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Half a month had passed since the betrayal at the Strait of Lys when a black line slowly emerged on the horizon beyond the waters off the coast of Tyrosh.
As the distance steadily closed, the nature of the black line gradually came into view.
It was a colossal fleet, composed of seventy to eighty large warships and nearly two hundred medium and small-sized vessels.
This massive fleet, which seemed to level the very surface of the sea with its sheer size, bore the flags of three different powers.
It was none other than the new combined fleet formed by Volantis, Lys, and Myr.
The time it took for the new coalition fleet to reach the waters near Tyrosh far exceeded the duration it would normally take to sail from Lys to the Straits of Lys.
This delay was caused by the extreme caution of both Baelor, who had once collaborated with Jacaerys, and Magister Aloma, who had previously suffered heavy losses at his hands.
Each time the new combined fleet passed through a strait or neared an island, they would leave their large ships stationed in place and send out numerous small and medium-sized ships to thoroughly investigate the entire surrounding sea area.
SWISH... SWISH...
Aboard the flagship of the combined fleet, the Perfumed Garden, Baelor and Magister Aloma stood side by side, their eyes fixed firmly on the sea ahead.
Next to them, a magister of Myr, his body draped in a robe of white gauze and his head wrapped with a white turban, hesitated for a moment before speaking in a cautious voice.
"There's something wrong. Ever since we entered Tyrosh's waters, we haven't seen a single merchant ship. And now, there isn't even a patrol vessel from the Tyroshi fleet at the harbor mouth…"
"Magister Moser, I truly admire your keen observation," Governor Aloma praised him calmly before turning to Baelor and adding, "We should stick to protocol. Send out reconnaissance ships first, and order the entire fleet to prepare for combat. Lord Baelor, would that be acceptable to you?"
"Magister Aloma, you are the commander of this fleet. I will defer to your judgment. If preparations for battle are necessary, I shall return to my own ship at once."
Baelor shrugged indifferently and made as if to leave the Perfumed Garden.
"Heh, the title of commander is merely ceremonial. There is no need to hurry, Lord Baelor. Your warship is close at hand. Let us wait for the reconnaissance reports first. If anything unusual occurs, I will still need your counsel."
"Well then, very well."
Seeing that Magister Aloma had adopted such a deferential tone, Baelor paused for a moment, then gave a small nod of agreement.
They waited for nearly an hour and a half before the reconnaissance report finally arrived aboard the Perfumed Garden.
"What do you mean by 'the area ahead is safe, but the scene is beyond description and there is something terrifying, the likes of which no one has ever seen'?"
Magister Aloma frowned deeply as he listened to the soldier's report.
Baelor also failed to grasp the meaning. He simply suggested, "Since it has been confirmed as safe, we might as well go and see it for ourselves."
"Indeed."
The command to proceed at full speed was issued from the flagship, and the new combined fleet sailed straight toward the port of Tyrosh.
But even before they reached the harbor itself, everyone aboard—from the highest-ranking commander to the lowest-ranking slave soldiers—was left frozen in stunned silence for several minutes by the sight that lay before them.
The city of Tyrosh, which had stood since the days of Valyria, a city with a history spanning four to five thousand years… had completely vanished.
The first area visible to the approaching fleet had once been the vibrant, bustling harbor district. Yet now, it could no longer even be called a harbor.
The district's iconic structure, the Bleeding Tower, had collapsed into the bay.
Most of the tower's body was submerged beneath the seawater, with only a small section of its blood-red eaves still poking above the surface, as if stubbornly asserting its lingering presence.
Surrounding the Bleeding Tower were sunken ships, their degrees of submersion varying wildly. Wreckage and bloated, pallid corpses floated atop the eerily still waters of the harbor.
In its current ruined state, the harbor could not accommodate any medium or large vessels. Only small ships or rowboats could hope to pass through its debris-filled waters.
Behind the harbor, the southern district had been reduced to a scorched wasteland. Most of the buildings had collapsed into piles of rubble, while the few that remained standing were blackened and melted, as though scorched by intense heat, their forms twisted and unstable.
