9

Valon Greyjoy sat back in his sturdy oak chair, flexing his sore fingers and wincing at the dull ache. His attempt to swim through the glittering mounds of gold coins in his treasury had been, to put it mildly, a misguided endeavor. The smooth metal bits were less forgiving than they appeared in bardic tales. Swimming in gold, as it turned out, was impossible. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"Well," he muttered, rubbing his palms together, "at least I've proven something the bards never will."

The coins gleamed under the light of a dozen lanterns hanging from iron chains above the vaulted stone chamber. For now, the gold would remain in his vaults, but not for long. Only a fool hoarded wealth without purpose, and Valon Greyjoy was no fool. The riches were a tool, and like any good Ironborn, he intended to use them. Though his ancestors would scoff at the idea, Valon had found that trade and commerce yielded far greater rewards than raiding ever could.

Three years had passed since the wedding of Viserys Targaryen and Alicent Hightower, and in that time, the Iron Islands had changed more than anyone could have imagined. The ancient traditions of reaving, though still alive, had been complemented by a new kind of plunder: trade. Valon smirked as he considered the irony. For generations, the Ironborn had preached their disdain for the "greenlanders' ways," yet now it was through trade and cunning that the islands grew rich. The Ironborn Lords grumbled, but none dare question Valon's authority when they were making a pretty penny through his reforms and, of course, not when Hela Greyjoy prowled the waters.

The discovery of untapped iron deposits beneath the craggy hills of the islands had been the turning point. Valon had ordered surveys and prospecting crews, armed with nothing but hammers, pickaxes, shovels, and patience, to delve deep into the land. What they found had surpassed even his most ambitious hopes. Iron, more than they could smelt in a lifetime, lay buried in the rocky earth. The veins ran deep and wide, promising wealth that dwarfed even the most successful reaving expeditions.

"Funny," Valon mused aloud, tapping a finger against the armrest of his chair. "The ancestors called this place the Iron Islands, but they barely scratched the surface of what lay beneath their feet."

To be entirely fair, iron had always been abundant, but never to this extent.

Iron itself was valuable, but not exceptional. The real market lay in steel, a commodity in high demand across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Traditional castle-forged steel was a respectable standard, but Hela, his brilliant and perfect daughter, had suggested something entirely new: crucible steel. The process was radical, involving the creation of ceramic crucibles in which iron and carbon were heated to produce a far stronger and purer alloy. The results spoke for themselves. The steel was harder, more flexible, and more resistant to wear than anything most smiths in Westeros could produce, and three times as expensive.

Valon had named it Ironborn steel – so that no man forgot where it came from and also because the association with the Iron Islands was bound to bring more trade.

The smiths swore an oath to Hela herself, swearing to keep the secret of its creation to their grave.

To craft the steel, they required wood for charcoal and sand for refining. These were imported from the mainland in exchange for the iron ingots the islands produced in abundance. Trade ships now came and went from the Iron Islands regularly, their holds laden with salted fish, barrels of iron, and the occasional batch of Ironborn Steel.

Salted and dried fish, smoked or otherwise, once merely a staple of the Ironborn diet, had found surprising popularity among the smallfolk of the mainland. The process was simple but effective, and the result was a product that could last through long winters or hard journeys. Merchants in the Riverlands and Reach were particularly eager buyers, their silks and grain exchanged for barrels of Ironborn fish.

One of his former thralls, whom Valon had granted land and freedom to for his momentous discovery, had created something that was now a staple in almost every kitchen in Westeros: Gut Sauce. Or, quite literally, sauce made from salted and fermented fish guts. The process was pungent and horrible, but the end result was amazing – a salty, briny, but delicious condiment that King Viserys apparently loved.

Valon's sharp mind had recognized early that trade required precision and oversight. So he had hired a cadre of accountants from Braavos – quiet, meticulous men and women who seemed to have an unnatural affinity for counting coppers and tracking every single coin that entered or left his vault – which ones were to be paid to the King, etc. The Ironborn Lords had scoffed at first, grumbling about "greenlander tricks," but the results spoke louder than any argument. With the Braavosi accountants managing his ledgers, Valon could focus on strategy and expansion.

The Iron Islands thrived, but Valon's ambitions extended far beyond mere wealth. Trade was only the beginning. Each ship built, each ingot forged, and each coin earned brought him closer to his goal: making the Iron Islands not just feared, but respected. They would not simply raid the mainland; they would own it, piece by piece, through coin, steel, and blood After all, his perfect daughter, inhuman and divine, deserved an empire of her own, one that would dwarf even the Valyrian Freehold at its zenith.

Westeros would be the foundation of that empire. No doubt, Valon would be dead long before this dream was realized, but he'd be damned if he did not plant the seeds and strengthen the roots.

Valon leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the map spread across the table before him. Lines and notations marked trade routes, deposits, and potential markets. Hela's achievements loomed large in his mind as he traced a finger over the Gulf of Grief and the Ghiscari Sea. She was his pride, his weapon, and his legacy, which was why he'd hired numerous artists to create statues and sculptures of her, which were planted all over the Iron Islands – no one dared remove them, simply because the very idea of inciting the wrath of Hela Greyjoy was hardly worth the effort.

