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26: Dragonborn Conqueror, Rebellion pt.2
🕑 Added 2025-05-12 18:02:22 +0000 UTC“I understand that you wish to join us,” Harald said calmly, eyeing the villagers who blocked the path. They carried little more than pitchforks, scythes, and rusty blades, yet their eyes shone with fierce determination.
They had halted in a border village between the Blackwood Vale and the Riverlands, resting after a relentless march south from Fairmarket.
A weather‑worn, middle‑aged man with a crooked nose and broad shoulders stepped forward. “We’re ready t’ fight, m’lord.”
A ripple of agreement murmured through the crowd.
Leobald had seized every stop along the road to preach, hoping to keep the magic‑fearing smallfolk from turning on him. Moments earlier he had healed an old man’s bent leg, a “miracle,” he assured them, convincing many that his power was divine rather than dark sorcery.
“They’re ready to die for you,” Ser Aerion Whiteflame whispered behind Harald, “or to loot whatever corpses and castles they think we’ll sack.”
Harald allowed himself a faint smile; war, after all, offered profit to high lords and low peasants alike. He faced the villagers once more.
“I know you burn with fury. Many of you have lost sons, fathers, and brothers to the Ironborn. You want vengeance. But vengeance without duty is ruin.
“Winter is coming. Who will harvest your fields if you leave? Who will feed your children? This rebellion cannot succeed if the land starves.”
Hesitation followed murmurs, a few nods.
“You serve our cause best by guarding your homes,” Harald continued, his tone softening. “Pray for our victory. Keep your families strong. When the time comes, you will have your place in the new Riverlands.”
The pitchforks and weapons slowly lowered.
As Harald turned away, Aerion chuckled. “I doubt that’ll stop the next batch of peasants.”
=====
The army pushed south, leaving the Blackwood Vale behind. Harald rode at the vanguard, ebony armour catching the light.
To one side rode Lord Hother Blackwood, flanked by his heir Benjen and younger son Jonnel; to the other rode Lord Merrick Frey with his eager heir Maron.
Their numbers had swollen to nearly 1,900 as hedge‑knights flocked to the cause. Among them marched the Ash Golems silent, tireless, their ember‑glowing hearts eerie even in daylight.
By dusk they camped on the riverbank, barely half an hour’s ride from Riverrun. In Harald’s tent he conferred with Blackwood, Frey, Ser Aerion, and Leobald about how best to approach Lord Tully.
“We should ride to Riverrun in the morning,” Merrick said bluntly. Harald nodded.
Leobald spoke changing the subject all together “Harald if i may this..um…the … gift you plan to send Lord Drumm are you certain it’s wise to provoke him in such a manner?”
Harald’s lips curved into a cold smile. “It sends exactly the message we need terror. Let him feel a taste of what’s coming.”
He turned to Aerion. “How will you deliver it?”
Aerion’s grin was wolfish. “Two of our best riders will take it to the edge of Weeping Hall and leave it where it can’t be missed.”
“Good,” Harald said. “I’ll give them two potions of invisibility. Remind them no heroics. In and out.”
Just then the tent‑flap flew open. Jonnel Blackwood and Maron Frey burst in, flushed from running.
“What is it?” Harald asked, rising.
“We spotted riders,” Aerion answered before either youth could speak. “Lord Tully and Lord Vance—they’re on their way here.”
“Vance as well?” Hother Blackwood said, pleased. “That makes things simpler.”
Harald turned to Hother and Merrick. “Ride out and greet them. Escort them back to camp with the proper courtesy.”
The two lords nodded and strode out of the tent.
It was time for the trout to meet the dragon.
.
.
.
Lord Edmyn Tully stood in the sunlit courtyard of Riverrun, his hands folded behind his back, his expression composed but his eyes scanning the southern road. The banners of House Tully fluttered on the battlements above, and the water surrounding the castle shimmered under the sun’s rays.
