fics I read

105 AC

The Necro-blades did not respond to her call as easily as they once did. She closed her hand and willed them forth form her forearm, but only a single, dagger-sized Necro-blade emerged and it did so with great difficulty. She held it up, towards the sun, and smiled at the tiny victory; it was, at the very least, not the brittle little things she'd created when her powers first manifested – in another, more distant life that she just barely remembered. She slashed at the wall at her side and smiled when the Necro-blade dagger sliced through solid stone like it was nothing.

Good. As sharp as ever.

At the very least, she'd never be defenseless in this world.

Her strength was... greatly diminished – not even a shadow of her former self. And her ability to regenerate was just barely present.

And she hated it. This powerlessness... it reminded her too much of her youth, in the early days, before she earned the moniker of the Goddess of Death. She'd spent so much of her time hating herself for her weakness, even as Odin molded her into the perfect weapon, the perfect heir. It was only when she learned to draw power from Asgard that she grew as strong as she did. But now...

Asgard no longer existed. And, even if it did, she was as far away from it as she could get, because she simply could not sense the ebb and flow of the power of Yggdrasil. But, truth be told, she remembered the death of her home, the death of everything she held dear, including her own death when Surtr plunged his flaming sword into the very heart of Asgard. She lost everything, then. And yet... here she was... still alive. No, that was not quite the right word, was it?

Reborn.

She'd been reborn. And the one saving grace was that she'd managed to keep her name.

Hela Greyjoy, firstborn rock-child of the Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke, Valon Greyjoy. Her mother apparently died in childbirth and, since her new father had no salt wives, Hela remained the sole heir. Truth be told, she didn't care too much about any of that. But she was glad to have been reborn among a people who valued power and strength of arms, almost mirroring the Asgard she knew and loved, not like the weakened, bloated, peace-loving kingdom it'd turned into in her absence, when Odin finally had him, her weakling of a brother.

Pathetic. She should've just sliced his head off when they first met.

Sighing, Hela turned away from her view on the window. Watching the rising and falling of the tides, she found, soothed her mind. Asgard never had oceans of its own.

But, for now, it was time for more 'training'. At least, that's what her father officially called it, but she knew that look in his eyes every single time she trained with warriors far older than her reborn state. Valon Greyjoy enjoyed watching her humiliate them, fully-grown men, defeated by an odd, but ferocious girl. Though, to be certain, Hela wouldn't deny that she too enjoyed it.

Watching his daughter thrash a man, fully grown, clad in chain mail and boiled leather armor, an experienced and veteran Ironborn Reaver, like he was nothing more than a wooden toy, never got old. The prize of a thousand gold dragons remained, of course, which was honestly quite funny, honestly, because every single fighter who wanted to win that prize had to win a trial by strength of arms... against his daughter – for the price of a single gold dragon, of course. Many men laughed and thought it a jest, warriors of great skill and renown, legends in their own right. They didn't laugh now.

Rorik, the man's name was, a seasoned raider with many salt wives and trophies from dozens of raids and battles. For all his might, he stood no chance against his daughter. Hela grabbed the man by the hand and slammed him into the floor, keeping him there, no matter how many times he tried to push himself back up to stand. He couldn't. Hela's mastery of martial arts and her unnatural strength – blessings from the Drowned God himself – ensured that all Rorik could do was scream and thrash and kick at the open air, like a petulant child on a tantrum. It must've been humiliating for him. But, Valon hardly cared.

"Demon!" The man screamed each time Hela twisted his wrist and his elbow. "Witch!"

"Unhand me!" Rorik's screams only seemed to entertain his daughter, whose grin revealed the simple truth to her enemies, that she was, in fact, Ironborn. The older warrior twisted his body in an attempt to tackle his daughter to the ground, only to be met with even greater frustration as the little girl somersaulted over his large form, while still holding his hand and, mid-air, spun and sent Rorik's face straight into the floor, his shoulder and elbow now included in the wrist-lock. "Witch!"

No one taught her that; no instructor was good enough to teach her anything. His daughter simply knew how to fight from the moment she was born.

