The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 24

Under the rising haze of a pale morning, Valon walked the stone causeways of Leng. Mist clung to the roots of the forest beyond the city, pale tendrils reaching like fingers across the earth. The stone beneath his boots was smooth and broad, laid in long slabs that bore no mortar and showed no seam. The sun crept slow from behind the canopy, casting thin gold bars between the boughs of trees too large for memory and too still to feel real.

The people of Leng passed him like wind across glass. They did not speak. They did not shuffle or hurry. Their steps were soundless, measured, neither prideful nor afraid. They carried no blades. No spears. Not even a tool or walking stick. 

Their robes shimmered in the sun. Woven in layers of olive and ochre and ash-grey, each hem embroidered with the thin gleam of copper or hammered silver. They wore no jewels and no sigils. Valon saw no coin exchanged in the market. They spoke with nods, with glances, with hands raised in small gestures that passed meaning from one to the next like water from a ladle.

They towered over him. That much he noticed early. Even the children—what few he saw—stood eye to eye with his shoulders. The men had long limbs and narrow faces. The women, taller still, moved like reeds in a windless field. They bore the same pale skin, the same black hair parted straight and bound in loops and knots. Their faces were unreadable.

Valon studied them as he passed. One woman stood beneath an arch of carved stone, her back to a wall hung with vines. She did not move. She watched the fog drift between the rooftops. Her height surpassed his by two full heads. Her arms were folded into her sleeves, her jaw sharp and mouth unreadable. When his gaze lingered, she turned her eyes toward him—not quickly, but with the slow deliberation of someone who had already seen him long before.

He nodded once. She did not nod back.

They were not rude. They simply were. Quiet, still, purposeful. They spoke rarely and never in haste. They did not ask names. They did not ask intentions. They looked only at the goods brought ashore. They examined bolts of dyed wool, tasted dried plums, ran calloused fingers along the grain of Ironborn-forged steel. And then they traded.

Not a single word wasted. A nod. A gesture. Sometimes a flat coin pressed into a trader’s palm, but more often a sack of something—root vegetables or dried meats or soft blue stones that shimmered faintly in the dark. Valon had seen those stones before. Once. A gift sent to the Sealord of Braavos as part of an apology. He’d watched the man hold one up to the candlelight, then whisper to his steward to lock it away. Here, they were tossed into hemp bags as casually as eggs.

He passed under a tall arch of green stone, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, Braavosi scribes whispered in tongues, their quills scratching parchment as they tallied weights and values. His Trade Masters kept close, their eyes sharp. The numbers made them giddy. Diamonds, the size of grapes, traded for half-cured fish. Lumps of ivory for bundles of wool. These people had no sense of gold, nor did they seem to care for it. They wanted utility. Simplicity. They wanted things that did what they were told. Valon respected that.

They asked no questions of Hela. They did not flinch at the sight of her armor. They did not tremble at the sight of the Doom, nor speak in hushed tones of her title. She was not the Red Scourge here. She was not the Lady Reaper or the Breaker of the Oceans. She was just a girl with a sword and long shadow, and that seemed to suit her just fine. The Einherjar followed in silence, and though the people of Leng glanced at them, they did not stare. They simply accepted. These were visitors. They would trade. They would leave.

It was refreshing.

No bowing. No kneeling. No whispered prayers. No warlocks wetting themselves with fear. Just trade. Pure and clean. He watched a man trade a dragonbone comb for a basket of uncut rubies. Another traded a salt-cured kraken beak for a necklace made of dark glass. Valon didn’t speak unless spoken to. He didn’t haggle. There was no need. The wealth here was raw and abundant, but to the Lengii, it was ornamental. These were people who lived by another measure of value. That amused him. It thrilled him.

Corlys Velaryon had once said Leng was the jewel of the east, not because of its splendor but because of its disregard. The riches of the world passed through it, and the people didn’t seem to care. Now Valon saw why. They did not hoard. They did not flaunt. They simply were.

He paused at a stand where a tall man sold ceramic flasks filled with oil so black it swallowed the sun. The man gave him one to inspect, said nothing. Valon uncorked it. A sharp scent filled his nostrils. Resinous. Thick. He dipped a finger in and touched it to the back of his hand. The skin tingled. He offered three bars of copper for it. The man nodded once. The trade was done.

Later, he passed Hela in the upper plaza. She stood before a low platform where three women carved intricate runes into a stone slab. One of them held a tool that shimmered faintly. Hela watched, arms folded, helm tucked beneath one arm. She did not speak. She watched the way a hunter watches the wind. He did not understand why she found this interesting, but then his daughter had always been mysterious.

Valon left her to it.

He found himself at the top of a stone stair that overlooked the inner harbor. The Doom was moored below, its spines gleaming in the sun. The water lapped quiet against the hull. Nearby, the Stormrider rocked slow in the tide, its anchor chain singing faintly with every pull.