Beside him stood his wife, Lady Maria Tully, formerly Vance, cradling their fussing two‑year‑old daughter and gently rocking her in her arms. Their eldest, just six, clung shyly to her mother’s skirts, peeking out with curiosity at the guards assembling in orderly formation behind them sworn men of House Tully in mail and tabards, ready to greet another lord.
Hoofbeats echoed beyond the gate, and soon a small party rode through the archway bearing the sigil of House Vance—a black dragon on white, with two golden eyes set in a golden ring on black. At their head rode Lothar Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest, his auburn hair gleaming in the sun, his cloak of rich green and silver snapping behind him. He dismounted smoothly, grinning as he approached, his steps light and easy.
“Welcome, Lord Vance,” Edmyn called out formally, stepping forward.
“Oh, come now, Edmyn,” Lothar replied with a chuckle, waving a hand. “Do we really need such stiff formalities between family?” He embraced his good‑brother warmly, clapping him on the back.
Edmyn returned the hug with a smile.
Lothar turned to his sister, his face softening. “Maria,” he said warmly, kissing her on the cheek. “You look well. And these little ones… gods, they’ve grown. Look at you,” he added, crouching briefly to greet his nieces, who giggled at his dramatic flourish.
He straightened and raised a teasing brow at Edmyn. “So my sister is with child again, is she?”
Maria gave him a playful slap on the arm, laughing. “That’s none of your business, Lothar.”
Edmyn grinned, but then his smile faded. “We should talk.”
“So soon?” Lothar asked lightly, pretending to pout. “I’ve only just arrived.”
Maria frowned. “Let him catch his breath, Edmyn.”
But Edmyn shook his head. “This matter isn’t one to delay.”
Lothar sighed, his jovial expression slipping away. “Yes, yes. I was only jesting. Come, then. Let’s go to your solar.”
Together they walked through Riverrun’s stone halls. When they reached the solar, Edmyn paused, noticing his uncle, Ser Roger Tully, already inside. Seated with him were Septon Heydan, clad in white and gold with his hands folded piously, and Maester Flowers.
Lothar’s brow furrowed. “Why is the septon here?”
“Considering the circumstances, Septon Heydan insisted on being part of it,” Edmyn answered.
“Hmph,” Lothar muttered. “Mine has been quite supportive of the rumors from the north—herald of the gods and all.”
“Well,” Edmyn replied, casting a sideways glance at Lothar, “mine has not.”
At the door, Edmyn motioned for the others to follow him inside.
The solar was a chamber befitting the Lord of Riverrun—modest in its opulence, richly appointed but not gaudy. Polished stone floors were covered with rugs of river‑blue and moss‑green; the walls bore tapestries of fish leaping from the Tumblestone and of great river battles of old. Behind the desk hung the sword of Edmyn’s grandsire, and a high‑backed oak chair faced a carved hearth, now dark in the summer heat.
Edmyn gestured to the chairs. “Let’s begin.”
“It’s time, nephew,” Ser Roger Tully said at once.
“Yes, Uncle…you’ve been saying that for a moon now,” Edmyn replied with a sigh, his voice weary rather than angry.
Roger brought his palm down lightly on the arm of his chair. “What are you waiting for? Our family has waited for such a moment for twenty years. The Riverlands have waited for it for a century.”
Edmyn looked at his uncle. The old knight’s face was lined and weather‑beaten, a living remnant of every failed hope and act of defiance the Tullys had clung to since the fall. And Roger was right. Their house had opposed the Hoares from the beginning: Tommen Tully had backed Lady Agnes Blackwood in her doomed struggle to resist Harwyn Hardhand’s invasion, and the Brackens’ betrayal throwing their lot in with the Ironborn had turned the tide then.
Since that day, House Tully had quietly sown dissent, defiance living in whispers and wary alliances, and they had suffered for it. The Hoares had kept a close eye on them ever since, and Edmyn knew it was only measured caution that had preserved his house at all. His own father had wed a Piper and then married him to a Vance, strengthening those ancient ties and always hoping to rebuild something large enough strong enough for another rebellion.
