Shouts and cries of battle drifted intermittently on the wind, mingling with the clash of weapons and the agonized screams of the dying.
A Bloodsworn guard sent to scout quickly returned, bowing from his saddle to report: "Your Grace, two miles ahead, about a hundred people are fighting. It looks like a group of guards has been ambushed by bandits."
Jon Clinton urged his horse forward half a step, riding alongside Aegon, and said in a low voice: "That's how it always is in the Disputed Lands."
"Not only city-state mercenaries fight here. Deserters, roaming bandits, outlaws... all hunt for prey on this unclaimed land. Perhaps some unlucky merchant caravan or messenger ran into them."
Aegon listened, but his gaze went beyond the scorched earth, toward the source of the sound.
What made him halt his horse was certainly not this commonplace bloodshed.
Rather, it was the sudden flash of the system prompt in his mind and the automatically unfolding map.
[Detected sign-in location: Disputed Lands, Crown Tree. Proceed to sign in?]
The golden marker on the map's guidance perfectly overlapped with the direction from which the battle cries came.
Aegon frowned slightly. Intentional?
Isn't this the Crown Tree right here? Or perhaps the system is pointing to the true location where the Crown Tree once took root.
Seeing Aegon silent, Jon continued: "If you don't want to get involved in trouble, there's an old path to the southeast we can take to detour. It adds half a day's journey, but we can avoid..."
"Why avoid it?"
Aegon interrupted him, his voice flat.
Before the words faded, he flicked the reins. His warhorse let out a long whinny and shot forward like an arrow.
"Follow!" Jon was stunned for a moment, then snapped to attention and shouted. Twenty Bloodsworn guards immediately spurred their horses to follow, their hooves thundering as they broke through the heavy air.
Rounding a low gravel slope, the battlefield came into view.
About a hundred people were locked in combat.
One side wore Myr-style surcoats, numbering about twenty, forming a shaky circular formation protecting several carriages in the center.
The other side consisted of fifty or sixty fierce, savage bandits wielding various weapons, howling as they attacked fiercely from all sides.
A dozen or so corpses already lay on the ground, the stench of blood thick in the air.
Seeing another twenty-plus riders approach, the bandits showed no fear. Instead, they let out excited, strange cries.
In their eyes, this was just another batch of fat sheep delivered to their doorstep.
"Kill them! The good horses are mine!" A one-eyed bandit leader waved a scimitar, splitting off thirty-some men, and charged toward Aegon's group with a vicious grin.
Aegon's brow furrowed slightly.
Fifty or sixty small fry weren't worth calling Ghidorah down.
Besides... since receiving Maegor's Gift, aside from that day at the tournament, he hadn't personally wielded a sword in combat or felt the sensation of flesh parting under the blade for a long time. He was actually feeling a bit itchy for a fight.
"Clang—!"
The clear, crisp ring of dark sisters being unsheathed cut through the chaotic battlefield like a dragon's roar.
The sword's blade was dark, its patterns flowing like night. Alone on his horse, he charged headlong into the bandit horde!
"Looking to die!" The lead bandit laughed maniacally, raising a notched long axe and sweeping it viciously toward the horse's legs.
Aegon swung his arm.
The gleam of dark sisters traced an extremely fine, cold gray line through the air.
"Sshhk."
The axe, along with half of the forearm, silently slid off. The bandit's laughter froze on his face, turning to shock before he was knocked flying by the charging horse.
No pause, no parry. Only the most concise thrusts, slashes, and sweeps.
In his hands, dark sisters seemed to possess life—or perhaps, they were an extension of his own limbs.
The combat instincts granted by Maegor's Gift surged powerfully. Every ounce of strength, every change in direction, the timing and angle of each strike were precise, efficient, and ruthlessly cold to the extreme.
Where the sword's edge passed, leather armor, chain links, bone, and flesh parted as smoothly as a hot knife through butter, chillingly effortless.
No scream could be fully uttered; they were often cut off in the throat.
The twenty Bloodsworn guards followed closely behind like a black wedge, driving hard into the bandit horde.
They were Aegon's most loyal claws, working in seamless coordination. With the rise and fall of their blades, they churned up waves of blood.
One encounter.
Just one charge.
The thirty-some bandits who had split off to intercept were all lying in pools of blood.
The remaining bandits' howls turned into frightened whimpers, their fighting spirit instantly shattered.
"Run!"
Someone shouted. The remaining bandits dropped their weapons and scattered like frightened rabbits, crying for their parents as they fled into the scorched earth and behind scattered rocks, disappearing in an instant.
Aegon reined in his horse, flicking off a drop of half-congealed blood from the sword's tip. The blade of dark sisters remained dark, as if it had never tasted blood.
He took a deep breath, suppressing the restless emotions after battle, and raised his eyes to the open space at the center of the battlefield—the location of the golden marker on the system map.
