The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 21

They did not stay long in Qarth. A week at most. The sun had barely set behind the sandstone walls before the people began whispering. And when the sails of the Stormrider blackened the skyline, they fell quiet altogether.

The fleet came in with no resistance. No warning. No delegation from the city’s merchant kings. No patrols from the Pureborn. The Thirteen stayed behind closed doors, and the Spicers, who were said to own half the eastern docks, pretended they had never heard of Valon Greyjoy or the Doom or the girl who sailed it. The Warlocks too remained hidden. Some had fled the city entirely days before the Stormrider had even been spotted, or so the dockmasters claimed.

The mooring crews worked in silence. None tried to cheat them. No disputes, no arguments. Provisions were loaded onto the ships without delay. Salted fish. Casks of water. Bushels of dried fig and rough cloth packed with saffron and powdered milk and flatbread baked dark with sesame and burnt flour. Even the lesser captains—men who’d made reputations for cracking skulls in distant ports—walked through the city without challenge.

Hela went ashore with her Einherjar. They walked the streets like a tide, black-clad and silent, blades on hips, boots clapping the sunbaked stone. No one spoke to them. Not even the city’s guards. A child dropped a wooden ball and did not retrieve it. A man carrying a basket of figs turned a corner and kept walking until he was gone from sight. A wine seller poured his casks into the gutter and shuttered his stand. Wherever Hela walked, space opened before her and closed behind.

In the first days, there were offerings. Small things, strange things. Bone charms tied with cords of yellow silk. Statues carved from pale wood, shaped into feminine forms with too many eyes. Dolls stuffed with what looked like reeds and bound in ghost grass. Some even bent the knee when she passed. Not out of reverence. Not really. Out of fear.

One warlock dropped to his knees before her near the Black Wall, robes heavy with dust, blue lips trembling. He called her "Lady of the Final Ash." He sobbed and begged her not to burn the city, not to call down fire from the Smoking Sea. He said he’d seen her in dreams, walking barefoot across the bones of kings. Hela looked down at him, said nothing, and walked on. The man collapsed where he knelt and did not rise again until many hours later. 

She told Valon later that the city was filled with shadows and gilded silence and very little else. Beautiful perhaps, but empty. Like a mausoleum built for cowards.

Valon didn’t disagree. He almost wished someone would do something stupid to Hela just to break the silence, but no one did. 

He stayed aboard the Stormrider for most of their time in port, though he came ashore briefly to meet with the traders that mattered. They brought things wrapped in silks, chests carried on the backs of shaved slaves. They never gave names. They never stayed long.

One brought a chest of silver, and another followed with a larger one of gold, stamped with the seal of the Thirteen. Another came with a vial of translucent blue powder said to come from beneath the glass seas of Leng, said to have been used by the ancient Dragon Lords to induce visions. Valon kept that one. He liked the look of it, but he had no intention of snorting the stuff.

But the most peculiar gift came on the fourth day.

A servant boy with a crooked jaw and burn-scars down one arm arrived at the gangplank of the Stormrider, panting hard, half-dragging a lacquered chest behind him. He said nothing. Just bowed and left. Inside the chest was a helmet—heavy and horned, the antlers shaped like the crown of a forest stag, but not quite. The metal was blackened metal, polished smooth, the eyeslits shaped narrow and grim. With it, a note. Written in Westerosi Common, scrawled in black ink, the words clean and without flourish:

For the Goddess of Death in the Flesh. May her dragon glass blades strike the hearts of her enemies.

Valon read it twice. He said nothing. He grinned. He set the helmet aside and rolled the parchment tight.

The title was new. Not one he’d heard before. Most across the sea called his daughter the Red Scourge. Breaker of the Oceans. The Ironborn called her the Lady Reaper. Others preferred less poetic titles. Pirate. Butcher. Monster. But Goddess? That one had weight. That one lingered. 

Finally, people were noticing how awesome and fearsome her perfect daughter truly was–as was right.

He stood at the prow of his ship that evening, staring toward the city. The lanterns of Qarth flickered in rows across the harbor. The docks were quiet. No laughter. No drinking songs. No whorehouse fights. Just the sea and the dark and the faint murmur of sails groaning in the warm breeze. It was… peaceful, even if it was boring. Most of the crewmen were already asleep, save for the Einherjar, who constantly honed their skills against each other in fighting circles upon the deck of the Doom.

