"What curse?" Daenerys Targaryen asked, growing even more curious.
"I don't know." Euron Greyjoy shook his head, lingering fear visible on his face.
"We landed at Tyria on the northern edge of the Smoking Sea. Some people spread rumors that survivors still lived there after the Doom. Total nonsense.
"The sky there was dark red like the inside of a furnace. The earth burned like iron on a forge. Even the wells boiled with white steam.
"Four hundred years later, the fires beneath the earth still haven't gone out. If anything truly lives there, it wouldn't be human—it would be demons."
"So the so-called curse might just be heatstroke?" Jorah Mormont stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"No. Absolutely not," Euron replied immediately.
"Everyone suffered dehydration, yes. But we had plenty of water, and we weren't afraid of heat. Two of my pirates were from the Summer Isles. You think they tolerate heat worse than I do?"
"How did they die?" Daenerys asked.
"Their limbs curled into themselves. Their hands twisted into claws. Their skin blistered and oozed pus, covered in purple-black boils packed together like pomegranate seeds.
"Less than half a day after stepping onto Tyria, hundreds of men became like that. How could that possibly be heatstroke?"
As he spoke, terror flickered unmistakably within Euron's lone eye.
Daenerys' heart stirred. She instinctively looked toward Jorah, who happened to glance back at her. The moment their eyes met, both understood they had reached the same conclusion.
The corpse of the Valyrian dragonlord discovered near the southern edge of the Red Waste had looked exactly the same—limbs curled inward, body shriveled purple-black, skin full of tiny holes clinging tightly to the bones as if all flesh had melted away.
So perhaps there truly was a curse.
And would dragons survive it?
A dragon corpse larger than Balerion was still buried beneath the sands.
"Did you find any city ruins?" Daenerys continued.
"Tyria itself was one of the wealthiest cities outside Valyria. Most buildings were buried beneath thick volcanic ash. Alone, I couldn't possibly excavate them.
"Fortunately, the governor's palace was a towering fortress. The ash piled against it into a slope, and I climbed directly to the upper floors."
At this point Euron grinned proudly.
"Hah! The richest man in Tyria would obviously be the governor. And he was a dragonlord."
"Did you obtain any secret arts?" Daenerys deliberately avoided asking about treasure.
For a split second Euron's blue eye darkened before returning to its usual warm smile.
"No secret arts," he said.
"Though the lands of the Long Summer were under Valyria's control, only the city of Valyria itself—the capital—was the true core of Valyrian civilization.
"The other territories were merely colonies ruled by one or several Valyrian nobles over native peoples.
"Like Volantis today. Only the ruling class were true Valyrians, and even they weren't great nobles. After all, they didn't possess dragons."
He glanced at Daenerys.
"The dragonlords remained in Valyria. Their magic and most of their treasures stayed there as well. Even House Targaryen lost the secret of forging Valyrian steel after leaving Valyria. Or perhaps the rulers forbade your ancestors from taking such secrets away?"
Daenerys realized Euron resembled her in one regard—he longed for Valyrian sorcery and magical technology.
Euron looked around and asked casually:
"Your Grace, where are your dragons? And where did they come from?"
Since it was hardly a secret anymore, Daenerys briefly recounted everything: her marriage to Khal Drogo, Illyrio Mopatis gifting her dragon eggs, the deaths of Viserys Targaryen, Drogo, and Rhaego.
Her voice remained calm, as though she were telling someone else's story.
In truth, it almost felt like someone else's life.
Yet to the listeners, her quiet words sounded like the confession of someone whose heart had already been shattered beyond repair.
"Your Grace…" Euron's eyes filled with tears, as if he deeply empathized.
What incredible acting.
Daenerys didn't believe for a second that this bloodthirsty pirate was truly sentimental.
"It's fine," she waved dismissively.
"Fate took three loved ones from me—Viserys, Drogo, and Rhaego—but in return it gave me three children. A shadowbinder from Asshai once told me: only death can pay for life. The lives of those closest to me were the price for hatching my dragons."
So that's how dragons are born?
A sharp gleam flashed through Euron's eye.
"Your Grace, perhaps this too is fate. I survived Valyria by miracle, discovered unimaginable wealth there, and just as you entered these seas, I happened to emerge from the storm wall. The odds of such a meeting are one in millions.
"Perhaps destiny intends for me to provide you the wealth needed to reclaim your throne."
"What did you say?" Daenerys stared at him in disbelief.
"I intend to offer every treasure aboard the Silence to you. I will serve you, my queen, and help you reclaim your rightful throne from those usurpers."
Euron spoke with righteous conviction, like some heroic patriot sacrificing all for a noble cause.
