This is, just as a disclaimer, entirely tongue-in-cheek, and very much 'timeline, what timeline?'
Because Will and Davy Jones interaction needs to be explored more. That dice game, man.
A Pound of Flesh
"This much trouble," Will muttered under his breath, "For a pound of flesh."
"A pound?" Of all things, Davy Jones sounded indignant at that, one sucker-covered tentacle quivering in irritation. "I object strongly to that remark. It weighs at least three."
Despite the fact that he was hogtied to a mast, with barnacles digging into places they really shouldn't be, Will found that he had enough skepticism left in him to snort loudly in the other… man's general direction. The response he received was a scowl—not to mention a boot half-lifted in threat.
"You have to admit, it's pretty withered," he placated quickly, before any ideas about kicking him could formulate. "Maybe you only remember it being three pounds."
Davy Jones gave him a long-suffering look. "The pain of love betrayed is not easily forgot, as you'll learn soon enough," he gurgled, almost mournfully, "'Twas sorrow made it heavy, William Turner."
The graveness of the declaration was somewhat upset by a sudden call from the lookout on the crow's nest, an algae-covered fellow Will hadn't pegged as being particularly bright.
"Was it sorrow, cap'n? I always figured it was too much rum and pork pi—aaaowowowow me eye--!"
Davy Jones calmly lowered the smoking pistol, carelessly depositing it back into the hands of the somewhat stunned sailor he'd acquisitioned it from.
"You're right," he told Will blandly, ignoring the blinded lookout as he reeled out of the crow's nest and off the starboard side.
"It is a pound."