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44: Dragonborn Conqueror, Into the Storm Pt.3
🕑 Added 2025-10-22 19:27:59 +0000 UTCLord Galadon Tarth sat in the solar that had belonged to King Buckwell—or just Lord Buckwell now, he supposed, though the man was held in his own dungeons. The room was well-appointed, with tapestries depicting birds and streams, but it felt cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth.
Everything felt cold these days.
He remembered how this campaign began—how it was supposed to last only three moons, as the Lord Marshal and the King had claimed. A swift strike, they said. The Blackwater Kings were disorganized, quarrelsome, easy prey for the might of the Stormlands. They would be home before the first frost, victorious and enriched.
His blood boiled as he thought of the Lord Marshal—fucking Edward Swann.
The campaign was going horribly. The Blackwater Kings had put up far more resistance than anyone had anticipated. Each castle became a siege; each town, a battle. They were winning, yes but slowly. Very, very slowly.
As the days passed and the sieges and captures of castles dragged on, as hidden attacks from local resistance increased farmers with pitchforks, hedge knights striking from the woods, assassins in the night the men and the lords grew more and more cruel, to the point that even the King could not control them.
Even Galadon, who prided himself on being an honorable man, a knight of Tarth who held to the chivalric codes, began to lose his nerve. The constant attacks, the feeling of being surrounded by enemies even in conquered territory, the knowledge that any smallfolk could be hiding a knife it wore on a man's soul.
Winter was coming. The King had promised the war would end before then, but it dragged on. And then winter arrived, first with cold winds and then with the first light snows.
Galadon knew when things had begun to spiral out of control. It was when they took Rosby what should have been a simple surrender almost turned into a sack. When Lord Fell’s heir was not reprimanded for raping Lord Rosby’s daughter in fact, the bastard laughed about it openly in camp, and no justice came that was when Galadon realized the campaign was rotting from within, that discipline was breaking down, that the army was becoming a mob.
Then the worst happened.
The King was struck down during an ambush, a simple thing, really. They had been riding between camps when arrows came from the tree line. One caught King Argilac in the shoulder, another near his heart. He survived; the wounds were not mortal. But the Lord Marshal fucking Swann decided to send him back to Storm’s End to recover.
And the King left Swann in charge.
That was when everything truly went to hell.
Duskendale was next.
And what a nightmare it was.
Swann was furious about the ambush, the King’s wounding, the resistance that kept bleeding them. When Duskendale’s walls fell after a brutal siege, he gave no orders to restrain the men. Perhaps he thought they deserved to let off steam. Perhaps he simply didn’t care anymore.
The army poured into the city like a flood of steel and fury.
Galadon had been there. Gods help him, he had been there and done nothing to stop it.
The streets ran red. Men were cut down where they stood, whether they held weapons or not. Women were dragged screaming into alleys and houses. Children gods, the children. Galadon saw a Stormlander knight, a man who bore the sigil of a respected house, run a boy through simply because the child had thrown a stone.
The sack lasted two days.
Lord Darklyn and his entire family were dragged before Lord Swann in chains. Galadon stood in that courtyard, watching, as Swann pronounced sentence treason, he called it, rebellion against their rightful king.
“No mercy for traitors,” Swann declared. “No mercy for those who tried to murder our king.”
They executed the Darklyns one by one: Lord Darklyn first, then his sons, then his brothers. They made Lady Darklyn watch before they took her head as well. The daughters Galadon closed his eyes against the memory. Only one was left alive, and Swann saw fit to marry her off to his third son.
House Darklyn, an ancient and proud house that traced its lineage back thousands of years, was gone.
Galadon felt shame deep, burning shame for not saying anything, for not protesting, for standing there and letting it happen. He was a knight and a lord. He was supposed to protect the innocent, to uphold honor. Instead, he had been silent.
But worse and this was what truly haunted him he had also felt a dark satisfaction in those moments. The moons he had spent in this campaign, losing dear friends and men to ambushes, watching men die from poisoned food and arrows in the dark, had created something in him: a desire for revenge, for retribution against these Blackwater lords who refused to submit.
In those terrible moments in Duskendale, part of him had reveled in it. And that was the worst thing of all discovering that darkness within himself.
He knew then that they had lost the Blackwater, truly lost it. Even if they conquered it all which they were going to do; they had the numbers and the strength they would bleed men for years holding it. Every man they killed created a dozen who would seek revenge. Every atrocity bred new resistance.