Roger pointed to the map spread across the table. “Your father paved the way. And now? Now the gods have sent you this.”
“Your father married a Piper, you married a Vance, and our dear Elsa was supposed to—” Roger began, then stopped himself, his eyes sliding toward Lothar Vance, who now stood silent, his earlier ease gone at the mention of Elsa Tully.
Edmyn did not flinch. “I know, Uncle. I know.”
A brief, tense silence settled over the room until Septon Heydan spoke, his voice rising with righteous indignation.
“They are heretics, my lord!” he declared, his face flushed. “Heretics! Septon Ryam and Septon Leobald have gone mad. This man they follow this ‘Dragonborn’ they claim was sent by the Seven. Worse, Leobald says he is the Seven made flesh. This is blasphemy of the highest order!”
Lothar’s voice cut in, sharp and clear. “I have heard another interpretation.” His eyes narrowed at the septon. “My own septon, Manfield, supports Septon Leobald. He says this Dragonborn may be the champion the Seven long promised.”
Heydan’s jaw tightened. “You would follow a sorcerer? A man of dark eastern magics?”
Lothar rounded on him, glaring. “I would follow anyone who can free us from the Ironborn. Would you rather cling to Harren the Black a heathen, if you’ve forgotten than embrace a chance at freedom?”
The septon flinched at Lothar’s words. He looked between them all, flustered and cornered, his voice small now. “It is heresy… heresy…”
“Septon, thank you for your counsel,” Edmyn said evenly, though tension still edged his voice. “You may leave us now.”
Septon Heydan hesitated a moment, clearly wanting to protest further, but thought better of it. With a stiff nod and a final murmured prayer, he gathered his robes and left the solar.
As the septon left, another figure entered. She seemed to glide rather than walk, her presence immediately commanding the attention of every man in the room. Her hair was red as flame, vibrant and free, cascading in loose waves down her back. Her eyes were a piercing blue deep and sparkling like the Blue Fork at midday yet filled with warmth. She wore a flowing gown of sapphire silk, cinched at the waist with silver embroidery shaped like running trout, the Tully sigil glinting faintly in the lantern‑light.
“Elsa,” Edmyn said, his voice softening as he beheld his sister.
“Brother,” she replied with a smirk, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “It seems I’m late.”
Her gaze shifted, landing on Lothar Vance. “Lothar.”
“Elsa,” Lothar answered, quieter, more restrained.
She stepped farther into the room, her voice gaining strength. “So have you decided when we’re joining this Dragonborn and the three northern lords?”
“We were discussing it,” Edmyn replied cautiously.
Elsa’s eyes flashed. “What is there to discuss, brother? This is it. The time is now.”
Roger grunted his approval. “Elsa is right, Edmyn. You know she is.”
“We don’t know the full details yet,” Edmyn said, looking between them.
“The time for caution is over,” Elsa snapped, her passion breaking through like a flood. “You know it, I know it. It’s time for action.”
Maester Flowers cleared his throat. “Lady Elsa, with respect this must not be an emotional decision but a logical one. A war…”
“Fuck that,” Elsa cut in, her voice as sharp as broken glass. “How long have we waited? Our father and grandsire sacrificed so much they should not be forgotten.” She paused, locking eyes with Edmyn. “Are you going to deny me my vengeance too, brother? Do you plan to stand with Drumm and spill Riverlander blood beside him?”
Silence settled over the room.
Then Lothar moved to stand beside her. “She’s right, Edmyn. It’s time.”
Edmyn looked at his sister—at the fire in her face and the fury hidden behind her eyes. His mind drifted, just for a breath, to that day years ago when the crown prince came to Riverrun, to what he had done to her.
