hela in got ctd 6

Valon Greyjoy would admit, begrudgingly, that the Greenlanders knew how to feast. Or, at least, their king did. He doubted the other lords and ladies could rival this display, though even their poorer tables were likely leagues ahead of what the Iron Islands could muster. On Pyke, feasts were simpler affairs: salted fish, black bread, and the occasional roasted pig – a luxury that cost thrice as much as it did on the mainland. Mead and wine were only plentiful when stolen, and even then, it was rarely of decent quality.

He tore another piece of roast meat from the bone in his hand, chewing slowly as he glanced around the hall. The smell of spiced venison filled the air, mingling with the aroma of roasted duck, freshly baked bread, and rich gravies. Valon swallowed, savoring the strange sweetness in the venison, a mix of honey and soft cheese stuffed into the meat. Odd, he thought, but it worked. His hand reached for another slice, his movements unhurried but deliberate.

Around him, lords and ladies spoke in low voices, laughter breaking out now and then. Servants moved like shadows, carrying platters piled high with food and pitchers of wine that never seemed to empty. Gold and silver gleamed everywhere – in the goblets, the candelabras, even the embroidery on the guests' robes. Valon's eyes flicked to his men, seated further down the table, their faces half-hidden behind thick mugs of ale. They weren't used to such abundance, and it showed in the way they ate, tearing into the food like wolves. Valon smirked faintly, a shred of amusement breaking through his usual stoicism.

He glanced to his right. King Viserys sat at the head of the table, a goblet in one hand, the other picking at a platter of honeyed breads and delicate pastries. His laughter boomed as he leaned toward his daughter, Rhaenyra, who giggled at something he said. The princess, all of nine years old, was busy stuffing her cheeks with pastries, crumbs scattering across her silk gown. Valon's brow furrowed slightly as he watched her, then turned his attention back to the table before him.

He reached for a slice of bread, thick and crusty, tearing it in half before dipping it into the juices pooling beneath the roast venison. The sweetness of the meat lingered on his tongue, but the bread grounded it, its salt and simplicity cutting through the richness. He took another bite, his jaw working steadily, savoring the familiar texture.

The pastries, on the other hand, were an abomination. He'd tried one earlier, curious about the golden, flaky thing the princess seemed to favor. The first bite had nearly made him gag – too sweet, the honey cloying and thick. He'd swallowed it quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and vowed never to touch the stuff again. Sweetness, it seemed, did not agree with him.

He glanced toward the king again, noting the way Viserys beamed as he spoke, gesturing with his free hand. His smile was broad, his cheeks flushed pink, whether from wine or happiness, Valon couldn't tell. The man seemed to have a genuine joy about him, a warmth that filled the room. It was... disarming, in its own way. But Valon's gaze didn't linger long. His eyes shifted to the other lords, studying their faces, their postures, the subtle way they leaned toward or away from one another.

Further down the table, Otto Hightower sat stiffly, his goblet untouched. His pale green doublet was spotless, the embroidery at his cuffs catching the light as he rested one hand on the table, the other on the arm of his chair. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his eyes flicked from guest to guest with sharp precision. Valon's lips quirked upward slightly. A man to watch, that one. Though, for now, Otto had nothing to worry about. Valon was and would likely be on his best behavior for quite a while and, honestly, he'd not discovered anything of note or interest just yet. Everyone was happy. Everyone feasted. The wedding was moving along smoothly.

Valon wiped his hand on the cloth at his side, then reached for his goblet. The wine was rich, heavier than what he was used to, but it went down easily enough. He tipped the cup back, drinking deeply, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he set it down again with a soft clink.

Greenlanders and their excess, he thought. Wasteful, indulgent. But even he couldn't deny the appeal of a full belly and a table that never emptied. For now, at least, he could tolerate it. Let the Greenlanders have their honey and gold.

"A toast to the King!"

The voice boomed above the clatter of cups and the low hum of conversation, drawing every gaze in the hall. The man who stood was a mountain of flesh and fury, his great black beard flecked with crumbs and drops of red wine that glistened under the torchlight. His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, the telltale bloom of too much drink. The sigil on his chest – a crowned stag on a field of black – marked him as Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End.

