Illusiveone
patreon
39: Dragonborn Conqueror, A Talk With The Gods pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-09-15 19:25:14 +0000 UTC“Welcome, Prince Barthogan,” said Lord Edmyn Tully as Bart stepped through the gates of Castle Whitemore beside his uncle, Brandon Snow. The words were warm and welcoming, but Bart barely heard them. His mind was still haunted by the sight outside, giants made of stone setting massive marble blocks into place on the hill, building what looked like a castle that would surely rival Winterfell itself in size.
That should have been impossible. A castle of such size ought to take at least two dozen years, but at the speed they were building, Bart calculated it would take three or four to complete.
Only sorcery could explain the large blocks of marble Bart had seen. They could only have been mined from the Vale, and it would have taken months to transport even two. The king was called a dark sorcerer, after all or perhaps not dark at all, but holy, if the Covenant’s preachers spoke true.
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Could Harald Stormcrown truly be the herald of the Old and New Gods both? His mind wrestled with it, torn between awe and dread.
A sharp nudge on his arm brought him back to the present. His uncle’s smirk told him plainly that he had been lost in thought again. Bart flushed, realizing too late he had missed Lord Tully’s first words. “Yes, my lord,” he hurried to say, “my father, the King in the North, sends his well wishes. He and all the North rejoice that the Riverlands are free at last from the Ironborn yoke.”
Edmyn Tully smiled thinly, though there was a fervor in his eyes Bart did not like. “It is the Heartlands now, my prince. We have begun anew under a great and holy king, wise enough to guide us into a brighter age.”
“Of course,” Bart replied quickly. “We have heard of the change in name. I hope I did not offend.”
“No, no, Prince Stark,” said Edmyn, with a wave of his hand. “Please, come. The hospitality of House Stormcrown and of the Kingdom of the Heartlands is yours. You shall want for nothing while you are here.”
Bart inclined his head politely. “I am looking forward to meeting His Grace.”
“And he you, Prince Stark. And he you,” Lord Tully answered.
They followed Lord Tully deeper into Whitemore. Edmyn spoke as they walked.
“This castle once belonged to the Justmans,” he said, gesturing at the weathered walls. “It was a hunting lodge of sorts.”
“A castle like this, raised only for sport, surprises me,” his uncle said.
Edmyn chuckled. “There was a time, my lord, when our kingdom was the greatest and richest. The Justmans invaded the Westerlands when the lions warred among themselves for Casterly Rock. We took half their realm while the Reach took the other half the proud Lannisters left clutching little more than the Rock itself.”
Bart nodded, recalling the half-remembered tales from his tutors in Winterfell. “Until Tyrek the Restorer,” he murmured, “who brought the Rock back to glory.”
“Just so,” said Edmyn. “But that was long ago. The Justmans are long gone; Whitemore passed into ruin until His Grace chose it as the seat of his new realm.”
Brandon gave a short laugh. “His seat… his true seat is out there being built. It would be hard not to notice, Lord Tully. Gods, what sorcery does your king command? What are those stone giants?”
Edmyn threw his head back with a laugh. “Aye, they are hard to miss. Some were with us in the Rebellion, though His Grace has made new ones larger, this time.”
Bart’s stomach tightened at that. The thought of those colossal beasts unleashed in battle marching north made him feel sick. They would be helpless against such things.
“At present, His Grace is speaking with the envoy from Lord Aegon Targaryen. But if you wish, I will have the servants show you to your chambers. You must be tired from the long journey.”
Bart shook his head quickly. “No. I would like to meet him now… if His Grace does not mind.”
Edmyn studied him for a beat, then gave a single nod. “As you will, Prince Stark.” He turned, leading them down a wide corridor that smelled faintly of fresh lime and plaster. At the far end stood great double doors.
Edmyn stopped just before them. He looked to the guards posted before the doors.
“Is His Grace within?”
“Yes, Lord Chancellor,” one replied.
“Open the doors.”
“Lord Chancellor?” Bart asked quietly, curious about the title.
Edmyn smiled faintly, as if proud of it. “Ah, yes. His Grace created the office himself. I am the first to bear it. Think of it as akin to the King’s Steward in the North, or the Protector and Justiciar of the Vale and the Rock.”
Bart nodded slowly. “I see like the Marshal or High Warden in the Reach or the Stormlands as well.”
“Just so.”
The guards pushed the doors wide. The heavy timbers creaked, and light spilled in. Bart’s breath caught as his eyes fell upon the man they called Dragonborn, King of the Heartlands, Herald of the Gods.
