55 The Dragonbinder Horn

Rhaegar Targaryen

His footsteps echoed throughout the empty Hall, floor red, reaching up to his knees, his footsteps heavy, hands reaching out for him, yet he walked; the Throne was right there, above a mountain of corpses; he climbed stairs made of bones, bone after bone he climbed, upon sitting on it, that's all he saw in front of him.

Rhaegar Targaryen 'The Just,' yet all he could see was the mountain of corpses he had left behind, their eyes in their skulls, young boys, their eyes glittering with hope, eternal glory they sought, that's what War was to them, a chance for Glory.

Rhaegar sat upon the throne, his hands grasping the arms of the throne, the blades cutting deep into his hand, and burning pain shot through his body, yet, his grip tightened.

I caused this. Now I suffer. He thought as the blade cut deeper into his skin, to the bone.

Rhaegar had woken up screaming that night, another nightmare, starling Elia who had been quick to tell him that he had been dreaming; even a year after the Rebellion, he still dreamed of them, the young boys and men he had sent to their deaths.

...

Seeing his son grow, Rhaegar believed that sooner or later, something would happen, but he held on to that hope that if something were to happen, he prayed the Gods would leave his family alone.

My deeds, my Punishment, he thought, and watching Rhaenys chase Aegon quickly followed by Ser Barristan brought a big smile on his face; Elia near him, resting her head on his shoulder, holding his hand, he knew he didn't deserve any of this, but a part of him wanted this scenery to never end. To live in that moment for the rest of his life.

...

When Elia had suggested that Margaery Tyrell become Aegon's Queen, Rhaegar had agreed on it faster than he liked to admit. A part of him desperately wanted his son to marry whoever he wanted, but he was a King first, and the weight of the Crown was heavy on his head.

With The Reach on their side, with one move, their chances of coming out victorious. If a Rebellion were to happen were suddenly higher, they had the most food and were the second richest kingdom in the realm. There was no better lady for his son Aegon. The only Lady that came close was Myrcella Tully, and because Cersei was Tywin's daughter, but the amount of support they got with Margaery was more significant, they would also gain extra support from the commoners.

Rhaegar had heard from his mother's reports that Jaime's only child was an excellent young man, Loren Lannister. He had considered marrying Daenerys to him, bringing House Lannister to them. With another move, their Rule was secured. With Aegon as King, Rhaegar believed House Targaryen would stay in power for another hundred years. That's what he believed.

...

When the tourney started, and he announced the betrothal of his son and Lady Margaery, he had been in high spirits ever since. His son had approved of his betrothal with no complaints, saying.

'I will be the Future King of Westeros. My duty is to the realm. I will do all it takes to continue your legacy. I will keep the realm strong, and so will my children. I will make you proud.'

Rhaegar sometimes felt both relief and sadness that his son took the job so seriously; sometimes, he wondered if Aegon had ever allowed himself to play and just have fun. But he felt proud nonetheless. His family was his life's Joy.

...

During the singing competition, Rhaegar had seen a glimpse of her for the first time when Jon Snow had kneeled in front of them, the way he smiled, his curly dark hair like a crow. Rhaegar had seen that smile before, in his dreams and life, but he played it off as his mind playing tricks with him.

When Jon had started telling his story, Rhaegar had seen it upfront; Lord Stark's son had taken a lot after Lyanna. It wasn't just his hair and his smile, but his face, jawline, everything was from Lyanna, but Rhaegar reminded himself that it was just his mind.

When the boy had said his real name, when his purple eyes had seen her eyes, the eyes of the woman he hadn't seen for so many years, Rhaegar knew the boy was no liar. And that Lyanna had been right.

'A mother always knows.'

Rhaegar remembered her words with a smile for the first time; looking at his son again, he did the only thing he could think of doing at that moment.

Hugging him close, Rhaegar cried. For so many years, now, he felt happier than he had ever felt for so many years. A piece of Lyanna was returned to him. Their son was alive. And he could love him to the end of his days.

"...Father," Aemon whispered, hugging Rhaegar back.

"You're at home, Aemon. You Have returned to Us." Rhaegar said through tears. It felt right to hold him close, he felt his body tense up, and for a brief moment, he feared that Aemon would struggle against him, trying to pull away, but when his arms hugged him back, Rhaegar breathed a sigh of relief.

Pulling away after what felt like seconds, Rhaegar took a look at his son, his hand just under his chin—the light from the many candles brightening up his face for Rhaegar to see.

