The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 33

Of all the tales and legends he’d heard of her, all the stories whispered fearfully by sailors in dark taverns, the bloody whispers of survivors and witnesses alike, none spoke of her beauty. They spoke of death and battles, of screams and fire, of the ruin she left behind. Daemon Targaryen expected many things when the gates opened and the Greyjoy girl arrived. He expected a scarred face, features cut from iron, marked with old wounds and older anger. Perhaps a broken nose or a crooked jaw, something harsh to match the brutal stories that drifted across the Narrow Sea.

But the woman who walked into the sparring yard was nothing he’d prepared for.

Daemon stood still, wooden blade dangling loose in his grip, sweat cooling slowly on his brow. A crier had announced her name to all present—Hela Greyjoy, the Red Scourge, Lady Reaper—but even hearing it aloud felt strange when matched to the woman approaching.

Her face was pale, unmarked by scars or blemishes. Skin smooth as polished marble, soft-looking even beneath the cold sunlight. Her eyes were the color of deep water, somewhere between green and blue, sharp yet unreadable. Her mouth, pink-lipped, was set firmly but not harshly, the corners tilted up slightly in a faint smile. Thick hair fell loose around her shoulders, blacker than night, shifting gently as she moved. She walked with easy confidence, steps graceful but certain.

Daemon stared openly, taking slow measure of her from head to toe. She wore no armor here, no mail or leather. Only a simple dark tunic tucked neatly into black trousers, boots polished but worn at the heels, the leather scuffed from long use. A thick cloak, trimmed with fur, fell from her shoulders, caught in the wind as she stepped forward. The clothes were well-made but plain, devoid of ornament or jewel, the fabric muted, dark and practical. He noticed her hands, strong and slender, fingers calloused along the knuckles, small cuts healing along her palm. Not the soft hands of a noblewoman. Hands accustomed to violence.

And yet, as Daemon continued his slow study, he found himself struggling to place her features. She did not have Valyrian cheekbones nor the fair, ethereal beauty of his own bloodline. Neither did she have the hard, weathered faces of typical Ironborn women, those shaped by salt and wind and harsh island living. There was something else—foreign perhaps—but still he could not name it.

A faint tension crept through his body, his heart beating faster in his chest. He flexed his fingers around the wooden sword, then forced himself to stillness, breath even and controlled. Daemon had seen plenty of beautiful women—at court, in taverns, across the Narrow Sea. Rhaenyra and Laena themselves were famed for their looks. Yet none had ever quite made him feel this way. His gaze lingered on her face, the gentle curve of her jawline, the line of her throat, the soft, barely visible pulse beneath her skin.

Hela Greyjoy stopped at the edge of the sparring circle, eyes meeting his directly. She raised an eyebrow, a faint amusement playing at the corners of her mouth as she took in his silence. Around them, the yard had grown quiet, the murmurs of the gathered warriors fading into nothing. Even Torhold Rediron stepped away, fading back into the ring of watchers, arms folded, eyes curious.

Daemon straightened, drawing himself taller, letting the wooden sword hang loosely at his side. He met her stare calmly, steadily, though the tightness remained in his chest, a warmth coiling slowly in his belly.

“My lady,” he said, nodding slowly, careful to keep his voice steady, easy, controlled.

She smiled wider, just a fraction, eyes narrowing slightly as she watched him. Then she tilted her head, studying him openly from head to toe as he had done to her. Her gaze lingered on his sweat-slicked hair, the tunic clinging damply to his shoulders, the grip he still held loosely around the wooden sword. Her expression revealed nothing beyond mild curiosity.

Daemon felt his jaw tense slightly, his fingers twitching against the hilt. He exhaled slowly, controlling himself, forcing the heat from his veins. The yard seemed smaller suddenly, quieter. Even the wind had died down, leaving only the sound of the sea in the distance, steady and rhythmic against Pyke’s cliffs.

