The news of the fall of Lys's inner city reached the Archon of Tyrosh's flagship on a dull afternoon.
The messenger, his face covered in blood and a flush of excitement, knelt on one knee in the captain's quarters, which were covered with a magnificent carpet, his voice high-pitched with agitation:
"Archon! The inner city walls have been breached! Those stubborn defenders have retreated to the main building of the Governors Mansion and are still putting up a desperate struggle, but their destruction is imminent!"
A wave of suppressed low exclamations, filled with the joy of impending victory, erupted in the captain's quarters.
The Archon of Tyrosh stroked his carefully trimmed dark green beard, a smug smile appearing on his rugged face.
"Very good."
He nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping across the generals and nobles gathered around the table.
"Tell the vanguard there is no need for a direct assault; the main building is sturdy, and a frontal attack would cause too many casualties."
"Surround them, starve them out. Without water and food, I want to see how many days those stubborn fools can last."
"As for that self-proclaimed Dragon King..."
He sneered and took a sip from his wine cup.
"From start to finish, not even a shadow of him has been seen. It seems he truly is a gutless fraud, or... he abandoned his city and his dreams long ago and fled."
"The Archon is wise!" a noble immediately flattered.
"He must have heard of the fame of your Fleet and been scared out of his wits, hiding in some brothel or rat hole!"
"Once we capture those stubborn elements, we must interrogate them thoroughly to dig out the whereabouts of that silver-haired fraud!"
"Perhaps he's disguised as a woman, trying to slip away among the refugees! Hahaha!"
Wild laughter echoed in the captain's quarters, filled with the conqueror's arrogance and greed for the intact Lys that was about to be theirs.
Just when the atmosphere was at its most heated.
The door to the captain's quarters was suddenly thrown open!
An officer, his face as pale as paper and his eyes a mix of extreme shock, absurdity, and unconcealable fear, stumbled in. He even forgot to salute, his lips trembling, his voice distorted:
"A-Archon! You... you must see someone immediately!"
The laughter came to an abrupt halt.
The Archon of Tyrosh's brow furrowed in displeasure, his mouth straightening under his green beard: "Adjutant Karon, you had better have a good reason for interrupting my celebration."
The officer named Karon seemed not to hear the chill in the Archon's words; he just stood there stiffly, repeating like a sleepwalker:
"The ship... from Tyrosh... just arrived... that person said... he said..."
"What did he say?" the Archon of Tyrosh raised his voice impatiently.
Captain Karon seemed to use all his strength to squeeze broken syllables from his throat: "He said... our Tyrosh... is gone."
"..."
A strange, eerie silence fell over the captain's quarters.
Everyone thought they had misheard.
"What. Did. You. Say?" The Archon of Tyrosh spoke one word at a time, each sounding like ice shards squeezed through his teeth.
"Tyrosh... has been conquered... it's the Golden Company... and... a dragon..."
Karon's voice grew lower and lower until it was almost inaudible, but the word "dragon" pierced everyone's ears like a needle.
"Absurd!"
A noble slammed the table and stood up, his face flushed.
"The Golden Company is in the Disputed Lands! Myr is our ally! A dragon? Where would a dragon come from? This must be a desperate ploy by the lysene! A spy sent by them!"
"Right! Impossible! Tyrosh has the Black Wall! Valyria's Black Wall! Who could breach it?!"
"My family is all in the city! This is absolutely impossible!"
Doubts and roars exploded instantly, but in everyone's voice, there was a faint trace of panic that they were unwilling to admit even to themselves.
The Archon of Tyrosh's face was so dark it could drip water. He stared intently at Karon: "Bring that person here. Now."
Soon, a man soaked to the bone and still in shock, wearing a Tyrosh sailor's uniform but clearly a low-level servant, was dragged in.
He knelt on the floor, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Under the murderous glares of the Archon of Tyrosh and the gathered nobles and generals, he stammered out a disjointed account of that nightmare morning:
A Fleet flying the flag of Myr had tricked the Port open; the Golden Company's surprise attack; a pale gold giant shadow descending over the Black Wall; that golden lightning tearing through the sky and earth; the vaporized walls and Soldiers... His description was chaotic, but the key details—the way the Black Wall was destroyed, the appearance of the dragon, the captured personnel—strangely resonated with some of the oldest horror legends.
The temperature in the captain's quarters seemed to plummet to freezing.
The color quickly drained from the faces of the nobles and generals; some felt their legs go weak and grabbed the edge of the table.
The fear for their families and property now overwhelmed the joy of victory.
"Fake... it must be fake..." someone murmured to themselves, but their voice was weak and lacked conviction.