"You look just like your mother," Rhaegar finally said, grinning after a short pause; Rhaegar saw Elia holding back tears; pulling his hand away, Aemon smiled, something else that reminded Rhaegar of Lyanna.

Rhaegar was ready to ask questions, so many questions, but the sound of someone clearing their throat made them all turn to face his mother.

"Before you ask too many questions, how about we all sit? I'm sure Aemon is tired, and I have brought refreshments for everyone." His mother said strictly, looking at everyone else but Aemon with a strict look. Not even Rhaegar was spared from her. The king, for a moment, felt like a child again.

"Come sit with us, Valonqar." Rhaenys offered, scooting out a chair for Aemon; only now, Rhaegar noticed that there were nine chairs, one more than needed. The king wondered if his mother had made a mistake but didn't really bother with it. His hand rested on his son's shoulder before motioning for him to sit at the table with them.

"Yes, sit with us, Son." Rhaegar offered; seeing the way he looked at many of them, Rhaegar knew they were all strangers to him, someone he hardly knew, and they had so many years to catch up, so many things he had missed, his first steps, words, Lord Stark! I will...

Rhaegar forced himself to dismiss that thought for now. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to get to know his son better. To talk to him. As soon as this dinner ended, he would order his men to arrest Lord Stark right away. With that thought in his mind, he turned his attention back to his son.

They all sat; Aemon reluctantly sat in the chair offered by his sister. Rhaenys had decided to sit right beside him, but Rhaegar noted that with Rhaenys's gaze, he looked more relaxed than with Aegon and Dany's gaze.

For a good minute, there was nothing but awkward silence. Nothing could be heard but the sound of crackle and hiss of the log burning in the hearth. The cheerful atmosphere had fled and dimmed into a somber one.

Rhaegar was about to start but wondered where he should even start. There were so many things he wanted to know; thankfully, Elia was there to start the conversation. Hitting the side of her goblet with the tip of her spoon, she looked at Aemon with love and curiosity in her eyes.

"Tell us, Aemon, what is it like having a Direwolf as large as a Horse?" Elia asked with a soft smile. She wanted to ask what his life was like in Winterfell, but she figured that wouldn't be pleasant, so she decided to ask something that she knew was pleasant to Jon.

Aemon smiled fondly before telling them about Ghost; Rhaegar listened attentively as his son told them of his apparently second companion, the first being Kessa; Rhaegar noted her name was Valyrian for 'Free Will' but made no comment on it. He told them how Ghost had found him and how Kessa had one day appeared in his window after he had gotten better from a weak fever. Rhaegar again could tell his son was keeping things to himself, but he didn't interrupt him.

"Can you fly on top of her?" Aegon eventually asked with a child-like wonder; Rhaegar suppressed a burst of laughter; his son was always fascinated by any creature that was considered a rare creature, like mammoths, Dire Wolves, The Eagle of The North, and many others.

Aemon confirmed with a silent nod, taking a small sip of wine, but from the way his mouth twitched, Rhaegar knew he wasn't yet used to Dornish Wine.

Hearing that his son could fly on top of his eagle made Rhaegar want to ask how it was like, how it was like experiencing something that no Targaryen had experienced since the last dragon had died back at 153 AC, but someone beat him to it.

"Where have you been with her?" Dany asked, looking at Aemon, her eyes almost glittering with excitement, a smile spreading; she moved a strand of hair from her face behind her ear.

"When we were riding South. We flew just above the Neck and across the Lands of Riverrun. Being up there, it makes you feel like everything is in the palm of your hand, that you can go everywhere." Aemon explained with a soft smile, his grey eyes looking a bit brighter than usual.

Rhaegar could only imagine what his son was describing. He had dreamed of flying on top of a dragon but never got to experience something like that, but hearing his son talk about it, it made him happy.

"Can I try it?" Viserys asked with a clear frown on his face, his voice showing a bit of disdain, looking at Aemon over the rim of his goblet, his flushed face, his voice sounding deeper. The drink was starting to get to him.

Rhaegar felt a headache, knowing his brother could perhaps say something he shouldn't. He was ready to tell him to stop drinking before he said something.

Hearing the question, his son furrowed a brow, and from the frown, Rhaegar knew he didn't like the question for some reason.

