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28: Dragonborn Conqueror, Rebellion pt.4
🕑 Added 2025-05-20 07:18:52 +0000 UTC“Why is Drumm taking so long?” Lord Rymund Bracken asked, his voice edged with frustration as he paced the stone chamber assigned to him within Weepinghall. Torch-light flickered across his weathered face, throwing deep shadows beneath his eyes. He stopped at the narrow slit of a window, peering out into the morning light.
“He told you, Father,” came the calm reply from his eldest son and heir, Hoster Bracken. The young lord sat near the hearth, sharpening his blade. “He’s waiting for Prince Dagon to arrive.”
Rymund scoffed. “Bah! We don’t need the prince. We could crush those rebel scum ourselves.”
Hoster paused, the whetstone slowing against steel. “Father … perhaps we should.”
Rymund whirled on him, jabbing a finger in the air. “No, boy. I’ll not join that treasonous pack led by that cursed Blackwood.”
“But Father,” Hoster said, rising now, voice firm, “Blackwood isn’t leading the rebellion. You know who is—”
“I know exactly who it is!” Rymund cut him off sharply. “Some dark conjurer, a foreign mage who dares to call himself the Seven made flesh. That’s blasphemy.” He began pacing again, voice rising. “Septon Maynard was right: this so-called Dragonborn is a heretic, a false prophet come to seduce weak-minded lords. Frey and Mallister … It’s the Blackwoods, I tell you. Always the Blackwoods. They brought this scourge here with their tree-worship.”
Hoster sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The Tullys and Vances remain quiet. What if they’ve joined the rebellion too?”
Rymund stopped cold. If the Tullys joined … that would give the rebellion teeth. Real teeth.
Just then the door slammed open and in rushed his second son, Marq, breathless and pale. “Father—Father! Outside!”
Rymund narrowed his eyes. “What is it, boy?”
Marq gulped air, struggling to find words. “It’s … it’s Qarl Drumm. They found him.”
Rymund moved swiftly through the cold stone halls of Weepinghall, his heavy boots echoing off the walls as his sons followed close behind. Marq led the way, still winded, face ashen as though he had seen a ghost. Hoster walked in grim silence, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
As they neared the courtyard, Rymund heard wailing and to his surprise, it came from Lord Garmon Drumm himself.
They stepped through the archway, and the sight that met them froze Rymund in place.
There, kneeling in the centre of the yard, was Lord Garmon Drumm head bowed, shoulders heaving as he screamed toward the overcast sky. Before him rested a stout iron-bound chest, its lid pried open. And within …
Rymund’s breath caught in his throat.
The body was already decaying skin a mottled grey, lips drawn back in a death grin. On the corpse’s hand gleamed a ring set with a crimson stone, carved with the sigil of House Drumm.
“My gods …” Rymund whispered, voice barely audible. “Is that—?”
“Yes,” Marq said, his voice hushed. “It’s Qarl. They found the chest just beyond the outer road. A patrol stumbled across it this morning. There was a note … it called him a gift—from the Dragonborn.”
Rymund could only stare, rooted to the spot.
A howl tore through the courtyard—Garmon’s rage unleashed. “We march!” he bellowed. “I am going to kill them all!”
Steel rang out as soldiers and captains scrambled, stirred by their lord’s fury.
Rymund stood unmoving, heart pounding. Finally, he thought.
But as he looked once more at Qarl’s lifeless face lips purple, eyes sunken something twisted deep in his gut.
A seed of fear.
And with it, a single thought:
Had he chosen the wrong side?
.
.
.
Harald rode at the head of the column atop his spectral steed. The red cloak gifted to him by Edmyn Tully flared behind him in the wind as the army advanced along the well-worn road east of Riverrun. Behind him stretched the men of four great houses of the Riverlands—Frey, Blackwood, Tully, and Vance—more than four thousand soldiers in all.
More would join soon. Lord Piper’s levies, and the Vances of Atranta, were already on the move.
Tully and Vance had followed his instructions, bringing fewer men than they could have raised, only as many as they could feed without bleeding their peasants dry. After witnessing the towering ash golems and the lightning-destruction magic Harald had shown off to them, there was little appetite for dissent.
Hother Blackwood rode closer. “I’m telling you, Dragonborn, the Brackens have thrown their lot in with the Ironborn. It’s in their blood…treachery and piss.”
Harald turned his gaze slightly. “I believe they will join us, my lord.”
