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Reverence?
Reverence for a world full of scripted tragedies and stubborn fools?
Jimmy almost laughed.
He could be moved. He could be angered. He could even feel sympathy.
But reverence?
Never.
Especially not for a man who had failed so completely.
"Reverence for what?" Jimmy said flatly. "For being manipulated? For failing to protect his own children? For starting a rebellion and then losing control of its spoils?"
He waved a dismissive hand.
"I know the truth, There's no need to dress it up."
He turned toward Gendry.
"I'll stock the warehouse with enough food and water. Gendry, help Lord Stark recover. I have something personal to deal with. If you need anything, tell me. I'll bring it back."
He paused at the door.
"If nothing goes wrong, you'll both be staying here for quite some time."
Gendry hesitated.
"If… if you could bring me a set of smithing tools. I don't know much besides forging."
Ned Stark began to speak.
"If you are to carry the Baratheon name, there are things a Baratheon should learn. I can teach you—"
Jimmy was already walking away.
One willing to teach.
One is willing to believe.
He had no interest in watching them play at lordship and legacy.
He had a score to settle.
Horus had been attacked.
And Jimmy had no intention of letting that slide.
This was his battlefield now. He refused to be outplayed by a band of ironborn marauders.
He rolled his shoulders as he strode off.
On the other side of the sea, however, the man who had earned his wrath felt anything but triumphant.
…
It had all started because Euron Greyjoy could not resist reaching for something that did not belong to him.
Now he regretted it bitterly.
His fleet drifted along the edge of the Smoking Sea, near the broken shores of Valyria.
The water here simmered with unnatural heat. Purple vapor curled upward from bursting bubbles, rising like poisoned breath into the sky.
The crew wrapped a damp cloth around their faces, layer upon layer. Even so, men occasionally collapsed without warning.
When one fell, the others caught him silently, binding his limbs before he could cry out.
Then, without ceremony, they lowered him into the sea.
A single tug of the rope.
Gone.
The Smoking Sea swallowed its offerings without complaint.
Only Euron seemed untouched.
He drank deeply from a flask of shade-of-the-evening, his lips stained dark blue.
Yet even he was not immune.
Beside him stood a basin filled with black-purple bile he had vomited earlier.
He was enduring.
Not unaffected.
Euron was close to madness.
He had only just escaped these cursed waters not long ago.
Now he had been forced back by a colossal red eagle that blotted out the sun.
What in the Drowned God's name was that thing?
Perhaps, he mused darkly, it too had crawled out of the ruins of Valyria.
His hand brushed the patch over his left eye.
He smiled.
But the smile was not entirely his own.
The thing beneath the patch delighted in the chaos. When it stirred, the expression spread across his face without his consent.
Was he still human?
He glanced toward the bow, where a massive kraken corpse was being dragged through the water, bound by thick chains.
Perhaps he was something else now.
It was the whisper behind his covered eye that had guided him here.
The Smoking Sea held no living fish. No birds. Nothing natural.
Along the rocky caverns lining the coast lurked pale, spider-like creatures with razor teeth. They slept in clusters until disturbed. Then they swarmed.
They did not eat flesh.
But they could reduce a wooden ship to splinters in moments.
Beyond the shoreline, fourteen volcanoes still burned, rivers of magma glowing like veins of fire beneath the red-stained sky.
Euron raised a hand.
The fleet slowed.
They could go no farther.
Ahead roamed creatures he called "smoke wraiths."
Humanoid.
Skinless.
Upright.
Encased in chitinous armor.
And very much carnivorous.
The ships had to be hauled ashore quickly. The waters here would corrode iron nails if left too long.
It seemed they would be trapped in this cursed place for several more days.
The Silence moved efficiently.
True to her name, the ship operated without unnecessary noise.
Even in hell, Euron's crew remained disciplined.
…
Euron stared at the massive, twisted horn that had just been brought up from below deck. It was carved from some colossal creature's horn, etched with dark runes.
For a moment, the fire in his eyes flickered.
Then it dulled.
He had believed he held every advantage.
Servants of the Drowned God. The dragon-binding horn. The Silence. Once he had gathered the scattered pirates beneath his banner, he would return to Westeros in triumph.
At sea, he was invincible.
That was what he had thought.
When his fleet passed by the island Jimmy had named the Old Wolf's Isle, Euron noticed smoke rising from its shores. Pirates, he assumed. Prey.
He ordered the ships closer.
Unfortunately for him, Horus had just returned to the island and spotted the fleet from above.
The red-scaled giant eagle dove without hesitation, wings beating violently as he attempted to drive the Silence away.
That was how the battle began.
At first, Horus barely considered the battered ship a threat. Arrows and bolts struck his scales with nothing more than metallic clinks. They might as well have been pebbles.
But during one low pass, a massive tentacle surged up from the sea.
It wrapped around one of Horus's legs before he could react.
The colossal octopus beneath the waves tightened its grip.
In that instant, Horus reacted instinctively.
He shrank.
Then expanded again in a violent surge of power.
The tentacle slipped free.
Now furious, Horus opened his beak and unleashed a torrent of crimson dragonfire.
The sea answered.
A towering column of water erupted upward, smothering the flames before they could reach the ship.
Euron stared at the sky.
A red eagle that grew and shrank at will.
That breathed fire.
What in the drowned depths was that thing?
Whatever it was, he had no intention of facing it head-on.
He ordered a full retreat.
Thus, fresh from his escape through the Smoking Sea, Euron was forced back into it once more, chased relentlessly for days by a blazing predator from the sky.
Horus lingered at the mist-shrouded boundary, sensing something deep within the Smoking Sea that even he could not challenge.
He circled.
Waited.
Days passed.
Euron did not emerge.
Gradually, Horus's anger cooled.
He still had a master.
Fine.
Wait there.
He turned and flew to find Jimmy.
…
The next day, after ensuring ample supplies of food and fresh water were secured, Jimmy and Horus arrived at the edge of the Smoking Sea.
"This is it," Horus said, standing at the prow of their small vessel. "Something inside makes my feathers stand on end."
"Then we'll take a look," Jimmy replied.
He deployed an inflatable raft and pushed off into the violet haze.
The pale purple mist carried poison within it. Each breath burned faintly in Jimmy's lungs, and he could feel his cells working furiously to repair the damage with every inhale.
In the distance, fourteen columns of black smoke spiraled into the sky.
Volcanic ash drifted down like gray snow.
The deeper they went, the thicker it fell.
The sky overhead glowed crimson, as though the world itself had been set aflame.
An apocalyptic landscape.
"Horus, keep watch on both sides," Jimmy said calmly. "If you spot that cursed ship, let me know."
His voice carried unnaturally far across the silent sea.
Then—
"Chitter."
A single insect-like sound.
Followed by dozens.
Then hundreds.
From the caves lining the coast, creatures began to pour forth.
Water spiders.
Each nearly a foot long, their legs skittering across rock and sand, mandibles clicking in unison as they swarmed toward the shore.
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