"I'm afraid not. Kessa allows only some to get close to her but mount her. She has yet to allow anyone but me. Arya tried once, and she almost attacked her if I hadn't arrived in time to stop her." Aemon explained, cutting a piece of steak with his knife.

Viserys's frown deepened, pursing his lips into a thin line. He murmured something under his breath, but none heard him. Yet again, the cheerful mood fled away; Aemon looked impatiently at Viserys.

With a weary sigh, Rhaella stepped in before it could ruin everything. "Aemon, is there anything you want to know about us?"

Aemon turned to face his grandmother, his face quickly changing, his eyes looking at Rhaella with love as if she was his mother.

"I would like to know what it is like in King's Landing?" Something Rhaegar noticed was that Aemon hadn't looked at him that way yet.

"It stinks." Dany was quick to jape, resting her head against the palm of her hand.

This earned a chuckle from Aemon, Rhaegar was happy to see his son laugh, but he would much rather not have Aemon have the wrong idea of King's Landing. "Not as much as it used to, brother, don't listen to Dany. She likes to joke way too much." Aegon promptly said, giving Dany a slight glare. The princess simply smiled innocently.

"I don't know what you're talking about, nephew." She said, her fingers going through her long braid.

Aegon looked ready to counter her argument. When Rhaenys spoke, Rhaegar noticed that his daughter was holding Aemon's hand; her fingers intervened with his, Rhaegar wasn't sure how to feel about it, but perhaps it was nothing.

"You know, Aemon, when I was seven name days. I convinced Aegon and Dany that Kingsguards slept in front of their doors, with their armor on every day, prepared for any situation, but the kingsguards hear them waking up. That's why they had never caught them sleeping. You have no idea how many nights both Aegon and Dany tried to catch the Kingsguard sleeping in front of their doors until Aegon bluntly asked where they slept. Barristan had never laughed as much as that day." Rhaenys explained, suddenly followed by a burst of laughter from everyone except Aegon and Dany, who flushed red in embarrassment.

"We were only three name days, you witch." Both defended, shouting at Rhaenys, who laughed even more.

After talking together for two more hours, Aemon yawned a little before standing up from his seat, followed by the others, except Viserys, who had fallen asleep on his chair.

"I have to go," he said, looking more at Rhaella rather than his father.

"Where? You can sleep in the royal chambers, Aemon. You don't need to sleep in your old chambers with The Starks." Rhaegar promptly said, with a growl at the end, and from Elia and Rhaenys's faces, their faces turned red from anger.

"I would rather not. My king- Val is waiting for me, perhaps tomorrow." Aemon explained.

"Val?" Elia was the first to ask.

"My wife. She's probably sleeping now, but I don't want her to be alone." Aemon added, and his eyes focused solely on his father now.

Rhaegar almost gasped upon hearing that. Wife? He mentioned nothing of being married, he thought, ready to ask who the girl was and from which House she belonged only for his mother to step in.

"You can sleep wherever you want, Aemon. I hope we can get to meet your wife soon." His mother stepped in with a motherly smile, giving everyone else a warning look. Aemon smiled in appreciation. Soon he said good night to everyone, especially Rhaenys, who seemed not to want him to go yet, but a kiss on her cheeks stopped her somewhat. Rhaegar saw his son whispering something to Rhaenys's ears and walked outside.

"Rhaegar, don't order anything before I return." His mother ordered him before following Aemon behind.

Aemon Targaryen

"Is not needed," Aemon said for what could be the tenth time, but his grandmother didn't want to hear it.

"I'm not listening to any of your excuses, young man. Ser Arthur will meet you tomorrow." His grandmother said with a tone that left almost no room for arguments. Soon they reached his chamber. They stopped right in front of the door.

"What do you think of us?" His grandmother asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. She knew he had just met everyone else, but she hoped they had left the right impression.

"I-I don't know, but I would like to spend more time with everyone," Aemon said, hugging his grandmother close. She caressed his dark hair before kissing his cheeks.

"You can spend as much time as you want, Aemon. And don't worry about Lady Val. Your father will approve of her." She said softly to his ear, knowing he feared Rhaegar would disapprove of her.

Rhaella would fight tooth and nail for her grandson to be happy.

Aemon didn't know why, but being held close by her, felt like being held by his mother, the warmth. He felt safe in her arms. She was good and kind.

"I love you, grandmother." Aemon suddenly said, kissing her cheek; Rhaella felt her eyes welling up.

"I love you, too. My little dragon."