Valon's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the man, who swayed just a little as he stood, gripping the edge of the table for balance. Baratheon's voice carried easily across the room, deep and rough like a breaking wave.

Valon leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against his goblet. He wasn't sure what was more impressive: the man's sheer bulk or the audacity of standing mid-feast to command attention from the King of the Seven Kingdoms. A fleeting thought crossed Valon's mind, unbidden: How difficult would it be to take Storm's End? He'd pondered it before. The castle was legendary, a fortress built to withstand even the fiercest storms. "Very difficult" was the likely answer. But there was always a simpler solution – skip the siege, raid the lands, and bleed the Stormlords dry.

Not that such a thing was wise. Not with dragons watching from the skies. Still, it was an idea worth keeping in the back of one's mind.

Borros raised his goblet high, sloshing wine over the rim, his voice booming once more. "May his marriage prosper! May his health stay true! And may his house swell with sons and daughters!"

A cheer erupted around the hall, the sound rising like the tide, echoing off the high stone walls. Goblets clanged against one another, the rich, golden wine spilling freely as men and women roared their approval. "Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!"

Valon remained seated, though he raised his cup, his lips curling in a faint smirk. The Ironborn lord tipped his goblet just enough to appear part of the toast, the dark liquid inside barely disturbed. He cast a glance toward the head of the table, where King Viserys beamed, his cheeks ruddy, his laughter loud and unrestrained. The golden goblet in his hand caught the flicker of the torchlight, shining like the crown upon his head.

Viserys raised his cup higher, his voice breaking through the noise, filled with warmth and mirth.

"Thank you, Lord Borros!" He laughed, the sound spilling out like an overflowing brook, his broad smile bright enough to rival the candles. "And thank you, my lords and ladies! Your loyalty is a blessing to me and to my house!"

The hall responded with another thunderous cheer, chairs scraping against the stone as more lords rose to join the toast. Valon's gaze flicked across the room, noting the faces lit with joy – or at least the well-practiced masks of it. Some, like Baratheon, were flushed with wine and revelry, their cheers genuine. Others, their smiles tight and eyes calculating, drank to the king with all the enthusiasm of a man swallowing seawater.

His eyes paused briefly on Otto Hightower, seated at the king's right hand. The Hand's lips barely moved as he raised his cup, his face a mask of calm. The man drank, but his eyes darted toward Borros, lingering for a moment before flicking back to Viserys.

Interesting.

Across the table, Rhaenyra clapped her small hands together, her silver hair catching the light as she giggled. She reached for her own goblet – more juice than wine – and raised it high, mimicking her father's gesture with childish delight. The king leaned toward her, his arm wrapping around her slender shoulders as he said something too soft for Valon to hear. The princess laughed again, her cheeks dimpled as she pressed her goblet to her lips.

Valon set his goblet down slowly, letting the faint clink of metal against wood go unnoticed amid the rising din. His eyes returned to Borros Baratheon, who had dropped back into his chair with all the grace of a boulder rolling down a hill. The man grabbed a hunk of bread, tearing into it with his teeth, wine spilling over his hand as he set his goblet down carelessly. He was speaking now to the lord beside him – some poor bastard who looked ready to sink into his chair – but his booming laugh carried over the table, unchecked.

Valon's lips twitched. A dangerous man, not for his cunning but for his sheer unpredictability. A man who might stand firm against a storm but could be undone by his own drunken boasts. A man worth watching.

As the hall roared on, Valon's gaze drifted once more to the king. Viserys was still laughing, still smiling, basking in the warmth of his court's adoration. And yet, Valon couldn't help but wonder how many in this room truly meant their words. He tapped his fingers against the table, slow and deliberate.

"Long live the King," he murmured, his voice low, drowned out by the cheers. His eyes glinted, his smirk deepening. Let them drink and cheer. The waves were calm now, but storms always followed.

Valon stood up, brushing crumbs from his tunic with one hand as he turned toward the hall's archway. The warmth of the feast lingered on his skin, the air thick with wine and roasted meats. A walk through the gardens seemed a fine way to clear his head, away from the laughter and clamor. He adjusted the kraken-emblazoned clasp at his shoulder and stepped toward the exit, his boots clicking softly on the polished stone floor.

