The camp was deathly silent.
Warhorses bowed their heads and war elephants crouched; ten thousand men of the Golden Company held their breath under the dragon's might.
Anyone whose eyes had touched that pale-gold shadow of destruction, or felt that soul-crushing aura, fell into primal terror, teeth chattering as weapons slipped from trembling hands.
In the dead silence, Jon Clinton forced down the churning in his stomach and the weakness in his legs, quickly following the black-clad back walking toward the edge of the scorched earth.
Boot soles stepped over hot glass shards, making a faint cracking sound.
They came before the group of Soldiers who stood frozen like stone statues.
Jon's gaze swept sharply across them, fixing on a familiar face.
"Captain Mallos."
Mallos, upon being named, gave a violent start. His pupils focused as he stole a terrified glance at the expressionless Aegon in front of Jon.
"Listen closely."
Jon stepped closer, his voice hoarse yet every word like iron: "The blackfyre traitors have been executed. The one beside me is the true Prince Aegon Targaryen, the legitimate heir to the iron throne."
He paused, allowing time for this massive amount of information to be digested.
"Now, in the Prince's name, I command you: immediately summon all officers from every camp—everyone of sergeant rank and above still at their post—and gather at the eastern side of the training grounds at once."
"This is an order, and their only chance to live. Go yourself."
The color drained from Mallos's face, his eyes darting frantically. Ultimately, the instinct for survival and his lingering obedience to Jon's authority overrode everything else.
He nodded heavily with all his strength, squeezed a broken "Yes" from his throat, and turned to stumble toward the depths of the camp.
The glimmer of dawn slowly stained the horizon, diluting the pure terror of last night and illuminating the shocking, glass-like charred scar where the main tent once stood.
After a night of suppression by junior officers, the panic was barely contained.
Driven by pale-faced, terrified officers, the Soldiers converged on the largest training ground in the center of the base like sleepwalkers.
A phalanx of ten thousand gradually took shape, standing in silence. The ranks vaguely maintained their former order, but the bone-deep dread leaked out through countless shifting eyes that frequently glanced toward the low hill outside the training grounds.
On the hill, Ghidorah's pale-gold silhouette grew clearer in the brightening light, perched quietly like a mountain-heavy cloud looming over everyone's hearts.
Inside the temporary main tent, Jon Clinton was standing before a map giving a low-voiced report when he was interrupted by a trembling report from outside:
"Reporting to the Prince! Lord Griffin! The entire Golden Company, except for a few on external assignment, has finished assembling at the training grounds! Please inspect them, Your Highness!"
Aegon looked up from the map, his eyes calm.
He stood and straightened the collar of his black tunic.
"Let's go."
He said, leading the way out of the tent.
The training grounds stood in solemn, pin-drop silence.
Countless gazes mixed with fear, confusion, and a hint of hope focused on the two figures walking steadily toward them.
Aegon walked in front, his silver hair fluttering and his gaze level as he headed straight for the temporary wooden command platform at the front of the training grounds.
Jon followed half a step behind, his expression solemn.
As Aegon stepped firmly onto the platform and turned to face the dark mass of ten thousand men, an invisible pressure spread out.
The Soldiers subconsciously held their breath.
Jon stepped forward to the front of the platform, took a deep breath, and let his voice carry out loudly and clearly: "Soldiers of the Golden Company!"
The wave of sound suppressed the last of the whispers.
"Look around you!" His arm swept in an arc, pointing toward the charred ruins and the pale-gold beast on the hill.
"Last night, the blackfyre conspiracy was exposed, and the rebels were executed!"
He paused, letting the information impact the crowd.
"But today, I stand here to bring you a truth and an opportunity!"
He turned and bowed deeply toward Aegon, his right fist striking his left chest in a standard gesture of respect, before straightening up to announce in an even higher voice:
"Standing before you is Aegon Targaryen! The rightful heir to the iron throne! The true King who commands the master of the skies!"
"And I, Jon Clinton, was blinded by lies for nearly twenty years!" His voice carried pain and resolve.
"Only when the true Prince appeared did I know what a true dragon is! Now, the truth stands revealed before you!"
He took a step back, yielding the center of the command platform entirely to Aegon, standing with his hands down in solemnity.
The training grounds were deathly silent, save for the sound of the wind and the suppressed breathing of ten thousand men.
Aegon took a step forward to the very front.
His gaze slowly swept over the faces below—shocked, skeptical, or bewildered; his silent scrutiny brought immense pressure.
After a long while, he spoke, his voice clear and possessing a cold, piercing quality:
"The Golden Company."
The name made every Soldier's heart tighten.
"Founded a century ago by rebels, following blackfyre into exile overseas. For a hundred years, you have fought for gold, and for a hollow promise of restoration."
His words were like cold knives, slicing open the awkward reality beneath the polished surface.
"You were deceived. Driven by a fake who stole my name and a group of remnants wallowing in dreams. The banner you swore fealty to was planted on quicksand from the very start!"
A slight commotion rose within the phalanx.
"But," Aegon's tone shifted, becoming steady yet full of power, "I can overlook past follies. Because from this day forward, you have a new choice, a new banner."
He slightly raised the sheathed blackfyre in his hand, the dawn light falling on the ancient scabbard.
"The blackfyre dream was buried last night. Today, I give you the chance to swear fealty to the true Targaryen, to swear fealty to... me."
He paused, letting the words "swear fealty" echo.
