Roads to Power

288AC

The seas churned violently under a slate-gray sky, the waves cresting high and crashing against the hull of the Darkspire's lead galley. Damien stood at the prow, his dark cloak billowing in the bitter wind, the salt spray stinging his face. The rhythmic groan of the ship's timbers and the distant cries of gulls punctuated the silence around him. Behind him, the sails of his fleet swelled with the storm's promise, their black-and-silver sigils stark against the roiling heavens.

It had been a long journey. The wind had felt heavier since he'd left the port town weeks ago—heavy with the weight of what he'd learned. Blood magic. The power to control, manipulate, and destroy—all for the price of one's soul & humanity. He had paid part of that price long ago, and the lessons Maggie the Frog had imparted were still fresh in his mind: blood had its cost, and so did ambition. He hadn't forgotten that. But the lure of the power, of bending those that oppose him to his will, was more substantial. It called to him like the storm's howl over the waves, a constant, beckoning reminder.

His thoughts were no calmer than the sea. The summons from Stannis Baratheon had been clear, leaving no room for delay or dissent. The Ironborn raids were no longer isolated incidents but a calculated escalation—a prelude to something far more dangerous. Balon Greyjoy's ambition was a shadow over the realm, a threat that demanded swift and decisive action. Yet as Damien gazed into the horizon, he found himself preoccupied with the looming war and the possibilities it brought.

To most, the Ironborn were an enemy to be crushed, their rebellion a nuisance to be stamped out. To Damien, it was an opportunity—a crucible to forge alliances and secure the standing of House Darke. His father's approval was a cold comfort; Daemon valued results, not sentiment. But in the court of Stannis, there was not much to be gained for a man of cunning and ambition so he would have to carefully watch his steps.

Would Stannis see him as merely another bannerman, a tool to wield and discard? Or could he carve out something more lasting—a foothold in the tangled web of Westerosi power? Trade with many of those that reside within the Crownlands could be brokered, and connections can be nurtured among the lesser Stormlords; even a minority of the Reach, bound to Stannis by marriage, held possibilities. Ambitions whispered through his mind like the wind slicing over the waves, tantalizing and treacherous in equal measure.

Yet ambition was a blade that cut both ways. The Ironborn were not to be underestimated. Their rebellion, if it swelled to its full height, would be a tide of fire and blood. War had no guarantees, only risks and rewards. And death was always the price of failure.

Damien's grip tightened on the railing, his knuckles pale against the weathered wood. A faint smile played on his lips, cold and sharp as the winter sea. "A necessary gamble," he murmured, the words lost in the wind. If death came for him, it would find him on his terms. The sacrifices he had made and the webs he had spun would not be for nothing.

The fleet rounded the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone as the storm broke in earnest. Rain lashed the decks, thunder rumbled overhead, reverberating through Damien's chest. The silhouette of the fortress loomed against the storm-clouded sky, its towers jagged and defiant as if daring the elements themselves. Dragonstone. A fitting seat for a man like Stannis, Damien thought. It was cold, unyielding, and carved from fire and shadow.

As they docked, Damien disembarked with calculated composure, his steps steady despite the slick stones of the harbor. His retinue followed, cloaked figures bearing the banners of House Darke. Ser Merywn, his master-at-arms, cast a wary glance toward the fortress. "Storm's growing worse, my lord."

Damien glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Then let it grow. A storm is only dangerous to those unprepared for it."

The hall of Dragonstone was as cold and forbidding as Damien had imagined. The wind howled through the narrow windows, carrying the salt of the sea and the distant roar of waves. The lords gathered around the long war table were bundled in their cloaks, their breath misting in the frigid air. A map sprawled across the table, its edges weighted with stones to keep it from curling in the draft.

Stannis Baratheon stood at its head, his stern face illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. His dark blue eyes, as cold and sharp as the iron blade at his side, fixed on Damien as he entered. The room fell silent, the murmurs of the gathered lords fading into uneasy stillness.

"House Darke has answered the call," Damien announced, his voice carrying over the storm's distant rumble. He stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor, and inclined his head just enough to convey respect without deference. "Three hundred men-at-arms, two hundred archers, and twelve ships at your command."

Stannis's gaze lingered on him, weighing him as if measuring the steel of a blade. "You bring a respectable force," he said at last, his voice like grinding stone. "But numbers are not all that will win this war. Discipline. Loyalty. These are the keys to victory."

"Discipline we have," Damien replied smoothly, his tone measured. "And loyalty… well, loyalty is earned, my lord, not demanded."

A flicker of something—approval or irritation—passed through Stannis's eyes before it vanished beneath his stoic façade. He motioned for Damien to approach the map. "The Ironborn have struck the coasts with impunity, burning villages and vanishing before a proper response can be mustered. These are no common raids. Balon Greyjoy seeks to test the realm's defenses, to probe for weakness before making his move."

"And what is your assessment of his strategy?" Damien asked, his gaze sweeping the map. He studied the marked ports and villages, the inked lines denoting naval routes. His mind worked quickly, piecing together the movements of the enemy.

"Bold, but reckless," Stannis said. "Balon's strength lies in his fleet, but he underestimates the realm's ability to unite against a common threat. He forgets that even a wolf can kill a shark if it catches it on land."

"A wolf must be cunning to bait the shark ashore," Damien said, his lips curving into a faint smile. He tapped a finger on the map, indicating a cluster of coastal villages. "If we reinforce these positions and bait the Ironborn into overextending, we can isolate their raiding parties. With the right maneuvers, their ships could be trapped between our fleets and destroyed."

Stannis studied him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "A sound strategy," he said finally. "We cannot match the Ironborn at sea in every engagement, but on land, we hold the advantage. If Balon dares to commit fully, it will be his undoing."

The discussion turned to logistics, with the lords debating the allocation of men and resources. Damien listened intently, his mind already working to anticipate the needs and weaknesses of his allies. He spoke sparingly but with precision, his words steering the conversation toward outcomes that aligned with his goals. The lords of the Narrow Sea were cautious, their loyalty to Stannis tempered by their own ambitions. They were pawns in the game, but even pawns had their uses.

As the council adjourned, Stannis approached Damien, his gaze unwavering. "You speak well, Lord Darke. But words are wind. When the time comes, I will judge you by your actions."

Damien met his gaze without flinching, his own eyes cold and calculating. "And I, my lord, will prove that House Darke is a name to be remembered."

The storm raged outside as Damien departed the chamber, the wind howling through the stone corridors of Dragonstone. The path ahead was treacherous, fraught with risk and uncertainty. But Damien had no intention of faltering. The great game was in motion, and he would play it to win.

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I did it again a repeat did it again(im ina an edit) ur welcome.

Power Stones!!!!!!