4

The fish man died in just a few hours, after they set sail and continued on their journey. Good riddance, Soren Alson thought very silently to himself. Listening to that creature wail in anguish as Hela Greyjoy, the Devil Child of Lord Valon Greyjoy, tortured it repeatedly and incessantly, had been a special kind of hell. The fish man's tormented screams affected the crew's morale. But no one wanted to be the first one to speak up to Hela fucking Greyjoy, because they all knew, they all saw, just what that little demon was capable of and Soren himself had no intention of being thrown overboard or having one of his limbs torn off. And Soren knew, for a fact, that Hela Greyjoy was more than capable of doing that; he'd seen her reduce even the most fearsome warriors into quivering wrecks on the ground, defeated so utterly and so completely that nothing of their pride lingered.

Soren did not want to be reduced to such a state. And, not even their captain, Yarick Greyjoy, proud and strong and fearsome, wanted to test Hela Greyjoy's penchant for violence. If nothing else, he was glad that she was on their side. He just didn't want to be anywhere near her.

Hela Greyjoy grabbed the mutilated fish man by its ankle, before tossing it overboard as though it weighed nothing, despite the fact that it weighed almost as much as a man in full-plate. How she killed a whole school of such creatures was beyond him. Soren didn't even want to think about it. He'd heard tales of the Fish Men all his life. The old ones said they were capable of ripping men apart with their bare hands, that their shark-like teeth could cut through chain mail, that they dragged ancient kings into the depths of the sea to be sacrificed to their nameless gods. Even the strongest and hardest of Ironborn rightly feared these creatures. And Hela Greyjoy killed an entire school of them.

By herself.

Perhaps, Soren thought, the rumors of her bearing the blood of the Drowned God himself were true?

A big part of Soren wanted to be as far away from her as physically possible, but another part of him, the part that dared to dream, wondered just how far this little demon would reach, what mighty feats she'd achieve, and that part of him wanted to follow her, to stand behind her as the world itself burned around them. And so, if Hela Greyjoy ever got her own ship and captained her own crew, Soren knew he'd kneel before her and ask to join, no matter how stupid and contradicting the very idea of it might've been. If there was anyone truly worth following, it was Hela Greyjoy.

Soren didn't even know how or why he ended up kneeling before her, sword in hand. Hela Greyjoy loomed over him, a single brow raised. She wasn't overly tall for her age, but she seemed gigantic all the same. Everything about her was gigantic. And so, even as Soren knelt before a child, it felt, instead, that he knelt before a mountain – a goddess of death. Once, before, upon the beach, he knelt because he acknowledged her power, her might. But now, it was more than that. Now, it was her inhumanity – her divinity. "Lady Reaper, I-"

"Get up," Hela Greyjoy said, her tone cold and neutral. There was an emerald glint to her eyes. "You disrespect your captain, my uncle. The same goes for the rest of you! You disrespect yourselves by kneeling twice! As your Lady Reaper, get up!"

Soren's eyes widened as he glanced over his shoulder. And there, he saw the rest of the crewmen on their knees.

Yareck would've celebrated the fish man's death if he wasn't so damn terrified of his niece. She was angry that it died, but – honestly – he wasn't sure what she'd been expecting by torturing the bloody thing. All she had to do was leave it alone. And now it was dead and its wails had finally ceased.

Hela hadn't spoken a word of it since then. And so he hadn't thought about bringing it up, lest he risk being one of the very few captains who were thrown off of their own ships.

They reached the Stepstones quickly enough. In truth, it wasn't a far away place to begin with, but Yareck hadn't exactly expected such a calmness about the sea after the fierce storm they'd weathered a few days ago. The wind was strong and favorable, but the waves remained manageable. And that was good. The crew had settled as well, despite their strange bout of religious fervor a few days prior. In truth, despite his niece's declaration, Yareck hadn't felt at all offended that they decided to kneel before her. It was a good reminder of the fact that Hela was not at all remotely close to humanity. It was said that the Targaryens were closer to the gods than to men. Now, Yareck knew that statement to be false. Hela and Hela Greyjoy alone was closest to the gods, dragons be damned.

In fact, he now saw just why his brother was so supportive of his daughter and doted upon her – as any father should. Her potential was boundless and, Yareck mused, he'd be honored to stand by her as entire cities trembled at the mere mention of her name. So, after this raid, maybe he'd retire and offer her the Bronze Kraken. It was only right, after all. He'd amassed enough wealth to live off of, surrounded by his Salt Wives. He could even buy a plot of land in Lys and settle there permanently. He was getting old, after all, and Yareck had no interest in dying in battle if he could help it. He'd rather die after drowning in wine with a whore's lips around his cock.

Still, he kept such thoughts to himself.

Yes, Yareck smiled as he readied his arms and armor. Around him, his Ironborn Sailors did the same, arming themselves to the teeth. It was early in the morning. The sun had not risen over the horizon just yet. The Stepstone Pirates were asleep in tattered tents and hammocks when the Bronze Kraken silently drifted to their cove, further hidden by a soft haze of mist that obscured his vessel's form. By his estimation, there were only a few hundred pirates in this place. And, if he was right about the location of their hoard, then this raid shouldn't take too long. By the time the rest of them were roused from their slumber, the Bronze Kraken would already be at sea.