As he approached the doorway, a man in a crimson doublet stepped into his path. Blonde hair, green eyes, and golden embroidery shaped like roaring lions.

A Lannister.

Valon's brows rose slightly, but he schooled his face into a polite smile. "Greetings, Lord Tymond Lannister."

Tymond mirrored the expression, his own smile sharp and practiced.

"Greetings to you as well, Lord Greyjoy," Tymond said, his voice smooth. He took a step closer, inclining his head slightly.

Valon noted the man's posture – relaxed, almost too much so. Tymond stood with the air of someone who had little to fear, though his eyes betrayed a keen curiosity. Westerlanders, Valon mused, carried grudges long past their use. Of all the lords in the Seven Kingdoms, they remembered the raiders of old most vividly, their stolen gold and razed coasts. Valon's smile deepened, polite but faintly amused. Let Tymond try to see the old reaver in him. It would make his daughter's rise all the more satisfying.

"How goes the Iron Islands?" Tymond asked, his tone casual.

Valon tilted his head, considering the question. Odd, but harmless. Likely just a preamble. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword as he replied, his voice steady. "As well as it could be. There's an abundance of fish, salt, iron, and krakens. And you, my lord? How fares the Westerlands?"

Tymond's lips twitched upward.

"Prosperous, as ever," he said, spreading his arms in a small gesture.

"The gold flows, the mines are strong, and our coffers swell. But," his gaze sharpened, "there are stories that flow faster than gold these days."

Valon raised a brow. He didn't ask, letting the silence hang as his smile grew faintly expectant.

Tymond leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Sailors talk, Lord Greyjoy. They speak of storms and blood. Of a girl – your daughter, I believe, Hela Greyjoy – who brings krakens to heel and reaps the seas themselves. A curious tale. I wondered if you might enlighten me?"

Valon's fingers tightened briefly on the hilt of his sword, then relaxed. His lips curled into a broader smile, though his eyes remained steady, calculating. "Ah, sailors. The drink and the waves do strange things to men's tongues. They spin yarns as easily as they haul nets. My daughter is no exception to their fanciful tales, it seems."

Tymond tilted his head, his gaze probing, a single brow raised in curiosity. "So, it's not true, then? The tales of her killing a kraken with her bare hands? Of her tearing through schools of fish-men like a blade through silk?"

Valon laughed softly, the sound low and smooth. "Lord Lannister, if even half the tales about my daughter were true, I suspect she'd be sitting on the Iron Throne by now. But alas, Hela is young. Ambitious, certainly, but young."

He spread his hands slightly, as if to dismiss the notion. Having to deny the tails of his daughter was almost physically painful, but necessary. "She spends her time on the Isles, learning what it means to lead. These sailor's stories? Exaggerations. Nothing more."

Tymond frowned faintly, his fingers brushing his chin. "Is that so? Still, even exaggerations must stem from something. It's rare for tales of a young girl to inspire such fear among hardened men of the sea."

Valon's smile didn't falter, though his jaw tensed briefly before he spoke again. "Fear? Perhaps. The Ironborn have always carried a reputation, Lord Lannister. My daughter is no different. They see her strength and twist it into something monstrous."

He stepped forward slightly, his tone cooling. "It flatters me that my beloved daughter, my greatest pride and joy, inspires such stories, but I assure you, they are just that – stories."

Tymond's gaze lingered on Valon's face, his lips curving into a slow smile. "You defend her with such conviction, Lord Greyjoy. Admirable, really. But I'll admit, I find myself intrigued. Perhaps one day, I'll meet this... young leader of yours. I'd enjoy seeing the truth of her strength with my own eyes."

Valon chuckled softly, though the sound didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps one day, Lord Lannister. Though, I fear you may find her no different than any other daughter of Westeros. A young girl with much to learn."

Tymond inclined his head, his smile lingering. "Perhaps. Until then, I'll let the sailors keep their tales. They make for fine entertainment, if nothing else. Hela Greyjoy is your heir, yes?"

