The council chamber of the Governor's Mansion.
On both sides of the long table, Myr's pro-war and pro-peace councilors were arguing heatedly.
The air was thick with anxiety, fear, and a forced sense of anger.
"Those Fleets are just sitting out there, neither attacking nor retreating. What on earth do they want?!"
A young pro-war councilor slammed the table, his face flushed red.
"Waiting for us to show a weakness? Waiting for our grain to run out? Waiting for us to fall into internal chaos first?"
A pro-peace councilor said coldly, "Lord Viserys, where are the reinforcements you spoke of? Where are the ships from Pentos? Where are the red sails of Volantis?"
The named Viserys, the temporary military commander who had been so full of confidence on the city walls, now had a face of ashen gray.
He had not removed his armor, and his hand remained pressed against his sword hilt, as if this could give him more courage.
"Reinforcements take time!"
Viserys growled, "The messenger sent to Pentos only left the day before yesterday. Volantis... they always have to weigh the pros and cons! But as long as we hold out, hold out until they are forced to intervene..."
"Hold out? With what?"
Another pro-peace councilor shrieked, "Did you see how many ships are on the sea? And that dragon! Have you not heard what happened to the Black Wall of Tyrosh?!"
"A dragon?"
Viserys sneered, the sound grating in the tense hall. "Who knows if it's just a sorcerous illusion?"
"Even if it's real, it's nothing more than a slightly larger flying lizard! Over three hundred Scorpions are enough to turn it into a sieve!"
He stood up and looked around at everyone, raising his voice as if trying to convince himself. "That so-called Dragon King?"
"An exiled bastard, relying on a few ships and a bunch of mutinous mercenaries, thinks he can intimidate Myr?"
"Even the Targaryen Dynasty of old failed to take the Triarchy, and now we're left with these remnants swindling others under a family name..."
His words came to an abrupt halt.
Not because he was interrupted.
But because the two heavy oak doors of the council chamber, carved with the emblems of waves and craftsmen, were slowly pushed open from the outside.
Light flooded in, outlining several figures in the doorway.
Leading them was the Magistrate of Myr, Miloto.
He had changed into clean magisterial robes, but his face was as pale as paper, his eyes were sunken, and his steps were unsteady as he walked, as if he had aged twenty years overnight.
His eyes darted about, not daring to meet anyone's gaze in the hall.
And the person who walked in half a step behind him... black armor, silver hair, a dark red cloak.
And at his waist, a longsword entirely black, with only dark red patterns flowing along the fuller.
The council chamber fell into an instant, deathly silence.
All the arguing, all the anger, all the anxiety, was suddenly seized by an invisible hand and snuffed out in the air.
Viserys stood with his mouth open, the unfinished word "swindling" frozen on the tip of his tongue.
His knuckles turned white from the excessive force he used to grip his sword hilt.
Aegon walked into the council chamber with steady steps, his gaze calmly sweeping over the frozen faces on both sides of the long table.
His gaze lingered on Viserys's face for a moment and then moved away, as if merely glancing past an insignificant piece of furniture.
The Magistrate of Myr's lips trembled as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he simply stepped aside, yielded the head seat, and made a gesture of invitation.
That posture was so humble it made the pupils of all the councilors contract.
Aegon did not hesitate, walking straight to the high-backed chair at the end of the long table that belonged to the Magistrate of Myr.
He did not sit down immediately. Instead, he turned around, pressed both hands on the back of the chair, and looked at the crowd, specifically at the person in the side seat who had been shouting the loudest.
"Continue."
He spoke, his voice not loud, yet clear enough to make everyone's scalp tingle.
"What were you just saying? Targaryens... are all swindling remnants?"
His gaze finally fell back onto Viserys's face.
Viserys felt a chill surge from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.
He wanted to draw his sword, he wanted to roar, he wanted to demand why this person was here and why the Magistrate was acting like this.
But his body would not obey.
His throat felt blocked. Only cold sweat slid down his temples.
"I..." He squeezed out a syllable, as dry as sandpaper rubbing together.
Aegon, however, did not seem to need his answer.
"You said dragons are just larger lizards."
Aegon continued, his tone as if discussing the weather. "You said Scorpions could turn them into sieves."
He tilted his head slightly, as if in thought.
Then, he nodded.
"There's some logic to that."
The moment the words fell, blackfyre was unsheathed.
There was no dazzling sword light, no sharp sound of breaking air. Only a dark arc, faster than the limit of visual perception.
Viserys didn't even see the movement clearly. He only felt a chill at his neck, as if a breeze had blown past.
Then, he saw his vision begin to spin and fall.
He saw his headless body still standing in place, hand still on the sword hilt.
He saw the spraying blood, staining the horrified and distorted face of the councilor opposite him.
He saw that body slowly collapse to its knees, finally hitting the floor with a thud.
"But, wrong answer." Aegon withdrew blackfyre and held it at his side.
The head rolled away, stopping under the long table, eyes still wide open, lingering with a final, unbelievable daze.
The hall remained deathly silent.
Only the sound of blood gushing from the severed neck and dripping onto the floor, drip, drip.
A few heartbeats of time felt as long as a century.
Then, screams erupted.
The pro-war councilors jumped up; some drew their swords, some dodged backward, and some pointed at Aegon, roaring hoarsely, "You... how dare you...!"
The pro-peace councilors were also stunned.
They wanted peace talks, they wanted compromise, but absolutely not like this—not in their own council chamber, watching their military commander's head chopped off like a chicken's!
"Magistrate! What is going on?!" a pro-peace councilor turned to the Magistrate of Myr, his voice shrill.
"Have you betrayed Myr?!"
