Chapter 385: Daemon’s Determination, Blood Wyrm Burning the City

It was dusk.

The setting sun painted the Tyrosh sea in a brilliant reddish hue, like an ink drawing come to life. Dozens of warships were anchored, forming a solid line of defense. On a small island, a temporary camp was set up.

Daemon stood facing the setting sun, his deep eyes reflecting a complex mix of emotions. His pitch-black armor was marked with scars, and a crimson cloak draped over his elbows. At first glance, he seemed like a general savoring a moment of tranquility.

However, the letter clutched in his hand, now crumpled, and the incessant chatter of the soldiers behind him disrupted the serene scene. Ignoring the noise, Daemon called an adjutant and asked calmly, "Laenor rode off on Sea Smoke?"

"Yes, Ser Laenor was heard supporting the Stormlands," the adjutant replied, his voice trembling slightly as he stole nervous glances at Daemon's face.

Even though Prince Daemon's voice was calm, a bone-chilling coldness emanated from him, making the adjutant uneasy. Daemon paid no heed to the nervous adjutant, instead focusing on the letter with its clear handwriting.

[Surround and do not attack, wait for Myr and Lys to draw troops to support...]

"Still have to wait," Daemon murmured, shaking his head with a sneer.

He had followed his nephew's orders, helping to capture the city-states of Myr and Lys, achieving significant success in battle. Before the war, he had discussed with his brother the promise of a share of the titles if he captured a city. Now, despite taking two city-states, his nephew had shown no intention of honoring that promise, not even mentioning a word about dividing one city-state to him.

Well then, if his nephew didn't recognize his achievements, he wouldn't bother with them. He had personally led the army to besiege Tyrosh, only to be told to wait, day after day. And now, with the Dornish invasion of the Stormlands, Laenor, who had been assisting him, was also reassigned.

"Huh..."

Daemon shook his head, a sarcastic smile forming on his lips as he handed the letter to his adjutant. "Exactly how long am I supposed to wait?" he asked casually.

The adjutant's face tightened, and his voice trembled as he replied, "Prince, the letter says half a month..."

"Half a month?" Daemon's eyes sharpened, cutting through the adjutant's timid facade like a blade.

In one swift motion, Daemon tore the letter to shreds, sending the confetti scattering and catching the reddish hues of the setting sun.

Clattering sounds filled the air as Daemon pulled the dragon-winged helmet from under his arm and walked expressionlessly toward the boisterous group of mercenaries.

The dyed-haired, leather-armored mercenaries were unmistakably Tyrosh. Unaware of the impending danger, they continued their aggressive chatter.

"Prince Daemon, I advise you to retreat quickly. The Archon will offer you gold equal to your body weight."

"If the Iron Throne army does not retreat, Braavos and Dorne will destroy the Iron Throne..."

"A bunch of brawling clowns, what a racket," Daemon muttered in disgust. He grabbed one of the mercenaries by the head and swung the dragon-winged helm with a sickening thud.

Boom! Boom!

The deafening sound abruptly silenced the chatter, replaced by the splatter of blood.

Daemon threw the lifeless body to the ground, skull crushed. His face, now stained with blood, wore a devilish smile. "I will personally strike down Tyrosh and claim a city-state in my name."

The remaining henchmen tried to flee in terror.

Daemon calmly wiped his dirty helmet with his cloak.

Soldiers rushed in, swords drawn, and quickly turned the mercenaries into a bloody mess.

After the bodies were dragged away, the soldiers knelt in a circle around Daemon. Ten years after leaving Westeros, the Rogue Prince's reputation still commanded respect.

Rhaegar had an elite group of sworn Second Sons, and Daemon, his uncle, would not be outdone. Daemon's years in the free-trade city-states had honed his skills at gathering and buying mercenaries to serve him.

By the start of the Narrow Sea War, he had amassed an army of over 5,000 men.

Daemon surveyed his men, his long, disheveled hair now slicked back with bloodstained hands. He put on his helmet without a word.

"Prince, where are you going?" the adjutant asked anxiously.

Daemon didn't look back. "Get the hell back to your master and tell him to return to Dragonstone Island. Tell him Rhaenyra will soon have milk for him too."

He had no patience for waiting for a city-state to collapse from within. He wanted to claim a city-state immediately, paying the price in blood and fire.

"Roar..."

A scarlet dragon shadow cut through the fiery sky, its Roar echoing for miles.

Caraxes descended from the clouds, flapping its wings for a swaying landing.

Daemon climbed onto the dragon's back, leaning down to stare at his men. "Inform the entire army: attack Tyrosh while it's still night!"

"Roar..."

Caraxes's eyes flashed with bloodlust as it carried Daemon into the sky, its serpentine body twisting as it soared out to sea.

...

At night, a bright moon hung high in the sky.

Tyrosh.

The harbor was heavily guarded. Dozens of battleships patrolled in batches, and a massive bonfire illuminated the night as if it were day.

"Patrol carefully! Don't let Westeros' spies sneak into the city!" yelled the bearded mercenary chief, standing side by side with several lookouts. He spat on the ground and glared at his subordinates.

Tyrosh's fleet couldn't venture out of the harbor, but it surrounded the city-state, creating an impenetrable ironclad defense.