Valon's hand brushed the kraken clasp at his shoulder. He nodded once, the motion slow. "Yes, she is. Of course, our ways are different. Many will rise to challenge her, and many shall be humbled. I understand that female heirs are... not exactly common among the Greenlanders."

"They are not," Tymond replied flatly, his tone almost dismissive. "Daughters are given away to form alliances. The ones without value may become Septas."

His gaze flickered, shifting briefly to the head of the hall. Valon followed it, noting how Tymond's eyes lingered on the king before sliding toward the girl seated beside him – Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Valon tilted his head slightly, watching Tymond's expression with interest. The Lannister lord was building toward something, though what it was, Valon couldn't yet tell. Tymond met his gaze again, his smile returning but colder now. "Lord Valon, you're aware that Rhaenyra Targaryen is the king's heir, yes?"

Valon shrugged, his shoulders rolling easily under his salt-stained cloak. "Of course. Everyone in the realm knows that. Why do you ask?"

Tymond leaned in slightly, just enough to close the space between them without drawing attention.

"If Lady Alicent bears a son," he said, his voice low and measured, "there is every chance we may see... a succession crisis of a sort. When that time comes, the realm will divide. You know of King Jaehaerys' Great Council, I assume?"

His eyes searched Valon's face, looking for a flicker of understanding.

Valon frowned slightly, the movement faint but deliberate.

"I do," he said, his voice calm, almost casual. "It decided who would sit the Iron Throne. But why mention it now? Surely, King Viserys's word is law, and his daughter remains his chosen heir."

Tymond's mouth quirked upward in a half-smile, but his eyes remained sharp. "Most of the lords will not pledge their swords to a queen – a woman who will rule over them. That much is certain. When the time comes – and it will come – lines will be drawn. Blood may spill. I merely wonder where the Iron Islands might stand in such... chaos."

Valon smiled, though his teeth showed faintly, like a wolf deciding whether to bite. He let Tymond's words settle, weighing their implications. And then, Valon shrugged. "Quite frankly, Lord Tymond, the Iron Island will not be involved in such a matter. I, for one, would very much prefer to not be anywhere near dragon fire should the Targaryens decide to settle the matter in the... same manner as Maegor."

Tymond huffed. "An interesting – if understandable – answer, Lord Valon."

"Then, it seems you and I, and our children, are in for some... interesting times." His tone was light, almost jovial, but his grip on the clasp at his shoulder tightened briefly.

Tymond stepped back, the smoothness of his movement unbroken, as though satisfied he'd planted his seed of doubt. He gestured toward the hall, his golden lion brooch catching the flickering light. "Enjoy your walk, Lord Greyjoy. I look forward to seeing what truths – and stories – your daughter may yet bring to the realm."

Valon inclined his head, the motion curt. He watched Tymond retreat, the man's crimson-clad form weaving through the revelers like a predator searching for its next mark. Valon's hand fell to his side as he turned toward the gardens, his steps firm but slow.

The cool night air greeted him as he stepped into the gardens, the sound of the feast dimming behind him. His fingers brushed the kraken clasp again, the movement almost absentminded. His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line as Tymond's words replayed in his mind. And then, he grinned. "Interesting..."

A succession crisis sounded like the perfect moment to strike. Hopefully, his perfect daughter will have reached her full potential by then.

Let them underestimate her, he thought, his gaze shifting to the dark sky above, where stars glittered faintly. Let them believe the sailors' tales are drunken fantasies, spun by men with too much drink and too little sense. When the time comes, they will learn the truth.

But by then, it will be far too late.

Valon Greyjoy stepped into the gardens of the Red Keep, the cool evening air brushing against his face. The soft rustle of leaves and the faint scent of blooming flowers were a welcome reprieve from the noise and heat of the feast hall. He adjusted his cloak, letting the fabric settle over his broad shoulders as his boots crunched softly on the gravel path.

He had barely taken a dozen steps when a ripple of laughter reached his ears. A small group of noble ladies, draped in silks and jewels, emerged from a nearby alcove, their faces lit with curiosity and mischief. They moved toward him like a flock of brightly feathered birds, their skirts rustling as they walked.

