The next day.
The clamor on deck was carried into the cabin by the waves.
Aegon opened his eyes and sat up on the musty cot; a night of heavy sleep had restored some of his strength.
He rolled his stiff, aching shoulders. Sleeping in armor felt awful, but in these treacherous waters, letting your guard down was suicide.
It was instinct honed from years of dancing on the edge of a blade.
He retightened the shoulder- and vambraces that had loosened; the cold scrape of metal rang loud in the tiny cabin.
The uproar on deck was swelling. Through it he could make out a Mercenary cracking under the pressure, whipping the others into a panic.
Aegon frowned; not from meddling instinct, but because the sign-in quest was within reach—retreat now meant starting over.
Besides, a glance through the porthole showed the Ironborn fleet sailing on the outer ring.
Did they really think they could still leave if they wanted?
Better not to stir more trouble. If this got out of hand, Aegon had no idea what might happen, and he had no wish to be dragged down with them.
He lifted the longsword leaning against the bunk and buckled it on. The blade was corroded, yet until he found a better one it would serve as a deterrent—what kind of Mercenary went unarmed?
Might as well be a tiger with its fangs pulled!
The moment Aegon stepped into the corridor, briny wind and louder shouts slammed into him.
Bang, bang, bang.
A weather-beaten old Mercenary with brown hair and mail like a fishing net stood on a barrel, pounding it to draw eyes, spittle flying as he harangued the crowd.
'Hey, lads! Are the gold coins blinding you? Open your damned eyes—look at this cesspit!'
'The sea's green as bile and bubbling; the air stinks of sulfur and corpses—Hell can't be worse!'
'Remember Quentha? Dragged under by that tumor-covered beast—never even a bubble!'
'The pay's good, aye—but it's blood-money! Are our lives worth a few clinking coins?'
He leaned over the barrel, voice hoarse and rabble-rousing: 'Listen to me! We turn back! Let the silk-clad bastard crawl into the Valyrian Ruins himself!'
'If we stand together, what can one mere merchant do—hold a blade to our throats and force us to die for him?'
The mob stirred; whispers swelled into an uneasy buzz. Younger Mercenaries' eyes flickered, faces painted with dread—he'd struck their fears dead-center.
Aegon was about to speak when a familiar figure caught his eye: Scar-face again, that thick baritone slicing through: 'Fool, we've only the deposit. Walk away now and forget the balance? My brothers need that coin to live!'
He stepped forward, some dark object in hand, voice cold.
The crowd, remembering yesterday's fight, parted for him.
'Besides…'
He cast a meaningful glance toward the three-masters on the periphery.
'Think they'll let us simply leave?' He stopped before the old Mercenary, gaze boring into his.
Aegon's frown deepened; this man was different—sharper than the rest.
From the chatter he'd learned the name: Mogol, a Mercenary out of Myr.
Yet something about him felt off—like a coiled viper that might strike without warning. So far he'd done nothing overt, but the feeling lingered.
Aegon wondered if his own heightened senses were making him jumpy.
'So what?' the old Mercenary muttered, voice faltering, eyes dodging.
'Lads, picture your wives and warm beds back home! What's more precious than life?' Seeing his momentum slipping, he pressed harder.
'Old Buck's right—gold's useless to a corpse!' someone shouted, clearly a friend.
Heartened, Old Buck met Mogol's stare again. 'If we just—'
Thunk—steel bit wood, and Old Buck's spiel died.
Terror flooded his face; his gaze dropped to the hand braced on the barrel.
A long knife had split the staves a finger's breadth from his knuckles—another hair and his hand would be sailing across the deck.
Sweat trickled from his graying temples; flying splinters landed in his open mouth unnoticed.
'Open that sewer again and I'll stuff your words back down your throat.' Mogol twisted the blade free, its cold edge brushing Old Buck's frozen nose.
Old Buck wanted to erupt yet dared not; to retreat meant losing face.
Silence gripped the circle; even those who'd agreed moments ago now studied their boots.
Aegon studied Mogol a moment longer, then strode into the ring.
His boots thudded on the grimy deck, loud in the hush.
Heads turned; a silver-haired youth with violet eyes approached, face hard as iron.
They recognized yesterday's slayer of monsters and quickly made way, awe plain on their faces.
'Listen up!' Aegon halted beside the two men, first sweeping his gaze over Mogol, then addressing the crowd in a voice like winter.
'Mogol's right—this is the only way to keep your heads on your shoulders!'
'Deposit? Balance? You're still counting coins?' Aegon's lips curled in a mirthless smile.
'Look at those big ships boxing us in—protection? No, they're our jailers!'
'Turn back?' He gave a cold laugh. 'Try your luck against the black rams under their prow figures—see if they punch holes in our hull, or if the scorpions on deck are aimed our way!'
His words doused the last embers of hope in the Mercenaries.
'Enough whimpering!' Aegon snapped. 'Want to live? Then grip your steel and set foot on that ruin.'
'Stay aboard and we're fish on a chopping block. Only on land do we stand a chance.'
His stare flicked to Mogol, then raked the crowd. 'As for pay, as for home—we'll talk after we're alive on solid ground.'
'Now!' His voice rose like a drawn blade. 'Weapons in hand, eyes sharp! Want yesterday's bloodbath again? Don't cower like frightened girls—stop being the joke of the sea!'
Without another word Aegon gazed past them, violet eyes seeming to pierce the murky horizon.
He stopped beside the slumped Old Buck, voice flat and merciless: 'Shut your trouble-making mouth if you want to live, Old Buck. Save your experience for the monsters, not for rousing men to die.'
Just then—
A deep, drawn-out horn blast rolled from the lead crimson-painted flagship.
All eyes turned instinctively.
Beyond the flagship, a broken continent lay like the rotted carcass of some primordial beast along the green sea.
Red as blood, steaming with unnatural heat—a land accursed.
The Valyrian Ruins… had arrived.
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