As for the remaining three districts—the eastern, western, and northern parts of the city...
They had completely vanished, buried under the massive landslide from the jagged northern mountain that had split apart down the middle.
All traces of those once-thriving districts were now gone, as if they had never existed.
Could it be that Tyrosh, like the ancient Valyria, had also fallen victim to some mysterious and apocalyptic disaster?
Magister Aloma and Baelor, as well as the others around them, found themselves struck by the same chilling thought as they stared in disbelief at the devastation before them.
But then they noticed the scouts ahead, who were urgently waving flags to signal them. It was at that moment they realized this was no natural catastrophe.
Overwhelmed by the shock of seeing the familiar city of Tyrosh obliterated, neither Aloma nor Baelor had noticed the massive black triangular structure standing beside the scouts.
Now, as they examined it more closely, a chill ran down their spines. Their scalps tingled, and goosebumps erupted across their bodies.
Urgh!
Many soldiers in the fleet, their mental fortitude far weaker, could no longer hold back. They clutched their mouths and rushed to the ship's edge, vomiting uncontrollably over the side.
That black triangular structure was no building. It was a mountain-sized heap of corpses and severed heads, mixed with mud and blood, piled high like an offering to some dark god.
The dark color that coated its surface was not of any stone or shadow, but of swarms of crows feasting upon the rotting flesh, their wings flapping with unsettling hunger.
A choking sound escaped from Magister Aloma as he nervously swallowed a lump in his throat. His voice trembled as he spoke to Baelor, "C-could this... be the work of that demon?"
Baelor, whose expression had grown grim, did not answer at once. Instead, his eyes darkened as memories of Jacaerys surfaced—how the man had coldly orchestrated the death of his own great-uncle and mercilessly burned prisoners alive.
At last, Baelor gave a slow, heavy nod. His voice held both dread and certainty as he replied, "Yes. With his nature, he is indeed capable of such savagery."
He turned back toward the hideous mass, his eyes narrowing. "Aside from those who might have been buried under the collapsing mountains, I imagine the rest of Tyrosh's people lie here. He deliberately toppled the Bleeding Tower, then built this nightmarish thing in its place... he is sending us a message. A warning. A threat."
Magister Aloma stammered, "Th-then… do we still continue sailing toward Lanark Isle?"
Baelor's gaze remained fixed on the smoking ruins. "There is no need to rush. We must first uncover what exactly happened to Tyrosh. You mentioned earlier that Archon Pachek had relocated all the heavy ballistae from Bandy Isle to Tyrosh. So how, with only a single dragon, did Jacaerys manage to breach a fortified city like this? Unless… Daemon Targaryen came as well?"
Then, with a sharper tone, he added, "Release the Tyroshi soldiers we captured. After seeing what has become of their home, they will be desperate to search for any survivors. And more importantly, their hatred for Jacaerys will surely surpass even ours."
There was no doubt that Baelor was a man of formidable resolve—someone bold enough to betray Jacaerys and still remain composed even before the horror of this dreadful monument.
Though shaken, he did not lose his nerve. Instead, he gave orders clearly and decisively, as if the grotesque sight had only further steeled his determination.
"Y-yes, at once!" Aloma replied, quickly moving to obey.
As Baelor had predicted, once the thousands of captured Tyroshi soldiers were released and led to the ruins, the sight of their devastated homeland drove them into a frenzy.
With wild eyes and clenched fists, they threw themselves into the wreckage, desperate to find anyone who might have survived.
Tyrosh, after all, had once been home to nearly two hundred thousand souls. A city of that size was bound to have cellars, underground chambers, and hidden escape passages. For hours, they searched tirelessly.
By late afternoon, their efforts bore fruit. Several survivors—covered in filth, trembling uncontrollably, eyes wide with fear and disbelief—were finally discovered beneath the rubble.
They were promptly brought aboard the Perfumed Garden, the flagship of the New Combined Fleet. Their expressions alone spoke of horrors yet untold.
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[Chapter End's]
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