He was tall, taller than Bart, who was the tallest in his family. His garments were rich, so fine that even the best wool,silk and fur of Winterfell seemed like peasant rags by comparison. Draped about his shoulders was a deep purple cloak trimmed in gold. His hair was a light blond, and on his brow rested a crown unlike any Bart had seen before: wrought of a strange golden alloy, set with gems that looked not of this world.
Beside him stood a dark-haired man, broad-shouldered, a soldier’s bearing in every line of him. Bart realized this was the envoy from Dragonstone not of Valyrian look, as he had half expected.
Edmyn’s voice rang out. “My king, I present to you Prince Barthogan Stark, son of His Grace King Torrhen Stark of the North, and Lord Brandon Snow, his uncle. They come bearing his words and his goodwill.”
Bart watched as King Harald’s face broke into a wide smile.
“Welcome, Prince Barthogan. Lord Brandon. Welcome to my humble abode.”
Before Bart could reply, his uncle spoke first, grinning. “Humble, you say? Aye, this is quite humble, but there’s nothing humble about the monster you’re building near the lake.”
Harald threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming in the chamber like rolling thunder. “Yes, yes! But tell me, should I not? Am I not to be counted among kings who rule from such legendary castles the Eyrie, Highgarden, Storm’s End, Casterly Rock, Winterfell? Should I not raise one to rival theirs?”
Bart inclined his head respectfully. “Of course, Your Grace. You are all too right. It is only fitting.”
The king turned then, gesturing toward the dark-haired man at his side. “This is Lord Orys Baratheon, brother to Lord Aegon Targaryen… or perhaps I should say the Dragonlord?”
Orys gave a short bow, his voice deep and steady. “Both are used, Your Grace. An honor, Prince Stark, Lord Brandon.”
Bart gave him a polite nod.
The king folded his hands behind his back, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I imagine you must have many questions.”
Bart met his gaze, silence spreading between them.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said at last. “I have.”
=====
King Harald was quite a man.
Bart had always believed no one could surpass the pedestal on which he placed his father, King Torrhen Stark. Yet, after a week in Whitemore, he found himself wavering King Harald Stormcrown stood close to that height, perhaps even higher.
He had spent his days in the king’s court, in his company, and among the lords and people who now called themselves Heartlanders. He had heard the tales firsthand, from Harald himself and from High Priest Leobald, of how the king had come to Westeros as a lost wanderer; how he lived with no sense of purpose until the gods Old and New revealed his destiny; how he was chosen to save the Riverlands from Ironborn tyranny and to show all of Westeros that the gods had forged a Covenant, united for the first time.
It was too much to believe. Too fantastical. Yet Bart found belief creeping into his heart against his own reason.
He had seen with his own eyes what Harald’s magic could do. Not the vile, blood-soaked rites of human sacrifice and other things he had heard of, but something gentler, purer. He had watched the king heal the sick with a touch, restore strength to a wasting man with a word. He had even felt the power himself when sparring with Lord Orys Baratheon, a mistimed blow had nearly cracked his ribs. Harald had laid a hand upon him, whispered a word, and the pain had vanished as if it had never been.
Yes, Harald had shown him other things too: spells that destroyed, powers that could shatter walls or call down fire. Yet never once did Bart feel malice from him. Even the destructive was wielded with a strange restraint, a weight of responsibility.
The High Priest had called it holy magic, and Bart… Bart was beginning to believe him.
His uncle was not so easily swayed. Brandon Snow, loyal always to the Old Gods, found the Covenant intriguing and inoffensive but not convincing. To him, it was not blasphemy but he could not yet bend his heart to believe Harald Stormcrown was the chosen champion of the gods to whom he had given his life.
Bart spoke to Harald of the woes of the North starvation, sickness, the creeping threat of a harsher winter than most could remember. And Harald had offered remedies freely: potions to quicken crops, healing for frost-fever, magic that would heat homes all without demand for coin or tribute.
“To end suffering, I need no price, Prince Stark,” Harald had told him just yesterday. “I wish for all to prosper. All.”
Bart found his heart stirring at those words. If his father was the King of the North, proud and unyielding… then perhaps Harald Stormcrown truly was what these people called him: the Herald and the Voice of the Gods a kind, honest, and honorable ruler who wished only good upon this world.
“So why does he want to go to the holiest place of our gods?” his uncle asked, his voice low and cautious as they walked toward the small port that had been built along the shore of the Gods Eye. There, a sleek river ship waited, its sail furled and crew already preparing for departure. King Harald himself stood upon the quay, his purple cloak snapping in the lake breeze.
Harald had asked Bart and his uncle to accompany him across the waters to the Isle of Faces. He had given them no reason beyond the simple: he wished to meet with the gods.
Bart answered his uncle. “As His Grace said, Uncle he wishes to meet with the gods.”
