The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 29

House Greyjoy was becoming a problem.

Otto Hightower sat rigidly at his polished oak desk, eyes fixed upon the flickering candle that dripped wax onto a map of Westeros, each drop landing like a small accusation. Reports cluttered his table—scrolls from Oldtown, parchments bearing the careful handwriting of Braavosi bankers, and even more troubling letters stamped with seals from Pentos and Myr. Each piece of correspondence was a carefully crafted whisper of warning to Otto’s ears. Each letter told the same tale.

Valon Greyjoy was becoming too powerful. Too quickly.

Otto’s lips tightened as he brushed a scattering of parchment aside, revealing the symbol of the kraken beneath, drawn in ink so dark it seemed to pull the candlelight into itself. Beside it was stamped the sigil of the Iron Bank, the seal raised in dark crimson wax, precise and imposing. The alliance between the East Essos Trading Company and the Iron Bank was more than a simple partnership—it was a binding of powers unlike anything Westeros had seen.

And because the East Essos Trading Company and the Iron Bank of Braavos had joined hands, every single one of the Free Cities invested in the company, throwing gold and resources for steady returns. Even now, Valon’s trading venture boasted the largest and most powerful fleet the world had ever seen. 

He rose from his chair, his fingers clasped behind his back, pacing with measured, deliberate steps toward the window. Through glass panes fogged by the chill night air, he could see King's Landing below. Torches flickered softly along the streets, and the sound of distant revelry drifted upward. The capital lived and breathed, utterly unaware of the danger crouching at the edge of their peaceful oblivion.

That fool of a king, Otto thought bitterly, pressing his palm flat against the cool windowpane. Viserys saw only friendship, blind trust, and loyalty. He saw none of the storm brewing just beyond the horizon—storm clouds shaped like fleets bearing kraken banners, storms carried forward by chests of gold stamped with foreign coins. Viserys had offered his blessing, smiling as he handed Valon Greyjoy the keys to power with both hands.

The East Essos Trading Company was a plague, spreading unseen. Otto had spoken with maesters whose eyes widened with a quiet sort of dread as they placed long scrolls of numbers before him, inked calculations that danced upward in steady increments. Within a decade, perhaps two, House Greyjoy's trading empire would outstrip every treasury from the Wall to Sunspear. Even the crown itself would pale in comparison, reduced to a child holding a candle next to a blazing bonfire.

Valon Greyjoy was a mercantile beast, Otto realized quite recently. Just about every single lord in Westeros scoffed at economics and accounting as counting coppers, as activities unworthy of their time, but not Valon–oh no. Valon Greyjoy knew that true power came with wealth and wealth only came to those who wisely and actively managed their coin. The man’s latest venture, Otto had heard from the Master of Whispers, involved the monopoly of all merchant caravans within Westeros, yet another business model that would produce an incredible amount of wealth and influence.

And yet, it was not only the coin that troubled Otto.

It was the name whispered with dread and awe in taverns, ports, and the marble halls of the Free Cities, a name so feared and reviled by sailors, pirates, and raiders that the mere whisper of it was enough to send chills running up a man’s spine and bring even the most bloodthirsty reaver to their knees in fear and… reverence. 

Hela Greyjoy. Otto's mouth twisted slightly as he considered her, that dark-haired woman who tore through entire fleets as easily as a storm through a fishing skiff. They said she had wrestled sea-beasts barehanded, pulled down pirate lords from their ships, and bathed entire coastlines in blood. It was said she’d flayed one of the Good Masters of Astapor after a single insult, braved the Green Hell of Sothoryos and emerged unharmed, and supposedly ventured into the very heart of the blasted and ruined Valyrian Continent. Traders feared her wrath more than the storms themselves. Men crossed oceans just to kneel at her feet and beg for safe passage.

Absurd. 

Inconceivable. 

What truly cemented her legend was the slaughter at sea that sailors now referred to as the Crimson of the Narrow Sea, where Hela Greyjoy and her ship, the Doom, single handedly turned the tide against a combined fleet of over a hundred ships from the Triarchy. It was said that the Doom grew skittering legs and crawled over a shallow shoal, and that Hela Greyjoy herself spilled the blood of thousands alongside her companions, the Einherjar. So many lives were said to have been lost at sea during the battle that the sea turned as red as blood and that krakens and sharks feasted for days afterwards.

Even here, within the walls of the Red Keep, her influence bled through. Princess Rhaenyra, once idle and content in her frivolities, had taken to wearing leathers and mail, practicing swordplay beneath the watchful eyes of the Kingsguard. Otto himself had watched silently from shaded balconies as Rhaenyra trained until her knuckles bled, her once-soft features sharpened with grim resolve. And his spies reported that she’d continued to do so even after she settled upon Dragonstone.

Hela Greyjoy was shaping the realm, even here, thousands of leagues from her ships and swords.

Otto moved away from the window, rubbing his thumb against the ring on his left hand. He crossed to the large tapestry hanging on the far wall, embroidered with the proud three-headed Targaryen dragon. Beneath that sigil, his gaze fell upon the smaller crest of House Greyjoy, discreetly placed at the tapestry’s edge. It had always seemed insignificant beside the other Houses of Westeros–the lions, the wolves, the stags, the roses, and, of course, the dragon. The squids–or the Krakens as they were now known–were nothing more than upstart pirates in a backwater. They held no presence at court and carried no weight beyond lordly courtesy. 

