The midday sun began to shift, casting long, gradually dimming spots of light on the palace's stained-glass windows.
Another day was about to end.
In the main hall of the Archon of Tyrosh's palace, Aegon sat on the high-backed chair inlaid with ivory and obsidian, resting with his eyes closed.
blackfyre and dark sisters leaned against the side of the chair, their dark sheaths as still as two deep pools in the fading daylight.
Footsteps approached from afar, steady and powerful.
Jon Clinton strode into the hall, stopping a few steps below the dais, and struck his chest with his right hand: "Your Grace."
Aegon opened his eyes, his purple eyes showing no trace of drowsiness, clear as ever.
"The city is completely under control."
Jon reported, his voice hoarse from days of battle, but his words were clear and orderly.
"As you commanded, after interrogation and cross-referencing rosters, all the direct family members—parents, wives, concubines, and legitimate children—of the Tyroshi nobles and officers who accompanied the army on the campaign, totaling three hundred and eighty-seven people, have been identified and are being held separately."
Aegon gave a slight nod.
"Take them all to the Docks."
He spoke, his voice flat, yet it made the air in the hall tense slightly.
"They are the best bargaining chips to make those still at the walls of Lys lay down their weapons obediently."
As he spoke, he stood up.
The hem of his black robe brushed over the cold stone steps. He reached out, sheathing both blackfyre and dark sisters into a specially made weapon belt at his waist, secured by two sturdy leather straps that allowed the two swords to hang side by side within easy reach.
He habitually pressed the hilt of one of the swords with his left hand and looked at Jon: "Let's go."
"Time is running out."
On the way from the palace to the Port, Jon took the opportunity to report more details: the treasury sealed, granaries inventoried, weapons stored, prisoners of war guarded, and the handling of several minor nobles who tried to hide or resist.
Aegon listened quietly, occasionally interjecting with brief but crucial instructions.
"Scatter the prisoners of war and mix them into labor teams."
"Seal the treasury. Without my written order, not a single grain of gold dust is to be moved."
"Eliminate those who resist. But avoid harming innocent civilians. We want a functioning city, not ruins."
His instructions were concise, pragmatic, and carried a cold efficiency.
Jon noted each one.
By the time the two reached the Docks, the setting sun had dyed the sea a shimmering gold and red.
In the salty sea breeze, new sounds mingled: suppressed weeping, children's startled cries, women's low sobs, and the rough shouts of Soldiers.
A dark mass of people was herded into an open space on the Docks, mostly the elderly, weak, women, and children, along with some male nobles who had stayed behind.
Their clothes were luxurious but stained with dust and tears, their expressions filled with terror and despair.
Soldiers of the Golden Company stood in a cold circle around them, weapons in hand.
"All aboard! Now!"
"You! Stop dawdling!"
An elderly noble with white hair, dressed in ornate, jewel-encrusted robes, seemed to want to maintain his last shred of dignity and struggled to speak to the Soldier shoving him:
"I am a noble of Tyrosh. I demand..."
Before he could finish, an impatient Golden Company Soldier beside him struck the back of his knee hard with an iron-clad spear shaft!
"Ugh!"
The old noble screamed and fell to the ground, his forehead hitting the rough stone slab, blood instantly gushing out.
A Soldier stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him, bleeding profusely, toward the gangplank like a dead dog, tossing him onto the filthy deck of the Transport Ship amid the screams of his family.
This scene instantly quieted the weeping and commotion among the other captives, leaving only fearful trembling.
Jon watched, his lips pressed together, but he said nothing.
This was necessary cruelty, he understood.
Mercy has no place in commanding troops.
Aegon's gaze swept calmly over the crowd, as if inspecting goods.
Just then, an especially piercing, tearful, and twistedly frantic curse erupted from the crowd:
"Let go of me! You lowly maggots! I am the son of the Archon of Tyrosh! Leo! You should kneel! You should escort me aboard with the most splendid carriage!"
"My father is in Lys! He leads tens of thousands of troops! I want to see that Silver-haired Dragon King of yours! I want to negotiate! I demand proper treatment!"
"Just you wait! Wait—!!!"
It was the Purple-haired youth, Leo.
His face was streaked with tears and snot, his expensive velvet coat torn and disheveled. He struggled while screaming the most venomous curses, as if this could drive away the fear in his bones and reclaim a shred of illusory dignity.
The Purple-haired youth's curses pierced the sea breeze, sharp, twisted, and filled with madness on the verge of collapse.
Aegon didn't even look in that direction.
As the curses reached their peak, he slightly turned his head and said to Jon, as calmly as if ordering tea:
"Too noisy."
"Drag him out."
"Behead him."