Brandon stayed silent, his eyes narrowing.
Harald turned when he saw them approach, and a smile touched his face. “I am glad you decided to come with me.”
Brandon inclined his head. “You wished it, Your Grace. How could we say no…?”
Bart cut in, his tone half earnest, half defensive. “To visit a holy place of our gods it is an honor.”
Harald studied Brandon a moment longer, then spoke. “I know this is unusual, Lord Brandon, but you will understand when we get there.”
The three of them stepped aboard. The ship’s timbers creaked softly under their weight, and the crew shoved off from the dock. Slowly at first, the vessel slid into the open waters of the Gods Eye.
Bart stood at the railing, watching the water churn beneath them, until a sudden realization struck him. The ship was moving fast. Too fast. The sails were fully raised, yes but the wind was hardly more than a breeze, and yet the bow cut the lake as though driven by a strong gale.
“What sorcery—” Bart began, before stopping himself.
Harald’s voice carried easily over the sound of the water. “It is a spell, my prince. I wish to return by sundown.”
Bart exchanged a glance with his uncle, who frowned but said nothing. The ship glided forward, swift as an arrow, and in the distance the mists around the Isle of Faces began to take shape.
“How many of these spells do you know, Your Grace?” Brandon asked. “You seem to have one for everything.” He smirked and added crudely, “What’s next? A spell for wiping ass?”
Bart would have chastised his uncle before, but he knew King Harald was fine with jests.
Harald laughed. “I do, in fact. My ass is the cleanest in this world.”
Bart nearly choked trying to stifle his laughter, but Brandon lost all composure, roaring with mirth. The king only smiled, letting the moment breathe before his tone shifted calm but instructive.
“Magic,” Harald said, turning his eyes to the waters, “the purest and noblest magic comes from the eternal realm of Aetherius. It is the source of light, creation, healing, and order. But not all magic is so clean. There is also the dark and twisted kind, gifted to mortals by foul beings known as the Daedra.”
Brandon’s laughter died. His brow furrowed. “I have not heard of this… Daedra.”
The king’s smile grew faint, knowing. “Of course you have. You just know them by different names. You must have heard of the Drowned God.”
Bart and Brandon both froze. Their eyes went wide. “You mean to say…,” Brandon whispered.
“Yes,” Harald said with quiet gravity. “I fought him when he possessed Dagon Hoare. You must have heard the stories.”
Bart found his voice, hesitant. “I thought it was just…”
Harald shook his head. “No. The Drowned God is real, and he wished great evil upon these people. I am glad I was able to stop him.”
Bart had no answer. He turned away, his throat dry, and fixed his gaze on the horizon.
An hour later, they reached the shore. The ship slid against the pebbled beach. Harald stepped down first, and Bart, Brandon, and the others followed. As they stood on the isle, Bart saw the king raise his hand, and with a motion so casual it might have been mundane, he lifted the entire vessel off the sand with invisible force, set it gently back upon the water, and anchored it in place.
Bart’s eyes widened in awe. Even after a week in Harald’s company—even after the miracles he had already witnessed seeing such effortless command over nature left him shaken to the core.
“There. That’s done,” Harald said at last, brushing his hands together like a man who had just completed some simple task. Then he raised his chin toward the mists ahead. “And we have a welcoming party.”
Bart followed his gaze. At first he thought he saw only shadows shifting between the trees, but soon the shapes emerged tall figures clad in green cloaks, their faces hidden by masks of wood and leaf. Behind them came two smaller forms.
“By the gods…” Brandon whispered, his voice reverent. “Green men.”
Harald smiled faintly. “And not only green men—also the Children of the Forest, as you call them.”
Bart’s knees buckled. The two leading the company were no men at all. Their skin was the color of tree bark, their eyes wide and golden like lantern light. Tiny antlers sprouted from one’s brow, curling like young branches.
Bart tried to speak, but no words came. His uncle fared little better, standing frozen, his usually sharp tongue struck dumb by shock.
Harald, unshaken, addressed the newcomers directly. “You know why I am here. I trust they have told you.”
One of the Children nodded. “Yes, Otherworlder. I see you have brought two of the children of the Builder as well. They may come.”
“Good,” Harald said simply, and strode forward. Bart and Brandon followed, silent, though Bart’s heart thundered in his chest.
After a time, Harald glanced back at them. “This must be shocking for you both unless you have seen the Children of the Forest before.”
Brandon finally found his tongue. “I don’t even know what to say. Have they always been here? I was raised to believe the Children were gone. Even my mother, daughter of a green man, told me that if they still lived, it would be beyond the Wall not here, in the heart of the South.”