There had once been a great tree there, sheltering the ambitious oath of nine madmen.
Now, only a patch of scorched, barren flatland remained, repeatedly trampled by war and time.
Aegon dismounted, his boot soles stepping over dried bloodstains and dust as he walked alone toward the center of that open space.
The moment he stood at that specific coordinate.
[Sign-in successful! Drawing reward...]
[Congratulations on obtaining: horn of winter.]
Aegon's brow lifted slightly.
horn of winter? The one that can topple the Wall?
Another physical reward.
But now wasn't the time to investigate.
With a slight thought, he temporarily stored that heavy, icy, seemingly endless cold-imbued horn in that unknown space, not extracting it immediately.
Turning around, he saw Jon Clinton already speaking with the surviving Myr guards.
The dozen or so guards, having narrowly escaped death, still looked shaken, bowing repeatedly to Jon in thanks.
A moment later, Jon walked back and said in a low voice: "Your Grace, I've found out. They are envoys sent by the Governor of Myr to the Golden Company, escorting some 'gifts.'"
His gaze swept over the several large carts. One had its curtains drawn low, faintly revealing several figures curled inside, seemingly part of the gifts.
Aegon glanced at it, offering no comment.
Jon continued: "When they were attacked, they already sent a fast rider to the Golden Company for help. We could wait here a bit, then head to the Golden Company together with their reinforcements."
"With the cover of being Myr envoys, following the Golden Company's people will save us a lot of trouble along the way."
Aegon thought for a moment, then nodded.
Coming here impersonating 'Xiao Griffin,' their movements had to be secret. If they announced their itinerary and the Golden Company sent familiar high-ranking members to greet them, it would be easy to expose the ruse.
Their plan was to appear suddenly, catching the Blackfyre faction off guard.
So when Jon Clinton notified the Golden Company, he only said he would come personally and that the Golden Company should prepare to receive them, but didn't reveal their travel route.
Traveling with this disheveled Myr envoy group, the Golden Company members sent to meet this gift convoy likely wouldn't be core figures—which was just right.
Sure enough, in less than half an hour, dust rose on the horizon as a cavalry unit of about a hundred men galloped over.
The Golden Company's flag flew at the front of the column.
The group quickly approached, reining in at the edge of the depression. At the head was an officer in golden half-plate armor, with a rough-hewn face.
He glanced at the bandit corpses littering the ground, then at Aegon's group of black-clad knights, finally settling his gaze on the surviving Myr guards.
"What happened?" The officer urged his horse forward, his voice booming. "You called for help saying you were attacked. These are..."
He stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes fixed tightly on Jon Clinton's face.
That face, he recognized.
"Gr... Lord Griffin?!" The officer looked astonished, his face filled with disbelief. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be..."
His gaze suddenly shifted to the side of Jon, to the young man sitting upright on a black horse, with silver hair, purple eyes, and a cold expression.
Jon Clinton urged his horse forward a step, positioning himself half a horse-length in front of Aegon. He wore a perfectly measured, slightly weary, authoritative smile.
"Captain Marlos, long time no see." His voice was steady, carrying the composure of long-held authority. "As you can see, I have escorted His Grace Aegon and we have already arrived in the Disputed Lands."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward Aegon with his arm.
"His Grace did not wish to draw attention, so we did not notify in advance. Since we've met here, let's proceed to the camp together."
Captain Marlos, the Golden Company officer, widened his eyes, looking at Aegon, then at Jon. His throat moved as if he wanted to say something, but immense confusion seemed to block it.
His Grace Aegon Targaryen... had already arrived?
Just like that... suddenly appearing on the Disputed Lands wilderness? With twenty guards? And casually slaughtering a group of bandits along the way?
This was completely different from the grand, ceremonious reception he had imagined.
"Lord Griffin, this... I need to send someone back immediately to report! So the Captain and the commanders can prepare in advance..." Marlos said urgently.
"No need."
Jon interrupted him, his tone gentle but carrying undeniable force.
"His Grace's journey is secret and should not be publicized. Stick to the original plan: you escort these friends from Myr, and we'll follow along. Once we reach the camp, we can announce it then."
Marlos opened his mouth, looking into Jon's calm yet deep eyes, then glancing at the silver-haired youth's expressionless face. He swallowed all his words.
He had served in the Golden Company for over ten years and had seen Jon Clinton many times.
He knew this Lord Griffin's status within the company, and even more, his relationship with that His Grace Aegon.
Now, since Lord Griffin had said so, he would simply follow orders.
"Then... alright." Marlos thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement, waving for his cavalry to make way.
Jon turned back and gave Aegon a slight nod.
Aegon urged his horse forward, riding alongside Jon.
The twenty Bloodsworn guards followed silently, blending into the Golden Company's cavalry column.
The column set off again.
Heading east, toward the direction of the Golden Company's camp.
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