The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 25

The storms broke behind them.

Grey dawn rolled over the sea like smoke off a battlefield and the prows of the western-bound fleet cut through it without a sound. 

Valon Greyjoy stood at the Stormrider’s rail and watched the white wake linger, a long scar that stretched eastward toward suns he would not see again for many seasons. In the trough of each wave he caught the warped reflection of his daughter’s ship. The Doom moved alongside, black and low, spines wet with brine, her sails half-reefed in the calm. No pennant flew from her mast. The shape alone sufficed. Far astern the other vessels kept distance. Their captains preferred a long shadow to none at all.

— —

They left Leng with twelve holds of trade-goods and near two hundred weary men. The east wind met them gentle and held steady for ten days. They glided under it, canvas fat, masts humming. The sea smelled of cedar and wet silk.

Valon’s trade masters spread ledgers on the main deck beneath an awning patched with green cloth from Yi Ti. Copper plates weighted the pages. The Braavosi scribes recited tallies in hushed Valyrian and the Ironborn quartermasters answered with clinks of coin. Goods shifted each dusk. Saffron traded for Myrish lace on a free wind off the Jade Straits. Indigo dyes bartered at sea to a lean cog out of Volantis—cloth for a pair of teak rivercraft that lashed to the Stormrider’s stern like ducklings to a swan. Diamonds bought at the price of common quartz in Leng were swapped for rock salt in the Stepstones; the salt would fetch three times the stone’s worth in Oldtown once winter stores ran thin. Every barter cut weight, grew profit.

Hela seldom left the Doom.

At dusk she paced the forecastle, bare-armed, helm under one elbow, gaze tilted west. The men on the Stormrider could see her there as clearly as if she strode their own deck. It kept order better than any whip. Rumor sailed faster than gulls. Word of Yi Ti’s tournament reached ships that had never laid eyes on her. Peerless under heaven, they whispered. The incarnation of Lu Bu. Valon did not bother to quash the tales. He had paid good coin that they be born; now he let them fly.

When the green humps of the Summer Isles dropped sternward and the churned reefs of the Stepstones rose off the starboard bow, the fleetmasters grew restless. They beat drums at night and shifted watchmen to every rail. The Stepstones had been fodder for corsairs since the days of Nymeria. Yet nothing came. Galleys painted in bright Alysar reds and Tyroshi pinks angled close and broke away like pups from a wolf. More than once Valon glimpsed sails on the horizon, tacking to flee after sighting the Doom’s spined silhouette. Even in the narrow guts between islands where currents knotted like rope, they found no ambush. Hela’s legend sailed ahead of steel.

They cleared Bloodstone Rock under a quarter-moon. Three new‐bought roundships from Volantene merchants lumbered in their wake. Their holds brimmed with casks of sweet rice wine, rolls of milky porcelain, powdered pearls, elephant tusks cut long as men. The Stormrider carried silk bales piled to the quarterdeck rail, lashed beneath oiled canvas. Slats of teak and rosewood lay stacked in her hatchways. A silver idol of the Yi Tish moon-goddess crouched lashed to the mainmast like some obedient gremlin. Each gust of wind rattled her chains.

Valon walked the deck each dawn and drank spice-tea the color of rust. The tea scorched his tongue in pleasant measure. He said little. He did not need to say much. The crew saw the holds and understood.

— —

The mist lifted the morning they sighted the red cliffs of Dragonstone to larboard. Black lore of old Valyria clung to those heights, but Valon looked past them to the wide mouth of Blackwater Bay. He tasted river mud in the spray and reckoned home was a day away.

At sunset the Stormrider hove to one league off King’s Landing. Torches pricked the city’s long walls like fireflies pinned to rotten cloth. The Doom anchored abreast, and the rooks of Maegor’s Holdfast wheeled above her yardarms, cawing without bravery. City galleys came out with herald-pennants snapping. They hailed in the name of King Viserys. Valon’s reply was quiet and final; the Ironborn oarsmen shipped blades but kept their hands clear. There would be no trouble here.

