The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 28

Valon had always known he carried luck like others carried scars. His mother had told him of his birth often enough. Sickly. Small. Born gray and coughing salt from weak lungs. She took him to the shore at dawn and handed him to a priest, his robes crusted white with sea salt, his eyes hollow from decades spent staring into the deep. The priest had taken the babe and plunged him beneath the waves, holding him there for a full minute, lips moving with murmured prayers as the mother waited, knuckles white, eyes on the sea.

Then the priest had let go. 

"If he rises," The priest had said, "the Drowned God favors him."

Valon broke the surface howling. Saltwater streamed from his nose and mouth as he screamed against the morning. His mother took him back in shaking hands, her breath steaming in the dawn air. From that day forward, she watched him closer, her eyes always fixed on him as though fearing the sea might change its mind and take him back.

The sea did try, again and again. At ten, raiding the coastline near Myr, an Essosi pirate had swung an axe meant for Valon’s neck. Yarek—his elder brother, quick-handed even then—had shoved him aside and taken the blade in his shoulder, cleaving flesh and bone but sparing Valon's life. Yarek lived through his injury as well, another miracle, and eventually became the captain of his own ship, the Bronze Kraken. 

At thirteen, barely a man and already commanding a ship of his own, Valon had been lounging in a Lyseni brothel when assassins burst through the door, blades drawn and whispering death. His first mate had dragged him from the silk cushions, tossed him through the window into the street below, and sent the killers sprawling after him, knives glinting in moonlight, blood mixing with wine on the cobbles.

There had been more times than Valon cared to count. Near misses, the scrape of steel, whispers of poison. Each time luck found him again, nudging him away from death’s grasp. It had followed him faithfully, even onto his ships as storms tore at the sails, as arrows whispered past his cheek, and as blades missed his ribs by inches.

Yet all of that luck had been only a shadow, a faint echo, compared to what came later—the birth of Hela. His daughter. A child who humbled fully-grown warriors in hand-to-hand combat and made veterans weep in shame, a child who wrestled krakens to death in the open sea. They whispered her name on the Isles and in distant Essos alike. A goddess made flesh, they called her. Daughter of the Drowned God himself. And by extension, they spoke of Valon with reverence, as though he himself had stood knee-deep in the waves, drawing her from the ocean’s heart with his own hands.

He watched the maps and ledgers shift with her deeds. 

Every victory, every conquest, every voyage reshaped the fortunes of House Greyjoy. Ships that sailed under Valon’s command now numbered in thousands. Sea lanes stretched from Westeros to Yi Ti, each one marked with the black and gold kraken banners snapping in the wind. His accountants from Braavos, meticulous men whose fingers were ink-stained and eyes squinted from candlelight, brought him parchment after parchment, thick with numbers, heavy with the weight of prosperity. House Greyjoy now sat at the heart of a trade empire that was bigger than anything the world had ever seen, a monopoly forged not by careful diplomacy or cunning alliances, but by sheer power, undeniable, unstoppable. Traders bent the knee not out of choice, but necessity, preferring safe passage under the East Essos Trading Company’s banners than risk ruin elsewhere. Valon heard the murmurs from the docks to the palaces of Pentos—no ship sailed beyond Westeros without paying tribute to the kraken.

And, only recently, the East Essos Trading Company secured trading contracts with dozens of princes and princesses across dozens of islands in the Summer Isles. 

The Iron Islands had grown rich. Sailors said their rocky shores gleamed silver and gold beneath the morning sun. Pyke itself, once dark and grim, rose now like a polished stone from the sea. New banners snapped in the wind, gold on black, marking harbors filled with ships that sailed heavy and low, decks crowded with barrels, crates, and goods from lands whose names most Ironborn had scarcely known. Cranes creaked overhead, ropes taut with cargo; dockworkers called orders above the crash of waves and the murmur of hundreds who came ashore to trade or to settle.

