The weather at sea changes in the blink of an eye.
Thick, leaden-gray clouds had descended to the sea's surface at some unknown point, looking as if they were within arm's reach, pressing down until it was hard to breathe.
The wind had also died down, the air stagnating with the heavy dullness and the faint, heart-pounding tremors that precede a storm.
Or perhaps, this abnormal weather was not entirely natural.
Whenever a creature that did not belong to this world stretched its body, inadvertently leaking a trace of the ancient aura belonging to a higher-order existence, the surrounding heavens and earth seemed to produce a silent resonance and... a shiver.
Aegon withdrew his gaze from the sky, which was so gloomy it looked ready to drip ink, and turned around.
Behind him, in the open space of the pirate camp that had just experienced a brief battle and was still permeated with the smell of blood.
Dozens of newly incorporated pirate captives, as well as an earlier batch of'submitted' outlaws, were all frozen in place as if they had been turned to ice.
Their faces no longer held their usual ferocity and slickness; only a nearly solidified terror born of biological instinct remained.
Pairs of wide-eyed gazes, pupils shrunk to pinpoints, stared uncontrollably and fixedly in the same direction.
Reflected in their pupils was a tall figure clad in black armor with silver hair, his red cloak fluttering slightly in the nearly stagnant sea breeze.
And, behind and to the side of that figure, lay the source... that caused even the sky to hang low.
A dragon.
A real, living dragon that was absolutely not the kind found in a bard's ballad or a drunkard's boast!
It stood there quietly, its pale gold scales still shimmering with a restrained and majestic cold luster even under such dim light.
On its long and powerful necks, three heads that looked as if they had stepped out of myth hung slightly low, six vertical pupils like molten gold calmly looking down at the humans below who were as small as insects.
Merely standing, its height already exceeded two men; if one counted the winding, slender necks and the tail of equally staggering length that twitched slightly at the end, its body length exceeded ten meters!
An invisible pressure, a mixture of ancient majesty and the faint aura of a predator, enveloped the entire camp like a physical tide.
The pirates of the Stepstones had all more or less heard legends about 'dragons'.
Two hundred years ago, this place had indeed been ruled by Dragonlords riding dragons. But those legends were too distant, having long since become fantasy talk to accompany wine; no one took them seriously.
Until this moment.
Legend had become reality, bringing not glory and aspiration, but a shudder from the depths of the soul and a sense of insignificance.
Even the Bloodsworn soldiers, who had seen Ghidorah many times and experienced the adventure in Valyria together, could not hide the shock in their hearts and a trace of instinctive fear at this moment.
They gripped their weapons tightly, trying to straighten their backs, but their slightly trembling fingers and racing heartbeats betrayed their unquiet minds.
When they first saw it, it was just a three-headed lizard the size of a'stool' and even somewhat 'weirdly cute'.
How much time had passed since then?
A different appearance every day?
No, it was as if it were drawing massive amounts of flesh and power out of thin air, growing in a way that defied common sense!
Had they not witnessed its changes step by step with their own eyes, they would have almost thought this was some ancient miracle or a ridiculous collective hallucination.
Aegon took in everyone's shock, fear, and even a faint hint of fanaticism.
The true situation was known only to him.
Ghidorah, this Titan creature from another universe, was an existence that transcended common sense.
It originally relied on absorbing high-energy radiation to grow almost infinitely; even after being transformed and compressed by the rules of this world, its core characteristics of devouring and growing remained, only the energy source had changed from 'radiation' to 'mana' or a similar high-energy existence.
Through their mental link, Aegon could perceive that as Ghidorah absorbed the 'energy' of the Dead Dragon within its body, its growth was entering an accelerated phase.
Its size would become more exaggerated day by day, and its strength would grow stronger with each passing day.
But correspondingly, its demand for 'energy' would also increase manifold.
The small amount of experience points left by the Dead Dragon was being rapidly consumed.
The plan to find a new, stable source of mana or similar magical artifacts had to be put on the agenda.
Aegon thought to himself.
If not for the stroke of luck in the Valyrian Ruins where he obtained that 'gift pack' of a Dead Dragon composed of blood sacrifices and vengeful spirits, just feeding Ghidorah would have been enough to give him a massive headache, let alone rapidly developing his forces.
However, it was too early to worry about those things now.
The Dead Dragon's energy could still last for a while.
The dragon, he would raise.
The forces, he would build up even more!
