7

A month passed, and still, no news. Hela was out there somewhere in the Green Hell, carving her path through the dense, humid jungle. Doing whatever it was that suited her fancy, no doubt. Something no mortal – not even the legends of the Age of Heroes – could have survived. Those who didn't know her said she must have perished within the first few days. The townsfolk here, dark-skinned and wiry from a lifetime of enduring the Sothoryosi heat, scoffed at the Ironborn's confidence. They muttered their doubts in low, rapid words, casting glances toward Yarek and his crew.

They didn't understand. But it was understandable. Hela's legend was still growing and there were few who know the horrifying things she was capable of, beyond the scant whispers here and there, spreading across port towns.

The Ironborn crew, however, never doubted for a moment. They'd seen her do the impossible. If Hela Greyjoy, the Red Scourge, the Lady Reaper, said she'd return, then she would. The waiting was what tested them. Not fear, but patience. The Green Hell, however, was testing something else entirely.

The sweltering heat clung to their skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive. Men sat shirtless, fanning themselves with whatever scraps of cloth or palm fronds they could find. Sweat dripped from brows and soaked into tunics, dark patches spreading like stains on their backs. Nights brought no reprieve. The air remained heavy, sticky, and warm, with mosquitoes and unseen insects buzzing incessantly around their ears. Days were worse, the sun glaring down with a ferocity that left their heads pounding and their tempers frayed.

Yarek had adapted quickly. His dark tunic hung loose, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his tanned, weathered arms. He drank deeply from a wooden cup filled with water spiked with something the locals called "tozo juice" - a tart, citrus-like flavor that seemed to ease the swelter, if only for a moment. He sat on the shaded porch of their rented manse, watching the lazy bustle of the shanty town beyond its gates.

Calling it a "manse" was generous. No manse he'd ever seen was built entirely of wood. The building leaned slightly to one side, its beams weathered and dark from the damp air. The thatched roof sagged in places, and the windows were little more than slits covered with woven mats to keep the worst of the insects at bay. Still, it was large enough for his men, and it kept the sun off their backs.

The food here, at least, was nothing short of a marvel. The dishes were spiced and vibrant, rich with flavors Yarek had never tasted before. Bowls of steaming rice mixed with chunks of tender meat, skewers dripping with fragrant sauces, and oddly shaped fruits that burst with sour-sweet juices when bitten into. He tore into a piece of grilled fish, its skin crisp and glistening with oil, and chewed thoughtfully.

His crew seemed to have adapted even faster, finding ways to ease the waiting. Many had taken to the local women, dark-skinned and sharp-eyed, who were more than willing to exchange their companionship for coin. The nights were filled with laughter and songs, bawdy jokes and the occasional scuffle, as the Ironborn made themselves comfortable.

Yarek had rented the entire manse for their stay, and though his men seemed to be enjoying themselves, he couldn't shake the itch beneath his skin. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden armrest. His eyes narrowed as they flicked toward the distant tree line, the horizon of the jungle where Hela had disappeared weeks ago.

There were no signs of her, no sounds, no whispers of the unnatural power she carried. The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his fingers brushing the coarse stubble that had grown in the weeks since their arrival.

"She'll return," Thok 'Seabeard' Gurnson muttered from where he lounged nearby, his voice low but firm. The old Ironborn took a swig from a mug of dark ale, his eyes half-closed as he leaned against the railing. "She always does."

Yarek glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in the faintest of smiles. "You have faith in her, like the rest of the crew?"

Thok snorted. "Not faith, Captain. Just sense. I've seen many unnatural things in my life, but Hela Greyjoy is... something else entirely. Can't rightly say whether or not she is or isn't the scion of the Drowned God as the men say, but I do one thing. That girl's not human; she couldn't possibly be human. She's made of steel and spite, and a thirst for blood that'd make our ancestors proud. You think a jungle's going to stop her?"

Yarek didn't answer, his gaze drifting back to the jungle. True enough. He was more worried about whatever was in the dungeon that'd have to deal with Hela's shenanigans.

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows across the dusty streets of the town. The air cooled slightly, though the heat still lingered, clinging to them like the humidity itself refused to let go. He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floor.

"Maybe not," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the evening chorus of insects. "But I'll feel better when I see her walk out of that hell herself."

And with that, Yarek stepped off the porch, his boots thudding against the dirt path. The jungle loomed in the distance, dark and impenetrable. Somewhere within its depths, his niece was carving her way toward answers only she seemed to understand. Until she returned, all he could do was wait. And waiting, Yarek decided, was worse than anything the jungle could throw at him.

A day later, she returned.

Hela Greyjoy emerged from the Green Hell like something born of the jungle's darkest depths. The first to spot her was a local boy, no older than ten, who had been idly kicking rocks along the edge of the village. His gasp rang out, sharp and startled, and soon others gathered, their movements frantic as whispers spread like wildfire.

She walked out of the treeline, dirt smeared across her skin, her armor and clothes hanging in tatters. Cuts crisscrossed her exposed arms and legs, some shallow, others deeper, all of them dried or crusted with blood. Her hair was matted with sweat and grime, her pale green eyes blazing with an intensity that froze those who dared to meet her gaze.

