Valon paused at the rail of the Stormrider, arms folded, lips set in a tight line. He had known his daughter would one day bring him something unthinkable, and yet the sight still stirred him. Though, to be entirely honest, that she walked in and out of Valyria unharmed was already quite a great cause for celebration and wonderment. Her cloak was caked with grey dust, and a long smear of blackened gore ran across her boots. At her feet lay a beast's severed head, warped and reptilian, its jaws stiff and charred. Beside it rested a black steel chest, a subtle heat shimmering from the shape within. But what drew his stare most was the gleaming sword in Hela's grip, ornate lions etched upon the pommel.
He was almost certain of the sword's identity, though he couldn't be sure just yet. If he was right, then Tymond was in for a surprise–assuming his perfect daughter wished to return the family heirloom of House Lannister. They'd been looking for that thing for a few generations now. And Tymond would owe Valon and House Greyjoy a great debt of gratitude if Hela returned it free of charge.
Valon blinked, letting the hush of the deck settle. Sailors and thralls had ceased their tasks, each eye turned to the grim trophy. Hela Grayjoy—the Red Scourge, the terror of the seas—dragged the scaly head across the planks and set it down with a dull thud, its tongue hanging from its gaping jaw, between its dagger-like teeth. She did so without haste or ceremony, as if it were a mere fishing catch. Something in Valon's chest clenched. Pride and awe in equal measure. No father could be prouder of his daughter than he was.
He stepped forward, ignoring the stench of rot wafting from the monster's open maw. Sulfur and ash clung to his daughter's cloak, the odor thick enough to taste. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the faint lines of soot marking her cheeks. She looked as though she had marched through the smoking pit of some dead empire. He reached her in two strides.
"My beloved daughter," he said softly, letting a hand rest on her shoulder. He felt the heat of old fires clinging to her clothes. He hesitated, then embraced her, ignoring the slick grime beneath his boots. "Tell me: did you kill a dragon?"
Hela inclined her head. She broke from his embrace, calm as a still sea.
"No, Father," she answered, tapping a boot against the severed head. The creature's tongue lolled out, half-burned. "This beast had no wings, no flight. It breathed fire, yes, but it was grounded in the ash. A Fire Wyrm, I believe it's called–some proto-dragon of some kind, from which the Valyrians must've created the true dragons, though I could be wrong on that assumption."
Valon's eyebrows rose at that and he nodded. Fiery serpents of Valyria's dark corners, rumored to be lesser cousins to true dragons–or something like that. No one really knew the truth but the Valyrians themselves, and Valon was not an avid reader of the history of dragons and the magic of Old Valyria.
He cast a closer look at the dead eyes, their scales blackened around the sockets, a reek of brimstone flooding the air. The head was not large—certainly smaller than those of the stories men told of Balerion or Vhagar—but to face such a creature and slice it clean, that was no common feat.
He exhaled, lips curving into a slow grin.
"A lesser dragon, then," he murmured. "But I daresay no man or woman of the Iron Islands can boast of felling even that–not even in the whole of Westeros, even. You continue to amaze me, my daughter."
Hela shrugged. Her gaze flicked to the black chest. She shifted it slightly with her heel.
"I found more than just a hungry Fire Wyrm," she said. She lifted the ornate sword in her hand, showing him the twin lion pommel, the swirling patterns of Valyrian steel. "Brightroar, I think. The blade of House Lannister, once lost. It lay half-sunken in boiling mud."
"What do you intend to do with it?" Valon asked.
Hela shrugged and handed him the sword as though it was little more than a toy. "I don't care for it, father. So, I am giving it to you; do or dispose of it as you see fit. I have all the weapons I will ever need."
Valon nodded, taking in the fine edges, the distinct wave-like patterns etched into the steel, before wrapping his hand around the handle. Valyrian Steel was said to be far lighter than any steel before it. Brightroar was certainly lighter than any sword of Ironborn Steel, for certain, though not by much. He turned to the other thing in Hela's possession. "And that chest?"
Hela knelt slow upon the deck, the sea rolling quiet beneath her boots. She placed one gloved hand against the black steel chest, feeling the dull warmth radiate through the metal. For a moment she paused, listening to the distant cry of gulls, before she lifted the lid.
