The next day.
The clamor on deck drifted into the cabin on the rolling waves.
Aegon opened his eyes and sat up on the battered, musty bed. A night's sleep had restored some of his strength.
He stretched his stiff, aching shoulders and back. Sleeping fully dressed in armor was hardly comfortable, but in these perilous waters, letting his guard down meant courting death.
That instinct had been honed through years of living on a knife's edge.
He tightened his loosened pauldrons and vambraces again, the cold scrape of metal ringing distinctly in the cramped cabin.
The commotion on deck continued to grow louder. From what he could make out, some mercenary had buckled under the pressure and wanted to turn back, and was trying to stir up the others.
Aegon frowned slightly. It wasn't that he liked meddling, but his check-in objective was almost within reach. Retreating now would undo all his efforts.
Besides, he glanced through the porthole at the Ironborn fleet sailing along the outer perimeter.
Could they really leave just because they wanted to?
It was best not to stir up more trouble now. Aegon didn't know what would happen if these men let things get out of hand, but they were all in the same boat, and he had no desire to be dragged into it.
He picked up the longsword beside his bed and hung it at his waist. Though corroded, it would have to serve as a bluff until he found a suitable replacement, preserving at least some deterrent. What kind of mercenary went around unarmed?
How was that any different from a tiger with its teeth pulled out?
As soon as Aegon stepped out of the cabin, the salty sea wind hit him, carrying an even louder uproar.
Bang, bang, bang.
A brown-haired old mercenary, whose chainmail was worn as thin as a fishing net, stood before a barrel. He slapped it hard several times to draw everyone's attention, then shouted at the gathering crowd, spittle flying:
"Hey, lads! Have those fucking gold coins blinded you all? Open your eyes! Look at this damned place!"
"The dark green sea is boiling and bubbling, and the air fucking reeks of sulfur and corpses! Hell couldn't be any worse!"
"How did Quent die? That tumor-covered beast dragged him under alive, and not even a bubble came back up!"
"Our employer paid well enough, sure, but that was money to buy our lives! Are we worth nothing more than a handful of jingling gold coins?"
He braced both hands on the barrel and leaned forward, his voice hoarse but powerfully persuasive. "Listen to me! We turn back! Let that silk-clad son of a bitch crawl into these damned Valyrian Ruins and do his own digging!"
"If we stick together and all refuse, what's he going to do? He's only a merchant! Does he dare put blades to our throats and force us to die?"
The crowd stirred, their whispers swelling into an uneasy buzz. Some of the younger mercenaries exchanged wavering looks, their faces full of fear and anxiety. His words had clearly struck a nerve.
Just as Aegon was about to speak, a somewhat familiar figure caught his eye. Looking closer, he saw that it was the scar-faced man again. His distinctive, deep voice rang out. "Fool. We've only received an advance. If we turn back now, are we giving up the rest? My brother's waiting on that money to save his life!"
Holding an unidentified black object, he stepped out of the crowd and spoke coldly.
The others remembered him and knew he had pulled his weight in yesterday's fight, so they made way.
"Besides..."
As he spoke, he cast a meaningful glance at the three-masted ships on the perimeter.
"Do you think those men will just let us leave?" He stopped before the old mercenary and stared him straight in the eyes.
Aegon couldn't help frowning. He could tell that this scar-faced man was different, considerably more capable than the rest of this sorry lot.
From the other mercenaries' conversations, he had learned that the man's name seemed to be Morgor, a sellsword from Myr.
Yet something about him felt deeply strange to Aegon. If he had to put it into words, it was sinister, like a coiled venomous snake ready to strike without warning, though so far he had done nothing that could be called underhanded.
Still, Aegon couldn't shake that feeling. It was odd. He wondered whether his mental attribute was so high that it had made him overly sensitive.
"So what? We've sailed through the Smoking Sea with him all this time. Would he dare not pay us a single coin? Our blades aren't just for show!" The old mercenary's voice weakened despite himself, his eyes darting away.
"Lads, think of your wives and warm beds back home! What could matter more than staying alive?" Though surprised to find someone undermining him, the old mercenary hurried on. He had nearly roused the crowd.
"Old Buck's right! Money's no good if you're dead!" Someone bold enough in the crowd began to agree, and clearly knew the old mercenary.
Emboldened by the support, the old mercenary met Morgor's fixed stare again, almost defiantly, and continued, "As long as we..."
Bang! A blade bit into wood, cutting the old mercenary's babbling short.
Terror spread across his face as his trembling gaze dropped to the hand braced on the barrel.
A long blade had struck precisely between his fingers, gouging a sharp cleft into the barrel. A little to either side, and it would have split his entire hand in two.
Sweat trickled down his brown sideburns. Flying wood chips landed in his mouth, but he didn't even react.
"Open that filthy mouth and spew shit again, and I'll shove this down your throat into your belly!" Morgor's face was vicious. With a twist of his wrist, he slowly pulled the blade free. Its cold edge passed almost against Old Buck's rigid nose before he waved it in front of him.
Old Buck's expression soured. He wanted to lash out but didn't dare, and wanted to back down but couldn't bear the humiliation.
Silence fell around them. Those who had supported the old mercenary moments ago now shrank back and kept their heads down.
Aegon gave Morgor a long look, then strode into the crowd.
The sound of his boots on the filthy deck rang distinctly through the silence.
Heads turned to see a stern young man with silver hair and purple eyes striding toward them.
Recognizing him as the man who had driven off the monster yesterday, they stepped aside, awe written on their faces.
"Listen up!" Aegon stopped beside the two men still locked in their standoff. He first glanced at the fierce-faced Morgor, then raised his cold voice.
"Morgor's right. Right now, this is the only way to keep your heads on your shoulders!"
"The advance? The rest of the payment? You're still thinking about that?" A humorless curve touched Aegon's lips.
"Look at those big ships surrounding us. What are they doing? Protecting us? They're keeping us prisoner!"
"Turn back?" Aegon sneered. "You could gamble on whether those black rams beneath their figureheads would punch holes straight through our hull. Gamble on whether there are Scorpions on their decks aimed at us!"
His cold words doused the mercenaries' last flicker of wishful hope like a bucket of cold water.
"Put away your useless fear and complaints!" Aegon's voice was unyielding. "If you want to live, hold tight to your weapons and set foot on those ruins."
"Trapped aboard this ship, trapped in this boiling, poisonous sea, we're fish on a chopping block, waiting to be butchered! Only on land will we have room to maneuver!"
His gaze passed over Morgor again before settling on the others' faces. "As for your pay, as for going home... we can talk about that once we've made it ashore alive."
"Now!" Aegon's voice rose sharply, like a blade leaving its sheath. "Grip your weapons and stay alert! Do you want yesterday's slaughter to happen again? Stop acting like terrified women and making yourselves a laughingstock!"
With that, Aegon paid them no more attention. His gaze seemed to pierce the murky fog and reach toward the distant sea, as though he had sensed something.
He walked up beside the limp Old Buck. Without mockery, he spoke in a flat, almost merciless tone. "Old Buck, if you want to live, shut that troublemaking mouth. Put your experience to work against monsters and enemies. It's worth more there than stirring men up to get themselves killed."
Just then-
"Woooo-"
A low, lingering horn blast sounded from the scorched-red-painted ship leading the fleet.
Everyone instinctively turned toward the sound.
Beyond the great ship, a shattered landmass lay sprawled along the dark green horizon, winding like the rotting carcass of some ancient beast.
It was blood-red, steaming with an eerie heat, like a cursed wasteland.
They had reached the Valyrian Ruins!
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