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CLATTER, CLATTER!
Under normal circumstances, the journey from Tyrosh to the island of Lanark would have taken only three or four days at sea.
However, after witnessing the utter destruction of Tyrosh, both Baelor and Magister Aloma had grown noticeably more cautious.
Their concern was not without merit. Coordinating with Magister Moser, who was returning from the Disputed Lands to Myr, also necessitated a delay in their voyage.
As a result, it was not until the eighth day that they finally arrived in the waters surrounding Lanark Island.
The ocean, vast and boundless, holds the capacity to absorb all things.
By now, the waters around Lanark Island bore no trace whatsoever of the inferno that had once scorched the sea with dragonfire.
Nature, indifferent and ever-replenishing, had already washed away all evidence of devastation.
Returning once more to these waters, Magister Aloma found his heart caught in a tangle of emotions—bitterness, anxiety, and a lingering dread that still had not faded.
Therefore, when the scout ship ahead confirmed that the sea was now safe and reported that the Myrish fleet was currently locked in battle with the Bloodstone Fleet, Aloma could not contain his excitement.
"Lord Baelor," he called out, his voice tinged with eagerness. "Magister Moser has already begun his assault as planned. Should we wait a little longer, allow them to exhaust each other, and then step in to reap the rewards?"
Baelor, who had been silently frowning ever since he heard the scout's report, suddenly lifted his head and spoke with firm resolve.
"Magister Aloma, issue the order. Have our soldiers seize control of all Myrish warships in the fleet. Then we retreat at full speed and return to Lys."
"What? Retreat?" Aloma exclaimed, his face marked by disbelief as he raised his voice in protest. "Lord Baelor, Jacaerys' forces must have taken heavy losses during the battle at Tyrosh. If we wait until both sides are bloodied and worn down, we can easily crush them with a pincer attack. This is the perfect opportunity!"
Baelor gave a low chuckle, the sound carrying a trace of irony. "Magister Aloma, those are not the kind of words I expected from you. Stay calm. Do not let hatred cloud your judgment."
He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle, then added with sharp precision, "The perfect opportunity, you say? Then put yourself in Moser's place. Would you, in his shoes, lead the Myrish fleet into a direct confrontation with the Bloodstone Fleet, when it is supported by a dragon?"
That simple question struck like lightning, clearing the fog in Aloma's mind. His gaze shifted from side to side, as if reassessing the situation from a new perspective. After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "You mean... the Myrish fleet and the Bloodstone Fleet are putting on a show to deceive us?"
Baelor snorted coldly, his tone layered with contempt and caution. "That damned Moser is more clever than we gave him credit for, but he is also far more naïve. He truly believes that kneeling before Jacaerys will bring him peace? Fool. That man is a demon who takes pleasure in burning and devouring. He is no ordinary warlord."
He stood tall, his voice steady and deliberate, explaining his reasoning with the calm certainty of a strategist who had examined every angle.
"Tyrosh has been reduced to ashes. Myr has surrendered. The entire stretch of sea from the Stepstones to Myr now lies within Jacaerys' grasp. But have you ever considered why he chose to annihilate a city as wealthy as Tyrosh, practically a golden mine floating on water? It is because he never had the strength to conquer and hold it. That is the truth. Strip away the myths and the legends, and what remains of Jacaerys? He is nothing more than an exceptionally dangerous pirate-lord."
He paused, narrowing his eyes.
"And now that he has cut off the sea routes, cities like Pentos and Braavos will be far more anxious than we are. Let us go. From this point forward, we follow the original twin-city alliance. Together, we will strengthen the sea defenses around Lys and ensure our survival. Once that is secured, we will send ground forces to gain firm control of the Disputed Lands. In the end, it will be our two Free Cities that emerge as the true victors in this war."
Magister Aloma let out a long sigh of relief. "Lord Baelor, it is fortunate you are here. Otherwise, I might have led us straight into disaster. I will give the order immediately to seize control of the Myrish warships."
Having made his decision, Aloma turned and began issuing orders to the messengers. But just as he finished, he noticed Baelor walking toward the edge of the Perfumed Garden, the flagship of their fleet, clearly preparing to disembark.
"Lord Baelor, where are you going?" he called out in surprise.
Baelor glanced over his shoulder with a calm smile and replied, "To make preparations for our retreat. If Jacaerys comes after us on dragonback, then it will be the perfect moment to present him with a very... memorable surprise."