Crow's Eye

"Spread your arms, and fly,"

Euron remembered his words so long ago that sometimes he wondered whether they were true. But that night, he had opened his eyes to the truth. He had seen far beyond anyone had ever seen. From The Asshai to Valyrian and the Heart of The North. Creature of Death, the children called them.

The Children cried. The true Winter had come to swallow them All, their eyes blue like the deepest pits of the ocean. He had seen them.

The Wall, Euron had seen it and knew it. The Wall had been built. A Battlefield was long forgotten. A Wall to protect one, but not the other. One Part Safe, The Other Forgotten.

Brandon Stark, 'The Builder.'

Jon Stark 'The Forgotten'.

One guilty.

One forgotten.

Traitors.

Euron breathed, the shade of the evening slipped down his throat. He wanted to laugh. Such an irony, the man who wanted recognition above all died forgotten by history. No one remembered him. Not even his own blood. His own kin forgetting him, Euron didn't know whether that was a curse or a blessing.

The Wall, he had seen it, blood streaming down from the top like a waterfall, a roar that echoed throughout the entire Westeros. A Horn to make it all Fall.

He had seen it as clear as day. The Horn would Roar with Winter. It would echo around the World. A Roar that could be heard from Dorne to Winterfell. The Kings of the Winter would wake up from their deep slumber, and the Wall would Fall.

Why have statues built for the Kings? Why so deep underground, right below the Weirwood Tree? Euron had asked himself as he closed his eyes.

Exile set him on his course. Exile gave him wings.

In a cask of Shade of the Evening, he found more.

Its taste first reminded Euron of the bloated seals that washed up on Pyke. He would have spat it out and claimed another pound of flesh from the warlocks in his hold, except they stiffened and hissed when he poured the dark drink. Like children, if he'd stolen their cakes. The taste changed as he wondered why they clamored for it. Stolen cakes, the salty lips of his brother's wife, the wine from the Myrish merchant prince. It was every taste and none, the liquid thicker than wine and almost oily down his throat.

Only when the goblet was empty did he remember why it was called Shade of the Evening. Did he dream?

There were diversions between Oldtown and the shattered ruins. A lifetime's worth of gold spent another lifetime's worth is stored below—an endless cycle of nodding when the crew died and heating his pincers when new men came aboard.

Different colors and different dreams. For months he was a merry reaver, savoring the wind as it carried the Silence alongside a lumbering trade vessel, warming his bed more often with charm than force. For a time later, his mood turned black as his crow's eye, where he hacked his way through begging sailors, raging at the day he left Pyke without gutting his older brother. Balon stoked grief and regret and called it vengeance; as long as he fought and failed, he was content to say he glorified the Seastone Chair. As if waylaying, a few Myrish spice ships offended any but a fat merchant.

When they truly sailed for Valyria, Euron's fury had cooled as it always did from the succor of blood. His taciturn crew was growing anxious as the red sky grew higher. Likely remembering stories told by their mothers of the Doom. Stories made them afraid of death, but Euron made them fearful of worse things, and so they stayed the course.

It was useless to guess days or nights once they sailed between red sky and red water. His men coughed on the sulfurous reek, and even his eye was streaming. After days of trawling through the windless Smoking Sea, he found an estuary to anchor the ship. From there, it was a walk to the ruined city.

A walk through hell, he was sure his crew would say if they had their tongues. First, Euron saw, to his warlock, a quarter of the original stock. The first he burned and fed to the others—he might've coaxed them into being crew after he ripped their tongues out, but these warlocks only interested him as far as they could speak.

The second interested him too much. The old man had glared at him through the cell bars, cheeks hollow, blue lips stark. His voice was jagged and raspy.

"Still sailing to Valyria?" he rasped. "Fly, fool, and see how you break."

Euron was against the bars and dragging the warlock closer in half a heartbeat.

"What far-sight is this?" His teeth scraped the prisoner's cheek. "Besides the only talent you've shown."

The warlock squirmed against his hold. "That is not yours to know. You may drink our Shade, but truth eludes you."

Rebuffing the reaver's curiosity always made him surly. The old man would not say, even after Euron had few things left to cut. He confessed disappointment to finding the third dead in a pool of his own blood. His tongue spat clear of the cell. The fourth was younger and less suicidal. In truth, the warlock was not old enough to know all the Undying's secrets, but he spoke of their magic with enough color to hold the reaver's interest.

