Illusiveone
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42: Dragonborn Conqueror, Into the Storm, Pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-10-07 17:21:33 +0000 UTCHarald stood watching the Sunset Sea, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the water met the sky. Out upon the glittering blue, ten great ships approached, painted brilliant white and impossibly large, larger than any ship that exists in Westeros. Their design was far beyond what the shipwrights of this age could even conceive. They looked like very advanced sailing ships from Tamriel, or even from Earth when men still used such vessels to traverse the oceans.
Behind him stretched a wild and untouched land, rolling with hills and forests where the pale weirwoods grew thick as reeds in a marsh. Their white trunks and red leaves gave the landscape a dreamlike hue, the air heavy with a magic long since gone.
Harald was not alone; everywhere around him were many Earthsingers which was what the Children of the Forest called themselves in their own tongue. They emerged from between the trees, small figures wrapped in leaves and bark, their large golden eyes reflecting wonder and wariness in equal measure. There were also giants, who watched the approaching ships with curiosity, their massive forms towering over the smaller Earthsingers.
He could see them, but they could not see him. Harald was watching a memory one of the many millions upon millions stored in the weirnet, the living network of the weirwoods and their old roots, which still stretched beneath Westeros. This particular memory was from ten thousand years ago.
Footsteps approached softly at his side, and he turned to see a woman who looked very much like Serana. He sighed, a mixture of fondness and melancholy washing over him. After he had effectively upgraded the weirnet with his magic, it was more powerful than ever, feeding off the limitless magic within him the power of the Dragonborn, a shard of Akatosh himself, inexhaustible and eternal.
He had helped the so-called Old Gods take proper form so he could communicate with them. During that process, when their minds were connected, they decided to take the form of one of his dearest friends Serana, his companion through countless adventures in Skyrim. He had wanted to tell them to choose another form, but Harald let them keep it. It was nice to see a familiar face from Tamriel once more, even if it was merely an echo of someone a reality away.
It was comforting strangely to even her likeness once more.
“So,” Harald murmured, “this is where it all went downhill for your people.”
The Old Gods laughed, male and female voices intertwining. “Indeed,” they said. “Though at the time, it seemed a welcome surprise the first of the Children of Man to come to these shores.”
The white ships anchored close to shore, and rowboats splashed down into the shallows. Men disembarked, their armor gleaming silver-white beneath the sun… dragonsteel. Harald recognized it at once. These were explorers from the Great Empire of the Dawn simply the Empire of Man, as the Old Gods called it a civilization that had reached heights of power and sophistication never seen again; not even Valyria came close.
Then Harald heard a roar and looked to the sky. Dragons flew overhead—massive, far larger than the dragons of Tamriel. One was red as blood, its scales gleaming like rubies in the sun. Another was white as fresh snow, pure and pristine.
He watched in awe as they landed on the beach, their weight shaking the ground and sending sand cascading in waves from the impact.
The red dragon stepped forward, lowering its massive head in a gesture of respect toward the gathered Earthsingers and giants.
Then, to Harald’s surprise, the dragons spoke.
“We come in peace, children of the grove,” the red dragon rumbled, its voice like distant thunder. “I am Auraxes, and this is Vhaelor. We bring emissaries from the Empire of Man, who seek only knowledge and friendship with those of the western land.”
A tall human stepped forward from among the explorers, removing his helmet to reveal features very familiar to Harald his friend Aerion Whiteflame. It was a Valyrian look, except he had olive skin rather than the pale complexion most possessed.
“I am Aelor of House Aethon, First Emissary of the God-Emperor,” the man said and to Harald’s surprise, he spoke the language of the Earthsingers. “We have sailed far to meet you, guided by these noble dragons who have told much of your wisdom and the sanctity of your lands.”
The Earthsinger leader regarded the dragons for a long moment, then the human emissary, Aelor. Finally, she stepped forward, and Harald watched as the first treaty between human and Earthsinger was made.
“The dragons,” the Old Gods said beside Harald. “It was they who brokered the first treaty between us and the humans. We held the dragons in high regard creatures of both earth and sky. So we accepted their word and welcomed the humans to our shores.”
Harald watched the scene unfold. “These dragons,” he said slowly, “do you think… could these elder dragons still live somewhere?”
