The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 34

“You were going to kill him.”

Her father, Valon Greyjoy, spoke plainly as they walked together through the deeper halls of Pyke. The stone corridors were alive with activity, servants and workers carrying garlands, banners, trays of food. Men shouted orders in brief bursts, pointing fingers, directing others where to place crates or tables. Metal clanged softly in the kitchens, mixing with the dull murmur of voices.

Hela shook her head slowly, eyes fixed ahead as they moved past an open doorway. Inside, cooks from Lys argued with local kitchen hands over how best to season fish. Her gaze did not linger.

“Was I?” 

“Were you?” 

“No,” she replied. “Killing him would’ve sparked a firestorm even I’m not ready for. I’m not a brute, father. I might’ve bruised him, though—his pride, at least, if not his bones.”

Valon nodded briefly, hands clasped behind his back, steps measured as they navigated halls packed with preparations. His eyes moved carefully from servant to servant, occasionally pausing to give a nod of approval. Banners bearing the Greyjoy kraken draped down from newly polished beams, their black fabric stark against freshly scrubbed stone.

“I understand why Prince Daemon might doubt the stories,” Hela continued, voice steady and calm. “Most of them are ridiculous. Others are amusing enough to make me laugh.”

Her father glanced at her, eyebrow slightly raised. He said nothing, though his silence felt expectant.

Hela exhaled slowly, her fingers curling and uncurling at her sides, knuckles white for a breath, then relaxed again. “It wasn’t doubt I took offense at. It was the lust in his eyes. Had he taken one step closer, he’d be missing his cock.”

Valon’s expression remained unchanged. He simply nodded once more, eyes moving ahead to watch as two servants passed by carefully balancing a tray loaded with delicate crystal goblets. The glass caught torchlight briefly, scattering reflections across the wall before fading again into shadow. “The Rogue Prince is known for his lustful pursuits. I hadn’t expected him to be so enthralled by you, Hela.” 

Their path took them toward a wider hall, high-ceilinged and bright. Dozens of men and women worked here, setting tables, adjusting silk tablecloths, arranging flowers imported from the Reach. White blossoms and yellow roses sat alongside silver candlesticks, their flames dancing gently in the draft from open windows.

They passed beneath arches carved carefully from dark stone. Newly laid rugs softened the sound of their steps. Pyke had never seen this kind of extravagance before. Valon paused briefly, touching the edge of one table lightly with two fingers, testing its stability. “Make no mistake, my daughter; yours is a beauty that surpasses any prince or queen. But I had assumed that Prince Daemon was more interested in women who were… familial.” 

Hela glanced at him, then turned her eyes away quickly, mouth set in a thin line. Her steps quickened slightly, though she said nothing more. Servants glanced briefly up as she passed, quickly lowering their gazes again, shoulders tightening just a fraction. They moved faster, adjusted their tasks with careful efficiency. “T’is of no consequence. Daemon Targaryen is hardly the first to gaze upon me with such eyes–though he may be the first to survive it.” 

All the others, Hela mused, she disposed of by flaying or burning–or both.

Her father’s eyes softened slightly as he watched her move ahead. He followed slowly, shaking his head once, a faint smile crossing his lips. His footsteps echoed quietly off the smooth stone floor, mixing with the distant sounds of servants' preparations and muffled voices from other halls.

“Still,” Valon Greyjoy spoke, voice calm and measured, “I appreciate you holding yourself back, my daughter. However, if at all possible, try to refrain from activities that may lead to unfortunate injuries among the royal family. They are our guests, after all.”

Hela slowed her pace slightly. She turned her head toward him, her gaze steady. The torchlight caught the hard line of her jaw, the shadows beneath her eyes shifting as she looked at him. She nodded briefly.

“I never planned on it, Father,” she said, voice quiet yet firm. Her eyes narrowed slightly, the muscles along her jaw tightening for just a breath. “A time will come when we may come to blows with the royal family. It’s inevitable. I care little for their lives—or their dragons. They wish me to kneel, like all the other wretches. I find the notion offensive. For that offense, they deserve nothing but death. But I would understand and prepare for them first. So when the day comes, disposing of them will be easy.”