One of the green men answered, his voice muffled beneath his mask. “We have guarded this isle since the dawn, Stark. But these Children returned only a moon ago, by the gods’ command. Only we green men have kept vigil here.”
Bart swallowed hard, still trying to believe what his eyes told him. “I… I see,” he managed, though his mind swam.
They were led deeper into the isle, down a winding path shaded by ancient oaks and ash until the world opened into a grove unlike anything Bart had ever seen. He thought of Winterfell’s godswood, with its solemn stillness and sacred heart tree, but this place surpassed even that.
At the center stood a great weirwood, its trunk impossibly wide, its white bark streaked with crimson that gleamed as if freshly bled. The carved face upon it seemed to breathe, eyes like pools of living red sap staring out over the grove. The air was heavy with the scent of moss and earth, yet sharp with something unearthly. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.
The Children of the Forest halted, and one of them the one with antlers crowning his brow turned to Harald. “You may commune with them now, Otherworlder.”
Bart glanced at the king. Harald’s expression was calm. He stepped forward, but before he sat he spoke softly to the Children, words too quiet for Bart to catch. The conversation lasted for a short while, their voices low and urgent. Then, at last, Harald’s voice rose, clear enough for Bart to hear.
“I wish one of yours to witness this.”
The Children exchanged glances. One stepped forward. “This one is called Wren. This one shall witness your meeting with the gods.”
And so it began. Harald settled cross-legged at the base of the weirwood. Wren mirrored him. Together they placed their hands against the pale trunk.
Bart’s breath caught when it happened. Harald’s eyes flared with light, glowing blue. At the same moment, Wren’s small body went slack, collapsing to the earth as if all strength had fled.
The other Child’s face twisted in shock. “This was not supposed to happen.”
His uncle took a step forward, alarm plain on his face. “What’s going on? What’s happened to them?”
The Child’s golden eyes darted to him, wide and unsteady. “I… I do not know. Only the gods, the Otherworlder, and Wren know now.”
And so silence fell. The air grew thick, every heartbeat loud in his ears. Bart knew he was witnessing something life-changing something that he felt would change even the North itself, forever.
.
.
.
“My king,” Lord Marshal Swann called as he rode up, his horse’s hooves kicking up dust.
Agrilac Durrandon, Storm King, did not turn at once. His gaze lingered on the hills and fields that marked the edge of his domain. Then, with a grunt, he looked to Swann.
“What is it?”
Swann bowed slightly from the saddle. “It is true, Your Grace. The Blackwater kings have formed an alliance. They have chosen King Mooton to lead their combined host.”
Agrilac’s lip curled. “Kings?” he spat. “Bah! They are not kings. They are but lords playing at crowns. Address them as such.”
“Forgive me, my king,” Swann said quickly, bowing deeper. “But it is Lord Mooton who leads them now.”
“Mooton.” Agrilac chuckled bitterly. “Was Mooton not a vassal to Harren? So the so-called King of the Heartlands did nothing while Mooton declared himself king?”
“It shows what a weakling he is, a false king with no leash on his dogs,” he added, his voice edged with mockery.
Swann allowed himself a thin smile. “Yes, my king. It looks as though both the Blackwater and the Heartlands are ripe for the taking.”
“Perhaps,” Agrilac said, “but I shall follow my daughter’s advice for now. I will make my final decision after we bring these lords to heel.”
Agrilac turned his horse, the sun catching the golden antlers of his helm, and looked out over the twenty thousand men gathered beneath his banners, the hosts of Dondarrion, Swann, Caron, Estermont, Tarth, Penrose, Selmy, and more. His voice boomed like thunder as he bellowed across the ranks:
“Warriors of the Storm! Look before you these petty lords of the Blackwater dare to call themselves kings. Kings!” He spat the word like poison. “They are nothing, nothing before the might of Storm’s End, nothing before the line of Durrandon that has ruled since the world was young!
“They sit behind their paltry castles, thinking to withstand us. But we are the Storm, we do not bow to wind or wave. We break upon our foes as thunder breaks the sky! Let these would-be kings tremble when the Stormlords come for them.
“Let them see the banners of Durrandon. Let them feel the wrath of our spears, the bite of our steel. Let them know that there is but one crown to which they will bow, one true king Agrilac Durrandon, the Storm King!”
A roar went up from the host; shields clashed and spears thrust skyward. The sound rolled like waves crashing upon cliffs. Agrilac raised his sword high.
“Forward! March!”
The cheer thundered once more as the great host of the Stormlands began to move, Agrilac himself at its head, leading them forward like the storm he claimed to be.
.
.
New chapter after I post the next Redoing my Life update.
Comments
Cinema Man
TFTC
Loveburgers
Thanks for the chapter