“Bah,” Hother scoffed. “They’d rather die with an Ironborn cock in their mouths. Brackens have always supported the squids.”
Edmyn Tully and Lothar Vance caught up, Merrick Frey at their heels. Edmyn raised a hand in greeting and offered a more measured tone. “Rymund is a pious man, Dragonborn devoted to the Seven. The stories about you, what you are, what you claim to be…well, they might have unsettled him.”
“Understandable,” Harald said evenly. “He’ll come around I’m sure of it. When we march on Harrenhal, I want House Bracken with us, not bleeding at our feet.”
He turned in his saddle, his red cloak snapping in the breeze as he looked back. The seven ash golems followed in perfect formation monstrous silhouettes of blackened ash and stone, eight feet tall, red heart-stones pulsing in their chests like silent war-drums. They moved with eerie grace, silent save for the crunch of earth beneath their weight.
Three had been sent ahead, dispatched to strike terror into the Ironborn near Harrenhal. Harald hoped the mere sight of them would rattle the Ironborn and drive them back to their islands. They had occupied these lands for a century; even with Harren defeated, it would be difficult to force them all to leave.
A rider from the northeast broke Harald’s thoughts. A lone scout galloped up the road, mud flying beneath his hooves. Edmyn and Hother spurred forward to meet him. After a brief exchange, they wheeled back, worry lining their faces.
“They’ve been sighted,” Edmyn said, his voice grim. “Five thousand strong, two thousand Ironborn, and three thousand marching behind under the banner of House Bracken.”
Hother spat. “Traitors. What did I tell you, Dragonborn? Treachery runs in their veins.”
Harald’s expression did not change. “We’ve drawn Drumm out of the castle.”
He turned to the gathered lords, his voice clear and firm. “Let’s make this Drumm’s last day… one step closer to liberating the Riverlands.”
A great cheer rose from the men. They resumed the march, and soon the enemy came into view: a jagged black line of Ironborn axemen in the van, their mail glinting dully, their formation sloppy with eagerness; and behind them the Bracken host, more disciplined, marching in tight blocks.
“Drumm leads like a mad dog,” Harald muttered. “And Bracken follows like a leashed one.”
He raised a hand. “Send for parley. I want words with him.”
Leobald leaned in. “Parley, Harald… I don’t think that is wise.”
“I have a plan,” Harald said, eyes never leaving the enemy line. “Prepare the men for battle. When the golems charge, you follow.”
Edmyn, squinting toward the rear of the enemy formation, murmured, “I saw Rymund marching behind. That’s not like him.”
“It means he can be turned to our side,” Harald replied.
Lord Merrick Frey looked puzzled. “Why parley, Dragonborn? We should attack now.”
Harald shook his head. “I don’t want Bracken caught in it. I will challenge Drumm to single combat, and when I kill him the golems will begin their assault. You follow after.”
The lords accepted the unorthodox plan, and soon they were riding to meet Lord Garmon Drumm under a banner of truce. Harald led the party with Edmyn Tully face grim with resolve Lothar Vance, sharp-eyed and silent; Hother Blackwood, every breath heavy with restrained fury; and Merrick Frey, who kept glancing back to be sure the ash golems still loomed behind. Leobald rode last, his septon’s robes whipping in the wind, lips moving in silent prayer.
Ahead, beneath the white banner, two figures waited. One was unmistakably Garmon Drumm, towering in rust-red armour, face contorted with rage, eyes red-rimmed from grief and hatred. The other was Lord Rymund Bracken, silver breastplate gleaming faintly, though his expression was anything but bold—his eyes flicked to Edmyn and Lothar, then to Harald, and could not seem to look away.
“Traitorous green-lander scum!” Garmon bellowed, glaring at Tully and Vance.
Edmyn’s reply rang out, sharp and clear. “Traitors to whom, Drumm?”
Drumm turned, narrowing his gaze on Harald. “You. You killed my son.”
Harald tilted his head, a slow smirk curving his lips. “I did.”
Drumm’s hand twitched near his hilt. “I’m going to gut you, then lay waste to every one of these treacherous green-landers, salt their fields, string up their children. Nothing will be left. Nothing.”
Harald didn’t flinch. He looked to Rymund Bracken. “And you, Lord Bracken, have you chosen your side?”
Bracken’s mouth opened, then closed. His voice was low and uncertain. “I… I…”
“He has,” Drumm snapped. “Bracken is a loyal dog. Loyal to the rightful king, loyal to Harren Hoare. That’s how all green-landers should act obedient and grateful.”
