8

109 AC

The Doom cut through the waves like a black dagger, its hull gleaming with an eerie, metallic sheen under the moonlight. The ship, once called the Bronze Kraken, bore no trace of its former self. Its prow now jutted forward like the serrated jaw of some monstrous beast, jagged and sharp. The sails were black as night, streaked with emerald runes that seemed to shimmer faintly, even in the dark. Bone-like ribs lined the sides of the vessel, a grim reminder to all who gazed upon it: this was no ordinary ship.

This was death incarnate to all who glimpsed it – well, not really, since Valon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke, forbade them from attacking anyone from Westeros.

Everyone else was fair game.

Yoron Greytooth stood at the railing, his hands gripping the rough wood. Salt spray flecked his face, the chill biting against his skin. He didn't flinch. He hadn't flinched at much since becoming one of the Einherjar. To flinch was weakness, and weakness had no place under the command of the Lady Reaper. If he was weak, then he was unworthy of the jet-black sword he now wielded, created by the Lady Reaper herself; each of them, those who were worthy of sailing with her, received such weapons.

He glanced toward the deck, where the rest of the crew moved with precision, their steps quick but silent. They were bare-chested despite the cold, scars crisscrossing their bodies like maps of battles won. Their eyes burned with the same quiet fire Yoron felt in his own chest. They were Ironborn, yes, but they were more than that now. They had been reforged into the greatest and deadliest reavers the world has ever seen.

Hela Greyjoy.

She stood at the helm, her dark cloak snapping in the wind like the wings of a raven. Her pale green eyes cut through the night, unblinking, fixed on some distant point only she could see. In her hand was the hilt of a black blade, jagged and alive, pulsing faintly like a second heart. She didn't wield it to fight. Not yet. She simply held it, her fingers curling around the hilt as if it was an extension of her will.

Yoron swallowed, his throat dry. He had seen her carve through men like driftwood, her blades singing as they cleaved flesh and bone. He had seen her conjure weapons from the shadows, great black swords that hummed with power. He had knelt in reverence as she stood on a beach of corpses, the tide stained red around her boots.

She was more than a captain. More than Ironborn. She was the Drowned God made flesh. The Lady Reaper. A goddess.

Yoron tore his gaze from her, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He focused on the horizon, where faint lights flickered like distant stars. A merchant fleet. He knew it by the way the lights moved, clustered together like frightened sheep. They must've seen The Doom and pissed themselves at the sight of it, especially since not a single vessel could hope to escape it.

"Are they armed?" A low voice rumbled beside him. It was Thurn Ironjaw, another of the Einherjar, his bulk towering even over Yoron. His knuckles were white where they gripped his bearded axe, the black edge glinting faintly in the moonlight.

"Does it matter?" Yoron replied, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "No one can stand against us."

Thurn grunted, his breath misting in the cold air. "No. They can't."

A sharp whistle cut through the night, and all movement on the deck stopped. Every head turned toward the helm. Hela raised her blade, its edge catching the faint light of the stars. Her voice carried over the deck, low and commanding.

"Prepare to board." She said. "No quarter. No mercy. Leave a few alive to tell our tale."

The Einherjar moved as one, their boots pounding against the deck. They took their positions, their weapons gleaming. Yoron slid his sword from its sheath, the blade humming faintly in his hand. Better than Valyrian Steel – sharper and deadlier. He felt its weight, its balance, its hunger. It was alive in a way steel could never be.

The Doom surged forward, slicing through the waves like a serrated blade. Its jagged prow gleamed in the pale moonlight, the cruel angles of its blackened hull a grim promise of death. Ahead, the merchant fleet clustered together, their Lyseni colors fluttering weakly in the cold night breeze. Their sails trembled, and lanterns swung wildly as their crews scrambled to prepare for the inevitable.

"Death!" Yoron Greytooth roared, his voice cutting through the rushing wind.

Around him, the Einherjar echoed the cry, their voices a guttural symphony. Blades of blackened steel, shimmering faintly with an unnatural light, rose into the air like an extension of their will.

"For the Lady Reaper!"

