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25: Dragonborn Conqueror, Rebellion pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-05-06 07:47:18 +0000 UTCIt took a while to research and plan the chapters.
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The fire crackled in the darkness, its glow throwing long shadows across the trees surrounding their makeshift camp. Erik sat in silence, knuckles white around the haft of his axe, listening to the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant hoot of some night‑bird. The low murmur of his fellow Ironborn’s voices rose and fell nearby, laughter and curses echoing through the air.
Then came the sound he hated most—his father’s heavy boots approaching.
Dagmar Stonehand stood tall, his long cloak of whale‑hide swaying behind him. His one good eye burned with the same cold disdain it always held when it landed on Erik.
“Planning how you’ll run from the next battle as well, boy?” Dagmar growled, arms folded like iron across his chest. “Trying to hide how useless you are?”
Erik swallowed. “Just… waiting for orders, Father.”
Dagmar sneered, leaning closer. “I’ve already got three sons better than you. You’re weak, boy. You can’t row, you can’t fight—you shame my name. This is your last chance.”
Erik tensed. “I’ll do my part.”
“You’d better,” Dagmar said, voice low and dangerous. “If you don’t bring back something worth your breath, I’ll tell the crew you stumbled on the rocks—or fell asleep during watch. And I’ll make sure it’s true.”
Then he turned and walked away, his broad back disappearing into the night.
Shaking, Erik stood and stumbled over to the fire where the others gathered, rough voices raised in amusement. They were listening to the five Ironborn who had arrived yesterday—survivors from Fairmarket and Greyholt. Filthy, gaunt, half‑mad with fear, but alive.
“…tore the gates off with his voice, I swear it,” one of them said, hands shaking as he gulped from a skin of sour ale. “Spoke a word, and the whole damned wall cracked like thunder!”
The men around the fire howled with laughter.
“You’re cracked,” someone jeered.
“He’s serious,” said another survivor, wide‑eyed. “He walked through flame like a demon—a giant in black armor, eyes glowing gold. He took our weapons from our hands with a word!”
“Aye,” muttered the first, quieter now. “They call him Dragonborn—say he’s their gods’ herald, sent to kill us all.”
“Seven soft shits,” a man barked, slapping his thigh. “Greenlander gods are weak!”
The laughter returned, louder now, but Erik noticed that none of the survivors laughed. They just stared into the fire like men who had seen the Abyss blink back.
Then the scout‑captain walked in, and the sounds of laughter and mocking stopped. Weathered, with a mangled ear and a steel‑wrapped mace, he stood over them all.
“We move at dawn,” he said. “We split into two groups. One will scout Fairmarket’s roads—see if there’s truth to this army the rebels are building. The rest of you will take the north trail and sniff out Blackwood patrols.
“Lord Drumm will not be happy if we fail.”
He turned and left without another word.
Erik hesitated, then moved closer to the quietest of the survivors, a man called Harrag. His eyes were sunken, and he barely blinked. Erik crouched next to him.
“Was it true?” he asked softly. “What you said—about the Dragonborn.”
Harrag turned to him slowly, as if waking from a nightmare.
“We’re all going to die,” he whispered. “You hear me, boy? Not on the sea, not with salt in our lungs like men of worth. No… we are to die in this cursed land.”
Then, suddenly, Harrag grabbed him by the collar, eyes wild.
“He is not a man—I saw it with my own eyes! The Storm God sent him to torment us. I saw him breathe fire; I saw him kill ten of my friends as if they were nothing. Hear me, boy: leave. Leave for the sea. We are only safe there.”
Erik struggled, heart hammering in his chest—until a fist crashed into Harrag’s jaw, sending the madman collapsing onto the dirt.
Dagmar stood over them, hand flexing.
“Get up, worm,” he growled at Erik. “Since you seem eager for tales, you can take the first watch. The true warriors need rest.”
“Yes, Father,” Erik muttered, scrambling to his feet.
He took his place at the edge of camp, staring into the black woods. His hands still trembled. Behind him, the fire’s glow flickered over slumbering shapes, but Erik could find no peace—not with Harrag’s words ringing in his ears.
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Erik fought to keep his eyes open. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the briny stench of the nearby river and the ghostly creak of branches.
He sat hunched, gripping his axe tighter than necessary, his breath fogging in the chill air. All around him, the other Ironborn slumbered—snoring, muttering, twitching—their weapons stacked within easy reach.
He was about to nod off when he heard it.
A soft rustle. A faint shifting of leaves. The sound of something moving.
Erik’s skin prickled. He turned his head slowly, ears straining. Nothing but the low moan of the wind.
He stood, uncertain, and took a step away from the fire, then another, the forest’s edge looming like a mouth in the darkness.
His heart thudded.
Another sound—closer this time. A low grinding, like stone dragging against stone. He swallowed hard, raised his axe, and stepped into the trees.
Every branch seemed to claw at him. Every step crunched like thunder. Shadows twisted between trunks, thick and heavy, pressing in. His breath quickened. His hands shook.
