Tyrosh.
The lingering scent of gunpowder and sea breeze remained in the air, but the stench of death was gone.
The massive breach in the Black Wall had been patched with new stone, slightly lighter in color, like a jagged scar that had just healed.
On the streets, the cries of vendors replaced the shouts of Soldiers, and carts laden with goods rolled over cobblestones once soaked in blood.
The palace that once belonged to the Archon of Tyrosh was now the temporary residence and administrative center of the Narrow Sea Realm in Tyrosh.
The guards wore brand-new uniforms of black armor with red patterns, the three-headed dragon sigils on their chests glinting coldly in the sunlight.
They stood straight, scanning everyone entering and leaving with sharp eyes, a stark contrast to the lazy and arrogant guards of the former Archon.
At the top of the palace, before a massive arched window facing the sea, Aegon stood with his hands behind his back.
Outside the window was the busy Port of Tyrosh, with masts of new warships and merchant vessels standing like a forest; further away, the deep blue Narrow Sea stretched endlessly, its boundary blurring where the sea met the sky.
But Aegon's gaze did not linger on the scenery; before him was a giant sea chart that covered almost an entire wall.
The parchment map, made of tanned cowhide, was slightly yellowed, meticulously depicting every bay, island, and reef from the western coast of Essos, the Narrow Sea, and the Stepstones to the western coast of Westeros in different colored inks.
His finger started from the red dot representing Lys, moving slowly and with a contemplative force eastward across the shattered ink blot representing the Stepstones, finally coming to a steady halt at the westernmost edge of the chart... the coastline of Westeros.
He had just recently returned from the Valyrian Ruins.
Ghidorah had spent several days deep within the ruins engaged in what could be described as "plowing" the land for prey, flushing out and devouring the twisted beings lurking underground that emitted ancient magical fluctuations.
The cost was that nearly a third of the Valyrian Peninsula had been turned upside down, and even more of the already crumbling ruins were completely reduced to dust.
The harvest was bountiful; the sense of satisfaction Ghidorah transmitted was clear and steady. That faint hunger had been sated, and Aegon could even feel the creature's power growing solidly.
Aegon even felt that if it weren't for the year-round smoke, toxic gas, and the ubiquitous echoes of curses, the Valyrian Ruins—having been repeatedly plowed by Ghidorah—might actually be considered for reconstruction, at least in terms of safety...
At the very least, most of the deadliest "native" threats on the surface had been cleared away.
This thought stirred something in his mind.
valyrian steel swords, armor, unhatched dragon eggs, and perhaps even well-preserved ancient magical artifacts...
These things wouldn't vanish just because the monsters were cleared; they might still be buried deep beneath the ruins of some collapsed tower or in a dried-up lava channel.
Forming a professional scavenging team to conduct a comprehensive sweep within relatively "safe" areas might be a worthwhile long-term investment.
But that was a matter for later.
After leaving Valyria, he didn't return directly to Lys, but instead rode Ghidorah to Tyrosh first.
This city-state, which he had conquered with his own hands but had only visited twice in haste, was now an important part of his Narrow Sea Realm. He needed to see for himself how Jon Clinton was managing it.
The results were better than he had expected.
Order was being restored, fear was receding, and a crude but effective rule was replacing the laxity and exploitation of the old nobility.
Port taxes were beginning to flow steadily into the treasury, the garrison's training was becoming more formal, and the markets were circulating again.
Although the expressions of most pedestrians on the street were still numb and cautious, at least open chaos and looting had vanished.
Jon had not failed his trust.
This Old Knight, who harbored deep guilt toward Prince Rhaegar and projected all his loyalty and atonement onto Aegon, had poured almost all his energy into the reconstruction of Tyrosh.
The price was his own visible aging and exhaustion. The bags under his eyes were heavy, his wrinkles deeper, and his once merely graying temples were now almost entirely white.
In Lys, there was at least a shrewd and capable deputy like Luciana to share most of the civil administrative trifles, allowing Aegon to focus on strategy and the military.
But in Tyrosh, almost the entire burden rested on Jon's shoulders alone: military training, repairing city defenses, purging crime, pacifying the people, financial management, and coordination with Lys and Myr... He was like a bowstring stretched to its limit, silently enduring it all.
"You should rest more, Lord Jon," Aegon finally turned away from the sea chart, his gaze falling on the Old Knight standing respectfully a few paces away. "Tyrosh cannot do without you, but it certainly doesn't need a Hand who works himself to death."
Jon bowed slightly, his voice raspy with fatigue but still steady. "Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. Though the administration is busy, I can still manage. Seeing order restored is the best medicine."
He paused, hesitating for a moment as if something were stuck in his throat.
Aegon walked to the massive obsidian desk, picked up a budget draft for the construction of new berths at the Port, glanced at it, and said without looking up, "Speak if you have something to say."
Jon took a deep breath, as if he had made up his mind.
He took half a step forward, lowering his voice, which carried an unmistakable worry. "Your Grace, I do not understand."
Aegon looked up, his purple eyes watching him calmly.
