The battle axes of the Tyroshi Guard had double-edged blades, capable of cutting down enemies with both downward and upward swings. The towering and powerful Balon dragged his battle axe along the ground before swinging it upward.
The man, still talking to himself about the net in front of him, barely got a word out before feeling a sudden chill below his waist. Looking down, he saw his lower half cleaved in two, with a massive double-bladed axe lodged in his chest.
With Balon's strength, he could have split a man in half with a single strike, but the axe got stuck in the man's chest because he had been standing on higher ground. Balon's arms, fully extended while gripping the axe, had just enough reach to hit him there.
"Come down!"
Balon yanked his axe back, dragging the man midair in a bloody arc before he crashed at Balon's feet with a wet smack. Drenched in blood, Balon cursed,
"A piece of trash like you actually has a wife and children?! And here I am, a knight of Fire Island, still fucking single!"
The man's torso had been split from below, with the axe blade wedged into his lungs. He glared at Balon in fury, trying to speak, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a mouthful of blood.
Thunk! The battle axe swung again, its blade slamming into the stone pavement and sparking as it carved through—slicing off the man's left ear.
Balon picked up the severed ear and pinned it onto the antlers of his helmet. The man was doomed, but Balon wanted him to suffer a slow death.
Then, grabbing a longsword from the ground, he wielded his battle axe in his right hand and the sword in his left before charging down the street with the Honor Guard.
Aurane and Theon rushed forward as well. Balon, being the largest of the three, led the charge, while the other two flanked him on either side, seamlessly cutting down foes.
A single sword strike severed an enemy's sword arm. As Theon stepped forward, he lifted his longsword, slashing across the foe's throat—ensuring that not a drop of blood stained his own garments.
House Velaryon, aside from their naval prowess, had also preserved ancestral martial traditions, specializing in battle axes and swordsmanship. Their sword techniques were elegant—designed to kill without tainting their robes. Even in decline, a family with thousands of years of Velaryon heritage remained unmatched by any noble house of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Hah! Haah!"
Theon swung left and right, leaving none of his foes intact. A single slash took off a hand, two more severed heads. Among the three at the front, he had the highest kill Lord, drenched in blood.
Aurane, even while fighting, observed the others. Theon's swordsmanship bore clear influences from the Iron Islands and the North—broad, sweeping strikes that consumed great stamina. His lean frame seemed unsuited for such a style. If not for his Nightfall blade being both razor-sharp and light, he would have collapsed from exhaustion within a few exchanges.
Moreover, Theon lacked coordination with those fighting beside him. Aurane estimated that if they dueled, he could take Theon down within five moves. But Theon's skill surprised him—he had clearly been holding back during training!
With the King's pardon for Theon and his sister Asha still pending, few knew they were fugitives, and even fewer knew their true experiences. Aurane started piecing together various possibilities in his mind.
Some Honor Guards stayed behind them, while others scattered into the buildings flanking the street to flush out enemies. Myrish houses had flat rooftops and staircases leading up. The archers hiding above soon found themselves under attack.
"Wendel, your shield is blocking my view!"
"Oh—oh! Understood, my lord."
Wright stood atop a barricade, scanning the battlefield, while Wendel, still holding his shield in front, quickly stepped aside at Wright's urging.
Their force barely numbered a hundred men, while the enemy's strength remained unclear. But the battle was utterly one-sided. A rabble of hastily armed civilians stood no chance against fully equipped soldiers. Unless they relied on long-range archery, they were hopeless in close combat.
Boom!
Several archers on the rooftop, readying their bows for an ambush, were suddenly frozen into ice sculptures.
As Wright lowered his arm, he felt the magical dagger at his waist pulse four times—exactly the number of archers he had just killed with his spell.
"Go help them. You don't need to stay by my side!" Wright commanded before using magical force to propel himself onto the rooftop.
He dispelled the magic on one of the frozen corpses and cast Soul Trap.
In this world, there was no Hell or Underworld. When people died, their souls lingered in their corpses for weeks before naturally dissipating. Yet this man's soul had vanished the instant he died!
Daedric weapons were never easy to wield. Their hunger for souls was insatiable. Wright now understood that no matter who held this dagger, every soul they reaped—animal or man—belonged to Dagon.
Aside from harming other Daedras and consuming souls, who knew what else this Daedric dagger was capable of? Wright refused to serve Dagon for free and resolved never to kill with his own hands while carrying the blade.
