The wind blew from the Narrow Sea, carrying the scent of sea brine and gunpowder smoke.
Under the morning light, the sea surface outside Myr was covered by a shifting shadow.
It wasn't dark clouds, but sails... hundreds of sails, forming a dense black arc, slowly and resolutely pressing toward the coastline.
At the top of every ship's mast, the same flag fluttered in the wind.
A black field with a three-headed red dragon, baring its fangs and claws.
The Myr defenders on the city walls looked tense.
They had seen a Fleet before.
The Tiger-and-Elephant Red Sails of Volantis, the blade banners of Tyrosh, the Purple Warships of Braavos... but they had never seen a formation like this.
No war drums, no horns, only the monotonous sound of oars cutting through the seawater and the whimpering of the sea breeze blowing through the rigging.
They were clearly familiar Tyrosh-style galleys, yet under those black-and-red banners, they carried a different kind of oppressive weight.
The Magistrate of Myr, Miloto, stood on the highest watchtower of the city wall, his hands gripping the cold stone battlements, his knuckles white.
He hadn't closed his eyes since the sentries spotted the silhouette of the first black sail last night.
Defensive preparations were made without pause; Heavy Scorpions were pushed onto the walls, Fire Catapults were set up on the towers, and bundles of arrows were transported to the embrasures.
Now, there was a Heavy Scorpion every ten paces along the wall, their arms as thick as a man's leg, the strings on the winches humming with tension.
The defenders were even equipped with Triple-shot Crossbows, and the piles of arrows behind the battlements had grown into small mountains.
The defense could be described as airtight.
The Magistrate of Myr's gaze swept over these fortifications, and the unease in his heart finally settled a bit.
"My Lord."
The sound of boot heels clicking against stone tiles came from behind.
The newcomer was the temporary military commander of Myr, Viserys, an experienced veteran and the pro-war councilman from the previous meeting; he was now clad in polished armor with a longsword at his waist.
"All Heavy Scorpions are in position, three hundred and seventy-four of them, each with three skilled operators."
Viserys's voice was tired but tinged with confidence.
"Forty-seven Fire Catapults are distributed across the east, south, and north walls. The throwing jars are filled with Wildfire; we've mobilized all stockpiles, enough to burn the entire sea surface."
He walked to the embrasure and pointed at the black sails on the sea: "If they dare approach, we'll turn them into burning pyres on the sea."
The Magistrate of Myr nodded without speaking.
Viserys continued: "As for that dragon..."
He patted the arm of a nearby scorpion.
"Steel-tipped bolts as thick as an arm can pierce iron-clad ship hulls from three hundred paces away."
"I don't believe dragon scales are harder than steel. If it dares appear over Myr, a volley from three hundred scorpions will surely turn it into a sieve."
His tone was decisive: "Even if another hundred thousand troops come, they can't hope to conquer Myr."
Magistrate Miloto nodded, turned, and faced the defenders on a nearby section of the wall.
The Soldiers looked over one after another, their eyes filled with expectation, fear, and bewilderment.
"Soldiers!" The Magistrate of Myr raised his voice, his silk robes billowing in the sea breeze.
"Beneath your feet are the walls built by countless generations of Myr ancestors with blood, sweat, and wisdom! They have blocked the Fleets of Volantis and shattered the battering rams of Tyrosh!"
He reached out and pointed toward the sea: "Look! They dare not approach! Why?"
"Because they know the walls of Myr are insurmountable, the scorpions of Myr can pierce dragon wings, and the fires of Myr can incinerate enemy ships!"
"We have no need for fear! We only need to stand our ground here, grip your weapons, and watch them!"
"They have come from afar with limited supplies and fragile morale! While we have our homes, our workshops, and our loved ones behind us!"
"We have endless arrows, inexhaustible food, and deep wells that will never run dry!"
"Hold for ten days! Just ten days!" The Magistrate of Myr's voice was almost a roar.
"Pentos will not sit idly by! The Volantis Fleet will also move to strike their home base. Then, these unwelcome guests blocking our doorstep will face a pincer attack and end up in the bellies of fishes!"
"For Myr—!" Viserys raised his arm and shouted at the right moment.
Sparse responses rang out, gradually joining together into a noisy, somewhat blustering clamor.
"For Myr! For Myr!"
The Magistrate of Myr said no more.
Accompanied by Viserys and several councilmen, he completed a full circuit of the city walls.
Everywhere he went, scorpions were primed, catapults were drawn, and Soldiers gripped their weapons; at least on the surface, the defensive line was as solid as a rock.
The Fleet on the sea remained silent, without any attempt to approach or provoke.
It was as if they were truly intimidated by the formidable defense, or perhaps they were waiting for something.
The setting sun sank completely below the horizon, and the light faded rapidly.
The Magistrate of Myr finally felt an almost crushing exhaustion seep out from his bones.
Having not slept for a day and a night, once his highly strung nerves relaxed slightly, drowsiness surged in like a tide.
"Viserys." He rubbed his aching temples. "I'll leave this to you. If there's any movement, send someone to the Governors Mansion to report to me immediately."
"Rest assured, My Lord." Viserys struck his chest with his right fist. "Not even a mouse will slip in."
The Magistrate of Myr took one last look at the ship silhouettes on the sea, like sleeping giants, then turned and walked down the wall, surrounded by his personal guards.
The Governors Mansion was located in the center of Myr, a towering tower structure.
Its exterior walls were inlaid with countless pieces of colored glass; even now, as night began to fall, they reflected the scattered torchlight in the city, rippling with a blurred and fragile glow.