Magistrate Miloto trembled all over, his lips moving but making no sound.
"You betrayed us?" an old pro-war noble wailed. "We were about to fight to the death! Why has the Magistrate surrendered first?!"
"Kill him! Kill this Targaryen bastard!" another radical young noble drew his sword, his face ferocious. "Guards! Gua—"
His shout got stuck in his throat.
Because the entire council chamber suddenly went dark.
It wasn't dark clouds blocking the sun.
But something so massive it was indescribable, blocking the light cast by the stained-glass windows.
All sound froze once again.
People stiffly, bit by bit, turned their heads to look at the largest arched window facing the harbor.
Outside the window, a giant, molten-gold vertical pupil filled the entire pane of glass.
It was so close it almost pressed against the window frame, the slowly swirling liquid fire deep within the pupil reflecting every pale, horrified face in the hall.
Silence.
Absolute, soul-shuddering silence.
It simply existed.
Like a massive, cold golden sun hanging in the night.
Its gaze pressed down on those few pro-war nobles by the long table who had just drawn their swords and roared "kill him."
The young noble's sword stopped in mid-air, his roar stuck in his throat.
He felt the gaze had weight, pressing his knees soft and squeezing the air out of his lungs bit by bit.
The people beside him also froze, the angry flush on their faces fading into a deathly gray.
That vertical pupil moved slowly, from one face to the next, and then the next.
Slow and clear, like ticking off names on a register.
When it finished "looking" at the last person, it paused for a moment.
Then, the shadow outside the window began to recede.
Even, steady, and irresistible.
It was as if it wasn't receding, but the entire night was carrying it away.
The molten-gold light moved further away, but the patch of air it had looked at still bore a cold imprint.
The night light returned through the colored glass.
The pressure... seemed to lessen as the shadow withdrew?
A pro-war councilor made a "he" sound in his throat, as if finally remembering to breathe.
His fingers gripping the sword hilt loosened slightly, his chest heaved, taking in the first breath of survival... Boom! Zzzzzzz—!!!
The dome of the council chamber, the magnificent vault depicting the past sages and craftsmen's achievements of Myr, melted into a massive hole.
Three bolts of golden lightning, condensed with destructive power, pierced straight down, completely covering the area that had been "looked at."
A high-frequency hiss swallowed all sound.
The golden pillars of light remained stable for the duration of three heartbeats.
When the light dissipated, only a scorching aura remained in the air.
In its place remained a charred, crystalline surface of molten glass with smooth edges.
People, swords, chairs—everything within that area enveloped by the lightning had completely vanished.
It wasn't killing; it was erasure.
Only that patch of charred glass and the slightly warm dust with a charcoal scent floating in the air proved that something had once been there.
Inside the council chamber, there was deathly silence.
Not even the sound of breathing could be heard.
Not a single pro-war councilor was left.
Two marginal figures slightly closer to that area were slumped in the corner, their eyes wide to the point of tearing, maintaining their final posture of leaning back.
They had been scared to death.
An old pro-peace councilor sat on the edge, looking down at his right hand.
The edge of his silk cuff was charred and carbonized, crumbling at a touch, revealing fine, scorching red dots on the skin beneath.
The part of the plush carpet beneath him near the edge of the glass had turned into a charred shell.
"Thump..."
The sounds of bodies hitting the floor were sparse.
There weren't many left who were still "alive" and able to move.
All the survivors, regardless of faction, were slumped on the ground, sprawled on the table, or huddled in their chairs.
Most had lost consciousness, and the rest had vacant gazes, their bodies twitching intermittently.
Aegon still stood at the end of the long table, his hand on the back of the chair, as if the suffocating scene had nothing to do with him.
He even lightly raised an eyebrow.
Watching those people who had just been shouting about fighting to the death, killing him, and uniting, now either turned to dust under the lightning or collapsed in incontinence, limp as mud.
What schemes.
What games.
What alliances.
He suddenly felt it was a bit... tedious.
Perhaps this was truly the most direct and effective way.
Aegon's gaze swept across both sides of the long table.
"Now," he took out the scroll of the surrender announcement and spoke in a voice so calm it was as if nothing had happened, "are you willing to surrender?
"Those who are willing to sign and seal this, and execute it, come to the table."
"Those who are unwilling..." He paused slightly.
"Can stay."
The silence was quickly broken.
The survivors erupted with their final survival instinct, scrambling to the table, grabbing pens, and signing their names in any blank space on the parchment with distorted, trembling handwriting, pressing their thumbprints or private seals.
Ink, sweat, tears, and bloodstains contaminated the paper.
No one dared to look at that patch of glass floor; there was only the rustle of pen nibs across the parchment and breaths suppressed to the extreme.
When the last person threw aside the pen and collapsed to the ground, Aegon picked up that piece of parchment covered in chaotic marks and filth.
His gaze quickly swept over it, confirming the key seals were all there, then he nodded slightly, rolled it up, and held it in his hand.
When the surrender announcement was read, when the three-headed dragon banner of Targaryen was raised over the city walls, and when the Soldiers of the Golden Company marched into the city gates in formation, most of the Myr defenders chose to lay down their weapons.
It wasn't that there was no sporadic resistance.
A few officers loyal to Viserys attempted to organize a counterattack in the harbor district, but they were quickly crushed by the Golden Company.
Their bodies were hung from the masts at the docks to serve as a warning.
The sparks of rebellion were stomped out before they could even ignite.
Marco's Fleet took over the Port.
The Tyrosh sailors were no strangers to the Myr shipyards; they skillfully guided ships into the harbor, controlled key positions, and inventoried the vessels.
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