A shrill scream, sounding nothing like a human, tore through the silence of the ruins.
The ear-missing Ironborn watched helplessly as his intestines were hooked out, sliding out warmly.
He collapsed to the ground, his body twitching a few times before falling silent.
Euron tossed the blood-stained boat hook aside, his blue-stained nails rubbing a blood spot off his face.
He looked up and swept his gaze over the deathly silent Ironborn; everyone who met his gaze lowered their heads instinctively, as quiet as cicadas in winter.
At that moment, Corleone Torregar hurried forward from the back.
His face was pale, his eyes a mix of disgust for the bloody scene and urgency to reach their goal. His voice was sharp with tension: "Crows Eye! How much more time are you going to waste here! Don't forget why we came here!"
Euron Greyjoy slowly turned his head, his single eye locking onto Corleone like a venomous snake, the madness within not yet fully faded.
He licked his lips, as if tasting the fear of his next victim.
"Of course I haven't forgotten, mongrel," he said softly, the oily quality of his voice sending shivers down one's spine. "Once I find what I want... Hehe."
Having said that, he acted as if nothing had happened, stepping over the corpse at his feet and continuing forward.
"What are you still standing there for? Move!" The resentment in the depths of Corleone's eyes flashed and vanished, and he followed with a low, teeth-gritting growl.
Under the pressure of extreme fear, the group continued their progress in deathly silence.
Aegon's brow was furrowed as he listened to the suppressed, heavy breathing and the sound of chattering teeth from the Mercenaries behind him. The coldness in his heart was even deeper than these eerie, silent ruins.
The group continued forward through the silent ruins constructed of massive black stones.
The Mercenaries were still driven at the very front by the Ironborn with swords, like lambs, every step treading upon unknown terror.
It wasn't that no one resisted, but the corpses lying in the middle of the path, quickly forgotten, silently announced the outcome of resistance—it would only make death come faster.
Aegon walked at the very front of the group, his brow slightly furrowed as the murky air, thick with sulfur and decay, filled his lungs.
His gaze swept across the twisted rocks and deep fissures ahead, his mind racing with calculations.
He had to find a way to kill this Crows Eye. He wasn't some masochist who enjoyed having people constantly shitting on his head.
Through these days of observation, he gathered that Crows Eye and Corleone shared a dangerous symbiotic relationship.
Crows Eye enjoyed the pleasure of dominance brought by absolute force, like a venomous snake toying with its prey; Corleone seemed to hold the secret to something Crows Eye wanted, collaborating while suppressing his rage, as restless as a trapped beast.
These two were temporarily bound by interest, yet hated each other by nature.
Under this current fragile balance, cracks were beginning to grow.
Provoke a fight? Let Euron and Corleone kill each other while he waited for his chance? This seemed like the most feasible path, but it required the perfect timing, a moment to strike with certainty.
And when would this opportunity come, or rather, how should he create it?
Just as Aegon was pondering how to kill Crows Eye...
A commotion broke out among the Mercenaries walking at the front.
"What is this now?"
The path ahead was mostly blocked by a massive stone tablet that looked as if it had fallen from the heavens.
The tablet had the texture of obsidian and was covered in exquisite reliefs and dense inscriptions.
The group came to a halt.
Aegon pushed through the crowd and stepped forward to examine it.
He wasn't just putting on an act; he was truly drawn to it.
These words... they resonated strongly with the knowledge in his mind, which originated from his bloodline and memories.
Tor... re... gar.
A name, carrying an ancient scent of blood, echoed word by word in the depths of his heart.
Aegon followed that feeling, tracing every stroke on the ruined tablet.
What was this? A name? A person, or a family?
Aegon focused, continuing to "read" the inscription through that resonance, his well-defined fingers gliding over the carvings on the stone.
High Valyrian?
As he read deeper, more fragments of information flooded into his mind.
"The Forty... Families? The Dragonlord Council?!"
The broken phrases gradually outlined a brief history of a family whose scale surpassed imagination.
"Is this one of the Forty Dragonlord Families of Valyria that was briefly mentioned in the books I read in my past life?"
Aegon continued reading; the format seemed to be the family's motto... A crown of blood and fire, forged by power!
While Aegon was carefully observing the words carved in High Valyrian...
Euron and Corleone, seeing the group stop, walked forward impatiently from the back.
Seeing Aegon intensely scrutinizing the stone tablet, Corleone, whose mood was already restless from being close to the goal, found an outlet for his frustration.
"Take your filthy fingers off that!" Corleone shouted angrily from a distance as he saw Aegon touching the tablet.
?
Aegon turned his head in confusion.
Corleone's shrill shout was exceptionally piercing in the silent ruins. He stepped forward quickly, his pale face flushed with anger and a sort of sacrilegious panic. He shoved aside the Mercenaries in his way and rushed to the tablet.
"Take your dirty hands off, you lowborn mongrel!" he hissed, his eyes full of disdain and a nearly pathological anxiety. "These noble inscriptions, this sacred heritage—is this something a Mercenary covered in dirt and the stench of sweat like you is worthy of touching?!"
As he spoke, he actually pulled up the hem of his decent-quality clothes and vigorously wiped the spot Aegon's fingertips had just touched, as if it were contaminated with deadly germs.
His movements were hurried and forceful, carrying a neurotic paranoia.
After wiping for a few moments, he finally calmed his breathing slightly. He turned to stare fixedly at Aegon with bloodshot eyes, especially at that striking silver hair, his lips curling into an extremely mocking arc: "What? Growing out a head of silver hair you got from some Lysene whore's bed and thinking you're a highborn with the blood of Dragonlords? How dare you peer at the true words of Valyria? Such... disgusting presumption!"
"As if you could even understand this noble Valyrian language!" Even he had only managed to guess a vague, partial meaning by relying on records in ancient books and finding a few people who could still speak some Valyrian.
Aegon watched him finish this entire performance silently, his purple eyes like a cold, rippleless lake. The more agitated Corleone became, and the more he emphasized "noble" and "lowborn," the clearer the indifference born of Aegon's bloodline and insight became.
The opportunity! He had already found it.
Certain thoughts quietly rose in his heart, and he put them into action.
When Corleone finished his tirade and glared at him while panting, Aegon only very slightly, almost imperceptibly, quirked the corner of his mouth.
It wasn't a smile, but a knowing irony.
He ignored Corleone's insults, not even looking at him. His gaze fell back onto the stone tablet as if the manic employer before him were nothing more than a buzzing fly. In a clear, steady voice with an ancient rhythm, he slowly began to speak, reciting the very proverb his fingertips had just traced:
"A crown of blood and fire, forged only by power."
"All beings shall bow; this is a birthright."
"To the unyielding, eternal silence shall be mercifully granted."
Pure, ancient High Valyrian, like a chant, carrying the majesty and blood-scent of those years, echoed through the dark ruins.
"These are the inscriptions on the tablet, the motto of House Torregar," Aegon stated calmly.
Every syllable struck the silent air and hammered hard against Corleone's heart.
The mockery froze on Corleone's face. His pupils suddenly contracted as if he had been punched in the face. He staggered back half a step, the finger he was pointing at Aegon trembling slightly: "You... how could you...?!"
The voice echoed in the ruins and dissipated.
Aegon did not turn his head immediately, his gaze still lingering on the inscriptions as if deep in thought.
After a long while, Aegon finally turned his head slowly, his calm gaze meeting Corleone's shocked and even terrified eyes. There was no smugness or showing off in that look, only a piercing clarity.
"High Valyrian—I have studied it since childhood."
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