Towering black walls of rock flanked both sides, leaving only a narrow, shadowy passage wide enough for five or six men to walk abreast.
It was probably formed when the mountain split during an earthquake.
Clustered torches lit the fissure bright as day.
Contrary to Aegon's expectations, the deeper the column advanced, the less danger it encountered.
Apart from the carpet of bones—so thick there was nowhere to plant a foot—the only sound was the teeth-grating crunch of boots snapping skeletons.
Aside from the horror of it, there was no real threat,
and the Mercenaries filing in behind finally exhaled in relief.
Yet though no peril had shown itself, Aegon kept his long-knife in a white-knuckled grip.
"Brother Hain, why'd you hold me back? Those blue lips went too far—his blade nearly kissed your cheek."
Crunch, crack, the bones beneath their feet surrendered noisily.
Henry moved up beside Aegon. "If we let it slide, he'll just push further."
"Back home we had a gang of bullies who'd rob my mother of a whole day's work."
Henry clenched his fist. "But when I grew tall as them, I beat their leader senseless. No matter how they kicked me, I kept pounding that one man. After that, they never bothered us again."
He lifted his fist as if to say: works every time; you should try it.
Aegon shot the chattering fat man a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Did he think this was some alley brawl where you scare off thugs by thrashing one?
Had Aegon drawn steel, he might or might not have killed Crows Eye, but the Ironborn would have chopped him into mincemeat all the same.
Aegon sighed, flicking a curled skeleton aside with his blade.
"Henry, if Blue-Lips and his boys had the brains of your back-country hooligans, I'd do exactly what you say."
He turned, violet eyes serious. "But we're not facing street-corner cowards—we're facing blood-drunk pirates."
They walked on; his voice dropped.
"Their toys aren't wooden sticks; they're war-axes that cleave man and mail in half."
"If I'd started a fight, the best I could hope for was taking him with me."
"And then?"
"You, me, everyone behind us—new bones for this road."
"That one-eyed blue-lipped bastard's a wolf, not a drowning cur. Wolves demand patience and the right moment, or the pack tears you apart."
A voice sounded behind them.
"The boss is right, fat boy."
The Mercenary who forever fussed over his cooking pot caught up.
Sun-creased though still young, he looked ancient, eyes darting as he pulled a shrivelled green fruit from his pocket and bit.
Its sourness twisted his face; yellowed teeth showed. "Damn—"
He caught himself, glanced at Aegon, swallowed the curse, and went on.
"I've soldiered in the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones over ten years. Lads as reckless as you have grass taller than men on their graves."
He patted the cutlass at his hip. "Want to play hero? First learn when to duck—that's how you stay breathing."
Henry flushed but, seeing the cook's old scars, swallowed his retort. "I-I was just worried…"
The cook wolfed the fruit, flicked the stone into a crack, and eyed Henry.
"Still, you've the Devil's own luck—tethered yourself to a man who knows his business."
"Keeping your neck out of a wolf's jaws without losing your spine—that's the real trick."
"If the boss hadn't yanked you back and stepped up himself, you'd be keeping these bones company." He nudged a skull.
"Our chief's no ordinary man."
Aegon heard, guessed their intent, but kept silent and watchful… In the gloom he couldn't judge the hour; he only knew his first torch had burned out and he'd lit another.
Seeing weariness on every face, he beckoned Henry.
"Tell the column to halt and rest."
"If the Ironborn or the employer's guards ask, say—"
"Marching exhausted, we'll break at the first real threat. Burning out early helps no one."
"Remember the huge husk outside? That thing is still prowling."
He clapped Henry's shoulder.
"And show no fear."
Henry nodded vigorously. "Leave it to me."
He spun; ill-fitting mail clinked like a knight about to charge—if only he had a cloak to flourish.
Hoisting his war-hammer, he strode rearward.
Aegon watched the self-important departure and shook his head, amused.
He found a cleaner slab of black stone, sat, and drew his blade for wiping.
The ordinary steel, picked up in a skirmish, now bore a chipped edge.
He sighed.
Footsteps stopped beside him: the cook-Mercenary who always hovered nearby.
"Busy, chief?"
Soft enough for Aegon alone.
"Gods, this place stinks of brimstone with every breath."
Aegon said nothing; violet eyes, deep as amethyst in the torch-glow, waited.
Uncomfortable, the man dropped his grin.
"Right, serious talk."
"Name's Karl. Ten-odd years in the Disputed Lands and Stepstones—served eight different captains. Seen men die every way: stupid, crazy, or because some lordling hadn't the wits the gods gave geese."
He paused, watching Aegon wipe the blade, voice low with war-weary candour.
"You're different. Got skill, and—"
He tapped his own chest.
"—you've still got a heart. You count your men's lives as lives. For that, I'm yours."
Sincere.
"I talk slick, but I know when to run and when to follow. I'll watch your back, spy the arrows that come from the dark."
"This ruin is cursed; an extra pair of eyes never hurts."
He glanced at Henry returning.
"The fat boy's honest—good raw stock—but the good die quick."
"I want to stand with you, chief. No grand cause—just knowing you won't waste us on a whim."
"My life's yours. Dump me the moment I'm dead weight."
Aegon, leaning against the stone, listened in silence, thinking.
At last, when Karl began to fidget, he rose slowly.
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