Outside, the search of other areas was also nearing its end.
The compiled list of supplies was much the same as before: armor, weapons, and some coins.
There wasn't a single intact antique or magical item truly from the depths of the Valyrian Ruins.
They were either buried deep or destroyed.
But, with a whole ship of petrified dragon eggs, everything was already worth it.
After taking inventory, Aegon's gaze slowly swept over the crowd gathered in the clearing of the ruins.
Having endured a series of fierce battles, falls from cliffs, escapes, miracles, and betrayals, those still standing here were all survivors with hardened wills.
He made a point of carefully counting the people and observing their composition.
One hundred and eight people.
A somewhat coincidental number.
About a hundred were the original mercenaries, but surprisingly, a few guys wearing Corleone's guard uniforms were mixed in, now keeping their heads down and trying to remain unnoticed.
Aegon did not lash out immediately.
He had Henry and Karl identify them secretly before calling those few out individually.
Facing Aegon's calm yet piercing gaze and the faint hostility of the hundred or so companions around them.
The men barely struggled before kneeling to beg for mercy, swearing they had long seen through Corleone's madness and were truly willing to pledge loyalty to "Prince Targaryen, who possesses the true dragon."
Aegon did not kill them.
Building a new team required manpower, as well as benevolence after establishing authority.
He made them swear a solemn oath in the name of the gods in public and had Karl keep a secret eye on them, marking their preliminary acceptance.
Once everything was settled, Aegon sent out a thought, calling for "Xiao Laki."
Soon, the pale gold figure came trotting back from the edge of the ruins, its three heads seemingly lazy after a satisfied meal. It rubbed against Aegon's calf and automatically climbed into his open arms—seemingly finding this position to have the best view and be the safest.
The group set out, carrying their packed loot, retracing their steps back toward the coastal camp.
Perhaps the monsters lurking here were also cowering in fear after the pressure exerted by Ghidorah's descent.
Or perhaps they instinctively feared the higher-level aura invisibly emanating from the pale gold beast in Aegon's arms; the return journey was unexpectedly peaceful.
They only encountered a few stray, lizard-like creatures scurrying in panic, which the vanguard easily dealt with.
When the crude but intact coastal camp reappeared in their sight, many mercenaries felt as if a lifetime had passed.
On the shallows by the camp, The Quiet and over a dozen other ships of various sizes were still quietly anchored.
Only now, those arrogant, silent, and sinister Ironborn figures were no longer visible on the ships.
The number of Ironborn left on the ships was small, and they were leaderless.
When they saw the group of over a hundred people, radiating murderous intent, their armor stained with blood, pushing makeshift trailers laden with supplies, their remaining will to resist instantly collapsed.
Some tried to escape in small boats but were shot into the water with captured crossbows by a few former fishermen among the mercenaries.
Some attempted a last-ditch struggle but were instantly swallowed by the surging crowd.
The battle was brief and without suspense.
Aegon stepped onto the deck of The Quiet.
This flagship of Crows Eye was even more... unsettling than it looked.
The cabins were filled with the smell of blood, mildew, and some sort of decadent incense; the decor was full of the Iron Islands' coarseness and Crows Eye's own twisted, sinister taste.
But it was undeniably a sturdy, fast, and good ship.
More importantly, Crows Eye's fleet was of a significant size.
There were over a dozen ships; although some were damaged during the previous voyage through the Smoke Sea and by sea monster attacks, the main structures were intact, enough to carry them and their loot.
The only problem was—there weren't enough people who knew how to sail.
"Your Highness, among us, those who can handle a ship number less than ten at most, and they've only ever handled small river boats or fishing vessels..." Karl reported with a frown.
Just then, Henry ran up excitedly: "Your Highness! The hold! There are many people in the hold! They're all locked up! They seem to be... Mutes?"
Aegon's heart stirred, and he immediately went down to the hold.
In the dim, foul-smelling hold, the sight was heart-wrenching.
Dozens of ragged, skeletal people were huddled in the corners, their feet in shackles.
When they saw someone coming down, they first huddled in terror, but once they realized they weren't Ironborn, a vacant hope appeared in their eyes.
Most chillingly, they opened their mouths and made "he-he" sounds, but their mouths were empty—their tongues had been cut out from the root.
Crows Eye's "Mutes."
Aegon was silent for a moment.
These people were pitiable, but right now, they were also the ones to solve the problem.
He had Henry find an axe and personally cut the shackles from their feet, then had Karl bring food and fresh water.
Facing freedom and food, these "Mutes" were first incredulous, then broke into silent weeping and excitement. They gestured and knelt to kowtow.
Through gestures and simple writing, Aegon barely understood: many of them were captured sailors or slaves forced to serve Crows Eye, having their tongues cut for various reasons.
They were familiar with these ships and could sail them.
That was enough.
With the guidance of the "Mutes" and the assistance of those among the surviving mercenaries who knew the trade, the dozen or so ships successfully, though with difficulty, adjusted their rigging and slowly sailed away from this cursed coast.
Aegon stood on the high poop deck of The Quiet, holding "Xiao Laki," who seemed quite interested in the voyage, its three heads constantly turning to look around as he gazed back.
The outline of the Valyrian Ruins grew increasingly blurred in the mists of the Smoke Sea, eventually turning into a faint crimson streak on the horizon, like a slowly healing scar.
The salty sea breeze blew past, lifting his silver-white hair and brushing against his sharp-featured profile.
He turned around, facing west.
His gaze seemed to pierce through the endless sea mist and waves, landing on the distant outline of a continent.
Westeros.
King's Landing.
Lannister.
Baratheon.
Name after name, face after face flashed through his heart, eventually condensing into a cold flame.
He raised his head slightly and looked at the flag that had just been raised at the top of the mast, snapping in the sea breeze—
It was hastily sewn from blood-stained canvas, the pattern simple and fierce: an abstract outline of a three-headed dragon sketched in white paint against a pitch-black background.
Crude, yet it was a beginning.
The corner of his mouth curled up into a nearly imperceptible, cold arc.
The wind is rising.
The wind of the Narrow Sea, carrying the scent of salt and the faint sound of thunder, was coming from the east.
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