The reflection in the barrel wouldn't leave Osborn's mind.
Even after he returned to the shack, even after he closed the improvised tarp and sat down in the driest corner of the floor, that image remained there—persistent, as if it had been carved into the inside of his eyelids.
He had never really stopped to think about it before.
Not truly.
For weeks, his body had been nothing more than a tool. Something that ached, tired, bled, felt hunger. A means. Never an object of analysis. Survival left no room for vanity, nor for curiosity.
But now, it did.
He ran a hand along his own arm, feeling skin far too pale for that constant sun. He squeezed the still-small muscle—firm, though. Not strong like an adult's. Not strong like an adolescent's. But… not as weak as it should have been either.
Osborn had known this for some time.
He had just never connected the dots.
He stood, pulled a torn piece of fabric they used as an improvised mirror—polished metal, barely reflective, but enough. He brought it close to his face. Tilted his head. Observed.
The straight nose. The jaw more defined than was common among the island's children. Thick eyebrows. Eyes too light—not bright blue, but that dull, nearly gray tone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Hard features.
Cold features.
Features that did not belong to that hot, humid, noisy island.
"Men of the North…" he murmured.
The words came out low, more thought than sound.
The North.
The concept arrived with weight. Not as romantic imagery, but as something dense, heavy, almost physical. People who grew up with winter. Who learned early that the world was not kind. Who did not waste movement or words.
He had no direct memories of it.
But his body did.
That explained things too small to be coincidence.
The way the cold of early mornings bothered him less than others. How he could stay still for longer. How fatigue came, but took longer to knock him down. How pain felt… manageable, as long as there was a reason.
"So that's it…" he thought.
It wasn't nobility.
It wasn't destiny.
It was origin.
And origin mattered in that world.
He sat down on the shack's floor, his back against the crooked wood, knees drawn close to his chest. Bill slept on the other side, breathing heavily, slowly recovering. Osborn watched him for a few seconds, then looked away.
If I'm different remember… they'll notice too.
That was the first conclusion.
The second followed immediately.
If they notice… I can use it.
The island was changing.
He felt it in the air, in the sounds, in people's behavior. The arrival of the Greyjoy ship had not been an isolated event. Wherever that kind of people appeared, balance always broke.
Pirates were not just thieves.
They were disruption.
And disruption created opportunities.
In the following days, Osborn began to observe with a different lens.
Before, he had seen the city as a survival map: where to eat, where to hide, whom to avoid. Now, he saw it as an unstable board.
The local Pirate Lord's men were nervous. The presence of the Greyjoys did not mean immediate submission—it meant tension. Taxes doubled. Gratuitous aggression. Contradictory orders.
The Ironborn did not ask permission.
They took.
And that put every intermediary at risk.
Osborn began to circulate closer to the areas where disorder was greatest, without exposing himself. Always along the edges. Always as a shadow.
He saw merchants arguing over vanished cargo. He saw dock workers beaten for reasons too small to be real. He saw local thieves trying to take advantage of the confusion… and being killed for choosing the wrong target.
"Chaos," he thought. "Pure chaos."
And chaos was bad for those who lived off predictability.
But excellent for those who knew how to wait.
One gray afternoon, he hid behind a pile of broken crates and watched three pirates fighting among themselves. They weren't Greyjoy directly—no symbols—but they were the kind who followed whoever stood on top.
One had a crooked nose. Another limped. The third talked far too loudly.
Dangerous men… but stupid.
Osborn felt no fear.
He felt calculation.
They don't care about children.
That realization was fundamental.
Children were invisible. Background noise. Part of the harbor's filth. That had always been true. But now, with pirates involved, it was even more so.
"If I were them…" he thought, "I'd only look up."
And that was exactly where he wasn't.
He returned to the shack that night with his head full.
Sat near the entrance, watching the darkness outside. Bill woke and moved closer, still weak.
"You're acting strange," Bill said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
Osborn took his time answering.
"About who I am… and what I can do with it."
Bill frowned.
"That sounds dangerous."
Osborn gave a crooked smile.
"Everything here is dangerous. The difference is choosing the right danger."
The wind carried the distant sound of the sea. Shouts. Aggressive laughter. An off-key chant.
Pirates.
Osborn closed his eyes for a moment.
Men of the North survived winter.
He needed to survive men worse than winter.
And, if possible… grow among them.
When he opened his eyes again, he no longer saw just a hostile island.
He saw a dirty, cruel… but real opportunity.
And he had no intention of wasting it.