The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 32

Truth be told, Daemon did not quite know what to think of the Greyjoys. 

The Rogue Prince mused as he leaned back against the cushioned bench, fingers idly drumming on the polished wood. Soft candlelight flickered across the chamber, throwing shifting shadows over the carved krakens decorating every corner. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingled faintly with incense and distant sea wind. Daemon breathed it in slowly, his eyes narrowed, focused on nothing in particular. The wine he was drinking now was apparently imported all the way from Yi Ti. It was clear, like water, and held a faint sweetness to it that he found both strange and enjoyable.

Specifically, he didn’t know what to think of Valon Greyjoy.

He’d met hundreds of lords before, each one marked by ambition, greed, or pride. Valon, however, was none of those—or perhaps all of them at once. Daemon had watched him closely during their greeting, had studied his face for signs of arrogance or weakness and found neither. The man simply stood there, calm and courteous, with hands steady and eyes careful. And behind those steady eyes was something he could not read clearly.

Daemon turned his head slightly, gazing toward the narrow window overlooking the bustling streets below. Pyke had grown rich—far richer than Daemon had expected, with its stone streets crowded by foreign merchants and lavish banners fluttering against the sea breeze. Ships clogged the harbor, banners from every Free City snapping proudly in the wind. All of them paid tribute here, in gold and silk and rare spices. Pyke was no longer a barren rock—it was a heart, beating strong, pumping coin through veins that stretched far beyond its shores.

Valon Greyjoy had made it so. Everyone called him a copper-counter, yet the mockery felt hollow. Lords laughed quietly behind goblets of wine, yet their laughter stopped abruptly when his ships docked in their harbors, heavy with coin and goods. Daemon himself had seen the chests delivered twice yearly—jewels and coins stacked high, enough to fund small kingdoms, all stamped with the black kraken of House Greyjoy. Daemon’s lips twitched slightly. Valon Greyjoy might count copper, but the rest of Westeros now counted kraken gold.

He shifted in his seat, glancing briefly toward the half-empty cup of pale wine at his side. Corlys Velaryon certainly had no fondness for Valon Greyjoy. Many were the times Daemon had to listen to one of his drunken tirades about how the Krakens were nothing more than a pale imitation of House Velaryon’s shadow. Daemon had to disagree. Corlys was the first to set out far beyond any shore, perhaps, but it was clear to all that Valon Greyjoy was the first to establish a true maritime empire. Corlys could’ve done the same thing if he had any inclination. And it would’ve been House Velaryon that could’ve founded the East Essos Trading Company, instead of House Greyjoy. But that was neither here nor there.

Yet even gold had limits. Otto Hightower, that insufferable fool, likely believed Valon Greyjoy could be tempted into supporting the Greens—but Daemon knew better. He tapped a finger against the rim of his goblet, listening to the quiet ringing of metal against metal. Valon’s heir was a woman. Hela Greyjoy. Every sailor whispered her name as if invoking a storm. Merchants, captains, and corsairs alike feared her. Daemon himself had heard every absurd tale. A mere girl supposedly wrestling krakens, skinning slavers alive, or conquering cities whose very names made men shiver. Ridiculous, all of it, surely exaggerated by drunken tongues and trembling hands. However, that she was Valon’s heir made it clear that the man himself had no problem with women becoming rulers. Though, to be honest, if Valon did have a son who thought to question Hela Greyjoy’s status as heir, that son would find himself with a severe lack of supporters as the Red Scourge was literally worshipped by the Ironborn as the scion of their Drowned God. There was a massive marble statue of her in the middle of the city that was growing around Pyke.

Daemon took a slow sip from his cup, swirling the wine absently in his mouth before swallowing. Perhaps there was some small truth hidden within the tall tales—certainly, Valon spoke of her with pride—but a single woman could hardly shift the balance of power so drastically. At best, she was fortunate and talented. At worst, a lucky pirate with a handful of bloody victories. Nothing more.

He set the cup down, his gaze flicking toward the door as footsteps passed outside. Shadows moved briefly beneath the heavy oak. Guards patrolling, or servants scurrying by, nervous steps muffled by thick carpets.

Daemon’s gaze drifted back to the window. The problem was not truly the girl or even her father’s coin. It was uncertainty. Westeros balanced upon a blade’s edge, teetering between two futures. Rhaenyra was the heir—that fact was carved deeply into stone—but Otto and Alicent’s faction pushed quietly from behind curtains and whispers. Soon enough, words would become swords. Even the blind could see it coming. And if war came, ships and gold would matter greatly. More than dragons, perhaps, if enough chests of gold tipped the balance.

Daemon inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with air heavy with salt and smoke. Outside, distant laughter floated upward, punctuated by faint music drifting from the streets. Pyke hummed with life, unaware or unconcerned about the dragons in their midst. Valon Greyjoy had shown nothing but courtesy, loyalty, and quiet strength. There was no threat in him, no dagger hidden beneath smiles or formal greetings. He merely waited, counting coin and building quietly, his gaze never wavering from neutrality.

He rose slowly from the bench, stretching lightly as he stepped toward the window. The pleasure house was adequate, if somewhat lacking in comforts Daemon preferred. But the evening had only just begun, and Pyke held other promises besides silken sheets and scented oils. The girls on the bed, asleep after an afternoon of wanton pleasure, served him well enough. He wondered, briefly, when the Red Scourge herself would finally arrive. Perhaps meeting her might offer some answers—or at least clarify the legend from reality.

