12

The fleet arrived at Volantis under a scorching midday sun. High on the Black Walls, Volantene sentries craned their necks, exchanging alarmed murmurs as the Ironborn vessels cut upriver. At the center of it all, like a great sea predator leading its brood, sailed the Stormrider with its glossy iron plating and towering masts. Around it, a dozen lesser ships followed, bearing the banners of House Greyjoy. Yet it was the rearmost vessel that drew the most horror—the Doom, with its obsidian hull and jagged ridges, drifting in dark silence like the scythe of a grim reaper.

Those who recognized the ship stood rooted with sudden dread. Fishermen moored along the docks stammered in disbelief. Stout Volantene laborers felt their grips slacken on crates and ropes. Whispers passed among them: Hela Greyjoy, the Red Scourge, was here. Tales of her black-sailed dreadnought had spread far, carried by rumor and by the trembling tongues of those few who survived her wrath. No one in Volantis, from the wealthiest Old Blood to the lowliest fisher, wanted to see that rumored monstrosity at anchor in their harbor.

Yet here it was, gliding along the dark waters of the Rhoyne's delta with an otherworldly calm. The black hull's spines resembled the ribs of some ancient leviathan, and a faint mist hung around its waterline despite the oppressive heat. Men and women alike felt a deep chill at the sight.

Valon Greyjoy stood on the Stormrider's polished quarterdeck, arms folded. He surveyed the city's bustling piers. The Summer heat clung to his skin, but an easy smile tugged at his lips. It had been decades since he last sailed this far from the Iron Islands. It was refreshing. What was even more refreshing was the fact that he could read the fear in the eyes of the Volantene onlookers and found it amusing—if also predictable.

Behind him, his daughter Hela stood quietly, her cloak snapping in the wind. She offered no words of comfort, no gestures of friendliness. Her height really was the only real reminder of the fact that she was still… young.

When the Stormrider drifted near a wide stone quay, the Volantene dockworkers scrambled aside as though expecting a monster to leap forth from the hull. Sailors from other vessels hurried to remove their craft or moor them farther away. The entire pier seemed to clear itself for the Ironborn like a great stage, leaving them all the space they might want.

Valon let out a short laugh.

"They're terrified, daughter," he remarked, pitching his voice so only Hela could hear. "Of you."

Hela tilted her head, glancing at the men who hastened to cast off the ropes and vacate the next wharf.

"They're sensible," she said in a low, measured tone. Her emerald eyes scanned the piers as though searching for threats—or potential amusements.

One of Valon's captains disembarked first, a tall Ironborn man named Asten Pyke, holding up a House Greyjoy banner so that the Volantenes would know precisely who had arrived. Guards clad in the orange-and-black stripes of the city approached warily, gripping spears. They looked uncertain, exchanging whispers. At length, a robed figure stepped forth from behind them—a Volantene functionary, by his elaborate golden chain of office.

Valon leaped onto the quay with practiced ease, ignoring the stiff posture of the city guards. He wasn't heavily armored—just a jerkin of tough leather, belted with polished studs, but he carried himself like one who had no need of excessive protection. Hela followed him off the Stormrider, her cloak trailing like a living shadow. Behind them, a handful of Ironborn retainers stood at the gangplank, vigilant but calm.

The Volantene official cleared his throat.

"You arrive in Volantis, Lord Greyjoy... with quite a display." He darted a nervous glance at Hela and then at the Doom, moored a short distance away. To be entirely fair to them, Valon himself would've shat his pants if he'd seen such a monstrous ship and had zero context. And he definitely would've shat his pants if he knew the context, but wasn't Hela's father. "Our city... we greet you as guests, of course... but we have concerns."

Valon offered a thin smile.

"Concerns?" He pretended to look puzzled, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. "We're just here to resupply and trade. A short visit, I assure you."

The official's eyes flicked to Hela once more, and the man visibly swallowed. "Not of you, Lord Greyjoy, but of your daughter. The Red Scourge. Her vessel. The Doom. The city panics at the sight of it… the promise it holds."

Hela said nothing. She simply stared at the official, offering him no courtesy. The official took an unsteady step backward.

Valon raised a brow, his smile unwavering.