Meanwhile, several Guards who had just reached the third floor were suddenly ambushed by hidden enemies.
"Watch out!"
An enemy sprang up from a basket, seizing the moment to thrust a sword into the gap of a guardsman's armor from behind. More assailants burst out from the pile of debris, and within moments, several guardsmen were gravely wounded and rendered combat-incapable, leaving only one still struggling to fight.
"Ahh!"
Relying on his armor and battle-axe, he managed to hack down two enemies before several others grabbed him from behind. Swords stabbed at him from all directions—clang! clang! clang! If not for his frantic writhing and the protection of his armor, he would have been run through. Even so, blood trickled steadily from the gaps in his armor.
With the last of the resisting guards subdued, the attackers raised their weapons, ready to execute the wounded guardsmen.
At that moment, a bolt of blue lightning shot from behind, arcing between the rioters. They collapsed, their limbs convulsing uncontrollably.
Then, several golden spells descended upon the fallen guardsmen, and their wounds began healing at a visibly rapid pace.
"The Lord saved us!"
"We're supposed to be protecting Lord Wright, yet now he has to save us!"
"Enough talking! The enemy isn't dead yet—finish them off first!" One of the survivors snapped back to reality, realizing that Wright had merely incapacitated the enemies.
The guards picked up their battle-axes and stepped toward the twitching rioters. With forceful swings, they hacked down again and again, only stopping when exhaustion overtook them, leaving them slumped on the ground.
"No resting! The others are still fighting—go help them!"
Wright effortlessly leaped onto another rooftop, one hand casually clasped behind his back as he strolled past them.
"Yes, my lord!"
Some of the guards tried to imitate Wright by leaping to the next rooftop, but upon seeing the distance, they wisely chose to take the stairs instead.
Wright did not rebuke them for their lack of combat awareness—he had no intention of letting them die. It would be humiliating for the Grand Magister to lead his personal guard into battle only to suffer casualties.
They hailed from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, and Wright's recruitment standards did not emphasize martial skill. He had only sought tall, imposing, and handsome young men, which naturally meant their combat abilities paled in comparison to seasoned soldiers or knights. Their training had included weapons practice, but their usual duties were nothing more than standing in formation, raising banners, and making an impresTheon. They had never truly fought before—let alone taken part in a war.
This was their first real battle, and yet they had charged forward despite knowing they were outnumbered. That alone was commendable.
People must grow. The personal guard, all devout followers of the Dragon Cult, needed proper training. Wright intended to mold them into true warriors, allowing them to witness bloodshed firsthand so that they would no longer be mere ornaments.
The rioters were, after all, nothing but rabble—disorganized, undisciplined, and low in morale. It didn't take long before their formation crumbled, and they scattered in all directions.
Unarmored and weaponless, they fled swiftly, while the guards in their heavy plate armor, wielding two-handed battle-axes, had no chance of catching them.
"Don't chase them! Gather any arrows from the rooftops, then regroup in the streets. We're heading for the port!"
Balon assigned tasks to several squad leaders while he and a few guards searched for survivors to extract information on Myr's current situation.
Noticing Balon's structured command—his ability to both secure additional ranged support and gather intelligence—Wright's estimation of him rose slightly. He even gave an approving nod without realizing it.
There was no time for rest. Wright's group pressed on toward the port.
Along the way, they enLordered multiple factions fighting for control of the streets. This internal strife had nothing to do with the Tyroshi, and Wright preferred to avoid unnecessary involvement. He chose to take detours whenever possible, only engaging when forced to fight.
By the time they reached the port, the Wave-Rider Knight was already under siege. The ship's crew was locked in battle with rioters attempting to board.
The pristine white three-masted ship was unmistakably a vessel of high status. Since its name was written in High Valyrian, and Myr was not Volantis, the locals—be they commoners or even nobles—could not recognize the characters. Believing they could loot the ship and sell it for a fortune, they had hidden within the buildings, waiting for the vessel to dock and furl its sails before rushing forward with ropes.
The ship's railing was too high to reach from the docks, so as the rioters charged, the sailors quickly retracted the boarding planks. Lordless ropes were then hurled onto the deck.
"Don't let them climb aboard—cut the ropes!"
Outnumbered, the sailors desperately held the line at the railing. Even as trained naval soldiers, they knew that if the rioters managed to board, their fate was sealed.