He swallowed, then gave a single, slow nod. “Send word to House Piper, Uncle,” he said quietly. Then he turned to Lothar. “And to your cousins in Atranta.”
He stepped forward. “We will join this rebellion.”
====
Edmyn Tully and Lothar Vance rode hard from the castle, twenty knights thundering behind them. Edmyn had received word that the rebel host led by the man known as the Dragonborn had encamped near Riverrun, and he had set out at once, even though night was drawing on.
Edmyn had already resolved to join their cause, but before he pledged his sword and the strength of his people he needed to look the Dragonborn in the eye and be certain of his choice.
“Look,” Lothar said, breaking Edmyn’s thoughts. “The camp. Just ahead.”
Edmyn lifted his gaze and slowed his horse. The rebel encampment stretched along the riverbank in neat rows of tents and supply carts, but it was small… far smaller than he had expected. The combined forces of Frey and Blackwood alone should have numbered at least seven thousand. What stood before him could not be more than a fraction of that—two thousand at most.
He frowned, puzzled. Perhaps more troops were on the way and this was merely an advance force.
A knot of riders approached at speed. As they drew near, Edmyn recognized Lords Merrick Frey and Hother Blackwood at their head.
They met midway, reigning in their horses amid a small clearing.
“Lord Tully, Lord Vance,” Merrick Frey called with a grin, dipping his head in greeting. “Welcome.”
“Lord Frey. Lord Blackwood,” Edmyn replied, cordial yet guarded.
Lothar gave a short laugh. “So we hear you’re doing a bit of rebelling?”
Merrick chuckled. “You could say that.” Then, with a more serious tone, he added, “I trust you’ll be joining us as well.”
Edmyn’s eyes lingered on the camp, brows knit in thought. “Why so few men?” he asked, his voice edged with concern.
Lord Hother answered, rough‑voiced but confident. “Trust me, Edmyn this is more than enough. You’ll understand soon.”
“I intend to,” Edmyn said. “Take me to this Dragonborn. I’d like to meet the man who claims to be sent by the gods.”
They rode toward the camp, and as they neared it, Edmyn saw them.
At first he mistook the shapes for statues great, hulking figures standing motionless by the tents. Then one moved, turning with the heavy grind of stone, and his breath caught in his throat.
Each giant stood eight feet tall, broad as a war‑horse’s flank, formed entirely of ash‑gray rock shot through with faintly glowing red veins. In every chest lay a jagged, molten‑red gem that pulsed like a beacon, and their eyes were pits of living fire. They needed no weapons; a single blow from those stone fists could pulp a man.
“By the gods,” Lothar Vance whispered, his voice small beneath the giants’ looming presence.
Edmyn said nothing, his throat dry.
Hother smirked at their awed expressions. “As you can see,” he said, “we don’t need many men when we have those.”
“How?” Edmyn managed at last, turning to the lords beside him.
Merrick answered, pride gleaming in his eye. “Conjured by the Dragonborn himself, a gift from the gods.”
He pointed across the camp. “There. That’s him.”
Edmyn followed the gesture and saw the man.
The Dragonborn stood near the central pavilion, clad in armor unlike anything Edmyn had ever seen. The dark metal, of unknown origin, shimmered faintly in the waning light. His blonde hair was bound back, revealing the face of a warrior who had seen countless battles.
Everything about him radiated power.
As Edmyn and Lothar dismounted, the stone golems turned their heads in unison. The scrape of rock on rock made Edmyn’s gut tighten, yet he forced himself to stand firm.
They strode toward the figure at the camp’s heart.
‘I have made the right decision,’ Edmyn thought; there could be no doubt now not when the very air around this man crackled with a divine purpose.
“Welcome, Lords Tully and Vance,” the Dragonborn said, his voice steady and resonant. “I am Harald Stormcrown. We have much to discuss.”
Edmyn found himself nodding before he realized it. “Yes,” he answered softly almost reverently. “Yes… we do.”