Behind her, she dragged a long, makeshift rope, knotted and fraying in places. Dangling from it were heads – grotesque, bleeding, rotting trophies. The first was larger than a man's torso, an ape-like monstrosity with fangs as long as a forearm and a skull that rivaled an elephant's. Next came the shaggy, snarling visages of Brindled Ghouls, their dead eyes still glassy. Massive reptilian heads followed, their scales dull and lifeless, jaws slack, teeth like jagged spikes. At the tail end of the rope were other, unidentifiable horrors – creatures so twisted and unnatural that even the seasoned sailors in Yarek's crew turned away, their faces pale and their stomachs churning.

The locals reacted first.

They fell to their knees as though the very earth beneath them demanded it. Some clasped their hands together in prayer, their voices trembling as they muttered in tongues foreign to Yarek. Others prostrated fully, pressing their foreheads to the ground, their tears mingling with the dirt. A woman screamed something incomprehensible, her words carrying a note of raw, desperate reverence. Even the strongest among them wept openly, their shoulders shaking as they whispered prayers to gods Yarek had never heard of.

The Ironborn watched in silence, their faces betraying everything they refused to say aloud. Wide eyes darted between Hela and the grisly trophies she dragged behind her. They trembled in reverence and damn near all of them fell to a knee, whispering prayers to the Drowned God and his scion upon the waking world, the Red Scourge, the Breaker of the Oceans. That said, the faith of Yarek's Ironborn crew was nothing new; he'd be more surprised if theydidn'tfall to their knees at the sight of her.

Yarek stepped out onto the porch of the wooden manse, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw tightened as he took in her state, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then his gaze dropped to the rope and its grisly burden. For a moment, he said nothing, his face unreadable. Finally, he descended the steps, his boots crunching against the gravel.

Hela stopped a few paces from him and dropped the rope with a dull thud. The severed heads tumbled and rolled, leaving streaks of blackened blood on the dirt. The smell hit him next, thick and pungent, the stench of decay mingling with the humid air.

Yarek didn't flinch.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Hela?" he asked, his voice steady.

Her scowl deepened, her lips curling downward as she wiped a streak of dried blood from her cheek with the back of her hand.

"No," she said, her tone sharp and bitter. "Just monsters and demons. Yeen's secrets did not reveal themselves to me. Not most of it, at least."

She glanced briefly at the heads before meeting his gaze again.

"I found... interesting things, but nothing that would matter to you or the crew." She paused, brushing a strand of tangled hair from her face. "Let's go home."

Yarek studied her for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then he nodded once, curtly. "We shall. Rest, for now, dear niece. And maybe take a bath."

Hela snorted, but otherwise said nothing as she walked up the wooden steps. There were many servants within the manse who'd be more than willing to bath and clean her with their flower-infused water.

He turned back toward the porch and gestured toward one of the crewmen.

"Get the locals," he ordered. "Tell them they'll be well paid to strip the flesh from these things and bleach the bones. I want them cleaned, polished, and ready for mounting by the time we leave."

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the pile of heads, his face paling slightly. Yarek's gaze hardened.

"Now," he barked, and the man snapped into motion, muttering under his breath as he hurried off.

Yarek turned back to Hela, his tone softer now. "You've made quite the impression, dear niece. The whole damn town's worshiping you already. Let's hope they don't start building shrines."

Hela smirked faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. She brushed past him, her steps heavy as she headed toward the manse. "Let them. It doesn't matter."

Behind her, the whispers grew louder, the locals' reverence rising into a fervent hum as they watched her ascend the steps. Yarek lingered a moment longer, his eyes drifting back to the severed heads. The largest one seemed to stare back at him, its glassy eyes filled with a hollow, lifeless menace.

He shook his head and followed her inside. The jungle, he decided, had given up its monsters. But the biggest monster of all had walked in of her own accord and walked right right out.

The journey back to the Iron Islands began with laughter and song.

The Bronze Kraken rocked gently over calm seas, its oars slicing through the water in perfect rhythm. The crew had recovered their buried treasure from the lifeless cove, chests groaning with gold, gemstones, and other spoils of their raids. Spirits were high. Tankards were passed, voices raised in bawdy shanties that echoed across the waves.

Yarek Greyjoy leaned against the ship's railing, watching as his men celebrated. Thok Seabeard played a crude tune on a battered horn while others stomped their boots and clapped along. Plates piled high with salted meats and dried fruits passed from hand to hand. Even the sea itself seemed kinder, the salt breeze cooling rather than stinging.

But amid the revelry, Yarek's gaze drifted toward the prow, where Hela sat alone.

She had claimed the spot shortly after their departure, and no one dared disturb her. She perched there like a shadow, her back to the crew, her pale green eyes fixed on the horizon. The grisly trophies from Sothoryos lay arrayed beside her, the bleached skulls catching the moonlight like faint ghosts. The largest of them, the ape-like monstrosity, sat closest to her, its gaping maw almost seeming to grin at the sea.

