemond boasted.
Vermithor gently pushed the handler aside with a flick of his head, resting his left shoulder on the ground and offering a shortcut onto his back. Seeing Aemond's clumsy movements, Vermithor tilted his head to stare at the handler. His bronze pupils revealed a sense of oppressive majesty. "Hurry up! There's no time for explanations!"
The Disputed Lands
The yellow, fertile land stretched for thousands of miles. Nurtured by the moist, warm climate, tender grass sprouted from the soil.
A dark, solid Valyrian road running north and south traversed the vast plains. Paved entirely with black dragonstone, the road remained unfazed by the wind and sun. Thirty feet wide, the road could accommodate two carriages abreast. The road stretched for an unknown distance, all the way from Myr.
Southeast of the road, in an area bordering Tyrosh's jurisdiction, a temporary camp was established. Thousands of Myrish mercenaries gathered their baggage, fed their horses, and sharpened their swords, preparing to raid the next village or town.
"The people of the Disputed Lands are so poor. There's not much money to be made from them," complained the second-in-command. He was a middle-aged man with a braided beard, purple hair, and a hooked nose.
"All right, enough nonsense," deadpanned the chieftain, a shirtless man with a muscular build and the sturdy demeanor of a Dothraki.
Their original plan was to raid all the way to Volantis and earn enough ill-gotten gains to last them years. To that end, they had been roaming the Disputed Lands. However, plans are not always easy, and after nearly a month, their earnings were minimal. If this continued, they wouldn't be able to enjoy the benefits even in Volantis.
"Hurry! Get out of the dragon king's reach!"
The chieftain sharpened his sword, sheathed it at his waist, and stood up to his full height.
Boom!
Suddenly, a thunderous roar erupted, startling the mercenaries throughout the camp.
Several leaders looked up in unison. A moment later, their eyes blazed with shock. A massive behemoth, large enough to block the sun, flashed through the clouds, its thick mist swirling and churning like a gathering storm.
"Scorpion crossbows! Quickly raise them!" The leader's heart pounded as he spoke, his voice uncaring for pretense.
He couldn't be mistaken. The shadow they had just seen was clearly a massive dragon soaring high in the sky. They could only hope it was too high to detect them.
However, how could such a massive force escape the sight of a dragon with air superiority?
"Land, Vermithor!"
The sky suddenly fell silent, and a whisper of death echoed.
The leader's gaze froze, and then he frantically shouted at his crossbowmen to raise their weapons and prepare for the dragon's arrival.
"Hiss—"
The clouds were suddenly torn apart, revealing a massive dragon head adorned with a fearsome horned crown. Its eerie, copper-colored pupils flashed with tyranny.
Boom!
Vermithor appeared and plunged down from the sky, spewing a billowing dragon flame like a magma eruption at the camp. After an explosion, the scorching flames splashed everywhere.
The Myrish mercenaries knew they could not deal with the dragon, so they bought two scorpion crossbows to accompany the army. The wooden frames of the crossbows burned under the dragon flame, and the loaded bolts were blown away, their surfaces melted and pitted.
"Dragon!"
"The dragon is coming! Run away!"
The copper-colored flames clung to any flammable material, burning hundreds of mercenaries to death and instantly instilling fear of dragons in the rest. They ignored their leaders and refused to resist.
Looking down from the sky, the force split in two. One half approached the dragon flames, their formation as chaotic as ants. The other half fled in opposite directions like the receding tide.
"How could I let you get away?"
Aemond's eyes turned cold as he gripped the dragon saddle's handle and leaned to the left.
"Roar—"
Vermithor sensed something, roared, and dived to the left. He opened his ferocious mouth and spewed out dragon flames.
Boom, boom, boom!
Like a bomber, the bronze dragon surrounded three to four thousand mercenaries — one man and one dragon. Wherever the enemy fled, the dragon's flames blocked their path and swept back in all directions.
After several strikes, the mercenaries were completely terrified and huddled together like headless flies.
Like a fish in water, Vermithor plowed through the ground with his flames, which exploded into brilliant fiery lotuses.
The number of mercenaries dwindled at a visible rate.
When fewer than a few hundred remained, the flames finally ceased.
Vermithor lapped up the dragon's kiss with gusto. His overwhelming brown wings folded as he landed with a thunderous thud in front of the crowd.
"No!"
The chieftain, his body blackened by smoke, screamed in terror as he tumbled and scrambled.
Seeing him like this, Aemond frowned and gave up the idea of questioning him.
