The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 31

“Prince Daemon, welcome to Pyke.”

Valon Greyjoy spread his hands in greeting, palms open, eyes steady, the practiced ease of his movements hiding the stiffness at his shoulders. Behind him, the wind stirred gently through the banners. Black krakens snapped against a cold sky.

Daemon Targaryen swung down from Caraxes’ back, his armor shifting quietly as he landed. He stood straight, adjusting the gloves on his hands, eyes taking in Pyke’s rebuilt towers, its bustling harbor, the stone streets that stretched toward distant spires draped with imported banners and garlands of foreign flowers. His gaze narrowed slightly, lingering on thralls who moved past, heads bowed low, or servants whose eyes darted to the ground rather than meet his own.

Servants stepped hesitantly toward the Blood Wyrm. Chains clinked in their trembling hands. They’d never touched dragons, never felt scales warm beneath their fingers, never caught the gaze of eyes larger than bucklers. Still, they moved with purpose, unlocking Daemon from the saddle, their eyes avoiding the creature’s great jaw. One young man, hardly past twenty, glanced briefly at Valon before carefully gripping the heavy links of chain and lifting them away. His fingers shook only slightly.

Daemon watched, his head tilted. A slow breath escaped him, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Your servants surprise me with their courage,” Daemon said. His voice was measured, calm. “Caraxes is unaccustomed to strangers who do not flinch.”

Caraxes rumbled deep in his chest, red scales catching sunlight and casting it back, rippling crimson as the dragon shifted its weight. The servants stiffened—but did not step back.

Valon gave a small nod. The gesture was slight, almost unseen. Many of those servants had once been thralls, taken young, raised hard, broken into obedience beneath salt and stone. He still thought of them that way sometimes, and some still called them so, out of habit or heritage. But Hela had spoken on the matter years ago and made her stance on the matter exceedingly clear.

Now, every thrall had been freed.

They could leave. Take their names, their hands, and walk out into the world. Many had. A few. But most stayed. And not from fear. From coin.

Valon paid them well. All of them. Guards, cooks, stewards. Higher than the norm, far beyond what any other lord in Westeros bothered to offer. His ledgers allowed for it. There was too much gold, too much silver, flowing through Pyke like tidewater to hoard it all. And his accountants—narrow-eyed men from Braavos and Tyrosh, men who spoke more numbers than words—assured him it worked to his favor.

Better lives meant more coin spent. Coin returned, again and again, into the hands of Greyjoy merchants, Greyjoy ships, Greyjoy contracts. By now, all the food in all the islands in the Iron Islands came from House Greyjoy, excluding personal farms and gardens and such. It was a circle that fed itself. A tide that always came back in. And, besides, it was nice to see willing servants for a change. 

And so the servants stood their ground. Not because they were ordered. But because they were fed, clothed, paid, and treated with care. Because they had a place, and knew the cost of losing it.

They watched Caraxes without trembling, eyes steady, hands firm on chains that still steamed with heat. And the dragon watched them in turn, nostrils flaring, smoke curling from its mouth in small, measured breaths.

“Courage is expected here,” Valon replied simply. “My daughter insists upon it. Those who serve the kraken banner must not falter.”

He motioned toward another group of servants who approached cautiously, leading three cattle from the Reach, fat and heavy, freshly slaughtered that morning. Each carcass was dragged forward on ropes. Blood dripped across stone, trailing lines of crimson toward the dragon. The servants stopped just out of reach, dropped their ropes, and stepped swiftly back, bowing low.

Caraxes lowered his great head, jaws parting wide. Teeth longer than a man’s forearm flashed white in the sun. The sound of bones cracking, meat tearing, echoed briefly against the stone towers. The dragon swallowed in quick gulps, throat swelling with each movement. Servants watched silently, fists clenched at their sides.

“I assume fish would’ve been insulting,” Valon remarked lightly, glancing sideways at Daemon. “So I had them bring something more suitable.”

Daemon turned slowly, facing Valon fully now. His silver hair shifted lightly in the breeze. “You assume correctly, Lord Greyjoy.”

Valon smiled, thin and careful. Not genuine—not like the smiles he saved for Hela—but smooth, practiced, courtly. A smile designed to reassure, disarm, or deceive, depending on the viewer. Daemon returned it briefly, almost equally cautious, though his eyes remained sharp as flint. Neither of them were smiling truly, though the lack of hostility between them made it easier.

Servants approached again, this time bearing a silver platter. Bread fresh from the ovens, steam rising faintly from the crust, beside a small bowl of coarse sea salt harvested by Pyke’s own thralls. One servant, older, her eyes set deep in a lined face, offered the platter carefully toward the prince. Her hands were steady.

Daemon studied her briefly, then reached out to break the bread. Valon mirrored the gesture, their hands moving simultaneously, breaking the crust with a soft crack. They salted the bread in silence and ate together. The ancient law settled between them, heavier than chains, older than the stones beneath their feet. Quite literally too. The stones were quite new. 

Guest Rights given.

Daemon chewed slowly, eyes never leaving Valon’s face. He swallowed, inclined his head slightly, and finally spoke. 

“You have done well here, Lord Greyjoy. Pyke looks far less dreary than I would’ve imagined.” He said. They both turned and began walking out of the Dragonpit of Pyke–a name given to it by those who created it as Valon himself never saw the need to give it one. “A sight far better than anything you’d see in the Vale, at least.” 

