Roads to Power

288AC

It has been some time since his return to the hall of Darkspire. It was cold as always, its shadowy recesses alive with faint whispers of wind and echoes of the past. Damien sat in the study, the missive bearing Stannis Baratheon's stag-and-flame seal unopened on the desk before him. The tension was palpable as the fire's flickering light cast angular shadows over his sharp features. He already knew the contents—his father had been summoned to war against the Greyjoys, and by extension, so had he.

Daemon entered the room with his characteristic air of superiority, his cold blue eyes appraising his son. The elder Darke's expression carried an unspoken command for all his silence: do not fail. Without a word, he tossed the missive onto the desk before Damien, who opened it with steady hands. The decree called for House Darke to muster their forces and march under the banners of Stannis Baratheon to crush Balon Greyjoy's rebellion.

"The Ironborn—a cancer on this kingdom," Daemon mused, his voice icy. "Stannis calls, and we answer. You will lead our forces, Damien."

It was an opportunity and a test, Damien knew. His father's approval came only when it served his own designs. For House Darke, appearances were paramount. Daemon's public display of confidence in his son was meant to project strength, even if, privately, it was laced with indifference.

Damien nodded, hiding the spark of determination behind his calm façade. "Of course, father. Our house will be the blade that cuts the Ironborn from the realm."

By nightfall, Damien had convened the house's captains and sergeants in the council chamber. Maps of Blackwater Bay and the Iron Islands were spread across the table, littered with figurines representing ships and armies. Damien's eyes swept over the gathered men, assessing their loyalty and competence.

"We will deploy primarily by sea," he began, his tone authoritative but measured. "The Ironborn thrive on chaos and fear, but their weakness lies in discipline. Our forces will target their supply lines and ports, disrupting their operations and drawing them into traps. Our archers and crossbowmen will be instrumental. I want every longbow in the castle readied for war."

One of the older captains, Garret Storm, grunted in approval. "A sound plan, my lord. And your orders for the infantry?"

Damien's lips curved into a faint smile. "The infantry will hold the line when necessary but will not be wasted in needless frontal assaults. Let the Ironborn come to us, and we will bleed them dry."

As the council deliberated further, Damien noticed a few skeptical glances among the older knights, though none dared openly voice their doubts. Ser Merywn, the master-at-arms who had trained him, broke the tension with a curt nod. "It seems the young lord has learned his lessons well. We'll see to it that the men are prepared."

The journey to Seagard was swift but tense. Damien rode at the head of his force, his banner—a silver serpent entwined around a black spear—fluttering in the cold wind. His men, though loyal, were wary of the task ahead. As they approached the castle, the sounds of preparation filled the air: the clamor of forges, the barked orders of knights, and the creak of laden wagons.

Ser Davos Seaworth greeted them at the gates, his weathered face breaking into a grin. "House Darke, eh? Stannis will be pleased to see your numbers."

Damien inclined his head. "The Ironborn won't stand against us. Where are we needed most?"

Davos gestured toward the keep, where Stannis and the other commanders gathered. "Your strategy may change that answer, my lord. Best speak with him directly."

Inside the keep, the war council buzzed with tension. Damien's arrival turned a few heads, though he ignored the murmurs. Stannis Baratheon himself was an imposing figure at the head of the table, his stern gaze locking onto Damien as he entered. Without preamble, the Lord of Dragonstone motioned for him to approach.

"House Darke has answered the call. What forces have you brought?"

Damien precisely listed their strength: three hundred men-at-arms, two hundred archers, and a dozen battle-ready ships. Stannis nodded curtly, his approval silent but evident.

"The Ironborn will test our mettle," Stannis said, his voice like grinding stone. "But they will break."

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Last 2 chapters I have recently deleted had been below standards(my standards are pretty low), instead of improving my plot points and dialogue etc they took a nose dive especially being quite short. I will be rectifying these mistakes.