Daemon turned from the window, adjusting his cloak as he strode toward the door, pausing briefly to glance at the heavy purse hanging from his belt. Valon Greyjoy had paid generously for this indulgence—another subtle reminder of kraken wealth. But coin, Daemon reminded himself, was not the final measure of power. That belonged to dragons, to blood, to fire. Power was power. 

And Daemon intended to remind them all if the need ever came along. 

He spent the rest of the evening in a guest chamber set aside within one of Pyke’s newest towers, freshly built and scrubbed of the usual salt-stains that haunted the older halls. The walls were smooth stone, damp near the base but otherwise dry. A hearth had been set into the far wall, its fire low but steady. 

Daemon sat near the window, one leg folded beneath him on the cushioned bench, the other stretched toward the stone floor. Outside, the sea whispered against the cliffs. No ships moved. The harbor below lay quiet, the last of the crews having retired with the setting sun. He could make out torches burning near the docks, their flames small and flickering in the coastal wind. Not much of a view, but it kept his eyes drawn regardless.

A tray had been brought in earlier. Meats, cheeses, a wedge of dark bread, and a small jug of strong wine. He had touched little of it. The wine, interestingly enough, came from Leng. And it tasted like shit, so Daemon threw it out the window. 

There was little to do now but wait.

The royal family wouldn’t arrive till the morrrow. Viserys moved slowly these days, what with his gout and all. Daemon understood it. His brother had grown softer in recent years, slower in speech and movement alike. He was not the man he once was–far from it.

Laena had wanted to come. She always enjoyed such spectacles, but the maesters had warned against travel. Her belly had grown heavy with their next child. Dragonback was out of the question, and the thought of her spending days aboard a ship, stomach churning with salt and waves, was equally absurd. She had stayed behind on Driftmark, in the high rooms overlooking the sea. A better view than the Stepstones offered. The air was cleaner there, the halls quieter. She had her books, her servants, her gardens. She would be content enough for a while.

Daemon had considered remaining with her. Driftmark held far more comfort than Dragonrest ever could. That castle of theirs—built sharp and high atop the crags of the Stepstones—was more to his liking. Its towers cut clean into the sky. And the statues of dragons decorated its walls. The halls echoed with the quiet sounds of his household. And, above all, it belonged to him and him alone. It was his by right and it would belong to his children and their children after them. 

—

In the morning, after a quick meal with Lord Valon, Daemon found himself in Pyke’s sparring yard. The air smelled strongly of salt and sweat, mingled with the faint scent of crushed grass and churned earth beneath their boots. Around them, men stood in loose circles, murmuring quietly among themselves or silently appraising each movement of the two combatants.

Facing Daemon was Torhold Rediron, a man of thick build with heavy shoulders and a close-cropped beard streaked with gray. His eyes, deeply set beneath thick brows, watched Daemon with an unwavering steadiness. Though the man showed signs of age—wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, scars running like pale worms across his forearms—his movements were clean and precise. Torhold adjusted his grip on the wooden sword, fingers tightening carefully.

They circled slowly. Daemon’s own wooden longsword rested comfortably in his grip. He moved with practiced ease, each step deliberate, precise, weight shifting smoothly from one foot to the other. Torhold mirrored him, equally careful. There was no bravado in his stance, no impatience in the way he carried himself. Every movement was calculated and measured, his breathing steady.

Daemon moved first, a short step forward, sword thrusting directly toward Torhold’s chest. Torhold parried it aside, smoothly redirecting the wooden blade with minimal movement. The sound of the weapons meeting was sharp, clear, echoing softly in the yard. Daemon followed quickly, another thrust aimed high. Torhold responded swiftly again, catching the attack and immediately stepping sideways, his body angled to avoid any follow-up.

Daemon stepped back, regrouping, eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. The Einherjar fought differently. The style was clean, disciplined, devoid of flourishes. Daemon took another step, moving in with quick, careful footwork, testing his opponent’s defense. Torhold matched him step for step, never offering an opening.

The Einherjar swung carefully, making small, controlled strikes aimed at Daemon’s torso. Daemon blocked them one by one, feeling the strength in each blow reverberating through his arms. Each attack was compact, precise, aimed for maximum effect without sacrificing balance or protection. Their movements were careful, subtle, almost cautious—short swings and thrusts designed to probe defenses rather than overwhelm.

Daemon pressed forward again, watching carefully as Torhold shifted his stance, sword held slightly lower, angled forward. He recognized the position. The older man moved as though accustomed to heavier weapons, axes perhaps, weapons meant for splitting shields and armor rather than thrusting and parrying. Daemon adjusted his strategy accordingly, drawing Torhold into engagements that emphasized quick thrusts and rapid parries, forcing him outside his familiar rhythm.

Their feet slid and stamped on the dirt, churning it into mud as the duel continued. Sweat began to form along Daemon’s brow, trickling down his temple and stinging slightly when it reached his eyes. Torhold’s breathing had deepened, chest rising and falling visibly, though his movements remained calm and precise. Neither man yielded easily.

Daemon saw the smallest opening—a fraction of a second when Torhold raised his wooden sword a touch higher than before. Daemon feinted low, then quickly shifted upward. The Einherjar moved to block, but Daemon reversed direction suddenly, the wooden blade tapping lightly but firmly against the side of Torhold’s neck.

The older warrior stepped back slowly, eyes focused on Daemon’s weapon, still raised. His lips parted slightly, drawing in a careful breath. Then, with deliberate calm, Torhold lowered his sword.

“Tis my victory, ser,” Daemon said evenly.

Torhold nodded slowly, before smiling. “Aye, it is, Dragon Prince.” 

A moment later, Hela Greyjoy stepped into the training yard.