Roads to Power

299AC

The Vanguard at Pyke

The cacophony of war echoed through the breach in Pyke's southern wall. Smoke mingled with salt-laden air, the tang of blood sharp in Damien Darke's nostrils. Leading the vanguard was an honor Damien reluctantly accepted; he understood its significance but found no pleasure in the glory others sought.

Glory fades, Damien thought grimly as he stepped through the breach, but scars endure.

The Ironborn were waiting. Though fewer than expected, the defenders were fierce, their axes and blades wielded with the desperation of men fighting for their home. Damien moved ahead of his men, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a specter of death. Widow's Wail was in his hand, its Valyrian steel catching the muted sunlight as if eager to drink more blood.

As they surged forward, a cry went up from the left flank. A new contingent of Ironborn appeared from the shadows of a nearby corridor. At their head was Maron Greyjoy, Balon's second son. Clad in dark armor adorned with krakens and armed with a vicious axe, Maron snarled like a beast as he rallied his men.

"Kill them!" Maron roared. "Show them what it means to challenge the Ironborn!"

Damien cursed under his breath. He wasn't supposed to be here. He should have been in the south tower. A small fissure of unease opened in his mind. This was a ripple, one of many, where the future was no longer sure. Focus, Damien.

Maron charged, flanked by four captains—each a brutal veteran of countless raids. They moved with the raw ferocity of wolves closing in on a wounded stag. Damien stepped forward to meet them, raising his sword in a silent challenge. Behind him, his men clashed with the remnants of the Ironborn, steel ringing against steel in a brutal, chaotic melee.

The Dance of Blades

The first captain lunged at Damien with twin daggers, aiming for his throat and ribs in a flurry of quick strikes. Damien sidestepped, his movements precise and economical. He parried one blade with a deft flick of Widow's Wail and pivoted, driving his elbow into the man's jaw. The Ironborn staggered, and Damien's blade was a blur, slicing through the captain's neck in a clean arc.

The second attacker came immediately, a hammer crashing down toward Damien's head. He shifted his weight, dodging just enough to let the weapon glance off his shoulder guard with a sickening thud. Pain flared, but Damien used the momentum to spin, the edge of Widow's Wail catching the hammer-wielder in the side. His scream was short-lived as the Valyrian steel cleaved through ribs and lung.

Two down.

Maron's voice bellowed through the chaos as he closed in, his axe carving deadly arcs through the air. "You think yourself a hero, do you? Another boy playing at knight?"

Damien didn't reply, his focus narrowing to the moment. The third and fourth captains came at him together. One swung a longsword in a high arc while the other lunged low with a spear. Damien leaped back, his boots skidding on the blood-slick stone. He parried the sword strike with a sharp clash of steel and ducked the spear thrust.

Think. Find the openings. He feinted toward the spearman, forcing him to overcommit, then stepped inside the man's guard. The tip of Widow's Wail slid under the Ironborn's chin and punched upward, a wet gurgle marking the end.

The swordsman pressed the attack, his blade moving in rapid, brutal swings. Damien deflected each with calculated precision, his arms burning with the effort. Finally, he saw his moment—a tiny hitch in the man's rhythm—and struck. His blade slipped past the swordsman's guard, piercing his heart in one decisive thrust.

The Duel

Only Maron Greyjoy remained, his dark eyes gleaming with fury. "You've killed my men," Maron snarled, hefting his axe. "Now I'll kill you."

The two circled each other like predators, the sounds of battle fading into the periphery. Maron struck first, his axe a blur of raw power. Damien dodged, feeling the wind of the swing against his cheek. He retaliated with a thrust, but Maron twisted, the axe haft deflecting the blade.

"You've got skill, boy," Maron growled, coming at Damien again, "but skill won't save you."

The next exchange was a brutal, high-speed dance. Damien's mind worked in tandem with his body, calculating every angle, every shift in Maron's stance. He's fast, but overcommits with every swing. Bait him. Make him overreach.

Damien moved in, feinting left. Maron took the bait, his axe carving through empty air as Damien sidestepped and drove Widow's Wail downward. The blade sliced into Maron's thigh, and the Ironborn staggered, blood pouring from the wound.

Maron roared, his axe coming down in a wild, desperate arc. Damien caught the strike on his sword, the force of it jarring his arm. But Maron's balance was broken, and Damien seized the opening. A swift, fluid motion brought his blade across Maron's throat. The Greyjoy heir collapsed to the ground, choking on his blood.

The Aftermath

Damien stood over Maron's body, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. The captains lay around him in a grisly tableau, their blood soaking into the stone. Behind him, his men had gained the upper hand, the remaining Ironborn either slain or driven back.

One of his knights approached, his voice hesitant. "Ser Damien, the rest of the keep is secure. They've sounded the retreat."

Damien nodded, sheathing Widow's Wail. He looked down at Maron's lifeless eyes and felt no triumph, only a hollow ache. Another life ended—another choice made. And yet, the ripples keep spreading.

He turned to his men, his voice steady. "Tend to the wounded. Gather the dead. We've done what we came to do."

As they moved to obey, Damien spared one last glance at the battlefield. Maron wasn't meant to die here, but he did. The threads of fate unravel with every step we take.

The siege was won, but Damien knew the true battle—the one within the hearts and minds of men—was only just beginning.