Roads to Power

288AC

The clash of steel and roar of men surrounded Aeron Greyjoy as he moved through the chaos aboard the Iron Victory. Fires burned bright against the black night, their orange tongues licking at the heavens, while the cold sea spat foam against the ship's hull. The Fury loomed nearby, its shadow blotting out what little light the moon provided. Aeron's heart thundered in his chest as his fingers closed around his driftwood staff, seawater dripping from its length.

He was the Damphair, the prophet of the Drowned God, and though his brother's rebellion seemed doomed, he would not falter. This was a test of faith, and Aeron would prove worthy.

Across the deck, Damien advanced with measured steps, a dark silhouette against the flames. His sword gleamed in the firelight, its edge crimson with blood. Damien's eyes locked onto Aeron's, cold and calculating, and in that moment, Aeron saw not a mortal man but an emissary of the Storm God—a heretic sent to challenge the will of the Drowned God.

"Prophet," Damien said, his voice low but carrying over the din. "Your god has abandoned you. Yield now, and I may yet grant you a swift death."

Aeron straightened, his seaweed-laden hair swaying as he took a step forward. His voice rose, a preacher's fervor echoing in every word. "The Drowned God does not abandon His faithful! Every drop of blood spilled here is an offering, and every breath taken is in His name! You, heretic, will drown beneath the waves!"

Damien's expression remained impassive, but his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. "Then come drown me, prophet."

Aeron moved first, his staff a blur as he swung it toward Damien's head. Damien ducked, the wooden weapon whistling inches above his scalp, and countered with a thrust aimed at Aeron's abdomen. The prophet twisted away, the blade slicing through the air where he had stood moments before. Aeron jabbed forward, his staff striking Damien's shoulder with a crack that forced a grunt from the knight. But Damien recovered quickly, pivoting and bringing his sword around in a wide arc. Aeron leapt back, the blade missing him by the breadth of a finger.

Their confrontation evolved into a fierce struggle for survival, each attack met with a deft maneuver, block, or counterattack. Aeron's actions were unpredictable, his staff whirling and thrusting with the chaotic energy reminiscent of a kraken's tentacles. In stark contrast, Damien exhibited a calm and calculated approach, each swing of his sword executed with lethal precision. As they engaged, the cacophony of the surrounding battle faded into insignificance, their focus narrowing solely to the deadly dance occurring between their weapons.

Aeron's mind raced with fervent thoughts: The Drowned God guides my hand. This heretic is merely a trial, a tempest to endure. My faith will carry me through this ordeal. Meanwhile, Damien assessed his opponent with a critical eye, recognizing the fervor in Aeron's movements. This zealot fights with the intensity of a man possessed, he mused. Yet, unwavering faith will not shield him from the bite of steel. I must bring this battle to a swift end.

With a sudden burst of aggression, Aeron lunged forward, aiming his staff at Damien's ribs. The knight, however, anticipated the move and deftly sidestepped, delivering a brutal downward slash that cleaved into the wooden staff, splintering it and leaving Aeron with a jagged remnant. Unfazed, the prophet thrust the broken piece toward Damien's face, forcing the knight to retreat momentarily. Seizing the opportunity, Aeron propelled himself forward, tackling Damien to the deck with a forceful impact that expelled the breath from both combatants. Regaining his footing first, Aeron raised the remnants of his staff, poised to deliver a decisive blow.

Damien rolled away, his hand darting to his belt. In a flash, he hurled a dagger, the blade embedding itself in Aeron's thigh. The prophet cried out, his leg buckling beneath him as blood poured from the wound. He collapsed onto the deck, clutching his injured leg, and looked up to see Damien rising to his feet, sword in hand.

"Where is your god now, prophet?" Damien asked, his voice sharp as steel.

Aeron's vision blurred with pain, but his voice remained steady. "He is here. Always. Watching. Waiting. You will face His judgment, heretic, as all men must."

Damien raised his sword, its tip gleaming in the firelight. "Then I'll send you to meet Him."

Before Damien could strike, a roar erupted from the far side of the deck. Victarion Greyjoy charged toward them, his axe swinging in deadly arcs as he cut through Damien's men. The Ironborn lord's face was a mask of fury, his powerful frame heaving with exertion as he reached his fallen brother.

"Aeron!" Victarion bellowed, planting himself between Damien and the prophet. "Stay back, boy, or I'll split you in two."

Damien's eyes flicked to Victarion, assessing the new threat. "You should worry about yourself, Greyjoy," he said, shifting his stance. "Your rebellion is over."

Victarion didn't respond. He lunged forward, his axe swinging with bone-crushing force. Damien parried, the impact sending a jolt up his arm, and countered with a thrust that glanced off Victarion's armor. The two men became locked in a brutal melee, their weapons clashing with the sound of thunder. Damien was faster, his strikes precise and unrelenting, but Victarion's strength was overwhelming. Each blow from the Ironborn lord's axe threatened to shatter Damien's defenses.

Aeron watched from the deck, his vision fading as blood pooled beneath him. His lips moved in silent prayer, his faith unwavering even as his strength waned. The Drowned God's will be done, he thought. Whatever fate awaits, it is His design.

The tide of the battle shifted as Stannis Baratheon boarded the Iron Victory, his men forming a protective circle around him. Victarion turned, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the Lord of Dragonstone. A savage grin spread across his face.

"Baratheon!" he roared, charging toward Stannis with his axe raised high.

Stannis stood firm, his sword raised, flanked by his personal guard. The clash was ferocious, Victarion's sheer strength breaking through the circle of knights as he bore down on the Baratheon lord. Stannis met the onslaught with grim determination, his blade deflecting Victarion's strikes as his men rallied to his side.

But then Victarion hesitated. His gaze flicked to where Aeron lay, motionless, Damien's sword buried in his chest. The sight of his fallen brother sent a jolt through Victarion, his grip on his axe faltering for the briefest moment.

It was all the opening Stannis needed. With a roar, he brought his sword down in a powerful arc, the blade striking Victarion's helmet with such force that the Ironborn lord crumpled to the deck, unconscious.

Silence fell over the Iron Victory, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant cries of the wounded. Stannis stood over Victarion's prone form, his expression grim. Around him, the remnants of the Ironborn resistance were subdued, their weapons cast aside as they surrendered to the inevitable.

Damien wiped the blood from his blade and approached Stannis, his gaze lingering on Aeron's lifeless body. "The rebellion is over," he said quietly.

Stannis nodded, his voice heavy with the weight of victory. "With this victory It is only a matter of time. But the cost has been great."

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Power Stones!!!!!!!!