The Old Gods were quiet for a moment. “We do not know. Everything past Westeros is not our domain our roots reach only so far, our eyes see only where the weirwoods grow. You will need to go east and find the Great Grove there, where our cousins once sang.”
Harald nodded slowly. He had learned from Leobald that Essos once teemed with weirwoods, which meant there had been another weirnet, tended by a separate sect of Earthsingers. They were apparently much larger than the ones in Westeros closer to the size of humans adapted to the different lands across the Narrow Sea. They might still exist in Ib, or even in the deep forests of Ifequevron, where few men dared to tread.
A journey east was inevitable. But he could not go now; he was the king of a young kingdom. He would leave only once he was sure it would be safe without him. Still, a trip to Essos was all but guaranteed. He needed to see whether the Seven were real, to explore the Rhoyne, and to learn the truth of the Red God, R’hllor.
Harald concentrated, and the scenery shifted around him. Time accelerated through the weirnet’s vast memory, and he watched as the humans of the Empire built a port town on the shores where they had first landed. The settlement grew rapidly. This town would one day be called Oldtown, though it bore little resemblance yet to the sprawling city of the present.
He watched with fascination as the foundation of the Hightower was laid, great blocks of oily black stone fused together with dragonfire. When the dragons breathed upon it, the stone melted and flowed like water, joining seamlessly before cooling into an unbreakable base. Harald was deeply interested in this black stone; it looked alive. He wondered what kind of magic animated it.
More humans came on subsequent ships, bringing families, craftsmen, scholars, and traders. The population swelled, and with it came the mingling of cultures.
Harald watched as trade began between Earthsingers, giants, and humans. The Earthsingers brought herbs and medicines unknown to the Empire plants and their knowledge of the land, of where to find fresh water and good hunting. The humans brought worked metal bronze and iron of exceptional quality and, in rare cases, dragonsteel. They brought silks, spices, the knowledge of writing, and more.
Harald turned to the Old Gods beside him. “Where are these Deep Ones you spoke of?”
The figure wearing Serana’s face smiled faintly. “Ah, them. They were always secretive. They came with the tides. They bartered pearls, coral, and strange metals for grain, amber, and herbs then vanished again into their cities beneath the sea.”
Harald nodded thoughtfully. I’ll look into them later.
It had taken him two months to master his communion with the weirnet, to sift its memories and make its power his own. He remembered the day he first connected the day he bent the Old Gods to his will and forged their alliance. That day, on the Isle of Faces, after Wren had confirmed what had happened, the Earthsingers and the Green Men knelt before him, calling him the Voice of the Gods, the living vessel of their will.
Many Green Men and Earthsingers returned with Harald to the castle, to the great shock of those within. None were more astonished than Prince Barthogan Stark and Brandon Snow. They now believed him completely. In the Covenant’s grove, Harald had seen them off with seeding potions; Wren and several priests of the Covenant departed as well. Before leaving, Wren received a swift education under Leobald in the tenets of the Covenant. They would now spread the faith throughout the North.
With that, the North was no longer a threat.
The most unexpected result of this alliance came in the Vale. When the mountain clans saw the weirwoods glow, they took it as a divine command to strike against their Andal oppressors. For the first time in centuries, the clans united, and war raged across the high valleys.
It was a blessing in disguise.
The Vale’s turmoil would keep its armies from meddling in the heartland’s affairs. Harald knew of their wish to seize the saltpans. Lord Royce, who had come as an envoy and had witnessed what Harald could do, departed early with a letter to Queen Sharra. In it, Harald offered peace and any aid she might need in the crisis she now faced. He also left the door open to marriage, not rejecting the notion outright.
Harald watched as the Old Gods turned the wheel again. Centuries blurred past: the golden age of the port-town crumbled beneath a white tide of endless winter. Snow swallowed ships and piers, and when the cold finally broke, only a few survivors of the Great Empire of the Dawn remained.
Then came the First Men, claiming the abandoned port as their own. They reforged what remained, building anew atop the bones of what came before. Harald watched the birth of House Hightower and how they commissioned Brandon the Builder to raise a fortress that would be called the Hightower.
The vision shifted once more. In the growing city, another great structure took shape—another tower.
