Road to Ruin I

288AC

The night was heavy with salt and storm. Rain lashed the castle of Pyke, its jagged silhouette jutting defiantly against the churning black sea. The hall of the Seastone Chair echoed with the low hum of the storm outside, a relentless reminder of the Ironborn's domain. A brazier in the corner struggled to fight the cold, casting flickering shadows that danced like specters across the walls.

Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, sat atop the Seastone Chair. Its black stone was cold and unforgiving beneath him, a throne carved by long-dead hands to command the unruly sea. Balon's face was grim, his eyes like steel forged in brine. His salt-streaked beard framed a scowl that had become as much a part of him as his crown of driftwood.

Before him stood his two brothers, Euron and Victarion. They were as different as storm and stone. Victarion, hulking and broad-shouldered, with a face carved from iron and a demeanor to match, wore his usual grim loyalty like armor. Euron, by contrast, leaned against the hall's pillar with a casual arrogance, his lips curling in a perpetual smirk and his single blue eye gleaming with mirth—and something darker.

Balon's voice cut through the storm like a sword:

"The time has come to strike. The Ironborn have grown complacent, content with scraps. We have been dogs begging at the tables of wolves. No longer. The mainland grows fat with gold and soft with their feasts. It is time to remind them of salt and iron."

Victarion's fists clenched at his sides. He had heard this talk before, but Balon's tone was different tonight. There was no room for doubt or delay. He stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor.

"Where do we strike, brother?" Victarion's voice was as rough as the seas he sailed. "The Reach? The Riverlands?"

Balon leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of the Seastone Chair. "Lannisport."

The name hung in the air, heavy with its implications. Victarion's brow furrowed, but Euron's smirk widened. The storm outside seemed to howl in approval.

"A bold move," Euron said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Burning the lion's den? I like it. But tell me, dear brother, do you have the men? The ships?"

Balon's glare cut to Euron like a blade. "The Iron Fleet is at our command. The lions' eyes are fixed on their battles with Robert's rebellion. They will not see us coming. And when their city burns, their coffers empty, and their ships sink beneath the waves, they will remember why the Ironborn should be feared."

Victarion's hand instinctively reached for the axe at his side. "The fleet is ready," he said, his voice tinged with eagerness. "Give the word, and we will make the lions bleed."

Euron clapped mockingly, the sound echoing in the chamber. "And what then, Balon? Do we crown you king of ash and rubble? Lannisport is but one city. Do you think the mainland will bow to you because of a few fires?"

Balon stood, his presence filling the room. "This is only the beginning. When Lannisport burns, the realm will see that we are not to be trifled with. It will remind them of our strength, of our wrath. The Ironborn will raid as we did in the old days. We will take what is ours by salt and steel."

Euron tilted his head, his smirk never fading. "And what of allies? What of the wolves, the stags, the dragons? They will not sit idle while we carve our kingdom from their lands."

Balon's gaze did not waver. "Let them come. They fight amongst themselves, tearing each other apart. When the time is right, we will strike like a storm, unyielding and relentless."

Victarion's inner thoughts churned as violently as the storm outside. He had always followed Balon, trusted his leadership. But this—this was more ambitious than anything they had attempted before. It was one thing to raid, to take and burn and leave. It was another to wage open war against the mainland.

Still, the thought of battle, of fire and blood, stirred something primal within him. He clenched his fists tighter. The Iron Fleet would sail, and he would lead them to victory. For Balon. For the Ironborn. For the Drowned God.

Euron's thoughts, by contrast, were a maelstrom of ambition and calculation. He cared little for Balon's talk of Ironborn traditions or the Drowned God. Power was what mattered. Chaos was his element, and if Balon's rebellion provided a means to sow it, so be it. But Euron's ambitions stretched far beyond the Iron Islands. He envisioned a throne not of driftwood but of iron, not of the sea but of the world. And he would let Balon's firelight guide him there—until it was time to snuff it out.

"Very well, Balon," Euron said, pushing off the pillar and stepping into the flickering firelight. "I'll admit, it's a compelling vision. But visions don't win wars. Plans do. So tell me, brother, what is your plan for Lannisport?"

Balon's eyes flicked to a map laid out on a nearby table. He strode to it, Victarion and Euron following. The map was worn, its edges frayed by salt air, but its details were clear. Balon's finger traced the coastline until it landed on the golden lion of Lannisport.

"We strike at night," Balon said, his voice low but fierce. "The Iron Fleet will sail in silence, slipping past their defenses. We will set their ships aflame, block their harbor, and cut off their escape. Then, we will take the city. Whatever we cannot carry, we burn. Their gold will fund our rebellion. Their ruin will herald our rise."

Victarion nodded, his doubts melting away in the face of Balon's resolve. "It will be done. The fleet is yours, brother."

Euron's smile widened, though his thoughts remained his own. "A fine plan," he said, his tone as sharp as broken glass. "Let us see if the lions' roars drown in the salt."

The storm outside raged on, a cacophony of wind and wave that seemed to echo the storm within each of them. Balon stood tall, his eyes fixed on the map, already seeing the flames rise over Lannisport. Victarion's thoughts were consumed by visions of battle and glory, of iron axes and bloodied seas. And Euron, ever the enigma, watched his brothers with a predator's gaze, plotting his own path through the chaos to come.

As the night deepened, the Greyjoy brothers began to discuss the finer points of their plan. Balon spoke of timing and secrecy, of the need to strike swiftly and decisively. Victarion detailed the fleet's readiness, the strength of their ships and men. And Euron, ever the shadow, offered suggestions that were as cunning as they were ruthless.

But beneath the surface, unspoken tensions lingered. Balon's determination, Victarion's loyalty, Euron's ambition—each was a force unto itself, bound together by blood and salt but destined to clash.

When the meeting ended, the brothers parted ways. Balon returned to the Seastone Chair, staring into the storm as if daring it to challenge him. Victarion went to the docks, where the Iron Fleet awaited his command. And Euron… Euron disappeared into the shadows, his mind already turning over schemes and secrets that would shape the rebellion to come.

The storm raged on, but within Pyke's halls, a greater storm was brewing. The Greyjoy rebellion had begun, and with it, the tides of Westeros would never be the same.

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Actually taking my time writing dialogue/setting the scene feels much more rewarding hope you enjoy.

Power Stones!!!!!!