But at the end of every argument, someone always asks the same question:
"What if the dragon comes?"
No one can answer this question.
No one dared to answer.
So the Blackfyre medicine continued to be sealed in the cellar, the iron pipes continued to be forged in the secret room, and the "tools" in black robes continued to practice in the dark.
Not for use, but just in case.
Now, the "what if" comes.
The young Dragon King who rode three giant dragons, slaughtered the fleet, flattened Stepstones, ignored ballistae and traps, and fought his way to the gate of Lys—he is here.
And the last card Citadel had hidden in his sleeve had to be played.
"Otherwise," the black-robed leader's voice became even lower, so low that only he could hear it, "None of us can leave Lys alive."
He looked away from the window and glanced at the busy people in black robes in the room.
Twenty firecrackers have been assembled and arranged neatly on the table.
The small cannon was pushed to the window, its muzzle raised slightly, and it was aimed at the golden figure getting closer and closer in the sky.
The men in black robes checked the firing devices of the muskets, poured a certain amount of gunpowder into the gunpowder pool, and closed the hammer to ensure that each weapon was ready to fire at any time.
"Sir." A young man in black robes stepped forward, with a hint of unnoticeable nervousness in his voice, "The muskets have all been loaded. The artillery is also in place."
The leader nodded. "Where is Daemon?"
"There is news from the port, Daemon and his dragon have not moved. He is waiting."
"What are you waiting for?"
"Wait for us to fight Redd. Wait for Redd to separate from his dragon. Wait for the opportunity."
The corner of the leader's mouth twitched slightly, and he didn't know whether it was a sneer or a bitter smile, "That poisonous snake."
He didn't say any more.
Daemon knows his thoughts better than anyone else.
The descendant of Targaryen has never been anyone's ally, he is only his own ally.
He came to Lys, not to help Menander, not to please Citadel, but to find opportunities in the chaos - to find the opportunity that would allow him to break free from the shadow of Redd.
If Citadel wins, Daemon will smile and come out to clean up the mess, take the credit for himself, and make everyone owe him a favor.
If Citadel loses, he will abandon everyone without hesitation, disappear into the vast sea with his dragon, and wait for the next opportunity.
"Then let him wait." The leader's voice turned cold, "We will do what we should do."
He walked to the table and picked up a loaded firegun.
The weight of the iron pipe pressed against his palm, heavier than any weapon - not because of its physical weight, but because of what it represented.
Once this weapon is used, there is no turning back.
Citadel will no longer be the academic holy land that transcends major families, but will become a nail in the eyes of all Dragon Kings that must be removed.
But he had no choice.
In the sky outside the window, the three golden dragons are circling.
The three heads sometimes separated and sometimes came together, with six golden eyes overlooking the entire city.
The man standing on the dragon's back, with his cloak flying, looks like a god descending into the world.
The leader took a deep breath, raised the gun to his eyes, and aimed at the figure through the crosshair above the barrel.
It was too far. He knew that the effective range of the firecracker was far from enough.
But that cannon -- that cannon might be available.
There is no need to hit it, you just need to let it know that there are things in this world that can hurt it.
"Artilleryman, prepare." His voice was terrifyingly calm.
Two men in black robes pushed the gun mount and adjusted the angle of the muzzle.
A man in black robes responsible for aiming was lying on the window sill, using a wooden ruler with graduations to measure the distance and angle, and mouthing a series of numbers.
The man in black robes responsible for loading checked the gunpowder and projectiles in the barrel for the last time, and used a slender iron drill to penetrate the muzzle to confirm that the projectiles had been compacted in place.
"Fuze."
A stick of burning incense was handed over. The man in black robe took it and put the incense head close to the fuse at the end of the cannon.
The fuse began to hiss and white sparks erupted.
Everyone held their breath.
Near the port, Daemon stood behind the second-floor window of an abandoned warehouse on the dock, looking through the dust on the glass and staring at the sea and sky in the distance.
His dragon - a dragon much smaller than King Ghidorah, with a dark red body and scales glowing with blood in the sunlight - was huddled in the open space behind the warehouse,
The wings were folded, the neck was drooped, and a pair of vertical pupils stared at the golden figure in the sky with vigilance.
It felt the breath of King Ghidorah, and the pressure from the top of the food chain kept rolling a low, suppressed roar in its throat.
Daemon pressed his hand on its neck and tapped his fingers lightly on the scales, as if comforting a frightened war horse.
But he himself also needs comfort.
From the moment he arrived at Lys, he was never in a better mood.
On the first day, he saw those ballistae - those dragon-slaying weapons that were twice the size of ordinary models, had a ridiculously long range, and the crossbow arrows were as thick as an adult's arm.
He stood on the city wall and watched the black ballistae lined up along the city wall, watched the operators skillfully turn the winches and load the crossbows, and watched the commander proudly demonstrate the performance of these weapons to him.
He smiled, nodded, and said things like "very good", "very powerful", "Lys's safety depends on them".
But in his heart, he had already killed Lys Governor Menander, those Citadel men in black robes, and all those involved in the design and manufacture of these ballistae - all of them.
The throne of House Targaryen comes from the dragon. It comes from the true Dragon Blood veins flowing in the body.
It comes from those wings in the sky that can burn everything and crush everything.
Without the dragon, Targaryen is nothing.
And those ballistae - those weapons specially designed to hunt dragons - every moment of their existence is a provocation to House Targaryen, an insult to Targaryen's blood, and a trampling on his Daemon·Targaryen dignity.
He thought about taking action. On the first night after seeing those ballistae, he thought about riding a dragon and flying over the Governor's Palace, burning the entire palace and everyone inside to ashes.
But reason stopped him - not because he couldn't defeat them, but because there were too many ballistae, too dense, and too close.
As long as his dragon flies over the city wall, it will be targeted by at least twenty ballistae at the same time.
He might survive, but his dragon won't.
Targaryen without the dragon is nothing.
So he endured it.
He suppressed the murderous intention in the bottom of his heart, suppressed it under the smile and compliments, suppressed it in the corner where he was grinding his teeth alone in the dark, and waited.