After Duskendale, he and Lord Dondarrion were sent north with five thousand men to capture the castles along the road to Antlers. They did exactly that: they took every holdfast, every keep. They took Buckwell’s seat of Antlers itself, and Lord Buckwell surrendered; he now lay in the dungeons.
Swann, Fell, and the Carons were besieging Maidenpool—the last major prize while others held the captured lands and slowly relieved their armies as winter truly set in. Men were being sent home, keeping enough to hold the castles but not so many that they would starve when supply lines became impossible.
It was a nightmare.
Galadon heard someone enter, and looked up to see Robert Dondarrion stride in with an angry look on his face.
His friend and foster brother dearer to him than his own blood a man who had always been the most jolly, the first to laugh at a jest and the last to lose his temper, had not been like that since his father died during the siege of Rosby, cut down by a crossbow bolt while directing the assault on the walls.
Galadon felt that a part of his friend had died that day, leaving behind something harder, colder, more bitter.
“Robb,” Galadon asked, setting down his wine cup. “What’s wrong?”
“Damned Swanns! Fucking grasping Swanns!” Robert said as he dropped heavily into a chair. His face was flushed with anger, his fists clenched.
Galadon remained silent. It wasn’t as if his friend was angry about anything new they had both grown to despise Swann and his ambitions.
Robert took a breath, then continued. “A raven arrived from Storm’s End.”
Galadon perked up, his heart suddenly racing. “The King?”
His mind leapt to the ramifications of Argilac’s death. If the King died, Swann would surely have his son, Edmund, marry Princess Argella. Those who hated Swann and there were many, including half the Stormlander lords would support the lesser Durrandons, the King’s cousins, who had their own claims. The Stormlands would erupt into civil war, faction against faction. It would be catastrophic.
He himself had not chosen a side in such a conflict, but he found himself leaning toward freeing the Princess from Swann’s machinations. Argella deserved better than to be a prize for that ambitious vulture.
“The King is fine,” Robert said, and Galadon exhaled in relief.
“But there is news,” Robert went on, disgust dripping from his voice. “It seems Swann has convinced the King to betroth his son to the Princess.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes!” Robert practically shouted, surging to his feet. “I’ll say this, Galadon I will not support Princess Argella if she marries that fuck Edmund! He got my father killed! That bastard is the reason we assaulted the north wall!” He was screaming now, all his pent-up rage and grief pouring out.
“Peace, friend,” Galadon said, rising and placing a hand on Robert’s shoulder.
“No, Don, I will not! Fuck all this! We should never have come here on the eve of winter!” Robert ranted, pacing. “I’ve been getting ravens from home. The Dornish have been raiding again while we’re up here, bleeding our men for nothing! My people are in danger, my lands are being burned, and I’m stuck here in this—”
Galadon let him vent, understanding the pain behind it. They had all lost too much in this campaign friends, honor, pieces of their souls.
Then an idea occurred to him. “Then why not leave, my friend?”
“What?” Robert stopped pacing and stared at him.
“Let us leave, then,” Galadon said, warming to the idea even as he spoke it. “You and I both know a civil war is coming to the Stormlands. Let us go back to our homes and stay there. Weather the storm literally and figuratively.” He gave a dark laugh. “I have to say, I rather like this king business that Buckwell, Darklyn, and the others were doing. Perhaps Tarth should be independent as well. We’re an island, after all easy to defend.”
“That is treason, Don,” Robert said, though his voice lacked conviction. He wasn’t saying no, Galadon noticed.
“Fuck it, I don’t care anymore,” Galadon said, surprised by his own vehemence. “I genuinely thought we would take the Blackwater in two moons and even raid into the heretical Riverlands afterward. Easy conquest, quick plunder, home before winter. Instead, we’ve been here for moons, winter has come, and we’re no closer to being done than when we started.”
The Riverlands, Galadon thought bitterly. Or the Heartlands, as they now called themselves. That entire situation was madness. They had been rid of one evil, the heathen Ironborn, who had terrorized the Riverlands for generations only to fall under the thrall of a sorcerer who dared call himself divine. Harald Stormcrown, he called himself the Dragonborn, the Herald of the Gods. Those were his many titles.
The man had even started a heretical religion, combining the Old Gods and the New in some unholy amalgam they called the Covenant. The Faith of the Seven should have called a holy calling, but it never came. He did not know what the High Septon was doing. Did he not see heresy festering in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms?
Galadon felt like the world was coming undone around him. In the North, the Old Gods walked again, or so the rumors said. In the Vale, the mountain clans had united and were burning Andal holdfasts in the name of their tree-gods. The West was preparing to invade the Reach, and his own kingdom was sure to fall into civil war when their king died.