"No." Came Hela's reply, before she dragged the older fighter over the floor and slammed him against the wall, knocking the man unconscious. For a moment, it almost seemed as though Hela would just rip the man's arm off, but, instead, she simply kicked his stomach, forcing Rorik awake as bile and vomit erupted from his mouth.

She didn't kill him, of course. Ironborn were forbidden from spilling the blood of other Ironborn. And his daughter, blessed though she was by the Drowned God, adhered to this rule, albeit begrudgingly.

Valon Greyjoy was well aware of the whispers that surrounded his daughter. The Priests of the Drowned God spoke of her as the princess who will bring forth a great tidal wave of blood that will drown the world. Others saw her as simply blessed by the Drowned God, destined – perhaps – for greatness, to be the greatest Reaver the world had ever seen, for her name to be feared across the known world. And, of course, there were a few, like poor Rorik, here, who thought that she was either witch or a demon, or that Valon himself had lain with a Deep One and produced this monster of a child.

And, his personal favorite, was the rumor that Hela herself had been found adrift in the sea, sent to Valon Greyjoy by the Drowned God himself, after his wife supposedly died giving birth to a stillborn babe, believing that Hela was some sort of demigoddess.

Amusing. But ultimately incorrect. Still, he allowed the rumors to fester. They'd only serve to bolster Hela's reputation and, by extension, his, which would further solidify the legitimacy of the Greyjoys.

Valon himself wasn't sure just why his daughter held as much power in one arm as twenty men, but he knew that she was blessed. And what he knew for certain was that Hela Greyjoy was going to change everything. With her strength, perhaps, it was possible to break free from the hold of the Targaryens and their dragons. He'd even heard of whispers from the thralls that Hela could grow daggers from her own body or from the ground around her.

Valon wasn't quite sure about that particular rumor, but it was interesting, nonetheless.

Whatever the case, Valon ensured, however, that these rumors never left the Iron Islands themselves. He had to keep her as far away from the Targaryens as he could and allow her to grow into her gift. Perhaps, soon, she might just become powerful enough to crush boulders with her bare hands or choke dragons to death. Either of those would surely be a sigh to behold.

"Have you another challenger for me, father?" Hela strode up to him, a bored expression on her face, green eyes glimmering like emerald pools. She carried with her Rorik's helmet, a trophy of her victory; she often took trophies from those she defeated, sometimes their weapon, but mostly just pieces of their armor. She didn't do anything with it, as far as he was aware. Once more, Valon felt his chest swell with pride; here was his daughter, not yet sailing, but already taking plunder from those she'd defeated. He could almost cry tears of joy.

Valon shook his head, much to his daughter's visible displeasure. "Unfortunately, there are no more challengers – for today, at least. You've garnered quite the reputation for yourself, Hela. Warriors speak of you as though you're a daughter of the Drowned God himself, which we both know isn't true, but is still quite the complement."

Hela huffed and snorted, and tossed the helmet to the nearest thrall. "You may add that to my collection. See that it isn't damaged or I'll have your head."

The thrall fell to her knees and bowed her head, hands shaking she took the helmet and stood back up. Valon grinned. Someday, soon, that dread felt by the thralls shall be felt by the whole world at the mere mention of his daughter's name. Entire cities shall empty at the rumor that her fleets were coming to raid them. It shall be, glorious. "As you command, Lady Hela."

"One of the fishermen spotted a school of Kraken south of Salt Cliffe, this morning," Valon said, immediately catching his daughter's attention. It was time, perhaps, to finally allow her to indulge in one of her fantasies, which was jumping underwater and slaying a Kraken by herself. Any other parent would've thought too mad – too dangerous – for a daughter, especially one only eight years old. But... some maddened part of his mind wished to see if his daughter was truly capable of such a thing. After all, grown men couldn't tackle Krakens by themselves, but what about her? What about one who was blessed by the Lord of all the Seas?

His daughter smiled, but it wasn't the smile of an innocent child. No, it was the smile of an excited warrior, a hunter. If Valon squinted his eyes enough, he could almost see all the cities ablaze at his daughter's hand, the mountains of treasures she'd gather, the thralls she'd bring home. "You're finally letting me hunt one?"