But now it was different. Now, they were suddenly important. Now, they were suddenly powerful. Now the kraken seemed poised to devour the unsuspecting dragon whole.

The wedding—Valon Greyjoy and Tyla Lannister.

On paper, it should have meant little. A quiet union between an aging widower and a young noblewoman with neither title nor land. Something to be acknowledged in court whispers, perhaps marked with a polite nod in passing. Not this.

Not dragons in the sky.

Not the full weight of the royal family crossing half the continent by land and sea.

Not King Viserys himself sailing to Pyke, surrounded by banners and song, heralded by the sound of iron bells and the thrum of wings overhead. Otto Hightower could already see the image forming in the minds of lords across Westeros. The crown’s shadow cast not on a throne of stone, but upon the sea.

And every House would see it.

Highgarden, Riverrun, Storm’s End, the Eyrie—each would hear the reports. Viserys Targaryen, the Dragon of House Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, accepting Valon Greyjoy’s invitation. The Protector of the Realm, alongside all his children and his queen, bearing witness to an event that was not a treaty, not a grand tournament, not even a political necessity, but a wedding.

It wouldn’t matter that it had no alliances attached. It wouldn’t matter that Tyla Lannister was, in the eyes of most, irrelevant to the future of the West. What mattered was that the king went.

That he chose to go.

And that was the danger.

Otto had pored over the guest list. It read like a coronation. The princes, the princesses, the entire royal household. Even the King’s Guard, in full. Caravans of retainers, squadrons of knights, the Grand Maester, musicians, cooks, tailors, scribes. The pageantry of rule itself was being packed and loaded onto ships for Pyke. To attend what should have been an inconsequential match.

Valon Greyjoy had built something that had never been seen before. The East Essos Trading Company wasn’t a guild. It wasn’t a consortium. It was a kingdom without borders, a realm without end, an empire in all but name.

And now the King of Westeros was bringing his crown to its very heart.

None of that, however, was technically problematic to his cause or his goals. The Greyjoys were certainly free to rise as they saw fit. And for all their power, Valon Greyjoy appeared utterly loyal to the throne. His daughter was unpredictable, but Hela Greyjoy was a continent away. 

No, the real problem was different.

The true danger wasn’t in the coins.

It wasn’t in the ships, though there were thousands of them now, sailing under the black and gold of House Greyjoy. Nor in the ports controlled or the markets monopolized. It wasn’t in the Targaryens that would descend upon Pyke for the wedding. Not even the fact that Valon Greyjoy was set to become the single most powerful man in the known world. 

It was in the silence and the uncertainty.

Valon Greyjoy said nothing.

Not in council. Not in court. Not in private letters. No statements. No declarations. No promises. There was nothing. As far as he could tell, Valon Greyjoy was not at all concerned with the political storm–or aware of it for that matter. He kept his words guarded. And that—that—was what kept Otto Hightower pacing the stone floors of his solar long after the last candle had burned low.

No one knew where the kraken would strike.

The winds of fate had begun to shift. Otto could feel it, like a pressure behind the ribs, a tautness in every report that arrived on his desk. One day soon, the realm would break. Whether it began with a raised banner, a poisoned cup, or a sword drawn in a corridor—no one could say, though he would greatly prefer that it did not descend into violence and kinslaying. But it would begin. The matter of succession was a festering wound upon the House of the Dragon. It was only a matter of time. 

Rhaenyra was Viserys’s chosen heir. But Aegon was his successor by all the laws of men and gods. One was crowned in words, the other in expectation. And when those two truths collided, something would shatter. The question wasn’t if, but when. 

And in that fracture, where would the Greyjoys stand?

Even now, Otto worked tirelessly to ensure Aegon would have all the support he’d eventually require, the loyalties of those who followed the laws of succession. 

Otto glanced at the series of scrolls laid open before him. Dozens of hands. Maesters, informants, merchants. All of them offering facts but no clarity. Valon Greyjoy traded with the Reach, yes. But he’d also sent gifts to Riverrun. He had built docks in Dorne, opened warehouses in White Harbor, contracted sellsails from the Stormlands, and was reportedly paying retainers to broker spice trades in the Free Cities. He’d been seen speaking with Aegon. They were cordial and even friendly. He’d written to Rhaenyra once. Just once. No one knew what the letter contained.

He gave nothing away.

Even Otto, for all his reach and subtlety, could not tell what game the man was playing—if he was playing one at all.

Perhaps that was the most dangerous thought of all.

Valon might not choose a side. He might simply wait. Watch. Let the crown tear itself in two while he grew richer by the hour, building ports on burning shores and selling grain to starving cities. And by the time the victors emerged, bloodied and hollow-eyed, they would find that the Greyjoys owned everything that remained worth owning. 

Otto Hightower stood alone in the candlelit room, watching the shadows shift and dance across the map. And he knew, deep in the silence, that it would fall to him to untangle this knot before it choked them all. 

“My lord…”