When Euron ducked into the hold, the Silence bobbing in the estuary, he fixed the last warlock with a cankerous smile.

"They say Valyria is riddled with traps and demons. Can you see them?"

The warlock pulled himself onto his haunches; watery eyes were wandering and glassy. Euron held up a wineskin of the Shade, and the man was all but begging to suck his cock. It wasn't physical want like in those enslaved to wine. The warlock was already swiping at tears, the mummer in some play where the lady finally saw her love return. After dreaming of a different world, one more colorful and generous with secrets, the true one seemed bled white.

"I can keep you from the fire below your feet." The warlock's red-rimmed eyes implored him. "Better, ironborn, if I have sipped."

The iron squealed as Euron stepped inside the cell. Crouching, he took a long pull from the skin and handed it to his prisoner. Stick-thin, dressed in robes long gone to rags from bandaging cuts, the warlock made him think of a carrion bird. An easy creature to keep close provided it was fed, but a pet bird must be pinioned all the same. While the warlock sat in dazed contentment, lips freshly stained, Euron snapped a too-loose slave collar to his neck. He never saw the point of snug collars when a brand could easily show ownership. What good a collar that could not be pulled? The man tripped and staggered up the stairs, either from the weight of iron or the long captivity.

When the rowboat dredged to a stop on the gritty beach, Euron leaped off, wondering if he was the first man in Valyria since the doom. Mayhaps. The sand was dark and untouched. The ground ahead was gray. He half-expected ruddy earth to match the sea and sky. Alas, it was a field of dark rock—not solid stone, though. It felt hollow, almost thrumming, as it waited for the best moment to split open and drag him down. And then you'll know if you can fly. Euron remembered his words. He both cursed and loved his dreams. The old man had sent him dreams, and he had opened his eyes, but Euron knew he wasn't the only one.

One to see, one to fight, and one to fly, Euron thought. He had dreamed of the other, the one he had chosen, not me, but a boy, a green boy with a past, a past he himself doesn't know, Euron thought, he clucked his tongue, a frown, but he grinned, he felt his blood boil from excitement at the thought of him. What good is this life without enemies? Life would be boring if all victorious were handed to me on a silver platter. Only those that work hard understand True Power, Euron thought with a wide grin on his face.

And fuck, it was hot. Not the heat of the Summer Islands, lightened by sea breeze and palms, nor the sweltering heat of Lys, where a walk to the brothel district soaked one in sweat before they even chose a whore to tumble. Old Valyria's heat was leeching. Dryer than bones left after Dragonfire and dusty with their ashes. His crew was already coughing, a rather grotesque sound without their tongues.

He kept the warlock close, ordering his crew to stay alert. He assumed their silence for assent but realized his error when the first stepped somewhere Euron had not. A brittle crack, a sigh like steam, and the Lorathi was squawking as he vanished. His other crew froze. The hole where the Lorathi fell was...molten. Like a sunset or hellfire. Euron wanted so much to touch it, but that seemed unwise. And so he ordered them all to continue, shoving the warlock into a walk back onto the pale stony road and toward the city. The Qartheen continued picking his way along.

He knew there was no actual white-paved road, no distant city where high towers gouged the sky. When he closed his eyes and thought of his question, thought of his enraging exile, Valyria was a wasteland once more. The only city was a distant ruin, jagged like broken teeth.

Mouth dry, temples dripping, he continued with the warlock. If he needed to remind his crew to follow in his footsteps, he'd do better to kill all the fools right there and find himself new sailors. Dry winds were the only sound besides a staccato of coughing and rattling scree. At least until he spied the crater. The white-paved path to the ruined city was on a small incline, and the massive gouge revealed itself early, even through the Shade.

A new smell came, more than char and fouled air. Spoiled, roasted meat, not so different from the warlock he fed to the flames. The faint skitterings were nothing compared to the scrape of earth and rib-thrumming growl. The warlock tottered worse now, raw feet trailing blood. Doubtless, the scent roused the beast in the crater. Smiling for the first time since he left the Silence, Euron walked faster, swiping at the blood beginning to trail from his nose. Valyria had no love for visitors. But what secrets did it guard?

It was a deep hole, but the sides were sloped. He looked aside at a Lysene youth, the lad's eyes red and dead. Euron took the boy's crossbow, considerately loaded and drawn. Without a word—as if he could offer any—the Lyseni unbuckled his bag of quarrels and handed them over. Euron preferred blades, but even more, he preferred a prize. Even if it's an ugly one, he thought as he stepped to the crater's edge and peered down.

