AN :
Next goal for another extra chapter is 150 power stones.
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait. The more Power Stones you offer, the faster the chapters come.
...
"With battlements like that, he'd need to lean over the side to look at the base anyway."
"Then that's where we'll strike," Balon said decisively. "No sane man aye- but I'm a squid." He chuckled darkly.
...
It took them a good ten minutes, shuffling slowly through the pitch-black brush, to reach the other side of the keep. Sure enough, there was no visible guard looking down the towering wall, which sat at the top of a steep slope. It looked like a great black monument in the night, only broken up by light creeping out of the few arrow slits cut in its flanks. Not a single window on the keep was big enough for a man to sneak in through.
'Wish they had some of those balconies that Greenlanders love so much…' Balon grumbled, then swallowed. It really was a long way up. If Balon lost his grip on the stones… well he'd be dead and it wouldn't be his problem anymore. Death or glory.
Balon put his hand against his chest and steeled his stomach. "When I reach the top, I'll kill the man up there, and then drop the rope down for you two."
"Are… you sure you can climb that B-Longshanks?" Rodrik asked, and Balon decided he couldn't hold it against the man. Even he didn't know, so it wasn't insulting.
"Death or Glory Rod." He said quietly. "Only… if I don't. Make sure you recover my corpse. Father will want it." Balon chuckled, sounding braver than he felt, but, with hard-headed courage and cleverness, he approached that great black wall of stone, and he began to climb.
It was painfully slow going, Especially for an accomplished climber like Balon. He had been scaling cliffs since he was a boy for fun. The rocky walls of the Iron Islands had been his favorite playing ground, and soon he had graduated onto bigger cliffs. He had scaled the stones of the Iron Peaks on Great Wyk, and the cliffs of Flynt's Fingers at the foot of House Flynt's old holdfast when he had visited with Euron. He had scaled the ancient stone walls of his family's home at Pyke more times than he could remember, and compared to that great bulwark, this tower was much more roughly built, and easier to climb.
That was, in daylight.
In the pitch-black darkness that gave him and his men cover, it was an exercise in patience and endurance. Each new handhold he found was a fumbling, terrifying prospect, and while he searched the wall by little more than touch, he was forced to hang by his fingers and toes. By the time he was halfway up, a burning feeling had began to spread through his arms and legs, and Balon was starting to agree with the notion that only a madman would make a climb like this.
Still, as he climbed, he did make time for one, small distraction. Whenever he passed one of the windows, little more than arrow slits, he would peak through them. Most were little more than hallways or storerooms, but in those brief glimpses of the tower he was climbing, he began to build a map of it in his head. It was mostly assumption. He could hardly divine the whole keep's plans based on a few seconds-long glimpses inside, but Balon had been in a lot of castles, and small holdfasts like this one were common in the Iron Islands too. If he was in the right of it, then his target ought to be in the room right by the top. Noblemen, Ironborn or otherwise, loved to put their bedrooms at the top of towers.
His thoughts were confirmed when, with his arms burning and his breath heavy, he neared the top of the tower, and glanced inside a window on the very highest floor.
The interior was lavish, at least for the standards of a poor holdfast like this. There were carpets hung on the walls and a large bed in the middle of the room. In it, a young boy was wrapped in blankets, a rag on his forehead.
'Guess he really did catch cold… all the worse for him then.' Balon smirked cruelly, as he finally, finally, heaved himself up over the top of the battlements, landing on his feet, his arms burning and his heart thumping like a war drum in his chest.
The watchmen, leaning on a battlement across the top of the tower, heard the clatter of chainmail and his sword at his hip as he landed at the top, and turned to face him with a surprised expression.
Balon was on him first. The man was clearly a trained fighter, but his arming sword was still in its sheath, and his crossbow was leaning against the wall. He didn't even have time to utter a word before Balon drove the tip of his thin longsword through the man's neck. Red blood sloughed out on the tip of his blade as Balon drew it back, the Greenlander choking and gagging on his own torn windpipe as he fell to the stone floor, clutching at his throat.
Now, Balon had to work fast. He rushed back to the far wall, and waved his hand over the top of the battlements, letting Tolvi and Rodrik know he'd reached the top safely. Next, he cast a line down behind him, tying it firmly to one of the battlements, and securing it with a hitch he'd learned on his first raiding voyage as a boy.
The two had easier climbs than he did, rappelling up the castle wall, it still took them a few minutes, but he used that time to catch his breath, the burning in his arms abating a bit as he let them rest at his sides.
When Tolvi and Rodrik reached the top, he helped both of them over the battlements and nodded to his two companions, a grin on his face. "Right, that's the hard part done. I doubt it'll be much longer before someone comes to check on that whoreson over there." He gestured at the corpse. "So we've got to move fast. You two know where you're going?"
"Down out of the keep, along the walls, and force the gatehouse," Tolvi replied, and Balon nodded.
"Exactly." He patted the two on the shoulders. "Death or Glory."
"Death or Glory." The two replied, clapping him back on both his shoulders, before together the three of them rushed the stairs.
There was no one on the top floor, save for a long hallway, a privy, and a large wooden door. The latter Balon recognized as the door to his target. There wasn't a guard in sight, probably because it was a Lannister Keep, but in Balon's eyes, the Drowned God was on his side tonight. While the other two ran on down the stairs, which split below, Balon stalked up towards the door.
It was a heavy oaken thing, Seven feet tall and five across, and banded in metal around the hinges. He tested the handle experimentally. If it was locked then he'd have to use the hatched on his belt to get it open, and that would be risky.
In another blessing from the Drowned God, the door clicked open when he pushed down the handle. A grin split his lips as he pushed inside, shutting the latch behind him.
"Qyburn? Are you back alre-" a soft, croaky voice cut off, the blond boy in bed, the room's sole occupant, taking a sharp breath, followed by a cough. "You're not Qyburn. You're Ironborn aren't you."
"You've got a good eye, for a sick brat." Balon chuckled "And you must be Callum Lannister- the Old Lion's son. Our prisoner wouldn't shut up about you." Balon snorted, meeting the child's green eyes. Looking closer, the boy had soft, almost girlish features, though his short hair did a lot to offset them. It was strange to see a soft, sick young boy speak with such confidence, but then Balon imagined being a Lannister must be a bit like being a Greyjoy. The boy in front of him was born better than anyone else around him, and he knew it.
Shame for him he wasn't better than Balon.
Balon walked over, holding up his longsword to intimidate the boy. "You'll be coming with me then, Lannister. I'll have your father's money as ransom soon enough."
The boy only glared at him in response. "I will do no such thing." He shook his head, his voice firm despite the nasal tone. It surprised Balon, enough to make him stop for a second. The balls on this kid!
"You are in my castle, surrounded by my men on all sides. You don't hold the advantage here." As if to punctuate the boy's words, Balon heard a shout from above, a yell from the top of the keep.
"ALARM! ALARM! Intruder's in the Castle! Intruder's! There's a rope on the wall, and Jeren was killed!"
Balon grit his teeth, his heart beating faster as he stepped forward towards where the sick boy sat in bed. "I'd love to argue with you boy, but it seems I'm out of time for idle words." He reached out to grab at the child, but the sick boy rolled and turned, stopping him from grabbing his arm. "Do you want to die brat?!" Balon yelled, brandishing his longsword.
"If you hurt a hair on my head my Father will have you impaled from ass to mouth on a wooden post and slow roasted alive over a bonfire for two days before he splits you open like a pig and feeds you to dogs." The boy glared at Balon from his awkward position, halfway rolled over on the bed. "Your best option is to surrender."
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