The Doom slammed into the first merchant ship with a deafening crash. Its reinforced prow tore through the enemy's hull, splintering wood and sending shards flying. Sailors screamed as they stumbled, clutching at railings to steady themselves. Grappling hooks flew, their iron claws biting into the merchant vessel's deck, and the Einherjar surged forward. They moved like a tide, relentless and unyielding.

Yoron was among the first over the railing. His necrosword hummed in his hand, the weight of it perfect, its edge impossibly sharp. A merchant sailor swung a rusted cutlass at him, the blade trembling in his grip. Yoron sidestepped the clumsy attack, his own sword arcing downward. It sheared through the man's arm, cutting through bone like wet driftwood. Blood sprayed, and the sailor collapsed with a strangled cry.

The deck erupted into chaos. The Einherjar tore through the sailors like wolves among sheep. Their blades drank deeply, cutting through flesh and steel with equal ease. Yoron moved with practiced precision, his movements fluid and economical. He parried a strike aimed at his neck, then drove his blade into his opponent's chest. The necrosword pulsed in his hand as the man's lifeblood spilled onto the deck.

A scream drew his attention. To his left, Thurn Ironjaw swung his massive axe in a brutal arc, cleaving a sailor in two. The man's torso crumpled to the deck, his legs still standing for a heartbeat before toppling. Thurn spat onto the blood-slick wood and grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light.

"They fight like drunkards!" Thurn barked, his laughter booming.

Yoron didn't reply. His gaze swept the carnage, searching for her.

Hela Greyjoy.

She wasn't on the ship. Of course not. His eyes darted to the next vessel, where the shrieks of dying men pierced the air. A figure darted across the deck, faster than any human had a right to move. Her cloak billowed behind her, and her dark blade flashed like a shard of night.

Hela was a force of nature. She leapt from the rail of one ship to another with inhuman grace, landing amidst a cluster of sailors who barely had time to scream. Her blade sliced through three men in a single motion, their bodies crumpling to the deck before their weapons could rise. Blood sprayed across her pale skin, but she didn't flinch. She moved forward, each step deliberate, each swing of her blade lethal.

A burly sailor lunged at her with an axe, his roar filled with desperation. Hela caught the weapon's haft mid-swing with one hand, her grip unyielding. Her necrosword flicked upward, severing his head from his shoulders in a single stroke. She shoved his body aside as if it were nothing.

Another man charged her, a spear thrusting forward. She twisted, the blade missing her by inches, and grabbed the shaft with her free hand. With a sharp jerk, she yanked the man forward, driving her knee into his chest. His ribs cracked audibly, and he fell to the deck, gasping for breath. She ended him with a swift thrust of her blade.

Yoron's lips curled into a savage grin. This was what it meant to follow the Lady Reaper. To serve her was to witness the impossible made real.

A sharp cry pulled his attention back to his own fight. A group of sailors had formed a desperate line near the stern, their weapons held high. One man, trembling but determined, stepped forward, a longsword gripped in both hands. Yoron advanced, his necrosword humming with anticipation.

The man swung, his blade arcing toward Yoron's neck. Yoron ducked, his movements swift and precise, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest. The sailor staggered back, gasping, and Yoron's sword followed. The necrosword pierced his gut, sliding through armor and flesh as if they were paper. The man's eyes widened, and he crumpled to the deck, his blood pooling beneath him.

Behind Yoron, the Einherjar finished their slaughter. The sailors who hadn't been cut down threw their weapons aside, falling to their knees and begging for mercy. None was given. Mercy had no place on the Doom.

By the time the battle ended, the merchant ship was a graveyard. Bodies littered the deck, their blood running in rivulets toward the scuppers. The Einherjar stood victorious, their chests heaving, their blades slick with crimson.

Yoron wiped his sword on a fallen man's tunic, his breath coming in sharp bursts. He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the other merchant ships burned. Hela had taken them herself, jumping from deck to deck like a shadow. No crew had survived her wrath. Even now, the flames licked at the sky, casting a red glow over the sea.