That was, of course, if his niece didn't decide to kill all the pirates for her own amusement.

Yareck turned to his crew. Hela was nowhere to be found, but he wasn't at all worried about her. "We go in quick. Kill as many as we can. Take the treasure. And we're off. Understood?"

His first mate, Thok Seabeard a hardened veteran Ironborn of many raids, nodded and so too did the rest of the crew. They knew what to do. They'd done this a hundred times by now. Lightning raids were as natural to them as rowing oars or walking. The vessel reached shallow waters, shallow enough that its keel brushed against the sand. And they all knew that the time to act had come. "Now!"

His warriors rushed out of the Bronze Kraken. As they did, Hela Greyjoy's shadowed form surged above them, armed with a spear and shield, roaring like a great and thunderous storm. Her presence emboldened his men with a fervor unlike anything Yareck had seen before. A raging bloodlust gripped their minds.

And so, the tale of the Scourge of the Stepstones was born.

Saharos Dro had always believed that the sea was his ally, a cradle that embraced him and his brothers in arms. On the Stepstones, they were kings—wild, untamed, feared by all who sailed too close. But that morning, as he clung to a piece of driftwood, bobbing up and down in the gentle rise and fall of the waves, he knew the sea had betrayed him. Or perhaps it had always belonged to her, the one they now called the Lady Reaper.

He could still see the blood in the water. The red tendrils that stained the azure sea, the bodies of men he once fought beside floating like broken, ragged dolls, bloated and empty-eyed. There were so many of them, and they were all dead. Saharos was the last. The only one left alive, if only barely.

The raid had been swift. He hadn't even seen it coming, not at first. The morning fog had hung low over their camp, mist curling through the trees and around their tents like ghosts. He had been on watch when the first shouts rang out—a panicked scream, then the sickening crunch of steel splitting bone. His heart had thudded in his chest as he scrambled to grab his sword, but by the time he'd gotten to his feet, chaos had already descended.

The Ironborn were upon them, grim-faced men in dark armor, cutting through his comrades like wheat before the scythe. But it wasn't the Ironborn that he feared. No, it was her.

Hela Greyjoy.

Even as far away as the Stepstones, Saharos had heard tales of her. The Devil Child, the old sailors whispered, borne of salt and sea and raised by the Lord Reaper of Pyke. The one who carried the blood of gods. He hadn't believed it, not really. It was just sailor talk, he told himself, stories meant to scare away cowards and superstitious whispers. But when he saw her that day, tearing through his brothers with a spear in hand, her eyes cold and blazing like storm-swept seas, Saharos knew the truth.

She was no mortal. She was a force of nature. A storm given flesh.

He had watched in horror as she tore through men twice her size, their weapons useless in her wake. She was faster than any of them, more brutal. The way she moved—calculated, efficient, every strike landing with deadly precision. And the roar she let out, that unearthly sound—he could still hear it echoing in his mind, like the howl of some vengeful god.

One by one, his brothers had fallen. His comrades—men he had fought with for years—had been reduced to bloody, broken corpses in a matter of minutes. It wasn't even a battle. It was slaughter. Saharos had frozen, his sword heavy in his hand, as he watched her carve her way through them. She seemed to take joy in it, the way her lips curved in the briefest of smiles as she drove her spear through a man's chest, the way she casually dodged blows that should have cut her down.

And then, for a moment, she had looked at him. Just a glance, but it was enough. Her eyes—green and cold and full of that horrible, unfeeling power—locked onto his, and in that instant, he knew what true fear was. She was death. Not just a killer, not just a warrior—she was death incarnate, and she had seen him.

That was when he ran. He didn't even remember making the decision, didn't remember turning his back on his brothers and fleeing like a coward. His legs had moved on their own, driven by the pure, animalistic need to survive. He had stumbled through the camp, tripping over bodies, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he scrambled toward the shore. His only thought was escape—get to the water, get away from her.

The last thing he had seen before he dove into the sea was Hela Greyjoy standing amidst the carnage, her spear dripping with blood, her face calm and serene as though the slaughter was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, as though she wasn't covered in blood and gore. The Ironborn cheered her name, but Saharos only heard the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Now, he was alone. Adrift. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, but he didn't feel its warmth. All he felt was cold—cold from the water, cold from the fear that still clung to his bones. The driftwood beneath him bobbed and creaked, barely holding his weight as he floated aimlessly in the open sea.

Saharos Dro had never been a devout man. He had lived by the sword, taken what he wanted, cared little for gods or prayers. But now, as he floated in that endless expanse of water, he made a vow. He would change. He would be a better man, a god-fearing man, a man who followed the old ways of the sea and gave proper reverence to the Drowned God and every other deity that watched over them. He would never again raise a blade against those touched by the divine.

And he would never—never—set foot on any sea where Hela Greyjoy sailed.

The world had enough gods, and Hela Greyjoy was a reminder that some gods walked among them. Some gods took pleasure in the slaughter.

He would be sure never to cross paths with one again.

The Red Reaper... the Red Dawn... the Scourge of the Tides... the Breaker of the Oceans.