"You needn't trouble yourself with such things, my friend. We have gold to spend, goods to barter, and no quarrel with Volantis." His tone was warm, almost paternal. "Surely, the famed hospitality of the First Daughter of Valyria is not in question?"

The mention of hospitality elicited a strained pause. The official exhaled, then forced a bow of his head.

"No. Of course. Volantis welcomes peaceful traders. The Old Blood welcomes all who bring commerce." He gestured stiffly to the city behind him, the myriad streets, the grand archways. "You are free to unload and purchase supplies. But we would humbly ask that you limit your stay. Our people... are uneasy."

Valon's grin widened a fraction. This voyage was meant to establish a trade route. They weren't out here to raid and reave. In fact, if things went well, the Ironborn would never have to - ever again.

"That's fine. We won't linger longer than necessary." Then he cast a sidelong glance at Hela. "Agreed, daughter?"

Hela shrugged, her eyes drifting to the black towers of Volantis's grand Temple of the Lord of Light in the distance.

"As you wish." She seemed wholly uninterested in the conversation, as though her presence was merely a formality.

With that, they proceeded into the city. The local guards parted like reeds in a stiff wind, unwilling to provoke the Ironborn more than necessary. Valon led a handful of his men to a large warehouse near the docks, where a cluster of merchants quickly gathered, enticed by the promise of coin. Even as fear lingered in the corners of their eyes, business always overcame caution in Volantis.

Hela vanished almost immediately into the shadows of a tall alley, flanked by two Einherjar. Her father made no move to stop her. He trusted her to keep out of trouble—at least, trouble that might jeopardize their short stay. Meanwhile, the rest of the Stormrider's crew and the accompanying Ironborn ships began loading supplies: fresh water, dried fruits, smoked fish, and, of course, any exotic goods that Volantis had to offer. Silks, spices, and rare wines were particularly sought after by the Ironborn, who intended to carry them eastward.

Word of the Ironborn arrival spread faster than wildfire. Locals whispered of an obsidian-hulled ship at the quay, its monstrous shape visible even from the far side of the river. Some claimed to see black plumes of smoke trailing off it, a sign of malevolent sorcery. Others swore they heard chanting in some unknown tongue, carried on the wind. The tension escalated when more Volantene garrison troops arrived, their pikes glinting under the sun, forming a watchful ring. But the Ironborn carried themselves confidently, ignoring the watchers.

It was honestly surprising how the Stormrider, a one of a kind ship that'd never been seen before, seemed to just go over their heads at the mere sight of his daughter.

Throughout the day, Hela reappeared only intermittently, striding through the docks without a word. She cast dispassionate looks at the curious crowds that parted before her as though facing a lethal predator. Her name passed in hushed voices. That's her. The Lady Reaper. The Daughter of the Drowned God. The Red Scourge. The Breaker of the Oceans…

People lowered their gaze when she walked by, not daring to provoke her. She never needed to speak. Her presence alone was enough. It was a magical sight. Valon's heart swelled with pride.

By evening, the deals were concluded. The Old Blood, high in their marble halls, breathed a collective sigh of relief. They could not risk offense to House Greyjoy by demanding they depart forcibly, but they wanted the Ironborn gone. Having Hela's dreaded black ship in their harbor was an ever-present threat. So, they showered Valon with courtesy and gifts in the hope he would move on swiftly. Sacks of spices, jars of pickled peppers, bolts of fine cloth, and wheels of aged cheese found their way into the Stormrider's hold.

Valon accepted it all with a polite grin, making sure to sign over some extra steel ingots as thanks. He understood the game. Volantis wanted them out of their city and offered them plenty of gifts to do so. He was happy to oblige. Hela perched on a crate while scribes hurried to finalize the trade manifest. When asked if she wanted to see more of Volantis's famed markets, she merely shook her head.

By dawn of the next day, the Ironborn set sail. A heavy mist clung to the water, turning the harbor into a gray tapestry. Dockworkers watched from a safe distance, eyes filled with palpable relief. The Stormrider took the lead, the rest of the Ironborn flotilla falling into formation behind it. And at the rear, monstrous and silent, glided the Doom.

Some bold souls claimed they glimpsed Hela standing at the Doom's prow, her cloak fluttering like a crow's wing, gazing at the city one last time. Then the black sails disappeared into the distance, leaving Volantis unscathed but shaken.