Suddenly, thin clouds stirred in the sky as a cool sea breeze blew in.

High above, a slender behemoth was concealed, cold purple eyes observing the defenses below.

Fifty nautical miles away from Tyrosh, dozens of warships converged, lurking in the pale sea under the night, just waiting for an order.

...

The Archon's Residence

Milov, a mercenary by trade, was living a life of indulgence, lounging with two scantily clad beauties, reveling in his temporary peace.

Inside and outside the mansion, two thousand soldiers from his mercenary corps guarded every level of the compound, ensuring that not even a fly could slip through. The mansion was grand, featuring pavilions and attics in the front yard and a garden with flowing water in the back.

In a white stone attic, lit by candlelight, a dozen or so luxuriously dressed men and women were holding a private meeting.

Bang! A bearded man pounded the table and said angrily, "Milov is a bastard! What does he take us for, daring to put us under house arrest!"

"He's just a lowly mercenary, a liar with no credibility," complained a red-haired old woman, her voice shrill with frustration.

Some of the attendees responded, while others remained silent, an oppressive mood filling the room. They were the upper echelon of Tyrosh's wealthiest citizens.

After the Second Battle of the Stepstones, the city-state had been devastated by a dragon attack, and the rich had suffered heavy losses. Milov, a young mercenary, took advantage of the chaos to loot and use his forces to position himself as an Archon, rallying under the banner of avenging the Iron Throne's aggression.

However, Milov's true nature as a cruel tyrant was soon revealed. He exploited the commoners even more than his predecessors, forcibly extracting large sums of money from the wealthy to fund his war efforts. When Myr fell, he demanded even more. With Lys fallen and the Triarchy in jeopardy, Milov tightened his grip, forbidding the wealthy to flee and keeping them under house arrest in his mansion.

"Everyone, perhaps you would like to hear me out," a solemn, middle-aged man with purple hair spoke up.

"What is your idea?" The rich stopped complaining and stared at him in unison.

"What's your idea?" The rich stopped complaining and stared at him in unison.

The man remained calm and said, "Milov's lack of trust has caused internal and external problems in Tyrosh. I know that everyone here has raised a group of private soldiers. Why don't we slaughter him?"

The red-haired crone scoffed, "If we kill the Archon, who will block the Iron Throne's army for us?"

"Exactly," several wealthy individuals nodded in agreement with uneasy looks.

Despite being under house arrest, they were not completely powerless. If they really wanted to escape, they could join forces with their private forces, but it would cost them.

The purple-haired middle-aged man said, "Myr and Lys have fallen, Braavos and Dorne are watching. Do you really think Milov can stop the dragons?"

Hearing this, the bearded man who had spoken first turned around, forcing him to ask, "What deal did you make with the Iron Throne?"

Immediately, the eyes of the rich people changed and stared at the purple-haired middle-aged man, desperately wanting to know more.

Seeing no point in hiding anymore, the man confessed, "I am a business partner of Lys' Black Swan. We oppose Milov's rule, and Rhaegar Targaryen's forces are open to negotiation."

"Ridiculous, you're a business partner with a whore who owns a brothel," someone replied.

"Don't argue, let's negotiate," the bearded man demanded.

The man persisted, "Milov's cruelty has made Tyrosh a target. The Targaryens need us to keep trade alive and the economy going."

There was a brief pause as the room filled with murmurs of agreement and skepticism.

"Is the news credible?" someone asked.

The man replied confidently, "The Targaryens have occupied two city-states. They need the support of the wealthy to sustain themselves. We can provide food and money."

The reasoning was sound, and the eyes of the rich began to light up with possibility.

"Let's plan," someone finally said.

"I bought out a guard outside the attic; he can tip us off," another offered.

"I've bribed a group of mercenaries at the port; they can send information and maps to Lys," another added.

"Milov's new whore was sent by me. She can slip drugs into his wine," someone else suggested.

The plan was clear.

Seeing the unity, the purple-haired middle-aged man chuckled, "Since we all agree, I'll write the letter."

Wooooooooooo...

Just as he rose from his chair, a distant, low horn sounded.

"What's the commotion?" someone asked in surprise.

The bearded man's face stiffened, and he immediately ran towards the window, exclaiming, "It's the harbor horn! The Iron Throne's fleet is attacking!"

"Wait... what?" The purple-haired man froze, unable to process the sudden turn of events.

Turning his head, his eyes looked through the glazed window into the dim night sky.

Everything appeared calm and peaceful, as usual.

Suddenly, a flash of scarlet appeared, followed by a sharp roar.

"Roar!"

A snake-like scarlet dragon rushed straight toward the Archon's residence, its wide wings enveloping the attic. In an instant, raging Dragonfire descended.

Boom—

The purple-haired middle-aged man's eyes widened in horror before he was incinerated by the scarlet Dragonfire, his screams cut short.

Caraxes turned and flew away, using the cover of night to target other parts of the mansion, spraying Dragonfire relentlessly.

"Well done, Caraxes!"

Daemon sat firmly on the dragon's back, his gaze coldly fixed on the Archon's bedroom, searching for his next target.

(Word count: 1,858)