She stepped into the circle, casual and unconcerned, approaching him slowly, boots crunching softly against dirt and gravel. She stopped just out of arm’s reach, close enough for him to see clearly the subtle flecks of darker blue within her eyes, close enough for the scent of salt and iron to drift toward him.

“Prince Daemon,” she finally said, her voice low and smooth, almost husky, carrying clearly across the yard. “It’s good to finally put a face to the name. I hope Pyke has welcomed you well enough.”

Daemon forced his gaze to remain on her face, refusing to glance away. He reached out and grasped her right hand and, to his own surprise, Hela Greyjoy allowed him to pull the hand to his lips for a kiss.

“Better than expected, my lady,” he said simply, a faint smile about him. “Though I must admit, I expected someone more...”

He paused briefly, eyes flicking down then quickly back up, “...battle-scarred.”

Her mouth twitched slightly, amusement briefly flashing across her features. Her gaze held steady, unflinching, before she finally shrugged one shoulder lightly, her eyes never leaving his.

“Scars come and go, Prince Daemon,” she replied casually, one hand resting lightly at her hip. “I rarely keep them for long.”

Daemon Targaryen raised a brow and wondered what exactly she meant by that. It didn’t seem like an insult to him or his honor. It couldn’t have been. Certainly, it wasn’t literal. But… whatever the case, Daemon figured he’d find out soon enough.

“Then perhaps,” he said slowly, voice dropping slightly, “I might someday witness exactly how you earn them.”

Hela smiled again, slowly, openly now, eyes glinting with something unreadable, something sharp and curious. She tilted her head once more, gaze roaming slowly, deliberately over him, taking careful measure.

“Perhaps you might, Dragon Prince,” she answered calmly, her voice steady and even, her eyes bright and unafraid. “Though whether you’ll enjoy the spectacle—I cannot promise.”

Daemon felt his mouth curve into a smile—real and genuine for the first time since his arrival at Pyke. He felt his pulse quicken again, tension building within his muscles, warmth stirring deep in his loins. He raised his wooden sword slowly, casually, and pointed it toward her in invitation.

“Perhaps we should see, then?” he asked lightly, eyes meeting hers directly, a quiet eagerness burning beneath his carefully maintained calm. “I’ve heard many stories about you, Lady Greyjoy. I’d see for myself if any of them were true.” 

Hela Greyjoy’s smile widened. She slowly reached out, and one of the Einherjar placed a wooden sword firmly into her waiting palm. She raised it, weight balanced lightly, eyes never leaving Daemon’s face.

“Perhaps we should,” she said quietly, stepping forward into the circle.

Daemon blinked. Shadows danced across the yard, thrown by passing clouds. Then, suddenly…

Darkness.

It lasted less than a breath, but it was real. Daemon was sure of it. The yard dimmed, shadows reaching toward her like long fingers. In that flicker of dark, he saw antlers rise from Hela Greyjoy’s head—black, jagged, branching wide and sharp like reef-bone. Spears, a hundred, maybe more, surged from the ground around her feet, stabbing upward in a ring. Then it was gone. The sun blinked back into place. The yard was bright again. The Einherjar hadn’t moved. The men still watched. Hela stood the same as before.

Daemon exhaled slowly, fingers tight on the grip of his own weapon. He glanced around quickly, searching the faces of those watching. The men stood silent, their expressions unchanged, watching the two of them expectantly. Torhold Rediron crossed his arms, watching Hela intently. No one seemed troubled, or even aware. Had no one else seen it?

Daemon’s knuckles whitened around the wooden sword. He steadied his breathing, feeling the slow drip of sweat tracing paths down his neck, pooling at the collar of his tunic.

“Prince Daemon!”

The voice cut through the silence like a blade. Valon Greyjoy stepped quickly forward from the crowd, raising one hand to catch their attention. His other hand rested loosely at his side, fingers twitching slightly, betraying tension hidden behind his polite smile.

