Tormund people are furious.
They no longer accepted surrender, no longer captured the wounded, but mechanically wielded knives, stabbed, and chopped.
Cut down everyone who's still standing and kill everyone who's still breathing.
Daemon saw it all from the air.
There was a cold, cruel smile on his lips.
This is not because he likes killing - although he does not hate it - but because he knows that for every Redd soldier who dies, there will be one less trouble to deal with Redd himself later.
These soldiers are not ordinary cannon fodder, they are Redd's elite, veterans who have fought with him for many years, and they are the sharpest blades in Redd's hands.
If all these people gather around Redd and form a human wall during the final battle, it will be even more difficult for him and Tormund to kill Redd.
So he must kill all these people here, now, before Redd rushes back from the palace.
Bloodworm dived again on his command.
This time, its target is the ship in the deepest part of the harbor. That is the flagship of the Redd fleet, the one Dawg Lars rode on before, and the place where Redd stood before landing ashore.
The mark of King Ghidorah's claw marks still remains on the hull, and the three-headed Gold Dragon king's flag is still flying on the mast.
Bloodworm's dragon's breath swept from bow to stern, burning the entire ship from beginning to end.
The sails curled up, turned black, and turned into ashes in the flames. The mast broke and fell in the high temperature, hitting the deck and causing a cloud of sparks.
The planks of the hull made a crackling sound in the flames, like someone crying.
The three-headed Gold Dragon king flag burned in the flames for a long time.
The golden dragon pattern became twisted and deformed in the orange-red flames, as if it was making a final struggle.
Then, it finally couldn't hold on anymore. The flag fell from the top of the mast, fell on the burning deck, and turned into ashes together with the bodies that were also burning.
When the last scream dissipated on the sea.
When the last burning warship sank to the bottom of the sea.
When the last Redd flag was lifted from the water - or, more accurately, its fragments were lifted.
Tormund stood on the bow of the flagship, wiping the blood on the blade with a rag, looking at the burning sea with floating wreckage and corpses in front of him.
There was no smile on his face.
It's not because he is unhappy. He is indeed very happy. This strangulation went more smoothly than expected. Redd's elite were all lost here, and the next decisive battle will be much simpler.
It's because he knows that this is just the beginning.
The real battle has not begun yet.
Daemon rode Bloodworm and circled above his head, then landed on the open space of the port pier.
Bloodworm's hind legs were still bleeding. Daemon jumped off the dragon's back and walked to the wound to check. The crossbow arrow was still stuck inside.
He held the arrow shaft, took a deep breath, and pulled it out suddenly.
Dark red Dragon Blood spurted out, and Bloodworm let out a painful cry, but was quickly calmed down by Daemon's hand.
He threw the bloody crossbow arrow into the sea, then raised his head and looked at Tormund.
Their eyes met in the air.
"Done?" Daemon asked.
"It's done." Tormund replied.
"Where are his people?"
"Dead. All."
Tormund paused and added, "At least, everything on this sea."
Daemon nodded, looking past Tormund to the still smoking ruins deep in the city.
That is the direction of the palace. The smoke from the Wildfire explosion has not completely dissipated, and the black smoke pillars are slowly tilting in the morning wind, like fingers pointing to the sky.
"He will be back soon." Daemon said.
Tormund followed his gaze and said nothing.
On the sea, the last Redd warship is slowly sinking.
The bow of the ship was submerged into the water first, then the hull, and finally the stern.
Before it sank completely, the broken mast tilted up from the water, like the last, futile arms of a drowning man.
Then, it disappeared.
All that was left on the water was burning wreckage, floating corpses and dark red blood stains.
Several seagulls flew in from a distance, hovering over the wreckage and making a sharp cry, as if they were crying.
In the direction of the port, Redd's landing force - the soldiers who followed Dawg Lass ashore - were still fighting with the Lys defenders in the streets of the city.
They didn't know that their fleet had been destroyed.
Not knowing that his escape route has been cut off.
Dragon King, who didn't know he was on his way back from the palace.
All they know is that they must fight.
And in the sky, under the dome that was dyed gray-gold by smoke and morning light, a golden light spot was rapidly enlarging.
King Ghidorah is back.
It didn't take long from the explosion to when Redd arrived riding King Ghidorah.
From the palace to the port, King Ghidorah only needs dozens of wings to fly at full speed.
The ruins of the white palace were still smoking black behind them, and the firelight from the direction of the port had already turned half the sky red.
Redd stood on the back of the dragon, the sea breeze whistling past his ears, blowing his cloak as straight as a flag.
Through the smoke and morning light, he saw the dark red dragon hovering over the port, the warships on the sea that did not belong to him, and the burning, sinking, and disappeared fleet - his fleet.
Not one of them is intact. Not one of them can still fight.
The battleships he brought from Volantis, survived the naval battle of Stepstones, and fought all the way to the gates of Lys, were now all turned into wreckage floating on the water.
Broken planks, broken masts, scattered ropes, and burning fragments of sails formed a messy black carpet on the water in the port.
The corpses were rising and falling in the water waves, some were still burning, some had been burnt to coke, and some were brought to the dock by the current, where they bumped against the stone walls, making a dull and heart-breaking sound.
Those soldiers, those sailors, those elite men who had followed him from east to west, across half the known world - they were all dead.
Redd looked away from the sea, with no expression on his face.
It's not indifference, it's not numbness, but something deeper and more essential - at this moment, his brain packages and seals the information of "loss" and stuffs it into the deepest corner of his consciousness, waiting for a more appropriate time to process it.
There is no place for sadness on the battlefield. Sadness is a luxury that is only worthy of victory.
What he needs now is anger - cold, precise anger that can be held in his hand as a weapon.
Dawg Lars is the only one alive.