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The port of Oak Town was bustling with activity. Countless serfs toiled under the scorching sun, cleaning ships and carrying goods.
Armed slave soldiers, donned in full gear, patrolled the area in strict formations, their sharp gazes scanning for any signs of trouble.
However, the Lysene captain, who was supposed to be leading them, was nowhere near his post. Instead, he was comfortably seated inside a tavern near the port, indulging in drinks and idle chatter.
"Hic! There's nothing like a good-quality ale. The taste is simply divine." He let out a satisfied burp, leaning back against his chair.
"Shame we can't afford to drink it every day." Another Lysene man sitting beside him sighed, swirling the ale in his mug.
"Ain't that the truth? If it weren't for this extra reward, we'd still be drinking that piss-poor swill."
"Still can't believe it," a third man lowered his voice. "So the big buyer the other day was actually from Bloodstone—"
"Shhh! Are you out of your damn mind?" One of the captains cut him off, glancing around warily. "You should know better than to run your mouth about things that aren't meant to be spoken of!"
With a sigh, the man changed the subject. "I tell you, that bastard Governor Magomar is stingy as hell. This deal must've brought in at least two thousand Lysene gold coins, and yet, what did we get? A measly twenty Lysene coppers each!"
He spat in frustration, rolling a small, oval-shaped copper coin between his fingers. The coin bore the engraving of a naked woman, a symbol of the Lysene people's revered goddess of desire.
Just as the others were about to voice their own grievances, an unfamiliar noise drifted in from outside. At first, it was a faint commotion—distant, almost ignorable. But within moments, it swelled into a cacophony of panic.
The disgruntled captain, already seething with irritation, slammed his mug onto the table and scowled. "Damn those wretched animals! What are they shrieking about now—"
CREAK!
Before he could finish, the tavern door swung open, and a deafening wave of sound crashed into the room.
This was no ordinary disturbance.
Terrified cries of an attack rang out, interwoven with gut-wrenching screams of agony.
Outside, chaos reigned. Serfs and slave soldiers ran for their lives, their faces twisted in sheer terror. Their wide, desperate eyes locked onto the tavern doorway, where the captain stood frozen.
Then, in a heartbeat, they surged toward him—frantic, clawing, like drowning men grasping at the last piece of driftwood.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
A volley of arrows cut through the air, their sharp tips glinting in the sunlight. They came from a massive black warship, its prow adorned with the three-headed dragon sigil.
The captain barely had time to react. Instinct seized him, and he threw his weight against the door, slamming it shut with a resounding
THUD!
Outside, pandemonium raged on.
Screams. The dull thud of bodies crumpling to the ground. The sickening crunch of steel biting into flesh.
THUD. THUD. THUD!
A few arrows struck the tavern door, their impact sending deep, jarring tremors through the dimly lit room.
Inside, the Lysene captains exchanged uneasy glances. The realization of impending doom settled over them like a suffocating fog. Without hesitation, they scrambled to reinforce the door, their movements frantic, their breath ragged.
The chaos outside began to ebb, the screams fading into eerie silence. A collective sigh of relief slipped from their lips.
But just as their muscles began to loosen—
CRASH!
A double-edged battle-axe slammed through the wooden door, sending jagged splinters flying.
One of the captains, still bracing against it, barely had time to register his doom before the blade split his skull with a sickening CRACK! Blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor as his lifeless body crumpled.
CRASH! CRASH!
The battered door collapsed under sheer brute force.
Through the wreckage strode a towering figure—a broad-shouldered warrior with scarred skin and the same battle-axe that had just claimed a life. His eyes burned with ruthless determination, his lips curled in a savage grin, drunk on the thrill of slaughter.
Behind him, a swarm of warriors poured into the tavern—battle-hardened raiders with eyes gleaming with greed and bloodlust.
The Lysene captains, men who once lorded over this port with unchecked arrogance, now found themselves outmatched—pathetically so. Their courage drained from them like spilled wine. Knees buckling, hands trembling, they collapsed to the floor, their voices cracking as they begged for their lives.
Coleman, the leader of the raiders, surveyed the room with a satisfied smirk.
"Boys! Take every damn drop of wine and every piece of gold in this place!" Coleman roared, raising his axe high.
"Owooooooo!"
At his command, the raiders erupted into wild cheers, their voices a feral mix of excitement and savage delight. They tore through the tavern without restraint, overturning tables, smashing casks, and stripping the place of every last coin and bottle.
Reaching behind the counter, Coleman pulled out an unlabeled bottle of wine, its deep crimson contents sloshing within the glass.
Without hesitation, he uncorked it and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply, as if he had been parched for days. The rich, burning liquid flooded his throat, and in mere moments, half the bottle was gone. A loud belch escaped him, the pungent scent of alcohol thick in the air.
Grinning wildly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to his men, who were eagerly stripping the tavern of every last coin, cask, and scrap of value.
"Now this... this is what I call a good life!" he bellowed, his voice brimming with unrestrained joy. "This is exactly what I dreamed of!"
Raising the bottle high, he roared—
"Long live King Jaecarys!"
"LONG LIVE KING JAECARYS!"
The tavern shook with their booming voices, a chorus of loyalty and triumph.