The Magistrate of Myr crossed the courtyard and entered the hall.
Servants bowed in greeting, and guards stood at attention with halberds; everything was in perfect order.
"My Lord," an attendant stepped forward cautiously, "should we prepare dinner? Or perhaps a bath first..."
The Magistrate of Myr waved his hand.
He couldn't eat anything right now.
Hot water might soothe his aching muscles, but it wouldn't ease his frayed nerves.
"All of you, leave," he said, his voice hoarse.
"I want to be alone."
The attendants and guards looked at each other, but no one dared disobey the Magistrate's command, especially at a time like this.
They bowed and filed out of the front hall.
The Magistrate of Myr stood alone in the empty hall.
The last rays of the setting sun projected through the high stained-glass windows, stretching long, distorted patches of light across the floor.
This Governors Mansion had three hundred years of history, with every Magistrate leaving their mark.
His family had ruled Myr for over four generations; this city, this mansion, and every stone here should be passed down through his hands.
He could not fail.
This thought was like a needle, piercing through his exhaustion and bringing a brief moment of clarity.
He dragged his feet toward the spiral staircase deep within the hall.
The stairs were made of white marble, the handrails carved with intricate patterns of waves and craftsmen—the symbols of Myr.
He climbed step by step, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed tower, solitary and clear.
It led to the top of the tower, to the Sky Garden he had built at great expense.
From there, one could overlook the entire city of Myr, seeing the crisscrossing streets, the rows of rooftops, the busy Port, and the deep blue sea further away.
Whenever he felt tired, pressured, or suffocated by the myriad trifles of the city... he would come here, placing himself among exotic flowers and plants, listening to the babbling of the fountain, as if all troubles could be temporarily set aside.
Today, he needed that place more than ever.
He needed the scent of those flowers, the sound of the fountain, and that fragile peace that isolated him from the walls, the Fleet, the war, and his responsibilities.
Finally, the last step.
Before him was a heavy oak door, carved with intricate floral patterns he had designed himself. He pushed the door open.
The familiar scent of flowers mixed with the smell of damp earth rushed toward him.
The garden was shrouded in twilight.
Above the massive stained-glass dome, the night sky began to bleed pinpoints of silver starlight.
Beneath the dome, exotic flora from all over the world stretched their leaves under carefully arranged lighting.
In the center, the artificial fountain carved from white jade was still babbling, water droplets splashing into the shallow pool below with a crisp, monotonous sound.
Everything was as usual.
The Magistrate of Myr let out a long breath and closed the door behind him, sealing away that heavy door which symbolized the world's disturbances.
He walked to the curved railing, leaning his hands on the cool jade surface, and looked out.
Myr was shrouded in night, and further away, toward the city walls, torches formed a winding band of light—the defensive line he had just left.
The sea sank into darkness, with only some deeper shadow outlines visible—the Fleet.
He watched silently for a long time.
Until the evening breeze grew cold, piercing through his thin silk robe.
"We can hold..." he murmured to himself, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "Scorpions... Wildfire... food... deep wells... reinforcements... we can hold..."
He had to believe; he could only believe.
The repeated words were like an incantation, trying to dispel the deepest haze in his heart, one he didn't even dare look at directly.
He turned, preparing to walk toward the ivory throne in the center of the garden that belonged to him, wanting to sit there for a while, thinking of nothing, just listening to the water and smelling the flowers.
But his footsteps... stopped.
It was too quiet.
Not just the tranquility of the garden.
But... The Magistrate of Myr's breath hitched slightly.
His gaze slowly swept over every corner of the garden. The fountain, the flower beds, the birdcages, the hanging vines... no one.
There were no guards who should have been on duty at this time to greet him.
No maidservants waiting with warm water and towels.
Not even the old gardener who was always hunched over, silently pruning branches.
He was all alone.
And... his nostrils flared involuntarily.
A faint, extremely subtle scent, almost completely masked by the heavy floral fragrance.
The smell of rust, of sweet copper.
The smell of blood.
Very fresh.
A chill suddenly shot up the Magistrate of Myr's spine, ice-cold and piercing, instantly dispelling all exhaustion.
His neck turned stiffly, his gaze finally landing on the very center of the garden.
There, on his ivory-carved throne cushioned with the finest Myr carpet... sat a person.
Black armor, menacing in design; the plates were not polished to a mirror shine but were saturated with a dull, dark black as if they absorbed all light, yet adding a touch of lethality.
Silver hair fell loosely over the spaulders, glinting with a cold, pale silver luster under the thin starlight filtering through the glass dome.
A dark red cloak, as deep as blood and heavy, was draped casually over the back of the chair, one corner winding down and spreading across the glazed floor tiles.
On the edge of the cloak, continuous dragon patterns were embroidered with gold thread... The person lowered his head slightly.
His right hand, clad in a pitch-black gauntlet, rested on the scabbard of the longsword placed across his knees, his fingertips slowly and rhythmically stroking the sheath.
His movements were slow and focused.
As if admiring a peerless treasure, or whispering to an old friend.
As if he were the master here.
As if Miloto, the Magistrate of Myr and master of this city, were the intruder who shouldn't be here.
In the garden, there was only the endless babbling of the fountain.
And the heartbeat of the Magistrate of Myr, growing louder and faster, almost ready to shatter his chest.
Absurd fear emerged from the deepest part of his heart, cold and viscous, crawling up his spine bit by bit.
"Who... who are you?"
The voice squeezed out of his throat, dry, hoarse, and trembling uncontrollably.
He wanted to call the guards, wanted to interrogate.
He wanted to turn and run.
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