The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 22

Valon moved through the open market, boots scraping on polished stone. A hundred stalls crowded the square, each one burdened with goods unknown to Westeros. He paused by a pen of giant apes, each creature towering like a small hut, arms thick as tree limbs. The apes stared back with slow, deliberate eyes, chain-links rattling as they shifted. Nearby, a man in red robes gestured excitedly, his mouth moving with rapid, musical speech Valon did not understand.

A few steps farther, he passed a pen of standing lizards with talons sharp as blades, their scales dappled in green and black. They hissed quietly at passersby, tongues flickering to taste the air. Beyond them lay a row of cages that held ragged creatures covered in mats of hair—ghoul-men, the locals called them, though Valon had never seen their like. In another corner, thick serpents coiled in knot upon knot, each as broad as a man’s torso. Valon studied them from a safe distance, the stench of reptile musk lingering in the warm breeze.

The market teemed with voices—callers, traders, customers jostling for space. Some wore bright silks, others simple linen, their faces streaked with sweat beneath the glaring sun. Valon felt the press of bodies but found that they parted slightly for him. His Braavosi accountants followed close, notebooks in hand, eyes scanning each stall for a trace of rare spice or an underpriced gem. His trade masters lingered behind them, appraising goods with the quick eyes of men who lived by commerce.

He passed a tall stand draped in shimmering cloth. The merchant, squat and full-faced, displayed items said to be woven from spider silk, each thread shining like gold under the sunlight. Another stall boasted jars of ground leaves that gave off a bitter aroma, said to brew a tea prized by the scholar-lords of Yi Ti. Valon bent to sniff one jar, wrinkled his nose, and moved on.

Now and then, he glimpsed wonders: powdered dragon bones heaped in small bowls, lumps of saffron that glowed orange, lumps of pungent resin used to ward off evil spirits. A pack of monkeys clung to each other in a corner cage, screeching softly whenever a passerby wandered too close. Everywhere, the swirl of color and chatter clashed, an undercurrent of excitement.

Valon paused at a cart of polished plates—each hammered from some dark metal he could not name. He touched a dish with a careful hand, saw the reflection of his own eyes, and decided he would take a few. The merchant named a price. Valon glanced at one of his accountants. The man made a quick note, nodded. Valon nodded in return. It was good business.

He turned from the cart and scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of Hela. She had left earlier, flanked by two of her Einherjar and those tall men in azure armor who called themselves the Heavenly Azure Guards. The city insisted she not walk alone. Valon snorted at the memory of it. His daughter needed no guard, but politics demanded appearances.

He spotted no glimpse of her among the stalls. Likely, she wandered deeper into Yin, exploring the stacked temples of gold and jade, or taking in the wonders of an empire older than Valyria. He knew she did not kill wantonly. She was not a blade thrown blindly. She held her wrath for necessity. That knowledge settled his mind.

He moved on, passing a stall of pungent fish laid on cracked ice, the smell strong enough to make his eyes water. Another stall sold dried locusts rolled in honey and chili. He watched a local woman buy a handful, her lips pressed in what might have been hunger or curiosity. Valon shook his head, let his trade masters haggle for some exotic spices, then pressed forward.

He thought of the coin to be made from all he saw. Rare cloth, monstrous beasts, strange delicacies. Each item might fetch ten times its price in Westeros—some many more than that. This was the reason for their voyage, after all. To see a world beyond the known seas, to bring goods home that no one else would dare.

He paused at a wide courtyard where a roped ring had been set up, men gambling on fights between armored monkeys or painted birds with razor spurs. He took in the spectacle for a moment, saw the savage elegance of foreign bloodsports, then turned away. This place was no kinder than Slaver’s Bay or Qarth, just different.

His Braavosi accountants whispered to him about the sums they'd tallied, about potential deals yet unseen. He made quick decisions, trusting their skill. The trade masters scribbled notes and moved off with pouches of coins, intent on finalizing purchases.

Valon followed a narrow lane beyond the courtyard. He emerged into a smaller square where bright banners overhead cast shifting patterns of color on the ground. A young boy played a flute near a fountain carved to resemble a giant turtle, water spilling from the turtle’s open maw. More stalls lined the edges, but these sold mostly local crafts—tiny jade figurines, hammered brass ornaments.

He thought again of his daughter, letting his eyes drift across the throng. She’d find her way back soon enough. Perhaps she’d have stories of half-ruined temples or silent catacombs hidden in the city’s underbelly. Or maybe just a new kill, if the city’s courtesy wavered. But no, he reminded himself, she was not one to kill for trifles.

He took a breath, inhaling the mingled aromas of grilled meat, incense, and the underlying tang of a river unaccustomed to dryness. Then he turned back toward the main street, content with what he had seen. There would be more to explore tomorrow. For now, he had deals to finalize, coin to count.

No one in this city had yet tested them, and he doubted they would. Yi Ti was not a place that survived by rashness; the Empire was old, too old to act on mere impulse. A calm center, he thought. And they were but one more band of travelers, albeit with black sails and a fearsome legend.

He smiled, stepping aside as a pair of guards in azure armor marched past, halberds in hand. They did not look at him, kept their eyes forward. Their presence reminded him of the watchers assigned to Hela. He allowed himself a moment of pride. Even the might of Yi Ti recognized that danger could walk in the shape of a woman.

Soon, he would return to the Stormrider, to compare accounts with his men. The city had so much to offer, so many goods, so much gold to be made. And all the while, Hela roamed somewhere among these winding roads, taking in every strange wonder. He pictured her finding something curious—some relic or half-lost artifact. The thought made him chuckle lightly.

