The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 35

“I’d visited Pyke once when I was but a young lad,” Viserys Targaryen said as he walked beside Valon Greyjoy through the trade quarter that now clung to the cliffs like an iron barnacle. The two men moved without escort, save for his Kingsguard shadowing them at a distance. Around them, the living heart of the Iron Islands beat—merchants barking prices in thick tongues, carts creaking under loads of salted fish, iron tools, barrels of wine and brine. Smoke rose from distant chimneys. A faint tang of oil hung in the air.

Children darted between the legs of traders, laughing. Sailors haggled near the docks over crates of glass from Myr and smoked eel from the North. Ironborn women sold cured shark skin and pickled eggs in glass jars. A group of Summer Islanders passed by in cloaks of red and gold, muttering to one another in low voices, casting wary glances toward the towering fortress beyond.

“This is most definitely not what I remember it being,” Viserys said. His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his blade as he turned his eyes left, where long wooden buildings sat neatly behind slate-colored fences. “Pyke was just stone and sea, dark and dreary, when I saw it last.”

“I remember, your grace.” Valon said. “You’d been with Queen Alyssane at the time.” 

“Your memory is as sharp as your business acumen, my friend.” Viserys laughed. “Indeed, I was here with my grandmother, though I no longer recall why we visited.” 

Up ahead stood a low-slung stone structure, broad and rectangular. It exhaled a thick, pungent stench that drifted down the street. 

“There,” Valon said, gesturing with a small nod. “The salting facility.”

Even from a distance, the smell clawed at the throat—fish guts, fermenting brine, something vaguely sweet and deeply foul. Barrels of offal were stacked against the wall, and men in leather aprons worked with long hooks, sorting, gutting, layering innards in salt by the dozen. Next to it stood a smokehouse, long plumes rising from the slatted vents. Racks of drying fish and strips of leviathan meat hung from beams overhead.

“Fish gut sauce, my favorite.” Viserys murmured with a slight grin, half to himself. It went well with just about any meat dish his chefs had ever cooked. He had barrels of the stuff in the Red Keep. “I never thought I’d find the source.”

Valon allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “We export barrels of this to Essos now, from Braavos all the way to Yi Ti. There's coin in waste if one knows how to exploit it, if you know how to package it.”

The King’s gaze moved slowly over the district. Stone walkways stretched underfoot, carefully laid and newly washed. Lanterns swung from black iron posts at regular intervals. Beneath them, the scent of seawater carried on the breeze, mingling with smoke, but there was no rot. No human waste. The air was clean. That, more than anything else, surprised him.

“How in the Seven Hells does this place not reek?” Viserys muttered. “At a glance, I’d have thought it’d smell like Flea Bottom, but all I smell is the brine of the sea.”

Valon nodded once. “A sewer system beneath the city. Robust and resilient. Built by Essosi engineers. It’ll still be there in a thousand years. Cost more than a whole army of mercenaries. Worth every coin.”

“Not glamorous,” Viserys said, “but damn useful.” 

He paused, breathing deep. “Even Aegon the Conqueror would’ve been impressed. Dare I say, my great-grandfather would’ve been envious, in fact.”

“I’m flattered, your grace,” Valon said. “I do believe that hygiene and cleanliness are extremely important to any city to stave off disease and plagues.”

A group approached from the far side of the street—ten figures in dark armor. The crowd parted for them without a word. The black steel of their pauldrons gleamed under the sun, and each of them carried a weapon that seemed to drink in the light. Their steps were measured, perfectly synchronized. Even the dogs nearby tucked their tails and moved aside.

Einherjar.

Viserys knew them by reputation and by the black weapons they carried with them. Everyone did. Some said they were ghosts clad in flesh, pulled from the edge of death by sorcery older than the Seven. Others called them the drowned champions of the Drowned God, reanimated in defiance of death to serve Hela Greyjoy alone. Whatever they were, they walked like men who had never once known fear. 

They passed without looking at him, and even so, he could feel it—the weight they carried. His own Kingsguard shifted behind him, their hands moving to the hilt of their weapons. None drew steel. But the silence that followed the passing of the Einherjar lingered like a held breath.

