Tyrosh, Prince's Palace, Council Chamber.
A massive map of Westeros covered the table, with mountains, rivers, castles, and fortresses outlined in fine brushstrokes.
Candles burned on bronze lampstands, casting flickering shadows of the figures gathered around the table onto the walls.
Aegon stood at the head of the table, his dark valyrian steel armor shimmering with a dim luster under the candlelight, his dragon-wing helmet placed at his side.
Behind him, Jon Clinton, Luke, Henry, Luciana, Karl, and others stood in solemn silence.
The air was heavy, filled with the tension of an approaching storm.
"Confirm one last time," Aegon's voice was steady, clearly audible in the silent room.
Jon stepped forward, holding a list, his voice as steady as a rock: "Your Highness, the main force of the Western Expedition army has completed its assembly."
"The Golden Company, ten thousand strong, with heavy infantry, spearmen, archers, and war elephant riders all ready, well-equipped, and with high morale."
"The Ash Company, eight thousand in actual strength, a mix of light and heavy infantry, half equipped with bows and crossbows, with new armor and blades, fierce and ready for battle."
"The Bloodsworn, three thousand exactly, armored heavy cavalry, both men and horses in heavy armor, a charge capable of crushing cities."
He paused, looking up at Aegon: "Altogether, twenty-one thousand field elites."
"The Narrow Sea Fleet," he continued, his finger tracing the location of the Narrow Sea on the map, "all available warships have been incorporated into the battle sequence, totaling one thousand one hundred and twenty-seven ships. Sailors, rowers, and the main naval force total fifty-three thousand men."
"In addition, the three cities of Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr have each provided twenty thousand auxiliary troops, responsible for transport, camping, fortification construction, and all other logistical chores."
"These sixty thousand auxiliary troops have completed preliminary organization by the garrison and are undergoing basic training to familiarize themselves with our army's commands."
Jon put down the list and looked at Aegon: "Your Highness, for this Western Expedition, the total force we can mobilize is one hundred and thirty-four thousand men."
"Grain, arrows, medicine, and replacement equipment have been loaded according to the needs of three months of intense fighting. Subsequent supply lines have been planned and will be guaranteed by the three cities in rotation."
One hundred and thirty-four thousand men.
This number echoed softly in the council chamber.
This was not just an army, but a mobile kingdom armed to the teeth, carrying nearly twenty years of the House Targaryen's exile and hatred.
It was the sword of Targaryen vengeance that Aegon had forged on the eastern shore of the Narrow Sea in half a year.
Aegon's gaze drifted across the map, finally landing on the jagged coastline of Westeros.
"Where do we land?" he asked, his eyes scanning the crowd.
A brief silence.
Then Jon Clinton stepped forward again, his finger pointing to the southeast corner of the map, that mountainous area filled with forests and castles... the Stormlands.
"According to the latest intelligence, Robert is dead, and the Baratheon family is in internal strife."
"Renly has taken the great army of the Stormlands nobility to Highgarden to claim kingship, and the army is stationed around Bitterbridge. The interior of the Stormlands is... empty."
Jon's finger pressed heavily on the location of Storm's End, "Storm's End, the ancestral seat of the Baratheon family, one of the strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms, is now weakly defended."
He looked at Aegon, the sharp light of an old general flashing in his eyes: "Our army can head west from the Stepstones, through Shipbreaker Bay, to this place..." His finger traced a coastline south of Storm's End with a hidden bay marker.
"Land. Take them by surprise and strike directly at Storm's End. Once this castle is taken, the gates to the entire Stormlands will be wide open. Our army can rely on the rugged terrain of Storm's End to plot against King's Landing to the north and take the The Reach to the west. Furthermore, we can immediately send messengers south to Dorne."
He looked up, his eyes burning: "Prince Doran Martell of Dorne is Princess Elia's brother and your uncle. The Targaryens and Martells have a blood alliance, and more importantly, a common enemy... the Lannisters."
"If we use Storm's End as our base, with a massive army in hand, and show our resolve for revenge and the blood connection to Princess Elia... Dorne will very likely become our first ally in Westeros."
Aegon listened, his gaze fixed on the Stormlands. The Stormlands were indeed an excellent springboard.
To the north across Blackwater Bay was King's Landing, to the west were the fertile The Reach, and to the south was Dorne.
Taking this place would provide grain, strategic depth, and potential allies.
Moreover, the political significance of Storm's End was immense; capturing it would be a fatal blow to Baratheon prestige.
"A good proposal," Aegon said slowly, his fingers unconsciously tapping the table.
But his gaze moved away from the Stormlands, slowly shifting upward, landing on an island marker at the mouth of Blackwater Bay on the map.
Dragonstone.
The ancient territory of the House Targaryen before the conquest of Westeros, the fortress of the dragon lords, and the starting point of their westward crossing.
"Split the forces," Aegon suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, but it made everyone look up.
He walked to the map, his finger first pointing to the location of Storm's End, then tracing an arc to land on Dragonstone.
