5

Valon Greyjoy despised weddings. The feasts, the endless courtesies, the meaningless pomp – it all felt like a waste of time and breath. Greenlander customs grated on his nerves. The Ironborn didn't need gilded halls or polished manners to seal a union. But Valon had been smiling more often lately, his usually stern face softened by something he couldn't entirely explain. His daughter, Hela, was a force of nature, and the thought of her exploits filled him with a pride so fierce it sometimes left his chest tight.

He gripped the carved railing of his ship, Storm Breaker, the salt wind biting against his cheeks as they docked. The smell of the harbor assaulted his nose – a mix of rotting fish, stagnant water, and the sharp tang of human filth. His lips twitched downward as his gaze swept over King's Landing. The sprawling city was a maze of crowded buildings, smoke rising in lazy spirals from countless chimneys. He could hear the din of the bustling port: shouting merchants, creaking wood, and the distant clang of a hammer on steel.

Valon's fingers drummed against the pommel of his sword, the rhythm sharp and deliberate. This was no place for an Ironborn lord. It most definitely was not, because not a single person in the Red Keep had expected him to come, likely not even the king himself. And yet, he did.

And here he was. The first of his kind to set foot in King's Landing.

Behind him, his men disembarked. They moved like shadows, quiet and watchful, their sea-worn leathers and salt-crusted mail a stark contrast to the richly dressed dockworkers bustling about. Valon turned to glance at them, noting the set jaws and narrowed eyes. Even they seemed uneasy in this foreign place. He suppressed the urge to bark orders to return to the ship.

A wedding. He was here for a wedding, but not just any wedding, of course.

The King, Viserys Targaryen, a man he couldn't care less about, was marrying Alicent Hightower, yet another person he couldn't care less about. Honestly, the only thing of note when it came to the Targaryens were their dragons. After all, Aegon the Conqueror brought Westeros to heel upon the back of Balerion the Black Dread. And the other dragons, though lesser, were no less destructive.

His hands tightened on the carved kraken at his belt as he stepped onto the gangplank. He could hear the distant echoes of laughter and music from the Red Keep. The thought of entering that great stone fortress made his shoulders stiffen. He had no business here. None of them did. But Hela's deeds had left him open to strange impulses. Joyful impulses. And joy was a dangerous thing.

Joyful impulses were the exact reason as to why he was even here, so far away from the Iron Islands, from his seat of power. Happiness. His perfect daughter had flooded his mind and heart with so much happiness that Valon oft found himself making decisions he otherwise would not have made before she was born, like granting freedom to a bunch of sniveling thralls or, case in point, attending a wedding that he most definitely didn't care for.

But, Valon was here anyway. And there was no turning back.

He walked with purpose, his boots hitting the dock with a steady thud. His men followed in his wake, bearing the chests of gifts he'd brought for the king and his bride. Fine silver goblets, a tapestry of the Iron Islands woven by the thralls, and a bone-white harp that was made entirely of dragon bone, an artifact Valon had personally plundered in his younger days – gifts meant to dazzle the soft Greenlanders. Valon's lips curled upward, just a fraction, at the thought of their reaction.

Let them think the Ironborn crude barbarians. Let them underestimate. They would not be prepared when his daughter, the Breaker of the Oceans, would rise and fall upon them like a tidal wave.

As his men worked, his mind wandered to the letter from his brother, Yarek. He hadn't expected much when he broke the seal – just another report of a raid, a haul, the usual victories, accompanied by his daughter, Hela. But Yarek's words had made him pause. His brother's scrawled lines spoke of Hela's triumphs, each one more fantastic than the last.

He could almost picture Yarek's dark grimace as he wrote the tale of the merchant prince who dared to covet Hela.

Valon's lips twitched at the memory. His hands tightened around the parchment as he'd read about how Hela took offense to the merchant's offer to buy her – a parchment he kept in his robes.

She'd flayed the merchant prince alive in broad daylight, turned his skin into a cape, and carved his skull into a bowl – all this after defeating said merchant prince's retinue of Unsullied, slaughtering them to the last. Valon's throat had tightened as he read that, his breath sharp and shallow. A strange warmth had spread through his chest, his fingers trembling slightly as he clutched the letter. His perfect daughter. His unstoppable storm.

No father could possibly be as proud as he. He'd heard that Rhaenyra Targaryen was known as the Realm's Delight, called as such by her father. Tsk, a boring title. Valon's daughter was the Red Scourge.

The memory flickered, replaced by the sights and sounds of King's Landing as he walked further down the dock. The city was chaos. Merchants shouted over one another, carts jostled for space, and stray dogs barked as they darted between clusters of people. Valon's jaw clenched. He hated the noise, the smell, the teeming mass of people. The air here felt wrong. Heavy. Too warm.

His men, no doubt, would be spending most of their time in the numerous brothels of King's Landing whenever they weren't accompanying him for the feasts – most of them, anyway. The Lord of the Iron Islands was never without the company of his Drowned Swords, warriors who'd sworn an unbreakable oath to forever serve and defend their liege, similar to the Kingsguard, but not forbidden from taking on salt or rock wives if they wished.

