14

Daemon Targaryen stood in a large tent, reading the report by the light of a single candle. The flap of the canvas stirred with the wind, letting in the briny smell of the Stepstones. He held the parchment in one hand. His other hand rested on the pommel of Dark Sister. The blade hung at his hip, gleaming faintly in the candle's glow. His eyes, sharp and pale, flicked over the written lines.

Fascinating.

He read of the Triarchy's movements. A battered and broken fleet returning to Myr or Lys or Tyrosh, cut down to half its number. He read of fear among those captains and sailors who survived. They spoke of an Ironborn monster. They spoke of one who commanded a black-sailed nightmare. They named her Hela Greyjoy, the Red Scourge. Tales said she wielded magic or witchery, that her ship possessed living spines and breathed an ungodly mist, and that she summoned black spears. They spoke of warriors who felt neither pain nor fear, and who each bore the strength of ten men.

Their words smacked of cowardice and superstition.

Daemon almost laughed.

He read the name again: Hela Greyjoy. A girl, they said. Younger than any warlord. Wielding might beyond reason. Routs entire fleets. A single vessel that overcame near a hundred. Impossible. Or so he believed. Yet the Triarchy's defeat was real enough. Daemon saw it in the lines scrawled here, the number of ships sunk or missing. The report told of men drifting ashore with tales of black blades, dark illusions, unstoppable horror. Daemon's lip curled.

The simple truth was that he'd heard of Hela Greyjoy before, stories from sailors and pirates who'd faced or witnessed her wrath–stories of a little girl who could rip men in half and summon black swords and blades and spears from her body. It was ridiculous. But, Daemon was no fool. He was not blind to the fact that the stories, no matter how outlandish they might've been, remained consistent. And that meant they held, at the very least, a trace amount of truth. Daemon would acknowledge, then, that this Hela Greyjoy must've been an exceptional sailor and reaver, the sort that cemented their place in history–well, that was assuming she lived long enough.

Most Ironborn didn't live long enough.

It was almost interesting to think about.

He snorted, tossing the parchment onto a low wooden table.

"A child," he said under his breath. "A savage child from the Iron Islands routing a fleet. They must be drunk or mad."

Corlys Velaryon stood near him, a tall figure with silver hair, face set in firm lines. He wore a fine doublet, the color of deep ocean, and his high boots bore fresh dust and flecks of mud and soil. And yet, the Seasnake was weary and rugged; they both were. Years of war and battles against sea rats had a tendency of wearing down even the greatest of men. He watched Daemon with calm eyes.

"They might be exaggerating," Corlys said softly. "But it would be foolish to dismiss such fear outright. I've read numerous reports and listened to many accounts about the Red Scourge; she's not exactly subtle. I've seen her work as well–the remains of it, at least. And, I must say, there has to be some truth to the matter, even if it's buried underneath a mountain of fear and mummery."

Daemon drew a breath, turning to face the older man. "The Triarchy's men are always weaving tall tales. We've fought them for years. They see phantoms whenever they lose. Though, I will admit that this phantom is bigger than any they've conjured before."

He let out a short laugh. "And this phantom has just given us the perfect opportunity. If they've truly turned their eyes to the Ironborn, that means they've left the Stepstones to us. A hundred ships is no small fleet. They will not retreat here. If they had any of their wits left about them, then they'll want to return to one of the Free Cities to repair and regroup. Their hold over the Stepstones is weaker now than it has ever been."

Corlys nodded once, smiling faintly. "Then, we should press the advantage. Their morale falters. Their war effort is scattered."

Daemon's mouth twitched. "I'd like to finish them. The Stepstones will be pacified. I want them fully under my heel. Let the Triarchy call for help. Let them face the flames of Caraxes. Let them burn."

Corlys moved closer, resting a hand on the table where the map of the Stepstones lay pinned. Colored pins marked their conquests, each small island or rocky spire that Daemon had seized. "The time is ripe," he murmured. "They have few ships left here. Their best captains busy themselves with searching for that Ironborn menace. A full-scale assault now would see us victorious. They cannot resist us."

Daemon reached out to shift a pin on the map, placing it atop a small cove that had long eluded them. He arched an eyebrow. "Good. We'll move at dawn. We'll sweep them from every beach–every cave. They can't fight on two fronts, not with half their strength afloat chasing shadows in the south."

Corlys, though, narrowed his eyes. He drummed his fingers once, soft taps against the wood.

"I share your zeal, but a thought troubles me," he said.

Daemon waited, lips pursed. "Speak your mind."

Corlys glanced at the parchment lying crumpled on the table. "Hela Greyjoy. If she truly terrorizes the seas, if her deeds aren't mere drunken fables, then the Free Cities might unite. Not just Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. Others might join them. They fear her, but also fear letting her roam unchecked. They might blame Westeros. Or think us allied with her. They might see a chance to forge a grand coalition."

Daemon's jaw tightened. He let out a low huff. "You're saying they'll turn on me because some Ironborn brat hunts pirates and leaves entire graveyards of ships in her wake?"