"Lord Greyjoy," one of them called, her voice lilting. She was tall and golden-haired, with a sharp smile that hinted at both charm and calculation. "What a surprise to see you out here. We were just discussing the Iron Islands."

Valon raised an eyebrow, his lips curling. "Well, then, my lady, I believe I may be of some assistance."

For someone so cruel, so callous, so utterly malevolent, Hela Greyjoy – infamous as the Red Scourge, the Lady Reaper, the terror whose name alone emptied pirate coves – had moments of surprising kindness. These moments were rare, fleeting as the sun on a stormy sea, but they baffled her crew all the same. Hardened Ironborn, men who'd seen their share of horrors, whispered of her mercurial nature in hushed tones. They feared her more than they feared the Drowned God, yet her unexpected decrees left them puzzled, glancing at each other with wide eyes and furrowed brows.

The most jarring of her orders came after a particularly brutal raid on a pirate cove. The Bronze Kraken had returned laden with spoils – gold, weapons, fine silks – but not a single thrall was chained in its hold. Yarek Greyjoy, captain of the ship and Hela's uncle, stood on the deck as his crew exchanged uncertain glances, their hands hesitating over the oars.

It was Hela herself who had forbidden it.

"There will be no taking of Salt Wives," she had declared, her voice cold and unyielding. "Not as long as I stand on this ship."

None had dared to argue. The memory of her fury was still fresh – the way her emerald eyes had glowed with unearthly light as she stood among the bodies of the slain, her black blades dripping with gore. To question her would have been folly. Even the boldest among them had remained silent, their gazes fixed firmly on the deck.

Yarek, however, had pressed her on the matter later, in the quiet of his quarters. He had leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his weathered face creased with curiosity.

"Why?" he had asked simply. "Salt Wives are our way. Have been for centuries. Many among us are descended from them."

Hela had been seated, sharpening one of her dark, unnatural blades. The sound of stone scraping against its edge filled the silence before she replied. Her gaze lifted to meet his, calm and unwavering.

"Ironborn should only breed with the strong and the worthy," she said, her voice low and measured. "Fellow warriors. Not slaves. Not anymore."

Yarek had straightened slightly at that, his brows lifting.

"The strong and the worthy," he repeated, tasting the words like salt on his tongue. He'd thought of protesting, but the blade in her hand glinted under the lamplight, its edge sharp enough to split bone, and he thought better of it. Instead, he'd simply nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "As you say."

Hela huffed. "I will rule over a kingdom of warriors, reavers, and conquerors – not slave-blooded knaves. There can be no weaknesses, especially not in the blood. Those who can be taken as Salt Wives lack the fire in their wombs to birth strong warriors."

She turned to the crew. "Breed with warriors - those who've proven their mettle - not mere slaves."

One of the men stepped forward, Thuron. "Not a whole lot of strong Ironborn women for that, Lady Reaper. And plenty of Ironborn were borne of Salt Wives. Harren the Black's mum was a Salt Wife. And he was the strongest there was- before you, Lady Reaper."

In that moment, Yarek thought Hela would just throw the man overboard for daring to speak to her - she'd killed men for far less, after all, like that merchant who bumped into her and did not apologize. Hela's emerald eyes narrowed for but a moment and Thuron gulped, before she shrugged and answered. "Then we take female children and raise them to be Ironborn - to fight and reave and sail as we do. And, when they grow of age, you may court them, assuming they prove worthy."

"Lay with your slaves if you wish - I care not. But any children you may derive from them will not Ironborn." She practically sneered that last bit.

The crew, however, had murmured among themselves, their confusion rippling through the ship like an undertow. Salt Wives were tradition, part of their identity as Ironborn. But none spoke their doubts aloud, for they knew what she was. They had seen her cleave through flesh and bone, reduce men to nothing more than broken heaps, and emerge without a scratch. They knew she could do the same to them without so much as breaking her stride. They'd try to obey in her presence, but that tradition likely was not going to change.

But, more than that, however, the Ironborn believed that Hela Greyjoy was more than just the daughter of Valon Greyjoy, but the vessel of the Drowned God himself – divinity.