A dockhand approached, his clothes fine but practical, though he stood with the hunch of someone who bowed often. He glanced nervously at Valon's armed men before speaking, his voice trembling slightly. "Welcome to King's Landing, Lord Greyjoy. I have been tasked with escorting you and your... warriors to the Red Keep."

Valon raised an eyebrow, his gaze raking over the man without a word. The dockhand shifted under his scrutiny, his shoulders pulling inward. Valon finally nodded, a short, sharp gesture, and motioned for his men to follow. They hoisted the chests with practiced ease, their faces unreadable. A small host of gold cloaks accompanied them.

As they moved through the streets, Valon's fingers never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. The crowds parted for them, whispers rippling in their wake. He caught snatches of words—"Ironborn," "reavers," "kraken lord." The corners of his mouth twitched upward again. Let them whisper.

Let them tremble.

Ahead, the gates of the Red Keep loomed, its iron spikes catching the light of the setting sun. Valon slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. The fortress was vast, its towers clawing at the sky, its walls impenetrable. He'd never seen the Red Keep before. But it did seem like an awfully difficult place to breach, let alone siege.

He inhaled deeply, the scent of the sea faint now, replaced by the metallic tang of stone and steel. There were many knights and soldiers walking about or standing still, and just as many heraldries being carried about. Truth be told, Valon barely recognized the sigils of most of them, save – perhaps – for the sigils of the Great Houses, the only ones important enough for him to remember. And it seemed like all the Great Houses were present – their representatives, anyway. Valon straightened his shoulders, his steps firm as he approached the gates. He was here as a guest, but he was still an Ironborn lord. And the Ironborn bowed to no one.

Not even dragons.

But Valon had no wish to stir any trouble, especially not in a royal wedding that he himself chose to attend. And, honestly, despite what his fellow Ironborn might think, Valon really didn't have much of an ego. After all, power – true power – was on the ground, ready to be picked up by anyone who was prepared to sink low enough to get it. The prideful never truly became powerful, because their pride limited them – their ego blinded them. Valon was not prideful – at least, not towards himself or his station.

But, in here, in this wedding, was opportunity. Valon had no interest in partaking in political nonsense, otherwise known as the Great Game by the cunts who played it. No, he wasn't so naive as to believe, even for a moment, that any of the lords and ladies here were, in any way, remotely interested in the Iron Islands. In fact, Valon was quite certain that, like the Farmans and the Mormonts, most of them would hold nothing but disdain for his home and its people, and – to be fair – Valon couldn't blame them. The opportunity that was present in this whole bloody affair was in learning.

His daughter was growing and, as Yarek himself would attest through his letters, Hela was growing stronger and stronger with every passing month. Once, Valon had dreamed of conquest – of becoming a great and terrible King, perhaps becoming the one who could free his people from the claws of the Targaryens and their dragons. That dream eventually faded. But now that dream of his had been reignited. Valon Greyjoy may never be king. But his daughter, Hela Greyjoy, would be a Queen.

Valon would learn, in her stead, before her rise to power, the strengths and weakness of the Great and Minor Houses, the troubles that ailed the House of the Dragon, the political nonsense that divided or united them. He would learn. He would even make new friends and force a smile withe very conversation if that was what it took to learn. Valon would pave the way for Hela's rise.

For the world to, once again, tremble before the Ironborn.

And those were the exact thoughts that ran through Valon's head when he smiled and knelt before the King of Westeros, Viserys Targaryen, first of his name. Kneeling had never been so easy. Before him was the king, not seated on the Iron Throne as he would've expected, no. He'd been led to some private chamber or some such, smaller than the main court, but no less grand and certainly far more spacious and opulent than Valon's own court in Pyke.

The king was accompanied only by a handful of servants and an elderly man, whom Valon assumed was the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, though he wasn't entirely certain about that.

"Hail, King Viserys Targaryen. I am Valon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, ever your loyal servant. My life is yours." Lying through his teeth, Valon found, was actually quite easy, though he'd prefer not to do it often.

The king was... not impressive, honestly. And, as Valon heard it, the man didn't even have a dragon.

What was the point of being a Targaryen if you didn't have a dragon? It was like being Ironborn and not knowing how to swim.

Aside from that, Viserys Targaryen did not look like he could run or walk up a flight of stairs for more than ten minutes without wheezing and panting and seeing his life flash before his eyes. Or just falling and dying.

But then, Valon had already expected such a thing.

The king smiled brightly and stood up, and made a welcoming gesture with both hands. Despite his weaknesses, Valon could tell, at least, that Viserys Targaryen was kind. And, perhaps, that was good enough for a ruler. "I welcome you to the heart of my home and kingdom, Lord Greyjoy. Never before has an Ironborn from the Iron Islands stepped foot inside the Red Keep to affirm their allegiance. I am overjoyed by your presence. Stand, Lord Greyjoy, and let us partake in bread and salt."