So, his daughter now had her image all over the Iron Islands. Hela herself didn't care much for it, but Valon was proud.

For now, he would let the greenlanders think he was a changed man – a civilized lord. Well, he was. But in truth, Valon Greyjoy was preparing for something far greater. The gold in his treasury was not a trophy. It was fuel. And when the time came, the Ironborn would set the world ablaze. Or maybe not. The future was up to his daughter; what she decided to do with the world was entirely of her own volition. She could do nothing at all and he'd still be proud of her. Valon's duty was to ensure she had all the resources she could ever want or need.

That said, he hoped it would be after Viserys' reign – assuming Hela pursued the path of conquest. The Targaryen King was many things, but... Valon's friendship with him was real. And Viserys would be heartbroken to see his kingdom fall.

Eh.

Valon Greyjoy leaned back in his chair, the rough wood creaking under his weight, as one of his accountants approached. The man was bald and dark-skinned, his narrow face lined with the marks of age and experience. He carried a scroll tucked under one arm, his steps brisk but unhurried. The accountants didn't bow. They never did, nor did Valon expect them to. Their relationship was purely business. No oaths, no pledges, no feigned reverence. They did their work with ruthless efficiency, and Valon liked it that way. Loyalty was a messy thing. Transactions were clean.

"Yes?" Valon said, his tone curt but not unkind.

The accountant unfurled the scroll with a practiced motion. His voice was steady, his words clipped by the weight of an accent that was foreign but clear.

"Spices, wines, and hardwood lumber from the Summer Islands have arrived – three ships' worth. We've yet to tally the precise weight and volume, but I predict the margin of error to be negligible." He paused, his dark eyes meeting Valon's. "In exchange for their full cargo, the Summer Islanders demand one thousand pounds of iron ore, five hundred pounds of Ironborn Steel, and ten barrels of smoked herring. Alternatively, they will accept three hundred gold dragons."

Valon drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, his gaze drifting momentarily to the vaulted ceiling before settling on another accountant nearby. This one, a copper-skinned man with sharp features, stood with a scroll in hand. He was their cost-benefit specialist, or so he had introduced himself when hired. The man's long explanations and detailed figures often sailed over Valon's head, but his advice had yet to steer them wrong.

"Your thoughts?" Valon asked, gesturing toward him.

The accountant unrolled his scroll, his fingers gliding over the inked numbers and calculations. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the data, pausing once or twice to tap the edge of the parchment with a finger. Finally, he looked up, his voice measured and calm.

"We save more by offering the trade goods instead of the gold dragons," he said simply. "The iron ore and steel, while valuable, are renewable resources for the Iron Islands. The smoked herring, while a staple, costs little to produce. Three hundred gold dragons, by comparison, represent immediate and irreversible expenditure."

Valon nodded slowly, his fingers tapping against the armrest again as he processed the response. Numbers didn't lie, and these men had built their lives around ensuring those numbers worked in his favor.

"Very well," he said, his voice firm. Valon figured he probably wouldn't understand why such was the case or how the accountant arrived at that conclusion, but he didn't need to. "Offer them the trade goods."

The dark-skinned accountant gave a short nod of acknowledgment, already rolling up his scroll. "It will be done. The Summer Islanders will be informed before the day's end."

Valon waved a hand in dismissal, and the man turned on his heel, leaving the chamber with the same efficiency he had entered. The copper-skinned accountant lingered for a moment, tucking his scroll under his arm as he spoke.

"The iron and steel shipments should be deducted from next week's projections. I'll have the updated figures prepared by tomorrow."

Valon gave him a faint smirk, leaning back further in his chair. "I trust you will. That's why you're here, after all."

The accountant gave a brief bow of his head – one of acknowledgment, not deference – before departing. Valon watched him go, his mind already drifting to the implications of their growing trade. The Iron Islands, once an afterthought in the politics and economies of Westeros, were becoming a power no one could ignore.

Iron and steel. Fish and herring. Spices and lumber. Gold flowed in, but Valon understood that wealth was a tool, not an end. Hoarding it was a mistake. Investing it was the way forward. The world would soon learn that the Ironborn were more than raiders – they were builders of fortune, wielding trade as sharply as they did their swords. Or, at least, that's what Valon was hoping for.

And as the door creaked shut behind the last accountant, Valon allowed himself a small, wry chuckle. He might not fully grasp their endless calculations, but he understood what mattered: power – in all its myriad of forms.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and a young man clad in crimson and gold strode into Valon's chamber. The emissary was tall, but there was otherwise not much else about him that was worthy of note. He held a scroll in one hand, its seal bearing the roaring lion of House Lannister.

Valon Greyjoy straightened in his chair, his sharp gaze locking onto the man. The sound of boots echoed faintly in the stone chamber as the emissary approached, stopping a respectful distance from the Lord Reaper. He dipped his head but did not bow.

"My lord," the emissary began, his voice smooth and practiced, "I come bearing a message from Lord Tymond Lannister of Casterly Rock."