“You keep dangerous company,” Viserys muttered. “I’ve heard stories of the Einherjar. Maddened warriors.”

Valon’s gaze followed the black-clad warriors as they turned a corner and vanished behind a low wall. 

“Better dangerous company you can trust,” he said, “than dangerous company you can’t.”

Viserys chuckled low in his throat. “You sound like Daemon.”

“I dare not compare, your grace.” Valon said. “I like to think I’m just a tiny bit more handsome.”

The King barked a brief and genuine laugh. He turned again, letting his gaze sweep across the city. High cranes swung over the shipyards in the distance. The towers of Pyke itself loomed beyond, draped in banners. Fresh paint adorned the market stalls. It wasn’t just a stronghold anymore. It was becoming something more. Something permanent.

“How long did all this take?” Viserys asked.

Valon’s reply came without pause. “Five years. Give or take.”

Viserys nodded slowly. “And how long until the rest of the realm realizes you’ve made Pyke into the beating heart of the western sea?”

Valon’s expression didn’t change. “When they can no longer afford to ignore it.”

Viserys chuckled. “I’ve had Great Houses breathing down my neck about House Greyjoy. You’ve got them all afraid, my friend. They fear you. They fear the East Essos Trading Company and what it might mean for them. They’re afraid of what’ll happen if you join the great game.” 

“Well,” Valon said. “It’s fortunate that I don’t intend on joining the great game, then.” 

“Just as well, my friend.” Viserys said. “Just as well. I do believe it is time for lunch.” 

Valon chuckled. “My chefs have been hard at work, preparing the best dishes for the King. I think you’ll be delighted, your majesty.” 

“I cannot wait.” 

“Also, I must ask, but have you lost weight? Your majesty is a lot fitter than I remember.” 

“Ah, you have Rhaenyra to thank for that. I’ve been joining her in her training.”

“Training?” 

“Indeed. She fancies the sword and its use. She’s getting rather good at it, if I say so myself. Perhaps she’ll make a name for herself, just like your daughter, eh?” 

Viserys saw the way Valon almost stiffened at that, before his friend smiled. “That is up to her highness, your majesty.

—

There was a sudden knock on her door. 

Odd. 

She specifically told her father and the Einherjar that no one was to bother her for any reason, unless the wedding itself had started. 

With a raised brow, Hela dissolved the Necroblade she’d created–this one she’d made in the shape of a six foot long spear. It took her five minutes to create it. Five minutes to ensure it didn’t break immediately. Five minutes to ensure that it was a true Necroblade. That was as fast as she could make a Necroblade of this size and complexity without sacrificing quality. A dagger she could make in seconds. A large, bearded axe she could make with a full minute or two of concentration. A perfectly-balanced longsword she could make within three minutes.

Shameful. 

In her past life, she could create thousands of Necroblades of any size and shape with a snap of her fingers. 

Sighing, she crossed the room. The heels of her boots clicked faintly on stone, then softened where she stepped over the furs near the doorway. Her breath remained even. Her jaw did not.

She didn’t open the door. She punched through it.

The wood cracked with a thunderous boom. Splinters flew into the hallway, clattering against stone and armor. Someone screamed. A servant, most likely. The others kept moving, running and then scurrying away like little rats. Her Einherjar did not flinch.

She withdrew her arm. Bits of timber dropped from her wrist and scattered across the floor. Ironwood. Someone was going to fix that later–or maybe they’d just replace the door. She didn’t care. 

Her voice was flat. “I gave orders.”

On the other side, her Einherjar stood in formation, still as statues. The nearest one turned his head just enough to see her through the hole.

“Her royal highness, Princess Rhaenyra, requested your presence, Lady Reaper,” he said. “We were bound to obey.”

Nothing more.

Hela stood without speaking.

Her breath came in slow, through the nose, then again deeper. Her shoulders did not move. The stone beneath her feet felt warm. Outside, something clanged—a hammer, or a cart wheel striking iron.

She let out a roar.