He leaned on the rail, cloak rustling. Below him, water slapped against hulls. Somewhere on the deck behind him, Hela paced. He could hear the slow, steady thump of her boots, the way her armor creaked faintly when she moved. She did not speak. She had not spoken much since returning from Valyria. Often, Valon would find her sitting upon the edge of the prow of the Stormrider, gazing upon the sea. This sort of behavior held whenever she was aboard the Doom as well, a silent captain, though her Einherjar did not question her. 

He turned and saw her. She wore a plain cloak now, but the edge of her breastplate still showed. Her hair was pulled back, and her eyes caught the starlight like oil on black water. Three Einherjar stood behind her in quiet formation. None looked toward him. Their attention was on her. Always on her. They weren’t guards. Hela didn’t need guards. No, they were there to make sure no one disturbed her. Not that anyone had the balls to do that. 

He nodded once at her. “We leave come morning. The Queen of Cities is as dreary as a graveyard.”

She nodded back.

By dawn, they were gone. The fleet moved like a shadow across the sea, slipping out of Qarth’s waters with no farewell and no warning. The sails caught the wind, and the city shrank behind them. No warships followed. No emissaries. No messages. It was refreshingly straightforward. 

They passed the crescent shores of the Jade Sea. They hugged the coast, trading in quiet ports with names too long to remember. They bartered for dyes and blackened pearls and smoked rice and preserved crab meat. In Asabahd, they stayed three nights, long enough to mend a split hull and take on fresh water. They traded salted fish for sacks of cinnamon and ink. Several Warrior Maidens wished to join their voyage. Hela had them fight against the Einherjar for their place. Two were found worthy and allowed to become a part of the Stormrider’s crew, under Valon’s command. The rest were found wanting. 

No one else challenged them.

No pirate ships approached. No whispers of revenge followed. Word had spread, it seemed, and those with sense gave wide berth to the ship with black sails and the girl who walked its deck like death itself. And, by extension, the Stormrider and the rest of its accompanying ships remained unharmed. 

They passed by several coastal villages and cities, but did not stop. Valon noted the shift in architecture as they went.

It was not until they came upon the distant silhouette of the city of Yin, many months after leaving Valyria, that Valon allowed himself to grin with excitement. He stood beneath the curved awning of the quarterdeck, arms folded, watching his crew tighten ropes and check rigging. The sky overhead was wide and pale and cloudless. The sun shimmered on the water like hammered coin. Finally, they were in the realm of Yi Ti. 

He looked east. A horizon of blue. He did not know what lay ahead, not precisely. Only that the voyage would not be a short one.

Hela stood again at the prow of the Doom, wind tugging at her cloak. The dragon egg was stowed deep within her quarters, warded and locked. None but he and she had seen it since Valyria. Not even the Einherjar.

He wondered, not for the first time, what her path would be. What shape her story would take when it was finally told. He had tried, once, to plan that path himself. To set stones for her to step across. To draw borders around her future. He had given up on that. Now he watched and wondered. He’d be there for her, of course, for as long as he was alive. As far as Valon was concerned, his perfect daughter could want the world itself and he’d give all he had to aid her in conquering it. 

He glanced again at the helmet that now hung about Hela’s back, antlers casting jagged shadows across the deck. She’d not parted with it as soon as he gave it to her. The title echoed again in his mind.

Goddess of Death in the Flesh.

He did not correct it. He had long stopped trying. Let the world give her whatever names it pleased. All that mattered now was that the sea remained wide, and the voyage long.

And that she kept walking whatever path she so desired. 

Time passed and the seas soon turned still as glass. The wind died down and the sails eased into slack. The city of Yin stood distant on the horizon, its towers a pale mirage rising from the water’s haze. The air smelled of salt and faint river rot, the scent of a coast not yet known but ancient in the bones of the world.

They had not yet reached the harbor when the ships appeared. Twelve in number, all arrayed in a crescent. Their sails were deep azure, trimmed in silver, and their hulls low and lean, carved in a style unfamiliar to Westerosi eyes. They moved with a slow purpose, oars dipping and pulling in unison, the sound carrying across the water in soft, rhythmic cadence. From each mast hung red flags stitched with gold, snapping sharp in the breeze like warning tongues.

