The Black Dread
In the ancient and gloom-filled great hall of his ancestral seat Pyke, Balon Greyjoy sat on the Seastone chair, hard black eyes wandering over the few captains and lords that had gathered, talking amongst themselves of little things that did not concern a man of his stature.
He was the ruler of the Iron Islands, all on it swore fealty to him and did as he wished, whenever he wished. His throne was the seastone chair, ancient blackstone fashioned into the likeness of a kraken in a time none recalled.
And by virtue of his throne, the Iron Fleet too was his.
Soon enough, his Kingdom would be freed from false rulers.
"Father... Lord Harlaw requests that we thin-"
"Fuck his request." Balon cut his daughter off sternly, momentarily raising his voice, "Old Harlaw forgets that we are ironborn, not whores and 'peacemakers'."
His words drew laughs and shouts of agreement from his men but he only momentarily considered their reactions before turning his aged gaze back to his daughter, "We do not submit to any."
She went silent, pursing her thin lips.
"What of my younger brother?" She changed the subject, strands of short black hair sticking to wind chafed skin, "Will we welcome him back?"
Balon considered her words in silence, "We will see."
He was old but he wasn't a fool, Theon was his son but, he had been raised by the Starks, taught their ways and his fangs were dulled, trained to take the Iron Islands he'd built back up back to the weak and feeble ways Balon's own father had tried to thrust onto his people.
Reaving and raping was their right, the Iron Price was to be paid by every living man, woman and child... Their way was battle and pillage, taking thralls and salt wives from those that caught their eye for the menial tasks.
And by the Drowned God himself, as Lord Reaper of Pyke, he would see his people returned to their ways... It was what they wanted.
His thoughts were disrupted by an awful crack of thunder... But they were used to such things.
The Iron Islands were sparse pieces of rock, the thin land was useless, all they had was iron to be mined by thralls... The weather was dull, grey clouds covered the skies and storms were frequent.
But... this time, something was odd.
No crack of thunder could make the ancient castle of Pyke tremble, no raging storms could make its walls quake and fall apart.
And all of them noticed.
From the servants bringing them drink, to the captains of his fleet, to Balon himself.
Balon lifted his head to look at the dark ceiling as his daughter's hand swiftly usheathed the sword at her waist, protectively holding out the other over him... a fact that made even him smile, bitter as he was.
No sooner had he rose from his throne that the massive wooden doors to his hall were thrown open, the kraken sigil of his house above it fluttering from the strong winds, and a poorly dressed thrall ran in.
He fell to his knees, then put his bald head against the stone floor, "M-y Lords! You n-need to s-see..."
"Out with it!" Balon spat quickly, "What the hell happened?!"
The thrall's breath hitched, "The Gods-... I-It is the Black Dread returned!"
A silence descended on the great hall, broken by gloating laughter from the captains, "He's gone mad!"
But Balon wasn't in the mood for japes, something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones, "Silence! The Black Dread? I will have you gutted for this lie."
The Black Dread was a name no man or child alive did not know, it was a fairytale from a by-gone age, from a dynasty only recently ended, who conquered the land through blood and fire, atop mighty beasts spewing flames that burnt through steel and stone.
But they were long dead.
"T'is not a lie, my lord!" The thrall begged with renewed fear, "You must look outside!"
Asha looked his way, slight concern in her black eyes, "Father..."
Again, Balon held his hand up to silence her and made his way down the steps, across the cold, dreary hall, and out onto the swaying rope bridge that connected the three jagged islets supporting the Keeps that made up Pyke.
He grabbed tightly onto the rope to steady himself, with Asha moving to support her father like the proper heir she was, and looked out into the raging storms.
The winds howled, black clouds rolled across the misty skies as thick drops of rain collided with his skin, rolling down his musky sealskin robes, "There's nothin-"
Then, he caught it.
A great mass of black striding swiftly through the skies, illuminated by the eventual crack of thunder... thunder that mixed with flame to light up the dark sky.
He moved to point at it and opened his mouth to speak but words failed him... and even if they didn't, his words would fall on ears that could not hear them.
A horrific roar boomed throughout the Iron Islands, like a thousand nails were scratched against steel. It paused then started again a second later, halting and then beginning again a second later.
This alone was enough to crush a mind.
Had the Targaryens returned with their dragons? To claim sovereignty over the whole of Westeros through Blood and Fire once more? If they had, then who could stop them?
Balon didn't have the time, no, he wasn't given the time to find the answers to these questions.
"It's... What is tha-"
They were all silenced by a stream of orange flame, streaked with lightning descending from the stormy sky above like a waterfall and washing over the island of Harlaw whole. At the same time, they illuminated the great beast whole.
Its scales were dark like the night sky, and its size was so vast they could see it clear from such great distance, horns jutted from its back as it cut through the sky, roaring and breathing flame, burning and destroying all that it caught.
