When the ship docked, there was no pier.
Only a stretch of scorched beach, repeatedly plowed by the fires of war.
Rotting shipwrecks were half-buried in the silt, exposing their hideous keels.
The distant hills were bare; trees had long since been cut down to build camps or used as firewood, leaving only charred stumps like scars left after the earth had festered.
Aegon stepped onto this land, his boots sinking into the soft black mud.
The air was thick with the lingering scent of smoke, the smell of rust, and a faint, sweet stench of decay.
The Disputed Lands.
This narrow stretch of land sandwiched between Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys had been soaked in blood over and over again.
Today one family's flag is planted, tomorrow it's replaced by another's crest, yet the bones beneath the banners never decrease.
Jon Clinton walked to his side, his gaze sweeping across the desolate surroundings.
"Your Highness, the main camp of the Golden Company is stationed on the easternmost side of the Disputed Lands. To arrive as quickly as possible, we must cross the Disputed Lands directly."
Aegon said nothing, only looking inland.
The scorched earth stretched toward the horizon, with several wisps of black smoke rising behind the distant hills—unknown if it was cooking smoke or another fire just extinguished.
Thoughts churned in his mind.
Sa Melis had set out three days before them; by now, she should have completed her mission to Tyrosh, though the outcome remained unknown.
To be honest, he did not hold much hope.
He did not believe those greedy vultures would pass up a piece of meat as seemingly succulent as Lys, which had just undergone turmoil.
Tyrosh, Myr, and even the more distant Volantis were likely all calculating how much profit they could reap from this change.
But in the end, one must test it to know if it's a blade or a smile.
"Let's go." He took one last look at the azure sea.
That was the direction of Tyrosh; he then turned and walked toward the ship where horses were being unloaded.
On this trip, Sa Melis's only bargaining chip was his title of "Dragon Lord."
But Aegon knew that people often only understand fear when terror truly descends upon their heads. Relying solely on words, on a legend of a "Dragon Lord" not yet witnessed with their own eyes... her task was destined to be difficult... Just as Aegon expected.
Sa Melis received the most standard courtesy and the most thorough perfunctoriness in the palace of the Archon of Tyrosh.
That ruler with the deep green beard smiled as he listened to her presentation about the "Prince of Lys" and "peaceful trade," then politely pushed everything off to an observable future.
She saw through the calculation and waiting behind that smile, stayed no longer, and took her leave.
She had to head to Myr as quickly as possible, then return to Lys.
The vultures had already bared their talons, merely waiting for the best moment to dive; she had to report to His Highness immediately.
As the heavy palace doors closed behind Sa Melis, the mask of gentleness on the Archon of Tyrosh's face instantly peeled away.
"Prince of Lys? Dragon Lord?" he repeated the words, his voice raspy and devoid of emotion.
Eight hundred men, overnight... taking a Free City! The Dragon Lord returns?
If the reports from the spies he had sent out to gather information hadn't roughly matched what the female envoy said...
In the past, if someone dared to tell him such a story to his face, he would have treated them as a madman who had drunk too much poor-quality wine and thrown them out directly.
A nobleman dressed in deep blue silk with hair dyed purplish-red stepped forward, his eyes shining with naked desire.
"Archon! That is Lys! Spices, silk, glass, and those top-tier bed slaves! Right now, it's like a treasure chest that's just been pried open and left unguarded!"
"Eight hundred men taking the city overnight?" A burly general snorted. "Hmph, those weaklings in Lys—I've said it before, they're only fit for ledgers and women's bellies! Our Tyrosh fleet..."
"But I heard they have dragons..." a more steady old noble spoke up.
"What Dragon Lord?" someone interjected excitedly. "Are there even any true dragons left in the world? Even if there are, are our Scorpions made of wood? In the Century of Blood, our ancestors didn't exactly fail to slaughter those big flying lizards!"
"Our fleet is invincible!"
"Enough." The Archon of Tyrosh on the main seat interrupted the bickering nobles.
"Lys is a piece of fat meat; of course we must eat it," he said slowly, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the armrest.
"But if we eat too greedily, it's easy to choke, and easy to let others benefit. Don't forget, Volantis has never stopped looking eastward."
His gaze swept across the crowd.
"If we spend all our effort taking Lys only to suffer heavy losses, and then let the Volantis fleet take the opportunity to push east... that would be the ultimate joke."
"Then your meaning is..."
"Myr." The Archon of Tyrosh spat out two words, a sharp light flashing in his eyes.
"Send someone to see the Magistrate of Myr. This piece of meat is too big; devouring it alone is easy to bloat on. Sharing it between two... is more secure."
As for that Dragon Lord who occupied Lys? Heh.
Just as that noble said, during the Century of Blood, there were Dragon Lords who survived The Doom only to die in Tyrosh, under the Scorpions.
As long as we are well-prepared, with giant Scorpions mounted on ships and forming a formation, any dragon that dares to come will be shot into a hedgehog.
The title of Dragon Lord... in his eyes, it was nothing but a joke... In the Disputed Lands, on the journey east.
The troop of horses moved slowly north along the dry riverbed.
The villages they passed were nothing but broken walls and ruins.
"Ten years ago, thousands of people lived here," Jon said, riding alongside Aegon, his voice low.
"Tyrosh and Myr have been back and forth, seizing grain, conscripting men, killing... those who could flee have long since escaped."
Aegon's gaze passed over the ruins of a charred granary; several mummified corpses still hung from the crooked beams.
"The Golden Company—who do they answer to now?"
Jon was silent for a moment.
"Nominally, they are in the employ of Myr," he said slowly. "The eastern part of the Disputed Lands is currently under their control. As long as Myr pays on time, that land temporarily 'belongs' to Myr."
"Temporarily?"
"Mercenaries fight for money," Jon Clinton's tone was calm.
"Myr pays, and the Golden Company helps Myr block the military advances of other city-states. With ten thousand of their elite stationed on the eastern front, other powers dare not act rashly."
He paused and looked ahead: "But because of this, there is currently a dangerous balance."
"But this balance is as thin as a cicada's wing," Jon's voice grew lower, almost scattering in the wind. "And we are now walking toward that very wing."
The group continued east.
The scorched earth seemed endless. Occasionally, the remains of low earthen walls could be seen—villages long since vanished or abandoned outposts.
"This wasteland actually has a name," Jon Clinton suddenly spoke, his gaze scanning the desolate wilderness. "Crown Tree."
"Many years ago, nine outlaws—exiles, pirates, Mercenary captains—gathered and allied here, swearing under a tree to help each other fulfill their ambitions of conquering kingdoms."
Aegon knew this bit of history.
The Ninepenny Kings.
Their alliance began with an oath under a tree and ended in a disastrous defeat in the Stepstones.
The dreams of nine men, along with the withered bones of countless mercenaries, were buried together on both sides of the Narrow Sea.
"And the tree?" Aegon asked.
"Long gone," Jon shook his head.
"Burned by lightning, or used as firewood during some conflict. Only the name remains on this scorched earth where nothing grows."
Crown Tree.
The tree is gone, leaving only its name to mark a wasteland repeatedly soaked in ambition and blood.
Just then.
"Hmm?"
Aegon suddenly reined in his horse.
Almost simultaneously, the entire troop came to a halt. Every Bloodsworn Soldier's hand went to their weapon, their eyes sharply scanning the surroundings.
The wind blew from the northeast.
Carrying with it the smell of blood and the sounds of battle cries.
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