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A small warship, its sails emblazoned with the silver seahorse sigil of House Velaryon, sliced swiftly through the choppy waves of the Narrow Sea.
"Captain, Pryr Island is ahead," the first mate reported.
He cast a wary glance at the dark silhouette looming on the horizon before lowering his voice. "This island belongs to the Tyroshi. Why are we coming here?"
The captain shot him a cold, measuring look. "Is that really a question you should be asking?"
His voice carried a frosty edge as he continued, "Why do you think Prince Jacaerys ordered us to set sail in the dead of night? Naturally, it's for secrecy. But if you truly wish to know, I can tell you."
The first mate shivered under the captain's unfamiliar, icy gaze. He quickly waved his hands and forced out a nervous laugh. "No, no! I don't want to know! I spoke out of turn!"
The small warship pressed forward, slicing through the waves until it reached the bustling harbor town of Pryr on Pryr Island.
Though the Kingdom of the Three Daughters and House Velaryon had been locked in fierce battles over the Stepstones for many years, their ongoing conflict did not disrupt maritime trade. Even a vessel bearing the Velaryon sigil could pass inspection with ease and enter the harbor without much trouble.
As the crew secured the ship, the captain turned to his men. "You lot, make sure to resupply and prepare for departure. The moment I return, we set sail at once."
With that, he disembarked, vanishing swiftly into the throng of merchants, sailors, and dockworkers crowding the port.
Left behind, the first mate and the other sailors exchanged uneasy glances, muttering curses under their breath. But whatever misgivings they had, they knew better than to question orders.
Pryr Town stood at the westernmost edge of Tyroshi territory, just a day's voyage from Bloodstone Island.
Since Bloodstone was the most strategically important island in the Stepstones, whoever controlled it would never open its ports for merchant vessels to resupply. As a result, Pryr had taken its place as a key stop along the maritime trade routes.
A thriving commercial hub, the town boasted a permanent population of six to seven thousand and a market teeming with goods from across the Narrow Sea. From foodstuffs and weaponry to rare luxuries, nearly anything a sailor or merchant might need could be found within its crowded streets.
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Amid the throng of merchants, sailors, and hawkers filling the crowded streets of Pryr Town, a lone figure moved with quiet purpose.
The man known as Scorpion wove through the bustling chaos, his mind consumed by thoughts of his failed assassination.
His plan had been meticulous.
First, he had arranged for "Ser Rickard" to receive the gift of mercy and take his place—a deception meant to mislead their target. Then, he had unleashed two assassins as distractions before moving in for the kill himself.
Everything should have gone according to plan.
But then, the silver-haired girl of House Targaryen had thrown herself in front of the blade.
That—was not something he had accounted for.
Even then, he could have finished the job. If he had struck without hesitation, his target would never have had the chance to draw his sword.
But he had hesitated.
He had feared that taking the girl's life would demand a price he could not afford to pay to the Many-Faced God.
Damn it!
If he could not afford the price, then he should have simply offered up his own life—returned his existence to the Many-Faced God in penance.
No.
He had to reaffirm his faith. He had to be stronger.
Lost in thought, Scorpion suddenly realized he had wandered into a secluded alleyway.
Before him stood a small temple, its doors shut tightly.
The doors were unlike any others—one half carved from the pale white wood of a weirwood tree, the other polished black ebony.
The House of Black and White. A temple devoted to the Many-Faced God.
Of course, a small shrine like this—functioning more like a regional outpost—was nothing compared to the grand temple in Tyrosh, let alone the sacred stronghold in Braavos.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
The heavy doors creaked open with a slow, drawn-out groan.
"Valar Morghulis," Scorpion intoned in High Valyrian as soon as the entrance parted.
A hooded monk stood in the doorway, hands pressed together in a silent gesture of prayer. Solemnly, he replied, "Valar Dohaeris."
Glancing around to ensure no prying eyes lingered nearby, Scorpion reached into his robes and retrieved a small, tightly sealed letter. The wax bore the unmistakable sigil of the Faceless Men.
"This urgent letter must be delivered to the High Priest in Tyrosh immediately," he said. "I entrust it to you."
The monk bowed his head. "It will be done."
With his task complete, Scorpion swiftly departed from the Black and White Court, slipping back toward the harbor.
He did not truly believe the Velaryon soldiers could track him down.
Still, Pryr Island was too close to Bloodstone for comfort. It was safer to put as much distance between himself and that cursed place as possible.
