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22: Dragonborn Conqueror , Three Kings and a Queen
🕑 Added 2025-04-08 19:41:10 +0000 UTCThe Kingdom of the North
“So it’s true, then?”
“Aye,” answered Wynn Manderly, Hand of the King to Torrhen Stark, King in the North.
The chamber around them—the solar of the King in the North—was cold, sparse, and utilitarian. Stone walls, bare of banners or art, held little warmth despite the low-burning hearth fire crackling in the corner. A long oaken table dominated the center, worn smooth by years of use. No gold, no velvet, no unnecessary frills adorned the room. It matched the king’s personality exactly: blunt, practical, and stripped of pretense. The only concessions to royalty were the thick furs layered atop the chairs and the direwolf sigil carved into the wood above the hearth.
“Damn those Blackwoods,” Prince Brandon Stark growled, slamming his fist into the side of the table. The heir to the North was young, brash, and easily provoked—especially when it came to perceived betrayal.
“We gave them everything,” Brandon continued, pacing. “With our help, they prospered. We offered them a crown. And now they do this?” His voice rose with every word.
Wynn and Barthogan Stark—Torrhen’s youngest—watched in silence as Brandon ranted. The Hand’s expression was unreadable, while Barthogan sat by the window, arms folded, a thoughtful frown etched on his youthful face.
King Torrhen Stark stood by the table, arms crossed, silent as a mountain. His grey eyes scanned the parchments spread before him. At last, he spoke.
“Brandon,” he said, calm but firm.
The prince fell silent immediately, his jaw clenched.
Torrhen didn’t turn. “Wynn. Is there any truth to the rumors? That a sorcerer leads them?”
Wynn nodded slowly. “Aye, my king. But not just any sorcerer. They say he was sent by the gods.”
Brandon scoffed from across the room.
Wynn continued, undeterred. “I’ve heard many names for him… but the one they all whisper is ‘the Dragonborn.’”
“Dragonborn,” Barthogan repeated thoughtfully, glancing up. “Any relation to the Valyrians? Or perhaps the ones in Dragonstone?”
Wynn shrugged. “We don’t know. All that we’ve confirmed is this: Houses Frey, Blackwood, and Mallister are in open rebellion—and the one they follow, this Dragonborn, has already slain Lord Haldon Greyjoy… and his two sons.”
Torrhen finally turned from the table, his gaze hard. “Has he crowned himself king?”
“No, my king,” Wynn replied.
“Father, we should march south now,” Brandon said, his voice sharp with urgency. “Take what we want. The Riverlands are unstable—we could sweep down through the Neck, break them before they can truly organize. Give the upper Trident to a loyal Northern house and teach the Blackwoods what comes of betrayal.”
Barthogan gave a small shake of his head, the motion subtle but clear. He didn’t bother hiding the exasperation in his expression at his older brother’s usual hot-headedness.
Torrhen, still standing near the map-strewn table, turned a disappointed gaze on his heir. He didn’t need to say anything—his eyes alone spoke volumes.
The room fell into an awkward silence, thick with tension, before Wynn Manderly broke it gently. “My king,” he asked, measured and calm, “what would you have us do?”
It was Barthogan who spoke next, stepping forward, his hands clasped behind his back. “Father, allow me to go south,” he said, surprising even Wynn. “Let me be your eyes and ears in the Riverlands. I’ll observe this rebellion… and learn more about this so-called sorcerer they call the Dragonborn.”
Brandon let out a derisive snort. “You?” he sneered. “What will you do—write poems about it?”
Torrhen’s glare silenced him.
“Enough, Brandon,” the king said, the iron in his voice unmistakable. Brandon opened his mouth to protest but saw the finality in his father’s expression and held his tongue. Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the solar, the door slamming shut behind him.
Torrhen turned back to Barthogan, the disapproval from before now replaced with quiet pride. “You will go, then,” he said. “I will send a raven to Greywater Watch. Your uncle Brandon is already in the Neck. He will join you.”
Barthogan gave a small bow, smiling faintly. “Thank you, Father. I won’t fail you.”
Torrhen gave a nod, then turned his gaze to the fire. Wynn remained still for a long moment before speaking again.
“A friendly Riverlands is better than carving it up,” Torrhen said quietly. “Let’s see what happens, old friend.”
Wynn nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on it, my king. I still have men inside Harrenhal. If anything stirs there… we’ll know.”
Torrhen stared into the flames. “Good,” he said at last. “Let’s hope this Dragonborn knows what he’s doing.”
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The Kingdom of the Mountain and the Vale
“My queen, we should invade and retake the Saltpans—and the coastlands Harren stole from us!” declared Lord Royce, his voice ringing through the High Hall of the Eyrie with conviction. “Now is the time!”
Queen Regent Sharra Arryn sat upon the Falcon Throne, regal despite the heavy weight she bore—both from the crown of rule and the child growing within her. Her hand rested protectively on her very pregnant belly, her back straight, her expression unreadable.