The Archon of Tyrosh's fists clenched until they cracked, his green beard trembling violently.
Deep inside him, a voice was screaming that it was impossible, but his reason as a ruler made him scent extreme danger.
If this were true... if Tyrosh really... "Archon! Urgent report from the lookout!"
Another Soldier rushed in frantically, his voice shrill.
"The open sea! To the northeast! An unknown Fleet has been spotted! It's of considerable size and is heading our way!"
Everyone's heart sank.
The Archon of Tyrosh spun around, rushed to the porthole, and snatched the Myr lens handed to him by a personal guard.
Through the lens, on the distant horizon, a mass of sails was slowly emerging. On the lead ships, the flags flying... were not Myr, nor Tyrosh.
They were black, embroidered with... a three-headed red dragon.
Targaryen.
And, clustered around them, flags with golden skulls.
Golden Company.
"Cease the attack! All Fleets, turn! Engage the enemy!"
The Archon of Tyrosh's roar carried a hint of hoarseness and alarm that even he didn't notice.
The order spread through the massive Fleet amidst the shrill sound of horns.
The Soldiers who were besieging the main building of the Governors Mansion and clearing out the remaining enemies in the city stopped in bewilderment, watching the previously unstoppable Fleet frantically adjust their formation and turn toward the open sea.
An ominous premonition spread through the army like a plague.
The massive Tyrosh Fleet hurriedly assumed a battle formation outside the Port, facing off coldly against the Golden Company Fleet from the northeast—a much smaller but strictly organized force—at a distance sufficient for ballista fire.
The sea breeze wailed, blowing countless sails; the atmosphere was so heavy it was suffocating.
From within the Golden Company Fleet, the largest modified transport ship slowly sailed out of the line.
On the forward deck, a dense crowd of disheveled, weeping people was driven forward.
The lookout's glass clearly projected the faces of the newcomers into the eyes of the Archon of Tyrosh and the surrounding nobles and generals.
"Mother!"
"My son!"
"Heavens! It's Maria! My wife!"
Cries of terror, grief, and disbelief exploded across the various flagships of the Tyrosh Fleet.
The decks were instantly thrown into chaos.
Those forced onto the deck by swords were the very family members they had left behind in Tyrosh!
The Golden Company Fleet commander, Lyswell Peck, walked to the ship's railing with a cold, hard expression and shouted, his voice intermittent in the sea breeze but clear enough to be heard:
"Lay down your weapons and surrender... to ensure the safety of your families... resist... and no quarter will be given..."
Morale in the Tyrosh Fleet collapsed.
Many officers looked at their weeping loved ones on the opposite ship, and the weapons in their hands began to tremble.
The nobles and generals were even paler, their eyes nearly bursting from their sockets.
"Father! Father, save me!" a boy cried out from the opposite ship.
"Don't worry about us! Don't surrender!" some fierce women were also screaming.
The sounds of crying, pleading, cursing, and comforting intertwined, carried by the sea breeze like the cruelest slow execution, cutting through the heart of every Tyrosh noble.
The Archon of Tyrosh gripped the railing so hard his fingers turned white.
His gaze searched frantically through the crowd opposite. He saw his brother, Valarro, in the crowd, looking despondent as if he had aged twenty years, but he did not see... his most beloved son, Leo.
A cold chill instantly seized his heart.
"Valarro!!!" the Archon of Tyrosh bellowed with all his might, his voice distorted.
"Where is Leo?! Where is my son?!!"
Valarro on the other side seemed to be startled awake by this roar. He looked up blankly toward the flagship, toward his brother's crazed, bloodshot eyes.
The guilt of failing to hold Tyrosh, the fear accumulated over these days, and the helplessness of failing to protect his nephew all exploded at this moment.
"Leo... Leo, he..."
Valarro's voice was hoarse and broken, yet it strangely carried far.
"He's dead! Executed! I have failed you! Brother! I have failed you!!"
He let out a beast-like howl of despair. Before anyone could react, he suddenly shoved aside the somewhat lax guards next to him and leaped into the surging, cold seawater!
"No—!!" The Archon of Tyrosh's eyes nearly split.
Golden Company Soldiers rushed to the side of the ship, but they only saw Valarro's green beard flash once in the waves before it vanished.
His son was dead.
His brother had jumped into the sea.
Tyrosh... was gone.
"Ah—!!!!!" The Archon of Tyrosh let out a roar that didn't sound human, his last shred of reason completely incinerated.
He suddenly drew his sword and pointed it at the Golden Company Fleet, his voice distorted by extreme hatred and madness:
"Attack!!! Crush them for me!!! Kill them all!!! Leave no one alive!!!"
