Rows of stone pillars stood like the ribs of a giant beast, looming grimly over this pitch-black land.
Their orderly arrangement was like a guard of honor leading to hell, thrusting straight toward the pitch-black mountains at the end.
It made Aegon unconsciously think of his past life, of those Stone Statues standing silently on both sides of the Spirit Way in the imperial tombs.
As if guarding or worshipping, countless stone dragons in various poses clung to the pillars. Even though time had caused the rock to crack and become riddled with deep scars, the remaining outlines still faintly reflected the suffocating craftsmanship and majesty of the past.
Silently telling of Valyria's former glory.
His low-quality leather boots stepped on the hard, flat road, making Aegon feel a slight discomfort underfoot.
He lightly brushed aside the volcanic ash covering it with his toe, revealing a pitch-black stone texture. Perhaps this road, including the continuous black mountains at the end, was forged from dragonstone.
Although Aegon had never been to dragonstone, let alone seen dragonstone, he just had that feeling.
A familiar, yet paradoxical sense of heat.
Tilting his head slightly, he pretended to glance casually beside him; several increasingly familiar figures were following him.
These were the Mercenaries he had saved in passing over the last few days, including the cook who had displayed his "stunning" skills in the camp when they first landed at the ruins.
Now, this expedition to the Valyrian Ruins, aside from a few scattered Mercenaries who still refused to unite, had clearly split into three groups.
The Ironborn belonging to Euron Greyjoy, the private guards of the employer named Corleone, and the Mercenaries who had gradually gathered around him because of his intentional efforts to save them.
The strongest was undoubtedly Euron Greyjoy's Ironborn, with their excellent armor, skilled battle formations, and a number second only to the "hodgepodge" group.
Next were Corleone's private guards. Although their combat skills weren't as fierce as the Ironborn's based on current observations, their equipment wasn't bad—much better than the Mercenaries'. He still remembered the old Mercenary named Old Buck on the ship; that suit of chainmail, which looked like a weathered and tattered fishing net, was the norm for Mercenaries like them.
Then there were the Mercenaries gathered on his side. Their numbers were certainly not small, but their equipment... even his own set had been stripped from a headless corpse whose head had been chopped off by a Dothraki.
It was thanks to the Dothraki barbarians' disdain for this "tin skin" that he had the chance to scavenge it; otherwise, a suit of plate armor wouldn't be so easy to obtain. At the very least, Aegon felt that if he emptied his coffers, he might be able to commission a craftsman to make him a better-fitting plate codpiece.
Their combat skills were uneven, and their weapons even more varied. There were one or two with good skills, but they were used to fighting for themselves.
At first, Aegon only saved one or two in passing, and the survivors naturally followed him.
As time passed, some Mercenaries also realized the situation was grim. Seeing the few people gathered here, they proactively joined in, gradually forming the current group.
Although there was the risk of being the target, Aegon didn't refuse. If he didn't unite the existing forces and remained a scattered rabble, it would only be a matter of time before it was his turn to serve as cannon fodder or a sacrifice.
The initial group had formed around him, so they implicitly looked to him as their leader.
Yet Aegon knew very well that this fragile alliance rested entirely on his personal prowess.
These people seemed to follow him, but in reality, they were like startled birds clinging to driftwood in a storm. Once the terrifying wave that was Euron struck, they would immediately scatter like birds and beasts. At that point, as the "leader," he would only die faster.
However, he had no choice.
In these demon-den-like ruins, scattered stragglers were destined to become cannon fodder.
Since it was a dangerous situation either way, it was better to turn these people, who had been forced together, into a real force.
What Aegon wanted wasn't temporary dependence, but an iron order that could keep everyone alive.
Only by twisting the scattered threads into a thick rope, listening to one voice and pulling in one direction, could they perhaps not defeat Euron Greyjoy's Ironborn head-on, but at least make him less reckless.
Retracting his gaze, he knew he needed a feasible way to bind everyone together. A few empty words wouldn't sway these slippery Mercenaries.