Beside her stood a nursemaid cradling her one-year-old son—King Ronnel Arryn, the Lord of the Vale in name, if not yet in strength. The boy gurgled softly, innocent and unaware of the storm gathering around his cradle.
Her husband, King Jonos Arryn, had died just two moons ago—an unexpected illness, swift and cruel. His absence still lingered in every corner of the Eyrie, and now, with no husband to shield her and a child king to protect, Sharra stood alone at the precipice of power.
The vultures circled.
Cousins from lesser branches of House Arryn whispered in corners, gauging the wind, watching her belly with calculating eyes. Lords, once loyal, now seemed eager to test her rule. And word had spread of rebellion in the Riverlands—sparked in Fairmarket and led by a man some claimed was sent by the gods themselves.
A perfect excuse for the Vale’s war-hungry lords to call for blood.
“We must strike swiftly, my queen,” said Lord Redfort, stepping forward. “The Ironborn are distracted. This is the time to reclaim what is rightfully ours.”
Sharra listened in silence, her gaze drifting from one advisor to the next. She could not appear weak—not now. But war, at this moment, would be reckless. She had to be careful.
Then, calmly, she asked, “What of the man they call the Dragonborn? The one proclaiming himself sent by the gods?”
The lords exchanged skeptical glances. Royce scoffed. “A trickster, most likely. A hedge knight or some lowborn sorcerer playing at prophecy.”
“A charlatan with a silver tongue,” Redfort added. “One who happened to slay some Ironborn and convince a few desperate lords to bend the knee. Nothing more.”
Sharra tilted her head. “And yet, this charlatan commands the fealty of House Mallister. Of House Blackwood. Houses older than your own, my lords.”
The room fell quiet. That truth could not be denied.
Still, Royce persisted. “Even so, my queen—we mustn’t let this rebellion pass us by. If he fails, we’ve lost nothing. But if he wins, we’ll be shut out of the spoils.”
Sharra’s eyes drifted to her son, nestled in the nursemaid’s arms, and then to her rounded belly. She could not afford folly, nor the appearance of hesitation. She needed to project strength without risking everything.
At last, she stood slowly, her voice cool and decisive. “We will not march to war. Not yet.”
The lords began to protest, but she raised her hand, silencing them.
“We will prepare for war,” she continued. “Gather troops. Ready supplies. Alert our bannermen. But we will wait. We will watch. Let the Riverlands bleed first. Let us see if this Dragonborn is truly the Herald of the Gods—or simply another fool to be broken beneath Harren’s heel.”
The room quieted, the answer enough to satisfy their pride, if not their thirst for glory. As they bowed and withdrew one by one, Sharra returned to her seat, her fingers brushing her swollen stomach once more.
‘Who are you, Dragonborn?’ she wondered.
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The Kingdom of the Rock
“The Pendric Mountains lie undefended, my king. We should move in and seize the iron-rich hills,” said Lord Swyft, Hand of the King, his voice polished and persuasive as always.
The solar of King Loren Lannister gleamed like the treasure vault it was rumored to be. Rich crimson-and-gold tapestries hung from the high stone walls, each one finely woven with golden lions and scenes of Lannister lore—Lann the Clever outwitting the Casterlys, the conquest of the western hills, and the forging of Casterly Rock’s golden legacy. Gold filigree traced the marble hearth, and the scent of spiced wine hung in the air, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire. The sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows painted the lion sigil in dancing gold upon the floor.
King Loren Lannister, the Lion of the Rock, sat resplendent on a carved oaken chair draped with red velvet. A lion’s pelt was slung over one shoulder, and rings of polished steel adorned his fingers, each bearing the sigil of a vassal House sworn to him. His golden hair was neatly trimmed, his jaw square, his green eyes shrewd as they narrowed at his Hand’s suggestion.
“The rebellion in Harren Hoare’s realm… yes,” Loren said slowly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A surprise. But perhaps a welcome one.”
He rose and walked toward the window, gazing out over the sprawl of Lannisport and the distant shimmer of the sea beyond. “My great-grandfather lost those hills to Harwyn Hardhand. Rich in iron, they were. The veins were thick. With them in hand… it would ease our burden when the time comes to strike the Reach.”
His mouth curled into a small, knowing smile.
“That old king in Highgarden,” he said, referring to Mern Gardener the Ninth with a sneer, “his weakness is our invitation.”
He turned back to Swyft. “Send word to Lords Reyne, Marbrand, and Lefford. Tell them to prepare. If this rebellion is more than a flicker… we move.”
Swyft nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. But… they claim the rebellion is led by a god—that the Seven have taken form in a man.”
Loren let out a rich, low laugh. “A god?” he scoffed. “No, my lord. The Freys, the Blackwoods, the Mallisters—this is their work. They’ve found a mummer who breathes fire or shouts down stone walls, and now they call him divine.”
His tone turned dismissive. “I’ve seen better magics in Lannisport.”
“Still,” Swyft said carefully, “I’ll send ravens as you command. And… I’ll keep eyes on this Dragonborn.”
“Good,” Loren said, nodding as he returned to his seat. “Watch closely. If Harren falters, Argilac will stir as well, and that’s when everything begins to unravel.”