Inside, a lining of dark silk cradled the egg. It sat like a drop of blood spilled onto black velvet, its scarlet surface glistening under a sun half-hidden by clouds. Thin tendrils of steam curled upward, vanishing into the salt breeze. Moisture clung to each scale like dew, shimmering softly as if the egg drew breath of its own accord.
Valon stepped close, boots creaking softly on the timbered planks. His eyes narrowed. He peered into the chest and his breath caught in his throat. The lines of his face tightened, drawn taut by memory and wonder both.
The deck grew still, and the wind seemed to hush around them. Sailors and thralls ceased their work. Their eyes followed the faint rise and fall of mist from the egg. No man spoke. Hela brushed her thumb gently across the shell, tracing the pattern of its delicate scales, each ridge edged faintly in gold. The egg's warmth seeped through the leather of her glove. She studied it, expression neutral.
"Alive," she said softly, voice barely loud enough to carry past her father's ears.
Valon drew breath. A ripple of unease passed through the crew, low murmurs stirring and fading like the tide. He watched the egg, sunlight washing red across his pale face. Old tales stirred within him. Stories of dragonlords and fire, and Aegon Targaryen's shadow casting itself long and black across Westeros. He had heard once that Targaryen children slept alongside eggs in their cradles, bonding with their dragons long before they could walk or speak. Yet he had never seen one himself, never witnessed the quiet power humming within that scaled shell until now.
His gaze lifted from the egg to his daughter. He watched her close the chest with a gentle hand, her gloved fingers lingering briefly upon the lid. The warmth of it lingered in the air between them, mixing with the bitter brine of the sea. He glanced at the sailors, catching flickers of envy in their shifting eyes. Yet none would dare approach closer.
Valon lowered his voice. "Hela," he said quietly. "What do you intend to do with the egg?"
She looked up slowly, eyes calm beneath the dark hair falling across her forehead. Her expression was thoughtful, careful. She tilted her head slightly, meeting his eyes without blinking. There was a silence between them, deep and patient. He waited, knowing his daughter's mind worked in ways he could hardly fathom.
His brow knitted faintly in thought. A dragon in the hands of House Greyjoy—it was a notion that would send shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms. He knew how delicate the balance was, how carefully Viserys held his realm together by fragile bonds of diplomacy and marriage. Valon counted the Targaryen King as a friend, but he was not naive enough to think that friendship could survive such a monumental threat.
Still, the thought of a dragon curled in Hela's palm was not without appeal. A rare strength, a fierce and terrible power that would solidify their house's ascendancy. But such ambitions required care. Patience. Time. A dragon was not a thing easily hidden. "Can you bend it to your will as the Targaryens do with their beasts?"
Hela let forth a grin that shook the hearts and minds of the Ironborn sailors–a sight so unnaturally fearsome and dreadful that Valon found himself briefly out of breath. For a moment, he thought he'd seen black horns spreading outwards from behind his daughter's head, her eyes blazing like wildfyre. The moment passed in the blink of an eye as Hela spoke and broke the silence. "Trust me, father. By my hand, House Greyjoy shall have its own dragons."
Valon smiled back. For a moment, he pictured it–dragons flying over the Iron Islands, their roars echoing across the sea, the coastal colonies his people would eventually carve out across the breadth of the world with such weapons at their beck and call. Oh, if only he could preserve his friendship with Viserys through all of this. "Then, you have my full support, Hela."
He let out a breath, turning his attention back to the monstrous wyrm's head that Hela had dragged. This talk of dragons weighed on him more than he'd like. "I suppose this Fire Wyrm tried to keep you from the egg?"
She gave a careless shrug. "It attacked. I took its head. I found the egg much later."
Valon grinned, his voice pitched low so only she heard him. "You are unstoppable, my child. Now, before anything else, I believe you are in dire need of a bath, because you smell like a putrid volcano and your hair is covered in soot. Our fleet shall set sail within the hour. And I believe your crewmen are eager to sail with their captain once again."
After bathing in the scalding waters below deck, Hela donned fresh garments and returned to her personal vessel–the Doom. They sailed within the hour, as Valon had promised. Behind them, the haunted shores of Valyria receded slowly, swallowed into haze and memory and silence. The iron sky pressed low and grey upon the Smoking Sea, clouds curling like black wool over the bubbling waters. Smoke rolled over distant islands, thick and dark, scented of brimstone and ash.