The royal harbor opened, green water churning at the Stormrider’s prow. Fisher smacks scattered before the big hull. The quays teemed with gawkers craning for a look at the tall-sailed stranger and the darker monster that paced her flank. Valon stood at the rail in an azure coat woven in Yi Ti—silk that shimmered like fish-scales—and a belt buckled with a single thumb-sized diamond. He wore no sword. The language of gold would speak.

He let the harbor master board. A nervous Braavosi ex-pirate gone soft with authority. The man bowed too deeply, eyes fixed on the towering heaps of cargo. His quill shook. He asked tonnage. Valon answered tonnage. He asked origin. Valon answered East. The man signed papers in triplicate, hands blotched with ink. He never dared glance at the Doom.

Dock-ropes groaned. Planks went down. A file of Ironborn hauled chests ashore. They wore plain jerkins. They carried no axes this day. Still the crowd parted.

By midmorn the wagon stood in the Red Keep’s outer yard. Oak-bound, iron-rimmed, pulled by six thick-necked destriers the color of night. Canvas draped the load. Valon dismounted. His boots scuffed the flagstones. He smelled baker’s ash on the breeze and the sweet rot of late figs.

A line of gold cloaks hemmed the yard. Beyond them, Ser Otto Hightower waited beneath the high arch, face pinched like an old coin. Two Maesters hovered at his back, parchment ready.

Valon bowed just enough. “My respects, Lord Hand.”

Otto’s gaze flicked to the draped wagon. “Lord Greyjoy. His Grace awaits in the throne room.”

“Lead on.”

They walked the long gallery. Painted figures of conquest rode the walls, swords lifted in static triumph. Dragons with gilded eyes glared down. Valon’s steps echoed. His trade masters followed with small leather books clutched tight to their ribs. No sailors. No armsmen save two Einherjar silent as shadows. Otto did not glance at them; he felt them.

— —

Golden light fell through high windows, dust motes twisting like spent embers. Viserys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, crown tilted back, hands loose on carved steel. Age had broadened him. His smile, when it came, was warm and weary.

“Lord Valon,” he said, voice carrying in the hush. “My friend, you look a man returned from stories.”

Valon bowed deeper than before. “I bring tales enough to fill three books, Your Grace, and goods enough to bind the covers in gold.”

The King laughed, genuine. He seemed fatter now than the last time Valon saw him. He could probably attribute that to the Gut Sauce, manufactured solely in the Iron Islands. “Then let us see both.”

Servants heaved the canvas from the wagon outside. A hush rolled through the hall. Gold—coin, bar, raw nugget—gleamed in a mound high as a war-horse’s croup. It caught the sun like fire in a jeweler’s kiln. Gasps rustled the courtiers.

Valon spoke calm. “One wagon only, Your Grace. The Stormrider carries ten more. The Doom five more still. And dozens more in the fleet. This is tithe and token of what the East may yield with the Crown’s blessing.”

Otto shifted, mouth a thin pale stripe. “Riches often talked of, seldom seen.”

Valon beckoned. Two Braavosi accountants stepped forward carrying a long lacquer case. They knelt, flipped the clasps, opened it upon crimson cloth. A sword lay inside. Slim, slightly curved, forged in mirror-bright steel patterned like river frost. The hilt inlaid with emerald chips and pale jade dragons chasing one another. The scabbard of white shagreen, fitted in chased gold.

Valon lifted it in both hands and crossed the floor. He knelt at the throne’s foot, angled the blade across his palms.

“A gift from Yi Ti, forged for their Princes. Fit now for dragon’s blood.” Valon said. “The smith who crafted this blade was said to have taken his own life after its creation, because he knew he’d never make a finer blade.” 

A lie. The sword was amazing, certainly, its craftsmanship masterful, but nowhere near a sword of Ironborn Steel and certainly nothing compared to Valyrian Steel. Still, the mysticism that surrounded the lands of the east had a certain charm that Westerosi Lords and Ladies had trouble resisting.

Otto Hightower snorted. “A foolish tale.” 