Hela barely touched the food brought to her. She drank sparingly from a plain waterskin, her hands idly tracing the ridges and grooves of the skulls as though they held answers only she could divine.

Yarek approached her once, a plate in hand.

"You've barely eaten, Hela," he said, his voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the crew.

She glanced at him briefly, her lips twitching in what might have been a smile - or perhaps a grimace.

"I'm not hungry," she replied, her tone distant. She turned her gaze back to the horizon before he could reply.

He sighed, setting the plate down beside her. "Suit yourself. But the crew's beginning to talk. They're not used to seeing you... quiet. Some believe this to be an omen of dark tidings."

It wasn't quite true, however, as only a few among the crewmen even noticed Hela's odd silence – too busy as they were with the revelry, the treasure, and their own thoughts of home. Only a handful bothered pointing it out and, even then, they weren't too concerned. After all, the Red Scourge was probably just contemplating her next slaughter.

Hela didn't answer, her fingers curling around the jagged tooth of one of the skulls. When she finally spoke, she avoided the subject. "Are you still naming me captain of this vessel when we return to the Iron Islands?"

"A man's only ever as good as his word," Yarek answered. "When we make port. This old beast is yours. Rename it for luck. The Bronze Kraken is mine; it belongs only to Yarek Greyjoy. A new captain should give an old ship a new name."

Hela huffed. "I'll think of one."

Yarek watched her for a moment longer, then retreated, his steps heavy.

That night, as the crew's singing faded into murmurs and snores, Yarek found himself unable to sleep. The ship creaked softly beneath him, the sound rhythmic and oddly soothing. He rose from his hammock, the coarse fabric creaking as he shifted his weight, and stepped out onto the deck.

The moon hung high, casting silver light across the sea. The crew slept in clusters, some sprawled with tankards still in hand, others leaning against barrels or each other. Yarek's gaze wandered to the prow.

Hela was still there, slumped against the base of the mast. Her head tilted to one side, her dark hair falling across her face. Even in sleep, her hand rested on the hilt of one of her dark blades, fingers twitching as though gripping it in a dream.

He moved closer, his boots muffled against the wooden deck. As he drew near, he heard her murmur something – soft, barely more than a whisper. He stopped, his brow furrowing.

"...Odin…" she breathed, the word trembling on her lips. Her head shifted slightly, her brow knitting together. "Asgard… father..."

Yarek frowned. The words were foreign, strange. He crouched beside her, his hand hovering near her shoulder, unsure whether to wake her.

Tears streaked her dirt-smudged cheeks, catching the moonlight like tiny pearls. Yarek realized that he'd never seen her cry before – no one had. Valon often japed about how odd his child was, who never once cried. She muttered again, her voice trembling. "Why... why didn't you come for me…?"

Yarek's chest tightened at the sound. He leaned in closer, his lips parting as though to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

Hela stirred suddenly, a great black blade emerging from her hand. Her eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, though rimmed with red. For a moment, she stared at him, her expression unreadable.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice low, rasping.

Yarek straightened, clearing his throat.

"You were talking in your sleep," he said carefully. "Muttering strange words... andcrying."

Hela's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing the tears away.

"It's nothing," she said, her tone clipped. "A dream."

"'Odin.' 'Asgard.' Those aren't words from the Iron Islands, Hela... or from anywhere I know, really." he pressed. "What do they mean?"

She stiffened, her hand dropping from her blade to her lap. For a moment, she didn't speak, her gaze fixed on the skulls beside her. Then she exhaled slowly, her shoulders slumping.

"They're nothing you'd understand, uncle." she said finally, her voice softer now.

Yarek tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Try me."

Hela's lips twitched again, though it wasn't a smile. "You're a curious man, Uncle. But this is... not your burden to carry. Nor is it anyone else's but mine."

He opened his mouth to argue, but the look she gave him stopped him cold. There was a weight in her eyes, something ancient and unyielding, and it sent a chill down his spine.

"Go to bed," she said, her tone leaving no room for debate. "The seas may be rough tomorrow."

Yarek hesitated, his jaw tightening. He wasn't good at this. It was almost too easy to forget that Hela was just a child. And Yarek had no idea how to speak to children when the subject was not war or death. But Hela was no mere child, wasn't she? Then again, was it really any easier when speaking to men and women grown? The opposite was probably true. In the end, however, he nodded slowly, rising to his feet. "If you ever want to talk, Hela..."

"I know," she interrupted, her gaze softening for a fleeting moment. Yarek wondered if Valon even knew about this side of Hela – and, if he did, what he made of it. "Goodnight, Uncle."

He lingered for a heartbeat longer before turning and walking away, his steps heavy against the deck. Behind him, Hela returned her gaze to the horizon, her fingers tracing the ridges of the largest skull once more. A great flash of silver lightning surged through the dark skies, illuminating the night for a bare moment. Hela stared into the cascading waves and then at the sky. The faintest of whispers escaped her lips, carried away by the sea breeze.

"Why didn't you try to save me... like you saved him?" She sighed and went right back to sleep.