…
Back on land, within the central training grounds of Lanark Town's inner fortress, Jacaerys stood quietly, one hand gently stroking the side of Vermax's face.
Upon hearing the scout's report, he narrowed his eyes and gave a quiet chuckle.
"So, the combined fleet of Volantis and Lys has fled? It seems Baelor has seen through the trap. That man is indeed a talent."
Standing nearby, Stone immediately asked, "Your Grace, should I send orders for Rudy and Magister Moser to pursue them at once?"
Jacaerys slowly shook his head. "No need. Even if you combine their fleets, they are still less than half the size of the enemy's navy."
He exhaled softly and looked up at the sky, his expression thoughtful.
To destroy the northern mountain outside Tyrosh, they had already exhausted all the wildfire pitch that Urd had painstakingly collected during overtime these past few weeks.
Even if he took to the skies on Vermax now, he would only be able to burn a few ships at most. It would serve no purpose.
More importantly, he knew all too well in his heart—if Baelor dared to betray him and lay such a trap, then he must have something substantial to fall back on.
If he acted on impulse and gave chase, he would only be walking into danger.
The risk far outweighed the reward. There was no merit in pursuing them.
And finally, there was one more thing, something often overlooked, that was quietly limiting his actions.
With this thought in mind, Jacaerys lifted his gaze toward the dragon saddle strapped to Vermax's back.
The previous saddle, carefully crafted by the Dragonkeepers of Dragonstone, had been destroyed beneath the Bleeding Tower.
The current one was newly fashioned by the craftsmen of Lanark Town. While its outward appearance was quite similar to the original, it lacked the same craftsmanship.
Jacaerys found it uncomfortable to sit in, and its handling was far inferior in terms of control and responsiveness.
That was to be expected. After all, everything from dragon breeding to dragon-riding had been skills passed down for generations among the Dragonkeepers—a legacy honed over centuries.
If outsiders could casually replicate such mastery, then House Targaryen would never have needed to rely on the Dragonkeepers for so long.
It seemed he would need to return to Dragonstone.
Having reached this conclusion, Jacaerys gave a calm order: "Inform Magister Moser to begin preparing for the ceremonial surrender. The day after tomorrow, we will head to Myr to formally accept it."
"At once, Your Grace," Stone responded with a bow.
Since he no longer intended to engage in aerial combat, Jacaerys gave Vermax a gentle pat on the head and turned to leave the training yard.
"Y-Your Grace… mercy… please, have mercy…"
Suddenly, a frail voice of pleading broke through the air. Jacaerys turned his head toward the edge of the yard, where a row of towering cruciform execution racks had been erected.
There, stripped completely naked and covered head to toe in bloodied lash marks, Coleman was tied to one of the frames. But what drew the eye most sharply was the void where his manhood had once been.
Everyone bound to those crosses had been among the officers responsible for preparing the defense of the Bleeding Tower that night.
When Coleman had returned to Lanark Island, knowing that the truth could not be concealed, he had taken the initiative to confess the reasons for his failure.
Since his negligence had created a vulnerability that the enemy had exploited, Jacaerys had simply eliminated that "weakness" for him.
Judging by his condition, the resilient Coleman had already made it through the most dangerous stage of infection following his castration.
"Take him down and give him some water. He still has value, so make sure he stays alive," Jacaerys said casually to Stone, then turned and walked away without a second glance.
Coleman was a clever man. He could still be useful.
As for whether he harbored resentment over what had happened—Jacaerys simply did not care.
On the third day, at dawn, the Bloodstone fleet arrived at the harbor of Myr.
It was clear from a glance that Magister Moser was sincere in his surrender.
All of the massive ballistae that once lined Myr's city walls had been dismantled and laid out in parts in the most visible areas.
Moser himself, along with ten other city magisters, had gathered early at the harbor to await Jacearys' arrival.
Behind them were crates filled with gold and silver, and young women of Myr, all possessing both beauty and grace.
Further back stood rows upon rows of Myrish soldiers, who had laid down their weapons and removed their armor, showing their complete submission.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
As Vermax flapped his wings and hovered above the harbor, the eleven Myrish magisters all fell to their knees in unison.
Looking down at the sea of prostrated figures below, Jacaerys felt a strange stirring rise within him.
After the obliteration of Tyrosh, the magisters of Myr had chosen to surrender without resistance, offering limitless riches and a harem of beauties into his hands.
It reminded him of an old saying from his previous life: Kill one, and it is a crime. Slaughter thousands, and you are hailed a hero.
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[Chapter End's]
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