Crow's Eye

When the last black longboat ran aground on the shoals strewn with sharp shell fragments and broken bones.

Aegon's suspicions were finally confirmed.

A dozen men in armor bearing kraken designs leaped nimbly from the longboat, moving through the knee-deep, dark green seawater as easily as if it were dry land.

They reached shore in a few quick strides and joined their companions already standing guard there, swiftly securing the key approaches to form a cold, implacable ring.

The bow had run aground beside a black reef, creating a natural step.

A figure stepped calmly onto the rock, as though the ground beneath his feet were not a cursed wasteland, but his own deck.

Aegon took a long look at him. The man's cracked lips were stained an ominous blue-purple, and his sole remaining eye was as murky as stagnant water.

Euron Greyjoy approached the mercenaries surrounded by the Ironborn at an unhurried pace, stroking the dagger at his waist.

A sickly smile curled his lips as he spoke mockingly. "You landlubbers..."

His voice was quiet, yet it carried over the waves and reached every ear with perfect clarity.

"Finally made it to this lovely paradise?" Euron Greyjoy's voice scraped across their ears, sharp as an iron hook.

"Did you have fun playing with the little pets in the Smoking Sea yesterday?" Euron Greyjoy watched them mockingly, his blue-stained tongue licking his cracked lips.

"Don't mind them. They're just... a little enthusiastic!" As he spoke, he paced before them, raised his arm, and slowly swept a gaunt forefinger across the gathered mercenaries.

"I heard... this morning..." He deliberately drew out every syllable, like a dull blade scraping against a whetstone.

"A few little vermin were buzzing about on deck, whining to go home to their mothers!" The fingers stroking his dagger tapped against it again and again, making faint, unsettling sounds.

His gaunt finger moved back and forth before coming to a slow but precise stop on an old, brown-haired mercenary in ragged mail.

Singled out in the crowd, Old Buck went pale and trembled like a leaf. He instinctively looked to the men beside him, seeking protection.

But the surrounding mercenaries scattered as though fleeing the plague, leaving the bloodless Old Buck alone in the open space.

Aegon watched and sighed helplessly. Now he finally understood why their employer had recruited mercenaries like them.

They were simply easy to control.

Just look at them now: with a band of Ironborn holding blades on them, the mercenaries did not think to unite and stand together. Instead, they scattered like lambs awaiting slaughter, each terrified of being the first to fall beneath the knife.

In truth, Aegon could understand. He, too, was standing in the crowd.

It was not that he had lost his nerve. People's hearts were simply too hard to predict. If he stepped forward now and these mercenaries failed to rally behind him, he would only put himself in danger.

The first to stick his neck out was the first to lose his head. Everyone knew that, and chasing profit while avoiding danger was how these mercenaries survived.

But surely there was a time and place for it. Did they not understand that once one fell, the others would be next?

Judging by their reactions, apparently none of them did.

With a sickly smile on his face, Euron Greyjoy watched the trembling, despairing Old Buck as though admiring the most beautiful sight in the world.

"And vermin should be crushed underfoot!" His blue-purple lips curved into a cruel, twisted smile.

The surrounding Ironborn grinned viciously and advanced, drawing their blades.

By then, Old Buck had already collapsed in terror, babbling useless pleas for mercy.

"Stop!"

A voice rang out.

A middle-aged man with silver streaks in his brown hair hurried toward them, urgency in his voice.

As he passed, he did not spare the fallen Old Buck so much as a glance.

Aegon recognized him as Corlyon, their employer for this expedition.

Corlyon strode up to Euron Greyjoy, so close that each could see his own distorted reflection in the other's eyes.

"I paid to hire him. His life is my property!"

"Losing a whole boatload of men was bad enough. Now you want to waste another on the shoals?" There was a manic edge to Corlyon's voice as he stared fixedly at the man before him.

"Your property?"

Euron Greyjoy's voice was low and cloying.

His blue-stained fingernails tapped lightly against the hilt of the dagger at his waist, each soft click enough to make the heart recoil.

"Bastard, have you forgotten whose ships brought you and your 'property' to this hellhole? Whose men have been 'looking after' this trash for you, keeping them from feeding the fish?"

"I'm helping you dispose of one disobedient piece of garbage. You should be... thanking me."

As Euron Greyjoy spoke, a vicious gleam appeared in his murky eye.

"Or does your plan fall apart without one useless wretch?" His tone carried an icy threat.

Corlyon clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his flesh, blood dripping down his palms.

Swallowing his humiliation, he said, "My 'property'... has its value."

"Every one lost... means one less 'chance' of success."

As he spoke, he averted his eyes from Euron Greyjoy's murky gaze, as though deliberately yielding.

The blood dripping from his palms betrayed his resentment.

"Do you want to see... the 'deal' fail? To return empty-handed? Would the Crow's Eye... be satisfied... with nothing?"

Euron Greyjoy fixed his lone eye on Corlyon, as though weighing his words-and, more importantly, judging how many more "chances" this madman could offer.

Time seemed to freeze. Only the distant roar of lava remained, while the Ironborn tightened their grips on their weapons and awaited their master's command.

At last, Euron let out an inscrutable grunt, like gravel grinding in his throat.

The savage bloodlust on his face ebbed like the tide, giving way once more to that stagnant chill and mocking amusement. He slowly straightened, lifting his blue-stained fingernails from the dagger's hilt.

"Heh..." He gave a short, utterly cold scoff. His voice returned to its normal volume, filled with contempt, as though addressing every mercenary there. "Looks like your 'property' gets to keep breathing for now. Keep an eye on your trash, bastard. Don't let them... become a nuisance again."

Leaving them with that pointed remark, he turned to the Ironborn. "We're leaving."

The silent killing machines immediately sheathed their blades and followed their master soundlessly, like an ebbing tide, deeper into the ruins.

Corlyon stood motionless for a moment, then turned without even glancing at Old Buck, who lay limp on the ground, almost unconscious, as though he truly were a useless piece of garbage.

He looked at the mercenaries, still shaken by their brush with death, without a trace of expression on his face. His gaze was cold, as though surveying a pile of lifeless goods, and he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument:

"On your feet, all of you! Useless wretches! Wipe those terrified looks off your faces! Our destination is just ahead!"

He pointed deeper into the ruins. "Follow the Ironborn! Move out now! Anyone who falls behind... bears the consequences!"