Valon lifted an eyebrow, fingers brushing crumbs from his sleeve. Curious comment. Last Valon heard was that Prince Daemon was married to Lady Rhea Royce, who died some time ago. Their marriage was not at all fruitful and, by all accounts, the couple downright hated each other. “I would know nothing of the Vale, my prince, as I’ve never been there. But Pyke has been modified to accommodate dragons.”

Daemon considered the remark. His gaze flicked briefly upward, scanning the dark stone towers that loomed overhead. Scaffolding still clung to some, where masons placed finishing touches, where banners still fluttered half-raised, and where men moved swiftly to prepare for royalty. These towers would eventually be merged with Pyke to form a single, gigantic fortress that included even the cliffs that the original castle was built upon. The Greyjoys before him couldn’t even dream of projects of this magnitude. 

“The King will be pleased, I trust?” Valon prompted softly.

Daemon’s mouth twitched again, almost imperceptibly. “My brother is easily pleased by finery and wine. Pyke, I suspect, will be new to him. He is accustomed to velvet and silk, not iron and stone. For all the improvements you’ve implemented, Lord Valon, the Iron Islands remain a haven of warriors.”

Valon inclined his head. “I hope it proves a pleasant change. We Ironborn have little use for velvet, though we’ve prepared the beds for the royal family, including your own, Prince Daemon, with silk and velvet.”

Daemon laughed then, a short, quiet bark of sound. Daemon’s laughter faded swiftly. His eyes moved again, slower this time, over Pyke’s sprawling preparations—the scaffolding, the silk banners from Lys, the crates unloaded from ships stamped with the mark of Pentos, the raised platforms for guests from every kingdom and free city.

“How many ships now sail under your banners, Lord Greyjoy?” Daemon asked, his tone deceptively mild.

Valon answered evenly, no hesitation. “Thousands, but most of them form the many fleets of the East Essos Trading Company. But this day is not about counting sails. Today is for you and your family to enjoy.”

Daemon nodded slowly. He turned back toward Caraxes, who finished his meal and now stretched great wings wide, casting a shadow over thralls who shrank from the sudden darkness.

“Then perhaps I should warn you—my niece, Rhaenyra, is curious. She may have questions. About trade. About dragons. Perhaps even about your daughter.” Prince Daemon said. 

Valon’s eyes sharpened subtly, the smile slipping slightly at the edges. “My daughter is more than capable of answering for herself. But I appreciate the warning.”

Daemon raised his chin. “Yes, I imagine she is. I have heard the tales.”

Valon met his eyes, holding his gaze, steady as stone. “All true.”

Daemon smiled again, this time with something resembling genuine amusement. “Then we are in for an interesting week, indeed. I would very much like to meet her soon. The stories of her have reached even my lonely castle in the Stepstones.”

“Oh?” Valon couldn’t resist. “And what stories have you heard, Prince Daemon?” 

“By this point? I think I’ve heard near all of them: flaying a Ghiscari Slaver, a foray into the Green Hell, and, quite recently, how she’s now been recognized as the ‘Stygian Queen’ of Asshai. Quite the offspring you’ve produced, Lord Valon.” It was… oddly difficult to gauge how Prince Daemon felt about these things. He was reserved and oddly courteous, which was a far cry from all the rumors about the Rogue Prince. Valon thought it was a pleasant surprise.

“Oh, I’m very proud of her.” He said. 

“I realize that she is no true monarch and has no real interest in ruling,” Prince Daemon said. “But, do remind her to exercise caution. There is nothing to be done about the rumors, but if Hela Greyjoy began referring to herself as queen then that would be treasonous. Your loyalties, first and foremost, lie with the King and heir, Rhaenyra.” 

Ah. There were rumors, as of late, that the court of King Viserys was divided–the Greens and the Blacks. The side of Rhaenyra Targaryen, Viserys’ designated heir, and the side of… huh… Valon didn’t know who was the center of the Greens, but it was probably Aegon. In truth, he held no strong opinions regarding the matter. If Rhaenyra Targaryen inherited the throne, then all was well and good. If Aegon Targaryen inherited–somehow–then all was still well and good. Still, it seemed that Prince Daemon was, in fact, fishing for information, however subtly. Valon bowed his head slightly. “My Prince. My loyalty and the loyalty of those of my blood belong to the King of Westeros and his heir.”

“Then, for the sake of your house, I hope it stays that way,” Prince Daemon nodded at him. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Greyjoy. It will be remembered.”

Valon inclined his head again, the small smile returning, polished and precise. “It is Pyke’s honor to host you and the House of the Dragon.”

“I know.” Prince Daemon huffed. “Now, I would very much like to meet the Red Scourge.” 

Valon blinked and smiled. Oh, this meeting was bound to be interesting. That said, he desperately hoped that the two would not come to blows. Prince Daemon was known to be a great warrior, but much of his strength lay in his dragon, Caraxes. Without the Blood Wyrm, Daemon Targaryen was an exceptional swordsman and… not much else. Hela would rip his head from his shoulders in a deathmatch. 

And then she’d kill Caraxes too, since Valon was quite certain now that there were very few things in this world that his daughter couldn’t kill. 

“I believe she is currently touring the Iron Islands, Prince Daemon, but she should be back in time for the evening meal.” Valon answered. 

Daemon Targaryen nodded. “Splendid. Well, if there is nothing else, I would like one of your servants to direct me to the nearest pleasure house.” 

Valon raised a brow. Oddly enough, Pyke did not have a pleasure house until the booming trade made Pyke a hub for merchants and sailors. Over time, they just began popping up all over the place until they were just… normal. Valon turned to the nearest servant. “Please escort the prince to the best pleasure house on the island. He is to be given all luxuries and services. House Greyjoy will shoulder the coin.”