Dust rose in the distance.
Rumble—
A fully equipped group of Vale knights carrying the Dragon Eagle Trident Banner rushed toward them through billowing clouds of dust.
"Your subordinate is late, Your Majesty!"
Robb, leading the charge, apologized from ten meters away; his warhorse was afraid to approach the dragon.
"Back off," Aemond said, waving his hand. A brass-mounted horn appeared in his grasp. He untied his chains and dismounted the dragon.
Swoosh!
A pale gray-white dragon shadow flashed across the horizon and disappeared into the swirling, gathering clouds.
Aemond looked up and could still see the dragon's bare tail.
"Woo-woo-woo—"
The war horn blew, its note as ancient as thunder.
"Hiss!"
The gray shadow cried out, revealing a dragon's head, followed by its entire symmetrical body.
Aemond stopped playing, took a step back, and shouted, "Attack!"
Boom!
The gray shadow hesitated for a moment, then plummeted and gathered a ball of dragonfire one meter in diameter, which it hurled down.
The Myrish mercenaries had no time to flee, and the explosion ripped a ten-meter-wide hole in the crowd. The lucky ones died instantly, while the unlucky ones suffered torn limbs and burned alive, wailing in agony.
Aemond watched coldly, without mercy. He surveyed the town destroyed by these beasts. The slaughter and subsequent burning were horrific. It was a living hell.
"Woo-woo-woo—"
He raised the warhorn and blew it again.
"Hiss!"
Grey Ghost's sapphire-blue pupils shrank, and his timid nature was suppressed. He hovered over the crowd, spitting out one dragon fireball after another.
Aemond watched and calculated. The dragon fireballs ranged from one to two and a half meters in diameter. Grey Ghost was a ten-meter-long young dragon, and his ability to exert such destructive power was quite impressive.
In the blink of an eye, the bombardment was over.
"Hiss!"
Grey Ghost landed dejectedly, crawling on his forelimbs and sidling up behind his silver-haired owner.
Aemond turned around. A dragon's head with horns hovered above him, its slender neck rubbing against his back. "Haki Shadow, you bastard!"
Aemond laughed dumbly. The pale gray-white scales looked even more whitish and misty up close. They felt cool and smooth against his skin, a bit like pure jade.
"Hiss!"
Grey Ghost's sapphire eyes blinked repeatedly, trying to impress upon his silver-haired owner feelings of guilt. He was so obedient; asking for a fragrant fruit wasn't too much to ask.
"Get out of the way, you coward!"
Aemond, heartless, pushed the clinging Grey Ghost away. He didn't cherish what he had.
"Gah!"
The young wild dragon's eyes flashed with ferocity as he roared at his silver-haired owner.
Snap!
A thick, bronze-scaled dragon tail slammed down on the little dragon's head for baring its teeth, sending it rolling on the ground.
"Hiss!"
Grey Ghost, enraged, roared hoarsely, turned around, climbed up, and flew away.
"What a cowardly creature," Aemond said, slapping his forehead. He looked like a wild dragon dragging down the entire species.
He had a remarkable gift: a unique dragon-flame form and exceptional stealth. Yet he was excessively timid and refused to fight back when bullied.
The crippled Myrish mercenaries seized the opportunity and fled for their lives.
Aemond glanced at them and calmly said, "Dragonflame, Vermithor!"
"Hurrah!"
Vermithor's pupils flashed fiercely as he stretched his mighty neck and unleashed a stream of dragon flame. The few remaining mercenaries were instantly reduced to ash by the dragon's blast.
"Gurgle!"
Robb swallowed stiffly as he witnessed the deaths of thousands before his eyes. His Majesty seemed even more ruthless than the Myrish mercenaries.
"Hmm."
Aemond folded up the warhorn and climbed the rope ladder dangling from the ground.
He wasn't his Uncle Viserys, let alone his grandfather or great-grandfather, Jaehaerys.
War is brutal; kill without mercy.
Maegor was assassinated not just because his brain was damaged, but because his cruelty wasn't thorough enough.
Either don't kill, or kill thoroughly.
Going back on your word during negotiations only gives your opponents more ammunition.
Learn from him and kill without hesitation!
"Sire, where are we going next?" Robb rode closer. The largest group of rebellious Myrish mercenaries were killed today, but there are still some smaller forces scattered throughout the Disputed Lands.
"Let's carve out a piece of fertile Myrland," Aemond said, waving his hand.
The main goal was to find a location for a new city. And to train the weak and fearful Grey Ghost.
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