Valon rose smoothly, his hands brushing the folds of his dark, salt-stained cloak. The faintest trace of a smirk played at the corners of his lips as he stepped forward, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. His eyes flicked to the table set between them, laden with a modest spread of bread, salt, and wine. The Red Keep's wealth was clear, even in its simplest gestures. The silver goblets gleamed, and the bread was crusted golden and fresh. He glanced at the servants, who moved like shadows, their heads bowed, their hands deft and silent.

Viserys motioned toward the table, his smile broad, his cheeks flushed as though he'd been drinking already. His hands, thick and soft, gestured for Valon to sit across from him. Valon hesitated for half a heartbeat, then inclined his head and stepped forward, lowering himself into the chair with a deliberate slowness. The chair creaked faintly under his weight, but he sat straight, his shoulders square.

The king picked up the bread with his pale hands, broke it in two, and dipped a piece into the small dish of salt. He brought it to his lips and chewed, his gaze never leaving Valon. Valon's own fingers twitched slightly as he mimicked the act, breaking a piece of bread and dipping it with precision. He lifted it to his mouth, his jaw tightening as he chewed. The granting of Guest Rights was not an act Valon did often, usually because he never needed to. Valon forced a smile.

He was getting pretty good at this.

"Now, Lord Greyjoy," Viserys said, his voice warm and full of cheer, "you are bound to my hospitality and no harm shall come to you under my roof and protection. Let us speak freely, as friends. The seas must have been restless to bring an Ironborn lord so far from his shores."

Valon's lips twitched again, though whether it was amusement or something else, even he wasn't sure. He leaned back slightly, his hand resting on the arm of the chair, his fingers idly tapping. The thought of the perfect reply in a heartbeat. "The seas always speak, Your Grace. It is up to us to listen. When I received your invitation, I heard the waves calling me to King's Landing. An opportunity, I thought, to mend bridges long broken."

Viserys's brow lifted, and he leaned forward, his fingers lacing together atop the table. "Bridges, you say? The Ironborn have always been... independent. It gladdens my heart to hear a lord such as yourself speak of unity."

Valon inclined his head, his gaze steady. "The Ironborn have endured much. Isolation breeds strength, yes, but strength without direction is wasted. It seemed time to step out from our waters and show our loyalty to the Iron Throne."

Otto Hightower, seated to the king's right, shifted in his chair. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, fixed on Valon. The man hadn't spoken a word, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Valon could feel the weight of his stare, the way his mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. A man who measured words carefully.

Dangerous.

Interesting.

Viserys chuckled softly, breaking the tension. "A wise sentiment. Too often, we let old grudges fester. Tell me, Lord Greyjoy, how fares your family? Your daughter, I hear, is already making a name for herself."

Valon's fingers stilled. He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into a full smile for the first time.

"Hela," he said, her name rolling off his tongue like the crash of a wave. "She is... exceptional. She makes me proud, though I would expect no less from one born of salt and sea."

Viserys raised his goblet, his smile widening. "A daughter who brings pride to her father is a treasure beyond measure. Perhaps, one day, we may meet her."

Valon's grip on the chair tightened ever so slightly, his nails grazing the polished wood. "Perhaps, Your Grace. I'm sure she would love to learn more about the House of the Dragon. My daughter is young and has much to learn. And Hela is a very eager learner."

She actually was quite the eager learner. Yarek noted that Hela often collected books during raids, instead of gold or coin.

Otto finally spoke, his voice calm but probing. "Youth is a time for lessons, yes, but also for ambition. Stories of her bravery already reach as far as the Reach and beyond. And yet, she is but a girl. I must ask: are any of these stories true?"

Valon turned his head slowly toward Otto, his smile never faltering, though the sharpness in his eyes cut like a blade. He did not miss the insult, though he'd always known that Green Landers seemed to look down on their own women; the southern ones did, anyway. Northerners were an entirely different matter. Valon found that he was not angered. In fact, knowing Hela, she would prefer to be underestimated. "Ambition is a virtue in the Iron Islands, Lord Hand. We honor those who strive for greatness. My daughter is no different. I have known no other Ironborn who has strived harder than her. The stories of her exploits are as true as any other."

Otto nodded slightly, but his eyes remained fixed on Valon, unblinking. A silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint clink of silverware as Viserys picked up his goblet and took a long sip.

"A time will come," Viserys said, his voice light once more, "when the Ironborn and the Iron Throne may walk closer paths. It pleases me to hear of your loyalty, Lord Greyjoy."

Valon inclined his head again, his voice smooth as oil. "The Ironborn are ever at your service, Your Grace."

But his mind was already elsewhere, turning over the words Otto had spoken, the careful way the Hand had studied him. Watching. Measuring. He would need to tread carefully in this court of whispers and games. But then again, he had always enjoyed the sea most when the waves were rough.