It crashed into the Ten Towers, the seat of House Harlaw, and bit through three of them whole before flapping it's mighty wings and ascending to the sky... only to return not a moment later and slam it's entire mass into the Earth to emerge in a great explosion of flame and lightning that tore through mountains and earth, spilling sea into land.
But it seemed it wasn't yet done.
Balon moved with trembling hands and wide eyes, his visions of grandeur the farthest thing from his mind as he forced his aged form through the swaying rope bridge, into the Bloody Tower, through an abandoned corridor and then up a stairway, all the while his daughter called after him.
"Father! Father, we need to escape now!" Asha shouted behind him, "I have my ship moored at the dock, if we hurry we can still make it!"
Balon didn't look her way, instead shouted in open defiance, "I'll be damned if I let that thing do as it pleases!"
The Iron Fleet he'd constructed in his rule, the Galleys that comprised it, had their decks fitted with Scorpions and spitfires... While the latter were useless, the scorpions were the one way dragons had been brought down in the past.
"Go to the docks, the fleet there. Tell them their King commands them to hit that damn thing with all they have."
Asha hesitated but then nodded decisively, "As you command, Father."
Balon nodded gruffly as she went the opposite way before picking up his pace, as much as he could, "Out of my way!"
The soldiers shook from disbelief and hurriedly opened the doors for him.
Faster than one would think for a man his age, he scaled the familiar Bloody Tower and reached it's top, burning his palm on a the brazier that burnt at it's centre, to look out just in time to see the blasted thing unleash its fiery wrath on the island of Orkmont.
With a single breath, lightning and fire swept the small island, burning thralls and ironborn alike till naught but ash and black earth remained... The only reason he could see that was because those flames seemed to set the very earth on fire, then lingered and ate away until sea spilled onto them.
In that same stream, the beast burned Old Wyk destroying history older than any living soul in the span of time it would take a man to drink water. It raised its black head to the sky and released another guttural roar.
It didn't even need to breathe this time, no, the Storm God answered its call and a stream of crimson thunder crashed down onto Saltcliffe, decimating the island. What remained was washed away by a mighty flap of its obsidian wings.
The thing wasn't simply destroying them.
No, it was washing away their very existence under the sea that birthed them.
Their fear would be forgotten, and their history less than a fairytale.
"...Why?"
That was the only word that came to his mouth.
Targaryens ruled and conquered, they didn't simply eradicate all they saw.
The Black Dread crashed onto Great Wyk as he watched, taking place atop the tallest peak before roaring to the black skies above.
Had the Storm God finally moved to swallow them whole?
Fire and death erupted from the very earth around it, pillars of great flame rose to the sky, unhindered by the rain and crashing waves around them.
Men of great prowess and fame were devoured alive with none to hear their screams.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the night went dark again.
The seas calmed and the storms disappeared as if they had never been there.
The flames silenced themselves, and where once stood six islands, inhabited by men of great wealth and prowess, there was now only the endless sea... The waves crashed against each other calmly, having forgotten what once stood there.
It was then that Balon finally realised the truth.
Men were... nothing.
Their guile and deception was nothing in the face of great power.
Was this what Harren the Black had felt when Balerion the Black Dread burnt down the great Harrenhal?
No words came to his mouth.
No thoughts crossed his mind.
His limbs refused to move.
The few men that had gathered the courage to join him were the same.
But, of course, it wasn't done.
Of course, it wasn't.
The night came to life with a screech, releasing a sea of flame upon the sea below it, scorching the Iron Fleet he had built using the better part of the last decade and half before a single scorpion could fire.
It did the same to most of Pyke.
This time Balon heard it all.
The heat blistered his skin, his long hair caught fire at the ends, the screams of men and women, of captains and sailors, scraped his ears... There was naught he could do but watch as all he had was burnt away in mere moments.
No, not even moments, the time it took for him to take a single breath was all it needed to decimate the whole of Pyke.
Did it even matter?
Did anything they could ever do matter?
His knees gave way, yet he forced himself to bear witness to the end of his legacy, his people... his everything.
Perhaps the beast wasn't simply raging.
He realised this when it came to still above him, each flap of its wings resounding like thunder as its smoldering crimson eyes stared into his.
An ancient voice rumbled, crackling like the storm it had brought with it,
"Pyke will stand... smouldering... A testament... to those that... follow."
Yet Balon never got to answer.
The great beast lurched forward and bit down on Balon faster than it had any right to, raised its maw to the sky, and released a great sea of flame to the sky once more.
-
Hope you enjoyed.
Comment your thoughts/suggestions for the story.
Fury without discrimination or empathy.
Karl doesn't destroy everything he doesn't like but once he's sufficiently irked or motivated against something. He makes an example of it.
I hope I was able to convey even half of how amazing this felt in my mind.