Not long ago, these very men had lived as mere pirates, scraping by on meager plunder. They had feared the great fleets, avoided open conflict, and content themselves with raiding small merchant vessels—barely taking enough to survive.
Later, when they swore fealty to Lord Pachek, they were forced into a stifling existence, stationed on Bloodstone with little freedom.
But now, under the command of King Jaecarys, their lives have changed. Not only did they have the opportunity to impose tolls on passing ships—skimming off a bit for themselves—but they could now freely pillage key strongholds of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters. It was a golden age for them.
With a wave of his hand, Coleman barked new orders. "Take all the goods and valuables to the ships! As for the prisoners, tie them together."
He paused, then chuckled as he added, "King Jaecarys gave us explicit instructions—not a single one of them is to be killed unless they resist. Ah, what a merciful king we serve!"
Downing the rest of his wine, Coleman tossed the bottle aside and, with an exaggerated bow, clapped his hands together in mock reverence.
His men, however, merely exchanged knowing glances, some rolling their eyes discreetly. They had all seen the ruins of Pryr Town, its streets littered with scorched corpses. For their king, "mercy" was a word used only when it suited him.
Due to past trade dealings with Oak Town, Jaecarys' warships had entered the harbor with little suspicion. When the attack was launched, the enemy was caught completely off guard.
Within a short span, the harbor's commercial district and residential areas had fallen entirely into their hands. Coleman and his force of over a thousand Bloodstone warriors had amassed a substantial hoard of wealth and captives in a matter of hours.
However, their advance was stalled at the gates of Oak Town's inner citadel. Governor Magomar, paranoid and ever-concerned for his safety, had fortified the inner city much like a Westerosi castle, complete with formidable defensive structures and siege weaponry.
Coleman had contemplated various means of breaching the defenses, but without proper siege engines, every plan proved futile.
Then, a familiar sound cut through the sky.
A deep, resonant beating of wings.
A shadow loomed overhead, expanding rapidly. And then—
WHOOSH!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A magnificent emerald-green dragon descended from the skies. With a single low-altitude pass, it unleashed a torrent of blazing dragonfire, engulfing the upper levels of the citadel in an inferno.
Ballistae and catapults that had once stood menacingly atop the walls were reduced to smoldering ruins.
Soldiers, many of them slaves, were caught in the flames. They screamed in agony as fire consumed them, their burning bodies plummeting from the ramparts like falling stars.
Though House Targaryen possessed over a dozen dragons, to most people, these creatures remained little more than legends whispered in old tales. But for the Lysene garrison defending Oak Town, this was no mere myth.
Their will to fight shattered in an instant.
Before the dragon could even circle back for a second attack, the defenders threw down their weapons and flung open the gates, choosing surrender over annihilation.
With a powerful thud, Jacearys and his dragon, Vermax, landed atop the scorched battlements of the inner city.
From his vantage point, he observed Coleman and his men storming in, looting, plundering, and indulging in whatever spoils they desired.
The air was filled with chaos—cries of panic, the clatter of hooves and boots against cobblestone, and the desperate wails of women.
Jacearys remained impassive.
After all, even the noble armies of Westeros did not practice restraint in the aftermath of a siege.
As long as these men remained useful to him, he would not concern himself with their methods.
However, some rules needed to be established.
By midday, the sacking of Oak Town had concluded. The once-thriving settlement was left in ruins, its streets littered with debris and blood.
As he had done countless times before, Jacearys divided the 1,400 captured prisoners into two groups.
Half would live. Half would die.
Yet, even among those spared, most were slaves. The cruel truth was evident—no amount of mercy could erase the burning hatred now festering in their hearts.
In the end, their suffering became nothing more than a tool for Jacearys, granting him over 5,300 trait points to fuel his ever-growing power.
Unlike Pryr Town, this time, Coleman and thousands of Bloodstone soldiers had personally witnessed Vermax unleash hell—incinerating over 700 men in a single, devastating assault.
Even these hardened warriors, men accustomed to bloodshed, now felt their throats dry and their hands tremble in unease.
From his lofty position upon Vermax's saddle, Jacearys let his gaze sweep over them. He selected a few men to serve as messengers, ensuring his words would be remembered by all.
His voice was firm, commanding, and absolute. "You fight for me. When we emerge victorious, you are entitled to your rewards—to take what is yours. That is the law of conquest." His piercing gaze darkened. "But understand this—whether you stand beside me or not, I can still burn cities to the ground. Without me, you would not have even breached these walls. You would have nothing."
He paused, letting his words sink in before delivering the final decree. "All spoils of war belong to me. I alone decide who gets what. If I choose to grant you riches, you may take them. If I do not, you shall neither steal nor seize by force." His voice was sharp as steel. "Now, empty your pockets. Surrender everything you have taken. Coleman will tally the loot, and when the time comes, I will distribute rewards according to merit."
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(Author's Note)
Hey guys,
So yeah, I know I've been super inconsistent with uploads lately. I've been down with a nasty fever, and if you know how fevers hit men… it honestly felt like I was on my deathbed. No joke, it was like someone was repeatedly punching me in the nuts — pure suffering. Anyway, I'm finally starting to feel human again, so I'll be getting back to regular uploads. Really appreciate you all for sticking around. Thanks a ton.
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[Chapter End's]
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