Crows Eye! You said you knew the Smoke Sea better than a whore's bed!
Then what in seven hells is this?" aboard The Quiet, a brown-haired man streaked with silver roared.
Do you have any idea recruiting those mercenaries nearly bled me dry, and we haven't even sighted the ruins yet? A whole ship of them—gone!" The brown-and-silver man clawed at his hair, shrieking like a madman.
If the offerings come up short, am I supposed to make do with your soldiers?" He paced the cabin, rushed to the long table in its center, and slammed his palm on the wood, bellowing at the man opposite him.
The fellow wore a worn black leather patch over one eye; his lips were an unnatural blue-purple. He had his bony legs crossed on the table, a curved dagger dancing across his knuckles.
At the outburst he gave a contemptuous chuckle.
A son of the salty deep, scared a wave'll tip the barrel?" He lowered his legs and sat upright.
As for that boatload of sellswords, I'll replace them with a hold full of slaves." The dagger flipped a chunk of black bread.
The brown-and-silver man's fury surged.
Crows Eye, I'm telling you again: I need warriors' blood—warriors!
Not the filthy blood of slaves. Great forebear Torregar would scorn to drink the blood of cowards; ten thousand slaves are worthless!
The dagger slammed into the table, pinning the bread with a thud.
Euron Greyjoy rose, gazing down at the quivering hilt. A blue-stained nail scraped the tabletop; he tore off a scrap of bread and, dragging it along the edge, came to stand before the brown-and-silver man.
The man stared at the curved blade, throat bobbing. He'd forgotten whom he dared provoke: a lawless pirate king who answered to no one.
If slave blood's too foul, how about a shipload of Ironborn? Let your forebear taste the salt of real fighters.
Euron stepped close and shoved the bread between the man's teeth.
The brown-and-silver man stood frozen. Euron patted his cheek with a sneer, then strode out, Ironborn at his heels.
Only when the footsteps faded did the man slowly turn.
He did not spit out the iron-tasting bread; he chewed it slowly, savoring the bitterness of shame.
Chewing, he drifted to a shelf crammed with odds and ends. Among them a single statue caught the eye.
A dragon.
He cradled it in his palms, fingers stroking the stone.
The black bread in his mouth became the sour, half-spoiled slop of his childhood.
Memories he never wished to revisit surged forth.
His name was Corleone.
He had grown up in a brothel in the town of Velontheras, scrubbing chamber pots for the leavings of whores and their clients.
From the moment he could remember, the men visiting his mother's scent-heavy room mocked him as the Dragon King's bastard, as if the words spiced their pleasure.
Curious, he asked everyone why. Scraping drunken gossip from soldiers and whores, he pieced together the tale: he was a descendant of the dragon lords of Valyria. Excitement blazed through the small boy.
He thought he had found proof of superiority, proudly showing the silver threads among his brown hair, but the world answered with jeers he mistook for applause.
Knowing he was a dragon's heir gave him purpose. He hunted every tale of dragon kings, sitting rapt while minstrels and drunken sellswords sneered through stories of lords who rode dragons and burned cities, forgetting even the brothel's slop.
He listened to the glory of dragon lords while scrubbing the foulest stains from their pots.
As years passed that childhood pride curdled into the sharpest shame.
Each fresh cry of dragon-bastard made the low blood in his veins feel like the crust no brush could scour away.
He hated the brown hair that tainted his silver, hated the mother who had cursed him with this divided blood.
He watched lime-dust settle over her corpse, the silver hair that once spilled like moonlight now withered straw. Clutching her few belongings, he breathed the sweet-sick stench the lime could not hide.
Among them was the thing that would change his fate: an old tome that told where they had come from.
It was the chronicle of the dragonlord house of Torregar.
Learning he was Torregar's descendant stunned him.
When he read that Torregar had stood among the foremost of the Forty Dragon Families even at the height of the Valyrian Freehold, the glory of his forebears left him breathless.
The moment he read in that ancient tome that House Torregar kept a forbidden ground deep inside Valyria where a dragon slumbered, waiting to be roused by blood, he went mad—ravenous to wake it, to master it, and ready to pay any price, any!
He became a fiend in the shadows, a spider spinning a web of crime: swindling, smuggling contraband, amassing coin by every foul means, even selling children as helpless and filthy as he had once been.
Every coin reeking of blood and tears he hurled into the Smoke Sea and the bottomless abyss of the Valyrian Ruins; fleet after fleet sailed out and none returned, driving him ever deeper into frenzy.
Only when he met the man who called himself Crows Eye—who claimed to have crossed the Smoke Sea many times unscathed—did hope return: share half whatever treasure was found, the pirate said, and he would guide him to the Valyrian Ruins.
He had no idea how Crows Eye had learned of his quest, and Corleone could see the man was nothing but a shameless pirate chief.
Yet he agreed; once the dragon woke, everything else would be ash.
What followed went smoother than expected. With the wizard at Crows Eye's side they even reached their goal—only to find the entrance of the ruined forbidden ground sealed. Following the tome's instructions he sacrificed slaves from several ships, to no effect. Then a hired guard, wounded, spilled blood across the threshold and the gate stirred. So the great forebears of House Torregar scorned the craven blood of slaves; they demanded the warrior-blood of fighting men!
Dragging his thoughts back, Corleone swallowed a mouthful of bread already chewed to pulp, as though gulping down humiliation itself.
The hand caressing the dragon statue clenched, its stone horn piercing his palm; bright blood welled and stained the carving.
He lifted the statuette to his face, meeting the blood-slicked stone eyes with his own.
'Once the dragon wakes, every disgrace will burn away in dragonfire.'
He was certain he could do it.
His name was Corleone… of House Torregar!
…Meanwhile Euron Greyjoy strode the deck with his retinue, cold gaze sweeping over the numb, toiling sailors. Stains and blood from the last fight still lingered, reeking of iron and death.
A one-eared Ironborn trailed him, half the ear a mangled lump, an old scar running onto his bald scalp. Baring rotten teeth, he rasped like rust grinding iron:
'Green-land bastard!' He spat toward the hold, the phlegm splattering the planks. 'Fartin' in front o' Crows Eye? Piss yourself and take a look at that rotten meat!'
Blood-lust glittered in his eyes; calloused fingers fondled the iron hook at his belt.
'Crows Eye, say the word! I'll hook his shit-spewin' tongue and feed his voice to the fish, hack off those soft legs and hang him from The Quiet's prow to dry like salt fish!' He licked cracked lips, already tasting blood. 'Let the Smoke Sea see what happens to them that rile Crows Eye!'
The Ironborn's roar cracked across the silent deck like a slap.
The others looked at the half-eared man as if he were a fool.
Crows Eye hated having choices made for him—even suggestions.
Every Ironborn knew that.
And they all knew the brown-haired bastard was only alive because he was still useful; else Euron would have chopped him for chum long ago.
Talk like that would only turn the captain's stomach—asking for trouble.
A slap on the wrong ass.
Euron Greyjoy slowly turned; his lone eye glinted like a dead fish in the shadow.
'Fancy joining the Silent as well?' he murmured, blue-stained tongue sliding over cracked lips.
The Ironborn froze, gulping back every word.
Sea-wind licked the cold sweat on his neck; knees knocked, making the deck creak.
Euron snorted and looked away, heel grinding a dark stain—yesterday's tongue-less blood.
'Dragon-spawn?'
'Just a whoreson bastard.' He toyed with the dagger at his hip. 'Once he and his Mercenaries open the ruin-gate with their cheap lives…'
A sick laugh mingled with the crash of waves:
'I'll gaff his eyelids open and let gulls watch him choke on his own guts.'
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