At Lysport, the blood-red dusk was fading, sinking into the iron-gray twilight over the deep sea.
White flags hung limply from the masts of more than a hundred Tyroshi warships, rustling faintly in the rising evening breeze.
The deck of the largest Tyroshi flagship had been cleared. The bodies of the dead had been thrown into the sea, and the blood had been hastily washed away with seawater, leaving broad, dark patches of moisture.
Dozens of nobles and officers in Tyroshi uniforms stood uneasily in several rows under the cold scrutiny of Golden Company soldiers.
None of them were bound, but more effective than ropes was the pale-gold, mountain-sized silhouette in the harbor.
There was also the undisguised killing intent in the eyes of the gold-armored soldiers around the deck, and above all, their clear understanding of their own predicament.
They had surrendered. They were not prisoners of war.
That subtle distinction allowed them to retain the last shred of dignity in standing, yet also exposed them to deeper unease and humiliation.
For what happened to them next depended entirely on the man boarding the ship.
Aegon walked up the gangplank onto the deck.
His black robe stirred in the sea breeze, heavy with the smell of salt and rust, while his silver hair gleamed coldly in the last light.
His steps were steady as he crossed the seawater-soaked deck and stopped a few paces from those who had surrendered.
His calm gaze swept across faces that were pale, frightened, forcing composure, or utterly numb.
King Ghidorah held his heads low in the harbor. His six molten-gold slit pupils reflected the shipboard lights beginning to glow, like the eyes of a god suspended above the mortal world, bearing impassive witness.
The Golden Company commander, Laswell Peake, stepped forward and struck