When his vision snapped back to his own body, cold sweat already coated his forehead.
The dim oil-lamp, swaying with the ship, threw Aegon's wan face into flickering light and shadow.
He exhaled slowly, braced a hand against the wall, and let the feeble planks take his weight while he steadied himself.
The vision he'd just endured only hardened his certainty: sailing with them was Euron Greyjoy.
What he couldn't fathom was why a patron willing to pay top coin for a grab-bag of freelance Mercenaries would also invite Euron Greyjoy aboard—did the man doubt the motley crew's competence?
If so, why not simply hire an established company? The purse offered would easily have bought a reputable unit. A behemoth like the Golden Company was out of reach, but the Windblown or the Second Sons could have been bargained with, to say nothing of smaller sellsword bands.
The fleet was already inside the Smoke Sea before Euron was belatedly brought in to "escort" them. Did the employer truly not know the man was an Ironborn pirate king?
To Aegon it looked less like escort and more like guard duty—yes, guard duty—because those black-hulled ships, their sails daubed crimson, ringed the transports like jailers herding convicts, determined none should slip away.
What use were they, then—mascots?
Euron Greyjoy, pirate king of the Ironborn, gone legitimate as a hired escort?
Even a White Walker with a brain frozen solid wouldn't buy that.
Questions clouded his mind; Aegon shook them off. Useless speculation. The Valyrian Ruins lay ahead—could he turn back now? And if he wished to flee, how? Swim from the Smoke Sea to Essos?
All he could do was meet steel with steel, flood with earth. Watch, wait, and once ashore he'd at least have room to move.
Feeling strength seep back, he shuffled to the door, shoved it shut, and shot the bolt.
The vision had proved such precautions worthless, yet they might still warn him.
He eased onto the rickety bunk. These past nights nightmares had left him drained, and the land itself seemed to repel him like some loathsome insect; nothing felt right. Add today's skirmish and now a death-replay, and Aegon felt numb.
That he could see ghosts—and their final moments—shocked but did not puzzle him.
He had endured similar things before, though never so stark: a full spirit, a dead man's own eyes.
Perhaps crossing over had done it—an adult soul stuffed back into a womb, forging an abnormally strong spirit.
Or maybe when the Mountain split his skull he should have died, but the System kept him alive, locking consciousness inside a ruined body while it slowly rebuilt him; for a long while he'd lived as a walking corpse.
Likely both. Whatever the cause, since childhood he had sensed what others could not—whispers from graves, mutterings of the dead.
In his old world he'd have called it plain haunting.
Accustomed to it, Aegon felt no dread; the visions were controllable. With a little focus the voices fell silent and life proceeded normally. Tonight, exhausted, he had slackened that focus, and for the first time beheld a ghost whole and solid—convincing enough to startle him. Otherwise he would barely have blinked.
He pushed the thoughts away and lay staring at the mold-specked ceiling where the lamp still swung from a bent iron hook.
Uneasiness lingered. All he'd wanted was to "check in" at the Valyrian Ruins—how had it turned so complicated? Fifteen years and still the task was unfinished; now, on the brink, this mess.
So why had he joined this shadowy fleet and all its troubles?
Couldn't he have sailed to the Valyrian Ruins on his own?
First, no captain would risk crossing the Smoke Sea to those cursed shores.
Second, even if one would, Aegon lacked the coin.
Yes—money.
With coin he would never have taken up a Mercenary's life, his head forever balanced on his belt.
When he'd first fled Westeros for Essos he'd nearly achieved the feat of "nine meals missed in three days."
A kind old fisherman had broken that streak with a single salted fish—Aegon still felt gratitude; another hour and starvation would have finished him.
Memory of it left him gloomy.
Poor before crossing worlds, poor after—he might as well have stayed home.
Some birthright: dragon-blood. He had yet to see a dragon, or even a dragon's whisker.
It was 297 AC; the books' tale hadn't begun, Daenerys's eggs were only stone.
So when, in Volantis, he heard a call for Mercenaries to visit the Valyrian Ruins—free passage plus pay—he leapt at the chance.
Only to tumble into this pit. Reckless, he thought; by this life's count he was fifteen, but adding the last he stood middle-aged—he should have known better.
He brushed the memories aside. The past was the past. The levity of that former life slipped from his face, replaced by the stern cast that usually graced his sharp features.
In this life he was Aegon Targaryen, royal grandson of the Seven Kingdoms, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, one of the last scions of his line—he had a purpose yet unfulfilled.
As weariness rolled over him he sank into deep sleep.
Even so, while he slept his fingers curled into a fist.
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