Along the shores, men worked to reshape rock and soil. Architects from Braavos sketched great towers on thick parchment, their pens scratching softly as Valon watched them work. Engineers from Myr and Pentos directed teams of thralls and laborers, raising stone platforms that spiraled upward, each layer filled with dark earth carried from mainland ships. They called it elevated farming—towering gardens built high into the wind, where crops might grow without stretching endlessly across the sparse, rocky ground. Vegetables, grain, even fruits climbed skyward along these spiraled steps, green leaves whispering beneath constant salt-breezes.

Valon himself would often walk these strange new structures, boots striking stone steps as he climbed upward, hands clasped behind his back. He watched farmers work, planting seeds or harvesting ripe produce, nodding quietly at reports of increased yields and the careful words of men who knew better than to promise too much. It was costly—gold flowed freely for stone, soil, labor—but the rewards were obvious. Hunger, once common enough in harsh winters, was now a memory the smallfolk whispered of to their children. Food shortages vanished, replaced by crowded markets filled with goods fresh from the spiral farms.

Roads spread out, straight and clean, paved in stone that gleamed wetly beneath frequent rain. Thralls and smallfolk, who once huddled in huts of mud and driftwood, now lived in long stone halls, sturdy communal homes raised quickly under the watchful eyes of engineers. Families shared hearths, cooked meals together, sat beneath roofs that kept wind and weather at bay. Great bridges soon followed, heavy arches of stone and iron connecting islands near enough to cross. Valon had watched the first bridge rise slowly from the sea, stone placed carefully against stone, thralls working beneath the crack of whips or the shouted commands of foremen who knew the cost of failure. Many islands remained too distant—only magic could close that gap, and Valon had no interest in dabbling further in sorcery—but enough islands were bound together now by roads and bridges to reshape the lives of those who lived there.

Old warriors watched these changes with narrowed eyes. They gathered quietly along docks and in shadowed taverns, hands resting on blades rusting slowly in their sheaths. Their ships sat idle, sails furled tight in peaceful harbors. They murmured among themselves, shifting restlessly, eyes glancing sideways at gold changing hands, at thralls who laughed freely or traded goods openly in markets. Yet when Valon passed, his cloak trimmed in silk, eyes scanning ledgers brought by pale-faced men from Braavos, the warriors grew quiet. Their murmurs softened, their eyes turned downward. Gold ruled now. Blades were second to coin, and they knew it.

But the power of coin stretched farther than ships or harbors. Valon had often laughed softly at how Westerosi lords wrinkled their noses at ledgers and coppers, dismissing careful management of coin as beneath their noble blood. He shared this quiet amusement with his friend and ally, Tymond Lannister, whose eyes narrowed knowingly each time the subject arose. Together, they had moved swiftly to exploit this strange disdain, gathering merchants beneath their banners and flags.

Their method was simple enough. Freelance traders, men and women who traveled Westeros from Dorne to the Wall, were called to tables piled high with silver and promises. They listened quietly, eyes widening slightly as Tymond’s stewards laid out heavy monthly sums, more coin than most saw in half a year. Guards in gleaming armor stood ready behind them, swords sharp, armor polished.

Merchants who signed quickly found themselves bearing goods in sturdy wagons, flanked by hired swords who watched roads carefully. Each merchant wore a cloak embroidered with the sigil of the East Essos Trading Company, their caravans protected, respected, and left untouched by bandits or thieves.

Individually, the cost outweighed profit. Valon’s advisors would often frown slightly, quills scratching numbers into long ledgers, lips pursed as they tallied expenses against returns. But as the number of caravans grew—thousands soon traveling beneath the banners of the East Essos Trading Company from Riverrun to Oldtown, from Lannisport to Winterfell—profits began trickling slowly, then steadily, then freely. Gold accumulated, pooling slowly like rainwater gathering on stone. Each caravan alone might barely break even. But together, their profits became a river that filled coffers to overflowing.