“Should we take more than the mountains, then?” Swyft asked.
Loren sipped his wine. “No,” he said firmly. “Our prize lies in the south. Let the rivers flood themselves in blood. When the time is right—we’ll carve the Reach from its roots.”
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The Kingdom of the Reach
King Mern Gardener IX lay in a pool that glistened like molten gold beneath the warm rays of the Reach sun. The water shimmered around his lavishly adorned chaise—carved of weirwood and inlaid with jade and lapis. His corpulent form, draped in nothing but a thin cloth of green silk, lounged with lazy grandeur, surrounded by opulence and indulgence.
Mern, a man infamous for his insatiable appetites—for food, for power, and especially for women—was attended by a dozen nude young courtesans, each handpicked for beauty, grace, and obedience. Their laughter was as soft as wind through apple blossoms, their movements as fluid as the rivers that nourished the golden fields of the Reach.
One of the women—her skin the color of warm honey—knelt beside him, deftly plucking ripe grapes from a silver platter and placing them gently into the king’s waiting mouth. Her dark, sultry eyes never left his face, a small smile playing on her lips as she watched him savor the sweet fruit.
The other women, their bodies glistening with oil, moved around the king with a grace that was almost hypnotic. Their soft, skilled hands massaged his tired muscles, their touch both soothing and arousing. Mern let out a contented sigh, his eyes half-closed as he reveled in the sensations coursing through his body.
Mern’s eyelids drooped in pleasure, and he stretched out a hand toward a goblet of Arbor gold, barely lifting a finger before it was placed in his palm.
“My king, my king!” came a shrill and unwelcome voice, cutting through the gentle symphony like a blade through silk.
Mern groaned, his moment of bliss shattered. His eyes fluttered open, narrowed and irritated as he turned his head toward the intruder.
“What is it, Septon?” King Mern asked, his voice heavy with wine and amusement. He lazily wrapped an arm around the waist of a laughing courtesan, who leaned into him, giggling softly against his chest. Her fingers traced circles across his oiled skin.
Septon Eugene stood rigid, hands clutched around his prayer staff like a drowning man gripping driftwood. His face was flushed—whether from heat, exertion, or embarrassment was unclear.
“My king,” the Septon began, his voice tight with barely restrained outrage, “there is heresy afoot in the Riverlands! Blasphemy of the worst sort! A man—some false prophet—claims to be the Herald of the Seven. No, worse—he claims to be the Seven themselves! He commands an army of heretics!”
“Against heathen Ironborn,” Mern drawled, not missing a beat, finishing the thought for him. He pulled another woman toward him—this one full-hipped, with golden curls cascading over her bare shoulders. She squealed with delight as she fell into his lap, and Mern smirked, his hand finding the curve of her thigh.
Septon Eugene visibly recoiled, his pale face turning a deeper shade of crimson. “Your Grace, this is no laughing matter! This… this Dragonborn preaches divine war! He claims visions, miracles! The people flock to him as if he were one of the Seven! You cannot ignore such sacrilege!”
Suddenly, the king’s eyes snapped open, a gleam of lust shining in their depths. “Ah, my dear,” he called out, his voice thick with desire. “Come here. I wish to taste your sweetness.”
A woman with ample breasts and a curvaceous figure stepped forward, her hips swaying seductively as she approached the king. She knelt before him, her eyes locked onto his, as she slowly leaned forward, offering her breasts to his eager mouth. The king, a hungry growl rumbling in his chest, took one of her nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as he sucked greedily. The woman let out a soft moan, her head thrown back in pleasure as the king feasted on her flesh.
“Your grace this is…this is…”
“Mern waved a lazy hand. “Come now, Septon. It’s not as if you’ve never known a woman’s touch.”
“I—I have not! I took my vows!” Eugene blurted, scandalized, nearly choking on his own words.
“Pity,” Mern said with a grin, pulling the golden-haired girl closer. “A tragedy for the Seven, truly. You’d find the world far more tolerable if you spent more time between silken thighs and less in dusty scriptures.”
The Septon blustered, searching for a reply, but Mern had already lost interest.
“Let the heretics and heathens butcher each other,” Mern said, his voice growing lazier with each word. “Perhaps Agrilac will sweep in and fix everything for you. Either way, it’s no concern of mine.”
“But—Your Grace—” Eugene tried once more, his voice rising with desperation.
Two guards appeared from the shadows at a casual wave of Mern’s hand. “See the Septon out. Let him cool off somewhere far from my ears.”
“But the sanctity of the—!” Eugene protested as he was gently but firmly escorted away.
“Goodbye, Septon,” Mern muttered with a yawn, his eyes drifting closed as a new pair of hands began to rub his temples. “May the Seven bless you.”
The Septon’s voice trailed off as the doors shut behind him.
Mern sighed. He reached for his goblet and took a long, satisfied sip of Arbor Gold.
He was the King of the Reach—the most fertile, wealthy, and envied kingdom in all of Westeros.
What did he have to worry about?