Viserys leaned forward, eyes shining like a boy’s. He took the sword, tested the balance, traced the dark hamon. 

“It sings,” he murmured.

Otto cleared his throat. “Gifts are well and good, lord Valon. What of obligations?”

Valon rose. “I seek charter, your grace. A company sanctioned by the throne to ply fixed routes between Westeros and the eastern shore. Yi Ti has granted exclusive covenant to House Greyjoy and those ships bearing my mark. With a royal seal upon our ledgers, we can float a river of gold into your coffers, Your Grace. Enough to break reliance on Braavos. Enough to forge new roads, new fleets, new dragons if you will. All we need is your word.”

Murmurs. Lords and ladies and knights and servants shifted. 

Viserys looked toward Otto. The Hand folded his fingers. “A venture of this size risks the realm’s credit. And its pride. Should the company fail—”

“It will not,” Valon said. “Failure already fled at the sight of my daughter’s prow.”

Otto’s nostrils flared. Odd, Valon noted, for Otto Hightower to be so unnecessarily antagonistic, given the opportunity for wealth. He reeked of the sort of man who was afraid of something. Eh, not his problem. “And if those eastern titles sour? If Yi Ti withdraws privilege?”

Valon smiled that small bleak smile he wore when storms broke spars. “Then I will sail east again and reforge the ties.”

Silence. The King’s eyes tracked between the two men. He weighed the blade in his lap and then raised it to the sunlight. 

“I have seen no such trove since the reign of my grandfather, King Jaehaerys Targaryen,” he said at last, motioning to the gold. “If even half your promise proves true, the realm will prosper.” 

He lifted a hand to a steward. “Prepare a charter. Parchment from the royal stores—tanned in dragon heat. The great seal will be set before sunset.”

Otto spoke low. “Your Grace—”

Viserys kept his gaze on Valon. “The crown takes a share?”

“Five parts in twenty,” Valon answered. “Forever, carried twice yearly to these halls. I ask in return lowered harbor duties and protection under royal law. Nothing more.”

A murmur of astonishment. Even Otto blinked.

Viserys laughed again and rose. The Iron Throne groaned about him. 

“Done,” he said.

Valon bowed. “Then Westeros will drown in treasure, Your Grace. Best teach your scribes to count anew.”

Viserys smiled. “A toast, then, old friend. But what shall we call this joint venture of ours?” 

“Something simple, your grace,” Valon said. “How about we call it the East Essos Trading Company?” 

“Perfect.”

— —

Wax was still wet on the dragonhide charter when Valon stepped from the throne room. The afternoon sun lay low, gilding the crenels. He crossed the yard. Men stood aside. Some Lords glanced at the parchment tube in his hand, faces tight with envy. He did not slow.

Hela waited by the outer gates astride a smoky courser. She wore a plain grey cloak over hauberk black as stormwater. The helm with antlers hung at her saddle.

He handed her the charter without a word. She unrolled it, read the seal, and nodded once.

“That all?” she asked.

“For now.”

A single corner of her mouth tipped upward. “Home, then.”

He swung into his own saddle. The Einherjar closed around them, silent. Overhead the city crows wheeled in black script against the sky. The gold wagon still sat near the stables, token only, untouched. The rest waited in the holds. The Stormrider rode the tide.

Valon looked back at the Red Keep’s high face, windows bleeding late light. Somewhere within, Otto Hightower counted risks and measures. Viserys weighed a new sword in his hand.

He turned his horse toward the harbor road. 

“Home.”

She clicked her tongue and the courser moved. The gates of King’s Landing yawned wide. Beyond them the river shone copper, and beyond the river lay the open road to Pyke and a hundred harbors yet unspoiled.

He breathed deep the salt in the evening air and felt the parchment cylinder flex beneath his arm—a thin reel of words that tethered the wealth of continents to his name. A gamble cast and caught.

Wind tugged the hair at his temples. He smiled.

There would be more voyages. House Greyjoy was going to become the most powerful house in all of Westeros.