His eyes clenched shut as the sound of crumbling rock and the splashing of seawater reached his ears.
The rain streamed down his face, and the wind slashed it sideways, soaking his hair and tangling it in the wind.
Screams echoed, mingling with the cries of the damned, the dead, and the drowning as the gatehouse collapsed.
Maron had no doubt fallen with it.
Balon wrested his head away from the scene and stalked back towards his solar, leaving his balcony behind.
Books and chairs were strewn about the floor, his father's old collection reduced to ruined scraps of paper ravaged by his calloused hands in his frenzied rage, their bindings used to fuel his fireplace at the center of the room. He glanced at its height, at the eight-limbed kraken that ensnared the ancient brickwork, and he picked up the last intact book upon the floor and threw it upon the raging fire.
It swelled, flames flickering. Balon watched it twist and writhe about his father's greatest treasure with an impassive frown.
A loud boom made the walls shake and left him unsteady on his feet. The fire began to die down as the last of its pilfered energy was consumed.
His frown twisted into an ugly scowl.
No doubt his lord father would have had something to say about that. A clever jape, a metaphor.
A metahphor mayhaps it was.
For thousands of years, the Ironborn had taken what they pleased. Gold, Land, Men, and Grain.
They had to, for the land they lived in would not provide for them of its own volition. They had no fields to toil, for the dirt was too poor. No pastures to attend, for the livestock were few. But it could never last them. They always needed more.
Akin to the fire that raged before his eyes, they burned bright, burned hot, and most of all, burned short.
The Hoares had held onto the Riverlands for hardly a generation before they'd pissed it all away on Harrenhal. Until there were revolts in every conquered lordship and Aegon Targaryen had sailed over Black Harren's hall atop The Black Dread.
No sane man could have glanced at that beast and foreseen victory. One had to be mad or stubborn beyond all reason.
It hardly mattered which Black Harren was, for he burned for it all the same.
Pride & Madness.
The castle shook again. He reached out to steady himself, and his hand passed through empty air.
The upturned tables and chairs seemed to mock him. He reached out to pick one up, but when he turned back toward the fire, it had all but burned out.
Pride and Madness. That was what had killed Black Harren.
His fists clenched.
The castle shook again.
He stepped out of his solar, footsteps echoing through his empty halls. Every guard had long since been sent to the main hall's entrance. He stopped a few feet away from his solar, head dipped in thought.
Dust fell from the ceiling as Pyke's ancient walls were tested. It seemed every minute another bang would sound off, no doubt from rams being forced upon his doors and stones tearing into his towers from trebuchets.
Aegon Targaryen had offered the Hoares their lives in exchange for their loyalties.
No doubt the newly crowned Baratheon king would not show such tender mercy. Not if he wanted to appear strong.
The castle shook again. Something in his stomach curdled at the sound, and a passage from one of the few Greenlander texts he'd stomached enough to read came to the forefront of his mind.
When the sun had gone down, Aegon flew Balerion high above Harrenhal, before plunging down upon Harrenhal, burning the castle beneath him. All that was flammable, both supplies and ironmen, caught fire within the castle, while Harrenhal's stone towers cracked and melted.
With that, Harren's line had ended.
The castle shook again. Something in the far-off distance outside groaned and collapsed.
"Father?"
Balon turned towards his son.
His last son.
"What are you doing out of your room?" How had his daughter let him slip from her fingers?
Theon shook, eyes wide with frenzied terror. "I was in bed. Then the banging started. What's happening?"
"The Greenlanders are here."
Little Theon boggled. "But you said they were too craven to ever set foot here! You-"
"I know what I said, boy."
"Then how..?"
His last son trailed off, looking at him in askance, eyes brimming with tears.
Balon twisted his head away from the sight. "Come with me."
"Where-"
He didn't let his son finish. He marched forward and snatched one of his pudgy hands and began half-marching, half-dragging him forward toward the main hall.
After a moment's hesitation, Theon's fingers curled around his own, and he let himself be carried.
His stomach curdled again as a hand clenched down on his heart tight enough to make it skip a beat.
The castle shook.
After a moment's hesitation, his son mustered the courage to speak again. "Are they going to get inside?"
"Yes."
"Will Dagmer and Nuncle Victarion stop them?"
"No."
Theon glanced up at him, eyes filled with nothing but love and trust. "What will we do?"
Balon stopped at the base of Pyke's great hall, waving a hand towards the end of it, where the Seastone Chair lay.
"Wait."
His son's hand squirmed free of his grasp, and he didn't bother reaching for it again.
Balon stepped forward, not bothering to limit the pace of his footsteps.
Theon trailed behind him like a lost pup.
When sat down upon his throne, Theon's eyes went wide with a delirious mix of confusion and joy as he reached a hand out to pull him into his lap.
He marveled at the oily black stone, running his stubby fingers across its armrests.
There was a final bang, then silence. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of ringing steel upon steel as Baratheon's men faced his household guard.
"What's it made out of?"
"No one knows. There is no name for it. Mayhaps you'll give it one, when you sit it one day."
Theon's head whipped around to face him. "What about Rodrik and Maron?"
"Your brothers are dead." The words scaled his tongue. Theon barely reacted outside of a small nod of affirmation, and Balon fought the urge to strike him for it, to shake him and scream and scream and scream that his brothers, his sons, were dead, dead, dead, his family, was dead, destroyed, and that everything he'd ever wanted, had worked for, had just died with them.
He put a hand atop his son's head instead, digging his nails into his son's scalp and running his calloused fingers through his son's tangled hair, pulling him close.
"That means you'll sit this throne when I go off to visit the Drowned God's hall. You understand what that means?"
Theon nuzzled into his chest. Balon could feel his heart race. "I'll be king?"
"Iron King." He corrected.
In the distance, the sounds of fighting ceased.
Balon pulled his son closer. His father's voice rang in his ears like a toiling bell.
When the sun had gone down, Aegon flew Balerion high above Harrenhal, before plunging down upon Harrenhal, burning the castle beneath him. All that was flammable, both supplies and ironmen, caught fire within the castle, while Harrenhal's stone towers cracked and melted.
With that, Harren's line had ended.
He saw Baratheon first. No man could have missed him, with that great antlered helm. He bore the largest Warhammer he'd ever seen in one hand, and it was soaked in blood.
Lord Stark appeared behind him a moment later, followed by too many peasants and leal lords and knights to count, all out for a piece of the self-crowned King.
Eddard Stark's eyes bored into him like chips of Ice. "Why do this, Lord Greyjoy? Why forsake your oath to your King?"
What oath, he wanted to scream. And what king of mine?
By what right be he my Suzerain? By what right should he be yours?
His eyes drew down to the white surcoat Stark had draped over his armor, at that snarling wolf that threatened to devour him and everything he held dear.
You should be ashamed to bear the name Stark. Your Line were Kings of their own for thousands of years. Why should you suck at the teat of a man with no dragons? No hold over you? You could hold the Neck for a thousand years against all the might of Westeros your own and become the Kings of the North again. Any man could, any man should. Why should any of us bow to one man alone?
He turned towards Baratheon, voice thin and tight with hatred. "I swore no oaths, my lords. To you or the dragons."
Robert Baratheon huffed in amusement. That great hammer came to rest upon his shoulders.
"Then you'd best swear one now."