The withered creature coiled in the pit, clinging to warmth like any old fool. It was red once, he'd heard, though its scales had faded to gray, and the rot clinging to its neck and jaw was paler still. His stomach was open as if something had burst from his insides. A dragon. The first time he had seen one with his first eye. Even if it was a dead one.

"It must've been a sight to see those creatures fall from the sky."

A wet chuckle. "None did. My order never figured out how to bring down the dragons. Only the dragonlings. Hatchlings, poisoned inside their shells. The rest died without our help."

Euron had heard dragons were fire-made flesh, but this one's heat seemed an infected wound. Though close in length to his longship, its wings were spindly, and its ribs jutted like fishbones.

The crossbow missed its eye, scraping across its jaw and glancing off a shoulder. Euron reloaded the crossbow. Not that he was one to hold a bow close, but he was less keen on breaking a sword across its muzzle.

The bolt cranked into place, and he whistled. The dragon was a hunter, and hunters looked forward. A cranking choom and the bolt ripped through the Dragon's right eye. Euron loaded a third bolt. His crew had retreated twenty paces. One of them was burning, dancing better than any dancer he had seen. That one squealed like a dying pig, one with truffles in its mouth to explain the tongueless hacking. He almost fired his quarrel at the wrong target just to shut him up.

Instead, Euron picked his way down the slope to the dead beast. Euron buried his third bolt in its last eye.

He walked close enough to touch the half-buried bolts.

He grinned. He had dreamed of this. Dragon Blood is valuable. It will make a perfect gift for Aanogar, the mightiest creature of the Sea.

The impaled bolt is yanked out with a crunching squelch. Dragon blood was dark as the Silence under a new moon. Tossing away the skewered eye, he cupped his hand beneath the black socket. It was hotter than human blood but not scalding as he'd heard.

The Targaryens called themselves the blood of the dragon. Was that such a high pedestal?

It was hot and metallic—true iron, not coppery tang like the blood dripping from his nose. He hardly expected it to give him wings. But what was freedom if not indulging small whims? Imagining he looks a dragon himself, he continued down the shale-strewn slope to where the dragon made its sunken grotto. They said dragons horde treasure; Euron had plenty enough, but he looked for something rarer.

Dragons are Fire made Flesh, Euron thought, but he knew that quote didn't do justice to what dragons truly were. Dragons are Fire made Flesh? He had seen just what kind of monstrosity they had buried, Human with wings, half-dragon, half-men. Euron thought there was a reason why some Targaryen women gave birth to babies with wings and scales, like Rhaenyra's first and only daughter Visenya. It was said the girl had the skin of a newborn dragon, a tail-like one, and small wings on her back.

Dragons and Valyrians are one and the Same, Euron thought, but he knew one didn't need Valyrian blood to fly a beast. All that was needed was a Horn.

One Month Later

Euron breathed, trying to fill his lungs with as much fresh air as possible. Every breath felt like one thousand needless stabbing his neck. Everyone else would have died, but his third eye had shown him what to do. Despite his body burning, there were no flames, yet he felt like he was burning. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was... white-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, and his head was surely going to burst with pain; he was screaming more loudly than he'd ever screamed in his life. Yet, Euron knew he was laughing instead.

Laughing, Laughing, Laughing, he couldn't stop laughing as he felt his head almost bursting, his skin slowly peeling away like the shell of an egg.

For what felt like hours, Euron didn't know where he was. His whole body was ablaze; looking at his arms, he was surprised to see his skin was still covering his body, licking his lips. He grabbed the nearest object to stand up, his heart almost bursting from his chest. Euron wondered how the whole room didn't echo from the sound. He stumbled around the room, drinking more Shade of the Evening. A wash of relief passed through his body; lighter, he felt everything again.

Reaching the main dock, Euron grinned at the gifts he had found, many of them, but the one that truly made him smile was the Hell Horns.

The horn is six feet long. It is made from the horn of what must have been an enormous dragon. It has a black gleam and is banded with red gold and Valyrian steel. When touched, the horn felt warm and smooth. Its surface is shiny and reflective, though the reflection depicted is somehow twisted. The bands of the horn are covered by strange writings, and Valyrian glyphs. His hand touched it, warm, he thought before ordering his crew.

"Sail to Westeros. I'm sure my brother misses me."