He truly did not like living in interesting times.
“The world is going mad,” he said quietly.
Galadon was about to speak once more to Robert when, suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He heard his brother Gennis’s voice from outside.
“Come in, brother,” Galadon called.
He and Robert watched as Gennis walked in, panting a bit. He’d clearly run here in armor; the exertion showed on his flushed face.
“What is it, Gennis? Any trouble in the army?” Galadon asked, concern creeping into his voice the men had grown antsy ever since some of the camp followers and whores began to leave as winter set in.
Gennis drew a breath. “Our scouts have spotted an army coming toward Antlers, brother.”
“What?” Robert and Galadon asked in unison.
“One thousand infantry, five hundred cavalry. Riverlord banners sighted,” Gennis reported.
It can’t be, Galadon thought, as he and Robert shared a look of shock and bafflement. No one would be mad enough to march an army in winter, certainly not toward a force four times its size.
“What?” Galadon asked again, needing confirmation.
“I confirmed it with two more scouts,” Gennis said. “And there’s more they spotted a new banner as well. Purple, with a dragon-like creature on it.”
Robert let out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fifteen hundred men? That’s all?”
“So the heretic king and his heretic lords of their heretic kingdom think they can take advantage of the chaos here,” Galadon said, trying to make sense of it. “But with such a small force?”
“I truly don’t understand, brother,” Gennis said, confusion plain on his face. “What do they think they can do with fifteen hundred men against our five thousand? And that’s not counting the rest of the army at Maidenpool.”
Robert laughed again, the sound edged with something manic. “Perhaps he’ll use his voice to kill us all, like the stories say! The Dragonborn will shout and we’ll all fall over dead!” His laughter echoed in the solar.
Galadon put little faith in the tales of magic surrounding the new king of the Heartlands. King Argilac had sent envoys to the Riverlands the Heartlands, he corrected himself but they never returned. He knew that well, since Swann had been trying to convince King Argilac that the heretics had killed their envoys and that they should invade the Heartlands after they took the Blackwater.
Bah. They all had such grand plans when this campaign began. Now look where they were.
“We need to take this seriously,” Galadon said firmly. “The Riverlords are no fools that much I know. Marching in with just fifteen hundred men to face twenty thousand in total is suicidal. Perhaps the heretic king has some trick up his sleeve, or he’s the vanguard of a larger force.”
Robert’s laughter subsided, and he grew more serious. “Come now, Don. This is just a raid. The so-called Heartlands are starving, winter is here, and they need supplies. They’ll hit us, try to steal what they can, and run back north.”
“Yes, yes, Robb, it could be,” Galadon conceded. “But we need to prepare nonetheless. We’ll crush their paltry force with our five thousand men. Gennis, rouse the men. Robert, do the same with yours. I want us ready to march within the hour.”
“Aye,” Robert said with a grin, his earlier anger seemingly forgotten in the face of an actual battle, and he walked out with renewed purpose.
Gennis remained, looking at his brother with worried eyes.
“What is it?” Galadon asked, noting his brother’s hesitation.
Gennis shifted uncomfortably. “The scouts reported an army like they’d never seen before, brother. Marching in perfect formation, wearing strange armor unlike anything they’ve seen. And at the head was…”
“What?” Galadon pressed. “The sorcerer? The heretic king?”
“Yes,” Gennis said quietly. “They… they tell me he was riding a glowing horse, like the Warrior is said to in the holy texts. Brother, what if—”
“I will hear no more of this, brother!” Galadon snapped, more harshly than he intended. “Are you failing in your faith? Are you falling to heresy?”
“No!” Gennis said quickly, straightening. “No, of course not.”
“Then go and rouse the men,” Galadon said more gently, but still firmly.
Gennis nodded and left quickly, closing the door behind him.
Galadon watched him go, his heart unsettled, a thread of unease creeping through his chest.
What if?
The question lingered in his mind like a specter.
What if it was true all they said of the heretic king? What if he truly could shout and kill men? What if he truly was blessed by the gods?
The thought hung over him like a sword.
He sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face. He should have listened to his wife and stayed home. She had begged him not to join this campaign.
He missed her the way she smiled, how she laughed at his japes, the way she held him at night.
He missed his little daughter, barely five, who thought her father the greatest man in all the world.
He missed his son, eager and brave, who wanted nothing more than to be a squire and follow in his father’s footsteps.
Instead, he was here.