Hela paused midstep, turning smoothly to look at her father. Her expression revealed nothing, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.

“My daughter is tired after touring the entire island,” Valon continued smoothly, stepping into the edge of the circle. He kept his voice calm and courteous, but the quiet authority was unmistakable. “And you’ve just won a great, albeit tiring, victory against one of the Einherjar. Perhaps it would be wise to rest and postpone this… show of strength and skill to a later, perhaps more appropriate time?”

Daemon hesitated, looking slowly from father to daughter, then back again. Valon’s words were reasonable, carefully chosen. He had indeed just fought hard against Torhold, muscles aching, breathing still somewhat labored. It made sense. Yet the faint stiffness in Valon’s stance spoke louder than his careful diplomacy. A caution, perhaps a warning. Daemon read it clearly enough. There was too much at stake. Too many eyes. Too many consequences for too little reward.

If he won, it meant nothing. A prince striking down a girl, no matter how dangerous. If he lost...

His gaze flicked again to Hela. She had already lowered her wooden blade slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing, her posture less poised for combat. The moment of strange shadows seemed suddenly distant, impossible even. A trick of tired eyes, perhaps.

Daemon released a slow breath, forcing his grip to relax. He lowered his wooden sword fully, then tossed it carelessly aside onto the dirt. It bounced once, kicking up small puffs of dust.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, voice even and polite. “The heat of battle must have risen to my mind. I see no reason for us to fight.”

“There is nothing to forgive, your highness,” She gave a small nod, a faint curve tugging at one corner of her mouth. Her expression softened, but her gaze stayed sharp. She stepped towards him and, from a little closer, her beauty seemed to sing to him. “And… I agree. There is no reason for the swords of allies to ever strike one another.” 

“But… I would very much like to get to know you, my lady.” He said. 

“Oh?” Hela smiled. “I hadn’t a clue that I was interesting enough to warrant a prince’s attention.” 

“You are.” Daemon said. “All the stories of you–all the legends. I hear the truth from your lips.” 

“Then, I would very much like to get to know you as well, your highness.” She said, before turning away and walking towards her father. They whispered to each other. Tense words were exchanged in faint voices. And then they walked off. 

Daemon turned away, crossing the circle toward a small wooden bench near the edge of the training yard. Beside it stood a large earthen jug, beaded with condensation. He lifted it with one hand, tipping it back and pouring cold water directly over his head. 

The shock of it hit instantly, icy tendrils racing down his neck, dripping heavily down his shoulders and chest, washing away sweat, grime, and tension alike. He let the water stream down over his face, trickling through his hair, dripping from his chin onto his tunic. 

He took one last look at Hela Greyjoy as she walked away, her boots crunching softly against the dirt. The wooden blade still hung loose in her grip, her cloak catching faintly in the salt breeze.

Daemon’s fingers curled slightly at his side. He wanted her. Wanted her in a way that stirred deep and sharp, a pull he hadn’t felt in years. He imagined her lips, her skin, her voice low against his ear. He wanted all of her—entirely, completely—for himself and no other.

But even as the thought burned in his chest, he knew the weight of it. To bed her, to touch her, to take her would not be simple. It would not end clean. There would be repercussions—great ones.

Valon Greyjoy wasn’t some minor lordling to be brushed aside. He was perhaps the second most powerful man in Westeros, a man whose fleets and coin kept the seas turning and whose daughter commanded the fear of half the known world.

And the Greyjoys were allies of the Blacks. For now.

Daemon exhaled slowly, steadying his pulse. He wasn’t blind to the danger. To move carelessly, to dishonor her name, to treat her like one of the girls he tossed coin to in the pleasure houses—that would be a mistake. A stupid mistake. Monumentally stupid. The kind of mistake that could turn powerful allies into bitter enemies.

And Daemon Targaryen knew better than to let a woman, no matter how tempting, cost him the realm.

He sighed again and shook his head. 

Perhaps, coming here was not a good idea.