Night had completely swallowed the port of Volantis.
On board The Quiet, moored at the pier, the light of torches cast flickering shadows across the deck.
Aegon stood at the bow, already clad in his suit of pitch-black Valyrian Steel armor that shimmered with a metallic luster.
A dark red cloak was fastened to his left shoulder with an iron clasp, its hem fluttering slightly in the salty night breeze.
Black and red.
The colors of House Targaryen.
He slowly drew the longsword from his waist, a blade meticulously selected from the piles of Ironborn corpses.
The blade was heavier, its edge finely honed, gleaming with a cold, hard light under the torchlight.
With a light flick of his wrist, he tested the grip and balance of the sword. Satisfied, he sheathed it with a steady "clink."
The crisp sound of metal friction was exceptionally clear in the silent night.
Behind him, on the deck and the pier, over fifty Mercenaries stood ready, fully equipped.
They had donned plate and mail stripped from the Ironborn and Corleone guards, which had been given a cursory cleaning.
Although some of the armor was slightly ill-fitting for the shorter or taller Mercenaries, the protection it offered was a world away from their previous tattered leather or lack of armor altogether.
Iron helms sat upon their heads, shields were gripped in their hands, and they were fully armed with swords at their waists and crossbows on their backs.
Beneath the moonlight and torchlight, a forest of steel stood in silence, broken only by the occasional clinking of armor plates and suppressed breathing.
The air was thick with the scent of rust, grease, and a restless anticipation of impending bloodshed.
Aegon looked up at the night sky above the port, tinted a dull red by the city lights.
The stars were hidden; it was a good time for business.
"Your Highness, everything is ready," a Mercenary's voice sounded behind him, low and steady.
Aegon nodded slightly.
On his way back, he had "visited" a Tiger Party officer responsible for the night security of this port district, using a ruby of middling quality but sufficient dazzle.
The gem had bought a tacit promise: tonight, no Tiger Cloak patrols would pass through this area.
As for whatever news broke tomorrow—gang warfare? A vendetta? Who knew.
The Tiger Party and the Elephant Party were always locked in a struggle; perhaps they would be glad to see a faction connected to an Elephant Party Magistrate suffer a setback, even if it was just the brother of a mistress.
"Your Highness, let me go too!" Henry squeezed to the front, carrying his signature great iron hammer, his chubby face filled with an eagerness for battle.
The wound on his arm had been simply bandaged and set, seemingly not affecting his strength to swing the hammer.
Aegon glanced at him, his gaze sweeping over the fleet moored nearby, especially the ships carrying the dragon eggs and vital supplies.
"Henry, you and the rest will guard our ships and everything on them," his voice brooked no argument. "This is just as important. There must be no mistakes."
Henry opened his mouth to speak, but seeing the unquestionable look in Aegon's eyes, he swallowed his words and heavily thumped his breastplate. "Yes! Rest assured, Your Highness! The ships will stand as long as I do!"
Just then, several dark figures, like civets blending into the night, silently and swiftly approached from the shadows of the pier district. It was Karl, whom he had sent to scout, along with two Mercenaries.
"Your Highness," Karl panted slightly, speaking quickly but clearly. "I've scouted it out. The Iron Jaw Gang's hideout is two blocks away, a brothel with a sign that says 'Pink Dream.' It has three floors and a courtyard in the back."
"The front door faces the street, the back door leads to a narrow alley by an open sewer, and there's a side door usually used for deliveries."
"There are about thirty to forty men inside. Barry is there too, drinking on the second floor. Most of them aren't wearing armor, and their weapons are just within reach. I didn't see any proper sentries, only two drunks leaning against the front door, yawning."
The intelligence was clear and concise; everything indicated the enemy was completely unprepared, immersed in their nightly revelry and the habit of bullying the weak.
"Very well." A cold light flashed in Aegon's eyes. Without further hesitation, he turned to the standing troops. "Move out."
The clanking of armor plates suddenly intensified as over fifty Mercenaries, armed to the teeth, moved like a silent giant serpent of steel.