He leaned on the rail. The air was warm. He thought of the stones they’d acquired, the dyes, the gems, the medicinal roots and oils that no Westerosi had ever touched. He thought of the contracts signed in Yin. The pathways now open. He thought of the day they’d return, sails fat with wind, holds stuffed with wealth, and how the court in King’s Landing would stammer and whisper and try to explain it all away.

He thought of the fools who’d once called him mad for placing so much faith in one girl. In one ship. In one gamble. Oh, if only they understood just how amazing his daughter truly was. 

Let them tremble now. Let them drown in their jealousy.

He closed his eyes. Let the sun warm his face. And then he opened them and watched the city of Leng move. Silent. Still. Like something old remembering how to breathe.

There would be more ahead. More places like this. Stranger shores. Harsher winds. But for now, Leng was enough. Its people gave him no praise. But they traded. And in the end, that was what he came for. Not songs. Not statues.

That night, they gathered beneath the moon. Lanterns swung low from iron poles hammered into the sand. The tide hissed along the stony coast of Leng, black waves foaming under starlight. Valon stood at the fire’s edge, arms crossed, cloak slung over one shoulder. His captains gathered in a ring before him. Weathered men, salt-bitten and bearded. Some barefoot, others armored still. Boots and sandals crunching over coral bits and diamond dust. The stones here sparkled like glass, and the Lengii had told him they were worthless.

He thought on that a while.

The fire popped and hissed. One of the Braavosi scribes sat on a flat rock, stylus in hand. No one spoke at first. It had been a long voyage. A year or more since they’d passed through Slaver’s Bay. He had lost track of the days. The air on Leng was clean but thick, still and warm. The tall folk watched from afar, unmoving. One of them leaned against a pillar carved from elephant tusk, arms folded. A woman, maybe. Seven feet if not more.

Valon cleared his throat. “We’ve come far.”

A grunt from the back. The men nodded.

“Farther than most ever do. Past Qarth, past Yi Ti, past the rivers and jungles they don’t even put on maps. We traded in places most of you never knew existed.”

He paused and looked toward the Doom. Her sails hung black and still in the harbor. Hela stood on her deck with her Einherjar, watching from the shadows. She had not spoken during the march from the village to the fire. She wore no helm tonight. Just leather and linen, simple and dark. Her hair pulled back. Her eyes half-lidded.

Valon turned back to the men. “I’ve called this council for one reason. You’ve done your duty. Every last one of you. We’ve goods enough to fill three holds. We’ve gold and porcelain and spices and silk and diamonds as common as sand. You’ve earned your rest. But there’s more yet to see. More beyond this coast. You all know the names. Asshai. Stygai. Carcosa.”

The fire cracked. A long silence.

One of the captains, a squat man from the Blacktyde, with a thick neck and thicker arms, stepped forward. “We’ve gone far, Lord Valon. Farther than any Ironborn I’ve ever heard of. I’ve seen things I won’t forget. But my crew is tired. Half of them want to see their wives again. The rest just want proper ale.”

Grumbling agreement rose from the others.

A tall Myrish bastard with inked fingers scratched at his jaw. “We lost six men to fever. Three more to coral worms. A dozen to poor footing and a rope-snap on the cliffs of Leng, trying to dig up as many gemstones as they can. If we go east… we may not come back.”

Valon said nothing. He looked to Hela.

She stepped forward. Not hurried. Not slow. The men parted for her, wordless. She stood on the other side of the fire, across from him. Her face was calm. Eyes hard. Her voice, when it came, was flat and low.

“Carcosa lies beyond the Shadow. No one’s seen it and returned. Some say it’s cursed. Others say it’s not real. A few stories whisper of a mad god imprisoned beneath it. I think it’s just far.”

The wind stirred her cloak. Behind her, the Doom creaked at anchor.

“I would go,” she said. “But I won’t ask the rest of you to die for it.”

Valon watched her. The firelight licked her cheekbones. The red gleam of coals reflected faintly in her eyes.

He nodded once. “Then let’s vote.”

They passed the stone cup from hand to hand. A simple thing, carved with a kraken on one side and a rudder on the other. Each man who wished to press on dropped a pebble in the cup. Each who wished to return left it empty.

When it came back to Valon, he turned it over. Three pebbles. That was all.

He looked up. “Only the Doom would go.”

He saw Hela’s jaw tighten for half a heartbeat. Then she nodded once and turned away.

Valon raised a hand. “Then we return. Our voyage ends here. Give your thanks to the Drowned God.”

The men murmured, some cheered faintly, others just turned toward their ships. It was late. They had done enough. They had seen too much.

He caught Hela’s arm as she passed him.

“There will be other voyages,” he said. “With more ships. More reach. More resources.”

“I know.”

“You’ll see Carcosa.”

She looked toward the east. Toward the dark where the sea faded into sky.

“I will,” she said.

The men broke camp by dawn. Sails unfurled in the morning wind. The harbor of Leng emptied one hull at a time. The Doom moved last, black sails rising like a shadow across the water.

The voyage home would take months. But Valon knew now what he hadn’t before.

This was just the beginning.

“But,” Hela said, smiling. “I guess I do miss home.”