Then he heard it again—louder now. A low, inhuman rumble unlike any beast he knew.
“Who’s there?” he croaked.
Silence.
He asked again, his axe quivering in his grasp.
Then two red lights opened in the blackness.
Eyes.
Erik’s knees locked. His mouth hung open. No scream came. The thing staring back at him was massive—towering—its head scraping the trees. The eyes glowed like embers.
With a growl, the giant moved.
Screams erupted from the camp behind him—shouts, curses, pleas for help; steel being drawn; flesh being torn.
Erik turned to run, but too late.
A massive hand, cold as granite, closed around his body and lifted him like a rag doll. He screamed then, his voice piercing the night, flailing helplessly.
The giant held him before its face, and Erik saw it clearly—skin like cracked rock, joints glowing with molten light. In its chest pulsed a heart‑sized gem, blood‑red and burning with unearthly power.
“Please!” Erik sobbed. “Mercy! Mercy, I…”
The hand began to squeeze.
Bones creaked. Pain lanced through him. He thrashed, kicked, and pounded with weak fists—until, by chance, one hand slammed into the glowing stone in the giant’s chest.
There was a flash of red light.
The giant let out a rumbling howl, and its grip slackened. Erik fell, crashing hard to the earth. His vision darkened at the edges.
The last thing he saw before the blackness took him was the glow of more red eyes—four, six, eight of them—emerging from the woods.
Then all was darkness.
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Harald POV
“They have returned,” Lord Merrick Frey said, his voice tinged with awe as the earth beneath his boots quivered to the steady rhythm of their march.
Harald stood beside the Lord of the Crossing, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, watching his creations arrive.
The Ash Guardians advanced in a perfect column, emerging from the treeline. Eight feet tall, they towered over Fairmarket’s outskirts, each a hulking form of hardened ash sculpted into a vaguely man‑shaped silhouette. Their bodies were lean yet unnaturally muscular, every limb dense and powerful.
Their skin—if skin it could be called—was a mixture of cracked stone and ash, dry and crumbling at the edges. Deep within their chests, embedded like the heart of a volcano, glowed a single Heart‑stone: red, throbbing faintly with life. The stones gave off a dull thrum with each step, and thin tendrils of smoke drifted from beneath their ribs like a forge that never cooled.
Neloth and Harald had laboured to improve upon Neloth’s original Ash Guardian. Before leaving Solstheim, Harald had acquired a hoard of Heart‑stones and mastered three summoning spells—each producing a different construct. The first was the standard Guardian; the second, which he called the Golem, ten of which now marched for the rebellion; and the third, the largest and most powerful, was the Colossus.
Soldiers stepped aside in fearful reverence. Town‑folk peered from walls and rooftops, mouths agape. Even the circling crows kept their distance.
Merrick let out a breathless laugh and shook his head. “I was wrong to doubt you, Dragonborn.”
Harald had been precise in his orders: each of the three lords was to bring only as many men as they could feed without taxing the small‑folk. Harvests were already lean, and rumours of an early frost whispered through taverns and villages. Harald refused to win a war only to rule a starving kingdom.
Merrick had brought seven hundred and fifty men from the Crossing, though he insisted he could raise four times that number. Hother Blackwood had arrived with a thousand—and made the same boast. Lord Mallister, as instructed, remained in Seagard, his fleet and men ready to defend the western shores. The Ironborn would strike by sea first; Seagard would be their opening target.
Harald and Merrick walked toward the camp outside Fairmarket—the so‑called “Army of Liberation,” as Leobald proudly named it. Smoke curled from cooking fires. Men sparred in the dirt or sat cleaning blades, all watching the golems in awestruck silence.
They entered the largest tent. Inside waited Hother Blackwood—tall and grim as ever—and Leobald.
“Leobald. Lord Hother,” Harald said in greeting.
“Dragonborn!” Hother boomed, standing over the table in the centre. “Lord Tully has written back. He is very interested in what we’ve begun here.”
Harald raised a brow, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “So he should be. You told me he’s been plotting for some time.”
“Aye,” Hother grunted, bracing his heavy hands on the table. “With Edmyn on our side, Lords Vance and Piper won’t be far behind. After them, the rest will join as well.”
Harald circled the table, his eyes scanning the hand‑drawn map spread before them.
To the north lay the lands of Frey, Blackwood, and Mallister—the three lords already in revolt with him, holding most of the northern Riverlands. Harald’s gaze then drifted eastward. Bordering those rebellious houses were the domains of House Mandrake of Greenwitch March and House Ryger of Willow’s Reach—both subject to House Harlaw, the Ironborn governor of the eastern Riverlands. The Harlaws ruled from Ramsford, a stout town on the Green Fork and a key Ironborn outpost.
Merrick tapped the southern edge of the map, his finger resting on Riverrun. “Since Lord Edmyn has agreed to meet, we should march south—now.”
“Aye,” Hother agreed, folding his arms. “Once Tully joins, the tide will turn faster than we expect.”
