Inside the Golden Company's temporary central tent, a rough map was spread out under the candlelight, ink outlining the coastline and scorched earth.
Jon Clinton's finger pressed heavily on the location of Lys, his brow furrowed into a deep groove.
"Your Highness, this plan is too risky."
His voice was hoarse from days of marching, but every word was articulated clearly.
"Lys is our foundation; we cannot afford to lose it."
"If an army of over ten thousand crosses the sea to attack Tyrosh, the duration is unpredictable. If Lys falls during that time..."
He looked up at Aegon across the table, his eyes filled with a Soldier's most basic concern:
"We will have no home to return to."
Aegon's gaze did not leave the map.
The candlelight cast flickering sparks in his violet eyes, yet it could not dissolve the deep, pool-like calm within them.
"Rescuing Lys would be exhausting ourselves for nothing."
He spoke, his voice not loud, yet possessing a quality that cut through hesitation.
"To tie the safety of one city to the marching speed of another army and the outcome of another naval battle—that is the true gamble."
His fingertip left Lys, tracing a cold arc and landing precisely on the mark representing Tyrosh.
"But if we take this place," his fingertip tapped lightly on that point, as if sealing some unalterable fate, "everything changes."
Jon's breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
Aegon looked up at him, his gaze like a tempered blade. "Passive rescue is just firefighting. By taking Tyrosh, we become the knife wielders."
"Whoever holds the knife sets the rules, and decides... life and death."
A brief silence fell over the tent.
There were only the faint sounds of voices and horses from the distant camp, and the subtle crackle of burning torches.
Jon Clinton stared intently at that point on the map, then at Lys, and then at their current location.
His Adam's apple bobbed, the lines of struggle on his face shifting between light and shadow in the candlelight.
Loyalty, the caution born of experience, and the instinctive desire to protect home clashed violently in his heart against the almost arrogant, yet coldly logical, resolve in the young Highness's words.
After a long while, he took a deep breath, as if drawing away his last shred of doubt.
He straightened his slightly hunched back, clenched his right hand into a fist, and struck his left breastplate heavily.
"Your will, Your Highness," he rasped, his eyes now showing only the desperate determination of a veteran. "The Golden Company... is willing to be the hand that wields the knife."
Aegon nodded slightly, saying no more. Some decisions required no further elaboration... Two days later, at dusk.
The massive silhouette of Myr appeared on the horizon.
The setting sun dyed the seawater a shimmering blood-red and coated the harbor's forest of masts and stone docks in a layer of false, warm gold.
The commander of the harbor garrison was a middle-aged man with a two-pronged yellow mustache.
He stood on the lookout tower, squinting at this army that had suddenly appeared in the twilight glow.
At the front of the column flew the familiar banners of the Golden Company. But what truly lowered his guard were the several officers on horseback beside the banners.
They were all familiar faces he had seen before.
"The Golden Company? They aren't guarding the eastern front; what are they doing here?"
He muttered to his deputy beside him.
"Send someone to ask if they have orders from the Magister. What do they want, bringing so many people to the harbor?"
The deputy acknowledged and was about to turn and head down the tower.
In that very instant.
The seemingly loose formation of the Golden Company suddenly tightened at the front! Like the back of a shark suddenly lunging from a calm sea!
The supply wagons trailing at the rear, covered in oilcloth, were suddenly thrown open, revealing glinting crossbow bolts.
"Fire!"
Dozens of crossbow bolts shrieked from their strings; blood bloomed from the throats of the lookout sentries as they fell silently.
Only then did the garrison commander's cry of "Enemy attack!" break from his throat.
But it was instantly drowned out by the explosive war cries of the Golden Company. It wasn't the scattered shouting of ordinary mercenaries, but a disciplined thunder of assault!
"For His Highness! Kill!!"
The previously slow-moving column instantly transformed into a golden torrent of steel, sweeping toward the open harbor gates and the garrison that had yet to fully react!
There was no warning, no negotiation, not even a proper pre-battle speech.
Only the purest, long-brewing slaughter erupted amidst the last rays of the setting sun.