"Swear fealty to me, and what you receive will no longer be empty promises!" His voice suddenly rose, carrying a metallic resonance:
"To all who swear fealty now, all back-pay owed by the Golden Company will be settled in full within three days! Starting next month, commissions will increase by fifty percent! This I promise in the name of Aegon Targaryen, with the wealth of Lys as my witness!"
"Boom!" A wave of discussion erupted in the phalanx! Mercenaries fought for money; what was more real than cold, hard cash?
"Swear fealty to me, follow me across the Narrow Sea, and fight our way back to Westeros! Use the swords in your hands to seize land, castles, titles, and glory! You will no longer be wandering mercenaries, but heroes of the restoration—the new nobility!"
His words were like a blazing torch thrown into dry kindling.
Greed for wealth, longing for stability, resentment of their exile status, yearning for home... every emotion was thoroughly ignited!
Aegon's right hand gripped the hilt of blackfyre.
"Zheng—!"
A clear sound like a dragon's cry, yet even more cold and sharp, tore through the air as the blade was drawn!
blackfyre left its scabbard completely, fully revealed.
The slender, dark-grey blade flickered with a cold light for its true master for the first time in the morning sun. The dense Valyrian ripples upon it flowed eerily, as if a century of slumber had completely awakened at this moment.
Aegon raised the unsheathed blackfyre high, the tip pointing straight at the heavens!
The dark spine of the blade reflected the sky and his burning violet eyes.
With all his strength, he let out a roar that shook the training grounds:
"I will lead you... HOME!"
"In the name of Targaryen! In the name of the true dragon!!"
"Will you... FOLLOW?!"
"WE WILL!!!!"
The first hoarse, full-throated response came from Mallos below the platform. His face was flushed red as he raised his arm to the sky!
"WE WILL!! WE WILL FOLLOW THE true dragon!!"
"WE WILL FOLLOW PRINCE Aegon!!"
"HOME!!"
Ten thousand arms were raised like a forest! Ten thousand roared, a wave of sound like thunder that shot into the clouds as if to tear the sky apart!
That sound was a mixture of countless dialects and accents, yet it converged into the same longing, the same madness!
"ROAR————!!!!"
Upon the hill, Ghidorah's three heads reared up simultaneously toward the boiling training grounds and the blackfyre held high in Aegon's hand, letting out a long dragon roar that pierced the clouds and shook the earth!
The dragon's roar and the shouts of ten thousand men interlaced and resonated, playing a violent overture of conquest and fealty upon the plains of the Disputed Lands!
On the platform, Aegon held the unsheathed blackfyre high, his figure as straight as a spear.
His cloak fluttered wildly behind him, whipped by the sound waves and the wind.
Jon stood behind and to the side of Aegon, looking at the young man's upright back and listening to those inflammatory vows.
For a moment, he dizzily saw Rhaegar—the same silver hair, the same charisma, the same ability to make ten thousand men die for him.
But in Rhaegar's eyes were melancholy and burden, while in Aegon's eyes... there were only cold flames and absolute control.
Jon lowered his eyes.
He knew he was serving a monarch harder and more dangerous than Rhaegar... The sound waves gradually died down, but the scorching atmosphere did not dissipate.
The Soldiers returned to their camp areas in excitement and anticipation; new hope and restlessness began to grow.
Inside the main tent, Jon Clinton was giving Aegon a more detailed report.
His voice was still hoarse, but he seemed much more spirited.
"The out-posted scouts and patrols have all received orders and are returning one after another. These are the results of the preliminary tally."
He pushed a simple list toward Aegon.
"The Golden Company currently has over ten thousand four hundred battle-ready Soldiers."
"Among them are five hundred heavy knights, the best equipped with three warhorses each, and five hundred squires with one warhorse each."
"Pikemen and shield-bearers total about seven thousand; there are one thousand archers, all equipped with longbows or heavy crossbows and ample arrows."
"Additionally, there are about one thousand five hundred auxiliary troops, including engineers, medics, and craftsmen."
He paused and added: "There are also sixteen war elephants and their respective mahouts. These are our trump cards when facing other Mercenary groups and city-state armies in the Disputed Lands."
"I have temporarily appointed Mallos and a group of reliable mid-level officers to the positions left vacant by the purged blackfyre-faction officers."
"They are familiar with the troops and can temporarily stabilize the situation. The specific permanent appointments will require your final decision, Your Highness."
Aegon's gaze swept over the list, and he nodded slightly.
Over ten thousand experienced, well-organized warriors ready to be deployed to the battlefield at any time were exactly what he needed.
"Transport is an issue." Aegon tapped his finger lightly on the table. "To move ten thousand men across the sea requires enough ships."
Jon nodded: "The fastest way is to depart from the port of Myr. We can return to Lys first to commandeer or charter a fleet in your name, and then join with some Myr ships."
"However, the Golden Company's employment agreement with Myr is now void. If we want to use their port... I fear it will require negotiation, or even paying a price."
Aegon's expression was calm: "This matter is your responsibility."
"First, contact the Magistrate of Myr in my name to test his attitude. If necessary, you can promise future trade concessions or hint to him that it is better to have Tyrosh as an enemy than me."
Jon understood the intent to divide and conquer and solemnly accepted: "Yes, Your Highness. I will set to work immediately."
A day of busy work allowed dusk to shroud the camp once again.
By the newly lit campfires, the Soldiers' conversations held less fear and more anticipation.
Inside the main tent, the candlelight flickered, reflecting Aegon's contemplative profile.
Just then, footsteps came from outside the tent, along with the low-voiced questioning and blocking by the Bloodsworn guards.
Then, a somewhat hoarse voice sounded outside the tent:
"Your Highness... Mallos requests an audience. I have important matters to report."
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