Perhaps this was the Seven Hells.
Galadon stood and began donning his armor. Whatever came next, he would face it as a knight of Tarth, with honor and courage…even if his heart whispered doubts.
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Visenya found herself alone in the throne room of Dragonstone.
She couldn’t understand why she was here. She, her sister, and her brother were in Lys, planning to destroy the Volantene fleet or negotiate with them.
She shouldn’t be at Dragonstone they had left their home weeks ago.
Why?
How?
The questions multiplied as she realized she couldn’t walk and that she was completely naked. Her legs wouldn’t respond to her commands; her arms hung uselessly at her sides. Panic rose in her chest.
Then she saw something that made her blood run cold, that made her shiver despite the warmth of the throne room.
A shadow loomed on the wall before her massive, impossibly tall, crowned with great curving horns. The silhouette was vaguely humanoid but wrong in ways her mind struggled to comprehend: too tall, shoulders too broad, limbs bending at angles that should not be possible.
She could feel its presence behind her, a weight pressing down.
She tried to move, again and again, but she could not. Her body was frozen, trapped in a waking nightmare.
It approached. The shadows before her swelled, spreading across the walls until the darkness consumed everything but the towering silhouette.
Then it laughed. The sound was not one any living throat should make.
To her horror, it spoke.
“A fine specimen,” a dark, horrible voice said, each word dripping with malevolent amusement. The voice seemed to bypass her ears entirely, resonating in her skull. “Such strength, such beauty, such… potential.”
She was shaking now. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to do anything but her body would not obey.
What nightmare was this? She needed to wake up now. She needed her sister and brother.
Her mind and body screamed for help as she felt it draw near, so close its presence burned against her back like a furnace.
“Soooon,” it said, drawing out the word like a promise. An inhuman hand reached toward her face. It hovered at her cheek, and she felt cold radiating from it—
“Vis! Vis! Vis!”
She heard her sister’s voice as if from a great distance.
Visenya woke, heaving for air, sweaty and terrified, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst. Her hands clutched the sheets beneath her, grounding her in the real world.
“Vis! Vis, sister, calm down!” A very worried Rhaenys leaned over her, eyes filled with concern.
Rhaenys pulled her into an embrace, one hand stroking her hair. “It’s all right, sister. You’re safe. You’re here with me. It was just a dream. Just a dream.”
Visenya clung to her, her breathing gradually slowing, her heartbeat easing. The familiar scent of Rhaenys—lavender and sea salt—helped lead her back from the abyss.
“That’s it,” Rhaenys murmured. “Breathe, sister. You’re safe. I’m here.”
After several long moments, Visenya’s trembling subsided. She pulled back slightly and wiped her face, embarrassed by the tears she found there.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Rhaenys asked gently, brushing a strand of silver hair from Visenya’s brow. “It sounded awful. You were crying out in your sleep.”
“It was,” Visenya said, her voice hoarse. She didn’t want to speak more of it didn’t want to give it power by naming what she’d seen.
Rhaenys studied her with concern. “Vis, have you been sorce—”
“No, I have not,” Visenya cut in before her sister could finish.
It was a lie.
Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t press. Instead, she squeezed Visenya’s hand. “Come on. We can take a bath together. Aegon will be angry if we’re late for our visit to the Red Temple.”
Red Temple, Visenya thought. She was still in a daze, her mind filled only with images of the beast from her dreams.
Then she remembered. A red priestess had come to them yesterday and invited Aegon and them to the temple here in Lys. Aegon had wanted to decline, but that changed when she mentioned their plans for conquest and how a great evil stood in their way. After that, all three of them were very interested. If this priestess knew of their plans, what else did she know?
“Yes, let’s,” Visenya said, rising from the bed on slightly shaky legs.
Rhaenys led her toward the baths, chattering about the beautiful mosaics in the Lyseni palace, trying to distract her sister from whatever horrors had haunted her sleep.
As they entered the bathing chamber, a grand room with pools of heated water and columns of pink marble, Visenya tried to forget the nightmare, if only for a moment. But she was sure she saw something in the shadows: the terrible horned beast, watching. Waiting.
“Soooon,” its words echoed in her mind.
“Come on, Vis!” her sister called cheerfully as she jumped into the large pool with a splash and a laugh.
But Visenya couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her from the darkness, counting down to an inevitable moment when it would reach for her again.
And when that happened, she feared she might not wake up.
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IAM BACK.....
THE BLOCK IS OVER...
Comments
June Soriano
Thank you for the chapter
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