Valon stood at the Stormrider’s prow, cloak pulled close against the breeze. His hands rested on the rail. The Doom loomed just off their starboard, black sails half-furled, her spines glinting dull under the morning sun. He didn’t glance her way. He didn’t need to. He knew his daughter stood ready. As she always did.

He raised a hand and signaled. The captains of the fleet saw it and obeyed. Anchors dropped one by one, iron teeth biting into the seabed. Chains rattled and groaned. The Stormrider did not drop anchor. Nor did the Doom. The two ships alone pressed forward.

The water opened between them and the strangers. The great eastern ships did not move to attack. No arrows were loosed. No scorpions armed. But they made no sign of welcome either.

One ship broke from the rest. It was larger by half, with five tall sails, each striped with silver and red. Its bow rose in the shape of some forgotten beast, wide-jawed and sharp-horned, eyes painted in lacquered black. Ropes hung like vines from the masts, and flags flew higher than those of its companions. A ship of rank. A command vessel, most like.

Valon narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. He watched the ship drift toward them, its oars rising now, the wind alone carrying it the rest of the way. A decision had been made aboard it. Whether it would end in talk or steel was yet to be seen.

He turned and spoke low to his men. 

“Hold fast. No movement unless I say.” The sailors nodded. None reached for weapons. Not yet.

He looked again toward the distant city. Yin. Said to be older than Valyria. Said to be ruled by a Golden Emperor whose banners stretched from the Shadowlands to the Silver Sea. He didn’t know the truth of it. He only knew that power was a thing best approached with both hands open.

“Probably a checkpoint,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “If they’re as organized as they say, they’ll want words before welcome.”

The two ships met in the open. The eastern vessel drew alongside the Stormrider without sound, gliding like a ghost on the sea. Its hull was painted dark green, and its deck was lined with armored men who did not speak. Their armor was scaled and painted, lacquered plates shaped to look like dragonhide, and the helms they wore bore long crests of crimson horsehair that danced in the breeze. None of them moved. None of them blinked.

A plank extended from the foreign ship, not to board, but simply to bridge. A gesture, perhaps. Or a line not meant to be crossed.

A man stepped forward. He was tall and lean, his robe dark blue and fastened with gold pins. A curved sword hung from his belt, sheathed in black lacquer. His hair was black and braided in rows that curled behind his shoulders. His face was still as water, unreadable.

Valon stepped to the rail. “You’re the fleetmaster?”

The man inclined his head. 

“I speak for the Pearl Court.” His voice was thick with accent, but his words were clear. “No ship passes to Yin’s harbor without sanction. You must state your names. Your intent. And your allegiance.”

Valon nodded once. “I am Valon Greyjoy. The vessel beside you is the Doom. That is my daughter’s ship. We come to trade. Provisions, coin, goods from across the Narrow Sea. We mean no harm. We’ve come from Westeros.”

The fleetmaster’s eyes shifted. He did not speak. He looked instead to the Doom. Hela stood at her own rail, silent. The wind pressed back her cloak. Her armor was plain black, but the helm she wore was shaped like a kraken’s skull, and the light caught the faint shimmer of the Necrosword at her back.

The man on the eastern ship swallowed once. Barely. Then turned again to Valon.

“You speak truth,” he said. “We have received word of the Red Scourge. Your daughter.”

Valon didn’t smile. “That name follows her, aye.”

“The Pearl Court does not desire war. Nor entanglement. If your intent is peace and trade, you may pass.”

“Then we will.”

“But,” the man said, his tone sharper now, “your ships will be searched. No more than one vessel may enter the harbor at a time. Your crews will be counted. Your weapons kept aboard. And your daughter must not walk alone. Two of our Heavenly Azure Guards will accompany her wherever she goes.”

Valon’s mouth twitched. “I can agree to the first three. The last…”

The man did not blink. “It is not a request.”

Valon turned then. Hela had not moved. She looked across the gap between the ships. Her expression unreadable. She raised one hand. A small gesture. Agreement. Or indifference. It didn’t matter. He knew she’d do what she pleased regardless.

He turned back. “We accept.”

The man bowed. “You will follow us. No deviations. If you do not comply, the harbor defenses will sink your ships before the tide can turn.”

Valon inclined his head. “Understood.”