And so, they obeyed. Some thought her mad, others divine. But all of them followed her orders without question, at least, in her presence.

For Hela, the matter was simple. A Salt Wife was nothing more than a badge of shame – a mark of a man who could not find a woman willing to stand beside him as an equal. It disgusted her. Strength bred strength, and Hela Greyjoy would see the Ironborn rise again, forged in the fires of battle, not born of broken captives.

Above all, she despised weakness - in herself and in others.

Yarek wasn't quite sure how that would go for her - or for the future of the Ironborn. Her banning of Salt Wives would not do well with most - if not all - the other Ironborn, but what could they possibly do against her? She grew stronger each day and, by the time she reached adulthood, Hela's blade magic and strength might just become strong enough to topple even the dragons themselves.

Ah, no, it wasn't kindness. Not really. It only seemed like kindness to those who might have been slaves if not for her intervention. The truth was simpler, colder. The blood of slaves was weak. To Hela Greyjoy, strength was the only virtue worth preserving, and strength did not come from broken chains or servitude.

So it was that, after burying their treasure deep within a lifeless cove on a barren isle of the Basilisk Isles, Yarek Greyjoy found himself once again puzzling over his niece's inscrutable mind. The sands there were pale and coarse, scattered with jagged rocks, the beach as unwelcoming as the gray waters that lapped against it. The gold and other expensive items had been hidden well, sealed in stone-lined pits beneath the sand. But while the crew grumbled softly about the effort, Yarek's mind lingered elsewhere – on the grim destination ahead.

The winds howled, and the turbulent waves slammed against the ship's sides, but the crew worked in practiced rhythm, unbothered by the sea's fury. What did bother them, however, was the course they followed, the whispers of what lay ahead. And yet none dared question it openly. Not with Hela Greyjoy standing at the prow, her dark hair streaming like a banner in the wind, her pale green eyes fixed unerringly on the horizon.

Even Yarek, the ship's captain and her uncle, could only voice his concerns in private. He approached her for what felt like the hundredth time that day, his voice low but firm.

"Are you sure of this, Hela?" His weathered hands gripped the railing as he glanced toward the churning sea ahead. "Sothoryos is a nightmarish place. Brindled ghouls, hideous monsters, deadly diseases – it's not a land for men to tread. What could you possibly want there?"

Hela turned to him, her expression calm, almost amused.

"The traders in New Ghis spoke of Yeen," she said, her tone steady but tinged with a hint of excitement. "An ancient, malevolent city built from black stone. The oldest city in the world, some say. There are patterns I've noticed, Uncle – threads that weave through the histories of this world. Secrets buried deep in time. I intend to find them."

Yarek's brow furrowed as he studied her. She spoke of these mysteries as though they were as tangible as the waves beneath their ship. He had no mind for such things. His knowledge began and ended with sails and steel. The past, as far as he was concerned, was nothing more than a graveyard of dead men's ambitions. "And what do you hope to find there, Hela? Ghosts? Curses? Yeen is ancient, yes, but it's cursed. No one who goes there returns. Its walls themselves are said to kill those who touch them."

Hela's lips curled faintly, not quite a smile.

"I've never feared ghosts, Uncle. As for curses... I will judge their power for myself." Her gaze shifted back to the horizon, sharp and focused. "The answers I seek are not in the comfort of the familiar. They lie where others dare not look."

Yarek sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. The sea wind whipped at his gray-streaked hair, and his fingers tightened on the railing. "As you say, dear niece. As you say. But I'll tell you this: the men are brave and loyal, but bravery alone won't save them from the Green Hell. They've no defense against the fevers, the poison flies, the creatures that stalk the shadows. They can't follow you into Sothoryos."

"I know," Hela said simply. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though she'd already made her peace with it. She turned to him fully now, her pale green eyes meeting his. "That's why they won't set foot on its shores. This is my journey, not theirs."

Yarek nodded slowly, though his jaw tightened as he considered her words. He'd known it would come to this – Hela forging ahead alone, her will too strong, too unyielding to be swayed by reason. The crew would be relieved, no doubt, but the thought of her alone in that cursed jungle unsettled him in ways he couldn't name.