He composed his thoughts, his gaze like a cold blade sweeping over the pirate captives who were slumped on the ground or struggling to stand while shaking like sieves.
It was time to put collars on this pack of masterless jackals and show them the way.
"Look at me."
Aegon's voice rang out, penetrating the stagnant air and the heavy breathing of the crowd, clearly exploding in everyone's ears.
The captives jolted, their gazes moving with difficulty from that terrifying dragon shadow to focus on Aegon.
"My name is Aegon."
He paused, clearly pronouncing that surname which still carried some weight in the regions near Westeros:
"Aegon Targaryen."
Targaryen!
This name, like a stone thrown into a quiet lake, stirred waves once again in the hearts of some pirates who had a bit of knowledge.
The family that once rode giant dragons.
"You, in the Stepstones, are like rats in a gutter, hiding here and there."
"Stealing a skiff, drinking sour ale, sleeping in leaky shacks."
"Not knowing today if you'll be betrayed by other pirates tomorrow, or if you'll run into a Free City fleet's suppression the day after."
"Or perhaps you rob a fat sheep today, only for your corpse to be exposed on an unremarkable reef tomorrow."
Aegon's words were like a cold scalpel, dissecting the truth of their lowly and dangerous lives.
"Living hand to mouth, your lives as cheap as grass."
"Swear fealty to me," he changed his tone, injecting an unquestionable power into his voice, "and you will say goodbye to these days. You will gain a new identity, a new way of life."
He didn't need empty promises of loyalty; those were useless to pirates. He gave them something they could understand directly.
"Fight for me, follow my orders. The treasure you seize will be distributed according to my rules, but everyone will get a share; there will be no withholding."
"Kill an enemy, and there is a reward. A decent head," he pointed to the uncleaned corpse of a pirate leader on the ground, "is worth 5 Silver Stags. Kill a minor leader, 10. Kill the opposing chief... and you'll be rewarded with Gold Dragons."
"Charge at the front, and there is a reward. Complete a mission, and there is a reward. Bring in new, capable fighting hands, and you can even take a cut from their future bounties."
"But, those who disobey, die. Those who desert, die. Those who hide loot, die. Those who betray their companions, die."
Simple rules.
Punishments of extreme severity. Clearly visible benefits.
A primitive system of interests entirely centered around Aegon Targaryen, driven by violence, plunder, and bounties.
"Now, I grant you a new name—"
Aegon's gaze swept over this group of outlaws, whose eyes were beginning to flicker with a different light, as he slowly spoke the name he had already thought of—one that was fitting and filled with the aura of death and plunder:
"Skull Squad."
"Prove your worth. Let me see that you are not just useless cowards who know only how to tremble."
He raised his hand and pointed toward the depths of the island; according to intelligence, there was another small pirate hideout there.
"Clear that hill. Use the blood of your enemies and the bounties you are about to receive to tell me your answer."
At first, there was silence and hesitation.
But when the first pirate, driven by fear and greed, actually carried a bloody head belonging to another pirate gang.
When he came before Aegon trembling yet full of hope, and actually received those heavy silver coins that still carried body heat from Henry's hand—
Everything changed.
The light reflected from that blood-stained silver coin under the dim sky held more magic than any slogan or promise.
Being a pirate also involved killing and looting, living in fear, with earnings depending on luck and the constant risk of dying in internal strife.
Following this Prince Targaryen who had a real dragon also involved killing, but it could immediately be traded for clinking coins!
Moreover, it seemed more 'official', more'secure', and even... had more of a 'future'?
A different kind of fanatical atmosphere, carrying a thick smell of blood yet also implicit restlessness and greed, began to spread through this newly named 'Skull Squad'.
No more words were needed.
When the fleet reached the next island where pirates were discovered hiding.
Those 'Skull Squad' outlaws, who had just tasted sweetness or were eager to prove themselves and obtain bounties, were already like sharks that had scented blood, their eyes red as they pounced forward with howling cries!
Slaughter. Surrender.
Breaking up the new captives, incorporating them into the ranks, and binding them with the same chain of interests.
The cycle repeated.
Aegon stood at the rear, calmly watching it all.
The Bloodsworn were like steady reefs, guarding him; they were both a deterrent and the final cleaners..
Blood continuously stained one island after another.
The numbers of the 'Skull Squad' swelled rapidly like a rolling snowball amidst the bloody plunder and devouring.
And the fleet's objective remained firmly pointed toward the secret location mentioned in Mogol's last words, where five hundred sets of plate armor were hidden.
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