He extended the scroll, his movements precise.

Valon gestured for the scroll, and one of his guards stepped forward to retrieve it, handing it to him with a slight incline of the head. Valon broke the seal, the wax cracking under his fingers, and unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the words, sharp and calculating.

Tymond's message was clear: The Stormrider is ready.

The ship, a marvel of engineering, had been three years in the making. Designed by Hela Greyjoy herself, its construction had been a clandestine collaboration between the finest shipwrights of Lannisport and the Iron Islands. Tymond had provided resources, expertise, and discretion; Valon had supplied iron, steel, and ingenuity. Together, they had created a vessel unlike any other.

The Stormrider was a marvel of naval engineering, the culmination of three years of innovation and collaboration between the finest minds of Lannisport and the Iron Islands. Larger than any longship, it combined speed, strength, and versatility in a way that no other vessel could match. Its sleek, elongated hull was crafted from layers of Ironborn steel, giving it unmatched durability while maintaining a design nimble enough to slice through the waves with ease. Rivets and reinforcements lined its frame, evidence of the meticulous craftsmanship that went into its construction.

The ship's prow jutted forward in a sharp, angular design, resembling the beak of a bird of prey. Intricate carvings of krakens and lions adorned the bow, their forms entwined in a display of unity between House Greyjoy and House Lannister. The keel was deeper than most ships, giving the Stormrider unparalleled stability even in the most violent storms, a feature meant to ensure its safety during long voyages across uncharted waters.

The masts were the most unique aspect of the vessel. Instead of the static poles seen on traditional ships, the Stormrider's masts were mounted on rotating bases, each one capable of pivoting to catch the wind at optimal angles. This innovation, born from his perfect daughter's inscrutable mind, allowed the ship to harness the wind with far greater efficiency. There were five masts in total, each taller and more imposing than the last, their frames constructed from the strongest hardwood imported from the Summer Islands.

The sails, woven from a rare blend of fibers, shimmered faintly in the sunlight, their surface marked with runic patterns that Hela had casually instructed the craftsmen to include without explanation. Stronger than traditional canvas, the sails were built to withstand relentless winds and driving rain. They were arranged in an intricate configuration, five times the number found on a typical vessel. Each mast carried multiple sails, overlapping and layered in a way that maximized the Stormrider's speed and maneuverability.

Below deck, the ship was no less impressive. Its spacious hold was designed to carry large amounts of cargo while maintaining perfect balance. Compartments were reinforced to prevent damage from shifting goods during rough seas. The crew quarters, though efficient and Spartan, were cleverly designed to maximize space, allowing for comfort during long voyages. A small forge, included at Hela's insistence, stood ready to repair tools or weapons, should the need arise.

The rudder system was another innovation. Wider and sturdier than most, it allowed for precise control even in the most unpredictable conditions. Two secondary rudders, smaller but equally functional, were mounted on either side of the main one, providing additional steering power when needed.

It was perfect.

Unlike the Sea Snake's legendary voyages, this was no mere expedition of curiosity. The goal wasn't just to explore; it was to establish a permanent trade route – a gateway to the riches of the Far East and beyond. Valon and Tymond aimed to chart new waters, bypassing the narrow ambitions of the crown to secure wealth that would outshine even the fabled treasure troves of Old Valyria.

Valon smirked faintly, rolling the scroll closed. Tymond had signed his name boldly at the bottom, his elegant handwriting underscored with a flourish.

"Did your lord have anything to add beyond this message?" Valon asked, his voice steady, though his fingers tapped the edge of the parchment.

The emissary hesitated briefly, then spoke. "Lord Tymond wishes to convey his confidence in this endeavor. He believes the Stormrider will bring fortune to both our houses. He also humbly requests that the ship be christened under your command before its maiden voyage."

Valon's smirk widened. Typical Tymond – always courteous, always leaving just enough room for plausible deniability. The Lannister lord had been careful, ensuring no connection between the Stormrider and Casterly Rock could be easily proven. The lion always covered his tracks.

Valon dismissed the emissary with a flick of his hand. "Thank your lord for his message. You'll have quarters prepared for your rest tonight. My men will see to your departure on the morrow."

The emissary inclined his head again. "As you command, Lord Greyjoy." He turned and exited the chamber, the doors closing behind him with a heavy thud.

Valon leaned back in his chair, his thoughts already racing. The Stormrider was ready, and its maiden voyage would mark the beginning of something far greater than reaving or trading iron and fish. The ship needed a crew – experienced sailors, cartographers, and merchants – but above all, it needed protection.

There was only one person he trusted with such a task.

Valon rose from his chair, his boots thudding against the stone floor as he strode toward the long table where his maps and ledgers lay. His fingers trailed across the lines marking trade routes and unexplored seas.

"Hela," he muttered, a rare warmth touching his voice. She was the only one who could safeguard this venture. No man, no monster, and no storm could threaten her. The Red Scourge, the Lady Reaper herself, would ensure the Stormrider's success.

AN: Chapter 11 is out on (Pat)reon!

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