While he was thinking, the group had nearly reached the pitch-black mountains at the end.
Scattered bones gradually appeared on the road. Some were old, while others were still white and fresh, as if from recent days!
Aegon secretly tightened his grip on his hilt as a slight commotion broke out at the front of the line.
"This is Hogg's armor!"
"How can it be here? I saw him being dragged away by a monster with my own eyes the day before yesterday!" a Mercenary said, his voice filled with fear.
Squeezing through the crowd, he saw a blood-stained suit of armor standing out amidst a field of bones ahead.
Aegon remembered that this armor had previously been worn by a burly man named Hogg. A full suit of plate armor stood out among their impoverished group, making it memorable.
He hadn't seen him for a few days; it turned out he had been dragged away by monsters during one of the previous attacks.
Looking at that shattered, blood-stained armor that looked like a peeled shrimp shell, one didn't need to imagine the tragedy the person inside had endured.
From the rear came the faint, crude cursing of the Ironborn in their characteristic salty Iron Islands accent, forcing the group to move forward again.
The further they went, the more bones there were. Some of the armor on the remains looked familiar to Aegon; through the damaged and rusted exterior, they felt similar to the employer's private guards.
In an almost stagnant atmosphere, the group arrived at the foot of the continuous pitch-black mountains.
A massive crack, as if split open by a god's giant axe, formed a grim "Sky-Sliver" entrance.
A foul wind, carrying a thick scent of sulfur and rot, blew out of the rift, making a sound like wailing.
On the ground at the entrance, even more bones, a mix of old and new, were scattered about.
Even more heart-wrenching was that among the bones were some huge, translucent, pale membranes that looked like shed snake skins, gleaming with an oily luster under the dim firelight.
These shed skins were unimaginably large; they crumbled into powder at a light touch, yet one could still see what a massive creature their owner must have been.
"What... what kind of hellish thing shed this skin?" a Mercenary asked, his voice trembling as he used the tip of his sword to pick up a piece of the broken skin.
No one could answer.
Fear spread through the crowd like a plague. The group ground to a halt; the Mercenaries looked at each other, none daring to step into the rift that looked like a giant beast's esophagus.
A low sound of footsteps approached. Crows Eye, flanked by a group of Ironborn, walked over with a languid and dangerous stride.
His single eye swept over the crowd, finally locking onto Aegon's silver hair.
"Aha... look what I've found. Another fellow with silver hair."
Crows Eye slowly walked up to Aegon, his voice greasy and loud enough for everyone present to hear clearly.
"This silver hair is much more beautiful and pure than that half-breed's. It might even really have some Dragon-lord blood or something. Oh, sorry, I forgot the whores of Lys look like this too."
"By the way..."
"Along the way, your... 'performance' has been quite wonderful." Crows Eye stopped in front of Aegon, standing loosely, his dagger gesturing casually as if ready to strike Aegon at any moment.
Aegon's hand tightened on his hilt, ready to unsheathe at any moment.
Seeing this, the Mercenaries who had been standing behind Aegon hesitated or felt ashamed, but ultimately fear overrode everything. They retreated one after another, leaving only a few like Henry by his side.
Crows Eye caught this in his peripheral vision, and the vigilance in his single eye, which had been as solid as substance, dimmed slightly, though his killing intent did not diminish in the least.
His tone was cold and greasy, with the characteristic saltiness of the Iron Islands.
"You've saved quite a few pathetic worms, gathering them under your silver-haired banner like a true Dragon-lord leading his flock."
Crows Eye suddenly turned, spreading his arms toward the crowd with exaggeration, his blue-stained lips curling into a smile. "Heavens! A natural-born leader! Everyone here, your lives were given by him, right? Shouldn't you... do something for him?"
"Like scouting the way for our 'natural-born leader'!" As soon as Crows Eye finished speaking, the Ironborn following him drew their blades in unison and pressed toward the crowd.
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