Corlys lifted a shoulder. "She hunts more than pirates, it seems. Merchants vanish. Fleets vanish. Rumors swirl that she sails near Volantis and beyond. If she's allowed to grow stronger, the entire Narrow Sea might quake. And if the Free Cities hold Westeros responsible—"

Daemon cut him off. "I owe her no fealty. Nor does she owe me. Her father's a lord, yes, but the Iron Islands remain under the King's rule, my brother's rule, not mine. I hold no control over her actions and, if I'm correct, Valon Greyjoy enjoys a friendship with Viserys."

It was quite the odd thing, Daemon mused, for his brother to forge a bond with one of the Ironborn. But, apparently, Valon Greyjoy was an enterprising man who loved counting coppers, trading, and hosting feasts–a far cry from the Ironborn of old. Not quite a step up as lords who engaged in mercantile pursuits were… lesser. But, Daemon figured, still better than pirates.

Corlys' brow furrowed. "Aye, but that might mean little to those who do not grasp Westeros's internal politics. They see Targaryens and Greyjoys as parts of one realm. They might think we stand together. Or if not, they might fear an alliance. Fear can unify them. We do not want a fresh war with every city-state from here to Pentos."

Daemon inhaled, his gaze drifting. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, then let them fall. "What do you propose, Corlys? That I parley with some child reaver? That I ask her politely to slaughter Triarchy ships only south of Lys?"

Saying it out loud… it really wasn't as bad as he thought. If nothing else, meeting the Red Scourge would be an interesting novelty. Ultimately, however, no Greyjoy could ever compare to the blood of the dragon. That said, his life would not change much if he never met with her at all.

Corlys gave a short nod. "Exactly that. Or close enough. We could at least send word. Ensure she knows not to trouble the Stepstones and to keep her activities away from the Narrow Sea. Or to keep her raids further from the mainland. We can't control her, but we can give her a new direction. Her presence would deter piracy and, in a way, keep the Triarchy in line."

Daemon let out a scornful laugh. "You believe the Triarchy's sobbing accounts of a lone ship besting a hundred? We both know that's not possible. She might be formidable, but not that formidable."

Corlys' eyes darkened with some hidden concern. "So you say. But the Triarchy's fear is real enough. Even if she's not as invincible as they claim, she has them rattled. That alone matters."

Daemon exhaled, stepping away from the map. The tent's lavish drapery framed him in red silk, the heavy cloth of a conquered place. He ran a hand along the gold embroidery, recalling how he'd seized the Stepstones piece by piece. This was the life he chose: war, conquest, forging his name into legend. He found it almost laughable that some Ironborn whelp might overshadow his deeds. Or, maybe not. Hela Greyjoy might've been infamous, but her deeds were far from noble–unlike his own.

Ugh, fine.

Daemon turned back to Corlys, eyes narrowed. "If we do speak with her, how? Send a raven? The Iron Islands lie far to the west. And she roams the seas, never in one place. The last report stated that she was heading east with a small fleet; that complicates things."

Corlys considered. "We have agents in Essos. We could instruct them to watch for her. If word of her next docking comes, we dispatch an envoy."

Daemon snorted. "Envoys. I doubt they'll ever find her."

He paused, tapping a finger to his chin. "But fine. You can do what you please. I'll not waste my time chasing her. My concern is here, with the Stepstones. That war ends now."

Corlys inclined his head. "Agreed, Prince Daemon. A swift strike, while the Triarchy reels. Laenor has been rather eager to end this war. With the might of Caraxes and Seasmoke, the Stepstones shall be ours forevermore."

Daemon's lip curled into a faint smile. "Caraxes hungers. He's grown restless with these small skirmishes. Let the miscreants burn. Let them scatter. I'll see Craghas's head on a pike."

"We strike at dawn. I want no quarter given." Daemon said.

Corlys nodded. "Yes, my Prince. We'll launch from the eastern shore. Our men hold the main pass. The Triarchy has a small outpost to the south. We'll take it, then push onward. Their morale is shattered. They'll break easily. I doubt they're even occupying most of their outposts."

Daemon felt a surge of satisfaction. "Good. Let them wonder if we consort with the Red Scourge. Perhaps that fear will break them faster."

Corlys exhaled a short breath. "Aye, let them wonder."

In the week that followed, the combined might of Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon finally overtook the meager defenses left behind upon the Stepstones.

Hela breathed in and grimaced. No wonder men avoided this place. The very air was thick with poison–powerful enough to melt a man's lungs if they breathed in even the smallest amount. Hers burned painfully, but pain was something she was accustomed to. It wouldn't kill her, but it was irritating. It did, however, push her regeneration to its limit. Still, it was not nearly as bad as the Emerald Hell.

Night and day did not seem to make a difference. A thick haze of darkness covered the sky and blocked out the stars and the sun.

She stepped forward and stepped atop the skull of a dragon–so large it could've swallowed a whole house in life. Before her was a ruined keep of some kind, its black stone walls having melted and cooled and fused with the soil. This place would be her first stop, it seemed. And, as Hela Greyjoy stepped forth, she wondered what sort of mysteries and secrets she'd find–hopefully interesting things. After all, if the stories were to be believed, Valyria was the only place where Seidhr was actively practiced.