"One route will be commanded by Jon. According to your plan, land at Shipbreaker Bay and launch a surprise attack on Storm's End. The Golden Company will be the main force, accompanied by forty thousand auxiliary troops."
"Take Storm's End, stabilize the Stormlands, and contact Dorne." His finger paused on Dragonstone, his tone resolute, "The other route will follow me. To this place. Dragonstone."
Everyone was stunned. Dragonstone?
That desolate, rocky island with almost nothing but a castle and fishing villages? Its strategic value was far inferior to Storm's End, or even several good Ports on Crackclaw Point.
Jon frowned slightly: "Your Highness, although Dragonstone is easy to defend and hard to attack, its output is limited and it can hardly support a large army. Stannis's Fleet might be operating nearby, we..."
"I know," Aegon interrupted him, his gaze fixed on the small dragon-shaped marker on the map, his purple eyes seemingly flickering with flames.
"Capturing Dragonstone is not for actual grain or troops. It is to tell the whole of Westeros..."
He looked up, his gaze scanning every face in the war room, his voice clear, cold, and carrying a weight that announced destiny:
"Tell those usurpers, tell those traitors, tell everyone who has forgotten blood and fire... the true dragon has returned."
Silence.
Everyone understood Aegon's intent.
This was not just a military action; it was a declaration, a deterrent, and the most direct and symbolic outcry for the return of Targaryen legitimacy.
Taking Dragonstone would be like planting the first Targaryen red flag right at Westeros's doorstep.
"Your Highness is wise." Jon no longer questioned and bowed to take his orders. He understood the political and psychological significance.
"I am willing to follow Your Highness to Dragonstone!" Luke immediately stepped forward, striking his chest with his right fist.
"The Bloodsworn are willing to be Your Highness's vanguard!" Henry said in a deep voice.
Aegon nodded: "The route to Dragonstone will be led by me personally. The Ash Company, the Bloodsworn, and twenty thousand auxiliary troops will accompany me."
Just then, the voice of a Personal Guard came from outside: "Your Highness! The Golden Company, the Bloodsworn, and the Ash Company have finished assembling at the Port training grounds!"
Aegon took one last look at the continent on the map that was about to be ignited by war once more, and there was no longer any hesitation in his eyes.
"Let's go." He turned and strode out the door.
Tyrosh's largest Port had been cleared, and huge wooden platforms and viewing stands had been built overnight, facing the vast sea.
At this moment, this area transformed into a training ground was shrouded in a murderous silence.
At the edge of the Port, ships were lined up like silent giant beasts, their black sails hanging low. And in the center of the training grounds was a sea of people, a forest of steel.
Twenty-one thousand selected combat Soldiers, divided into three massive, distinct phalanxes, stood in silence.
The three-colored phalanxes were spread silently across the Port.
The sea breeze swept through, bringing the flapping sound of banners and the suppressed breathing of tens of thousands of men.
Surrounded by his inner circle, Aegon ascended the high command platform.
His dark valyrian steel armor was as dim as an abyss under the afternoon light, his scarlet cloak trailing behind him, the hilts of Blackfyre and dark sisters slightly visible at his waist.
He walked to the front of the platform, his gaze slowly scanning the boundless army below, this sword he had created with his own hands, which was about to follow him across the sea for revenge.
He did not speak immediately, but just looked on.
Wherever his gaze fell, whether it was the veterans of the Golden Company, the heavy cavalry of the Bloodsworn, or the fierce Soldiers of the Ash Company, they all involuntarily straightened their backs and gripped their weapons tighter.
A moment of silence followed, as if even the waves had calmed.
Then, Aegon spoke.
His voice was not intentionally loud, yet it strangely rose above the sound of the wind, clearly reaching the ears of every Soldier in the front rows.
"You," he raised his hand, pointing below, "come from different places. The city-states of Essos, the desolate islands of the Stepstones, and from among the waves of the Narrow Sea."
"You once fought for gold, fought for survival, or struggled in a sea of blood, not knowing what tomorrow would bring."
"But now, you stand here. Standing under the same banner."
He paused, his gaze like lightning, scanning the three-colored phalanxes.
"Some told me that for one hundred and thirty thousand people to launch a cross-sea expedition and attack a kingdom that is in internal strife but still massive is a risk, a madness."
"They said Westeros has towering walls, nobility that has lasted for a thousand years, and countless armies."
The sea breeze seemed to grow stronger, tossing his silver hair.
"But they forgot," Aegon's voice suddenly rose, with a cold metallic quality that pierced the air, "they forgot who, three hundred years ago, with three dragons and an army, conquered the Seven Kingdoms!"
"They forgot what the iron throne was cast from!"
"And they forgot even more that the Targaryen blood feud remains unavenged! The blood of the late King Aerys, the blood of Prince Rhaegar, the blood of Princess Elia, the blood of my young sister... it is still in the Red Keep of King's Landing, not yet cooled!"
His voice echoed over the Port, carrying fifteen years of accumulated fury and coldness.
"Today, we stand here..."
Aegon suddenly drew Blackfyre from his waist, the valyrian steel sword reflecting a dim light in the sun, pointing directly toward the western horizon!