"Over in Lys," Jon said, choosing his words carefully with a furrowed brow, "those rumors in the shadows, those restless nobles... You clearly noticed them before you left. With your methods, you could have struck like thunder and nipped the danger in the bud."
"Why... why choose to leave and give them the opportunity? It's not like you."
This wasn't a challenge; it was confusion—an Old Knight's instinctive vigilance toward potential threats and his bewilderment at his lord's apparent "permissiveness."
Aegon set down the draft and leaned back slightly against the hard edge of the desk.
He crossed his arms, turning his gaze back to the blue sea outside the window, and remained silent for a moment.
Then, he spoke slowly, his voice calm and steady, as if explaining a simple truth.
"Lord Jon, if you were to thoroughly clean a room that hasn't been tidied in a long time, would you wait for all the dust to settle and pile up in the corners before sweeping it bit by bit, or..."
He turned his head to look at Jon, a cold, sharp light flashing in his purple eyes.
"...would you deliberately give the largest rug a vigorous shake, letting all the dust hidden deep in the fibers and cracks fly up and fill the room?"
Jon was taken aback, his pupils contracting slightly.
"If I am in Lys," Aegon continued, his tone still flat, yet making the temperature in the room seem to drop a few degrees.
"The dragon is in Lys. That dust, those vipers, will only stay pinned down, pretending to be part of the floor or cowering in the cracks they think are safe."
"I cannot see them, but they are still there, accumulating thicker and thicker."
"When we launch our western expedition and the main army crosses the sea, leaving the rear vulnerable... if that uncleansed dust suddenly flies up, if the vipers suddenly strike..."
"Lord Jon, do you wish to see that scenario? To be on the shores of Westeros, across the Narrow Sea, and hear news of a rebellion in Lys, instability in Tyrosh, and unrest in Myr?"
Jon's breath hitched slightly, and his back instinctively straightened. He understood completely.
This wasn't negligence; it was a trap. A deliberate, controlled trap.
"So you left," his voice was dry, "to let the dust fly up on its own..."
"And then," Aegon took over, his finger making a swift, clean sweeping motion in the air, "at the moment they are most triumphant, thinking their chance has come, I sweep them away. A clean sweep, leaving everything spotless."
He stopped looking at Jon, as if the impending storm in Lys was merely a small matter already settled and not worth worrying about.
He walked back to the giant sea chart, his finger this time pointing to the shattered, ink-dotted region representing the Stepstones.
"Luc is in the Stepstones. What is the latest battle report?" he asked, the topic shifting seamlessly.
Jon quickly gathered his thoughts, took a rolled-up intelligence report from his robe, and unfurled it. "To answer Your Grace, Commander-in-Chief Luc is making good progress. He has cleared forty-seven pirate dens, large and small, recruited or expelled over four thousand pirates, and controls nearly sixty percent of the islands in the Stepstones. However..."
"However what?"
"He has encountered some trouble recently." Jon's brow furrowed again.
"The surviving pirates seem to have finally understood the concept of mutual dependence. Several large remnant bands are secretly coordinating. There are signs that they may be gathering at the stronghold of the last and historically most difficult pirate lord family in the Stepstones—the Saun family."
"The scouts we captured say Salladhor Saan has put out the word to unite everyone who doesn't want to be wiped out by the Dragon Lord. It's estimated that the number of people gathered could be no less than ten thousand, and they are all desperate men who have fought in the Stepstones for years, familiar with the terrain and unafraid of death."
He looked up at Aegon. "Commander-in-Chief Luc's forces are insufficient. Facing the Saun family, who hold a strong defensive position and have fresh reinforcements joining them, the losses from a direct assault could be very high."
"Should we draw some troops from Tyrosh and send them on swift ships for support? Or perhaps have the Golden Company stationed in Myr split their forces to assist?"
Aegon looked at the Stepstones region on the sea chart, his finger unconsciously tapping the island marker representing the Saun family's main lair.
"No need." He shook his head, his tone certain.
"Luc should be allowed to temper himself. The Ash Company needs to see blood; they need to fight tough battles."
"Relying solely on the Fleet and the deterrence of dragons won't produce truly fierce Soldiers. Ten thousand pirates? Nothing but a rabble."
"Tell Luc I only care about the result, not the process. The Stepstones must be thoroughly purged so we can launch our western expedition with peace of mind. As for how to fight, that is for him, as the commander, to consider."
He paused and added, "However, tell him he has a free hand. Whatever supplies or ships he needs, he can apply directly to you, and you will allocate them as you see fit."
"Tell him that only by winning this battle will the Ash Company truly establish a firm foothold in the Narrow Sea Realm."
"Yes, Your Grace." Jon bowed and accepted the order, carefully putting away the intelligence on the Stepstones.
He felt some concern for Luc in his heart, but he also understood Aegon's intention.
Just as jade must be carved to become a gem, so must an army.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by the faint whistling of the sea breeze through the tall arched windows.
Aegon turned his gaze westward once more, where the outline of the continent carrying his blood feud and ambitions stretched silently across the sea chart.
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