Harald studied Bracken for a moment, his voice cool and final. “I’m disappointed, Lord Bracken. But it’s not too late…yet.”
Something flickered in Bracken’s eyes shame, or doubt but he remained silent.
Harald spoke again. “Where I come from, there is an old tradition: when two armies stand ready to clash, they send forth their champions—one from each side—to duel to the death, sparing needless bloodshed.”
He let the silence settle like frost.
“I challenge you, Lord Garmon Drumm,” Harald said, his voice like steel drawn from the forge. “Here. Now.”
For a moment Drumm said nothing. Then his lips curled into a snarling grin. “You want a duel? Then you’ll have one, green-lander. For my son… The Drowned God will feast on your soul tonight.”
Harald chuckled. “Oh, you have no idea how many gods your Drowned God will have to fight for my soul.”
He turned to the assembled lords and nodded… a signal. They wheeled their horses and rode back.
Harald cast a final glance at Lord Bracken.
The old lord said nothing. He simply turned his mount and rode away toward his host.
Harald and Drumm remained alone Drumm quivering with rage, Harald calm as the soft wind stirring around them.
Garmon raised his battered iron shield and drew his heavy, salt-rusted longsword with a rasping hiss. He sneered across the clearing at Harald.
Harald, for his part, did not even reach for the massive war-axe strapped to his back. Instead, he calmly drew the blade at his hip, a long, slender sword of dragonbone whose edge shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun.
Drumm laughed. “A sword made of bone, sorcerer? Is that supposed to frighten me?” He banged his sword against his shield, snarling. “I’ll enjoy taking it as iron price along with that armour of yours.”
Harald’s eyes remained cool, unreadable. “Are you going to talk all day, or fight?”
With a roar, Drumm charged, slamming forward like a crashing wave.
Steel flashed. Drumm swung hard and fast, but Harald stepped aside with ghostly ease. Another blow came first an overhead cut, then a low sweep and again Harald pivoted clear, not even lifting his blade. He moved like a shadow, laughing softly as he danced around the frenzied Ironborn lord.
“Fight me, coward!” Drumm bellowed, sweat already slick on his brow.
Harald kept circling, every dodge fluid, almost mocking. “Is this it? The famed might of Garmon Drumm?” he called, voice lilting with amusement.
“I AM GARMON THE MIGHTY…fear me!” Garmon yelled.
“I thought they called you Garmon the Rapist,” Harald replied, making Drumm even angrier.
Step by step their duel drifted closer to the Ironborn ranks. Archers and footmen watched in stunned silence as their lord was humiliated.
Drumm grunted with rage and fatigue. At last, Harald raised his sword not to strike, but to parry. The bone blade moved with eerie precision, catching every blow and turning it aside like water flowing round a stone.
Then Harald struck.
Not with a killing stroke, but with precise, surgical cuts one to the thigh, another across the arm, a third slicing the joint of the shoulder plate. Blood welled and seeped down Drumm’s armour. He howled, stumbling back.
“You,” Harald said coldly, “are the worst fighter I’ve ever faced.”
Drumm roared and lunged again, fury now blinding him. As their struggle inched closer to the Ironborn line, a sudden grin split Drumm’s face.
“Fool!” he spat, panting. “Archers….LOOSE!”
Bowstrings sang.
But before the arrows could land, Harald opened his mouth and spoke a word of power that shook the air.
“FUS”
The first syllable of the Unrelenting Force shout thundered like a hammer-blow. A blast of raw kinetic energy erupted from Harald, flinging the arrows aside in a wide arc and scattering them harmlessly to the ground.
Drumm’s face twisted in horror. “Sorcerer!”
Harald stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly. “I thought you already knew that.”
He glanced up at the archers scrambling to notch a second volley. “We’re close enough now,” he said with a smirk, lifting his blade.
Garmon staggered, blood leaking from the rents in his armour, his breathing laboured. His sword hand trembled as he raised the blade one final time.
Harald did not hesitate. With a single, vicious downward arc, his dragon-bone sword struck Drumm’s weapon at the hilt and shattered it. Steel splintered with a shriek, fragments spinning away like broken teeth. The stub in Drumm’s hand clattered uselessly to the ground.
Before the Ironborn lord could react, Harald drove a boot into his gut. Drumm lurched backward as the air burst from his lungs and collapsed to his knees, wheezing, his face twisted with pain and disbelief.