Days later, the Ironborn fleet skirted the Smoking Sea, that cursed stretch of waters near the Valyrian Peninsula. The air grew thick and acrid, carrying the faint tang of sulfur. Plumes of steam rose from fissures in the sea floor, creating an eerie horizon where molten lines flickered beneath the waves. Even the seasoned Ironborn rowers fell silent, unnerved by the unnatural heat and swirling dark clouds overhead.

Valon observed it all from the Stormrider's deck, leaning on the railing. He found the sight haunting yet oddly majestic. The Sea itself was wounded here, scarred by the cataclysm that had destroyed the Valyrian Freehold centuries ago. Every swirl of the water, every hiss of steam, was a reminder that not all power was meant for mortals.

Hela stood beside him, her cloak drawn close, pale eyes fixed on the roiling water. She seemed almost... contemplative. The swirling black smoke in the sky cast her face in half-shadow.

One by one, the Ironborn ships navigated the labyrinthine channels. Some sailors muttered prayers to the Drowned God, hoping to stave off the rumored curses of Valyria. A few performed quiet rituals, dropping coins or bits of salted fish into the water. The Einherjar aboard the Doom said nothing, their stoic gazes scanning the seas. They had no fear, or perhaps they had no capacity for it.

Eventually, the Ironborn anchored near a cluster of small islets, half-formed from cooled lava and scattered with jagged black rocks. The water here still bubbled with volcanic warmth, though calmer than the channels leading further west.

Valon conferred with his captains. The swirl of steam made the horizon indefinite, but the charts indicated they were well past the densest hazards. Soon they could round the peninsula and head toward deeper waters. Only one matter remained.

"Hela wants to see the ruins," Valon explained, arms folded across his chest. He faced a semicircle of grim-faced Ironborn captains in the Stormrider's cabin. "She asked for a fortnight. Alone."

The men exchanged uneasy glances. They had heard the legends of the Doom of Valyria, the cursed place where ghastly creatures supposedly roamed. Ancient horrors, living shadows, dragons turned monstrous. None among them wanted to set foot there.

Valon exhaled.

"I don't like it either. But she insists." He paused. "Let her do as she wants. We anchor here and wait for her to return."

"A fortnight?" asked Asten Pyke, his brow creased. "What if she doesn't come back?"

Valon's gaze lowered for a moment, lines of worry forming around his eyes.

"She'll come back," he said at length, forcing conviction into his voice. "If any living soul can survive there, it's her. Or did everyone forget the incident at Sothoryos?"

No one argued further. They were loyal to Hela or too afraid of her to question her decisions. So, after finalizing the plan, the captains dispersed to manage their crews. Some men prepared camp on the rocky islets, unloading supplies enough for two weeks' stay. Others made small repairs to the ships, the heat of the Smoking Sea and the corrosive air taking its toll on riggings and hulls.

When the morning light broke over the Smoking Sea, Hela stood at the prow of the Doom, fully geared in her black armor. Her hair lay braided beneath her cloak, and at her side, the faint shape of her necrosword remained strapped, the handle glinting with an obsidian sheen. The Einherjar lined the deck, silent and watchful. Each one carried that same eerie calm about them, though it seemed even they felt uneasy regarding Valyria's cursed shores.

Valon rowed out in a small skiff to meet her as she prepared to disembark. They spoke on the Doom's deck, father and daughter, no one else near enough to overhear. The air was thick with sulfuric fumes, stinging the eyes.

"You needn't do this," Valon said, his voice low. "The stories about Valyria's ruins... they're not mere tales."

Hela's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I want to see them with my own eyes. I have no fear of ghosts or shadows. They're the ones that should be afraid of me."

Valon's jaw tightened. He nodded slowly, his hand lifting as though to rest on her shoulder. "Just be cautious. Even you can't fight the land if it's cursed."

She studied him for a moment.

"Worried you won't get those grandchildren?" Her tone was lightly mocking, but her eyes held a flicker of something—appreciation, perhaps.

Valon snorted, forcing a grin. "What else would I be worried about?"

Hela nodded once. She turned her head to the Einherjar, speaking in a clipped tone. "Wait here. The Doom remains anchored. If I'm not back by the fortnight, do as you will."

And so Hela Greyjoy set off - alone and fearless.