Valon grinned. He didn't mind her manner of speech as most father's would have. Ironborn didn't care too much for the pompous courtesies of the soft Greenlanders. "Of course. But I'll be there with you, just to make sure you don't end up dead."

"Of course, father." Hela said, barely able to keep her grin away. Valon chuckled. His daughter was adorable.

"That's Lord Greyjoy's blessed little demon child?"

"Fool, that girl has been anointed by the Drowned God himself; you'd do well to hold your tongue in her presence."

"Why are we out here, anyway?"

"Lord Valon says his daughter wants to catch and kill a fucking Kraken by her lonesome."

"That sounds like a very stupid idea if you ask me."

"Aye, I've seen one of those things sink a long ship – pulled it right under the bloody fucking waves. What's a child gonna do? Jump straight into its mouth?"

Dagmer shook his head and rolled his eyes. "All of you cunts, shut up and man your damn posts. Lord Valon's coming and if any of you speak ill of his daughter again, I'll have you thrown overboard; is that clear?"

His sailors all frantically nodded and rushed back to wherever the fuck they should've been standing.

Dagmer himself had heard all the farfetched stories about Lady Hela Greyjoy; he wasn't sure which of them were true and which of them were falsehoods. But what he knew was that the child herself was possessed of a strength that belonged only to giants and dragons. He'd seen her lift and throw men twice his own size, wearing full-plate armor and armed to the teeth. And that was over a year ago. She'd have gotten even stronger now. Dagmer considered himself wiser than most; so, it was because of that wisdom that he'd really rather not test Lady Hela's wroth, unless he wished to be thrown overboard.

Blessed? Cursed? Demon? Chosen? He didn't know. Dagmer was too small to immerse himself in the realm of gods and men, in magic and sorcery. What he knew for certain was that Hela Greyjoy was the rock-child of Lord Valon Greyjoy, Lord-Reaper of Pike and Lord of the Iron Islands, which meant it was his duty to serve her, just as he served her father; there was nothing else to it.

The little lady jumped aboard, grinning ear to ear. Black of hair, pale skin, and green eyes; Lady Hela was a beautiful child. But there was an air of dread and danger that lingered about her, the certainty that she could kill every single person aboard this ship if she wanted and there was nothing they could do about it. Still, Dagmer swallowed the lump in his throat as he bowed his head low and knelt before the little girl. "Welcome aboard the Wave-Catcher, Lady Greyjoy. It is my pleasure to accompany you on your hunt."

"You ever seen a Kraken, Dagmer?" She turned to him, her eyes almost ablaze with green fire. Dagmer shuddered. What a terrifying little creature. But, ultimately, her question was innocent enough.

"Aye," He answered, recalling the last time he'd seen one of the large sea beasts. "Saw one a few days ago. Pulled a seagull right under. South of Salt Cliffe – more or less."

"Good," The grin never left her face as she spoke. "We're going to kill one."

With that, Lady Hela ran off. He would've followed her if Lord Valon Greyjoy hadn't been there. "Ah, my cute daughter's excitement has rubbed off on me; I do hope we'll find at least one of these beasts today. I have no wish to see her disappointed."

Dagmer kept his head low.

He felt the same way.

"Welcome aboard the Wave-Catcher, Lord Greyjoy," Dagmer said as he stood up, his knees aching slightly. Tsk, he might just be getting a little too old for this. "The ship is yours to command, my lord."

"Ah, haha, no," Lord Greyjoy shook his head. He then gestured at Lady Hela, who'd grabbed a harpoon from somewhere and held it in the manner with which a seasoned warrior may hold a spear. Dagmer himself had been a Reaver once, long ago. The way she held the spear was perfect – as was her stance. When he spoke, he spoke with absolute certainty and confidence. "She'll be in command of the vessel."

Dagmer gulped. He wanted to protest, to question. But, he didn't live this long by questioning the orders of those above him. "As you say, my lord."