Lys Inner Harbor, late at night, the air was a mix of humidity and the briny scent of the sea.
On the stone docks, the night watchmen gathered in small groups, leaning against stacked cargo crates or mooring bollards, chatting listlessly.
The conversation revolved around women, alcohol, and the previous night's debauchery at the Pleasure Gardens.
"...That little vixen's waist, tsk, damn, she was so energetic I almost lost my soul there."
"Forget it, with your meager salary, you probably only got to touch her hand."
"I spent three silver coins to properly experience the Westeros style..."
"Keep dreaming. Who was it that was so weak-kneed they could barely crawl out of bed this morning?"
A burst of knowing laughter rippled through the night, carrying a heavy sense of exhaustion and a certain live-for-the-moment indulgence.
Lys had enjoyed peace for a long time; the real fighting was handled by Mercenary companies at the borders. The defense of the inner harbor was more symbolic, a matter of prestige.
No one thought anything would happen.
Until the sky over the warehouse district to the northeast was dyed an ominous orange-red by fire, and thick smoke rose into the night sky like giant black vines, twisting as it climbed.
"Over there... what's going on?" a soldier pointed at the smoke, asking blankly.
The commotion quickly spread from the warehouse district.
Panic-stricken laborers, sailors, and even disheveled civilians fled toward the port like headless flies. Cries and screams broke the harbor's dullness.
"Stop them! Stop them!" The garrison officer, a bleary-eyed young man wearing somewhat ornate armor, managed to intercept a few of the fastest runners with a few men. "What's the panic! What happened?"
"A... a fight broke out! People are being killed!" The man he caught was incoherent, his face covered in soot and fear.
"Who's fighting? Speak clearly!"
"It's... it's the tyroshi! So many tyroshi! They're hacking everyone they see with blades!" another blood-stained man screamed.
"tyroshi? Bullshit!" The young officer spat.
"This is Lys! The inner harbor! Where would a tyroshi army come from? Have you had too much to drink..." Before he could finish, he was interrupted by another escapee.
"It's the Myr! I saw it! The banners of Myr! They're burning the spice warehouses! And shooting people with crossbows!"
The spice warehouses!
The young officer's face changed instantly.
In that warehouse district, there were several large spice warehouses containing goods of immense value.
Most importantly, those were the properties of the Magister families and several Great Councilors!
If they were burned or looted under his watch, right under his nose... he didn't dare imagine his fate.
"Assemble! Quick! Everyone follow me! Go put out the fire! Suppress the rioters!" The young officer didn't care about anything else, shouting at the top of his lungs. He drew his sword and led over two-thirds of the garrison at the port, rushing toward the fire and chaos in a disorganized mess.
Fewer than two hundred guards remained, scattered thinly across the various berths of the long dock, with no more than a dozen men at each spot.
They watched their superior lead the men away and instead felt a sense of relief.
"Tsk, the boss went to snatch the credit himself. Good, we can enjoy some peace and quiet."
An old soldier spat and leaned back against a wooden post. "If something goes wrong, it's on him. What's it to us?"
"Exactly. Tonight at the 'Violet Garden'..." The conversation returned to women and drinks.
Only one young soldier, his face still tight with a tension not yet eroded by desire and laziness, gripped his spear tightly, his eyes scanning the dark sea alertly.
Suddenly, his pupils constricted as he pointed toward the open sea: "Ships! A fleet! They're approaching!"
A few old soldiers glanced over impatiently.
In the hazy night, a blurred silhouette of sails could indeed be seen approaching, and in significant numbers.
"So they're coming. Are there ever few merchant ships coming in and out every day? Don't make such a fuss." An old soldier rolled his eyes.
"Exactly. We have our fleet on the sea, and in the harbor we have... well, even though there are fewer people now, this is Lys! Who would dare run wild here?"
"Get to work, don't just stand there being an eyesore." Another waved him off like he was shooing a fly.
How could they know that the Lysene fleet had already been ordered away by their Magister?
The young soldier opened his mouth, watching the fleet approach steadily at a speed that was definitely not that of merchant ships. Their outlines became clear under the light of the harbor lanterns.
They were clearly the design of warships! Figures moved upon them, and the cold glint of armor was faintly visible.
