Those who ran towards the door, those who were incinerated to ashes in the fire blast, did they do anything wrong?
In that chaotic, terrifying moment where people are dying every breath, who can judge which path is right?
Who could know before seeing the flames erupting from the top of the door frame that the door is not a way to life but a way to death?
He didn't know. But he knew that from today on, when he closed his eyes every night, he would see the image of those people collapsing in flames.
He would hear their whines, smell the smell of their burning flesh, and think of the soldier engulfed in flames every time he coughed - the man whose face he didn't even have time to remember.
Redd turned around and walked towards King Ghidorah.
The giant beast was slowly retracting its right wing from the ruins of the palace.
The scales on the wing tips were covered with dust and soot and looked gray in the sun, but there was no damage.
The head in the middle drooped, its golden eyes scanned the burning ruins, and it let out a low, dissatisfied hiss - as if to say: These people are so annoying that they have to make such a big noise even when they die.
The head on the left is turned in another direction - the direction of the port.
Its nostrils fluttered, as if it was sniffing something, and then it let out a deeper, alert purr.
Redd followed its gaze and looked over.
In the direction of the port, thick smoke is rising - not the black smoke from the Wildfire explosion, but another lighter, grayer smoke, like someone burning wet wood.
Under the smoke, a huge, moving figure could be vaguely seen.
Dark red scales are faintly visible in the smoke.
Daemon's dragon.
Redd's mouth corners rose slightly.
"It's not over yet." He whispered, then jumped on the dragon's back, patted King Ghidorah's neck, "Let's go."
King Ghidorah's wings suddenly spread out and soared from the square.
Its right wing brought up a gust of wind as it passed over the ruins, blowing the still-burning flames everywhere. Several flames fell on Dawg Russ, but he could no longer feel it.
He sat slumped next to the half-collapsed stone pillar, watching the golden figure in the sky getting farther and farther away, getting smaller and smaller, and finally turned into a point of light and disappeared on the skyline in the direction of the port.
Surrounded by burning ruins, smoking corpses, and Lys civilians arriving from a distance one after another with frightened faces.
Dawg Russ climbed up from the ground slowly and with difficulty.
His left arm hung by his side, unable to exert any strength at all; his right leg was cut open by a piece of flying gravel in the explosion. Blood poured out of the wound and flowed down his calf into his boots. Every step he took made a wet and uncomfortable squeaking sound.
He stood firm, wiped the ashes from his face with his right hand, then raised his head and looked at the golden light spot in the sky that was almost invisible.
"Your Highness..." His voice was so hoarse that it was almost inaudible, "You must come back alive..."
His lips trembled and then he closed his mouth.
Because in this world, nothing that can kill Redd has been born yet.
In the direction of the port, the dark red dragon was spreading its wings and flying towards the golden light spot in the sky.
On the dragon's back, Daemon's figure loomed in the smoke. His hands were holding the reins tightly, his knuckles turned white, his lips were pursed tightly, and his eyes shone with a complex light that was mixed with fear and excitement.
The distance between the two dragons is shortening at a speed visible to the naked eye.
On the sea below them, Tormund's fleet was rounding the headland of Lys Island from the north. Fifteen warships were lined up in a long snake formation, the sails were full, the oarsmen were paddling hard, and they were heading towards the port at full speed.
Tormund stood on the bow of the flagship, the sea breeze blowing his hair back. His eyes passed through the smoke and fire and fell on the two approaching figures in the sky.
"Hurry." He whispered, as if to the fleet, but also to himself, "Faster."
He held a fish-man bone knife in his hand, the blade glowing with a cold blue light in the sunlight.
He got this knife from the fish-man priestess. She had repaid the favor she owed him with the blood of her tribe.
And what he owes her - he hasn't repaid it yet, and he may never have the chance to repay it.
But he doesn't care.
He only knows that today, either Redd will die or he will die.
There is no third possibility.
Tormund's fleet was like a ghost emerging from the bottom of the sea, appearing on the north side of Lys port on time.
Fifteen battleships formed a long snake formation.
The sails of the ship were swollen in the morning breeze, and the oar blades cut through the water, dragging white trails at the stern of the ship.
They sailed out of the fjord to the north and skirted the cape full of reefs. As if through precise calculation, they happened to be stuck at the most vulnerable time point of the Redd fleet.
The main force had just landed, and the rear was empty. The fleet's attention was entirely focused on the southern wall, while the north was a neglected blind spot.
No one knows how Tormund achieves such accuracy.
Maybe he has been waiting on the distant sea, maybe the murlocs passed on the information, or maybe it was just pure intuition and luck.
But when the masts of fifteen warships rose from the sea level.
When the black flag painted with the giant beast of the deep unfurled in the morning light.
When the first wave of trebuchet shells hit the outermost deck of the Redd fleet, everyone understood one thing.
This is not an encounter.
This was a carefully planned, multi-party hunt that was planned from the beginning.
Daemon launched an attack from the sky.
He rode the dark red dragon called "Bloodworm" and swooped down from below the clouds.
That dragon was much smaller than King Ghidorah. In front of King Ghidorah, it looked like a snake standing in front of a bear.
But snakes can also bite people to death. And the venom of this "snake" is dragon's breath.
The dragon breath of Bloodworm is not a golden beam that can decompose all things like King Ghidorah.
Its dragon breath is traditional, ancient, House Targaryen passed down from generation to generation.
The orange-red flames smelled of sulfur and tar, and were so hot that they could burn a battleship into a floating black coke within a few breaths.
Flames spurted out from Bloodworm's open mouth, like lava pouring from the depths of hell.
Wherever it passed, the sails turned into ashes and the masts burned like torches.
The sailors on the deck ran and rolled in the flames, letting out heart-piercing screams, and then fell down one by one and turned into burning corpses.
The surface of the harbor was soon covered with a layer of burning broken boards and smoking wreckage.