"Aurane, ever since I had this ship built, I've cherished it. I won't tolerate even a single speck of dirt on it. And now, look at it—what has it become?"
Wright clenched his jaw, struggling to suppress his fury. His beloved vessel—his prized toy—was now defiled by the filth of the rioters. He fought to restrain himself from taking action personally.
"Careful!"
Aurane, who had fought his way through, his cloak still free of blood, walked to the front, drew his longsword, and shouted, "Balon! Theon! Wendel! And the Guard, the rebels dare to touch Lord Wright's flagship—kill them! Leave no one alive!"
"Leave no one alive!"
"Leave no one alive!"
"Form up! Dense formation! Forward!" Balon did not forget to command the battle. The narrow dock at the port was surrounded by water on three sides. As long as they held their formation and advanced, the enemy had nowhere to hide.
Heavy infantry, in such terrain, against the rebels, it would be a one-sided massacre. As the line advanced, cries of battle rang out from the dock.
"We surrender!"
"Cut them down!"
No surrender was accepted, and those crowding the front were hacked down by the heavy axes. Those still fiddling with ropes to climb onto the ship saw the tide turn and began jumping into the sea.
By the time they reached the dock and found no rebels left, Wright stomped his foot, and cold ice mist quickly spread from his feet to the surface of the sea. Within five seconds, the sea around the dock had turned into solid white ice, with many heads sticking out of the smooth ice.
The Guard, understanding, jumped onto the frozen surface and began chopping off heads with their battleaxes, one by one.
Fast to arrive, fast to go. In just a day, Wright concluded his journey in Myr, boarded the ship, and sailed south. The Guard had gone below deck to rest, while the sailors were scrubbing the ship's hull with long brushes. Standing at the stern, watching the once bustling city now filled with smoke, Wright spoke to the few people beside him:
"A month from now, the Tyroshi navy will take control of Myr. Right now, there's a rebellion in Myr. Whoever can find a way to stabilize the situation and gain my approval will become the Lord of Myr!"
Wright still had to head to Volantis and had no time to deal with Myr's affairs. He only cared about conquest and development. Handling such messes was not something a Lord like him should do.
"Understood!"
The others knew Wright's character, and this decree would soon be made public in Tyrosh. The position of Lord of Myr was not just for Aurane and his men but would be open for fair competition among the entire Stepstones nobilty.
Most of Myr and its surrounding lands were Wright's private property, and the rest of the land would eventually fall into his hands. Given the land area and Westerosi law, Myr would likely be divided into many smaller lands. The most prosperous main city was being granted a Lordship to manage the entire region. If things went well in the future, its territorial scale could rival that of a Westerosi Lord.
The temptation was great, but one had to live to enjoy it.
Conquering was easy, governance was difficult. Many foreign rulers in Westeros had succeeded, like the current Lord families, but some had failed, like the Lord Rosby, who had hoped to become the Lord of Dorne but was thrown out of Sunspear during the First Dornish War.
Myr's population was minuscule compared to a Westerosi kingdom. Killing the rebels here was like taking an empty city. Wright often said that money could be earned again, but population couldn't be created just by spending. Half of the discussions in Tyrosh's early development meetings were about population policy.
Theon thought for a while before giving up. He didn't know how to govern a territory.
Balon also gave up after some consideration. He knew he wasn't cut out for it and preferred to focus on his work in the Guard and the Dragon Cult.
The plump Wendel, looking slow and dull, had many who thought of him as such, but they had all ended up dead under the knives of his family. Manderly's were all clever people. Wendel knew his family didn't have deep roots in the Stepstones, and many nobles were waiting in line. He could ask his family to help secure the Lordship, but that would offend all the nobles of the Stepstones. Without trade ships, the isolated people of Myr would likely starve. It wasn't worth it. He was still young, and staying by Lord Wright's side would give him more opportunities, so he no longer thought about it.
Only Aurane seemed genuinely interested.
With House Velaryon starting to gain activity again, Aurane's brother, Monford Velaryon, now commanded nearly fifty warships. This was the highest position he could reach before the war, with the next being Admiral, which were only given in wartime, or being the Master of Ships, Stannis position.
Westeros had no surplus land, and High Tide was not suitable for commercial development. To revive the former glory of the Velaryons, the two brothers, after discussing via letters, decided to invest more resources in the Stepstones.