Alarm bells rang in his mind, and he tried to shout a warning again.
"Swoosh—!"
An extremely faint sound of something cutting through the air, almost swallowed by the sound of the waves.
The young soldier's body jerked violently, and a small flower of blood burst from his throat.
A short, sharp crossbow bolt had accurately pierced his windpipe.
His eyes widened, making a wheezing sound like leaking air. The spear in his hand clattered to the ground, and his body slumped over.
The old soldiers nearby, who were chatting happily, were stunned by this sudden turn of events and turned their heads in shock.
"Ene..."
Before the word "attack" could leave his mouth, a denser, scalp-tingling flurry of "swooshes" erupted from the ship's railing, which was now almost touching the dock!
Dozens of crossbow bolts, like the God of Death's venomous bees, instantly covered all the guards near these berths.
Screams rang out briefly and were quickly extinguished.
Bodies fell with a thud, and blood quickly soaked into the wooden pier.
At the same time, more dark figures leaped agilely from the docked ships.
They were silent and swift, like a pack of wolves hunting in the dark night.
They wore not the leather armor of the Lysene guards, but plate or chain mail that smelled of the sea and gunpowder, glinting with a cold, hard metallic light in the dimness.
The sound of swords being unsheathed formed a cold tide of noise.
The harbor woke up.
Startled laborers, sailors, and slaves let out terrified screams, fleeing in all directions like ants from a disturbed nest.
A few merchant ships that had intended to dock were scared out of their wits and desperately turned their bows, trying to escape these waters that had suddenly turned into a slaughterhouse.
The killing was efficient and brutal.
The scattered, unsuspecting Lysene guards who remained were easily mowed down like wheat before these suddenly appearing iron-clad soldiers.
Resistance was minimal, and escape was futile.
The shouts, screams, and sounds of impact in the harbor area did not last long before gradually subsiding, eventually covered once more by the sound of waves lapping against the shore.
A heavy smell of blood filled the air, mixed with the scent of acrid smoke.
The docks fell back into an eerie silence, leaving only the sound of dripping blood and the crackle of fires burning in the distance.
Aegon withdrew his gaze from the railing of The Quiet.
The harbor was largely under control. The leaders of the Bloodsworn and the Skull Squad were leading their men, like tigers released from a cage, silently and swiftly pouncing on their pre-assigned targets.
The streets leading to the inner city, nearby strategic points, barracks that might house small units... everything was going according to plan, even smoother than expected.
The laxity of the Lysene people exceeded Rogare's description.
He turned and looked at the deck.
The spacious main deck of The Quiet seemed exceptionally crowded now.
A pale gold behemoth occupied almost all the space. It crouched there, its long necks winding, its three heads resting on its crossed foreclaws.
Since leaving the Stepstones, Ghidorah's size seemed to have grown visibly to the naked eye.
Now over twenty meters long, the cabins of The Quiet could no longer accommodate it, so it was left to lie on the deck.
Every time it breathed slightly or shifted, the sturdy warship would let out an overburdened "creak" and rock violently.
Sensing Aegon's gaze, Ghidorah's middle head rose, its molten-gold vertical pupils glowing faintly in the night.
Aegon walked up to it and reached out to pat the hard, cold, strangely bony protrusions of its skull armor.
"Now," he looked up, his violet eyes gazing into the depths of the city, toward the tallest, most ornate, and most brightly lit complex of buildings—
The direction of the Perfume Garden and the Magister's Palace. His voice was calm, yet carried a decisiveness that could cut through anything.
"It's our turn." His voice was calm, yet it seemed to carry a weight of a thousand pounds.
He flipped himself up, sitting steadily once more upon the dragon's back. The hilt of dark sisters was within reach at his waist.
Ghidorah's middle head turned back, its molten-gold eyes meeting his for a moment, conveying a clear response mixed with excitement and killing intent.
"Target—the Magister's Palace."
The time for the decapitation strike had arrived.
Without further words, Ghidorah's three heads rose simultaneously, its necks stretching as the muscles of its massive body began to exert force.
Those pale gold wing membranes, large enough to obscure the moonlight, slowly unfurled on the deck.
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