The Fleet sailed across the sea toward Tyrosh.
The deep blue seawater was split by the bows, leaving dozens of white wakes stretching westward in the morning light.
This route had been decided on the night before their departure.
There were two ways to reach Myr: one was to set out from Lys, land on the coast of the Disputed Lands, and then trek overland.
That meant facing dry hills, potential outlaws, and a long, fragile supply line.
The other was the one they were currently sailing, heading from Lys to Tyrosh first, then crossing the Sea of Myr to land directly at the Port of Myr.
Compared to exhausting the stamina and morale of elite infantry on land, traveling by sea was a more suitable choice.
Especially for this Fleet, over seventy percent of the ships and sailors came from the surrendered Tyrosh Fleet; they were familiar with every current and reef in these waters.
Among the forces mobilized for this trip, the three thousand members of the Golden Company were seasoned land combat elites, capable of storming fortifications.
The remaining nearly twenty-three thousand men were mostly surrendered Tyrosh sailors and oarsmen, skilled in naval boarding but not necessarily in sieges.
As for the newly recruited Lysene youths, they were adequate as auxiliaries and reserves, but if they were asked to climb the famously sturdy walls of Myr under a rain of arrows, they would likely collapse at the first sign of trouble.
By going by sea, they could at least utilize the skills of the Tyrosh sailors to bring the hammer of the Fleet right to Myr's doorstep.
Aegon stood at the bow, the salty, damp sea breeze hitting his face.
He recalled the scene before their departure.
Henry, wrapped in thick bandages and pale from blood loss, had insisted on boarding the deck.
"Your Highness, I can still fight..." Before he could finish, a fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood seeped through his bandages.
Aegon pressed down on his intact right shoulder: "Your battlefield isn't here. Recover well and keep a close eye on Lys for me. When I return, I want to see a Port capable of collecting taxes again."
Henry's lips moved, and finally, he nodded heavily, his eyes reddening.
Karl stood silently to the side with his left arm in a sling, his eyes filled with the dimness and frustration of a warrior who had lost his purpose.
Aegon walked up to him, his gaze falling on the limp, hanging arm.
"Karl."
"Your Highness," Karl's voice was hoarse.
"Just because one hand can't hold a sword doesn't mean you're useless."
Aegon looked into his eyes: "Use your remaining eye to see for me, and use your ears that can still hear to listen for me."
"Lys has just experienced blood and fire, and people's hearts are unsettled; the insects in the shadows won't all die out. I need someone to suppress them in the light, and even more, someone to watch them from the dark. Do you understand?"
Karl straightened his back and struck his chest with his remaining right fist: "Understood! Rest assured, Your Highness, as long as Karl has a breath left, Lys will not fall into chaos!"
As for Luke, he had already set out two days prior on a fast ship for the Stepstones, carrying Aegon's personal orders and funds provided by the Roagar Family.
The seeds of the Ash Company would begin to gestate in those waters where chaos and opportunity coexisted.
He pulled his thoughts back.
Ahead on the horizon, the silhouette of Tyrosh was already clear.
The Port of Tyrosh was much more orderly than when Aegon had left.
Simple wooden scaffolding had been erected at the gaps in the collapsed Black Wall, with craftsmen and laborers swarming over it like ants.
In the Port, warships and transport ships belonging to the Golden Company were moored in an orderly fashion, while captured Tyrosh vessels were concentrated in another area, undergoing repainting and personnel reorganization.
Black hulls were being painted deep red, and Three-headed Red Dragon Flags were being test-hung on unfinished masts.
Jon Clinton was already waiting at the docks.
He looked thinner than he had in Lys, but his eyes were sharp, his armor was polished bright, and his back was as straight as a spear.
Seeing Aegon's Fleet enter the Port, he stepped forward quickly and bowed at the pier.
"Your Highness, it has been a long journey."
"It looks good here." Aegon stepped onto the dock, his gaze sweeping over the orderly Port and the smoking gaps in the distant city walls.
"Barely maintained." Jon followed his pace, reporting quickly in a low voice.
"Wall repairs are thirty percent complete, Port functions are seventy percent restored, surrendered troops have been broken up and reorganized, and noble families are under concentrated surveillance. No abnormalities for now."
"It's just that there is a severe shortage of craftsmen, especially stonemasons and carpenters..."
"Craftsmen will be available soon."
Aegon interrupted him, his pace never slowing: "The Fleet needs to resupply with fresh water and food, and the hulls need to be inspected, especially those newly surrendered ships. I'll give you half a day."
Jon was startled: "Your Highness won't rest? At least enter the city..."
"Once we take Myr, there will be plenty of time to rest." Aegon's voice was flat. "Once resupplied, we depart immediately."
Jon pursed his lips, a hint of hesitation flashing in his eyes before he finally spoke: "Your Highness, please allow me to be blunt."
"The strength of Myr's walls and the excellence of their defensive siege engines are famous on both sides of the Narrow Sea."
"For this expedition, our only true elite siege force is those three thousand from the Golden Company. The Tyrosh navy is skilled in boarding actions, not scaling walls, and those Lysene recruits are even less useful..."
He paused, his voice lowering but becoming more urgent: "Perhaps... I should draw another three thousand from the Golden Company garrison! To go with you!"
"Or... let me go with you! I am somewhat familiar with the situation in Myr, perhaps..."