"To take back the home stolen by the usurper!"
"To settle the blood debt that has flowed for fifteen years!"
"It is to tell those pretenders sitting on the iron throne, the traitors hiding in the Red Keep... the true dragon is not dead! The Targaryens... have returned!"
"ROAR—!!!"
The response was a roar like a mountain collapsing and a tsunami surging!
The steady roar of the Golden Company, the deep response of the Bloodsworn, and the wild shouts of the Ash Company blended into a wave of sound that destroyed everything, rushing into the sky over Tyrosh, making even the giant ships anchored in the Port seem to tremble!
Just as the roar reached its peak.
"AWWW—!!!!"
A dragon's roar that seemed to come from ancient times, tearing the soul, boomed from high in the sky! It drowned out everyone's shouts!
Everyone involuntarily looked up.
The clouds were roughly torn apart, and a pale gold, terrifying figure, so massive it blocked the sun, carrying a pressure that made all things tremble, descended from the heavens!
Ghidorah spread its massive dragon wings, enough to cover half the training grounds, its six molten-gold vertical pupils looking down coldly, as it slowly landed on the open space in front of the command platform. The heavy landing made the entire Port dock vibrate slightly.
The dragon's majesty filled the air like a physical substance, instantly choking even the most fanatical shouts.
The training grounds fell into a dead silence, with only Aegon's voice echoing.
"In Westeros," he spoke with a voice like a great bell, his eyes burning, "there are fertile fields in the The Reach ten times richer than the Disputed Lands! There are castle halls a hundred times stronger than those in the Stepstones! There are nobles who have inherited for a thousand years and sit idle, with warehouses full of grain, cellars stuffed with gold and silver, and manors filled with serfs!"
"Follow me across the Narrow Sea!" He pointed Blackfyre directly to the west.
"The swords in your hands are the measuring rods for the land! Your courage is the contract for your fame and fortune!"
"Conquer castles, seize granaries, occupy estates, and distribute rewards according to military merit! The brave shall receive castles and become lords, the fierce Soldiers shall receive land and become knights—everyone shall have a share, and this is no empty promise!"
"ROAR—!!!"
A suppressed roar rose from the army, like rolling thunder.
Flames ignited in the Soldiers' eyes, not just of fanaticism, but of naked desire—desire for land, wealth, status, and to escape a life of wandering and lowliness!
Aegon held his sword high, his voice reaching its peak: "I, Aegon Targaryen, of the dragon lord bloodline, the rightful heir to the iron throne, hereby swear: In this Western Expedition, all captured castles and lands shall be bestowed according to military merit! Those who fight bravely shall be richly rewarded! Those who retreat in cowardice shall be severely punished!"
"With our family's ancient castle Dragonstone as witness, and in the name of our ancestor Aegon the Conqueror... I swear that if we do not take Westeros on this journey, we shall never return to the east!"
"ROAR! ROAR! ROAR!!!"
The roar finally exploded! The steady battle cry of the Golden Company, the deep response of the Bloodsworn, and the wild shouts of the Ash Company blended into a wave of sound that tore through the clouds, making the harbor tremble!
As the dragon's roar rose, Aegon had already put on his ferocious dragon-wing helmet, the visor lowered, leaving only a cold gaze.
He took one last look at the ignited army below, his voice coming through the visor:
"Jon Clinton!"
"Present!" On the platform, Jon stepped forward, striking his chest with his right fist.
"I command you to lead the Golden Company and forty thousand auxiliary troops to land at Shipbreaker Bay, capture Storm's End, and manage the Stormlands! Can you do it?"
"I shall surely seize the cities and lands for Your Highness!" Jon's voice was as sharp as clashing steel.
"Luke! Henry!"
"Present!" The two men below the platform stepped out and knelt on one knee.
"The Ash Company and the Bloodsworn shall follow me to Dragonstone! Let the sleeping ancient fortress of the dragon lords once again burn with Targaryen flames!"
"We follow you to the death!"
Aegon looked at the forest of warships outside the Port and finally gave the order:
"Narrow Sea Fleet, blockade The Gullet, control Blackwater Bay! Without my order, not a single plank shall put to sea!"
"As you command!" the Fleet commanders roared in response.
Aegon said no more, stepped steadily down from the high platform, and walked to Ghidorah's side.
The giant dragon lowered its head, and he leaped onto the dragon's neck, turning to face the army, his black armor and dragon scales merging into one dark mass under the sun.
He slowly raised Blackfyre, the tip of the sword pointing far to the west, aligning with Ghidorah's head-to-the-sky posture.
"Western Expedition—"
His voice blended with the dragon's sudden, sky-shattering roar, becoming the final declaration that swept through the sea and sky:
"Westeros!!!"
"KILL! KILL! KILL!!!"
The response was a thunderous roar! A thousand warships blew their horns.
Thirty thousand elite troops, fifty-three thousand naval forces, sixty thousand auxiliary troops, along with the thousands of people in the Port area, roared with a sound like the heavens and earth were splitting apart!
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