The fleet passed the Valyrian Peninsula with sails unfurled and steady, cutting cleanly over waters calm as polished slate. Days bled into nights with little change, each hour marked only by the movement of sun and stars. Finally, after seven days of steady sailing, the horizon broke open into the wide arc of the Gulf of Grief. Here the waters churned gently, breathing steady like the sighing chest of a great sleeping beast.
Slaver's Bay greeted them with its low, dull scent of salt and sweat and old decay. They dropped anchor off the shores of Yunkai, the yellow city standing silent and proud against the red earth. High walls gleamed beneath a sun fierce enough to sear. Gulls screamed overhead as they took small boats ashore, landing quiet among traders and slaves and veiled masters who watched from beneath painted canopies.
The presence of the Doom stirred no panic among the people here. The dockside bustled with noise and color, oblivious and uncaring to their arrival. They traded quickly. Silks and fine Ghiscari textiles piled high beside barrels of spices and precious ivory carvings, small chests of gold, and fragrant perfumes thick with the scent of lotus and sweetened musk. Coins exchanged hands and goods moved smoothly aboard their ships.
They continued south along the coast, making for Astapor. Beneath the shadow of the great red brick pyramid, a Good Master met them at the docks, resplendent in silk robes that shimmered under the sun. His eyes lingered long upon Hela, lips parted in a crooked smile beneath his perfumed beard. He gestured grandly toward her, bowing low to Valon. A man of wealth, his every movement a quiet arrogance. He spoke through a translator, voice slick with promise.
"Name your price," the translator intoned smoothly, hands clasped before him. "My master will pay you an elephant's weight in gold for the Red Scourge."
Valon stiffened, jaw tightening slightly. Before he could answer, Hela moved. She drew her blade swift and clean and opened the master's belly with one neat stroke. The Unsullied moved to defend him, their spears poised in silent readiness, but they were too slow. She stepped between them, her blades dancing a quiet, savage rhythm. Blood spattered the dock in fine red droplets, and soon the Unsullied lay motionless at her feet, empty eyes staring toward the cloudless sky.
The Good Master crawled weakly toward his guards, hands slipping in the spreading pool of his own blood. Hela moved to stand over him, looking down without expression. She knelt slowly, knife gleaming quietly in her hand, and skinned the man alive with a practiced calm. Screams echoed off stone walls, harsh and jagged. Finally, when he fell silent, she hoisted the bloody ruin of flesh high onto a pike, lifting it above the docks for all to see.
The city watched in silent horror. Men turned their faces away, eyes cast down, lips pressed tight in fear. Within the hour, gifts arrived from the other Good Masters—gold and provisions stacked upon carts, two slender galleys offered with crews waiting nervously upon their decks. An interpreter stood before Valon, trembling as he spoke.
"You have honored Astapor with your presence," the man stammered quietly. "We ask only that you depart swiftly, and accept these humble gifts as a token of our respect."
Valon glanced toward Hela, lips twitching into a smile. He nodded once, gesturing toward the waiting ships.
"We accept," he said simply. "Trading with you has been a pleasure."
The fleet departed quickly from Slaver's Bay, sails taut and full, catching the wind that carried them east. The iron waters stretched endlessly before them, days and nights bleeding slowly together. After a time, they reached Port Yhos, its buildings small and white against green hills. The fleet lingered three days beneath bright suns and cold stars, exchanging barrels of salted fish for spices and dyes vivid enough to paint a sunset on canvas.
Again they sailed. The sea breathed quietly beneath them, smooth and silent as black glass, moonlight reflecting gently from its surface. Weeks passed in slow, steady rhythm, days measured by wind and sun and silence. Finally, after nearly three months at sea, since their departure from Westeros, Qarth rose from the horizon in a gleaming shimmer of stone and gold and marble. The city sat upon the edge of the world, its three walls encircling domes and towers like fingers of some ancient giant's skeletal hand. They approached slowly, sails furled tight as they passed beneath the great stone arches that marked the harbor.
Valon grinned. They were so close now–so close to the lands of the Far East, where the truest treasures awaited them.
AN: Chapter 21 is out on (Pat)reon!