"Lord Jon." Aegon stopped and turned to look at him.
Jon immediately fell silent, standing respectfully with his head bowed.
"Your task is to hold Tyrosh."
Aegon's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear: "This is the cornerstone of our western front, the home Port for our future Fleet."
"Those surrendered nobles, those wealthy merchants with their own agendas, those surrendered Soldiers who haven't been fully tamed... they are all watching."
"You must be here to hammer this nail down for me, so that anyone with treacherous thoughts has no opportunity. Do you understand?"
Jon's chest heaved, and finally, he nodded heavily: "Yes, Your Highness."
"I... understand."
"As for Myr..." Aegon looked toward the Fleet busy resupplying in the Port, his tone betraying no emotion, "I will not launch a direct assault."
Jon looked up, confusion in his eyes: "No direct assault? Then how..."
"What I want is not a scorched earth."
Aegon's gaze seemed to pierce through the bustle of the Port toward the sea further east: "What I want are its intact artisan workshops, the shipyards capable of building great ships, and the people who possess those skills."
"Destroying them is easy, but rebuilding... is too slow."
Fear can make people surrender.
But hatred will make people, in places you can't see and in ways you can't perceive, leave your rule riddled with leaks.
I want them to be afraid, but they cannot be left with only fear.
Jon's confusion grew: "But if we don't attack, and the Myrmen hold the city, why would they surrender? They..."
His words came to an abrupt halt.
Because Aegon suddenly gave a light chuckle.
The smile was faint, almost fleeting, yet it made Jon feel a strange chill for no reason.
Then, he saw Aegon tilt his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the clear, cloudless blue sky, toward that extreme height and distance where the naked eye could barely distinguish anything.
Jon instinctively followed his gaze.
The sky was clear, with only a few wisps of thin clouds.
But he knew that above that dome, beyond the reach of ordinary sight, behind those thick clouds or in the clear void, something was circling, overlooking, waiting.
Ghidorah.
Without needing words, Jon instantly understood where Aegon's confidence came from, and how that "fear" would descend.
It wouldn't be a storming by thousands of troops, nor a long-drawn-out siege.
It was a divine punishment hanging overhead, liable to fall at any moment.
It was a precise, cold, incomprehensible, and irresistible destruction.
It was an absolute power that would turn all your sturdy walls, fine ballistae, and stubborn courage into a joke.
Jon felt his throat go a bit dry; he slowly lowered his head and stopped questioning.
Some things did not need to be said plainly.
"Go."
Aegon withdrew his gaze. "Hurry with the resupply. I want the Fleet out of the Port before sunset."
"Yes!" Jon struck his chest with his right fist and turned to stride away, his steps even firmer than when he had arrived.
The resupply was faster than expected.
Under Jon's management, the Port of Tyrosh was unexpectedly efficient. Fresh water, hard biscuits, salted meat, arrows, and siege equipment were loaded onto the ships in an orderly manner.
The surrendered Tyrosh sailors worked silently under the supervision of Golden Company Soldiers.
Before sunset, a captain came to report that the entire crew was resupplied, the ships had been inspected, and they were ready to set sail at any time.
Aegon did not delay.
Orders were given, horns sounded, ropes were untied, and oars hit the water.
The massive Fleet moved once more, like a giant beast waking from the deep sea, slowly turning its direction and sailing out of the now-orderly Port of Tyrosh toward those waters to the east, famous for their craftsmen and prosperity.
Jon stood on the dock, watching the receding silhouettes of the sails for a long time.
The wind ruffled his graying hair at the temples.
He thought of that extremely faint smile when Aegon looked at the sky, and of the phrase "fear can make people surrender."
He thought that the Magisters and councilors of Myr were probably still arguing incessantly about whether to fight or sue for peace.
They wouldn't know that the verdict was already on its way.
Carried by a silent Fleet and those cold, molten-gold eyes above the clouds.
Another two days of sailing.
The sea breeze gradually took on a scent different from the open sea—smells of smoke, spices, and the faint odors of metal and coke from the large workshop districts.
A sailor in the crow's nest shouted.
Aegon walked up to the forecastle.
He gazed as far as he could see.
At the end of the horizon, the silhouette of land slowly emerged.
It wasn't a rugged coast, but continuous, meticulously maintained Port breakwaters and majestic city walls that towered high, glowing with a grayish-white hue in the twilight.
Behind the walls were dense clusters of towers and domes, and further away, busy shipyards and workshop districts.
Myr had been reached.
The Fleet began to adjust its formation, shifting from a sailing column to a battle line.
Although Aegon did not intend to storm the city, he had to maintain a posture of deterrence.
The sea breeze whipped hundreds of black flags with red dragons, making them snap loudly.
On the city walls, a commotion seemed to have broken out.
Scattered points of torchlight began to move, and the faint sound of alarm bells drifted with the wind, subtle and distant.
Aegon watched the silhouette of the city silently as it became clearer in the twilight.
Lights flickered on one after another, outlining its prosperity and its fragility.
The craftsmen he needed were there, the shipyards were there, and the final process of quenching and sharpening was there.
And the fear he was to deliver... was about to arrive.
Before night fully fell, the last light of the sky illuminated his calm profile and the deep purple, rippleless cold flame in his eyes.
Judgment had arrived at the city gates.
Waiting only for dawn.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898