Valon himself had spent long evenings seated at broad tables piled high with maps and ledgers, eyes moving carefully down columns of numbers, fingers tracing routes marked in ink. Tymond sat beside him, silent and watchful, sipping wine from a silver cup, eyes flicking occasionally to Valon’s quiet satisfaction. They rarely spoke during these meetings, understanding each other’s thoughts without needing words. Each tally marked in ink felt like another piece of armor fitted into place, another stone laid solidly beneath their feet.

Thus the Iron Isles grew stronger. Valon watched each sunrise gild the harbors with light, watched each new tower rise higher toward the clouds. He saw markets bustling with life, roads crowded with merchants wearing his banners. He saw farmers tending their spiral crops, thralls walking freely along paved streets. He saw warriors slowly accepting the new ways, their complaints fading quietly beneath heavy bags of silver pressed into calloused palms. Soon, raiders and reavers would give way to a professional army and navy, two things not even the crown possesses. 

All of it, he knew, was possible only because of his beloved daughter. 

There had been a time he’d sworn never to take another wife. Not after Hela. Not with the weight she carried, the name she carved across seas and coasts. Another child might stir the bloodlines, might make men whisper of succession, might give ambitious lords something to latch onto. A son, especially, could split the house before it ever bent.

But those fears faded. They weakened as Hela’s name grew strong enough to carry kingdoms on its own. She had no need for protection or promises. She had become something beyond all of that. Her shadow stretched long over the Iron Isles. None could stand against her now. Not in strength. Not in coin. Not in name.

Even if he had a dozen sons, it would change nothing. They’d know their place. The realm would remind them if they forgot.

So when the thought of marriage returned, it came not as a duty but as a choice. Not wrapped in politics or schemes. No seals or signatures beyond his own.

Tyla Lannister.

She was not a power in herself. No castle. No titles. The youngest sister of Lord Tymond, and known for little beyond her smile and the way she vanished from court for days at a time, found again with dirt on her knees or a book in her lap. She spoke softly, laughed easily, and when she looked at Valon, it was not with caution or calculation, but something quieter. She asked questions no others did. She offered no flattery. She would look at the waves with him and not speak unless he did.

Tymond had spoken plainly about her. Said she had been raised gently after their parents died. Said he never pushed her toward any suitor, no matter how noble the blood or fat the dowry. Said she was clever, but clumsy. Once fell into a well trying to fetch her cat. Once kicked a hedge knight for talking too loud. She rode well. Gardened when the sun was out. Never liked large halls or feasts that stretched too long into the night.

Valon had visited her once at Casterly Rock before the betrothal was spoken aloud. Found her barefoot in the stables, brushing down a stallion with hay in her hair. She looked up, smiled, and offered him a carrot.

They sat on a barrel and spoke for two hours. She told him she had no interest in crowns or titles. That she liked the sea, but only when it stayed far enough away not to soak her dress. She asked if krakens were real. He told her yes. She laughed and asked if she could meet one.

He hadn’t known it then, but that moment had decided everything.

He had sent no emissary. No ravens. He told Tymond to draw the terms. Said the dowry didn’t matter. Said there would be no fuss.

Now, with the wedding five months away, the preparations had already begun. Not in secret, but without spectacle. No parades. No tournaments. The court whispered, of course. Lords always did when something simple broke the shape of what they expected. But Valon didn’t care. Viserys and the Royal Family were coming too and they’d be properly accommodated, of course, but Valon wanted to keep the affair small and private. 

It was going to be rather difficult to do that with all the guests coming from all across the Seven Kingdoms, but he’d make do. And, perhaps, it was time to display the wealth of House Greyjoy. 

He stood again on the high wall of Pyke, his cloak drawn tight, salt wind brushing his beard. The sea below moved slow and wide, deep with tide. A ship broke the horizon. Dark sails. Wide hull. Not his. Not yet.

He watched it without a word, eyes tracing its movement as it leaned into the wind, hull cutting a steady path toward harbor.

Now, with the Iron Isles fat with coin, its streets paved in trade, its people fed and still armed, he would marry not out of strategy or fear, but of love.

He would marry because he wanted to. Because the weight had lifted. Because no one could take anything from him anymore.

Because he could.