The morning light first broke through, tearing open the eastern horizon and staining the sky a cold, fish-belly white.
Another dawn.
Aegon stood at the prow of the flagship.
The hem of his black robe fluttered in the damp sea breeze, outlining his figure, which stood as straight as a spear.
He tilted his head slightly, looking toward the awakening sky in the distance; deep within his violet eyes, reflections of fire and thunder seemed to dance.
His gaze pierced through the thinning night mist, falling upon the hazy silhouette on the distant coastline.
The spires of towers, the undulating city walls, and further beyond, that shade of... black, which appeared exceptionally deep even in the dim morning light.
Tyrosh.
The morning light finally broke free from the shackles of the horizon and spilled forth.
The first to be illuminated was the golden dome of the palace in the city center, followed by the Fountain of the Drunken God.
It was said that the spring gushed day and night with water mixed with wine; at this moment, it shimmered with an eerie, dark red light in the morning sun, like diluted blood.
The city was waking up. People with hair dyed in various colors began to crawl through the streets and alleys like a colony of ants. Cooking smoke rose from houses, and a faint clamor drifted from the markets and temples.
It was a scene of prosperity, peace, and utter lack of vigilance.
In a side hall of the Archon of Tyrosh's palace, a routine morning gathering had just begun.
The man sitting in the primary seat had a sturdy build similar to the Archon who had gone off to war, along with a neatly trimmed beard carefully dyed deep green.
He was the Archon's brother, Valarro, currently in temporary charge of the city-state.
On the long table before him lay several inconsequential documents, an almost empty silver wine flagon, and a few crystal cups scattered about.
The seven or eight people sitting around the table were high-ranking officials and important nobles who had remained in the city-state.
Some yawned, some rubbed bleary eyes, and some toyed listlessly with their rings; the atmosphere was lazy, even carrying a hint of impatience at being woken so early.
"So,"
Valarro tapped his finger on the tabletop, trying to garner some attention.
"The warship's tail oars need replacing, requiring a withdrawal from the treasury, and for next month's festival, the budget is thirty percent higher than last year. Is that all?"
The treasurer, a lean, balding old man, shrugged. "That's all, my lord. The war in Lys is going smoothly, and taxes will flow in continuously. This little expense is nothing."
"Smoothly?"
A young noble sneered; he had dyed his hair a garish purple.
"The latest merchant ships say Lys is as quiet as a grave, and that so-called Dragon Lord hasn't shown his face from start to finish."
"If you ask me, those spineless Lysene probably scared themselves witless and made up a dragon to cover their shame. They likely found some silver-haired actor in a brothel to pose as a Dragon Lord."
A low ripple of laughter went through the group.
"Valyria..."
Another noble swirled his wine glass, his eyes hazy, whether from drunkenness or something else.
"That's all ancient history from how many years ago? Dragon Lords? Ha, they died out long ago. Now is the era of Tyrosh, the era of our Fleet galloping across the Narrow Sea."
"Exactly." Valarro also grinned, his green beard twitching.
"Once we take Lys, the spice trade, the glass workshops, and those well-trained... bed slaves will all be ours. By then, everyone here will be able to expand their wealth once more."
They talked wantonly, their tone relaxed, as if Lys were already in their pockets and the Dragon Lord nothing more than a joke to accompany their wine.
Hundreds of years had already washed away the bone-deep memory of fear for Valyrian dragons, leaving only a few blurred records in history books and exaggerated verses sung by minstrels.
They believed in strong ships and sharp bolts, they believed in gold, and they believed in the army currently flaunting its power outside Lys; the only thing they did not believe in were those legends that had long since vanished into the Smoke Sea.
Just then.
The heavy, carved wooden doors of the council chamber were slammed open with a "Bang!"
A Soldier with crooked armor and a face covered in sweat and soot stumbled in, nearly falling to the floor.
His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving violently as he rasped, "My... My Lord! The Port... the Port is under attack!"
The lazy atmosphere froze instantly.
The smile on Valarro's face stiffened, and he frowned. "What did you say? Under attack? What pirates are so bold?"
"No, not pirates!"
The Soldier's voice trembled. "It's a Fleet! A Fleet flying the banners of Myr! They sailed past the Bleeding Tower without being intercepted!"
"The Port guards thought... thought they were allies delivering supplies, so they let them dock! But as soon as they entered the Port, they..."
"They what?!" Valarro stood up abruptly, his high-backed chair making a harsh scraping sound.
"They attacked! Killing everyone on sight! They've taken control of the docks! Many of our ships... were seized before they could even weigh anchor!"
"Myr??"
The treasurer cried out, cold sweat breaking out on his bald head. "Isn't Myr allied with us? Have they gone mad? Instead of taking a piece of Lys, they come to attack us?!"