“That,” said the Old Gods, “is what we wished to warn you of, Dragonborn.”
Harald’s brow furrowed. “The Citadel?”
“The Order of Maesters,” they replied.
He turned toward them. “What of them?”
Their face grew sorrowful. “They are one of the greatest reasons our power waned—and continues to wane. More even than the coming of the Andals. The Maesters despise what they cannot measure. They fear the unseen, and they have spent thousands of years trying to kill all things mystic.”
“They have snuffed out our children, greenseers, wargs, singers. They call them cursed. They call them mad. They whisper poison into the ears of kings and lords. Because of them, the roots of the old ways have withered.”
“I see… so they are one of the reasons…”
“Yes,” the Old Gods answered. “They have made the people forget. They teach that only what they can touch is true, and all else heresy. They turn men of talent into skeptics, and those born with gifts into outcasts. We have watched them burn the wargs, drown the dreamers, silence the singers. For every one that awakens, a Maester is there to smother them.”
Harald swore under his breath. “Fuck.”
The Maesters were the arteries of Westerosi civilization. Every lord and king trusted them. Some could barely read without them. The Maesters were the most indispensable institution on the continent and they hated magic.
And he, Harald Stormcrown, King of the Heartlands, was the most powerful magical being alive someone who had reawakened the magic that was fading fast in this world.
This was going to be a problem.
A very big fucking problem.
He ran a hand down his face and exhaled slowly. “Well,” he muttered, “this just got a lot more complicated.”
“They are woven into the bones of this realm…” the Old Gods said.
“Yes, I know,” Harald replied, turning to face them fully. “Can I even trust any of them?”
The Old Gods regarded him, something like regret in their expression. “We do not know. That is for you to find out, Harald. We see much, but we cannot see into the hearts of men as you can. We cannot walk among them, speak with them, measure their intentions. That is your burden to bear.”
Harald let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “Well, and here I thought things were going smoothly—and you’re telling me the Illuminati exist.”
He had dealt with the Thalmor, with Hermaeus Mora, with Miraak. Shadowy conspiracies were nothing new to him; he’d even saved the Emperor from the Dark Brotherhood. But that didn’t make them any less annoying to handle.
“Wake me up,” Harald said. “I need to think on this.”
The Old Gods nodded, and the world faded around him.
=======
Harald woke in his chamber in Whitemore, his eyes snapping open to the ceiling above. The transition from the weirnet was always jarring.
Fucking Maesters, he thought.
Yes, he already had a plan: to found a brand-new citadel in the kingdom, a rival institution of learning that would break the Citadel’s monopoly on knowledge. He knew relying on a single institution for learned men was unwise; it concentrated too much power, too much influence, and created a bottleneck ripe for exploitation. But to learn they would be actively gunning for him? That was not good.
Dealing with the Maesters would now be his top priority not just creating an alternative, but rooting out their influence, mapping the extent of their network, and countering whatever moves they might make against him.
He represented everything they feared.
Harald rose from his bed and crossed to the window. He pushed open the shutters and looked out. The wind was cold now, biting even through his naturally warm constitution, and the sky was gray as ash. A light snow had begun to fall, delicate flakes drifting down to dust the courtyard below. Winter was here, though it hadn’t truly begun. They still had a few months before the deep snows came.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by Leobald’s familiar voice. “Your Grace? May I enter?”
“Come in, Leobald,” Harald called, turning from the window.
The former septon now High Priest of the Covenant walked in with a smile.
“The Lords Vance and Mandrake have arrived, Your Grace,” Leobald reported. “Only Piper and Mallister remain, and they will be here by tomorrow, according to the last raven.”
Harald nodded. This was to be a final council of lords before winter truly set in a gathering to discuss the state of the realm before they retreated to their holdfasts for the long cold. There was much to cover, foremost the recent developments in the war between King Argilac and the alliance of the Blackwater kings matters Edmyn would brief them on tomorrow, when all were assembled.
Leobald studied Harald’s face, his smile fading slightly. “You look unsettled, Harald. Did something happen in your communion with the Old Gods?”
“Close the door, my friend,” Harald said quietly. “We have much to speak about.”
Comments
June Soriano
Thank you for the chapter
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