She didn’t like ruling or administrating. When she took over Asgard after Odin’s death, the only part she actually enjoyed was rooting out the rebels who did not acknowledge her rule–or planning for her eventual conquest of the Nine Realms. The truth, which she’d only recently accepted, was that she would not have been a good ruler once there was nothing left to conquer, once the wars were over, once all her enemies lay at her feet. 

But, here and now, with the Targaryens and everyone else who thought themselves above her…

No one ruled over her. No one commanded her. No one lorded over her. She was a goddess. And, in this world and all other worlds, she had no equal–not the Targaryens or their dragons, and not the slumbering gods that once ruled over this world. Hela Greyjoy bowed to no authority but her own–though she was willing to listen to her father. Valon Greyjoy was the exception. But the very idea that anyone could think themselves higher than her, the Goddess of Death, was insulting and laughable in equal measure. 

Were she as powerful as she once was, she would’ve already slaughtered the Dragonlords and named herself empress of the known world. But, she wasn’t. Though she retained her power over the Necroblades, Hela Greyjoy was still nowhere near as powerful as Hela Odinsdottir. 

After a long silence, her father spoke softly, carefully. “And I shall stand by your side, my daughter. In whatever decision you make.”

“When this wedding is done,” Hela said. “I have business in the North–something I’ve honestly forgotten about for a while now.” 

“Of course, my daughter,” Valon said. “I assume this is regarding the heart of that creature you discovered in Valyria? If so, yes; it has been a while.” 

“... I forgot.” 

“It is of no consequence, oh daughter of mine.” 

“I will be in my chambers,” Hela said simply. “Send a servant if I am needed. Otherwise, send no one. My Einherjar will stand guard outside my doorway. I am not to be disturbed. Good day, Father.”

Valon stopped walking and waved his right hand. “Good day to you as well, my beloved daughter.” 

—

A Targaryen belonged on the back of a dragon.

Rhaenyra Targaryen gripped the harness tightly, wind whipping strands of silver-gold hair across her face. Far below, the world unfolded in shifting patterns of blues, greens, and grays, broken occasionally by patches of dark forest or stone castles that looked no larger than pebbles from above. She gazed downward, eyes tracing the winding rivers and roads that threaded across the land, tiny threads that vanished at the horizon. Everything’s so tiny. I can scarcely see the villages. The castles appear as tiny dots. And men… I don’t see them at all. Perhaps, this is why those of the blood of Valyria are closer to gods than to men–for only a Targaryen could claim to touch the very clouds and drift amidst the heavens.

To her left, Laenor Velaryon guided Seasmoke through the clouds, sunlight glinting from polished scales. He glanced toward her, and she lifted one hand, smiling faintly. He waved back, a brief gesture of reassurance before turning his attention forward again, his body shifting easily with the dragon’s movements.

A distant roar by another dragon told her that her father and his children by the cunt, Alicent, were not far behind. For all their differences, Rhaenyra would not deny that they were Targaryens–Aegon rode upon Sunfyre, Aemond rode upon the back of Vermithor, Helaena rode upon Dreamfyre, and Daeron rode Tessarion. Their mother might’ve been a bitch, but theirs was the blood of Valyria and Rhaenyra counted them among those she considered kin, even if only begrudgingly and distantly and with great disdain. 

Her father, King Viserys Targaryen, rode upon Silverwing–but only after a great deal of prodding and begging on her part did he finally agree to mount the she-dragon. A Targaryen King without a dragon was a strange thing, she told him. Balerion the Black Dread was not coming back and it was time he, the King, bonded with another dragon; in this case, the King bonded with the dragon of his own Grandmother.

She’d never seen Queen Alyssane, but Rhaenyra heard and read that her great grandmother had been a great queen. 

Her time was coming; she would be an even greater queen.

Below, the Westerlands soon gave way to the open sea, vast and unbroken. Hours passed. The sun tracked slowly across the sky, dipping low toward the sea as distant islands finally came into view, their rocky shores rising sharply from dark water. Pyke appeared beneath her, sprawling wider than she remembered. Stone towers rose high and strong from the island's heart, scaffolding clinging like ivy to unfinished walls. The fortress had grown larger, sprawling outward as if slowly consuming the surrounding cliffs.