Jon's eyes sharpened. Without the slightest hesitation, he struck his chest with his right fist: "Yes, Your Grace!"
He turned and gestured to the nearest squad of Soldiers, pointing toward the source of the voice.
Two fierce Golden Company Soldiers immediately lunged into the crowd, accurately finding the frantic Purple-haired youth.
"What are you doing?! How dare you! Ah!" Leo's curses turned into screams of shock.
The two Soldiers clamped his arms from left and right, twisting them behind his back.
Another stuffed a rag into his mouth, blocking the unfinished curses in his throat.
The last one grabbed his bright purple hair and dragged him out of the trembling crowd like livestock.
Only then did the fear of impending death truly seize Leo.
His wide eyes filled with disbelief and despair. His gagged mouth emitted muffled whimpers, his legs kicked wildly, and the stench of excrement and urine instantly filled the air.
He futilely twisted his neck, his pleading gaze falling on the black-robed, Silver-haired figure on the high platform, on Jon who was executing the order, and finally, on the Green-bearded man in the crowd who sat slumped on the ground as if his soul had already fled—his uncle, Valarro.
Valarro kept his head bowed low, trembling like a sieve, not even daring to look up.
The sight of the Black Wall vaporizing at dawn had long since evaporated his courage along with that false composure.
Leo was dragged to a clearing piled with debris at the edge of the Dock. Soldiers forced him to kneel and drew the long swords from their waists.
After the dull thud of the sword falling, all sounds on the Dock—weeping, sobbing, teeth chattering—instantly vanished.
Not lowered—vanished.
Over three hundred people seemed to have their throats simultaneously choked, even their breathing halted.
Only the sea wind moaned and the waves crashed against the shore.
That sword stroke severed not only the Purple-haired noble's neck but also the last shred of bargaining fantasy among all the captives.
The salty sea breeze swept over the Dock, over the trembling crowd, over the few strands of silver hair fluttering on Aegon's forehead.
Aegon acted as if he had merely swatted a buzzing fly. His gaze had already shifted from that direction back to Jon.
"Tyrosh," he said, his voice still steady, "I leave to you."
Jon's body jolted, and he sharply looked up.
Aegon looked at him, his purple eyes deep: "Tyrosh is ours."
"I want you to turn it into an iron nail driven into the Stepstones, into a home Port for the Fleet to anchor, into the most solid springboard for our future westward advance."
"I give you five thousand men. Can you hold it?"
Jon knelt on one knee, his back straight as a rod: "Your Grace's heavy trust—Jon Clinton will not shirk even if it means ten thousand deaths!"
"I want the city."
Aegon looked at him, paused, and added.
"And I want you alive. If the situation becomes untenable, preserve your strength and retreat to the Disputed Lands. But..."
He leaned forward slightly, placing his hand on Jon's shoulder Armor. Though light, it felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.
"I believe you can hold it."
Jon's throat moved, and he nodded heavily. Everything was understood without words.
Aegon said no more and turned toward the edge of the Dock. There, Ghidorah lay quietly, its pale golden scales shimmering with a cold luster in the westering sunlight.
Its three heads hung low, its six molten-gold vertical pupils half-closed as if in a light sleep, but the invisible pressure enveloping the Dock made everyone instinctively avoid that area.
Aegon leaped onto the Dragon Saddle with practiced ease. He grasped the dragon-bone protrusion in front of the saddle and took one last look below.
On the Dock, a Transport Ship loaded with captives and a thousand guarding Soldiers, and on fifteen other Warships, four thousand elite Golden Company Soldiers stood in solemn formation, looking up at him with eyes burning with fervor and anticipation.
Jon stood alone at the head of the pier, watching with his head held high.
Further away, the breach in Tyrosh's Black Wall was a shocking sight, but the city's silhouette remained imposing.
Aegon gently nudged the dragon's neck.
"Roar—!!"
Ghidorah let out a piercing cry that seemed to split the clouds and crack the stones. Its massive body rose from the ground, soaring into the sky being dyed by the night!
"Farewell, Your Grace—!!" Jon roared with all his might.
"Farewell, Your Grace—!!!" The Soldiers and officers on the Dock shouted in unison, their voices overwhelming the sound of the waves.
The Fleet began to move, sails taut, bows cutting through the blood-red seawater. They sailed out of the scarred Port of Tyrosh, heading in the direction where the dragon had disappeared, into the vast sea.
Jon stood for a long time, watching the horizon where the dragon and Fleet had vanished, until the last speck of sail merged into the azure blue.
He slowly straightened his body, which trembled slightly with excitement, and turned, hand on his sword.