"Impossible!"
The purple-haired youth also jumped up, his face turning pale.
"Are you sure you didn't see wrong?! Is it a trick by Lys?!"
"It's the banners of Myr! I saw them clearly!" the Soldier shouted hastily.
A dead silence fell over the hall, only to be immediately drowned out by a sudden burst of shock, anger, and questioning.
"Damn those Myrmen! Is their brain filled with seaweed?!"
"What do they want? To keep Lys for themselves? Aren't they afraid the Tyrosh Fleet will turn back and crush them?!"
"Now is not the time for this! The Port! What about the Port?!"
As if to answer Valarro's question, another Soldier rushed in on all fours, his voice even more shrill than the last:
"My Lord! The Port... the Port has fallen! It's the Golden Company! It's the Golden Company hired by Myr! They are advancing toward the inner city!"
The Golden Company!
The name was like a bucket of ice water poured over everyone's heads.
Myr might go mad, but the Golden Company... they were the most formidable Mercenary company in the Disputed Lands.
If it was them, and they were hired by Myr... "It really is Myr..." a noble muttered, his legs going weak as he sank back into his chair, his face ashen. "How... how could they dare..."
Valarro's green beard trembled violently as he gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.
A massive sense of absurdity and the fury of betrayal clashed in his chest, but the remaining shred of reason and the knowledge of the Golden Company's combat strength brought an even deeper chill.
However, this chill was soon suppressed by another emotion.
"What are you panicking for!" He slammed the table suddenly, shouting at the top of his lungs, both to berate his subordinates and to bolster his own courage. "Settle down! So the Port is lost! Don't forget what we have!"
He pointed abruptly out the window, toward the towering shadow in the inland direction of the city that appeared a dull black in the morning light.
"The Black Wall! We have the Black Wall left behind by Valyria! Walls built of dragonstone are indestructible!"
"No matter how well the Golden Company fights, they are just mercenaries. Coming in such haste, what siege engines could they have? Will they gnaw through with their teeth?"
He spoke faster and faster, color returning to his face—a forced, blustering courage.
"Pass the order! All guards are to retreat to the inner city's Black Wall! Close all city gates! Bring all the ballistae, hot oil, and rolling stones from the storehouses up to the battlements!"
"I want those traitors and Myrish bastards to bleed their last drop of blood beneath the Black Wall!"
His roar seemed to inject a shot of adrenaline into the panicked crowd.
Yes, the Black Wall! They were the strongest barrier left by the Freehold, the symbol of Tyrosh standing tall for hundreds of years.
How could a creation of Valyria be breached by mortal flesh and wood?
The orders were relayed with shrill desperation.
The officials and nobles barely managed to steady their nerves. Flanked by guards, they left the palace in a panic-stricken but feigned state of calm, rushing toward various points on the walls.
Valarro himself, under the protection of a squad of elite guards, ascended a section of the Black Wall facing the Port.
When he leaned against the cold, rough battlements, which had a strange texture that was neither stone nor metal, the last trace of unease in his heart dissipated quite a bit.
Below the Black Wall, in the streets and squares leading to the inner city, golden-armored figures had indeed appeared.
Soldiers of the Golden Company were clearing sporadic resistance, attempting to approach.
But they were held firmly at bay by the towering Black Wall and the rapidly increasing number of guards appearing on the battlements, drawing bows and turning ballistae.
On the walls, the shaken guards saw the arrival of the high-ranking officials and, relying on the legendary walls beneath their feet, their morale began to recover slightly.
Several officers began to shout, adjusting the defensive formations.
Not far away, the purple-haired noble also climbed the wall. He leaned out, shouting taunts with all his might at the ant-like golden-armored Soldiers below:
"Come on! You Golden Company scum! And you Myrish pigs! Climb up!"
"Let us show you the power of the Tyrosh ballistae!"
"When our Archon returns, he'll hang every one of you from the Bleeding Tower!"
"What Dragon Lord, what Golden Company? Before the Black Wall of Tyrosh, you are all nothing but clay chickens and pottery dogs!!"
His cursing drew a round of supportive laughter and even cruder insults from the battlements.
Fear seemed to be transforming into a twisted arrogance, anchored by the solid fortifications.
Valarro also grinned, about to join in the morale-boosting mockery.
At that very instant.
A sound pressed down from high in the sky—a low hum that made the bones in his chest vibrate.
Silence fell over the battlements.
Everyone looked up stiffly.
The clouds were torn asunder.
A pale gold shadow, like the deepest night, suddenly descended.
The sunlight was blotted out. The entire section of the Black Wall, all the Golden Company Soldiers in the square, and every dumbstruck person on the battlements were shrouded in a shadow of terror.