“Please… I… mercy—” he rasped.
Harald stepped forward, raising the bone sword high. “Your son died the same way on his knees, begging,” he said coldly, and brought the blade down.
Drumm’s head flew clean from his shoulders, landing with a dull thud in the grass several feet away. His body toppled to the side, blood pumping in a final crimson arc.
The army before Harald froze. Silence rippled across the Ironborn line.
He wasted no time. Turning toward them, he spoke all three words of the Disarm Shout.
“ZUN! HAAL! VIIK!”
The words of power tore through the air like an invisible tidal wave. Weapons flew from Ironborn hands—axes, swords, spears—ripped free and flung to the earth. Even among the Bracken men behind them, swords slipped from fingers and shields tumbled as wide-eyed soldiers gasped.
Then, from behind Harald, came the thunder. Seven ash golems towering constructs of cindered ash and molten muscle charged. They hit the disarmed Ironborn like an avalanche. Limbs snapped, bones crunched, screams erupted. Golems swatted men aside, stamped them underfoot, ripped through the ranks with burning fists. The Ironborn line dissolved in chaos and blood.
Surveying the carnage, Harald spotted movement at the rear: Lord Rymund Bracken wheeled his horse and led his men away from the slaughter.
One more lord to the cause, Harald thought.
Within minutes the Ironborn force lay obliterated. The field ran red; bodies were strewn like broken dolls. Not a single Ironborn lived.
The road to Harrenhal was now wide open.
.
.
.
Lord Rymund Bracken joined the victors as soon as the battle ended. While Lord Hother Blackwood made his displeasure known loudly and often, Merrick Frey and Lothar Vance worked hard to keep the two feuding lords apart, with Harald ensuring neither crossed the line. Tempers ran high, but for the moment the greater cause held them together.
They marched on Weepinghall next.
The grim old keep—steeped in legend and sorrow—fell without a fight, its battlements now lined with the banners of Frey, Blackwood, Bracken, Tully, and Vance.
He had chosen Weepinghall as the mustering point for the next phase. He planned to gather the full force here: the reinforcements promised by Tully and Vance, the levies of House Piper, and the Vances of Atranta all marching within the next two weeks. More importantly, Edmyn Tully believed that the lords of the eastern borders Ryger, Mandrake, and others would not remain neutral once they saw the scope of this rebellion.
Harald stood atop those walls, arms folded, gazing over the dusky countryside. The assembled lords flanked him: Blackwood and Bracken traded sharp glares, Merrick whispered to Lothar, both casting uneasy looks between the rivals.
Edmyn Tully’s arrival broke the tension. He strode up, parchment in hand, brow furrowed.
“Lord Piper and the Vances of Atranta will be here within the week,” Edmyn said. “And that’s not all—my spies in Harrenhal have finally sent word. Harren has ordered Prince Wex to raid the western coast. Seagard is in danger.”
Harald’s eyes narrowed. “That changes things.”
“There’s more,” Edmyn went on. “Dagon Hoare marches with fifteen thousand men, nearly every Ironborn left under Harren’s command. They’re coming our way.”
Bracken exhaled sharply. “That means Harrenhal is almost unguarded. He’s emptied the castle.”
Harald allowed himself a slight grin. “So Aeron’s finger had the intended effect.”
He had sent Harren his son’s finger using an old spell he had learned from a former Morag Tong assassin on Solstheim magic meant for intimidation and terror; he had never expected to use it.
Harald stepped forward to ask more about Wex’s coastal raid…but stopped.
Suddenly his body stiffened, his face blanched, his eyes widened.
How?
Every lord around him noticed at once.
“Dragonborn?” Hother asked, tense. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” Harald said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. “I just… felt something.” He looked to the east, jaw tight. “The golems I sent ahead… they’re gone.”
Silence gripped the battlements.
“How” Hother exclaimed.
“Gone?” Bracken echoed—half–scoff, half–fear. “You mean those stone giants?”
“What do you mean gone?” Merrick stepped closer.
“Is that even possible?” Lothar asked.
Harald nodded slowly. “I don’t know how, but they’re gone.”
Edmyn swallowed hard. “What does it mean?”
Harald faced them fully, voice low and grim. “It means the Ironborn have help—new and dangerous allies. It means we need to rethink our approach.”
He stared eastward toward the looming specter of Harrenhal he imagined in the far distance.
Hermaeus… Bal? Or some other new arrival…
Why couldn’t things be easy?