Harald tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. “And the east? What of the Harlaws? Won’t Harren order them to strike while we march south?”
Merrick shook his head. “Harren is too paranoid for that. The Vale still eyes the Saltpans, and he knows it. The Harlaws are his bulwark. If he moves them against us, he leaves the eastern border open to the Arryns. He won’t risk it.”
Harald gave a sharp nod. “So south it is—Vance, Tully… and Bracken.”
The mention of Bracken drew a disdainful grunt from Hother.
Harald glanced over. “Will you be able to work with Lord Rymund Bracken when the time comes?”
“Perhaps,” Hother muttered. “If he doesn’t throw in with the Ironborn first. The Brackens have courted Dagon Greyjoy the crown prince for years.”
Merrick let out a dry laugh. “Come now, Hother. The Brackens despise the Ironborn as much as any of us. They aren’t fools. They’ll join us the moment they see the power of the Dragonborn.” He fixed Hother with a level look. “Just… keep the old grudge buried—for now.”
Hother grunted reluctantly. “We’ll see.”
“I have a plan,” Harald said at last, his voice low and steady. That earned the full attention of everyone in the tent—Leobald, Merrick, Hother. They leaned in.
He pointed to Fairmarket on the map, tracing a path southward. “We move fast. Our numbers are small—and that’s our advantage. Drumm will assume we’re gathering a much larger army; he’ll expect us to consolidate and move slowly. He will not anticipate a strike this swift.” He tapped the map twice. “And he certainly won’t expect this.”
Harald’s hand shifted toward the tent flap, gesturing to where the Ash Golems loomed outside.
Leobald grinned. “And you, Harald,” he said with a smirk, “are not exactly what he expects either.”
“Exactly,” Harald agreed. “We kill any scouts he sends north—leave him blind. The less he knows about our strength or numbers, the more cautious he’ll be. Or worse—he’ll grow overconfident, thinking he still holds the advantage.”
He dragged his finger farther down the parchment, stopping near a wooded mark labeled Riverrun. “We meet Edmyn Tully here. With him, we march on Drumm.” His hand moved again, resting over a small castle drawn in Bracken lands. “Weeping Hall—that’s where we finish him.”
Hother Blackwood, arms crossed, gave a sharp nod. “Strike before he can even raise his men. I like it.”
Merrick Frey tapped his chin thoughtfully, then looked to Harald. “Fast, decisive—I see no flaws.”
“I believe I have already killed Lord Drumm’s son,” Harald said.
“Aye—Qarl Drumm,” Hother replied with a smirk. “Jonnel told me. I don’t think Drumm even knows yet.”
“And do not forget, my lords, that we have a prince as hostage as well,” Leobald added.
“Prince Aeron is a non‑factor,” Harald said. “I have other plans for him. So we are decided, then?”
They all nodded.
Hother leaned forward again. “It will be quite a sight, bringing down that cursed castle.”
Harald glanced up from the map. “Weeping Hall?”
Merrick nodded grimly. “Aye. Has our septon not told you of it, Harald?”
Harald shook his head. “No. Should he have?”
Leobald let out a quiet breath. “It’s a sad tale,” he said, his voice edged with both sorrow and anger.
“The castle once belonged to the Severyns—river‑knights, vassals to the Brackens. A proud house, known for their hospitality and honor.”
Harald listened in silence.
“Lord Severyn had seven daughters,” Leobald continued, “each said to be blessed by one of the Seven. They were admired—loved—throughout the Riverlands. Then the Drumms arrived, not long after Harren installed them as governors.”
Merrick’s jaw clenched.
“The eldest, betrothed to a Tully—Lord Edmyn’s uncle, I believe—was taken as a salt‑wife by Lord Drumm himself. They say she leapt from the battlements soon after.”
Harald’s face tightened.
“The second,” Leobald went on, his voice darkening, “was shorn and cloistered in a silent sept—as a mockery of the Mother.”
“The twins,” Merrick added, “vanished one night. Whispers say they were given to Drumm captains as ‘gifts.’”
Harald’s fists clenched.
“The fifth tried to flee,” Leobald said. “They hanged her from the watchtower. And the sixth—who was said to possess a beautiful voice—had her tongue torn out when she refused to sing for Lord Drumm.”
He hesitated.
“The seventh…” Leobald looked away. “Her tale is best left untold. What’s whispered is too vile to repeat.”
“It’s why the Riverlords call it Weeping Hall now,” he finished. “A castle soaked in tears and ruin. Stories like this are why the Riverlands will rally to our cause—they won’t need much convincing, Harald.”
Harald stared at the table for a moment longer, then straightened. “We leave at dawn for Riverrun. Prepare the men.”
Hother and Merrick bowed slightly and left the tent without a word.
Only Leobald remained. Arms folded behind his back, he said quietly, “I hope we can do this quickly, Harald. In a drawn‑out conflict, the smallfolk will suffer. Even if we win, they suffer.”
Harald gave him a calm, knowing smile. “My friend, it will end sooner than you think.”
Comments
Brandon
Thanks for the chapter