Valarro's pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks.
What... what was he seeing?!
A dragon!!!
Not a mural, not an epic, not the ramblings of a drunkard.
It was a living thing, descending with unparalleled majesty—
"ROAR————!!!!"
It wasn't a breath; it was a proclamation.
Accompanied by a roar that seemed capable of shattering the soul, Ghidorah locked onto the section of the towering Valyrian Black Wall below, upon which the tyroshi had placed all their faith.
The dragon's maw opened.
Deep within its throat, a point of golden lightning, so brilliant it was impossible to look at directly, suddenly flared and expanded, condensing into a rushing stream of light filled with the aura of destruction.
BOOM! ZZZZZZZZZT————!!!!
There was no deafening explosion.
It was a sharper, more absolute screech, as if sound itself were being swallowed and annihilated!
The golden lightning was not fire, yet it carried a high temperature capable of incinerating all things and a violent energy that tore apart all physical structures. Like the spear of a god, it struck the middle of the Black Wall with precision!
There was no stalemate, no resistance.
The Valyrian Black Wall, claimed to be built of dragonstone and indestructible, vaporized and disintegrated instantly before that golden lightning like ice and snow under the sun!
It didn't collapse; it disappeared!
Along with the guards on the walls who had been drawing bows, manning ballistae, shouting insults, or frozen in shock; along with the weapons in their hands, the armor on their bodies; along with that section of battlements, arrow towers, and fluttering banners... in the hundreds of millions of streaks of gold and white light, everything turned to nothingness.
The light lasted for about three heartbeats.
When the golden lightning dissipated and the blinding white light faded from view... in its place remained only a shocking, massive gap dozens of paces wide, its edges showing a perfect radial crystallization.
The dragonstone at the break had been melted by the high temperature, flowing down before cooling instantly into hideous, twisted nodules.
The wind blew through the gap, making a hollow, wailing echo.
Elsewhere on the wall, the guards who were lucky enough not to be directly hit by the lightning stood like puppets whose souls had been snatched away.
Some had their weapons clatter to the ground; others collapsed, losing control of their bladders.
More people just stood there, staring blankly at the giant hole with its smoking, crystallized edges, at the Three-headed Magic Dragon that had landed on a section of the wall as if admiring its own masterpiece, and at the black-robed, silver-haired figure on the dragon's back.
Stop thinking.
Fear had surpassed its limit, becoming a pure, hollow numbness.
Valarro stood less than twenty paces from that glass-like gap.
The arrogance on his face, his feigned composure, and even his most basic expressions were completely frozen, then shattered bit by bit.
His mouth beneath the green beard opened unconsciously, revealing trembling teeth.
He stared straight at that void, at the place where there should have been a thick city wall and over a hundred elite Soldiers, but where now only blue smoke and crystals remained.
In his mind, only one final thought remained, echoing repeatedly in the endless blankness of his terror:
...The Black Wall... gone... just like that... gone... His legs gave way, and had he not been holding onto the battlements, he would have collapsed.
"Weren't they... indestructible??" A foolish, dreamlike murmur escaped his lips.
On the dragon's back, Aegon's gaze calmly swept over the inner city of Tyrosh behind the gap, over the slumped guards, and over the golden dome of the distant palace.
He raised his right hand and gave a light wave.
A gesture like placing a piece on a chessboard.
The war cry of the Golden Company exploded at that very moment.
"ROAR!"
From the square below, Jon Clinton's bone-chilling command rang out, piercing the dead silence:
"Golden Company!"
"Forward!"
"For His Highness!!!"
A mountain-shaking, sea-tsunami-like war cry suddenly erupted!
That sound was filled not with a thirst for battle, but with a fanatical worship of god-like power, and an infinite passion to follow in the footsteps of a god to seize victory and glory!
The golden torrent of steel, like a bursting flood, no longer faced any obstacles as it surged through the massive gap in the Black Wall!
Tyrosh, that city gate hailed as indestructible, was at this moment thrown wide open to its conqueror in the most brutal and absolute manner.
And on the wall, the tyroshi nobles and officials, led by Valarro, remained frozen in place, like a collective group of ridiculous statues named Despair and Idiocy.
The morning light spilled down again, illuminating the lingering fear, disbelief, and the blankness following a total breakdown on their faces.
Exclusive 90% Discount Offer on pàtreøn – Limited Time
We are excited to offer you an exclusive 90% discount on our content.
To claim this offer, please use the redeem code CC685 at checkout.
Kindly note that this is a limited-time offer valid for only 2 days, and the code will be removed shortly after. We encourage you to take advantage of this opportunity as soon as possible.
If you need any assistance, feel free to reach out...
Please check óñ pàtreøn luffy1898