From the lookout tower, the yellow-mustached commander watched helplessly as the harbor's defenses were torn open in several places within a few breaths.
Those mercenaries in gold-trimmed armor showed no concern for coin now; they possessed a fervor and precision that chilled him to the bone, as if driven by some higher existence.
They cut down the panicked defenders, seized the docks, and controlled the drawbridge winches with fluid movements, as if they had rehearsed it countless times.
"It's a trap... they aren't the Golden Company... they..."
The Myr garrison commander finally found his voice amidst the shock, shouting hoarsely, but no one was listening.
An arrow from nowhere pierced the wooden railing beside his neck, its fletching vibrating with a hum, only an inch from his skin.
His legs gave way, and he slumped onto the cold floor of the lookout tower.
The din of the harbor's fall, the screams, the clashing of blades, and the crackle of rising flames mixed with the sea breeze and poured into his ears.
It was over.
Myr was finished.
The battle—if that one-sided crushing could be called a battle.
Before the sun had completely sunk below the horizon, it was basically over.
The Golden Company, with absolute numerical superiority, careful disguise, and the element of surprise, crushed the hastily organized resistance at the harbor.
The bodies of the Myr defenders lay scattered across the docks, blood seeping into the cracks of the stone slabs and turning into dark brown stains in the twilight.
There was no cheering, no looting.
Only the short commands of officers, the footsteps of running Soldiers, and the whimpering of driven prisoners.
Resistance in the back alleys was quickly snuffed out, fires were extinguished in time, and bodies were dragged to corners and stacked neatly.
An efficient and cold-blooded slaughter had cleared the harbor before the sun finished setting.
Squads of Soldiers began to board the best ships they had managed to secure—mainly large transport cogs and a few sturdy galleys.
Aegon stood on the dock, watching the scene. He had not participated in the specific tactical command, but simply being there, his black robes fluttering in the sea breeze that carried the scent of salt and faint blood.
His presence itself was like a stabilizing anchor, keeping this swift raid shrouded in a cold and efficient order.
Jon Clinton strode over, his boiled leather armor stained with spots of enemy blood, but his breathing was steady.
"Your Highness, the harbor is fully under control. We have captured seventy-four vessels of various sizes, at least sixty of which can be used for troop transport immediately."
"Sailors and craftsmen have been rounded up, and dissenters have been purged."
"Is it enough?" Aegon asked.
"For ten thousand men and their horses and supplies, it's a bit tight, but it will suffice."
"Supplies on the ships are also plentiful," Jon replied.
Aegon nodded. "Then we depart, under the cover of night."
Jon took the order but hesitated slightly. "Your Highness, Myr... should we leave a garrison? If we need a path of retreat..."
Aegon shook his head, his voice calm yet resolute. "No retreat. This journey must end with the fall of Tyrosh."
Jon felt a chill in his heart and said solemnly, "Yes."
The orders were passed down through the ranks.
Torches were lit one after another on the docks, casting flickering shadows over the busy scene.
Soldiers carried their gear and led their warhorses across temporary gangplanks, boarding the ships flying unfamiliar banners in silent and orderly fashion.
The captured Myr sailors, forced by blades, returned trembling to their familiar posts.
When the last squad had boarded, the gangplanks were pulled up and the thick mooring ropes were cast off.
The night wind rose, swelling the sails.
Aegon took one last look at Myr, its silhouette blurred in the night and dotted with firelight, then turned and walked up the flagship's gangplank.
His pace was steady, as if he were merely embarking on an ordinary voyage rather than heading into the eye of a storm that would redefine the fate of two city-states and the entire Narrow Sea.
"Set sail."
His calm voice fell into the evening breeze.
The flagship's massive sails slowly rose, catching the wind with a dull, powerful snap.
The huge hull began to move, cutting through the ink-black water.
One ship, two, three... more and more vessels followed the flagship, leaving the deathly silent Myr and sailing into the vast, dark night sea.
The fleet did not light many lamps, resembling a silent giant whale trailing dozens of smaller, shimmering stars.
Toward the northeast, toward Tyrosh, toward the waters about to be redefined by dragon and fire, they ghosted forward.
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