It tore out of her as her fist slammed into the wall beside the door. Stone cracked. A plume of dust burst into the hallway, coating the feet of the nearest Einherjar. Small bits of rock hit their armor and bounced once before settling. The wall now bore a ragged hole, deep and uneven.

When she drew back her arm, her knuckles were red. Skin split along two fingers. She looked at it briefly, then let the hand fall.

One moment. She just needed a single moment of peace and quiet. She finally had it, but now that she-dragon wanted to speak to her about something or another. 

“Where is Princess Rhaenyra?” she asked.

The Einherjar nearest her did not hesitate. “She awaits you in the training yard, Lady Reaper.”

Hela blinked once. A long pause passed.

“Very well,” she said. 

The skin on her knuckles had begun to seal before she reached the stairs. By the time she crossed the outer corridor, the blood had stopped entirely.

Her Einherjar walked in silence behind her. Their boots struck stone in unison.

The halls were busy. Servants glanced up and stepped aside. Some lowered their heads. Others dropped to their knees, whispering words she didn’t care to hear. A few stretched flat against the walls, faces lowered to the floor. She did not stop. Did not slow. The iron doors of the outer keep swung open as she passed, guards pressing them wide without word or signal.

The training yard was quiet. Warm air, no wind. A few racks of weapons leaned against one wall, all bound in leather cords. There was dust on the practice stones from the morning drills, long scuff marks where boots had dragged.

A girl waited at the center.

She was young. White-haired. Dressed in red and black. A wooden sword hung from one hand, and she shifted on her feet as though she couldn’t stand still. Her eyes were wide and bright. She grinned when Hela stepped out. No guards at her side. Just her and the sword.

Not far off, a man stood watching. Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince stared at her with such unbridled lust it was a miracle no one else noticed it. 

She looked at him once. Held the stare. Then dismissed it.

In her head, she drove a spear through his ribs and twisted.

Her boots crunched on the gravel.

“You called for me, Princess Rhaenyra?” she said.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Lady Hela. I’ve read books that spoke of your exploits, in fact–how you ventured into the Hundred Islands and slaughtered the green-skinned people, how you swam into the halls of the Drowned God and butchered mermen in their watery halls.” Princess Rhaenyra said, still smiling. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. None of the stories mentioned your beauty, Lady Hela; they should have." 

Hela did not speak. She waited. Rhaenyra continued. “I have devoted quite a bit of my time to the study of the blade and how to wield it. I have looked up to you in doing so. I have hoped and dreamed to match your legend someday, when I am Queen. For now, I would very much appreciate it if you granted me the honor of a spar. I know it is unbecoming of a lady, but I would very much like to test my mettle against you.” 

“As you wish, Princess.” Hela nodded and then sighed. She turned to the Einherjar. “Inform the others. Make sure no one interferes.”

She did not want another broken moment, the same as she had with Prince Daemon. Hela would’ve loved dearly to have had the chance to humiliate him back then, until her father interfered on behalf of the prince.  

The Einherjar nodded and walked away. Hela walked to the weapon rack and grabbed a dull sword. She did not settle into any stance. “Shall we begin?” 

Princess Rhaenyra grinned and raised her sword and held it in front of her, pointing it forward. A middle guard. Standard stance for knights. “I’m ready.” 

Hela moved before the princess could even blink, the edge of her blunted sword practically disappearing and then reappearing right on the princess’s forehead, just a centimeter away from her skin. The wind that came with the movement blew back Rhaenyra’s white hair. “Dead.” 

Behind Rhaenyra, Daemon’s eyes widened. And his hand absently reached for the handle of his own sword, Dark Sister. 

The princess stammered and fell to her knees, pale and covered in sweat, as Hela took a single step back. “Would you like to try again, your highness?”

“Stand back, oh niece of mine; this is not a foe you can contend with,” Daemon Targaryen stepped forward. The shock in his eyes from earlier had given in to some other emotion that Hela could not quite read. Rhaenyra scrambled to her feet, tears spilling from her eyes and stomped off. “Shall we begin what we’ve postponed, my lady?”

Hela breathed in and forced herself to calm down. No one would disturb them now, not with her Einherjar keeping watch. "Very well."