His face no longer held the sentiment of parting, only the cold hardness and determination of a garrison commander.
"Close the Port. Full city lockdown."
He ordered in a deep voice that cut through the sea breeze.
"From this moment on, Tyrosh bears the name Targaryen."
...The same sunset dyed the Gulf of Lys a bleak, vivid crimson.
Lys.
Once the City of Perfume and Desire, now enveloped in the rust and stench of war.
The Port district had completely fallen, filled with ships flying the Tyroshi military flags.
All sea exits were tightly blockaded by the Fleet, not even fishing boats could enter or leave.
On the Docks, massive Battering Rams, Mobile Arrow Towers, and half-assembled Catapult parts were piled like mountains.
Tyroshi craftsmen and Soldiers were nervously making final preparations for tomorrow's All-out Assault.
On the Bridge of the largest Flagship in the center of the gulf, the Archon of Tyrosh—with a similarly stout build and meticulously trimmed, dyed dark green beard as the Those who stayed behind Valarro, but with sharper, fiercer eyes—
stood with a group of senior generals and noble officers, leaning on the railing and gazing at the silhouette of the nearby city.
They looked at the silent city of Lys in the twilight, at the Black Banner with a Three-Headed Red Dragon still flying from the highest tower, their faces filled with contemptuous and mocking confidence of certain victory.
"Look, still flying that ridiculous banner."
The Archon sneered, swirling the golden cup in his hand.
"What, hoping that piece of cloth will scare off my army? Or hoping that Silver-haired Actor, hiding and trembling in some brothel, will ride his 'Toy Dragon' to save them?"
"Doesn't it look like an old dog with its teeth pulled and legs broken, still stubbornly holding on?"
The group let out a low chorus of go along laughter.
"What about that self-proclaimed Dragon King?"
A noble officer took a swig of wine, his face full of disdain.
"From start to finish, not even a shadow! I say, either the lysene made it up, or he heard of Your Grace's Fame and long ago tucked his tail and ran off to some rat hole!"
"Exactly!"
Another chimed in.
"Once the siege towers are in place tomorrow and we break down that Break down the door, I want to see if they can find a single Silver-haired Actor in the Governors Mansion!"
"Probably hiding and trembling under some mistress's skirt! Hahaha!"
Wild laughter echoed on the deck, carried by the sea breeze, faintly drifting toward the silent, isolated city.
On the walls of Lys, the atmosphere was Completely different.
Behind the damaged Battlements, Karl leaned on a notched Longsword, covered in blood, the bandage on his left arm soaked dark red.
He looked at the continuous enemy campfires outside the city, listening to the faint Maniacal laughter carried by the wind, his facial muscles tense.
Henry stood beside him, his Armor covered in marks from Slashing with a knife and shooting with an arrow, breathing heavily.
Behind them were the remaining defenders and More civilians who were temporarily armed.
Soldiers of the Skull Squad were dispersion at key positions, serving both as combat backbone and Strict supervisory team, preventing anyone from collapse at the last moment.
"The Port is lost, and the outer wall won't hold much longer," Karl said, his voice so hoarse he could barely speak. "Next is street-by-Street Fighting."
Henry spat a mouthful of bloody saliva: "Then Street Fighting it is! We'll make them pay with their lives for every street, every house!"
"What worries me most..."
Karl looked back at the Scattered lights in the city's darkness.
"...are those Fence-sitters. That group Propose opening the city again this afternoon... Although Miss Luciana It was suppressed. it, but..."
"Luke is patrolling the city with two hundred Skull Squad brothers," Henry said.
"Anyone who makes a move will be executed without mercy."
"The The rules left by His Highness: in troubled times, use severe laws."
Karl nodded, fell silent for a moment, and looking at the starless night sky, said quietly: "The Messengers we sent out... none returned."
"Will Your Highness... really come back?"
Henry sharply turned his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Karl: "Karl! Have you forgotten what Your Highness said when he left? I believe in Your Highness!"
He took a breath, his tone resolute: "Even if... even if we truly can't wait, I, Henry, will die fighting on these walls."
"So Your Highness knows that the city he left behind, and the people who stayed, are worthy of loyalty, worthy of following him!"
Looking at the An almost obsessive flame in his comrade's eyes, the exhaustion and A sliver of despair churning in Karl's chest seemed smoothed out.
He He patted it hard. Henry's shoulder, said nothing more, and turned his gaze back to the city below.
There, the enemy's final siege engines were being positioned.
The firelight illuminated the ferocious excitement faces of the Soldiers, the iron-clad tips of the Giant hammer.
The All-out Assault was about to begin.
The sea breeze carried a heavy dampness, foretelling a Night Rain and even more A fierce battle.
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