Under Aegon's lead, they quickly and orderly left the pier, disappearing into the labyrinthine, dark alleys of the Volantis port district.
Their footsteps were intentionally lightened, but the piercing killing intent seemed to freeze the air as they passed.
The sign for "Pink Dream" cast an ambiguous yet murky glow, illuminated by the candelabra hanging at the entrance.
Faint music and the sounds of men and women flirting drifted through the cracks in the door, mixed with the scents of cheap perfume and alcohol.
Aegon stopped at the mouth of an even darker alley opposite the brothel and raised his hand to give a few simple signals.
The Mercenaries immediately dispersed in silence like well-trained hounds, swiftly and precisely occupying the front door, the back alley, and the side entrance. Crossbowmen notched their bolts, their cold arrowheads aimed at every window from which someone might escape.
"Luke." Aegon looked at the young man beside him, whose eyes were bloodshot and whose body trembled slightly with excitement and hatred as he gripped his sword hilt. "Take ten men and breach from the front."
"Remember, your primary objective is to find your sister and ensure her safety."
"Yes, Your Highness!" Luke practically squeezed the words from his throat. Taking a deep breath, he violently waved his hand and led ten Mercenaries, all wearing equally murderous expressions, charging like tigers released from a cage. No longer hiding their footsteps, they crashed into the ajar wooden door of "Pink Dream"!
"Bang—Crash!"
The loud crash of the wooden door shattering instantly drowned out the decadent music.
"Who's there?!"
"Fuck! You dare cause trouble here?!"
The startled and angry shouts had barely begun before they were drowned out by more piercing screams and the clashing of metal.
Inside, just as Karl had said, most of the Iron Jaw Gang thugs were either drinking and carousing with prostitutes or shouting at the gambling tables, their weapons left carelessly at their feet.
Faced with the sudden intruders clad in cold iron armor and with eyes full of killing intent, they were momentarily stunned.
A thug wearing only a shirt and with a fleshy face tried to grab a dagger from a table, but Luke's sword swept down with the sound of wind, and blood splattered!
Another reacted, lifting a wooden stool to smash against a Mercenary, but the stool shattered against the Mercenary's plate pauldron. The Mercenary merely swayed before thrusting his blade into the man's stomach with a backhand strike.
The short clicks of crossbow mechanisms sounded amidst the din, and figures on the upper floor trying to look out or grab weapons fell one after another.
The battle... if it could even be called that... was almost a one-sided massacre.
The gang members who scrambled to fight back found their daggers, clubs, and even their few longswords pathetic and powerless against the Mercenaries in full plate armor.
Blades striking the iron armor only sent sparks flying, while the Mercenaries' precise and ruthless slashes and thrusts brought forth a spray of blood with every strike.
Aegon did not enter immediately.
He stood at the shattered entrance, his bright red cloak fluttering slightly behind him in the inflowing night breeze.
The Valyrian Steel armor, reflecting the chaotic firelight from within and the dim light from without, flowed with a dark and cold luster, making his tall figure look like a god of death emerging from the darkness.
His violet eyes calmly surveyed the scene of slaughter inside, showing not a hint of emotion, only a bottomless indifference as if he were watching a play that had nothing to do with him.
Suddenly, a blood-soaked and disheveled figure came scrambling toward the door; it was the thug leader with the hideous tattoo on his face from earlier that day.
His face was filled with extreme terror, as if he wanted to rush out to call for help or escape.
However, as soon as he burst through the shattered doorframe, cold blades struck from both sides.
The two Mercenaries guarding the door didn't even spare him a second glance; their swords, already poised, crossed and slashed like shears!
The tattooed man's shout came to an abrupt end. His body froze in place before collapsing limply, blood spreading rapidly beneath him.
His terrified eyes stared blankly at the silver-haired, black-armored figure in the night outside.
Aegon's gaze did not linger on the corpse for even a second.
The night breeze blew past, carrying a heavy scent of blood and gently tugging at the red cloak on his shoulder.
The clamor and screams inside quickly grew sporadic and then subsided completely, leaving only suppressed sobbing and pleas for mercy.
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