Hela returned to the Doom in a single leap, landing on the deck with feline grace. Her blade dripped with blood, her cloak tattered and soaked. She surveyed her crew, her pale green eyes sharp and calculating. When her gaze met Yoron's, his chest tightened, and he dropped to one knee.

"Strip the ships," she commanded, her voice like steel. "Take everything of value. Leave nothing. We return to the Iron Islands after this. Leave one ship for the survivors."

The Einherjar moved without hesitation, their boots thudding against the blood-slick deck. Yoron rose, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He followed, his thoughts lingering on her.

She was his captain. His goddess. And he would follow her, through blood and fire, to the ends of the earth.

The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering glow of a single brazier casting long shadows across the stone walls. Larys Strong sat with his hands folded neatly, his clubfoot angled slightly to relieve the ache that always gnawed at him. He observed Otto Hightower, who stood by the window, his sharp green gaze fixed on the city below. The sounds of the Red Keep—the distant clash of training swords, the murmur of courtiers - drifted faintly through the room.

Otto finally turned, his jaw tight, his fingers brushing the pommel of the dagger at his hip. "The Ironborn concern me."

Larys tilted his head, his lips curling into a faint smile. "They concern you more than Daemon Targaryen and the Velaryons?"

Otto exhaled sharply, his brows furrowing.

"The Velaryons are prideful, yes, but predictable. They will not move against the Throne while Corlys sails under its banner. Daemon Targaryen desires power and recognition above all else, but – like the Velaryons who aided him and his little war – he's predictable. The Ironborn..." He shook his head and sighed. "They are something else entirely. Valon Greyjoy is not the sort of lord one underestimates. Nor is his daughter."

Larys leaned forward slightly, his gaze keen. It was a rare thing, Otto mused, to see the Master of Whispers so entranced. "The Lady Reaper."

Otto's mouth tightened, and he nodded. "Her reputation precedes her. Tales of her savagery have reached even the Small Council. Entire fleets destroyed, captains flayed alive, their heads sent back to their masters. And yet, she leaves Westerosi ships untouched. Clever. It keeps us from acting."

Larys chuckled softly, the sound low and measured. "A scion of the Drowned God, they call her. A monster. A goddess. She frightens even her own kind, if the rumors are to be believed. They say she's never tasted defeat – not once. Hard to believe she's only two and ten – hardly a woman grown."

Otto's hand tightened on the window ledge. "And yet her father is no mere brute. Valon has built alliances, strengthened his fleets, and turned the Iron Islands into a power we cannot ignore. He was shrewd enough to charm the lords he needed when I met him at Viserys's wedding, making trading pacts and little alliances and promises of friendship. Now, he uses the wealth his daughter brings back to bolster their naval strength. Have you seen the reports, Larys? The Ironborn fleet grows every day. They could rival the Velaryons soon."

Larys nodded slowly, his fingers tapping lightly against the arm of his chair. "And you wonder where their allegiance lies."

Otto's eyes narrowed. "It is not a matter of allegience. It is a matter of ambition. Valon Greyjoy is a man who sees opportunity where others see limits. If it suits him, he might side with Aegon. Or, he might carve out his own kingdom while the realm bleeds."

Larys tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. "And the daughter? Does she share her father's ambitions, or does she simply wish to burn the world for sport?"

Otto hesitated, his expression unreadable. "I don't know. That is what worries me. If her reputation is even half-true, she is more dangerous than any man alive. Even Corlys Velaryon has not inspired such fear across the seas. And Daemon Targaryen wishes he was half as fearsome. The Iron Throne cannot afford to ignore her."

Larys smiled faintly, his fingers steepled. "The Iron Throne has done precisely that. As long as her raids steer clear of Westeros, we pretend she does not exist."

Otto's jaw tightened. "It is a dangerous game. She grows stronger with every raid. Every ship she sinks, every treasure she claims, it all feeds her father's ambitions."

"Then you believe the Greyjoys could be a threat to Aegon's claim." Larys's voice was soft, almost amused.

"I believe they could be a threat to everyone," Otto snapped, his tone uncharacteristically sharp. He took a breath, his shoulders stiff. "We need more information. I want every ship that sails near the Iron Islands watched. Every whisper of their movements reported. If Valon or his daughter makes any misstep, I want to know before the ink dries on the message."

