With a sharp motion, Aedric drew the True Martial Sword from his back, his arm snapping forward as he hurled it like a thunderbolt.
The sword whistled through the air like a streak of light and slammed straight into Euron Greyjoy's chest—just as the man turned his head to bark an order.
A deafening clang! echoed across the deck.
Euron, completely unprepared, was blasted backward as if struck by a hammer, crashing into the mast with a crunch of splintering wood.
The True Martial Sword bounced away, repelled instead of piercing through.
"So it is Valyrian steel armor," Aedric murmured, eyes lighting up.
Only Valyrian steel could withstand the blade of the True Martial Sword.
Far from disappointed, he was exhilarated.
With a sudden surge of qi, he launched himself into the air, his figure flickering like mist—the "Cloud Ascension Step" carrying him high over the waves and onto the deck of the Silence.
In one fluid motion, he caught the rebounding sword, cutting down several of the mute sailors who had instinctively drawn their weapons.
Each strike was clean, efficient, almost casual.
Then he strode toward Euron, who lay sprawled against the deck, blood bubbling from his mouth.
The impact had shattered the man's ribs, driving bone fragments into his lungs and heart.
Blood trickled from his eyes, ears, and nose; his breathing was shallow and ragged.
"Sorry," Aedric said mildly. "Valyrian steel isn't vibranium—it doesn't come with shock absorption."
Even though Euron was clearly beyond saving, Aedric wasn't about to take chances.
This was, after all, a world where the dead sometimes got back up.
With one decisive stroke, he severed the pirate's head, then uncorked a small vial from his dimensional space.
He sprinkled its powdery contents over the corpse.
Complete Corpse-Dissolving Powder—a perfect tool for erasing evidence.
Before the terrified, tongueless crew, their captain's body melted away like ice in boiling water, leaving behind only a pristine black shirt.
"Valyrian steel cloth," Aedric noted, examining the material with a craftsman's admiration. "These Valyrian smiths really were geniuses. Metal turned into fabric—almost like Wakanda's tech."
When he lifted the shirt, something small and heavy clinked onto the floor—a key, glimmering with the same rippling pattern as the armor.
"A Valyrian steel key, huh? Rich bastard."
After cleaning the items with fresh water, he stowed both away and gestured for one of the mute sailors to lead him to the treasure hold.
The haul did not disappoint.
Gold and silver worth nearly two million gold dragons filled the chests—a staggering amount.
Aedric couldn't help comparing it to King Robert's debts. The famously extravagant monarch had managed to owe only six million after years of feasting and whoring.
For one pirate ship to hold a third of that? Remarkable.
But these were merely coins and jewels. True treasures were rarely kept in plain sight.
His gaze turned toward the captain's cabin.
Once inside, he dismissed the sailor and surveyed the lavishly decorated chamber. Then he retrieved another vial from his spatial pouch and blew a cloud of fine powder across the room.
Poison-detection powder.
Colorless if the air was clean—turning bright hues when toxins were present.
Only a single oil painting glowed a deadly red. Everything else was safe.
Donning toxin-resistant gloves, Aedric carefully removed the painting, revealing behind it a massive Valyrian steel safe, its surface engraved with swirling patterns like molten waves.
"Good thing I found the key," he muttered. "Otherwise, I'd be here all day."
He unlocked it, then immediately rolled aside—half expecting hidden darts or acid traps.
After a cautious pause, nothing happened.
Inside the vault lay only three items:
A weathered journal,
A sheathed longsword,
And a massive dragon egg, nearly the size of a basketball.
The egg's surface was pitch black, traced with faint golden veins that pulsed like molten gold. It was far larger than any of Daenerys Targaryen's three eggs—an object of unmistakable significance.
"No wonder Euron thought he could win the Dragon Queen's hand," Aedric mused. "He probably meant to offer this as a dowry."
After all, fleets were common enough—but a dragon egg like this? Unique. Priceless.
Yet, he quickly realized he was mistaken.
The real treasure wasn't the egg.
It was the sword beside it.
As soon as Aedric touched the hilt, a strange warmth spread through his palm—an echo of ancient, familiar power, resonating with the blood in his veins.
His eyes widened.
"This… this is impossible."
The blade was black as night, the rippling Valyrian steel patterns flowing like liquid shadow.
Its name came unbidden to his mind:
Blackfyre.
The legendary sword of House Targaryen, passed down from Aegon the Conqueror himself—the very blade that had united the Seven Kingdoms.
The symbol of royal blood and right to rule.
Aedric could feel it—the bond of heritage, of dragonfire and ancient kings.
No doubt remained.
This was indeed the lost ancestral sword of his forebears.
"So that's how Euron planned to win Daenerys," he murmured. "A dragon egg—and Blackfyre itself. Not ambition, not charm—just irresistible proof of legitimacy."
With these two artifacts, even the proud Dragon Queen might have agreed to marry the mad pirate.
After admiring the flawless craftsmanship of the sword—its dark rippling steel gleaming like still water—Aedric finally turned his attention to the journal.
It confirmed everything.
Euron had indeed ventured into the ruins of Valyria.
But the Doom still raged there—fire, ash, and molten rock swallowing the land. The crew could never set foot on the island.
The egg and Valyrian relics had been found aboard a half-sunken ship nearby—apparently belonging to those who had fled Valyria's fall, only to perish at sea.
Further search of the cabin revealed more treasures: several Valyrian steel swords, daggers, masks, necklaces, and even a few unforged ingots—none bearing family sigils, suggesting they were mass-produced relics rather than ancestral heirlooms.
As for Blackfyre, the journal explained that Euron had seized it during a raid on the Golden Company's fleet off the Essosi coast.
The pirate had even mocked their seafaring incompetence, boasting how easily he'd taken their precious cargo.
Aedric smirked. "Robbing the Golden Company of Blackfyre… I almost admire the bastard."
Euron had also documented numerous failed attempts to hatch the black dragon egg—using fire, steel, even the sword itself.
He'd once burned entire villages, keeping the egg in the flames for three full days and nights.
But still, the egg remained cold.
Untouched.
Unyielding.
"So," Aedric whispered, his fingers tracing the golden veins that pulsed faintly beneath the shell, "you're not just a dragon egg, are you?"
The air around him seemed to hum softly, as if in answer.
~~--------------------------
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