He passed a final stall where sweet pastries glistened under honey glaze, paid for a small sack of them, and continued on. The day’s light angled lower, but the market still bustled. He supposed in time, they’d see if the Emperor himself took notice of them. He turned to his trade masters. “So, what shall we purchase in bulk?” 

—

It came as a welcome surprise. Not joy, not excitement, just that faint shift in the gut when a day grows more interesting than it promised. There were fighting pits in the city of Yin.

She hadn’t expected that.

Not true pits, not the kind she’d known from the isles or the sand-soaked rings of Slaver’s Bay. No blood-drenched cages. No nails or knives. No betting men shouting for broken teeth and screams. These were clean. Controlled. Structured like a temple floor, where men moved not to kill but to perfect. The locals did not call them pits at all, but halls. Wudang Halls. Wide spaces under open roofs with waxed floors and polished rails. Students moved barefoot in silence. Movements slow, deliberate. Always two at a time. Eyes sharp, hands open.

It was not death they pursued, but something else. Mastery, maybe. Pride. Honor.

The guards that followed her—tall men in azure-lacquered armor with high collars and mirrored polearms—explained it in slow, clipped Westerosi. The Wudang Tournament, they called it. A contest of martial skill. Not rank. Not wealth. Not blood. Open to all. Winner declared the best under heaven. Their words were careful, like this was something sacred. Not just a sport. A tradition. Hela listened and gave no reply.

The rules were carved into a redwood plaque outside the largest of the training halls.

No killing.
No weapons.
No strikes to the eyes.
No strikes to the groin.
No intentional breaking of bones unless the match forced it.
Victory declared when one yields or is incapacitated.

She stood before the plaque a long while. Wind tugged at her cloak. Her Einherjar stood at a polite distance, helmets off, watching the courtyard with flat expressions. The Azure Guards flanked her, silent and still, as if they too were carved from the wood of the railing.

She read the rules again.

No weapons. No death. No spectacle. Just movement and pain and the testing of bodies.

A thin smile pulled across her lips.

The rules chafed, yes. But not enough to turn her away. She’d fought under stranger codes. There had been a time—before the black blades and the blood-soaked halls of her youth—when this was all there had been. Fist. Elbow. Knee. Shoulder. The body as weapon. The dance of power.

The guard on her left shifted. 

"You are permitted to enter the open ranks," he said. His accent clipped, but steady. "There is no division between men and women in Wudang. Only the strong and the weak."

She didn’t respond at first. Just kept watching the mat where two men sparred in slow rhythm. The younger one overcommitted with each strike. His heel came off the ground. Too much weight forward. The older fighter was lean and deliberate, patient. She saw the mistake before it cost him. She always saw it.

She turned her head. "Where do I sign?"

The guards exchanged a glance. One gestured toward the steward’s booth near the edge of the compound.

She walked there. The crowd parted. Some watched her with curiosity. Others with something else. Her cloak brushed the stone tiles, ash-colored and clean. The steward looked up as she approached. He was old and dry-eyed, with a quill already in hand.

"Name," he said.

She thought a moment. Then leaned in close and said, “Hela.” 

No title. No explanation. 

The man wrote her name in a tight, neat hand.

"You will fight in the open tier," he said. "Preliminaries begin at first light."

She nodded. Turned. Walked back toward the gate.

The Azure Guards fell in behind her, long shadows stretching over the courtyard tiles. One of them spoke as they reached the steps. "It is not common for foreigners to enter."

She glanced back at him. "I’m not common."

He said nothing more.

—

“Father.”

The word came like a quiet knock on stone. Valon turned from the gangplank, the sea wind tugging at the hem of his cloak. Behind him, the Stormrider groaned under the weight of trade—sacks of silk bundled in dyed rope, crates of dried plums and ivory combs, spices sealed in waxed jars, and bolts of pale cloth that shimmered like fish-scale. Sailors moved slow and sure, bent beneath their burdens. The ship was alive with motion.

Hela stood at the edge of the dock, her hair tied back, cloak pulled open at the throat. Her hands rested at her sides. Calm. Ready.

Valon narrowed his eyes slightly. “Did you kill someone?”

She blinked. “What? No.”

He waited.

“I have entered a martial arts competition,” she said. “I came to tell you. I want you to watch.”

Valon raised a brow, just one. “A what competition?”

“Martial arts,” she repeated, more patient now. “A sort of pit-fight. But with rules. No weapons. No killing. Bare-handed. They call it the Wudang Tournament. Anyone may enter. Slaves. Nobles. Peasants. Outlanders. Doesn’t matter.”

She stepped closer, boots clicking against the lacquered dockwood. The sunlight caught the edge of her shoulder plate, dull black beneath the dust. “There is no gold prize, I think. It’s meant to test skill. Discipline. Strength of the body. That sort of thing.”

Valon folded his arms. “So… it’s fighting. But not for blood. And not for coin.”

“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”

He looked at her, then looked past her, toward the merchant halls rising in tiers along the stone edge of Yin’s harbor. Beyond them, a tower of green tiles and red flags swayed in the heat.

“Strangest place I’ve ever been,” he muttered.

She tilted her head. “And?”

He scratched his beard, watching two of his Braavosi men haul a bundle of ceramic bowls up the gangway. A clatter of wood on wood. A snapped oath in Low Valyrian.

“And I would love to watch you win,” he said. “Because you will win. And I’ve nothing better to do but admire my daughter while she terrifies the locals.”

She offered a thin smile. “Then be there. First light. The hall is east of the bazaar. Wudang Pavilion. Ask anyone. They’ll know.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be there.”

She turned to go.

“And Hela.”

She paused. Looked back.

He gestured toward her with an open hand. “Try not to kill anyone by accident.”