Larys inclined his head, his smile never wavering. "Of course, my lord. I shall endeavor to do my best in that regard, though I can make no promises as, quite frankly, my eyes and ears are not so extensive as to cover the open sea."

Otto turned back to the window, his gaze distant. "This realm has weathered dragons, wars, and rebellions. But I fear the Ironborn. Not for what they are, but for what they could become under her."

Larys watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back, his fingers drumming softly against the chair's arm. "A goddess of death commanding a fleet of zealots. Perhaps we should be afraid."

Otto said nothing at first, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the window ledge tightened. His eyes stayed fixed on the sprawl of King's Landing, the flickering torchlight casting a golden haze over its winding streets. His lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in his shoulders evident.

"What does the King think of all this, my lord?" Larys's voice was smooth, each word deliberate. "Our knowledge of Lord Valon Greyjoy and Hela Greyjoy must have already reached his ears."

Otto exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet chamber. He turned from the window, his steps measured as he approached the table where Larys sat. His gaze was steady, but the faint furrow in his brow betrayed his frustration.

"The King," Otto began, his voice clipped, "is blinded by Valon Greyjoy's charm. Somehow, the lord of the Iron Islands has gained not only the king's confidence but his friendship. Viserys believes Valon could not possibly be a threat. He sees him as a man of reason, a lord seeking to shed the barbarity of the Ironborn and embrace the civility of the mainland."

Otto's tone grew sharper, his hand gesturing toward the window as though pointing at some unseen fool. "Civilized. That's the word Viserys used. He thinks the Ironborn are changing, that they're leaving their reaving ways behind to become loyal subjects of the crown."

Larys's lips twitched, though whether in amusement or intrigue was unclear.

"Civilized," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a jest. "An amusing notion, given what we've heard of Hela Greyjoy."

Otto's jaw tightened, and his steps slowed. "Indeed. The king conveniently overlooks the fact that the Red Scourge, his 'civilized' lord's daughter, is responsible for atrocities that would make the most bloodthirsty Free Company blanch. The tales of her savagery alone should have been enough to demand action."

Larys leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled, his gaze calculating. "And yet, the King thinks her harmless."

Otto stopped by the table, his fingers brushing the edge of the wood as his eyes met Larys's. "Because she does not touch Westerosi ships. That is the crux of it. She's clever, or perhaps Valon Greyjoy is the one guiding her. She pillages and burns far from our shores, ensuring her savagery does not provoke the crown. As long as our merchants and lords are untouched, the king is content to let her deeds remain someone else's problem."

Larys tilted his head slightly, his expression calm but probing. "I suppose that decision… makes a measure of sense, from the king's perspective. Why invite conflict where none yet exists?"

Otto's brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a tight line. He did not appreciate what he assumed was Larys's subtle defense of the king's inaction. Larys's hand rose, palm up in a placating gesture, his smile faint but calculated.

"But," Larys continued, his tone smooth, "and I mean this without the slightest offense, my lord… I believe you may have overlooked one crucial detail."

Otto raised a brow, his expression hardening. "And what is it that I have overlooked?"

Larys's smile deepened, though it did not reach his eyes. "For all her power, and for all their ships – Hela Greyjoy, Valon Greyjoy, and the Ironborn are still mortal men and women. And the king and his dynasty commands dragons."

The words hung in the air, cutting through the room's stillness like a blade. Otto's brow twitched ever so slightly, but he did not speak immediately. Larys leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he watched the Hand of the King with an almost feline curiosity.

Otto's voice, when it came, was low and deliberate. "Dragons are a weapon, Larys. Powerful, yes. But not infallible. Not eternal. History teaches us that much. Or have you forgotten the fate of Rhaenys Targaryen and Meraxes?"

Larys inclined his head slightly, his tone unchanging. "True. But they remain unmatched. The Ironborn cannot burn the skies, nor can they command beasts that blot out the sun. However clever Hela Greyjoy may be, or her father for that matter, they would be fools to forget this."