CLATTER! CLATTER! CLATTER!
As he retraced his steps toward the bustling main street, a sudden shift in the atmosphere sent a chill down his spine.
Pedestrians and merchants—faces stricken with panic—were rushing toward him from the direction of the port. He was the only one moving against the tide of the fleeing crowd.
Then—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A series of muffled explosions rumbled through the air. Moments later, a furious blaze erupted into the sky, painting the heavens a vivid orange-red.
Something had happened!
Scorpion instantly realized the situation was turning dire. Without a second thought, he pivoted on his heels and ran with the crowd, blending into the sea of terrified people.
As he fled, his hands moved with practiced precision, swiftly stripping off the Velaryon armor he had been wearing. He then flipped his inner robe inside out, reversing its colors, and casually ran a hand across his face.
Like a magician performing a seamless illusion, the middle-aged Velaryon ship captain disappeared—replaced by an unremarkable young woman.
Pryr had two ports—one to the west, facing Bloodstone, and the other to the east, leading toward Tyrosh. If he could reach the eastern docks, he might yet escape unscathed.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
Amidst the chaotic stampede, Scorpion suddenly heard a deep, reverberating sound slicing through the air above.
The next moment, a vast shadow loomed over him and the frenzied crowd, darkening the street like an omen of doom.
Instinctively, he looked up—
There, soaring gracefully in the sunlight, was an enormous emerald-green dragon, its scales gleaming like an exquisite work of art. With its colossal wings spread wide, the beast glided overhead, its presence both majestic and terrifying.
From this low altitude, Scorpion could even make out the lone rider astride its back.
Jacaerys Velaryon!
'Impossible!
Even if he had discovered the two corpses hidden among the rubble and rooms, there was no way he could have deduced so quickly that I was a Faceless Man…
And even if he had, how could he have so precisely predicted my escape to Pryr Island?
Not only in Westeros but even in Essos, most believed the Faceless Men to be mere legend. Few truly knew of their existence!
Scorpion's mind raced with disbelief and confusion. But fortunately, the dragon was not here for him.
The emerald beast streaked past, its vast wings stirring the air with a powerful gust. Its trajectory led straight toward the eastern port of Pryr Town.
Then—
It opened its massive, fanged maw and unleashed a torrent of blazing orange-red flames.
In an instant, the once-thriving eastern port became an inferno. Buildings, ships, and unfortunate souls were consumed in the raging blaze, their screams drowned beneath the crackling roar of the flames.
Pryr Town was not entirely defenseless. A contingent of slave-soldiers had been stationed to guard the port.
SWISH! SWISH! SWISH!
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
A sparse volley of arrows shot upward, their tips glinting in the light as they struck the dragon's exposed underbelly.
Yet apart from producing a few crisp metallic sounds, they inflicted no harm whatsoever.
If anything, these futile attacks only succeeded in drawing the dragon's attention.
WHOOSH!
A fresh wave of scorching dragonfire poured down upon the slave soldiers, snuffing out their lives in an instant and leaving behind only charred remains.
In Tyrosh, merchants were held in higher regard than warriors. The city's defences relied not on standing armies but on mercenary companies and legions of slave soldiers.
Pryr Town was a trade port, not a fortified stronghold like Bloodstone. It was never built to withstand a full-scale assault—let alone the fury of a dragon.
Unlike the Archon of Tyrosh, who could afford to employ renowned sellsword companies and countless slave legions, the town's leaders lacked the resources to mount any significant resistance.
Thus, when faced with the unrelenting wrath of the emerald dragon's flames, Pryr Town's feeble defenses crumbled almost instantly.
With its port and defenders reduced to ash, the dragon—now unchallenged—began to circle at low altitude, spewing fire indiscriminately.
The town's outermost wooden structures were the first to succumb. Their walls shattered and splintered under the sheer force of the dragon's flames before being swallowed by a raging inferno.
Panic swept through the streets. Citizens fled in all directions, many never seeing the fire that would consume them. Some were trampled beneath the desperate stampede, their cries lost in the chaos.
A chorus of despair filled the air—pleas for help, frantic shouts for missing loved ones, the agonized screams of the dying.
As Scorpion watched the emerald-green dragon methodically lay waste to Lamo Town, a chilling thought crept into his mind.
Could it be…?
Had Jacaerys Velaryon truly resolved to see me dead—so much so that he would burn an entire town to the ground, sacrificing thousands of innocent lives in the process?
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[Chapter End's]
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