When the last black Longship ran aground on the shallows filled with sharp shell fragments and bone shards,
Aegon's suspicion was finally confirmed.
A dozen men clad in Kraken-patterned armor leapt nimbly from the Longship, walking through the knee-deep, dark-green seawater as if on level ground.
In a few bounds, they reached the shore and joined their comrades who had been standing guard, quickly seizing the key passages to form a cold perimeter.
The bow happened to run aground beside a black reef, forming a natural set of steps.
A figure stepped calmly onto the reef, as if the cursed land beneath his feet were not an ill-omened place, but his own deck.
Aegon took a long look; the man's cracked lips were stained an ominous blue-purple, and his remaining eye was as turbid as stagnant water.
Euron Greyjoy walked with a leisurely pace, fingering the dagger at his waist as he slowly approached the group of Mercenaries surrounded by Ironborn.
The corners of his mouth curled into a morbid arc as he spoke mockingly, "Landlubbers..."
His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried over the sound of the waves, reaching everyone's ears clearly.
"Finally set foot on this wonderful paradise?" Euron Greyjoy's voice was as sharp as an iron hook, scraping against their ears.
"Did you have fun playing with the little pets in the Smoke Sea yesterday?" Euron Greyjoy stared mockingly at the crowd, his blue-stained tongue licking his cracked lips.
"Don't mind them, they were just... a bit enthusiastic!" As he spoke, he paced before them, raising his arm and slowly sweeping a withered index finger across the Mercenaries.
"I heard... this morning," he deliberately elongated every syllable, like a dull knife scraping against a whetstone.
"There were a few bedbugs buzzing on the deck, crying to go home to their mothers!" The fingers fingering his dagger tapped rhythmically, creating a discomforting, faint clicking sound.
The withered finger gesturing back and forth stopped slowly but precisely on an old Mercenary with brown hair, dressed in tattered mail.
Old Buck, pointed out from the crowd, turned pale and shook like a leaf, instinctively looking at those around him for protection.
To his dismay, the surrounding Mercenaries scattered as if avoiding a plague, leaving the deathly pale Old Buck alone in the center of the clearing.
Aegon sighed helplessly at the sight; he finally understood why the employer had recruited these Mercenaries.
They were simply easy to control.
Just as they were now, held at knifepoint by a group of Ironborn, instead of uniting as one, the Mercenaries scattered like lambs to the slaughter, each terrified of being the first to be butchered.
In truth, Aegon could understand, for he was also standing among them.
It wasn't that he was a coward, but rather that hearts are fickle; if he stood out now and the Mercenaries failed to respond, he would only be putting himself in grave danger.
The bird that sticks its head out gets shot—everyone knew that. Seeking benefit and avoiding harm was the way these Mercenaries survived.
But one must look at the timing; did they not understand that when the lips are gone, the teeth get cold?
Judging by the reactions of those Mercenaries, clearly none of them did.
Euron Greyjoy wore a morbid smile as he watched the trembling, despairing Old Buck, as if admiring the most beautiful sight in the world.
"And bedbugs should be crushed underfoot!" A cruel arc curled at the corners of his morbid, blue-purple lips.
The surrounding Ironborn grinned savagely, drawing their blades and stepping forward.
By now, Old Buck had collapsed to the ground in terror, stammering useless pleas for mercy.
"Stop!"
A voice rang out at that moment.
A middle-aged man with silver streaks in his brown hair walked over quickly, his voice filled with urgency.
He didn't even spare a glance at Old Buck, who was sprawled on the ground, as he passed.
Aegon recognized the man as their employer, Corleone.
Corleone stepped quickly up to Euron Greyjoy; they were so close they could see their own distorted reflections in each other's pupils.
"He is a man I paid for. His life is my property!"
"Losing the crew of one ship is bad enough. Are you going to waste another on the shallows?" Corleone's tone bordered on madness as he glared at the man before him.
"Your property?"
Euron Greyjoy's voice was as low and oily.
His blue-stained fingernails lightly tapped the hilt of the dagger at his waist, producing a faint but heart-stopping clicking sound.
"Bastard, have you forgotten whose ship brought you and your 'property' to this godsforsaken place, whose men have been 'looking after' these wastes, keeping them from feeding the fish?"
"I'm helping you clear out a piece of disobedient trash. You should... be thanking me."
As he spoke, a flash of ferocity appeared in Euron Greyjoy's turbid, lone eye.
"Or is it that your plan can't work without one piece of waste?" His tone held a cold threat.
Corleone clenched his fists tight, his nails digging into his palms until blood dripped down.
Suppressing his humiliation, he spoke, "My 'property'... has its own value."
"Losing one... means one less 'possibility' of success."
He averted his eyes from Euron Greyjoy's turbid gaze, seemingly making a concession.
The blood dripping from his palms spoke of his resentment.
"Do you want to see the 'transaction' fail? To return empty-handed? Would Crows Eye... be satisfied with... nothing?"
Euron Greyjoy's lone eye bored into Corleone, as if weighing the gravity of his words and assessing how much more "possibility" this madman could provide.
Time seemed to freeze, save for the distant roar of magma. The Ironborn tightened their grips on their weapons, awaiting their master's command.
Finally, an inscrutable grunt, like the sound of grinding gravel, escaped Euron's throat.
The violent killing intent on his face receded like a tide, returning to that stagnant coldness and amusement. He slowly straightened up, his blue-stained nails leaving the dagger's hilt.
"Heh..." He let out a short, cold sneer. His volume returned to normal as he spoke to all the Mercenaries with utter contempt, "It seems your 'property' can keep breathing for now. Watch your trash, bastard. Don't let them... be a nuisance again."
He left them with those pointed words and turned to the Ironborn. "Let's go."
The silent killing machines sheathed their blades instantly and followed their master toward the depths of the ruins, silent as a receding tide.
Corleone stood dazed for a moment, then turned without even looking at Old Buck, who was slumped on the ground nearly unconscious, as if he truly were just a piece of useless trash.
He looked at the shaken Mercenaries with an expressionless face, his eyes cold as if viewing a pile of lifeless cargo, and commanded in an unquestionable tone:
"Get up, all of you! You wastes! Drop that terrified look! The target is just ahead!"
He pointed toward the depths of the ruins. "Follow the Ironborn! Move out now! Anyone who falls behind... will face the consequences!"