"Archon! No! Our families are still in their hands!" several nobles rushed forward to plead.
"Get away!" He slashed his sword against the railing, wood chips flying.
"Anyone who dares to disobey will be treated as a traitor and executed on the spot! Order! All warships, load the ballistae and aim at the enemy ships! Ramming prows ready! Charge!!!"
His most loyal officers and part of the Fleet gritted their teeth and began to carry out the orders.
The massive ballista winches made an ear-piercing creak, and the iron-clad ramming prows were aimed at the enemy ships filled with hostages.
The warships began to accelerate, cutting through the waves with a suicidal determination, charging toward the Golden Company's array.
However, not all Tyrosh ships followed this mad command.
Many noble generals looked at their weeping relatives on the opposite ship, then at the maddened Archon, their eyes filled with struggle, fear, and... cold calculation.
Just then.
The sky darkened.
Dark clouds gathered, lightning flashed, and a pale gold shadow so massive it blotted out the sun appeared directly above the battlefield without warning, piercing through the clouds.
A low dragon roar that made the soul tremble drowned out the waves and the wind.
Ghidorah's three heads hung low, six molten gold vertical pupils looking down coldly at the toy-like warships below and the charging Tyrosh loyalists.
Aegon sat on the dragon's back, his black robes fluttering. Looking at the enemy ships charging toward the hostage vessels, a flash of cold murderous intent crossed his eyes.
"Roar!!!"
The right dragon head opened its maw, and a blinding flash of golden lightning vanished in an instant.
Boom! Sizzle—!
A Tyrosh warship leading the charge, its ballistae already aimed at the hostage ship, along with its high ramming prow and the dense crowd of Soldiers on deck...
...was instantly vaporized and disintegrated under the shroud of the golden lightning dragon!
Leaving only a massive, boiling vortex and wisps of blue smoke on the surface of the sea.
Absolute silence.
Lethal destruction.
All the charging ships froze on the sea as if gripped by an invisible giant hand.
Soldiers on the decks slumped to the ground, and ballista operators let go of their winches, staring blankly at the empty patch of sea.
On the Tyrosh flagship, the maddened Archon also froze.
He looked up at the pale gold demon dragon, boundless fear like ice water pouring over his head. But the pain of losing his son and the hatred of losing his home instantly burned this fear into a more distorted madness.
"Ballistae!!"
He screamed hoarsely, pointing at the dragon shadow circling in the sky.
"Aim at it! Aim at that silver-haired bastard! Shoot it down!! Shoot it down for me!!!"
The giant ballistae on some of the loyalist warships trembled as they were slowly raised to point at the sky.
However, even more warships remained silent.
An admiral standing not far from the Archon of Tyrosh, who had been pale and silent, now slowly raised his head.
He looked at the invincible demon dragon in the sky, then at his weeping wife and children on the opposite ship, and finally at the now-mad Archon before him, who wanted to drag everyone, including their families, down with him.
The struggle in his eyes went out.
Only ruthless determination remained.
He gave a barely perceptible nod to the few trusted guards behind him.
Then, he suddenly drew his sword, his voice hoarse with resolution yet echoing across the deck:
"Grover, you have acted perversely, seeking to trap our families in death and even summoning the divine dragon of punishment! How can we be buried with you?!"
Before the words had even finished, his battle-hardened guards struck!
Blades flashed, lunging straight for the Archon of Tyrosh and the few loyal guards around him!
It happened so suddenly and at such close range.
"How dare you!" The Archon of Tyrosh's roar was cut short, drowned out by the dull sound of blades entering flesh and the screams of his guards.
The battle was brief and bloody.
When the admiral's blood-stained sword was pulled from Grover's chest, the wide eyes of the Archon of Tyrosh still held traces of madness and disbelief.
The admiral kicked him aside; the corpse rolled across the deck, his green beard stained with blood, his majesty gone.
He held his dripping sword high and roared at the stunned nobles and generals around him:
"Do you want to be buried with him?! Think of your families! Think of Tyrosh!!"
Silence.
A deathly silence.
Then, a sword fell to the ground with a "clang."
Then a second, a third... white flags representing surrender were slowly raised from this flagship and from more and more silent Tyrosh warships.
On the dragon's back, Aegon looked down at the warships like ants and the rising white flags.
He had no smile of victory, no roar of catharsis. He just watched silently, his purple eyes deep as the night.
Everything was as if played out on a chessboard.
He lightly tapped the dragon's neck, and Ghidorah turned, flying toward the scarred city that had finally been held.
Lys.
His city.
It was time to go home.
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