"And if you don't return?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "What then?"

Hela's gaze didn't waver. "I will return."

There was no hesitation in her words, no doubt. Yarek exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "You're a stubborn one, just like your father."

Her expression softened, if only for a moment. "He raised me to be nothing less."

Yarek pushed himself away from the railing, his hands settling on his hips as he looked out at the roiling waves. The horizon seemed darker now, the faint smudge of land ahead shrouded in mist. Sothoryos waited, vast and unknowable, a continent of nightmares. He'd led raids into treacherous waters, faced storms that could tear ships apart, but this – this felt different.

He turned back to his niece, his voice gruff but tinged with a rare note of affection. "Just come back in one piece, Hela. The crew may fear you, but they'd sooner sink than sail without the Red Scourge."

Hela's lips twitched upward, her faint smirk returning.

"They won't have to, uncle." She turned back toward the prow, her hands resting lightly on the wood as she faced the oncoming waves. The wind howled, carrying with it the distant cries of seabirds. Yarek watched her for a moment longer before retreating, his steps slow and heavy.

The Bronze Kraken sailed onward, cutting through choppy waves as the jungle of Sothoryos crept closer, a dark, unwelcoming silhouette against the horizon. The crew moved quietly, their whispers barely audible over the wind and the rhythmic creaking of the ship. They worked the ropes and oars with practiced precision, but their unease lingered in every glance cast toward the distant, shadowed land. The faint cries of unseen birds echoed across the water, shrill and haunting, adding to the growing tension.

None dared voice their fears aloud. Not with her standing at the prow.

Hela Greyjoy's figure was a sharp silhouette against the darkening sky, her cloak snapping in the wind. One hand rested on the railing, steady despite the ship's sway, her eyes fixed on the cursed land ahead. Her stance radiated calm, but there was an intensity in her gaze, a hunger that seemed to draw the very shadows closer. The crew avoided looking directly at her, their hands tightening on their tasks as if the motion alone could dispel their dread.

Behind her, Yarek Greyjoy exhaled deeply, running a hand through his salt-streaked hair. He stepped forward, boots thudding softly on the deck as he approached.

"Very well," he said at last, his voice low and heavy. "If you must do this, then do it. But stay safe, dear niece. Sothoryos is no ordinary land. Even you cannot wrestle disease, and the jungle is teeming with it. There are monsters there that would make even krakens seem tame."

Hela turned her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint smirk.

"I've faced worse," she said simply, her voice carrying easily over the wind. "Monsters are no more than little insects to be stomped."

Yarek snorted softly, crossing his arms over his chest. "So you say. We'll make port in one of the trade towns along the northern coast. You can charter a boat from there into the Zamoyos, though I doubt you'll find anyone foolish enough to row you into the Green Hell willingly."

Hela grinned at that, the expression sharp and full of amusement. "Then I'll row myself, if it comes to that."

Yarek shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. "Of course you would."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind and the distant crash of waves. Then Hela spoke again, her tone lighter. "After this, we'll return to the Iron Islands. The men could use some shore leave. Once they've rested, I intend to journey to the Thousand Islands. Will you accompany me there, Uncle?"

Yarek barked a short laugh, the sound genuine but laced with exhaustion.

"I think not, Hela. I believe I've had enough adventures with you to last a lifetime." He gestured vaguely at the sea around them, as though it held all the proof he needed. "When we return to the Iron Isles, I'll name you captain of the Bronze Kraken and its crew. You'll have free rein to do as you will. As for me? I've enough treasure to buy a manse in Lys and spend the rest of my days with good wine and bad women."

Hela blinked at his words, her sharp grin softening into something quieter. For a moment, her gaze left the jungle ahead and settled on him, her emerald eyes glinting with something unspoken.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said simply.

Yarek waved a hand dismissively, though his lips curved into a faint smile.

"It's long overdue. You've earned it a hundred times over." He stepped back, giving her a small nod before turning toward the helm. "Now, let's see if this cursed jungle lives up to its reputation."