The problem was that in the long history of Westeros, no such selfless patriot had ever truly existed.
"You're serious?" Jorah eyed the Crow's Eye suspiciously.
Euron smiled faintly and gestured to his black servant.
"Tell them to bring the ship closer."
The servant silently descended the rope ladder and rowed back toward the Silence, anchored three hundred meters away.
Neither Jorah nor the white-bearded knight stopped him. After all, Euron himself remained surrounded on deck.
If the Silence made any hostile move, Euron would die first.
Could he really have fallen for my beauty?
Or perhaps I unconsciously radiate some extraordinary inner charm?
Daenerys shamelessly wondered.
Not only she, but even the experienced white-bearded knight sensed events slipping beyond control. Decades of bodyguard instinct made him step slightly forward, subtly placing Daenerys within the defensive range of his staff.
Yet when the dark-red ship approached and boarding planks were laid across, nothing unusual happened.
A procession of bald, bare-chested sailors carried massive chests across from the Silence.
The heavy boxes made the planks creak dangerously under their weight.
Thunk.
The first chest opened—overflowing with jewels and golden ornaments, dazzling the entire deck.
Thunk.
The second chest revealed ancient Valyrian gold coins.
Thunk.
The third contained shimmering purple pearls.
Throughout the process, the only sounds were the heavy impacts of chests hitting the deck, gasps of astonishment, and the swallowing of saliva.
Then Daenerys noticed something strange.
The sailors from the Silence were utterly silent.
Not one spoke. None reacted to the excited whispers around them.
When the twenty-fourth sailor opened the twenty-fourth chest, Daenerys finally said:
"There's no need to open the rest."
No response.
The bald giant continued lifting the lid. Inside lay exquisite silks from Yi Ti—clearly plundered from merchant ships, not excavated from Valyria.
"What's wrong with them?" the white-bearded knight asked warily.
Euron paused, then smiled strangely as he looked around.
"I am captain of the Silence. As fellow Westerosi, surely you understand why she bears that name?"
"You cut out your crew's tongues?" Jorah finally tore his eyes away from the treasure and glared at him in disgust.
Snap.
Euron raised his right hand and snapped his fingers cheerfully.
"Exactly. I enjoy silence. I dislike subordinates chattering endlessly. Anyone who wishes to sail aboard my Silence must first lose their tongue."
"No," Daenerys frowned.
"They're not only mute. They're deaf."
"Correct," Euron grinned eerily as he subtly stepped backward, widening the distance between himself and Jorah.
"Your Grace, you have keen insight. Then perhaps you can also guess why I poured molten gold into their ears?"
WOOOOOO—
Suddenly, a deep and ancient horn blast rolled across the sea like a storm cloud.
In an instant the three nearby ships seemed swallowed by it.
Everyone on deck felt as though countless dead souls were shrieking, cursing, wailing directly into their ears.
It was as though invisible hands tugged at every inch of flesh, freezing them completely in place.
Jorah and the white-bearded knight resisted better than most through sheer willpower. Staggering drunkenly, they still tried to shield Daenerys.
But that was the limit of what they could do.
Their faces twisted in agony as scorching fire seemed to ignite within their bones, burning outward through muscles, veins, skin, even hair.
Every cell in their bodies felt consumed by dragonflame.
Daenerys felt it too.
Only unlike the others, the fire filled her with indescribable ecstasy. Even the peak of physical desire between man and woman could not compare.
At that very moment, Euron lunged forward.
His left elbow smashed the trembling white-bearded knight aside just as the old man tried to raise his staff.
His right hand blurred like a phantom, instantly snatching the sword from Jorah's grip.
Then Daenerys felt cold steel against her throat.
She snapped awake from the intoxicating sensation.
Euron held her tightly in his arms, a broad sword pressed against her delicate neck.
She had been taken hostage.
"Heh… easier than I expected," Euron laughed softly, extending his tongue to lick beside her ear.
"So this is what a queen tastes like? Exquisite. Such a pity, Daenerys… my little queen… I almost don't want to kill you anymore."
"You—"
"SKREEEE!"
Before Daenerys could respond, horror struck her.
The white and green dragons suddenly burst from behind the Dothraki shields in a frenzy, spewing crimson dragonfire at the staggering riders around them.
Meanwhile, her black dragon tumbled headfirst from the top of the mast.
Immediately, she entered the dragon's mind.
It felt like plunging into an ocean ravaged by a category-twelve typhoon.
Once, that sea had been perfectly calm—a mother's embrace welcoming her home, allowing her to merge with it effortlessly.
But now…
-----------------------
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(End of Chapter)