Brightly colored banners waved from towers and rooftops, clearly marking their landing point. Far below, beacons burned, guiding the dragons toward a newly constructed pit carved directly into the island’s stone. As they descended, servants stepped carefully forward, chains in hand, eyes fixed resolutely on the approaching dragons. Their movements were steady, precise. Rhaenyra watched closely, expecting fear or hesitation, yet seeing none. The servants moved as though dragons were common beasts, easily handled.

Syrax touched down first, her claws gouging furrows into the packed dirt. The servants hurried forward, chains clinking as they secured the dragon with practiced ease. Once done, they stepped back smoothly, faces pale but composed. Rhaenyra climbed down, boots finding firm ground, breath steadying. She adjusted her cloak, smoothing stray hair from her face, eyes briefly flicking over the pit’s construction. Thick iron rings anchored into solid stone, sturdy chains, walls built high enough to contain even the largest beasts. Not as grand as the Dragonpit in King’s Landing, perhaps, but impressive all the same.

Above, Silverwing descended slowly, wings beating steadily. Her father sat rigidly atop the dragon, knuckles white around the reins. As the beast landed heavily, the servants moved swiftly again, chains rattling. They worked silently, methodically, and soon Viserys climbed stiffly down, face pale and drawn, breathing slightly labored. His eyes flicked briefly to Rhaenyra, and she nodded reassuringly.

One by one, the princes and princess landed, each dragon secured quickly. The servants showed no hesitation or fear, their faces calm, movements controlled. Last of all, Laenor arrived, guiding Seasmoke gracefully down into the pit, landing lightly beside the others. He climbed down swiftly, adjusting his cloak, and moved to stand quietly beside Rhaenyra.

Together, the royal family stepped away from their dragons, emerging into the sunlight beyond the pit. Ahead lay Pyke itself, banners waving, servants lined neatly in welcoming rows. Awaiting them was Valon Greyjoy, his posture straight and calm, face composed, and standing beside him was Hela, silent and watchful, her eyes fixed intently upon the newcomers.

“Your uncle got here before us, then?”

Her father’s voice broke the silence as he stepped forward, eyes resting on the sleeping form of Caraxes. The red dragon lay curled on the stone floor, wings half-folded, tail twitching once with each breath. Sunlight caught the ridges of his spine and shimmered along his scarred flanks.

Viserys gave a quiet chuckle, but Rhaenyra didn’t answer. Her gaze lingered on the dragon for a moment longer before shifting to her father. He looked thinner. His robes hung a little looser at the shoulders, and his steps had grown more measured in recent moons.

When she first took an interest in swordplay, she hadn’t expected him to follow. Daemon, her uncle and lover, had always been the one with the sword, the one who rode out with guards and returned stained in blood and dust, the conqueror, the Rogue Prince. Her father had been content with scrolls, wine and sweet food, and council chambers. But something changed when she began appearing in the yard more often. Perhaps it was a coincidence, perhaps not—but he began to show up too, sometimes with a wooden blade in hand, sometimes without. He never trained alone. Only when she was there. And never with the intensity of a man trying to master the blade—only with the consistency of a man trying not to fall too far behind. 

He watched her, always. Jokes and laughed with her. Joined her spars only when asked. And though he never matched her pace, he endured every session until the end. Rhaenyra was quite certain he only did so to spend more time with her. She was thankful for it all the same.

He didn’t know she had been chasing a ghost—not Daemon’s, but another’s. Hela Greyjoy. The Red Scourge. The woman who had once split a knight in two with a single blow from head to groin and walked away without a word–or so the stories told.

Her father had likely never guessed the name she whispered when no one was around, nor the face she held in her thoughts while striking the practice posts. But he had followed her into that yard anyway. That had been enough.

Now he stood beside her, gazing at his brother’s dragon. His hands were clasped lightly behind his back, the rings on his fingers dull in the light, shoulders sloping forward beneath the weight of age and crown.

Rhaenyra turned her eyes from him and followed the servants as they began guiding them out of the pit and toward the halls of Pyke. She said nothing more, and neither did he.