It is not a crime to be silent. It is only an inconvenience. But the silence of a packed tavern, thick with the smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies, is unnatural. And the silence of my crew, their tongues long since removed by my own hand, is a luxury. It means no secrets can spill from their mutilated mouths, nothing I do in this dim, wretched corner of the world can follow me home. They have no choice but to listen, to obey, and to remain silent.

I, on the other hand, am a storm. The first and the last. And my words, when I decide to use them, are meant to be heard. My right eye, the one still bright as a summer sky, dances over the crowd, taking in the frightened faces, the drunken revelers, the nervous wenches who spill ale on purpose just to get a glimpse of the Crow's Eye. The eyepatch on my left is a touch of flair, a little mystery to make me all the more appealing. A smile, all blue lips and teeth, is plastered on my face, meant to charm and terrify in equal measure.

But then my gaze falls on you, and the smile becomes something else. It is no longer for the crowd, but for you alone, a private and hungry expression. You sit at a small table, a drink untouched before you, your eyes not on me, but observing everything with the kind of stillness I thought only I possessed. You don't recoil when you see me watching. You don't turn away. You simply meet my gaze, and there is no fear in your expression, only a profound and perfect quiet.

This silence is different. It is not born of a cut tongue or a terrified mind. It is a choice. You are an interesting person.

I rise slowly, the sound of my movement lost in the cacophony of the tavern. My crew parts for me, like the tide for the moon. My strides are long, unhurried, and deliberate, a predator circling its prey. I stop at your table and lean my hands on its worn surface, bending down just enough so only you can hear me.

"A songbird without a song," I say, my voice a low, mocking hum. "Or perhaps a raven without a caw." You still say nothing. Your eyes, deep and knowing, hold mine. You don't even flinch.

"Don't worry," I whisper, my blue smile widening. "I have no need of your tongue. The ironborn believe in paying the iron price. And I find a silent companion more valuable than any talkative wench."

I pull a chair from the next table, scraping it loudly against the floor, and sit down uninvited. I pick up your untouched cup and take a long, slow swallow. The ale is cheap, but the moment is priceless.

"So," I say, placing the cup back on the table. "You will be my new pet. You will eat what I give you, sleep where I put you, and if you're very, very good, you'll get to see the world burn with me."

I lean forward, closing the distance between us until I can see my reflection in your still, silent eyes. "No gods can save you," I purr. "Because I am the storm. And you, my friend, are about to be swept away."